A Scuffle for a Wrinkle, pt 1
a science fiction caper
Vonnel and his crack team plan to steal a device that bends space-time, but someone else wants it too.
That is the tagline for one of my earliest published stories. Does it entice you? If so, it worked! If not, are you okay? Have you hydrated properly and been getting enough sleep? But I digress. The story still shows up on Amazon, although its small publisher appears to have gone under as of this year, and as such it cannot be purchased. I’ll recreate it here with some (mostly) light polishing.
If you wish to know more about it first, here’s the blurb. It’s like the back cover which everyone checks out before reading a book (or the description on Amazon.)
Vonnel has a proposition to his skilled team of thieves: make off with the most technologically advanced gadget on the planet, and earn more money than they can imagine. The gadget known as "the wrinkler" lines up rifts in space-time and thrusts you through the incurring holes, but there's a catch. Vonnel and his team are not the only ones after it.
They set up a sting in a skyscraper hotel on the edge of The City. Vonnel's right-hand man is dressed as a woman, his techie can't get the volume right on his communications, and his bumbling diversion is doing things better left unknown. Both despite and with their help, Vonnel intercepts the target in his hotel room. Problem is, the wrinkler is not inside, and the man who stole it, his old nemesis, has already used it to disappear.
Now Vonnel must use all his wits to determine where his nemesis has gone, and how to procure the wrinkler for his client. It's a race up skyscrapers and through space-time for the ultimate gadget, and only one person can stop him—a man he has never before bested.
A Scuffle for a Wrinkle
Vonnel killed the thrusters. The hover cart hummed for a second and settled to the ground. A slick blue door whisked back on metallic rails, and Vonnel stepped out into cool spring air. With thinning hair flapping in the wind and a tinted visor shielding his eyes, his weathered face absorbed pinpricks of sand caught in the wind.
He peered at the site before him--long stretch of desert, tangles of dead plants tumbling about, and the setting sun a deep orange on the horizon, blurred by a flurry of sand hovering over the landscape. To his right loomed the Adatta Mountains, shielding the northern sky. To his left and rear was the world. Even at this distance, he could see the many spires, towers, and monuments of The City stretching from horizon to horizon in the distance.
Vonnel turned back to his destination, boots crunching gravel underfoot, a corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile. In the direction of the setting sun was a tavern, its shingled roof emblazoned by giant letters, pronouncing the establishment as "The gateway to Barsen," isolated town of misfits and self-exiles. A dense cluster of trees beyond the tavern designated the water hole. Trees dotted the oasis, growing sparse farther from the water.
At the tavern, other hover carts mottled the lot before the Creeping Range, some dim with age, few as sparkling new as his own, none with his platinum reverse thrusters capable of mach two. That had been, shall he say, a perk from his last job. He pressed his palm to the door. The vaporous handprint on the smooth poly surface diminished, and the door receded into the wall of wooden beams.
The familiar dense atmosphere of kindled hash and spilt liquor assailed him. His visor adjusted instantly to the murky environs. A band of dirty men hunkered before a flickering candle and glared at him, while several scraggly heads at the counter crooked their heads to eye him. Vonnel ignored them, focusing on the troupe at the far end, in the darkest corner of the room. Long strides carried him across the span.
A tall belligerent fellow lurched from his seat, his slurred words reeking of alcohol. Vonnel glared deep into his diluted irises. The man raised an unsteady fist, and a flash of intense light emanated from Vonnel's visor. The man flopped back into his chair, bewildered.
Now Vonnel stood before his own group. Tannin, with his long snout and darting eyes and a mind as quick as a weasel in a chicken shack, leaned forward in his seat so far, Vonnel thought he was about to spring from it. Beside him, long legs extended across the table, with a stogie perched between his lips, was Piro, the soulless assassin.
Next was Narin, the little pug-nosed Varni, with his massive eyes and rubbery viridian hide. The guy was invaluable for his quick wit and knack at infiltrating the tightest, most secure locations. He had probably sneaked into the tavern, just for giggles.
To his right, and with his ample backside facing Vonnel, was Gregario. Good for little outside of a diversion--too fat for reconnaissance, too dumb for strategy, but all too willing to contribute, from a sassy remark to a jolly retrieval of tools or goods. He was an invaluable do-it-all, a cheerful grunt, and Vonnel paid him handsomely for his troubles. He also rather liked the big guy.
Finally, sitting back from the table and facing Vonnel, was Jestu. Right hand man to Vonnel on more than one undertaking, Jestu promised sure hands and a stable mind to go along with loyalty to shame any playboy’s sweetheart. His quick eyes flashed humor and he nodded to Vonnel. Vonnel dipped his head in return and scraped back the chair between Gregario and Jestu.
He settled his dark eyes, barely visible behind the visor, on each member of the party, one by one. All returned the solemn stare as delivered, save Gregario, who failed to stifle a grin and a snicker. That led to a round of sneers and muted chuckles that soon died out without a word. For several moments, no one spoke, neither at the table nor even in the tavern. It was as if the whole world waited for Vonnel. Piro was the first to break the silence, spitting his words between clenched teeth and stogie.
“So, you gonna tell us why we here, or we just gonna sit here like a pack of rats’ arses all night?”
Vonnel's gaze shifted from the bartender to the front door, then back to the table before him, showing no indication he'd heard his assassin.
Tannin spoke up, in a nervous, reckless voice accompanied by recurrent chuckles and eyebrow scratches. “I… I would like to know, too, Vonnel, really. I mean, this place may be somewhere the rest of you frequent, but I’d as soon steer clear of it, if you catch my meaning.”
Vonnel rested his gaze on Jestu, who raised his unibrow and curved his lips.
Alright. You all want to know why you're here, listen up. He said it in their Crancoms, or cranial communications, which they all had now. Well, most everyone in the world did. But this, he told them, was too important for Crancom.
They all settled back, waiting for him to begin. All except Gregario.
"Are you with us?" Vonnel asked him.
"What? Did we decide on something?"
Vonnel tapped his own head. "Are you on?"
"Yessir!"
"Are you tuned?"
A blank stare was his only answer.
"Never mind that. We'll get you synced later. Now, listen up." He turned to face the summoned, eyes tense and hands clasped. “Has anybody here heard of the Harlaton Effect?” His voice was barely audible, yet remained stiff and authoritative. No one so much as twinged a nerve ending.
“Gregario here farts, and a mosquito in Yaasama drops dead from methane poisoning. Coincidence?” He scanned his little crowd.
Tannin interjected, “Yes, yes, something to do with other realms, and the mechanics of quanta, uh, lets see…. a tear in the fabric here in Barsen coincides with a tear in the fabric in Yaasama, and the gas travels here to there instantaneously. It would be like folding a giant blanket haphazardly, so that ridges and overlaps appeared everywhere, and then taking a knife and plunging it through two of the layers. Theoretically, one could pass from one place to another without going all the way around. In theory, mind.” He paused for a breath, and Vonnel interrupted.
“More or less, Tannin. Thanks for the lesson. The key is that the ‘blanket,' as Tannin has described it, is in constant motion. It is no easy task to line up these slots.”
“Can’t be worse than playing the machines at Tesa!” Narin chortled, his giant purple eyeballs squeezed tight, oozing thick black tears. Gregario roared in laughter.
Vonnel leveled a death glare on Narin. “You’d be surprised.”
The laughter cut off, and Narin's eyes swelled with sheepishness.
Vonnel took a moment to reconcile the group. “What’s more,” he continued, “it is not a blanket. By all proofs, it bears the characteristics of gelatin. Which means no sooner you plunge Tannin’s knife through it, then it reforms around itself, as if it never was punctured. They are far too tiny and too quick for any creature to pass through, only gases and, occasionally, a small solid. I’m talking microscopic here, on the molecular level.”
Piro rose to his feet with pomp and walked around the table. Vonnel snagged his arm as he passed, and Piro spun on his heels with alarming speed, free arm aimed at Vonnel’s head. Vonnel blocked it with his own free hand and held tight to the fist, staring deep into Piro’s insolent eyes.
“Are you leaving, Piro?”
Piro narrowed his eyes and upturned his lips.
“Science was never big on me. Not even with a good teacher." The words spat through his cigar.
Vonnel lurched Piro back towards the table. “Get back in your seat. Lesson’s almost over, application’s on the way. Sit down, shut up, that goes for all of you.”
Piro growled but returned to his chair.
“What have we learned so far, men?” He glanced at each in turn. “Anyone?”
“The Harlatan Effect,” Jestu offered, and Vonnel pointed his index finger at him and winked.
“Precisely. All you hear that? The Harlatan Effect. Now I’ll tell you why this theory has us congregated together.”
“’Bout grasking time,” Piro mumbled.
Tannin nudged him with his elbow. Piro turned on him and sneered. “Nervous tic in ya arm, Wombat?”
Wombat was Tannin’s unsavory nickname ever since the incident of the four clovers. Tannin had been orchestrator of the personnel as usual, from a safe vantage a block away from the target. With Piro and Vonnel tailing the objective, Narin hid in the shadows, waiting to infiltrate the target building, and Jestu kept an eye on developments from across the street. Ugg, may he rest in peace, provided the interior leak necessary to culminate the operation. But the plot was sniffed out, somehow, someway, and the trap reversed. Gunfire burst, tasers hissed, and thrusters roared.
Tannin watched the chaos unfold on his screens and monitors, tension rising, until he spotted men twelve stories below him storming his building. He panicked and fled the scene, leaving all the equipment and details behind. Everyone escaped save Ugg. Tannin, when he finally emerged at team headquarters two days later, seemed more neurotic and frightened than ever. Piro proceeded to lay into him, blaming him for both the meltdown and for leaving everything behind. Tannin didn't have the heart to defend himself, and burrowed his head deep into his chest, hands over his ears, rocking back and forth. Piro christened him Wombat, for his frenzied exit, and for the likeness. The nickname caused him to cower ever since.
Vonnel turned back to Piro, visor glowing dangerously. He spoke quietly, with an unmistakable edge. “If you ever mention that name again, I will personally rip both of your arms from your overstuffed body and beat your cigar straight through your head. Am I understood?”
Piro grunted and took another puff. Tannin hunkered into his seat, wide eyes darting nervously from Piro to Vonnel.
He settled back into his chair and scanned the dark room. Everything in the inn was as usual. A game of haps in the closest corner, poker at various junctures, and much drinking and revelry. The spotlight had passed over the group, and now no one sat within ten feet of them. Satisfied, Vonnel turned back to his team, withdrew something small from his pocket, and held it out over the table for all to behold.
“Do you know what this is?”
Everyone leaned in for a closer look. A small oval device, no larger than a mole, lay nestled in his palm. Jet black, with sleek rounded sides and a small silver nodule in the lower center, it had only a tiny screen, dark for the moment.
Narin’s eyes grew wide, and he whistled low. Jestu nodded his appreciation, and settled back into his seat. Tannin’s nose twitched and eyes sharpened. Piro blew a cloud of smoke over it, reclining back in his seat with hardly a glance. Gregario clapped his hands and laughed.
He was then first to speak, smile fading as Vonnel's silence stretched out. "What is it?"
Tannin spoke before Vonnel. “It is... it is a transition device, is it not? I have never seen one quite like it, but send me straight to the underworld if it ain’t.”
Vonnel withdrew the novelty and smiled at Tannin. “Of course you haven’t. No one has. This is not a working model. The screens on the real ones light up with actual images of other locations, which are borrowed straight from your brain by your Crancom implant. It is in the final stages of production, but even upon completion, its price shall be so exorbitant and its functions so extraordinary that it shall only be made available to the richest and most powerful.”
Gregario leaned in and whispered. “I know what it is. It is the Hatin’ Effect.”
Tannin latched ahold of the concept. “Of course!” he exclaimed, drawing a shush from Vonnel. “How could I have been so blind," he went on, in a gruff whisper. His excitement was too much to hold back completely. "But… how?”
“Science has progressed, my friend. Press the button once, and it reads your desired location from the Crancom implant already in most of your minds, summoning an actual visual of the place for the screen. Press it again, and it punches a hole through the fabric and whisks you there instantaneously. The hole reseals behind you.”
“Amazing…” Tannin acquired a faraway look.
“How did it test?” Jestu asked. “Any complications?”
“No deaths or deformities, if that’s what you mean. A couple times it took them to the wrong place, misjudging the billionth-of-a-second timing necessary. But that bug has been repaired. Now it works like a charm.” He smiled broadly.
“You seen it workin’, I ‘magine, eh?” Piro pumped out another ball of gray smog.
“My sources are impeccable, Piro. But whether it works or not really does not pertain. I just found it fascinating. What does pertain is our client. And he is without doubt as to the merit of the device. Which is the exact reason he has offered us 14 billion hase apiece to procure him one.”
There was a collective intake of air around the table, as all contemplated the weight of fourteen billion hase, ten times greater take than all their other missions combined.
Narin was the first to recover his senses, even as Piro hacked on his ash. “Why does he not just buy one, for that price?”
“Did I say it was expensive? Early estimates say sixty billion each, with a rigorous acceptance policy in place. One our client is sure to fail. There is even talk it shall be limited to government utilization. Our client feels that the extra twenty-four billion, divided among ourselves, is sufficient payment to procure him a copy, and I tend to agree. Who’s in?”
Are you in? Then stay tuned for part 2!