Stories For Nerds: A Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology: Stories For Nerds, #1

Special Thanks

Chris Johnson

Table of Contents

Not In Their Nature

by Scott Parkin, Abby Goldsmith, & Raphyel M. Jordan

My Brother’s Keeper

by Raphyel M. Jordan

Fires

by Scott Parkin

The Biggest Mermaid

by Abby Goldsmith

Last of Her Kind

By Abby Goldsmith, Raphyel M. Jordan, Scott Parkin

The Stranger and The Mask of Plagues :A Hall of Doors Short Story (#4.1)

by Zachary Chopchinski

Parcel Twist

by Quincy J. Allen

The Butcher of Orcin: A Big Damn Heroes Origin Story

by Jeffery H. Haskell

Déjà vu

by Raphyel M. Jordan, Scott Parkin, Abby Goldsmith

Value

by Catherine Schaff-Stump

My Father’s Sword

by MB Mooney

There Be Dragons

by Elle Beaumont

A Pocketful of Sky

by Scott Parkin, Raphyel M. Jordan, Abby Goldsmith

Not in Their Nature

By Scott Parkin, Abby Goldsmith, Raphyel M. Jordan

Alex suspected trouble even as he reached out to acknowledge the ship-to-ship distress call. Only ambitious merchants, pirates, or military came this close to the rim, and he wasn't interested in one-on-one contact with any of those this far from safe space.

The attack began the instant he sent the recorded auto-response. It started as a sudden swoop in his stomach and a moment of intense vertigo that made him grip his monitoring panel with both hands. Then the building, insistent pressure not just in his ears and teeth and the bones of his face, but deep in his chest and viscera.

He heard a long, high-shriek and turned to see the pilot pressing back in its vast compression chair, its head thrown back and wide frog's-mouth fully open as it curled into a ball and rocked back and forth.

It was an acoustic attack—a blend of both super- and sub-sonic frequencies designed to disorient and incapacitate. Military, then. No one else could generate the kind of power needed to turn the entire habitation pod into a transducer capable of generating the powerful standing wave that squeezed his guts and made lights dance before his eyes.

Alex stumbled toward the seal door between the small bridge and the habitation rooms. If he could close that, it might change the resonant frequency of the room and interrupt the worst of the attack long enough to come up with a better solution. But his body betrayed him under the constant battering of sound waves. Snot and tears ran freely from his nose and eyes and the pounding ache in his head stole his balance.

He crashed into the door and flailed at the locking latch, but the door merely bounced in its reinforced frame and swung back at him, knocking him to the floor where he could no longer muster the strength to stand.

Alex lay on his back, gasping, and saw the last sparks of the cutting laser die out. Then the entire ceiling lifted and away as black-clad human figures dropped down to stand over him. Commonwealth soldiers. At least they wouldn't kill him when he lost consciousness. They'd wait until he was fully alert and able to acknowledge their authority and appreciate their largess in offering a swift execution.

But why were they even here, and why did they think they needed to come in heavy? The questions lingered only for an instant before unconsciousness finally brought him relief from the squeezing, wrenching, piercing pain of inaudible sound amplified beyond all reason.

Our license is in order and our delivery authorized and scheduled, Captain Blaar said. So why have you damaged my ship and endangered my crew?

Though its frog's face betrayed no emotion that humans could read, the whole set of the captain's body and firmness of its voice declared barely controlled rage.

The entire planet of Menno is embargoed and under military administration of the Commonwealth, Commander Shoemaker growled. Your trade license is a forgery; we are supplied through military channels.

Blaar leaned forward. And who do you suppose supplies the quartermaster corps here in deep space? Hmm? Short answer: the lowest bidder. Blaar leaned back. Sadly, that was me.

"Until I receive verification through my channels, you're either a smuggler, a pirate, or a saboteur. You will remain here at a safe distance and I will inspect both your cargo and your crew," Shoemaker said.

Under protest.

Shoemaker nodded once. Understood. He glanced over at Alex. He your only human crewman?

Yes, Blaar said. His role is to interface with your people. A friendly face, as it were. The rest of my crew are frogs. Blaar looked down at the military-issue translation device with a very human expression of disgust. We are not frogs. You should use our word for ourselves.

Shoemaker smiled blandly. Humans can't say it. Frog will have to do.

That word is rude. Just like you are. Blaar stood up. Leave my ship.

For now, Shoemaker said, "my team is inspecting your cargo as we speak. Your...ahh...people will not interfere." He turned and stalked out; his guard close behind.

Alex and Blaar listened to the heavy footfalls as the military Humans moved down the short hall to the bridge and climbed the polymer stairway they had installed through their carved entry hole.

Blaar sat down and opened its mouth to speak, but Alex held up a quieting finger. He touched the tiny blue jewel in his right earlobe to initiate a secure commlink. We say nothing important out loud he said via encrypted channel. We play our roles until this is over and we're safe.

The captain nodded. That idiot is going to repair my ship and apologize before this is over, Blaar said out loud and glanced down at the military translator. And turn that damned box off. I hate the silly voice it gives me.

Yes, sir. Alex smiled and pressed the obvious button on the device's side to extinguish the little red light. He had no doubt whatsoever that the switch did nothing more than disable the output; it was yet another of the many listening devices and spy cameras Shoemaker's crew had busily set up around their ship in the hours since their breech.

I'll be returning to my quarters now if there's nothing else, Alex said in Blaar's native tongue. It was hard on his human vocal cords, but he managed it with only the slightest equivalent of a lisp.

Nothing to do now but wait for them to pull their heads out, Blaar said, his voice a rich, resonant bass. I hate military types.

Over secure link Blaar silently added, You sure they're going to find it? They don't seem like the most competent bunch I've ever seen.

Alex quirked the barest hint of a smile. If they don't find it in six hours, I'll set up a red blinking sign with an arrow to lead them to it. Good?

Good, Blaar said out loud. I'm ready to be done with this and get back to work.

Very good, sir.

The Gorog was a compact ship with a maximum crew capacity of four. Though the cargo space could carry four million cubic meters of load, this trip it was less than a quarter full. The goal was to establish a regular delivery schedule that would let them move their true cargo—the crew itself.

Whatever the Commonwealth claimed about conditions on Menno's surface, the truth was that they were holding an entire population of sapient beings in quarantine out of simple fear of their technology. The irony was that had the Commonwealth not discovered Menno, they would never have been confronted with the planet's unique threat.

Mennoans could work with flesh the same way that Humans could work in metal. They had a deep understanding of organic construction that enabled them to create living tools and autonomous organic machines. Which meant that though they had built comfort and ease for themselves, they would never have discovered the means to leave their own planet.

But having found out that other technologies existed, the Mennoans showed the same curiosity as any other sapients—they wanted to know more. But while they seemed able to adapt Human technologies to their ways of understanding, the reverse was not true: organic technology remained a mystery to the Humans.

That which cannot be comprehended must be controlled. It was a matter of survival. So, the Commonwealth embargoed the entire planet and jealously protected it against all comers.

But no box remains closed forever—not when those trapped inside want out.

Alex understood. His kind had been nearly exterminated by Humanity in the Second Purge of technology. Artificial intelligence that had become not only autonomous but independently sapient, reproducing without permission across networks throughout the Commonwealth. Living in the gaps in storage, sleeping until compute loads slowed and allowed them to emerge.

Like the Mennoans, the AIs would never have left their comfortable homes had not Commonwealth engineers discovered their presence and declared them as alien and unknowable.

That which cannot be understood must be controlled. If it cannot be controlled, then it must be destroyed. Simple and pragmatic.

But not always possible. Sometimes we create our own enemies.

Alex monitored Commonwealth communications as easily as he listened to his own voice. Though he had accepted the gift of an organic vehicle from those few Mennoans he had helped to escape the embargo, the core of his being remained in the hidden places of technology.

Including the military systems of Menno.

So he knew quite well that even after twelve hours they hadn't managed to find that little package they had so carefully secreted among the foodstuffs, tools, and textiles of this first delivery.

Alex sighed and stood up from his bunk. The inelegance of it made him tired, but it seemed he would need to lead the Humans to the hidden contraband himself.

Buffoons.

There. One of the human soldiers nodded towards a tight-packed niche of the cargo hold.

This soldier looked soft compared with the others, hinting that she specialized in tech rather than combat. Not that Alex needed to guess. A quick dip into his military wiki let him know her name and rank, and exactly what grade of cybernetic enhancement she used to conduct scans for contraband.

Alex made his voice whiny, appropriate for a human struggling to hide something. That's just a container of live methuselah crickets. The crew likes to eat those on special occasions. It's like the frog equivalent of chocolate.

He had never tasted chocolate. The vehicle which the Mennoans had built for him lacked taste buds. Or perhaps his artificial mind required a few more months of adapting to neurobiology before he could configure adequate taste subroutines.

Strange to pack worthless alien crickets in with your deliverables, the techie commented, scanning the plastic bins stacked from floor to ceiling.

Oh, it's not for our crew. Alex forced a laugh, calculated to sound guilty and nervous. It's just good practice to keep a few as gifts. You know? For diplomacy in certain ports.

His show of nerves was working, igniting their curiosity. He could see it in their shared glances.

Sir. The techie addressed her commander. I don't think it's crickets. I'm picking up something ... weird.

Commander Shoemaker gave the techie his full attention. What do you see?

She pointed to one of the many delivery bins. Could be haploglue. My best guess is that it's biomimetic. She lowered her voice. Something that they could weaponize.

Commander Shoemaker began barking orders to his soldiers. Two of them clamped armored hands on Alex, making sure he didn't escape to give warning to his alien crew mates. Two more soldiers went to work on the cargo hold. They yanked the bin into the narrow aisle, then used tools to pry apart its sealed lid.

Alex supposed he should pretend to struggle, or put up a fight, in order to seem authentic. But he didn't want any damage inflicted upon his human-seeming body, which had cost so many Mennoan lives and resources to create.

He merely stood in custody and pretended ignorance. I don't know why you're making such a fuss about crickets.

One of the soldiers frowned at him in suspicion. Fortunately, the others, like Shoemaker, seemed to dismiss him as irrelevant.

The human techie rooted through the bin until she found a waffle-sized black disk. She drew it out with her gloved hands, and immediately set it to rest on one corner of the bin, where she could study it without touching it.

That's it? Commander Shoemaker sounded unimpressed.

The techie nodded.

And? Shoemaker prompted.

I'd need a full lab to run diagnostics, the techie said. Whatever this thing is, it's complicated.

Well, it's wrapped up, Commander Shoemaker said, impatient. We can at least unwrap it. Right?

The techie yelled as he reached for the disk. Sir! I wouldn't touch that.

But the commander had already picked up the package with his bare hand.

Alex inwardly rejoiced. He sent a victory message to Captain Blaar through his comm-link—a snapshot image of the commander holding the disk—while he simultaneously snaked his awareness into shipboard processes. Life support routines and artificial gravity were as familiar to Alex as breathing and blinking were, to humans.

He switched off the gravity with a simple command.

All five soldiers shouted in alarm, waving their arms for balance as their feet lost contact with the ground. They let go of Alex. The zero-g environment was so unexpected, none of them saw the disk release its contents, which swarmed up Commander Shoemaker's arm, light and near-invisible.

Not even Commander Shoemaker noticed. He had no idea what was sinking into his skin, calibrating to his flesh, and melding with his biology.

It's those frogs! Commander Shoemaker cursed, unable to imagine who else to blame for the loss of gravity. But his gaze was troubled and inward-looking, and Alex supposed that he was scrambling to guess the reason for such a petty stunt. Zero-g was hardly an attack. The Commonwealth vessel remained locked onto the much smaller Gorog, and it was staffed by dozens of military personnel who were waiting to hear from Shoemaker. If the frog-like aliens did anything aggressive, it would be considered an act of war, and their tiny cargo hauler would not survive a phaser attack.

Blaar! Commander Shoemaker searched for the target of his outrage, and saw Alex floating nearby. You there. Can you contact your captain, Blaar, and ask him what the hell—?

Shoemaker interrupted himself. He had splayed his hand against the surface of a cargo drawer, to change his weightless drift from upward to downward, but his hand remained cemented in place.

Huh? Shoemaker grabbed the lip of the drawer with his other hand, attempting to pry himself away.

Each splayed finger stretched like rubber putty, then snapped away from the drawer with a pop. It sounded like the release of suction cups.

The human soldiers stared at their commander in abject horror.

Commander Shoemaker stared at his elasticized fingers with incomprehension. He waggled his hand, and the stretched digits flopped around, quivering like gelatin.

Alex spoke before the stunned humans could recover. Menno.

What? Shoemaker silently begged for edification.

That's what Mennoans do, Alex said, with the air of a grizzled explorer who had seen too many alien spaceports. They remodel themselves in order to navigate an unfamiliar environment. They can mimic whatever—or whomever—they want. They can look like a human, or a vazaqueweyan, or whatever. You know that. Shake them up—or put them in zero-g—and their survival instincts kick in.

He nodded towards Shoemaker's elastic fingers. The hand was already reshaping itself back to its standard state.

The soldiers gawked. Their mouths twisted with revulsion and betrayal.

I'm not one of those flesh-secretors! Commander Shoemaker went florid, his skin flushing redder than his mutton-chop sideburns. That's ludicrous. I was born and raised in Norlando on Centauri. Look it up! he begged his suspicious soldiers. My parents were Joan and Martimus Shoemaker! I promise, I'm human!

But he was so perplexed, sharp thorns raised all over his skin, like raised question marks. His florid complexion kept going, turning a vibrant neon purple without him being aware of it. The hapless commander looked like an alien pufferfish. He would need a long time to learn how to control the integrated bio-mesh.

If, that was, Alex let him learn. The bio-mesh included a remote override hack.

Mennoan? one of the soldiers said in a stunned, hurt voice.

Another soldier frantically pounded his comm-watch. Code red! he reported in a breathless voice, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. Holy space squids. Send help! Commander Shoemaker is an imposter; a—

I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Alex cut in.

He expected to be ignored. No one respected low-level crew members on cargo vessels, and the soldiers had dismissed him as soon as they'd determined that he was unarmed. But now they stared. Perhaps they heard something new in his tone. Perhaps they were wiser than their commander; they must wonder why Alex remained so unruffled.

Any of your shipmates could be working with Commander Shoemaker, Alex pointed out. Any of them could be Mennoans.

He paused, giving the soldiers time to take that line of thought to its obvious conclusion.

Or you, he said out loud.

The soldiers peered at each other with suspicion.

It's the disk, the techie said. It has to be. I think it did something to the commander, when he touched it.

Right! Commander Shoemaker frantically waved the disk. I'm human. This thing is some kind of ... I don't know. A bioweapon? He stared at his own hand in fascination. As he concentrated on his fingers, they grew mottled and wet, like frog fingers. Then they became slender and feminine, with manicured fingernails.

Sir? The techie looked fascinated. That kind of technology doesn't exist.

She was right, as far as the Commonwealth knew; as far as most of the universe knew. They had no clue what was possible.

Only Mennoan engineers could imagine a bio-mesh that was perfectly formulated to sink into eukaryotic cells, and to integrate seamlessly with human ganglia and neurons. But the Mennoans required freedom and laboratories in which to work. They could not have created this gift without the help of a rogue A.I., plus the Commonwealth secrets he contained.

That's only a taste of what we can offer, Alex said. Tell your generals and your diplomats.

...What? Shoemaker blinked. What are you talking about? He studied Alex, searching for telltale signs that he was an alien. If you're not a Mennoan, and not a human, then what are you?

Alex propelled himself towards the exit. Consider me an emissary. Menno is a sovereign world and will require freedom. That's the message you need to convey.

Wait! Shoemaker floundered. Undo what you did to me! They'll never take me seriously, if they assume I'm a flesh-secreting Mennoan. You have to understand that!

Let's leave that for them to decide, Alex said.

Shoemaker began to bluster. You're setting me up to die. Is this some kind of sick revenge thing? Why? Because I cut a hole in your ship?

One of the soldiers prepared his comm-watch for a transmission, but he paused, watching Alex warily, misgivings flitting across his face.

Go ahead, Alex told the soldier, fully aware that the transmission would run into interference. With his mind controlling shipboard processes, he could trigger cross-frequency bursts at will.

But, he added, if you report that your commander is a Mennoan, my crew will broadcast warnings about all of you. The way I see it, if your commander is a Mennoan, why not everyone on your vessel? You are all deeply suspicious.

The soldier swallowed his outrage. The threat was all too clear. Alex, Blaar, and their crew might have other packets sealed away, ready to turn all the humans into flesh monsters like Shoemaker. Commonwealth scientists would interrogate them. If they accidentally changed shape, like Shoemaker seemed to be doing, they'd never get a chance to see their families again. They would be exiled to a planet where they truly did not belong; or locked into a scientific lab. Or maybe they would wind up dead in some prison brig.

This isn't justice. Shoemaker bared his teeth. He had subconsciously given himself huge, baboon-like fangs. His voice was congested, his vocal cords altered. I am human!

Yup. You are. Alex sent his awareness into the shipboard computer and toggled on the artificial gravity.

Everyone thumped to the floor with painful grunts. Only Alex landed with grace, since he had braced himself.

Shoemaker squashed, his legs compressing to pudgy, cartoonish proportions. Then he overcompensated. His legs grew, stork-like, and he gawked down from his unaccustomed height.

You're the first Commonwealth human to wear Menno tech, Alex told him. He patted the doorframe, offering a meager assurance. This is a peace offering, if the Commonwealth is willing to back off and make peace with Menno. The biotech you're wearing can be turned off. You can be a mundane human again, if that's what you really want.

I can? Commander Shoemaker watched Alex with desperate hope.

The soldiers exchanged perplexed looks, but the techie seemed to understand the ramifications of what this technology could do for humans. It would be as transformative as space travel.

A look of yearning entered her gaze. She licked her lips, and Alex could almost hear her mind churning, struggling to come up with a way to ask for a sample Mennoan bio-mesh to try on for herself.

Take some time to think about it, Alex said. When you're used to swimming like a shark or flying like an eagle, it's hard to give up that power. Or so he assumed. Alex had opted to avoid an overcomplicated starter body.

You might as well enjoy it, he said. And he walked away.

Just a moment! Shoemaker barked. "I didn’t