Infinite Dimensions

By Derek Powell

Peer into the Infinite Dimensions as you explore 17 original short stories, including the ebook phenomenons "Wish List," and "One Round." This debut anthology also includes 10 all-new works that have never before been published.

Wish List
Tom Swanson, new owner of a genuine magic lamp, learns the hard way that every wish has a price.

One Round
On his 21st birthday, one college kid finds himself in the drunk tank from Hell. Sometimes, there are no good choices.

Daley Routines
In the future, being Eccentric can get you killed. It's up to Isaiah Daley to solve a 70 year-old mystery and free humanity from the tedium of normality.

A Day in the Life of Death
For the first time in eons, The Reaper of Souls will be faced with a dilemma when he finds himself in a lab where scientists try to prevent Death.

And More...

∞

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Powell
• Release date: Sep 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301340002

Derek Powell

Derek Powell was born in 1975, in Alabama. He followed his wife to Wisconsin in 2001, and has lived there ever since. Happily married with two sons, Derek is the author of a growing number of self-published short stories, mostly in the horror and suspense genres, with an occasional science-fiction story. In between short stories, Derek is also working on his first novel, which he hopes to publish in late 2013.

Book preview

Infinite Dimensions

Derek Powell

Copyright © 2012 by Derek Powell

All rights reserved.

Help prevent piracy. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be copied, re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph: ``Pleiades Star Cluster.'' Image by NASA and STScI, used with permission.

First ebook release: September 2012

Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-47938-136-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-30134-000-2

Smashwords Edition

www.DerekPowell.net

Dedicated to my mother, and to my father.

Through good times and bad, they've always been there, both for each other, and for me.

Contents

Daley Routines

One Round

The Janitor

Wish List

Agujero

Hot Contract

Dead Luck

Half the Man

O.U.T.

Rose

Buzz Kill

The Super Security Agency

A Day in the Life of Death

Faux Pas

Connections

The Knacker

My Lover’s Heart

It seemed to be a necessary ritual that he should prepare himself for sleep by meditating under the solemnity of the night sky... a mysterious transaction between the infinity of the soul and the infinity of the universe.

- Victor Hugo

I counted to infinity and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.

- T-shirt

Infinity knows no boundaries.

In an infinite universe, anything that can possibly happen, is happening. This means every movie you've ever seen, every fanciful imagining of every child, every story you've ever read is actually taking place somewhere out there.

Yes. Even these.

∞

Infinite Dimensions

Daley Routines

Silence spread across the dining hall like a contagion as every head turned to stare. It was the kind of silence that only comes around when something is well and truly wrong, and no one quite knows what to do about it.

It didn't last long.

A woman gave a startled squeak and stood up fast enough to overturn her chair. She grabbed her toddler from his booster seat and fled. The child screamed, Want mine noodles, Mommy! and then the door swung shut to cut off the lamentations for lost macaroni.

The slim, dark-haired man near the back corner suddenly became aware that he was the focus of all the attention. He leaned back in his chair and licked a blob of grape jelly from his finger.

Isaiah Daley moved fast. He rose from his own plate of noodles, spaghetti, not macaroni, and drew his sidearm. He sprinted to press it against the back of the slender man’s head.

Don’t move, Daley told him.

The slender man still held the jelly jar in his left hand. The handle of the spreading knife protruded from it like a silver drinking straw. He started to put the jar down, but Daley drove the pistol into the back of his head hard enough to make the man look down at his own chest.

I told you not to move, Daley reminded him.

A child’s wristwatch ticked off the seconds from the man’s right arm.

Daley risked a glance around. He saw a couple dozen people in the dining hall. Half were standing, all were staring, and every single one of them was a civilian. There wasn’t another crew uniform in sight.

Someone go get security, Daley told them.

No one budged until Daley shouted, Move, damn it! Then, over half the group filed out in as disorderly a rank as Daley had ever seen.

The slender man was calm, for someone with a gun to his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and carried no trace of any accent that might identify him. Okay, okay. I'm not moving, you bully. You don't have to be mean.

Just keep your filthy mouth shut. If you move either hand, I’ll blow your head off.

Two and a half minutes ticked away on the man’s watch. Daley saw the jelly jar slowly creeping lower toward the table, and Daley’s finger tightened just as slowly on the trigger of his gun.

Daley was beginning to think no one cared, when three armed security officers stormed the dining hall.

This man is an Eccentric, Daley announced. Two of you, grab his arms. Get this watch off his wrist, but make damned sure you don’t touch any of the buttons.

To their credit, the security officers only hesitated a second before they did as they were told. Maybe it was their training, maybe it was Daley’s Lieutenant bars, but either way, they weren’t at all gentle as they pinned the man to the floor. The man made no move to fight back, or even to resist.

Take him to a holding cell, Daley said. Strip him down, and don’t let him talk to anyone.

Yes, sir, one of the officers said. He was a Sergeant named Wright. He held up the cartoon watch by its band. And this, sir?

Keep it safe.

Daley didn’t holster his weapon until the cuffs closed on the man’s wrists. The security officers were pulling the slender man to his feet when someone shouted Daley's name across the dining hall.

What’s the meaning of this, Lieutenant?

Daley didn’t exactly snap to attention, but he did stand a little straighter at the commander’s entrance.

Grape jelly, sir, Daley said, nodding toward the table.

Commander Pointe stepped closer and peered at the table through his glasses. Grape…? He blinked twice, his eyes magnified by the lenses. On a pizza?

Yes, sir, Daley said.

Commander Pointe straightened. Too old to fight and too stubborn to retire, Pointe was in charge of Asimov station, a scientific observation platform near the triple stars of Alpha Centauri. It was a remote assignment at an unfrequented stop, but Pointe embraced it.

Pointe was already a legend when Daley was in boot camp, and that had been a lifetime ago. Now the grizzled old man was one of the only people that Daley actually respected.

What else? Pointe asked.

The watch, sir. He had it on the wrong wrist. One of those old cartoon characters. Michael Mouse, I believe, sir.

Mickey Mouse, son, Pointe corrected, as he peered around the now-deserted dining hall. Mother of Christ.

Daley assumed the commander was swearing. He didn't know much about the old folklore, but he was fairly certain the cartoon mouse wasn't Jesus's mother.

You did the right thing, Lieutenant. We’ll DNA test this bastard, find out where he came from.

Pointe started toward the door, but stopped when he realized Daley wasn’t following. You coming, son?

Of course, sir. Daley fell into step, slowing his usual pace to follow the commander. Uh, where are we going?

You caught him, Lieutenant. You question him.

As he and Pointe made their way through the station, it was automatic for Daley to watch the crowd, but he didn't see any other signs of non-conformity. Everyone stayed to their right in the corridors. All the clothing and jewelry looked to be Approved. No one spoke overly loud. It all looked so comfortably normal, but Daley knew, where they found one Eccentric, there could be others.

Pointe walked slowly, almost making a meandering tour of the whole station. By the time they made it down to the holding cells, security had the man shackled at wrist and ankle. He was sitting alone in his cell, wearing only standard-issue boxers. He looked like he was talking, but there was no one else in the cell for him to talk to. Separated by a wall of bullet-resistant glass, Daley couldn't hear what he was saying.

We’ve already swabbed for a DNA test, sir, Sergeant Wright said. I’m sending it through to command for analysis right now. Hi-Pri, but you know it’ll still take a few hours.

Nicely done, Sergeant, Pointe told him. Has he said anything?

The Sergeant shook his head. No, sir. He's just in there singing.

Singing?

About ants, sir. Sergeant Wright flipped on the intercom.

"...And they all go marching down,

To the ground,

To get out,

Of the rain.

Boom! Boom! Boom!"

What the hell? Daley asked.

Sergeant Wright shrugged as he turned off the speaker. He's the first Eccentric I've ever seen, sir. I was hoping you could tell me what's normal for them.

Has he said anything else? Pointe asked.

Not a word, sir.

Did you find anything when you searched him?

The Sergeant slid a cardboard box across to the commander. His belt was packed with a type J explosive. We think the detonator is in the watch. The guys in Tactical Disposal have all of that. Otherwise, just a bunch of ugly clothing.

Mother of Christ. Bastard could have taken out this station, Pointe said.

If that was his goal, sir, we wouldn’t be here, Daley said.

Pointe nodded. Okay, Lieutenant. See what you can get out of him.

Daley was tempted to wait for the results of the DNA test. He wanted to sit and watch the Eccentric for a few hours. Let the bastard wonder and worry about what they'd do next. Maybe he'd be easier to question after a few hours of sweating in there.

But it didn't look like he was sweating. In the cell, despite being bound hand and foot to a metal chair, despite being nearly naked, the slender man kept singing.

Commander Pointe shook his head. I'm going up for some lunch. Let me know what you find out.

Daley opened the cell door. The prisoner stopped mid-stanza, just as the sixth ant stopped to pick up sticks.

Daley wanted to make some noise. There was some shock value to a grand and theatrical entrance, but there was no table for him to slap his hand against, no chair for him to kick across the room. Even the door slid shut on pneumatic hinges with a whisper.

Daley settled for shouting, Who the hell are you?

The prisoner flinched back. Daley was surprised to see the man was crying. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and yet he acted like a frightened child. Daley wondered if the man had some kind of mental handicap.

My name is Donald Holman, he said. His voice faltered, exactly like a kid admitting to his father he'd just screwed up.

Daley didn't buy it.

And what are you doing here, 'Donald Holman'?

I'm not doing anything, Mister. You've got me chained to a chair.

Daley lost a couple of seconds trying to decide if the man was being funny, but the prisoner's face only looked scared.

Why did you come to this station?

Sightseeing.

Daley waited for more, but the man only sat there, tears and snot spilling down his face.

Why were you wearing explosives in your belt?

Because they wouldn't fit in my shoes.

Daley slapped him. It was a good, solid smack across the man's face that left a welt in the shape of Daley's hand.

The man's lower lip shot out in a childish display of injury. He really started crying then, with great, hitching sobs that had him rocking back and forth as far as his bonds would allow.

No fair! That's not fair! You shouldn't hit! Hitting's not right!

Even though he felt as low as if he'd just kicked a puppy, Daley slapped the man again, imprinting his hand across the other cheek.

Who are you? Where did you come from?

None of your business, you bully.

Daley raised his hand again, but stopped. Eccentric or not, Daley didn't think he could hit the poor man again. He turned and walked out of the cell.

"The ants go marching seven by seven,

hurrah, hurrah..."

It took four and a half hours for the command lab to transmit their results back. Daley lost track of the number of times the man counted up to 10 ants, only to start over again with one on the next verse.

It was a maddening four and a half hours. Even with the speaker turned off, Daley could read the man's lips. He couldn't make himself stop singing along in his head.

Marching ants became a mantra to insanity.

When the comm system finally beeped with an incoming message, Daley moved across the room faster than a laser beam.

Well... His name really is Donald Holman, he read, but the security techs were engrossed in a whispered argument over the readout.

What's wrong?

Sergeant Wright looked up, whispered something to his partner, then said to Daley, He's human, sir, and a perfect match to the DNA on file for Donald Holman.

Okay. Then what's the problem?

"Donald Holman was a transport pilot. Captain of the Sardonyx, which was reported missing over fifty years ago."

Daley looked at the young man in the holding cell. This guy wasn't even born fifty years ago. There's obviously been some mistake.

The Sergeant shook his head. It's a perfect match, sir. It says Donald Holman was 42 years old when he disappeared.

Then this guy should be about ninety. Please tell me he vanished looking for the Fountain of Youth or something.

No, sir. We think he's a clone.

A clone? Who would want to clone a civilian pilot? Where was his ship when it disappeared?

The Sergeant glanced at the readout. It looked like he was checking to make sure it still said what he thought it said. He was approaching Gliese 440, sir. A white dwarf star about 15 light years from Earth.

Pull up the charts for me.

No, sir. There are no charts. In fact, there's no report of any ship ever being sent there.

Daley shook his head. None? Ever? That's impossible. Scientists drool over the chance to map every star in the galaxy. Why wouldn't they send scouts to one so close? This doesn't make any sense at all.

* * *

Several hours later, Daley paced in his cabin as Commander Pointe's voice filled every speaker, his face on every screen throughout the station.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, today our vigilance has been rewarded. Today, thanks to your efforts at adhering to our established protocols, we have captured an Eccentric, right here on this station.

"I know we've all made sacrifices, from the clothes we wear to the food we eat, to our very lifestyles, but I want you to know, those efforts have not been in vain.

Every day you keep up the proper conformist attitude makes it easier for us to locate these infiltrators.

Pointe continued on for a while, talking about things like loyalty and diligence.

Daley heard, but wasn't really listening. He was focused on the new orders that Command HQ had just sent. The printout probably made sense to the top brass, but it sounded contradictory to Daley.

After eight years on the station, he was being reassigned.

The printout started by heaping praise upon him for his heroic efforts. It promised a pay raise and a medal, then ended by yanking him out of this cozy assignment for immediate redeployment.

The redeployment part was a bit vague. All it said was that he'd be meeting a Dr. Donovan at a station orbiting Wolf 219.

He was also ordered to make the trip in the Eccentric's ship, not one of the standard shuttles.

It didn't take long for Daley to pack. Even after eight years on the station, his belongings were sparse. His clothing went into one plastic bin while his personal effects only half-filled another.

He was making a last sweep, checking drawers and cupboards, when his door chimed.

Even though Pointe was still on Daley's viewscreen, talking away, Commander Pointe himself stood in Daley's doorway. It was a bit disconcerting, and Daley found himself looking back and forth between them.

Sir?

That was pre-recorded, Pointe said. Most people would have exchanged pleasantries, wished one another a good evening and said they were glad to see you. Pointe skipped all that. It was one of the reasons Daley liked the old man.

I don't do live speeches. This way, they can dub out the mistakes, and I seem to make more of those as time goes on.

Daley invited him in. Pointe had a garment bag over one shoulder. It was the kind clean uniforms came back in from the laundry. Daley wondered if the old man was going with him.

I won't stay long, Pointe said. I just wanted to give you something before you leave.

He handed the bag to Daley, who took it by the hanger. It didn't feel heavy enough to be a uniform, but Pointe stopped him when he went to unzip it.

Wait a while before you open it.

Okay.

Did you know we came out here, eight years ago, on the same shuttle? You were a Petty Officer.

Daley did know. You can't ride in a shuttle with your new commander without knowing about it. All the cadets were worried about working under you, sir. You had a reputation for being unreasonably harsh.

Pointe grunted. It may have been a laugh. I never thought anything I did was unreasonable, son.

I think they just didn't understand you, sir.

That's always been a concern. Maybe it's why no one stays here very long. With all the transfers and personnel rotations, you're the only person who's been on this station as long as I have.

Daley hadn't known that, but once he started thinking about it, it didn't surprise him. In eight years, I can't remember talking to anyone who actually seemed happy to be here, he admitted.

I think people are just unhappy in general, son. This conformist regime has gone on entirely too long.

Sir?

You're too young to know, but things weren't always like this. There was a time when a man could put jelly on a pizza if he wanted, and not be arrested for it.

Daley couldn't imagine such a thing. The very idea left him at a loss for words. He and Pointe stared at the wall in silence for a while.

I tried to get you out of this, son. Maybe it was selfish, but I talked to Command HQ. I tried to tell them how hard it would be for me to train a new Lieutenant to replace you. I pulled every string I have left, called in every favor, but they're still sending you on this fool's errand.

I appreciate that, sir. And he did. But I'm still not sure exactly where they're sending me.

Oh? I thought it would be pretty obvious. You're going to Wolf 219, in an Eccentric's shuttle. There's only one reason for a trip like that. If you look at a star chart, Wolf 219 is just a finger's width away from Gliese 440. Wherever this Eccentric came from, that's where you're going.

I'm touched that you're worried about me, sir, Daley said, half in jest.

Bah. You're the only person in this whole damned system that I actually don't mind being around. You'll be missed, is all I'm telling you.

I'll try to come back, sir.

Don't bother. I filed the papers just before I came down here, son. I'm retiring.

It was like hearing God say he was giving up on religion. Daley was too stunned to speak. He sat down on his sofa.

Things weren't always like this, Pointe said. If anyone can put an end to all this conformity nonsense, I believe it would be you.

Why me?

Pointe moved toward the door. Because there's a little bit of Eccentric in all of us, son, he said, Even you.

And then he was gone, leaving Daley with a garment bag, and the feeling that he just might miss the old man.

As the door hissed shut, Daley realized neither of them had said goodbye.

* * *

The Eccentric's shuttle was called the Swoop, and the thing looked like it belonged in a museum. At first, Daley thought the relic might have been restored by a professional, but as he took the controls he realized the ship just hadn't flown more than a few trips. Despite the ship's age, every part of it looked new, in pristine condition.

There was an actual joystick in the cockpit, like some ancient video game.

Daley undocked from Asimov station, fired up the engines and piloted toward the Jump.

A computerized voice told him his coordinates had been set, and he was clear to enter. Daley aimed the ship at the center of a ring floating in space.

Three-fourths of a mile around, sucking energy straight from the sun, the Jump came to life as he