Mix-tapes for My Friends, Duct Tape for My Enemies

By Pete Alex Harris

An escape through the frozen ruins of Amsterdam; an inconveniently worded wish; warfare both magical and informational; romantic crushes, demons, ghosts and a lamentable lack of both cutlery and propriety.

15 stories, some brighter, some darker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete Alex Harris
• Release date: Sep 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005859145

Pete Alex Harris

Geographically, I've lived in Scotland for most of my life, and I've lived in books for nearly as long. I think being a writer is the first job I remember wanting to do. Economically, that has always been very unlikely, and I've made a living as various kinds of computer programmer and software engineer.I write mostly for fun; let nobody pretend that writing isn't about the most fun you can have for about the least physical danger (in a free country anyway). It would also be cool to be a volcanologist, I suppose, but the odds aren't as good.

Book preview

De Beer

Scallon ran through the snow, between the shells of buildings. Round corners, avoiding drifts of powder too loose and deep to move quickly over even in snowshoes. Avoiding uneven mounds of ice that could turn an ankle.

The bear was following behind, at its own pace.

You can't outrun a bear. That's one of the things they tell you. Not on the flat, definitely not in the snow. Run downhill, that's one piece of advice Scallon could remember. No idea if it's true, but it's useless in Amsterdam. There is no downhill.

Scallon looked down what used to be Vuzelstraat. There would be tram lines under the snow. Looked back: indistinct through the mist, something moved. Keep moving, you might make it. You might. If you stop you definitely won't.

So nearly at Centraal Crater, where the ice-breaker Orkney Lass was waiting.

The left snow-shoe wasn't fitted well. It flapped a little, dug into the snow a little. Maybe with every step the bear got a centimetre closer due to that alone. If it broke into a sustained run, it would be over very soon, but the bear was moving strangely, as if confused. Not confused enough to lose the scent, but not quite right. Rabies, perhaps. One of the new strains, or good old hydrophobia. Pity none of these canals had any liquid water in them to scare it off.

Scallon risked a few seconds to unshoulder the pack and scoop out some clothes and rations. That was another tip: drop some clothes you've worn, and the bear might stop to sniff them, giving you more time to get away. The rations, well, Do Not Feed The Bears, but there was a hot meal waiting on the Orkney Lass, and a real risk that those rations were going to be feeding the bear soon anyway. After its main course.

It was closer now, and fuck it, no time to put the pack back on. The samples and everything else were expendable. Wait, no, nearly everything else. Grab this and that, and get a bit of distance on.

The bridge over Herengracht was in quite good condition; like others aligned towards the Crater, it hadn't been knocked sideways into the canal. Which was good. A forced climb down onto and across the ice, let alone clambering back up to street level, would end this race early with a clear winner.

Scallon discarded bootlaces, tossing them to one side. They might not be smelly enough to interest the bear, but they were useless anyway. No way there'd be time to tie them.

Left or right? Left was slightly more direct, but the streets were narrower. There would be debris, and the narrow canals would be blocked. To the right, wider streets, and one last chance. The bear was padding closer, Scallon could hear its breath. Don't look back. Ahead and to the right, stairs down to the ice. A little bit of downhill that wouldn't be enough, even if that downhill thing wasn't bullshit.

Knife out, cut the straps, snowshoes off. Keep moving. Down the stair. Cut the laces, boots off. Duct tape out of the pocket. Bear feet, faster on the snowy street above. Not as loud as something that terrifying should be. Flump flump. You're going to die. Flump flump.

Other boots on. No laces, just tape them the fuck on and go.

Out over the ice. Binnenamstel, Oudeschans, that other one beginning with W—no signs left, this close to Centraal. And the lights of the Lass gleaming over the ice.

You can't outrun a bear. But you can out-skate one.¹

Stash

I meet Terry about two minutes off the train at Amsterdam Centraal station. He's where he said he would be, sitting on a wooden dock out front, a little below street level. He has an empty backpack beside him, and a bottle of water, and of course he's smoking a huge joint.

Hey, how are you doing? He waves up at me, and beckons. I'm not really in the mood for this. I want a pint of Amstel and a kebab or something, then maybe fourteen hours sleep. But I suppose it was accommodating of him to meet me at his place of business.

Not bad.

Not true, to be honest, but Terry isn't the kind of guy you can talk to who would make you feel anything but worse. I join him on the dock, hanging my feet out over the water.

You here on your own? I thought you'd be bringing … what's her name?

No. I try to keep my tone casual. That didn't work out.

Shame. What happened?

Nothing. Forget it, man, I'm OK. Not really here for psychotherapy, you get me?

Not therapy from a psycho, anyway.

I get you.

He doesn't. What it feels like when someone you care about just sort of drops out of your life? That can't happen to Terry. There isn't anyone he cares about except himself, and he's fully dropped-out already.

So, what's the transaction?

We shall see. I'm hoping it's something special. Ah!

His pocket vibrates, and he pulls out a metallic purple iPhone. I don't think Apple are making them that colour, but Terry probably had a non-standard case fabbed and fitted, instantly voiding his warranty just to have something nobody else has. He fumbles, nearly drops it in the canal, and enters a ridiculous long PIN to unlock it.

Can't be too safe, he says, catching my weary eyerolling expression. Yeah, just got a ping. Should be here in five.

Terry always uses an iPhone, because the encryption on it is military-grade uncrackable. This, despite the fact that all he uses it for is moving a few thousand euros worth of semi-legal drugs a week, around a city that has no inclination to take that kind of thing seriously.

So, you're in luck.

How do you reckon?

Well, young, free and single in the hub of north-european civilisation. Let me tell you, don't feel bad about what's-her-name. You should hook up with a nice Dutch girl while you're here.

I don't really—

I have a theory, you know.

Terry always has a theory. I have heard a few, and I have learned only two useful things listening to them all. One is, there is no point in listening to any of them.

Want to hear my theory?

The other is, there is no point answering that question.

My theory is, if you want wild sex—like, really off the charts—you want to get with a Dutch girl. It's all that cycling they do. They've all got perfectly-toned thighs, and an acrobatic sense of balance.

Terry … just … no. I'm not in the mood to pick up girls. Leave it.

Oh man, that's the best thing. These girls aren't going to fall for any stupid pick-up line. They know what they want. The likes of her, for example.

I don't even look where he's pointing.

Yeah, she wouldn't be taken in with some tired old ploy, hook up with a tubby loser like you. Forget it.

I will certainly try to. What are we waiting here for?

My little friend. Here he comes.

I see a remote-controlled toy speedboat approaching, in a graceful arc under the road bridge. It seems to be piloted by a soft toy of some kind. As it gets nearer, the toy takes its paws off the controls, and sits up, looking about with beady black eyes.

What the actual fuck, Terry?

Meet Stash, my little friend.

You smuggling pets now?

Nah. He's smuggling drugs. Aren't you, Stash?

Either you slipped me something while we were talking, or this is a real situation that needs a bit more explaining.

Right. So the local cops have been intercepting auto-piloted drone boats, which they can do without a warrant, because it's an unattended vessel. Old naval salvage laws or something. Most of my stuff they don't care about, but the slightly edgier cargo gets confiscated, and that's the profitable stuff.

So, you stick a hamster in the boat and they need a warrant?

"Normally no, no more than salvage law would stop applying just because a ship had rats on it. Stash is enhanced. I have a certificate of partial sentience for him. He's just sapient enough so they need a warrant. Even with today's efficient judicial system, they still take about 30 seconds to get one, and he's a nifty little bugger when he's evading pursuit."

Wow.

I know, right?

I look closer. Stash is a little larger than a normal hamster, and his head looks domed, even swollen. He sniffles around warily.

Hey little guy! What did you bring us?

"He can't understand words, you know. Even with a few generations of splicing and feeding him enhancers from birth, he's not human-level. And even if he was, his intelligence wouldn't be human-like. Not got the wiring for it. Besides, hamsters aren't actually all