Friday flash fiction – Tock Tock

Tock Tock touches the glass face of the old-fashioned alarm clock, which is the timing mechanism on Doctor Ontological’s abstraction bomb. The Doc may be a genocidal mad scientist, but he certainly has a classical style.

Its examination complete, Tock Tock straightens its whirring metal legs and reports back. “Sympath, I have located the device. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

Its partner’s voice crackles over the collection of crystal, copper wires and radium batteries comprising Tock Tock’s auditory systems. “Hard to believe it could be worse than this, buddy,” she shouts back, over the pop of gunfire and the whine of heavy machinery.

Sympath is leading the search for survivors of the Dichotomists’ attack on the Brucker Building, Colossus City’s premier research facility. She’s been pitching in since the first assault an hour ago, in which the black and white-clad terrorists turned their deconception rays on the Brucker laboratories, blasting half of its staff, information and load-bearing structural walls out of existence. Sympath mopped the floor with the demolition squad, but as rescue crews arrived, more armed Dichotomists emerged from hiding to hinder their efforts.

Tock Tock went after their leader. When he cornered Doctor Ontological in the top-floor infraphysics lab, they exchanged the usual boasts of superiority, threats of incarceration and invitations to switch sides. They fought as well, though their brief battle came to little more than superficial scuffing and more property damage. Doctor Ontological had uttered one last tedious threat – “In a few moments, Tock Tock, you and this pathetic city will never have existed!” – before unveiling his bomb and disappearing in a haze of Higgs bosons and red quarks.

“The device is designed to collapse the barriers between thought and reality,” says Tock Tock. “It appears to contain hologrammatic representations of the collected works of Borges, Argento and Kafka, thirty hours of concert footage of various suicidally depressed performers, and a plastic Alice in Wonderland doll dating from 1951, still in the original packaging. The casing is made of planks from Baba Yaga’s hut.”

Sympath whistles. “I won’t ask how you know that,” she says. “Sounds like Doc Ont went to a lot of trouble. Can you defuse it?”

“I think so,” says Tock Tock, “but not from here.”

“What does that mean?” Sympath can control human opinions and punch holes in brick walls; very little gives her cause for panic. Tock Tock does not need her powers of heightened emotional intelligence to detect the signs of rising concern in her voice.

“The bomb does not entirely exist within the prevailing conceptual framework. I’ll have to follow it back to its source.”

“Tock Tock, you don’t need to take that chance. I’ve already called Sophie Osmosis. She’ll be here in eight minutes. She can move the bomb out of phase with this universe and-”

“That only moves the problem to someone else’s universe,” says Tock Tock. The hands on the old alarm clock sweep slowly toward midnight. “Besides, even allowing for the inaccuracy of this timepiece’s display, insufficient time remains for other plans. It must be now, and it must be me.”

“Tock Tock.” Sympath knows better than to argue with it, but Tock Tock understands she is experiencing an undesirable emotional state. “Be safe.”

“I will do my best to return intact,” it assures her, before cutting the transmission. It estimates two minutes to detonation, give or take a few seconds. The margin for error is slim.

Tock Tock is confident that only it is capable of dealing with this situation – an existential crisis with high explosives attached. It is almost unique in Colossus City – an artificial entity every bit as implausible as the bomb in front of it.

When it first appeared in Cutthroat Lane back in 1963, it had understood itself to be Tock McPherson, Robot Private Eye. McPherson had been a hard smoking, hard drinking, womaniser with a trench coat and a snub-nosed .38. After a decade of busting organised crime and exposing crooked property rackets, he had suddenly become Shiner, the political freedom agitator and self-declared Protectress of Protestors. In another six years, she became Sam Glass, the Ghost Warrior. Then DJ Statue. Then the Vanguard of Victory Street. Then Focus, and a dozen others.

Tock Tock has been more people than anyone it knows. Even Night Shrike doesn’t change identities so often. If anyone can deal with an existence-level threat, it’s an entity whose existence resides in fundamental unreality.

Ignoring the crackling neutrinos, Tock Tock finds a detached copper wire and threads its fingers along it until they disappear. As expected, the wire leads out of the reality to which the lab, Sympath and all of Colossus City is attached.

Squeezing uncomfortably through the microns-wide wormhole, Tock Tock emerges into a mirror of the physics laboratory it just left, though this one is pristine, unmarked by any super-battle. The end of the wire is wrapped around a nail hammered into a wooden crate about the size of the abstraction bomb.

Doctor Ontological leans against the empty crate, eating an apple.

“Welcome,” says Doctor Ontological. “You took your time.”

Tock Tock ignores the mad genius and carefully plucks the nail out of the box. The wormhole instantly collapses.

“You orchestrated the murder of dozens of people. You tried to kill millions. I am placing you in custody.”

“You haven’t saved them yet,” observes Doctor Ontological, crunching the apple loudly.

“I’ve disconnected the bomb from its power source.”

“Not at all. You’ve replaced its power source.”

A tug of gravitons plays at the fringe of Tock Tock’s senses. It feels them snaking back toward the bomb. If it doesn’t get far enough away, the bomb will detonate.


“Only you can stop my true master plan.” Doctor Ontological holds out a battered brown garment. “I brought you this.”

“Tock McPherson’s trenchcoat?”

“Give my regards to the 60’s. If you’re lucky, it’s far enough.”

Tock Tock dons the coat.

“This isn’t over,” it warns, as it jumps back to where it began.

It’s another Colossus City superhero story (past ones have been Mister Extra, Flyers, and Mother Sun and Sister Moon). This one owes more than a small tip of the hat to Grant Morrison and Richard Case’s early ’90’s run of Doom Patrol, which probably had a bigger influence on me than is strictly healthy.

Edit: Oh for goodness sake, I accidentally published this early and can’t seem to unpublish it. So, uh, enjoy the sneak preview, all you people inexplicably watching this page on Thursday evening!

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Friday flash fiction – Carapace

My squad hits the dirt behind the fanned trunk of a giant kapok tree when a Mamba .511 starts bark-bark-barking from somewhere in the jungle. The kapok’s splayed base eats up the rounds better than armour, but the wood’s not hard enough for long term comfort.

“Poachers!” yells Ortez, stating the obvious. What are you gonna do? Kid’s a rookie.

“Take it to suit comms.” I mutter the command. Keeping a tight lip in a firefight goes against the natural instinct to shout, but giving your position away to trigger-happy desperadoes is a bad habit to get into. “Gimme full burn.”

“Roger that,” says Lerner, the Austrian with the Masters in Comparative Theology and Bowie face tatts. He’s been spoiling for a fight for days; I can practically hear him grinning.

A static hum fills the hollow at the foot of the kapok as our exo-skirmishwear powers up. I’m in the Villeras-Cristos Gigantic, with the static discharge plates and short-range spring boosters; the rest are rocking standard-issue armoured suits with ballistic compensators, muscle enhancement and skeletal reinforcement, all wrapped in bespoke Amazonian-camo skin with subtle corporate logos. We look like six of the roughest, meanest tropical beetles you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Spread and suppress.”

Tannie and Bron Chisholm bound left on enhanced leg musculature, their forearm-mounted submachineguns chattering a retort back at the poachers. Ortez and Reed slink right into the low underbrush, camouflage filters dropping their contrast to match the rainforest shadow. They’re jacking themselves with a cocktail of sensory and reflex boosters, as well as neutralising agents to calm the edge off Ortez’s adrenaline spike.

The shooting cuts out as our attackers lose line of sight on their targets. I direct hand signals at Lerner; I want intel.

He drops an infoslim between us and calls up a map, pointing out our position. Our patrol range covers several hundred hectares of mountains, valleys and river networks covered in some of the densest foliage on Earth. We don’t always know where we are, at least not without checking.

Decades of military combat experience, state of the art mobile frames, combination arms ranging from tranquilisers to ground-to-air missiles, and an unpredictable beat? Usually, it’s enough to discourage poachers, but not always.

“We’re within a mile of Quadrant 148-beta,” mutters Lerner. “That patch belongs to the Romanian crew.”

In a jungle this big, the proximity was too close for coincidence. “Damn,” I replied. “They’re after the stags.”

“Looks like.”

“Are their insurance payments up to date?”

“Sure are.”

“Then let’s furnish our clients with the very best in protective services and deterrence management.”

The moment of silence stretches out to thirty seconds, which means the poachers are either prepping another ambush or pulling an orderly retreat. Since their first sucker punch missed its mark, I decide to assume they are, excuse me, bugging out.

Unfortunately, their best line of retreat from our current position is down the valley to our west. Directly toward the Romanian bug research encampment.

I access detailed aerial surveillance data showing the disposition of the Romanian facility: the glasshouse-domed field laboratory, the stock pens, the sonic fencing systems. Assuming the poachers were on foot, in good health but not enhanced, I figured they could hoof it down to the sonics in about ninety seconds.

Plenty of time.

“Break now. Intercept on these coordinates.”

Still in our fire teams of two, we cut loose and hit a run, trying to get ahead of the poachers. The beetle suits can scuttle up to 80 kays over short distances.

Trouble is, at that pace they shed a lot of manoeuvrability. Way we figured it later, Ortez crashed into the middle of the squad of poachers like a stolen cab through a shop window. He caught a ricochet off his own chest plate when they panic-fired at him. The round went up under his chin. Not a lot of ballistic mesh in that spot.

“Contact!” Reed tells us with his customary understatement. He’s carrying the heavy load, a sleek HammerJack 7.56mm machine gun on gyroscopic mountings. It slows him down a touch, so he was a few steps behind Ortez. It gives him a front seat for the chaos.

The poachers either sent in an advance party to disable the sonic barriers, or they have a man on the inside. Safest bet is to assume it’s the latter. Research assistants are never paid what they’re worth, except by organised crims looking for a low-stress score.

With the sonics down, the herd is free to wander. I burst out of the undergrowth just in time to see a large set of mandibles snip the poachers’ point man almost in half. It’s the size and roughly the shape of a VW Bug with an enormous claw attached to the front, and it’s not alone. The beetles burst from their grassy enclosure, spilling out in a green-black tide of hard shells and take-no-prisoners attitudes. Another tries the same trick on Reed’s reinforced suit, less successfully.

The poachers, who have guns, grenades and diamond-edged carapace-harvesting chainsaws, are no match for the beetle stampede. Knocked down or run through, they’re easy prey for our targeting systems.

Plus-sized Lucanidae – stag beetles – engineered and reared by the Romanian mad scientists for – something. Organ harvesting, probably, or maybe their shells can be ground down for cheap industrial sealant. Whatever. There’s about fifty such wild genetic experiments going on inside our patrol zone, each weirder and less legal than the last. I’ve never asked.

“Pheromones,” shouts Lerner, consulting our safety protocols on the fly. “Formulation sixteen.”

We all trigger a scent package which permeates the fibrous underlayers of our suits. The scent is undetectable to humans, but the bugs are repelled by it. We encircle them like sheepdogs. The stampede ends as quickly as it began, as the Lucanidae turn away from us and scuttle back toward their enclosure.

They leave a pulped mass of bodies and poaching gear in their wake.

I have a weird job.

Honestly, I have no idea where this one came from. I do like cool power armour, but the genetic tampering to farm gigantic beetles in the Amazon? I don’t know. I have a weird job.

This may be a good time to remind newer readers that in addition to this weekly flash story, you can also get my short story collection Mnemo’s Memory and Other Fantastic Tales for free by signing up to my once-every-couple-of-months newsletter. Just fill in this form with a name and email address:

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Friday flash fiction – Aeolian Wine

When the storm turned back toward the coast, Nick Hallam fled inland, and the storm followed.

He raced ahead of it, up into the ranges, his station wagon packed to the brim with emergency supplies, a change of clothes and, most precious of all, the Greek crate. In the rear-view mirror, the storm was a black mass laid across the coast like a smothering blanket. Lightning crackled in its guts at furious intervals, making Nick’s eyes flick back to the mirror. He had a head start, but the storm was moving fast, gaining ground. Wind lashed the trees lining the mountain highway. Sleet – unheard of at this time of year, this close to the equator – battered the back window, turning a dust coating to streaks of slush.

“I know what this is,” he yelled at the gathering dark, as he hammered the old Ford wagon around blind corners and hairpin turns, crushing the accelerator underfoot, and ignoring the shudders of the tyres momentarily losing their grip on the slick roads. “They can’t have it back!”

Nick hadn’t been back in the country long enough to have his own car; this one belonged to a soft-hearted cousin. His destination was a farmhouse, a breeze-block bunker which survived floods, bushfires and mountain storms for fifty years.

His inheritance.

“I stole it fair and square!” As he turned down a muddy country road, he found himself yelling, half at himself, and half at the sheep milling in his headlights. “It’s mine.”

He’d done all the work, after all. When he thought about it, he deserved more credit than the Professor. He’d translated the inscriptions at the Aoelian dig, making sure to deface them just enough to obscure their meaning. He’d cross-referenced the Professor’s notes to come up with the map coordinates. He’d hired the launch and the dive gear, coordinated the survey teams, and hammered the coloured pegs into the sea bed himself.

And he’d made sure they found enough artefacts of archaeological interest to keep Professor Katsaros busy for the next decade. Whether she was too busy or too grateful to notice he’d held back the amphora for himself, Nick didn’t care. He didn’t have an academic career to make with the find, but he was happy to settle for a fortune.

The wind picked up as he skidded to a halt at the end of the farm driveway. A bundle of gum leaves broke free of its branch, falling and rolling across the paddock like a scaly, deflating beach ball. The farm didn’t run stock any more, but in the distance, some goats were bleating and a dog was losing its mind with barking.

Nick unloaded his stores as fast as he could, cursing as he stumbled in the dark. Nobody had paid a power bill here in years. If he was lucky he’d get the diesel pump working, but if not, his water stocks would last a few days.

He could ride out a few days. No problem.

He saved the crate for last. In the space of a few minutes, the rain escalated from heavy to tumultuous. Nick bundled the small wooden case protectively in his jacket. He bolted the doors, shuttered the windows and even dragged the beer fridge to fit snugly in front of the fireplace.

“No breezes getting in here, mate,” he told the night. “We’re on our own.”

He listened as the rain began to drum against the concrete walls – light snare rolls at first, but the toms and the bass kicked in soon enough. It was turning into a Rush solo out there.

With a grim smile of satisfaction, he lit a hurricane lantern, set a tin of beef stew to bubbling on his camp stove, and twisted the cap off a beer. Then he levered the lid off the crate and lifted out the amphora.

It was deceptively plain to look at. A wine jug, unremarkable beyond its antiquity. Stoppered and sealed with resin. Fired clay, no fancy paintings, no markings other than a word inscribed on the side: Kyklonas.


Nick knew what it was as soon as he laid eyes on it. The Professor was a serious scientist who had no time for ancient Greek myths. Nick lapped that stuff up.

He knew all about Aeolus, the god-king who fathered the winds of ancient Greece, ruling an island of bronze, where he hosted Odysseus and his crew. He’d gifted the wandering Ithacan hero with a bag of fair winds, his offspring, to carry him home.

Any archaeological discovery with a credible link to the events of the freaking Odyssey was worth the risk of stealing it.

Did the amphora come from the table of the historical Aeolus himself? One of the Inspectors from the Greek Archaeological Service had aired the possibility, forcing up the price of Nick’s bribe. The other one, whose brakes had failed on a treacherous coastal road, had been as sceptical as he was principled.

Its provenance hardly mattered; Nick knew people with the skills to produce flawless articles of authentication. Give him six months to quietly lay the groundwork; he’d turn this old jug into a fortune.

The wind howled like a pack of angry dogs, battering the door and rattling the shutters. The walls shook under its withering fury. The amphora rattled as if catching a gust. Nick reached out his hand, searching for the source of the draft.


Possessed by a sudden terror of accidental breakage, he settled the jug in its Styrofoam bed.

It rattled again, as if an animal were trapped inside.

Wave after wave of wind roared about him. The shack’s iron roof squealed its resistance. Rivets groaned and popped overhead.

Nick thought of an ancient king, who fathered winds and sealed them away.

The roof lifted with one last tortured rending of metal.

Nick looked up into the eye of the storm and screamed at what he saw.

“Give me back my son,” said the storm.

This is a complete rework of an old story I tried to write years ago, a survival horror story about a vengeful spirit stalking its prey from the heart of a cyclone, the sort of tropical storm I grew up with.

I abandoned the story because it evolved into a vicious thriller about relationship burnout and domestic abuse, which – ugh, why did I ruin a perfectly good supernatural premise like that? There are no doubt many writers who can deal with issues of real-world harm through the metaphor of monster fiction effectively and constructively, but I’m not confident I’m one of them now, and certainly not back then.

Still, I’ve never quite let go of the core idea, of stolen archeological treasures and angry Greek wind spirits. Better to unleash such things than keep them bottled up, I think.

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Friday flash fiction – Sky Bastion Serengeti

“Wild Dog Squadron, stand by to deploy!”

Boots, slippers and bare feet slapped across the Serengeti’s flight deck as crews emptied from their elemental dojos, meditation cells and communal baths into the waiting combat modules.

“Is this a drill?” Pilots, gunners and astrogators stripped to their underwear, while harried talismechanics daubed them with sigils for accuracy, loyalty and luck, and chantrysts began the warsongs that would help them enter their battle trance states.

“No drill! The Scutos are back!” Commander Tay Burne deepened their trance, murmuring a quiet mantra of Extreme Calm to their crew of five as they waited for the last of their squad mates to signal readiness. When the final Wild Dog flashed an illusory image of bared teeth across its carbon fibre hull, Burne gave the launch command. The Wild Dogs slipped into the airless night, ready to meet the advancing enemy.

On the Serengeti‘s bridge, Captain Bijoux D’Orsay examined the wave of red triangles advancing across her scrying grid. “Situational analysis, Lieutenants Torres.”

“The Scutocoxi are categorised as a Class-2 threat, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Aurora Torres, conjuring an illusion of a rotund, heavily-plated insect the size of a groundcar. “They were first observed on the Venusian timber-moon of Eryx.”

“Their existence is usually attributed to an unlicensed genetic sorcerer called Carl Gunderssen, circa 2280,” added Aurora’s twin brother, Lieutenant Martim Torres. “Unconfirmed because when the Scutocoxi broke free from his binding spells and began to consume the Walking Forests, Gunderssen encased himself and his mirror clones in a stasis crystal. It’s not due to recalibrate to this universe’s vibrational frequency for another four hundred years.”

“Let me guess,” said Captain D’Orsay dryly. “He thought he could wait out his uncontrolled experiment while they starved to death?”

Martim said, “Yes, sir. But he imprinted them with way too many cognition charms.”

Aurora nodded. “Highly illegal. They’re twice as smart as elephants and fifty times as destructive on vegetation.”

“And they’re headed for the Green Belt of Africa,” observed the Captain, tracing her finger across the thick band of vegetation spanning the central third of the African continent. “Unless we can stop them, they’ll reverse two hundred years of reforestation efforts in a matter of weeks.”

The Portuguese officers both coughed at the same time. Captain D’Orsay raised one elegantly grey eyebrow at them.

“It could be worse than that, sir,” said Martim. “Some archeomancers theorise that the Green Belt project’s act of altruistic cooperation on a continental scale was a catalyst for the First Arcane Uprising in 2073.”

“If the Scutocoxi deforest Africa, Earth’s entire geomantic fabric could potentially unravel. Everything could return to premagical conditions in an instant.” Aurora waved her arms at the monitor screens, where Earth circled slowly beneath them. “The good news is Serengeti wouldn’t fall out of orbit and burn up on re-entry.”

“No, because we’d be instantly annihilated by a thermo-talismanic feedback pulse.”

Captain D’Orsay scowled. “Not on my watch. Scramble fighter squadrons and instruct Gunnery Chief Nagoya to begin the targeting rituals.”

The Serengeti manoeuvred to a higher orbit, clearing the way for ground-based artillery batteries to launch lightning webs and fireball clusters into the upper atmosphere. They would provide precious little protection against the armoured marauders if the Serengeti failed, but every moment might count.

The Wild Dog Squadron spread like dandelion seeds before the Serengeti, forming a screen against the incoming alien horde. Each combat module resembled a train car made from petrified wood and banded with beaten metal, golden machinery and rose thorns. A closer inspection would reveal military-grade enchantments against hard vacuum, acceleration and most known forms of elemental attacks. They were the finest war machines the modern arcano-industrial complex could assemble.

The Scutocoxi swarm, bristling with armour and impervious to the hostile rigours of space, was so thick it blotted out the stars.

Commander Burne sang mantras of Denial and Interdiction. At their soothing command, the squadron launched missiles packed with discouraging pheromones and plasma explosions bottled inside temporary force fields. Explosions filled the darkness, enveloping some of the Scutocoxi and disorienting others. The swarm bristled but dd not break.

“Kettle them, please,” ordered the Serengeti, and the Wild Dogs obeyed. They scattered to the outer fringes of the swarm, where they fired millions of rounds of conjured hardwood toward a designated point of convergence. The Scutocoxi, too starved by the ravages of their interplanetary leap for caution, took the bait. They followed the timber volley into the path of the Serengeti’s main gun.


The outer ionosphere rippled with untethered magic as a stream of arcane disruption plunged into the swarm’s centre. The Scutocoxi howled with psychic rage as they realised all at once that their stomachs were empty and they were cooking inside their impermeable shells. Most perished in an instant, mad with hunger and roasted like ground nuts.

“Assume Sentinel Hounds form and engage the stragglers!” Commander Burne projected slave commands at their nearest squad mates. A dozen clusters of combat modules formed, each aligned with a designated Head. Within each cluster, ships snapped together like jigsaw pieces, secured by electromagnetic fields and binding invocations.

Their transformations completed with blinding flashes of blue light, which cleared to reveal giant, space-borne dogforms.

“We are Wild Dog Terrier!” declared Burne, showing their teeth as the same expression flashed across the face of their transformed combat ships. “We protect Earth!”

Beside them, a second team declared, “We are Wild Dog Shepherd!”

Then “Mastiff” and “Setter” and “Pinscher” added their voices to the pack. “Wild Dogs!”

The Wild Dogs of the Serengeti fell upon their prey, crunching the aliens’ shells with armoured jaws.

Those terrified Scutocoxi who remained broke and fled for the stars, their meals forgotten.

At last Captain D’Orsay ordered the planetary defence networks to stand down and recalled the Wild Dogs to the ship. “Convey my thanks to your teams, Commander Burne. This may go down as history’s greatest pest inspection.”

“Aye, sir. Termite-free once again.”

Sky Bastion Serengeti resumed its watch over Earth.

Okay, I admit this one is less of a story and more of a highlights sequence from an early episode of the most kickarse late-90’s anime series nobody ever made.

In my head Sky Bastion Serengeti ran for eight seasons and spawned at least two spinoff series, and of course it is better viewed in the original Japanese than the terrible dubbed version, even if some of the captions are badly translated and none of the jokes land.


Apart from a number of formative cartoons dimly remembered from my distant youth, this story mainly arose from a conversation I had awhile back about how science-fantasy has become a slightly neglected subgenre. I quite enjoy overtly magic-infested science fiction, though I often forget it when I’m writing.

The only remotely true thing in the story is the African Great Green Wall, which is a real decades-long reforestation project to drive the Sahara Desert back from Central Africa by planting a  wide band of trees spanning the continent. The project is working to rebuild microclimates, restore topsoil and create conditions favourable for small agricultural projects.

The project has its critics and limitations, and it’s drifted somewhat from the original conceit. But it’s still a massive act of international cooperation almost indistinguishable from magic, so of course I like it.

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Story – A Fire Across the World in On Spec 108

“A Fire Across the World”  is my short story of Great Game-era spies, mad scientists and supernatural reincarnation, now available in On Spec 108 (Volume 29, Issue 1), the Canadian magazine of the fantastic.

On Spec 108 (July 2018)

This is probably most most-edited story ever, having been completely rewritten after a detailed critique by Rob Porteous, developmentally edited by Darren Goossens, and finally tighetened again by On Spec editor A.J. Wells.

It’s also action-packed and conceptually bonkers, though to say why would be a spoiler. It was fun to write, though.

The issue will be sold digitally through Weightless Books (the current issue isn’t up yet at the time of writing this post but it should be soon) or you can subscribe for physical copies directly from the On Spec website.

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