FLASH FICTION FRIDAY: ...FOR OIL

Been missing in action this week; I think it was a mistake to attempt two classes, work and everything else. I've got about five thousand words due for school, a test, homework, a paper for an obscure professional journal to edit and a paper for another obscure professional journal to write.

So, I'm doing what any rational being would: I'm taking four days off to get ahead of the ball.

But I did make sure to get out a flash fiction story for this week and work up a neat header for the story. I get points for that, right? Please enjoy...

The State Department blimp hovered over the Arctic wasteland.

 

That’s not right; in school we learned there are no true frontiers. Every scrap of earth has some purpose. Frontiers were what you got before boundaries; boundaries were what you got when people moved in and started setting up markers.

 

So, the State Department blimp hovered over the Arctic frontier.

 

And it was definitely a frontier. The Moscow Machine was up here and so was Union. Of course, we had a piece or State Department wouldn’t have sent my team into here.

 

Oil. The last great rush of the mid twenty-first century was on and folks were moving into the Arctic in record numbers.

 

Oil and heat. Either global warming or the active volcanoes under the Arctic sea had warmed the place up; it wasn’t the foreboding wasteland, excuse me, frontier, of novels. Accessibility: the Arctic had it in spades. The Arctic now had the interest of the world.

 

This meant friction. Ever time Powers, or nations, whatever, started rubbing uglies, you got friction. And nothing was uglier than the rugged frontiersmen, with their DeWalt nibblers and solar powered extractors in a mad rush for wealth. Friction.

 

Normal friction is usually handed in the Capitals: peace, war…those types of decisions would have been hammered out between D.C., Brussels and Moscow. It was when oilmen started streaming south, with unbelievable tales of terror, mayhem and murder that we got the call: my name is Bekka, and I lead the State Department Operational Diplomacy Team Alpha.

 

We go where State fears to tread and we go with eyes wide open.

 

We deliver packages. And we never fail.

 

Once the little blimp bot got us over the right geo coordinates, I got my team ready. There are five of us: myself, team leader; Ryan, who did explosives and communications; Viv, she worked heavy weapons and anthropology; His Honor, a not yet fully human negotiator from The Esther, brought solid xenobiology chops and Kev, my second in command.

 

“Five minutes,” I told my team and began to strip. Kev and Ryan sloughed off their slicks and began stretching. Viv, began taking off her slicks and started reaching for sports tape to hold down her breast; something I always found useless as the Sludge accounted for all our morphologies. His Honor took steps towards his drop capsule entry and lowered himself in the combat Sludge; His Honor was not much for preparation.

 

I was the last on into my drop capsule. I held my breath as I always did—reflex—and as my head dipped into the Sludge, I inhaled. The sick-sweet fluid ran down my through and began covering my lungs; the preprogrammed process would make us all, we hoped, invulnerable to that thing down in the Arctic Circle.

 

I verified we could all talk, sent a few coded messages to ensure we were all on the same local reality, and ordered the blimp bot to drop our capsules. The drop capsules let loose with a bump and took us fifty thousand feet to the ground. The drop was pretty uneventful. Homeland Intelligence rated the air threat coming from the entity as low to nonexistent. I saw no reason to endure bumps and bruises through unnecessary maneuvers.

 

Two seconds after we hit the ground, the capsule and Sludge remainder disintegrated around us.

 

I wanted to die and I know my team felt the same way. Dread invaded my heart and fear leached into my bones. Training, and training alone, kept me from reaching for my gun to end it all or simply running south as fast as I could. The endless, soul crushing, agony was expected.

 

We’d studied the entity from orbit and knew what to expect. ‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents’ I reminded myself.

 

We adjusted; you always adjust.

 

We were surrounded by the lost city of R’lyeh, a city out of time and out of place. Low, stone buildings, greenish and with a hint of slime, formed the secondary features of the city. The primary feature of the city was the large, mountain sized mass of tentacles and form with two vestigial wings: Cthulhu, the Lord of Water, sat slumbering, dreaming nightmares, in the heart of R’lyeh.

 

I groaned: the presence of Cthulhu on Earth was a massive violation of the treaties, tenants and intents of the Agreed Framework. Somebody would pay, eventually, but for now, my team and I had more immediate problems.

 

How did all our oil, I wondered for the hundredth time, get under this lovecraftian horror?

 

I kept my team packed close, with a solid three hundred and sixty degree perimeter. We waited as the Cthulhi became used to our presence in their public square. The Cthulhi were miniaturized versions of the great Cthulhu that dominated the cityscape. They were with whom we had come to talk. The short little beast—old prejudices flaring there—slowly oozed out of the doorways and from around corners until my team was completely surrounded by them; the fact that they only came up to my knees kept us from getting claustrophobic.

His Honor slung his weapon and uncased what look like a nineteen thirties radio set someone had forgotten to completely reassemble. His Honor twisted some knobs and the little device crackled and sputtered to life, reaching into the ether that surrounded the Cthulhi and back into our local reality.

 

“You are from Hastur of the Air?” the Cthulhi said, collectively and accusingly.

 

His Honor shook its head. “No, I am from The Esther of San Francisco, and here,” he pointed to me, “is Bekka, our leader; she is from Los Angeles. None of us are from the air; we flew through the air to get here.”

 

“Hastur is him who is not to be named…” the Cthulhi responded, naming Hastur. I wondered how that would go down with Cthulhu.

 

“Never met the dude,” responded His Honor. “Listen…” His Honor began.

 

I tensed and knew my team was on point. Here’s where diplomacy got tricky, when you got down to the meat of the subject. The Cthulhi, despite the pulsing nihilism and hate pouring forth, were harmless to us, one on one. But there sure were a lot of them and they all answered to Cthulhu, whose capabilities were unknown. Shooting started where rationalism and irrationalism collided. Effective, aggressive diplomacy needed to be backed up by force. I got ready and stayed ready, as His Honor continued:

 

“Listen,” His Honor said, “we are here to discuss normalized trade relations with Cthulhu; perhaps even entry into the World Trade Organization, somewhere down the road.”

 

The Cthulhi muttered among themselves for a minute. We waited. Finally one came forward:

 

“Of course, there is the matter of technology transference and the issue of the Caribou to consider. Your anarchic onto imperialist death machine will not get our oil cheaply, and further…”

 

I relaxed my grip on my weapons as the Cthulhi and His Honor began the dance of negotiations. I knew this was only the opening phase. Eventually we’d have to bring up and Ambassador and a Trade Team from State.

 

But for now, my mission was done.

 

We could bring Cthulhu and the Cthulhi within the Agreed Framework.

 

 

Oil and heat. Either global warming or the active volcanoes under the Arctic sea had warmed the place up; it wasn’t the foreboding wasteland, excuse me, frontier, of novels. Accessibility: the Arctic had it in spades. The Arctic now had the interest of the world.

 

This meant friction. Ever time Powers, or nations, whatever, started rubbing uglies, you got friction. And nothing was uglier than the rugged frontiersmen, with their DeWalt nibblers and solar powered extractors in a mad rush for wealth. Friction.

 

Normal friction is usually handed in the Capitals: peace, war…those types of decisions would have been hammered out between D.C., Brussels and Moscow. It was when oilmen started streaming south, with unbelievable tales of terror, mayhem and murder that we got the call: my name is Bekka, and I lead the State Department Operational Diplomacy Team Alpha.

 

We go where State fears to tread and we go with eyes wide open.

 

We deliver packages. And we never fail.

 

Once the little blimp bot got us over the right geo coordinates, I got my team ready. There are five of us: myself, team leader; Ryan, who did explosives and communications; Viv, she worked heavy weapons and anthropology; His Honor, a not yet fully human negotiator from The Esther, brought solid xenobiology chops and Kev, my second in command.

 

“Five minutes,” I told my team and began to strip. Kev and Ryan sloughed off their slicks and began stretching. Viv, began taking off her slicks and started reaching for sports tape to hold down her breast; something I always found useless as the Sludge accounted for all our morphologies. His Honor took steps towards his drop capsule entry and lowered himself in the combat Sludge; His Honor was not much for preparation.

 

I was the last on into my drop capsule. I held my breath as I always did—reflex—and as my head dipped into the Sludge, I inhaled. The sick-sweet fluid ran down my through and began covering my lungs; the preprogrammed process would make us all, we hoped, invulnerable to that thing down in the Arctic Circle.

 

I verified we could all talk, sent a few coded messages to ensure we were all on the same local reality, and ordered the blimp bot to drop our capsules. The drop capsules let loose with a bump and took us fifty thousand feet to the ground. The drop was pretty uneventful. Homeland Intelligence rated the air threat coming from the entity as low to nonexistent. I saw no reason to endure bumps and bruises through unnecessary maneuvers.

 

Two seconds after we hit the ground, the capsule and Sludge remainder disintegrated around us.

 

I wanted to die and I know my team felt the same way. Dread invaded my heart and fear leached into my bones. Training, and training alone, kept me from reaching for my gun to end it all or simply running south as fast as I could. The endless, soul crushing, agony was expected.

 

We’d studied the entity from orbit and knew what to expect. ‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents’ I reminded myself.

 

We adjusted; you always adjust.

 

We were surrounded by the lost city of R’lyeh, a city out of time and out of place. Low, stone buildings, greenish and with a hint of slime, formed the secondary features of the city. The primary feature of the city was the large, mountain sized mass of tentacles and form with two vestigial wings: Cthulhu, the Lord of Water, sat slumbering, dreaming nightmares, in the heart of R’lyeh.

 

I groaned: the presence of Cthulhu on Earth was a massive violation of the treaties, tenants and intents of the Agreed Framework. Somebody would pay, eventually, but for now, my team and I had more immediate problems.

 

How did all our oil, I wondered for the hundredth time, get under this lovecraftian horror?

 

I kept my team packed close, with a solid three hundred and sixty degree perimeter. We waited as the Cthulhi became used to our presence in their public square. The Cthulhi were miniaturized versions of the great Cthulhu that dominated the cityscape. They were with whom we had come to talk. The short little beast—old prejudices flaring there—slowly oozed out of the doorways and from around corners until my team was completely surrounded by them; the fact that they only came up to my knees kept us from getting claustrophobic.

His Honor slung his weapon and uncased what look like a nineteen thirties radio set someone had forgotten to completely reassemble. His Honor twisted some knobs and the little device crackled and sputtered to life, reaching into the ether that surrounded the Cthulhi and back into our local reality.

 

“You are from Hastur of the Air?” the Cthulhi said, collectively and accusingly.

 

His Honor shook its head. “No, I am from The Esther of San Francisco, and here,” he pointed to me, “is Bekka, our leader; she is from Los Angeles. None of us are from the air; we flew through the air to get here.”

 

“Hastur is him who is not to be named…” the Cthulhi responded, naming Hastur. I wondered how that would go down with Cthulhu.

 

“Never met the dude,” responded His Honor. “Listen…” His Honor began.

 

I tensed and knew my team was on point. Here’s where diplomacy got tricky, when you got down to the meat of the subject. The Cthulhi, despite the pulsing nihilism and hate pouring forth, were harmless to us, one on one. But there sure were a lot of them and they all answered to Cthulhu, whose capabilities were unknown. Shooting started where rationalism and irrationalism collided. Effective, aggressive diplomacy needed to be backed up by force. I got ready and stayed ready, as His Honor continued:

 

“Listen,” His Honor said, “we are here to discuss normalized trade relations with Cthulhu; perhaps even entry into the World Trade Organization, somewhere down the road.”

 

The Cthulhi muttered among themselves for a minute. We waited. Finally one came forward:

 

“Of course, there is the matter of technology transference and the issue of the Caribou to consider. Your anarchic onto imperialist death machine will not get our oil cheaply, and further…”

 

I relaxed my grip on my weapons as the Cthulhi and His Honor began the dance of negotiations. I knew this was only the opening phase. Eventually we’d have to bring up and Ambassador and a Trade Team from State.

 

But for now, my mission was done.

 

We could bring Cthulhu and the Cthulhi within the Agreed Framework.