PREVIEW: Miracle Micro
A STRING OF BARE bulbs cast dim light down the concrete tunnel. My
electric cart’s motor hummed loud in the close-quarters. The familiar
sound soothed me. It had been almost a year since I drove these tunnels
and wore Sparky Services’ blue coveralls. One final intersection
separated me from the scene of my impending crime, and that knotted
my gut.
Don’t get me wrong, I was not a member of Chicago’s most notorious
underground terrorist organization. Everyone knew the Body of Christ
was pure-paranoid-potato-flakes, end of story.
electric cart’s motor hummed loud in the close-quarters. The familiar
sound soothed me. It had been almost a year since I drove these tunnels
and wore Sparky Services’ blue coveralls. One final intersection
separated me from the scene of my impending crime, and that knotted
my gut.
Don’t get me wrong, I was not a member of Chicago’s most notorious
underground terrorist organization. Everyone knew the Body of Christ
was pure-paranoid-potato-flakes, end of story.
It is rare that humans get to experience God acting directly into space and time. A skeptic witnesses an undeniable miracle in the underbelly of the Chicago Metroplex, a miracle that makes him a wanted man. The roof torn-off his beliefs, it's pouring, and he must choose. |
The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
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| Frank Creed's short story "Miracle Micro" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
|
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
Believers of all flavors had been blowing things up through all of history. At least these people
had a new twist. They claimed the One State government was really behind all the violence.
But who knew? I didn’t believe in truth anyway—everything was just spin and opinion. In all my
months underground, the most explosive thing I’d seen was a baked bean, but I hadn’t exactly
worked my way into their Elders’ Circle.
I’m in it for the money I reminded myself.
For decades Sparky Services had remained well-connected with certain people in the mayor’s
office. They provided utility maintenance for more than one-third of the Chicago Metroplex.
Before I joined the underground, workin’ for Sparky had been a great job. One I thought I’d retire
from. But that was a different lifetime . . . a workin’-stiff’s lifetime.
When the Department of Homeland Security’s Federal Bureau of Terrorism approached me with a
seven-digit onetime undercover offer, I left Sparky faster than a rock-fan at a D.J. Danglewood
concert.
I put on my Casio headphone-goggles, and a virtual desktop of icons appeared before me. I poked
a finger at a telephone-shaped symbol and then the re-dial option from a sub-menu. The icon
flashed five times before glowing bright yellow . . .
“Serene?” My nerve-strained words sounded an octave too high in my own ears.
Her voice filled my head. “Ratchet: hard to starboard here, and proceed to X-3—Y-3 coordinates
443 by 531.”
“You a sailor, or a hack?”
“Just turn right, matey. And quit the adrenaline, huh Ratch? Your vitals are all-over-the-place.”
Just one job. All I’ve gotta do is make it through this.
“Uh, yeah. It’s all cake for you. You’re on board a web access, while I’m in the whale’s belly.”
As I turned, the cart’s single halogen headlight arced round the parabolic mirrors that flanked the
corner. It was three minutes to noon in the city of trade-unions, and the tunnels beneath the
world’s largest industrial park were a ghost town. I breathed a sigh of relief. This mission counted
on your average blue-collar worker’s instinct for early lunch.
“I just watched you pass that last camera—didn’t notice a pistol to your head.”
“You’ve got all the sympathy of a Nero body-shop lab-coat on a piece-work paycheck.”
She chuckled while my stomach acid tried to eat its way through my belly-button. For the
hundredth time I wished she could have worked this from a remote hookup, but I knew the specs
of this operation made that impossible. And besides, if I weren’t pullin’ this job, I wouldn’t be
gettin’ paid. That thought went down like a Max-Strength Tums—with calcium.
All of a sudden, I felt energized.
Under my halogen, the first support girder’s red Glo-Paint glared G443-C527.
“You’re real warm. You’ve got the parking bay to starboard and DigitAd’s access is just a short
stroll past, kay?”
“Copy that.”
“I’ve got their security off-line, so do your thing. I’m silent until you’re positioned.”
“Copy that.” The floating yellow icon went gray.
I’d come into this undercover-op thinkin’ these folks would be all cuckoo-for-Coco-Puffs, but
Serene-and-company were, well, normal. I could tell that she was even a little sweet on yours
truly.
had a new twist. They claimed the One State government was really behind all the violence.
But who knew? I didn’t believe in truth anyway—everything was just spin and opinion. In all my
months underground, the most explosive thing I’d seen was a baked bean, but I hadn’t exactly
worked my way into their Elders’ Circle.
I’m in it for the money I reminded myself.
For decades Sparky Services had remained well-connected with certain people in the mayor’s
office. They provided utility maintenance for more than one-third of the Chicago Metroplex.
Before I joined the underground, workin’ for Sparky had been a great job. One I thought I’d retire
from. But that was a different lifetime . . . a workin’-stiff’s lifetime.
When the Department of Homeland Security’s Federal Bureau of Terrorism approached me with a
seven-digit onetime undercover offer, I left Sparky faster than a rock-fan at a D.J. Danglewood
concert.
I put on my Casio headphone-goggles, and a virtual desktop of icons appeared before me. I poked
a finger at a telephone-shaped symbol and then the re-dial option from a sub-menu. The icon
flashed five times before glowing bright yellow . . .
“Serene?” My nerve-strained words sounded an octave too high in my own ears.
Her voice filled my head. “Ratchet: hard to starboard here, and proceed to X-3—Y-3 coordinates
443 by 531.”
“You a sailor, or a hack?”
“Just turn right, matey. And quit the adrenaline, huh Ratch? Your vitals are all-over-the-place.”
Just one job. All I’ve gotta do is make it through this.
“Uh, yeah. It’s all cake for you. You’re on board a web access, while I’m in the whale’s belly.”
As I turned, the cart’s single halogen headlight arced round the parabolic mirrors that flanked the
corner. It was three minutes to noon in the city of trade-unions, and the tunnels beneath the
world’s largest industrial park were a ghost town. I breathed a sigh of relief. This mission counted
on your average blue-collar worker’s instinct for early lunch.
“I just watched you pass that last camera—didn’t notice a pistol to your head.”
“You’ve got all the sympathy of a Nero body-shop lab-coat on a piece-work paycheck.”
She chuckled while my stomach acid tried to eat its way through my belly-button. For the
hundredth time I wished she could have worked this from a remote hookup, but I knew the specs
of this operation made that impossible. And besides, if I weren’t pullin’ this job, I wouldn’t be
gettin’ paid. That thought went down like a Max-Strength Tums—with calcium.
All of a sudden, I felt energized.
Under my halogen, the first support girder’s red Glo-Paint glared G443-C527.
“You’re real warm. You’ve got the parking bay to starboard and DigitAd’s access is just a short
stroll past, kay?”
“Copy that.”
“I’ve got their security off-line, so do your thing. I’m silent until you’re positioned.”
“Copy that.” The floating yellow icon went gray.
I’d come into this undercover-op thinkin’ these folks would be all cuckoo-for-Coco-Puffs, but
Serene-and-company were, well, normal. I could tell that she was even a little sweet on yours
truly.