Sci-Fi Flash Fiction: The Bright Guy
And Ongoing Lessons In Rejection As A Writer
Author’s note: I wrote this particular piece in October for a sci-fi flash fiction contest which, since you are about to read it, I clearly did not win. The vacuum theme for the contest drove up a lot ideas for me and I got really excited about working out my sci-fi chops.
Let’s be real, though. Despite the fact that I read as much sci-fi as I can get my hands on, it is not my usual genre in terms of writing. However, I’m all about improving at my craft. Challenging myself by stepping into spaces that require renegotiation of old writing patterns and ideas forces me to get better. Writing is like an exercise regimen—the only way you grow muscle is by upping the game.
Writing these kinds of stories and entering them into contests or submitting to journals is also an excellent exercise in stiffening my spine. Making art takes a constitution, more like an iron stomach. Doing the work, submitting it, and having someone tell you it didn’t make the cut is part of the deal. There is an interesting power in writing something that pushed old limits and then having it sent back to you unpublished. I get to write another one, and another one, and work on my writing with every submission, accepted or rejected.
I may not have “succeeded” in the traditional sense, but I am damn proud of myself for this little bit of fiction.
And, the cool part is now I get to share it with you.
I would love to hear what you think, constructive criticism is most definitely welcome.
As always, thank you for sticking with me on this long, strange ride.
Robin
The Bright Guy
by Robin Rivers
The Commander was a legend.
The kind who strips everything back, and makes it new again. I heard his real name was Jerald something or other, but my pal Eric gave him the nickname and it stuck. The boys in my division made a game of it. “The Commander is back! We left it extra juicy in tube three. Just the way you like it, buddy.”
He and his crew always cleaned up our messes—silent, obedient, unmoved by the literal shit slung at them. Their wordless devotion made sense. What else were guys like that going to do? I could see the necks full of tattoos under those work jumpers buttoned up tight. I spent eight years, almost a million bucks, training for this job. Guys like that didn’t get into places like this any other way than with a vacuum cleaner in their hand.
The Commander, though, had a little something that drove us to exaggeration.
“He’s a cleaner. So, you know what that means?” Kelly in accounting told stories riding home on the Teletrans.
Eric would always creep up from behind and grab her shoulders. “That he’s going to scrub us all cleeeaaann and eat us for dinner!”
She’d yelp. We’d get a good laugh. The Commander served us well. See, a legend.
That’s the way it went every night. We let The Commander and his cleaning gang in, just like the boss told us to. Then, we’d head home and make up a new story about some guy’s body he took over or how his pile of degenerate helpers ran an underground organ trafficking ring.
Every morning, I’d nod at The Commander as he loaded the vacuums onto the transport we had just got off. His jumpsuit, white the night before, sagged from what had to be sweat-caked with layers of brown and yellow on the sleeves and legs. We’d laugh. Eric would get a crack in. But, God, I swear he smelled like a corpse.
The whole legend thing freaked people out. Some guys on the night crew went crazy from the whirring. They went for a break in the tubes and never came back. I never cared about those losers who couldn’t take the pressure. I started working doubles; moved up. Every time I swiped my credit meter, the number climbed higher. Every time, more work. Every time, more credits. I barely noticed the vacuums or The Commander.
I kept unlocking the door for him. Desks filled and emptied. The production floor packed itself with strange faces. And, I started to notice things. After The Commander had been through, the air felt thicker. The lights flickered and dimmed if and when the whir actually stopped. Yet, it steadied when the sucking started again.
I even had waking dreams about that whir. I’d become paralyzed in the middle of Little League; when I kissed Alice. I had memories of baseball and her touch, but the constant noise made me wonder if I’d even left my desk.
I should have gone home. Instead, I doubled down with my men; dictated their day down to the smallest variable. I needed it. Thrived in ticking every one of those boxes off every day, and then even more added the next. The Commander faded from view.
That was until the promotion.
The new job meant new responsibilities. Squeeze more from the team. Hit higher production goals. More. More. The Commander was killing my quotas. I took it upon myself to stop the brain drain. I needed to know his deal.
“Quite a load tonight.” I eyed his full bag as The Commander emptied his vacuum.
He nodded but didn’t look up. “The building gets . . . hungry sometimes.”
I had ten men including Eric who had to deliver a $20 million project by 5 a.m. I needed The Commander and his crew gone. “Why don’t you guys take the rest of the night off?”
His odd, intense eyes met mine. “You look tired.”
“I . . . Well, who isn’t working these sort of hours?”
“You might want to take better care. It’s easy to lose yourself in a place like this.”
Something sick settled in my throat. “Right. Well, I’ll head home after we’re done.”
“Sure,” he interrupted. “Give Alice my regards.”
I nodded mechanically. As I walked away, I trembled. He knew my wife? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen her myself. All of the Teletrans stories had finally gotten to me too. I needed to wipe my mind of this stupid legend.
Back at my desk, the lights had dimmed. I caught a glimpse of myself on a dark computer screen—pale, almost translucent. I laid my head down, tried to sleep.
The Commander startled me from behind. “You look like a bright guy.”
I turned, confused. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Eric needs you.”
“Why?”
He never looked up. “Someone has to keep the lights on."
The lights pulsed, hissing and sparking as I followed him though the corridors. Finally, we turned a corner. The cleaners had pinned Eric to the wall of tube 3.
The Commander, vacuum in hand, shuffled toward him.
“David!” Eric spotted me. His plea made me physically sick. “Come on. This isn’t funny.”
The Commander flipped a switch on the wall. “Ready to do your part?"
The room disintegrated into a black morass of pipes and belching machines. The walls shuddered in a sickening, grinding motion. Eric howled. The tatted-up cleaning team flipped their vacuums on. The lights glowed steady as, bit-by-bit, Eric disintegrated. Then, silence. The kind of silence that speaks of heaven but the price is hell.
Suddenly, the lights sparked and sputtered.
“Hmmm,” The Commander said. “Still hungry.”
He turned toward me, vacuum chest-high, thumb on the switch. I heaved.
“Oh, David. There you are. Let’s see if you’re brighter than Eric, shall we?”
***