Makellan's Christmas (with Cindies)

A Fiction Gift Exchange Short

I’m so glad to be a part of my first Substack Holiday Story Exchange! I got crazy lucky and was assigned

Andy Futuro

to write something for. I’m only partway through his awesome sci-fi serial No Dogs in Philly, but it’s freaking good. Made me want to do some cyber stuff myself for the holiday. Here’s my result!

Make sure you check out all the other participants for their gifts too!

Scoot, Erica Drayton, A. C. Sanders, Paola F. Caravasso, Joseph L. Wiess, Alexandra Hill, Andy Futuro, Jude Mire, Nick Buchheit, E.K. MacPherson, Aysun G. (She/Them), Michael S. Atkinson, ☕ KimBoo York, Keith Long, Jack Nagy, Jessica Neal

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Makellan’s Christmas (with Cindies)

"Tell me you got this guy," said Makellan. "I'm so sick of his crap."

The Cindies all shrugged.

"It's hard to confirm," said the first Cindy. Weepy Cindy, Makellan thought of her, on account of the face tattoo.

"We've got a location, and even a visual," said the second. She was the one he called That Cindy. She was the most sexual of the three, always dressed in revealing outfits, with plenty of skin to ogle. But, like a lot of women, she followed the latest fashion trends. That meant she was sporting a thick moustache, curled over her lip and dripping down her chin. Makellan wasn't a prude, but facial hair squeeged him out. Whatever the business gear, for his tastes, a person's face needed to be as smooth as a peeled egg.

She continued talking and Makellan's eyes bounced from her cleavage to her furry lip, toggling his different feelings like a slow strobe. "I'm confident on the location,” she said. “But what we're seeing..." Cindy's handlebars frowned.

"What is it?" asked Makellan.

Cyber Cindy indicated one of the screens with her chin. "That," she said. "It's a filter or some sort of augment overlay tweak nonsense. Don’t trust what you see."

Cyber Cindy was the most reliable of the triplet of hackers, even though she was the least human. Maybe because of it. Her right arm was gone, replaced with a tangled trunk of cords and cables. Most of these extended to a terminal in front of her where a dozen robotic hands tapped on keyboards and flipped screens. Other wires wandered around the room, like invasive vines.

Makellan looked at the feed.

There he was.

Makellan held his breath as he finally set eyes on his quarry. Like the Cindies, the man was sitting in a hacker’s paradise, nestled into a cradle of computers, monitors, and vidsplays. He was huge. Enormous in his cubby, with rolls of fat resting on the desktop, barely able to fit. Makellan didn't see how he could even get out of the rig. He had a full beard, long and white, that draped his wide chest. He was dressed in some sort of red pajamas, complete with an old-fashioned headsock.

It was ridiculous, to think someone so unfit, so unable to run, had been staying ahead of him for all these years.

Weepy Cindy, noting his expression, reminded him that trust was bullshit. "Like we said. That's probably fake."

Makellan stared at it. Reaching out, he zoomed in on the target's face. The fat man's eyes were huge, bloodshot, twitching as they watched thousands and thousands of tiny images before him. Without warning, they stopped their frantic searching and turned to look directly at the camera.

Makellan found himself locked eye to eye with the suspect.

He sees you. He knows.

Makellan didn't share the Cindies doubts. That was him. The infamous Nick the Saint.

"Target confirmed," said Makellan. "Send in the strike team, now, with orders to kill."