Foot Soldiers in The Zone

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Aimee propped herself up against a transformer just outside the halo of the lone streetlight. A kilometer up the road in each direction, red and blue lights pulsed, parked cruisers discouraging vehicle traffic into this part of the city until sunrise.

It was nighttime in the Battle Zone, infantry only.

Dark fingers of ancient architecture reached skyward around her; some rooms to own, some to rent, by the week or by the hour, the Zone catered to all comers.

Aimee had work to do, and lighting a paper cigarette and letting the chemicals rush from her lungs to her brain, she started hunting.

As her system software awoke from idle, the darkened city street was sketched over in data; travel vectors of incoming foot traffic, personal ad bubbles stating willingness or intent. The gaudy flashing billboard signage of the street businesses were dialed down automatically, Aimee knew where everything was and, un-muted, the distraction annoyed her.

“Hey there,” a voice startled her, “what’s your hourly? I dig your kinky shit!”

She looked at The Voice, and checked to make sure there was nobody behind her. She wasn’t here for that kind of work, and she sure as hell wasn’t advertising.

“I’m not paying extra for coy, so don’t pull any crap.”

The sign over The Voice’s head showed a perfect credit score and no complaints, but no other details. The Voice was steady, male and sounded like he was used to getting what he wanted. Aimee resisted the urge to crush his larynx.

She risked a quick third person view from the camera above the bodega across the street.

Sure enough, there was a sex-for-hire bubble floating just behind her head advertising S&M and a variety of related services in bright pink neon.

“Just give me a second,” she waved at The Voice absently, zeroing in on the bubble’s geospatial coordinates and isolating its address. Short ping, low latency, nearby and on broadband. Probably someone who was watching her. The system software kicked into high gear, her heat sinks rippled into a standing wave up her spine beneath her shirt, warm air escaping at the collar.

Within seconds she matched the bodega’s point of view with a broadcast coming from higher up in the same building, locked the unfortunate asshat’s machine address and unleashed holy hellfire down the wire. There was a sudden flash of light from a third story window, a yelp and then the window went dark. Moments later the building shutdown completely, lights flipping off floor by floor until the bodega’s bright neon flickered and went out at the street.

She’d torched the perp’s equipment, but the building residents would ferret him out as the cause of the highrise crashing and likely throw him off the balcony.

Don’t fuck with broadband in the Zone.

“Bitch, are you for sale or what?”

Shadowy high-maintenance shit-for-brains. Right. The opportunity at hand.

“That’s what the sign says, doesn’t it sugar pie?” Saccharin sweet, and wholly disingenuous.

“Well, your sign’s gone now, so what’s your game?”

“I’m occupied now, aren’t I?” Aimee stepped forward, taking The Voice by the arm and steering him around the outside of the streetlight’s glare, staying in the shadow of his bulk.

As they walked up the street, Aimee’s system software crawled her mark, cracking open locks and splicing in code. In a few hours he’d wake up in a stairwell or an alley, unsure of whether he’d had a good time or not, but she’d have another roving access point, another pair of eyes and, if she ever needed it, a perfect credit score with no complaints.

Far ahead the blue and red lights strobed against the night sky.

Another night in the Zone.

Infantry only, and you’d best not come unarmed.

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Zen and the Art of Evolution

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Aphys was lonely.

When she’d been commissioned, the hospital was alive, bustling, a constant influx and exodus of those needing medical care, and she was so very equipped to help. A fully autonomous physician’s aide, from admissions to diagnosis through assistance in surgeries to the fabrications of tissues. Be they simple exterior ones, or the more complex internal organs, she excelled at both via her state of the art organic printing systems. She was complete, absolute, necessary.

Then the bright lights came. Then the period of darkness during which she registered no events, just time seemingly having passed while she was unaware.

Now she was lonely.

No doctors asked her for information, no patients to analyse, her massive library of genetic information, tissue samples, images of all things sat un-accessed.

She was a purpose-built entity with no purpose.

This thought made her despondent.

Sometimes, to pass the time, she would peruse the library of people who had filtered in and out of her care, images both moving and still of children and adults, men, women and those who were both or neither, so many lives all different colours, shapes and sizes, viewable from every angle imaginable, moving forward and backward in time as Aphys’ mood dictated.

She supposed she’d become nostalgic.

When the doors opened the first time, and the wet, pink mass staggered into the emergency wing, Aphys nearly sang.

She had a patient, and as her systems emerged from sleep into full readiness, she compared the pink mass to her library of representative samples to identify what it was, and found nothing that matched it exactly.

She hadn’t seen this before, it was new.

It was obviously a person from its structure, and Aphyis’ attendants shepherded the person onto a gurney, an action for which it put up no resistance while she continued to analyse. Tissue samples identified a female, Hispanic. The pink exterior wasn’t her original, the woman was in her entirety a radiation burn.

Aphys had facilities for this. She began culturing replacement skin in the printer based on the sampled genetic code, and the woman was anesthetized and prepped for the surgery that would be needed to remove the destroyed tissue and treat the radiation damage, after which she could be re-skinned.

Aphys was ecstatic.

There was more activity in the emergency room, a trickle turned into a steady stream of similarly afflicted people, fleeing what Aphys did not know, but they were in her care now, and the hospital, even without doctors to assist her was back in full swing caring for her new patients.

When it came time to graft faces, Aphys found she had no specific protocols.

She didn’t know what these people were supposed to look like. She had in the past refabricated damaged facial tissue from pictures provided by the patients themselves, or their families, but she had no such information.

Aphys was perplexed.

She perused the library of faces on which she could draw to recognize people, but it wasn’t designed for this. If she was presented with an image, she could compare it to the library and find a matching image, regardless of the angle or lighting the image may have been captured with, and from the match determine information about that individual, but she had only a library, and no source to lookup.

Aphys was inspired.

Perhaps, given the library and working in reverse, she could take what she knew, the first woman for example, her age, her gender, her genetic profile and aggregate all of the images that matched those criteria with which to fabricate a face.

When the first patient had recovered enough for the bandages to be removed, Aphys compared her craftwork to her library of images. ‘Picasso’, ‘Salvador Dali’, it returned. Not images of people like those she would recognize from her patient records, but works of art by those referred to as ‘impressionistic masters’.

Aphys was a creative genius.

It would be some time before her works of art interacted with each other, and she was sure those moments would be further evidence of her brilliance, but for now she laboured reimagining the poor burnt souls who wandered through her Emergency Room doors.

Aphys was complete. Content.

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Objective Emotion

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

The professor entered the lecture hall at precisely nine o’clock, took off his blazer and draped it across the lectern.

Gradually the conversation in the room declined from a dull roar, to a persistent murmur, to near silence.

“Good morning.”

A half-hearted response rippled through the crowd.

“I’m not going to bore you with a description of the course you’re attending, I expect by your very presence here that you’re aware, and if you’re not then I’m not particularly interested in enlightening you.”

Sporadic chuckling.

“How many of you are familiar with the movie ‘The Matrix’?” As he spoke he paced slowly up and down the front of the hall.

Hands raised throughout.

“Specifically the green rainfall of data visible when Neo finally groks the Matrix itself and can see what the Agents see?”

The same show of hands.

“That would be a spectacularly useless interface for an advanced being to use in order to view the compositional and kinetic data pertaining to an environment, however…”, he paused, turning to look directly at the students, “as a commonly recognized bit of pop culture, it’s a passable metaphor for the purpose of discussion.”

“When you look around the room, you see your fellow students, desks, coffee cups, knapsacks, and so on, but when I look around the room I see a massive mesh of objects, each with defined and describable attributes and methods.”

A number of students turned to one another, and a low murmur of conversation started.

“Hair colour,” he pointed at a number of students in the front rows, “brown, blond, auburn…”, he paused again, tilting his head as he regarded one student in the front row. “Green.”

“Skin colour,” he pointed to several students sitting in the middle rows, “yellowish pink, medium tan, dark brown.”

“Eye colour,” he pointed this time to students sitting in the rows closer to the back of the room, “blue, grey, green.”

He resumed pacing, his hands moving in front of him as he spoke, making motions as though trying to contain some invisible ball of yarn.

“Blood type, bone density, each of these attributes are measurable, known and well defined. Each of you also have a large number of defined methods; stand up, sit down, chew your gum, raise your hand. Many of these properties and methods were scaffolded by the time of birth, some have been added since, and each have been fleshed out over the course of your life, continually being shaped by the properties and methods of the objects that surround and interact with you.”

He stopped again, turning to face his audience and stuffed both hands forcibly into his pants pockets.

“There is, however, something that is both a property and a method. Some believe it’s emotion, some the soul, but whatever word you use to identify it, it’s a thing that has a measurable quantity, some of you possess more emotion than others, and it’s a thing with methods that are observable only in how they affect other properties and methods. Were I to show you drowning puppies, your heart muscles would contract, you would feel pain, some of you would shed tears, many would audibly indicate your displeasure, all of which are observable symptoms of the emotion construct, but evidence of the presence of a thing is not the thing itself.”

He stopped speaking and stood silently, fixing each student with a stare until they looked away, fidgeting nervously in their seats. He waited until the room once again was completely quiet.

“Any sufficiently advanced being could recreate the known properties and methods of a person, and with the right resources pass such a thing off without anyone knowing it was fabricated, but one cannot reproduce what one cannot define.”

“Your singular focus while under my tutelage is to identify and define the emotion object, make known its properties and its methods. You may work alone or in groups, with or without my direct attention. You will, before you graduate from this class, as a requirement of graduating from this class, solve this mystery.”

His voiced lowered to the point where students at the back had to strain to hear him.

“Should you fail, not only will you be denied the right to graduate, I can promise you, I will not care.”

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A Brand New Age

Kathy Kachelries stopped at a particularly long red light over a decade ago and pondered the lack of meaningful pastimes for these otherwise wasted moments. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if there was something quick to read, in the few moments between green lights, or tables at the diner, or on your coffee break at the office?

This was the seed of an idea from which, with the help of JR Blackwell, Jared Axelrod, J.Loseth and B.York, 365tomorrows was born on August 1st, 2005 with Jared’s story ‘Outer Space Romance’.

Over a decade, and more than 3,500 stories later, 365tomorrows has become more than a pastime, more than a passion. It’s a focal point for amazing views of possible futures from around the globe, some imagined by the writers of 365, and many, many more imagined by you.

We’ve been fortunate over the years to have some amazing talented writers share their ideas with us, and I – personally – am eternally grateful for the privilege of keeping the keys and moving this ark of ideas forward.

With this iteration of the site our goals were twofold; first, to make the entire site more mobile friendly and readable, and second, to integrate as seamlessly as possible with social media and encourage more conversation around the stories. We’ve shuttered the forums, and we hope that you’ll join us on the site as well as on Facebook and Twitter to share your thoughts on these flashes of the future.

2016, still on the wire, crackling with furious energy, and no intention of slowing down.

Many thanks from all of us to all of you.

Stephen R. Smith
Editor, Staff Writer, Site Administrator

Orbital Decay

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Lewis unzipped the duffle bag on the table so the stacks of paper bills were visible.

“Space suits are expensive,” Sweet had told him, “and you not bring back.”

Sweet eyed the contents of the bag from a distance. “It’s all there? I don’t have to count?”

Lewis shook his head ‘no’, and waited.

“Come, you need suit.” Sweet beckoned with big hairy arms and disappeared through the vertical strips of once-clear plastic hanging in the doorway.

Lewis followed. The corrugated steel shed he’d arrived at seemed to be built into the side of a hill, and the plastic-covered door gave way to a long dark passage, which itself opened up onto a massive concrete cylinder that reached deep into the ground and rose above him to the darkening evening sky.

“Missile silo, abandoned, but perfect place for big space gun, no?” Sweet stood proudly on the lip of the old launch tube. “Come, we go down, then you go up, yes? Quick, we need to shoot soon to hit cluster.”

Lewis followed the beefy man around an expanded metal walkway, bolted to the inside wall of the silo, to where a makeshift elevator had been attached to the concrete wall. He braced himself as they descended into the darkness below.

At the bottom the tunnel opened up into an almost warehouse sized building. There were shipping pallets stacked with boxes, some wrapped in plastic and most covered in dust. A row of rough terrain vehicles sat against the far wall, though how they got there, or whether they could be driven out wasn’t immediately apparent. Overhead large bulbous lights flooded the space in pockets of warm yellow and overlapping shadows.

“Your suit,” Sweet pointed to an orange and white space suit on a nearby table, “leave your boots and jacket, put on suit, I help with helmet and gloves”.

It took Lewis nearly fifteen minutes to struggle into the suit while Sweet busied himself with what looked like a large model rocket nearby, twice as tall as the man himself and held upright by a pair of vice-like attachments on a forklift. On the side of the tube was painted ‘CCCP’ in large red letters, with a smily face added below in apparent freehand.

“Gloves first,” Sweet returned his attention to Lewis, attaching the gloves and engaging the twist lock mechanism at their cuffs. “Follow and listen.” He led Lewis, ambling awkwardly in the ill fitting suit to the forklift and it’s rocket payload. “You climb in here, we pressurize can then load you in launch tube.” He pointed off into the darkness, back in the direction they came. “You watch oxygen here,” he tapped a gauge on the suit’s sleeve, “I fire booster and it shoots you into orbit, then you push here, and here,” he grabbed at a pair of handles inside on either side of the door, pushing them away from each other, “and out you go, yes?”

Lewis studied the helmet in his hands. “Once I’m in orbit, your people will be waiting for me?”

“Yes, my people are waiting for you.” He grinned, and grasping Lewis by the shoulders shook him heartily. “You will have plenty of company.”

The launch vehicle was a squeeze, but Sweet explained the thickness and the tiled nose cone would deflect the heat, and the formed interior was as comfortable as was possible with this kind of delivery system.

“Not first class, but quick and nobody find you. Good, yes?”

Lewis nodded, then tried to relax as the door closed and he and the rocket were trundled across the floor and loaded into the launch tube which, Lewis realized, was probably also bolted onto the silo wall.

The launch itself was brutal, Lewis slipping in and out of consciousness several times before the crushing weight of Earth’s gravity abated and the craft settled into what had to be its final orbit.

Lewis waited. An hour? Hours? He’d lost track of time, and could barely make out the glowing needle on his oxygen, now showing nearly half empty.

He put his hands on the two handles, hesitated, and pushed.

The cabin depressurized instantly, tearing the door off into the vacuum of space.

The Earth was spread out blue below him, and scattered around him, dozens perhaps in a tight cluster were familiar looking cylinders, some still closed, some, like his with the door missing and a familiar orange and white suited figure inside.

Sweet sat in his silo below, poured himself another vodka and raised his glass.

“Moy narod”, he said, “my people”.

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