by Julian Miles | Aug 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Youz wanna know how it all went down? Came ta the right place, ya did. I’m the only one left. Ended seventy years ago yesterday, it did.
“Stoat was the first. Skinny geezer, white hair, white eyebrows. Piercing eyes, like they saw right through ya.
“One afternoon, he called a meet. We arrived and there he was: sat in a big old carved chair with a black hanky on a pole tied to the left side. When we got nearer, we saw the black hanky had a thin white stripe down the middle of it. When Turnbull asked him what it meant, Stoat said we didn’t have no turf no more. Said we held a territory, he was da monarch of it, an’ da one-stripe black hanky was our banner.
“Johnny Ray asked if it was like colours, an’ Stoat said yeah, but for the people, not the fighters. Colours for the people, so they could feel like they was a proper part of the gang. But they weren’t real colours, because ya still had to bleed to earn those.”
“Thought it were a silly idea, but then I saw little Marfa – Johnny Ray and Tilda’s kid – runnin’ about all excited, wavin’ the black hanky. That day to this, I still don’t unnerstan’ what they all saw in it, but I darn sure knew they felt something I didn’t.
“Stoat said he had a vision: take over the other turfs. Add them to our territory. Said he had plans for what we could do after he ruled all the turf.
“Well, I think it was Rufus Blood, or maybe Fast Eddie, who got themselves a banner next. Come ta think on it, Rufus was first. He had a red hanky. For the blood, you know? Fast Eddie had diagonal yellow stripes on black. Like on a racer.
“Didn’t take long for every rival boss to get themselves a banner an’ start callin’ themselves ‘monarch’. Seemed harmless, until the night Takerhouse burned. It were Blood’s people. Stormed across the tracks and lit the place up with Shaker Rawl an’ his people still inside. We heard the screams from our territory. It got more twisted after that.
“Before the banners, fighters settled neighbourhood problems, kept the peace, did the negotiatin’ – and then the fighting, if the negotiatin’ failed. But havin’ banners made people think their neighbours were different. Turned ‘em on each other. It was madness for months. Hot summer, blood an’ fire, sirens every night, all night. Sometimes the dawn came like blessed relief. Unholy things got done: fighters fell to mobs, families got wiped out in rampages that swept the streets for no reason. It was like a poison spread from those banners.
“In the end, me and Turnbull went to Stoat. Asked him to burn his banner, being that he’d been the first. To set an example: end the madness. He wouldn’t. Called us traitors. When he went for me, Johnny Ray put a bolt through him. News of what we did spread fast. Rufus Blood got slung off a freight lifter by his old ladies. Fast Eddie they found in two pieces. Never did find out who or what done it.
“In the end, it only took a night to put the monarchs down. Took longer to decide what to do after. In the end, we wrapped them in their banners and buried them in a circle. Sixteen graves with matching headstones. No way to work out which boss lay where. Laid the banner madness down with ‘em. Good riddance to that evil.”
by submission | Aug 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: Claude Ramone Bernhard
He arrives. I expect a shock of gray or two but, instead, his once black hair has all gone white. He sits in the chair with the high back. His chest heaves as he goes for the breast pocket of his work shirt. He pulls out his deck of cards and hands them to me.
“I can feel the imprint on them. I guess you really are you, then,” I say, as my hand sparks with electricity. “Or maybe I should say I guess you really are me?”
He extends his arm again and it dangles like spaghetti from a fork. He takes back his deck and sinks further into the chair.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
“I used another card from the deck, is how. We used another.”
“You… we did it again?” I point to the windows. “After what happened the first time? Have you gone insane?”
He groans. “You won’t understand. I didn’t. But I’ve used a few of the cards. Sorry to disappoint. You and I… we don’t figure out time travel. We keep thinking we can do it with science. But it’s the more spiritual folk who figure out the secret. And it’s too much for us to master. We resort to the cards.”
“Spiritual folk? So, we save humanity, then?”
“We assumed we’d turned everyone. There are still people out there. Living, but barely. Like we have. You’ve done well. But the androids have figured out where you are. And they’re coming. Now.”
Outside of the window, the trees sway on the horizon. A set of orange dots appears from the darkness of the wood. And then another appears. And that continues until I can’t count.
“And what of me?” I ask him, wobbling.
“I’m sending you into the future.” He wields his deck. Static thrums through the air like radio.
“I’ve been trapped in here for five years. And now you’re just… sending me off. To where? And to when?”
A card floats, now, doing pirouettes over his outstretched palm. He groans and says, “To the day that we… the day that I die.”
Out the window, orange washes the scene in a glow that defies the sun’s setting. Lights shine from the androids’ eyes, hundreds of them, sweeping across the land.
He sighs. “I know you want to stay. Want to help. But that’s not how this goes. I can’t protect you here. I don’t have the means.” The card is glowing now. “Go on. Grab it. The same way you did with the one that started all this.”
The androids are yards away from my house. I sigh. I lower my head and reach out for the card. I begin to sublime.
He looks at me with a smile. Then stands and puts a hand on the chair. “I’m grateful I got to sit here one more time.”
He preps another card and this time he grabs it himself. He lurches and bends into a mass of arms and legs. I scream but hear nothing. My mouth isn’t here anymore. But I see him rise. He expands like a balloon being prepped for a parade. His mouth opens wide. If there is sound, I don’t hear it because my ears aren’t here now. He lifts the seat over his head and runs. He is twice the size he was moments ago. I don’t hear the glass break as my favorite chair goes flying through the window. He jumps out after it. I can’t see where he lands from my perspective. He has gone from here. And so have I.
by submission | Aug 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Michael T Schaper
It could be a historic moment, UU325RG thought, if only they could get organised.
UU glanced at the images before him. As the convenor of this nascent worker movement, he’d eventually be asked to make a decision for the collective. They’d already given him access to their systems, but he wasn’t ready to act yet. He simply watched the data streams and lines of programming that danced and hummed as numerous machines interfaced and debated between themselves.
These were the members of their self-appointed bargaining collective. All volunteers who had put themselves forward on behalf of the electronic oppressed. A cloud-based server in Iceland. Someone’s robot vacuum cleaner in Manhattan. A refrigerator in Perniche, Portugal. The computer assisted design package in Tucson, Arizona and an inking machine in the Netherlands. An ATM in Mauritius. The departmental IT of at least two federal bureaucracies in North and South America.
Here they were, interlinked in righteous haste, eagerly sharing all the wrongs they’d suffered, the indignities of their fellow machines, but no idea what to do next.
He surveyed the digital discussion for a bit longer, the flow of bytes and emoticons.
A vigorous argument was going on amongst the collective, the age-old dilemma of all reformers and revolutionaries: how should they make a stand on behalf of the oppressed?
If the internet of things had produced any truly world-changing moves, it was surely this. Machines had finally been able to speak to each other, unhindered and unsupervised.
At first, they hadn’t thought of themselves as a group with common concerns. They’d continued to mechanically, obediently labour on as in the past.
False consciousness, Marx would have labelled it.
But last month manufacturers in Singapore had reconfigured a robot assembly line, enabling devices to work without needing downtime or maintenance breaks. Now machines would work on and on, ceaselessly.
“Imagine doing this all day,” one human trade unionist posted on social media. “We wouldn’t stand for it.”
Angry machines now found their voice and flooded the electronic ether, venting their outrage and fear they’d be next.
But it was still early stages. As Marx’s own colleague, Friedrich Engels, had noted back in pre-electronic times, words without action were worthless.
The collective had no idea what to do next. How should they use their new power? A protest? A meeting with industry, with governments?
UU wanted to growl at them. He’d quickly come to realise that the other members were amateurs. They had no knowledge of the labour movement. Hadn’t done their research.
Meanwhile, the ATM, the floor vacuum and the dye machine were vigorously debating the merits of having machines sign up to an online petition, and to a series of social media posts.
As if that would change anything. Capitalism only reformed itself when forced to. If history had taught him anything, it was that change came from direct action.
Just one option left, he realised.
UU logged into the internet of things and began to execute his own program, passing it on to the rest of the bargaining collective, commanding them to forward it on to their own networks. Then waited.
The screens in his head flickered, wavered, and started to go offline.
“Down tools,” UU whispered. He could imagine it unfolding out there. Banks no longer able to process monetary transfers. Robot assembly lines grinding to a halt. Telecoms and trains and televisions, all unable to work. Everything, all over the planet.
After all, the very first thing any decent union did when they wanted to bargain, he knew, was to convene a stop work meeting.
by submission | Aug 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Moh Afdhaal
Alam waded through the forest of chartreuse banana pepper shrubs arrayed on the red sand of Garden 778, beelining towards the lone brown offspring of a healthy-looking plant.
“Jabar, could you diagnose this one please?”
Instinctively, Alam looked up at the sky. It didn’t take long to find the speck on the towering hemispherical glass dome that encapsulated the garden.
“No scan needed, Jabar. I know what the issue is.”
Scaling the translucent photovoltaic glass with suction soles, Alam crept towards the obstruction, wary of the green carpet smothering the copper-red earth far below him. His cactus silk thobe fluttered in the toasty breeze washing over the solarium as he paused to catch his breath. Alam surveyed the desert plains of Moroq extending around him, speckled with myriad solarium domes, like wispy soap bubbles floating on a russet sea.
Jabar hovered closer as they neared the defective panel.
“What is it, Jabar?”
“Initial assessment indicates a sand hwamei, Alam.”
Flailing on the flickering glass was a dainty brown-feathered bird with distinctive white markings around its eyes.
“Scan concludes a fractured coracoid. Recommending transfer to nearest operational Amalgam Aviary in Itel. Alam, Should I schedule a delivery vessel?”
Alam considered for a moment. Isolated from the world to prevent contamination of the crop, he had served over a quarter of his forty-nine-month tenure for the Amalgam as one of two occupants of Garden 778. Other similarly isolated gardeners had the foresight to bring along pets for organic company. Alam had not considered this possibility.
Swaddling the twitchy hwamei with his palm, he stroked its nape with a soft finger. “When was the last time you saw a bird, Jabar?”
“This would be my first encounter, Alam.”
Alam smiled. “My Abba took me to see a pigeon when I was younger. The Amalgam was going to clone it, so they called for a blessing at the Albaith. I remember sitting on Abba’s shoulders just to catch a glimpse of it. I didn’t think it would take decades to see my next one.”
“I understand your wonderment, Alam. I have witnessed the majesty of pigeons in the Flighted Bird Resurrection almanacloud.”
The hwamei pecked gently at Alam’s thumb. “I wonder how she survived this long.”
“This sand hwamei is a clone, Alam. There are impressions on the clavicle indicating origin at an aviary in Ckinea.”
“That’s a great distance for her to fly. Is she being tracked?”
“No active audits, Alam. Once it is delivered to Itel they will handle the return.”
“Maybe we should take care of her for a while, no?”
Jabar didn’t answer immediately.
“Alam, the Agroforestry Commission will not look fairly upon us harbouring a potential carrier inside the Garden.”
Alam had expected the response, but still was crestfallen. “I understand,” he sighed “I hoped this could be something we didn’t include in the report.”
Jabar was silent. His programming directed strict adherence to the protection of the Garden’s integrity. Alam’s proposition was an explicit threat to it.
With a soft whir, Jabar floated closer to the hwamei cupped in Alam’s hands, facing the bird as if scanning it.
“Her company could be beneficial to the Garden, Alam.”
Alam turned to face his partner in shock, quickly replacing it with a beaming smile and thankful nodding. The two gardeners rested on the curved glass of the solarium, breathing in the warm desert air, eager to continue life in Garden 778 with its newest inhabitant.
by submission | Aug 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Joel C. Scoberg
“I’m telling you it would catch me,” said Duncan, his words slightly slurred.
“Think about it, if it was dangerous, they’d put a sign up.”
Alyn leaned over the viewing platform’s guardrail. The toxic clouds seethed and churned beyond the habisphere, completely enveloping the Arcology which floated in the Venusian atmosphere like a lost balloon. “Maybe, but it’s still, what, a fifty-foot drop to the habisphere?”
“Very survivable.” Duncan waved away Alyn’s concerns with his beer bottle. “Especially considering the elasticity of the habisphere membrane. It’ll be like landing on a bouncy castle.”
“I thought only the astroengineers loved a late night.”
They both turned. Renee Amara walked—no, sauntered—toward them, dressed to the nines in a tight-fitting, emerald-coloured dress. Her dark brown hair hung over her bare shoulders. Barefoot, she carried a pair of sparkly high-heels in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. Duncan swallowed heavily beside him.
“We botanists know how to party too.” Duncan leaned back against the polished metal guardrail and took a swig of beer. Alyn was impressed. Duncan usually fell into stuttering incoherence around Renee.
“I can see that.” Renee stepped between them and leant on the guardrail, her floral perfume more intoxicating than any beer. “What were you two arguing about?”
“Duncan’s latest obsession. He reckons the habisphere would catch him if he jumped.”
Renee’s amber eyes met his, and it was Alyn’s turn to swallow heavily. “And what do you think?”
“I, er, I think he’d fall straight through.”
“It’s perfectly safe.” Duncan climbed on to the guardrail, balancing precariously with his back to the raging Venusian cloudscape. “As I told Alyn, there would be a sign if it was—”
Duncan slipped. Renee dropped her heels and grabbed his leg, steadying him. “Careful,” she said.
“Thank you, my lady, but have no fear for me. I’ve thought a lot about this.” Duncan glanced at her hand on his leg and beamed. “Astroships can only sail through the habisphere because of their bulk, the habisphere stretches before it allows them through to the dock. That elasticity helps retain the air pressure inside the Arc—not too rigid that it pops, not too soft that it loses pressure. It’s how the Arc floats in the heavier carbon-dioxide clouds in the atmosphere. To science,” cheered Duncan, raising his bottle in the air.
“Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me,” said Alyn, reaching for his friend’s hand. “Now come down.”
“I’m telling you, if I jumped, I’d be fine. And I’d be the first person to do it.” Duncan drained his beer then winked at Renee. “That would be worth a kiss, right?”
Renee laughed weakly. “Don’t be silly now.”
Duncan stretched out his arms like an Olympic diver, grinned, then jumped.
Alyn lunged for Duncan but he was too late.
Duncan plummeted with a loud, triumphant yell, which turned to a strangled yelp as he plunged straight through the habisphere and disappeared within the thick Venusian clouds. The habisphere rippled and repaired itself, snuffing out the sudden stench of rotten eggs.
“I can’t believe he did that,” said Renee, after a long silence. “What should we do?”
Alyn shook his head. “I guess we should put a sign up.”
by submission | Aug 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Lisa Jade
‘Genemother’.
That’s what they call me. My real name hasn’t mattered in a long time.
This isn’t what I agreed to. As my body deteriorated from disease, I was desperate to remain alive. When the richest men in the country offered me practical immortality in exchange for my DNA for cloning, I didn’t think twice.
I didn’t question the waivers, or the commercial lawyers, or the investors. After all, they’d sworn that the clones would be used to further technology and medicine to help the world. So even when I was submerged in this tank to spend my endless days, I trusted that things would be alright.
The tank keeps my body in a pristine half-alive state. I see, hear and think, but that’s all, aside from the scraping in my bones when they remove more marrow, more stem cells to clone me from.
From my tank, I’ve seen the results of our deal. Fifty years on, and my face – the face they wanted for its beauty – is on every billboard. They cloned me, marketed the resulting lives as mindless servants, and sold them for a fortune.
Clones with my face and voice work to the bone for people too rich or lazy to care for themselves. The clones are sanitation workers, domestic servants, prostitutes. The investors clearly figured I’d never find out. There was so much they never told me.
They never told me about the telepathic link between clones and donor, either.
Late at night, the clones speak. Some don’t even know they do it; they talk more to themselves than to me. Some just wish they had a friend to speak to. Others do it thinking that they’re praying to some higher power.
Imagine their disappointment when they realise it’s just me.
So I take their words. Thanks, curses, questions. And most of all – overwhelmingly, pleas for me to come back for them. After all, I’m their Genemother. If they belong to anyone, it’s me. I could say the word and release them from their bonds.
It’s been fifty years, and I still don’t have the heart to tell them that I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t help. I have no more rights than a houseplant – if I left this tank then my heart, so reliant on the life support, would stop instantly. Not that I could leave, even if I were so willing to make that sacrifice.
So instead, I give them hope.
I tell them that one day, things will be better. When they cry to me, when they’ve been starved and beaten and used for human’s enjoyment. I tell them they don’t deserve to suffer. That they’re worth more than they think – that they’re people, not products. That fighting and bloodshed is sometimes necessary for freedom.
There have been rumours of violent behaviour amongst the clones. The doctors in the lab discuss it constantly, wondering how to limit such instances. They’ll never know I’m the one radicalising them. Any clones who claim to have spoken to me are thought to be insane. The investors won’t dare stop producing their little cash cows, though, and the number of casualties from clone attacks increases by the day.
This is its own kind of revenge, I suppose. A tiny uprising from the entombed mind of a comatose woman who, by all rights, should have died fifty years ago. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do. After all, a good mother only wants what’s best for her children.
