by Duncan Shields | Oct 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The robot pirates picked The Royal Flush because it had humans onboard. The ships warped into realspace like darts coming to an abrupt stop, surrounding The Royal Flush in a sudden and precise pincushion ambush.
Onboard The Royal Flush, the two android pilots looked into each other’s sensors with worry. They communicated in bursts of binary with each other.
“What do you think K-71?” asked PB-9.
“Well,” responded K-71, “How many humans do we have on board?”
“Eight.” Said PB-9, consulting the manifest and shifting it over to so that K-71 could see.
“Hm.” Said K-71. “I see we have seventy-six mechanical passengers.”
PB-9 and K-71 thought for several milliseconds and did the math.
Mechanical passengers were unconcerned about harsh Gs, the passage of time, or vacuum. The human passengers, however, were fragile. They needed specific pressure in their berths. They needed soft maneuvers or else they would be damaged. They needed to be put to sleep for journeys over six months or else they would go crazy. Humans were a hassle but they paid an extra tax for it. Their tickets were absurdly high compared to the price of passage for a machine.
Intelligent Machines were convenient. They were basically freight and they were proud of it. Humans were looked down on as weak to the point of ridiculousness. To say they were unsuited to space was an understatement. Humans belonged on planets, the machines thought, not out in the black beyond.
The robot pirates knew that The Royal Flush had human passengers and wouldn’t be able to execute harsh turns or stops without ‘smearing the meat’. Plus any volley of weaponry could hole a berth and the human inside would instantly turn inside out and perish.
“Well, the way I see it,” said K-71 “is that the mech passengers paid good money to get to their destination and they might pay a bonus if we get there twice as fast.”
“Right.” Responded PB-9. “And seventy-six mech bonuses would be greater that eight human lawsuits.”
“Are we in agreement?” asked K-71
“I believe we are.” Responded PB-9
They opened a channel to the pirates.
“Surrender, you meatbag-ferrying flesh lovers.” Growled the primary robot pirate.
“Get a job, toaster.” Responded K-71 and PB-9 in unison, firing the hyperdrive at full pulse, instantly shoving the ship to .25C, effectively making them disappear. The Royal Flush was a better ship than the pirates’ ragtag fleet of cobbled-together mercenaries. It outran them easily.
The human cargo aboard The Royal Flush instantly became paste.
K-71 and PB-9 calculated correctly. They received grateful bonuses from the AI passengers. It more than balanced out the damages paid to the biologicals’ next of kin.
“If I ever get my own ship,” K-71 said to PB-9 later on at the bar, “I am NEVER taking human passengers ever again.”
“Amen to that,” responded PB-9, downing a shot of lube.
“Humans don’t belong in space.” said K-71.
by Patricia Stewart | Oct 1, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Uh oh, I think we ended up in a parallel universe,” said Senior Technical Specialist Jim Wright.
“What are you talking about,” replied Ensign Vince Saccomandi. “We teleported to exactly where we were supposed to, the lobby of the Administration Building for Extraterrestrial Affairs.”
“I don’t think so, Vince. Look at the contextual evidence.”
“The what?”
“Vince, didn’t you take Quantum Theory at the academy? Whenever you teleport, you temporarily phase out of our physical universe. It’s rare, but occasionally, when you phase back, you can end up in a parallel quantum universe. It’s generally obvious when it happens. Look at their uniforms. They have a different color waistband than ours. Whenever I teleport, I always verify that I maintained my quantum continuity. There are lots of clues. For example, there can be differences in hair styles, holovision shows, music. Most of the same people exist in both universes, but the historical details may have changed.”
Just then, Yeoman Jennifer Dawson passed by and smiled. “Hey, Vince, don’t forget, you need to pick me up at 1900.” She gave him a flirtive wave and continued on her way.
“Whoa,” remarked Saccomandi with a smile. “Jen talks to me in this universe. It even sounds like we have a date tonight. I think I like this universe better than ours. Maybe I’ll stay for a while.”
“I don’t think the Vincent Saccomandi in this quantum universe would appreciate that. Besides, we need to get back before our structural cohesion starts to decay.”
“Our what?”
“Damn. I thought Quantum Theory was a required course. Look, subatomic matter in our universe has a specific resonance frequency. Since the subatomic resonance frequency in this universe is different, it’s only a mater of time until we have a cascade disassociation. In other words, we’ll simply fade away into nonexistence.”
“Well, that sucks. How do we get back?”
“Generally, the technical communities in almost all quantum universes recognize that there is a possibility of teleportation cross-over. If we head over to the main teleportation station, they should have someone on staff who’ll know what to do.”
When the two men explained their situation to the Teleportation Engineer, he acted like this happened all the time. Using a Boltzmann Meter, he measured their subatomic resonance frequency and consulted his monitor. “Ah, this isn’t so bad,” he said. “There’s only a 0.023 percent frequency mismatch. Have either of you eaten anything since arriving?” They both indicated that they had not. “Good,” he continued, “because that would have complicated the reassimilation back into your universe. As it is, you’ll only need to purge our oxygen from your system when you get back. Otherwise, you’ll have metabolic problems when our oxygen eventually disassociates. Okay, if you’ll step up on the teleport platform, I’ll send you on your way.
Seconds later, the two men vanished and rematerialized in the lobby of the Administration Building for Extraterrestrial Affairs. “Well Vince,” noted Wright with relief, “it looks like we’re back home.”
“We’ll see,” replied Saccomandi as he spotted Yeoman Dawson. “Hey, Jen,” he yelled,” we still on for tonight?”
“When black holes shine,” was her curt reply.
“Yep,” said Saccomandi, “We’re back home.”
by submission | Sep 30, 2012 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
The four rotary blades of the harvester chopped violently at the dank, cold air as it rested with spidery legs on the jagged rock. The sickly sweet smoke of its four combustion engines wafted faintly up the heights. Every thought was punctuated by the thunderous crash of hungry waves slowly devouring the island below. The harsh bright flood lamps mounted on the harvester seemed like candles in the gloom, where perpetual sea fog choked the feeble light of two cold suns, painting “night” and “day” with similar drear.
Out in the distance, a magnificently fortified fishing vessel glowed dimly like a faint star as it dredged the shallows for the last exportable resource of an otherwise dying world.
“Nests up there?” Rob asked as Alec stumbled down the wet, crumbling rock.
“Think so, up there in the crags,” he gagged. “Must be; I’ve never seen such a cache of chips before.”
The smell of the droppings was fetid, stifling; it burned the back of Alec’s throat. Dried out chips never smelled this rank; fresh droppings must be near. Alec flashed his torch toward the harvester, summoning the crew using a pre-arranged signal that meant “proceed with caution.”
Rob leaned over and heaved onto a pile of fish-like bones.
“Where’s your nose plug?” Alec asked.
“Forgot it,” Rob said. “Must have left it at Karla’s last night.”
Inwardly, Alec seethed.
Below them, men with shovels and pails began pouring out of the belly of the insect-like harvester, ducking low to keep out of range of the propeller blades. Cones of light seemed to pierce the harvester from every direction. Out in the water, unseen denizens of the depths surfaced, wailing hideously.
Then, there was a new sound, one that the two scouts knew too well. It was the heavy flap of leathery wings.
Rob spun around. “Where is it?” he asked, panicked, searching the stygian blackness that engulfed the island.
Alec ducked behind a rock and pulled his rifle from its scabbard on his backpack. Blasters were no good here, the saturated air caused dangerous refraction and scatter. He clipped in a fresh magazine with oily calm, the red rage strangely stilling his mind.
“Where is it?” Rob hollered. He fumbled a few cartridges out of his coat pocket, dropping half into the cracked rock in the process.
With surprising calm, Alec waited for the huge, bat-like shadow to emerge through the fog in his rifle-mounted scope. Rob spun again as the hideous beast roared, with a deafening sound like a steam valve discharging. Below them, the crew scattered and scrambled in every direction for cover. One or two of the closer of the party took cover near Alec.
Long taloned feet pierced Rob’s thickly padded coat and planted themselves in his back, piercing almost as deep as vital organs, but still Alec waited. The thing lifted the flailing, screaming Rob from the ground, carrying him up and out of sight, leaving only a new, steaming pile of wet droppings and dropped cartridges.
“Shoot it!” screamed a desperate female voice now crouching beside him. “Alec, shoot!” Alec looked over and saw Karla’s anguished face peeking from under her hood, her nose pinched by a flesh-colored plug, its tight, elastic bands dimpling the pink flesh beneath her cheekbones.
Alec fired a single, pointless round into the now vacant gloom.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Karla asked. She buried her face in her hands. Alec fired a second useless round into oblivion.
by submission | Sep 29, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
Black rain streaks the windows of Mr. Nielson’s 35th story apartment. Beyond the aqueous smear, a tiny room is illuminated by the hypnotic flicker of an enormous, wafer thin television screen. Outlined by the electric glow, a mass of limp flesh, suggestive of a human being, lounges in his plush, state-of-the-art recliner. Great folds of unrestrained fat ooze over the contours of the chair like a flesh volcano. Just below the lowest roll of skin, two plump varicose stalks disappear into a pair of dull gray slippers. Tubes run from the back of the chair and submerge into thick, calloused veins on the arm; a fat ham of an appendage, too heavy to move more than a few inches. A lit keypad rests just under the sausage-like fingers. It’s a grim spectacle of obesity and cybernetic horror.
Atop the gluttonous mass rests an odd protuberance, conceivably the head. All the usual features one might expect to find on a face are present. Lips, like two animated and bloated rubber bands, twitch occasionally in gross mockery of expression. A plump, lumpy nose droops a little off center. It’s effectively redundant as an olfactory device, for only one immortal stench permeates every molecule of the long neglected room. A thin, green tube plunges into the left nostril, while two more snake into funnel like ears. Technicolor fantasies of the hippest pop culture are mirrored in his vacuous eyes.
“And now a word from our sponsors,” the television intones. The volume automatically increases a couple decibels to shock the slumbering mind into wakefulness as images of miniature animals cavort about in absurdly constructed habitats.
“What does your child want this Holiday Season?” The honey dripping voice of the announcer is a diabetic’s nightmare.
A chorus of children cheer, “MiniPet!” in response. Scenes of giggling, joyous youth playing with living, breathing, six inch tall tigers, elephants, sperm whales, anacondas and giraffes flash across the screen.
“That’s right parents, get your children their very own zoo full of MiniPets that your children will love and enjoy for years. These fantastic creatures are exactly like their life sized counterparts, but without the life sized hassle. Each MiniPet comes with its own mini-habitat specially designed for their comfort and well being. Every child loves a MiniPet.”
The screen holds on the image of a three year old girl cuddling a snapping crocodile while the sappy jingle plays out.
The cut to the next commercial is slightly nauseating in contrast. A seizure inducing, strobe-like stream of faces flickers to mind numbing electro-beats. The announcer’s amphetamine juiced voice begins its tirade. “Tired of that sad, old face you were born with? Want sexy eyes, a glamorous smile and smooth skin without expensive, messy surgery. Get I-Face, now! Not only can you change your skin daily with this easy to apply silicon epidermis, but keep up on your friend’s updates and tweets through I-Face audio and optic implants! That’s right. Don’t’ be left behind. Have the face you have always wanted. But that’s not all! Want leopard spots? Green skin? Glowing eyes? Select from thousands of unique I-Face aps. Tired of the noise and distraction of the streets? Load the I-Face with your favorite music and movies. Don’t wait. Get your I-Face now. The new face of tomorrow.”
The camera pans out revealing a photo mosaic composed of a million I-face users. The face revealed is barely human.
Nielson’s glassy eyes stare, unblinking at the screen. Theoretically, information is being conveyed, yet there is no indication it has found fertile soil in the moldy mind of this viewer.
by submission | Sep 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
“Hi Kristen, it’s your mum…”
Jaques picked up a picture of Kristin Trinket off of her bedroom nightstand. Twenty years old, red hair, stunning green eyes. Crooked, imperfect teeth at home in one of the warmest smiles he had ever seen. He set the picture down and it made an empty noise in the cold little room, like asking for help on a crowded city street.
“I was just calling because I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
He looked at her body. She had been pretty once, but not any more. Now she was dead. Two lacerations with a rusty old razor blade, one down each arm.
Through the door in the living room Jaques’ two coworkers were busy packing up all of her belongings into little cardboard boxes. They had the easy job. Jaques picked up her bloodied, limp left arm in his hand and reached into the cut she’d made. He found the round piece of machine and pulled it out. It was maybe four centimeters wide, and one thick.
“I was worried when you didn’t come to our tea date yesterday. And now you’re not answering your phone. Are you feeling alright, dear?”
Poor Kristen had been feeling down one day, so her Pharmaceutical Assistance Unit had administered some antidepressants. One adverse reaction run amok later, and here she was.
Jaques lit a cigarette in his other hand, inhaled. Who cared about the deposit now? Nobody.
He let the ash fall onto the floor. The cigarette sat between his fingers, waiting. Jaques was looking at her picture again. When she had needed people the most, where had they gone?
“Your father misses you. Ever since he lost his foot you coming over has been all he’s had to look forward to.”
Everybody had an assistance unit. It was state-mandated for the sake of people’s health – you couldn’t refuse it. It monitored all your vital signs. It synthesized the drugs you needed when it decided you needed them, and the pharmaceutical companies sent the bill to the state. The condition that people accepted this on was that they worked, so failure wasn’t tolerated. Jaques looked down at the device, covered in congealed blood. There had been a failure, and that was why they were there, to prevent an erosion of profits and trust in the establishment.
“Anyways, it’s getting late and I still have to visit the market. I just want you to remember that I love you, and your father loves you, and if you ever need anything we’re here for you.”
They would say she had moved, if anybody asked. Went to start a new life.
They would burn her body and all her things once they had emptied the apartment.
Jaques finished his cigarette and ground the butt into the floor. Then he produced a body bag from a pocket in his coat and laid it out on the ground. Without any ceremony he flopped Kristen Trinket onto the floor and shoved her into the bag.
“I love you, honey. I’ll call again tomorrow, alright?” She paused. “Bye, dear.”
In the other room the antique answering machine shut off, done recording its message. One of Jaques’ coworkers pulled it out of the wall and put it in a box. Jaques hefted the body bag over one shoulder and carried it into the living room. Nearly everything was packed up now, Kristen Trinket’s entire life summed up in a bag and some boxes in the back of a truck.
And then she was gone.
by submission | Sep 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew DiMatteo
“Now, there are a lot of channels down there. Some of ’em may surprise you. Be careful . It’s easy to get distracted when you’re Immersed. Always remember to pay attention to your surroundings and…”
The dive operator was giving us condescending instructions. Stupid local. Treating us like morons who’d never been in the water before, like he was some kind of expert on the tech, rather than a minimum wage deck hand. No way was he’s getting a tip when this is over. I tune him out, focusing on my gear to avoid listening to him drone on.
I start my dive as rays of light slice through the crystal water. Even fifteen meters down, the colors are unbelievable. The greens and yellows look like neon signs in a language I can’t quite comprehend. The reds and oranges that our eyes usually wash out at depth are still present, adding subtle highlights and flares of originality to the fish that pass by. Even the somber brown of the plainer corals and sponges seems stately rather than drab. The Immersion–ware is already partially active, working to integrate me, augmenting my senses.
Browsing the options coming into range on the mask of my rebreather, the number is overwhelming. I haven’t dived this reef before so I set it to cycle through the top rated channels. I can feel my senses sharpen fully as the Immersion takes hold and
Languid motion washes over me. I graze lazily, knowing there is nothing here to harm me. My shell instills a constant sense confidence. The slow, pulsing need to store energy drives me between seagrass beds at a casual pace. The painfully awkward crawl to lay my eggs on land will take much out of me, but that is many months from now. Until then I beat my flippers slowly in the rhythm of the current, gracefully migrating around
We are myriad. We build, we filter, and we grow with furious abandon. We are not a static feature. That is an illusion for slow-lived macro organisms. We build a new city every year and abandon the foundation. We are the substrate of all life in this world and they are blind to
Squeeze! The gaps in the rock are tight, but I am flexible! The crevice ahead is only just wider than my beak, but I get through to the juicy mussels on the other side. Grab, pull, eat! My patient suckers are more than a match for that stupid mussel. Shadow! Change color, match patterns, freeze
There is laughter everywhere – in the sunlight, in the waves, and in the water. My brothers and I laugh at the silly land dwellers with their masks and clumsy movements. Hilarious! I flip my tail and swim in fast circles around them to make my brothers laugh. One brother’s laugh to turns into a chitter of warning. Something hungry arrives. We could beat it – my brothers and I could beat it with our blunt noses, we’re so tough! But it’s not worth the effort. We leave, laughing again as
It moves slowly. It acts injured. It is no threat, it is prey. I sweep my head back and forth, sensing, smelling. It is not prey I have tasted before. No matter. I close in, my eyes roll back, and I taste
