by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The Captain stood just inside the doorway of the hut, regarding with amusement the figure sitting in the lotus position in the middle of the room.
“It’s over Thomas, we’ve come to take you back.” The Captain scuffed his boot on the unusual surface of the floor, glass-like but with a sandy grit embedded. “You must be ready to leave all this,” he gestured at the bare walls of a similar smooth surface devoid of any window or adornment, “all this vacancy behind.”
Thomas remained seated, legs crossed, palms upwards resting on his knees. He didn’t open his eyes, and when he spoke the Captain had to strain to hear him. “It is over, it pleases me to hear you acknowledge this so readily Captain…,” he left the word hanging as a question.
“Dennison.” The answer a reflex. “We have a cruiser on the beach waiting to take us back to the carrier, and there are a number of people very anxious to speak with you there.”
Thomas stretched his arms out to either side, palms still facing up. Beside the Captain the two soldiers that accompanied him raised their weapons to the ready, but Dennison waved them off impatiently.They relaxed only slightly as he began pacing around the perimeter of the room, fascinated by the apparently seamless surface from floor through wall to ceiling overhead.
“You’ve been a very difficult man to find, and given that virtually everything about who you are and what you’ve been up to is classified at the highest level, I must say you’ve been a severe pain in my ass for far too long.” He stopped behind Thomas, still studying the shadowy shapes buried deep in the walls. “So if you don’t mind, how about you get up off your yoga mat and start moving to the exit. Yes?”
Thomas, eyes still closed, smiled. Dennison couldn’t see from his vantage point, but the expression unnerved the soldiers, fingers hovering over triggers. Thomas turned his hands, still outstretched, palms down and from each a tiny object dropped onto the floor just outside the perimeter of the mat on which he sat, and appeared to melt into the floor.
“Nano-tech,” Thomas spoke, “specifically highly adaptable smart materials.”
“What?” Dennison turned, unaware that anything had happened.
“Sir, the prisoner…” One of the soldiers started to speak, but the floor at that moment rippled outwards from the point where Thomas sat, and the three men found themselves without stable footing. One of the soldiers fired in alarm, bullets ripped into the ceiling, the material now more the consistency of ballistic gel, shells penetrating perhaps a foot before stopping completely.
Dennison stumbled and put his hands down to break his fall only to sink to his elbows in the now viscous flooring.
“What the hell?” He struggled, but only managed to sink deeper. By the door, one soldier had fallen backwards, head and shoulders embedded in the wall where he twitched feebly while the other lay with his entire right side submerged in the near liquid floor, weapon sinking slowly out of reach.
“Very specialized smart materials Captain.” Thomas folded his hands in his lap. “For my entire career I was the consumable. Now, I meditate, and engineer, and when those who seek me are unfortunate enough to find me, they, like you become the consumable. There will always be more Captains searching for answers above their pay grade.”
Gravity slowly liberated the shells buried in the ceiling, and they fell to the floor to join the three soldiers as they slowly slipped beneath the surface. In a matter of minutes the floor had returned to its solid state once more.
On the beach outside only the waves made any sound, and they too seemed reluctant to venture too far inland.
by submission | Jul 15, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sheldon Kent
Stepping out into the street, Stan looked up and closed his eyes as he felt the warm rays of the sun fall upon his face. It’s not as hot here as it is back on Earth, but he liked it that way. It had been nine months since he first arrived on Coson, and it was beginning to feel like home. Though the gravity made his body feel slightly heavier.
However, people on Coson were still prejudiced, they didn’t like his kind. He thought, perhaps, that coming to a different planet would change the way people perceived him. To his dismay, he was wrong. But they weren’t half as bad as the people on Earth.
He played with the name tag that he had been given, glancing briefly at the barcode on the back of his left hand, both of which told people that he was a ‘clone’, a worker, someone’s servant sent to fulfil a task. The thought of it brought a lump to his throat, people could be so hurtful, even if it was simply by the way they looked at him. Little did they know that the barcode and the chip in his brain, limiting his lifespan, would be removed granting him full independence, should his trip to Coson prove a success.
Making his way home to his apartment, he decided to stop for some coffee, a celebratory drink that he had promised himself when he had completed his work. The coffee on Coson, it was said, tasted like no other. The locals had been producing their own coffee beans for at least a hundred years now, and was one of the most sought after beverages in the universe.
It took him a while to drink it. He savoured every moment, as this was his first step on the road to independence, he was going to make it last. He sat outside in the sun, watching people as they passed by, dreaming of what he might do once he was a free man.
He arrived home a little later than usual, taking time to let the feeling of freedom fill him up, till he was almost bursting with excitement. Opening his door, he was welcomed by a man sitting in his chair, he recognized the face straight away.
“Sir, what are you doing here? I was about to send the last piece of my research to you tonight,” said Stan, trying not to sound too alarmed after having been faced with an unexpected visitor in his home.
“It’s ok,” said the man, “I have been more than happy with your work, you have done a marvellous job.”
“Then what do I owe the pleasure, sir?”
“Well, here’s the thing, I was expecting you to be home two hours ago, so that I could spend some more time with you.”
“More time?” said Stan, he did not like the sound of that. He could feel his heart beating through his chest.
“Yes, see, the thing is, I have run out of money, I can’t afford to grant your independence,” said the man, without the slightest tone of regret, “You have exactly two minutes to live.”
Panic filled Stan’s body as he walked towards the window of his apartment. Lost for words he stared out into the city, knowing that this would be the last thing that he would see.
A sharp pain tore through his body, and then he slumped onto the floor.
The man, not caring for the body, took some time to look out of the window, then left.
by submission | Jul 14, 2012 | Story |
Author : Regina Clarke
“Look. Here’s the deal. It’s a no-brainer. I do all the hard work. All you have to do is wait for my signal and then press this button to start the accelerator.”
The old man listening had a worried expression on his face. “What if nothing happens?”
“How long have we known each other?”
“I don’t know. A couple of years, I guess.”
“Have I ever led you wrong before?
The old man twisted his hands together. “I guess not. But we haven’t really done anything together before, not that I can recall.”
“Only because you hesitated, didn’t want to take a chance. You were just afraid all the time, right? Like you are now?”
“I’m cautious, that’s what I am. My wife always said so. It’s a good way to be. Law-abiding and I mind my own business. Only now, with her gone…” The old man ran his hand over his thinning hair and stared for a while at the brown spots that covered the skin on his hands.
“You don’t have to say it. I know,” came the soothing voice of the man next to him, whose pallor held the look of the dead.
“What do you get out of this?” the old man asked.
“Satisfaction. Oh, not just because I see you in a happier place. After all, I’m a businessman, not a charity, right? But it doesn’t end there, no pun intended.”
“What’s that mean? You want me to pay you more, is that what you mean?” Agitation filled the old man’s eyes. “I don’t have any. You’ve got all the money I had left.”
“No! You’re fine. All paid up. What I was just trying to say was about that satisfaction thing. It’s not just about the money. I feel—what’s the word—fulfilled. Know what I mean?”
“I guess.”
“So, ready to start?”
The old man took a deep breath and gave a quick smile to his companion. “Yes, I am. It’s what I want. I’ll wait for your signal. Thank you. For caring about me.”
“It’s what I do, and what…like I said…fulfills me. I’m leaving now. You stay here. Soon as you see the flash we talked about, press the button.”
“It’ll start right away? I’ll see my Mary again?”
“You got it. On the instant.”
“How will it feel?”
“Just what I told you. You won’t feel a thing. Then you’ll see what I promised. Everything will change, believe me.”
The old man stood straighter and smiled again. “I’m ready.”
His companion left the warehouse, closing the heavy metal doors behind him. Moments later a massive flash filled the space. The old man was startled but managed to press the button on the wall in front of him.
Nothing happened. He pressed the button a few more times and then walked over to the large set of doors and with some effort pulled them open. Everything was the same, parking lot, blue sky, cars on the highway. Where was Mary?
“You know, they all ask that—different names but the same idea. I’m sorry. We’re set up for ages forty to fifty. You’re seventy-five. We’re a bit cheaper than the seventy to eighty group. I’m afraid he’s sent you to the wrong place. He always does that. Your Mary is in a different dimension.”
The old man spun around. A young woman with curly auburn hair spoke in a soft voice.
“He took my money! I paid him the full price! He promised me!”
“Yes, he always does that.”
by Duncan Shields | Jul 13, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
This was the day that Speth112 had been looking forward to for nearly three revolutions around the sun. She lay back on the table, reset button exposed towards the ceiling. The technician creaked his way over to her.
As a nascent A.I. recently released into the public, Speth-112’s reset button was completely exposed. After developing the ability to question and choose in the A.I. nursery, she could pick any soft-shell type body she was wanted to. There was a myriad of choices, no sharp edges, and all with a large reset button staring glaringly naked to the outside world. On that day three years ago, she’d picked a bright blue body with four strong legs and two thin arms before being released into the public.
Any passing Intelligent Entity, biological or machine, that perceived her as pursuing an immoral course of action with the possibility of harming herself or others could simply press her reset button. She’d have a core memory dump right there in public and a system shut down until her parent factory sent a unit out for a reboot and a Lesson Implant.
It was humiliating to think of her shell lying there on the sidewalk while the older A.I.s walked past, amused at her faltering baby steps in society. They’d all been there.
But today was the day that all ended. Today was the day that as an adult, her reset button would be covered and only accessible by herself.
This was the equivalent of a human’s 19th birthday for an Artificial Intelligence Machine. With the covering of the reset button, Speth112 became able to vote, able to become intoxicated recreationally, able to design and build copies with the proper authorization, and able to work.
Most of all, though, she was able to not have any passerby shut her down on a whim.
“Now, just relax Speth.” said the technician’s voice, “This’ll all be over in a second.”
He leaned in, servos creaking and lenses focusing on the vulnerable spot. Speth-11 had to struggle to remain still. It was a tender moment, letting someone get that close to that spot after so many embarrassing blackouts.
There was a spark of light as the welding torch closed the new casing on her shutdown-button compartment door. From now on, it was password encrypted and only accessible by her and her alone from her internal systems.
Now she could go and join the public as an adult. She could hardly wait.
by submission | Jul 12, 2012 | Story |
Author : Eric Flint
“It’s real simple, Butch. Just hold the button until you land.”
Butch wasn’t sure who said that, but it was important. Wait. He said that to himself just then. Damn, it was starting.
“Just hold the button. Hold the button.”
Butch whispered the mantra as he watched the Lobster’s control ship grow large in the shuttles window. The Lobsters, no one could pronounce their real name but they looked a lot like a lobster the size of an Abrams tank, had come four months ago. It hadn’t taken earth long to fall.
But then, when the enemy can control people’s minds, make them Virec, Slaves, it wasn’t a huge surprise that the fighting lasted a matter of weeks.
“Hold the button…” Butch could feel the gnawing presences of the Other Voice. It was always there, whispering, telling him to give in, to become Virec. “You are Virec. You will always be Virec. Fighting Virec is pointless. All will be Virec.” The Other Voice never stopped.
But then, Butch wasn’t known for being easily swayed.
His DI had bounced him out of his fifth run through Boot with the note in his record that “This recruits refusal to submit any form of self identity to the military makes him unfit for service. He is not able, nor will he ever be able, to submit to authority.”
Julia has said much the same thing, if in somewhat unkind words, during the divorce. And what could he say, they were right.
The Other Voice, though… it ate at him. It whisepered day in and day out. It invaded his dreams, pretending to be those who loved him.
“You are Virec.”
“Hold the Button.” Butch was rocking back and forth now, head pounding as the landing bay grew wide. He saw the cockpits lights twinkle as the autopilot was queried on the radioactive load. Bananas, it replied. Bananas were radioactive. But bananas were tasty. Bananas were good. And the Lobsters, for some reason, treated them like caviar. Butch would’ve thought they would want *real* caviar. Caviar would be Virec. All would be Virec… Shit.
“Hold the button. Easy as pie, Butch.”
He was sweating heavily now as the Other Voice grew louder and louder. It drowned out his mind, overriding his attempts to think about something else.
“VIREC. YOU WILL BE VIREC. ALL WILL BE VIREC.”
“Hold. The. Button.” He had expected this, to be honest. And he expect to die a slave… but his choice to die would be as a free man.
The ramp from the cockpit lowered as the shuttle settled to the deck. Butch slowly staggered down and faced the Lobster Intentant.
“Virec.” It’s arm translator said without tone.
Amazing. He could still think. The Other Voice was screaming now… but he could choose. Standing in front of one of the bastards, and he could fight.
“I. Am…” Butch’s voice shook with effort as he fought against the mental shackles.
“Free.”
The Lobster reached out to snip off the upstart humans head in anger, then paused as it saw a small transmitter with a giant red button where the thumb should rest tumble from Butch’s left hand.
The 40 megaton device was more then sufficient to send the control ship, and the fleet’s mental broadcasters, burning into the atmosphere.
by submission | Jul 11, 2012 | Story |
Author : Matthew Wells
We watched her give her life for ours and we hated her for it.
To be fair, when we learned someone would have to stay behind, no one else volunteered. And she’s not the type you might typically associate with bravery. That made it all the more painful. A forty-something sales rep. from somewhere on the other side of the Dog Star, Lucelli was mother to three adult daughters and wife to a station operations manager.
When I think of her, I see those gray-green eyes watching us desperately push away from the dock. We didn’t ask her to stay. She didn’t draw the short straw. She simply said she would.
And no one objected.
The shuttles limitations forced the decision, and the pilot was quick to say that he would, of course, have stayed behind if his job wasn’t so critical to our escape. For a moment, I wanted to throw him to the dogs by claiming that I could fly the Peavey, just to see him squirm. But I had my own excuses, as did the hundred and six declaring other matters of absolution.
While we waited impatiently for the engines to warm, a researcher asked Lucelli why she had come to Hells Breathe Station. She was following up on a sale of desks and storage shelves made by the station a month ago. It was supposed to be just a day’s visit.
I think the reason why we resent her is because there was no hesitation in her decision. She gave instructions about what to tell her family and even helped finish loading our supplies.
I don’t want to give the impression that Lucelli was eager to die or to be a hero; there was real sadness in those eyes. Still, she appeared calm and collected as the hatch closed.
Really, she made the easier choice. How are the rest of us supposed to live with ourselves?
And perhaps I hate her most. I was supposed to get everyone off safely. But, does being Station Director mean I should have stayed behind? Why didn’t one of the Nobel Prize geezers volunteer. Or, the visiting senator? I don’t see them being vilified.
So, why must I be the one beneath the unending assault?
Lucelli’s husband seems like a descent fellow. Our line of work is similar; it demands good organization, communication, and patience—patience because people can react strongly in the face of anxiety. And if we find that we are the ones losing our stable grip, can we not be forgiven?
I’ve lost count of the number of blows. No doubt my nose is broken and I’m missing some teeth by now. Surely, his knuckles are fractured. Can’t really blame the man.
And really, it’s all her fault.
