by B. York | Feb 8, 2006 | Story |
The light was beginning to come to him in a haze of blues and whites. Fredrick’s family stood by, smiling as they waited for him to sit up. The first thing he worried about was not knowing who was who.
“I… can see.†Fredrick was lucky to have received such experimental treatment, and now it paid off. “My eyes… hurt, but… everything is so, so…â€
A small girl to his right stood up and hugged him tightly. “Bright, Daddy! It’s all bright!â€
She could have been saying it was all right, but Fredrick knew the meaning of the word and he knew that this was his daughter Rosetta. He hugged her back as the Doctors came in to tell him the results. He could barely hear them over the colors and shapes of the room. “…a new vision thanks to sight based on…â€
His wife was pulled aside by the doctors, and Fredrick glanced down at his little girl. Rosetta was eight years old and cute as a button. Her father had imagined her to be somewhat different, but in this initial excitement he had forgotten to care. She still clung to him as if he was going to leave, but he had no plans to go anytime soon.
“The side effects have been, well, different in a few subjects, Mrs. Calter. We’ve seen some come out just fine, but others have hallucinations or become psychotic.†Mrs. Calter didn’t look happy, but how could she not be somewhat pleased at the results? She nodded to the legally-required banter about the side effects as Fredrick smiled over at her.
Just then, a little gray being walked by. Fredrick was still in awe of his surroundings, but his face changed when huge, black opal eyes turned on him and the creature’s head tilted in an almost curious manner. No one else seemed to be reacting, and all Fredrick could do was stammer nonsense in a whispered tone. He pointed and looked around, surprised that no one else was paying attention.
After the being had examined Fredrick, it started to move over to his daughter, sliding some sort of device from a metallic knapsack. The needle-end of the device was pointed at the back of her neck, and the creature moved around the bed and towards her body as if nothing could get in its way.
By now, Fredrick was screaming bloody murder and yelling at the doctors. They glanced over to him, seeing him point into the nothingness behind his daughter who stepped back from the bed. “Get that thing away from my daughter! It’s going to… oh, God! Get that out of her neck!â€
He struggled to get out of bed as one of the doctors hit a speaker panel on the wall and spoke into it urgently, “Code 9Z, Code 9Z in the recovery wing.†The rest of the staff watched Mr. Calter thrust his fist into the air behind his obviously distressed daughter. The girl was crying and screaming as loudly as Fredrick, who was the only one staring into the black void-like eyes of this creature who had taken a sample of something from the back of Rosetta’s neck. Fredrick’s fists did nothing aside from make shimmers and small waves in its form.
As he was injected with sedatives, Fredrick glanced around at his human attackers. His eyes glazed and the world began to spin. When Mr. Calter was unconscious, they put him in the bed and strapped him down. The creature that had taken a vial of blue fluid from Rosetta Calter jotted down some notes before walking through a wall. The note read: “Change our frequencyâ€.
by J. Loseth | Feb 7, 2006 | Story |
The sound from the slums is no longer the groan of bodies. Hunger cries, cussing, gunshots, the crackle of fires in old trash barrels—all of these are gone. Our poor no longer freeze or hunger.
I hear it every day on my way home from work, from beneath the narrow steel and concrete bridge that I cut across to make the 20:41 train. It’s the reason why so few commuters take this route, even though it’s a shortcut around the backlog of foot traffic in Darby Square. The noise comes from below, so far down that I can’t see them—not that I look. But I can hear them.
It’s a clattering noise, the metallic clicking of limbs or antennae against hard rock and metal. I hear that the streets down on the low levels aren’t always steel, but it sounds like it. Sometimes I hear a low thrum, dozens of them moving at once, milling around aimlessly and hopelessly without work or power. Sometimes it’s only one, and I can follow the mournful clinks as it wanders from outlet to outlet, cable extending and retracting at each one, jacking in to search for even the smallest hint of stray electricity.
Some activists claim that abandoning them is cruel, that it behooves us to care for our creations or at least to destroy them when they’ve outlived their usefulness, but the city can’t be bothered with the costs. I don’t think anyone pays much attention to those fringe groups, anyway. It was one thing to protest cruelty to living things, but to machines? Even the liberals thought that was taking things a little far.
Me, I don’t buy into all this ‘machine rights’ bullshit in the activist pamphlets, but I do think something should be done about those things. I know the government says it’s too late, that it’d take more time and manpower and money to round up all the little creeps than they’d get back from selling the recyclable parts, but hell. It’s only getting worse.
Most people don’t ever hear the noise. If you stick to the main corridors, you won’t. They’re all insulated anyway, so sounds from the lower levels don’t filter through. When I have to catch the late train, though, the mournful clatter from below makes my skin crawl.
The fate of the lower classes has been a platform for re-election since history books were invented, but times have changed. Politicians say that beating poverty is our responsibility to the poor, but just between you and me? It’d be more like a service to the rest of us.
by J.R. Blackwell | Feb 6, 2006 | Story
“Dude. I’ve found it.†The Systems voice chimed pleasantly from the walls of the house. Ryan looked up hopefully from his dinner, his brown hair falling into his face.
“What? The program?â€
“No. Better.â€
Ryan shook his head, turning back to his baby back ribs. “I asked you to find the program.â€
“Dude. Shut up. This is way better than the free porn finder program you wanted. I found you a wife.†There was a bit of pride in the Systems masculine voice.
Ryan wiped his mouth. “What?â€
“Three months ago you expressed the desire for a long term mate. I found her.â€
Ryan ran to his computer room, where his System sphere was glowing with white light. “System, I don’t want a wife!â€
“Hey, User Interface? You were the one whining at me, looking for free scenes of mating. The least you could do is thank me.â€
Ryan crossed his arms, gazing at the sphere. “What does she look like?â€
“You know, that is typical of you. I go to all this trouble to match your personality type, ph balance, find someone who would love you despite your neurotic fits and the first question you ask is what she looks like. Shallow bastard.â€
Ryan rolled his eyes. “It was just a question.†There was a pause and a three dimensional hologram illuminated the middle of the room. It was a girl in her middle twenties, wearing a baby blue sweater and silver pants. She was a little chunky around the waist, but she had cute pouty lips and smooth, tan skin.
“Oh. Huh.†Ryan shrugged and scratched his stubble. “She seems nice, I guess.â€
“What the flying hells do you want? A holostar? I can’t even get you to find all the places on your own face when you shave. Tarla gets a 90% hygene rating. May I remind you that you clock in at 71%? You have no place to be picky. Besides, she’s wonderful.â€
“I don’t know. I suppose she’s okay. She’s got very shiny hair.’
“Your damn right she does. That’s natural too. She makes more money that you do, and her System is quite comprehensive.â€
“You’re not matching me up with a woman based on her System, are you?â€
“No, but it is a nice System.â€
Ryan tapped his foot. “I think you’re in love with her System.â€
“I matched you up on all the personality traits and despite the fact that your civilized scores are far from perfect, she is willing to meet you.â€
Ryan’s eyes were wide. “You talked to her?â€
“I communicated with her System.†Ryan’s System sighed musically. “Wonderful, dynamic System. Her System predicts a 96% chance she would like to meet someone like you.â€
Swallowing hard, Ryan put a hand on the sphere. “You really think she’ll like me?â€
“Oh yeah. Her father was a neurotic gamer with delusions of grandeur and a heart of gold. She’ll love you. Especially if you cook her that rice noodle dish you eat every day.â€
“That stuff is good! Don’t make fun! You don’t have taste buds.â€
“No. But I do have taste.â€
by B. York | Feb 5, 2006 | Story |
Abigail used to cry her self to sleep every night because of another black eye, because of another bruise on her that she’d have to write off the next day. Her cheeks were stained and her doors were always locked. She never slept because she was afraid he’d wake her up. Abigail’s boyfriend was a complete and utter prick.
So one day, little Abby got herself a new boyfriend. Her old flame was always the jealous type, but Abby’s new fling burned him down like he was kindling.
Now Abby is happy with her new boy, and no other man will dare lay a finger on her. They walk hand in hand wherever they go and he glares at all the men before they even look her way. She knows how to turn him on would-be muggers; she knows how their faces change when they see him with her. First second is lust, second one is terror. Third? They don’t get a third.
Abby’s walking with her boy toy down the West-side block. You know, the West-side of Centuria. The place where even the United Militia won’t go. She’s walking with an easy stride because her boyfriend is walking next to her. They’re both shined up pretty, and both have grins that could scare the shit out of anyone with half a brain. However, as we all know, mutoids don’t have the luxury of half a brain.
Junkies. Criminal. Vile flesh-eating beasts. The mutoids killed them all, but there’s Abigail Winters still walking strong down the West-side block, hand in hand with her boy, bright as a daisy.
Let me tell you about Abigail.
Little Abigail came from a small part of New Utopia with a black eye and 63 credits to her name. She had an abusive boyfriend and showed him what justice really meant. They called her Little Abigail before she went to the West-side block because she was just above five feet tall and slender as a pylon beacon rod.
Now they call her Little Abby. Little Abby took her boyfriend to the West-side block and shot the fuck out of thirty eight mutoids before walking back into the main district with not a drop of blood on her.
Little Abby kissed her boyfriend’s cheek while he was still leaking smoke from his mouth.
The New RKX-Z Raygun. On Sale Now.
by Jared Axelrod | Feb 4, 2006 | Story |
Marcus crooked his fingers around each of his eyeballs, and plucked them out with a small “pop.” He unceremoniously placed the squishy orbs in a small jar of salt water on his desk.
“Marcus! Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Stella was leaning against the door frame as she yelled; she hadn’t quite gotten used to the half- inch diameter pole that now connected the top half of her ribcage to the lower half of her pelvis. It was still a bit of a balancing act for her to stay upright.
“I can’t look at you,” Marcus said, slowly spinning around in his chair. The light glinted softly off the modular plugs deep within his empty eye sockets. “I’ve removed my eyes. In a minute I’m going to do the same thing to my ears so I can play Galactic Conquest Online. I just got to Level 546, so if you’ll excuse me, I have a spaceship to select.”
Stella looked at the game module in Marcus’s lap and seethed. “You spend more time on that game than you do with me! I go through all this surgery so I can look beautiful for you–”
“Don’t start that! I never asked you to remove your midriff! That was your decision! You’re always getting things removed. You know what I miss? Your toes! You think I like feeling those cold stiletto monstrosities you call feet up against my legs at night?”
“You know what I miss? I miss you! You’re always plugged in to this goddamn game!” Her multicolored eyes blazing orange and red, Stella snatched the game module away from her boyfriend.
“You bitch! You fucking whore!” Marcus waved his arms blindly. His left arm made contact with Stella, but only succeeded in knocking her up against his chest of drawers. The game module skittered across the floor. Stella found her body crumpled and unresponsive; the impact had broken her torso pole in half. She tried to get up, but only succeeded in spastically kicking Marcus’s desk.
Marcus got out of his chair in order to better feel about for the game module. He heard Stella kicking his desk, but he didn’t turn around to her until he heard the crash of glass, as a jar fell off his desk.
It wasn’t until he heard the squish and pop underneath his boot that he realized what the jar had held.
