In the Garden

by | Apr 15, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Dust filled the air as a sand blast landed on the flames coming from the cathedral of St. Liz. Brother Kyle’s red mechanical eye, the Snipers Lover, adjusted to the lower light as he ran towards the Archbishops secretary.

“Brother Alexander! Who is in the garden?”

“What?” Alexander clutched his data pad to his chest and stared past Louis toward the blaze.” Kyle grabbed Alexander and shook him.

“Who is holding St. Liz? Who has the pillar?”

Alexander shook his head. “Ah, it’s noon, mid-meal, so it’s one of the acolytes.”

Kyle muttered a curse. The pillar of St. Liz was a forty-pound architectural marvel that was held at a crucial intersection in the cathedral. If the pillar were to be dropped St. Liz would crumble. Kyle had seen simulations of the twenty-eight hour collapse, wood and stone crashing inwards leaving only a few outside walls standing. The St. Liz pillar was designed as a representation of the people’s connection to the body of the church, and under the dome, it had special relevance to the interdependency of the lunar community.

Another gust of sand and ash blew over the cathedral scattering tourists and clergy as the domes emergency system, millions of spider shaped drones, swarmed over the fire. Kyle’s lungs, manufactured during the war, filtered out the excess oxygen produced by the malfunctioning pumps. The excess oxygen produced by the environmental system in the dome had started the fire. Warnings flashed on the inside of his skull that the concentration of toxins in the air was exceeding recommended doses for normal human capacity.

Brother Kyle caught the eye of Ruth, a Sister in the order who he had never spoken to before. Both of them had purposefully given each other distance. After the war, most veterans did. Now, he found himself calling to her.

“Sister Ruth! Move Up!” She leaped, her steel extensions unfolding under her robe. In two seconds she was standing next to him, boosted five feet in the air by her Steel Razors, the legs that could cut through bone. They headed down through the maze of the cathedral, built with the native grey stone. Ruth snatched Kyle up into her extended mechanical arms and vaulted over patches of intense heat. When she began coughing Kyle grabbed her face and mashed her mouth against his, exhaling into her lungs.

“I’ve got the Sweet Breath.” he explained nervously. In the war he had given out a thousand breaths, but after a few years in a monastery, he was suddenly squeamish about touching lips.

At the entrance to the underground garden fire was crawling up the graceful trees, bright like jewels on a woman’s hand. The acolyte stood in his red robes coughing, struggling to hold up the pillar. The acolyte cried out when he saw Kyle and Ruth.

“The fire!” he said, tears in his lashes.

Kyle yanked the acolyte close and forced a breath into his throat. The kid was too surprised to do anything but inhale. “It’s okay, I’m here to take over.”

“No!” yelled Ruth, her voice dimmed by the roar of the flames. “We’ll all getting out.”

Kyle took hold of the pillar. “I’m staying in the garden. I have the Sweet Breath, I can do this.”

“The church may collapse anyway! If you force me I will carry you out of here.”

Kyle nodded and hit the acolyte on the back of the head. The acolyte folded like silk onto the crackling grass.

“You can only take one of us Ruth.”

“Damn you! We all did shit in the war. You don’t need to do this.”

“This isn’t about the war. Get that kid out. I’ll survive; I’m the only person in that can do this. I need to do this. Let me go!”

Ruth picked up the kid and danced into the flames.

Brother Kyle curled himself around the pillar, leaning his baldhead against the lacquered wood. Smoke clouded his vision. His lungs flashed red warnings on the inside of his eyes. He thought about being on tourist duty, carefully handing the pillar to a young woman posing for a picture with her parents.

“I’m not really a believer.” She had said.

“Maybe not.” Kyle remembered smiling. “But right now, you are holding up the church.”

Like A Stone

by | Apr 14, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

“Hey, neighbor!” Chawly called down from across the way. He had a pint glass of something that looked like red wine in each fist. I knew it couldn’t be–not in Topside–but Chawly had his ways. Chawly yanked the line-suspended basket that served as dumbwaiter between his window and mine over to him and placed a glass in. He gave the basket a shove, sliding it across the expanse. “Taste somma this!”

The basket was a battered salvage from an abandoned grocery store and stayed remarkably stable on it’s journey, barely sloshing the blood-red contents. I watched the drops fall and disappear though the cloud cover, wondering if they would hit any Suits on the ground. I smiled, imagining red splatter all over the pale face of Suit, on his way to a job or meeting or something, his eyes scanning the heavens, wondering where such sacrament came from.

Actually, it was probably raining down there.

The wine was shit, naturally; the latest in Chawly’s experiments to speed up the fermentation process in grape juice. “This is gonna make me blind one day,” I called out to Chawly.

“Whatchu worried about missing?” Chawly howled back. He motioned over-dramatically to our surroundings, arms out stretched. Living above the rain had spared these top tenements water damage, but the heat had baked the buildings until all surfaces were the same cracked brown. Chawly almost blended in, with his tan skin, filthy shirt and tangled hair. Chawly had been here when I was broke and starving, and Topside was the only place I could go; to me, Chawly was Topside. From the way he yelped and hollered when the buildings swayed in the wind to his usual, pantless way of hanging off his window ledge. No one lived Topside by choice, but Chawly certainly made the most of it.

“You cooking over there, Chawly?” It smelled like hamburgers, but I knew it couldn’t be. Not even Chawly could get beef.

“Hells yes, brother! Morganna totally brought home the bacon!” Morganna was Chawly’s cat, just as brown and dirty has her owner. The realization of the sort of “bacon” Morganna was able to catch and kill suddenly made me queasy. “You okay there? Your air-conditioner on the fritz?”

I glanced back the black cube in the corner of my room. It’s sputters of pure oxygen in the thin air caused the airborne dust to dance and panic. “Nah, it’s fine Chawly…”

“Somethin’s bothern you, brother. Here, penny for your thoughts.” Chawly flipped a coin, the distance between our windows making his simple act miraculous. It hit my hand still warm from Chawly’s fist.

“This is a five yen coin, Chawly.”

“Does that make it more or less than a penny*?”

“I think it’s about the same amount of worthless.”

“Let’er rip, then.” Chawly crawled out onto the window ledge, his long, naked legs dangling in midair. “Let’er rip.”

I took in a deep breath and let it snake slowly back out of my lips. “I ain’t ever gonna get out of here, am I?”

“Old widow Keerney bought it three days ago. You could move in to her old place.”

“Not that. Topside. I used to go places, you know? On the ground, up the river back east. The world’s a big place, man. It gave me everything I needed. I was like a rolling stone, Chawly.”

“Like a stone,” Chawly said, drawing it in. “I heard once, that you drop a penny from high enough, the force of gravity turns it hard and fast. You can kill a man from this height, turn a worthless coin into a killing machine. Load of bullshit, but fun to think about.You wanna be a stone, that may be the only way.” Chawly turned around, slinking back into his crevice of a room. “I got meat on the grill. You’re welcome to some, you wanna come over”

I laughed at this. Pass the chasm that separated our buildings? Might as well fly, or put on a Suit. But Chawly stopped me fast with a stone-serious gaze. “Basket’s waiting, brother.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I don’t got your faith in the world, neighbor. But I do know that I anchored this line pretty damn well.”

“And if the line breaks?”

“You were the one that wanted to leave.”

I imagined falling out of the basket, tumbling through clouds like spilt wine. “Maybe I’ll get lucky,” I said. “Maybe I’ll land on a Suit.”

“HA! I like that!” Chawly threw his bearded head back, and his laughter echoed and shook the stones of Topside.

For the first time since I had first crawled up to that umpth-hundred-floor room, I felt it shake me, too.

Dropping a Pebble in a Dry Well

by | Apr 13, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Hello. My name is Demetri Thornwick. I’m a graduate student in physics at Hawking University, but in your century you probably know it as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I just left Professor Mendalin’s Temporal Physics class, where I just received a D- on my term paper. The paper was on Dr. Franklin’s theory of Negative Timeline Distortions. I won’t bore you with the physics, but it involves the effects of changes made when traveling back in time (aka, Timeline distortions). Now, nobody disputes that the timeline will be irrevocably disrupted if a time traveler makes a major change, like detonating a 100 terawatt EMF pulse bomb in Hollywood. In addition, nobody disputes that a minimal change, like dropping a pebble in a dry well, will not disrupt the future one iota. The arguments always center on the Maximum Disruption with Zero Consequences (MDZC). You know, what’s the most I can change without screwing up the primary timeline.

That’s why I’m overwriting this web page, to prove to Professor Mendalin that my grade should be increased. You see, my term paper predicted that changing an obscure twenty first century web site will produce zero consequences. However, Professor Mendalin argued that 2d/(c2-ga )1/2 is not valid when DT>200 years. And, based on that, my successive derivations were worthless. Frankly, he’s an idiot. And, when I prove him wrong, he’ll have to change my grade to an A.

It’s relatively simple to infiltrate your twenty first century internet using a Tachyon carrier beam. I can do it from here, and you see the results real time. Now, clearly, I cannot make a drastic change, like take ebay off-line for a few hours. That would absolutely collapse my timeline, and my century would cease to exist. So, I decided to go back to April 13, 2006 and delete a story from 365 Tomorrows, and replace it with this dialog. FYI, I chose 365 Tomorrows because it only has a modest following; certainly below the MDZC threshold. In addition, twenty-first century critics all agreed that fewer people read the stories of Kathy Kachelries than any of the other writers, which I why I chose today, because it lowers the MDZC threshold even more. Surely, a few thousand lonely sci-fi geeks can miss one apocalyptic story without the world coming to an end. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re all good people, but come on, you’re not a major thread in the tapestry of time. If my calculations are correct, the loss of that one boring story (less than two minutes of your life) will be equivalent to dro-ping a p-bble in a d-y we-l. Wh-t th- he-l is h-pen–g. -h, s-it…

Real Estate

by | Apr 12, 2006 | Story

The couple broke fast in the mountain retreat, dining on fresh red melons and purple berries. Marta, their robotic guide, served them with diamond plates on the giant stone balcony overlooking the forest. In between delicate bites, Rae remarked that the whole residence was rather ostentatious. Bello didn’t notice her ire, he was wrapped up enjoying deep breaths of the cool morning air. Afterwards, they took the skimmer and flew over the extensive forest country.

Marta gave a running dialogue on the features of the landscape, the climate of the poles and the wildlife, her features always pleasant, operating the skimmer without looking at the controls. Rae stared ahead at the horizon while Bello hopped from one side of the skimmer to the other, pointing out features to his wife.

“Is that a wooden bridge?” he asked.

“Oh yes!” said the impeccably quaffed Marta. “Built by the native people.”

Rae afforded the bridge a glance. “Looks like real wood.”

“Oh, it is! All the sentient made structures on this world are made by natural products grown right here, and all the structures, with the exception of the residences, are made by the native peoples.”

“Ah yes, the natives. We are scheduled to see them today, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Our team worked carefully over their design, combining artistry and technical excellence to complete these charming natives. They are engineered to enjoy aboriginal environment and build their homes in the large Nobo trees that are common in this region.” Marta tapped a screen and rotating holograms popped up in the middle of the skimmer. Bellos face glowed.

“Oh! They are lovely!” he said, smiling at the pictures. Rae shrugged.

“Are they all that same color?”

Marta tilted her head to the side in an acceptable parody of human movement. “All of the native people range from a light pale blue to an aqua marine. When they reach the sea one day, they will find they are the same color as the water. We anticipate this will generate some delightful creation stories. If you like though, genetic strands can be introduced to-“

Rae waved her hand. “No, no. Blue is fine.”

Bello reached out toward the flashing holographs. “These primitive peoples are friendly, yes?”

The screen flashed to corresponding images as Marta spoke. “The primitives are very peaceful. Their religion focuses on finding inner enlightenment through nature. Tribal elders devote themselves to contemplation and teaching traditions to the young. They have yearly festivals and lovely rituals that reflect their reverence for nature. Because these are a peaceful species, we have imbedded a few defensive skills that you might find of use, should it become necessary. For example, they have a great capacity for the quick computation of numbers that would make them useful on space fairing vessels.”

Rae frowned at the holograms. “They appear rather fragile, don’t they?”

Bello scooped up Rae’s limp hand. “I think they are charming.” He said. Rae shook her head.

“I don’t know, they don’t have any hair. Don’t you think it’s odd that they don’t have any hair?”

“Rae, we can’t replace the Arrgio, even if we wanted to.” Bello put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I loved them as much as you did.” He looked out onto the landscape.“It’s time for us to move forward.”

Rae’s face cracked and she leaned her head onto Bello’s shoulder. Marta ignored them for a few minutes, suddenly entranced in landscape navigation. Bello wiped Rae’s eyes with his sleeve, the fabric absorbing and evaporating the droplets into mist.

“Look,” he said, pointing. Rae peered over the edge of the skimmer and below the green and red leaves of the canopy she could see tall lithe runners moving swiftly on the soft earth. They wore no clothes, their willowy bodies smooth and graceful. They were ululating in dark, sweet tones. Rae closed her eyes and listened to their echoing voices.

“I think I could guide these people.” She said “I really do.”

“We’ll take it.” Said Bello.

The Final Voyage Of Captain Shakespeare

by | Apr 11, 2006 | Story

The crash was magnificent, heard three systems away and felt by half the galaxy. The other half were immediately informed via telepathy, televisapathy and tele-empathy, and felt as if they had felt it. Such was the impact.

The grand old captain himself, however, newly cloned and fresh from artificial endorphins and digitally inserted memories, shrugged off the whole thing. “Eh,” he was quoted. “Good an end as any. Consider that the final voyage of Captain Shakespeare, then. Time enough I was through with the whole bit.”

Time enough, everyone agreed with a sigh of relief. Time enough.

And so then did the immense interplanetary causeways of space and time breathe easy, free from Captain Shakespeare’s impulsive reality bends and left-handed turns. The day the Captain hung his helmet and started to raise begonias, intergalactic travel safety numbers rose and deaths plummeted; no mass-murder in the history of the universe had the kill rate of Captain Shakespeare with a few bolts of Lighting Hopkins in him. Space was safe again.

But at what cost? Re-Clone stations from one solar system to another closed their doors, the demand for new bodies having plummeted so. Drastic measures needed to be taken. Heads of the Re-Clone Guild left to meet with the Captain at his home, waded through the waist-high begonias, and pleaded with the Once-Scourge of the Spaceways to again throw caution to the wind and ruin some bodies of spacetravelers.

The grand old captain met them with a perfunctory amount of grace and pleasantries, offering tea and scones. Once they had all sat down and unanimously decided upon the less than edible nature of the scones, Captain Shakespeare regaled them with the story of his original cloning. How he was asked to write more plays, and not just for the theatre he was accustomed to, but also for holo- and empath-theatres, which baffled his mind at the time.

“You remember,” the Captain said, stroking his mustache. “The Baconians put up such a fuss, claiming they were right all along. Such ridiculousness!” The members of the Re-Clone delegation all nodded, unsure where he was going with this. “In any case, I didn’t want to write any more plays. I mean, if you had lived in London when I did, what with the shit and filth and…well, I won’t go into it. But if you had, you’d understand why I had to write. And why, as soon I as didn’t live there and then anymore, why I wanted to take to the stars.”

At this, the members of the delegation sat on the edge of their chairs. “So, you’ll be returning? To the stars?”

“No,” said Captain Shakespeare. “I’ve had enough. Perhaps I shall write again. Or maybe I will continue to develop begonias. If you gentlemen would care, I have a new genus in the back, cross-bred with a venus fly-trap. Managed to get it simply enormous in stature. It’s really quite breath-taking.”

The delegation declined, in no small amount due to the gleam in the Captain’s eye. Waving them off, Captain Shakespeare suggested convincing the clone of Samuel Clemmons to take up space travel.

The delegation, who had come all this way, who had waded through begonias and munched upon scones of solid rock, sagged their shoulders futher.

They would never be able convince Clemmons.