by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 10, 2006 | Story
Tycho Villiare never asked why his employers had chosen to duel.
Gentlemen seldom fight duels themselves. One gentleman may challenge another to a duel, but since duels end in death, a state most gentleman find inconvenient, Men of Arms are employed to fight duels for them.
Men of Arms do not come cheap. Tycho Villiare was one of the most expensive Men of Arms on his colony world. He had been a solider of Her Majesties Royal Marines, a combat Iron in a heated mech-suit, cutting out insurrection like a scalpel. He could kill a household without harming a hair on the head of the family dog. After ten years with the service, his employment as a Man at Arms was his retirement. The large sums he demanded for his time meant that he only need work one day out of a year. When the Duke of Rodchester found himself engaged in a duel of consequence with the half-blood bastard Count of Carlo, he found it quite natural to use a good section of his fortune to employ Tycho Villiare to fight the duel for him.
The Count of Carlo, being of royal blood but little royal wealth, would have found it difficult to employ a Man at Arms to fight for him. Even so, he could have begged a loan in order to secure such a man, but he did not. The half blood bastard came to fight the duel himself.
This pairing was most irregular. Men at Arms may fight each other in a duel on behalf of other gentlemen, and two gentlemen, so motivated, could fight a duel themselves. However, it was unnatural for a man such as Tycho, a talented commoner, to fight a royal, even a half-blood. Tycho himself was not terribly concerned, for he expected that either the half-blood royal would become scared and back out of the duel, or the Duke of Rodchester would find his honor so affronted that he would dismiss Tycho from the fight.
Tycho did not fail to consider the Dukes considerable weight and age in his estimation of the Dukes ability. What Tycho failed to consider was a fault of his own character, for he could not comprehend that the Dukes love of his own skin was far greater than his love of honor and duty. The Duke, though powerful, was never a man who was prone to any great exertions.
The day of the duel was a fine crisp spring morning, all blue skies and dewy grass. The Duke sat in the stands with his company, sipping his morning tea. The Count was alone and standing, a long and lean figure, in well-worn boots and an ancient raygun that bore the dull gleam of constant cleaning.
Tycho used the pulse gun of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, standard issue, set to single fire. It was an unremarkable weapon, and certainly nothing compared to the ornate weapons that hung unused on a Dukes belt.
The Cybernetic Judge instructed the two men to stand back to back, to walk fifteen paces, to turn and draw. The Count and Tycho both took their shots. The Cybernetic Judge timed Tycho to be point one three seconds slower than his average draw time. Some say he was hesitant to shoot a royal, nervous about the consequences of such an action.
A moment after the shots were fired there was a scream. The Duke was slumped over in the stands, blood on his pale pink chair. The Count was on the ground, convulsing, red on his white shirt. The young fiancée of the dead Duke ran out of the stands, picking her skirts up high, heedless of her ankles exposing to the world. She did not go to the side of the Duke, but ran past him to sprawl next to the Count on the grass. She cradled the Counts head in her arms and wept, caressing his face, kissing his forehead. She did not look at Tycho, the man who still held the weapon that killed the Count. Tycho was no more than a force of nature to her.
Tycho carefully placed the pulse gun on the grass and walked away, his duty done.
by Jared Axelrod | Apr 9, 2006 | Story |
Marla just didn’t understand. Bernie couldn’t give up his collection. He tried to explain it to her, but it was futile, he knew it.
“They’re not just collectables, Marla. They’re history. I would think you would understand that. You buy for a museum, you should be able to recognize history.”
“These are garbage, outdated weaponry. And this, this isn’t even loaded.” Marla picked up a heavy, oversize pistol from its display rack. Steel through and through, not the light plastic models currently in service. “Is this suppose to be some sort of home defense?”
“That is a .44 millimeter Desert Eagle! You can’t find that anymore!”
“Whatever.” She set the gun back down in disgust. “They aren’t history, they’re toys. You’re nearly thirty, Bernie. You shouldn’t be spending so much money on toys.”
“Why not? We can afford it!” They could. Bernie’s job as a sysadmin kept him up at odd hours, but it kept his collection—and his waistline—healthy.
“That’s not the point–”
“What other point could you have? I am decorating—”
“Decorating! Fine then! Why don’t you just put all our money into broken firearms, then?!?”
“Maybe I should! Better that than every shoe store in town!”
“Those pumps were a business expense!”
Bernie cell phone went off, just when he was about to say something particularly nasty. Work, calling him again, despite the late hour. Bernie told Marla he had to go, and she waved him off with a glare that told him that this wasn’t over.
That night, Marla found herself jerked awake by the sound of fighting in the living room. Suddenly, she heard a loud thud, and the fighting stopped. “Oh no,” she thought. “Bernie!” Gripping the Hiro Taninchi-autographed baseball-bat Bernie kept in the bedroom, she inched toward the door. The sight in the living room made her gasp loudly.
There was Bernie, holding the Desert Eagle in one pudgy hand and the dark shirt of another man in the other. The other man’s head rolled back, a bleeding cut on his forehead.
“Caught him trying to make off with our stuff. Bernie said. “Probably the same guy who ripped off the Whipplesteins down the street. Idiot should’ve known better than to come between me and my collection!”
Bernie proudly held up the gun for Marla to see. There was blood on its gargantuan barrel. “Home defense,†he said.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 8, 2006 | Story
On the surface, everything is smooth. On the edges, the shiny plastic cracks, dirt comes out of nowhere, and doorknobs pinch the skin. Tear at the wall a little, underneath is not solid, it is a metal matrix, mostly air. We live in a kind of illusion, frayed at the edges.
In the middle, things must constantly be replaced with new things to keep the façade. The illusion that everything is smooth and glowing, round soft edges, harmonious, modern and stylish.
At the edges, things begin to rot, to give way, and folks can’t afford to replace them. They must make do with what is rotted, what has given way. They have to live in a broken picture.
I am a photographer, and I have earned some degree of note for taking models, beautiful girls and boys, to the very edge, to where it is all rust and metal and lighting them in glorious plastic symmetry, snapping pictures, putting the illusion directly next to the crumbling façade.
Rachel and I used to go through the tunnels together, we used to hold hands and run through the sewage in our filter suits, we used to find locations together and she would pose and I would take her picture.
The pictures spread, and soon I was taking products to the edge, perfect plastic to a rotted world. I lost Rachel. It was too much work. I still took models, but they weren’t Rachel. To be honest, they were prettier, but also empty. They were afraid of sewage. All the crews were. We were all inoculated, but they were afraid of smells, and what moves out there.
I punched a reporter. It wasn’t the drugs although the e-zines will all say it was. It wasn’t the meth. He said that I showed the juxtaposition between the core and the edges. I knew he was wrong. What I made out there, in those pictures, was a construct. The contrast was in those homes, with the people living week to week, the peeling basements, the rotted and biting plastic.
Of course, there is no style in those places. That would be considered tacky. It would become tacky, no matter how well lit. But there, in the dying middle class, where you will never see it, there is art.
by J. Loseth | Apr 7, 2006 | Story |
Stevie glanced over his shoulder, tiptoeing barefoot through the deepest corridors of the Barnum. The ship was huge, as ponderous and lumbering as a garbage barge, but Stevie had lived here all his life. He knew the corridors like the back of his hand—even the ones where he wasn’t allowed.
The soft glow of emergency lighting turned his skin blue as Stevie reached for the keypad on a maintenance duct, tapping in the code he’d bought off of a janitor with two chocolate bars and a cigarette. The circus moved everywhere and anywhere around the galaxy, so currency was fairly meaningless to its workers—money was pretty, Stevie had to admit, but on the Barnum, transactions were conducted through barter with trade goods. He grinned with relief when the hatch opened under his touch, sneaking in and closing it behind him. The chocolate had been worth it.
The duct was cramped, but Stevie was small, and he’d looked at enough blueprints to know which turns to take. When he finally reached the hatch he wanted on the opposite side, Stevie was grinning so hard his face hurt. He barely managed to calm himself enough to turn the handle and crank the hatch open from the inside.
His heart jumped into his throat when Stevie snuck out of the hatch, his teenage eyes darting around the cargo bay to make sure no guards were around. The glow in this room was different from the one in the hallways. The soft blue light was there, but its presence was eclipsed by the white glow that came from the opposite corner of the bay. Eyes widening, Stevie approached the force shield, his heart in his throat. When he got close enough, the angle would allow him to see through what now appeared as a frosted white pane, finally catching a glimpse of the creature inside.
Stevie had seen the gentle giant before; the enormous, alien-looking creature was extinct on its natural Earth habitat, but it was the star attraction of the circus he had performed with all his life, so Stevie had naturally seen it during the shows. No one but the handlers was allowed near, however, so all that Stevie had ever seen had been what he could catch while peeping through the wings. If he worked off his indentured status, he might someday be allowed to train for a better role in the circus, maybe even become a handler himself—but there were years of service between Stevie and freedom, and he had to know. He had to see.
All at once, the fog cleared, and Stevie could see through the force shield as if it was only air. He gasped, eyes widening, and tilted his open-mouthed face up, up, up. It was even larger than he’d imagined, this powerful mass of grey, the creature whose majesty had captivated audiences across the galaxy. Stevie reached out involuntarily but was stopped by the spark of the force shield, wincing as he took his hand back. His heart quailed when the creature moved in response, its huge head lowering to investigate the spark. It would be angry, surely it would be angry, it would trumpet the call that he had heard so many times, but this time the guards would come, and that would mean another five years… Stevie wanted to turn and run, but he was rooted to the spot, frozen before the great beast.
Silently, the grey head leaned down until one black, round eye was level with the boy’s face. Stevie held himself very still and tried not to breathe. The huge trunk rose and Stevie nearly fainted at the sight—but it didn’t attack him. It didn’t break through the wall. Instead, the soft snout pressed up against the force shield, staying there despite the sparks.
Stevie was stunned. He looked deep into the black eye and suddenly, the fear was gone. Stevie reached out and pressed his hand against the shield, ignoring the shock of the energy sparks. Despite the inch of clear space between them, he almost felt the soft wet touch of the elephant’s nose.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 6, 2006 | Story
After four months of backed up deadlines, CD came to the hard conclusion he already knew was coming. He needed one more of himself.
CD had to present his application in person, which he felt was a ridiculous waste of time. He wondered why the psychologist couldn’t just see him on video over the web, receive his application electronically and wave him through the process. This had been the process for all his previous replicas and he saw no reason why he had to see a councilor now. CD expressed this opinion to the bell-girl, the receptionist and as the first order of business when he got to the psychologist. The psychologist was dressed in fashionable blue robes and her face had a designer friendly smile.
“CD, I needed at least one of you present for this application because studies have shown that we are better able to evaluate a candidates application if one of you is present for a physical meeting.†The psychologist sat behind a wooden desk flanked by tall bookshelves. CD thought the books were a gaudy display of her obvious wealth.
CD rolled his eyes. “I am a very busy man. The reason why I have replicas of myself is because I have so much to do.†CD arched his fingers on his chest. “I am anxious to return my thoughts to my research, art, school and work.†He pushed the plastic pad across her desk. “I would appreciate it if you signed off on this application so I can get the process started.â€
The psychologist didn’t even look at the pad. “Why do you need another replica?â€
CD shrugged. “I’m just not getting done everything I need to right now. There aren’t enough of me to go around!â€
The psychologist looked at her comp-pad, her eyebrows tight. “What are most of you doing right now?â€
CD cocked his head, accessing the network and pinging his replicas. “Sleeping, eating, a few of us in holo-movies, and one of us is at work on the novel.â€
“It seems that most of you isn’t really working.â€
CD threw his arms down and let out a long hard breath. “Everyone needs rest time.â€
The psychologist put down the pad and folded her hands on top of it. “CD, do you know your total number of replicas?â€
“Of course I do, it says on the form. Total number; four hundred and ninety nine.â€
“CD, we have found that around the area of five hundred replicas, something profoundly strong happens to the human mind. The mind can only take so much before it changes in a dynamic and permanent way. Now, I’m not saying that you might change on your five hundredth replica, but maybe by your five hundred and fiftieth or your seven hundredth, maybe the structure of your mind is already beginning to change. The point is, CD, if I approve this application you will no longer be classified as human. You will be classified as a sentient hive, a community.â€
His mouth hung open. “I won’t be human?â€
“The law has limits on what is considered human. If you want to be protected and understood under human rights, you must stay within the confines of what is considered human.†The psychologist looked hard at CD, and then at the application. “I don’t like to recommend that people exceed the limit, but your files are in order and I do believe that you are mentally stable enough to make this choice.â€
CD smiled. “I’ll take it doctor. Make me a community.â€
The procedure took less time than the interview. The download and connection of memory and consciousness was just like waking up from a long nap. CD looked at himself, smiling in admiration. The painting in his studio was only halfway done and he needed to get to the lab to work on his research. Instead, he and his new self decided to celebrate their new birth by hitting the bar and the holovids. The research, the school, the art could wait.
