by J.R. Blackwell | Dec 20, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
The recruiter says that you are a dumbass. He tells you he wouldn’t put you in the infantry for the eighteen worlds, because you would get someone shot. Later you learn this is the worst insult he could give. The recruiter tells you that you would never make it as a pilot, because you haven’t got the head for numbers. Your test scores are low enough that they can’t place you anywhere based on skill. The only thing you can do, he tells you, the man who will decide your fate as a human, is get the genetic restructuring and become a psychic. A councilor.
It’s serve in the military, or slave in the mines, and though you don’t like the idea of changing your genetic code, you know you don’t want to be in those dark mines, so close to the core that you sweat out your life under artificial light. The recruiter gives you that choice, smelling like tobacco and piss, a bus out back to take you to the military and a truck with metal doors waiting for anyone who can’t find a place. You take the bus.
The genetic restructuring has you vomiting in a hospital for a week. The doctors laugh as you spit up blood and chunks of meat from your insides. Get it all out, they say, everything human must go. Laughter, but it’s distant, hollow. Maybe that little grey piece came from your liver; maybe that red slice is a shaving off your heart. At some point, you start to hear voices, bouncing around people, things they tell others without talking, words they tell themselves. A doctor hears her mother telling her she is a whore. A patient sings a pop tune to himself over and over.
Shave your head. Take a post on a military transport. Everyone hates councilors, reading minds, prying, looking for hints of treachery or deviance. They short sheet your bed, spit in your food, and dump your things out onto the floor. You know who did it, you know because you can feel their guilt like warm winds, but you can’t say a word. You tell on them and the captain would spit on you herself, and the rest of them would never forgive you. You are locked in a metal can with people who hate you, spinning through space.
Out in this silence, surrounded by cold, you reach out beyond the glass and plastic ship to the silent falling cold. There in the falling dark, you reach out to the thoughts of planets, hear the thrumming song of their replies.
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by J.R. Blackwell | Nov 30, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
“Are we slaves?” said Marixix, sliding out of Lilria’s slick bed. “Or do we freely choose our lives?”
Lilria rolled over onto her side, admiring her lovers muscular naked back. “Ooooo…Such deep inquiry directly after our ‘little deaths.'”
Marixix turned and bowed to Lilria. “It is when my mind seems clearest.”
Lilria blushed and slipped a silk shift over slender body. “Do not confuse your pride with chains. You toss the word of slave too easily. You are free to leave the service, a slave would not be free to go as he pleases.”
“You are bound by words too easily.”
“Maybe.” said Lilria, gracefully stepping across the stone floor to where Marixix stood. “Why do you think you’re a slave?”
“Even though I could leave the service, I would not, because it’s what I’m good at. My genetic code has destined me to this work. I was bred to it. Why would I leave knowing my code makes me the best to be a warrior of first rank?”
She put her small hands on his large, tattooed arm. “There are other professions. You would be an excellent martial instructor.”
“I would be good, but not great. Would you leave your job as chief librarian and become a hostess at a brothel?”
Lilria backed away from him. “Are you saying that my work is that of a whore? Is that how you see me?”
“No. I never said-”
“You compared yourself to a slave, and your lover to a whore.” She walked to her closet and pulled on a heavy robe, crossing her arms in front of her.
“You are not a whore Lilria. I just wanted to show you that you would no more leave your work than I would. Both of us were bred to our work, and we perform it well, better than anyone else, better because they have been perfecting us over centuries.”
“That is destiny. There is still freedom in destiny.” At that moment, the sun choir that rehearsed at dawn in the great hall of the library started to sing. The lovers paused and listened to the rising voices. They were only a few doors away from the main hall, and the echo of those strong young singers came clearly, resounding off the stone walls. The chorus was singing the wordless salute to the rising sun, as the first light touched the great stairs of the library. Marixix found himself moved to stand next to Lilria. He put his arms around her waist and she leaned back onto his chest.
Marixix spoke softly. “Do you think that every time they breed us, making little tweaks, do you think we choose each other every time?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. My predecessor was not me. We are different.”
“I think you would know if we did. You are a record keeper, your predecessor would keep some record of it.”
She squeezed his hands in hers. “It is against the rules for warrior class and scholar class to have relations. If anyone found out, we would be exiled. All my predecessors had a spotless record, no suspicion ever touched them. Besides, we may have a destiny, but love cannot be scripted. I knew my predecessor, she raised me, and she had no relations with the warrior class.” Five generations the chief librarians had loved five generations of first rank warriors.
“If we are the first to have loved each other, then maybe I do have freedom, slight as it is, to choose my own way.”
Lilria turned to face him, reaching her hands up to his face. “You are free to stay or leave me, as you will.”
His dreadlocks fell down over his shoulders as he leaned close to her. “I will never leave you. I will love you till I am killed in battle.” They kissed and Lilria willed herself to believe him in that moment. She knew about the records. If this one lived another year, he would leave her. But Lilria was different from her predecessors; she could will herself not to cry.
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The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
by J.R. Blackwell | Nov 20, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
Georgie threw the best parties, mostly because he had a carpet he didn’t care about. Heather and Ralph used the monthly parties as an excuse to play drinking games and challenge each other to contests. The winner was usually responsible for dragging the other the two blocks home. Since Ralph had already gone upstairs to vomit, Heather had preemptively declared herself the night’s winner.
“Another drink Georgie.” she said, leaning against a cabinet in the kitchen.
Georgie handed her another drink. “Where’s Ralph?”
Heather flipped her purple hair over one shoulder. “He’s in the bathroom.”
“Still? He’s been in there for a while.”
Heather nodded. “I’ll go check on him, see that he hasn’t fallen in.” At the top of the spiral staircase Heather could see Ralph’s black boots under the bathroom door. “Are you okay baby?” She tapped on the door.
Ralph’s voice was tired. “Just taking a sit down while my liver cleans itself. I might do a little reboot in a minute.”
Heather took a sip from her plastic cup. “Drink too much?”
“Nothing a reboot can’t handle.” Ralph’s voice crackled, a current running though it.
Heather tried the doorknob, it was locked. “Baby, you don’t sound too good. Can I come in?”
There was a thud, flesh smacking tile inside the bathroom.
“Baby? What happened? Are you okay?” Heather sent a query to Ralph’s system. She pounded on the door. Her inbox received an error message. User unavailable. Heather banged her shoulder against the bathroom door, forcing the lock against the old wood in Georgie’s apartment.
“Heather, are you breaking my house up there?” asked Georgie “Come back to the party!”
“Call 911,” screamed Heather, slamming her shoulder into the door. She tried pinging his system again. User Unavailable. Ping. User Unavailable. Heather knew her arm was hurting, knew she was going to have a bruise, but Ralph was in there and he wasn’t answering. “Ralph!” she kicked at the door, screaming her lover’s name.
The rotten wood gave way and the door swung open, banging into Ralph’s body. He was laying awkwardly against the bathtub a red welt rising on his forehead. Heather knelt beside him. Georgie appeared in the doorway, scarf over his left shoulder, shock on his face.
“Oh shit.” he said.
“Call the ambulance.” said Heather.
Georgie paced back in forth in front of the bathroom. “Shit. Shit.”
“Just call them Georgie!” yelled Heather, slamming her fists into her thighs. Heather put her hands over Ralph’s mouth. He wasn’t breathing. She put her ear on his chest, but it was like an empty cage. Heather breathed into his mouth, but his chest didn’t inflate, it was like blowing on a wall.
“No. Oh Ralph. No. No. No.” She reached into her throat behind her teeth and up, flipping open the little panel in the back of her throat. A little too hasty, a little too quick, she sliced her throat with her fingernail. Tears bit her eyes. She gagged a little as she pulled the wire out from the back of her throat. Holding her cord out with her teeth, she opened Ralph’s mouth and reached back, fumbling to get his slick panel open, fumbling to pull out his cord, spit and blood on her hands, his or hers, didn’t matter, linking the two cords, instructing for a power transfer. This Ralph, who let her rest on his shoulder even if it made his arm fall asleep, who gave her sips of his coffee and let her wear his t-shirt. She was going to jumpstart him.
A screen lit up in front of her vision. Ralph’s full name and a prompt for password access. The last time she saw this was two years ago, when they first decided to sleep together and did the direct connection scan for STD’s. Ralph’s system scanning her, feeding him a full report, every physical secret. Her system scanning Ralph, telling her about a leg once broken and the drugs he used to take.
If Ralph changed his password in those two years, she wouldn’t be able to affect his system, no password, no access. You were supposed to change your password every six months. Please be lazy, Ralph, she prayed. Please baby, be my lazy, lazy man. She entered that two year old code and waited, waited, Georgie back at the door just watching both of them. Georgie putting a hand on her shoulder, saying something she couldn’t quite hear, paramedics on their way, maybe she should disconnect, it wasn’t working.
Then Heather felt her heart pull, her eyes get heavy, lights dimming and then back on as her system readjusted to the power output. Ralph opened his eyes, hand going to his mouth, touching his cord.
“What’s up baby?” he said, his mouth making mutilated words from the cord. Heather felt herself shaking, her eyes squeezing shut, hands on Ralph’s chest, yes, really there, really breathing, awake and heart and lungs all pumping and inflating and moving like they should. Ralph saying “Sawwy.” around the cord. Heather closed the space between them, holding him in her arms.
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The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
by J.R. Blackwell | Oct 2, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
“Does it hurt?” asked Tom
Dana brushed her fingers against her straight black bangs. “More than ever.”
“Mine too. You’re lucky you don’t have them on your face.” Tom motioned to the blue, red and brown lines that twisted on his cheeks like veins under pressure.
“I do have them though, look closer.” Dana leaned across the table and Tom saw faint traces of blue under her pale skin. Tom’s eyes followed the veins down her cheeks to her small breasts, tucked in her black silk dress.
He wanted to touch her, but he kept his hands twisting on his lap. “Not too bad.”
“Every bit as bad as yours Tom. I’m a professional makeup artist.” She shrugged. “Well, I used to be. This is my full time job now. This illness.”
“Yeah.” Tom sipped his frappachino. He liked cool things on his skin; they did numb him a little, make it harder to feel those snaking veins. “So, why did you shut down the forums?”
Dana played with her red beaded bracelet. “I didn’t. My hosting service gave me the boot. Password denied. I called them, and they said they had no record of ever getting payment from me. I tried to buy the domain name again but they won’t sell to me. Nobody will. I’ve been shut out.” She shrugged. “I got freaked out, and then you called me.”
Tom called Dana two days ago. He was worried she might have died or committed suicide. He wouldn’t have blamed her for suicide. Dana’s forum was the only place where he could find anything about the strange lesions on his body that wouldn’t heal, the veins getting huge under his skin and the fibers that poked out of his wounds. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“What do doctors tell you about all this?”
“I never saw a doctor. It was just too weird.”
“I went to eight doctors, two of them wouldn’t even look me in the face when they told me to get out of their office. One doctor saw me, but once he saw the fibers, he was on the phone to security in seconds.”
Tom curled his hands around the cold drink. “So that’s it, they just shoved you out?”
“One doctor took a look at my neck and gave me sleeping pills. Lots of sleeping pills.”
Tom looked at the floor of the tiny coffee shop. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” She peeled back the palm-sized bandage on her neck. Three brown, blue and red veins poked out of her skin, tapering like shaved wires. “They’ve gotten worse.” She replaced the bandage, wincing as she pressed on the tape. “Will you show me yours?”
“Well, they’re on my leg, my upper leg. My inner thigh.”
“Really? Lets go to the bathroom then.” She pointed to the one room unisex bathroom.
“Together?”
“Yes, together. What, are you afraid what other people will think? Afraid people will think you’re doing me in the bathroom.”
“I’d be happy to do you in the bathroom.” Tom shook his head. “I guess I don’t have anything to be proud about.” Tom felt eyes on him, but he followed Dana into the bathroom, and surprised himself. He really didn’t care. The bathroom was painted with a mural of dogs in ballet costumes, holding umbrellas in a park. Tom dropped his pants.
Dana stared. “They’re just like mine.” she knelt on the tiled floor.
“Hey, it’s kind of filthy down there Dana.”
“Does it matter? I’m sick anyway.”
“I guess not.”
“You don’t wear a bandage?”
“No. The bandage always feels too tight, even pants feel like I’m salting a cold sore.”
She put pale fingers on his thigh. They were cold. “These fibers look just like mine, blue, red, brown.” She pulled back her own bandage. “Tom, why do you think no one will acknowledge what’s happening to us?”
“I don’t know, but if I have to feel like there are bugs under my skin for too much longer, I’ll kill myself.”
“I hope you don’t kill yourself. I like you Tom.”
Tom scratched his chest. “If we didn’t both have this crap, you wouldn’t have ever looked at me twice.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m a nerd, and you’re a punk.”
“Punks love nerds. We are nerds, if you think about it. Just with a different sense of fashion. Besides, I think you’re thighs are tight.”
“You done looking?”
“No.” She looked up at him, her lipstick bright as paint. “Do you think we should put the wires together?”
“The fibers?”
“Whatever, you think we should put them together?”
“What do you think is going on Dana? You know something I don’t?”
“Would you try?”
“What if something happens?”
“You were telling me about killing yourself a minute ago. If something happens, if we both die, then we die. It’s not like anyone cares.”
“You’re right. No one cares. Not even me. Do it then.” Dana peeled back the bandage on her neck and scooted closer to his legs. “Hey Dana?”
“Yes Tom?”
“You really think nerds are cute?”
Dana touched her neck to his leg. “Yes Tom.” she said, but the voice was in his head.
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The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
by J.R. Blackwell | Sep 18, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
Russell came home hungry. When he walked through the door he was thinking of lasagna, steak and sherbet. Leo often had dinner waiting on the table when he came home, their three children occupied in their study pods. When Russell came home he expected warm smells and a quiet house. When he walked thought the door, the children were running around in the kitchen with seven bags of raw, unprocessed, unpackaged food. Seeing Jeremy play with tomatoes, his little fingers crushing the flesh made Russell want to vomit. In the middle of all this chaos was Leo, smiling like a wicked child.
Russell randomly picked an object from a bag and dangled it from between three fingers. “What’s this?â€
Leo rolled his eyes. “It’s a cucumber.â€
“Yeah, I know it’s a cucumber. Why isn’t it sliced up in a salad, packaged and clean?â€
Leo put his hands on his slender hips. “Russell, I’ve decided we should stop eating food from other worlds.â€
“What?†Russell threw himself into a kitchen chair.
“The food here on Greenwald is good. It’s grown in the southern continent. We should be supporting Greenwald’s farmers, not some off-worlders.â€
“Leo, I don’t want to be involved with one of your political movements. If you want to do something, that’s fine, but I don’t think you should force it on the children and I.â€
“The children like going to the market and picking out the food with me.â€
Russell pointed to a parsnip on the counter. “The children like getting filthy, and this food is filthy.â€
“It is not filthy. It’s local.â€
“Same difference.â€
“Russell, I saw a program on the NPH Holo-Cast-“
“Not again-“
“They said that our packaged foods are shipped from three star systems away. They have been folded and molecularly warped through space-travel.â€
“So what?â€
“So what? Russell, this is what we are putting in our bodies!â€
“Leo, you are acting like a hippie.â€
Leos jaw dropped open. “Russell! Don’t curse, not in front of the children.â€
“I like the shipped food! It comes pre-sliced and delivered to our door. I hate putting all that stuff through the processor, programming the damn thing to make whatever, making sure it has all the ingredients. I like my food simple, arriving all ready for me to eat. I don’t have time to process.†Russell slumped over in a kitchen chair.
Leo shrugged his thin, tan shoulders. “Then I’ll process the food. If supporting Greenwald isn’t important to you, if the sacrifices your father made to make this world a success when he immigrated here-“
“Oh give me a bag, I’ll help.†Russell peered inside. “Fresh plums?â€
“Yes. They have fresh plums.â€
Russell squeezed the purple fruit. “I can never find those on the order form. I didn’t know they grew plums here on Greenwald.â€
“Well, they do.â€
Russell put his arms around Leo’s waist. “I guess if they have fresh plums, then it can’t be all that bad.â€
“Apology accepted. “ Leo dumped the last few pieces of food into the processor and wiped his hands clean.
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