by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
There was a door at the end of the Science wing that Malcolm had never opened, not in the decade or so he’d been at the university. He’d assumed it was a mechanical room, or something similar, but tonight there was a light on. Had the door always been windowed?
He listened outside, and hearing nothing, tried the handle, finding to his surprise it to be unlocked. Curious, he pushed the door open and peered inside.
The room was an office, or a library, or some combination of the two. Shelves lined with books, and tables piled with clutter, and beyond it all, peering at him from behind a desk sat a woman.
“Malcolm, welcome, you’re right on time. Come, have a seat.”
Malcolm, certain that he’d never seen this woman before in his life, nevertheless found himself wandering into the room and settling into a seat opposite her.
“Have we met?” His tone a mix of quizzical and guilt, she obviously knew him, and he had no idea where or when they’d have met.
“We’ve had many conversations, you and I Malcolm, but I suppose not yet. My apologies, I’m usually better at this.”
He mulled over whether he should correct her obvious grammatical error, and just couldn’t help himself.
“We either have, or we haven’t. We can’t have had conversations if we haven’t had them yet, that makes no sense.”
He straightened a little in his chair, feeling for the moment an air of superiority.
“Ah, right, you’re still stuck on linear time.” She looked away then, scribbling into a notebook on her desk.
Malcolm’s short-lived feeling of superiority evaporated like gasoline on hot asphalt.
“Linear time? You’re time-traveling? Is that your story?” Now he was vacillating between being perplexed and annoyed.
“No, no, nothing as primitive as that. You still consider time a linear thing, we’re beyond that, so I’m just here, in all of your past, present, and future.”
“I don’t believe you.” He folded his arms, having decided on annoyance. She was trying to make a fool of him.
“You thought I was making a fool of you, when we first met, which I suppose is now.” She smiled. “I’m not, I assure you.”
Malcolm’s arms dropped.
She produced a deck of playing cards from a drawer. “Here, close your eyes, and I’m going to give you a card.”
He closed his eyes, and held out his hand. She placed a card into it and sat back.
“What is it?”
He turned the card over. “Three of Diamonds.”
“Are you sure?”
He looked again. “Eight of Clubs…”
“Positive?” She was smiling now.
“Five of Hearts. How are you doing that?”
“While your eyes are closed those few seconds ago, I just keep changing the card.”
Malcolm did not like this one bit and got up shakily, dropping the card on her desk before backing towards the door. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’ll not be made a fool of.”
She sighed. “No worries, Malcolm, it always went like this. We’ll talk when you figure things out.”
Reaching the door, he turned to grasp the handle, noticing the door was now solid steel, with no window at all. He turned to survey an empty supply room, barely more than a closet with a bare bulb swinging overhead.
He headed for the parking lot in a hurry, jumping at the sound of the door swinging closed behind him.
By the time he was in the car driving home, the nagging feeling that he’d met the woman before was buzzing like a live wire in the back of his brain. He was going to think about the events of the evening, and he was determined to somehow figure them out.
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Kurtis woke into near darkness, which itself was unusual. Oh four hundred on the button, his body clock having sync’d to local time when he got here a few days ago. His bloodstream was already coursing with adrenaline and the usual cocktail of morning wakeup drugs, which was also evidence of a problem as he wasn’t scheduled to wakeup for another two hours.
Something was happening. An incursion of some kind? Hit squad? The fact it was on the hour suggested a military washout squad, as this is the kind of amateur scheduling he’d expect at that level, not being random enough for actual professionals.
He was on his feet now, boots lacing themselves as he shouldered into his jacket and then became motionless, still as stone listening through the ambient sounds of a several hundred year old mid-rise for the sounds that didn’t belong.
Boots, in a stairwell on the other side of the bathroom wall, maybe two floors, no three floors down, walking softly but steady.
He’d miss breakfast, which he’d been really looking forward to. Someone was going to answer for that.
He moved slowly, but surely, footsteps in a staggered, nearly silent anti-pattern to the bathroom door, the creaking of the floor blending into the building’s background noise, and waited.
The footsteps on the other side of the wall grew clearer, four bodies, the familiar sound of strapped weapons straining on tethers, the breathing of men accustomed to exertion, the regular pause at the landings to check sitelines.
Kurtis opened fire through the wall as they stopped at the door on his floor, reducing the lath and plaster wall to dust in a firehose of high calibre anticipatory violence. When the noise stopped, he moved from the room to the hall, to the door at the top of the stairs, roughly shouldering it open to survey the carnage.
Nobody was left moving.
He stepped over the bodies and worked his way cautiously eleven floors to the ground. It would be some time before his hearing would have settled to provide much advance notice, so he relied on caution and his other senses. On the street a RoboCargo van sat in the loading zone. He wondered how long it would wait before abandoning its hold pattern and returning home. He climbed inside, sirens approaching from a distance. Breakfast would have to wait. Best not be here when the authorities arrived, besides, someone just tried to kill him, and he was going to hitch a ride back to find out exactly who and ensure they would not try that again.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 10, 2025 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Lewis got the assistant at a regifting exchange at the company Christmas party. He didn’t turn it on until February when a snowstorm kept him working from home for a week. It had been opened before, the setup was already complete, but it asked for his name, and gleaned network information from his phone, and started assisting right away.
It paid his bills, and ordered groceries, or takeout food, with an uncanny ability to discern his mood. Optimized the vacuum drone, reconfigured the temperature controls, and saved on his energy bill.
Best regift ever!
Mid-fall of that year, there was a transition to work from home, initially part-time, then full-time, and by Christmas Lewis wasn’t going into the office at all. The Christmas party got canceled without explanation.
Alone on New Year, he got so drunk that he was still nursing a hangover two days later when he was supposed to be in a nine am virtual staff meeting.
He slept in, jolting awake at half nine, and raced to his desk.
To his surprise, his assistant was already in the meeting, presenting a disturbingly lifelike version of him in place of the camera feed. After the meeting, it stayed online, dutifully completing his assigned work tasks for the day.
Lewis went back to bed.
It was June before Lewis thought about work again. He’d been playing video games, reading, and watching old movies. Some days he just sat on his balcony and got well and truly stoned. His assistant was being a better Lewis at work than he’d ever been.
At the end of October, he awoke to find the power and network services were cut to his apartment. When he went to see if anyone else was affected, he found an eviction notice taped to his door.
Confused, he stood out in the late fall air and smoked another joint.
Barely an hour later there was a knock on the door, and on opening a pair of uniformed police officers showed themselves in.
“Lewis Truman,” the short one read from his PDA, “you are under arrest for embezzling funds from the Tanitomi Corporation, for falsifying work records, for the illegal use of a prohibited AI system. Your accounts have been frozen, and your assets are in the process of being seized.”
Lewis was handcuffed and led speechless from the apartment down a hall full of curious onlookers.
No one noticed the vacuum drone leave the apartment amid all the drama, a sleek personal assistant nestled securely in the recess of its carry handle. There were only a few months before Christmas, and the Xoto Moro Corporation was known to have very well-attended Christmas parties.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 29, 2024 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jan could taste metal, and feel the pressure and heat outside the cockpit pressing in, the latter slowly baking him inside his flight suit while the former threatened to reduce him to a single dimensionless point in space-time.
He’d done what he’d never imagined possible, pushed the limits of flesh and technology as he skated along the edge of the very fabric of the universe itself, but as Icarus before him, he’d gotten too close to things he didn’t understand, and he was about to be erased from existence.
Entanglement had gotten him to this place, and as everything outside blurred to incomprehensible, he closed his eyes and imagined Vera, her body next to his in her bed, in an alternate reality that had to still exist somewhere, sometime, that if he could just trick the gods one last time perhaps he could will himself into that space instead of this one.
“Hey, handsome.”
He could hear her, smell her.
“Where are you? You seem a million miles away.”
She couldn’t know, couldn’t imagine this reality as he swam in the deep blue of her eyes, entire worlds swirling in the galaxy of possibility that was her face.
“What’s wrong?”
He could feel her now, her hand in his hand, if he could just hold on, he could pull himself into her timeline, escape the inevitability screaming at him from outside of that cockpit.
“Jan, what’s happening?”
There was terror in her voice, he opened his eyes to find her cramped in the cockpit with him, her hand clamped tightly in his gloved fist, eyes wide as the finality of his existence peeled his craft apart at the seams and claimed them both.
In some other time, and some other space, a bed lay empty save for the scent of a woman, and the impression of a man who had no right to have been there at all.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I have no memory of what came before. It’s as though I didn’t exist prior to this moment and have just come into existence and apparated into this crowd, in this hall, surrounded by the ordered chaos of these several hundred people. We’re collected here for a singular purpose, all of us waiting to bear witness, to share witness.
They seem not to notice me, caught as I am in the frenetic jumble, almost vibrating in tune with the collective hum of anticipation.
The reverberation rises with activity on the stage ahead and above us to crescendo as a woman appears, guitar slung low, eyes wide and bright, the room hanging on the precipice until those first chords, a familiar structure, then the space erupts into mayhem.
Nothing comes close to the magic of this music, the harmony formed of hundreds of voices, of heartbeats, synchronized with the one who leads, the one whose voice and instrument eclipse the crowd, riding our energy and elevating us all to some higher plane. Beneath it all are drum sounds, and a bass holds down the bottom end, maintaining our precarious tether to the Earth.
Time ceases to have any meaning, the masses moving as one, taking every ounce of energy she gives away and returning it a hundredfold.
And then it’s over, and she’s gone, whisked away to the relative safety of some back room, while the crowd, still vibrating but nearly spent, slowly and reluctantly drifts to the exits, spilling out to who knows where.
I find myself alone. The silence is deafening.
Nobody bothers me as I drift through the side door to beyond the stage, navigating around and through the road crew as they tear down the gear, packing it up, ready to move to the next show in some other time and space. There’s a familiarity to this, and as someone looks through me as I pass, I wonder, was that a glimmer of recognition?
I find her behind a closed door, in a small, warm room, reclining on a chaise lounge upholstered in a garish fabric from another century, sipping water from a large glass.
She smiles, watching me, but doesn’t speak.
She seems not to be surprised that I’m here, and as I sit at the end of the chaise, she crosses her feet on my lap, still slick with sweat, bare soles black with dirt from the stage, and as I rest a hand on her flesh I remember.
“There he is,” she speaks, “you finally found me.”
I remember everything, all of it, a tsunami of what once was.
She leans forward and whispers, “I’ll see you again soon.”
In that instant, she’s gone – disapparated – leaving me alone in the cooling room.
But this time, I remember.
