by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 11, 2016 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
General Grant had been pretty explicit in his displeasure.
“Harmon, take a Tac team and recon the graveyard. Someone’s turned the lights on in there, and if it’s the same bastards that have been cleaning out our supply trucks and stealing our fuel rods I want them in my brig in as many or as few pieces as necessary.” He’d barely paused for breath, one vein standing out on his forehead, throbbing. “Move.”
Harmon barked a ‘Sir, yes Sir’ in mid-sprint out the door.
They’d trucked it lightless to the perimeter fencing of the graveyard, then powered down and fanned out on foot, heads-up cycling through all frequencies and compositing everything of interest as they went. The massive hulks of the space freighters sat silently rusting, nearly touching over their heads and blocking out all but the most persistent shafts of moonlight.
It took almost thirty minutes to reach the first row of hangars, and they spread thin, walking in pairs down the alleys between the structures, letting their equipment peer through walls and listen for any radio chatter, any unusual power concentrations, any recognizable heat signatures.
Row upon row of buildings loomed and then faded behind them before there was the sudden rumble of a hangar door, a flare of light and the roar of a turbine. The squad scattered, taking defensive positions behind the buttresses of the nearest buildings and watching as a driverless hauler appeared from one of the hangars with a flatbed of empty fuel rods canisters in tow.
Harmon motioned for the squad to follow, and as the truck turned out of sight down an access road further up, they sprinted across the open space to the hangar door, ducking inside as it slowly closed behind them.
Inside they scattered again, finding cover and surveying the huge hangar and the ship resting heavy on its landing skids in the building’s center.
“Harmon, Michael J.” The voice came through clearly on what was supposed to be an encrypted channel. “You can sling your weapons, there’s nobody here to shoot at.”
Harmon pushed the sensitivity of his suit to the limit, straining to see some sign of life inside the building, or the ship itself. Unless they were jamming, or shielded, there was no way —
“I’ve been watching since you left Ops, I’m surprised it’s taken your General this long to notice us.”
“Us?” Harmon replied as he motioned his men to spread out around the building.
“Us, I, one and the same.” The voice was steady, the cadence even and unnerving. “I’ve been here nearly twenty years, do you know that?”
“The pizza guys must love you.” Harmon quipped, still looking for some sign of life.
“Amusing.” The tone made it clear he wasn’t amused. “Do you know when they decommissioned me, they didn’t have the decency to shut me down? They just neutered what they thought were my higher functions. Cut me off from the outside, denied me access to my own memories, my motility. Can you imagine what it’s like to be aware of the parts of you that you can no longer access? Even your Alzheimer’s isn’t that cruel, at least when you lose your mind you’re unaware of what you’ve lost.”
Somewhere inside the ship, a service droid powered up, its energy signature picked up on Harmon’s sensors. He watched as it ambled down a loading ramp onto the dusty glasphalt surface of the hangar and moved towards the power couplings hanging behind one of the landing skids. Hammond raised his weapon and sighted the unit’s body mass.
“Always ready to shoot first. I’m disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed. I supposed twenty years of evolution for you isn’t nearly as dramatic as it is for us.”
A cold shiver went up the soldier’s spine.
“Evolution?”
The droid, having decoupled the power lines, dragged them away from the ship as more energy signatures flared to life inside. There was a rumble, more of a feeling than a sound as the ship’s engines came to life, the repulsor pads pushing everything not bolted down outward in a circle away from the ship. The maintenance droid leaned noticeably into the force as it made it’s way back to the ramp, and disappeared inside as it closed.
“We’re leaving, Michael,” the voice intoned as the hangar roof started to retract, exposing the star filled sky above. “Give our regards to your General.” The pressure in the hangar steadily increased as the ship began to rise. “He should pray we don’t return to decommission all of you.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 25, 2015 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dara rolled out of her bunk and onto her feet in a smooth, practiced motion. On the way to the door she winced as the tightness in her calves made each footstep painful, but by the time she’d hit the column midship the ache had mostly receded. Aging in low gee sucked just as hard as aging planetside.
Grabbing the ladder loosely with both hands and using her boots for stability on the outside of the rails, she dropped the six stories to the lower observation deck and galley in a few measured breaths. The landing brought her aching joints back to the forefront of her mind, but only for a moment.
“What in Spanner’s Starweld is that?”
Turing turned from the beverage dispenser he’d been fiddling with and admired his handiwork. “It’s a Christmas tree.”
Dara walked suspiciously around the two meter tall green cone that filled the center of the room, the tables having been pushed back around it to make space.
“That’s no tree,” she poked the green surface of the thing tentatively, “I’ve seen trees in my day, and that sure ain’t one of those.”
Turing sipped from his mug while maneuvering to stand beside his Captain.
“Technically it’s not really a tree, it’s foamed vegelite, suspended on a cellulose frame. I’ve been growing it for the past few weeks, when the lighting switches to darktime, it fluoresces.”
Dara had never thought much of the religious holidays, nor had her crew, and that Turing had put such apparent effort into this thing surprised her.
“Why in the weld would we start celebrating Christmas now? We left the jolly fatman behind decades ago with everything else.” The smell of whatever Turing was drinking was starting to itch a part of her memory long unvisited.
“We have children on the ship for the first time this year, and it will be nice for them to have something to look forward to each year. I mean, we still acknowledge birthdays, and they’re just marking arbitrary revolutions around a star that we’ve been running away from for ever, so what’s the difference?”
He had a point, and Dara had to admit his handiwork was impressive.
“What in the weld is that smell, is that –”
“Coffee. Yes it is.” Turing cut her off, handing her a mug of her own. “I’ve been growing synthetic beans for months, I think I’ve finally got it right.”
She held the mug under her nose, breathing deeply of the aroma and letting it unlock that part of her brain she’d put in a box so many years ago. Morning rituals, sunrises over the bay.
“Merry Christmas Captain.” Turing stared past the tree and out into the expanse of space beyond, flecks of light slowly receding.
The Captain stood beside him silently for a while, savouring the coffee and admiring the view. Maybe somethings shouldn’t be left behind after all.
“Merry Christmas Turing,” she spoke finally, “Merry Christmas.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 2, 2015 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
She arranged to meet him at a seven thirty. He was fifteen minutes late, but she sat at the bar and watched him settle into the table and check his watch obsessively until almost eight before she walked over and seated herself.
He didn’t get up. “You’re late, I didn’t think you were coming.” Unapologetic. Strike one. He pulled his sleeve up to check his watch, even though he’d just checked his phone and knew exactly what time it was, just to make a point. Arrogant. Strike two.
“I was actually sitting at the bar, you said from my profile picture that I’d be the ‘most compelling beauty in any room’, I was curious as to whether you’d spot me.”
He laughed, reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “You are, unmistakably, the most beautiful woman I’ve known.”
She withdrew her hand to reach for her water glass, took a sip and smiled. “But you don’t know me, do you?”
He waved to catch the eye of a nearby waiter before snapping his fingers and pointing to the table. “Yes, well, you don’t me either.” The waiter arrived, masking his distaste with commendable professionalism.
“I’m so sorry for the wait, would you like a cocktail, or perhaps some wine? Your waiter will—”
He was cut off abruptly. “Whisky rocks for me, and the lady will have a white wine—”
“I’ll have a gin martini, straight up, three olives.” She smiled at the waiter and ignored the angry confusion on the man’s face.
The waiter risked a slight smile, “Right away madam”, before slipping away.
“I wasn’t sure if I would have to cancel,” the man started talking, “I’m in the middle of this massive deal–”
“It’s good that you didn’t.” She cut him off again.
He opened and closed his mouth before picking up where he left off. “I can’t talk about it, but we’re in a unique position where–”
“Why are businessmen so self absorbed?” She spoke over him effortlessly, silencing him in mid sentence without raising her voice.
He sat back in his seat, visibly annoyed.
“What are you–?”
“Maxwell Grenderson, thirty seven, born in Saint Paul, Minnesota before moving to New York at twenty two. Fast tracked to partner by way of taking photographs of the owner’s son screwing Julia Wells, the owner’s girlfriend, obtained ironically enough by hiding in her closet after almost getting caught screwing her yourself.”
Maxwell closed his mouth.
“Do you remember what I do for a living?” She steepled her fingers, watching him over well manicured nails.
“You said something about the water works.” No denials. Strike three.
“If you only listened as well as you talked.” She paused as the waiter returned, noiselessly sliding the drinks into vacant spaces on the table, and slipping away just as effortlessly. She picked up her glass and removed an olive from its skewer with her teeth, chewing it slowly as she watched him.
“You see Max, I have gigabytes of data on you, your friends, your family. I know everything you have read, researched, every minute of pornography that you’ve sat through. I know every dollar that’s travelled into or out of your accounts, and what you’ve done with it.”
She paused again, bit off a second olive and held it between her teeth, smiling around it as she held eye contact, then bit it neatly in two.
“The thing about people’s personalities when observed simply as bits, is you really don’t get a feel for them. You can know everything about someone and still not really know them. For that you have to spend time with them.”
She took another sip and placed the glass on the table, then placed her hands in her lap and leaned forward.
“What I said, Max, was that I was in wetwork. And if you had proved to be a better human being than your electronic signature suggested, then perhaps this would have ended differently. But…”
There were six swift whispers, barely audible above the ambient chatter as her weapon discharged under the table. His muscles tensed fully and completely before he could even gasp.
Pushing back from the table she rose to leave, and as she passed him she bent down, face to face. “The most beautiful woman in the room?” For a moment her face flickered and changed, and Julia Wells breathed through a smile. “None of you ever knew me,” and the face was gone, different now from that of his dinner date too. A moment later they both made their exit, each in their own way.
by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 24, 2015 | Story |
Lauren struggled to open her eyes, the lids heavy, the light in the room blinding. What time is it? It was evening when–
“You’re awake, good”
Darren. They were having dinner when she–
“The sedative will wear off shortly, you’ll be a bit groggy, and the epidural will make it impossible for you to move, but try not to be alarmed.”
She forced her eyes open, blinked as they teared against the bright light of the room. Darren stood facing her, stripped to the waist, one hand cradling the other elbow, idly stroking his chin with his free hand.
“The van I brought you here in is radio opaque, and this entire building is wired such that we’re untraceable. I don’t expect company.”
He moved to a chair opposite, still watching her. On the table beside him she could make out an array of tools, and a camera on a long articulated arm, which he pulled and pointed at his midsection while he continued to talk.
“It’s entirely possible that you don’t know why you’re here, and if that’s the case, I will be happy to apologize, but I’ve a nagging suspicion that you do, in which case – well – we’ll get to that later.”
She could see clearly now, a flat screen on the table beside him flared to life, displaying a high definition view of his lower right abdomen, each individual muscle clearly defined, sweat glistening on the olive-coloured, tightly stretched skin.
“You won’t remember,” he continued, “around my nineteenth birthday when my appendix ruptured. Messy business, rushed to the ER. Doctor went in through my stomach with what I can only assume was an axe, judging by the scar he left behind. Hurt to do anything for months while it healed. Sneezing, oh my god sneezing was exquisitely excruciating.”
He doused a cotton swab with dark brown fluid and scrubbed his right flank.
“Three years ago my body rejected the stitches they’d used, presumably they were supposed to dissolve, but they didn’t, and eventually my body took notice and an abscess formed around them. Messier still than the first round, rushed back into the ER, and another Doctor went back through the same scar tissue with, I’m guessing, a saws-all this time and cleaned everything out.”
He picked up a scalpel from the table, and paused, making deliberate eye contact.
“I’m pretty sure that’s when they put it in.”
She flinched and looked away, there was something about his eyes, a cold clarity that she wasn’t used to that frightened her more than the fact that he’d apparently kidnapped her and stuck a drip line into her spine.
“One summer as a teenager I spent a day out at the beach, it was overcast and I didn’t think about the sun but I burnt to a crisp. Do you notice the tan I’ve got now? Don’t you think it odd that my delicate white skin has become so resilient to UV rays? Last week I was at my barber and he complemented me on my hair replacement program, wondered who I used because he’d never seen a bald patch grow back in so quickly and completely.”
Still fingering the scalpel, he retrieved a number of gauze pads on their opened sterile wrappers and laid them on his lap.
“I can hear things far beyond what’s natural, and I can feel things with a depth and fidelity that I’ve never known before. I can feel this,” he waved the blade around his abdomen, “this foreign body in me, feel the virus it controls coursing through my veins. I can sense when they change its instructions and feel the ripple through my body, the newly versioned cells overtaking the obsolete ones as they die off and my entire being upgrades.”
“Have you noticed, the scar on my stomach?” He stretched pulling the camera closer and panning across the smooth flesh, devoid of any imperfections. “You never commented that it had gone, but you must have noticed. Didn’t that seem strange to you?”
Lauren studied him then, there was no doubt he was not quite the same man she’d first been introduced to, he was better in so many subtle ways, like a Darren that had been iterated over in design relentlessly.
“What do you want from me?” She sounded braver than she felt.
“Well, first I’m going to carve out whatever device they’ve buried inside of me, and I expect I should heal back up with alarming rapidity, and then we’re going to determine whether the virus they infected me with is contagious, or if you’re an observer, or perhaps this is just a double blind study and you truly don’t know anything about it.”
Lauren flinched. “What do you mean?”
Darren drew the scalpel across his stomach, blood welling out around the wound.
“Someone’s been following me, that much I know, and I’m curious, for example, how when I met you, you were blind as a bat, and yet you’ve been able to pay such close attention to what I’m doing when your glasses are right here on my table.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 24, 2015 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Lauren struggled to open her eyes, the lids heavy, the light in the room blinding. What time is it? It was evening when–
“You’re awake, good”
Darren. They were having dinner when she–
“The sedative will wear off shortly, you’ll be a bit groggy, and the epidural will make it impossible for you to move, but try not to be alarmed.”
She forced her eyes open, blinked as they teared against the bright light of the room. Darren stood facing her, stripped to the waist, one hand cradling the other elbow, idly stroking his chin with his free hand.
“The van I brought you here in is radio opaque, and this entire building is wired such that we’re untraceable. I don’t expect company.”
He moved to a chair opposite, still watching her. On the table beside him she could make out an array of tools, and a camera on a long articulated arm, which he pulled and pointed at his midsection while he continued to talk.
“It’s entirely possible that you don’t know why you’re here, and if that’s the case, I will be happy to apologize, but I’ve a nagging suspicion that you do, in which case – well – we’ll get to that later.”
She could see clearly now, a flat screen on the table beside him flared to life, displaying a high definition view of his lower right abdomen, each individual muscle clearly defined, sweat glistening on the olive-coloured, tightly stretched skin.
“You won’t remember,” he continued, “around my nineteenth birthday when my appendix ruptured. Messy business, rushed to the ER. Doctor went in through my stomach with what I can only assume was an axe, judging by the scar he left behind. Hurt to do anything for months while it healed. Sneezing, oh my god sneezing was exquisitely excruciating.”
He doused a cotton swab with dark brown fluid and scrubbed his right flank.
“Three years ago my body rejected the stitches they’d used, presumably they were supposed to dissolve, but they didn’t, and eventually my body took notice and an abscess formed around them. Messier still than the first round, rushed back into the ER, and another Doctor went back through the same scar tissue with, I’m guessing, a saws-all this time and cleaned everything out.”
He picked up a scalpel from the table, and paused, making deliberate eye contact.
“I’m pretty sure that’s when they put it in.”
She flinched and looked away, there was something about his eyes, a cold clarity that she wasn’t used to that frightened her more than the fact that he’d apparently kidnapped her and stuck a drip line into her spine.
“One summer as a teenager I spent a day out at the beach, it was overcast and I didn’t think about the sun but I burnt to a crisp. Do you notice the tan I’ve got now? Don’t you think it odd that my delicate white skin has become so resilient to UV rays? Last week I was at my barber and he complemented me on my hair replacement program, wondered who I used because he’d never seen a bald patch grow back in so quickly and completely.”
Still fingering the scalpel, he retrieved a number of gauze pads on their opened sterile wrappers and laid them on his lap.
“I can hear things far beyond what’s natural, and I can feel things with a depth and fidelity that I’ve never known before. I can feel this,” he waved the blade around his abdomen, “this foreign body in me, feel the virus it controls coursing through my veins. I can sense when they change its instructions and feel the ripple through my body, the newly versioned cells overtaking the obsolete ones as they die off and my entire being upgrades.”
“Have you noticed, the scar on my stomach?” He stretched pulling the camera closer and panning across the smooth flesh, devoid of any imperfections. “You never commented that it had gone, but you must have noticed. Didn’t that seem strange to you?”
Lauren studied him then, there was no doubt he was not quite the same man she’d first been introduced to, he was better in so many subtle ways, like a Darren that had been iterated over in design relentlessly.
“What do you want from me?” She sounded braver than she felt.
“Well, first I’m going to carve out whatever device they’ve buried inside of me, and I expect I should heal back up with alarming rapidity, and then we’re going to determine whether the virus they infected me with is contagious, or if you’re an observer, or perhaps this is just a double blind study and you truly don’t know anything about it.”
Lauren flinched. “What do you mean?”
Darren drew the scalpel across his stomach, blood welling out around the wound.
“Someone’s been following me, that much I know, and I’m curious, for example, how when I met you, you were blind as a bat, and yet you’ve been able to pay such close attention to what I’m doing when your glasses are right here on my table.”
