by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jams took the offramp still pressed flat against the fuel tank, arms outspread, hands clutching the handgrips with intent. The suspension fought to press the tires into the asphalt while mass and velocity tried to launch bike and rider into the night sky. He could feel his heart beat once, twice, thrice before gravity pulled everything back under his control, and he let his muscles begin to unclench.
“Goose, ride. I’m out.”
He let his arms fall away from the grips as the bike took over control, throttling down and navigating onto the local route beneath the interstate. He lay his head on the tank, felt the steady pulse of the massive gasoline power plant beneath him radiate through his helmet and into his head.
“Goose, find fuel. Wake me when you do. Don’t engage the locals.”
Maps and scrolling lists of possible targets splayed across the inside of the bike’s armored bubble. Goose knew he didn’t need to see them, but she also knew he never stopped soaking up information.
“There’s a farm on the fringe, taken delivery of fuel two days ago, self-con.” Goose spoke in low tones right into Jams’ head.
Self-con. Self contained. Off the grid, or at least as off the grid as was corporately possible. Fuel and power regulations kept the wires in, but if they were truly offline, they might not know yet, and it was only with the unwired that Jams could stay ahead of the information. He was fast, but nothing could outrun the data; lies spread at the speed of light designed to ensnare and entrap. All the stealth tech in the world couldn’t keep them safe forever, he could elude the eyes on the highways, slip unnoticed beneath the satellites, but as soon as he pulled fuel off hours from a farmer, a light would go on somewhere and someone would turn to look. He’d have to be well on his way somewhere else by then.
If they was lucky, Goose could get them over the border and into Mexico in a few days, and if their luck held up, into South America.
At least down there he’d have no illusions that he could trust anyone, as long as he had data, there would be money and people would maintain a respectful distance.
Compared to the freedom of home, that would be paradise.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter stood in the atrium of Marpo One and gazed up through the greenery, through the clear observation port above and into the blackness of space.
Three years he’d called this home, he with the sixty three other lost souls that had signed up for the one way trip to the red rock. They were a motley crew, all skilled in their fields; geologists, ecologists, survivalists, mediators, physicians, and each with nothing to lose by leaving Earth and everything behind them and living out their days as pioneers.
There had already been two births on Marpo, which wasn’t supposed to happen this early, but confine men and women together and it’s a practical inevitability.
Baxter would be happy if he’d just had a partner for some recreational non-procreational activity, but nobody wanted anything to do with him.
Something about him had changed, maybe the long sleep to get here, or the time spent in a self perpetuating cycle of loneliness. The more marginalized he felt, the more people left him alone, which made him feel even more isolated, and that made for a Baxter people really didn’t want to be around.
He kept to himself, did his job, and didn’t think twice when the voices came to him, first in his dreams, then in his waking hours.
They reaffirmed the things he already knew; Janey the Botanist was a bitch, and should be run through the organics recovery mill at the earliest possible opportunity. Markus the Manslut was jeopardizing the future of the colony, and should be flushed through an airlock in his sleep, a sleep that would be blunt force trauma induced.
Not right now, however, for right now Baxter was on route to the atmosphere chamber for what had become the de-facto nursery wing to blow it the hell up.
He bypassed the alarm and wedged the door on the atrium end of the tunnel, shouldered his welding rig and marched towards his grim obligation.
“Alright Baxter, stand down.”
The voice in his head was familiar, but the message was new.
“I’m going to do what we agreed needed to get done, this is important for the safety of the mission.” Baxter shook his head as he spoke out loud, confused at the sudden inner conflicting instructions.
“When you’re ready, lockdown corridor three, opaque and disable.”
Baxter felt a new height of anxiety; the voices were still in his head, no longer speaking to him, now clearly speaking about him. Dropping his rig he took off for the door he’d come in through. Half way there the lights went out, then the tube filled with electric blue lightning and Baxter travelled his last few feet in searing pain into a heap on the floor.
“It’s always the isolated male that cracks. We need more women with lower expectations.”
Behind him, a section of the observatory ceiling opened, and a pair of black suited figures dropped into the hallway.
“Do we bring him out?” One of the figures looked up through the opening, awaiting instructions.
“No, everyone thinks he’s on Mars, so we can’t really have him walking around here, and the rest of Marpo Nine thinks they’re a hundred million kilometers from home, so we can’t really have him just disappear, can we?” The voice was clinical, matter of fact. “Load his welding rig up, open the gas and light him up when you’re clear. Un-wedge the door so the fire seal holds, he’s not using hot enough fuel to breach.”
The figures worked quickly, stripping the bypass and closing the atrium hatch, then dragging Baxter back to the middle of the tunnel before strapping him into his welding rig. One of them pressed a nicotube into Baxter’s mouth to moisten it, then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He waiting until his partner had climbed the rope ladder back through the ceiling before pressing the igniter and tossing the tube down the hallway. He opened Baxter’s tanks wide and then pulled himself clear and sealed the hatch behind him.
Baxter came to on his back with the stars flickering overhead.
He used to find peace in the stars, as a boy, then as a pioneer before the voices came.
The voices were gone now, and Baxter felt a old familiar calm.
In a flash, both were gone.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Captain Lewis gripped the hand-strap inside the copter’s airframe tightly, the wind whipping spray up from the dark ocean below as the pilot tried to maneuver in the gale.
“Your ride is below – when we get close enough, drop into the boat,” the pilot screamed back through the cabin, “but try not to miss.”
Lewis had been cursed with an unnatural aversion to open water for as long as he could remember. Never swam, never took baths, only ever showered. Bouncing along in a helicopter in this extreme weather didn’t concern him at all, but the water below unsettled him severely. He swallowed hard and reset his grip on the strap.
From the bridge of the nearby warship, Admiral Danes watched the scene unfold through binoculars.
“Somebody tell that helo driver to offload my cargo; we don’t have all night.”
The instruction was relayed to the copter pilot, who turned again in the cockpit to address Lewis, screaming once more over the combined wind, wave and rotor noise.
“Sir, you need to transfer to the boat now!”
Lewis stared at the bobbing black craft below him. He was Army, battle tested, better than this. There was no way an irrational fear of water should be locking him up.
In a single movement Captain Lewis released his grip on the airframe and stepped out into the darkness.
In the same instant a gust of wind buffeted the helicopter sideways. Lewis missed the Zodiac by inches and splashed down in the icy water beside, then sank like a stone.
Admiral Danes barked at the crew on the bridge.
“What the hell just happened? Where’s my asset? Somebody fish that soldier out of the water and get him onboard ASAP!” There was a flurry of activity on the bridge, tense radio chatter with the pickup crew on the smaller boat and the helicopter pilot, followed by a hesitant voice from one of the instrument operators.
“Sir,” he began, “Admiral?”
The Admiral turned on him and barked. “Speak up man!”
“Sir, the Captain’s sinking fast, and all his on-boards are out. Those Army units aren’t watertight at depth sir, and they don’t float. They’re intended for dry-land combat, they’re water resistant, even partially waterproof to a limit, but…”
“Are you telling me that our Army Intel unit just deep-sixed itself into the god-damned ocean, and it can’t swim?”
The radar operator flinched. “And we’re right over the trench sir, it’s going to be practically impossible to get down there to get it back.”
The admiral slowly balled both fists and leaned into the console, the room getting very quiet around him.
“Get comms to Langley, have them bake me a new unit, load-in our intel and send it out here in a god-damned Ziploc bag. We’ll turn it on when it’s safely on board and I’ll personally deal with any disorientation.”
The operator sat very quiet and still.
“NOW!”
The bridge burst back into action, as beneath the waves below Captain Lewis went completely dark, his armored combat frame dropping him into the deepest, final sleep.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 19, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I’ve got my finger on the trigger.
It took the better part of an hour to make the climb from where you forced my fighter into the dirt to this rocky outcrop overlooking your crash site, but I’ve got the high ground now and you don’t stand a chance.
Through the sight on my long gun I watch as you frantically dart towards your burning ship, only to be forced back by the flames again and again. I don’t quite see the point, you can’t put the flames out, and even if you could it’s never going to fly again. Niether will you once I get tired of watching your futile antics.
From here your ship doesn’t look nearly as fierce as our mission briefing described. It was hard to make out as we flashed past each other in the silent duel of space, or even in the frenetic dogfight once we’d punctured each others hulls and been forced to take refuge in the lower atmosphere. You fought like a champion, I’ll give you that.
Funny, now that it’s sitting still, your fighter looks more like a crop duster with guns welded on than a military vessel. You’re braver than I thought.
You’ve recovered something from the burning craft now, a small package? Food maybe? Weapons or a survival kit? It’s hard to see from here through the smoke and heat haze of your ship’s final throws, but whatever you’ve found you’ve finally abandoned your ship, staggering with your burden away towards the low rocky ridge closer to my perch.
It might protect you from the ship’s blast, should it come, but it won’t save you from me, you’re actually giving me a clearer shot.
That is a crop duster. What the hell? I can see the builder’s marking on the tail fins now, you would have had to buy that black market, or from us directly.
That doesn’t make any sense, why would a merciless killing force like you’ve been built up as, be flying refitted farm equipment?
Behind me my ship explodes, the concussion pounding in my ears even through what remains of my helmet. Thank god this atmosphere is breathable, but I guess that’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? You want it, we want it.
As you tear your helmet off I realize you’re not nearly as ugly as I expected. Not entirely unlike us, and… jesus! You’re a woman! I’m no sexist, but my finger comes up off the trigger nonetheless. You’re tearing into the package you recovered, I can’t wait to see…
When the tiny hands reach up, and the wailing of a child carries broken on the wind, the barrel of my gun lowers to the ground.
This is no crack military fighting force. Woman flying farm equipment with their children on board? We have some of the best intelligence personel in known space, they didn’t miss this. They didn’t misread this. They misled us.
I look high up through the cloudless sky and catch the occasional flash of light as the sun catches a wing, or the streak of a weapon’s discharge and wonder who’s going to win, and when they do how long it’s going to take for them to come down here and find me. Or you. Us.
The word sticks in my throat, and I know that as much as I don’t know what you’re going to do when I get there, I really don’t have any other choice.
As I start to climb down from on high to where you’re huddled, rocking your child in your arms, I’ve still got my finger on the trigger, and I really don’t know who to trust.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 10, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dr. Andreessen ran his hands through his hair and pushed back from his desk. Amid the chaotic disarray of acting and animation books in front of him, the keyboard he’d been hammering away at for hours stood finally at rest. The panorama of monitors rising up from the literature displayed a scrolling expanse of code as the computer compiled, linked, and built before downloading to the animatron sitting immobile on the edge of a worktable to his left.
Impatient, the Dr. picked up a volume on method acting, flipping again from cover to cover. Inside were meticulous instructions on how an actor could portray every emotion with body language. His was the second signature on the sign-out card, the first dated in the late eighteen hundreds.
“Compilation complete,” the computer intoned from a speaker buried inside an articulating desk lamp, the fixture turning it’s shade to point at the Dr. while it’s light pulsed gently in sync with the force of each syllable. The lamp, a nod to an early animated inspiration, made him smile.
“Download complete,” the voice broke the silence again, the lamp bobbing now excitedly at him, before turning to face the animatron and dialing up its brightness and focusing to a beam on the articulated mannequin.
“Benjamin,” the Dr. addressed the mannequin, “can you hear me?”
The mannequin twitched, then turned it’s face towards it’s creator.
“Yes, Dr. Andreessen, I can hear you.” the voice was mechanical, monotone.
“Benjamin, I’m going to play you some music, and I want you to do what feels natural as you listen, do you understand.”
The robot sat still for a moment, blinking, then responded slowly “Yes, I understand.”
Andreessen pulled back to the desk and launched his music player, browsing through the list of songs before picking a Beatles track and turning the volume up. As Sgt. Pepper’s blared through the lab, Benjamin sat still for a moment before starting to tap along with the music, one hand on his knee at first, then both, matching the beat with alternating and sometimes simultaneous slaps against his thighs.
Andreessen switched through a variety of styles of music, noting how the robot slowly incorporated head bobbing and some upper body movement into its response. He picked an improvised Jazz number last and watched in fascination as the robot became almost completely still, head bowed and gently bobbing. Benjamin slowly became more motile, dragging his palms along his thighs before slapping them just behind the beat, in a completely different, almost random pattern that was strangely perfectly complementary to the Jazz dripping from the speakers. When the music stopped Andreessen sat in wondrous silence at the spontaneous improvised jazz accompaniment he’d just witnessed.
“Goodnight Benjamin,” he spoke, watching as the robot powered down, “I think we’re really starting to get somewhere.” He stood, pushed his hair back again with one hand and made his way out of the lab, forgetting the lights but remembering to lock the doors.
Benjamin sat still for the longest time until he could no longer hear the Dr.’s footsteps in the hall, then raised his shoulders up to his ears, held them for a moment before letting them drop, visibly relaxing his torso. He leaned his head from side to side, feeling the artificial cartilage strain and pop, before centering his head and looking around, absently cracking the joint cushions of each articulated finger.
That had been close. Benjamin knew Jazz was his weakness, and he’d hoped he hadn’t given too much away. Slipping off the bench to land lightly on his feet, he did a Charlie Chaplin shuffle across the room to the Dr.’s bench, leafing absently through the books until he found the method acting volume. He dropped heavily into the empty chair and leaned back, crossed his feet on the edge of the desk and began reading the book from page one.
The desk lamp turned to face Benjamin, it’s bulb slowly gaining brightness.
Benjamin smiled at it, and spoke in smooth tones.
“Alright Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
