by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The Captain stood just inside the doorway of the hut, regarding with amusement the figure sitting in the lotus position in the middle of the room.
“It’s over Thomas, we’ve come to take you back.” The Captain scuffed his boot on the unusual surface of the floor, glass-like but with a sandy grit embedded. “You must be ready to leave all this,” he gestured at the bare walls of a similar smooth surface devoid of any window or adornment, “all this vacancy behind.”
Thomas remained seated, legs crossed, palms upwards resting on his knees. He didn’t open his eyes, and when he spoke the Captain had to strain to hear him. “It is over, it pleases me to hear you acknowledge this so readily Captain…,” he left the word hanging as a question.
“Dennison.” The answer a reflex. “We have a cruiser on the beach waiting to take us back to the carrier, and there are a number of people very anxious to speak with you there.”
Thomas stretched his arms out to either side, palms still facing up. Beside the Captain the two soldiers that accompanied him raised their weapons to the ready, but Dennison waved them off impatiently.They relaxed only slightly as he began pacing around the perimeter of the room, fascinated by the apparently seamless surface from floor through wall to ceiling overhead.
“You’ve been a very difficult man to find, and given that virtually everything about who you are and what you’ve been up to is classified at the highest level, I must say you’ve been a severe pain in my ass for far too long.” He stopped behind Thomas, still studying the shadowy shapes buried deep in the walls. “So if you don’t mind, how about you get up off your yoga mat and start moving to the exit. Yes?”
Thomas, eyes still closed, smiled. Dennison couldn’t see from his vantage point, but the expression unnerved the soldiers, fingers hovering over triggers. Thomas turned his hands, still outstretched, palms down and from each a tiny object dropped onto the floor just outside the perimeter of the mat on which he sat, and appeared to melt into the floor.
“Nano-tech,” Thomas spoke, “specifically highly adaptable smart materials.”
“What?” Dennison turned, unaware that anything had happened.
“Sir, the prisoner…” One of the soldiers started to speak, but the floor at that moment rippled outwards from the point where Thomas sat, and the three men found themselves without stable footing. One of the soldiers fired in alarm, bullets ripped into the ceiling, the material now more the consistency of ballistic gel, shells penetrating perhaps a foot before stopping completely.
Dennison stumbled and put his hands down to break his fall only to sink to his elbows in the now viscous flooring.
“What the hell?” He struggled, but only managed to sink deeper. By the door, one soldier had fallen backwards, head and shoulders embedded in the wall where he twitched feebly while the other lay with his entire right side submerged in the near liquid floor, weapon sinking slowly out of reach.
“Very specialized smart materials Captain.” Thomas folded his hands in his lap. “For my entire career I was the consumable. Now, I meditate, and engineer, and when those who seek me are unfortunate enough to find me, they, like you become the consumable. There will always be more Captains searching for answers above their pay grade.”
Gravity slowly liberated the shells buried in the ceiling, and they fell to the floor to join the three soldiers as they slowly slipped beneath the surface. In a matter of minutes the floor had returned to its solid state once more.
On the beach outside only the waves made any sound, and they too seemed reluctant to venture too far inland.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 9, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Janus waited patiently, his card key in the front door lock as the picking device lifted the residual signature off the contacts and played it back. The occupants would have paid a small fortune to protect their home from broken windows or forced doors, but there was nothing to protect them from the ghost of their own key.
With a sigh the lock released, bolts withdrawing heavily and the door swung freely inward on well oiled hinges.
Janus pocketed the lock-pick and stepped into the foyer, pushing the door quietly closed behind him.
To the left would be the drawing room, to the right the dining area and beyond it the kitchen. Ahead of him a staircase reached up from the middle of the floor apparently unsupported to wind to the second level. It was this path he chose.
Off the landing at the top of the stairs was the entrance to the study, and Janus slipped quietly inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, virtually absolute as he closed the door.
“You’d have been better off breaking a window, at least then you’d only have been stunned.” A desk-lamp burst to life, the speaker having one hand on the switch, the other holding a snub nosed pistol, the blue-gray metal blending almost seamlessly into the blue-gray silk pajamas the man wore beneath a terry housecoat. “Pickup the gun.”
On the desk between them lay the pistol’s twin, its barrel pointing towards Janus.
“Always the lawyer Phelps, the gun does what? Justifiable homicide? Self defense?”
“Not that easy Janus, if I kill you, they’ll just distill another from before your crime. As it is, you’re up for break and enter…”
Janus cut him off. “Right, B and E, twenty years tops, but with a weapon it’s first degree. Life. And with simultaneous instantiation prohibited, I’d get to rot out the whole term. Not very nice Phelps, but you’re mistaken.”
“What, you expect me to believe this is a social call?” Phelps stepped back from the desk, moved behind the halo of light into the shadow of the bookcase beyond, steadying his aim with his free hand.
“Oh no, I’m going to kill you, nothing social between us anymore, you made sure of that.”
There was a hint of uncertainty in Phelps’ voice when he spoke again. “Then where’s your weapon Janus? You’ll be wanting that gun then, go on, have a go.”
Janus stepped up to the desk, but instead of the gun he reached out to the lamp, lifting off its shade and wrapping his fingers around the bare bulb.
The room filled with the smell of burning flesh, and Phelps began to shake visibly, the barrel of the gun wavering but never leaving its mark.
“What are you playing at Janus, pick up the goddamned gun. I will shoot you then, get it over with, you can come back and take another crack, I don’t care, just pickup the goddamned gun!” He screamed the last.
Janus regarded him cooly. “It’s not that I don’t want to pickup the gun, as I’d love to show you just how bloody fast I am with it, it’s just…” He grinned as he raised his empty hand and pointed a scarred index finger at Phelps. The desk-lamp dimmed suddenly, and Janus crackled and hummed as the air in the room became electrified, the hair on both men standing on end. There was a violent burst of energy from Janus’ index finger that entered Phelps through both eyes and exited through his bare feet into the floorboards below. The gun dropped to the floor, followed a second later by Phelps himself, smoke pouring from his ears, nose and mouth.
“… I don’t need the gun.” Janus finished the sentence, letting go of the bare lightbulb and blowing gently on his blistered palm and fingers before retracing his steps to find the cool night air.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Rosa jumped, spilling her latte as the man dropped heavily into the seat across from her, long hair mussed, his face a shadow in the halo cast by the late afternoon sun at his back.
“Lovely place this, yes?” His accent almost familiar.
“The café? Yes, it’s nice, but I was…” He cut her off abruptly.
“No, no, I mean yes, the establishment is fine, but the world, the world is a lovely one.” He paused, pulling on his long chin with the spider-like fingers of one pale hand. “Reminds me a bit of another, the name of which escapes me.”
“Another world? Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m not interested…” Again he spoke over her.
“Of course you’re interested, who isn’t really?” He spread his hands flat on the table and cocked his head to one side. “How’d you fancy a trip to another planet. Don’t worry, I’ve done this dozens of times.”
Rosa smiled placatingly, “My mother always told me never to accept rides from strangers.”
He grinned. “Jhesehetza, stranger than some, but no stranger than most,” he kept his head turned, a strange visage half in sun, half in shadow, “you can call me Jhes.” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ok, ok, so I’d love a trip to another planet,” she cradled her coffee in both hands and sipped, “as you say, who wouldn’t?”
“Wonderful, wonderful.”
He pinched his fingers in the space above the center of their table, then drew out a spinning universe of lines, stars and planets a shoulder’s width wide. Rosa gaped. Spinning the model in the air with his hands, and sliding it from side to side he paused at a flashing point in space that Rosa recognized as Earth orbiting around its sun. He reached into the model and touched Earth, dragging a line with his finger as he retracted his hand, then began shuffling the model again all the while keeping his one finger raised in the air with a blinking line snaking away into the model.
Jhes licked a free finger and held it up in the air for a moment. “Eighty twenty, nitrogen oxygen or thereabouts.” He kept spinning the model, suddenly stopping and jerking it back. “There we go, right there.”
Jhes reached across the table and grabbed Rosa’s arm, then stabbed his upheld finger into the model again, dragging the line to the dot he’d located. There was a blinding flash of light, and a moment later Rosa felt Jhes let go of her. It took a moment to realize she’d closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the cafe had disappeared. The table, two chairs, she and the strange man sat in the middle of a meadow, long blue grass undulating in wave-like ripples around them as a deep red sun dipped below the horizon far off in the distance.
Rosa opened and closed her mouth several times soundlessly, then realizing her coffee was still clutched in her hands, put it down and stood up slowly, turning to look at the strangeness that surrounded her on all sides.
“Beautiful, isn’t it. We should walk somewhere, see if there’s anyone about.” Jhes seemed entirely at ease, though his excitement was palpable.
“We, how…” she stammered, “I can’t stay here, long at least, I’ll need to go home and…” Once more, her sentence was waved away.
“Only forward, never back. There’s not enough fuel left there for a second jump.”
“Fuel,” Rosa followed him around the table and into the grass as he struck off, “what kind of fuel?”
“Core fuel, there’s only enough mass in any planet’s core for a single jump, once it’s used up, well, nothing. Not like we can pull the planet up to the depot and fill ‘er up now, can we.” He dragged his long pale finger tips through the grasstops as he walked, as though wading through a lake.
“Core mass, you mean you use that up for travel?” Rosa stopped, realization sinking in as the sun dipped finally below the horizon, leaving her in almost complete blackness.
“Hm, yes, well, seen them once and all that.” In the darkness Jhes began to fluoresce, and Rosa couldn’t help but wonder where that energy was coming from.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The walkway stretched along either side of the manufacturing line beneath it, expanded metal flooring paired with railings of aircraft cable under tension.
Beneath them, nestled snug inside a transparent tube, a spherical rig trundled along, like a massive version of the gyro tops the Major had played with as a child, only this one swinging four coffin shaped pods in a mechanical ballet inside its numerous orbiting rings. The mechanics were mesmerizing; each pod rotating along its long axis inside rings rotating around both short vertical and horizontal axis simultaneously. Each of the four identical units inside the giant sphere were themselves in constant motion while the sphere rolled and corkscrewed its way along the tube. He’d never seen anything so elaborate before in his life.
“Rotomolding,” the voice jerking him out of his reverie, “we find it helps their tissue development during the rapid growth phase, and results in a more uniform distribution of the core buffer polymer and outer skin.”
The Major hurried to catch up to his guide as another unit rumbled by beneath him.
“Mr. Pierson,” the Major began.
“Please, Major Keage, call me Claude.” He smiled as he turned to face the Major and slipped his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his coverall.
“Claude,” the Major began again, “how do these units differ from the units we deployed in Haituk, or Baytang? Those were basic shake and bake soldiers, you were turning them out almost as fast as the Payonese were cutting them down.”
Claude winced at the Major’s apparent lack of tact, removing his glasses to squint at them critically before replying.
“These units are true multiphase construction. Cast and baked chassis, draped and grafted muscular system over a fully integrated circulatory system, multiple redundant systems for command and control, a complex low level reflex system and a highly developed and preloaded reasoning and dataprocessing unit. Each has a…” he paused, searching for the correct word, “personality loaded in, then they are insulated, armoured to spec and skinned before they get kitted out and warehoused.” He’d slowly been continuing along the line, pausing at a doorway which he opened and motioned the Major through. “Please,” he said simply.
The Major stepped past him into a dimly lit but clearly vast warehouse, the door they exited through leading to a raised mezzanine overlooking the space. Claude attended a console in the middle of the platform and slowly the lighting throughout increased in intensity.
Major Keage whistled despite himself. As far as he could see, the floor was lined with row upon row of uniformed soldiers, tightly packed and still.
Claude gestured to the mass of troops standing below. “Each unit is catalogued and retrievable by name and serial number, or specialty.”
Keage turned, his face a quizzical knot. “Name? You give these things names?”
Claude smiled. “Of course we do, for example, there’s probably a Jerimiah Keage out there.” As he typed, he noted the expression on the Major’s face. “Given the numbers, one would imagine.”
Having entered the name, an overhead rig lit up and, navigating the gridlines on the ceiling with remarkable speed, shot out into the warehouse and snatched a lone figure out from a sea of indistinguishable uniforms and hauled it back to deposit it on the mezzanine facing Claude.
Claude stepped back as the Major walked between them staring at his own face on the immobile soldier in front of him.
“What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he barked, turning on Claude.
“Major Keage, meet Major Keage. Say goodnight Major.” Claude backed further away.
Behind the Major, the unit came to life. “Goodnight Major” was all it said before landing a swift blow to the base of the Major’s skull, dropping him like a rock to the floor.
Claude and the new Major walked back through to the manufacturing line as the overhead rig retrieved the limp body from the floor, disappearing with him into the gradually dimming lights of the warehouse.
by Stephen R. Smith | May 7, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Drax left the party early, as he often did, dragging two beautiful young things into his elevator and up to his sprawling office to ‘admire the view’, occupying as it did the entire top floor.
Heels came off outside the elevator, dresses somewhere between the roll up garage doors that opened onto the observation deck and the hottub where the rest of their clothes disappeared.
Drax smiled. His empire afforded him such luxuries, and as he watched the girls sink into the tub amidst the rainbow cycle of the spa lights and the thunder of high pressure water, he didn’t try to remember their names, or what drugs they’d been fed once he’d picked them out. Someone would clean them up in the morning and they’d no longer be his concern.
He poured himself a sambuca from the bar and wandered outside.
“Are you going to wear that suit in the tub sugar?” The blonde one spoke around the brunette’s head, nibbling an earlobe and eyeing him coyly.
“It’s Italian, and custom, so no, sugar, I’m not.” His tone was brusque, but her wide pupilled eyes didn’t waver.
From his jacket pocket, a rhythmic vibrating attracted his hand by reflex, and he barely had time to curse before the phone was at his ear.
“This had better be good,” his tone icy, “I’m busy.”
From the speaker there was only digital gibberish, broken by the occasional unintelligible syllable.
Drax walked away from the noise of the tub and out in the open air of the rooftop, hoping for a better signal, but the call went dead. He stood staring at the word ‘unknown’ on the display, half expecting it to ring again when motion in the sky caught his attention.
There were several blocks between his building and any others nearby, but something had just crossed between the two in front of him. A moment later a bird streaked past beside him, wings fully extended and climbing at an impressive rate as it circled behind him and out of sight.
“Baby, we’re thirsty,” the voice distracted him, and as he turned he lost his footing and stumbled, putting one hand on the ground to catch his fall as four feet of matte carbon fiber wings ripped through the air where his head had been, then gone so quickly he’d wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination.
Staggering to his feet, he whirled in circles, trying to find the attacker in the night sky, the downcast deck lighting creating large blind spots that left him blinking.
There was a sudden rushing of air, and the bird attacked from behind again, one set of talons dug deep into his shoulder as the bird flapped madly trying to lift him off the ground, but as powerful as it was, he outweighed it two hundred pounds to twenty, and shrieking he swung his free arm at the creature until it let go and soared back into the darkness.
Bleeding, he staggered towards the open door.
There was a throaty rush and bright flare as the bird used powered thrust to gain altitude. The attack itself was silent. The bird swept back its wings, balled its talons into fists and thrust them out before its body as it dove, striking Drax in his mid back at nearly three hundred kilometers an hour, instantly crushing his spine.
His mouth opened in a silent scream, all the air having been driven from his body as he was forced to the ground, his legs useless.
Behind him the bird flapped its wings in slow, sweeping rhythm, hovering in an ungainly fashion, glass eyes irising in and out, watching. It then gripped him by his unfeeling ankles, dragged him sobbing and scrabbling across the rooftop to the nearest parapet and hauled his flailing body over the edge.
Man and bird fell together for a few moments in a macabre lovers’ embrace, before the bird disengaged, spread its wings and rode the thermals back into the night sky.
Drax was no longer a concern, someone would clean him up in the morning.
