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.
by Stephen R. Smith | May 1, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dr. Darius from the Psychology lab walked along the line of students to Dr. Thorne’s adjacent Bio lab, reaching the door just as it opened to emit a thin wiry girl with a pale face and electric blue irises. She paused only a second before stepping around him, offering a shy ‘Excuse me sir’, under her breath.
“Next.” Thorne’s voice was unmistakable from within the lab.
“Just a second,” Darius held back the next student in line, evoking an irritated but acquiescent huff from the towering young man, “won’t be a minute,” Darius added as he entered the lab and closed the door.
“Release signed?” Thorne spoke without looking up. “Payment in order?”
“What on earth are you playing at?” Darius startled Thorne with the question, causing him to look up from the notepad on which he was busy typing notes.
“Playing? I’m not playing, I’m researching.”
Darius closed the distance between them, admiring the majesty of the contraption that filled the desk beside the gray haired engineer. “I hear they’re not going to renew your funding next semester, what’s to become of the genome jammer?”
Thorne winced at the term, “Gene Code Reprogrammer, and once I’ve secured a corporate sponsor, or a less impotent government one then its future won’t be in jeopardy.
Darius stopped in front of the Doctor and his machine, noting the snapshots of the girl who’d just left on its display, a brown eyed before and the striking electric blue after shot, along with long strands of double helixed code in constant motion. “So you’re going to sell this to a cosmetics firm then? Or a circus? Changing eye colours really isn’t going to fund the kind of research you need to be doing to keep this dream alive, you do know that?” The doctor chided his old friend. “You’re going to have to show something really remarkable.”
Thorne thumbed his notepad, the security camera outside the office photographed the next waiting student and called up his file.
“Johann Yonnes,” he recited, “second string linebacker on the football team, two hundred five pounds, six foot four. He has dormant muscle mass code that we can reactivate, fast twitch in his legs for speed, slow twitch in his upper body for strength. We can put him on the first string next season.”
Darius shook his head. “Teams can always find better athletes, that’s not going to be enough.”
Thorne grinned. “I know, that’s just the carrot.” He pointed to the machine’s display and the streaming strands of colour coded DNA, mostly made up of vivid colour pairs, but some sections were clouded and grey. “These sections here,” Thorne jabbed his fingers at the screen, stopping a coil from turning and then rotating it back and zooming in by planting one hand on the glass, fingers together then spreading them outward. “Here,” he tapped a single grey pair in a sea of colour, “here is a possible payoff. I give them the carrot, then flip a combination of these mystery switches and see what we get. They come back every few weeks for follow up tests, and we figure out what we’ve accomplished. I’m expediting my trials a little.”
Darius stood for a moment, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Finally he stammered “These are students, children, you’re messing with the lives of children…”
Thorne waved him off. “I load their DNA here,” he waved at an arm cuff and bank of needles at one end of the machine, “I recode their genes and replace them, then reboot their sequence, wait and test. If they last five minutes they’ll last a week, and anything harmful I undo the same way.” He gestured to his datapad, “I keep notes.”
Outside Johann checked his watch impatiently.
In the stairwell of Hawkfel Residence, a brilliantly blue eyed girl curled shaking on the landing, wing stalks forcing their way violently out from between her shoulder blades.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“That suit’s not safe on my dock,” the voice boomed across the row of vacant lifter pads to the mezzanine, “who gave you clearance to come out here?” Horik’s visor was up, the bulky exo-suit exaggerating his movements as he marched across the deck.
“You must be Horik,” the taller of the three men stepped to the railing, gripped it in both hands and grinned, “just the man we wanted to see.” Behind him, similarly clad in dark matte-fabric three piece affairs, the man’s companions unbuttoned their jackets exposing large handled handguns tucked in their waistbands.
“Horik, my good man, we’ve come to improve your working conditions. We’re bringing your High Mars Orbiteers into the fold of the Dock Workers’ Nine Three. Wage protection, health benefits, job security, everything the working man could wish for.”
Horik stopped a few meters away from the trio and surveyed the slick figure, grinning as he was like the Cheshire cat.
“We’ve already got that, without paying percentage to you, so why bother?” Horik unhitched an arm from within the rig and scratched absently at the crisscross of scars across his scalp.
“Security my good man, there are dozens of recruits landing here every week, any one of them, should he want your job more than you do, could render you redundant by simply performing better and you’d be out of a job. No security. No second chances. What work for a dock hand on Mars who’s been cast out of the dock yard?” He spread his arms wide, his grin equally so. “As part of the nine three everyone who’s started since you lifted your first load would have to be let go before you had to worry about your job. Isn’t that what you really want to know? That you’re guaranteed employment for as long as you wish it?”
Horik unhitched his other arm and began cracking his knuckles one by one.
“I didn’t catch your name.” Horik looked up and paused.
“You can call me Mr. Patroni.” Again with the Cheshire cat smile.
Horik chuckled and returned to his knuckle cracking.
“Suppose Patty, that one of your cronies there, obviously not with your outfit as long as you, seeing as they’re backup and you’ve got all the big lines, suppose one of them could do your job better than you.” He paused, flexing his fingers and began hitching back into the exo-suit. “Suppose you no longer are convincing in your sales-lady role. By your rules, your boss would have to fire both your boys there and likely a good number more before he could fire you. Then what? Your outfit’s had to give up the young talent, the up and coming, the future movers to cut out the festering boil that’s your sorry ass. That doesn’t sound very efficient to me.”
“It’s Mr. Patroni,” the grin cooled into a tight smile, “and you’ll find I can be very convincing. Your workers will sign with the nine three, and you can be on the inside or the outside, that’s entirely up to you.”
“Well Patty, it’s kind of funny you say that,” Horik fired up the suit’s comm’s system as he closed his visor, the remaining words blasting amplified through the loudspeaker on his shoulder, “I warned you about suits and safety on my dock.” Red lights started strobing along the length of the loading bay as the atmosphere was evacuated and the outer doors began to rumble open.
“In our world, Patty my dear, if you’re a screwup – you’re dead, and if you’re deadweight, you’re on the street. You can be on the inside or the outside yourself, also entirely up to me.”
He paused, relishing the panicked looks as he closed the distance and navigated the stairs. By the time he reached them, their mouths were opening and closing like dry fish, weapons forgotten. They couldn’t hear him explain why he threw the gunmen out the doors before Mr. Patroni, but he figured they’d appreciate the union protocol.
