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.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The detective stood just inside the tape at the doorway to Grant’s office and surveyed the carnage.
Deep maroon fluid had been spattered over most surfaces, some of it obviously while still under pressure as it had reached the ceiling several meters above his head from which it now dripped from the elaborate tin relief.
A medieval suit of armor lay scattered about, the pole axe formerly adorning it now buried deep in the hardwood of the floor.
On one side of the blade lay two dark colored hands severed none too neatly at the wrists. On the other side stood the burnt remains of the Senator’s desk, recently extinguished and still smoking. Partially embedded in the smoldering furniture an incinerated corpse lay in repose, unnaturally shortened arms outstretched.
“Not much left of the Andy is there?” Detective Sykes shook a chemical cigarette from a pack, thumbed the igniter and sucked it noisily alight.
“Carter, you lift an ID off the inhibitor?” Sykes blew almost colorless exhaust into the air as he waited for the forensics agent to respond.
“Yep. One of Grant’s domestic units. Serial’s only a partial, but it matches the prints and there’s plenty of tracer in all the Andy juice to corroborate,” he waved around. “I’ll write it up. No human donors to the crime scene, so unless the Senator wants to shake the insurance company down for the cleanup and a new desk, I’d say we’re pretty much done here.”
Sykes turned his back on the room and addressed the figure lurking in the shadows of the hallway behind him.
“Senator, I think it might be best if you cleaned this up privately.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and continued. “This makes three of your Andy’s we’ve found diced up this year. Now another dead Andy doesn’t matter much to me, but if those equal rights bleeding hearts get wind of this…”, he left the thought hanging.
“We’ll clean this up internally detective, your concern is duly noted.” The Senator’s voice dripped with derision. “Once you’re satisfied no real crime has occurred here, my staff can get to work.”
Sykes chuckled, “Bit morbid don’t you think, having your Andy’s clean up what’s left of one of their own?”
Grant rolled his eyes, “Please, detective, it’s not like they actually feel anything, the bloody things barely think.”
“Still, Senator, someone got in here and did this. We’ve seen other cases besides yours, all Andy’s, so you might not be worried but it is a serial offender we’re looking for. If you know anything, or think of anything,” Sykes produced a card from his breast pocket and passed it to the Senator, who accepted it with apparent disinterest.
“I’ll be sure to let you know detective.” Turning he spoke over his shoulder as he walked away, “Let yourself out, will you?”
—
Levi turned off the paved road onto little more than a dirt lane between the trees, slowing as he guided the old hauler towards the farmhouse near the river and parked in the barn behind.
Closing the outside doors first, he returned to open the trunk and smiled at the worried face staring up at him.
“Come out Doris, you’re safe now.” He helped the still shaking android from the trunk, careful not to disturb the caps on her neatly severed wrists.
“First thing we’ll do is get you some hands grafted back on.” He pulled two empty fluid bladders from the trunk, then his portable transfusion unit and carried them to the workbench that filled one side of the room.
Doris followed him, blinking as the dim sodium lights were eclipsed by brighter halogen work-lights. Levi turned to face her, reaching out to probe gingerly at the cut at the side of her neck. Doris flinched at the raised hand, but stood her ground.
“That bypass should seal up nicely in a few days.” Turning back to his bench he continued, “With the inhibitor gone there won’t be any trouble getting you over the border. I’ve got friends up there that will find you a place to stay.”
Levi looked through the collection of hands floating in jars as he talked, looking for a good match.
“Couple of days, Doris, and you’ll be home free.”
Doris hugged herself with her truncated limbs, watching Levi.
“Free,” was all she said. “Free.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 10, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Mark stood a few feet from the doorman and presented his ID, which was accepted with apparent derision.
The heavily muscled bouncer glanced over the details of the badly forged photo card and tossed it back.
“One point eight meters? No way you’re that tall. Take a hike.”
Mark caught the card with his off hand without breaking eye contact and held the stare for a moment before looking down at the photo card.
“Funny, that’s about the only thing on here that is right. How about you let me in anyways? I’ve got a lot of drinking to do, and this night’s not getting any younger.”
The doorman’s face split in a wide grin, metal capped teeth catching the streetlight as he ran his hands back over the stubble on his head and stepped forward.
“How’s about you bugger off, mate, before you get hurt?” He exhaled through clenched teeth as he placed both hands flat on Mark’s chest and pressed him violently into the street, tossing him like a rag doll to where he landed in a heap.
Mark pushed himself slowly upright, then got his feet back under him while fingering the torn shirt sleeve where he’d skidded across the blacktop.
“Shouldn’t have done that meathead,” he licked his lips, breaking into a low jog and dropping his shoulder as he impacted the startled bouncer, running with him the couple of meters to the building wall and slamming him into the brick with a clearly audible outrush of air.
Mark stepped back, leaving the bigger man to catch his breath.
“I’ve gotta warn you shithead,” the bouncer wheezed, “I’m hardened mech, not your average meatbag doorman, and I’m quite capable and licensed to put you in the hospital or a body bag.” Having recovered alarmingly quickly the doorman stepped back into the fray with purpose. “Or for that matter, the dumpster out back if you push the wrong buttons.” Mark barely had time to take a defensive stance before the angered man was on him, raining a flurry of blows to his ribs as Mark tucked in his elbows and covered his face with his fists. The doorman beat him back off the sidewalk, onlookers moving quickly away to make room while several opportunists started taking bets.
Having driven Mark into the street, the doorman again pushed him away. “I’m not someone you’ll want to piss off,” and with that he stepped forward and drove his fist between Mark’s still raised hands and into his face, knocking him off his feet and into a pile once more on the asphalt.
Leaving him unmoving in the road, the bouncer turned and started back to his post at the door.
Mark exploded from the ground and reached the retreating man in barely a heartbeat, landing multiple blows to his lower back before torquing in a perfectly executed roundhouse kick to the side of his head, knocking him hard to the ground.
When the bouncer had struggled back upright, he found Mark bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, grinning like he’d just eaten the neighbour’s cat.
“If you’re mech, then you’re just my type, sweetheart.” Mark thumbed the side of his nose, then shook his hands at his sides before taking up a boxer’s stance again. “Get’s boring as hell tossing meatbags for a living, doesn’t it?”
The bouncer felt something turn inside and, his post forgotten, stepped off the curb and cracked his knuckles.
“I’m guessing Marquess of Queensberry’s not quite your style?”
Mark laughed out loud.
“How about MCMAP?”
The bouncer’s grin returned. “Oorah,” was all he replied.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Lewis sprinted the last few yards across the wasteland and dove head first into the trench. He clutched his rifle tight against his chest as he lay in the dirt, chest heaving, heart pounding out of sync with the artillery barrage overhead.
Move, Lewis, get up and move.
A shell exploded nearby, showering him with sticky blue dirt. Ears ringing he pulled himself to his feet and, hugging the facing wall of the trench, half walked, half ran forward. He didn’t stop to pick a direction, didn’t reason which way was most likely to take him back towards friendlies, he simply ran.
Minutes stretched like hours, hours like days, energy weapon discharge cracked overhead and a constant pounding of artillery kept a beat and kept it strong. Lewis just ran, rifle clenched in his fists like the lifeline basic had taught him it would be.
His legs burning, eyes stinging from the smoke, Lewis ran past an advancement point in the trench. Here, a tee intersection had been cut out, hardened spray-plastigel buttressed the sides and a downed landing craft bridging the trench above blocked out what little sun was visible overhead. The trench continued on the way he’d been heading, but another trench met at right angles, heading towards the enemy. From ahead Lewis could hear gunfire, and not just the staccato blast of the enemy’s shard guns, but also the heavy thump, thump, thump of energy weapons like the one he still clutched white knuckled.
Lewis didn’t stop to think, just turned and ran towards the gunfire.
Within moments, he found himself at the back of a frightened young man huddled into a slit in the wall of the trench. If not for his shaking and the barrel of his weapon protruding, he might have run right past him.
“Soldier, let’s go, cover me.” Lewis barked at the frightened young man, glancing furtively along the trench.
“Sir, s-s-s-sir,” the soldier stammered, “I’m out of ammunition sir. I’m no use to anyone now sir.”
Lewis paused a moment, thinking for the first time of his own weapon, and the moments before he was sent diving for cover in the trench. He thought of the impotent whine that meant his rifle was fully discharged as well. Listening, he realized the staccato cracking of gunfire from farther up the trench had also stopped, and not even pausing to think he pulled the shaking soldier out of the hole in the trench wall and barked simply, “Barrel up, cover me.”
Together they marched up the trench, one empty rifle and one empty heavy repeater pointed towards an enemy they hoped was more scared than they were.
Within minutes, they stepped past a haphazard barrier of crates and plasteel panels, and found themselves staring down three of the enemy soldiers, guns levelled, mandibles clacking, multifaceted eyes reflecting the two commandos back a thousand-fold.
Lewis didn’t hesitate, just jammed the barrel of his rifle into the closest face he could find.
“Surrender. Surrender or I blow your fucking head off.” The force of his words for the moment drove out the fear in his heart.
Seconds ticked away like hours before the enemy soldier tossed his weapon aside and bowed down into the dirt.
“Surrender”, it said, in poorly translated mechanical English, “please, surrender.”
Lewis and the still shaking soldier stood over their prisoners for hours before reinforcements came up the trench and relieved them. Lewis walked twenty or so meters away from his prisoners before vomiting into the dirt.
