by submission | Jan 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“So,” I asked him as I took the bar stool next to his, “What do you do?”
He half-turned, and evidently liked what he saw. No surprise, I’d made an effort for the evening.
“Data mule,” he replied with a smile. “I’m Dan.”
“Hi Dan, I’m Andi. So, what’s a data mule, and why is it sitting here all alone?” Not subtle, I agree, but then if you’re into subtle, Marvin’s is not the place for you.
“Glorified bagman, but I carry data.”
“Why? Don’t people just send it over the net?”
“Usually. But when your info’s in cyberspace, you don’t know where it is, or who’s duplicating or decrypting it, or if someone’s diverting or delaying it. That’s where I come in. You hand me your data package, I take it where it needs to go. Simple. Across the street, around the planet, off world, makes no difference to me.” He raised his empty glass in query.
“Oh, make mine a gin and tonic, thanks! But isn’t that kind of slow?”
He tapped the order in. “Well, sure, it’s slower than the grid, but it’s a lot safer.”
“Wow, that sounds… well, glamorous I guess. Getting paid to travel and all. Seeing all those places. And I guess the stuff you carry must be important?” I’d gone all wide-eyed innocent at this point, because with a certain kind of guy, that routine never fails.
“To someone. It’s all encrypted, I have no idea what it is. And honestly, it’s not as exciting as it sounds.”
“But someone’s comping you to come to Mars! Most people can only dream of it!” The robot bartender put our glasses in front of us. His was a Scotch, I noticed – pricey, but hey, if someone else was picking up his expenses, why not?
“I know, but I got in on a late shuttle, and now I have to kill time until my client’s office opens in the morning. Then it’s straight back Earthside on the lunchtime flight. No time for sight-seeing or whatever.”
I pouted. “What, no time for any fun at all?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you have something in mind?”
* * *
Obviously, I didn’t have to screw him – hypnopharmaceuticals would have done the trick – but nobody said I couldn’t enjoy myself when working out of hours.
Later, after he fell asleep, I’d taken the sniffer out of my purse and run it over his clothes; it was a nano drive hidden on a shirt fastening. Cloning it was quick and easy – when you work for Security, you get all the best toys. He’d never know that a copy of whatever he was carrying was going to end up with my boss, and then the Administration’s decryption boys.
Before slipping out, I left him a note telling him how sweet he was, which was no lie. I also left him my bleeper number “in case he passed through again”; if this became a regular route for him, I’d happily play the local girl he could rely on. He was fun to be with!
But like they told us in basic training: despite all the technology and the workarounds, it’s always the human factor that’s the weakest link.
by submission | Jan 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Spacers could care less, but most planet-bound types are quick to wrangle over the cause of the long and ongoing intrasolar war. Earthers claim it has to do with mother world sovereignty and maintaining primacy rights. Venusians argue they are protecting their unique bio-techno-cultural development. Martians seem to just love a fight, be it good, bad or ugly.
Few know the real story. Fewer actually believe it. I do because my mom told me. And she should know. She started it. How did a middle-aged mom who dabbled in amateur archaeology throw our local system into such a tizzy?
She triggered an arms race. A crazy, unbelievable arms race. For two literal arms.
Let’s take a step back. When humans colonized Mars some eighty years ago, nobody anticipated how deeply their righteous, maverick spirit would take root and develop into the Martian maxim: Don’t tread on Big Red.
Sociologists posited their fierce frontier attitude to be a good thing. Shared identity. Cultural cohesiveness. A necessary and understandable social survival mechanism. Though relations with Earth quickly became prickly if not downright prickish at times.
Venus came next. Even after decades of intense terraforming of that hothouse planet, for potential colonists living on that steamy world was a much bigger ask. As in ask yourself: Would I be happier as a droid?
Surprisingly, a good number of Earthers liked the idea of being radically cyber-augmented and bio-engineered to function in a barely livable pseudo-environment. I guess we have R2-D2 and C-P3O to thank for that.
Venusians didn’t become as ferociously independent as Martians. In fact, a funny thing happened in that hellish environment. Those highly augmented colonists transformed by tech implants which muted physical sensation became a wee wistful, then doggedly spiritual, then obsessively monotheistic. And when longing for beauty, love and desire what better deity to worship than Venus.
Her cult became culture. And led to a feral fixation, a monumental mania: the Venus de Milo. To the Venusians it became the symbol of planetary identity, intrasolar respect, divine legitimacy, and an ordained destiny. All the trappings for the cluster to come.
And it came. The Venusian ruling council petitioned for the statue of the Venus de Milo housed in the Louvre to be relocated to Venus arguing that nowhere would it receive more care and reverence than on its namesake world.
You can imagine the French reaction to that request. Still, each year the Venusian rhetoric and requests ratcheted up. Fearing vandalism or theft, the Venus de Milo became the most protected and closely guarded art piece in the solar system. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Until, my amateur archaeologist mom with a soft spot for lost causes had a mad idea and an even madder plan for making it happen. I don’t know how she really managed it, but by hook and crook she obtained the two missing limbs of the Venus de Milo.
Then the maddest part of her scheme, she offered to sell them to the Venusian ruling council. Predictably, Earthers went ape and forbid it.
Tipping point reached.
“Two arms! To arms!” became the Venusian rallying cry.
My mom remains fatalistic about our interminable intrasolar war. After all, she explained to me, how could you expect anything different when the hand of the Venus de Milo’s left arm provocatively holds the Apple of Discord, the fairest seeds of which launched a thousand ships in the name of beauty, love, desire, betrayal, rage, and revenge. From wine dark seas to planetary colonies not much it seems has changed.
by submission | Jan 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Kevlin Henney
The flood water had receded enough for the warden to take the bridge from the town, but there were puddles and pools and fallen branches enough to swallow the road and stymie his progress.
“He’ll be here soon. Be silent and still,” Walda said, standing by the roots of her home. “Make yourself a bit scruffy while you’re about it.”
Walda looked up at her house and nodded. The steps spiraling up the trunk were broken enough to show a storm’s passage, along with a missing half wall — the warden would see her kitchen as he approached — and the roof was intact but raised on one side like a lid.
Walda went to the log pile between her tree and the forest and picked out pieces that looked better for mending than burning.
“Morning, Missus Walda,” the warden said as he walked the path up from the road.
“Never married nor betrothed, Warden Greaves, as you know.” She dropped the wood by the long table next to the path.
“Some might prefer… well, folk might talk about a woman on her own.”
“Would some of these folk, by chance, be named Greaves?”
“Not for me to say, Mistress Walda.”
“Just Walda is fine… as you know.”
“Thought to check on you after last night’s storm. See that you were unharmed and whether your, umm,” he waved up at the house nestled in the branches, “home was in need of much rebuilding, perhaps a carpenter’s visit.”
“As you can see, I have this in hand.” She waved at the collected wood, axe and saw by the table.
“From the damage you must have had, I see your progress is good… very good.”
“I think you’re trying to say something, warden, but you’re struggling to spit out the words.”
“Mistress Walda, the word is you practice unnatural arts. I myself am surprised such a rickety house not only survived the storm, but has been mended with such speed as might catch the eye of the justice and the mayor.”
“Only if someone’s turning their heads, Warden Greaves. What is so unnatural about living in the woods? In the trees like the birds and the squirrels? Besides,” she pointed to the town colors flying from the pole midway between the bridge and her path, “that’s the limit of your law. Now, unless you’re lending a hand,” she picked up the saw and a log, “I suggest you stop disturbing the peace of any woman versed in herb lore and see who properly needs help the other side of that flag.”
“As you were, then,” the warden said, turning back down the path. “Just remember, Mistress Walda, flags can be moved.”
“As can weak minds, Warden Greaves,” Walda muttered as the warden receded down the path.
Once he’d crossed the bridge, she looked up at her home.
“As you were.”
As if it had never been any different, the house was whole and built — spiral stairs unbroken, kitchen hidden inside, roof firmly closed.
by submission | Jan 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Cecilia Kennedy
Shapes drift down the aisles of the ferry I’m taking to an island I’ve never seen before. A coworker, Sally, swears it’s the best-kept secret in the entire Pacific Northwest. We’ve got a seat near the window, as parents and children run up and down the aisle next to us, from one side of the boat to the other, inside and outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of an otter or seal, but it’s always just birds, tricking you into thinking their wings are fins.
Out of the corner of my eye, a hooded shape makes its way up and back. It’s much colder on the ferry than it is on land, when the air is still, and the water isn’t kicking up waves. Sally tells me all about the shops—and there’s a glimmer in her eyes—a yellow spark of something I’ve never noticed before, when she tells me of the pizza slices and tempura-battered shrimp.
The hooded figure passes two or more times. I assume it’s good exercise, walking laps around the boat—maybe to ward off seasickness. As I talk to Sally, her eyes glow bright, and the hooded shape takes on speed. I hear a clunk, clunk slither sound, and the shape disappears, then reappears again, until I see something else I hadn’t seen before: antlers protruding from the hood, a serpent’s tail swishing along from behind. My breath goes still, and I lean into Sally’s stories a bit more to avoid looking at the aisles, and as she talks, the flame in her eyes turns green, just as the ferry reaches the dock.
We get out into the sunshine, the town all lit up with salty air and rays, restaurants and shops, but my skin grows cold when I see everyone, including Sally, shed their coats, bare their antlers, their slithering tails. All turn to look at me to see what I’ll do, as I’m surrounded by faces with pointy teeth and vulture eyes. I want to run, vomit, get back on the ferry, but when I turn around, even the ferry workers have shifted their shape, so there’s no escape. Sally places her tentacle on my shoulders, insists on the pizza place near the corner, where tiny antlered children run. I remove my coat, let the sun soak into my skin, order a slice of the specialty: basil pesto squid—and wonder when my tentacles will come in, when my shape will shift—and how long it takes to fully conform.
by submission | Jan 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jaryd Porter
“What’s the damage?” I asked.
Snafu used a couple of car jacks to keep the tank suspended, while she removed the treads. She’d removed her combat armor and left it lying in the loose grit around us.
“Most of everything’s fine, honestly,” she said. Her enormous biceps flexed and glistened in the desert sun. She chewed on a rawhide like a cheap cigar. Of the five of us, only Snafu qualified as a combat mechanic. Only she could fix our light tank and mend the plating after small arms fire. That made her our most essential crew member–the tank doctor.
“What was the grinding sound, then? The actuator? Serpentine?” I guessed. The others played cards in the dirt and drank warm beer, disinterested in the repair job.
Snafu pulled the right tread off of the tank like I pulled off a shirt–the tread had to be half of a ton alone.
“White, it’s just a freakin’ bolt that’s warped. I can work a little magic and have us up and rolling in minutes,” Snafu said. “Just keep your pants on about it.” She smiled, her teeth all thick canine teeth and her eyes serpentine and golden.
“You know, Snafu, the penalty for desertion is death?” I said. “Out here in the Wasteland, I don’t know if we’d even go to a tribunal or court. He might really just shoot us dead. Five mutants recruited from the middle of nowhere.”
“I’d rather get shot by Captain Jerrund than sit through court, anyway. Bite the bullet, if you will,” she said. “If he just shoots us, my parents won’t see this headline: ‘Deserting Mutants Executed on Sight, a Pillar Officer Keeps His Word.’ Then there’s just a picture of my body mangled and riddled full of lead.”
“Morbid, isn’t it?” I said.
“People don’t value human life on this planet. There’s too many of us, we’ve got clones, mutants, and aliens. Plus, consumption is in fashion and some of the geezers in the big city live forever. So…maybe we do value human life. Monetarily. If you don’t have the sum to cover your cost, you get eaten alive,” Snafu said.
She squatted low and pulled her giant monkey wrench out of the loose dirt. The powdery red grains soared into the air, uncovering her wrench’s polished silver. The wrench was longer than she was tall and probably more than my body weight. Snafu slung it over her shoulder with ease and began to adjust her spanner. Robot mechanics or a military grade automatic wrench was typically required to make the sorts of repairs that Snafu did, but she liked to show off too much.
She cranked the wrench patiently. The bolt, about the size of my chest cavity, dropped into the dust with a resounding thud. It looked like any old bolt, but almost a full foot in circumference. It was more of a boulder than a bolt, to me.
“It’s…warped?” I scoffed.
She grabbed a blowtorch and heated the massive bolt until it burned red hot. She beat it with her wrench repeatedly. I couldn’t see any visible difference between when the banging started and when it ended, but she smiled at the bolt and left it to cool off.
“Good as new?” I asked.
“With all those millimeter machining defects, White Flag, ‘fixed’ is always better than ‘new’,” she said. “Broken things need a little love and care, you know. Better than new.”
I couldn’t help but think she meant us mutants, not the bolt for the treads.
