by submission | Nov 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
Welcome, old friends and assorted strangers, to my first blog post since my somewhat unexpected and of course deeply tragic death. I would like to thank everyone who attended the elaborate and tasteful funeral.
I understand that it was a deeply moving service and my special thanks go to my best friend Woody for his exceptionally touching eulogy. He performed magnificently, given his state of inebriation (as I gathered from his Facebook postings) and I’m glad that my loving wife (whoops, widow – force of habit!) Sharon was on hand to console him afterwards.
Some of you may know that I met Sharon after she and Woody split up, many moons ago, and if I’m truthful I suspected that their romance was never quite one hundred percent over. No doubt the next few months will let us all see if my long-harboured suspicions were correct!
You may be somewhat surprised to see I’m still blogging after my distressingly fatal car accident (The brakes failed – seriously? Sounds like the plot from one of those naff Wednesday afternoon thrillers that Sharon so used to so enjoy!). Well, that is all courtesy of Immorta-Blog, the app that trawls your e-mail, social media, blog posts and other online information to continue your digital presence when your analogue self has departed for the hereafter. Isn’t technology wonderful!
To be honest I just signed up by accident when I was trying to download a dating app (the one for married men wanting to have an affair – ask my brother Paul for details, he’s a long-time subscriber and sent me the link) and was too lazy (a common criticism from my workplace performance reviews, it seems!) to delete it.
So, dear readers, you can look forward to future blog posts on topics relating to items of interest from my internet history, spoken in that unique voice culled from my social media and passed through an algorithm to make it sound chirpy and full of life – the exact opposite of my current state of being! These posts will highlight my interest in far-right hate groups and racist humour, my somewhat niche sexual preferences and my childlike fascination with amusing cat memes. Something for everybody there, I think!
So, as my immortal soul settles into its eternal residence (let’s face it, we all know where I’ve ended up. Clue – the thermostat is cranked up to hot!) I want to thank you for your continued support for the vanity project that is my blog.
Thank you too, to Immorta-Blog (clink on this link for subscription details, fifty per cent off your first three post-life postings!) for preserving my memory, ensuring that even after I’m gone, the best of me will live on and on and on!
by submission | Nov 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
I was on my way to Marvin’s to relax after a crappy day when opportunity reared its ugly head.
It had all started with my boyfriend telling me that “we weren’t working out” – but only after he’d stayed the night and let me make him breakfast, of course. Turned out he was dumping me so that he could share quarters with one of those slutty odalisques from the Ares Lounge’s famous Living Tableaux instead. Scumbag.
Then my shift manager had got on my case all afternoon about not having moved enough rubble this week. I told her, there’s a lot more iron in those rocks than we were told, and that means they’re harder for my boys and girls to break up, dammit, but no, apparently Mars is going to fall to pieces if the new shuttle pad isn’t cleared by yesterday, and it’s all my fault. Bitch, it’s never her getting her hands dirty.
So yeah, I needed a drink or five, some prettyboy holos to watch, and maybe some recreational sniffers if they weren’t too expensive this week – you know how prices always go up as the supply runs low, and TransCorp’s last delivery was a while back.
The roar and the bright light caught me on Gagarin Avenue, as I was walking past Central Hub’s tourist centre and trying to ignore its garish scrolling ads. I was unexpectedly airborne for a few seconds, and then everything went black.
When I woke up, I was here, in a ward full of strangers. It was tempting to play dumb; if I didn’t give a name, it would be longer before I had to deal with angry screens from my supervisor, or fake sympathy from my newly-Ex. Or anything else requiring actual thought, for that matter. But they’d just scan my iris and run it through Records, so in the end I figured the extra half hour wouldn’t be worth the effort.
A nurse who looked far too young to have qualified for an off-Earth posting told me that I’d been caught in a terrorist attack: the Arean League making a splash. Apparently they want a new start for the planet, by which they mean independence and something they call a “reset to harmony”. Sounds good, I could use one myself.
So here I am. The busted rib alone’s going to keep me out of my suit for a few weeks, and they say I’ll need physio before I can walk properly again. All for somebody else’s ideals. Guess I’m here for the duration. But at least I’ll be able to catch up on the soaps, and relax for a bit, with nobody on my case.
And in a few minutes, that handsome doctor’s due back, sympathetic and caring, with those deep blue eyes I could happily drown in. The girl in the next bed told me she knows his mother, and he’s still single because he was born a Martian, not a Terran. Most people don’t want a relationship that would have to end when they went back Earthside. Me, I always meant to be here for the long haul anyway, so if other people want to get hung up on stupid things like that, I’m happy to take advantage.
Somewhere in the background, hospital radio is playing, an old Industrial Era classic about love and how there’s got to be some good times ahead. Thanks Freddie, it feels right. Now to make it happen.
by submission | Nov 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Sara Lynn Burnett
It wasn’t until the plane began its corkscrew landing into Kabul that the marine sitting next to Anne spoke; he offered her a ginger candy to help with nausea.
Aside from the pilots they were the only two aboard, strapped into a windowless cargo hold along with Anne’s equipment: vertical seismometers, paper drums, sensitive metal springs, computers—each protected in foam within sand-colored impact crates.
“First time?” she asked while unwrapping the candy.
He said no.
They’d briefed her on the marine—that he was there for her safety, would be wearing a parachute built for two, that if a midflight bail was necessary, she was to do exactly what he said. They’d also briefed her on how dust storms reduced visibility to an arm’s length and that she was to wear her respirator outdoors.
Anne guessed the plane was in its third spiral. “What’s it like down there?”
“Nightmarish, but the food is good.”
“Canteen food?”
The marine nodded. “The chef is Pashtun—makes lamb kabobs and Bolani. There’s the occasional hamburger to remind us of home, but we all love the Middle Eastern stuff.”
Anne didn’t follow politics; science was above that, but no one linked to America could miss endless reports of fighters pushing north, the justification for billions spent, lives lost. She wished she had listened more, analyzed. Perhaps then she would have seen the fissures in each story, perhaps then she wouldn’t have been so shocked.
In an earthquake P-waves came first, vertical wiggles warning of what was to come. S-waves collapsed buildings.
P-wave: She agreed to go. Anne had assumed a seismologist was needed to detect insurgent movements from Kandahar— heavily armored vehicles produced earthquake-like waves, even from a distance.
S-wave: There were no insurgents, no jihad, no East vs. West. They were all fighting on the same side against the same thing: an otherworldly infestation deep within the Earth’s mantle, a millennia-old parasitic dormancy left behind by some ancient intergalactic species that for whatever reason, had awakened.
The ginger candy soured in Anne’s mouth. She thought of lost Wi-fi signals, tectonic shifts, her new security clearances, conspiracy theories. The plane hitched and shuddered in an updraft. The marine grew tense. “Have you seen one?” Anne asked.
“They have no eyes,” he said and closed his own. “Their skin isn’t skin, and they morph—grow and shrink, divide and converge like a murmuration.”
During her briefing Anne saw classified videos and found the creatures beautiful. The media lies, the Generals said, were because people needed an enemy they understood. Bad things required a clear cause, humans couldn’t grapple with horror that happened for no reason. The other had to contain enough of the self to be understood.
The plane’s engines roared as it landed, and Anne’s breath hitched when the marine locked her respirator helmet into place. “Good luck,” he said, his voice muffled and hurried behind a clear face shield.
They stood, guns aimed at the bay door, waiting for it to open.
by submission | Nov 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: James Kowalczyk
“I’ll get the head nurse on the late shift to translate and write it out for me,” Oscar said. Toby stopped playing with the ball of gauze he’d swiped from an orderly on the third floor, took a deep breath and shook his head.
“Not going to work. I tried that before. Not all humans speak cat. Turns out mammalian commonality is not enough. The person needs to be static free so they can vibe in and connect.”
Both cats sighed and continued their stroll to the geriatric ward. It was their favorite route, complete with smiles, petting and the pure happiness they spread by being there. The pediatric ward was a close second. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Oscar had witnessed what he believed was a crime. Oscar shared everything with Toby right after it happened.
He’d been hanging out in room thirty-five on the cardiac ward that night. It was not the usual night nurse doing rounds. She had such negativity about her that it gave Oscar a headache when she walked into the room. When she took the syringe out of her pocket, the sinister glance she shot Oscar was undeniable. Oscar felt powerless and scared, but stayed. When the nurse left, he noticed that the liquid in the IV bag changed color. The next day, when Oscar woke up, the patient was gone.
Now he needed to connect and solve the crime-but how?
“Hey Toby, the woman in room forty-eight, you think she understands Feline?”
“She seems to. I mean, it’s worth a try. Whenever I’m in there I definitely get the vibe and connection. And not just through food.”
That night Oscar visited the patient in room forty-eight. He jumped up on the bed while she slept. He positioned himself so that he could gently press his forehead against hers and then fell asleep.
In the morning, the detectives were questioning the night nurse. She gave Oscar the same sinister look as he walked by her. He went to find Toby and tell him the news. He was probably already on the geriatric ward. Oscar smiled. All was right with the world.
by submission | Nov 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The guild meant trade and the guild traded in corruption. It was such a corporeal term: corruption. Bots experienced corrosion. Breathers experienced corruption. Entropy always had its way.
SevenTen was in a thick crowd of breathers. That was Cheapside: buyers, sellers, gawkers, thieves. The guild held it together and squeezed everyone for their due. Even SevenTen.
Bots were supposed to be exempt. A utility. Conveyance infrastructure. It was like that on most of the planet, but a place like Cheapside, a guild stronghold, was always a different story.
A story that SevenTen was trying to explain to the breather it was escorting. “Cheapside is different. There are fees for everything. Even me.”
“But that’s not how it is supposed to be,” the young breather complained. “We must report it. I will not be extorted.”
“It is the Cheapside way. It is the guild’s way.”
“It is not my way. The civilized way.”
“We can go elsewhere to complete your shopping,” SevenTen offered.
“Cheapside has the finest jewelry in the Outlet Quadrant. I want to shop here. And I’m not going to be cheated.”
There was little SevenTen could do but let the breathers play this out. Costs would be argued, yet the ultimate price was always the same in Cheapside.
To the cavernous forum SevenTen guided the young breather who then stomped inside and unleashed a tirade on the guild envoy standing at the service kiosk. SevenTen waited in the guild’s expansive foyer knowing the longer the breather argued, the higher the ultimate price would be.
Unmoving, the envoy listened and SevenTen wondered. Why did breathers seem to enjoy shopping? Haggling? Arguing? Why did they value price so much and why did they put such a price on value?
The young breather was growing more animated as the guild envoy grew more still. Not a good sign, SevenTen recognized. It did have a duty to the young breather, though, in Cheapside, guild protocols blocked most of its options.
SevenTen approached the kiosk and announced, “Thank you for your time, envoy, I will escort my charge out of Cheapside now.”
The young breather fumed. “You will do no such thing. I have rights. I am not leaving until they are satisfied. I will not be treated so…so…cheaply!”
The envoy’s movement was swift, leveling the sleek weapon between the young breather’s eyes. “You’ll be leaving your credits with me to sweeten the aftertaste of your bitter complaints. And then you can walk out. Live to breathe another day. Quite the bargain. Best one-time deal you’ll ever get for questioning the guild’s policies.”
The weapon unmoving, SevenTen helped the stunned breather transfer the credits. Then quickly escorted the barely-breathing breather out of the forum and rapidly out of Cheapside.
The day, the tale, all too familiar to SevenTen, a bot with no rights but many insights. Maybe, someday, the young breather would gain wisdom through the lesson of Cheapside: Privilege offers no protection when corruption cheapens all life.
