by submission | Jun 11, 2022 | Story |
Author: Fatemah Albader
The only certainty in life is that it will eventually come to an end.
But what if there was a way to know exactly, with 100-percent certainty, when your life will end? Would you want to know?
If you said yes, I’d rethink that if I were you.
Consider Pete. He was one of the first to go through The Program. He got his death date three years ago when it was still in beta testing. Back then, you wouldn’t know the exact date, just the day of the week. Pete got Wednesday. Every week, he follows the same routine. He arrives at Mercy Hospital on Tuesday evening, and, by early morning on Thursday, he checks himself out. I wondered if that was Pete’s way of cheating death. Then again, Pete didn’t know how he’d die, just when. Yet, being at the hospital on Wednesdays seemed to bring Pete some comfort, at least that’s what it looked like to me.
And the problem is, once you go through The Program, you cannot go through it again. Even though it has changed drastically since it first began, Pete’s stuck with knowing that his death date will fall on a Wednesday, and never the exact day.
Then there’s Emily. She won the lottery and got her death date six months ago, back when going through The Program was still a choice. Ever since, she’s been too afraid to leave her home. She was told that her death date would take place between 40 and 45. She’s 43 now.
And one mustn’t forget about Leah. She didn’t want her newborn to go through The Program. But they came for him about a month ago, on the day that he was born, now that it’s the law. It’s considered necessary for the efficient use of each person and his role in society. Her kid Noah was given a death date of seven years from now. Deemed untrainable, he was taken from Leah and sent to live out the rest of his days in The Group Home for Untrainables.
As for me, I have no qualms of retaliation from The Program for writing this short. My death date is tomorrow.
And sooner or later, you’re next. And when death calls, you’ll have no choice but to answer.
by submission | Jun 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rosie Oliver
An idealised woman never existed. She is an imagined blend of traits in a single glorious perfection, a beautiful Frankenstein of personalities. Not one considered as part of the crowd or an asset to be used or abused by another, but a woman who stands out for her learning, physique, skills and above all, bravery in the face of threats and worse.
She has a virtue for every occasion. There is the courage of Saint Catherine who faced the might of Rome to stay true to her faith. Here is practicality of Saint Dorothea who fled with nothing but the clothes on her back from a brutal marriage. Over there is the independent-thinking Hypatia, martyred because she dared to speak the truth to rulers. All these lived and died in ancient Alexandria. Think what a melding of these women could have done for ancient civilisation.
We want someone like this now to stop the worldwide eco-destabilisation, supply failures and fear-engendered riots. Who would have thought this could happen in 3,222 when we control so much? We even have designer genes to fit us into our environment no matter where we are in our Solar System. Maybe we have made our souls too simplistic. Who knows?
The expanse of our history produced so few who come anywhere close to the nurturing leader we need. One such is Artemisia Gentileschi. Her self-portrait as Saint Catherine shows signs of her vitality, common sense and empathy. She faced her own ordeals, but put the horror of her rape and consequent trial with its torture by thumbscrews behind her. As a prolific court painter, her art demonstrated verve and energy. A loophole in the law of the day let her paint live model nudes when men could not, giving her portraits the cultural edge. She understood Galileo’s discoveries in science and maths well enough to include his results in her pictures like ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’.
We need an inspiring leader to plan, explain what needs to be done and do so in a nuanced way to satisfy all politicians. Artemisia with her progressive depiction, delicate shading and perspective promises much for this profile. She is a good a starting point.
I did my best to reconstruct her genome using the DNA of distant relatives. There were gaps, some blank, others with choices. Her history helped me estimate how environmental factors would shape her gene expression. Known leadership genes plugged many gaps and I edited out her weaknesses, a lot were shrewd guesses.
We inserted this genome into a ‘blank’ clone. The result looks viable and so like her. Her pale skin has touches of pink where the blood flows near its surface. Her arched eyebrows and short fuzz of hair are brown. Her long fingers are developed for delicate work. She is ready to come out of her induced coma and lead us away from insanity.
I, a woman, give the order to waken Artemisia’s ghost, more like her shadow made into a superlative leader.
by submission | Jun 9, 2022 | Story |
Author: Maryfaith Ocampo
I authorize the usage, study, and replication of my gametic cells.
I grant the genetic clinics permission to edit my Genetically Modified Human (GMH) as they deem fit. I understand that there are unknown risks of experimentation with newer sequences and synthesized proteins.
I confirm that the financial information I provided is correct. The genetic clinics are not responsible for money lost after transferring is complete (please allow 3 to 5 business days for this transaction).
Due to the extreme changes in the environment, I understand that scientists will prioritize survival over aesthetics. These traits may include, but are not limited to, the production of toxic substances, intolerance to certain temperatures, and vulnerability to certain food. If I cannot provide care that meets these demands, I will return my GMH to the nearest gene clinic.
If I am in immediate danger due to my GMH’s genetic modifications, I am obligated to trigger “Total Apoptosis” with the fob provided. I understand that this will permanently scramble the modified sequences of my GMH and cause the cells responsible for the expression of genetically modified traits to self-destruct. Possible side effects of “Total Apoptosis” include, but are not limited to, increased vulnerability to environmental changes (extreme temperature, acidity, air quality, etc.) and death. If I do not trigger “Total Apoptosis” I risk endangering myself and those around me.
The genetic clinics who created my GMH are not responsible for destruction of property or loss of human life caused by it.
by submission | Jun 8, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Meds failed Jeremy Paloo, leaving him restless, sweating under the ship’s ventilation over his bunk. Newbie deep space fever—no crime struggling with it during maiden voyages outside the solar system, but embarrassing for executive officers. He felt something crawling, inching over his fevered chest in the cabin darkness. Jeremy scrambled, terrified, calling out for lights, then springing off his soaked mattress.
“What the hell!” he swore, watching a tiny, indistinct iridescent bug skittle across the floor, then disappear through the solid metal hull. “I can’t take this anymore. Hallucinations—can’t have them on duty. Melissa,” he commanded the monitor system, “Is Clemson up? I need her in my quarters.”
A soft, gentle voice replied, “Yes, Lieutenant. Would you like me to request her visit now?”
“Yes, and tell her it’s urgent.”
Paloo splashed water over his sweltering face while awaiting the arrival of the ship’s doctor. He noticed small itchy red spots on his chest. No imagination there. Probably a med side effect rash.
His doorway request bell rang. “Enter,” Paloo yelled, catching his overreaction too late.
Clemson’s petite blond figure left a black outline against the hall lighting as she moved cautiously inside. “Still no luck on the sleep, Jeremy?”
“None, Doc, and worse. Now the crazies got me. Bad enough with fever and sweats, but now I’m seeing creepy crawlies. I’ve got drug rashes on my chest. See, look.”
“Sit down over here for a sec.” She pointed for them to move to his visitor seating area. Clemson pressed on the red dots and shook her head slightly. “Time has come to brief you, Jeremy. We aren’t supposed to until necessary. You’ve got a case of the iddy-biddies.”
Jeremy had no mood for jokes, giving the middle-aged woman a hard stare. “I’d didn’t call for humor in the middle of my sleep shift. I’ve got to perform the next shift. I’m a wreck. I’m seeing…”
“The tiny life form that goes through walls, right?”
Paloo sat upright, wide-eyed. “Don’t even tell me that thing was…no way.”
She touched his shoulder lightly. “It’s a top-secret that only those on interstellar flights know about. It’s forbidden to tell anyone but the crew. Wonder how we won the war against those bastards from Orion?”
“What’s that got to do with my…am I going nuts?”
“No, Lieutenant. The children onboard our early deep space missions were the first contacts. Parents thought they were having invisible friend issues until little red spots appeared occasionally…not enough blood loss to cause harm, but irritating without treatment gel. Here, rub this on those marks. The children called them iddy-biddies. It stuck. We adapted to them.”
“Now who needs medication, Doc?”
She chuckled. “We beat the Orions because of advanced heat-shield modifications offered by the alien council for our early explorations. We knew it was something our allies collected in the sun’s chromospheres, but we didn’t know it was alive. Their technology wove these small beings into hull shielding so we could survive incredible temperatures and magnetic anomalies of deep space. That’s how our fighters survived Orion weapons. These sun spirits reverted enemy plasma blasts, sending them directly back at attackers. We had no idea. We kept it under wraps, never giving the iddy-biddies credit.”
“Are you expecting me to believe we’re letting miniature vampires live off our crew for our ship’s protection?”
“Yes. They’re drawn to heat…especially fever and children’s high metabolism when we’re in cold space.”
“I’ll be damned. What next?”
“Well, you’re cured. No more space sickness. Their bites treat it. Consider it a blessing.”
by submission | Jun 7, 2022 | Story |
Author: Fatemah Albader
“When you install a family of your own, you’ll understand,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced she ever would truly understand. She’s 30, successful, wonderful life, but still acts out like a child, even though we took her back to the adoption agency for her adult update decades ago. You’d think she’d get it by now.
“I need to leave this prison,” she yelled back. This prison is where we practically do everything for her. The robo-maids clean her room. The self-driving car drives her around. She pays no bills. She lives in her high castle on the 233rd floor, all on her own. She just sits there and recharges, day after day, while everything gets done for her. This prison is five-star living. This prison is home.
“Maybe I will just permanently shut down,” she continued. There she goes with the theatrics. We should have put her in acting when she was an infant. We tried. They said she had the looks, but not the humanity. Though, she’d cry out all the time.
“And how would that reflect in the news?” I asked, sarcastically. “Rich robot-heiress kills herself because her creator asked her how many gigabytes she spends on manufactured dreams.” She insists we’re prying, but really, we’re just making conversation. She barely sits with us. We try to show interest, but when we do, she plasters us with labels like “helicopter mom” or “grinchy dad.” Perhaps we installed her with too much independence.
“You know how you’re always afraid to let Graffiti out of your sight, it’s the same thing for us,” I said, trying to reason with her unreasonable, already made-up mind.
“That’s different. Graffiti is a cat,” she said. “He’s a forever baby.”
“Well, it’s the same for us,” I tried again. “You’re our forever baby.”
Literally.
That’s what the adoption agency said. “Forever babies now available for sale. Won’t grow up unless you choose to update.” I wish we never did.
