Mississauga

Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks

I live in Mississauga, a city that builds dozens of downtown towers every year, the finest towers in the world. Each morning, I watch cranes move like long legged birds along the pond of the horizon. They bow and raise their heads, plucking at things which they lift toward the heavens in a stacking formation. The cranes also like to fasten things together. They cross a soundless, formless space. I find their avian ballet dazzling.

I live in an older tower that is not downtown. It is short and squat compared to what now goes up. If we still had a concept of history, people might say my building and those around it are historic. But my tower is an embarrassment. It is fat and slouches while the new ones are rail thin with perfect posture. Every new tower, so long as it remains new, throws a message across the night sky: ‘I am the thinnest building in the world! If you live inside me, you will become thin, too!’

This message is for people like me, who live far enough away from downtown that we can actually see it suspended above the sky like a rain cloud.

These new towers really are a marvel. On each floor, they sport condos that are mere 200 square feet in total surface area. The height of their ceilings is but six feet, which allows a two-thousand-footer to boast over three hundred floors.

My neighbors complain all the time that our tower is an abomination. Why would anyone need 450 square feet, and how to justify seven-foot ceilings? I tell them that I have been inside the new towers, more than ten of them, and I insist that our appliances are superior, our rooms more commodious and better furnished. But they do not believe me. In Mississauga, what is not new is old no matter how new it was. If it is not the newest, it cannot be new.

A few months ago, the builders dynamited our city park which used to sit smack in the middle of downtown. The park was filled with oaks that remained green year-round. They were ancient trees, some with trunks fifteen feet around. But what I liked best about them was how they dripped with webbed, wispy moss. Every time a slight breeze shook the park, the trees looked like a woman shaking out her hair.

The explosion came early in the morning. When I heard it, I rushed to my balcony in time to see trunks shoot up into the sky like rockets. Splinters of wood rained down over the city, and part of a branch landed on my porch. To my relish, it had intact leaves, and a slight piece of moss. I lacquered it for display over my couch so cocktail guests would take notice. So far, no one has while our former park has become a canyon filled with land moving equipment. I think our city’s motto should be, ‘What you want today you will scorn tomorrow.’

I recall that park in spite of myself. It was kept alive by a fleet of drones that made rain showers each dawn, dusk and, when it was especially hot, in the late afternoon. I used to watch the rain drones make their daily deluge. The sound of the rain’s swish had the power to cool me off. And since water can only be purchased in our city, no one was permitted anywhere near the park during rain time. I was fined when a single drop landed on my arm as I stood, beyond the cordons, more than 100 yards away from the park boundary. That one drop cost me 100 dollars.

But what I remember best is the feeling I got from those trees when their moss touched my face. I had a woman once who caressed me like moss. She’d come to visit and spend hours running her fingertips along my forehead, temples, cheeks, nose, around my lips, and along my jaw. She would not touch me anywhere else, and her fingers stirred my skin like a breeze. After she moved downtown, I never saw her again.

In the downtown, every resident lives behind a series of screens tuned to one of six channels. You can pick a forest, a shore, a desert, a garden, a mountain top, or a game park. No buildings allow natural light or the outside landscape to filter in, so when you live in downtown Mississauga, you never see Mississauga. I struggle to think of my city as an actual place since most people talk only of where they live and where they should be living. And if someone lives where they should be living, they talk of nothing at all, they merely wait, anticipating what comes next.

I miss being touched. I run my fingertips over my face but do not get the same results. I have thought of moving downtown, too, but I doubt I will encounter that woman. After all, there are so many buildings now and who is to say she has not found other faces? Which is why I regret lacquering the moss on the dead oak branch.

What if I had hung it in my shower to keep it growing? I could have gone to it each day and tickled my skin with its webs. But it is too late for that.

Artificial Gravity

Author: TJ Gadd

Anna stared at where the panel had been. Joshua was right; either The Saviour had never left Earth, or Anna had broken into a vault full of sand.
She carefully replaced the panel, resetting every rivet. Her long red hair hid her pretty face.
When astronomers first identified a comet heading towards Earth, national alarms were raised. Governments tried to work out how best to save the human race, and, unsurprisingly, none of them could agree on anything. It wasn’t until Ben Jamerson, oh he of QuestX and ClickCart fame, put together a plan. Most of it were ways to lessen the impact, but his primary strategy was to protect all the world’s best thinkers. He devised a list of people needed for a mission to send humans off Earth: biologists, engineers, scientists, doctors, agricultural experts, etc. All these specialists would board The Saviour and depart Earth until it was habitable again.
Everyone thought this idea was dubious; of course, Ben Jamerson would just invite all his rich buddies. But everyone was proven wrong; the billionaire graciously said he was a businessman and wouldn’t be useful to the next generation and declined to join. He would stay home with his family (he had nine children by four ex-wives) and wait out the end of life as he knew it.
Anna’s childhood friend, Steven, had always been “wick’d sm-art,” and consistently excelled in every academic endeavor he put his mind to. Unsurprisingly, he was on Ben Jamerson’s list.
“Of course, you should go – the next generation will need thinkers like you!” his family said, knowing they would never see him again.
But Steve didn’t want to go alone.
He arrived at Anna’s apartment with a bouquet and a ring. At first, she had refused – she had never loved him that way. And he said that maybe she could learn; after all, she probably would never get the chance to love anyone else if she stayed on Earth. She relented, and they were married the following week. And the day after, they accepted Ben Jameron’s invitation.
Anna tried to wiggle the panel, but it was sealed firmly.
Joshua watched her from the hatch entrance. Considering.
“Now what?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Why do this at all?” she waved her arms at the ship.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Joshua looked at her, head to the side. Anna hated when everyone assumed she wasn’t smart because she was a “plus one.” And she hated it even more when they were proven right.
“Think about every emergency on the ship,” Joshua paused. “Out of every single one of them, a piece of tech is improved or invented. None of that would be possible in the real world.”
Anna looked at the floor, then at her watch, “I’ve got to get back.”
“The old ball and chain?” There was some spite in the way Joshua said those words.
“I don’t want him getting suspicious about us.” She looked down.
“I get it.” He was also a plus one, although a far more useful plus one than her.
“I’m going to show Steven this tomorrow,” Anna pointed at the replaced panel.
“Don’t.”
“He is my husband – I owe him that much.”
“Anna… Steven is in charge of the artificial gravity engine – He already knows.”
Her heart went cold.

Disinformation Failure

Author: David C. Nutt

The uniformed Da’Ri officer saw me enter the bar and nearly ran to me. He was at my booth before I had a chance to settle in and was talking at light speed before the first round hit the table. Things did not go well for the Da’Ri today. As an observer for my people, it was with mixed feelings I watched the humiliating unconditional surrender of the Da’Ri empire to the Human Confederation. Still, I was looking forward to some quiet time at the bar. Ah, the grinding life of a diplomat!
“Mr. Ambassador I formally request asylum in the Zrall Republic.”
That was a shocker. Other than a Da’Ri functionary (a military attaché I believe) I had no idea who he was. Before I could make any further inquiry he seized the conversation.
“I am, was, a junior officer in the military intelligence division.”
I nodded and motioned for him to continue.
“About two cycles ago my boss said the humans were getting close in boosting warp drive efficiency and we needed to distract their scientific efforts. He threw a dozen certifiably insane theories and proposals on the table culled from our Ministry of Science trash bin. None of it classified, most of it insane and ridiculous rantings. Some even circulated amongst the scientific community as jokes.” He paused. I motioned for the barkeep to bring my new companion a drink. I was intrigued, it was at least worth a drink. “Please continue.” I said mustering all the sympathy and concern I could.
He sighed. “The plan was to float this nonsense as “secrets” through our agents. Our plan worked. Money, personnel, and facilities were being re-directed into all the pseudo-science double speak. Blither-blather our own intelligence service let the humans ‘capture’.” The aid was looking around. He leaned in. “The plan was working so well we began to make headway in the war. Resources were already stretched tight for the humans and we were now grinding them down. Our comrades in the war plans department told us the humans would fall in less than a third of a cycle.”
I motioned for another drink to be sent. He went on.
“Two days later the Human armies materialized on our home world and every strategic world and colony. No warp signature, no fleet, no drop ships- just their armies and they materialized everywhere including inside our high security zones.”
I nodded. Space folding. What any race would give to understand that technology.
“And how they were equipped! Personal shields for every soldier! Filters that made our bio weapons harmless. Psionic force fields that enabled their adepts to toss about divisions, actual divisions, like toys being swept from a table!”
I nodded again. All this was known. It was a reversal that would go down in galactic history second only to rise of the humans as the undisputed super power of our galaxy. Their new technology made all our advanced sciences seem quaint at best.
My nameless Da’Ri attaché reached across the table and grabbed my lapels. “Don’t you get it? Their super weapons, their break throughs, their godlike powers! It was all our disinformation…the ravings of lunatics and mad men. They made it work! But the most terrifying thing is there’s more they haven’t perfected yet!
I granted his asylum request right then and there and got him off planet as soon as possible. This attaché might not have any detailed plans, but he might remember just enough for us to capitalize on what the humans will bring forth next.

Bee’s Knees

Author: W.F. Peate

A child’s doll sat in the deserted street pockmarked with missile craters. Little orphan Tara tugged away from our hands and reached for the doll.
“Booby trap,” shouted a military man. Quick as a cobra he pushed me, Tara and my grandfather behind him so he could take the force of the blast.
The bomb-doll burned a blinding red then fizzled. A dud.
“You would have given your life to save us?”
Military Man stuck out his hand. “I’m Colonel John Carter. I’m looking for the Honey Bee Museum for help. A swarm of bees took over our vehicle. My soldiers are fearless, but no one will come near a bee.”
“My granddaughter Dejah and I converted the museum into a shelter for war refugees who have been made homeless by this horrible invasion.”
Tara ran inside the museum where women and men shouldered bundles. Their eyes were dazed and minds in shatters from the ruin and struggle. Deafened half paralyzed wounded were bandaged like mummies.
Carter led us to his olive drab vehicle which had a buzzing black beard of bees.
Gramps danced a bee-waggle and the bees rumbled away like dump trucks.
Carter did a double take, “You talk to bees and they follow directions?”
Gramps explained, “Karl von Frisch got the Nobel prize for translating bee talk, the waggle dance, that bees used to communicate. My granddaughter Dejah and I trained bees to listen to humans doing the waggle dance. Just like sheepherders trained dogs to herd sheep by following human whistling.”
I said, “I used AI to record bee communication. Gramps and I created a Bee-to-English Dictionary using a time share on the college’s quantum computer.”
“I thought bees were dumb bugs.”
Gramps snorted. “One bee brain is the size of a grain of sand, but honeybees live in a super-organism. Their brains together make them sentient geniuses. Bees use consensus to choose a new home or get rid of bad queens.”
Carter held up his smart phone. “A smart bee?”
Gramps laughed. “We’re changing the future so bees and humans work more closely just like bees and flowers collaborate.”
“We’re spending billions. Losing thousands of soldiers,” said Carter with a grim tone. “I need a flying assassin to kill Sledgehammer, the dictator that caused this war. A weapon that can’t be discovered by metal detector or radar.”
“Bees,” Gramps and I said in unison.
We agreed to work with Carter. I clicked on an image of Sledgehammer on a computer screen I’d installed at the hive entrance.
The bees buzzed at him like mini-jack hammers. “Bees recognize human faces. I’ve used sugar water to train them to recognize Sledgehammer as an intruder. Bees kill intruders by making a bee-ball around the intruders nostrils and mouth that cuts off oxygen.”
The next day Carter got me a second floor hotel room above the parade for Sledgehammer and world leaders who were attending a summit meeting.
I released the bees. They flew inside Sledgehammer’s sleek black limousine. The limo swerved and crashed.
The next morning Carter pounded on my door. “Read this. ‘After the first death, three more world leaders died at the summit.’” His voice rose. “This one says ‘Autopsy shows dead bees in windpipe of the prime minister.’”
“Isn’t the prime minister a wife beater?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Who were the other two who died?”
“Evil dictators who should be in prison.”
The bees were getting rid of bad queens — bad humans. Bees were improving humans. And I thought we were improving them.

YRMAD

Author: Majoki

“You’re mad!”

The humming stopped. “Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.”

“You’re mad.”

“Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.” The humming returned.

Major Biers turned to his non-com. “Corporal, can we have this thing shot?”

Corporal Khopar frowned. “On what charge, sir?”

“Gross disobedience. Gross negligence. Gross anything, everything. It’s beyond gross. Beyond disgusting.” Major Briers kicked at the innards which festooned brightly from YRMAD’s shredded core, pooling at his feet.

“Sir, respectfully, I don’t think we can charge a soldier for bleeding.”

“Is this thing really a soldier, Corporal? Look at it. It’s creepy beyond belief. Can’t you see that?”

Images from the operation that morning flooded Corporal Khopar’s mind: a sparse and rocky hillside, a make-shift bunker above the shantytown, civilians fleeing down the steep ravine, fighters dug in above, a denuded slope that offered little cover, a blazing sun that promised no mercy.

The scene set for the banal acronyms of battle: RPG, HEIAP, ABM, IED, SPM, EFP, UAV, GPMG, SAW, LRAR. The secret alphabet of carnage. But then an unfamiliar vehicle arrived. YRMAD stepped out. An untested acronym, creating an uncanny valley of suspicion and skepticism among the officers. But there were orders. And those orders were set to establish a new order: YRMAD.

Not until the violence of the day was over did anyone hear a sound from YRMAD other than its precisely calculated gunfire as it strategically advanced up the hillside. Only after routing the enemy, only after noticing that it was losing its innards, YRMAD had begun to quietly hum.

Major Biers had not liked that. Especially what it was humming: Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you.

The scene had deeply affected Corporal Khopar, and he couldn’t begin to explain to his commanding officer why he felt so protective of this strange wounded creature who had fought bravely and skillfully with his unit. So, he offered the bare minimum. “YRMAD did its duty, sir. Charged and dislodged the combatants’ position under heavy fire. Definitely saved our outfit some grief.”

Major Biers had no answer. Knew there was no answer. “Dismissed.” He turned and walked away, shaking his fist up at some imagined heavenly HQ. “Insanity. Bio-mech warfare. All of you are mad, mad, mad.”

The humming stopped. “Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.”

Corporal Khopar smiled. “Yes, you are. Let’s get you cleaned up, soldier.”