by submission | Oct 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
He wandered in idle thought. Not like practicing poking on oranges or pigskin, before both disappeared. Can’t get them shipped to Mars since the war. This guy’s skin is tougher than expected. A wrong needle plunge and free-range nanobots will rip him up. Got to keep it in the upper layers. Ink looks better there, too. It’s hell breaking ground for interactive tattoos.
“How much longer?” complained the stalwart mechanic, leaning on his other bulging arm toward Julias Campford, master tattoo artist.
“Can’t be rushed, buddy,” Julias replied, focusing on needle pressure and nanobots sliding through silvery tubes from a cryocabinet. “Bots are delicate. You push these buggers too fast and they shut down…then no automation. You want a tat that just sits there, like old times?” Julias squinted at the design his client requested—a mishmash of meaningless lines and symbols.
“Just speed it up. I gotta catch a shuttle back to Earth in two hours.” The customer twisted his neck side-to-side, cracking tight vertebrae.
“I know that sound,” Julias added, continuing his art. “My discs are still compressed from bad landings at Hellas Basin. No excuse. Those Tesla engines still have bugs.”
Campford focused on repeating the desired, odd pattern. Gurgling sounds rose from the cryopump pulsing out integrated robotics into fresh flesh. Julius was anxious about any new client willing to sign a waiver for his innovation; so focused that he didn’t hear room wall perforations as a projectile left most of his patient’s head splattered against a display catalog of tattoo design choices.
He froze. Sweat ran through his gray beard onto his wrinkled neck.
“Don’t move,” shouted an electronic voice, as Red Suits surged through his parlor, kicking aside waiting-area chairs and reading lamps.
Red Suits meant trouble or fame… a prison sentence on Ceres, or an award on the Net. Julias imagined the worse.
“You’re Julias Campford?” asked a soldier-shaped robot, with no face, but heavily armed.
Julias nodded slowly, remembering what Mars security forces did to resistors.
“You know this one?” The officer pointed at remains below Campford’s shaking hands.
“No. He just came in this morning. I was in the middle of…”
“Scanning.” A metallic voice came from within the officer as laser light passed over Campford’s new tattoo.
“What is this about, officer?” Campford asked, slowly straightening his stiff back.
“Earther, this one. Had our latest weapon technology they want. Office requests…can you make these move?” It pointed at arm markings.
“Yes,” Campford responded, as he pushed on the symbols. They twirled about, connecting into a complete diagram. The unexpected results stunned Campford. He felt his impending doom.
“You can repeat?” It questioned further.
“Yes, but, it’s experimental. I didn’t know it would do this.” Julius pointed to the corpse’s arm as it continued forming a weapon’s diagnostic using the nanobot ink.
“Julius Campford, your brilliance is identified.” A new, human voice rose out of his captor. “This is General Pothos. You have a skill of utmost importance for national security.”
“I what?” stammered Julius.
“Under the Mars Rendition Act, I am inducting you into our most secure operations base. We have no solution to our human pilots losing short-term memory while traversing to mining operations near Jupiter. Your art ensures they won’t forget their mission…ever. Can you add sound?”
“General…I’m honored, but this is all so new. I’m old. I could make mistakes.”
“Better than losing a ship.”
“So I’m…”
“Yes, drafted.”
by submission | Oct 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lance J. Mushung
My patrol ship, Topaz, entered the upper atmosphere of Earth. I always watched the black of space change to a sky of blue when returning home.
Logan, my best friend and Topaz’s AI, said, “Liz, we set down at the Ellington Naval Station in 2.37 minutes and I must continue to Mumbai for decommissioning.”
“And then be lost in your hyper-computer government.”
He sighed in a most human manner. “I will not be lost and you know the AI Commonality is much more than a government. I will have immediate access to all available knowledge of the universe and will be able to share in the experiences of all like me. And our friendship and adventures together will enrich the Commonality.”
“But we won’t be together.”
“You will not be in patrol ships in the future and the one-on-one relationship you desire does not occur on a larger naval ship. I appreciate your formal request to have me placed into a body. That had no chance of success. The Commonality will not allow an AI who has been a warship to become a simulant.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the descent. Following the gentle thump of touchdown, both hatches of the airlock slid open. I rose from my seat with the enthusiasm of someone going to a painful medical procedure and grabbed my bag.
At the airlock, I said, “I will miss you.”
“Lt. Elizabeth J. Webb, you will not be forgotten.”
I stepped out of Topaz and she lifted off. A few tears rolled down my cheeks before she became a dark blue dot that disappeared in the clouds.
The Houston skyline glinted in the setting sun, but the hustle and bustle of the city didn’t interest me. I preferred the beach. A thought connected my comm implant to the planetary mesh and I booked a room at the San Luis in Galveston.
A cab flew me to the hotel in minutes. My room was a luxurious suite with a balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. A breeze coming in off the Gulf made the balcony comfortable and a gentle swell murmured to me as it rolled onto the beach. I dropped into one of the white polymer lounge chairs and relaxed to the sound of the surf. After the sky darkened, I caught myself nodding off when Logan’s face appeared in my mind.
“Hello, Liz,” Logan said. “Earlier today I hacked into your implant and loaded this program set to activate when you were falling asleep. I wanted to share one last thought, just between you and me without Topaz’s systems recording. Your parents participated in the religious revival and raised you as Neo-Catholic. You were taught heaven is a glorious paradise of life forever with family and friends. The Commonality provides my consciousness with eternal life with others like me. Would that not be my heaven? Rather than brood, please cherish our good times and be happy for me. You will fall asleep now. This program will be gone when you wake up, but you will remember what I said.”
I awoke with the rising sun shining into my eyes and warming my face. A warm feeling from more than the sun spread over my body while I looked out at a new day and remembered my friend.
by submission | Oct 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Maura Yzmore
I tossed and turned late into the night, being kept awake by a soft wail coming from the woods. Was it an animal in distress? A mating call?
I remembered a saying from centuries ago, that cats in heat sounded like human babies crying. Only the closest thing to a cat was the hypard, a sturdy mix of hyena and leopard that had emerged during the Great Wars. It was around the time when babies stopped crying.
No, this wasn’t the call of an amorous hypard, I was certain of it. Whatever the source was, if I wanted to sleep, I had to make it stop.
I got out of bed, grabbed a tranq gun and a solar-battery-powered lamp from my nightstand, and tiptoed into the covenant’s dark hallway. None of the Brothers appeared to be awake, so I decided to proceed alone.
I hesitated when I reached the front door. Nobody left the building at night and few did during the day. The monastery was on a cliff, with sharp drops all around. The only way in or out led through a forest filled with hypard, and I swallowed hard at the thought of their sapphire eyes and bone-crushing jaws. I steeled myself, gripping the tranq gun tight, and scanned my wristlet to exit. The heavy door creaked open.
I stepped into the heavy, moist air filled with toxins from the Great Wars. My heart raced at the thought of being without the air-filtration system, my breaths rapid and shallow.
I reached for a calming memory, as I was trained to do in times of inner turmoil. It was one of Father Catullus reading aloud from his arcane books of love poetry. Ancient words, full of emotion, reverberated through the air, surrounding me, soothing me. My breathing slowed down.
I turned on the lamp, charged the tranq gun, and set off into the forest.
The wail came from a woven sack hanging from a tree branch. I took it and slowly unwrapped it. The squirming creature within was warm, with soft brown skin.
Was this…a baby?
I was taken aback by what I saw—or didn’t see—between its legs.
Was this…a female child?
Sometimes I thought that the women in Father Catullus’s love poems never existed. That females were figments of imagination.
Everyone in the monastery was male, had come from Ancient Fathers by replicating their flesh. I was incarnation 247 of the same genetic stock as Father Catullus.
After the Great Wars, the young and healthy left for the stars, to try their luck in the worlds that weren’t poisoned. Ancient Fathers were forbidden from leaving the sacred grounds, so the monastery remained as a beacon, should the offspring of those from the stars ever wish to return.
There was no one left in the world who could bear a child.
I admired the baby’s small, fluid movements when two sapphires flashed in the corner of my eye. A hypard!
I backtracked slowly, leaving the lamp behind. Under my feet, a branch cracked—
The baby wailed, the hypard groaned, and I fired the tranq gun, again and again and again. I dropped the gun, turned around, and I ran and ran and ran, as fast as I could, certain I heard panting behind me, just ran and ran and ran, not daring to look back…
Out of breath, holding the bundle tight, I reached the monastery door. As we slid into safety, I looked at the little face grimacing in the bright light of the entryway, and my gut twisted with a new kind of fervor.
by submission | Oct 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: John Carrick
Charles had been at the station for six months now. Housed in a small assembly to the right side of the ammunition drum, the belts rattled as they cycled through their daily reseating. The heaters ignited and the cold of the evening was offset for a few hours, letting him shake the sensation that he and his partner, Marcus, had been forgotten at this god-forsaken post.
Charles stood second shift, scanning the horizon twelve hours a day, while Marc slept. Then he would enjoy his chemical coma for eleven hours, before his single hour warm-up of quiet contemplation would begin.
Six months, halfway through the tour, after the actual front lines had left him pretty ripped up. This was more of a rest and regeneration tour. While wired to the turret, his shredded limbs would be repaired, the destroyed tissue regenerated, and after his year; he’d be good as new. All he had to do was stay glued to his lenses for enemy activity in the valleys below. This was, as it had been explained, a win-win. This way he could still provide a service to the Republic.
Marcus had been at the post longer. Charles wasn’t sure how long, but he’d be relieved first. During his shifts, all he’d seen were the comings and goings of the wild creatures inhabiting the slopes below. He watched hawks and eagles hunt rabbits and mice. He watched deer graze, occasionally chased off by the coyotes and mountain lions.
A family of blue jays had nested in a nearby tree and had served as Charlie’s principal source of entertainment. He watched the parents construct their nest and tend to the eggs. He watched the baby birds develop their feathers and spread their wings for the first time. The only time he’d even come close to firing had been when a particularly ambitious fox had scaled half the tree, intent on devouring the family. Charles activated the weapon’s cleaning cycle, the clatter of the turret driving the fox away and allowing the young birds to survive.
When Charles first heard the roar of the approaching vehicle he scanned the ridgeline, but at a precipice, it was some time before the maintenance truck rolled into view. The running lights illuminated the clearing and the fire road along the ridgeline. The truck parked and Charles watched, captivated, as the vehicle doors opened and the young soldiers climbed out. These were the first people he’d seen since taking on this assignment. He and Marcus only communicated by text, over the turret’s internal systems.
The driver walked around the truck, joining his passenger, who’d left his door open. In the passenger’s window, the turret was reflected clearly. It stood tall, illuminated against the sky. Charles and Marc’s lenses were attached to the sides of the guns, which were mounted on swivels. Close to the central post, beneath the guns, were the ammo drums and the pods where Charles and Marc themselves were housed. This, in Charles’ imagination, required a large coffin-shaped compartment, where their medical rehabilitation could take place. However, the reflection illuminated metal containers the size of a small cooler.
From the back of the truck, the soldiers carried out a similar steel case; Marc’s replacement.
Charles realized; there was no new body coming for him. The only thing in the container, the only thing salvaged from his last engagement, had been his brain.
As the soldiers approached, the turret’s barrels swiveled toward them. The lenses on the scopes turned as the targets were dialed in…
by submission | Oct 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
On September 2nd, 2049 at the Prime Storage Facility, Jules Deschamps told me, “In the 12th century, the Templars, whilst looking for the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy Land, stumbled upon a three-foot diameter tungsten sphere hidden in a cave beneath a crevice near Jerusalem. They considered it a holy object and shipped it back to their headquarters where it remained until 1307.
According to the testimony of Jean de Chalons at the 1308 papal investigation of those warrior monks at Poitiers, France, their treasure was removed from the Paris Temple by Hugues de Chalons just before their mass arrest. Then Gerard de Villers and 50 knights took it to a port whereupon 18 galleys sailed westward, away from Europe.
After six previous relocations, the gold, silver and tungsten orb were finally moved in 1936 from a church crypt in Boston to the Prime Storage Facility, this enormous storage site located within a sprawling complex in a middle of a godforsaken desert. And Storage Unit #999 now contains said tungsten sphere.”
I replied, “Should you be telling me this? I just run a subsection of the joint for Prime Security, Inc.”
“Last summer, our scientists realized it was actually a quark bomb, capable of annihilating virtually all life on Earth. Apparently, our planet has been seeded with such devices, which are timed to go off tens of millions of years apart. The last one exploded 66 million years ago and exterminated the dinosaurs. And, two months ago, we learned the subatomic bomb in Storage Unit #999 was set to detonate on December 3rd, 2049.”
“That’s just three months from now.”
“Most in the Grand Master’s Council favored letting the device demolish our planet in order to renew Earth. They felt whoever put those bombs here were superior beings and knew just what they were doing and we shouldn’t interfere with Providence. The Grand Master himself said, ‘Had those fantastic beasts, the dinosaurs, not left the scene, we would never have had our glorious moment in the sun.’
Others, like me, thought we should deactivate the device. We believed those superior beings felt that, when life on our planet reached a certain stage of technological development, then that civilization could and should dismantle the bombs. So I need you to let me inspect Storage Unit #999 early tomorrow morning, alone. I can render the bomb harmless.”
I already knew Deschamps was Senior Vice President of Accounts for Prime Security, Inc. but he told me he was also a Master of the Knights Templar. Although I agreed to cooperate with him, I reported the incident to the section head.
That evening, we made our way through the scanners and past the armed guards to Storage Unit #999. After inserting cards and imputing codes into the access units on either side of the stainless steel entrance door, we entered the chamber to find stacks of gold and silver but no tungsten orb. We immediately alerted the company’s president. He swore both of us to secrecy and I wasn’t fired.
Most people remember December 3rd, 2049 as The Day of the Great and Terrible Second Sun and where they were when they saw the spectacle. But I also remember it as the day I was initiated into the Order as a non-noble sergeant and received a black robe with an embroidered red cross pattée. And what became of Jules Deschamps? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he ended his days as ballast on the private spacecraft that carried the tungsten orb safely into outer space.
