by submission | Jun 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
“This, is a bad pistachio”
The deep southern drawl echoed against the dirty concrete walls. The voice metallic, buzzing from an aging squat robot with Investigator MkII painted in fading piss-yellow across its torso. Scraping sounded as it panned its head across the crime scene.
“A bad pistachio?” Queried the shiny new MkIX in a sarcastic British accent.
The MkII’s patinated copper face whined as it tilted upwards and contorted a searing focus.
“Murders are like pistachio nuts. Some have cracked shells that open easy and release that glorious nut inside. And some are barely cracked. They need a bit of work”
Misshapen wheels rolled closer to the blackened components, scattered across the oily floor and groaning gears sounded as it folded into a squat and continued.
“Some pistachios are sealed tight. You’ll crack a tooth opening them. With a bit of heat and time, they might crack later. Now those nuts without shells at the bottom of the bag, they’re delightful freebies” A smile pitched the voice’s tone.
“But sometimes, there’s a bad pistachio. Mischievous little varmint. Just a normal looking pistachio, tumbling out of it’s perfectly cracked shell and laying there, delicately brushed in green and purple hues with a dust thin crackly skin. Cheeky thing waits for you to chew it to a pulp until it reveals it’s true self and unloads a mouthful of rancid bitterness that horrifies your taste buds”
Worn lip plates rhythmically trembled, as it surveyed the scene and continued.
“Bitterness reminds you that any pistachio could be bad. And you should always prepare for disappointment. But after flinging another dozen of those delicious little bad boys into your gob like a carefree imp, you soon forget”
He shook his head making a dead scraping sound, studied the scene and slowly raised into a standing posture as puffs of oily smoke steaming from its joints.
“This here. This is a bad pistachio”
The elegant, gleaming MkIX processed the metaphor and snapped.
“Illuminating Sir. So what makes this a bad pistachio?”
The MKII, tottered around the workshop floor, stopping at an open sticker-covered window and leant on the sill. It noisily raised a warped arm and pointed.
“That”
An orbiting ring of unfashionable holographic glyphs highlighted a metallic purple object laying awkward amongst the debris. A glowing 3D representation rose and rotated slowly, revealing complex geometry.
“Nano-engineered. Origin unknown. Purpose unknown. Magnification reveals evidence of lateral distress and textural comparison identifies a severed edge where it had been connected to something else” Said the MkIX.
“That’s not supposed to be here”
“Indeed my shiny friend. Run your fancy new vector projection analysis”
A hologram virtual replay illuminated the room. Parts began to slide, bounce, then rise at sharp angles, all moving to a central point where they chaotically jigsawed together and suddenly froze. Remade before them, hovered a ghostly robot of diamonds facing the window. The purple object paid no part in the replay.
MkII awkwardly turned towards the window which looked out towards a shadowy yard of junk and weeds. Mutters of broken English and random pips chattered as it’s old processor crunched the data.
“If it is not part of that, then what is it?” said the MkIX, as it lifted the purple object.
“No! Don’t touch it!”
The secondary ignition from the explosive device blew the MkII through the window into the yard in a torrent of MkIX shrapnel.
MkII righted itself, levering a buckled shoulder plate back into place.
“Yeah Base. This is INVE MKII 49. Send me another Mk unit. This one just got nutted”
by submission | Jun 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Kate Lu
Perched on a hard chair, Vivian stared at a sharp-lined logo on the opposite wall: The Murphy Corporation Clinic for Genetic Testing. The blue of the font looked almost black in the otherwise all-white room. Vivian felt like a stain. She didn’t realize she was bouncing her leg until the chair began to squeak.
Her husband, Arthur, hadn’t wanted her to come alone. “But I have to know,” she told him that morning. She tried to smile as she added, “Save your time off for when the baby comes.” He knew how she worried—about incurable diseases, about physical anomalies, about the act of childbirth itself. For almost three months, she’d imagined her child as a swirling nebula of cells, not quite human, not quite a part of her. Not until it felt safe.
Now, Dr. Caldwell’s voice jerked her from her thoughts.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ly,” the obstetrician said, flipping through Vivian’s chart as he turned and led her down a long hallway. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine.” Her voice was a guitar string ready to snap.
He waved her into his office. “So, you’re here to discuss your first-trimester test results,” he said as he sat across from her.
She nodded, folding her hands so tightly her knuckles paled.
“I believe I told you when we took your routine testing samples that I didn’t expect any surprises. First pregnancy, no previous history of abnormal exams, conception within six months of trying, no family history of chronic disease—all that usually makes for a fairly predictable outcome. Of course, that doesn’t always rule out—”
“Surprises?” Vivian supplied around the knot in her throat.
He gave her a tight-lipped smile that bordered on a grimace. It was the kind of smile that papered over any ugly words that might follow.
“Exactly,” Dr. Caldwell said. “And what we found in your case is that your child will have an extremely serious peanut allergy.”
Static buzzed at the edges of Vivian’s brain. “Peanuts?” she said faintly.
“That’s right,” said Dr. Caldwell. “Sometimes, despite the parents’ genetics, there are spontaneous mutations in the fetus that cause unforeseeable issues. In your case, it’s a peanut allergy.”
“Peanuts,” she said again.
“And possibly tree nuts, although it’s still too early to tell.” He cleared his throat. “There are a few options here …”
Vivian’s mind slid sideways into a memory of her crushing shelled peanuts between her tiny, four-year-old hands while her father playfully scolded her for destroying the meat inside. She thought of the cost of Epi-Pens, the looming monster of anaphylactic shock, the emergency room bills she and Arthur could never hope to pay if anything went wrong.
“I want to terminate,” she blurted.
Dr. Caldwell, who was mid-sentence, stopped to stare at her.
“Please,” she added.
“If you’d like to talk it over with your husband—”
“No,” she said, pushing Arthur’s face out of her mind. “No, the sooner, the better.”
He nodded. “That’s the most common choice in these cases. So, if that’s what you’ve decided, then I’ll start getting the paperwork ready.”
Vivian sat back in her chair and let loose a long exhale as the tension left her body. The wondering was over. She and Arthur were still young. They still had plenty of time.
by submission | Jun 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn J Hill
“Poachers. Ugh, I hate poachers.”, I muttered under my breath. Since way before I came along, my family’s ranch has been beset by poachers. The property is way outside normal populated areas, and it takes a long time to get here. Nobody accidentally comes here. They come for one reason. Our livestock. My ancestors picked this planet, and started this ranch, and we’ve been fighting to protect it ever since. “No Trespassing” marker beacons out past the heliopause kept all but the most determined away. Luckily, of those that did venture this way, most were just curious. There are some that get a thrill doing a cruise by, trying to get a view of our livestock. Most of the time we can just scare them off with a few well placed “shots across the bow”, so to speak. Technology certainly helps. Automated sensors let us know when they’re still a way off. The weapon systems will calculate vectors and track, but it’s up to us to actually push the fire button. It wouldn’t be good to shoot down some ambassador’s son who was showing off for his friends. But this bunch I am looking at right now, they’re here for profit. A Dalian ship brimming with weapons and livestock cargo bays isn’t your typical joy ride vehicle. Grab some of the herd, and off they go to parts unknown. It’s time to put a stop to this before things get out of hand.
My grand-daddy always said that diplomacy was saying “nice doggy” while finding a big enough stick. I opened a channel, “Dalian cargo ship, you’re trespassing in private space. Cease your progress, and reverse your path, or you will be fired upon.”
No answer. I didn’t expect one. Telemetry had shown a flight path right to our ranch, not a casual flyby. They knew what they were after.
We know what they’re after too. That’s why we keep the security system up to date with the latest in weapons technology. The serious intrusions are few and far between, but we can’t afford a single slip up anymore, the herd’s getting skittish, and harder to control.
I repeated the warning, and again, got no response. Time for some fireworks. A few taps on my control console sent 3000 micro lance beams across the surface of their ship. Not enough to destroy them, but it would certainly wreak havoc with their sensors, and might overwhelm a few of their systems. A couple taps on my keyboard for good measure, and I opened the channel again, “Dalian cargo ship, that was your last warning. If you do not immediately vacate this space, you leave us no choice but to destroy your ship.”
They were scanning for targets, and powering up their weapons systems. My weapons were all in place and ready for action. My finger hovered over the activate button as I opened the channel one last time.
“Dalian cargo ship, you have been warned. If you do not immediately turn about, you will be destroyed.”
Their sensors found me, they brought their weapons to bear on my location. I dropped my finger. They ceased to exist. Well, not instantly. I assume they existed for a very short time, but they never realized what happened to them. Superior technology, that’s what happened. Whole ship quantum teleportation, right into the heart of the local star, 9 light minutes away.
We have about 8 billion head of self-sustaining livestock on this ranch, they’re almost ready for market. It’ s my job to see they make it there.
by submission | May 31, 2020 | Story |
Author: Dave Williams
When the warnings blasted on radios and TVs and cellphone texts, Sasha called Tony and their frantic voices collided. “Is this real”—“Do what we planned”—“I’ll come get you”—“Get in the bunker”—“It’ll be faster if I get you”—“Stick to the plan.”
Then Tony’s voice vanished. Sasha tapped the phone’s screen, but the rings ended with his voicemail greeting. If she drove to his office, they’d be back home before he got here on the bus. If buses were running. Streets would’ve been packed with cars.
The plan had seemed ridiculous months ago, but they said “just in case” and figured searching for each other would’ve led to getting lost in chaos. Smarter to head home on their own. Her luck to be working from home today. Why couldn’t this happen on Saturday?
Sasha crammed food into bags—fruit, veggies, cookies, potato chips—and carried them into the bunker disguised as a shed in the backyard. A floor hatch opened to a ladder leading underground. A main room and tiny bathroom.
She had thought Tony was nutty for thinking the bunker was a great idea to buy the house. The bunker was a relic from the Cold War, when the homeowners feared Soviet and American missiles could fly in both directions. Tony had said, “It’d be cool to have something different. The kids could use the bunker as a fort.”
Two kids. Another plan. Since the bunker was well-maintained and not creepy, Sasha took the plunge. Tony became boy-like as he stocked the bunker with provisions. And he participated in decorating the nursery. Her doomsday-prepper jokes died off; let him have his fun. A joy to make the home their own.
Stick to the plan. Tony’s last words echoed in Sasha’s mind as she kept redialing his number.
The hand-cranked radio said, “Confirmation that missiles are targeting major metropolitan areas.”
Shock made way for tears lasting for weeks. Sasha gripped hope she’d hear a knock and Tony’s voice: “It’s me! Unlock the hatch!” Giving up on that, she gripped hope that Tony found a safe place. She cursed their choice to live in suburbs close to the city. Why not live in a small town? But those didn’t have as many jobs.
Madness threatened beyond her depression. She paced the room, ate junk food and raw produce, probed radio stations for news and music, hated herself for gratitude that she wasn’t pregnant. She yearned for children, but a newborn would’ve made this situation much more challenging.
She struggled into a routine. Did stretches throughout the days. Read used paperbacks. Acted as four opponents in Scrabble. Rearranged the old bed, table, chairs. Wrote her worries in a notebook. Frugally consumed the canned and dried food.
As months dragged, the food supply lowered. She grew disgusted with the bunker’s stale, unwashed odor.
The devil’s advocate won her inner debate, and Sasha opened the hatch. She ached for a different environment, different air. In the shed, she listened to the sounds of the outside world. Thankfully, birds were chirping. But no noise of cars. She was too scared to open the shed’s door.
Then she had to open it. The food was gone. She felt bad for nagging Tony about wasting money on canned goods. She never thought he’d be right.
Outside, she breathed deeply without caring if the air was radioactive. Either that or starvation. The sky and trees were gorgeous.
She went into her house for a shower, fresh clothes, a large meal. Then she would decide where to search for other survivors.
by submission | May 30, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
The two of us stared at each other for a tense second of silence. My face was reflected in his eyes, which were also my eyes. We both scratched our chin and were startled by the discordant mirror image. He was wearing a navy blue polo-tee, I was in my prison slacks.
“I don’t get it,” I said, breaking the silence. “We have the exact same life, the exact same misery. As far as I can tell, you were just as emotionally unstable as I was. How are you so successful?”
The Me from Universe L9782 shook his head. It was the shake I did whenever I felt my life was falling apart, a shake I did often. Except this one appeared purposeful, with a calculated frequency, like a sign that things were going to be fine.
“Let’s go back to August 2029,” he said, taking charge like I knew he would.
“Your parents had just divorced. You fell out with your Mom, then ran away from home and took shelter in the church.”
I nodded hesitantly, unsure if I wanted to relive that moment.
“What happened then?”
Why was he was asking this again?
“I already told you! I ran away from that church and met a guy who told me to lash out at the world. One thing led to another, and I’m here now.”
“No. I meant what happened IN August 2029.”
That was twenty years ago; before the transdimensional portal was even discovered; before the whole ‘meet your better self’ program for convicts was started.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
L9782 me buried his cheeks in his hands, drawing in a lungful of air.
“Light Wolf, Dark Wolf.”
I looked into his eyes in surprise, then turned away because it was still very freaky.
“You remember that visualization exercise you did?”
It might have been long ago, but I would never forget the battle fought in my head. The pastor had told me his version of the Cherokee story and I had pictured my two wolves locked in mortal combat. My Dark Wolf was always towering, tall enough to block the sun and turn the clouds to plumes of ash. My Light Wolf was a small, sad one that glowed with the brilliance of a discount Halloween costume.
“That was just a silly muse,” I said, despite an inkling of what was coming.
“Who won?”
He was serious.
“The Dark Wolf of course! Don’t you remember how big that thing was? There was no way I could feed the Light Wolf enough.”
“Did you give the Light Wolf a jetpack with rocket launchers?”
There was another long second of silence.
“Really?”
“Did you also imagine yourself fighting alongside the Light Wolf with plasma cannons?”
“That did it for you?”
His composure was stoic throughout.
“No, of course not, but it made me realize I could do something. I opened up to the pastor about my problems, got the support I needed, and did some reflection on my identity. I kept my nose clean and eventually returned home to my Mom.”
I was flabbergasted. Was this really the only difference between the two of us? A more active imagination?
A low buzz signaled the end of our visit. Just as we were getting up and saying our goodbyes, I snuck in one last question.
“How did you get the idea of equipping your Light Wolf?”
Shrugging, he said: “I guess I knew there were people who could help me.”
