by submission | Sep 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Please! There had to be a way to save him.
Widge was hit bad. The blast took out most of his right midsection including a portion of the flexible titanium rod that was his spine. He couldn’t stand. Cerulean cream-colored liquid leaked from a variety of tubes and pumped out of others. The ends of wires crackled as the fluid sparked against the electric charge. If only Charlie could hold him together with sheer will power, and love.
“C’mon Widge, you’re smart. Think of something!”
Widge’s words came out garbled yet understandable.
“You could pull my memory drive, use it in another unit. But a lot of my idiosyncrasies would get lost in the reboot.”
Charlie had practically rebuilt Widge from scratch. An older model that he’d tinkered with for years perfecting him into not only a valuable weapon and soldier but a friend as well. And most parts for him were long obsolete. Besides, there was no way he could duplicate the humor, intensity, and charisma that were never originally programmed into these prototypes. But now he was permanently failing on this battlefield, too heavy to move and no tools to minimize the impairment.
Widge coughed out a wet mist and continued. “I’m sorry but anything you transferred into another AI just wouldn’t be the same…me. By the way, my proximity sensors are picking up two invaders, five seconds out.”
Charlie, still cradling the massive weight of Widge in his arms, brought up his weapon as the first steel- encrusted alien jumped over the ridge. A perfect blast hit the enemy center mass and knocked him back into a devastating deployment of shredded metal armor. The second moved more cautiously and blast-fire was exchanged between the two foes, Charlie feeling one shot too hot and too close for comfort. Finally, he nailed his target, blowing off the entire head, the rest of the bulk collapsing into a lifeless jumble.
Charlie saw Widge’s arm sticking up but missing the hand. He’d sacrificed the appendage to deflect the shot meant to hit him.
“Dammit Widge, what did you do?”
“Saved your ass again. At this point, it was probably a moot gesture.”
It wasn’t the first time Widge had saved his life. Charlie had stopped counting after the explosion that Widge had shielded him from; tore up his back terribly. It took Charlie nearly a month to repair those wounds. This war had damaged them both.
“What am I going to do Widge?”
“Well, you can’t stay here dipshit. Get out while you can, back to the base. I’m beyond saving. We both know that.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“That’s not a wise de-de-de-de-“
“Widge?”
For more than ten years they had been partners. Fought side by side. Clung to each other during the repeated shellings because there was nothing else to do and if they were going to get obliterated it seemed rational to be holding a friend then to end alone.
Charlie looked down at the mouth frozen in mid-speak, eyes gazing at nothing. Charlie dropped his gun and put his other hand on Widge’s shoulder.
Sometime later the crunching of approaching boots came over the din of distant firing. The enemy soldier marched over the hill and saw the weaponless two lying in a depression. One was already gone. He sighted on the other and blasted it.
Charlie erupted into a fountain of blueish spray and short-circuiting electrodes.
The guy disconnected and removed his armored helmet, revealing a three-day growth and scarred cheek, as to more closely inspect the hugging dead forms.
“Fucking robots,” he quipped and moved on.
by submission | Aug 31, 2019 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Chaos and wreckage all around me. How did we get this way? Collision? Battle damage? Malfunction? It was still hazy. I pulled myself up and limped down the corridor. Not really wanting to look down I did anyway and saw that mercifully the six-inch gash on my thigh stopped inches before my femoral. My suit was doing a good job of stopping the bleeding and puttying the skin-and-clot so in a few more steps (and after the drugs kicked in,) I was walking close to normal. Then I saw him. Obviously, he didn’t belong. Alien, feline like, yet familiar. But what he was doing did not make sense- he was ripping out non-critical system wires behind a panel.
Suddenly, I felt my shoulder jerk back and was pulled passed the intersection of the corridor. He was dressed like me. He looked rough, maybe as rough as I did but at least I still had both eyes to his one.
“We have to get out of here; something went drastically wrong.”
I nodded. “I don’t think we can make it to the escape pods. We’d have to get past that cat-thing and to get there and-“
“You don’t get it? Crap. We’re really screwed.”
“Ummm.. yeah, we are but let’s get a hold on the situation, pull from our academy days. You know, like we were taught.”
“No, man it’s not like that at all… this ain’t what you think we-“
I cut him off. For some reason I was furious. “We are officers of line; we took an oath to defend the-
“We’re eleven years old on a couch in your playroom.”
“Huh?”
“You. Me. The new game system. The bootleg version of ‘Battle of Altair’ we installed but we needed at least three players.”
I closed my eyes. I tried to think back. I got mixed pictures. Riding long boards in our town cemetery. Battle drills at the academy. My first dance. Getting pinned for Lieutenant Commander ahead of time due to my outstanding performance. Getting a C- on a geography quiz. Two sets of memories battling it out. I shook my head. Sparks were still flying. My head ached.
“You, me and no third player.”
It didn’t sound right. But it didn’t sound wrong either and that was more disturbing.
“The third player- we needed a third player. The cat- your cat, we jacked your cat into the system. Bad idea, really messed us up.”
It made even less sense now but felt less wrong on a weird second level, one that made me panic more than the alien tearing up my ship. Or was that my cat?
“You have to pull the self-destruct lever. I don’t have command authority. You have to do it before Tibbs- your cat- comes back here and messes us up again. Holy shit that kitty’s a beast. Do it man, I can only thought-project ‘tuna behind the panels’ for a few more seconds.”
Ah. Yes. He’s our ship’s psychic. Battle grade skills. Best in the force. All my solution sets flashed before my mind. Nowhere did self-destruct come into play. There was a horrible yowl.
“DO IT! PULL THE LEVER!”
Without a second thought I reached up and pulled the self-destruct lever. A low rumble filled the ship. From directly in front a moving white wall, began to overtake us. All around us white hot oblivion enveloped us, the result of a science and physics I barely understood. At that moment, an odd thought invaded my mind- I wondered if Mom remembered to get more chips.
by submission | Aug 30, 2019 | Story |
Author: Josie Gowler
Janelle rounded the corner. She stopped next to me and sighed, all the usual motivational talks abandoned. “It could have been so beautiful here, David,” she muttered.
The ship was on its way and I didn’t have time for pleasantries. “You knew. The whole time, you knew,” I said. The bits of my face not covered by my beard itched from the acidic mist that we’d all had a hand in creating. “It wasn’t a tragic terraforming disaster – you knew there was life already here and you went ahead anyway. You just didn’t care about the risks.” She’d tried to hide it well, I’d give her that. Both this time and last time. If I hadn’t been searching the database for pathogen inactivation pathways I wouldn’t have spotted it.
I carried on. “Next time we should care about the silicon-based higher lifeforms before we settle on a planet, not just the carbon-based ones. Appreciate more than two DNA strands.” She winced: it was the three-stranders that ate half my body, the settlement before this one. Janelle was expedition director then, too.
“So what?” she snapped, leaning right over my wheelchair. “So what? You think they care about a few crappy lower organisms back on Earth, when we need a home?” It felt like a slap – I’d expected at least some attempt at a denial.
“Not your decision to take,” I spat, as I shoved my wheelchair at her, knocking her off balance and down into the toxic lake she’d created, “Not your decision to take,” I repeated, “and you won’t ever have that power again.”
#####
Now I’m at the landing strip all I can think about is Bailey. “Call it a cascade, domino effect, runaway collapse, heck, call it whatever you like. It’s another colossal disaster of our own making. And the biggest victims aren’t us. Again.” Despite all that, he smiled as he said: “I’m staying. I can’t leave them. Not now. It’s not… it’s not fair.” The geliphant next to him stared at me with all of its eyes, unblinking. There was empathy but no reproach, which made me feel even worse.
The last time I saw Bailey, he was riding away on a gelephant, its trumpet blaring. They will die. He will die.
#####
So it’s another year, another failure. I sigh, counting the pioneers up the ramp as the massive storm clouds rush towards us over the pods of our brief settlement. Twenty settlers left to get on.
As they pass into the bright interior of the shuttle, I can hear the usual clichés. All picked up by the roving reporter from Earth. I’ve already had to chuck him out of the way twice. Everyone thinks they’re being original.
“Ah, loads of time.”
“Walk in the park.”
“Sunday drive, eh?”
“What kept you?”
“We’ll do it better next time.”
Next time. The thought of a next time still makes me feel physically sick, despite solving the Janelle problem. I tick the last name off the manifest, trundle through to the seats and pull myself into an acceleration couch.
Two fewer people than came here. As we reach escape velocity and the shuttle powers towards the baseship, I wish I’d stayed, too.
by submission | Aug 29, 2019 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Sweating and panting, I skid to a stop in front of apartment 4-G.
Old Haxalot might be losing his touch. He normally locates the newbies in half this time.
The black SUVs are only three blocks away. On the other side of this door is a young man named Donnie Howard. He’s glad to be out of the hospital, but he’s pretty sure he’s gone insane. Hearing the thoughts of the entire city has taken its toll. Matted hair, dark circles under his eyes, looking a total wreck, he’s lying on the sofa with a huge, medieval sword floating in the air, pointed down at his right eye.
Impressive. He figured out levitation all by himself in something like two days. He has potential.
“Don’t do it, Donnie,” I mind-speak in a stern, matronly tone. “My name is Jemma. I’m here to help you. I can explain what’s happening. Please put the sword down and let me in.” I wait. He slowly moves the sword over the carpet and lets it drop. I don’t need him to open the door, but Donnie needs to get grounded in the real world again. The black SUVs squeal their tires to a stop in front of the building as the goons pour out like clowns at the circus.
Donnie opens the door and seems surprised. Maybe he thinks I’m another hallucination, maybe it’s the purple hair and tattoos, or maybe he wonders how little old me could possibly help him. “I’m the cavalry, dude, get over it,” I say out loud. “When you were in the hospital, did you get any blood transfusions?”
“Yeah, two bags worth.”
“There’s something in the blood causing all this. The people who did this to you are coming to take you away. They just got in the elevator downstairs. Unless you want to become a lab rat, we need to go.” I take Donnie by the hand, leading him into the hallway, but not before leaving the latest version of Firecracker’s F-Bomb hanging from the inside doorknob of his apartment.
By now, they’ve covered all the exits. In the center of the hallway are the elevators. At one end of the hallway are stairs; at the other end is a brick wall. We run toward the brick wall.
The elevator dings just as Donnie and I pass through the concrete.
We land on the gravel roof of the dry cleaners next door and start running. I hear the explosion above.
Looking down into the alley at the back of the building, I see the white van that Turbo boosted last night. Once on the highway, I stop to take a look at Donnie wrapped in a blanket, sedated, and wearing one of Haxalot’s tinfoil hats. I think he’ll make it. At the safe house, we all part ways with another successful rescue under our belts.
Two weeks later, my name comes up in the rotation. It’s my turn to spread the love. With my fake ID and a passable disguise, I approach the blood drive bus. Blonde and business casual this time, I answer all the screening questions perfectly. The nurse sees the tats, but I make her forget before it matters. As the needle goes in, I remember my days at the lab. Oh, so many needles.
I smile.
Just think. Little old me spawning another half-dozen bastard children of the lab. Angry children, increasing in number and power, hearts all pumping my bad, bad blood.
Oh, who am I kidding?
This is the best blood in the whole wide world.
by submission | Aug 28, 2019 | Story |
Author: Janet Shell Anderson
“Who’d slash a fifteenth-century Madonna?” That’s the question the robots at Zup’s grocery in the far, far north of Minnesota asked. They didn’t talk about Nils or the bear.
I was accused.
Last summer, up at the lake to buy Nils Andersson’s land, I rented a log house on Wakemup Bay, usually rented in winter by snowmobilers, ice swimmers, neo Paleo hunters who try to find paleo elk. There aren’t any. The house was owned by people from La Jolla, who thought all the Swedes, Finns, Jamts, tribal Anishinaabe were stupid locals. The locals pretty much despised them too, their robot dog sledding, their fake elk hunts.
The La Jolla woman, monstrously tall, gray, insect like, unhappy to leave her house full of Martian Santas, Lunar reindeer, and the Madonna, sneered at me. I noticed the garbage cans had no protection from bears. She insisted no bears exist. I got her out, had the house to myself. Three herons owned the dock; five eagles fought over the Jack pines. Sven Leander lived close. I left the Iron Range to get away from him, came back.
It was an odd summer; silken pines bent under hail, ferns flared red as autumn. Twilight dominated. Nils, my great-great-great grandfather, was reputed to see the future, was from Lapland, could turn into a wolf, or anything, people said. Sven looks like old sepia pictures of Nils, fabulous and remote. Beautiful, those faces.
Alone after the first night, I found paw prints in patches of snow. The second night I heard a deep “huff” outside the door. A dark, heavy body moved on huge, soft paws. I’d left nothing in the garbage cans, took everything to the dump on Highway 24 . In the misty light, he stood, studied the house as if he knew something terrible. In the twilight living room, I looked at the Christmas trees aloft on the high log wall, the Martian Santas, the Jovian angels in place in July, the Virgin, lovely, innocent.
Snow fell, just a whisper of it. We’re all dying; the world’s dying. Summers are over forever in our time. “Help us,” I thought. “Help me.” The Virgin looked rueful, as if being a Christmas decoration in a log house in Minnesota was an unexpected experience. Alexas stood on guard, listening.
The bear came back under a faint gilding of dawn, under a streak of rose just at the bottom of the eastern sky. He reared up in the front yard, his small eyes troubled. I filmed him as he turned away into a brief swirl of snow.
“Who are you?”
I bought Nils’ place. The morning I left the rental, the La Jolla woman messaged me that I’d ruined her Madonna, ripped it across the face. She swore she’d sue. There was no lawsuit. I’d filmed the house and the Madonna with a time-stamped video before I’d departed, filmed the paw prints in the snow on the porch.
I went south. Married. Came back.
The log palace was gone, burned to the ground in the middle of the worst snowstorm Northern Minnesota ever saw, and the La Jolla woman perished. Someone claimed to have seen the bear, denned up under the porch for winter, run into the forest during the fire.
“She musta ripped that Madonna herself, bad karma,” is what the robots at the checkout at Zup’s in the far, far north of Minnesota said to me and Sven when we shopped. They don’t talk about the bear much. They’re afraid of bears.
