by submission | Feb 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Moriah Geer-Hardwick
“Henry?” Bringdown raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You don’t think he looks like a Henry?” Allgood turns the skitter over in his hand and snaps the activation tab forward with his thumb. Its little legs snap outward and immediately begin hacking at the air.
“I think it,” snorts Bringdown. “Looks like every other mass-produced piece of garbage they issue us. Why the hell give it a name?”
Allgood gently sets the device upright on the ground beside him. Once in contact with a solid surface, it clicks around in a little circle to get its bearings and then stands there, bobbing up and down, contentedly.
“Don’t listen to him, Henry,” soothes Allgood, softly running a gloved finger down the skitter’s dorsal plate. It hesitates, anxiously waiting for a command. “Humans are biologically compelled to let collective behaviors dictate their personal identity, but recognizing the significance of the individual self is the pathway to empowerment.”
“What kind of existential bullshi…”
Bringdown’s response is abruptly cut short by the sharp crack of gunfire. Instinctively, both men flatten themselves against the concrete barrier. They can feel the incoming rounds gnaw viciously into the opposite side of their cover. The skitter angles its single optical port towards Allgood, expectantly. Allgood gently pats above the lens housing, in a reassuring manner. Snarling obscenities, Bringdown fumbles for the centrifuge cannon. While he’s positioning it between his knees, the gunfire pauses.
“I don’t think individuality should be simply an indulgence of society,” muses Allgood. “The success of a group is directly proportional to the value it places on its members. A hierarchy that delegates the whole as greater than its parts ultimately risks undermining the foundations that support its very existence.”
The gunfire starts up again. One round comes in high, catching the top edge of the concrete barrier and showering them with debris.
“I think,” says Bringdown, brushing bits of rubble from his sleeve. “You’re anthropomorphizing things because you’re struggling with your own insecurities. You still got that peeper?”
Allgood digs around in his shoulder pouch and produces a marble-sized metallic sphere. He tosses it to Bringdown.
“You want to name it first?” asks Bringdown, as he chambers it into the centrifuge cannon.
Allgood shakes his head. “Simple cause and effect functions lack the complexity needed to establish distinctive behavior,” he explains. “Peepers don’t choose when or where to be fired, or what to do once they’ve been launched. They take in light and return data, with no ability to do otherwise.”
Bringdown swipes his helmet’s display module into place, angles the cannon straight up, and thumbs the firing button. With a quick whiz-thump, the peeper shoots skyward.
“So you’re saying,” he says, waiting patiently for the imagery to compile. “If it doesn’t have free will, it’s not a person.”
“No, I’m saying simple binary existence fails to provide compelling…”
More gunfire.
“Hold up.” Bringdown raises a hand, staring intently into the display module. “I got our shooter.”
“In the open?”
“Nope. Holed up under that wrecked transport, fifty meters out.”
“So, no angle with the cannon?”
Bringdown shakes his head. They both look down at the skitter. The skitter stiffens in anticipation. Allgood sighs.
“Alright, Henry. You’re up.”
With a single motion, he scoops up the little device and hurls it over the concrete barrier.
“FRAG OUT!” chirps the skitter, in a decidedly feminine voice, as it flies through the air. It lands with a delicate clink, and then tinkles away on its tiny legs, scurrying towards the source of the gunfire. A few moments later they hear the sound of an explosion.
by submission | Feb 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“I’m sorry, Mister Bennett?
“Yes, Ronald Bennett, my first day.”
He pulled the tan card from his pocket that came in the mail the week before. The receptionist, a tall, pale woman looked down her glasses at him. She wore a pristine tan blazer like everyone else in this bustling lobby.
“Debbie told me something like this might happen,” Bennett said.
“Debbie?” she asked.
“My wife,” he said, smiling. “She’s always looking out for me. Ah, here it is. Mister Bennett, your application has been accepted… Temporal Resources, Class D.”
The woman frowned. “Oh, Class D, rare for this branch. Almost everyone here is at least Class C. You can sit over there. I’ll get to you when I have a moment.”
Bennett wandered to some chairs and ferns in a poorly lit area. He felt slighted, self-conscious, wearing a tattered, gray tweed jacket his mother bought for him at a thrift shop years ago. He knew accepting an entry-level position at his age was beneath the aspirations of many people, but Debbie said it was his time.
“Ronnie,” Debbie said, “when the farm fell on hard times, it drained the life from your folks. You cared for them the best you could. You’ve got to try something new. You’ll be great!”
Bennett felt flushed thinking about her. Debbie was short with dark hair, liked to wear overalls spattered with paint from her landscape artwork. She was starting to show; due with their first in August. Whatever he’d been through, at least he had her.
“Ron? Ron!”
Bennett looked up at hearing his name. There were so many people in blazers buzzing about he couldn’t focus. A waving figure approached him, a friend from school.
“Ron Bennett! It’s been ages.”
Bennett shook hands with Devin Cox, a smooth-operating, fast-talking guy born to sell.
“Hey Devin,” Bennett said, “you look great.” Devin had the hair, the smile, the blazer.
Devin said, “Are you joining us here in Temporal? I thought you’d be stuck on that clunker of a farm forever.”
Bennett stiffened. The farm was a disaster, could barely grow rocks, but it was his parents’ dream.
Devin snapped his fingers. “Ron are you in there?” Bennett was lost for a moment, but came back.
“Same old Bennett,” Devin said, “hey, you still going with that cute girl, Deb Crossczyk?”
Bennett smiled, “Deb Bennett now. We got married last year.”
Devin smiled his salesman smile. “Well, that’s solid! Good for you! Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Devin marched to a computer console across the lobby. People got out of his way, he had that power. Bennett rubbed his eyes, a little tired. Devin returned.
“Sorry, Ron,” said Devin, “It’s so busy here. Let’s get you set up.”
Cox walked Bennett to the receptionist.
“Marcie,” Devin said, “I’m bringing Mr. Bennett in personally. We can’t have a star B-7 recruit sitting here idly wasting time.”
“B-7?” Marcie was impressed. “Well, Mr. Bennett, it’s been a pleasure. If there is anything you need.”
“Yes, Marcie, that will be all,” Devin said, leading Bennett through security to the elevators.
“Some people, once you reach B-level, they can’t kiss up enough. Better get used to that as a B-7, just a rung below me. So, Ron, what have you been up to all this time?”
Bennett paused, “I’ve had some ups and downs. Happy to be here. Still single. You?”
Devin smiled. “Married. It’s great. Remember Deb Crossczyk from school? Real cutie. We’ve been married a few years now. We’re expecting our first this August.”
by submission | Feb 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Philip G. Hostetler
“Many have failed but perhaps you will succeed.”, said Torjen,
“The trans-galactic download is paramount to the ascension beyond space-time and admittance into the Multiverse Associates. You, you…”
Torjen looked inquisitively at his tablet, a list of names and metaphysical capacity ratings shone back at him, this one’s was low,
“Ah… Brouften. You could be the very one to usher us into the Multiverse Associates, provided you can contain the data from many worlds, many species. It says here your Xenolinguistics are unparalleled, an impressive 18,333 alien languages you understand and 11,393 practices of these world’s relative physics.” Brouften nodded and spoke,
“Yes sir, I’m confident I will be a worthy receptacle of the Associate’s downloads.”
“Good! Very good, Brouften. Then come, sit here at the Metanode.” Brouften walked into the single cell room, all full of pride and confident apprehension, he sat at the Metanode in a kneeling posture, a biomechanical neural injector violently clamped into his prefrontal cortex and began pumping him full data. The data of tens of thousands of civilizations coursed through his consciousness; all the pain, pleasure, glory and defeat of tens of thousands of Goldilocks worlds trying to make a home in his consciousness.
But it couldn’t, his mind was too feeble, his confidence too great. His brains liquified and began pouring down his esophagus, dying of brain death and asphyxiation.
Torjen looked down at Brouften’s corpse with procedural dismay.
“What a shame.” He thought,
“Bring in the custodial bots.”, he said over the P.A. The bots emerged into the single cell and removed the body. They cleaned all the brains, blood and bile that leaked from Brouften and vacated the cell. Torjen walked outside of the cell and looked at the cue of thousands of trans-galactic hard drive volunteers and ushered the next in line into the cell.
“Next, please! Many have failed but perhaps you will succeed, ah…” Torjen looked down at his tablet.
by submission | Feb 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Michael Anthony Dioguardi
I can’t see! I can’t fucking see!
No! Don’t crumble, stop! Christ, my tether is threadbare. I have to dig my feet in. I can’t get my hand out of this biner. Oh shit! More wind! Armstrong! Armstrong! No! he’s gone.
I don’t want to die! My tripod is still holding, for now. Mic’s still busted — just fuzz and static.
I can see a bit ahead. Stanton, she’s still fighting with her cable. She’s flat on the ground. Is she — she’s readjusting her cable, oh dear God! I can see another cyclone spiraling up towards us. No! Her body trampolines above my head into the ether. My visor is so full of rusted soot — I’ve lost sight of her already. It’s starting to crack.
It’s me and Mooney up here. Mooney’s behind me; he’s off his feet. He’s struggling to regrip his tether. His tripod is unearthing. He’s the size of an ant now, shrinking down the infinite vastness of the mountain.
There’s nothing in front of me except for the rushing of brown particles. A trillion needles sink into my suit. I swear I can taste the foreign soil through my visor. My intestines are flooding my legs with their anxiety-filled acid. My head’s throbbing. My jaw is chattering against my tongue. I can feel the wrinkles on my face perspire.
This is it. This is how our mission will end.
I wonder what they will say about us? I wonder how my family will feel? Our bodies will likely not be found for years. Not until the next expedition, if that ever happens.
They said it would be easy. It would be a straight walk up. At the top, you wouldn’t even realize you were on an incline. That’s how big it is — the tallest mountain in the solar system. What a load of shit.
I feel another gust coming. I can see the swirl in the crater behind me. The lightning pierces through the rusted smoke and illuminates the horizon. There’s an aperture in the clouds.
Such a marvelous sight.
My feet are completely buried. I guess this is how Opportunity felt all those years back. Dust ran through his robotic veins and seized his mechanical heart.
My tether’s about had it. The crack in my visor is growing. The canal of tears running down my cheeks twinkles in its reflection.
The sky is stunning.
I can’t hold much longer.
There’s a blue dot out there on the horizon. It’s not alone. There’s a white dot behind it — so bright, so beautiful.
I can’t —
by submission | Feb 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Shon-Lueiss Harris
What was a dank alleyway disappeared. Gone, cut straight to black. The pungent stench of urine the only sign Michael hadn’t died suddenly. That and the hands grasping him, both forcing him to follow.
At some point, Michael dropped his coffee. Spilled into the ever-present pool of piss, blood and whatever else accumulated in the alleys. He wasn’t fully awake yet. Failed to pay attention, to count his steps or note the direction of each turn. Not a great first impression.
“Have a seat,” someone offered. A man. Oddly polite for having bagged him just moments ago.
Michael found the chair with his foot then sat down. Surprised they provided a cushioned seat, less so at them binding his arms and legs.
“Bright light.” They pulled the bag off his head. “Know why you’re here?”
“Guessing I picked the wrong horse.”
Somebody in the back laughed. He couldn’t see them through the tears and those awful lights. Another sound silenced them. That cheery pop of acrylic heels on cement. Then pigeons squawking and a voice like whiskey, “Fuck the horses. It’s your next pick that matters.”
There went the guy in the back again, laughing. At least somebody was having a good time.
“Might do better if you told me what the hell’s going on,” Michael snapped.
“Stop playing dumb. We can talk here.”
Michael blinked away the tears to find a pale blur of a woman with light red hair. “Is it really you?”
“We got your message.” Red ashed the cigarette pinched between her index finger and thumb. Blew smoke into his face. Light and fragrant like lavender and clove.
“Thought I made a mistake reaching out. Lot of interceptors in the city, ” Michael admitted, eyes flicking around the room.
Red smiled. Big and forced, only until he smiled back. “We have different problems here. Is that why you left Seattle?”
“Partially.”
“And what was your other reason?” Red pressed. Eyes narrowed, waiting.
Michael looked away. “I worked for the Department.” His arms and legs squirmed in the chair. “ My wife was one of you. Protesting against us. Didn’t know until she was killed.”
“You couldn’t stay after that,” she sighed. Michael thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy. “So you had a change of heart and chose to defect. You want to continue where she left off. Is that right?”
Laughing again, the same guy. Michael’s expression twisted. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“How did you reach out to us?” Red asked, ignoring the outburst.
Michael’s eyes began to twitch.
“Dammit, Steve.”
Hands raised in surrender, Steve controlled his laughter. “It’s not my fault the Department replaced me with a shitty writer. That background belongs in a soap.”
Red scowled at Steve before turning back to Michael. The twitching escalated. Every muscle near the center of his face tensed. Dark lines formed in the shape of an X. Along the bridge of his nose, the skin peeled off the smooth plastic and metal face underneath. Red stamped out her cigarette and calmly drew a taser.
Her lips curled into a sad smile. “If it’s any consolation, your wife wasn’t real. You aren’t either.”
Michael felt confused, then the shock. His arms and legs shook horribly as the electricity rushed through him. Then he was gone, cut to black.
“Steve, reprogram it and see what you can do about the face. Be quick. I want our new friend here back at the Department before they start to wonder.”
