by submission | Feb 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Marks
“Are we seeing some wholesale return of the dead?” -Thomas Pynchon
When homo sapiens expired, at last, it was not by fire, nor by a virus, as the species’ own wits and prophets had predicted. Rather, it succumbed to boredom.
The last days of Earth’s supposedly sole sentient creatures took place on a denuded plain of their own making. No trees remained and the few remaining shrubs blew about like tumbleweeds from old sepia photographs of Kansas. Earth skies were often a dun grey due either to dust or monsoons. Former mountains had collapsed from mining, having either been decapitated or simply fracked to death.
The world had become flat.
Flat and dull. Flat chested but also flatulent. Earth was now routinely coughing up noisome gases, an accelerating pattern that commenced when homo sapiens developed a surprising infatuation with the smell of burning tar. And shortly before that tar ran out, formerly frozen stretches of the far northern regions of the planet began to liquefy in methane releases, a gas whose production they shared with a growing global population of cow butts, swarms of oil drinking vehicles, and archipelagos of “pig shit lakes” now dotting the landscape. The latter being a growing geographical phenomenon built to accommodate the waste disposal needs of a booming porcine population whose numbers vied with homo sapiens to top the census sheet.
In the midst of all this, the rest of the world died. And so it was that homo sapiens began to succumb to horrific boredom.
The reason was simple: there remained nothing to look at. The long-standing hologrammatic fixation of homo sapiens was broken by an absence of items to share across formerly vast clouds of digital projections. People would gather at their screens waiting for something to happen. The wait grew to immeasurable lengths. Between the grey ground, the steely sky, and the herds of pigs leaving pools and piles in every direction, nothing remained to offer titillation. Boredom unleashed a die off.
It began in the middle of the twenty-first century but the species received a temporary reprieve when the pigs became stricken with a virus that did not impact homo sapiens. In every direction, the creatures dropped and decayed and this novelty staved off the boredom epidemic. But soon after came small group die-offs of homo sapiens followed by mass expirations where crowds of the species simply dropped to the dirt. The reason for this sudden end was never clear to the victims themselves, it was speculated that the ever-increasing stink intensity was to blame. But in truth, boredom was the contagion.
– – –
About a decade later Canis lupus emerged, venturing forth from their lair
For some years they had stuck out their snouts and sniffed the air, trying to detect evidence of scents that surpassed smells they already knew: Canis lupus was seeking out the sweat of any remaining homo sapiens. But when the last salty hint of metabolic activity disappeared, out came the scouts. What they found was a vast mausoleum, a bone littered Earth. At first, they burned these relics where they lay but eventually they dug several large pits around the globe connected to their own underground waste chamber networks. In went the bones. It was unsentimental labor.
The return of Canis lupus would, needless to say, have startled any remaining homo sapiens since no member of that departed species ever knew where Canis lupus had gone. As early as the late nineteenth century the “wolf” had started to disappear from entire continents. And while hunters and poachers were often justly blamed, it had never been fully understood by homo sapiens what it was that “extinction” meant. Perhaps extinction was a place like Heaven? Or maybe death meant simply nothing. But the truth was, Canis lupus was sentient too and had retreated to a subterranean hiding place separate from the mines and pits that pocked more and more of Earth’s surface. In their underground chambers, Canis lupus waited out the last days of a species they knew had little time left.
What homo sapiens never learned was how sentience did not depend upon opposable thumbs as so many of their scientists had assumed. In truth, a fixation with tools, and screens, and machines-that-went-boom was a fatal flaw, irrational rationality to be avoided.
It turns out that what sentience meant is a recognized need for companionship. There had been a story, a homo sapiens story in fact which told of a man who had seen a vision of thundering bison herds disappearing through a hole directly into the Earth. Out of that same hole came a cattle herd. Canis lupus knew this story and elected to invite B. bison to join them. It was noted that along with B. bison would also come their feed plants while on the animal’s skin clung critters dependent upon its blood and fat, insects and mites that would nurture avian appetites. There would be a community.
From this beginning came the great theory of “the bison’s back,” a formula compatible with Canis Lupus’ survival plan. Walking out onto a denuded Earth, these pioneers took to terraforming their new Eden.
by submission | Feb 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Bruce McAllister and Patrick Smith
What does a county animal control officer do when people throw away the pets they’ve ordered, had designed for absurd amounts of money, but no longer want? The Purple Poodles, the Forever Kittens, the Songbirds Just for You. What does she do with the mistakes—the ones with too many legs, two heads neither of which can see, or a six-chambered heart that shouldn’t be in this world—all dumped in the roughest neighborhoods of the city where the fly-by-night companies that have engineered them always dump them so they don’t have to pay bio-materials recycling fees?
She takes them in, of course.
The officer is Gabi Uong-Simspon, and she lives in El Monte, the same city where three generations of her family were born and grew up. Her house is a modest Millennial stucco in a multi-zoned area off Garvey. It has, at last count, twenty-three rescued engen-pets ranging in size from a sparrow to a pit bull, and all permitted by the city. She’s converted her garage and added a second story to the house to accommodate this menagerie, but she’s taken her time because the health and welfare of her rescued pets are everything to her.
“I’m no ‘cat lady’ with starving cats,” she explains. “I’ve always loved animals. As a kid, I tried to fix every injured animal, domestic or urban-wild, I could find. Must’ve been a pain to our neighbors,” she laughs. “With the epidemic of dumped engen-pets these days, a lot of them are injured.”
Do her animals ever cause trouble for her neighbors?
“Not often. If there’s a noise complaint, that’s only because a neighbor is concerned about the animal’s welfare. When both of us are away, we monitor everything with the two dozen cams we’ve placed in the ‘compound,’ and one of us is always within a fifteen-minute drive from the house. Occasionally one of the animals does get away, but they’re chipped, and we’ve given neighbors pics of all of the animals so no one will be too surprised.”
Do the children in the Uoong-Simpson family like visiting?
“Oh, yes! We give our nieces and nephews, especially if they’re really young, a little informal training on how to handle certain pets, but they’re good kids.”
Any children for Gabi in the foreseeable future?
“My partner and I have discussed it,” she answers quickly, with a ready smile. “But we’re just not ready yet. Maybe instead an engineered sub-human primate, a species mix of some kind, what some companies call a ‘forever child’—totally illegal to make or own, of course, but they do get made and they do get dumped (there’s a story for you!)—but only if I happen to run across it as a rescue and we can get it permitted by State and city.”
Is Gabi happy with her life these days?
“Oh, yes,” she says. “There couldn’t be more important work as far as I’m concerned.”
That smile again.
— from “Gabi Uong-Simpson: A New Kind of Animal Control Officer,” Los Angeles Times Online/El Monte Edition, February 14, 2033
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.
