by submission | Oct 24, 2018 | Story |
Author: Jamie Bainbridge-Wood
Marshal was a photographer, an anachronist and a killer. Before we met, he hadn’t bothered to iCap any of the women he had finished with: he used an old camera, the print kind. That’s a throwaway fact- an affectation- for someone who isn’t a killer. In Marshal’s case, it got him caught and they stuck Marshal with me. Marshal behaves himself now.
Mostly.
It’s a rugged neighbourhood: neon-light reflections dancing hopscotch across a thick flow of rainwater, dense streams set to drown the whole borough, reshaping it into a grimy, low-rent Venice. Marshal’s body has its knuckles gripped white around the little moped they rented out to us. His mind snaps at me as we drive and I keep an eye on it but I don’t feed it.
The waypoint is up ahead, silky purple blur vibrating at one extremity of our vision. I get Marshal to pull his head around, get us oriented, and he doesn’t like it.
They used to lock people like Marshal up, or kill them, and now they use them for this. They think it’s punishment. For the most part, it is. People like Marshal, they like to dominate. An arrangement like this is their worst nightmare.
Still, I’ve been with Marshal long enough and I know: there are certain parts he likes well enough.
Marshal used to have a buddy- Lucas Roiland- and my mind, what used to be Marshal’s mind, drifts to him as we take the right off Copeland and onto Main. Marshal was the worst of the two, really. Lucas? He just didn’t have his head together.
Marshal exploited that.
We glide into the waypoint and the vibration stops: out front of the Oakland, that big Gothic facade grinning chipped-teeth from the lower row of windows, halogen glare in the interiors draped by heavy, dark blinds. They’re like coffins, those rooms.
The receptionist, a kid, nods at us as we blow through.
We hit the elevator.
“Carver?”
We hammer on the door of Room 304, the one with the peeling paint and the expectant silence on the other side.
“Carver!”
Silence conjures visions:
Carver, perched in the high-backed chair management provided as a cursory nod to the virtues of good posture.
Carver, easing his way out the chair, toting some screamer rented from a skinny kid with a quick mouth and hard eyes.
I keep an ear out for the footsteps, the sound of metal touching wood, and there’s nothing. I give it a second, two, for him to respond, then I do it the other way: crank back in the corridor, plant a boot at the lock. Splinters, then: Carver, a black-etched simian outline fleeing toward an open window. The piece has enough anaesthetic to sleep Carver permanently. I dial it back. Shoot from the hip.
Carver breaks a table as he goes down.
Into the room.
I take a look around in the dark. There’s enough here to make sure Carver ends up the same as Marshal: binds, tossed carelessly in the bathroom; tools, precisely ordered, placed obviously as prize possessions in the centre of the room.
It’s slap-dash. Looks the same way the developing room did, back when they caught us.
They’ll slave Carver, the same way they slaved Marshal, and they’ll put someone like Lucas Roiland in the driver’s seat.
I look down at Carver with something like pity. I know what the process will do to his mind. But then again, I know what he did, what Marshal did, and what I did.
I am all that’s left of Lucas Roiland.
It’ll be making amends forever.
by submission | Oct 21, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
“London is ours! Zero-ing in on infamy!” announced Haggard Elsson, winking to the air steward and striding purposefully from the First Class exit from BA0171 with his Executive Assistant Freya trailing him, awkwardly wheeling both of their suitcases.
London’s City Airport was one of their first customers and remained a flagship project for sustainable technology in a fractious age. Haggard’s smile was broad as his vibrating footsteps on the skywalk spurred the Zero-walls into life, broadcasting BBC’s News24 in Norwegian – his selected language. On the floor, ceiling, and sides, the world’s daily tribulations laid bare, using zero carbon, solar and kinetic energy and little maintenance.
Yet with considerable dismay, Haggard saw the news displaying on his Z-walls was all about technology, with today’s expert a gleaming, stern-faced liquid-eyebrowed Professor Nochs promoting his latest management book “Progressive Notches”.
Haggard moaned, “Can’t we firewall this insolent turd and his insidious nonsense?”
“Unfortunately”, began Fleur sweating heartily alongside, “we sold the lease rights to our Zero-walls technology, not their content; they can show whatever feeds they want”.
Haggard knew this already. Close-lipped, his eyes husking groundnuts, his arms windmilling as he flipped the bird and other fingered profanities at the Professor’s twenty-foot-high face as they wheeled along endless skywalks towards the elevators.
“Screw you London! This isn’t the welcome I expected!”.
Freya sighed. She quite liked Nochs’ delivery, it was understandable to the layman, and he had a childish fascination that piqued her fancy. She would never tell Haggard. He’d hated him since their childhood rivalry as Rubik’s Cube prodigies.
“Flipping inefficient lifts”, shouted Haggard at no one, pointlessly pushing repeatedly the call button.
Nochs’ bore down on them like a bad dream about a dystopian future. “Everyone talks about progress, and giant transformative leaps being made by technology, but it is only now we can make this leap, with the Omni-cell technology. We will create over 50 million new jobs worldwide. And we will eradicate many inefficient jobs. Did you know the only job that disappeared in the USA since 1950 is ‘lift operator’? We have 50% of the funding from Canadian and US pension funds, I am here in London in final discussions to obtain the remaining 50%”.
The lift doors opened, Haggard shook his head impatiently as Freya bashed her way in with their oversized luggage.
As the doors finally closed and the Z-walls abuse stopped, Haggard let out an audible sigh. Followed closely by a harrumph. “Lift operators, eh, Nochs. Interesting. Let’s ride this lift a few times, Freya”, he enunciated clearly, pressing the Down button once, firmly.
Freya tolerated his peccadillos. She was sure he was returning to punch the Z-walls.
After three fruitless trips up-and-down, Haggard was smiling again, almost giggling.
“Freya, remind me what sort of contract we have with the lease of Z-walls?”.
“Standard lease of hardware, own-maintenance insurance and cover, full tech and hardware support, 0.25 FTE on site, and zero content restrictions”.
Haggard’s eyes were sparkling, “Can we slip a new job into each one that is in a building of more than, say, six floors?”
“An additional maintenance or tech support role you mean?”, Freya quizzed.
“Nope. Marketing. I want a Lift Operator written in. No cost to the clients at all. We will pay. We will use interns, dress them in company pink, and…..”
“….make sure they are charismatic and …”, continued Freya
“…sell the absolute heck out of our company while pressing buttons!”, finished Haggard.
“How can Professor Noch start or obtain funding if his theoretical foundation is built on a historical lie!” exclaimed Haggard proudly.
by submission | Oct 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: James Hornby
In all my days on Gulliver’s Rest, I never believed that the War would reach us. From the window, I see the sky is pitted with scars from the wreckage of an Artari Sunskipper, ripped from history in a series of blinding flashes. I came to this planet to escape from the violence. Now I realise that maybe there was nowhere I could have gone to hide.
I pull Meren and Egar close, kissing their heads, trying desperately to assure them that everything is okay, even if I know it isn’t. They’re my only family; I have to keep them safe. Meren asks me why the War has come to our world. I say nothing, for I have no answers for her, only worries.
There was no time to pack. Even if we tried, the contents of our bags could empty or reproduce due to the twisting and shaping of the timelines around us. On reflection, I doubt we’d even realise if they had. Instead, I take their hands and run from the homestead, out into the chaos beyond the threshold.
Outside is ghostly quiet. I keep thinking I hear someone screaming, yet almost the instant I do my mind moves onto other things, the moment forgotten. I wonder if I’m forgetting because the people who scream no longer exist. Regardless, we must press on if we are to survive this.
I tell the kids that we have to make it to the hill. It’s not far, just a few minutes from where we live. Inside is a bunker, containing a time capsule I stole from the Enemy’s homeworld long ago. The time machine is our way out of here. It’s the only way we can ever be safe now.
I catch glimpses of foot soldiers, slipping in and out of higher dimensions, fighting their battle on every plane of reality. I grasp Meren’s hand tighter, keeping her close. She’s my only child; I have to keep her safe.
We reach the hill and make our way into the bunker, chanting incantations to open the seals that allow our entry. Inside the room is dark, save for a single light under which the time capsule is stood. There it has been for thousands of years, or just a few minutes, for that is how this creation exists.
Tara protests, she is scared of the machine. I reassure her, there is no time for emotion, not now we’re so close. She’s my only child; I have to keep her safe.
The time capsule is warm to the touch, and hums when it feels my presence. I fumble in my pocket for the key, sliding it into the lock with ease. I push against the door and stumble inside. The lights on the console flicker the moment my feet hit the floor. The place is dusty, yet holds that pleasant smell in the air like you get from a freshly printed magazine.
I waste no time and set the craft in motion. I have to get away from here, as far away from the War as possible. Sometimes I forget why I’m running, but I know that it is what I must do. I don’t know where I’m going, somewhere nice, I think. Perhaps it was time I settled down, start a family with someone.
After all, I’ve never had a family before.
by submission | Oct 19, 2018 | Story |
Author: Malcolm Carvalho
Pa is sleeping. It’s one of his intermittent naps. They said the meds would make him drowsy all day. He looks serene when he is asleep, even in these fifteen-minute sessions. Must be enough time to mine his memories, and perhaps a little of his subconscious. They’ve tested the program extensively. At least they claim that. I cannot do worse than believe them.
I look up the monitor. All the connections seem to be running fine. Will a few days of running the program image all of his persona? Again, I have no option but to rely on the tech.
I lean forward from my chair and hold his right wrist. I detect a feeble pulse, the beat like the slow drip from a shower. Maybe 45 per minute. I let go and interweave my fingers with his, trying to imprint his warmth onto my memory. I remember the time he held my hand as we walked down the beach. I must have been seven then, my little fingers caught in his firm but gentle grip. The sound of the horse’s hooves exciting and scary at the same time. Pa putting me in the saddle and walking beside the keeper. My heart jumping almost to my throat, and Pa’s voice reassuring me. “I’m right here, Rubu.” And all feels fine in my world. I feel a deep sense of gratitude. I pray these memories have the heaviest weight when the whole thing rolls out. After all, I would not want Pa to have a weaker experience.
I bend and kiss his forehead. I’m sorry, Pa. I need to go. Your medical bills are running too high. My job here can only pay so much. Mars will have better opportunities, and if the laws change, I might even get you there.
It may take a couple of years. I hope he can survive till then. The guilt rankles me. I quieten myself. How else can a planetary analyst pay for this without moving to another planet?
I hope the software makes his mind malleable enough to allow the virtual copy to sink in. I’m prepared to have trouble accepting his version, but I can handle that. There will be enough to do to distract me.
They have mapped my memories well, they said. I even had a quick look at the dry run. In some cases, I could not even figure out which was the real me.
His fingers twitch. Time to leave before he wakes up.
But I am not convinced enough yet. I walk out and pull the door closed leaving a small gap through which I can see him. I turn my hand towards the sensor and wave to turn on the simulation.
Pa wakes up, his eyes blank like life has been drained out from them. He turns to one side to get up. I look to the figure on the chair. He rushes to hold Pa by his arms and props him up.
“Time for our evening walk,” Pa says as he presses his toes to the floor. The simulation thrusts a hand, holds Pa’s elbow and helps him to his feet.
“Let’s skip the park and head to the lake today,” the simulation says. Exactly the same words, exactly the same tone. Or was it me talking?
Pa smiles and begins walking to the door.
My eyes are welling up. If I wait for longer, I might just change my mind.
I walk out, hoping his simulation will not make me miss him either. What the hell! I know the difference.
by submission | Oct 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Thomas Desrochers
The sweaty politicians like to remind us that the EcoFasc League were monsters, especially before we do a round of flyovers. “Remember,” they scream at us, “remember the billions.”
We come in off the eastern seaboard. It’s lovely this time of year, stretching away, an infinite green carpet. Back home the trees are planted in rows. They’re big enough, but you’re always reminded that it’s an artificial thing. Here the trees fight and jostle, untamed.
Billions. Unbelievably large, except when you fly by the countless shattered wrecks of the cities. Just, enormous. Reminds me of home: crowded and gray. Every piece of land we can use, we do. Not many animals left.
Not like here. Here, plants and animals build up in the streets, on the floors and rooftops – the sheer weight of life bringing down steel and concrete. Untouched, though. In a hundred years we’ve seen people wandering these places a dozen times. Elderly, usually, on some final pilgrimage.
It’s beautiful, this endless forest broken up by quiet glades, teeming with wildlife. Don’t go down there. That’s the first thing they tell you in training. Don’t go down there – you’ll cook.
The people there don’t cook, for whatever reason. They live in small communities turned towards the sun, sheltered from the wind, surrounded by fields and gardens that my grandmother would envy and ponds teeming with so many fish my grandfather would cry. We get close enough to take a look. The other guys like to ignore them, but I wave. The kids always wave back. They look happy.
It was a fast affair, if you read between the lines. The books talk about the decades of build-up and turmoil, but it was the blink of an eye. One year the news teems with references to a grizzled man speaking at a pub rally, and the next Asia is coated in VX.
Bummer.
War for a week after we beat back their missiles, but then the League saved everyone the trouble: they cooked off all the New World’s nuclear piles. It was impressive, really (but don’t tell anyone that – you’ll regret it). Invade? Why bother? They paid special attention to their minerals, and the days of heartland grains were over. No more fish from the oceans either, unless you like them hot. My forefathers starved.
Double bummer.
They’ve got technology still, though we’re not sure what or how. We’ve never figured out how they didn’t die out down there. Higher-ups worry: how many, and who? I say, who cares? They’re friendly enough for me.
Plains roll by, endless. I think the people here are obligated to feel free, but maybe they feel trapped. We cross over the continent in a day and it takes the riders and wagon trains half a week between settlements.
The mountains slide past. Before you know it you’ve hit the Pacific. Squalls roll under lingering clouds; it’s a rainforest down there, you’d better believe it. Our satellites watch as the forests grow back like hair on a ten year clear cancer patient – wild. The trees eats up our smog like candy.
I remember the billions. I shouldn’t be, it’s terrible that I am, but I’m grateful they’re gone and glad it happened. I love the flights. The doctors say flyover duty steals decades from us, but nobody’s ever quit.
We had an emergency put-down once – engine trouble. All I remember is the trees as big around as I am tall, wildflowers like scattered paint, and the choir of birds in time to the anxious whine of the geigers.
Paradise, I said. Who could disagree?
