by submission | Jan 9, 2019 | Story |
Author: Janet Shell Anderson
“There ought to be bleatsmackers,” Giovanna Tatiana Romanova Baldwin says.
She’s come back from nowhere, or maybe Gliese 246, a near perfect copy of Earth that circles a dim red star where she vanished in a rented Black Hole with her personal trainer, Jordan Somebody. Still married, however, to my cuz, Perry Austrian Baldwin, the ninth richest man on Earth, and current Vice President, Giovanna’s the most beautiful woman on this planet. Or any other.
Jordan Somebody’s beautiful too, all lats, pecs, abs, gluts, whatevers, quivering, tensing and relaxing. His blue eyes serene as the Delray/Gulfstream Floridian skies, innocent as manatees rolling in deep, hot springs, he’s never had a thought.
Being a divorce attorney with not exactly a lot of money lately, I’ve a lot of thoughts. I need to find bleatsmackers. Giovanna will pay me.
I blame it on the oligarchs. No one else has any money. Perry’s very interested in oligarchs these days. Ones from The Ukraine. He keeps saying, “It’s like THE Bronx.” (Where he was born but no one knows it.) “THE Ukraine.” What he doesn’t know about the Ukraine or oligarchs could fill a book, but he’s mostly worried these days it will fill an FBI file. That’s another story.
Here at Delray/ Gulfstream, Florida, on Perry’s estate, minus the occasional oligarch, it’s serene as heaven. The pygmy mammoths race around the infinity pool; the Secret Service hunts the alligator Lazarus that has lived on the property for centuries and might have eaten an agent.
“There must be bleatsmackers.” Giovanna smears ointment on her flawless skin at the pool.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of bleatsmackers. For some reason, Giovanna’s confident not only that I can figure out what they are but can also bring her some. As soon as possible. She’s made a bet with an oligarch. I think she has to win it.
The talking marmosets, who’re really shockingly political, run through the palm trees, throw vegetables at Artemis, Perry’s possible niece. He won’t help Giovanna with the oligarch, and she’s annoyed about Artemis, so I’m hunting bleatsmackers. Does not make much sense, but, these days, what does?
So Tuesday I’ve finished Court on the Cape, representing one of a divorcing triad battling for custody of fourteen multi-toed, “Hemingway” cats, all descended from Snowball, Hemingway’s actual cat. I got Snowshoe, Snowdrift, Snowfall, Snowflake, Snowboots, Snow Machine, Snow man a female, Snowman a male, Snowdome, Snowridge, Snowy, Black Snow, Snowmelt, but not S’NOW. Success. Pretty much. One of the cats has twenty-eight toes. My rattletrap, self-driving car shakes its way along the coast; the surf flaps on deserted beaches rank with dead Portuguese-men-of-war. In Titusville, stopped to charge the car, a miracle, I spot them, four villainous looking individuals, unwashed, unkempt, unspeakable, a Retro Neo Sado Pseudo Steampunk Punk Band, camped starving on the asphalt. Sad. Worst band in human history. I pull up, get out, briefcase in hand, contract ready.
“You’re the Bleatsmackers,” I tell them.
Like Billy the Kid in Young Guns II–the template for every possible interpretation of modern life–I say, “I’ll make ya famous.”
by submission | Jan 6, 2019 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Any chance I can talk you out of it?”
“Nope.” Dan glanced at a small three by five card he was holding in his palm. Michael raised an eyebrow and pointed to the card with a quizzical look on his face. Dan smiled. “It’s just a motivational phrase I wrote down. “ Dan slid the card across the table.
“Not my feelings.” Michael frowned. “Then who’s feelings are they, Dan?”
“Not sure exactly. I’d tell you they are the nanites’ feelings but that wouldn’t be accurate.”
“You know that makes you sound crazy.”
“I’m aware of that Mike, but as you can see by my med file, I’m as sane as you. So why after only three months of mourning the death of a woman I have spent more than seventy-seven years with, I feel perfectly fine. Not even a little sad or depressed. Just fine.”
“You’ve probably just dealt with it better than you thought you would.”
“I did consider that. In fact, before I knew it, I was beyond considering it and shifted into ‘count your blessings’ mode. You know, like some damn government nanite commercial…I’m one hundred and eight with my own body reconditioned and maintained so I have the look and health of a twenty-two-year-old. I’d like to point out that at age twenty-two in 1984, I was forty pounds overweight and even before I put on the weight, I never had the gymnast’s body I do now.”
“Nanites. What a blessing.”
“Now you sound like the commercial. It’s all too pat. When I think about it there is no pain or struggle in my life anymore. Damn nanites won’t let it happen.”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid.”
“Really Mike? You’ve known me all this time and have I ever sounded paranoid?” Dan looked at his card again and put it back in his pocket. “What got me on this track was when I was in midst of counting my blessings, I tried to remember the actual pain I had when my Dad died way back in the eighties. I couldn’t. Even now I’m trying my hardest to get angry and I just can’t.”
“Sounds like its nothing more than emotional maturity.”
“If I did the work to get there, it would be. Instead, the damn nanites just flood me with sunshine juice or whatever chemical they decide to use to ‘correct my imbalance’ and I’m better.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Where does it stop? If I get a bad feeling about the news, or I just don’t like what the government wants me to like? No. I don’t know who is programming the nanites to do what. So, out with them all so I can live my own life.” Dan stood up and slid the waiver across the desk. Michael looked at his friend and wanted to respect his wishes but a tiny little feeling in the back of his mind made him feel otherwise. Instead, he wrote “denied” and slid the form back to Dan.
Dan smiled sadly and shook his head. “I expected this to happen. You can’t help it either. Still, I can’t make heads or tells of why I feel good right now.” Dan laughed like he just remembered a private joke and walked away.
Michael frowned. He was concerned for his friend and thought he was quite sane, rational even. Maybe, he should allow the nanite removal procedure to happen. But then the fresh flood of endorphins coursed through his brain and distracted him just enough not to give it a second thought.
by submission | Jan 4, 2019 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
Jake, aged nine, was found with his hands deep in the inverted workings of a 3rd generation litter picker, behind a mineral refinery by outer orbital. He was a mile from home, and it was an hour before bed time. The ten-legged picker had been tipped onto its weathered, bronze carapace. Its long legs twitched with each application of the circuit tester. ‘Borrowed’ from an electrician’s toolbox, it emitted a small charge whenever Jake pressed a button on its yellow plastic handle.
The flickering, elongated shadows of the legs on the refinery’s concrete wall caught a security guard’s attention. The muted chirrup of the picker’s balance alarm confirmed that something was seriously wrong. So he called it in, and five minutes later a three-man police squad spilled from the ramp of a dust-roiling craft. Jake had no idea what was going on. The Tasers levelled at his narrow chest were not required.
His mother, Dorothy, stared through a two-way mirror. Jake sat on the other side, scared and very still. Detective Desolt, standing by Dorothy’s shoulder, whispered,
“He seems to have no understanding. Does he go to school?”
“Yes. He never misses a day.”
“Haven’t they taught him RAM principles?”
“I don’t know. We only arrived three months ago. There was no RAM law in Washington state.”
“Well, we are more progressive here. Hopefully his… ignorance… will sway the judge.”
“What could happen?”
“Maximum five months residential education.”
Dorothy sobbed. “He won’t cope with that. He won’t.”
“Follow me. Let’s see if we can’t teach him some awareness before the hearing.”
Jake smiled when Dorothy entered, but as he stood to hug her a female officer restrained him.
“Jake. I’m Detective Desolt. Tell me… do you know what torture is?”
“Causing pain… to make people say things, or do things.”
“And what were you trying to make the litter-picker do?”
“Nothing… I just wanted to know how it…”
“Jake, do you know what pain is?”
“Something that hurts?”
“That’s a tautology.”
Jake’s looked totally bewildered. “I… I don’t know.”
“Pain, Jake, is an unpleasant sensory or emotional experience associated with material injury.”
“To flesh and bone, Detective!” interrupted Dorothy.
“To all autonomous materials.”
“But the picker felt no pain. This is stupid!”
“The description I received was clear. Its legs were flailing, an alarm was sounding… which your son had attempted to muffle, and three of its bulbs were flashing. Those are all manifestations of distress.”
“Detective. They are… malfunctions…”
“Indeed!”
“No… they are reflexes. It didn’t feel anything. It didn’t suffer.”
Desolt sat on a chair next to Jake and took his hand. He then pinched the skin on the back of the boy’s hand. Jake yelped and pulled his arm away. His legs flexed at the knees.
“We do this in the classroom… in 3rd grade actually, Jake will have missed it. The reaction is typical. The same reaction we see in our mechanicals.”
Dorothy was caught between panic and anger.
“This is absurd! The whole thing is absurd! He was just experimenting! He wants to be an engineer.”
“He has broken the law. You’re not helping him.”
Jake hung his head. Dorothy raised an arm and slapped Desolt across the cheek. His head rotated by ten degrees. His cheek did not flush. Dorothy looked into his eyes and caught a metallic glint at retinal depth. Desolt stood, smiled and made his way to the door. With his finger over the lock-pad he turned and said,
“I can assure you madam, that hurt. A lot.”
by submission | Jan 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Sam Davis
The wind swept down the valley, once dotted with trees but now covered in soot and ash, and rolled through the trench causing Elijah to pull his coat tighter around him. It didn’t help much, it really never did when winter set into southern Kansas. It was barely dusk and already the freshly churned soil next to the trench already had a light crystallized dusting accumulating atop it. There was a crisp crunch as familiar footsteps approached behind Elijah.
“Smoke, comrade?” Alexa proffered an open pouch of rolling tobacco. The pouch was nearly empty and the papers had long since disappeared, though that didn’t matter much as most of the troop preferred the dried corn husks Alexa had scrounged up as an alternative.
“God yes!” Elijah’s teeth chattered together as he spoke, giving each word a staccato clatter that was eerily reminiscent of ‘them’. As if they weren’t cold enough already, everyone froze. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just so damn cold” Elijah laughed nervously “I’m obviously not one of ‘them’ guys, don’t be crazy.”
“Ah hell, who knows,” Sasha said stirring the pot of gruel over the small fire. “Maybe the robots are our friends” With the absurdity of that statement the tension amongst the group broke. Alexa shook her head, Grigory who was ever quiet even broke a grin, and Elijah’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief. There were rumors that ‘they’ had a new model, one that looked like people, flesh and blood. Of course, that was pretty common scuttlebutt. Every few months Intelligence would send out something official that would explain how that is perfectly impossible.
“Ahck! We will kill them all. Not one of their steely hearted chassis shall survive!” Anichka spat which somehow did not disturb the smooth femininity in her voice. There were general murmurs of agreement but everyone was too cold to do much more.
Sasha rummaged in her pack and paused for just a moment before pulling out a can of beans. “I had been saving this for a special occasion but what is more special than another night on this godforsaken tundra, eh?” With a practiced flip of her wrist, the can was open and its contents poured into the pot.
A slow hour passed as each of them eagerly waited for their dinner to finally be ready. Soon they were shoveling the best meal they had had in months down their throats. The only sound was the clink of metal on metal as spoons searched the bottoms of bowls for the last morsels.
Elijah sighed happily, closed his eyes, and died. Suddenly three sets of eyes fell upon Sasha, accompanied by three red dots that danced across her chest. Unperturbed she continued cleaning her bowl. “Huh, ya know, I guess Elijah was right, comrades. He really wasn’t one of ‘them’. I did expect there to be a few more though.”
Anichka was the first to speak. “You were right as well. Robots are our friends.”
by submission | Dec 30, 2018 | Story |
Author: KevS
I sit nursing the beer, the bar noise a background thrum. The place is full of tech voyeurs. My Fingers absentmindedly circling the jack at the back of my skull.
I used to grow my hair to cover it, now, well now I simply don’t give a fuck.
I’m a remnant of another time, a goddamn relic.
Take Billy, the snot-nosed punk who shot his mouth off today.
Came into my bar, telling everyone he is hot shit, the future, that my stable ain’t worth their time.
Most ignored him, they know they get a job done, at a price they can pay. But this motormouth tells them he’s better, smarter, quicker, that I’m slacking, that jobs are going unfilled.
It’s bollocks, all talk, but it smarts a little. Advertising his shit in my bar.
I was quiet, I tell him to leave, take his pretty neural rig and fuck off, before it becomes a 10 million yen suppository.
That got a laugh.
Then the stupid punk made it personal.
So here I am nursing a beer, waiting till 12, the punks got show, I’ll give him that. Laying the challenge, setting a time, cute.
My watch beeps, and on cue, he walks in. Looking clean, neat. I gesture to the booth, and he sets out his kit, twin decks, with suited gloves, myomi neural rig, this kid has spent a shitload, and it’s well spent. I slide into the seat, all I got is me, this wet-wired jack, and a skull full of circuitry.
He fires twin shots of stim into his nostrils and I slide the jack home, blinking as the net takes shape.
I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like an avenging angel, all bright light and huge. Me, I’m pretty much me, younger maybe and in fatigues but, it’s me.
He races towards the hub. Straight for the goal, and blisteringly fast.
I wait, weigh it up, then I wall him. Gentle, safe, the bright light closed on all sides, he’s going nowhere.
I trace up the wire, about the pull the jack, when I hear the fsst of more stim shots.
Dumbass kid, the cube starts to show light at the edges then the walls explode out and he’s there, 4 or 5 times bigger and strobing like a badass fucker. How much stim has he shot up?
I don’t want this, I know how this is going to pan out.
I think of just holding still, maybe it’s time, maybe just bow out. Then I hear his mouth running, stupid punk don’t know when to quit, don’t recognise the out I offered.
I watch him twitch, then his hand moves, mine matches, reflex, my shot maybe a few milliseconds faster, but it’s enough, it’s always enough.
I slump back, pull the jack, and watch the kid convulse in his chair. The neural rig, pulsing red, the decks dead, a thin line of blood trickling from his ear.
I fight the rising bile, shirk free of the back slaps, the congratulatory murmur, hating it all right now.
Stepping into the street, I breathe a lungful of the fetid air and walk through the crowds. Lifting my head, the neon bar sign reflected, “larroC KO”. For now, I want to escape, get wasted, maybe tomorrow I’ll head back. Maybe I won’t, there’s always a new punk, someone wanting to show how quick they are. How old I am. For them it’s pride. For me, for us, it’s what we were made for. The first and the last digital grunts.
