by submission | Jul 6, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Valeria knocks down Devis and scores. The 10-year-old girl then stands over the boy and laughs.
“Your daughter plays to win,” Enzo, captain of the Noah 500 says to Valeria’s father. “I like that.”
Later that day, Valeria is having supper with her parents. “Don’t play with your food, Sweetie,” her mother says. “We don’t get vegetables from the hydro garden that often.”
“I hate fresh food,” Valeria replies. “Can’t we have replicated?”
“Please eat up,” Valeria’s father says. “I don’t want to be late for the next installment of The Evolution and Devolution of Earth. I’m sure there’ll be a crowd.”
“I don’t wanna go.”
“Learn all you can about Earth, Sweetie,” Valeria’s mother says. “It’s where you’re from.”
“You’re from earth. I’m from the Noah 500.” Valeria crushes a carrot with her fork. “Never even seen earth,” she mutters.
***
“Congratulations, Valeria,” Captain Enzo says. You’re the first in the entire evacuation fleet to make ensign at 17.” The captain turns to Devis. “Maybe next time, son.”
***
“I’m glad you could have supper with me, Sweetie,” Valeria’s mother says. “Since you moved into your own quarters, meals are terribly lonely.” She sighs. “I miss your father. I always hoped I’d live long enough to make it to NewEarth. Now I don’t really care.” She places a plate in front of Valeria and frowns. “No more fresh the rest of the trip. Who would want to sabotage the ship’s hydro garden?”
“I broke up with Devis.”
“Why? You were a lovely couple.”
“I shouldn’t be with an ensign now that I’m a lieutenant … Mmm, this is delicious.”
***
“Congratulations, Valeria.” The years quiver through Captain Enzo’s hands as he pins another star on Valeria’s collar. “Your parents would’ve been proud.” The captain turns to Devis. “Sorry, Lieutenant, but there can be only one commander.”
“Yes, Sir,” Devis says. “I understand.”
The captain leaves the bridge.
“Commander, a word?” Devis says.
“I’m busy, Lieutenant. Be quick.”
“There’s discontent among the shipborn,” Devis whispers. “The captain’s too old. All the earthlings are. If you … make a move, we’ll follow you.”
***
A white-haired man in a lush garden appears on the viewscreen. “Captain Enzo, finally you’re in range. I’m Dr. Arpad, NewEarth Board of Governors. We’re looking forward to your arrival next month. You’ll love it here.” Dr. Arpad drones on about how wonderful NewEarth is. As he talks, two coal-black horses lope past him. Finally, he motions to a young man who’s been standing silently at his side. “I suggest Braoin and your commander begin coordinating the logistics of your arrival.”
Dr. Arpad and Captain Enzo excuse themselves.
“Is NewEarth really so great?” Valeria asks.
Braoin looks around then speaks quietly. “It’s horrible. Nothing but fresh food.” He sneezes. “Flowers everywhere … Ow! Damn bee … And every kind of creature imaginable since Noahs 200-300 arrived. I wish I’d never gotten off of 150.” Braoin’s shoulders slump. “I so miss falling asleep to the soft rumble of engines, the way the gravgens tickled the soles of my feet.” He closes his eyes.
Valeria does the same.
***
Captain Enzo draws his weapon, but Valeria easily slaps it away. “Change of plans, Captain.” She nods to Devis. “Tell the shipborn to move now,” Valeria says.
Devis reaches for his communicator, then stops. “First, there’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” He steps menacingly toward Enzo, but suddenly turns and snatches Valeria’s weapon from her.
“Please resume command, Captain Enzo,” Devis says. “I’ll escort this traitor to the brig.”
by submission | Jul 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
She danced across the living room in a yellow sundress, her heels tapping to flamenco on the smoky hardwood. It was Charlie’s favorite outfit–the one he’d gotten her for their anniversary. Her hips swayed like magic, he thought.
“So what’s playing at the Cineplex?” he managed with a tepid grin. “We should catch a flick for date night.”
She paused for just a beat: “Casablanca at 8:15. It’s a classic!”
“And then, I was thinking,” his lip quivering a bit, “maybe dinner at D’Amico’s. You love that place…”
“Two for one cocktails during happy hour, and wine is half off!” she shouted back mid-spin.
He was leaning against the mantelpiece for support now. His bloodshot eyes surveyed the room–dark, sunken sockets finally turning to hers.
“Sarah…did it hurt?”
The music stopped. Silence lingered while she stared vacantly into space, head slightly tilted.
“Sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
And then a smile blossomed wide across her cheeks. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Charlie staggered onto the couch and sent a pile of empty Buds tumbling across the carpet. The SureComfort cushion folded tight around his gut.
He blinked three times to switch off his retinal patch and the woman vanished.
But when he closed his eyes once more, her fuzzy outline still swam in his vision. It was the photon afterburn; a constellation of brilliant points that persisted for a few minutes after shutting down the implant.
Charlie didn’t mind it. He fell deep into the cushion, meditating on the shape of his wife until sleep took him.
by submission | Jul 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Roger Ley
‘I’m sorry, Darling but I’m just not in the mood,’ said Martin Riley. ‘I’m nearly seventy and you can’t expect me to have the same enthusiasm I had when we first met.’
‘I did not mean to upset you, Martin,’ said Mary. ‘I do not wish to put pressure on you sexually.’
‘Look, Mary, I think we need to make an appointment to see Peter Abrahams again. He can probably sort this out quite quickly.’
‘If you say so, Martin.’
A few days later the couple arrived at the Bellmer Clinic. Martin left Mary in the waiting room while he discussed their problems with Peter Abrahams.
‘So, you feel Mary is too easily aroused?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she sometimes wants to have sex when we’re out walking or at the cinema. She isn’t insistent but she constantly takes the lead, then seems hurt when I refuse her. Quite honestly, since Estella died I’ve only wanted companionship, some help with housework and cooking – sex is the least of my interests.’
‘Well, it’s easily fixed,’ said Abrahams. ‘I see her “arousal threshold” is set much too low. Probably the last auto update. I’ll raise it by what, fifty percent?’
‘Make that sixty. Come to think of it she told me she’d had an overnight upgrade a few weeks ago. Things haven’t been the same since.’
Abrahams moved one of the on-screen slider bars. ‘Would you like me to switch off “auto-initiation,” that way you would always be the one to make the first move? I can set a level for random “auto-refusal” if you like. That way she’ll say “no” sometimes, but I can tick the “persuadable” box so you can still talk her into it. What level of “resistance” would you like, there are three grades?’
‘Let’s not complicate things, set it so we have sex when I want and she just agrees.’
‘Do you have any special requirements as to the more “unusual” sexual practices? You know I’m bound by client confidentiality legislation?’
‘No, nothing like that, I’m a vanilla man.’
‘So, is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Riley?’
‘She keeps offering to feed me foreign foods and vegetarian stuff. These days I want good old-fashioned meals like fish and chips, sausage and mash, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh yes, I see her “recipe index” is set to “Mediterranean” I’ll reset that to “British.” ’
‘And can you stop her from moving the furniture around while I’m out, she keeps rearranging the pictures and then suggesting the house needs redecorating.’
‘Okay, that’s the “local environment sensitivity” slider, I can reduce it’
***
In the waiting room, Mary sat next to a bot whose owner was in another consulting room. Her lissom figure, almond eyes and long, shiny, black hair contrasted with his rugged, Anglo Saxon features.
‘Hello, my name is Patrick, I am a Hoffman mark 3.7M. I can give you my software upgrade revision number if you wish.’
‘Hello Patrick, my name is Mary, I am a Hoffman mark 3.8F. I do not wish to know your software revision number. Do you like the colour of the walls in this room?’
‘I’m sorry Mary, I do not understand the question.’
They sat in silence for a few seconds. ‘Would you like to have sex?’ she asked.
‘Yes, if you like.’
A few minutes later, the door to Peter Abrahams office opened and Martin Riley came out. ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’ he shouted.
Abrahams looked up. ‘Oh, her “fidelity” tick box is unchecked, it must be the upgrade, it’s supposed to be ticked by default. I’ve initiated an immediate re-boot, Mr. Riley, but I’m afraid it will take several minutes. Can I offer you some refreshment?’
Martin looked at the naked, now motionless lovers locked in an intimate embrace on the floor of the waiting room and sighed.
‘This is going to take more than a cup of tea and a biscuit to put right,’ he said.
by submission | Jul 2, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
How much is enough? When is it time… for the end?
She’s just a reporter. This is just an interview.
I knew the world, of course, before there were any such things.
My name is Hanois Brutale. I’m immortal.
“I feel like… a passive god. I have observed the human race throughout a great deal of its lifespan. Yet I did not create it. And I have done little to affect it.”
“But don’t you have thousands — tens of thousands — of descendants living today? Walking the Earth with your blood inside of them?”
I answer in the affirmative, but say no more upon the subject. If, eventually, there is more of me in the world than anyone else, who is to say that the future will be better off? I gave up the role of tyrant long ago. Telling individuals what to do is tiresome. Telling entire nations is exhausting.
My immortality came as an accident. That is what I now believe. The world, via this reporter, can believe whatever it wants. Science fiction. Mutation. Divine intervention. When you have forever to entertain yourself, all possibilities can be made to exist eventually.
In other words, everything that can happen, does.
“I have lived every life I could. There are no more options.”
“That’s… inconceivable,” she says.
So I tell her about a dozen of them. Briefly.
I don’t tell her that I’m her father.
Someday, if I keep going, I’ll be everyone’s father.
No one ever inherits my immortality, though.
“A parent watches a child die. This is a tragedy. Multiply it by a dozen, this is madness. By a million, this is meaningless. So has all human suffering become to me.”
She comprehends the emotional logic of my statement, but that is all. No one forgives a heart grown cold for any reason.
Finally, we come around to the key point of my confessions. The will to live.
“What makes you, after thousands of years, ready to die?”
She has it backwards, of course.
“Death is no decision, child. Life is the decision. We live because we will ourselves to live. We die only when we stop making this decision.”
“Are you bored, then, with life?”
“Let’s just say I’ve grown insatiably curious with another subject.”
“Which is?”
“What comes after.”
“Something you’ve never been able to find out.”
“This is true.”
“How much longer have you decided to live?”
“No more than a millennium or two.”
She asks more questions, but they are all irrelevant. I have no proof she is my daughter, except that I have learned to recognize myself in others. It is nothing I can explain. I simply know.
She thanks me and departs my castle. I think about existence. So short for them; seemingly eternal for me. Yet I am still human. So I can still weep, when the mood strikes.
END
by submission | Jul 1, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Despite what Detective Bouchard still believes, I did not kill Cassandra Gibbons. I didn’t kill her two years ago, and I sure as hell didn’t kill her again this morning.
Cassandra was a physicist and a postdoctoral renegade who was obsessed with all things quantum. Schrodinger’s cat required no imagination, she’d say. Live cat or dead cat. What about vanished cat? What about a mutated cat with one eye that looked like a small pumpkin and a paw that squirmed like a millipede? What about that cat!
Her paper, “The Topology of Unknowable Surfaces,” branded her forever as fringe. “Every box-like volume might contain nothing or anything at any time T,” she wrote. “A microwave, a refrigerator, a trash can with a lid, the trunk of every car. Nothing or anything.”
That’s why, while I was shocked to find a body in the trunk of my car this morning, I wasn’t surprised that it was her body. Even before I peeled back the tarp, I knew who it was. One shot through the heart. No decay. She was killed recently. My only thought was that if Detective Bouchard paid me one of his monthly visits today, I’d be screwed.
I didn’t waste any time theorizing about the two-year gap, because Cassandra’s experiments to “turn Schrodinger’s cat up to eleven” had these kinds of side effects. Whenever something truly bizarre would happen, she would laugh and refer to herself as the girl who accidentally broke the Multiverse. But in the end, I guess she forgot that her laboratory was just a box inside a larger box. I was there the night she vanished. That, plus the fact we’d been dating, was why the cops wanted to pin her murder on me.
So, I sent an email to my boss, claiming a stomach bug, grabbed a shovel from the toolshed, and hopped in the car. I knew just the place. My grandparents had a cabin that they’d all but deserted. It was surrounded by acres of forest. I took a dirt road to a random clearing, closed my eyes, pointed with the shovel, and walked to a random spot. I sunk the shovel into the dirt and hit something.
It didn’t feel like rock or roots. I kept digging until I revealed a body wrapped in a tarp. This couldn’t be happening, I told myself. How? I held my breath and looked under the plastic. It was Cassandra. Quite decayed, possibly two years worth, but her. On her chest was a mini-cassette recorder. I picked it up and pressed play.
“If you’re listening to this,” my own voice said, “you must be wondering what’s going on. Forget the bodies for a second. There is something you need to know. Cassandra wasn’t the only one affected that night two years ago. You disappeared from that world as well and have been traveling ever since. You probably never noticed. The transfer usually happens in your sleep.
“The good news is that the best minds in the Multiverse are working on the problem. The bad news is that until they repair the damage Cassandra did, there will be more bodies, there will be more police detectives, and there will be less real estate for unmarked graves.
“And one more thing. If you come across a Cassandra that’s still alive, do your best to keep her that way. Those “best minds” I mentioned have more than a few questions for her.”
The tape hissed to static and clicked off.
I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and reached for the shovel.
