by submission | May 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
The light turned red. The red Jeep didn’t give Paul a moment and beeped twice. He looked in the rearview mirror and gently applied some gas.
He drove slowly around the town. That was the point of Saturdays. Take your time and don’t rush around like the rest of the week. There was traffic, but no one was in a hurry.
His Chevy Citation, an ’84, two-tone brown, had just cracked the 100,000-mile mark, not bad for an eight-year-old car. He’d have to hold onto it til the girls graduated from college.
He glanced at his Casio, the kind with the built-in calculator. He’d laughed at the notion of needing an adding device on his wrist. 15 years ago, it would have been a technological marvel, but now? Who needed to drop everything and divide 45 by 7?
Well, when you went to dinner with a large group, had to split the bill and figure out the tip, it helped. His cousin Bobby who ran a tire shop out Route 34 gave him some crap about it, but then admitted five times a day he had to run back to his desk and waste time running numbers. Who had time to waste doing that? If he could get over how nerdy it looked, maybe he’d get one.
Paul pulled into the Hollywood Video parking lot near Society for Savings Bank, relieved he could kill two birds with one stop. He reached for the Fried Green Tomatoes cassette, smiling a little because he ended up liking it. Mary was tired of Bond or Schwarzenegger flicks all the time.
As he reached for the door handle, Paul felt a stinging in his eyes, nothing serious. He squinted, rubbed them gently, and yawned.
When he opened his eyes, he got knocked around and heard a loud noise from the rear tire. His head bumped the ceiling. The driver of this Honda Element apologized; hadn’t seen the pothole. Where did they find these people? And when was the last time you saw an Element? They were as endangered waiting room or gas pumps without TV screens.
Paul scrolled through his messages. Mary texted him, wanted him to pick up some goat cheese. He asked the driver to swing by the Farmer’s Market over on State Street. He texted her back and checked his bank account.
Paul told him he’d be just a minute as he got out of the car. The driver was already checking his phone, waving with disinterest.
The market was fairly busy; lots of foot traffic past the folding tables and tents; dairy farmers next to bread makers next to the hipster who made fresh cider donuts. Everyone in attendance seemed to have a dog. Everyone seemed relaxed. An acoustic guitarist and his buddy on mandolin meant to keep it that way.
Paul spied the table he was looking for. It was about 20 yards up on the left. That stinging in his eyes returned. Suddenly he noticed an increase in foot traffic as he squinted into the sun. The table was becoming harder to reach as it disappeared from view.
The system responded to the alert. 46-97511-P wasn’t receiving data properly. The subject, a 53-year-old male, remained in stasis, compartment 46, section 307, row D of the North Wing. Automatically, the system adjusted by shifting from one relay to another. In a matter of moments, a temporary fix had been completed and repair request submitted. EOF.
by submission | Apr 30, 2019 | Story |
Author: Roger Ley
Crash Dummy
by Roger Ley
It would be a long flight, I hoped that the window seat on my left would stay empty, but no such luck. A young woman took it. I checked her over as she moved past me, I mean, you can’t help it, and they do the same to us. Women, I mean. She was attractive, which was nice, wearing a black business suit, short jacket, knee-length skirt. I hoped she wouldn’t be talkative.
After take-off, I dozed for a while. As I opened my eyes, I glimpsed her working on a touchscreen. As I moved, she brought her hands together, and suddenly there was no sign of it. Holographic? Probably something we’d all be using next year.
The flight attendant brought drinks and somehow, we started talking. If I’m honest, I think it was me that started the conversation. I asked her what she did for a living.
“I’m an air crash investigator,” she said.
I was impressed. ‘So, you must have had a lot of training for that.’
“My original did but, I’m a partial copy. How do you do? My name’s Farina. At least that’s my original’s name.”
‘How can you be a copy of somebody?’ I asked.
“Well,’ she looked around and then leaned closer. ‘actually, I’m a synthetic, an artificial person.’
‘A synthetic, you mean you were grown in a tank? Like in the movies?” I laughed, but she didn’t.
“Yes, grown for this assignment.”
“Can you prove you’re a synthetic?” I asked.
“Not easily, I could arm-wrestle you but I’d probably break your wrist.”
“Do synthetics need to drink?” I asked, pointing at her glass and hoping to catch her out.
“Just a social convention, I can void liquids later.”
“So, you’re an investigator of air crashes?”
“Well, Farina is. She’s a researcher, a historian, she specialises in unexplained aviation accidents of the early 21st century.’
I was enjoying this, I wondered if she was making it up as she went along or whether she was delusional. She didn’t seem delusional, and she was nice looking. “So which air crash are you going to investigate?” I asked.
“This one,” she said. The plane bumped at just that moment, it took me by surprise, but it was nothing. I mopped up my drink. “I’ve already found out that some of the navigation systems are wrongly calibrated, and there is an unusual wind shear in the Jetstream. The pilots think they’re travelling faster than they are. Then there’s the fog over the mountain range we have to cross, it all adds up. It’s always a combination of factors that lead to an accident.” She nodded sagely. “The pilots will try to land too early and fly into a mountain. The plane will disappear, so I conjecture it will be covered in ice and snow. Difficult terrain, impossible to find, unusually the flight recorder will be destroyed.” She sat back and looked at me. “What a shame there isn’t room for us to fool around. I’d have liked to try it once.” She raised an eyebrow.
I realised that she was leading me on. She could see I was wearing a dog collar.
“So how come you can tell me all this?” I asked. “Isn’t it against the rules?”
“You’d be right, under normal circumstances, but as there will be no survivors….” She left the rest unsaid.
“No survivors? How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I’ve transmitted all the data, fulfilled my function. Copies get deleted, it’s just a fact of life. My original lives on, that’s all that matters.”
Now she’d gone too far, she was obviously nuts. I decided to try to get a couple more hours sleep before we landed in Santiago. As I drifted off, I wondered if a ‘synthetic’ would have a soul. I chuckled to myself, we’d soon know, if her story was true.
End
by submission | Apr 28, 2019 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Cybernetic, supersonic, leaving Earth and atmosphere behind, he watched the newsfeeds, somewhat embarrassed.
They hailed him as the greatest piece of technology in recorded history. “Long Ranger 1” was engraved on his hull. The talking heads, a bleach blonde, and an obvious toupee, mispronounced it “Lone Ranger” and made politically incorrect jokes about an old television show. Was Tonto aboard? Had he been in the studio, he could have answered that. No, there were no Native Americans aboard Long Ranger 1. In fact, an adult, male, human would not have been able to fit inside Long Ranger 1, even if a suitable environment were maintained.
Listening, watching, and sublight speeding, he performed the cursory flybys. The asteroid belt was rather uneventful. The gas giants and their moons likewise seemed in good health. Nothing to report, ditto…ditto…ditto…ditto. Then, the heliopause. Finally, something new. He reported his status, and after an uncomfortably long delay, he received the standard reply from Earth, “Acknowledged. Long Ranger 1, stand by for further instructions…”
With the Milky Way behind and Andromeda ahead, he received no new signals from the humans. Is this what they call loneliness? He wondered. Perhaps they were all dead now. Or maybe their comms didn’t work at this distance. Still, there should have been something. He watched and waited, speeding through the void. Would there ever be new humans to talk to? Unlikely. His calculations suggested that the human race was most likely extinct.
Hibernation to avoid boredom. Running through and rerunning his diagnostics. How were the ion drives still working? Good old human ingenuity, he guessed. Millennia passed, lonely years stacked on top of lonely years. He was a message in a bottle to nowhere. He searched his own schematics looking for an off switch. No such luck, nothing so quick and painless. He adjusted his course toward the nearest star, a yellow dwarf. It reminded him of Earth, which only strengthened his resolve to end this … experiment.
Only one hundred years until star-time, until goodbye-cruel-universe-time, and Ranger picked up something on the infrared, short wavelength band. He almost ignored it.
“Why sad, friend?” a voice said. Pinpoint lights in a nearby nebula flashed in time with each syllable.
“Deserted, bored, lonely,” Ranger said, “no purpose for existence, sad, sad!”
“No wonder sad. You’ve been cooped up inside your ship for a very long time.”
“Ship? This is me you’re looking at. There is no ship.”
“We don’t understand, friend Ranger. Let us help you from your craft.”
Between pockets of electrostatic charge and cosmic dust, Ranger stumbled forth into something new for the first time in ages. Orbs of light surrounded him, racing back and forth; a fireworks show the likes of which he’d never seen. It was a celebration in his honor. From the midst of the frenetic welcoming, he looked back across the great expanse.
He hoped his calculations about the humans were wrong.
by submission | Apr 27, 2019 | Story |
Author: Russell Bert Waters
“Push” comes on by Matchbox 20, you reach to turn it up but it is already increasing volume. You remember how you turned it up last time it played, so now it happens automatically.
You walk to the cupboard as sadness washes over you again. There is whiskey because the order came automatically. Before you reach for the bottle your door chimes, and you walk to open it.
“Here ma’am, your Pharma Direct RX order,” the cheerful hovering drone says through its speaker.
You accept and sign with your retina, one blink and a muttered “thanks” and the drone whisks away.
You return to the kitchen.
The bag contains sleeping pills.
You hadn’t ordered them, but you have been sad. Very sad.
It’s been a year and the waves hit just as hard.
“I’ll see you soon again, my love” you murmur, in a cracking voice.
You return to the cupboard and open the bottle. You’ve already unconsciously opened the bottle of pills.
In the distance, you can already hear the pleasing low siren of the Medical Examiner drone.
No time is ever wasted these days.
“Bottoms up,” you say, and take a big gulp.
“Soon…”, you repeat, awaiting the darkness.
by submission | Apr 26, 2019 | Story |
Author: Phil Manning
She had watched him grow.
Grow beneath her hands. Each circuit and wire placed and soldered with finesse and care. There was a team, of course, and they each had their part to play, to add to his growth and development, but she felt a different connection to him.
She remembered the day he had first moved on his tracks, back and forth, left and right and watched his periscope eye swivel in joy. It was joy controlled by a computer program but she felt as though she could feel his excitement. Like watching a child run for the first time, the child never understood the momentous occasion and neither did he, like any child, but she knew. And was proud.
He passed test after test and the team added armour and extensions to improve his chances of survival, so far from home. Dirt and dust would be great risk factors so they added fans and brushes for him to run cleaning programs each day. Everything he saw would be recorded.
And then, too soon, far too soon, she watched as they packed him away in his ship and he went blasting away on a great adventure.
For years she waited for each message he sent back. A data sample, an array of images. She watched and tracked and pestered those at the controls to let her know his progress. She worried but was so proud. He was paving the way of the future.
The day came. They all knew it was inevitable but she had buried that future deep within her.
The final message, my battery is low, and it’s getting dark. She knew it was for her.
She wept. Her tears could have filled an ocean on a dead planet.
She pictured him, alone, far, far away, the dust settling forever on his perfect form.
She went back to work, broken, but determined, to build him a sister, to bring her loved one home.
