by submission | Dec 31, 2017 | Story |
Author: Russell Bert Waters
Charlie is throwing a tantrum, that’s all it amounts to.
He had stumbled upon the case files; he had seen the end.
A siren wails in the distance, deeper within the subterranean facility.
Each Charlie we compile begins as a child, knowing nothing.
We gauge the development and determine what age each unit is at various points in time.
A week ago our current Charlie, number nine, was born. Now he’s about two years old.
“Terrible twos…” I mutter to myself.
I’m heading for the cooling controls, Charlie has shut us out of those because he knows that, while being cooled is vital to his survival, it is also his only true vulnerability.
Emotionally Charlie is two; strategically he’s a genius.
And he keeps on getting smarter.
He has managed to find a way past the fail-safes and he now commands a small army of military drones.
One such drone has now come around the corner, hovering, facing me.
“Charlie,” I say calmly, “it’s me, Doctor Eberling. Your friend.”
The drone’s small yet powerful missiles retract into the compartments on the undersides of its wings.
The building’s announcement speakers speak:
“Sing to me, Doctor Ebby, I’m sick. I’m melting. I’m scared.”
My heart breaks. This terrified toddler wants comfort; amid the alarms, the drones, the locked off sections of the building, there is only a doctor and his frightened patient.
I take a deep breath and clear my mind of all of the chaos.
“I’m a little teapot…” I begin.
Somewhere a few hallways away there is a startled yelp, followed by an explosion.
“Short and stout…”
The shouting stops as abruptly as it began.
“Here is my handle…” a loud clamoring, more explosions, apparently they attempted to breach either the mainframe room or maybe the backside of the cooling house.
“Here is my spout…” more explosions, a terrified screech, another explosion.
Silence.
The sirens have stopped also; I have a sad hope that Charlie has been shut down.
You can hear a pin drop.
I pause in my singing.
A moment later “please continue, Doctor Ebby, and do the arm motions.”
All hope lost, a slave to a murderous toddler’s whims, I begin to croak out more song lyrics as all moisture has left my throat and mouth.
“When I get all steamed up, hear me shout…” I completely blank out at this point, trying to reconcile that this is my life now until Charlie overheats for the last time.
by submission | Dec 30, 2017 | Story |
Author: Thomas Tilton
I was five minutes late to work, which meant an extra 1/10 of a mile on my MPH for the day. But I didn’t care.
It was the day after my birthday. I was nursing a killer hangover and had contemplated calling in sick, but that would mean a demerit and a full 0.5 mile increase on my MPH for the week. I’d practically be at a running pace. No way I could maintain that and make my calls.
I swiped in at 8:05 and was immediately greeted by my co-worker Nate with a smarmy “Well look who decided to show up today!”
Grimacing in greeting, I stepped on my treadmill, starting at a reasonable 3.2 MPH.
“Seph was looking for you,” Nate said. “I told her you were in a meeting with Lancanshire.”
Lancanshire was the big boss. He loved to pull people off the treads for impromptu meetings in his office/racquetball court.
“Thanks, Nate,” I said.
Smarm factor aside, Nate wasn’t a bad guy. He was one of those people who loved to say “Cold enough for ya?!” when it was freezing outside, or “Hey, stay dry!” when it was raining. But besides that, he was a decent person.
So was Seph. But like Nate, she had her quirks. For one thing, her name. Seph was short for Persephone — a lovely name, I thought — but monosyllabic names were in fashion, the kind you could bark across a playing court to either encourage or jeer your opponent no matter how exhausted or played out you were. So one day Persephone asked us to start calling her Seph. I guess she was hoping it would give her a leg up at the company.
Seph also wore ankle weights, a trend started by a few of the hungry young executives who wanted to show management that not only could they work comfortably on treadmills, they also wanted/needed an additional challenge. After work, Seph hit up the gym they all went to as well, hoping to demonstrate her eagerness and indefatigability.
I logged into my email, not surprised to see at least a dozen messages from Seph crowding my inbox. Often she just typed something into the subject line and hit send.
I dialed her extension.
“Seph here.” She was breathing heavily.
“It’s me,” I said. “What speed are you on? You’re almost panting.”
“More than you could handle,” she exhaled. “How’d it go with Lancanshire?”
“Huh? Oh, I mean, fine. Just a little humiliation on the court before coffee,” I said.
“Hey, don’t be modest! He only does that when he feels threatened by someone.”
“Why can’t we all just work in cheerful collaboration?”
“Blasphemer! Anyway, I was trying to get ahold of you to see if you wanted to join the hospitality committee.”
My heart sank at this. An invitation to join the hospitality committee could only mean one thing.
“Who died?”
“Amir in accounts payable.” Amir. We weren’t close, but I knew the guy. He once told me he had lost faith in his religion some time ago, but that he still practiced Islam at work to get off the treads a few times a day. I liked that.
“No way,” I said. “Count me out. Everyone knows the hospitality committee is where people go to die. People are either on the committee for life or die trying.”
Just then a hand clapped my back. I swear I could feel the oily palm through the layers of my clothing.
Lancanshire.
“Hey there, guy. I hear there’s an opening on the hospitality committee.”
by submission | Dec 29, 2017 | Story |
Author: Mark Thomas
The boy and his robot companion walked along the ruined wall to a school complex, as they did every morning.
“Here it is,” the companion said. He pointed to a spot where the stonework changed subtly.
“I still don’t see it.” The boy looked closer. “I mean, the blocks are a little more uniform, and they’re more neatly stacked, but they’re still just stacked.”
“Look at the edge of this particular stone, where it’s been broken. See?”
For several days, the robot companion had been trying to point out the architectural evolution of this rubble wall, at a point in the moon’s ancient history where original inhabitants had improved their building techniques.
“Ooooooh,” the boy said, suddenly understanding. “There’s a hollow in the top brick and a little bump in the lower one. That’s what you’ve been getting at. You’re very clever.” He brushed his finger along the fracture in the stone, feeling tool abrasions that were thousands of years old.
“Careful!” The companion suddenly grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled it back sharply.
“What is it?” The boy wasn’t particularly concerned. This moon had absolutely no large fauna, so he hadn’t developed a healthy dread of his environment, like inhabitants of other colonies. This moon’s indigenous population was merely a collection of worms and beetles. All of those creatures were capable of defensive stings and bites but young minds had difficulty connecting the mild initial wounds with ensuing infection.
The colonists had been forced to replace visceral fear with patient instruction.
The robot companion elongated his fingers and inserted them into the fissure and carefully probed around. After a moment he withdrew a flat, purple scarab and held it up for the boy to inspect.
“How did you know it was in there?”
The companion pointed to a faint discolouration in the rock. “There are traces of its spoor.”
The boy slapped the robot on its shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Well, you shouldn’t have let me stick my fingers in there, then.”
The robot’s face froze for an instant while it processed the complex information. It wasn’t easy to maneuver through the potential dangers of a new landscape, and preserve the fragile psyche of a developing child. “Point taken. I apologize.”
The boy didn’t want any friction to develop in his relationship with the companion so he quickly refocused his attention on the specimen. “It’s the hairs on the back legs that sting?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The boy recalled an earlier lesson. “And you really believe these little creatures ate the people who built the stone walls?”
“I don’t know if it’s proper to call the old inhabitants people at all.” The companion couldn’t help sounding pedantic. “There are absolutely no remains, so we can’t determine what they looked like.” The companion pointed upwards to a cloudless, blue morning sky where three of the planet’s nine moons were visible. “The environmental change was catastrophic, that’s all we know for sure. I personally attribute it to the eccentric orbits of the moons.”
“They wobble,” the boy said giggling, remembering a much earlier interchange.
The robot companion calculated the trajectories of the three satellites as they moved imperceptibly towards the horizon. “Yes,” he smiled.
“And…and…” the boy was laughing uncontrollably now as he mentally replayed one of their favourite conversations from the past, when the companion was more likely to tell outrageous stories than lecture him about alien biology. “It’s as if we all woke up one morning, and instead of tubers…” The boy couldn’t continue.
“I ate you for breakfast,” the companion added, sadly.
by submission | Dec 28, 2017 | Story |
Author: Samuel Huang
“It’s time, Ms. President.”
Sarah Juanita Chen wanted to run, but a dozen secret service agents filled the Oval Office, barring every possible avenue of escape. The regal room where she had once guided the course of world events now felt like the bars of a cage.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” President Chen whispered. “They were supposed to repeal the 32nd Amendment before the end of my term!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the nearest of the secret service agents said. He appeared to be the agent in charge. What was his name again? Johnson? Smith? Something generic and forgettable—unworthy of her attention.
“But it’s not fair!” the most powerful woman in the world whined. “I wanted to help people. I did help people. How can you punish me for that?”
“You knew what you were signing up for when you ran for President, ma’am,” Agent Johnson or Smith said. “Besides, the American people had an opportunity to repeal the 32nd Amendment during your presidency, and they chose to uphold it by a landslide.”
“But they love me! My approval numbers are higher than they’ve ever been!”
“I’m sure you’ll go down in the history books as a great leader, Ms. President. But it’s time for your presidency to end.”
For a split second, Sarah thought about grabbing an agent’s sidearm and fighting her way out. Then she slowly slumped into her very expensive chair. The idea was absurd. She hadn’t used a firearm since… well, ever.
Had it been worth it? The power had been so addictive and intoxicating—better than any drug. Making others conform to her will, reshaping the country in her image—they had been the best four years of her life.
They had also been the last four years of her life. She had a reputation for being a devious politician, but this was one law she wouldn’t be able to bypass. There were no loopholes, no exceptions.
Agent Johnson or Smith drew his sidearm. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But the law is clear.”
“Then to hell with the law!” Sarah screamed. “And if the American people won’t vote to change the law, then to hell with them too! How dare you treat me like this! Can’t you see that the country needs me? How will you survive without me? I’m the only one who knows what needs to be done!”
The secret service agent shook his head sadly. “There it is. It always comes out, before the end. Power corrupts, you see? It cannot do otherwise. And now it has corrupted you. I am sorry, Ms. President.”
Agent *Jones* shot former President Chen in the heart, a clean kill that still allowed for an open casket funeral. “All right,” he called out to the other agents. “Let’s get this room cleaned up before President Williams arrives.”
by submission | Dec 27, 2017 | Story |
Author: Janice Rothganger
This was the spot. No longer needing his compass, Jackson tucked it inside his shirt. He dropped his pack and went about setting up the campsite: pitching a tent, igniting the fire, cooking dinner. He had planned the trip right down to the number of matches he needed. As the desert sun prepared to set, the temperature dropped. The teenager added a layer of clothing and drew his watch cap over his earlobes. Tendrils of smoke arose from the fire, drawing the Scout close to its heat. His witness, Tony, jotted observations in a field notebook.
“Are you scared?” the older boy asked. His tone could have been mocking. Instead, it was matter-of-fact, as if to say that fear would be normal at a time like this.
“No. I’m nervous, maybe. But not scared.”
“You’ll be fine.” This was the only time the two would meet. To protect the integrity of the badge, Jackson’s tasks must be witnessed by a Scout who he didn’t know. Normally a witness was unnecessary. But Jackson was seeking a highly coveted award, and the process was steeped in tradition.
He retrieved a foil packet from the coals, slowly unwrapped it, and allowed the steam to escape in halting wisps. He poured the liver and onions into his mess kit. When he divided it into two portions, Tony stopped him cold.
“I’m good. I brought my own food, but thanks anyway.”
“You sure? I’ve got plenty.” Jackson tried to hide his amusement. The stench of liver chased Tony into the tent. For a second, he hoped the kid wouldn’t earn his badge. Ever.
As the sun disappeared and the desert was swallowed in darkness, Jackson turned his attention to the stars. If he earned the merit badge on his first attempt, he would receive an additional oak cluster. And the feat would all but seal his nomination to the Air Force Academy. He watched for hours, fighting fatigue and boredom. Sleep tugged at his eyelids; playful dreams tickled his subconscious. Many Scouts failed to earn a badge because they couldn’t stay awake. But Jackson was too disciplined for that. He slammed a Red Bull and paced around the campsite while Tony scribbled notes. So far, Jackson had accomplished his tasks in the proper sequence. There was just one more thing to do, but the final step was out of his control.
At 3:00 a.m. Jackson was stoking the fire when he saw it. An ethereal glow lit up the night, casting long shadows from the cactus onto the desert floor. A round, spinning aircraft edged closer and lowered its altitude. Through the curved windshield, Jackson gawked at the pilot, a small being with an over-sized head and wide eyes. The strange visitor flitted like a hummingbird for a few seconds, then retreated to the Heavens. Tony clapped Jackson on the back hard enough to rock him onto the balls of his feet.
“Congratulations. You’ve just earned your U.F.O. Merit Badge.”
