by submission | Jun 18, 2016 | Story |
Author : Kristin Kirby
I caught him in my arms as the others ran for safety in the shelters. The fires began to die around us. I sat on the ground and held him while the sliver rays took their inevitable toll. An agonizing way to go, the rays. They moved fast and deadly through your insides–too fast and too many to remove or repair.
“Did it…work?” He could barely rasp out the words.
“Yes, you did it.” I swiped tears from my eyes so he wouldn’t see them. “Everyone made it.”
He nodded, relieved. The snow fell in light, cold whispers that melted to nothing. It made promises we all needed to believe: more seasons, more time.
“Remember…” he started, and then he was racked with coughing.
I grasped his hand. Mine shook badly. “Yes?”
“Remember our drive…in the mountains?”
I nodded. It had been last fall, a warm day with only the hint of chill. We’d met the month before, new recruits unsure of how bad the invasion would become.
On a day leave, our last, we’d changed into civilian clothes, run through the rain to his solar truck, then driven east toward the snowcapped mountains. Only an hour from the city, the highway had risen higher, the towns had become smaller, and the rain had stopped.
We’d seen a bald eagle high in a fir tree, and when we’d driven past, it had flown up, great, dark wings arching and white head dipping as it glided over the nearby river.
“Wouldn’t it be great to move up here,” he’d said. “See, this is something real, something you can touch. There’s an eagle. There’s the river. There are mountains. Concrete things, beautiful things. Not like death. That’s a concept. You can’t see it or touch it. It only becomes real in the absence of something.”
He hadn’t talked about it before–the impending war and what it might cost us. Driving on, he’d looked steadily at the road and become silent. I’d taken his hand and he’d squeezed mine back, and we’d found a motel, and when we had undressed and come together, his body had been warm and relaxed and strong.
“This is real,” he’d said, our eyes locked, his hand on my face.
By that evening when we’d returned to the barracks, our orders were waiting for us.
“I remember,” I said softly. I smiled and put my forehead against his cheek. So many things to say, and now they’d be lost. “I remember.”
I felt his face contract. A smile of love, I hoped, and not a grimace of pain from the sliver rays. I pulled away to look. It was neither–a twist of his mouth. Regret. Sorrow.
“Sorry for…being stupid,” he said.
“No, don’t. You saved–”
“We should’ve had a…lifetime.”
He coughed again, hard, blood at his lips. It would happen now. I would lose him.
I held his face and willed my hands to be steady. In the moment my eyes met his, we lived a thousand years. Ten thousand. Still not enough, but they would have to do.
“I’m here,” I said. “I won’t let go.”
I felt his warm skin. The rough sleeve of his uniform. The ground beneath us, safe for now. These were real, concrete things. You could touch them. Goodbye was a concept. It only became real in the absence of something. Of someone.
He closed his eyes. I sat with him. Bombs went off in the distance, but I heard only the whispers of the falling snow.
by submission | Jun 17, 2016 | Story |
Author : Carter Lee
Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts.
Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering ‘stroke’ and ‘weak heart’ and ‘just waiting’; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head…
Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt… amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise.
Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing.
He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning… but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose…
“Are you awake?”
The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper.
“Are you awake? Answer, please.”
“Y…yes…” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper.
“State your name.”
“My… I’m… Keith. Keith Samuels.”
“Keith Gordon Samuels?”
“Y… yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap.
“Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror…” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels’ mind.
“You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
by submission | Jun 15, 2016 | Story |
Author : John Carroll
The killer whale that I had dubbed Aster and the robotic companion dolphins that he was chasing erupted into view, flashing across the length of the viewing window and back out of our field of vision so quickly that by the time Maria could squeak with surprise they were already gone again. I felt Elizabeth shiver involuntarily.
The sleek robots, guided by my mind, led Aster back into view. He noticed us then, drifting toward the screen and turning over several times. He began to paddle lazily back and forth across the fortified plastic wall. Kashvi thought that now he seemed more like a gigantic panda bear than the fierce column of predatory might we had witnessed moments before.
“Extremely charismatic, isn’t he?” I said. “It’s little wonder Orcas saturated the mythology of indigenous coastal cultures for centuries.”
Aster was very close now, close enough for us to see the thin surgical scar on his eyespot that proved he was a co-pilot.
“Many of our passengers were disturbed to think that Aster would be joining your ranks as a co-pilot,” I continued. “Many remain ignorant when it comes to the android/co-pilot relationship. It’s still widely believed that each co-pilot needs to understand the physics of the voyage. Of course, I did not select Aster for his mathematics credentials. In fact, he will probably play a relatively small role in this expedition compared to the four of you. But his brain lends an invaluable perspective.”
Behind Aster, his silvery playmates danced around each other in elegant helixes, waiting mindlessly for Aster to re-engage them.
“Orcas are human-like in a number of ways. Like a human, Aster is usually the most intelligent organism in the room. Orcas have culture, dialect, self-awareness, and wonderful problem solving skills. Like humans, Orcas are the undisputed rulers of their domain. It was not a challenge to integrate Aster into a computer system designed for human brains. But what attracted me to Aster were the parts of him that make him a wild animal. Up until the moment of his capture, survival for Aster was a repeated process of throwing himself headfirst into the apparatus of his ecosystem and wrestling the life force from another creature.”
Far back in the tank, a scarlet plume of fish guts splashed into the water, deposited by Aster’s automated feeding system, and billowed into a gory inverted mushroom cloud. Aster turned tail immediately and jetted away from us, the scent of lunch in his hypersensitive nostrils.
“Aster’s brain is on a wavelength that I, as an android, am only beginning to imagine,” I said, almost whispering. “My self-preservation programming is a hollow imitation of a survival instinct like Aster’s. To guide this ship to an adjacent universe with the same physical constants as our own, I know without doubt that I’ll need to call upon a mind more primal than my own vat-grown, code-laden brain. That’s where Aster will come in. In the face of extinction and loss of habitat, human beings have quickly learned that they need to return to that wavelength, to re-activate dormant instincts and fight brutally for their lives. The ship that we stand within now is a testament to that. I myself was born of this resurgent instinct. But you and I both have more to learn from Aster before this storm is past.”
I turned from the tank to face the four of them. Through Mark’s eyes I saw blue ripples dancing across my face.
Aster devoured his meal in the far distance.
by submission | Jun 14, 2016 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The sound of the ship’s klaxons faded over a span of a minute.
“Air pressure is at zero, Captain,” Ramirez heard a female voice say in south Vietnamese accented English from the speakers of his space helmet. “We’re in hard vacuum throughout the vessel.”
Typical Consortium tactic, thought Ramirez. Having the crew don spacesuits before the engagement was the right decision. Ramirez looked at the twelve men and women whose faces showed fear and despair emerging from a thinning facade of courage and determination.
“They’ll be boarding the Juneau any minute,” said Ramirez. He was surprised at how even his voice sounded given the fear he felt. “McKinney, rig the reactor to blow. Be sure to take out both the primary and secondary coolant systems. Novikova, weld as many of the hard point contacts around the reactor as you can so the Consortium won’t be able to jettison the reactor before it detonates. Hurry!”
The two ran down the corridor.
“Captain, in case your bluff to destroy the ship doesn’t work, I suggest we take up defensive positions in the–”
“I’m not bluffing, Nguyen. We are destroying the ship. That’s why we’re leaving. Now.”
The captain led the crew to the nearest airlock and began cycling the chamber.
“Go to camo mode as you emerge. And follow me,” said the captain.
The spacesuited figures became all but invisible as they floated out the airlock. The surfaces of their spacesuits were covered with countless microscopic cameras and projectors. Any given surface displayed an image of what the microcameras on the opposite side of the suit was seeing. After three minutes, they reached the Consortium ship’s port stardrive impeller.
“Iqbal, can you hack into this ship’s sensor net?”
“From the outside, Captain? I don’t think so. If we could get inside and I could establish a direct connection to their intranet, then maybe.”
“What if you could plug into their communication array?”
Iqbal consider the idea. “Their com-array to their quantum entanglement switch to their main metaprocessor and then access the sensor net. Roundabout way to do it, but it would work. But without that direct connection…”
Iqbal fell silent as he saw Ramirez pointing at a thin rod that jutted out from the impeller’s housing. A secondary hyperwave antenna. Iqbal smiled.
“Engine’s sabotaged, Captain,” said a voice in Ramirez’ helmet. “She’ll go in about ten minutes.”
“Abandon ship. Go camo and meet us at the enemy vessel’s port impeller.” Ramirez turned back to Iqbal. “Go!”
Seven minutes later, a dozen men and women watched Iqbal furiously tapping at the control panel on the left forearm of his spacesuit from which a data-cable extended to the base of the hyperwave antenna.
With a tired voice, Iqbal said, “It’s done. They think their port impeller is about to go singularity. They’re abandoning ship.” Thirty seconds later: “Internal sensors show no one’s on board. They’re all either on our ship or en route there.”
“Iqbal, quickly!” said Ramirez looking back at his doomed vessel. “We’ve only got a few seconds until–”
Before the captain could finish his sentence the Juneau appeared to recede into the distance until it could no longer be seen. A few seconds later a new star seemed to flare momentarily in the heavens.
“I switched on the impeller drive for 50 nanoseconds,” said Iqbal. “We were close enough to the ship to be inside the field’s inertial reference frame.”
“Muy simpatico, Iqbal,” said Ramirez with a smile. “How about opening an airlock?”
“One minute, please, Captain”. Nguyen was burning “Juneau II” into the hull with her sidearm.
by submission | Jun 13, 2016 | Story |
Author : David Henson
Mom’s holo-image comes into focus in the viewbox. “Johnny, I’m glad you contacted us. You have to talk to your father.”
“Everything OK? Where is he?” He’s usually next to her at the table when we talk.
“He’s been popping in and out all day with that darn teleportation ring you sent us.”
“I said it’d be better if you’d wait till I came over and gave you a few pointers.”
“Well, you know your father. He — Oh! –” Dad is suddenly sitting beside Mom.
“Hi, Son,” he says. “Thanks.” He touches the band on his finger, then puts his arm around Mom. “Martha, you have to see the pyramids. But be careful. Wait till the camel lurches three times before you climb down from it. Son, you should’ve got us two so we could travel together.”
“Well, Dad they aren’t cheap. They –” He’s gone. I absent-mindedly wave my hand at something tickling my ear. “Dad! You can’t go around startling people like that.”
“Sorry, Son, couldn’t resist.”
“Please. Pop back home and take the ring off. I’ll be there in a few days.”
“Will do, but I’ve got one more stop first. Great Wall’s on my bucket list.”
Dad, please just go back home and –” Never mind.
I turn back to the viewbox. Mom is shaking her head. “See what I mean,” she says.
“I should never’ve sent it to you ahead of time. I guess he’ll be there after China.”
“This is unbelievable, Johnny.”
“I know. I –”
“No, I mean it’s really unbelievable. You know those simulated reality rings you gave us for Christmas. I think I’m stuck in SimReal and just don’t realize it.”
“No, Mom. You’re not in SimReal. Look at your hand. You don’t even have your SimRing on.”
“Well, I wouldn’t if I didn’t put it on in SimReal this morning, would I? That doesn’t mean–”
Suddenly Dad is crying out in a muffled voice: “Help! Help! I materialized in the wall.”
“My God,” Mom shouts. “Johnny, what should I do?”
Before I can tell her about the ring’s built-in safety features, I see Dad in the background coming round the corner talking with his hand up to his mouth. “Studs! Drywall! How do I get out?” he says as he sits next to my Mom.
“That’s not funny” she says, then starts to laugh.
“All right, Dad. Off with the ring.”
“OK, OK.” Dad pulls off the ring and lays it on the table in front of them. Just then my wife yells to me that it’s time to leave. I turn and ask her to give me a couple of minutes. When I look back at the viewbox, the ring is gone…and so is Mom.
“Dad, did she–”
“Pyramids, son, pyramids.”
“Promise me that when she gets back, you’ll put the ring in the box.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Dad says with a salute. Then he gets a serious look on his face. “Son, your mom and I have been wondering if all this is real. Even before this teleportation business. Now…” his voice trails off.
“Dad, Mom and I went through that. We –” Dad’s image flickers as he taps his viewbox.
“Feels solid,” Dad says to himself. “But then everything in SimReal feels pretty authentic, too.”
“We’re not in SimReal, Dad.”
“How can you be so sure.Teleporting all over with a ring. You have to admit, it’d be easier to pull off in SimReal than real real.”
“We –”
“John, please,” my wife calls out from the kitchen.
“Dad, I have to leave. I promise you this is all real,” I say. “Talk to you later.” I turn off the viewbox, hesitate, tap it a few times and go.
.
