by submission | Apr 28, 2015 | Story |
Author : Sean Kavanagh
“Save me, save yourself,” the old man muttered, as he did every morning. There was nothing kindly in the sick old man’s words, and the nurse shuddered to hear them or to touch him. Behind her stood a phalanx of three doctors, all looked weary. They were supposed to work in shifts, but it was hard to sleep with this patient. The Final Patient, as the media had named him,
“There,” said the nurse after administering the last in an endless row of daily injections. She carefully backed away, afraid of the one hundred pound man in the bed, with his papery skin and wheezing breath. Death really did have an odour all its own. One of the doctors gave her a pat on the back. They were all in this together.
Literally.
From the dying old man, ran the usual web of tubes and drips. The contraptions that kept him alive, slowing his exit from the world, providing comfort. But there was a second layer of lines connected to his body: fibre optic cables that went out to the internet and from there to the world beyond. Millions of times a second they sent out signals about the old man’s health, letting servers and control panels on all the continents know he was still alive.
The old man had connected himself to the nerve centre of all the nuclear plants he owned around the globe. If he died, they went into deliberate meltdown, taking millions or billions with him. It was the ultimate incentive to science: keep me alive, cure me…or else. I die, you die.
They’d thought about cutting the connections, but the system would only interpret that as death and….well.
Over the months leaders, spiritual and secular, filed in, pleading for him to think again about this act of personal ego that he was committing against the world. He told them to leave – in case he died of boredom. The old man’s family had made the same plea, only to be written out of his will (a cruel joke as who wanted to inherit an irradiated empire of broken power plants?)
He lay dying, the threads of fibre gently counting down his demise.
In the fevered atmosphere of panic, organ donors became national heroes as they came forward to give the old man fresh meat to extend his life a little more. Their sacrifice noted and then forgotten as new ailments took hold. The doctors told the politician to expect the worst any day soon. The politicians told the people to expect good news any day soon. Hollywood worried whether DiCaprio was too young to play the dying old man in the upcoming film of his life and death.
And then the old man’s assistant appeared and whispered in his ear. The old man looked crestfallen. He beckoned the nearest doctor to him, whispered the release code, and allowed the cables to be removed.
His death would be his own.
“What happened?” asked the nurse as the assistant went to leave.
“His rival, Mr Lu in Shanghai is also gravely ill. Mr Lu’s office just announced that he has also connected himself to his nuclear plants. It’s a fashion thing with these rich now.” The assistant looked at his old, dying boss. “These rich guys always want to be the centre of attention, they hate to be the same as each other. “
by submission | Apr 27, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“Let’s fly to Oberon for fresh grub. Old Billy’s is good. That crusty Aborigine’s got odd ancient cuisine that’ll sharpen our palates. Maybe invite Ciers over. Missed him lately.”
Jensen Elbat corrected the freighter’s navigation towards Uranus, a sharp turn from their delivery path to the Kuiper Belt mining colonies.
“Shouldn’t take us too far off schedule. We can say we avoided hot magnetic zones that keep migrating near Neptune’s orbit. Forget Ciers, though; he died during hydrogen refueling near Titan last week.”
Jensen’s co-pilot, Crandall Shantz, raised the nuclear control rods as the freighter adjusted to new coordinates.
The ship’s two-seat shuttle craft left the freighter orbiting over the pock-marked moon. Jensen set down in the icy landing field outside a flashing, orange sign advertising Old Billy’s restaurant. They were the only visitors. Merchant travel crumbled in the outer zones after renewal of conflicts between Earth and Mars.
Once beyond the pressurized hatches of the eatery, Elbat and Shantz removed their spacesuit helmets. Shantz noticed drifting piles of gray moon dust near the entry left by previous guests. Inside were sterile blue walls of harshly back-lighted acrylic perforated with insets of orange cubbyholes constructed of soft plastic and rubbery compounds. Feeding tubes and electrical lines draped to these narrow chambers through the acrylic ceiling from where foods were artificially manufactured above them. Across from the alcoves was a massive sign reading, “If the food’s too tough…grow a pair.”
Billy appeared as a holographic display in front of his customers. The Aborigine was traditionally dressed with white face markings and a loin cloth, with a boomerang draped from his throat on a bright-red bandana. “Mr. Elbat, so glad to have you back. Long time. And your companion?”
“Co-pilot Shantz. New here. Surprise us. I know you can.”
“So glad to,” Billy replied, coming in and out of focus in the flickering display. “Especially with a new war on. You be sure to tell others I’m still open.”
“Always will,” Elbat returned. “So what’s today’s special?”
“We got roast iguana with kangaroo sauce, sautéed carrot juice and a dessert of baked dagoba seeds wrapped in albino koala skin.”
Elbat whistled. “Make that two. He can take it, and don’t hold back on the hot sauce. We’re on a long run to the Belt. We’ll need all the heat we can get.”
“Coming up. You go ahead and get connected and it’ll be out in a few.”
Shantz pointed up at the display. “This place is weird. Never heard of carrots. And what’s the sign all about?”
“Old Earth joke,” Elbat replied. “When humans still had teeth. Couldn’t chew? Then grow a new set of dentures. Nobody has had any teeth in a thousand years, or hair, since all the exposure to heavy metals and deep space radiation. Let’s move into the food bays. This is a pleasure you won’t forget. Wished Ciers could have joined us.”
The men wriggled into the slick walls of the waiting cavities. The materials vibrated, fitting tight to them as flavor probes connected to their thalamus inlet sockets on the back of their necks, inputting programmed odors and tastes for Old Billy’s menu choices. Feeding tubes hooked to valve stems on their throat stomas, allowing direct esophageal deposits. They closed their eyes in ecstasy as the gray gooey goop slid into them. They chomped open mouthed with pink, empty gums as saliva dribbled over the outside of their suits. Old Billy sang a sacred walkabout chant from a forgotten homeland to aid their digestion.
by submission | Apr 26, 2015 | Story |
Author : Piotr Swietlik
‘I told you we shouldn’t have…’ says Hun-Hunapu as the executioner slowly approaches.
‘Oh don’t be a wuss. You’ve seen the time progression’ replies Vucub Hunapu narrowing yellow eyes, identical to his twin brother’s. ‘We’ll get reincarnated and it will be us beheading them soon enough.’
He tries to point with a chin to the group of fantastically shaped individuals who just cheated them in the traditional ball game, but the guard twists his arms further, limiting his movements completely. There is no source of light here, yet the executioner’s blade still manages to flash ominously.
‘Not that soon. And besides‘ ads Hun-Hunapu with a clear disappointment in his voice ‘the time progression shows you’ll be using my head as a ball!’
‘We can swap during the death-phase’ offers his brother.
‘Yeah… Still, it’s not your head that will be buried under the play field. You always get the better incarnations.’
‘Not so.’
‘No? And who did get to be Kain? And that time in the north, when you insisted I would be better incarnation of Balder?’
‘But…’
‘I can’t even think of eating venison or sausage after that unfortunate thing with Prometheus and don’t even get me started on our venture into Egypt. I still have nightmares of being dismembered.’
‘At least you got to spend a night with Isis, while I had to make do with Horus.’
Hun-Hunapu’s reply is highly unequivocal and completely non-verbal.
‘Look’ says Vucub Hunapu conciliatory ‘we both lose our heads this time and I promise you, we’ll swap places on the next one.’
‘Fine, just remember I…’ Hun-Hunapu never finishes as his head falls, lifeless, to the dark dust of the lowermost layer of Xibalba.
‘Cross my heart…’ mutters Vucub just before his head follows.
by submission | Apr 25, 2015 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
I am programmed to destroy the invaders’ outpost by pushing a hidden button on my exoscreen that is surrounded by artificial hair. While probing the captured alien’s centralized core, my masters discovered the invaders seem to trust a particular creature. I was reprogrammed into that image. I am repulsed by my disguise and must continually readjust that rejection. I cannot permit myself to think about anything except pushing that button.
But first, I must infiltrate their defensive sentries. I approach them filled with revulsion, but pretend friendliness. I cower and lower myself to the ground to scrape my belly as I crawl toward the sentry on the left. I’m programmed to wave a tail and to whimper. I want to fight the programming but continue to imitate the alien’s creature.
“Hey, look at the dog,” he says to his partner. “Here, fellow, don’t be afraid.” He reaches his hand toward my face. And I do not bite him, as he rubs behind my synthetic ears. Wait—why does that feel good?
“Watch it, Roy,” his partner says. “He might bite.” I force my gaze to shift to the partner, and whine. “What’s he doing here?” I don’t like the partner. He could ruin the plan.
“Jeff had a dog stowed away in the ship. Maybe when he was taken, the dog was also but escaped.” Roy’s fingers continue to rub my neck and back. I reach up to his hands for more. “He’s probably hungry and thirsty.”
The partner approaches me and I stifle a growl. A growl? I push against Roy. I feel myself lifted up and cuddled against his chest. Cuddled?
“In a couple of digits, when Ivan and John relieve us, I’m taking him inside. I’ll explain it to the captain and we can all share him. Maybe he can help us somehow with these recalcitrant aliens.” Roy hesitates, then says, “Maybe he can bring us a bit of home.” I pant and smile. Smile? Roy’s warmth feels good. I search my programming and cannot find out why.
I’m carried inside.
I am surrounded by warmth and soft words. I rest beside Roy. And now I cannot permit myself to think about anything except that button. Continually I search my programming for a way to dismantle it.
His fingers are too close to its hiding place.
by submission | Apr 24, 2015 | Story |
Author : Lee S. Hawke
Cxx61 stares down at the knife embedded hilt-deep in his chest. It’s so cold. Without thinking, he takes a breath, then stutter-shrieks in pain as his muscles shift and contract around the blade, shredding himself from within. He has no measure for how much this hurts. His body shakes and spits and coughs, trying to live.
The man in front of him, his murderer, watches him dying with a polite smile. “I’m going to cut you open,” he says quietly. He reaches towards the hilt of the blade. Cxx61 feels it before he hears the horrible ripping sound. Flesh and meat part and he screams and screams.
Bizarrely, his last thought is that the blood staining his clothes and pooling around his dead body doesn’t feel quite right.
#
Cxx61 startles awake. He looks down. He’s in military gear, and he knows through force of habit that if he touches his cheeks they will come away flaked with camouflage paint. He looks up, expecting to see his team around him, but he is alone in an empty clearing that shouts target.
The déjà vu hits him like a train. It’s so quiet. There’s nothing but the sound of his harsh breathing and the peaceful wind. He hears a whisper of leaves and before he can think he’s bolted. Dirt and decayed matter scud underneath his feet, his breath comes in short gasps that stings through his side. He knows in the marrow of his bones that he is being followed, and that knowledge consumes his brain until he doesn’t even remember his name, he just remembers the feeling of dying, over and over and over again.
He trips and staggers. The sharp whine of a bullet passes his ear and he throws himself flat on the ground. The impact is like a crowbar to the ribs, and he has a horrible feeling he’s died like that before as well, beaten to death in a back alley.ˇ
The almost-but-not-quite memory has him up and sprinting again. Moments later, he hears another high-pitched scream and then his legs collapse from underneath him. He feels the horrifying, nerve-burning pain that tells him his spine has been severed.
Soft footsteps on the grass. A boot kicks into his side and rolls him onto his back. He looks up through the dirt and blood and agony and his murderer is there, the same as ever, face so plain as to be anonymous, smiling that polite, self-satisfied smile.
The man kneels down by his side like a minister. “I’m going to slit your throat from ear to ear, you pathetic bitch.”
And he does.
#
A body lies comatose on a government table. A squat, branded computer watches over him, occasionally flickering with pre-programmed code. Thin wires connect to his brain, and his eyes are covered in strands of sheathed electricity. Occasionally, the fingers twitch and there is a faint hitch in the breathing, almost a moan, but then it slides back into the regular rhythm of sleep.
One of his onlookers crunches into an apple. Juice flecks off onto her police badge, and she wipes it off absentmindedly. “How much longer, do you think?” she asks conversationally.
Beside her, a man shakes his shaved head. Patches of smooth, charged fabric flex and sigh and mould themselves tighter to his skull. He looks at the screen and its light flickers against his face. “His log has 676 recorded instances of death threats, 1239 rape threats,” he says. He smiles politely. “I’d say this is going to take all day.”
