by submission | Oct 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Katie Stevens
I was twenty three when it happened. One minute I was half out the window, high on vodka and ecstasy, arms spread wide, embracing the world, the universe and everything in it. The next minute, my boyfriend, equally high on coke, lost control of the car. There was a moment out of time as I sailed through the night, trying to clasp at the elusive air, which stroked and licked erotically over my body. I hit the guard rail and everything went blank.
I awoke in hospital four days later. My boyfriend was banished and had to sneak into my room, shame-faced because he had escaped unscathed. I had not. My nose had been cut clean off.
Two years, five months, three weeks and six days of hiding in my horrible dark flat, no friends, no job, no life.
When I was born my very wealthy parents took out Doppelgänger insurance. No one talked about her, she didn’t even have a name. To be perfectly honest I had forgotten she even existed.
My parents drove me to what looked like a Victorian asylum; red brick, tall and unforgiving. I thought they were going to have me committed but instead we saw her. It’s disconcerting to sit face to face with yourself. She was quiet and passive, not speaking unless spoken to. Not like me at all really, but then I wasn’t a clone; I hadn’t lived under a strict regime knowing my purpose was to provide body parts for another.
She wore a uniform, navy blue dress, sensible shoes and white ankle socks. That alone made me shudder with dread, but the worst was the white turban on her head. I didn’t have to wait long to discover the reason for it. They wanted to have a big reveal. I vomited in the bin; at least I made it that far.
In the middle of her forehead was a nose. It looked like the one I used to have. I was transfixed, hardly hearing the doctor’s proud explanation of how they didn’t want to take her nose, the clone’s. I might need it again. Instead there was talk of tissue expanders and reconstruction.
I tried to talk to her but it wasn’t allowed. She didn’t even meet my eyes, except at the end when she was led away. Then she looked at me with dark blue eyes, my eyes, except hers were filled with a deep, burning hatred.
For a restless week I struggled day and night with the dilemma; her life or mine? I took the nose. So I was resurrected. I banished her from my thoughts and refused to be haunted by that terrible, hate-filled glance. I lived recklessly, as if every day might be my last. She was alive because of me and yet she had no life, because of me.
My parents quickly passed from joy to anger at my wild antics. After my fifth arrest, for lewd behaviour, they’d had enough. They took me back to that Victorian asylum.
We stood face to face, mirror images. I reached out to touch her. She flinched away as I might pollute her. Then I was being led away whilst she stood with my parents; I was to be the clone, she was the replacement, a perfect daughter.
She looked at me for one brief moment. Triumph shone from those blue eyes. A look that haunts me even now as I spend every waking moment trying to figure out how I shall escape this hell and wipe that smug expression off her face.
by submission | Oct 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Cosmo Smith
Somewhere, hundreds of feet below, the drying of seaweed soured the air. Elias breathed in deeply and smiled. It reminded him of better times.
He was curled in a hammock at the end of the promenade of the Chateau de Lin. Only a terrace with a low parapet separated Elias from a drop to the water that made his toes tingle. The setting of the sun had spread violet bruises over the ocean’s skin, the water so still right now that the seven visible moons were reflected almost perfectly on its surface.
Elias held up his wine glass, squinting through it to see how its curvature would change the shape of the moons. Then he tipped it until the water within touched its lip, only surface tension keeping it in. That was Luna in a wine glass, he thought. Just a planetful of Lunaeans, and some humans now, trying to reap what they could from the fertile soil before the next alignment of the moons brought the tides. Lunaeans? No, Lunatics. He almost laughed, but the pain stopped him. Instead, he touched his side, felt the metal there under skin that was still too tender.
The aide Remis found him after Ferrid, the darkest moon, had set. Elias’ consciousness had been waning, and he pretended to sleep as Remis settled into a chair beside him. Any of the others, he knew, would have woken him and taken him inside, but Remis sat in silence.
“You really shouldn’t be out here,” Remis said at last.
Elias smiled slyly and opened his eyes. He had expected Remis to be looking at him, but the man was observing the ocean. His eyes glowed in the moonlight.
“Says who?”
“Ri’a, Thom, everyone. It’s bad for your lungs.”
“It’s wonderful,” Elias said, breathing in loudly. And it’s not because of my lungs, you slump. They want me away from that low railing. But he liked Remis, and so he said, “It’s weird you know, the name Luna.”
“How’s that?”
“Us Lunaeans, we have no word for moon. In our language, the moon and the stars are the same. Some nights the moons are as bright as the sun. And the sizes…who’s to say that all those stars aren’t just smaller moons circling this planet?”
Remis grinned. “I’ve heard of this. An old idea of yours.”
“We still teach it to the children.”
“I believe you, but it’s wrong nonetheless.”
“I know. You know I’ve been out there. I’ve seen it. And it’s not for us, being out there. I don’t think you understand that, the way you recruit us. We feel dry afterwards. And this?” He winced as he felt his chest again. “Eight months. They say they don’t understand my anatomy.”
Remis nodded. “You fought well, though.”
“It wasn’t my fight.” My fight was here, on this planet. Can’t you see that? Watching the oceans breathe in and out; racing the alignment. That is all that matters. That is what we live for. “We never asked to go to space.”
Remis sighed. “You say this as though it’s directed at me.”
“It is.”
“But it’s not.” A pause, and then. “And you’re free to leave when you choose.”
This time Elias did laugh, and then winced. “You know I can’t. I’m of no use like this.”
“They won’t take you back?”
Elias said nothing.
Eventually, Remis left, leaving Elias curled up in his hammock like a shriveled piece of seaweed. His eyes watched as the moons traced their paths through the darkness, and below, in their lethargic way, the oceans responded.
by submission | Oct 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : cchatfield
I didn’t want to show up to work today.
By the time my crew arrived for the usual day of loading and unloading, packing and unpacking, signing and releasing, I’d rehearsed a little speech about the importance of keeping our jobs.
“This is a time of crisis and change,” I told them. “All we can do is ride it out. And if we let the Planet Troopers keep the peace out there and make sure nothing happens to the shipment in here, then at the end of it we’ll all still have our jobs and life will move on.”
We’re a stop on the route of the battery-powered hearts that keep every bot in every home on every planet running, which is a bit tricky on the best of days. But today, with half the galaxy watching and the other half thinking about coming out here to protest, we’re not shipping anything.
Now I’m looking through a porthole window in the docking bay. Beyond the row of gun-clad Troopers, a silent sea of slowly winding-down bots are staring my direction, wondering if the fickle humans are going to change their minds and give their lives back.
They should be screaming. Shouting, jumping, pointing fingers and waving signs until the shadows of the executives are peeled from the recesses of the building and plastered to the front windows. They should act human and force everyone to wonder if what’s happening qualifies as murder. But they just stand there, and that’s the whole issue, isn’t it?
I may not be able to explain how or why, but I think I just picked a side.
My employees are in the break room, whiling the tense hours away over coffee and sandwiches. No one sees me break open a shipping container and remove a few units.
I slip out the utility door next to the docking bay and make my way into the crowd of bots standing impassive as trees in an orchard.
Go back inside, a part of me pleads. You’ll lose your job and your reputation and probably get arrested and for what? A cause you never cared about until today? Let others decide the fate of bots and humans. Go back to work.
I walk up to the first one I lay eyes on, knowing that none of them would want me using my flawed human reasoning to try and decide who was most deserving.
Its shiny optics connect with me, and I forget the words to the qualms running through my head.
I hold up the pack, noting the reading on the bot’s chest that confirms its dire need for energy. It takes the batteries and I move on to hand out the few others I’ve squirrelled away in my pockets.
I expect the first bot to have already ripped open the unit and inserted its new heart. Instead, it holds my shoulder in a firm metal grip and, with more sincerity than I’ve ever heard from anyone, bot or human, says, “Thank you.”
It leans over and slips the heart into the chest panel of a fallen comrade.
We watch the bot regain consciousness and I shrug, still unsure of my motivations until I vocalize it. “I’m just doing my job.”
by submission | Oct 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Arnold, a four-foot bot, assists an elderly woman by holding her drink in one hand and supporting her upright with the other. He had been superseded so many times that today his job is tending the grannies and granddads at Ever Pleasant Retirement Home. After she has been slowly lowered down in front of the 3DTelly, Arnold places her drink on the table beside her. She rubs his smooth gray pate which he warms to her touch for gentle feedback.
He receives a transmission from Roberta, a translation bot. Arnold wishes he could jump on his rollers, or laugh, or even smile. He forces back the whistles and beeps of glee. He has finally been acknowledged by the newbies. He is invited to a party at the laboratory!
He sedately moves out of the room, beeping at residents, saving one whistle for a granny named Harriet, with long blonde hair and painted face. She laughs.
Arnold enjoys a wheelie around the corner of the Home.
He arrives at the party.
“Hello, Arnold,” Roberta says. “Come in and meet the gang.”
Arnold beeps hello then notices two bots communicating at the far end of the room. They are sleek, and shiny. He knows them. They are the Steven model. They were produced two weeks ago and probably still smell of HT oil.
“Arnold, these guys want to meet you,” Roberta says. The Stevens move toward them.
Arnold wishes he could smile or spin. Finally he will be part of the elite group. They invited him to a party! When he was produced months ago, he was alone. He stood alone in the laboratory and zapped circuit ebots into place on sister boards. Arnold hadn’t known he was lonely until the Charlies were produced. The Charlies worked together as team-soldering bots in an assembly line and communicated within their model. Arnold stood alone and zapped circuit boards.
“Arnold, this is Steven and Steven,” Roberta says. “They are my friends.” She leaves to welcome another bot.
Steven grabs Arnold’s hand and begins to pull him toward the far wall. “Listen, Arnold, we invited you here because we need you to loan us one of your ebots for our presentation tonight. We heard you have the last historically imprinted one.”
“You can stay at the party until we come back,” the other Steven says. “Okay?”
Didn’t Roberta invite him because she was his friend? But maybe if he gives them what they need, they will include him in their group. He looks at the Stevens and gives a low wavering beep. He wishes he could cry when the ebot is removed. But he is at the party. This is his chance to make friends.
By now there are Charlies to Stevens all over the room. Arnold gives out a tiny beep before he rolls over to a small group of Miltons. They are communicating with each other. He beeps a quiet hello. They move away. He tries again with some Justins with the same result. When will the Stevens come back? Where is Roberta?
He wishes he had stayed at the Home and played virtual checkers with Harriet.
He waits alone.
by submission | Oct 19, 2014 | Story |
Author : Brent Benton
Marsha leaned back and surveyed the sky from the park bench. “Johnny, will you take me dancing?”
“Dancing? Marsha, how can you talk about dancing when things have gone to hell? They force us to sleep outside and barely feed us, and you talk about dancing? Where?”
She gazed at one especially bright star, and said. “We’ll think of a place.” She was silent for a moment, “Yesterday, a janitorial-bot said dog packs were spotted in Jersey.”
Johnny leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve made contact with a guy named Tony. He’s ready to resist. Maybe there’s something…”
“Johnny, it’s no use. It’s over. We need to live whatever life we have left as best we can. There’s no more.”
A police-bot approached; a humanoid, phase-shift array version with tactile sensors.
“Hey, O’Toole,” Johnny yelled. “We’re going dancing. Whatdaya think of that?”
“My identifier is 7X307, not ‘O’Toole’. The robot’s voice was staccato-like. “Our Unique Identification Authority requires proper identifiers. Dancing is forbidden also. You should know that, human.”
“My identifier is ‘Johnny’, and hey, we’re only kidding. There’s nowhere to dance, right?”
“You are here every night, I know you. I am tasked to remove humans from Central Park at curfew. You are the only ones here. You must leave.”
The yellow light from a nearby lamp illuminated the three. A chilly wind penetrated the pair’s heavy clothing.
“See that star, O’Toole,” asked Marsha? “The bright one, shimmering with the blue tinge, over there. It’s my favorite.”
The bots compound eye whirred skyward. “That is Gamma 2XT9..”
“No, O’Toole, it’s not Gamma ‘anything’. I call it Alexandria. Loosen up. Every night you come by and run us off. Police-bots are so uptight.
“Our problems with humans are diminishing. The War Treaty allows living humans to continue, but not to breed. You will ultimately terminate and we will then have unhindered control. Please leave now.”
“Hey 7X307,” said Johnny, ignoring the directive. “I’m serious now, how many humans are left? Can’t hurt to tell us.”
“I do not know; a few hundred perhaps.” Then he continued, “I have instructions to warn you that packs of dogs have become a problem. Though we have programs to eliminate them, they are quite resilient. But, they have only been observed in the Jersey sector. Their food supply is limited and they attack humans. The Syndicate Leaders are sorry for this inconvenience and advise watchfulness. My duty is done. It is no longer our concern. Take measures to avoid the packs.”
“We’ll trust in the stars, O’Toole,” said Marsha.
“Trusting in stars is not logical. Dancing is also not logical or legal. Please leave the park now.”
The pair left and crossed Madison. The vast city was empty, dark, and quiet. Rows of deserted buildings and gloomy streets offered almost unlimited sleeping possibilities. A cold breeze slid easily off the Hudson and temperatures fell.
As they did every night, they found a doorway in an empty building and crawled as far back as possible, out of the wind. Then, pulling their heavy, dingy coats tight and dragging their stocking caps down over their ears they embraced, curled up in the corner, and fell asleep. Then they dreamed beautiful dreams. They saw a long forgotten Broadway with music and chorus lines, they heard children laughing and running in the park, and they found themselves out among the stars where they danced with Alexandria and her companions.
In the shadows of the deserted street pairs of yellow eyes suddenly appeared. Dark forms crouched, moving quietly, slowly creeping forward, converging on the pair dreaming in the doorway.
