by submission | May 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I was having trouble with my rotator cuff again. “Shouldn’t have bought that cheap snap in online sweety” the spouse says. I just grumble and nod. She’s 100% correct of course, but what’s a guy to do? The cheap part offered free same day delivery. Can’t just let my arm hang. Can’t go for any interviews not able to plug in any tool sets. There are still shops out there who can’t afford the new tech yet and we’re in their price range. Pick us up at huge discount. It wasn’t always like this. Hell, until the company went belly up we were rolling in it. Yeah, especially in the early days.
I remember the intake briefing as if it were yesterday. Become a Augmented Flexible Technician- a “snapper.” Agree to the surgery, have an arm replaced with the company prosthetic and then make an ungodly amount of money. Need more folk on the floor? Snap out the “everyday” arm and snap in the basic tool set. Need some folk for more skilled work? Get trained up, snap in the specialized tool set and good to go. Need more help in assembling nano parts? Suit up in your whites, go through the clean room process, snap in a new set, and pretty soon you’re cranking out one-of-a-kind specialized chip sets, making buckets of bit coin. Oh yeah, with this job, me and the wife, the kids, we had it all. Health care, dental, a second home, new car every other year, college funds, IRAs, the works.
Then the company folded up.
Then snap tech became obsolete.
And here I am now. My arm looks OK. If I didn’t tell you I was a snapper you might not notice… until you got close. Some of us have twitches & tremors. Some have nerve reactions so violent it’s like the snap arm is shadow boxing and the body is just along for the ride. Some just leave the arm off, but the nerve pain is excruciating. I tried it for a while and couldn’t take it. I am no stranger to pain- was wounded in the Moon Base Revolt, gen-u-ine purple heart recipient. I’d rather get shot a few more times than leave my arm off. Yeah, that bad. That’s why a lot of us drink.
So, we don’t fit in, and the government won’t pay for the upgrades to get us anywhere near normal, so its bargain basement augments to keep going, keep us functional.
But some of us have figured out a work around. Real arms. Bonafide human body parts. I’ve been part of group that “liberates” limbs from the crematorium. Matched, re-attached and goodbye snap outs! Get a few tattoos to cover the scars and no one is the wiser. A big difference. So why not just get one for myself?
Well, someone has to do the re-attachment work and that’s this guy. Snap in a set of reattachment tools (my own hack,) and the cash rolls in. Paid off our mortgage. Paid off the kids college debt. Got us back a beach house.
But I have to keep up appearances. Go on job interviews. Meet with the counselors. Go to the demonstrations, whatever it takes to look downtrodden and angry. The wife thinks it’s hilarious the way I go back and forth- to the support group and then the off-the-books clinic. She wonders how I do it.
It’s easy. Just one more thing to snap in to do the job.
by submission | May 15, 2025 | Story |
Author: Francesco Levato
The end of the world was fast, like a ruptured heart, a laceration tearing ventricles apart, flooding the chest cavity with one final gout. It rained actual blood for weeks after, and muscle fiber, and an oily substance like rendered fat. In the space of a gasp two thirds of the population bloated, then burst into red meaty clouds.
What followed was expected: the collapse of power grids, hoarding of resources, brutal enclaves of survivors scavenging the remains.
I lost faith in our ability to show compassion long before the end. Back then I often thought about how to survive, how to find joy when your circumstances were dictated by someone else, when being other made your skin twitch in even the most mundane situations, like waiting for the man in front to spit his anger on you for not smiling more, rather than the barista for not having a goddamn normal cup of coffee on the menu.
I found preparing food to be an escape, a meditation, and in this world having a skill meant survival, meant being allowed to live, at least as long as you remained useful. I could lose myself in the nothingness of peeling garlic, of cutting an onion just so, through the stem to avoid any more tears. I learned which herbs and spices stayed with the body, that garlic and onion would exude from the pores, curry and cumin as well, that fenugreek passed through the skin still smelling of maple syrup.
Garlic and onions grew well enough, the end wasn’t environmental. The soil was still good, and seasonal fires cleared the way for new growth, returned nutrients to the soil. Spices were more difficult to acquire, the old stores had mostly run out and no new means of production had been developed. They were a sign of power, as much as not having your ribs jutting through paper-thin skin. Spices said you could afford to eat, that you could indulge in flavors meant to stimulate your palate rather than mask the rot of whatever meat you managed to scavenge.
The master of my enclave favored fenugreek, the maple syrup smell reminded him of Saturday morning cartoons and the pancakes his mom made—her apology for working evenings, and for the tv dinners she left him alone with, for the flavorless gray of their Salisbury steaks. The master preferred his meat well-seasoned, and considerably fresher.
There was an art to the preparation of meat, it wasn’t enough to make a ground pepper and salt rub. Herbs and spices needed to suffuse it, their aroma as important as their imprint on the tongue. They needed to be ingested a day before the meal, and in sufficient quantity to overcome the stench of fear when exuded from the meat’s pores and sweat glands.
Tomorrow evening’s meal was important. It would be the ultimate test of my skill and of how well I had trained my apprentices. I watched as they peeled the garlic, careful not to bruise it. I approved of how they ground the fenugreek, just enough to release its aroma without reducing it to powder. And as they cut onions, I wiped tears from my eyes, even though theirs remained dry. In preparation, I ingested the herbs and spices throughout the day. I would not have the last meal I prepared be flavorless, and though I was no longer young, my meat would not be gray. My only concern was that my apprentices had the strength to tie me securely enough to the master’s dining table—he didn’t like his meat thrashing about.
by submission | May 14, 2025 | Story |
Author: KM Brunner
Nora didn’t mean to yell. She knew better than to make noise in the city. First rule of running: keep quiet.
So her question, “Where were you?!”, desperate and sharp in the stillness of the Park Street station, startled both of them. Mac winced at its echo, echo.
Early on she assumed they’d stick together, but Mac’s recklessness and resignation must’ve burnt the conscience out of his head. He winced at her voice and turned away, like he couldn’t bear to answer her question.
Nora heard heavy footsteps on the station stairs and knew they were made by stiff leather boots. She should’ve been frightened but she mostly felt disgusted. She wouldn’t have sold him out, mother or not.
And she thought Mac knew better than to lick a boot, but he took after his father. Nora sighed at his back and watched his bony shoulders start to shake. The boots closed in, steps loud as hooves.
by submission | May 13, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Carson knew they were being watched. Quiet in this part of the city was for the birds. Days earlier, he’d been wishing for the damn things to shut up. Now they’d gone silent and the ominous hush made his skin crawl.
“What are they up to?” he hissed to Klebeck squatting under a punched out window. Her boots ground broken glass as she swiveled to face Carson.
Even behind the heavy wire mesh of her faceplate, Carson could see her toothy grin. “They’re figuring out how to surround us and then peck our sorry asses into bird feed.”
“Jesus, Irene, give it a rest. The death and doom scenario doesn’t do much for morale.”
Klebeck swung the double-barreled shotgun across her chest and glowered. “I’m Ire, as in permanently pissed off. You got that, soldier boy, or do you need some lead up your tight ass to remember? And that ain’t a scenario, that’s our fuckin’ reality!”
Carson turned and scooted low across the abandoned factory floor to check in with Flores. His brief exchange with Klebeck caused him to, once again, consider which bothered him more: dealing with his own race or the damn crowbots. At least the crowbots stuck together. Not that crowbots had a choice. That’s how they’d been programmed. It’s what made them so effective and so dangerous.
Flores was dismantling old HVAC equipment when Carson found him. “It’ll never be enough. They always find a way past our armor.”
Flores flashed a grim smile, but even that was welcome to Carson. “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ve stopped plenty of their attacks. They’re not smart.”
“But they’re coordinated,” Carson countered. “They communicate so well. It’s like they see the whole city with one eye. One mind.”
“That’s how they were designed. Much cheaper than building aerial drones. Much cheaper to implant living crows and program their behavior. The idea was sublime.”
Carson grunted in disgust. “That’s because you helped develop them for Special Ops. That’s how it always is. A bureaucratic decision. The simplicity, the cost effectiveness. And if anyone argued, ‘What happens if one of our enemies takes control of the systems that control the crowbots?’ the brass would say, ‘Impossible! We have a fail safe. Redundant systems. A giant kill-switch Igor will pull if the monster gets loose!’”
Flores nodded. “Carson, you are part philosopher. Yet, a true philosopher doesn’t believe in irony—even the cosmic variety. That’s why this bothers you. The creation turning on its creator. It eats at you, but that’s the essence of existence. Life must feed.”
“That’s our problem,” Carson retorted. “We each feed on different things. You think the crowbots are a work of art. Klebeck thinks they’re the doom we deserve. And I’m just a hapless philosopher without a cosmic sense of humor. We’ve got to work together to wipe out these damn things. How do we get everyone on board?”
Unperturbed, Flores picked up another piece of metal. “We must feed them,” he offered.
“What are you talking about?”
“We must be like the crowbots. Feed on the same information. We must be able to see with one eye and one mind. The crowbots are sublime. We can be too. It will only cost us our individuality.”
“Sounds like you’re the fucking philosopher here, Flores. So, then what’s the point of all this fighting?”
“Life.”
“But life without freedom isn’t worth living.”
“You know that isn’t true, Carson. A false choice. Our DNA commands us otherwise. I helped create the crowbots. Their way could be our way: to meld consciousness.”
“To become thralls?”
“To be One Mind.”
A shotgun blast from across the factory made Carson and Flores whirl and crouch in soldier mode.
“Klebeck!” Carson shouted. He was answered only by a scream.
Raucous cawing echoed from outside. Carson released the safety on his rifle. Flores did the same.
“To life?” Flores asked.
“To the sublime,” Carson answered.
The two philosophers flew at the murder of crows.
by submission | May 12, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The thief is sprinting away before I realise they’ve taken my bag. I go after them.
“Thieving bastard!”
They swerve between parked cars. A silver coupe comes out of nowhere and knocks them flying.
It screeches to a stop, smoke or steam curling off it. What’s that smell?
Gull-wing doors open and two people emerge. Their clothes! The suits look like Pignatelli. The tailoring is superb.
One of them moves quickly to retrieve my bag, then runs round to present it with a little flourish.
“Your bag.”
“Th-thank you.”
His companion comes to stand next to him.
“Who’s the president?”
The first looks at his companion.
“Do we need to know?”
The companion nods.
“No time for assumption.”
The two of them stare at me and chorus.
“The current president?”
The companion is possibly a woman: too androgenous to be sure. Which is irrelevant, I’m just curious. Oh, come on, Zessi: answer their question.
“Blackshaw.”
The first one shakes his head.
“The number, please.”
That takes me a moment, but I’ve been trying to not browse for this sort of stuff. Dad says he needs me to be sharper than my peers.
“Fifty. His second term.”
The second one nods.
“A close call, Zessica. You should be more careful.”
I stare at them. How do they know my…? No, wait.
“Why?”
The first one points back the way I came.
“Your escort still hasn’t caught up. Your supposed mugger was leading you to your death.”
I look about, then up to see if there are any video drones or other supporting trickery. Can’t see anything.
“How could you know?”
The second one smiles.
“Zessica Connors, only child of Martin Connors, who was tipped to be fifty-first president of the United States until grief over the tragic death of his daughter caused a breakdown from which he never recovered.”
Past tense? He’s only just got it back together after mum died. We both have. I know he’s become determined to run, but-
“This is mad. Just who are you? Which agency are you with?”
“I’m Larry, this is Martine. We’re from USTIB.”
Never heard of it. Which is not unusual. There are more hidden agencies than public ones.
Martine glances past me.
“Escorts incoming.”
I turn. The street is empty.
“We really should show ID. Here, Zessica. Look close, the details are hard to make out.”
Turning back, I see Larry holding up a shining card. It’s difficult to read. Leaning in, there are patterns and whorls and the stars and I need to sit down and whattawhohapnow?
There’s a woman in a suit crouching next to me. She smells nice. Sort of roses and ozone. Exotic, but it works for her.
“You fought the mugger, Zessica, but he hit you on the head and you can’t remember what happened. At least you got your bag back.”
I bring the bag up. So glad I retrieved it. Who moved? No. Something left, very fast. Reminds me of a jet taking off. I turn. Want to see, but… Only trash blowing about. Nothing there.
“Miss Connors!”
Ah! The escort posse approaches. Nothing to worry about now. They’ll get me back to dad. Actually, my head really hurts. Back to dad via the emergency room, then.
After waving to the escorts, I pause. What about the new Pignatelli collection?
