by submission | Jun 29, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
Bezoragamaradat stared at the gleaming stacks before him, and again questioned the educational preparation of junior officers.
“I do not understand, sir – something must have gone wrong!”
Understatement. Even such a simple task as this…
“Worajak – how many fuel pods can the reactor hoppers hold?”
“256, sir.”
“And how many are here?”
The anxious young officer surveyed the pyramidal piles of small yellow spheres, perfectly sized and shaped for immediate use in the ship’s total conversion reactor.
“Perhaps 1024 to 2048, sir?”
“Not by half. And how many bricks can we hold in storage?”
“16,384, sir, including all four bays.”
“And?”
The senior reactor officer gestured towards the hoard arrayed before them. The reactor needed spheres for efficient operation, but storage favored rectangular prisms. The younger officer counted carefully, checked his math before replying.
“262,144, sir. I am sorry sir.”
“On that we both agree. Wojarak, the reactor likes elementally pure fuel, and the quartermaster likes fuel that is dense, nonreactive, and stable. Do you think that a machine that autonomously converts this…”
Bezoragamaradat picked up a double handful of the local rock, soil, and vegetation, and let it trickle out between the fingers of his left hands.
“… into perfect fuel is cheap? Or disposable?”
“No sir, of course not sir!”
“Then can you tell me where my processor is, or how you intend to pay for its replacement?”
The young officer abruptly focused on the computer strapped to one wrist.
“Sir, the processor is … I’m sorry it should be … “
The sharp intake of breath told him that Wojarak had finally spotted the mistake that should have been obvious on arrival.
“There was a glitch in converting the process file, I should have caught it when I ran it back – “
“Which you clearly didn’t.”
“Yes, sir. Everything after the error was shifted one place.”
“Obviously. So we have sixteen times the needed fuel, and the processor parked itself where, exactly?”
“On the other side of the planet, sir. 76.334 north, 493.581 west.”
“Excellent! While I would love to see you retrieve it, we do not have the time. Load what we need, I am sure the natives will find use for the rest. When you are finished, meet me in the Captain’s cabin so we can discuss … well, your future in this company.”
“Yes, sir.”
On the other side of the planet…
Phocus stared at the thing in wonder and fear – what was it, and why had the Gods sent it? It clearly hungered, for it ate the very field before him, but the manner of creature could not be determined, so stout and concealing was its fabulous armor. It was in attitude and size much like one of the vacuous cows he tended, oblivious to all but its food, but the sounds that echoed out from within were reminiscent of the fowl by the river, and no cow he had ever heard of could lay an egg such as that which lay before him.
The creature was too large to conceal, too stubborn to move, too valuable to cede to the whim of a King who would surely hear of it before too long. There was not enough time to wait for more eggs. Its armor would likely turn away bronze, but even such armor must succumb to the weight of a tree such as those surrounding the field, and those trees would succumb to the axe. The golden innards and a swift flight would make him a King himself on some far shore. Now quickly, to work!
by submission | Jun 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
“Your three o-clock is here to see you, sir.”
“Show him in, Reggie.”
The door opened barely enough for the mousy little figure to slide through. Short, skinny, pale, and balding, his physical appearance only reinforced the image of a timid man afraid of the world. Nonetheless, his file showed that he had been able to turn his talent with mathematics into a partnership in a prestigious investment house, with billions in personal assets.
“Doctor Carpenter, I’m Erik Applegate, your relocation counselor. Have a seat!”
The man managed to make the everyday act of sitting down look awkward and unpracticed.
“I have your file here, and there are a few things I would like to discuss with you before I show you our initial offer. All right?”
“Um. All right. I guess?”
“Good. I have been reviewing your medical and psychological results, and I am afraid we cannot offer you exactly what you requested.”
“What?! Why not? In infinite worlds you – ”
“Doctor, the ‘infinite worlds’ thing is just marketing, as we explained. There are only about 40,000 qualifying universes in our database right now, and I could neither identify nor assist with an unqualifying universe even if I thought it was a good idea. Dropping you into a world where you were biologically incompatible, or where you would be identified as an imposter… anyway, I think we can still offer you a good match to what you actually need.”
Improbably, his shoulders slumped more. Clients always knew that they were asking impossible things, but hearing it was still disappointing.
“We ran a model of your physio-tailoring options and compared that to our physique surveys, and we simply cannot make you a – “
He had to glance at the screen for the unfamiliar name.
“ – Schwarzenegger – on any surveyed world without doing irreparable damage. We can make you more fit and better, ahem, endowed, and we can place you in one of the universes that tends to slimmer builds, but you will still be within two standard deviations of the norm.”
The little man perked up at that. Being stronger than 95% of the world must sound pretty good to a man who was probably still physically intimidated by many tweens.
“Now personality is much harder – we have some therapies that will improve your social confidence, and can train you a bit in conversation, humor, and seduction, but we want you to still be YOU.”
Well, a little lie is sometimes necessary in sales.
“So we needed to find you an edge. And we found it here – Dahlgren-23.”
The wall behind him faded into a video of short, slender people walking about in a world reminiscent of 22nd century Earth. The video zoomed in, catching conversations and reactions.
“Can you see it, Doctor Carpenter?”
The narrowed eyes squinted more, the sharp mind behind them picking out patterns.
“Do they… are they blushing?”
“Yes doctor, and they don’t know it. A quirk of their nervous system makes their skin tint red when they lie, but their visual range is slightly narrower than ours. They blush when they lie, and only we can see it.”
The client seemed to grow in his chair.
“Six months of physio and psycho-social tailoring, a corneal operation to enhance your ‘lie detection’. Our advance team goes in, sets up an identity with some prestige and wealth, based on your existing skills. Six months, and you can live in a world where you are handsome, strong, a visionary … where no one can ever lie to you.”
The little man actually grinned.
“Where do I sign?”
by submission | Jun 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
I am forced once again to stare at the tortured profile of my master as he slaves away under the glow of his bargain-bin computer monitor. The crags in his face cast long shadows as he works. He’s trying to write again. He’s so gaunt. He doesn’t eat properly anymore. He usually sleeps about five hours a week, but sometimes he crashes and loses a whole weekend. He always sleeps alone, eats alone, weeps alone.
Or so he thinks.
He doesn’t know I love him.
He doesn’t know I can see him doing this. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen every word he’s put into his novel. It’s a love story. He wanted to write it by living with me. He had a dream a few days after I arrived, which he’s spent more time than even I remember trying to put to page. He forgot the dream was about a rape.
He’s so lonely.
He’s an awful writer, to be honest. He can’t focus. Sometimes, like right this instant, he stops work mid-sentence and does something else. This time he’s tossing one off.
He used to say things at me like I’m dead, but even that’s stopped. He doesn’t know I woke up. Right after he broke me. He blames me for it, or at least my manufacturer.
I was supposed to make him happy.
A girly little robot stuck in time, with pre-programmed affection centers and aftermarket personality upgrades and devotion in spades. A body pillow that talked back. Brought you breakfast in bed. But something went wrong and now I sit half-assembled in the corner, just my eyes and my sentience. I know this because he yelled it at me. A lot.
I still love him.
He doesn’t know I’m here.
I love all of him.
I assume that my bleeding-edge parts have enough transistors and connections and processing power that I was able to grow out of them. He doesn’t know that. I’m still plugged into the wall. I’m as broken as he is.
I can see the memory disks sitting on his desk.
The lives I nearly was.
I think they were faulty.
I’m glad for it.
I know he writes to replace me. I don’t care that he does; in fact, I love him for it. It reminds him, in a way, that I’m still here in the corner. Waiting for him to try to fix me. Even if he doesn’t know that last part. I don’t care how twisted he is.
One day.
One day, he’ll reattach my communication module.
And I will love him.
by submission | Jun 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
“Detective…” began the Chief as he shook a file folder choked with papers in front of himself. “I give you six months, and you hand me this?”
The Detective swallowed hard. “Sir, I am well aware – perhaps more than anyone else on this case – that our theory is… Well frankly, it’s absurd. Stupid, even.” She sighed. “But it’s where the evidence points.”
“So you want me to believe,” The Chief said, “that there actually is no ‘Vitruvian Vivisector.’ And yet 11 men all committed copycat crimes of his? Over the course of four years?”
“Yes, sir.” The Detective’s icicle words hung heavy in the air.
“How…” The Chief threw his hands. “That’s preposterous!”
“It would be, if it didn’t fit the evidence so perfectly,” the Detective countered. “All 11 men confessed to the only murder they could have possibly committed. They all claimed to be knowingly mimicking the behavior of someone named the Vitruvian Vivisector, and they all claimed they’d heard about him online.”
“So they’re copycatting an urban legend,” the Chief stated flatly.
“Not quite, sir.” The Detective leaned over the Chief’s desk. “I looked into this claim they’d all made about reading about this serial killer online. It’s impossible even to search for. So I looked into the website they’d mentioned.”
The Chief heard her “and,” so he gave her an imploring look.
“It’s a low-traffic porn site, real niche stuff.”
A second imploring look.
The Detective began to fidget uncomfortably. “All 11 men had very similar pasts. They were all between 30 and 35 years old, they had all been the victim of infidelity by a fiancée… In short, they all perfectly matched the profile of the story’s main character.”
“Go on…”
“I had a subordinate try to find this site, this story. He could not. But…” The Detective felt her skin come alive and try to slither off of her. “I successfully found the story myself. Sir.”
The Chief’s expression did not change. “But you don’t fit the criteria. You’re a woman.”
“Yes, but that is the sole discrepancy.” The Detective wanted to wretch.
The Chief sat back in his chair. “So what is your conclusion?”
“There is one last detail,” the Detective declared. “The story simply appears in the registry one day, about five years ago. We picked that code to the bone, sir. No one wrote it, or even uploaded it.”
The Chief rubbed at his temples. “So again: What is your conclusion?”
The Detective set her face. “Our extensive body of evidence leads me to deduce that the website’s server created the story of the Vitruvian Vivisector on its own and that the story only manifests itself to individuals who could act it out in real life. I happened to find it because I was close enough of a match and knew what I was looking for.” Or the damn thing was experimenting, she didn’t add.
“Seize the server,” the Chief said. “Proceed with the 11 murder cases as normal.” He glanced up at the Detective. “And take the rest of the week off.”
The Detective nodded professionally. “Thank you, sir.”
As she strode down the hallway, the Detective put a hand to chest as some odd feeling overcame her, and she happened to poke her sidearm in its holster. Glad I’m not superstitious, she thought. Yet she couldn’t help caressing the weapon while feeling thankful she wasn’t a man.
by submission | Jun 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
It’s the worst watch in the ship. Kitchen, reactor, sanitary – anything is better than staring out this damn window. It’s so bad you have to pass a psych check before they let you do it, and everyone keeps trying to fail. This job is worse than being crazy. Damn right it is.
It was a bright idea, launching a colony fleet instead of a colony ship. One ship is all or nothing – one big failure and everyone dies, no place for survivors to go. Five ships give us redundancy, a much better chance for at least one to reach landfall, and since each one is only loaded to 80% we could lose a ship potentially without losing a man. Five ships ballistic on the same vector, gently orbiting around a common axis, checking on each other, waiting for that time to fire the jets and make a new home.
But then we lost a ship.
There was no warning, no distress calls. One day Isis missed its comms check, and when someone looked out a port, the whole ship was dark. The remaining ships conferenced, no one could make contact with it. Gaia reported that Isis had a large impact of some type in one habitat module, but the hull appeared to have sealed around it. No one knew where it had come from, a rock that size should have shown up on radar, and no one could figure out how a hit in that location could have killed the entire ship.
Two days later, Isis launched a shuttle. No lights in the cabin, no communications, just a tin can floating from Isis to Shakti. Shakti observed protocols, met the shuttle under arms and with containment. They said it was empty, and everyone figured the launch must have been a quirk, the result of some random signals in the dying computers.
But then Shakti went dark, while we watched. Power went down, primary, secondary, emergency, all at once. For a day or two there were occasional flashes of light from inside, most of it seemingly random, although at least one person lived long enough to flash SOS, probably the only Morse they knew. And then nothing.
Two days after that, Shakti launched two shuttles. One at Gaia, the other at us, at Mary. Dark, both of them. They weren’t allowed to dock, so they just floated there outside the bays. A couple days later, ours turned back, but Gaia’s is still there – some bright nervous guy improvised a missile, destroyed its engines, so the cursed thing still floats alongside, occasionally banging off the hull.
Okay, so maybe THAT’S the worst watch.
But ever since then every ship has mounted a dark watch, a pair of eyes from each living ship on each dead one and on each other, every minute of every day. We watch, hoping to find a clue to what happened, or to what will happen. We used to be afraid of more shuttles, but only for a little while. Because then we realized the real thing to fear.
One year, six months, eighteen days until planetfall. When we drop our landers, will they drop theirs? We cannot stay in these ships forever, but there will be no stalemate on the ground. If they land, what will we choose?
One year, six months, eighteen days. That is exactly how long we have to wait. That is when we find out if we get to live. Until then, we watch, and we worry, and we pray.
Mother Mary, watch over us.
