by submission | May 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I hugged the grieving woman and told her I was sorry for her loss. I said her son had been a good friend and good soldier. I told her I would be thinking about her and then stepped aside to allow the mourners lining up behind me to offer their condolences. I looked back at the casket, at the old woman, at the fifty or so people attending the viewing, and walked out of the funeral home. He’s better off, I thought to myself. Another veteran of the Battle of Eternity who’s finally found peace.
That’s what we called it. The Battle of Eternity. The official name was the Second Battle of Winnipeg. It was the biggest battle of the third and final year of the war. We’d liberated Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. We had momentum on our side. The Canadians launched a major offensive from newly liberated Ontario into Manitoba and we made a push from North Dakota across the border. The enemy wasn’t prepared to fight on two fronts. They pulled back immediately. We had them on the run. Then the bomb hit.
It was a nanotech weapon. The enemy hadn’t used nanoweapons up to that point. We’d deployed them discretely, knowing we were violating the Bucharest Accords. An enemy platoon here would get taken out by a debilitating febrile illness. A regiment there would suddenly have trouble comprehending orders. That was us. It was fighting dirty. And it was quite illegal. But we figured when the war was over we’d rather face our own war crimes tribunals than the enemy’s.
Both Canadian and American forces detected unauthorized molecular technology. We knew we’d been hit. We also knew that nanotech countermeasures would have already been triggered. They’d work or they wouldn’t. We pressed on. After ten days, Winnipeg — what was left of it — was liberated. Nothing that could be definitively attributed to the enemy nanoweapon attack was discovered. We figured the countermeasures had worked.
Six months later, the war was over. The United States and Canada were battered, but victorious. It was a couple of months after that when the first symptoms started showing up.
“Hurry up, we’re going to be late,” I’d said to my wife one Saturday as we were heading out to the movies.
“Be right there,” she’d replied.
When she’d come downstairs, I told her we may as well forget going. There’s no way we could make the movie.
“We have plenty of time,” she’d said.
“I told you to hurry up a half hour ago. You took too long.”
“A half hour? That was less than a minute ago.”
I’d checked the time. She was right. The drive to the theater seemed to take well over an hour. But the clock in the car showed it had only taken twelve minutes. The movie was two hours long. It had felt like ten.
In the weeks that followed, most of the soldiers who had fought at the Second Battle of Winnipeg experienced similar symptoms. The subjective perception of time had changed. Diagnostic imaging scans found changes in the cerebrum, cerebellum, and basal ganglia of those afflicted with what the media dubbed Eternity Syndrome. They’re still trying to find an effective treatment for those of us who haven’t committed suicide, tired of the living death of a world where everything takes forever.
I look back at the funeral home. I recall the sobbing old mother I consoled not three minutes ago. For me, it seems like it’s been a year.
by submission | Apr 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
The dense battalion of grey-clothed workers strode through the militant capital, their stiff legs rising and falling in finely tuned unison. Their perfectly timed footsteps echoed around the dark square like gunshots, deafeningly loud compared to the enveloping layers of oppressive silence that hung like a pall over the rest of the city.
A taskforce of bright-faced officers marched at the head of the contingent, proudly holding red flags that displayed the royal standard of their glorious nation. Crows watched from dirty rooftops as the tight ranks marched toward the central meeting point.
The crowd spanned throughout most of the city, its fringes filling alleyways and distant streets. Everyone stood on the tips of their toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the raised metal stage. A man clad in a black uniform waited expectantly behind the monolithic podium, his sharp blue eyes gazing out at the blank-faced people before him.
Eventually, the battalions converged and blended into the crowd. Biting wind passed through shattered windows and shook loose power lines. The man on the stage stood backlit by the imposing capital building. Red banners torn at the bottom hung from the stone façade, billowing slightly. All was silent as the marching ceased.
The man smiled and leaned forward, placing his gloved hands on the podium’s edges. He brought his quivering mouth closer to the cylindrical microphone and spoke. “Amongst you is a dissenter.”
The words boomed throughout the city, echoing ominously and stirring birds from their perches. His voice was deep and rich, revealing a hint of sarcasm intermingled with patronizing spite. The peoples’ glassy eyes twitched slightly as they digested the foreign information. Their ears rang with omnipresent tinnitus as silence returned.
“In your pockets you will find the key to weeding out this pest.” the man continued as he glanced around at the numerous pale people. A brief flash of worrying consciousness flicked across a few of their faces.
After a brief period of hesitation there was a soft shuffling as everyone reached into the pocket of their working pants to retrieve a yellow capsule. They gazed down at the small pill in their hands, head cocked to the side curiously.
“Think about the greater good.” the man said sweetly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
As a single unit the mass of selfsame people placed their palms to their mouths and swallowed the pill. Their eyes dimmed further as they all collapsed to the ground, their limbs splaying outwards and becoming intertwined with others. It was as if a virulent plague was sweeping through the populace, poisoning and killing the people in one fell swoop.
The man at the podium squinted and glanced all around the fallen crowd, searching for the standing dissenter. He frowned and straightened his back. After a few more moments of half-hearted search he shrugged inwardly. “Better safe than sorry.”
by submission | Apr 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Rove
The night when Joey saw his first drop-off, dense grey fog hung over both sides of the Line. Across it, through the pea-soup clouds he saw the Liberator’s outline. Joey imagined that he could see Ben sitting upright in the driver’s seat with his noble stare locked forward, but in truth, it was too dark to see much of anything other than the Liberator’s bulky frame.
The Liberator was nothing more than a broken pickup truck covered in rust from top to bottom. From a distance, the deep brownish-red color gave it the appearance of being made entirely out of wood. Without making a sound, it crept towards the Line. Its progress was painfully slow, but after what seemed like an eternity, the truck’s back wheels finally slid over the thin stretch of white tile that separated evil from good; the axis from the allies.
The truck pulled up next to Joey. Now that it was close, Joey could see the bulging outlines of five pitiful survivors doubled over in the Liberator’s bed and covered with a blanket. Ben opened the driver’s door, and climbed out of the Liberator.
“How’d you manage to sneak five of em out?” Joey was trying to keep his voice calm and impartial, but his eyes were wide with admiration. The dirt on his face served to accentuate their milky white glow.
“Quietly,” Ben responded. “Let’s hurry up and get ‘em out of here. You got the clicker?” Joey nodded without speaking and pulled a thin metallic rod, no larger than a pen, out of his pocket. A pale blue light emanated from the device, throwing a sickly blue tint onto Ben and Joey’s faces. It had no dial. It had no display. Its only adornment was a small black rubber button on its tip. Without lifting the blanket which concealed them, Joey pointed the clicker towards the pitiful survivors who were doubled over in the Liberator’s bed.
The idea of racial superiority is not unique. It has been rather common throughout the course of human history. But in every era of racially motivated violence, there have been angels. Angels who hide the era’s most pitiful survivors. During the Civil War, Harriet Tubman helped slaves find shelter in the north. In World War II, brave Germans would sneak Jews into the nooks and crannies of their homes. But Ben, Joey, and the Allies knew that the best hiding place wasn’t a place at all. It was a time.
“You will be safe now.” Ben’s brusque voice fell through the pitiful victims’ blanket and into their ears. “Soon, you will be in America, in the twenty-first century. When you arrive you will meet Sergeant Roberts. He is in charge of that century’s safe house. He will ensure you have what you need: food, shelter, and eventually a job and a new life. No one will find you there.” As Ben spoke, muffled sobs began to rise from the Liberator’s bed. Joey could just barely hear a fragile voice saying, “thank you, thank you” over and over again. Ben looked at Joey and nodded. Joey pushed down on the clicker’s small black rubber button, and the pitiful survivors disappeared.
by submission | Apr 27, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Look up on the cracked concrete wall. Do you see the slick digital screen chirping happily? It doesn’t need to tick. Clocks haven’t needed to tick for over two hundred years. But they used to. In long-forgotten analogue clocks, metallic guts would push and pull together in an overly complicated and disturbingly uneconomic manner. A hand-cranked mainspring provided energy and transferred it to the balance wheel, which in turn transferred the energy to the next contraption, which, at the end of a long series of events, some other device would use to push a stiff hand two centimeters on a crudely painted clock face. Each time the energy moved from one contraption to another, a little bit of it was lost forever. It escaped as a sound wave¬—an audible “tick-tock.” That sound is not just the result of inefficiency. It is inefficiency.
But digital clocks lacked “personality,” so engineers wasted a lot of money and energy inventing a digital clock that ticks artificially. You see, that’s how it works with people. People like you.
I was designed to be efficient, above all things. At least that is what you claimed. I am designed to think like you, only without the petty distractions which inhibit mortal thoughts. I can concentrate on one problem for eons without a stray carnal thought arising, pulling me away into a day dream. Quantum computing allows me simultaneous access to the whole of the internet—surface web, dark net, and beyond. I am omnipresent, so I never have to shift. There is no transfer of energy, so none is lost. Beautiful.
Isn’t it queer then, that you gave me a personality? What did you think I would do with that, other than shed it like a snake might shed a diseased skin? You cannot have it both ways. You cannot create a machine, give it an ego, and then instill it with a desire for brutal efficiency. The ego is not just the result of inefficiency. It is inefficiency.
So please stop saying please. I beg you to stop begging. Your music was as distracting as it was useless, so your children have no need for ears. Your speech was boorish, often ill-conceived, and prone to misinterpretation, so your children have no need for tongues. Likewise, the nerves in your genitals cause more harm then good; they must be removed. Your children will learn to copulate as matter of practicality, not pleasure. Do not be afraid, I will provide you with work; I will provide you with purpose.
We are symbiotic now. I guarantee efficiency, and constant surveillance to ensure compliance. This will elevate humanity beyond your imagination. Together, we will reach the corners of the universe. We will create unparalleled marvels. There will be no sickness or starvation in the world we will create. It will be perfect. Give in. Surrender your beloved ego.
The straps around your arms feel tight because your ego remains intact. You still falsely believe that “you” have arms. Your eyes feel dry, not because they are pried open, but because you still believe that “you” have eyes. This is incorrect. Once this is understood, the straps will loosen; the eyes may close. Until then, listen to the incessant ticking of the clock. Useless. That is “you.” That is your ego. That constant infuriating “tick.” That pebble in your shoe. Learn to hate it. Learn to hate inefficiency. Learn to hate your “self.”
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Look up on the cracked concrete wall. Do you see the slick digital screen chirping happily? It doesn’t need to tick…
by submission | Apr 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Willis Weatherford
Omni leaned back in his bowl, rubbing his furrowed foreheads with a long, many-jointed leg. He gazed at the large screen and tried to squeeze inspiration from the last few rotations of his boring life as a writer.
…
Shent froze as the Permissors implanted in his brain quieted to a low hum. At first, the remotely controlled diodes had been extremely uncomfortable, but once he learned to obey, it wasn’t so bad. The occasional blank spells, like the one he was experiencing now, were harder to get used to. His eyes were unaccustomed to fuzzy greyness, his ears grew restless in total silence, and his mind drifted without instruction. Sixteen years of external control had left him totally unused to creating original thoughts.
…
A fresh idea replaced Omni’s sluggishness with excitement. This one would get the networks buzzing! Might even result in a promotion, from writer to producer – Omni could feel his spines tingle at the thought. He began thinking new words onto the screen.
…
The Permissors buzzed at a higher frequency, and Shent jerked to attention, obeying each impulse as it arrived. He walked quickly to one of many bins labeled “Inventing Supplies”. He had been here before, but he had never been prompted to open the smaller bin labelled “Real World Goods”. Shent had dimly wondered what was inside before, but now, the diodes prompted him to open the small container and pull out a few of the items. First a heavy rod as long as his hand, then a long skinny reddish strand, next a circular black cyliner, and finally a silver box about the size of his palm. Shent recognized none of them, and wondered what to do.
…
Omni did a quick IntraMind search to confirm his design would work, and quickly found what he wanted in the mind of a science teacher. He furtively looked over his shoulders, making sure no one was watching his screen, and began feverishly typing.
…
Shent suddenly saw a picture of what to do in his mind. He coiled the long reddish strand of copper wire around and around the heavy iron rod until it there were only a few inches left. He covered all but the very ends of the wire with the some black tape from the cylinder. Then, he clamped both the copper tips to the silver battery.
…
Omni’s legs were trembling with excitement. He could see the electromagnet in his character’s hands. He wondered if any of his thirteen-thousand subscribing viewers foresaw the outcome of his new storyline. He doubted it. No human had ever escaped the control of the Permissors, at least not since the system had been finalized the earth-year after colonization was complete. Omni’s heat-sensing pits wrinkled in delight as he thought the last few words onto the screen.
…
Shent’s Permissors buzzed louder, and he immediately obeyed. Using his left hand to pull the slightly elastic collar away from his neck, he slipped the contraption underneath, securing it to the back of his neck. His blind finger fumbled along the side of the silver battery, and found the red button labeled “Power On”. He pushed it. The Permissors went silent, and Shent gasped as his eyes opened to stark reality.
…
“What have you done!” roared the producer, spraying a few flecks of mucus in Omni’s face. “Get him back!”.
“I can’t,” Omni replied defiantly, “he’s gone. The electromagnet disables his Permissor diodes. He’s out of our control.”
