by submission | Mar 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
I found her on my way home from a party. She was sitting in the middle of the park’s square in the four shadows of the four streetlights, and she was hugging her knees to her chest as if her life depended on it while her head was tucked in behind it. Her hair was short, dirty like her face and the nightgown that seemed to be all she was wearing.
She was pretty.
I sat down three feet in front of her, legs crossed. It was a little chilly out, and a storm was moving in, kicking up leaves and dust before it.
“You’re going to get cold,” I said. “Would you like my coat?”
She made a noise like a whimper and hugged her knees tighter. She whispered something, but it was lost in the wind.
I leaned forward. “What was that?”
“I have to stay in the center.”
I looked around. The city rose up all around us, towering over the trees. On each corner of the park was one of the four towers – two hundred stories each of pristine carbon, steel, and silicon and home to four million people a piece. She was sitting exactly in the middle of all four, at the center of sixteen million lives.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be alone any more. I’m surrounding myself with people.”
I felt something catch in my throat. It’s so easy to be left behind and forgotten these days. I was like her once, sometimes I still am. There are some things that drugs can’t cure. I hadn’t imagined the tattoo on her wrist that marked her as broken, that read ‘Schz5-105014.’
At some point people stopped trying to even pretend to care about the schizophrenics, the manic-depressives and psychotic depressives, the hallucinators and day-time dreamers and the happily mad men and women of the world. Bag them, tag them, drug them, and if they cause trouble, neutralize them. That was the way society dealt with them any more. Cures are for the healthy, after all. Homelessness and poverty was easy to fix, but other problems? Too much work.
I hugged my knees to my chest, rested my chin on them, mirroring her. “It’s bad right now, isn’t it.”
She nodded her head, an almost imperceptible movement in the half-dark.
I wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone any more, I wanted to tell her that I would help her through this and help her through life and, if she wanted, through death. I wanted to hold her and run my fingers through her hair and whisper to her that everything would be alright.
I ran my hand over the rough scar on my wrist where I had burned my mark off and melted the electronic tag. MD5-103331. Manic-Depressive, fifth order. Most severe. Dangerous.
I couldn’t tell her that she wasn’t alone, I couldn’t help her or hold her or whisper in her ear. She was dangerous, like me, like all of us. She would draw attention, have me found out. I would be evicted back to one of the homes, I would lose my job and my friends. I just couldn’t do it. I stood up and left her sitting there in the middle of nothing, fat drops of rain beginning to fall like so many empty tears.
I saw in the news reports that they found her body after the storm, wet and cold and limp and empty.
They burned it with the rest of the ones that always turn up after bad weather.
by submission | Mar 11, 2012 | Story |
Author : A. Zachary Spery
I was looking good when I wheeled into Chaucer’s, the hottest singles bar in lower downtown. I just had my corpus bridge upgraded to a new Mitsushimi DX900q and installed prominently on the side of my Neodynamics’ engramatic coprocessor case. My high efficiency General Electronics’ sonofusion power cell glowed a brilliant green through the walls of the polyurethanic cylinder housing in my abdomen and my polished aluminum frame was gleaming. My drive wheels were new Goodyear’s.
I rolled across the room to an empty space at the bar and ordered my usual gin and tonic. The bar tender handed it to one of my end-effectors. I swung around and leaned back on the elbow of my quaternary manipulator to casually survey the room.
That’s when she rolled in. She had a classy rig with the kind of right angles that would drive the Robopope to sin. It was elegant, with just enough acrylic-plexi to see there was high dollar hardware inside, but not so much that you could tell the bus speed of her hypothalamic multiplexor. She wheeled up beside me and ordered a girly drink–something with an umbrella. The other men in the bar were disassembling her with their optical sensors.
I craned my neck over and said, “Girl, you’ve increased my coolant flow by orders of magnitude.”
She pointed one of her optics at me briefly and removed a cigarette from her purse. “It looks like you can handle it.” Then she smiled and said, “Nice cooling system.”
My CPU voltage capped and the chrome on my heat sinks blued.
She continued, “But I don’t think you could handle me. You’re not my style.” She swiveled her optical instrument array away. “Too much show, too little go.”
I gestured to the transparent cover over my DSX-771 motherboard cluster with onboard cognitive accelerators. “Girl, I am all go. I am the Italian sports car of go. It takes me mere seconds to calculate pi out to a billion decimal places.”
She smiled again. “No, not that kind of go–”
Just then a large industrial unit lumbered up and put a hulking mechanical arm on the bar between her and me. He had a flat grey coat of paint over a steel art deco exoskeleton that made him look like a soviet era locomotive. Gears spun and clunked within him, heat waves emanated from a vent on his head, and I think my state of the art Trasco olfactory sensors detected a hint of burned oil.
“Is this jerk bothering you?” asked the locomotive while glaring at me.
“I think he was just keeping your spot cool until you arrived, baby.” she said. “Weren’t you, Fonzy?”
“Thanks.” said the locomotive as he pushed me over to the adjacent spot–stripping the gears in my drivetrain. “I owe you one.”
I left. Maybe I’ll try Duffy’s.
by submission | Mar 9, 2012 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
Thraewen hangs in the middle of the view-pool, pretty and pristine. Dillon and Three can see the nightside’s cities, bright constellations scattered across the Capwen Archipelago. Three strokes the Starfish’s controls and the bioship moves. Night gives way to day. The view-pool displays high clouds until Three fiddles with the resolution, magnifying an image on the surface.
The house is ceramic, all bright white curves, surrounded by green moss-grass and a white fence. Inside the fence, Dillon sees a child playing with a dog.
“Well?” asks Three.
Dillon glances at the alien. Three almost looks human, only the gill-slits in his throat and the webbing between his fingers suggesting otherwise.
“Well what?”
“Do you want them to die?”
“Back home, the government says the Thraeweni are monsters. Why would they lie?”
“Propaganda? Misinformation? Blind stupidity? Take your pick.”
Dillon frowns. He had met Three at a bar, back on Tranin. At the time, Dillon just thought Three was trying to pick him up. They talked about art and science, politics and the war. The war really interested Three.
After the bar closed, Three invited Dillon back to his place. Dillon was expecting a hotel, not a living starship able to cross interstellar distances in the blink of an eye! Now, Three had brought Dillon to Thraewen, to judge the people and decide if the war was worthwhile.
“Why do you care what I think?”
“I’m getting a second opinion.”
“For what?”
“I have to decide whether or not to stop the Tranin Armada and I can’t make up my mind.”
“How would you stop the armada? You’re one man, in one ship!”
“It wouldn’t be that hard,” says Three. “My species is much older than yours. We can do all kinds of things. I want to make the right choice here, but I’m not human. I won’t interfere if you tell me not too.”
“So you want me to make a decision that it took my government months of analysis to make?”
“Yes.”
Dillon looks into the view-pool. The girl is rolling around on the moss with the dog. If the armada attacks, she’ll probably die. He glares at Three. Why couldn’t he have just wanted to shag?
“You’re not human,” says Dillon. “You shouldn’t interfere.”
Three nods. “The Thraeweni girl said the same thing.”
“You spoke with one of them about this?”
“I had to be impartial. She agreed with you, although her reasons were different.”
“Were they?”
“She said the Tranin Armada was a joke. The Thraeweni Navy and their allies would obliterate it before it even got out of the Tranin system.”
Dillon shrugs. “It’s just bravado. Can you take me home now?”
“Of course.”
Three strokes his controls and the Starfish leaps across the parsecs. The interior lights dim and the image in the view-pool changes.
Dillon stares in horror at the wreck of his world. Tranin burns, reduced to cinders by a fleet of monstrous alien ships that hang in orbit around the planet.
“Well,” says Three, “I suppose it wasn’t bravado after all.”
by submission | Mar 4, 2012 | Story |
Author : John E. Geoffrey
It was at the time when the stars were right and a full moon stood over the desert, when a rose bloomed over the ruins of the ancient, nameless metropolis, the name of which had been banished and forgotten over the course of the millenia (but which once, a long time ago, in another eon entirely, had been called Vienna).
It was when a single drop of blood fell on the ground of the most central Ziggurat which had seen the sacrifices of millions in the long, empty millenia between the empires of the Humans.
It was then that the Devourer of Souls rose from the depths of Earth to demand his rightful place, to feast on the fears and terrors of the human scum that had taken over what should have been rightfully his, to devour the souls of each and ever…
“You and every damn fool who got himself trapped in this place, pal,” one of the hooded figures standing on top of the Ziggurat said, with the voice of someone who had heard speeches like this before.
“Silence, mortal!” the Devourer of Souls, the Drinker of Blood, Mangler of Spirits exclaimed.
He did not like to be interrupted. “I will be grateful! You have loosened the chains that have bound me for an eternity, for that I will kill you last! But don’t squander…!”
“The ‘kill you last’ routine,” said a second hooded figure to the first. “You owe me a drink.”
“Crap,” said the first. “I thought he’d have more style. Yo, big one!”
“WHAT?!” the devourer was getting more and more irritated by the scum that kept interrupting him.
“Stop right there.” said the hooded one again. “Let’s get some facts straight oh mystical one. Are we mortals?”
“What? You… oh.”
“Yeah, no mortals here right now. Second question: are there any humans left in the world?”
“Of course there… oh. What? But. Where is everybody?”
“About that: humanity managed to kill themselves a while ago. Never understood what they did but they just died like flies overnight.”
“I think it was more like a week.” said the second figure.
“Ok, maybe it was a week. Anyway it was damn fast.”
“Point is, everybody’s dead, Dave. I can call you Dave, can’t I?”
“Actually some of them kept around for years afterwards, just skulking and looting before the radition got to them.” his partner went on.
“Yes, but they didn’t seem to need any help getting rid of each other.”
The first one glared at the second before he addressed Dave, the Destroyer of Souls again.
“Anyway, they’re gone now. You’re out of a job. Question: do you have something to do now?”
“But… But I didn’t destroy anyone!”
“Yes, I know, you and me and a few hundred others. There are hundreds of destroyers of this and that around, ancient demons of whatever. None of them managed to get any destroying of humans done and all of them woke up a bit late. Blablabla. Anyway, more important question: Ever played any roleplaying games?”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“What?”
“We are trying to get a Dungeons and Dragons group going but we need someone to play the cleric. Just say yes or no, we got another ancient god over in the Hungarian plains, but I think he was banished there before they invented writing, and that’d make it difficult.”
“Hmpf… Do you allow evil characters?”
by submission | Mar 3, 2012 | Story |
Author : Ion
Jim was excited. He gleefully danced about as the elevator slowly squeaked downward. He was thinking about the popcorn he had saved from that convenience store he found a few weeks back and how this would be the perfect opportunity to pop it. Its not like he hadn’t found other tapes before, he had a collection of hundreds, many brought back from the brink of destruction before the elements or radiation could get to them. They kept him company. They reminded him of the time before the bombs. Most of all though, he learned things from them.
He had been camping that Autumn. Trying to get in one last trip before winter set in. Sure he had an emergency radio, but who would contact him? The blasts were so far away, they didn’t even wake him up. No one there to worry about him after that. On his way home things slowly crept in. Everything was rubble. They few people he did come across, were not pleasant.
He tries not to think about it now, as the elevator reaches its destination. He is too excited about this tape. Nearly all the news stations had been destroyed. All but this one. He had seen it in a commercial in one of the last tapes he found. WKQQ, Channel 8 news, reports live from its headquarters in Midtown Nebraska. Such a small town. Really out of the way for most people. Sure, it had been looted to the ground. All the food gone, no books in the library, but who would take tapes without the equipment or electricity to watch them? Jim was lucky in that respect. No one would laugh at his solar truck now.
He urges the popcorn to hurry up and pop as he begins diagnostics on the tape. He is in luck, it is in good condition and will not have to be restored. Good old Midtown. No one would hold a grudge against Midtown. He pops it in as the popcorn finishes and has a seat. He presses play on the tape labeled “Presidential Address 10/17~”. He watches as the news runs for a minute, but then is interrupted by an emergency broadcast. This is it he says to himself, on the edge of his seat. This is where I will finally find out what happened. As if confirming his suspicions the president sits at a cluttered desk in what looks like a very sturdy bunker. Jim listens as the president talks about a computer network and watches as the president begins to pick up objects off the desk and assemble them. Is that toilet cleaner? And bacon? His heart sinks and he begins to suspect this is some kind of parody. But the president goes on. What is all this about sharing? Leaked information? What is the president doing with all that stuff on the desk?
These questions race through Jim’s mind as the president drops the bombshell. He is giving up. The whole world is giving up. There is no way to combat this new threat. The president pauses to assemble a particularly difficult part of the device he is building. During this pause realization sets in. The president is building a bomb. Out of household components. The information has been posted all over the internet. They cannot stop it. They’re giving up.
The president wishes Jim the best of luck and presses a button on the top of the device. The tape is interrupted with static. Jim sits alone.
