by submission | Sep 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Timothy Marshal-Nichols
Dearest, Humblest and most Obedient Sir,
Please be informed, as agreed in mutual undertaking, that yourself named Mutch, first name, Alfred, are contracted to duty and that the lease of said duty is due forthwith to expire. Thus upon the thirtieth inst of this month, September, of this year, twenty-thousand-and-thirteen, upon such time, thus the hour before midday, you are required, as per contract, to be attendant upon your place of known residence. This residence to be within the road of Hartington Drive, within the city of Liverpool, within the county of Merseyside, within the country of England, such house, a three story residence, bearing the number upon said road to be twenty-seven. For upon said date, for upon said time, attending upon said place, upon morrow, whereupon you shall die.
It is not for you, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, to dispute said contract. May I remind you of the sanctity of such contract, founded within law and custom, thus approved by legal council upon this land and freely entered into by yourself in full knowledge of the right and proper consequence thus of said contract becoming requisite and thereupon enacted. Your request for an appeal is void and otherwise inapplicable. There is no higher court with which to request stay of enactment. There can be no council or appeal, no committee to hear such case, the time has come, you must die forthwith.
For Mr R.M. businessman, pillar of the realm, philanthropist to the poor and needy, noble and honourable sir, doer of many charitable works, benefactor of the destitute, has declared use thereof of various of your body’s natural organs, not here specified, and claims thereof there use within his person. Thus your great and illustrious benefactor has need of your body, various parts of, to improve his welfare, appearance and comfort. Whereas yourself, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, miserable wretch that you are, worm that you are, scum that you are, lived by the goodwill, grace, favour and means of Mr R.M. Therefore you posses no right to exercise such ingratitude, forbearance or obstruction as to deny Mr R.M. his legal right and your eligible duty. You have no alternate but to, with immediate effect, die.
It was some twenty-one years ago that you signed and was witnessed this contract with our company. Whereby we established, through suitable tests and medical procedure, your compatibility with Mr R.M. as to body, blood and temper and found the perfect compatibility. Thereby on contract your good self was genitally tagged, as your person shall be well aware, and thus there can become no escapement or abatement, we, the executors of said contract, shall always know the whereabouts of your force. Thence always have the performance to enact the substance of said declaration. Since contract date you have received the payments upon the declaration without let or hindrance upon our part. Each month you have received such agreed sum that our presence within the contract has been accomplished without any complaint or dispute on your part. Now whereupon it is time to exercise our utilization upon this agreement. Thus for legally agreed harvesting to proceed your death must be enacted.
May I finally remind you to attend your abode upon this morrow, as agreed. You can be assured that, commiserate with quality of harvesting, your death will be as painless as assets and practicality should allow.
Your Obedient Servant, D.
The Harvester of Human Organs.
by submission | Aug 31, 2013 | Story |
It was my lunch break. I was eating my turkey on rye on the roof of the Jefferson Bank Building in downtown Spartanburg just like I had every day for the last fifteen years. That sandwich needed the South Carolina humidity and roofing-tar smell or it just didn’t taste right.
I’d never seen another soul up there, so I almost choked when I heard footsteps. A young man in grey suit with sharp creases cut across my field of vision. The new guy in compliance. Rick. He was walking along the ledge, looking purposefully down at the sidewalk twelve stories away after every few steps. A white canvas laundry bag hung from his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said without turning to look at me. “Could you hold this for me?”
Then, before I could finish chewing or grunt out a reply, he closed the distance with me in a few quick strides, fished the end of a black nylon rope out of his bag, and shoved it into my free hand. In surprise, I made a defensive gesture with my sandwich-hand, but he leapt away from me and darted for the ledge before I had a chance to do anything more than wave my turkey and rye at the empty air and squeak out a little gasp of protest.
The length of rope shrugged off the laundry bag as it uncoiled and as Rick leapt over the edge I saw that one end was looped around his waist. A jolt of shock and panic hit me as my gaze snapped down to the black rope lying limply against my left palm.
My fingers clamped down on the rope and I cringed with my whole body. I didn’t even think to drop my sandwich or get another hand on the rope before it snapped taught with a sound like a whip. I heard a muffled “oof” from over the ledge and the section of roof beneath my feet whined like a tree in the wind. The rope end in my left hand vibrated with tension.
The metal access door right behind me clanged open and my boss stepped out puffing and red-faced.
“Mike,” he said to my back, “you’re not going to believe this. The new kid in compliance just tried to get you fired. Says you’re a cyborg, that you’ve been hiding in plain sight all these years. I told him I’d be filing false accusation charges on your behalf and that his career…”
He trailed off as he walked up beside me. I took another bite of my sandwich and we both stood in silence looking down at the rope in my hand. A few stories below us, I heard Rick groan.
“Sir,” I said swallowing, “could you do me a favor?”
He met my eyes, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“Would you mind holding this for me,” I asked.
He never responded.
by submission | Aug 29, 2013 | Story |
Author : Lindsey McLeod
“Good afternoon!” The teller chirped happily as Nagano sat down at the first available desk. “Welcome to FilmScape! What may I help you with today?”
“I’d like to cancel my account,” he said, sliding his card across the counter.
The robot picked up the card. “You are a valued customer, sir!” it piped happily. “We will do whatever it takes to retain you, sir!”
“Yes but you see,” Nagano said, “I don’t actually use my subscription anymore.”
The robot turned to the machine on the counter beside it, and inserted what could loosely be called a finger.
“You last used your account 412 days ago, sir!” it burbled. “How may FilmScape improve your service?”
“I don’t want you to improve it,” Nagano said patiently. “I don’t use it. You can’t improve on something that isn’t actually being used.”
The robot processed this statement. “You are a valued customer, ” it said eventually.
“I want,” Nagano said, as calmly as he could manage, “To Cancel. My Subscription. Please.”
The robot tilted its head slightly. “Did you not enjoy your subscription, sir? You rated many of our services very highly.”
“Well, yes,” Nagano said, “but the thing is, I’m not using them anymore, am I?” He realised he was crushing his cigaretto packet in his fist.
The robot narrowed its eyes. “Are you switching to another provider?”
“What?”
“It’s another provider, isn’t it?” the robot barked. “Networld or Cinefare or one of those other -” it actually seemed to sneer, “-peasant quality film services. Admit it!”
“No!” Nagano said desperately. “It’s just – I’ve got to a point in my life – I’m so busy all the time, with work… Look, I just don’t have time. It’s not you, it’s me. Honestly.”
“I see,” the robot said. The disapproval in its tone could have carved a glacier in the Mountain of Shame. “You might have thought about that before you took out such a long subscription. FilmScape was under the impression you wanted a stable contract for security and comfort.”
“I did, at the time,” Nagano said weakly. “But things change. People cha- I mean, er, things change,” he corrected hastily.
If possible, the robot looked even more disapproving. “I see,” it said crisply. It turned back to the machine on the desk, inserted another small whirring part of its anatomy, and produced a huge pile of coloured papers. “You’ll have to fill out these forms.”
“What, all of them?” Nagano said in horror, as they thudded heavily onto the desk in front of him.
“Yes,” said the robot. “In triplicate.”
Nagano stared at the robot. The robot stared back.
“Some of them are double-sided,” it added smugly.
“Couldn’t I just-” he began.
“No,” it said simply, and with finality. “Here is a pen.” A small blue biro was propelled slowly, maddeningly, across the counter towards him. Nagano fought a sudden, murderous urge to stab.
“You know,” the robot said after a few moments, leaning what could loosely be called its elbows on the counter. “Your subscription is one of the cheaper packages. I could always discount that a little further for you. As a valued customer, sir. Perhaps even a couple of months…. free.” This last was suggested in a low, back-alley whisper.
Nagano looked deep into the beady eyes of the robot teller. They flickered minutely for a moment. Was that triumph?
“Fine,” he said resentfully, throwing the pen back across the counter. “Discount me. I’ll be back in a few months to cancel the damn thing again.”
The robot leaned closer. “Persistence is key,” it said quietly. “Have a nice day, sir.”
Outside, Nagano lit a worse-for-wear cigaretto with hands that trembled in frustration.
A small automatron waddled up to him, holding out a little red leaflet. “Would sir like to consider the possibility of opening a Cinefare account?”
The cigaretto, in obeyance of the laws of gravity, hit the pavement a second after Nagano broke into a run.
by submission | Aug 28, 2013 | Story |
Author : David Kavanaugh
“Your honor, counsel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. Over the last two months, we have heard so many rambling excuses for the accused’s illegal activities, that I’m sure you’re feeling a little overwhelmed. So I want to take the final moments of this trial to step back, and look at the simple facts.
“These individuals before you did knowingly deceive the American government and steal sixty-two billion— let me repeat that— sixty-two billion dollars from the United States! Under the pretense of their so-called ‘science,’ they convinced Congress to fund a mission designed to deviate the course of the asteroid known as Hercules 113b. They claimed their federally funded satellite network indicated that the asteroid was on a collision course for planet Earth.
“Of course, we all know now that no such imminent disaster was ever actually likely. And the accused’s trickery didn’t end there. They staged a launch and released a video that showed a supposedly successful strike on 113b. The world cheered, the streets rang out with joy. We were saved! Or so we thought, until video analysis proved the footage to be phony.
“When news came of their deceit, they didn’t beg for mercy or apologize or even return the funds right away. They were— they are— proud to admit that Hercules 113b was never going to hit Earth! In fact, it was never going to pass any closer than twenty-two thousand miles. I don’t know about you, but I’m not too worried about a bit of space rock whizzing around somewhere out in the stars.
“Now, we’ve heard their excuses about threat of these Hercules asteroids, about how they needed more funding. But here’s my question: Why couldn’t these ‘scientists’ convince Congress in the first place, with the truth?
“Now, we’ve already begun the process of healing after this repulsive abuse of trust. We’ve frozen the program until new leadership can be established, and the satellites should be back up and running in a few months. But that’s not enough. We cannot let treachery of this sort go unpunished.
“It doesn’t matter how fervently they believe their methodical mumbo-jumbo. What matters is that the law is followed, and that the American people have a say in how their hard-earned dollars are spent. It’s that simple. So, on behalf the United States of America, I ask that you return a verdict of guilty as charged against the accused. Thank you.”
It took the jury less than twenty minutes to deliberate. Guilty. On all charges.
The young prosecutor’s very white smile showed as he sauntered down the courthouse stairs and jogged across the street towards the park.
Ducks were bickering over breadcrumbs. A teenage boy was trying in vain to lock lips with a teenage girl on a park bench. A girl wearing headphones and neon sneakers and little else jogged past, her breasts bouncing in rhythm with each step. The prosecutor’s grinned widened.
It truly was a beautiful day. The sun was high and hot, the sky a rich blue, broken only by a few feathery cirrus clouds.
He sighed, taking in the scenery, nearly bursting with pride at knowing that his career was finally taking off, that the world was his.
Then the sky cracked in two and the horizon rushed towards him in a wall of black.
Hercules 114, unseen as it passed by the satellites whose funding was now cut, had just reached Earth. It burst over the coast of Nova Scotia, sending ripples washing across the continents, so that the landscape glowed and danced.
by submission | Aug 26, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I slowly wake up. I’m in a hospital bed. An IV in my left antecubital vein slowly infuses normal saline. I feel like I need to urinate, but I have a suspicion. I look. Yep, Foley catheter in place. I smile. “One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind,” I say aloud.
I hear a knock at the door. A man wearing blue surgical scrubs walks in.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Waples. Was that Neil Armstrong you were quoting right before I walked in?”
“Yes,” I say. “I assume I’m not the first guy to use that line to appear wittily ironic under the circumstances?”
“I’ve had two other patients in the past do the same,” the doctor says with a smile. “How do you feel?”
I look at my hands. They’re perfect right down to the scar on my left index finger. Cut myself slicing an orange when I was a kid. I run my tongue across the interior surface of my teeth. The left maxillary central incisor protrudes slightly compared to the right just as it always has.
“I feel fine. Except I could do without…” I gesture at the Foley catheter.
“Nurse will be in in a minute to remove that,” the doctor says.
“You know,” I say, “I thought I’d be…different. I mean, at least a little.”
The doctor nods. “Everyone says that. I said it myself when I ‘arrived’. The scanners back on Earth image all the way down to the atomic level and the fabricators on this end synthesize cells and tissues and organs with the same precision. A few months ago I had a new arrival who had the same cold she — or rather her original — had back at the time she was scanned. Fabricators reconstituted the rhinovirus.
“I need to ask you a few simple questions just to check your orientation,” the doctor continues. “What is your name?”
“Kenji Herrera.”
“And what is the current date, by which I mean last date you recall from a few subjective minutes ago on Earth before you woke up here?”
“February 3rd, 2452.”
“That’s correct, although the current date is in fact October 23rd, 2456. Travel time for your scan data to get here plus time for fabrication. Could you tell me where we are right now? What is this place we’re in?”
“The Niven Reconstitution Station orbiting Alpha Centauri B.”
The doctor nods. “Alert and oriented times three,” he says.
Another knock at the door. A robot walks in and stands next to the doctor.
“I’ll step out and let the nurse take care of your catheter and IV. I’ll be back to do a complete exam in a few minutes. Then we can let you start a liquid diet and advance you up to solids if you handle the liquids okay.”
“Sounds good, doc,” I say with a laugh.
“Something funny?” the doctor asks as he’s turning to leave.
“Just this,” I respond sweeping my hands over my trunk and legs and extending them out at the room. “It took a hundred years for this station to travel here from Earth orbit so we could start replicating scanned copies of people. No mighty starships with magical faster-than-light drives. No dramatic teleporting down to ‘explore strange new worlds’. And this is how space explorers make their entrance into the final frontier: an IV in an arm, an oxygen mask, and a tube running from one’s bladder to a plastic bag.”
The doctor smiles and nods and leaves the room as the machine nurse walks toward my bed.
