by submission | Jul 24, 2011 | Story
Author : Eric L. Sofer
Gwen and Naomi came in from the vegetable field and sat down with two large cold iced teas in Naomi’s parlor. “Naomi, I’m so glad to see you and your neighbors doing so well after the Great War! When our supplies ran out in the Survival Vault and we had to leave, we thought we’d find the country devastated… but we came home here to find you and Franklin thriving!”
Naomi sighed and answered, “We were just lucky that our part of the state made it through untouched, and that we have so many farms that are so productive.”
“And you didn’t have any problems?”
“Well… I didn’t say that,” the older woman sighed. “Near the end, the government was insistent that we all use their products and procedures, and about six months before the bombs dropped, they switched over to using robots as county agents.
“They wouldn’t take no for an answer, demanding we use their wheat seeds, their food supplements, their growing methods. And after the war, the robots kept coming and coming. Nobody switched off the robots, so they started destroying things if they weren’t paid.”
Gwen gasped. “Is that why Scotty only has one-“
“YES!” Naomi answered sharply. “Yes, they attacked our crops, our houses, even us, unless we cooperated. The robots would only move on if they were told someone else needed them more… which a few of our neighbors did to us…
“Made of all that metal we so desperately needed… but coming to attack us weekly… it was terrible, Gwen.”
“What did you do?”
Naomi smiled wryly. “My boy Kenny gave me the idea. Franklin was out in the wheat fields, and Kenny smarted off to me. After I spanked him, I forgot about it. Until the day the Master Agent came. Eight feet tall, big as a tank.
“It would have destroyed our house… and as I stood at the front door as it bristled at me, I suddenly remembered what Kenny said. I told it that it had to go to the McCormick home, next door, and that I’d meet it in the back corner of their granary storage building.”
Naomi stood up. “In fact, let’s go check on it. I just sent another of those agent robots over to McCormick’s yesterday, just before you arrived. Here, take one of these burlap sacks,” as she handed Gwen a large bag, and they headed out the front door.
They go to the neighbor’s farm, and approached the grain storage building. As they got close, they saw machinery parts littering the way. Naomi said, “Take those pieces, Gwen… those power supplies will be useful… oh, and don’t miss the mechanical arms.”
“They look like they’ve been torn apart, Naomi.”
“They have- ah, here.” The two women saw the gigantic Master Agent as it finished ripping apart the other robot that had come to Naomi’s door earlier.
Throwing down the pieces of the destroyed agent robot, the Master Agent bellowed robotically, “You have not met me yet!”
Naomi calmly answered, “When you get to the back corner, I will meet you.”
“Very well!” the giant robot replied, and it stomped back into the granary.
The older woman picked up useful remnants of the newly destroyed robot as Gwen said, “But how did you convince him not to come back?”
“It’s what little Kenny said. He told me to go stand in a corner… and that’s what I told the Master Agent,” she said, smiling and patting the side of McCormick’s big, red, round grain silo.
by submission | Jul 23, 2011 | Story
Author : Alia Gee
While the care and feeding of your child in ideal non-planet-dependent conditions has already been covered in Dr. Krugheimer’s “Happiest Baby on the Space Station” holoseries, I feel it is important not to neglect those new parents who are in more extreme states of habitation.
To whit, here are a few hints I picked up while raising my little family without the blessings of gravity. I only hope they may assist others in their domestic efforts.
My initial concern when faced with my first infant in space was, “Oh, no, the diapers!” Yet here Mother Nature aids us, even when far from our natal gravitational fields. Newborn waste sticks to diaper or bum with great tenacity. Merely make sure the child is securely fastened to the changing table or wall, and the vacuum on your trash receptacle is functional, and sanitation is a breeze.
Moving up the alimentary canal, your next worry will likely be feeding your wiggling spawn. Nursing, bless those mammary glands, is not dependant on gravity.
If you, like me, discovered this knowledge was insufficient to your needs, the standard advice is to use a squeeze bottle and hover. I found that this allowed too much air into the poor infant’s stomach unless always vigilant. And, gentle reader, what parent can exert constant, even pressure over a long period of time when wakened mid-sleep cycle?
Vexed and sleep-deprived, I created a container much like a balloon: small and flaccid when empty, but able to expand to hold up to a liter of nourishing liquid. As the infant sucks, the vessel constricts of its own accord with textbook gentle, even pressure.
As the child gets older and tries to squeeze the bottle, life can get more colorful. In these cases, and also when the infant gaily burps up more than air, my best advice is to remind your parenting partner(s) that (t)he(y) got you into this mess and now (t)he(y) can jolly well help clean it up.
Note: For more on how to create your own blobule from common chemicals you will have in the lab, please see the link at the bottom of the article. Stockists also available on request.
I have occasionally seen the Ideal Space Infant caricatured as an adorable hydra: bottle, blanket and toys tethered neatly to the little darling by long strands of some anonymous fiber.
For shame! This, as any experienced parent can point out, is one big, pastel choking hazard.
Still, it raises a valid question: How does one keep all the essentials near at hand? Some (Jennings-Ho, Xiao Universe-al Baby Care 101) are wild proponents of industrial strength Velcro.
Velcro and its cousins do have their place, make no mistake, and I was grateful for them when trying to keep my young ones in their sleep sacks. However, no one product will solve all your parenting problems; it is best to think creatively when facing those hurdles our mothers never dreamt of.
In my own case I found that the simple application of some adhesive to humble hose-clips worked a treat. For preference, I glued the item to the handle, and attached the pinching end to my child’s clothes. One could go the other route, of course, gluing the hose-clips to the clothes; but if your aesthetic sensibilities are not offended by this, may I suggest that you stick with Velcro?
Whatever methods work for you, I leave all you star-hopping parents with one final happy thought (assuming your precious offspring is one of those individuals who can survive in vacuum): In space, no one can hear your baby scream.
by submission | Jul 22, 2011 | Story
Author : Martin Sumner
The matter of the Checks & Balances Office in dispute with Collins-Chapter was ordered onto the Administrative Ladder to be passed up to State Query. Deputy van Aerts stamped the case file, the Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and signed it off. Committee Clerk Corvidius placed the file with all due ceremony into his legal satchel, and pulled out a new file for consideration. He read from the cover:
The matter of Detention Colony E, Seventy-Sixth System.
“Don’t tell me they’ve finally found it again!” said Committeeman Ibarra, quite against protocol. Corvidius was scanning the summary page. In the ensuing silence, the Oversight Governor-General decanted ice-water into a crystal goblet, and sipped.
“It seems, my esteemed colleagues, that the colony host planet has indeed been recovered,” reported the clerk, “at the farthest end of the Black Pearl Spiral.”
“What of The Cartel, Corvidius?” – Deputy van Aerts.
Committee Clerk Corvidius proceeded to read out the Executive Summary. Lost in the wilderness for nearly one hundredth of an Age, with no means of escape from E, the Cartel members were long since perished and gone to dust. And with them the last vestiges of the most terrible criminal clique across time, space and the dimensions. A long-range survey had finally identified the planet, lost to the Detention Service for so long after a bureaucrat’s administration error had deleted all records of it’s whereabouts.
But there was a problem. An Anthropological Census Analyst from the survey team had been called to the Oversight Committee to explain his findings.
“Call in the witness, Corvidius, let’s hear it.” – van Aerts again.
The Committee Clerk paced steadily to the great panelled door that led into the Visitor’s Receiving Hall. He formally called for Anthropological Census Analyst Settus to present himself before the Oversight Committee. Settus was waiting nervously in an ancient Empire chair by the door. He followed the clerk into the Oversight Chamber and took his place at the stand.
Deputy van Aerts addressed him: “Mister Settus, kindly appraise us of your analysis.”
It seemed that The Cartel, though long since dead and passed out of all knowledge on E, still had a profound effect on the planet’s environment and governance. A global civilisation had sprung up from a genetic mix of the prison colony and an indigenous species that was a close match to our own. The planet was dominated utterly by this human-amalgam, and it’s civil systems based on acquisition, conflict, and oppression were built in the horrific image of their Cartel progenitors.
“In short,” concluded Settus, “the planet is a living hell of suffering and misery. A picture postcard from The Cartel.”
Committeeman Ibarra slammed his fist on the table, issuing a volley of expletives. He was quietened by the raised hand of the Governor-General.
“Corvidius, erase all recordings of this hearing and pass the case file to me. I think we must all be agreed that our Paradise of A Billion Suns does not need the worry of a potential return of The Cartel. Mister Settus, I expect a promotion to The Admiralty, with a purpose built ship of your design and a posting to anywhere in Paradise will be adequate recompense for your good work thusfar, and your future discretion. Deputy van Aerts, please contact Stryker by secure means and inform her that we require an unexpected, inexplicable and catastrophic super-nova in the Seventy-Sixth System with immediate effect. That is all for today, I believe.”
The Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and dismissed his committee.
by submission | Jul 21, 2011 | Story
Author : K. J. Russell
A Somme Corp. product designated Android 593 walked through the rain along Intercontinental Freeway 7 at precisely 1:25:42am. 1:25:43am. 1:25:44am. The Android’s connection to Somme Corp. provided it with a translocation sense that guided it along until it found, 11.5 meters off the road, in a ditch hidden behind a grove of oil-covered trees, a ruined ‘52 Ceres 3-door, sports model. At the front of the car, crushed and bleeding beneath a fraction of the vehicle’s 1.3-ton weight, was Essis Harrin: customer registration 593 (corresponding to the Android), platinum package. The Android’s mechanical ears could hear him muttering, “Dammit… Melanie. Melanie, why aren’t you… Why didn’t you… Why…”
The Android approached him. “Mr. Essis Harrin. Your Somme chip transmitted that you do not wish to be alone. I have been sent accordingly.” Customer 593’s glazed eyes wandered up to it, and what he perceived was a young, petite woman of unusually perfect proportions, exactly symmetrical.
Essis Harrin shivered and the Android sensed a drop in his body temperature, a steady decline from 36.81C to 35.33C and then to 34.12C, his pulse irregular. “So,” his voice was clogged by internal bleeding, “You’re here to mock me?”
The Android was confused, but made no expression. It ran a behavioral calculation and briefly corresponded with the Somme Corp. mainframe, but could find no meaning in Essis Harrin’s response. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Why don’t you help me?”
“Your Somme chip has transmitted no wish for survival. It did transmit that you do not wish to be alone.”
“I only want…” he took a moment to cough up blood, and then, “I want Melanie. Melanie.”
Again interfacing with the Somme computers, the Android did a cross-search for Essis Harrin and Melanie. It spoke aloud its findings, “Melanie Harrin, wife of Essis Harrin and mother of Elise Harrin. Melanie Harrin was reported deceased on 24th December, 2054. Your request is not understood.”
“You can’t give it to me.”
“There is nothing that Somme Corporation cannot give you. We exist to serve you.”
“Can’t serve this,” Essis Harrin leaned back, looking the Android in its counterfeit eyes, “Can’t bring back Melanie.”
The Android made a query to the Somme Corp. administrative branch, detailing the request for a dead entity with special emphasis on the customer’s immediate situation. Unfortunately, offices had closed for the night 23 minutes and 54 seconds before. The Android was forced to respond as best it could, “Request for the reversion of death is incomprehensible. Incomprehensible requests are replaced with similar requests. Similar request: you do not wish to be alone.”
“Just get the hell away from me,” he let himself fall limp, “Let me die in peace.”
The Somme Android blinked twice, then turned around and left. It didn’t understand, but it did comply. The next day a recording of the night’s events was datamined by the Somme Corp. Android Evaluation Department, was then rerouted to the Administration Branch and from there to an executive review. Somme Android 593 made a brief appearance at the man’s funeral, and then it was covertly decommissioned. Somme Corp. executives made a minor change to Android behavioral guidelines, dictating them to assist customers during fatal situations, even when it went against the customer’s wishes. The Androids, while confused by this change, usually adhere to it. As always, programming errors are corrected as they become apparent.
by submission | Jul 19, 2011 | Story
Author : James Reinebold
Filbert swished his mop over the steel floor. A Whisko 5000 beauty: everything you could want in a cleaning device complete with neural net dirt processors, scent ejectors, and partial sentience. He twirled it over the sizzling fluids like a ballroom dancer. Krystal K. would be arriving soon and the administrator wanted everything to be perfect.
Along the way back to his supply closet Filbert picked up a Butterfinger wrapper and an empty can of Grapico (official sponsors of the International Mars Colony) and tossed them in a tube leading towards the incinerator. Scientists carrying shrieking laboratory rodents and engineers with wrenches bustled past him as he walked.
He set a Trash Buddy loose, gave it priorities (1. Clean all major hallways. 2. Clean VIP dormitory. 3. Clean the kitchen areas.), and hoped it would get something done. It bumped into the wall a few times before making it out of the closet.
The observatory was empty. Filbert kept his head down low and scrubbed. He whistled and whooshed the mop back and forth while periodically examining the shine. In his head he laboriously did the math a Trash Buddy could do in a picosecond: estimating the glare and lemon concentration levels. He arranged cups and emptied the trash bins into the incinerator. He wiped the glass clean of smudges and coffee stains.
After he finished, he paused for a moment to look through the glass up at the stars. Millions of them, brilliant points of light shining down through the Windex scuffed windows and radiation filters. A pale dot for Earth, a couple of glaring white circles for the other planets.
He thought that maybe all the work was worth it.
The Trash Buddy reported a successful cleansing of the VIP dorms and kitchen. Main hallways scrubbed using 50% cleaning solution, 50% recycled water. Lemon scent added at regular intervals. Heading to rendezvous.
Filbert acknowledged and flipped a circuit that gave tiny shocks of pleasurable energy to the Trash Buddy to thank it for its service.
At that moment the intercom buzzed.
“Attention: all staff. This is a reminder that today will be the long awaited visit from electromegapop artist Krystal K. She will be arriving in moments, so please be on your best behavior. I can’t stress enough to you the benefits good press has for research like ours.”
The crew emerged from their laboratories and ran towards the shuttle port. The administrator played the first few tracks of Krystal’s latest hit (Galactomusik) over the loudspeakers.
Filbert sighed and leaned against a railing. The Trash Buddy beeped rapidly and propped up next to his shoe. No one said anything about the shiny floors or fresh lemony scent. Nobody had to.
