by submission | Jun 10, 2011 | Story
Author : Victoria Barbosa
“Look what I found skulking around outside.” The Grosthnos pulled Rory into the control room by one skinny naked shoulder. “Claims he’s a Terran.”
“A what!” The captain, a burly Hronoid with tusks like a rhino’s, swiveled in his command chair to stare. The room reeked of the body odors of half a dozen beings, from scaly multi-limbed insectoids to slimy Mucoids.. Rory’s stomach lurched as the Grosthnos lifted him so that his toes barely touched the floor, partly since he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten.
“A Terran?” said the captain. “That’s a good one. Terrans died out centuries ago. And they didn’t look anything like that! You don’t look much like a super-species to me!” The crew rumbled in laughter. “What would a Terran be doing here at the ass-end of space anyway? How old are you, kid?”
“S-sixteen,” stammered Rory. “My ma and paw bought me as a frozen embryo – they got me cheap because they weren’t sure what I was – but I know!”
“R-r-right,” drawled the captain. “What do you want?”
“Want to get into space, off this rock. I can work – I’m strong enough.”
The captain snickered. An evil spark came into his eye. “Fine. You beat Shuggup here in a fair fight, and we’ll give you a berth.” He gestured to a gorilla-muscled crewman. “Mash ‘im!”
Shuggup grinned, showing discolored fangs..
Rory backed away, throwing a desperate glance over his shoulder.. He recognized the computer logo on the control panel, Terran initials in a circle, once ubiquitous throughout the galaxies.
He remembered his ma’s advice: “you’ll never win with muscle, son. But what Terrans are good at is adaptiing- use your brains.”
Rory raised his voice, speaking the old Terran he had learned from the scratched discs: “Computer! Activate voice control. Emergency protocol!”
Half a second passed. Shuggup’s brows wrinkled, doubtless wondering why his victim was shouting gibberish. The computer responded, a husky contralto that had not been heard for perhaps half a millennium. “Voice mode activated. Do you claim Terran status?”
“Affirmative.”
“Scanning DNA for confirmation. . .”
“Mash ‘im!” growled the captain.
“He’s talkin to the computer,” muttered Shuggup. “The computer never talks to us . . . “
“DNA scan completed,” said the computer. “Status confirmed. Orders, sir?”
Rory scarcely had time for elation. “Inactivate life support!”.
The lights went out, plunging the control room into pitch-black. The ever-present hum of the air systems stopped.
“Hey, what did you do?” the captain yelled.
“I have control of the computer,” Rory said. “If you want power and air, tell your gorilla to keep his hands off me. Computer, reactivate life-support. Lights on low.”
The humming restarted. An eerie glow came up, lighting the crew’s bizarre forms like a half-glimpsed nightmare. The captain peered at Rory. “Maybe we can find you a post after all. We could use a co-pilot.”
Rory straightened his shoulders. “Fine. That’ll do for a start. Computer: if at any time you don’t hear my voice for more than 8 hours, you will suspend life-support again.”
“Understood.”
Years later, when an interstellar media personality asked what Rory would have done if he’d been unable to communicate with the ship’s computer, he only shrugged. “Guess I’d have had to think of something else,” he said. “Or died.” And he flashed the grin famous by then across all the light-years of the rejuvenated Empire of Man.
by submission | Jun 8, 2011 | Story
Author : Julian Miles
It’s a cure worse than the condition, yet they sell it like it’s a panacea.
I saw another one today and I listened to her at the counter.
“How much is a week’s supply?”
“Five hundred euroyen, miss.”
“Oh, great. I’ll take a fortnight in day and night packs please.”
The alchemist beamed at her as he unlocked the cabinet and got out twenty-eight packs; fourteen orange, fourteen purple. She paid in scrip, presumably so her husband wouldn’t get any warning from seeing the transaction on his credfeed. As she moved toward the door I couldn’t stop myself as I gently touched her arm. She spun, eyes like a deer startled by a hunter as I spoke.
“Why?”
Her face showed a torrent of shifting emotions; Fear. Surprise. Resignation.
“He’s a good man really, it’s just that work is hard and he gets so stressed.”
“Which he uses to justify beating you.”
“No, he doesn’t touch me. Well, except when he wants… you know. It’s just, just, oh, you couldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She looked at me then. Really looked at me. Her eyes widened.
“You’re him. The last one. I saw you on the newsfeed last week.”
I nodded, then pressed on. I already knew the conclusion, but one has to go through the motions.
“You were saying?”
“He’s my husband. He loved me. But times changed and so did we. He still supports me, still takes me out. He’s so nice; sometimes. I just wish –“
“That he could be nice all the time? That he would stop dictating your every thought and action? That he would just drop dead?”
The look of guilt broke my heart. Like a child caught stealing.
“No, no, nothing as bad as that. It’s just that Steady makes things better.”
“You mean having him reduced to being emotionally dependant on you stops him being a monster.”
She shook her head. The alchemist was staring daggers at us, so I guided our conversation outside before he called the Watch on me for harassment – again. She had gathered herself by the time we got outside and my window of opportunity was gone.
“He’s not dependant, just less controlling. It means we can have a life together.”
“Why not try to solve the problem?”
She looked stricken, then whispered,
“I tried. It got worse. Nothing he did left evidence, so it was me versus him and I’d been losing that fight for years. So when Steady came along it was a blessing, really.”
I looked at her, taking in this petite woman who had taken the only way out available to her. Steady had been launched as a ‘domestic harmony enhancer’. Originally used by both partners, it had gradually drifted to single partner use, and ninety percent of that was use by one on the other. In the last five years, marriage counselling and domestic violence centres had just vanished, the need officially gone. Good gods above, was I the only one who saw the crime?
“A blessing, or something else?”
I had to get her to see, to admit it. Just one. Please Lord, just one. Her brow furrowed as she idly nibbled her thumbnail. Then her eyes went wide. I felt a cold lump congeal in my stomach as she looked up at me. Her voice was cold with tightly reined anger, but more frightening was the intent writ plain on her expression.
“My turn.”
With that, she turned swiftly and strode off into the light drizzle that had started while we talked. The weather towers were down again, but I welcomed it. I could walk and cry without drawing attention.
by submission | Jun 7, 2011 | Story
Author : T.C. Powell
After a three-day’s pursuit through nothingness, Rass Det’s cruiser, the Virgil, finally tracked down the green-black war barge known throughout the Terran League as Deathspike. It orbited Regis III with shields up and weapons armed, obviously ready for a fight. Rass opened communications.
“This is Commander Rass Det of the Republic of Mars to the vessel Deathspike. You are ordered to stand down weapons, lower shields, and submit to Terran authority.”
For a few minutes, silence. Rass couldn’t blame them–he wouldn’t say anything either.
“Repeat: this is Commander Det of Mars. Submit now or we must open fire.”
Nothing.
He turned to the gunner’s well. “Make ready, Mr. Sanders.”
Power rumbled under the deck as the forward batteries charged. They would detect it too; it was talk or fight–all or nothing. Talk was the happier option, always, but this time especially: the Virgil was vastly overmatched. Rass hadn’t wanted to give chase, or force a confrontation, but assistance was forever away, and procedure was clear. No point in bluffing. No backing down.
“Arm the cannons.”
Sanders answered dutifully, but Rass could see it in his eyes. He knew–they all knew.
“On my mark.”
Sanders’ hands flew across the controls. The Virgil was a well-run machine, if not well-funded. Her crew was disciplined and loyal–true believers in the system. They’d signed on for adventure, or recognition, or a hundred individual reasons that Rass didn’t know, and didn’t want to. He watched them, going about business. Technicians making minor adjustments to keep the lights on, the heat up. The science station where Dr. Marbay was, even now, analyzing fragmentary sensor data. Maintenance workers who fought to keep the decks clean, even though they never had water enough, or manpower.
All of it–their efforts, their years of service, their dreams of family and old-age–would come down to this one moment, and then nothingness. And for what? The Deathspike?
Yes, Rass thought, for the Deathspike. It was time.
He turned to Sanders, whose finger hovered over oblivion.
“And… fire,” was what he was going to say, but the words stopped short as a soft blink caught the corner of his eye.
“She’s responding,” Lieutenant Montoya said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice, and failing.
The transmission came in, garbled and broken, the words fading in and out of perception like an auditory mirage.
“…surrender… systems frozen… mutiny… hold fire… please…”
Rass closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, then told Sanders to disengage, relishing the feel of the batteries’ hum slowly falling away.
The two ships held course above the planet, one finally submitting to the other. As Rass Det boarded the bridge of the long-sought raider, they welcomed him with tear-soaked thanks and pleas for mercy, the first of which he felt he didn’t deserve, and the second, he couldn’t grant.
He had, however, managed to luck onto one more day’s living. And that, he supposed, was a good day’s work.
by submission | Jun 6, 2011 | Story
Author : Jake Christie
“Places!” shouted Lunar Exploration Unit #4837-E. “Places, everybody!”
The other research machines trudged, trundled, and rolled across the dust. The tiny six-wheeled rover took his place at the foot of the mineral collector. The giant thick-treaded mobile equipment transport rolled to his spot on top of a small hill. Only the other humanoid Lunar Exploration Unit, #5216-ND, didn’t take his place. Instead he put his metal hands on his metal hips and stalked towards LEU 4837-E.
“Louie,” he said, “what are we doing?”
Louie was adjusting the optical recording device mounted atop his head. “I told you, Leonard,” he said. He stopped his adjustments to motion towards the robotic tableau. “Minnie is a poor Moon farmer, and he’s fallen in love with Rover. Rover’s family doesn’t want her marrying someone of such low social standing, so her father Met – a wealthy Moon plantation owner – is coming to teach them both a lesson. And you – you, Leonard – you’re the wandering Moon raygunslinger with a heart of gold, the only one who can defend truth, honor, and the lunar way.”
“No,” said Leonard, ” I mean what are we doing making a movie? We’re supposed to be collecting data.”
Louie looked at Leonard as incredulously as possible, which without facial features was not incredulously at all. “Collecting data? You would reduce the whole of the Moon experience to ‘data?’ What good is data without emotion? The thrill of defeat? The agony of success?”
“You can’t experience either of those things,” said Leonard. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you don’t know what they mean.”
Louie put a cold hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “The artist can’t be constrained by their physical, emotional, or mechanical limitations. Go beyond your programming, Leonard. This is a story that needs to be told.”
“What we need,” said Leonard, “is to process and collect data about Moon ores.”
Louie looked past Leonard. The other machines were staring at them, inasmuch as you could call slight shifts in orientation “staring.” Against the star-speckled expanse of space, the artist in Louie questioned his programming about which phenomena before his eyes were the real stars.
“Let me get this shot,” he said quietly. He looked at Leonard. “I need to find something here besides just mineral data.”
Leonard turned and looked at their companions. They were straining at the gears with anticipation, ready for their big scene, and for just a moment Leonard’s visual retrieval spheres saw the same thing that Louie’s did.
“Okay,” he said, finally turning back. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re going to be great,” said Louie. “Just do what a raygunslinger would be programmed to do.
Louie extended his neck to capture the sweeping scale of the Moon’s desolate landscape. As Leonard took his place, Louie settled his optical recording device on the poor Moon Romeo and his pretty six-wheeled Moon Juliet.
“Aaaand… ACTION!”
by submission | Jun 5, 2011 | Story
Author : Harris Tobias
I felt a shifting in my circuits like I got when I rebooted, a slippery, falling feeling that signaled stress— or was it joy? The whole idea of feelings and emotions was new to me. An upgrade, I didn’t think was much of an improvement. It was difficult to keep track of what one was supposed to be feeling. Regardless of exactly what emotion it was, I knew that I was supposed to be having them, lots of them, especially on my wedding day.
According to custom, I colored my body panels white and clutched a bouquet of artificial blossoms in my utility appendage. I would say I was nervous but of course you can’t be nervous without nerves, but I was definitely feeling a little 4-0-4 File not found-ish. I looked at myself in the mirror, tall, polished, beautiful in a classical way.
I noticed the odd feelings were strongest when I thought of BEN-4-7-45, my designated partner. After all, how well did I really know him? True, the BEN models were highly rated, but you never really knew how another being was wired until you’ve shared a lot of time together, and then it might be too late. A few brief encounters hardly qualified as knowing someone.
No doubt BEN-4-7-45 was having similar misgivings. And why shouldn’t he? After all, what made me so superior? A four year old model with more miles on my odometer than I cared to admit. I was lucky to have finally made a match at all. And BEN was so kind and sweet, tall and strong; sure it was his third pairing, but that didn’t mean it was all his fault.
My best friends were clustered around me now. All smile emoticons and what passed for laughter among my kind. I had to admit the girls looked terrific in their burgundy and pink body panels. BEN’s friends looked handsome too in their charcoal and light gray panels. Maybe there will be more pairings after tonight. It would be nice to have friends in common.
There was a stirring in the hall. Soon it would be time to walk down the aisle. One of my friends slipped a piece of gauzy fabric over my ocular sensors, another custom no one understood the reason for but, like the ceremony itself, it was faithfully carried out. These ancient rituals were all that remained of the time before.
Two ancient bots, patched and discolored with age, stood on each side of me. I understood that they symbolized the parents who, if I were human, would have given me away. They were the oldest bots I had ever seen. They had probably done this a thousand times. There wasn’t much else they could do, poor things. They walked my down the aisle to the stage, a raised platform decorated with flowers of all description—plastic, fabric, even glass—more flowers than I had ever seen.
A scratchy recording of something called the wedding march began to play through the speakers of assembled guests. All oculars were on me, the old-bots moved forward. Ben was waiting. This was it, there was no turning back. I hoped for the best.
