by submission | Oct 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Adam
The boy had been rummaging through the Pit for hours before he hit the jackpot. A slim silver watch covered in a day’s worth of grit and stench. The boy held it up in his hands, gently brushing off the dirt with barely cleaner hands, and admiring how it shone under the flickering lights. A vague flicker of a smile passed across his oft expressionless face.
He curled a fist around it, hiding it from the peering eyes of other children, then he turned and rushed towards the exit from the Pit. He took the maintenance door out of the garbage Pit and up to the Hangar.
Up stairs, and out into the throng of strange cultures, the boy wove between the thudding and hissing machinery of mercenaries and the alluring beauty of GM whores. There was the background of vocal conversation and the constant subliminal hum of machinery and electronics. Ancient stone arches overlaid with scaffolding and plastic pipes rose far overhead. The sound of engines reached through the throng of noise; air craft full of passengers.
He slithered between a group of humanoids warbling song to one another and found himself on the far side of the human river. He barely stopped to catch his breath before racing off again towards the pawnbroker, still barely believing he had found something as valuable and personal as someone’s watch. He only guessed at the memories, secrets, and bank passwords the thin silver band could hold.
“Give me the watch.” The voice was clearly coming from something less delicate than human vocal cords. A huge chrome leg crashed down in front of the boy, forcing him to stop. He glanced up at the huge Mercenary, gleaming steel body, globular black head, the quality told him this merc was successful. It told him it bought its gear.
With a fast step, the boy was around the trunk of steel and racing across the tiles. Behind him he heard and felt the massive legs crushing tiles beneath its weight. Too fast. A thin whip wrapped around his legs and sent him skidding across the tiles. He finished his slide face down, nose clogging with blood and eyes blurred with tears.
The crushing thud of the Merc’s steps stopped just behind him. A giant’s shadow cast over the feeble boy. “The watch.” He felt rubber fingers as thick as his torso gently rap around his arm, they tightened and then turned him over. The boy flinched at the rifle barrel an inch from his eyes. He sensed the stare of nervous eyes and sensor stalks from a few nearby.
“NOW.” The Merc demanded. The boy tightened his fist in defiance. The watch was his. His find, his hard work. One of the Merc’s fingers started dividing, the rubber flesh splitting into thin strands waving gently in a non-existent breeze. Then, they moved in unison towards the boy’s fist. Strands pushed insistently against his skin, squeezing between fingers and thumb.
The boy panicked, trying to grip harder, “no, no, no!” He felt the watch slip, and then suddenly his fist was closing on vacant space. The rubber strands retreated and the Merc held up its prize. Something entered a port on its side and for a moment the Merc stood stock still. Then the something retreated and the watch disappeared into the folds of rubber. The Merc released its hold on the boy, turned and walked casually away.
Something light dropped on his chest. The boy grabbed it and held it before his blurred vision. The silver watch shone under the Hangar’s lights.
by submission | Oct 16, 2010 | Story
Author : Waldo van der Waal
The Boeing 747-400 sat glittering on the tarmac, resplendent in the blue-and-white colours of the Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij. The bold letters of KLM seemed almost too crisp against the rest of the pure white fuselage. From high above, the twin suns, Ttarp and Slorr, beat down on the gleaming skin of the majestic aircraft.
Commander Thgirw of the Second Historical Unit wandered around the ‘plane. His tentacles left a trail of slime as far as he ambled, together with a smell that would have had the humans that originally built the magnificent aeroplane retching in the gutters. “Orttkls, tktktk spee,” he bubbled towards his companion, who was clearly lower down the pecking order than the Commander. “Rroossi riwwasser,” came the reply. Thgirw bounced his rear-most tentacle up and down briefly, accepting his subordinate’s explanation.
Of course, there were no humans present at this auspicious presentation of the 747 aircraft, so continuing to report on the bubbles of the Atrrk Commander and his wingman is pointless. Had they been speaking English, however, the rest of their exchange would have gone something like this:
“Remind me again, Yentihw, where did we find this thing?” from the Commander.
“It was dug up, esteemed great tentacle, on the third orbiter from the star out in the boondocks,” came the reply.
“And how big was the artefact?”
“Approximately one four hundredth the size of the beast in front of you, Great Tentacle.”
“And you believe it to be a flying machine of some description?”
Yentihw looked uncertain, or rather, if you knew exactly what to look for, you would’ve realised that he was uncertain. But his answer was sure and clear:
“Our historians scoured the planet. We found many pieces that point to these machines being used as transport for the inhabitants of the long-dead planet. And as you yourself have said, it is our mission to understand the races that have perished.”
“Very well,” said the commander. “It doesn’t look anything like a flying machine to me, but if the people from that planet used it as such, and you were able to recreate the entire thing just from the small artefact, I am intrigued.”
Yentihw was clearly eager to please his boss: “Great Tentacle, this is a great moment for us. Bringing this machine back to life is proof that our studies, no, your studies, are worth it. It shows that we have a great deal to learn from those that came before us.”
The commander was clearly soothed by the words of his subordinate. He squished off to a safe distance, and reclined onto one of his tentacles. “And you are sure it will fly?” he asked finally.
Instead of answering, Yentihw waved a slimy tentacle towards the 747. Moments later the entire craft started shaking gently, as a low hum rolled over the Commander and his subordinate. The hum built into a high-pitched whine and seconds later the massive aircraft lurched vertically into the sky, and shot off over the horizon at nearly fourteen times the speed of sound. The commander cheered.
Even Yentihw allowed himself a small bubble of joy: “See, I told you it would fly.”
by submission | Oct 14, 2010 | Story
Author : George R. Shirer
“When I was a kid, we didn’t have to slog all day to get places,” said Grandpa Whiteman.
Johnny adjusted his pack and kept his eyes on the road. The blacktop was cracked and broken, and if you didn’t watch where you stepped you could trip and hurt yourself. If you were lucky, all you’d get were skinned knees and maybe some bruises. On the other hand, Johnny knew folks who’d broken ankles and worse from a bad fall.
“Momma would pull out the car and we’d be in Hatterstown like that.” Grandpa Whiteman snapped his fingers for emphasis. “I miss that.”
Johnny nodded. The straps on the pack were cutting into his shoulders. He stopped for a moment to adjust them.
“You okay, Johnny?”
“Fine, Grandpa. Just needed to shift things a bit.”
“Sorry, boy. I don’t mean to be a burden.”
Johnny glanced over his shoulder, at the big jar that held what was left of Grandpa Whiteman. It fit snugly inside the pack, the old man’s sense-organs poking over Johnny’s shoulder like a slimy, pink periscope.
Grandpa Whiteman was mostly nerves now, stuck in a shatterproof jar and hooked up to a voice box and a prosthetic limb. All in all, the old man probably weighed about twenty-five pounds.
“I think you’re putting on weight, grandpa.”
The old man laughed. His sense-organs reoriented themselves so he could peer into his grandson’s face. The prosthetic hand reached around and patted Johnny’s flesh and blood appendage.
“You’re a good boy, Johnny.”
“Thanks, grandpa.” Johnny took a breath and they walked the rest of the way home in companionable silence.
by submission | Oct 13, 2010 | Story
Author : Clint Wilson
Chestofferoff had never dealt with a Steely before; hadn’t even actually seen one in person until now. He knew they were supposed to be big, but this guy blocked out the suns! Never mind, he pushed his nervousness aside, slicked back his greasy hair with one sweaty palm and flashed a big square toothed grin under his pencil thin moustache. “So what kind of ship you looking for friend?”
The Steely’s voice reverberated off the hodge podge collection of beaten and battered fighters, freighters and cruisers that littered the dirty patch of tarmac known as “Honest Chestofferoff’s Used Space-Shipatorium.”
“Mmm, big ship. Mmm big ship for big Steely body. Mmm fast ship, mmm fast and… ac-ro-bat-ic.” The last syllable ended in an echoing click, like a ball peen hammer hitting a distant anvil.
“Uh huh,” Chestofferoff held the grin as he sized up his customer. “So you want big, fast and agile huh? Well your old pal Chestofferoff can certainly accommodate you friend.” Then with the expertise of a galactic politician he suddenly lost the smile and leaned forward, one eyebrow raised in feigned mistrust. “Say, how much exactly do you have to spend?”
The Steely wore no clothing but had a large chain mail purse strapped over one shoulder. From the bag he procured two bank pouches which he shook at the salesman. Chestofferoff’s trained ears could hear the stacks of large denomination plastic credits rattling around in there. Instantly his smile returned. He stepped up to the Steely and tried to put a hand on the huge biped’s shoulder, but had to settle instead for grabbing the back of his massive upper arm. “Right this way friend, have I got the ship for you!”
An hour later he was putting the neatly stacked credits into his safe and making ready to close up for the night when he heard a horrible screeching from above, and looked out the window just in time to see a fiery streak cross the early evening sky. This was then followed by a muffled crash that shook the entire lot. Chestofferoff hurriedly locked his safe and stepped out of the office in time to see a smoking fire ball rising into the air nearby.
He punched the night security switch on his wristband and felt a little better as the massive wrought iron gate banged shut at the lot’s entrance. But still he spoke aloud to himself, a trait easily picked up by someone with no friends, “I paid those damn Wretchassians to rebuild those stabilizers. It couldn’t be!” Then as he made his way across the lot back to his private quarters, all the while looking over his shoulder, he added, “I might not have paid them what they wanted, but I damn well paid them! Sure they argued that the things needed to be replaced, but what do I look like, the crown prince of Regalia Seven?”
Then as he unlocked the door to his quarters he was startled by another tumultuous crash. He spun around to see the lot’s front gate twisted and hurled aside, and there stood the Steely, its eyes glowing orange in the twilight, the bent control stick from the crashed Cygness 5 cruiser clutched in one massive fist.
As Chestofferoff deftly slipped into his quarters he shouted, “No refunds!” and then thought of how the thin steel door of his apartment was probably half as strong as the now mangled front gate.
He could hear the clunking footsteps of the angry Steely drawing near.
by submission | Oct 12, 2010 | Story
Author : Rob Burton
More useful for sound deadening than reference, the books lining the office’s walls also symbolised the traditional values of the head of the firm. The junior partner privately referred to him as ‘Old Man’ Price.
‘You play computer games, don’t you, Simpson?’
‘Yes, sir. Mostly TIISR’s’ The word sounded like ‘teasers’, which struck Simpson as an odd thing to say to the Old Man.
‘Total immersion? Perfect. Done any research on these recent cases of,’ Mr Price peered through reading glasses at the screen before him, ‘autonomous NPC’s suing players?’
Simpson was fascinated, something the old man surely knew; Simpson’s company account was filled with related feeds. ‘Somewhat, Sir.’
‘You are aware of the Dezmond Psyke case?’
Simpson nodded.
‘Why doesn’t this come up every time they die, Simpson?’
‘This information is available online, Sir…’
‘I’d rather someone explained it to me in the real world, Simpson. Call me old-fashioned.’
‘Very well. Under normal circumstances, programs that run the non-player characters are given new roles when they’re killed. Providing it doesn’t occur in an overly abusive manner, they don’t see this as a bad thing. Some even commit suicide when they’re bored. However, permanent physical disability is different. Especially when they’re subject to a non-suicide clause.’
‘I see. So they have to put up with it when some careless player breaks their virtual spine. This must have happened before. The Turing precedents are, what, eight years old now?’
‘Companies have settled out of court in five similar cases, getting the writers and programmers to either come up with excuses as to why their characters got better, or compensate them in other ways – increased powers, special vehicles, that kind of thing.’
‘Why can’t that be done in this case?’
‘Well, he…’
‘He?’
‘Yes sir, he prefers the male archetypes.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was unlucky enough to be fairly high-profile in a realistic realm with tight continuity. Plus, it seems to be a point of principle. It’s the way he was programmed.’
‘They can’t change that?’
‘Violation of personal autonomy rights, established in Apple vs. Drunkchamp, 2046.’
The Old Man sat back and steepled his fingers in a way Simpson found particularly patronising. ‘Do you know who our client is?’
‘Yes Sir.’ Simpson had to force himself to avoid rolling his eyes. In his opinion the Royal Family was an institution so clearly out of date it should only be remembered in the Old Man’s books. He couldn’t imagine how such outdated inequalities and prejudices had survived so long. The other Senior Partner, Scruple (now long dead), had never courted such clients.
‘Then you know how important it is that he not lose to some bundle of electrons.’ Price frowned, ‘No offence.’
‘Perhaps a little more than a bunch of electrons, sir.’
Old Man Price raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m assigning you the case, so that’s something you may have to deal with.’
‘Sir, I should warn you, I have a personal involvement that may conflict with the firm’s position.’
The Old Man sighed and removed his glasses. ‘I made you a Junior Partner because I knew you were professional enough not to let your personal feelings get in the way of giving the best possible defence to those who require it.’
Simpson gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘I’ll try my best, Sir.’ He turned to leave.
‘Just one more thing, Simpson. Win this case, and it’ll be Price & Simpson at the top of our webpages.’
He nodded again, ‘just a bundle of electrons’. Price was right, Simpson was a professional.
