Camping

Author : Jacqueline Rochow

We’re going camping.

Mum finishes packing my bag as Dad prepares a celebratory stew. I packed the bags already, but Mum insisted on pulling everything out again to make sure that I didn’t forget anything. Food, clothes, gun, bandages, antibiotics – how hard is that? She still finds problems, though. Takes out my favourite leather jeans, replaces them with some good poly ones. Takes out the bread and pastries to replace them with something more nutritious.

The stew is delicious. For dessert we have fruit salad; I savour it. I’m not a fan of fruit but I know that I’m going to miss it.

Bobby asks where we’re going, what’s the occasion. We have been talking about little else for the past month but he doesn’t understand. He’s never seen anybody off camping before. Mum explains it to him, in hushed tones.

After dinner, Mum and Dad take me aside and press a small box into my hands. I open it. Vitamin tablets! I ask them where they found the money for such a prize, but they brush the question aside. I bury the box deep in my pack, out of sight of muggers.

We meet Jessa’s family and walk down to the city gates together. Jessa nibbles on the ear of her stuffed bunny. I wonder if she’s really going to take that useless ball of fluff with her.

There are many gifts. Aunts, uncles, and friends who have already been or are too young all give me something. Mostly useful things – a knife, protein bars, a good pair of shoes.

I thank people, trying to contain my excitement and nervousness. Jessa hugs her teddy and stares dumbly at everyone. She won’t be able to handle herself out there. We have been friends since we were little, and it will be up to me to keep her safe.

Almost a hundred twelve-year-olds stand just outside the gate, all gripping bags. “Take no more than you can carry” is the rule, and some have pushed that rule to its limit. Those ones will abandon most of their gear soon or drop, I think. A few black-clad border guards are about, looking imposing on horseback. As usual, they make no attempt to interact with anyone. I am glad of this; I am not sure that I want to hold a conversation with somebody whose primary job is to shoot me if I stumble on the exodus or attempt to get within sight of the city before the trip is over. It would be… creepy.

I go to exit the gate, only to find myself anchored by my mother’s hand. She does not want me to go. But I must, and she cannot leave the city, so I give her, Dad and Bobby one last hug before prying her hand away and stepping over the imaginary line between city and wilds.

The border guards call a final warning. Behind me, the gates begin to close.

For my parents’ benefit, I turn and wave, but I don’t try to seek them out in the crowd. I don’t want to see my mother’s tears, my father’s last mouthed message to his “little princess”. I didn’t even bring any photos; they would just be another object to guard and treasure, a waste of energy that I could little afford. I will recognise them when I get back. I’m sure I will.

We start walking, and Jessa offers me a hold of her stuffed bunny. I decline.

We’re going camping. Save some dinner for us, Mum; we’ll be home in a year.

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Love at First Sip

Author : Jacqueline Rochow

We decided to take the draught.

My parents didn’t like it. A lot of people didn’t. It was unnatural, people said. It wasn’t the real thing. It was empty. It was selfish.

So we didn’t tell them.

Stupid? Reckless? That’s what my mother would have said. I was only seventeen when we decided to do it, but I waited until my eighteenth before applying for the necessary counselling. Then I could do it secretly. I told my parents that I was taking a programming class and headed off to my sessions once a week, and three months later we had approval.

It made sense. We were the perfect physical and intellectual match. The same interests, morals, life goals. We’d been studying together for two years, we were compatible, and we made a wonderful team. I’d fallen in love with boys before, or at least developed crushes, but they always turned out to be boring, inconsiderate, horrible matches. He wasn’t like that. So when he proposed that we do something reckless and stupid and so logical and right, I had agreed immediately.

We’ve been “dating” for nine months. There’s no spark yet, but it made sense. A trial run, as it were, to test our compatibility. And tonight we get our first dose of Oxytome. Over the next two months, we’ll dose ourselves under controlled conditions and chemically stimulate ourselves into falling in love.

We might have to take boosters to make it stick long-term, they told us; we decided to take it slow though. One course, and see how we went. If we fell out of love again, we could discuss extending it then.

The doctor has already given us both the preporatory injections. There’s an oral dose that we have to take in the next 3-5 hours, so we’re going over to his place to watch a romantic movie and have a drink.

Society might condemn the love drug and those who choose to take it. They might tell us that it’s an illusion. They might tell us that these things should happen naturally, that science has no place in the realm of love. They might tell us that even with mandatory counselling, the existence of such a thing opens people up to making horrible matches. And we have structured, logical rebuttals for all of those points, but they can wait, because right now we just don’t care. To hell with the world around us – we’re just two stupid, reckless teenagers falling in love.

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Are Two Heads Better Than One?

Author : John Williams

Gas and Sag had clear orders to destroy all life on the planet. Their leader, The Gnik, was concerned that the violence portrayed on its radio and television was setting a very bad example to the rest of the Universe. The exact manner of destruction was left to them. Their Gnik failed to see the irony of destroying a planet because of its output of violent transmissions.

“During the five-year trip from the planet htrae in Proxima Centauri, you’ll have ample time to agree on the optimum method,” instructed The Gink. On htrae, it was policy to make decisions at the lowest practical level.

Of course, they didn‘t agree: If Gas said fire then Sag said water.

The arguments went back and forth. Their leader, The Gnik, was beginning to think it had been a mistake to send a couple on this mission. Perhaps, Professor Stranglelove was correct when he or she advocated the elimination of one gender as a means to promote galactic harmony and to make the monarch’s life easier.

It was rumoured that the good professor had taken the precaution to adapt his own or her own body to qualify for either gender – a sacrifice willingly made in the name of science.

“Can’t I use my atomic blaster?” implored Sag as she reached for the holster on her hip.

“What about my headaches? It’s bound to make a terrible noise.”

“If you really loved me, then you’ll do it my way,” countered Sag. Gas checked to see what brain his partner was using.

Sag drew herself up to her full 2ft 6inches and turned her purple faces to her silent partner.

“I’m older so I should decide.” Her mouths forming distinct sulks.

“But you decided last time. It must be my turn.”

Their attention was caught by a message from mission control asking their position.

“Are we there yet?” asked Sag.

“E.T.A. in five minutes,” sighed Gas and vowed to save the most beautiful planet in the cosmos. He looked aghast at the temperature sensing device, the planet must be the coldest inhabited one in the known universe. A plan was beginning to form in his thinking head.

“So what are we going to do?”

All the time, Gas was pondering on the irony of destroying a planet because it was too violent. Of course, he knew that countless envoys had been sent to warn the leaders of the Earthmen. He had seen the record of how they had been cruelly treated, their bodies bombarded with radiation, and then dissected. Gas switched off his feeling head and engaged his other brain. A light illuminated the dark interior of the flying saucer as he came to the realization of how to save the blue planet.

“We’ll toss a coin. Heads or tails?” he said casually.

Sag agreed and called tails.

The coin landed heads side up.

“Shit!” yelled Sag, “ I can never win an argument with you. “ She glared down at the Sirian Dollar.

Gas smiled up at her, “I thought we may introduce a little carbon dioxide into their atmosphere just to warm it up a bit. Then, it would make an ideal holiday destination.”

Sag allowed smiles to soften her mouths.

Gas quickly picked up the double-headed coin and began releasing the stored carbon dioxide they had exhaled during their voyage, venting it into the atmosphere of the blue planet. Their ship lurched upward and Gas struggled to right the craft but Sag wrenched the controls from his grasp.

Observers saw the craft stall and crash into a field on the outskirts of Copenhagen. The ship’s video log, after examination, was hurried to climate change conference. Gas and Sag, still engaged in a furious argument, were taken away for counselling and an afternoon in a hot tub.

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Career Advising and Planning Services

Author : D. Wang

His wings were polyaramid leather woven over carbon bones and monofilament tendon, his gaze the piercing thousand-yard stare of a man who could see through stone, his talons X-ray lasers so powerful their waste heat violated Second Kyoto with every shot. In his time, he’d been God’s own fury and brave men had worn charms lest he notice they still lived. Now he queued up outside Lane’s placement office with the amputees and the lepers.

“Name?” Lane asked.

“ZX7122NGF99OU.”

“First, or last?”

“I guess if the last name is the family name then that’d be Azrael, so—”

“First, then. Here you are. Two years in the western theatre, retired this January?”

“Is that Earth time?”

“What else, Jovian Separatist Daylight-Savings?”

“We’re on Mars, I thought—”

Lane guffawed like a man who hadn’t laughed in too long. “Earth Force runs on Earth time, son. Martian! That’s a good one. Sit down, I’ll be right back.” He stomped down the hall until he found a small child huddled under a chair. Then he knelt down, and bellowed, “You there, boy! See that sign?”

The child whispered, “Cannot read, sir.”

Lane’s voice softened. “It says, ‘ECM strictly prohibited in waiting rooms.’ Aww, I’m not mad. I’ve got one like you at home. Here, have a sucker. You stay offline and there’ll be another in my office. Deal?” He let the boy stare at his pinky a moment, then grunted and stumped back.

“Where was I? Right, Martian time. That’s a good one. You want to be a comedian, son?”

“I thought, something leveraging my talents…” Azrael flexed his cannon. “Surely someone must want something done about someplace?”

“Private work?” Lane sucked his teeth. “You’re almost three years off the line, though. What did you do in the service?”

“Search and destroy, recon, anti-material, harassment, close air support. They were going to tap me for assassinations and deep insertions, real behind-the-lines work, but I didn’t fit the psych profile.”

“Trouble with independent operations?”

“Oh, no! I’m fully autonomic. Used to be a child molester, see. Still am, though since the operation I’ve been lacking in the wherewithal, if you take my meaning. Point being, I’m not one of those silly AI jobs that sees a kid bringing his da the RPG and starts throwing TypeError exceptions.”

“Ah. Well, no, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” Lane rubbed his eyes, good cheer gone again. “Well, Azrael, I don’t recommend this often, because it’s not an easy job, or a glamorous one, but it needs doing and I think you’ve got what it takes.” Lane motioned Azrael close and whispered, “Sheep herding.”

“Sheep herding!”

“Sheep herding.” Lane gestured expansively. “Just you, ten thousand tonnes of mutton, and the great wide plains of Australia. Some can’t take the loneliness, just go crazy, but that’s not a problem for you, eh?”

“You can trust me. I’m as stable as anything. Rest of my squadron needed counselling, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but—”

“It’s settled. Sheep herding. Next!”

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Talk To Me

Author : K Clarke

As if crashing on this stupid planet wasn’t enough. Pad paced the cell, glaring through the one transparent wall at the creatures on the other side. As if having to survive for three months on this stupid planet wasn’t enough. I just had to get myself caught by the Space Invaders from the Black Lagoon. They probably think I’m the local wildlife. A mechanical arm came out of one wall, scanned up and down his body, and retracted.

I’m not edible, I promise you. I’ve got sticky bones, you’ll choke. The two aliens poked at their banks of electronics, chittering over a film one of the machines spit out. One of them left the room, carrying the film.

Ok, test results. You better not be planning to eat me. Pad rested his forehead on the window that separated the rooms. You got here in spaceships. You’re ugly as sin, but clearly you’re intelligent. Well, I am too. How do I show you I am too? The remaining alien leaned on the other side, looking towards the door. A claw tapped a slow tempo against the glass. Pad thought he recognized a pattern, and, on impulse, tapped it back.

The alien froze, then turned to peer at him. It tapped a more complex rhythm and Pad repeated it.

Yes, Lobster-face, I’m copying you. I’m smart. Come on, please. After a few more tries Lobster-face lost interest.

Not enough. I’m just imitating, parrots can imitate. I’m smarter than a bird. Ok, you’ve got patterns, you must have numbers. He tapped once, waited. Twice. Come on. Three. Four. Lobster-face tapped five. Yes. Six. Give me seven… Seven. All right, back and forth. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Yep, we’re counting. How high do you want to go?

Lobster-face called something out the door. Hey, I’m more interesting than that! Really yell, get some people in here. Fifteen. Sixteen.

Still not enough. All right, math, don’t fail me now. Pad tapped three, five, seven. Lobster-face jumped in and tapped nine. No! Pad slammed a fist on the glass. Well, odd numbers, close. You get points for trying. But we’re going for something bigger here.

Three. Five. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Please recognize primes. Please recognize primes. Lobster-face tapped a hesitant nineteen. Pad gave it twenty-three. It leapt to one of the masses of electronics and began squawking into it.

That’s right. You’re going to be famous, Lobster-face. You can write a book. How I Made First Contact with Humanity. A group of aliens rushed into the room, clicking at each other and pressing up to the glass to stare at Pad. And maybe you could do a sequel, How I Then Went on to Not Eat My First Contact with Humanity. I’d like that.

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