by submission | May 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Steve Hall
The spectators watched raptly as the assault team crept through the artificial cityscape. Their experience was obvious – steady, even steps, eyes and weapons constantly scanning a full hemisphere of potential threats.
The point man held up a closed fist, and the entire squad froze in place, momentarily focused on his lithe form. After a second, he turned slightly, tapped his nose, and pointed to the center of the road. Fist still in the air, he tapped an ear, held up two fingers, and pointed to one of the small concrete buildings.
One of the spectators turned and whispered to their neighbor.
“He caught the mine in the road and the ambushers in the blind. Not bad, George”
The soldiers split around the mine, three taking the left side, three taking the right, while the last fire team went in the rear of the indicated building. They emerged noiselessly from the front a moment later, as the spectators’ displays changed to indicate the quietly eliminated threat.
The neighbor turned to his companion.
“General, they could do this all day, so we’re going to give them a little surprise, see them a little more dynamically.”
Gunfire erupted from the target building ahead, sweeping across the team and knocking one man down with a simulated leg wound. The team medic grabbed him and pulled him into a sheltered corner, returning fire and dressing the wound at the same time. A mass of fire erupted from the team, efficiently recording kill after kill on the displays until finally the scene fell silent and still.
The team reassembled next to the target, the injured man supporting himself on a packable crutch while his weapon continued to protect the rear of the group. Most of the team burst into the building to finish the operation, leaving a fire team outside for security.
“General, look up on the hill.”
Two kilometers away from the artificial town, well out of small arms range, a helicopter shell rose on a hydraulic lift. Simulated rotor noise swept across the field of engagement, followed by the bark of heavy weapons fire. Seconds later, another such emplacement blossomed from another hill behind the team, capturing them in a crossfire.
“George, it’s not a great demonstration if your guys get killed.”
“General, just watch.”
One of the soldiers on the security detail stepped partially out of his sheltered position, an impossibly massive weapon in his arms. A solid stream of heavy tracers briefly connected the soldier to the helicopter before it erupted in flames. Seconds later the other helicopter fell silent as well, torn apart by the same withering hail of fire.
“All right George, I’ve seen enough. Let’s look at the close-ups.”
The General picked up a helmet from the display table, modified to accommodate the point man’s bat-like ears.
“How long does it take?”
“Six months for the mods, anywhere from six months to two years to become fully operational”
“And how long until they catch up?”
“We think five years for the Russians, perhaps four for the Chinese. They don’t have some of the considerations that we do, so it could be sooner.”
The General stared at the close-up videos, a medic administering first aid with two extra eyes and two extra hands while still maintaining fire on the enemy, a machinegunner toting a fifty-cal in two huge arms while a massive tail turns him into his own tripod. Inhuman, perhaps, but American. And effective.
“George. Start production.”
“Yes ma’am.”
by submission | May 19, 2011 | Story
Author : Nic Swaner
Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED’s, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.
I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.
She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren’t the same however.
Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the universe until starvation kicked in or their oxygen-starved filters were finally incapable of operating. My unplanned departure from the mysteriously flaming vessel, Surveyor, had left me careening towards the scorching of the sun.
The communications spoon-fed me the same spitting static and ever constant resonant hum of electromagnetism. Hers must be damaged. Which wasn’t all that uncommon. The micrometeoroids fed on us like gnats, their holes sealed up with a layer of gel immediately on impact. Just how the suit design was intended to operate.
We didn’t need communications; her expression was that of one knowing and who admitted and was committed to their fate. I was still terrified of the thought. I hate the sun.
The days on most civilizations were spent brewing a rivalry with the native sun, to see if the star had survived another night without my swelling and underwhelming opposition. It is like a race, the sun laps me while I lapse, as tiredly and resignedly I rest. Parting glares and glances at dusk are commonly shared and misinterpreted between us in streaks of blighted crimson, cyan, and maroon.
Ahead of her I know she only sees the citronella-stained pale mauve and navy of the hemming of unraveling nebulae, and she is acquiescent of this fact and resigned to be reigned by stars.
We are a momentary retrograde of celestial bodies, then she has passed by. I can no longer block out the sun with my thumb at arm’s length. I know that it would cover her figure from the nebulae.
The adrenaline rush begins to lessen and the cortisol continues to burgeon like embalming lighter fluid in my veins and vagus nerve. The ever-present resonant hum chanted cicada-like rites over the buzz of static. I stared down the sun as I marched toward self-evident immolation.
by submission | May 15, 2011 | Story
Author : Brian Varcas
“OK, so what did you really think of it, now we’re on our own?”
She had made all the right noises when the agent was showing us around the place; “Yes, I think I could see us living here…it feels like home already” that sort of thing. She’s always way too polite in these situations.
“Well, I really don’t think it lived up to the advertisement. I mean, where do these agents get their cheek?”
She was right of course. The advertisement had all the stock phrases:
“Desirable location”
“Flexible accommodation”
“Ready for immediate occupation”
“Plenty of character and atmosphere”
Atmosphere! That was a good one. You can always tell a place where the previous occupiers have died…there’s a certain smell and everything looks so drab, lifeless and sad. It would take a hell of a lot of work to make that place liveable again.
“So”, I asked, “what are we going to say?” I already knew the answer.
“We just say it’s not what we’re looking for and arrange to view the next place on the list.”
The “list” was getting shorter all the time and we didn’t have forever to find our new home so I decided to argue the point.
“You know, that place could be OK. Yes, I know we couldn’t get it back to its former glory overnight but what’s the hurry? It would be good to be able to stop the search and settle on somewhere.”
She gave me one of her looks; the one that said, “you’re just looking for an easy way out of this, you lazy shit.” She wasn’t far wrong.
“Well, we could take another look, I suppose…” I could hear the reluctance in her voice. “I mean, you’re right, we’ve got to find somewhere or we’ll end up homeless.”
We sat in silence, mulling the options over. Finally I made the decision for both of us by entering the details of the next place on the list into the dashboard navigator and making a 180-degree turn. We would have to go past the place we’d just viewed anyway.
As we got nearer, we could see just how lifeless it was! This was an absolute bombsite and there was no way we could bring our people here.
My partner was gazing out of the window at the “bijou residence, priced to sell”. “The previous occupiers really made a mess of this place before they left.”
I slowed down so we could take in the scene one last time. “Yes, it must have been one hell of a party!”
As I set our course for the wormhole which would take us to our destination I turned to Malklrinkla and, with mock drama and gravity, announced, “We are not alone…the universe is full of idiots just like us”.
by submission | May 14, 2011 | Story
Author : Ian Rennie
The first thing he noticed was her neck.
She had a certain way about her when she laughed, like she had to throw her whole head back, like this laugh was something bigger than she could easily contain that emerged from her like Venus from a seashell, and when she laughed, it exposed her neck.
Joey was out on the pull when he saw her, not in a sleazy way, but looking for a girl he could really get to know. When he saw her at the bar, he plucked up the courage to go up to her and…
…they were talking, and it was so easy, they’d only known each other a few minutes and it was so natural, like their aims were the same in life. He was listening to her talk, not like he sometimes listened to girls, waiting for an opportunity to get a good line in and slowly persuade them he was a good catch. No, this time he really wanted to know about her. Already after only a moment she mattered to him, and…
…they were kissing almost before the cab door closed. he had to break away from her to give the driver his address, and when the cab got to his flat he left way too much of a tip, but he just didn’t care. She was amazing, he was crazy about her, she was crazy about him, and…
…afterwards they cuddled, sharing each other’s post orgasmic glow. This is where he’d be smoking a cigarette, if he smoked. Instead, he looked at her and she looked at him, and he couldn’t think of two people in the world who were happier. And then…
…she opened her eyes, saw the ring, and she knew. She said yes before he could even ask. She saw the ring, and she knew, and that in itself said everything he needed to know. They would be getting married on the eve of midsummer, and…
…he realized it had been half an hour since either of them had said anything. There was a TV on that neither of them was watching. He looked over at her and tried to think of something to say. She looked up, and his eyes went back to the book he wasn’t reading. Silence, never broken, descended again, and…
…she was leaving him. The bitch was leaving him. She’d met someone who made him happy, she said. Joey wondered how it was possible for anyone to make that cold woman happy. God knows he had tried, for years. Without knowing he was doing it, he broke the seal on the second bottle of whiskey, and…
A slight buzzing sound let him know the simulation had finished. He realized, self consciously, that he had been staring straight ahead for a minute or so. The woman at the bar saw him, met his eyes, and smiled. The smile was so familiar to him and he didn’t even know her name.
He shook his head very slightly.
“Sorry,” he said, “I thought you were someone else.”
by submission | May 13, 2011 | Story
Author : Jason Frank
Reconsidering old things, as she was that week, Marlene unpacked the first robot she had built, the robot named Robot. She had not so much as thought of the robot in years and, seeing it again, was surprised to find it not so shoddy as she remembered. It powered up and passed its diagnostics. This was to be an uncertain week ending in even greater uncertainty and Marlene was comforted by the presence of the robot named Robot.
Monday found Marlene fixing a fussy unit for a wealthy collector. She did not want to jeopardize her focus by stepping away. Instead, she called out, “Robot, go to the deli and get me a ham sandwich.” Upon hearing its name, Robot turned on its heel to obey.
The small mechanical being negotiated the sandwich transaction successfully. Robot then placed it in the spare parts drawer that took up much of its lower belly. When Marlene received the greasy, smashed once-sandwich, she said, “Next time put it in a little paper bag and bring it home.”
Tuesday arrived later than it should have and Marlene’s schedule made it impossible for her to take the time to replenish her shop’s oil reserves. She called out, “Robot, get me a quart of oil from the hardware store.” Servos whizzed as the automaton went off on its errand.
Robot communicated to the clerk the type and quantity of oil it required. The little robot insisted that the clerk pour its order directly into a small paper bag it had brought along. The clerk complied with laughter. By the time Robot had returned home, half of the oil had leaked out through the paper bag. Marlene, smiling a bit, said, “Next time, put it in a can and bring it home.”
Wednesday was rainy. Marlene was tired from recent deadlines and flush with cash from the payment of several invoices that came, rather unusually, on time. Resting on her couch, she called out, “Robot, go to the optical and pick up my order.” Robot stomped out in its usual stompy way.
Robot sloshed into the optical and received the custom mirror for Marlene’s iluxtrascope. Robot then folded the mirror several times so that it would fit in the small can it produced from a storage compartment. Back home, Marlene said, “Next time, wrap it in protective coverings, lash it to a dolly, and bring it home.”
For all of Thursday, Marlene looked at old images and listened to old music. Her only commands to Robot were “Robot, perform monkey” and “Robot, headspin”.
When Friday finally rolled around, Marlene ran about her flat, alternating between frantic shiftings and long, drawn out contemplations of the appearances of things. She was hopelessly behind in her plans. She called out to Robot, “Go to the spaceport and fetch me Banyan.” Robot did as commanded.
Robot waited patiently at gate 78B2 holding a small sign that said “Banyan” on it. A man stopped before Robot and bent over. “Hey little guy, I didn’t expect to see you here. Remember me, Banyan?” Robot effortlessly wrapped the man in protective coverings and lashed him to a dolly. When Robot returned home, Marlene told it to shutdown. She gently pulled the wrappings away from Banyan’s face. He was smiling.
“Next time,” she said, “write better software.”
“This time,” Banyan said, “I’m going to do a lot of things better.”
She smiled.
