by submission | May 1, 2011 | Story
Author : Ryan Swiers
James hoped the battery would run out soon. The manual had said it was only good for three hours moving, double that when not. He had been looking for Alex almost five now. There was only one more place to look.
The woods were wet and dark, almost as dark as the overcast sky. James crawled through the border of damp branches and rotten logs to get inside the clearing. This was his son’s favorite spot. A makeshift fort so to speak. Even had a large rock that could pass as a cannon. It had been real fun breaking his back on that project.
On the far side of the clearing they had built a lookout tower, a tree fort really, yet sufficient enough to spot any savages and aliens foolish enough to crawl into the lethal sights of a plastic rifle. James was sure he too had been killed more times than was humanly possible in his course through the thicket, across the no man’s land, and towards the base of the tree.
He called up to that dread sentry.
“Bud, if you’re up there, we’re not mad at you. Me and mom love you. Why don’t you come on down and we can get inside, get warmed up, get everything worked out, alright? What do you say little buddy? Alex?”
The tree only replied with fat beads of rain water. James asked again. No response.
“Come on, champ, let’s go inside.”
He braved a peek inside the tree fort, more worried that the boards would give under his weight than fear of another gun wound. The boy wasn’t on the stool or huddled by a railing or asleep under the shelter.
The rifle was gone though. James made to pull himself up further when his foot slipped. His piece of the railing fractured and fell with him. Shortly, he could see that the sky wasn’t as dark as the sudden black beneath his wincing eyelids.
He groaned, rocking the agony, not really succeeding. It felt like his back had been stabbed with a horse’s spinal cord. Don’tcha know, pardner, they call ‘em trap doors for a reason. Har har.
“Heehee.” Giggled the boy from nearby.
James rolled on to his side, pain forgotten, searching. “Alex?”
The ring of trees, the snarled fence, rock cannon, a toy chest, and an old wagon; no boy.
There was something else though. The grass rustled in a line towards him. Above this the gray sky bulged, water-streaked, distorted, like a fish-eye lens. The bulge subsided as the movement stopped in front of him.
There was a slight *click* near his head. The rifle. Scratch another Comanche.
“Alex, thank god.” He waved an arm. “Help your dad up, bud.”
Alex giggled again. The distortion moved away.
The guy in the store had warned him. You need to buy spare goggles, too. James had to admit now he hadn’t listened. Lesson learned. Never give your eight year old an invisibility cloak for his birthday.
by submission | Apr 30, 2011 | Story
Author : Juliette Harrisson
‘I don’t know why you still bother with this,’ Sam said, looking down at me as I crawled along, knee-deep in mud. ‘There’s no funding for it, no one wants it, no one’s interested in it. Why do you do it?’
‘That’s not true,’ I answered testily, ignoring his offer to help me out of the ditch and deliberately brushing my muddy jacket against him as I hauled myself up. ‘Plenty of people are interested, they’re just not people with money.’
‘Don’t you think you should get a proper job, and stop pestering Mum and Dad for money?’ grumbled Sam, saddling his horse and preparing to head back to the city.
I pulled out my quill, ink and notes and prepared to write up the day’s work. ‘This is a proper job,’ I answered in a flat monotone. I sighed and looked up at him from my desk. ‘If you must know, I think there could be money in this.’
‘Oh?’ Sam paused, about to mount, and re-tethered his horse to come and talk to me, adding another log to the bonfire on his way.
I took a deep breath, not sure how to start. ‘There’s money in science and technology, right?’
‘Of course!’ Sam snorted. ‘Scientific and technological advances make our lives better!’
‘Well, I – that is to say, several of us at the Department – we have a theory. We think that a long time ago, maybe a thousand years ago, people were more technologically advanced than they are today. We think that something happened – we’re not sure what – and that technology was lost. But if we can find something from that period, some remnant of their technology that will give us a clue how to work it, perhaps we can re-develop their old machines.’
Sam raised his eyebrow and said nothing. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling frustration gnawing at the edges of my bones.
‘Look, you’re my brother, you love me. Don’t you want me to do something I’m passionate about, something I care about?’
Sam turned his back to me and mounted his horse, and for a moment I thought I’d lost him. But then he looked down at me and managed a small smile. ‘As long as you don’t bankrupt us all while you’re at it,’ he said.
He started to ride away and I jumped back into the ditch. But within a minute or two I was yelling at the top of my lungs, ‘Sam! Sam, come back! Come and look at this!’
I had broken through a layer of dirt to a hole in which lay a trove of discarded goods – most likely, the remains of an ancient rubbish dump. I could see a small, dark grey box with thin brown material spooling out of it, lying against a bigger, more square box and two small cylinders. Hands shaking, I pulled out an academic paper entitled ‘Batteries – the electrical missing link?’ and an illustration of an ancient portable device called a ‘Walkman’.
Wordlessly, I handed both to Sam.
‘ “Mains electricity,” ’ Sam read aloud, ‘ “is currently beyond the financial or technological capabilities of our government. However, if we could successfully reproduce the antiquated device known as the ‘battery’, it might be possible for limited use of electricity to return to our homes and offices.” ’
‘What does that look like to you?’ I demanded smugly, pointing to the illustration and the object I had uncovered.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Sam, looking both pleased and embarrassed. ‘You just got lucky!’
by submission | Apr 29, 2011 | Story
Author : Garrett Harriman
The dockyard was fragmentary; it reeked of grease and seal. Jetties devoid of craft sprawled like shattered ribcages, and two figures perched atop a decommissioned cruise liner.
This murky scene had backdropped thousands of Proto-Mob outings. Since the advent of TelePersonals and catholic surges in blip vacationing, however, the Carnival Fiesta’d graduated to a decaying national monument.
Its hulking obsolescence also dutifully cloaked a Neo-Mob proving ground.
Clay, guts equalizing, canvassed loaves of morning mist. Then Irving’s hand thudded his hunchback. “I warned you, Boss: this hit was vintage.”
The rookie’s knees swashed, pillars in the wind. He buckled and cussed, eyes averted from their “patsy.” Codenamed–intercepted–Sunday.
“I’m~m gonna yak, Irv. Ah-h Jesus, gonna lo~ose it—-”
“No. You won’t.” Irving unholstered an amorphous Wrigley’s pack from his trench coat. “You’re gonna squat till you can chew this. Then you’re gonna chew this.”
Great, loathed Clay. Another antique.
His fingers convulsed, disrobing the foil. Irv injected a stick of his own.
Clay cudded and glared down the lido deck after Its hurled trajectory. He still couldn’t concede having “chilled” his own Sunday. Least in the aftermath he was officiated.
What a fucking tradition.
Irving ruminated to the eroding coastal walls. “Proto-Mob bumped goons on every corner like that, kid. Drilled ’em fulla Tommy pills, too.” He mimed hugely. “Ratta-tatta!”
Clay didn’t comprehend. Boilers like Irving were rites of passage to Neo-Mob debutants. Memorabilia buffs shoehorning Prohibition lingo like “whack” and “kapish” and circle-jerking on Valentine’s Day. They were overbearing. Universally ignored outside initiations. And, reputedly, amassed pre-dematerialisation arsenals.
Clay was now a convert to such claims.
He swam a throbbing palm through his hair, depleted. “They used those how long, Irv?”
“Sixes? Centuries. They were dietary staples. Then we got lousy with TPs. Chiseled ourselves outta car trunks and counterfeiters. We’ve ransomed tourists ever since.” He shrugged, unimpressed. “Families say pieces’re old hat. Blip-Snatching’s cushier, I guess.”
A fearsome smile seized him. “Folks used to kiss dirt though, Clay. Ohhhh yes. Riddled into meaty little puzzles…”
Again the man relinquished to invisible weaponry.
Clay gnashed Wrigley’s, forfeiting imagination.
Suddenly bereaved, Irv ceased his bloodbath. “Bosses’ sons revolve, Clay. Always. You and me, though…we’d keep history alive. You’re a natural with a rod. The genuine article. Be goofy to follow the leader.”
Fogbanked buoys plugged at breakwater. Unseen gulls confronted steely wind.
Still Clay didn’t answer. Instead he beelined, forgoing the indignity of brushing off his ass.
The thirty-eight special had fumbled fifteen yards aft. Clay approached the archaic iron curio. Its recoil still blizzarded his upper-neck.
And the racket It’d drawn–KAPOW!
With a remote islander’s apprehension, he shuddered and scooped It by the barrel. Fucking hot, he clanked and snagged Its nickel-plated butt.
Irving jerked to reclaim it, make It “safe.” Pacified, the mafioso appraised him without gentleness. “Feel like yourself again?”
Clay considered. “No.”
Irving’s impervious bust nodded. “Close range’ll do that.” He flicked his gum wad to their cadaver’s soiled dungarees. Slithered the “bean-shooter” twixt his “mitts.”
Both eyes unfocused: “You absolute, kid? I mean…we could grift everybody…”
Inconceivable. Clay gelatinized just tracing Its curvaceous revolutions. How had the rudimentary gangsters managed?
He politely abdicated. “Sorry, Irv. Got no moxie.”
The Boiler’s eyebrows piqued at the term. Truly, he was an anachronism. “Born too late, weren’t we Clay?”
Together they eyed the lapping swill. Irving sighed with futile propinquity.
“Grab his arms then, Boss. Before dawn.”
The Neo-Mobsters hupped Mr. Sunday, activated their TPs, and dusted out, tandem-blipping to their safehouse to squabble over the palooka’s disposal.
Some things never changed.
by submission | Apr 25, 2011 | Story
Author : Jordan Whicker
Henry Goodman sank readily into the welcoming embrace of his favorite recliner; the whoosh of air escaping these cushions and the groan of its leather was the only ‘Welcome home, honey!’ he’d ever known. He sat in silence for a few moments, his eyes closed, his mind working to quell the tempest of thoughts that had roared unabated for years. He wasn’t having much luck.
He opened his eyes after some time and stared at the TV across the room. A large part of him wanted to leave the TV off, as if doing so might preserve his anonymous existence here in his comfortable chair. He knew it was impossible; whether he watched or not millions of others around the world would be glued to their sets at this very moment, seeing his face and speaking his name, committing them both to memory. Henry Goodman, the father of the Second Computer Revolution. The Singularity. No, nothing would ever be the same. Not for him. Not for the world.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
Moments ago, Henry Goodman, a Senior Researcher at the Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, committed a cyber attack against the United States of America. His unprovoked attacks crippled the nation’s internet, cellular, and telephony capabilities, plunging the nation into a communications deadzone. As Goodman has effectively deafened the nation’s police and counter-terrorism forces, a $10 million bounty has been placed on Henry Goodman, effective immediately. Authorities warn that Goodman is extremely dangerous, likely armed, and liable to intensify his cyber attacks against the United States of America at any moment. President Ibson has authorized the use of lethal force to neutralize the domestic terrorist Henry Goodman. May God bless the United States of America at this dark hour.
The message looped, then, the female voice speaking over security camera footage of Henry working in his lab.
“No,” Henry croaked. “No no no no no no no.” He cycled through the channels on his television. They all broadcast the same message, the same voice intoning his death sentence.
How can this be happening? Henry thought. We put controls in place and –
His thoughts were cut off by three staccato bangs on the door.
“You in there, Good Man?” The muffled voice added stress to the second syllable of Henry’s last name where there typically was none. “I don’t really need to ask. I seen you come home and I ain’t seen you leave so unless you already offed your own fool self I reckon you still in there.”
Henry’s eyes darted around the room; he cursed the sudden uselessness of all his possessions. He grasped the lamp that stood next to his recliner, yanking it away from the wall and plunging the room into darkness.
“Well then. Guess there’s my answer. Make this easy on me Henry, it’s gonna happen eventually.”
A clipped blast freed the deadbolt and set the door swinging wildly on its hinges. The man stepped in, shotgun pressed to his shoulder as he scanned the room.
“It’s too late,” Henry stated from his hiding place behind the recliner.
“I know it is, and I’m almost sorry Good Man.”
“No, you don’t get it. I’m the only one who knows how to stop it. And it realized that.”
The man stepped around the recliner and leveled the weapon at Henry. “Good for it. Any last words?”
“All hail the computer overlord,” Henry said. His voice was even; a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had done it.
by submission | Apr 24, 2011 | Story
Author : Ian Eller
People said that the house was haunted. It sat alone along the broken asphalt road surrounded by parched fields feebly overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. It was a small house: one story, with a covered porch and attached one car garage. The house would have seemed perfectly at home in one of the subdivisions, just another dilapidated and empty structure on a sun-burnt, grassless lot, with broken windows and a collapsed roof inviting the elements inside.
But this house was not dilapidated. Its roof remained strong and its windows were unbroken. Nor was it on a dry, weeded patch like the others, but a vibrant green swatch, exactly square. A narrow concrete walk, unbroken by time, ran from the porch to the street. On one side of the walk was a mailbox atop a post, and on the other was a large square sign that, despite exposure, remained unfaded. The words on it were unknowable, but the image of the house and a smiling family were visceral.
Either the strange location or the unmolested state of repair of the house would have been enough to fuel suspicions and rumors about the place, but there was more. At night, when the world was dark save for campfires and the rare battery powered lamp, the house was aglow. Some swore they could sometimes see a shadow move behind the drawn shades.
Across the street from the house was a deep drainage ditch, bone dry and carpetted with long dead reeds. Within, pressed against the dirt wall, Wallace and Adrian glowered at one another.
“Well, go on then, if you’re so smart,” snarled Wallace. He was big for ten, with a meaty head and hands, but covered in dirt and pallid from malnourishment.
Adrian, who was smaller than Wallace and no cleaner nor better fed, snarled right back. “I will, I will! Get off!”
The sun was lowering in the west behind the mountains. Dusk stretched across the land and when it touched the house, there was a brief flickering from within, then a soft, cold glow.
Adrian swallowed hard.
“You’re chicken,” Wallace said quietly.
“I’m not chicken!” hissed Adrian. With a courage fueled by boyish pride that even war, death, famine and pestilence combined could not extinguish, Adrian pulled himself over the berm and onto the cracked asphalt.
Wallace opened his mouth to heckle Adrian again, but found his mouth too dry and his chest too tight. A wheezing, “Go!” was all he managed.
Adrian moved uncertainly across the street, one step then two and three. When he reached the center of the road, where the dashed yellow line was just barely visible, a light above the porch blinked into existence. Behind him, Wallace squealed and dove into the ditch. Adrian steeled himself and crossed the street.
Finally Adrian stood before the walkway. Slowly, his eyes never leaving the from door, he reached out and opened the mail box. Bright lights on either side of the front door came to life and a voice, tinny and distant, spoke from within the mail box.
“Welcome to the House of Tomorrow! Please come in and see what the future brings!”
He heard Wallace yelp and then bolt down the ditch.
Again, the tinny voice said, “Welcome to the House of Tomorrow! Please come in and see what the future brings!”
Adrian thought of Wallace, running for their burrow, digging for grubs to eat, crying late into the night.
He stepped forward onto the walk. The door of the house opened with a whisper.
Adrian went in, to see what the future would bring.
