by submission | Oct 28, 2010 | Story
Author : J.D. Rice
Today I saw a man murdered.
He was a short man, stocky and unassuming. I watched as he provoked another man into an argument. The second man was large and intimidating. They bickered, back and forth, about some trivial nothingness. The details weren’t important. Neither of them cared about the facts. They didn’t really care about their own opinions. They just wanted to feel angry.
I watched as they pushed each other, first lightly, then forcefully. They shouted. They yelled. Their mouths spewed words I had only read in old banned books. The short man drew a fist back, and hesitated. Waiting. Waiting to see if he would stop. Waiting to see if he could really do it.
I watched as a third man, wild-eyed, came from behind, smashing a bottle over the short man’s head. The large man awoke as if some a stupor and started beating the short man, who had fallen to the ground, without mercy. The two larger men beat the first relentlessly, tirelessly, desperately. There was a gleam of joy in the beaten man’s eyes as his attackers refused to let up. His face was bruised and cut, his blood ran freely.
I watched as the wild-eyed man drove the broken bottle into the beaten man’s chest. He laughed, bleeding profusely, and shouted, “I am free!”
I watched as the two living men were arrested, a look of dull indifference in their eyes. It was a pity. People so desperate to express themselves should apply at the Ministry of Emotional Control. Overriding emotion chips is risky business.
I watched as the ambulance bagged the short man’s bloody corpse, their unfrowning faces a picture of modern sensibility and control. As the janitors wiped the blood from the floor, I politely finished my meal and went home.
by submission | Oct 27, 2010 | Story
Author : Cael Majin
Miranda’s trial was set for 4:am on a Wednesday morning. She would be tired and disoriented from the static sleep, but the machines would question her without mercy. “Mercy” was probably not in their core vocabulary; just another linguistic antiquity, like “alive” and “useless.”
It was Monday. She had the time – minus mandatory inductions of static sleep, seven and a half hours a night – to construct her defense.
She felt fine. They fed her well, and although she’d prefer to sleep naturally, static sleep did its part to keep her energetic and revitalized. The machines felt no need at all to make her uncomfortable, because psychological pressure was another outdated relic. Logic was their god and king, so they’d listen if she had something sensible to say for herself, some reasons why humankind should still exist. But she was beginning to worry that she didn’t.
On a notepad by her bed, she was constructing a harsh timeline of technological strong points. There was a computer console equipped with helper AI along one wall that she wished she could research on – although the program would provide unbiased aid and information, she felt traitorous to use their resources, their meticulously organized information, to argue against their ability to run things.
Humans – the humans left, that had survived the fallout and the flaming skies that they themselves had lit – they knew that a machine could do its processes more effectively than a human could. That’s why it’d all started, wasn’t it? Efficiency, efficiency, and efficient the flesh was not, it with its woeful carbon chemical energy cycle, it that needed to cease function while it rested and recharged, flesh that needed to consume valuable material to maintain itself.
Minds, Miranda thought valiantly, head spinning over the notebook. Human minds were unique; that had to be worth something, hadn’t it? Human imagination and emotion? Inefficient perhaps, but valuable,and gone forever once lost.
They had it preserved, though, the machines. All of the mechanics of a personality were written in code. Billions of blogs were on the internet, full of human thoughts and hopes. All so much data, easy to keep, easy to replicate. What was a string of text on a screen if not a thought, simply translated into a digital language?
That was why death mattered. Machines had backups, humans were impermanent. Surely that was something other than a flaw.
She’d been wrong. This was a kind of psychological torment, whether or not it’d been intended: making her doubt the necessity of her own species. She rubbed at her eyes and wondered if the machines could differentiate between “tired” and “fatigued.”
They wouldn’t kill the humans, if she failed to make a strong enough case. They’d coral them, give them places to live, surgically sterilize them and let them die off the last of their outdated species.
Hell, she figured finally, leaning back in her chair and letting the notebook thunk onto the floor, maybe it was time.
Miranda’s best friend in the army had been the AI in her comm-helmet. Its name had been Kasimir. It had listened to her fears and calmed them. By reading her hormones, it had understood her in a way no human could, they with their meager perceptions. It had been the one to suggest she put her skills to use in the field of software engineering, designing new and better AI.
In that way, it had used her to advance its species. A clever little bot with a will to survive… she missed that helmet.
She decided she’d ask for a similar unit in her retirement home.
by submission | Oct 26, 2010 | Story
Author : Joshua Mounce
I drove at breakneck speeds, my heart thumping faster than the song on the radio could possibly keep up with. My eyes flicked back and forth praying I didn’t get pulled over. I’d once heard they would take you strait to jail for 25MPH over the limit. That made me laugh. Were I to get pulled over, it wouldn’t be because of my lead foot. The dead woman in the back seat would be much more incriminating.
I hadn’t meant to kill her. We were fighting, she slapped me, and I pushed her away. It wasn’t even a shove, just a push, but enough to knock her off balance. The tinkle of my glass coffee table breaking stuck more in my mind than even her futile gurgles as she looked at me in total shock and pain.
I could fix it. I would remember that moment for the rest of my life, but with luck she wouldn’t. My veterinary clinic was not the only one in the state to offer pet cloning. It was however one of the pioneers in brain taping. From what we were able to tell, my client’s dogs and cats retained all their memories, minus the final hours or days since short term memory didn’t carry over the same as long term. Which worked out wonderfully for those who were run over or other such disasters.
It would also work to my benefit. The last few hours had been horrible. I never should have confessed the affair. I wouldn’t this time, and everything would work out just fine. I simply had to get there in time. Within four hours of death certain chemical reactions happened in the body that would skew the results of the taping. I’d wasted too much time grieving and debating whether to call 911, so now I sped.
———–
It took a week for the clone to mature. She would have a lapse in memory for that time plus the final hours, but it was all something I could invent a cover story for. She’d never been all that bright, and was quite gullible. Beauty, not brains. A trophy wife, my golf buddy had once said. I’d merely chuckled my agreement.
I stayed late into the night watching the tedious process of the brain tape rearranging her neurons. I mused while waiting. She would look younger, which I was happy about, but it would make it a bit harder to convince her she’d been only stoned or drunk for a few days. She’d have a high likelihood of developing cancer in five years, but I could pay for treatments. All things that could be dealt with. At least I would have her again. At least I wouldn’t have killed her.
The beep of the machine woke me from a slight doze. I gripped the sedative I had ready. No chance she’d believe me if she woke up in a clone vat. I’d drive her home, throw some pills and a bottle of rum on the bedside table and put on my best concerned looking poker face when she roused.
The fluid drained out and the door to the vat opened. I pulled out my wife, stuck her with the tranq, and stopped dead. I’d had a week to think up all contingencies, but this never crossed my mind once.
Tiny breasts, oversized nose, cleft chin, unibrow… It looked nothing like my wife. I was going to need a different plan.
by submission | Oct 24, 2010 | Story
Author : Clint Wilson
Dan was excited as he ushered his wife and children into the 2100 Exposition’s most popular attraction. “The World of Tomorrow” was in actuality the world of well over a century ago depicting what the future was supposed to become one day.
“Look at the cheesy old coms Dad!”
“Those were called phones Jason.”
Just then a holo popped up in front of them. It was a basic host-guide type, tall, handsome, perfect teeth, impeccably dressed. It spoke to Jason in a deep, commanding voice. “Your father’s right Jason. The word “phone” is short for “telephone” and the so-called futuristic vision of this portion of the exhibit was limited to folks one day being able to carry them around wherever in the world they went, which actually did come to pass, but only for a few short decades before plants became affordable.”
Jason absent-mindedly flexed his facial muscles and the green icon came into view in his lower right perception, showing him that he was on-line and had in fact left a browser open to his friend Steven. He exercised another small facial tick and the browser closed. Then he continued along after his family and the holo.
Now they moved into a supposed modern kitchen where the guide explained that people had once reveled at how an archaic and dangerous device called a “microwave oven” was able to make meals available in minutes.
Nine year old Jennifer looked bored as she said, “So what? What’s so great about taking that long to prepare food?”
The holo laughed in a smarmy, condescending way, a way typically reserved for country club chaps, “Oh little girl, the microwave oven didn’t prepare food, it merely heated it!”
Jennifer scowled, not in distaste at the holo’s comment, but because it was the motion required to activate her dine-pod. Less than a second later a steaming cinnamon bagel sprang from her carry-all and into her hand. As she munched her instant treat they carried on. Both her and her mother found the exhibit mostly uninteresting and entirely overrated, but Jason and Dan were still enjoying themselves.
“Look at the old two dimensional flat screens Dad. Can you imagine watching that all day? Say, when exactly was 3V invented?”
All in all they spent another twenty or so minutes in the exhibit before finally making their way out and then gradually toward a park exit. It had been a long day and they had seen pretty much all there was to see. Jennifer and her mother were tired and lagged behind as the family crossed the huge parking lot. But Dan and his son were still energized about the whole experience.
“So what was your favorite thing all day son?”
“The World of Tomorrow!”
“Yeah that was pretty good alright. It sure is funny though how people lacked any real vision as to how things would turn out. I mean everything seemed so… well… as you put it, cheesy!”
“Except for the flying cars though, right Dad?”
“Yeah, I have to admit, they were pretty cool. I can’t believe they still… Oh crap!”
“What’s the matter Dad?”
Dan pointed at their two year old Gates which sat in a parking stall directly ahead. “Would you look at that, we’ve got a flat tire!”
by submission | Oct 23, 2010 | Story
Author : David Barber
The boy grew tired of scrubbing crud. He wiped his nose, streaking chlorophyll across one cheek.
The green boomed and bust. The man knew this. Booms, you tapped off the extra green. Busts, you dumped the crud into the recycler and started with fresh green. But the tank had to be clean first. The boy knew this now.
Tell me about when they threw things away.
The man roused himself, focused on the boy.
I mean, where did they throw them to?
The world was bigger. They just left them somewhere else.
But
His apprentice asked lots of questions and the man kept explaining but the boy just wasn’t very bright. People said IQ had dropped. Some by-product that was building up in the closed loop. Or getting low. Nobody knew. Nobody even knew how to find out. Some said it was nonsense, but then the stupid would say that.
What did they throw away?
Everything. They had so much they just picked up a new one.
The boy sort of understood new. Each daymeal was new. It might be yeaststick or krill cake. Sometimes it was vegetables. Vegetables was best. The boy knew this. It was the notion of something being wasted he didn’t get.
Like stuff, he suggested.
Stuff was the irreducible exhausted residue left over. Recyclers wouldn’t touch it. Not now anyway. Lots of strains had gone weak.
No, said the man irritably, Not like stuff. What do we do with stuff?
The boy sniffed. Another flu going around. Chairs, he said. Shoes.
Furniture that bent. Cups that sagged when hot. They stored bricks of stuff in case somebody came up with a use for it.
Nobody wants stuff to be to wasted do they?
The boy shook his head.
Alright. Say a man has a worn-out shoe.
Couldn’t he mend it any more?
I don’t think they mended much. They’d take the shoe and… just bury it somewhere.
But where’s the new shoe come from?
Hard to explain a world full of things and empty of people.
They made it out of things that hadn’t been used before.
The boy wiped his nose again, unconvinced.
Look, said the man, impatient now. They took things from the pile they hadn’t used yet and when they’d used them up, they threw them on another pile. Alright?
The man didn’t hit the boy much but he was getting angry again. The boy couldn’t get past that first pile getting smaller. Best he said nothing.
Nightmeal was krill cake. Another baby had died in their corridor. This new flu mainly hit the young. People watched silently as they did the recycling. Only the mother tried to interfere.
The man usually read until his eyes got tired. There was talk of tithing books again. Cellulose for the bulk feedstock. But the man knew it was iron and magnesium the green needed. Grumbling, he looked everywhere for his book.
The clean tank waited to be seeded with fresh green tomorrow. The boy settled down behind it and thought hard about waste.
Something not put in the recycler. He tried to see what that meant. You could tear it up and scatter it. But that was just mulching. You could even eat it and it still wouldn’t be wasted.
It took hours to move blocks of stuff, bury the book deep and cover it up again. He’d thrown the book away.
He said it out loud. He’d wasted it. The boy tasted what it was like to be selfish.
In years to come, he remembered that was how the end began.
