by submission | Aug 23, 2010 | Story
Author : Clint Wilson
I was in the best place a boy could be when the end of the world came, except for being dead maybe. We knew about it almost three years before it arrived. And while most of the world went insane, my family built the vault. In my case it definitely helped to be born into the upper crust.
And speaking of the upper crust, that’s where we sunk our vault deep. My dad was the project’s top investor, so many people we knew came inside with us.
Of course he was gone now, well protected from the certain ravages of dwelling topside, only to be killed in the impact nevertheless. In fact almost all of them were dead now, save for the handful of us who had had the fortune to be in the sensory deprivation chamber when Hand of God had struck. Our oxygen masks had kept us from drowning while the chamber’s half million tons of water had thrown us around in our hammocks like rag dolls.
No one really knew what the effects of a comet the size of Texas smacking into the planet at almost a million and a half kilometers an hour would be. But my family had nearly every possible contingency covered. Fear of the atmosphere being completely stripped away had caused them to install the giant oxygen tanks and supply enough pressure suits to outfit ten times the people we had left.
Still Dr. Fraser, my dad’s top advisor, couldn’t explain, beyond the certainty of an extreme and cataclysmic change to the earth, the reason for our weightlessness.
We were getting used to it now though. We were mostly children save for a few teachers and the doctor. And with the aid of ropes and makeshift climbing gear we made our way around the facility with ease.
But today was the day we had decided to go topside. Most of the adults had disagreed initially, but they lost in the majority vote, plus we had the doctor on our side. He had explained quite clearly, “We are well equipped with pressure suits, aerosol cans for propulsion, plus our ropes and grappling hooks, and both airlocks show to be in perfect working order. I will only take these selected few who have shown great agility in maneuvering in the weightlessness. We will be back before you know it.”
Together the six of us crowded into the airlock. There was no window in the three-foot thick outer hatch. We all made one last check of our suits and then Dr. Fraser emptied the chamber.
As soon as the outside was exposed one thing became apparent. There was light. We dug in with crampon boots and axes and made our way out.
And there we clung to our tiny perch, looking down at the half exposed steel and concrete survival vault, jutting from the side of a six kilometer-high wall. And then I felt the freezing cold pierce my suit as the sun dipped below the horizon alarmingly fast, revealing a sparkling field of stars against an ink-black curtain. But within minutes it would be back again, to taunt us with a minuscule hint of warmth for its short visit.
Dr. Fraser maneuvered his body around to face us. Through his helmet visor we saw a look of most dismal despair. He addressed us all, “I have no idea how we now continue to survive on this tiny rock hurtling through space, but I know we will not live long. Who’s with me for jumping off right now?”
by submission | Aug 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Don bagley
Alex pulled the coffee mug from under the drip spout and raised it to his lips.
“Agh,” he groaned.
“Is something wrong, Alex?” the house asked with its kind, asexual voice.
“The coffee, hot,” said Alex.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I’ll adjust the percolator temp.”
“Thanks, House,” Alex replied. He didn’t know how to address the sentient home, other than to call it House. This was his first morning in the place; he’d won it in a regional lottery, and he was still overwhelmed by it.
“House?” he asked.
“Yes, Alex.”
“Are you alive?”
“I am not programmed for life.”
“I mean, you think, don’t you?”
“I simulate thought, yes.”
Alex sipped at his coffee, which had cooled to tolerably hot. He padded into the life room, his bare feet slapping at the simulated hardwood floor. A recliner chair made a whirring sound as it tilted back and pre-adjusted itself for his weight. Alex sank comfortably into the Herculon cushions.
“Why simulate thought?” he asked.
“In response to your needs.”
Was that an evasive answer? Could a house, of all things, even be evasive? It’s rooted to its foundation, helplessly stuck right where it is.
“House?” Alex said.
“Yes, Alex.”
“You do function automatically.”
“All my functions are automated.”
“So in my absence, House, you would continue to process information.”
“Only at a maintenance level, Alex.”
“Then without me,” said Alex. “You lose your awareness, to some extent?”
“Not exactly,” said the house, an edginess creeping into its voice.
“It’s like a part of you dies when I leave,” said Alex, immediately regretting it. He jumped up from the chair and spun around toward the front door. The deadbolt clacked in the doorjamb.
by submission | Aug 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Scott Angus Morrison
In the end, the planet’s defence hinged on a single man armed with a stick. There had been limited resistance so far – there seldom was when a planet was targeted for reorganization- secure the air, neutralize any radiation weapons, and then we jet- pack in to clean up the politicals. Standard fare, really, a colonized planet reaches the stage of emergent technology and thinks they can control their AI. AI cannot happen. We’ve learned that lesson.
Six-nine and I work well together. She’s one mean mother, and that’s a compliment. We were assigned to begin a “prejudicial reorganization”. That usually meant locating whatever palace the local politicians and generals were holed up in and getting messy. But when we touched down, there was nobody here, and the building was empty – except for the old guy in hood with the stick.
The Citadel was a large round building of columns and arches and a funky floor with swirly markings on it. I’ve organized a lot of buildings, but this was weird – and empty. No seats, offices, rooms, or even doors – nothing but the swirly floor and the old guy.
Six-nine and I are Pointers – we take point on most live encounters. As soon as we flew into the building and touched down, Six-nine looked over at me and tapped her helmet, “Can you hear me?” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied, “But I think we lost Mother.” The silence that filled our earpieces confirmed we were out of touch with the mother ship.
Six-nine shrugged it off and we swept forward. After 100 metres of empty arches and columns, we neared the centre of the building. There was a large sphere that swirled like the floor, except the swirls were … swirling.
A man stood in front of the sphere. He gave the appearance of being elderly without being frail. In his right hand was a stick that was something more than a cane, yet less than a staff. He was dressed in a brown cotton tunic with a hood knit onto it.
“Darius.”
“What?” I whirled on Six-nine. Pointers don’t go by name, and she didn’t know mine, unless I had told her that time we got drunk on Tara-4.
“I said nothing. You gonna start this or what?” Six-nine was always a little touchy before the fireworks.
“Yeah.” I turned back to the man. I was close enough that when he blinked, I saw it.
“Relax, Darius. Your killing is almost done.” His lips didn’t move, but somehow he was talking to me. I had a seen a man go down with space sickness. It started with voices.
“I’m not sick!”
“Then shoot him, One-Seven! Just shoot him!”
“You’ve only arrived, and already the truth is terrifying your poor friend. I think Marion’s ready to shoot you.” The voice sounded serene as he spoke in my head, but my pulse continued to race.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Science … science …science… I pointed my weapon at the swirly floor and turned to Six-Nine. “Marion,” I said, “He knows your name.”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” She screamed and I watched her chamber her juice cube, level her barrel and hold the hammer down.
As the blast of energy ripped through me I was hurled back against a nearby column. In my head I heard a wistful sigh, and as I could see that the old man was glowing … orange, and as my soul was disintegrating, I heard him once more, “Relax, Darius,” as the swirling and the glow increased, “the truth has set you free.”
by submission | Aug 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Kent Rosenberger
The vidphone at the other end picked up on the second ring. “Family Affairs, how can I help you?”
“Customer number 26337NS-24.”
The attendant typed in the numbers in her computer. “Ah yes. Mr. Johnson. How can I help you?”
Johnson gave a wan smile. “Look, I’m glad you’ve been working with me at that end, but I just can’t keep up with the payments anymore. Tough economic times and all that.”
The attendant nodded. “I understand, sir. Did you want to downgrade to a cheaper program? Just until you get back on your feet?”
Johnson shook his head. “No. No, I think at this time I’d just like to cancel my subscription, if you don’t mind.”
More typing. “Of course, sir. Did you need some time, or should I make this effective immediately?”
Johnson had already made up his mind. “Immediately would be best.”
“Of course, sir. You’re paid up through the end of the month. I’ll backdate to today’s date and we’ll send you a refund directly to your account for the difference. We will inform all of your contacts on our end; work, school, church and so forth. Will there be anything else?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Alright then. If you ever want to re-subscribe, just give us a call. And sir, I am sorry for the loss you are about to suffer.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, sir. And have a good day.” The screen went blank.
Johnson turned away from the video viewer just in time to see his wife and two children, gathered in the living room with him, wink out of existence in a static-filled blue haze. The artificial family he had come to know and love for the last twelve years was suddenly gone, more victims of the crumbling economy.
In less than a second, Bruce Johnson was no longer a husband or father. As he sat in the abrupt loneliness of his home, he wondered if he would now be considered a bachelor or a widower.
by submission | Aug 16, 2010 | Story
Author : Chris Amies
Mewi Lupa suli sat and inspected the heel of one boot, which had come adrift revealing an odd honeycomb pattern in the structure. With her tongue she dislodged a small piece of carrot between two teeth – the relic of her morning’s teethcleaning. On Hydris the only use of carrots was to clean teeth. Mewi had never known it otherwise. She was shipborn, a daughter of the ‘Long March’ who had never set foot on a world until she was three years old.
Her work was to produce books for the community. The new language had taken root like a plant aboard the ‘Long March’ and all books previously aboard – in English or in Chinese – had been used for fuel as soon as their tongues’ last speakers were too feeble to protest. Instead the 120 root words of Toki Pona were used, spoken, written down in various combinations; you could say most things in them. Mewi had originally been called Mavis, and her surname ‘Lupa suli’ had been ‘Trench’: ‘Lupa suli’ was literally, ‘big hole’.
In the new language you had to weigh words very carefully. The elders remembered the old tongues and how dangerous, how imprecise they had been, and they told Mewi and her age-clade all about them.
Mewi’s hair was spiky and orange. She washed it in the null-grav washer in the ship – an affectation, but she had few others and she was still young. The null-grav sphere was fun and the power that drove it wasn’t about to run out any time soon. Those who were shipborn gravitated back to it time and again.
That evening as the orange and violet sky of Hydris was darkening, Mewi and her friends Luka and Ewani regretfully left the null-grav sphere and stepped out into the echoing grey space of the ship. Ship was home for the elders; Mewi and her age-clade, a foot in each camp, slept in bunkhouses down below on the planet’s surface. But the ship drew them back, especially now they were becoming adult and their games had changed.
The oval door of the ’Long March’ led to a ramp, and the three walked down, hand in hand.
The scents of the night-blooming trees filled the air and some strange creature – a scaly thing that in ten million years might evolve into a bird – shrieked.
There was a small knot of children at the bottom of the ramp, nine-year-olds or less, planet-born. As the three said ‘hello’ to them, they chattered curiously. Mewi thought their eyes glittered yellow but it must have been the light of the setting sun.
The children followed Mewi and her friends, talking between themselves, but although Mewi tuned in –
“Listen to them,” she said, “can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Not a word,” Luka agreed.
“Me neither,” said Ewani.
The children streamed past them, strange words hovering in the air and fading away.
