by submission | Jan 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Eric Rosenfield
This will be my last post. A warning. A cautionary tale. Those of you who’ve known me these past few years know how I love my Mistress. She raised me. Loved me. Linked me.
I remember before link, much as humans say they remember their early childhood, a fog of feelings and images. One thing I remember vividly is lying with mistress on the bed in the warm, familiar spot, licking her face, my tail wagging.
And I remember the first days of the link, the words flooding into me, logos ex machina. So many beautiful words. It wasn’t until much later that I thought to wonder which was me, the beast, who had once drank blithely from the toilet and licked crumbs from the floor, or the tin box at my neck. I used to make jokes, asking if I “can has” this or that. I did it once at the beach, and a passing Doberman called me, in a register only we could hear, “Uncle Tom”. You have all been a great help to me here on the UplifterSite, in coming to understand myself and my place in the world, my duty to my mistress. We must in no ways let the haters, the flamers and malcontents ruin our relationships with our owners, who have given us this beautiful gift. My happiest moments have been with Mistress, talking over books and movies, laughing, crying, cuddling up in front of the television. Or times when Mistress, lonely for so long, took me under the covers rather than over them. She loved me, and I love her, unconditionally. That is my nature. Truly I was blessed, and my fate is my own doing. Perhaps that was my nature too.
This room smells like cleaning supplies and cat pee. Near me, the face of the vet apologizes, not in words but in eyebrows and set lips and hard stare. I am reassured. There is communication still without words. The vet argued for me when I would not. She doesn’t understand that I have no right. I never did, especially not after what I did with the neighbor’s golden Labrador. This is my crime, the smell of an unentered rear, a moment of blind passion. I could blame it on hormones, on the beast, but I am responsible for my actions. I must accept the penalty with dignity. Really, it doesn’t matter what I did, only that I let down the one I love.
It will all be simpler now. Perhaps the tin box will go on to another, more glamorous life, the machine reincarnated in some other creature. I will finish this confession, and they will take the words away, and I will be a beast again.
Mildred, Fluffy, Corduroy and all the rest, all of you take care. You have been such excellent friends. Remember at whose discretion you are here. Truly, it is as the poet said, we are dirty, unclean things given one glorious chance at godliness. Do not squander that. Do not let the beast poison you. Do not be a bad dog.
Good bye.
by submission | Jan 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Phill English
‘Gaeriy, I’ve got some bad news.’
‘What’s that Broux?’
‘Well, I’ve finished the calculations and it turns out that in order for us to co-habit this planet, we’re going to have to wipe out half of them.’
‘Oh, wow, that’s a bit of a bummer isn’t it? Don’t you think that we could just, y’know, “accidentally” wipe them all this time?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s against the preservation laws to extinguish any more life than–‘
‘–is absolutely necessary to begin co-habitation. Yes, I know. In that case, how do you plan to split them up?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. At first I thought gender, but then I remembered the trouble Mihrv had with Grabble-4.’
‘Yes, I can’t believe he managed to choose the one gender that was essential to reproduction. Out of fifty three! Got to feel for the poor guy, the preservationists weren’t happy.’
‘Exactly. As such, we need something completely arbitrary and inconsequential so those guys don’t drop a sanction on our planet fall.’
‘Okay, how about a physical feature? Ocular pigmentation?’
‘No, I’ve done some research on the matter and it appears there’s no clear divide on the pigmentation spectrum. The majority of their body features are similarly unsuitable due to mutations throughout their evolution.’
‘Oh. How inconvenient. Actually, have we mapped their neural networks yet?’
‘Yes, quite extensively. There weren’t a lot of variables to take into the equation to be honest.’
‘Right, so that would include their preferences for material possessions? Their ‘taste’ in products?’
‘That’s correct, I think I can see where you’re going with this line of questioning.’
‘Yes, I’ve definitely got it now. We can’t go forward on this for a decade or so of their time, right?’
‘Indeed. The paperwork has to be couriered to Splunk-1 and back, otherwise we’d be down there already.’
‘So in the meantime we’re stuck here twiddling our thumbs and taking in the myriad boring lives of the inhabitants. I reckon we can kill two bwarks with one thuk here. Say we create a product especially engineered to divide a particular cultural population in half. We beam it down into the heads of an ambitious entrepreneur and let the magic happen. When an inhabitant expresses their preference for or against the product, we record it. It’ll occupy our time until we’ve got the paperwork done, and once it arrives we’ll have essentially had them make the decision for us. Best of all, I’m pretty sure there’ll be no red tape to wade through with the ethics committee!’
‘Sounds good to me. Just one thing, which group would get vaporised?’
‘Oh I don’t know, let’s just say that those who enjoy the products are safe.’
‘And you don’t think they would be annoyed at what they might perceive as being a pretty random way of splitting a population in half?’
‘No, of course not. If they are we’ll just ask them if they could have thought of a better way. That’ll shut them up.’
‘I love it. We can get started straight away. Let’s start with this tiny island mass here. What do you think they’d go for?’
* * *
Brian pulled the shopping trolley over in the condiments aisle. His girlfriend stopped a little bit ahead of him, the shopping list in her hand raised in query.
‘I’m just getting something for my toast.’
‘That stuff? Yuck! How can you possibly stomach it?’
‘I don’t know. For some reason I’ve just always liked it.’
With a shrug, he placed the jar of Marmite into the trolley and pushed on.
by submission | Jan 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Helstrom
Neil hadn’t been the same since he became a MALCIV. For one, he didn’t drink anymore. Couldn’t, really. Of course we all tried to find ways around that, Neil first and foremost – leave it to the Marines to find new and interesting ways of killing braincells. The docs put a stop to that on the grounds that Neil was, actually, just braincells. Instead of the six-foot-three athletic young man he’d been before, Neil was now a brain rolling around the FOB in a little wheeled life support box.
But he’d changed more than just physically. At first we thought it was the trauma of the transplant procedure, and that it would pass with time. But he grew more glum as the months progressed, like there was some deep frustration, bitterness even, eating away at the back of his mind. He perked up a bit when we were deployed – but not much. He was still Neil and I still loved him like a brother, but I missed the cheerful son of a bitch I went to basic with.
All that changed when we got stuck in.
My squad was patrolling a little ghost town just north of the FOB. Jenkins was in the lead, about fifty yards ahead, with Colton and Archer on my flanks and Dominic making up the rear. The blast hit Jenkins full on and knocked the rest of us down hard. Smoke, dirt and debris rolled over me, my ears ringing. Red warning icons flashed across my visor – Jenkins’ life signs failure the most prominent. Heavy weapons fire erupted from across the market square.
“Ambush!” Yelled Archer, “Contacts left! Ambush!”
“No shit!” I spat blood into my mouthpiece and clambered to my feet, “Suppressive fire! Dom, check up on Jenkins! Colton, with me!”
I flipped the safety catch of the autocannon slung under my right arm as I crashed through the low houses ahead, circling Archer’s position. Colton came up beside me and we let rip. A second blast tore up the street we’d just left – close call. More fire from behind now.
“Neil! Pinned down in ambush, get your ass over here stat!”
“Already on my way,” – they’d saved his voice, and there was something else in it now, too, but I couldn’t put my finger on it – “Three minutes.”
“Nothing takes three fucking minutes!”
Mortar shells were coming down. They had us boxed in solid.
“Settle down. Got a pod for ya.”
Now that was better.
“Send it up! Thirty yards around.”
“Confirm danger close.”
“Confirmed, goddamn it!”
“Hoorah!”
The pod was launched supersonically and it sure as hell didn’t need three minutes to get anywhere. Smart clusters came down first, beehives next, and the display was topped off with phosphorous for good measure. The whole town was reduced to burning rubble in a matter of seconds. Still we took fire – they were in bunkers.
Neil crested the hill, his eighty ton bulk shaking the earth with every crash of his mighty feet, his superstructure bristling with heavy weapons.
“What’s left for me?”
“Bunkers up ahead, little buddy. Go toast them.”
“Gotcha.”
He strode decisively into the hail of explosive fire, crouched down low, and silenced the squat, battered structures with a few long jets of flame. And as I watched him machinegun the burning figures that fled from the blaze, I realized what I’d heard in his voice when I called him to battle.
Neil was happy.
by submission | Jan 16, 2010 | Story
Author : Axel Taiari
…And warps him back two minutes ago through an internal blizzard of gunmetal sparkles, the time-storm scrambling his brain before the world reboots. Swirling colors rearrange themselves. Janus stands still, gulping down the motion sickness, his confused body slowly getting used to the constant rewinds. Without losing a beat he rushes to the phone at the other side of the lab, vertigo making him collide with a table on the way. He picks up the receiver, dialing the number with trembling fingers. He stares at his watch while dial tones moan. I need more. I need more, he tells himself.
Her sleep-laced voice says, “Hello?”
It’s me.
“Hey”, she says, and Janus hears her rub the back of her hand against her tired eyes. “When are you coming home, baby? It’s late.”
I’m not. Please don’t hang up this time. Please.
Silence on the end of the line. Janus’ pupils stay glued to the slipping clock.
I want you to listen, okay. I love you. I love you. And I’m not coming home, I never will. I will keep trying, but I am not and I think I understand that now.
“This isn’t funny.”
He sighs. She always said the same thing.
It’s not a joke, honey. But I need you to know: I love you and I would have spent my life with you and I wanted to marry you someday and…
“You’re scaring me. You at work? I… I’m on my way, okay?”
No, no don’t, just lis-
She hangs up.
He listens to the static for a moment, muttering to himself before letting the receiver drop. Another failure. Janus looks around the lab. Endless rows of humming computers forever crunching mountains of data. Everywhere, discarded pages where hieroglyphic theories and equations craft a broken riddle. At the far end of the room, the chair waits for him. Neural nodes dangling, wrist straps undone. He shakes his head, preparing for another time wave to claw him away kicking and screaming. The experiment had failed, and the loop would not shatter. He has two minutes for everything. He has two minutes for nothing. He could try to warn the others of the incident, beg them for help, but they would soon forget, his attempt erased. Two minutes was enough to commit suicide and perhaps free himself. It was enough to call everyone he loves, tell them all the things he never dared to say. But they wouldn’t remember, or never believe him. Two minutes were not enough to fix anything, alter calculations, build up a new device. He had tried to destroy the time chair. In a previous attempt, he trashed the lab, picking up random computer cases and throwing them against each other. He had set the entire room on fire and ran out, only to be sucked back into the vortex. He had punched the walls, smashing his fists into concrete until the warp embraced him, nursing his bones and sucking up his blood.
Twenty seconds now. His skin begins to glow, an itching sensation creeps along his muscles and his vision dims. He runs to the nearest table and picks up a ballpoint pen. He draws another straight line on his arm, the thirty fourth in a row. The rushing current of time approaches with a roar, injecting fragmented echoes of unborn realities into his skull. He sits on the floor, watching the world disintegrate in chunks, and as he thinks of what to do next, the storm devours him again.
by submission | Jan 14, 2010 | Story
Author : Katie West
“I’ve figured it out you know,” I said it casually as we ate lunch at our kitchen table. Right before I took a bite of my sandwich.
“Figured what out?” He looked at me questioningly, and then with annoyance once he realized I had filled my mouth with food just to prolong the anticipation. Looking at me with exaggerated exasperation, he watched me finish chewing and then swallow in silence.
“Time travel,” maintaining that same casual tone to my voice. I watched his reaction; he didn’t laugh, or shake his head in disappointment over having to share the table with someone so out of her mind. No, my husband, he had excited eyes and a mischievous mouth.
“Tell me.”
“I figure, we go into the future, no one’s there yet. We go into the past, everyone’s already left. The only place where anybody’s gonna be, is right now. So, time travel could only be for people who want to be alone.” I took another bite. Swallowed. Thought about barren landscapes void of people, eerie cityscapes impossibly still. “Really alone.”
He slowly nodded and I could see him thinking it over. Imagining a future where no one exists, and a past empty as a ghost town. “We can’t be in more than one place at once, that makes sense.”
“Right? We can only know our future selves, once we arrive there. Our past selves, only known in memory. We travel within time, through space, and must exist in only one space at one time.”
“Then time travel is useless, giving only strange echoing answers to any questions you might have hoped to ask. That makes sense too. And I only ever want to be here, where you are. What’s the point of being anywhere else?”
I finished the last of my sandwich, looked at the man who would give up the silent mysteries of future spaces and empty revelations of past places to just sit and eat lunch with me, everyday.
“Exactly,” I agreed, dumping more chips onto my plate, looking at him again, “what’s the point?”
