by submission | Jul 27, 2010 | Story
Author : Rob O’Shea
Too little time. Too many meetings. I turn on the Transmit and zimmed out of office and back to home. In the wardrobe there is a skin I put on. Have to look fresh. The girl — blonde, cancer free, young — cries. I detach her body from the hanger; unhook her skin from the base and peel. Slowly. Artfully. I do this without breaking skin. I put it on. It fits. I get perfume, my purple shimmer suit. My iFiles are attached to my cornea. I am ready. I Transmit back to the office.
The door opens. Graceful enters and hands me papers.
‘All you need to do Miss Kane is sign. Then it’s legal.’
‘Take me through it.’
‘The long or the short version?’
‘I’m busy Graceful. Give me the short and I sign the dots. You lie or breach contract you know the consequences.’
‘Sure do.’
Graceful takes a sphere out of his pocket. The sphere glows, expands, floats; it becomes the image of a planet.
‘Terra Dorma. Population at 3.2 billion. Environmental–’
‘– cut the history lesson. Your company wanted the planet. You spoke to our lawyers, you made your bid. The transaction occurred?’
‘Yep. At twelve Z hours we had Vapo-Robots fill their air and water with sedatives. Magnotoch used alpha signals to wipe out their minds. The brains of the Terra people are blank. Bodies are functional; they will be conditioned, sold. Most will go to meat farms; some will be used to spread the sex virus to Canto. The rest will be recycled.’
‘Their language?”
‘I copyrighted. Two big companies are currently bidding for it.
‘History?’
‘Wiped out. Didn’t want the historical society sniffing. There’s a lot of anti-genocide riots in the homelands at the moment.’
‘Damn liberals.’
‘Yep.’
I looked over the contracts. They looked in working order. Nothing breached policy. I signed them and gave him the money shot. Nobody sees me smile often. I don’t like to wrinkle the skin I wear.
‘Well then,’ I toss the documents back, ‘looks like it’s in order. You got yourself a planet to play with. Now get the fuck out of my office.’
by submission | Jul 25, 2010 | Story
Author : Waldo van der Waal
“Don’t worry,” she had said, “I’ll be there to take the straps off once we come out of stasis.” She had smiled at me. A pretty smile. She was pretty all over: Dark hair, pixie-like features and perky breasts. I could see her nipples through the thin fabric of her jumpsuit. I just smiled and nodded. That’s what men tend to do when they’re confronted by perky breasts in a tight jumpsuit.
She’d carried on explaining how the Pursuit of Pure Knowledge had no real passenger seats on board. So our stasis chambers had to double as acceleration couches. Made sense at the time, but I did get a bit worried when she started cuffing me to the ‘couch’ inside my chamber.
“It’s just to make sure that you don’t flail about once you go under. You don’t want a limb out of place once the acceleration starts. Quit worrying.” Again, the smile. She was one of a hundred stasis techs on board. Each of them had twenty chambers to look after. And her own chamber was right next to mine.
All of that happened nearly seventy years ago. I was twenty then, and figured I had a shot at her once the Pursuit reached Sirius. But now I know she won’t be interested in me. Mainly because I’ll be dead more than a hundred years before she even wakes up.
I would’ve been dead long ago, if this sodding machine hadn’t kept me alive so well. And anyway, how do you kill yourself when your hands and feet are tied to a slab inside a sterile chamber? I’m pumped full of nutrients each day. Ha! I still think of days, when all I have is endless night. But I can’t seem to fall asleep at all anymore. Hopefully my body fails me soon.
I wish I could lose my mind. Somehow make myself go crazy. Reminds me of the joke about the kid who asked his gramma if she’d seen his “pills” with the letters LSD printed on them. “Screw your pills, sonny,” she had screamed, “I’m more worried about the dragons in the kitchen.” The things you think of when you have decades alone in the dark…
Oh, don’t think I’m coping well with this. God, no. I’ve gone through the entire gamut of emotions: Hate, rage, desperation, sadness… I’ve cried and screamed and tried to get my hands loose. But in the end, I always end up the same: Alone in the dark.
Anyhow, if there’s one bit of wisdom I’d like to pass on to you, it would be this: When they ask you, during the pre-stasis check if you are allergic to anything, try and tell the truth, never mind how pretty the tech might be. Ain’t no use to try to be a man when you end up like this. ‘cos God knows, this is no way to die.
by submission | Jul 24, 2010 | Story
Author : Leland Stillman
Dustin is dusting off the cutting-torch. I am pulling on my space boots. It is odd to think that we are farmers, the true first profession, now done only on space platforms.
“We’ll be cuttin’ a while,” he says to me.
Space hooligans have mangled our dairy equipment. They come up from the surface, wielding crow bars from fumbling space-suit hands, and laughing lonely in the silence of space. But their friends in the waiting orbit cars laugh with them when they return, so I can understand why they do it.
It doesn’t mean I’m not pissed as hell that hundreds of gallons of milk aren’t floating out into oblivion, to burn up in atmo or hit some hapless spaceman who will wonder who is masturbating out the airlock.
“I’ll prime the second tank,” I say, and I reach over to open the valve on our reserve oxygen tank. I pull on my helmet, and tap Dustin’s face plate to signal I am ready. He hits the red button, and the airlock hisses shut behind us, the air sucking through to leave us in our vacuum. And then the front door starts to open. We hung a wreath on it, for a joke, and it now flies wildly as the door judders open.
We crawl out, careful not to launch ourselves into oblivion, and edge toward the hemorrhaging milk tanks. I swear inside my helmet. My microphone is off, and I do it for my own satisfaction. Few spacemen abstain from talking to themselves. We are the best company around.
He flies past me, and before I can radio Dustin the space hooligan has knocked him off the platform roof and into space. I swear as Dustin’s oxygen cord snaps. Precious gasses spew out into space, until his fail safe kicks in and it stops. His air will last thirty minutes. His transponder is already flashing, and he has wisely stopped all motion, knowing it will conserve oxygen. But there’s no reason to worry. These are not the crazy days of early space farming, where a bad jump could send you to your grave on Mars or Pluto, your bones to be puzzled over later, after being scoured by wind into something unrecognizable and so, the scientists will say in ecstasy, possibly alien. The space patrol will home in on his transponder and rescue him.
The hooligan is climbing back into space using a belt mounted jet pack, towards the waiting orbit car, where I can see his friends pumping their fists and slapping each others’ shoulders, and laughing.
I feel my own cutting-torch in my hand. If I throw it, the planet-siders will just send a new one to their brave space farmers. I am a pretty good shot with these things. We spacemen have competitions, every so often, sending broken equipment slowly spinning into space and we send tools hurtling after it, to be picked up by the magnetic fields of scrap-metalers that we call beforehand.
I think of throwing my cutting-torch, a lonely riposte that I alone will enjoy. I wish Dustin were here. Then I’d throw, or we’d both throw, and laughing we would scamper back inside to grab more cutting-torches, because milk is still billowing at four dollars a gallon into space.
I crawl toward the milk cloud, cutting-torch still in hand, wondering where I will need to fuse the pipes shut.
by submission | Jul 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Matthew Callaway
Leaving for work Chip noted that this day, like every other held about a 98.3% chance of tedium. The prospect was as oppressive as the permanent lighting that lines the streets, serving for the unseen sun below a sky full of buildings, their upper levels in the clouds.
The air is nearly ionized with the signals and information flowing through it. If so desired Chip could glean volumes from every street corner, but he had seen this street too many times to care. The short walk still contained enough time to think about the general drudgery and automation of life.
In the intersection before Chip’s destination all the pedestrians and ground vehicles are being stopped by a group of human soldiers and six G.R.U.N.T. and two R.I.O.T. class, combat droids. The droids are doing the bulk of the crowd control, one gets rough with a mouthy human but things defuse before getting interesting.
Standing in a group of thirty or forty confused and stalled individuals, a familiar droid shoulders up. Chip recognizes him as one who works security at the place across the street from Chip’s office building.
“Any idea what’s going on?” The security guard is in uniform, must be on his way in , probably late now too.
“I hear it’s the revolution,” Chip quips, “Droids are rising up to take over. Metal ? Meat.” An old slogan, a joke these days. “No, your guess is as good as mine.”
“That’s a laugh.” The guards smile fades, “Seriously though something like this happened a few years back, a friend in Section 4 told me about it, nearly the whole block was destroyed. He said it was two competing…” Rising above the commotion of the crowd, and interrupting the story, the R.I.O.T. droids loudly assume their full stance. It’s an intimidating sight, the nearest one dry-spins its chain guns to get attention before addressing the grumbling crowd. The metallic whirring takes a moment to die down, heightening the suspense.
“Civilians.” The droid swivels its head as it speaks, making eye contact with the unarmed masses. “This street is closed and we ask you to disperse, your timely compliance is appreciated.” The politeness sounds sarcastic coming from three meters of titanium and ballistic-ceramic, known to be generally bad tempered and used strictly for combat. They seem bored while the G.R.U.N.T.s look on edge, pushing people and droids around, clearing the area just to be jerks. The human soldiers on the other hand seemed occupied and serious, crowding around the entrance to the Proxycorp building. Chip started wishing he was at work, as boring as it usually was, it seemed to be the center of the action now. A blast a hundred and fifty stories up abruptly cuts into Chips thoughts, the fire ball adds orange hues to the perpetual glow, glass and steel appeared to hang in the air above the crowd. The G.R.U.N.T.s storm the entrance and a human officer approaches Chip. He points to the Proxycorp logo on Chip’s uniform.
“Intelliverse just assumed control of your outfit, this building, and all Proxycorp assets. That means you.” He switches on a command console and adjusts the settings. “Check for yourself.” Chip knew it was true, the background hum of info confirmed it. “We’re going to clear your corporate data and put in some new scripts. Open up… uh… Chip is it?”
Chip happily opens the port in his head, allowing the nano-wires to connect and go to work.
“Ready for new parameters, Sir, I do so love new beginnings.” Chip gleefully feels the tedium and monotony begin to melt away.
by submission | Jul 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Andrew Hawnt
I didn’t look back.
The explosion tore through the upper floors of the building first, raining white hot debris onto the street below. It was late enough for the streets to be empty, so no harm was done beyond a few damaged cars and scorched pavement. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Nothing really important.
I ran outside without looking up. If I had tried to dodge anything that was falling from the chaos above, I would no doubt have put myself at risk of being hit by something else. Best just to run as fast as I could and hope for the best.
The police and fire brigade would already be on their way. A building so heavily guarded by secrets and covert technology would no doubt have a fail-safe trigger for getting the emergency services out to it. They would be here soon, but they wouldn’t find anything.
There would be nothing for them to find.
As I got to the corner of the street I finally turned and risked a look upwards at the madness that had consumed the top half of the building. I had to. I would never get another chance to see something like this, something so pure.
The structure was in flames now, and orange tendrils of fire worked their way throughout the whole place, plumes of thick smoke twisting from them into the night sky, obscuring the devastated upper floors. Debris continued to fall like molten tears from its ruined concrete face. Windows exploded. Columns of flame leapt from the new spaces in roaring protest.
Where there had once been a government-designed hangar hidden within that seemingly inconspicuous office block, now there was a massive blossom of flame and smoke and dust, opened up and forced out at terrible speeds by the power of what had been held captive inside.
I watched the ship emerge from the blinding furnace, the heat oppressive against my face even at that distance, but it didn’t matter. The craft ascended on a column of shocking blue light, which almost looked tangible in its glory. The building had begun to crumble under the repeated shockwaves pummelling it into nothing, sending massive chunks of masonry and steel girders into the street before me. Still I could not look away. Danger be damned.
The ship’s engines kicked in, and the sleek vehicle sped over me in an arc of glowing thrusters and strange metals. There was a glimpse of the crew as it passed, freed from their cages, just as their craft had been, by my own hands. They had no idea who I was. They never will, either. I wish there could have been some contact, but I wouldn’t have changed the way things had happened.
The ship was gone in seconds. Sirens grew in the distance as flames destroyed evidence.
I ran. Home was calling me, just as their home had called to them for so long.
