Pinups

by | Oct 13, 2007 | Story

Author : Viktor Kuprin

“B83-1 was the human designation for the devices. We first thought the images might be related to the trigger mechanism, but it isn’t so,” explained Intelligence Reporter PLOF-873 as he followed his commander into the storage bunker. “We have the human leader of this base in custody. There is high confidence that he knows the meaning of these graphics.”

Theater-Attack Commander SKH-1032 was sick of the human race. Their fierce resistance had put the planetary invasion three cycles behind schedule. The fighting had already caused nearly irrecoverable ecological disaster. At least this base in the sector called Alaska had been captured intact. Nearly intact, anyway.

The chief interrogator greeted them as they entered the bunker. Row after row of the devices filled the room. The images had been found painted inside the maintenance plate-covers of almost all the silver-gray cylinders.

In a corner was the now-subdued base commander, Colonel Heffernan. SKH-1032 was pleased that the human was bound with metal and fabric restraints. He had learned early on to never trust humans, even those that offered cooperation.

The interrogator jerked Heffernan to the first cylinder and spoke in the human language.

“What is this?”

Heffernan looked at the cover plate’s image without reaction. “It’s a blonde.”

“A nude human female with golden-colored, dead keratinized cells surrounding its skull and groin,” PLOF-873 offered.

“Ask it about the text,” ordered SKH-103. “What does it say?”

Heffernan read the words aloud: “Bad News For Boris.”

The group moved to the next cylinder.

“And this?”

“It’s a redhead in a negligée, with great legs,” Heffernan said.

“What is the significance of her attire?”

Heffernan held back his desire to sneer and curse the aliens.

“She’s ready to go to bed.”

“You mean she is agreeable and ready for the mating act, correct?” said the interrogator.

“Yes, that is correct, that and a lot more.”

The three aliens looked at the human, puzzled.

“The text?”

“It says “Putin’ It In The Right Place.”

“Meaning what?”

“It’s a pun, a play on words. Putin was once the president of Russia, a potential enemy to the United States,” Heffernan explained.

The interrogator turned to his two superiors. “Even after the ideological rivalry between the two prominent social collectives had ended, the humans continued to maintain these devices. We don’t understand this.”

SKH-1032 grew impatient. The countless paradoxes and mysteries of the human race were tiresome, of no interest to him.

“Enough. Ask what purpose these graphics and messages served.” The interrogator did so.

Heffernan shrugged. “Purpose? To let my guys have a little fun. To improve their morale. I shouldn’t have, but I allowed it. No one but technicians and loaders saw them, and they were all men. I would have had them removed if any women had been assigned to munitions maintenance.”

“Just for entertainment. Amazing,” SKH-1032 concluded, stomping out of the bunker. “Send the human back to the pens,” he ordered.

PLOF-873 stayed behind to help close the maintenance panels of the B83-1 hydrogen bombs.

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Slice Street

by | Oct 12, 2007 | Story

Author : Nate Swanson

Slice Street is the place to be on a weekend. Part time med students scurry out of university complexes to ply the skills they picked up during classes for a few marks. The sounds of nipping, tucking, and all variety of additions can be heard all over. When someone comes stumbling out of a chop shop complete with an improved body, sometimes with new body parts, the bars are available to supply celebratory beverages.

This is not my thing. Personally, I’m in the mood for some high qual implants. High bandwidth plus free time equals implant fatigue in the poor distributed and a full hard drive. I have a dealer I trust, did my uplink and contacts and there hasn’t been any degradation. But I love walking the street. The newest vat grown muscles, flexing in bubbling jars. Floating ads for nano- and bio-tech implants.

Ducking through the security fog, I said “Hi” to Doctor Zan.

“What can I get you? Looking for some enhanced . . . equipment?” he asks, leering.

“Yeah, no. I need some storage. Terabytes of it.” I pulsed over some specs.

Zan’s eyes scrolled up and down, perusing my carefully crafted e-demands. “Four hundred marks. Non-negotiable. You want techno-organic, bleeding edge. Copy what you got, zero degradation. On the spine, harder then bone. Call it a bonus.”

“Three hundred.”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in a vocabulary upload. Because apparently you don’t understand the words `non-negotiable.’ The price is four hundred marks. This is Cali made; certificatied and pure. Worth every hundredth.”

“Fine.” Not a bad price. With the Cali tech farms behind the Golden Curtain, the price of top of the line gear had gone up Everest.

Gesturing to the back, Zan leads the way through a privacy screen. I strip off my shirt, lay face down in the restrainer chair. A zip, and my muscles lock and my pain receptors shut down. Unconsciousness follows in short order; the last thing I recall is smelling bacon as the laser probe makes a tiny hole for the nanites to scuttle in.

I wake up, pinging the new growths of high-density storage etched into my vertebrae. Capacity tripled. Integrating the new drives with my uplink, I bring the DisNet client online. Queued data starts to steam in, cached data streaming out. Node number 152 Foxtrot 8 is now online, ready to take on all my subscribers off-site storage needs.

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Psychic Partners

by | Oct 7, 2007 | Story

Author : William Tracy

Before I received my emo chip, I guess I thought I would feel my own emotions and those of the other person as distinct and separate. Somehow, it never quite worked that way.

* * *

“David Woodward,” the bald man in the lab jacket read the name off the paperwork, and glanced up at the patient before continuing. “… history of mental illness … no allergies …” he put down the clipboard. “Doctor Frasier thinks that you are a good candidate for an emotional implant. I am to see that you understand the operation.”

David nodded. “Okay.”

“The implant will communicate emotions wirelessly both ways between you and your new ‘psychic parter’. However, it will not transmit conscious thoughts, memories, or sensations.”

The doctor paused to make sure David understood. “We have had a good track record using this technology to treat patients with a variety of psychological conditions. Your psychic partner will be another patient like yourself, experiencing a similar illness.”

“Wouldn’t another sick person just drag me down?”

“Actually, exactly the opposite happens; the two patients together are able to reverse their conditions. The treatment is completely safe and natural, and involves no drugs.”

* * *

At first, I felt whatever the person on the other end felt. Strange emotions washed over me, unbidden and unexpected. Then, I gradually was able to adapt, and something beautiful happened. Our feelings played together in harmony, like two instruments in a duet.

Rather than being surrounded by my feelings, I could look at them from the outside. I was able to sample them one by one, as if they were fine foods and wines. I tasted the spicy bite of anger. I brushed the cool moist of sorrow. I wrapped myself in the fuzzy glow of joy.

I became a connoisseur of emotions.

* * *

“Who will be my … psychic partner?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. Partners are matched by computer based on compatibility; privacy laws keep us from ever divulging partners’ identities.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be experiencing everything this person feels. The privacy issues are enormous.”

David mulled this over. “It has to be secret, even after the person dies?”

The doctor had returned to his files. He spoke while scribbling notes. “Yes. You’ll have to talk to your congress-critter if you want that changed.” The doctor paused a moment, looked at David. “Your partner will not be from your area. The chances that you will ever meet your partner in person are almost zero.”

* * *

Was that really thirty years ago?

I am cured, sane, a productive member of society again. Together, we healed.

I still do not know who my parter is. I do not know where my partner lives. I do not know what my partner’s name is. I do not even know whether my parter is a man or a woman.

After thirty years, though, there is one thing I do know.

I know love.

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Dragon

by | Oct 6, 2007 | Story

Author : Scott Hallford

They called him Dragon. I never understood why until I saw one of his “shows”—the little gatherings in the dark alley behind the pub. Some folks traveled over from Warshire or Bromley to see the muscled lad, a man no older than twenty-five, who breathed fire and swallowed flame. Of course, I didn’t believe it myself at first, which is what prompted me to attend. True to gossip, Dragon belched fire as the show ended. Certainly not something you see every day, but worth a second viewing. Or third.

In fact, my obsession began during the third show. Breathing fire, while a local phenomenon, has captivated audiences around the world. But usually, there’s a trick to it—powder or liquid breathed from the mouth, or a chemical reagent to reacts with carbon dioxide. So far as I could tell, Dragon used one method only: Breathe, exhale.

By the fifth showing, I’d started reporting early (by use of the pub’s rooftop, no less) to watch Dragon prepare. They say that spying on a magician can ruin the show, but Dragon arrived five minutes before the crowd started to gather and leaned against the wall, waiting. The show, like all other shows, ended with a long breath and blast of flame, the plume bursting into the night, rising above the pub’s slanted roof.

I followed him home that night, keeping to the shadows as best I could. Dragon accepted no donation thrown at him. The coins in the alley at the end of the show were left there, and simple logic begged a question: Where does a man who accepts no wages for his work live?

He crossed the river east of town, walked to a lone hilltop cottage where a single lantern sat burning on the windowsill, entered and shut the door. Soon, an old man wearing a tinkerer’s apron hurried to the window and doused the lamp. Odd, a showman like that taking shelter with an old man. I started to turn away when I saw a distinct set of glowing eyes staring out the window. Odd, that. Quite odd.

By the seventh showing, I discovered a pattern. Every night, Dragon arrived at a specific time, performed the same routine and returned to the cottage, taking the same path. The crowd had begun to notice it, too and at the ninth showing had grown bored with every trick but Dragon’s finale. A round of complaints rode up at the end of the show, and a some young bloke—most disgruntled—hurled a mug of liquor at Dragon just as he breathed fire. The liquor, protected by the mug, failed to ignite until it crashed against Dragon’s skull and soaked him. The crowd scattered, screaming, as the flames burned his flesh away, revealing a slick metal frame, once sheathed in skin.

Dragon, sensing no pain, sent his final flaming plume into the sky and started the long journey home, following the same routine (as robots often do).

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Solution for a Whole Man

by | Oct 5, 2007 | Story

Author : Jennifer C. Brown aka Laieanna

“It’s a symbiotic relationship,” explained the salesman, sliding open deep red curtains that lined three of the four building walls. The door and windows to the street were all on the remaining fourth. When the curtains danced back over golden rods, long glass cases with two rows of merchandise were exposed to the room’s florescent lights. “You get exactly what you came for from the alien, and, in return, the alien gets what it needs to survive from you.”

Edmund rubbed his hands together nervously. He leaned forward to peer at the specimens neatly lined up with no more than a two-inch space between each one. One of the aliens twitched and he jerked back. His eyes shifted to the calm salesman, too classy to have a nametag. “And they’re safe? They don’t hurt the host?”

“Not at all. There have been countless tests done before the Mophed were put on the market.” His grin softened and he looked around the, all but the two of them, empty room. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but these guys were actually on the black market for three years before they were approved and made legal to sale. So, there has been legitimate and not so legitimate testing to prove their safety.”

“So, no reports of,” Edmund paused, taking a hard swallow before finishing, “death?”

The salesman laughed, but Edmund couldn’t decipher if it was honest or forced. “Goodness no!” He waved his hands in front of him with an umpire imitation. “Completely safe.”

Edmund stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked about the room, staring into the cases like a man analyzing art. The salesman followed two steps behind.

“As you can see, our collection comes in a variety of colors and textures.”

“So I just simply pick the one I like?” Edmund asked, stopping to look back at the man.

“Not quite,” the salesman said without hesitation, “Once you have made your choice, we will have to test for compatibility. It’s rare, but sometimes a Mophed will reject it’s host. But it’s very rare.”

Edmund closed his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable in the room. “I’m not sure about this.”

“Mr. Kesh,” the salesman interrupted, “Do you have a wife? A girlfriend?” The silence was Edmund’s reply. “You know how society works, how cruel it can be. We all do things to hide our imperfections. It’s how we survive in this world.”

“But this seems a bit extreme. There are other options.”

The salesman tried to hide a small laugh. “Let’s face it, Mr. Kesh, human technology is not moving fast enough. We’ve been working on this problem for centuries with no true solution. It’s only fitting we finally turn to the stars, and now we have the answer.”

“I still don’t know,” Edmund sighed.

The salesman put a hand on Edmund’s shoulders, steering him to the only desk in the room. “Let’s sit down and talk about this more. I have an information chip I’d like you to see before making any decisions.”

The pitch took two hours of Edmund’s time, and three hours later, he shook hands with the salesman before stepping on to the sidewalk. Only making it five blocks and one corner turn, his urge to touch the alien overwhelmed him. It made his scalp tingle. Not in a bad, dangerous way, but more of a massage. The next building down had reflective windows, which he used to admire his image. He had to admit the living toupee looked natural. Edmund smiled, a new skip to his step, and pondered on pet names for his personal improvement.

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