by submission | Oct 10, 2008 | Story
Author : Ben ‘Inorian’ Le Chevalier
I’ve been a cypro for a few years now. That’s a short way of saying I have a cybernetic prosthesis. Technically, I’m a cyborg as is any human with mechanical parts, but people don’t like the word. It’s been given too many bad connotations from old scifi movies in the late twenty-first century.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Cypro.
I got my first cypro part for a job. There was a new manufacturing firm in town who were offering enhanced pay and accelerated promotion to cypros because we can lift heavier weights and are generally stronger than pure bios. I had my arm cypro’d. Suddenly I could move heavy machinery by myself.
I worked with that for a while, until me and Sara, that was my wife, until we had saved enough to afford a nice big house in the centre of town. We were living a better life than most of our neighbours, and it was thanks to the cypro.
After a few years the firm offered me another promotion, this time to foundry foreman. Eventually I got a second cypro, just another arm, you know. Sara didn’t like it, but I got a pay raise with it, and it meant I could keep Sara in the lap of luxury.
A revelation came after I suffered an industrial accident. When I was in hospital I realised that my cypro arms had been fine, but my outmoded bio back had failed. I ended up selling off the house and getting my whole skeleton replaced, with my legs soon to follow. I was getting closer and closer to the peak of what I could be, but Sara complained. I think she just didn’t like cypro really.
Soon enough I was approached by a world leader in cypro development. I was somewhat surprised when they told me I had the largest percentage of cybernetic parts of anyone alive. They invited me to be in their cypro testing programs, and then advertise the tested products. The money was fantastic, but working on the cutting edge of cypro is what made me sign on.
Now all that’s left of my bio past is my brain, flawlessly cased inside my cypro body. I’m the first man to receive any cypro part, so I stay on the cutting edge of perfection.
They’re calling me the world’s first true cyborg. Perhaps I am. It doesn’t worry me. I’m perfection.
by submission | Oct 9, 2008 | Story
Author : Andy Bolt
Carlton Marx felt only mildly guilty for opening up slice portals in peoples’ thoracic cavities. He was doing it in the hopes of developing a method of deployment for his growing army of genetically engineered combat fishconomists – economist/sea creature hybrids pumped full of high test adrenaline and testosterone boosters.
When Piranha Maynard Keynes burst out of Queen of England’s chest on live neuro-vision, it took a squad of amphibious battle yetis to catch and subdue him. Back in his lair, deep beneath an Albuquerque bagel shop, Carlton pondered his actions.
“I feel bad about my deadly aquatic assassin eating the Queen,” he said to no one in particular. “But people must learn about the heterodox theories regarding variable interest rates in a capital gains economy. And I can’t think of a better teacher than a psychotic half-man, half-fish, all financial wizard. Also, I need a bagel.”
Carlton pressed another button.
When Milton “Electric Eel” Friedman came crashing through the sternum of DJ Hemoglobin in Hoboken’s techno-vampire disco, most of the patrons thought it was part of the show. A sparking Friedman played along, doing a set of “The Electric Slide,” “Electric Boogaloo,” and “Oh, Dear God, It’s a Shocking Fish Monster! (Summertime Love mix).” Then he inadvertently electrocuted all the pseudo-vampires with a combination of The Running Man and an excited pop-and-lock maneuver.
“This string of semi-accidental deaths is greatly perturbing me,” Carlton mused, licking strawberry cream cheese off his lips. “Perhaps I’d feel better if I knew that people understood how the Walrasian model presents the possibility of perfect competition leading to Pareto efficiency. Wait, did I say Walrasian? I meant Walrusian!” Carlton cackled with self-satisfied glee. “Bagels sure are delicious,” he added, tapping another button.
Marie-Esprit-Léon Walrus exploded into Independence Hall through the torso of a tour guide dressed like Thomas Jefferson.
“Vour score and zeven years ago,” he began, gasping through his tusks with a French accent. Several people looked confused as he flopped heavily onto his flippers, emerging from the trunk of the dead guide.
“I thought Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address,” said a puzzled little boy with braces.
“Walruses are very bad at history,” said Carlton sorrowfully, munching with grief on his ninth jalapeño and blueberry bagel.
“Perhaps that is the greatest tragedy of all.”
by submission | Oct 7, 2008 | Story
Author : Glenn Blakeslee
He led me past a tractor rusting in the rain, pushed aside chickens with his foot and opened the door to his little house. Inside, bleak light fell through dirty windows.
“How much you gonna charge?” he asked.
The house was cluttered with dirty cooking tools and heaps of unwashed laundry. A new chaotic rice-cooker and a clunky media player sat on a wood countertop. He wore a blue phototropic shirt. Typical burgeoning bourgeois.
“How much you gonna charge?” he repeated.
“Where is she?” I asked.
He led me into a back room. His wife lay on a simple bed. She smiled wanly, her eyes only for her husband. “Zensheu,” she said.
Zensheu nodded toward his wife. “You need to fix her,” he said. “She needs to make sons and clean.”
I pulled a chair to her bedside, set down my bag. Zensheu stood watching. His wife had dark circles under her eyes, but her pale skin was unblemished. She was lovely. “I’m Wenwen,” she said.
“I’m here to heal you,” I said, and she smiled a brilliant smile through sad eyes. “I need you to take off your blouse.” Zensheu didn’t move so I helped Wenwen sit up. She slowly removed her blouse.
“I’m paying someone to feel my wife’s titties?” Zensheu asked, his arms folded across his chest. Wenwen’s right breast was swollen along the radial midline. The skin there was dark. “May I?” I asked her, and when she nodded I used my fingertips to probe along the distention. I could feel a mass.
“You one of those livelong guys?” Zensheu asked. “You gonna live forever on my money?” I raised Wenwen’s arm and felt along her chest, up to her armpit. The lymph nodes were swollen.
“You fucking corporados,” Zensheu said. “You squeeze poor farmers, you fix our breaks and bruises and live forever.” I pulled the assay unit from my bag and ran it along the distention. Wenwen winced as the probe extended and snapped back. I set it aside.
“That’s it?” Zensheu said. “I owe a bag of gold?”
Nothing he said was true. I learned my craft online, bought my gear second-hand in Beijing. I saved for months for my first kilo of nano, and rode my bike through the district. I made just enough to support my wife and I.
The livelong nano was for the rich, and would never, ever, be mine.
I poured ten grams from the nanosite canister onto the palette. I turned on the transceiver and plugged it into the assay unit. While the unit turned diagnostic data into machine code and passed it to the transceiver, I pushed aside a small portion of nano, shielded it with my knife, and then passed the transceiver over the rest.
This nano would eat Wenwen’s tumor, and follow the metastasized cells along the highway of her lymph system.
I punched a different code into the assay unit, fed it to the transceiver, and passed it over the portion I had shielded. That nano would live in her womb forever, killing male zygotes.
I pushed the nano together into a single pile, scraped it up with a wooden spoon, and fed it to Wenwen. She grimaced at the taste of carbon, and swallowed.
Outside, the rain still fell. Zensheu approached from the side of the house, and held out a chicken. The chicken was scrawny, its legs deformed. “Here’s your pay,” he said.
I took the chicken from him, and slammed its head into the side of the tractor. I threw it in the mud and walked off, into the rain.
by submission | Oct 5, 2008 | Story
Author : Matthew Forish
My call sign is Belle – I don’t have a real name, just a designation: ASC-a217.5. I stand about four-foot-two – pretty short even for a girl – and weigh in at a paltry eighty-four pounds. There are plenty of children larger than I am. Of course, I was designed this way. My size was selected specifically when I was engineered – it was an asset in my line of work. I could slip through spaces too small for most people, and I tend to blend in to a crowd
Tonight I was attending a diplomatic ball. I was dressed in an elegant blue gown, classy without being overly showy – the better to blend in. My hair – long at the moment – was up in a fancy but conservative style. I hated long hair – it got in the way – but it was necessary to keep up appearances on this assignment.
Standing against a side wall, I scanned the crowd. There were a number of overtly-dressed and armed security guards at the entrances to the room, and my trained eye noted five special agents – dressed in finery and mingled with the crowd. That brought the total security presence in the room to fifteen, plus the advanced security drone that hovered near the ceiling.
I noted my partner, dressed in the guise of a waiter, moving about with practiced ease with a tray of drinks. I was the only one who noticed the tiny devices he was scattering around the room. As he passed me, I snatched a glass of brandy from his tray – my eyes catching his signal that he was finished.
Moving toward the dance floor, I lifted the brandy to my lips and savored it for a moment before my bio-toxin neutralizers rendered the alcohol impotent. Such was the price of my unique abilities. After draining the glass, I deposited it on a nearby table and continued my advance. I spotted my target among the dancing couples. He was paired up with a visiting ambassador from a backwater world.
As usual, none of the guards paid any attention to my tiny frame as I cautiously approached my quarry. One of the special agents glanced my way and smiled at me, before continuing his subtle scans of the crowd.
I was right behind my prey before the drone finally noticed me. It’s blaring alarms were cut short as the stun-pulse flashed out from every corner of the room. Most of the guests and all of the uniformed guards dropped from the pulse, which barely registered as a tickle in my enhanced neural pathways. Only my target, the special agents and the few dignitaries wealthy enough to afford high-end neural implants were standing now – as well as my partner and I of course.
My target turned around in confusion, spotting me for the first time. I drew a slender blade from among my stylish hairpins and took one quick slash across his throat. “You should have voted no on that amendment, Senator,” I said quietly as the shock registered on his face, his life slipping through the gash in his throat – his nano-meds unable to contend with the counter-nanos set loose by my blade in order to save him.
With my partner at my side, I dashed for the nearest window. The special agents moved to intercept us, but were thrown back by the sudden concussion of a cluster of explosions that covered our escape. As we leapt through the shattering glass and plunged into the blackness below, I noted with satisfaction another job well-done.
by submission | Oct 4, 2008 | Story
Author : Glenn Head
Transmission 211.
Is it on, Greg? Is it? Okay.
Today our situation – stranded on Jupiter’s ice moon Europa – has worsened. Todd disappeared last night. He wasn’t in camp, by our ship, and we thought he’d gone on a surveillance trip. We found him dead this morning. He was frozen solid, metres away from the camp’s external therm-lamps. In my medical opinion he died from hypothermia. Problem is, he was stripped naked.
None of can believe Todd would have walked out of camp, in this hellish cold, without wearing some god damn gear. Greg and a couple of us think something killed him then stripped him. I’m not sure. I saw no marks, no indications he’d died from anything other than hypothermia. The jury is still out.
Transmission 212.
Blaine’s gone. Greg and I searched for an hour or so. As long as we could manage in this blizzard. We found nothing. No thermal trace on the imager. I don’t think she’s coming back. Hope the rescue crew arrive soon.
Transmission 213.
Greg’s dead. But we know what’s happening now. Doc Brabham managed to take a sample from what was left of Greg’s clothes. He scanned it and found these little microbe things. They eat synthetic materials. Brabs says we woke them. Now they want to eat. Todd wasn’t stripped – his clothes were eaten.
Transmission 214.
Brabs reckons they must have hibernated for one hell of a long time before we came. We aren’t the first to land on Europa. Those creatures must have fed before. He found evidence of synthetic materials inside them. He calls the creatures Europan Moths. I call them our death warrant. If they start eating into our camp we’ve had it. Hurry guys, we need your help.
Transmission 215.
Still works? Thanks, Brabs.
We lost one half of the camp. The microbes ate through the primary and secondary walls on our east side and depressurised the chamber. We lost two men. Those of us left managed to retreat and establish life support on the west side. Lost a lot of power, though.
Where are they? Come on guys.
Transmission 216.
They’ve grown. Eating a lot of our equipment. They’re still small but you can actually see them. They’re like little dust mites, you know, the ones we used to have on earth. They move quick, and they can really eat.
We tried spraying the things with our sanitary fluids. It slows them down but it doesn’t stop them. Brabs reckons we can only hold them off for a day or two max.
Transmission 217.
Brabs died. He saved us pretty… pretty much. He saved us. Sealed a hole with his body.
I can’t do this, switch it off, I..
Transmission 218.
I saw a dot in the sky tonight. It was moving slowly but it’s got brighter. Could be the rescue crew? I hope so, cos if the Moths don’t get us, the hunger will.
We haven’t eaten in days.
