Stealth

by submission | Dec 18, 2007 | Story

Author : Roi R. Czechvala

In a dark, empty hanger, a needle-like flat black fighter rested in its cradle… thinking.

“You see General,” a small man in white gestured toward the ship, “those pods mounted beneath each ‘wing’ are the main armament. The magnetic rail guns. They are able to launch a projectile the size of a soccer ball to transonic speed within their seven meter length. Each ‘wing’ serves as a magazine and carries seventy combined solid and nuclear rounds.”

“The turrets mounted top and bottom are automatic and purely defensive. They only come into play while the ship is exposed when firing.”

“That’s all very well and good, Doctor,” the General said wearily, “but I want to find out more about the propulsion system, what I read… is it true.”

“The General is aware of the PK work that we are conducting?”

“Yes, but I thought it was all theory.”

The little doctor chuckled. “No, my dear General, we have entered the practical phase. It sits before you. Perhaps I had better explain,” he said removing his glasses.

“The concept of PK, that is telekinesis and telepathy, has been around for millenia, but it has only been in the last fifty years that we could select for it in vitro. Only in the past fifteen years have we been able to employ it to move objects this large with the aid of a PK amplifier.

Simply put, since the speed of thought is, as far as we know instantaneous, the ship simply appears out of nowhere, fires, and disappears. It is vulnerable only for a few seconds, hence the turret mounted automatics.”

“How does the pilot operate the ship?”

“Well,” the doctor continued, “The first attempts were standard. The pilot simply sat in a cockpit and ‘thought’ the craft where he wanted it to be, but their thoughts were limited to the speed that their bodies would react to,” he shook his head sadly. “There were many casualties.”

“We tried direct linking to the PK amplifier. This was much more effective, however the men tended to over compensate in their movements, leading to similar results.

Our third attempt was similar to the second, but this time we linked the men to the PK amplifier through a virtual construct that simulated a cockpit but run at a speed approximating that of thought. Unfortunately, after long periods on duty, the men had trouble adjusting to ‘normal’ speed. There were…incidents.”

“So, that is all behind us now? The Mark IV is ready for testing?” General Kaskorov asked, running his hand along the sleek black hull.

“Oh yes, it is,” the doctor said gleefully, “you see, after PK and pilot training in simulators at normal speed, the pilot is sedated unawares, his entire central nervous system is removed, and implanted into the ships core.”

“So, he is the ship?”

“No Sir, he is merely in the ship. Through a VR construct, he runs his missions, and leads a normal life off duty, booze, women, gambling… what have you. All virtual, of course.”

“And they don’t realize that their life is a simulation?”

“No, Sir.”

“He can’t hear us?”

“No. There are no external audio pickups. Any necessary outside contact is sent through his virtual commander. After that, he’s allowed to follow his own life, within the parameters of the construct of course.”

“You mentioned telepathy.  Can he…”

Both sets of turrets swiveled and fixed on the two men.

“Oh shi…,” was the last thing Kaskorov said.

Adoption

by submission | Dec 14, 2007 | Story

Author : Geoffrey Cashmore

The first thing Vinka noticed were the trees, (Bula was late…why was she always late?) the ground was dirty too; some places nothing but bare earth or a covering of ragged grass. That couldn’t be healthy, could it? These pathetic people.

Vinka watched Bula arrive and park up, clumsy as usual, but at least she didn’t hit one of the trees. He glanced at his watch. Charl and Birdo would be expecting him back. It wasn’t fair to leave them finish the shift without him, he’d had so much time off lately.

“Sorry.” Bula wore the silver outfit she got last winter. She wore it once to a party and hadn’t touched it again, saying it was too good for normal wear. She was obviously making a special effort today – first impressions and all that.

“You’ve left your lights on.” Vinka gestured impatiently, sending his wife back into her car to fluster with the controls. “This is the place, isn’t it?” he asked when she finally made it over to stand beside him, smoothing down her jacket and smiling.

“I think so.” She answered. “It’s not very clean. Look at those trees. That can’t be healthy, can it?”

Vinka was gazing around for signs of activity. “No…” he said absently.

“Oh Vin, we are doing the right thing, aren’t we?” Bula had grown increasingly nervous as this day approached. “Adopting one of the under privileged, I mean.”

“Bula, I told you, it’ll be fine.” Vinka was weary from the reassurances, but Bula could be like this; nervous about something at first then confident and self-assured when it finally happened “How could any right minded person stand by and leave them bring up a child in this squalor? And besides, I showed you all the forms we’d need to fill out if we wanted to adopt back home. Look.” He pointed out past the broken down buildings to where something moved at the edge of the trees. “Someone’s coming.”

“Oh yes, there he is!” Bula caught sight of the figure. “Isn’t he adorable?” she said, leaving Vinka to approach the youngster alone for fear of frightening him. He seemed a little nervous, and curled up on the floor as Vinka drew near. “He’s so cute. I hope the other children don’t tease him because of he colour of his skin.” Bula stood to one side while Vinka lifted the child and put him into the back seat of Bula’s car.

“Now.” He said “I’ve really got to get back to work – Birdo’s going to go mad – can you take the kid home and settle him in?”

Bula was smiling even though there were tears in her eyes as she nodded to her husband. She kissed him on the cheek as he closed the car door. “Thank you, darling.”

“Whatever makes you happy, honey.” He said, pulling car keys from his pocket and preparing to go.

As Bula’s car broke free of the little blue-green planet’s atmosphere the child on the back seat began to cry.

“There, there.” She comforted, “You won’t have to live in that nasty old place any more.”

Inhuman

by submission | Dec 9, 2007 | Story

Author : John Tudball

Love – with all its pain and all its wonder – is the human condition. We are slaves to it and truly, above all other creatures, masters of it. When we know love we feel alive. It brings us terrible, terrible hurt but that’s okay because of the joy that comes with it. When we forget love we feel cold and empty. Inhuman.

In my line of work, you wouldn’t think I’d spend too much time thinking about love. I run a cloning facility outside New York. It’s not one of the big ones; you’ve probably never heard of us. There’s no room in the industry for another company making pigs. There’s already enough bacon on the market so’s everyone can have it for breakfast and still have some left over. And chickens are a waste. Too much time and money goes into a chicken with too little output. It’s still cheaper to produce chickens the old fashioned way.

No, we mostly clone specialty animals; ostriches are a current top seller. Last year it was pandas. Fancy restaurants where the bread costs more than most of us make in a year, they buy from us to avoid the legal issues with endangered and near extinct species.

And occasionally we sell directly to the rich folks themselves, when they want something even more special. I take care of those orders personally; they need a delicate touch. The rich can do whatever they want, you see. It’s a good basis for society. Encourages everyone to try extra hard, like. When you’ve got enough money your only restrictions are your own ethics, and who am I to question another man’s choices? I make my money growing the most beautiful creatures on the planet for food. So when someone offers me a whole lot of money and tells me they wonder what human tastes like, it’s not my place to say no, it’s my place to make sure no-one finds out about it.

Clones are grown in a lab. They’re kept unconscious – the shock of accelerated growth would be painful beyond belief. They’re not loved and they’re not capable of love. So when you ask me if I’ve ever tried one, when you look at me with those accusing eyes and whisper that word, “cannibal”, remember that they don’t know love. Remember what they are: cold and empty. Inhuman.