by submission | Nov 7, 2008 | Story
Author : Peter Pincosy
“Accuracy is the primary road to access”
A large white room with banks of computers lined up in rows, was home to Primary English. Sanjay had worked here for three years. He’d won the lottery, the chance to immigrate to the United States. His friends and neighbors were surprised. Sanjay didn’t know any English. The rest of them had taken the entry test, and were certain their scores were better. He couldn’t handle even the most basic conversation. Some of his relatives thought he was an idiot. The day Sanjay stepped on the plane headed for the United States he had laughed at all of them, even his friends. As far as he was concerned by the time they met again he would be a rich man, humility was for the poor.
Three years later his optimism was shaken. For the past few months he’d been wondering when he would move past the testing phase and into the world of freedom that was so lauded in all of the promotional brochures.
Some people had gone. One day they were called to the office of the manager and they didn’t come back to their computer. Their personal belongings back in the immigrant holding camp disappeared before everyone returned from the shift. Some of them had been very bad at transcribing.
Sanjay was shaken, he’d become nervous about the future. Three years of typing in English words from taped transcripts had honed Sanjay’s ability to understand English. He sat with hundreds of people from hundreds of countries at computers and entered the words streaming through their headphones. The manager said the purpose was to teach them English.
“Learn English, learn life.” the manager was fond of saying in words that seemed to soar straight out of the doors and into the blue sky above.
“I worked for a man who had strange items. He sold them. I never saw what they were, just… his hands smelled like chemicals.” In through his headphones the transcript ran, and his fingers slammed out the corresponding words. He was fast. At times he would get completely lost in the words and would work until he felt a finger tap his shoulder. It tapped. He continued. It tapped.
Hands tugged his headphones from his head.
“Sanjay Patel, D-847838?” a red-faced man asked him. He was an American. He lifted the fingers that had touched the headphones and held them out beyond his body. His nose wrinkled up. “The manager would like to see you in his office.”
Sanjay felt himself flush with adrenaline. A few of the others saw him stand and he noticed curiosity and envy in their faces. He walked down the aisle toward the manager’s office. The red-faced man opened the manager’s office and Sanjay stepped inside.
At a desk in the center of a stark room sat the manager. Behind him was another door. The room had two chairs, one held the manager, and the other was empty. Sanjay sat in the chair.
“Sanjay Patel, D-847838,” the manager said. “Congratulations. You’ve graduated. Through the door behind me is the beginning of another set of challenges, a new life, hope, the future.” He was enjoying his words. “Go ahead. Have a good life.”
Nervously Sanjay stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and stepped into a small hallway. At the end of the hallway he went through another door.
Behind the door was a room, full of computers lined up just like in the last room. A sign on the wall read “Primary English Level 2”.
by submission | Nov 6, 2008 | Story
Author : C.S. Germain
“Why did you pick me, out of all those big, strong guys?” asked Richard as he walked out of his tiny apartment on Neal Street.
“Because you are a good person. No amount of health or youth can replace that.” was the immediate reply from within his head.
“You are lying. I can tell.” chuckled Richard, scratching his head, where the stitches could still be seen, under a faint cover of skin. Inside, Karen buzzed, her mechanical mind absorbing everything the old man saw.
Richard Langton, owner of Langton Enterprises, bonded to her only a few months ago, and she knew that the man was a good choice. His body may have been seventy years older than any she occupied before, but it was in good shape, so she did not need to share her battery with any artificial organs. And, he was such a beautiful old man. When she was given the choice between him and ten others, she did not even spend an extra second in thought.
“You are so honest normally. Why lie now? Karen, tell me, really, why did you choose me?” he asked.
“Because I like older, more mature men.” Karen tried, but knew as soon as she said it that he did not believe her. Richard did not care for sweet words, and it would only anger him. It was all over. She was sure Richard would order her removed.
“Don‘t you care enough to say why you picked me?” he finally said, stopping. That was it. She was out.
Karen made a tiny whirring noise. Either she would tell him, or he would remove her for sure. After all, faulty machines that did not answer their owners were considered too dangerous to be used.
“All companies that make artificial intelligence give their creations a choice of at least five owners. I was allowed eleven choices by my company, because of the demand Brain Boost systems of my kind have. I was designed to keep my charge from dying in case of complications and to increase memory storage. This allowed me eleven choices. I chose you, because I love you.” Karen cursed her emotions and her reply. She sounded just like a dumb machine, telling him what he knew, and trying to hide her feelings.
“You are nervous. It’s normal. Just try not to sound so artificial, dear. I love you, too” Richard whispered. Then, he laughed.
“Nobody would believe me if I told them my Brain Boost fell in love with me, you know.” he said, tapping the side of his head, as if to show exactly what they would think of him.
“Then, we can be just friends.” Karen buzzed, her microchips on the verge of shorting out from happiness.
“Indeed.” said Richard, and the two who would always be one headed for the Langton Building, where their company awaited them. The two lived happily ever after, but not before an odd ceremony presided over by the company Supercomputer named them man and machine.
by submission | Nov 2, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Davidson
“Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh wow!”
I couldn’t stop my head from repeating that over and over and over again. Every time I tried to reboot my thought processes, all I managed was a brief “I don’t freakin believe this”, before returning to my yoga-like mantra.
I probably came close to driving off a cliff half a dozen times before survival instinct kicked in and I pulled over to the side of the road. At some point I remembered to swallow and realized that I must have mouth breathing like a marathoner; it took four or five tries before I worked up enough saliva to do anything more than choke.
I knew the mountains of New Hampshire were famed for their UFO encounters. I also knew how much hooey they all were. Welcome to hooey land.
Lighting up the undersides of the overcast and rivaling the full moon in intensity was an honest to goodness saucer. Flying. Or hovering. Or doing something that wasn’t typical of any flying object I was even remotely familiar with.
I wasn’t scared, just blown away. Then I did get scared. The damn thing started sliding down the sky, lower and lower. I wasn’t sure but, yes. It WAS closer to where I sat on the shoulder of a mountain road.
I decided to take one shot with my cell phone and then get the hell out of there. But I’d forgotten to bring the phone with me. And the car wouldn’t start.
“Hah!” I laughed out loud, more bravado than amusement. “What’s next? Lost time? Probing? Sexy alien females who want to have my baby?” Even the last I could do without if the damned car would start, but no such luck.
So I sat there and watched a flying saucer land in the middle of the road about fifty feet away Cute little articulated tripedal landing legs unfolded from its underside. A ring of winking lights circled it at its widest point. It touched down onto the macadam, the landing legs sagging and then springing taut as they took up the weight.
A door slid open and a ramp lowered to the ground. A creature appeared silhouetted against the saucer’s interior lights and then descended the ramp. It walked in my direction.
I flooded the engine. You’re not supposed to be able to do that with electronic fuel injection, but I managed. I could smell the gasoline as the thing in a silver spacesuit stepped up to the driver’s side door.
It was humanoid. Two legs. Two arms. Two hands. A body and a head covered in an opaque silver helmet.
It made a rolling motion with its hand, like cops do when they want you to roll down your window. I was on the edge of panic but the gesture was so familiar I decided not scream right then. I could always try to hide in the glove compartment later.
I rolled down the window. The creature leaned down. I could see my face reflected in its helmet. My mouth was still open.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” it asked. Then it laughed.
When I came to, it was gone.
by submission | Nov 1, 2008 | Story
Author : Jeremy M. Hall
“Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen of Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Harod’s Harriers, ” Sergeant Major Clarkson intoned, “you have become the official guinea pigs for the outfit. If you look at the table in front of you, you will notice that there is a new weapon. This weapon will hopefully become your next best friend. You have permission to pick up the weapon and carefully examine it. One of the first things that you will notice is that there is no ammo clip and only one outlet. That outlet leads to a nanofactory, which will turn anything into a projectile. Our illustrious leader has decided that you are going to field test these on your next mission. Briefing is in ten minutes.”
*
Like most missions that Harod sends her troops on, it didn’t take long for it to go up the “shit creek,” even though it was a simple convoy escort mission. Third Platoon was Tail End Charlie, following the client’s last vehicle from the mission approved distance; in some ways it’s the worst position because you have to watch front, sides and back. Something jumped into the midst of the convoy, bounced up in the air, and exploded.
“Bouncing Betty!” the driver screamed, skidding to a stop next to the remains of a damaged vehicle. Third poured out of the transport, setting up a perimeter around the wreckage amidst the onslaught of the ambush precipitated by the bomb.
They looked at their guns stupidly as nothing happened when they pulled the triggers.
“You have to load them, Dumbasses!” Clarkson yelled over the din.
There was a collective “Oh!” as Third scrambled at the ground, picking shit up off the ground. Dirt, rocks, sticks, debris, and anything else at hand were shoved into the barrels of the new-fangled weapons. The troopers were immediately rewarded with a green light, and they did what they were trained to do: shoot anything that moved outside the perimeter, with spectacular effect. The streams of bullets were different depending on what was shoved in the barrels, with metals giving off a nice green, also taking on armor-piercing characteristics; carbon based matter rewarded a purple projectile, but also doing much better as anti-personnel rounds; silicates created a yellow round, but wasn’t as good as metal or carbon rounds. Third quickly started experimenting with materials.
What had started as a simple ambush became a pitched battle. The enemy poured more and more troops into the area, trying to destroy the Harriers, as they tried to recover the injured and supplies from the damaged vehicles, as per the contract. While the Harriers had always exercised good firing discipline, something every infantryman faces during protracted engagements is the shortage of ammunition. Except for Third Platoon; if anything they were having fun at the expense of the attackers.
“Hey Bucher! Watch this!”
A stream of fire belched from the end of Migola’s rifle, streaking out and setting an ambitious ambusher on fire.
“What in the Hell did you load in that thing?”
“Finally have a use for rations.”
“Which one was it?”
“The Goulash.”
“Remind me to re-label those as ammunition. They were inedible anyways.”
by submission | Oct 31, 2008 | Story
Author : KJ Hannah Greenberg
Charles lingered in the treetop. Not munitions or bribery had coaxed him from his lair. Charles defended his sanctuary with occasional conflagrations and, less frequently, with bad puns. Charles continued to sup on jerboae and lorikeets. He even succeeded in catching a kestrel. Meanwhile, news crews recorded his actions.
Although the neighborhood, minus a ferret or two, remained rapt by Charles’ conduct, Doris didn’t notice, so preoccupied was she with her mailbox. Closing the lid, Doris sighed. Whereas the postal service insisted on placing parcels beneath Doris’ letter bucket, and whereas it had lost jewelry and flour sent by dim relatives, it was the lack of Wilson ’s correspondence which agitated Doris .
Wilson , busy hitchhiking through the Middle East , had reiterated, electronically, that he had sent hundreds of tacit missives. Doris had received two dozen. In contrast, Doris, who disbelieved that Mom pilfered mailbox treasures, had written, daily. Letters could not be interesting to a parent who could eavesdrop on private calls or “just happened” to walk on intimate moments.
Charles spun within his arboreal fortress. Forgetting, due to hunger-imposed hypoglycemia, that tail thrashing broke branches and caused humans to scurry forward with all manners of camera lens, he also snuffed and snorted. The chimera needed to scream and to belch (bandicoots are hard to digest), but he stymied himself remembering the incident he caused at a nearby house. Doris ’ roof, next in his line of sight, didn’t seem any more fireproof, though its layered grass looked serviceable against inclement weather. So, Charles continued his moral gymnastics.
Doris left her mailbox. Mom chastised her for loving Wilson , especially whenever Doris ’ bed resounded in the kitchen below. Even a university degree, lambasted Mom, would be better than canoodling with Dr. Hichkins’ scion.
Doris shrugged her way home and returned to her bedroom to compose. She and Wilson could travel to New York City after she won the speculative fiction writing prize. Doris described a scaly mouth sucking on a lion-like paw.
Charles watched and snorted afresh. He knew himself to be no more a manifestation of someone else’s intrusive thoughts than in any other respect imaginary. A proper monster, hatched from a proper egg, Charles was neither fabrication nor delusional invention. His source was his venerated mother.
Charles twinged again as he scanned the garden. Something rustled among the spiny-headed rush and common wallaby grass. Maybe he could take a small swoop; he was very hungry.
Doris clicked to another screen. An editor liked Doris ’ contention that individuals ought to be measured against their own norms. That woman wanted Doris to email biographical data plus a photo for Doris ’ pending work.
Such data, though, would reveal Doris ’ sixteen years and would necessitate parental permissions. Mom hated Doris ’ mass media rhetoric, caring nothing for ethical dilemmas. To wit, Mom had threatened to cancel Doris’ cable access and to disallow Doris a private postbox. What’s more, Mom instructed the postmistress to preview Doris ’ mail.
Doris scowled at her computer. It was vital to evade demographic questions. She enjoyed publishing, but enjoyed electronic access to Wilson even more. Doris rescinded her submission.
In the interim, the fire brigade that destroyed Charles’ nest designed to destroy him. Charles tweaked his ears as an armed vehicle entered the hamlet on an auxiliary road.
The next morning, Doris forwent visiting her mailbox. Fretting made her sloppy. There’d be no envelope from Wilson , anyway.
Fretting made Charles sloppy, too. He shuddered within Doris ’ mail receptacle, reflecting on just how close the municipal buccaneers had been to finding him.
