by submission | Jun 12, 2009 | Story
Author : Ken McGrath
John sat down in a corner of the canteen, spread his newspaper out in front of him and began to unpack his lunch.
‘THE ELECTRIC OLYMPIAN’ screamed the headline plastered across the front page of the red top.
“Hey Johnny, have you seen this?” a voice called loudly. John looked up without really needing to, he already knew the source of that booming, self-important voice. Bob, one of the machine operators, stomped up beside him and jabbed a meaty finger down onto the paper.
“This is sick this is. Have you heard about this?”
John shook his head in response. “I’ve only just opened it now,” he replied quietly, “haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“Right well, this guy here, Sancho or Sanchez or something, went over to take part in The Olympics and it turns out he’s part robot. So they’ve going to kick him out. He’s got a damn robot leg or something. It’s crazy. These freaks they think they can still act like normal people even though there’s a bit of a machine grafted onto them. I mean, come on, The Olympics is all about people in their physical peak.”
John looked at the massive gut sticking out over Bob’s belt and wondered if he’d ever been the peak of anything. His gaze drifted back upwards. Bob was still mouthing off.
“Think about it for a second right, this guy thinks he can enter, like a real person, even though he’s got this cyber leg that’ll no doubt help him run faster or for longer without getting tired. All the while our guys, real men, not these half-humans, are expected to take part against that. It’s just not fair.”
John quickly scanned the newspaper. “Says here Bob that this guy’s a jockey. I don’t think having a replacement limb is going to make any difference there, do you?” he asked.
“His damn horse is probably all pumped up on steroids or something, anyway it’s just not right, these part-people going in expecting to be treated like you and me. Next thing you know they’ll have them here in the construction yard. They’ll have some robot-armed freak out there doing all the lifting and carrying and there won’t be any need for machine operators, people like you and me. They’ll do away with the heavy goods drivers. That’s what’ll happen. You see what I mean? Folk like you and me’ll be out of work all ‘cause of these robot-freaks with their add on parts.”
John gave Bob one of those looks that suggested agreement, but in reality didn’t say anything at all. Bob gave him a friendly slap on the back then noticed one of his more vocal work-mates entering the canteen. Without a backward glance Bob snatched up the newspaper and started making his way across the room, calling, “Hey Jeff you seen this filth yet?”
John sat back heavily in the plastic seat and let out a relieved sigh. Automatically his hand crept to his right thigh, to the point where the saw had severed his leg. Beneath the rough denim of his work clothes the pseudo-skin wrapped around a replacement limb had never felt so cold, mechanical and heavy before.
by submission | Jun 11, 2009 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
With her middle finger she idly traced the ragged designer scar that ran across his tanned bicep, but she appeared unimpressed by it and her mind was obviously elsewhere.
He stared at her pale, flawless skin where it stretched over her perfectly proportion pelvis and was equally apathetic; she was, physically, no better than all the outstanding beauties he’d taken to bed.
Perhaps it only mattered now because, this time, he really liked her. She was, he thought, an angel; and literally too at the moment, her wings curled provocatively round her so that the soft, white feathers revealed more than they hid.
“I have an idea,” her voice velvety in the broken silence. “Why don’t we meet…?”
“….outside the system,” he finished her sentence.
Did he imagine that both their avatars were breathing a little quicker?
He looked at himself critically in the fluorescent-lighted mirror, a slight paunch round the middle, ginger hair thinning badly at the crown, and tried to remember the last time he’d stood in front of anyone looking like this; the doctor, two years ago, perhaps.
He travelled to her apartment by the most direct route, and saw only a maintenance crew in the street, poking around behind the covers of an unidentifiable plastic block.
She opened the door, only her head appearing at first, her hair a wild explosion of tan-coloured, tight corkscrew curls. Her eyes were open wide and close-together and her nose small, upturned and piggy above a weak chin. She stepped back to let him in and smiled, horsey, uneven teeth surrounded by thin lips. And he realised that he was beaming back at her.
He was unconscious of the involuntary movement that brought them together, placed his hands on her bony hips and pulled her, flat chested, towards him.
“Oh!” she gasped, her voice high and nasal, and he could restrain himself no longer.
There was a protracted, fumbling fight with real and reluctant garments, but eventually their love making was hurried and sweaty, gulping desperately at lung-fulls of air between slavering, uncontrolled kisses. And, ultimately, it was inadequate and agreeably unsatisfying. They laughed like drains and, as the non-virtual sweat soured on their skin, adding to the queasiness in his stomach, he sighed. This was amazing.
Later, as they lay wrapped in scratchy sheets, her eyes flashing a very ordinary hazel and she cackled, “I have an idea.”
He knew immediately what it was; just as connected to her here as they had been before.
“New avatars,” he whispered, as if fearful of being overheard uttering a great heresy.
They giggled like children when they found a checkbox, hidden deep within the options screen, labelled “turn off limits”. They squealed like pigs at every asymmetry warning and hooted like monkeys as they dragged the sliders hard one way or the other.
It took the rest of the evening, but eventually they added costume to the skinny, mad-haired woman and sagging, balding man on the computer, outfits like the uncoloured, shapeless clothing discarded on the floor.
And then they plugged in and holding hands, both real and virtual, they set off to shock the world.
by submission | Jun 8, 2009 | Story
Author : Sean Monaghan
Jerry ducked Monica’s projectile, his knees up to his chin in zero-G. The sno-globe missed his head by millimeters and smacked into the aluminum window casing, then spun through their cabin.
‘Honey, it’s okay, it’s-‘
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘We’ve been cleared for re-entry by Mojave control. If you look out your windows now, you’ll get your last view from space, dawn breaking over eastern Siberia. We’re about to fire our braking rockets and drop into the atmosphere. All going well, we should have you on the ground and cleared through quarantine in twenty minutes.’
‘Where are they?’ Monica yelled. Her make-up was smeared from wiping tears. Jerry wondered if she was still drunk from the end of cruise party. She’d probably kept drinking after he’d turned in.
‘Allan’s holding them. I told you. We can’t go through security with-‘
Monica reached out and plucked the spinning souvenir from the air, flinging it at him again. The globe impacted his abdomen making the adhesive prosthesis jab him sharply. He saw the snowy hills of Mars again, encapsulated in the small drifting quartz sphere.
The ship jerked. ‘We are beginning our descent,’ the intercom relayed. ‘Please be seated in your gravity couch. Ensure you fasten your webbing harness.’
Jerry grabbed the netting. In the cramped cabin, it was hard to drift out of reach of anything, just as it was hard to avoid Monica’s missiles. He could hear a hissing sound.
‘The whole point of the trip,’ Monica said, ‘was to bring home the diamonds. And you give them away.’
Jerry looked out the window, seeing a trail of glinting vapor. ‘I didn’t give them away,’ he said.
The window was leaking, he realized. Ariadne’s cheap reputation included a poor maintenance record, and the sno-globe had probably wrecked the window seal’s alignment.
‘Cabin crew, cross-check doors. And be seated for re-entry.’
‘We can’t trust Allan.’ Monica grabbed her own webbing, pulling herself in and managing to slap Jerry’s face a few times.
‘Maybe not.’ Red plasma was streaming around the window as they struck the atmosphere.
‘I didn’t even see him on the whole trip,’ Monica said.
A robotic voice chimed through their speaker. ’13B, your harnesses are unbuckled. Ariadne Spacelines will not be responsible …’
‘Shut up!’ Monica yelled. ‘I’m putting it on!’
The pane’s edge was glowing now. Jerry knew at this stage their cabin door was sealed so, even if the window blew out, the ship’s integrity would hold. Assuming door maintenance was better than for windows, the other four hundred passengers would be safe, while he and Monica got crisped.
‘Are you hot?’ Monica said.
The window was a blur of red and he could see a thin blowtorch of flame from one edge.
‘Dammit,’ he said.
‘I’m not giving Allan any of my percentage.’
Jerry threw her a look, then ripped off his harness, feeling the tug of deceleration still pushing him against the couch. He pulled up his shirt and peeled back the prosthesis. The piece of artificial skin flopped around and he slapped it onto the damaged frame. The fibrous bioshard material designed to elude security began shrinking and charring, then congealed into a solid glittering carbon lump, the diamonds showing. Still, it had stopped up the hole.
‘What the hell?’ Monica said, staring at the makeshift repair.
Jerry sighed falling back into the couch. So much for his plan to tell her that Allan had given them the slip at the spaceport.
by submission | Jun 7, 2009 | Story
Author : George Li
The rusted orange hue of the sky made dancing reflections on Mirna’s “skin”. Carefully, she raised the fragile watering pot.
People had thought it would be them who caused this. Sentient robots that would rebel and destroy humanity. It didn’t work out like that. Robots simply had no need to rebel, they did not have the urge for power like most humans had. It simply wasn’t needed, wasn’t in their programming. Even the ones with no directive, no programming, even they had no such urge. These “Free-Thoughts” discovered in seconds, with their huge infallible minds, what took human philosophers millenniums to figure out. The rarity of life. The need for diversity, companionship, and harmony. So it was not the robots that caused this. It was the humans themselves.
Like most things, it started slowly. A buildup of mistrust, paranoia, and hatred. People started blaming everything for their troubles, everything but themselves. Wars started, lives were lost. But it seemed humanity would survive, like it had done so many times before. Until someone went nuclear.
Mirna slowly released the valve. With robotic precision, she filled the pot.
It took several years for humanity to die out. But eventually, even the race’s legendary resourcefulness could not save them. Robots tried to help, tried to stop the impending extinction. But they were pushed away, the paranoia and suspicion of the human mind was too hard to overcome. For the first time in thousands of years, Earth was free of humans. And the Robots were alone.
Synthbot M-1RN Edition A. That was what Mirna was, that is what the label on her back still said. Her original directive was gardening, taking care of the now desolate parks. And yet, even after all her masters died, even after she learned how to override her original programming, she still enjoyed her work. Perhaps it was something about making life, and seeing it grow.
Mirna walked over to a half broken cup filled to the brim with soil. On the top was a small flower. She delicately tilted the watering pot, and watched as a few drops of this now precious liquid fell.
There were plenty of spare parts, abandoned machinery, and broken vehicles. With careful rationing, Mirna could live forever.
Lazily a colorful butterfly landed on the small flower.
Mirna smiled. Maybe she would get to see the Earth reborn.
by submission | Jun 6, 2009 | Story
Author : John C. Osborn
The sound of the spray paint can spitting neon green from its nozzle drowned out the ambient noise of the city: police sirens, echoing gunshots, and the monotonous drone of the Floating Eyes. Ty directed the colorful symphony across a giant raised billboard that read “One World, One People,” creating a large middle finger in the center of it all. When the spray paint puttered to an end, he appreciated his work like a viewer does at an art gallery.
Ty pulled down the black bandanna covering his mouth, looked at the smog-distorted cityscape stretching toward the horizon. He sat down, pulled out a protein bar, and devoured it whole.
“You again,” said a stern male voice.
“You know me,” Ty smiled and crumpled the wrapper, “I like my art.”
Ty looked up at the police officer wearing a gray uniform. Sown in to the uniform’s sleeves were American flags with one star instead of fifty. The officer looked up at the billboard, smiled.
“A middle finger,” he said. “Ah, can’t say that’s original.”
“It’s the symbolism that counts,” Ty replied.
“Either way, it’s against the law,” the cop said as he sat down beside Ty. Ty looked him over, noticed his disinterested gaze stare out across the city.
“But you’re not going to bust me are you?”
“No,” the cop smiled, “I’m not.” Radio traffic clattered from the cop’s walkie-talkie. He turned it down. “If the Governing Council can’t take a joke, screw ’em.”
Ty laughed, “You know it’s much more than a joke these days. I think you see the same problems I see, only you’re a part of it…”
“Just trying to survive like everyone else,” the cop interjected. “You think I like busting kids like you for petty vandalism and sending you off to one of the camps?” he paused. “No. I’d rather be chasing murderers and drug dealers.”
A loud humming noise startled them both. A floating metallic orb the size of a human head hovered above. A glowing red computer-like eye scanned both of them.
“Warning!” a robotic voice said. “Crime against the state detected. Vandalism, First degree. Hateful speech, first degree. Defacing corporate property, first degree…”
Ty’s eyes lit up. He felt a strong urge to run but the cop’s eyes looking at his told him to wait. Ty took an anxious breath.
“I’m in the process of apprehending the criminal,” the cop said. “I don’t need any assistance.”
The Floating Eye focused its mechanical eye on him, “Officer Grace Steward, Homeland Security Division Four. You are aiding and abetting a political criminal. You will be…”
There was a click and a thundering boom.
It happened fast. Ty didn’t see Officer Steward whip out his sidearm and blast the Floating Eye in one graceful motion. As the smoking metal heap fell, Ty asked, “Why?”
Officer Steward looked at Ty, “I think you already know the answer. Now get out of here. There are plenty more billboards that need defacing.”
