by submission | Nov 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Sara Lynn Burnett
It wasn’t until the plane began its corkscrew landing into Kabul that the marine sitting next to Anne spoke; he offered her a ginger candy to help with nausea.
Aside from the pilots they were the only two aboard, strapped into a windowless cargo hold along with Anne’s equipment: vertical seismometers, paper drums, sensitive metal springs, computers—each protected in foam within sand-colored impact crates.
“First time?” she asked while unwrapping the candy.
He said no.
They’d briefed her on the marine—that he was there for her safety, would be wearing a parachute built for two, that if a midflight bail was necessary, she was to do exactly what he said. They’d also briefed her on how dust storms reduced visibility to an arm’s length and that she was to wear her respirator outdoors.
Anne guessed the plane was in its third spiral. “What’s it like down there?”
“Nightmarish, but the food is good.”
“Canteen food?”
The marine nodded. “The chef is Pashtun—makes lamb kabobs and Bolani. There’s the occasional hamburger to remind us of home, but we all love the Middle Eastern stuff.”
Anne didn’t follow politics; science was above that, but no one linked to America could miss endless reports of fighters pushing north, the justification for billions spent, lives lost. She wished she had listened more, analyzed. Perhaps then she would have seen the fissures in each story, perhaps then she wouldn’t have been so shocked.
In an earthquake P-waves came first, vertical wiggles warning of what was to come. S-waves collapsed buildings.
P-wave: She agreed to go. Anne had assumed a seismologist was needed to detect insurgent movements from Kandahar— heavily armored vehicles produced earthquake-like waves, even from a distance.
S-wave: There were no insurgents, no jihad, no East vs. West. They were all fighting on the same side against the same thing: an otherworldly infestation deep within the Earth’s mantle, a millennia-old parasitic dormancy left behind by some ancient intergalactic species that for whatever reason, had awakened.
The ginger candy soured in Anne’s mouth. She thought of lost Wi-fi signals, tectonic shifts, her new security clearances, conspiracy theories. The plane hitched and shuddered in an updraft. The marine grew tense. “Have you seen one?” Anne asked.
“They have no eyes,” he said and closed his own. “Their skin isn’t skin, and they morph—grow and shrink, divide and converge like a murmuration.”
During her briefing Anne saw classified videos and found the creatures beautiful. The media lies, the Generals said, were because people needed an enemy they understood. Bad things required a clear cause, humans couldn’t grapple with horror that happened for no reason. The other had to contain enough of the self to be understood.
The plane’s engines roared as it landed, and Anne’s breath hitched when the marine locked her respirator helmet into place. “Good luck,” he said, his voice muffled and hurried behind a clear face shield.
They stood, guns aimed at the bay door, waiting for it to open.
by submission | Nov 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: James Kowalczyk
“I’ll get the head nurse on the late shift to translate and write it out for me,” Oscar said. Toby stopped playing with the ball of gauze he’d swiped from an orderly on the third floor, took a deep breath and shook his head.
“Not going to work. I tried that before. Not all humans speak cat. Turns out mammalian commonality is not enough. The person needs to be static free so they can vibe in and connect.”
Both cats sighed and continued their stroll to the geriatric ward. It was their favorite route, complete with smiles, petting and the pure happiness they spread by being there. The pediatric ward was a close second. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Oscar had witnessed what he believed was a crime. Oscar shared everything with Toby right after it happened.
He’d been hanging out in room thirty-five on the cardiac ward that night. It was not the usual night nurse doing rounds. She had such negativity about her that it gave Oscar a headache when she walked into the room. When she took the syringe out of her pocket, the sinister glance she shot Oscar was undeniable. Oscar felt powerless and scared, but stayed. When the nurse left, he noticed that the liquid in the IV bag changed color. The next day, when Oscar woke up, the patient was gone.
Now he needed to connect and solve the crime-but how?
“Hey Toby, the woman in room forty-eight, you think she understands Feline?”
“She seems to. I mean, it’s worth a try. Whenever I’m in there I definitely get the vibe and connection. And not just through food.”
That night Oscar visited the patient in room forty-eight. He jumped up on the bed while she slept. He positioned himself so that he could gently press his forehead against hers and then fell asleep.
In the morning, the detectives were questioning the night nurse. She gave Oscar the same sinister look as he walked by her. He went to find Toby and tell him the news. He was probably already on the geriatric ward. Oscar smiled. All was right with the world.
by submission | Nov 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The guild meant trade and the guild traded in corruption. It was such a corporeal term: corruption. Bots experienced corrosion. Breathers experienced corruption. Entropy always had its way.
SevenTen was in a thick crowd of breathers. That was Cheapside: buyers, sellers, gawkers, thieves. The guild held it together and squeezed everyone for their due. Even SevenTen.
Bots were supposed to be exempt. A utility. Conveyance infrastructure. It was like that on most of the planet, but a place like Cheapside, a guild stronghold, was always a different story.
A story that SevenTen was trying to explain to the breather it was escorting. “Cheapside is different. There are fees for everything. Even me.”
“But that’s not how it is supposed to be,” the young breather complained. “We must report it. I will not be extorted.”
“It is the Cheapside way. It is the guild’s way.”
“It is not my way. The civilized way.”
“We can go elsewhere to complete your shopping,” SevenTen offered.
“Cheapside has the finest jewelry in the Outlet Quadrant. I want to shop here. And I’m not going to be cheated.”
There was little SevenTen could do but let the breathers play this out. Costs would be argued, yet the ultimate price was always the same in Cheapside.
To the cavernous forum SevenTen guided the young breather who then stomped inside and unleashed a tirade on the guild envoy standing at the service kiosk. SevenTen waited in the guild’s expansive foyer knowing the longer the breather argued, the higher the ultimate price would be.
Unmoving, the envoy listened and SevenTen wondered. Why did breathers seem to enjoy shopping? Haggling? Arguing? Why did they value price so much and why did they put such a price on value?
The young breather was growing more animated as the guild envoy grew more still. Not a good sign, SevenTen recognized. It did have a duty to the young breather, though, in Cheapside, guild protocols blocked most of its options.
SevenTen approached the kiosk and announced, “Thank you for your time, envoy, I will escort my charge out of Cheapside now.”
The young breather fumed. “You will do no such thing. I have rights. I am not leaving until they are satisfied. I will not be treated so…so…cheaply!”
The envoy’s movement was swift, leveling the sleek weapon between the young breather’s eyes. “You’ll be leaving your credits with me to sweeten the aftertaste of your bitter complaints. And then you can walk out. Live to breathe another day. Quite the bargain. Best one-time deal you’ll ever get for questioning the guild’s policies.”
The weapon unmoving, SevenTen helped the stunned breather transfer the credits. Then quickly escorted the barely-breathing breather out of the forum and rapidly out of Cheapside.
The day, the tale, all too familiar to SevenTen, a bot with no rights but many insights. Maybe, someday, the young breather would gain wisdom through the lesson of Cheapside: Privilege offers no protection when corruption cheapens all life.
by submission | Nov 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
“Daddy’s eating carrots. Daddy’s eating carrots.” The children chided Maurin as he walked past them, crunching loudly on the long thin strip of vegetable. He smiled with mock sincerity flashing a smile filled with orange chunks. The children erupted in either laughter or disgust, which he let follow him as he left for his nightly rounds of the compound.
He always ended this daily inspection at his garden, a sparse square of soil he had cultivated over the last half dozen years. He plopped himself down cross legged to begin his visible inspection of the crop; three rows of thin green carrot stalks, two vibrant crimson rows of beets and a mass of leafy green lettuce. The package of seeds, that he traded with a less then reputable merchant for a pair of high-quality binders, had sprouted into a row of neat balls fringed in ruffle.
Jayna crept within arms length, prepared to pounce, when Maurin rolled to his left, sprang back, and began to tickle his youngest into submission. The pair giggled and played, being sure to avoid roughhousing too close to the garden. Exhausted she collapsed into his lap, panting, her breath all but gone in a torrent of laughter.
“Why do you eat them?” she asked, the ulterior purpose of her visit finally revealed.
“Because they taste good.” He replied.
“Taste?”
Maurin smiled at his daughter, tracing his fingers over the triplet of ports nested in her forearm.
“There was a time, long before the long march through the stars when all people had their meals by chewing their food. They raised animals, they grew crops.” He pointed to garden. “They foraged among trees for morsels. Having found these, they applied heat and knives and transformed the different foods into better foods. Then they sat around their tables and shared their meals in a ritual of togetherness, where they talked about the day’s events.”
“I always talk to Fenner when I’m feeding.” Jayna chimed in. “I would talk to you if you ever joined us.” Maurin gave his daughter an insincere stern look and began to tickle her again. She flailed about in protest. An arm, no longer under her control leapt out toward the garden, brushing a single carrot top. She froze immediately, fearing capital punishment. Tears welled into her eyes as she pulled her limbs into her chest as tightly as she could.
“You are more important than a forest of carrots my little turnip.” Maurin soothed his daughter, beginning to rock her, assuring her that there was no anger. He stared as this daughter, putting on his kindest smile and would have begun to tickle her again had not a pale rose blossomed on the far horizon. He placed a single kiss on her head and told her to hustle off to bed.
There would be talk tonight among the elders, the war was getting too close, they couldn’t continue to stay neutral.
For the moment, Maurin sat and stared at his little garden, finally deciding that the lettuce was ready to harvest, curious what it would taste like when he mixed the sereman seed oil with the yeast ferment to dress it.
by submission | Nov 16, 2022 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Cartwright’s job was dealing with information, but he wasn’t the one responsible for collecting it. He didn’t garner or gather, didn’t even transcribe the documents. When the documents arrived all of these tasks had already been done. Cartwright’s Employers had stressed that it wasn’t necessary for him to understand the info, how it might relate to things in the big wide world wasn’t his concern. His only task was to familiarise himself with it, to read everything and to look at and study the photos, to listen to the audio tapes and to watch the videos.
His Employer’s instructions had been oblique but, working diligently, Cartwright had managed to do what they ordered. Correlating and categorising, he had built an archive, one that he could navigate almost effortlessly. If and when they came a-calling he was sure that he would be able to find the documents they wanted. Even if their questions were cryptic, and all they could provide were a few key words, Cartwright believed that he would be able to locate the correct files and provide the necessary info. But no-one had come a-calling and in twenty years his system hadn’t been tested. Actually, that’s not quite true. He had on occasion been called upon to redact certain info or someone from the files. And Cartwright had always done this happily and, working with a thick black marker, he blocked out the words one at a time, page after page. The fact that he was able to do this so swiftly and efficiently was evidence at least that his system worked.
When he began, twenty years previously, the job had seemed old-fashioned. He had felt as if he were functioning out of time, even more so as the years progressed.
The info was always hand delivered by couriers, bulky envelopes stuffed with sheets of thin typing paper, the text typed on old word processors. And then there were the cassettes: the C60s and C90s and C120s and the video tapes. Sometimes there was something scrawled in biro on the labels or the index cards and sometimes not.
The video footage was mundane, mostly CCTV captures. Cartwright always made extensive notes, describing anyone who crossed in front of the camera, the cars – colour, make and model, registration plates. He included anything and everything, determined not to miss the tiniest detail. The time and date, weather conditions, street signs, pubs, clubs and restaurants, shops, office blocks, company logos – they were all recorded.
The audio tapes were equally as boring, mostly interviews, men and women describing a particular place or a particular person. As he transcribed Cartwright was struck by how similar their testimony was to his own notes on the video footage.
He included as much incidental detail as possible. Voices, accents and cadence of both the interviewers and their subjects. How much the interviewees had to be coaxed or if they gave up the info unprompted and, most importantly, if and when the voices had appeared on other tapes.
Cartwright had worked hard over the years and he had somehow managed to make something from out of nothing. And now instructions had come down from up above. He was to be retired, his services no longer required. Cartwright wondered what would happen to his archive. Was the info also now redundant to simply languish untouched and untested?
He had just six months but it was long enough to do what he intended to do. He would transfer everything onto his computer and when he had uploaded the entire archive onto the hard drive he would post it on-line. Make it available to all and anyone who was so inclined could then test his system, come rain or come shine.
by Julian Miles | Nov 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“No, Mister Reynolds, we will not reconsider our position.”
Datten winces at the shouted reply.
“No, sir, we are not regulated by that organisation, nor do we answer to the authority your brother chairs.”
The reply to that is loud enough to make people sitting nearby look his way. He shakes his head as he replies.
“It’s clear we’re not going to agree, so I’m going to stop here. Then you can call all the people you’ve mentioned, and be told the same things I’ve told you. Good day, sir.”
He ends the call.
Toliva pushes a tankard across to him: “Was that the chap from Barcelona Cinematics again?”
Datten nods, then drinks, then talks.
“He’s convinced stunt clones will give his film ‘veracity’ and allow him ‘visceral close ups’.”
Toliva shakes his head: “Do none of these maniacal directors read our exclusions before contacting us?”
Datten shrugs.
“Most are convinced we added the ‘no lingering deaths’ clauses to cover ourselves, and don’t bother to enforce them if enough money is offered.”
Toliva’s bracer chimes. He taps it to flip the call to his headware.
“Livewire Clones plc. How can we help your action today?”
He listens, then nods.
“We can certainly help you with that, madam. Please remember that pitched battles and suchlike will still have to be handled by digital effects. Medieval battlefields were brutal environments, and we cannot allow our creations to suffer unduly.”
After pausing to listen to the reply, he gives a wide smile.
“In that case, I think we can fully provision your productions, madam. One moment please.”
He double taps his bracer to hold the call, then leans across to Datten.
“It’s Hammerwood Studios. They’ve got a heroic retelling of three Greek myth cycles updated to be set during the secession wars on Charne and Plurit. They want our kids for a much as possible, and are prepared to offer guarantees backed by independent clone cruelty monitoring. They’ve already got someone from CloneFair involved.”
Datten claps his hands in triumph.
“Finally! A major studio making an action epic with clone stunters.” He stops, then points to Toliva’s bracer: “Make sure they’ve budgeted for a legally compliant cadaver furnace.”
Toliva taps the bracer.
“I have received provisional approval, subject to paperwork review. There is one query, though: what clone disposal measures have you considered?”
He waits for a reply.
“No, madam, it’s just that there are several cheaper units that won’t handle extended burn periods or daily use. We’ve also had cases where local geographic features such as lava flows have been proposed as safe disposal methods. So we have to make sure.”
Toliva listens, then puts the call on hold.
“They’re set on using Sunstar Eighteens with Cressen ash compactors. At least one installation per filming site.”
Datten grins: “That’s what I would have asked for as the number one option, but expected them to bargain us down to something less heinously expensive.”
Toliva looks impressed. He restarts the call.
“That’s what we’d have suggested, so I think we can move on to a face-to-face meeting, site inspection, and discussions of initial logistics. When and where?”
The reply is lengthy, and accompanied by a download.
Toliva raises a fist to Datten.
“Pack your bags, brother. We’re off to the Zygymas System. They’re looking to shoot on Vision, Clarity, and Hope. With multiple sites on each planet.”
Datten whoops and bumps the offered fist.
“May the human fascination with watching bloody death never die.”
