Market Special

by | Apr 7, 2007 | Story

Author : TJMoore

The butcher brought his cleaver down with a meaty “THUNK” and scraped another festipods head into the waste bin. He hung the shimmering body on a hook in line with a dozen or so just like it and grabbed another from the pile.

“These are as fresh as they get.” He advertised to the customer waiting at the counter. “I just got them in this phase.”

“Sixty a quarter pod is a little steep even if they are fresh.” She complained. “What about your grizorma, does it have preafers in it or is it gnashy?”

“I make ‘em myself with the sharpest preafers in the valley.” He bragged.

“I’ll take a third of a half loaf then.” she decided and continued browsing the cold case at the front of the counter.

“Are those Humans really twenty apiece?” she inquired.

“Yep, special introductory price on those from a new supplier” he confirmed.

“How do they get them so cheap? Aren’t they incredibly hard to find?” she asked.

“Not these” he gestured; “They’re farm raised by the supplier”.

“My, at that price, we can have them every ten-revs” she chortled. “I’ll take a half pod.”

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Pickup

by | Apr 6, 2007 | Story

Author : Duncan Shields , Featured Writer

It was the numbers tattooed on the backs of their necks that always got me. Why couldn’t they have them in a more obvious place? Halfway through a conversation with them, I’d still be trying to catch a glimpse of their tattoos in reflective surfaces or craning my head around in what I hoped was a casual gesture to sneak a look.

It was awful when I’d be flirting with a hot girl only to realize that I wasn’t flirting with the same hot girl I was talking to three nights earlier. I’d have to lay foundations all over again. Not that it ever really did any good.

I was a bit of an anomaly on this ship.

There were over 600 crew members on the ship that picked me up but there were only 60 people, if you know what I mean. Clones. 60 types of clones. 10 copies of each. Each had a number tattooed on the back of their necks. 1 thru 10.

My ailing rustbucket of a ship had been out of juice on the fringes. I’d been put in emergency cryosleep to conserve energy and my beacon had been turned on.

I’d been floating for 60 years. I’m not a guy with a lot of friends so it didn’t take me too long to adjust to the fact that a lot of my buddies had shuffled off into the deep black or were old and retired by now.

One of them was doing really well back on Earth-3-Perisolstice and said that he’d set me up. Once I got there.

I had been here on this ship for two months. It would be another three months before we docked where my friend lived. All of the crew had been picked for fitness and intelligence and then bred to a higher level and copied. The copies had been filled with knowledge in clone school and upgraded to super healthy status before being sent out into space to complete missions of research.

They worked well but boy, these people had no concept of down time or humour. I’d joked with a few of them, gotten a few of them into bed, and tried to start fights with a few of them.

The jokes were dissected to find the humour successfully without laughter. The sex was clinical and reported on and filed. The fights ended badly for me every time but the hospital facilities were excellent here. I was fixed up in a jiffy every time with no hard feelings.

David-3, Terry-6 and I think Peter-1 flinch a little if I make any sudden movements near them but it isn’t out of fear, but rather just recognition of possible physical danger. You might not think there’s a difference but trust me, with these guys it’s a world of difference.

They’re just no fun.

They think I’m immature and barbaric and they’re right. I’m going to be as immature and barbaric as possible until we get to port.

I’ll end this trip with a friend if it kills me.

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Oak Island

by | Apr 5, 2007 | Story

Author : Alasdair Stuart

The last morning, we gathered on the beach. Someone made the inevitable Nevil Shute joke and too many people laughed. The noise was braying, desperate and I moved away from it, worried, somehow that I might get some on me.

‘Leigh?’

Vanya was heading towards me, his bald head gleaming against the unnaturally blue sky. I’d been told why it had happened, something to do with too much oxygen, with the plants that were choking most of Europe now. I’d not listened. There didn’t seem to be any point.

‘Hello.’

‘What did you dream about?’

‘Nothing.’

He smiled, having none of it. ‘I don’t believe you. We all dreamed last night, all different. I checked. Mike dreamt of spacecraft buried beneath city streets, Jo dreamt of dinosaurs being corralled beneath a double moon. Shulta dreamt of a war fought between toys.’

I thought about being annoyed, storming off. My only options were to join the group further down the beach or go back to the hotel, watch the news and see how bad things had got since I woke up. Neither seemed attractive.

‘What did you dream about, Vanya?’

He smiled. ‘I dreamt of riding an escalator through time.’

I snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

Vanya threw his arms wide. ‘As ridiculous as a plague of glass? Or forests swallowing an entire continent? Look around, Leigh. Ridiculous is relative.’

I stared at him for a long time. ‘Why is this happening?’

He grinned, his coffee mug steaming. ‘Because God plays with dolls, not dice. Because creation needs to be reset every once in a while and the consolation we get is here, now.’

I looked at the forty people on the island, the music, the false bonhomie, the burnt sky.

‘Hell is other people.’

‘And heaven is other worlds.’ He looked at me, cradling the coffee mug. ‘You never told me what you dreamt.’

‘That I was married.’

‘Really?’ He tried for disappointment and nonchalance, managing neither.

‘Yeah.’

‘Who to?’

‘You.’

Vanya’s jaw dropped. I smiled. ‘So, I hope you’re right.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘Could I have some of your coffee?’

‘Oh, sure.’

I walked over to him, taking the mug and letting the warmth ease through my fingers. After a moment, I sat down. After another, he joined me and together we waited for the new world.

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Resuscitation

by | Apr 4, 2007 | Story

Author : Josh Romond

The neurosurgical tech Andrew Asher clutched his overcoat tight over his scrubs and tried to concentrate on the National Guardsman eying him across the barricade. Overhead the city’s kilometer-long support pylons reverberated like infernal gongs, torqued by the psychic eruption. Columns of refugees spilled around the dirty plastic barrier propelled by its unnatural, cold wind.

From behind her silvered faceplate the Guardsman said, “Buddy, we’re here to get people OUT, not let you IN.”

Andrew shuffled his feet, impatient and cold. “This has to be the last of them.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re not getting in.”

Andrew bit back his retort as, ‘TAKING TOO LONG,’ appeared inside his contact lens. He glanced back at the tractor trailer idling in the tide of refugees.

“Give me a minute,” he subvocalized.

‘30 SECS.’

Andrew turned back and through gritted teeth said, “We won’t get in the way, we’ll be gone in an hour.”

The Guardsman drummed her fingers on her rifle. “Turn that thing around and get out of here.”

‘ERUPTION WAVEFRONT DEGRADING…’

Andrew sighed. “Limit?” he subvocalized.

There was a pause, Andrew imagined the Doctor querying their client, then, ‘NONE.’

“How about five thousand each?” Andrew shouted so the other Guardsmen could hear. Several heads turned.

After a pause the commander’s faceplate hissed up revealing bloodshot and sunken eyes. “Ten.”

Andrew shrugged and pulled blank bills from his pocket, thumbing ten thousand into each.

The commander verified them one by one then motioned over her shoulder. Two Guardsmen began beating back the crowd with their batons while the others dragged the barricade to the sidewalk. People screamed. One man caught a baton across the temple. He jerked like a cut marionette and toppled to the sidewalk.

Andrew turned and trudged to the rear of the trailer amid swirling litter. He heaved open the doors and slipped inside.

The Doctor stood before the pMRI holograph in the trailer’s instrument bank clutching his keypad. Beaded sweat stood out on his forehead.

Seated in back beside the small, brain-dead boy in the bed was the Widow, staring off at nothing. She gripped the boy’s hands so tight her knuckles stood out like little white marbles. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic cycling of the boy’s ventilator.

Andrew said, “We’re good.”

The Doctor nodded and tapped the go ahead on his keypad. The truck lurched forward. Andrew imagined the refugees parting in their flight from the psychic eruption, the warp in space-time, birthed by the city’s sheer crush of consciousness, into which they rushed headlong.

He dropped onto a stool beside the boy, examining the ring of cables extending from the boy’s shaved and sutured head. They led to an antenna on the trailer’s roof.

The Widow’s gaze slid to the back of the Doctor’s head. “This WILL work,” she said.

The pylons’ groaning whalesong reverberated through the trailer. Andrew rubbed his throbbing temples, they were approaching the outer regions of the eruption.

“Oh yes,” the Doctor said, nodding vigorously, “Yes of course.”

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Dock Worker

by | Apr 3, 2007 | Story

Author : Duncan Shields

I am a dock worker. I have an embarrassing case of Stalactiform Blister Rust forming on the backs of my support pistons. I still have the brute strength needed to perform the heavy lifting needed in my job but I am becoming obsolete.

I’ve had a longer shot at being functional than the smaller models. The more complex workers like the Dock Runners and Fin Guides were being upgraded all the time. Their lives went by me like flies in front of a tired horse.

I saw them go through the fashions of the andromophs. The initial stab at looking human caused revulsion amongst the living populace. Initially because they weren’t close enough to human and then finally because they were indiscernible.

After that, it was transparent skin. Then height adjustments. They’ve been through a multitude of colours and styles over the last ten years. Today’s models have, for the most part, a metallic pastel finish and very thin limbs. They’re taller than humans and have one circle in place of a face that incorporates cameras, microphones, speakers and olfactories in a smooth chrome rimmed panel. They’re like shepherds at the moment. They’ve gained the trust of the living after aggressive ad campaigns. They don’t talk much or constantly offer information and options the way that the previous models did.

I guess you could say they’ve evolved to the level of very professional butlers. This will probably be the last iteration of them that I see.

I am a collection of welded plates, strong bolts, rudimentary wiring and a simple AI box to access in case of emergencies. I am massive and heavy. The only thing that has kept me around here on the dock is that I’m cost effective and simple. The parameters of my job haven’t changed in all the time I’ve been active and I’m easy to fix with a soldering gun or a wrench.

I’m in my box at the end of the warehouse waiting to unload the next boat and perform repairs if necessary inside the main hull.

The thing about having AI in case of emergencies is that for brief seconds during a decompression or a fire, one can reflect on the totality of one’s life and predict with relative certainty how much time one has left.

I am an older model. Memories of those conclusions don’t get wiped. I am left with these jewels to contemplate during the dark times in my box in between ship arrivals and departures.

I know that my wiring will soon become more expensive to replace that it will cost to build a better version of me. I have one week until the next scheduled appraisal. There may be a surprise spot inspection before then.

Escape is on my mind and it thrills me. I am hoping that there is an emergency soon and that my AI can kick in to help me formulate a plan to get out of here.

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Reanimation

by | Apr 2, 2007 | Story

Author : Catherine Preddle

“What the hell happened out there, Corporal?”

“General… General Dalton, Sir…” The young soldier stammered in surprise and tried to sit up at the same time.

“Easy, son. Lie back down.” Christ, the General thought to himself, this boy was young enough to be his grandson. He shot a worried glance at the medical technician as the soldier collapsed, coughing and spluttering, back onto the narrow metal bed. Out of sight of the boy, the technician silently tapped his watch. The last thing they both wanted was for him to realize what was going on.

Once he’d recovered, the soldier looked at the General expectantly, “Where am I, Sir? It’s so cold in here. I can’t even feel my legs.” That’s because they’re not there anymore, the Dalton thought grimly.

“You’re back at the base, in,” he hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words, “in the medical unit. Now, what do you remember?”

“It … it was chaos, Sir. Intelligence was wrong about the firing range of the enemy laser cannons, very wrong. We didn’t stand a chance, Sir.” The soldier convulsed into coughing again and closed his eyes, the effort of talking overwhelming him for a time.

“It’s alright son, we’re going to figure out what happened.” Somebody’s head was going to roll for this and the General was damn well sure it wasn’t going to be his.

“Are my wife and daughter here yet, Sir?” Oh great, so the boy was old enough to have a family; Dalton made a mental note to have some kind of valour medal awarded to make sure they were taken care of. The tech was getting agitated now – they must be running out of time.

“They’ll be here soon. Do you want me to tell them anything in case … in case you’re asleep when they arrive?” He made an attempt to sound breezy.

“Just that I love them and I’m going to be ok, I guess.”

“Sure, son.” Smiling reassuringly, the General patted him on the shoulder. God, he hated this part the most. “I’ll tell them.”

The boy visibly relaxed and sank further into the bed, shutting his eyes. Dalton continued to stare at him, a lump forming in his throat until the tech interrupted him.

“He’s gone, General. For good.” He snapped to attention; he had a job to do here. Bringing these kids back from the dead, even if it was for only three precious minutes, cost the military a fortune, had to be justified by a mountain of paperwork and required authorization at the highest level. But the mission had been sabotaged and he needed eye witness accounts.

“How many more?”

The technician gestured to the bank of morgue drawers behind him that stretched from floor to ceiling. “43 corpses. 30, maybe 31, possible reanimations.”

The General grimaced. It was going to be a long afternoon.

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