by submission | Feb 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Aric Coppola
The machine whirred and abruptly stopped. It had never stopped on its own before; it had to be told to stop. Yet now, the machine had come to a halt.
“What did you do?” Alphonse asked, peering over his computer.
“Me? What did you do?” Marie asked, staring over her own computer, nostrils flaring.
“Nothing,” said Alphonse. “I was the one who turned it on.”
Marie stood up and walked across the laboratory towards the machine, Alphonse at her heels.
They stared at the readout on the computer terminal: .000000000000000000000001.
“That can’t be,” said Alphonse. “C’est impossible.”
Marie ignored him and punched a series of numbers into the machine’s keypad. The machine’s digital readout went black and then showed a long readout of equations and commands. “There,” she said. But as soon as she’d spoken, the terminal again read: .000000000000000000000001.
“Can we reproduce it?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “It was the simplest one yet.”
Alphonse’s bottom lip quivered. “I can’t believe it. That was it? That was all? That was the solution?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It seems so.”
Alphonse straightened. “We must inform the directorate. Secondary tests must be conducted immediately, and then the public has to be informed so that—”
Marie grabbed his wrist. Her grip was strong, surprisingly strong, much stronger than most prize-winning physicists.
Alphonse peered into her bloodshot eyes. Behind the red twists of veins and the cool blue irises, there was real-time processing. It wasn’t an unfamiliar look. He’d seen this every time they’d made a breakthrough together. And yet this time, there was something eerily different about her gaze.
“What?” he asked, suddenly feeling uneasy, the excitement of their discovery slipping.
“No,” she said. “No one can know.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, face reddening. “It’s the solution to all of it, Marie, all of it. If we can reproduce this at scale… that’s it! You know that’s it!” He wrenched his wrist free of her grip and tried to rub away the blossoming bruise she’d created.
“Non,” Marie whispered.
A small shiver ran up Alphonse’s back. “Non?”
Marie turned from him abruptly and slid into the chair at her own computer terminal. Alphonse hovered behind her.
DELETE CODE 33.1.18, she typed.
“What are you doing!” He reached across her, panic setting in fully now. “You can’t do that!”
With the push of her index finger, she pressed a single key. The screen went black.
“Vous êtes fous! Why would you do that? What is wrong with you?” He ripped her from her chair and flung her body to the tile floors. “You’re crazy!” he cried, spittle flying from his mouth. “Why, Marie? At least tell me why!”
Marie the brilliant scholar, and even more brilliant scientist, stared up at him from the floor. For the first time, Alphonse saw exhaustion in the woman’s gaunt face.
“Because,” she said simply.
“Because why, Marie? We’re all going to die because of you.”
“I know,” she said, eyes watering. “We deserve it.”
by submission | Feb 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: John Adinolfi
Jessica always wore a tinfoil hat. Everyone knew everyone’s business in Prescott Bay, but no one knew why Jessica wore the hat – which didn’t stop them from having theories.
“Look, here she comes,” called Mary Worthington. “Doesn’t she care what people are saying about her?”
Of course, when Mary said people, she meant herself. She was the ringleader of the small town’s never-ending gossip mill.
“Give it a rest, Mary,” Alice Bennett said. “Jess is just a little odd, that’s all.”
“Odd? A little odd?” Mary mocked. “Wearing white after Labor Day is a little odd. Wearing that hat is looking at odd in the rear-view mirror!”
Jessica smiled and waved to Mary and Alice as she approached. She knew what they thought and didn’t care. Each day she fashioned a new shape for her hat using foil left over from sandwiches, chicken, or slices of cheese. The cheese ones could get pretty ripe, but she figured that only added to the mystery. Today’s hat was shaped like an English bowler. She laughed to herself when she saw Mary and Alice wrinkle their noses. It was a cheese-foil day.
“Don’t worry,” Mary shouted. “That hat will protect you from alien death-rays.”
Mary and Alice hooted loudly, circling their index fingers around in the air while pointing to their heads. Jessica marveled at how unimaginative these people could be. Sure, the foil could keep death rays out – but it also provided a great conductor to let communications in. Then again, she supposed, they’d think that was just as crazy.
Jessica shrugged and continued her walk to the beach. She adjusted her hat and listened carefully to today’s instructions from the Zorfar leadership. Her preparations would be done soon. When all was ready, she’d signal the full Zorfarian fleet to land.
The takeover of these weak earthlings would be, to use one of their idioms, a piece of cake – wrapped in tinfoil, of course.
by submission | Feb 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Doesn’t matter who I am. I am not the land.
I walk it. Day in day out. One footing at a time.
A footing is not a standard unit. It is determined by growth, the flora and fauna, in a defined area when it is clear nature has begun to rebalance there.
My job is to make sure that rebalancing is not disturbed. The land must mend, but I am not a healer. I’m a killer. A defender against my own kind.
We are out of balance, scales tipped far beyond the pale, and so we pay in pound upon pound of flesh. It is indeed dire, brutish, unfair. But that is where we are, and I must keep my footing, clearing it of poachers, pragmatists and, most of all, parents.
Breeding is a crime. Our time is long past. Instinctive urges and actions still gnaw at our hardened Resolve, but there are enough who know how little we matter. Which matters the most. So, we walk the land, footing to footing, armed, ready to kill any who break our Resolve.
Upon a day risen borderless grey, my path crossed the infant’s. A mewling babe tucked in a reed-woven basket set upon the worn path. This was not unheard of, but I had not crossed such a thing before. I crouched next to the creature, rustling, suckling air, still pink, still warm, wrapped against the thick dew.
Its eyes sought mine. Mine did not answer. The Resolve was clear. The child should be left to the land. The land was made for this. I was not.
I walked on, too slowly it seemed. A force stronger than the Resolve, my resolve, tugging at my heels. A heaviness outweighing every step. To turn was to tumble. Spill headlong into futurelessness. No more pictures in my head.
Except the child.
I walked it back. The footing unsure, without comment, still and grey. The land does not judge. Only my kind.
An empty basket, beating hearts, a measure of all lost. And everything to be gained.
Doesn’t matter who I am. I am not the land.
But with child, I am more than Man.
by submission | Feb 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mikki Aronoff
We sit immobilized, re-reading the same fortunes wriggling out from our smashed cookies: “This is the last thing you will ever need to read.” Slips of paper like unearthed, restless nematodes unsettle our party of poets and teachers, one of whom retired that day. The waiter sweeps around us, bent, upends chairs onto tabletops. We conjecture: Jokes? Unhappy workers at the print shop? Surely not one of…us? The artist among us cracks a smile; as words are no longer necessary, perhaps now she could live off her paintings? We laugh, nervous, stumble to the street. Neon lights flicker on and off. We dig into pockets, purses, alcohol-wipe our hands, plaster masks across our faces, walk home. Later, texts fly like infinity signs among us — we’ve all received the same singular communique stuck in our doorways, tucked under windshield wipers. But the contents were empty as our streets, as the morning papers. They had tried to wean us. First, that fading print. Then just headings and pictures and captions, next only front page headlines, then
by Julian Miles | Feb 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A figure looks both ways along the street. Nothing but dust devils spinning across the plasmac. With a resigned shrug, he steps up to the entrance of the Constabulary House, waiting for it to scan him.
Inside the building, he ambles over to the nearest desk and lands his backside on it hard. The figure crouching behind the desk comes up fast, hand flicking to holster, then relaxes upon seeing the crest on his uniform. She settles onto the bench behind the desk.
He smiles.
“Space-Side Investigator Atom Pruemyn, reporting as ordered, and wondering why. I arrived without having to fight my way in. Where’s the emergency?”
“Planet-Side Enforcer Judith Blass. Chief Harub insisted I call after I spotted the problem. It’s an unusual situation.” She looks up at him and smiles: “The honourable crustacean doesn’t want to touch this. He’s up for promotion next quarter.”
Atom hooks a bench closer and shifts himself off the desk. Seated, he looks back to Judith.
“Tell me this isn’t connected to the two of yours who’re up for commendations?”
Silence.
He sighs: “Go on, then.”
“Planet-Side Enforcers Turterril and Gathgore held off a band of marauders for three days, killing over half of them in the process. Chief Argondy, leader of our reinforcements, was so taken with their humility he put them up for commendations when he returned to Constabulary Central. They were informed a week ago, and disappeared two nights later.”
“Disappeared?”
“Without the slightest trace. All devices abandoned.”
“Which vessel did they steal?”
“No vessels are missing.”
“What?”
“Nothing has been taken, apart from the savings they accumulated over the last eleven years on Planet-Side duty.”
“A hidden stealth ship? Impressive.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Still not quite enough to fuss a hard-shell like Harub, though.”
Judith chuckles.
“Hard-shell? Must remember that. What fussed him was the surviving battle video, and the data on their devices.”
“Do tell.”
“The video showed the two of them fighting multi-op style: embedded arm blasters, calf jets, energy blades, the lot. Their devices were set up to prevent or override detection using Fleet War Command codes. Likewise, their fictitious personal and career records were protected from detection or query.”
“Those abandoned devices being the source, you were able to see it all…” He sits forward: “You’ve had persons unknown masquerading as Planet-Side Enforcers for eleven years?”
“Unknowns with combat enhancements using military apps. We didn’t have a clue, and then misplaced the two about-to-be-lauded imposters. Harub is beside himself.”
Atom chuckles.
“Now there’s an image. Tell me, did you get on with them? Were they good at their duties?”
She smiles warmly as memory briefly distracts her.
“They were lovely, and superb Planet-Side Enforcers.”
Atom nods.
“There’s no clue as to their actual identities?”
“Our ID specialist is sure they wiped their records and trace data when they quit their former lives.”
“Combat configurations?”
“Eighty percent likely to be ours.”
“Ingrained techniques at that level are hard to disguise – unless they’re instructors… Disturbing, but no actual help.”
“What’s our next step?”
“Request two Enforcers from Central. If anybody asks, Turterril and Gathgore leveraged their commendations to get roving duties out on the frontier. You said they were superb. That legacy sets a standard rarely met by real Enforcers. Utilise it. I’ll deal with the confidential reporting,”
“We do nothing?”
“Unless you’d like to make this embarrassing incident public, yes. They don’t want to be found, are civilised and peaceful, but could be devastating if cornered. Let them go. Other agencies might pursue them, but I doubt it. Too much could go wrong.”
by submission | Feb 19, 2023 | Story |
Author: Russell Bert Waters
Grandma isn’t well. Might be a stroke. Incoherent mumbles. Faraway look in her eyes.
What to do? What to do?
All the EVs in the Orange Sector are shut down today by remote signal. It isn’t our week to have the allotted four hours of driving time.
“Grandma?”
I speak her name softly. She pops into alertness briefly and then glazes over again.
Not sure if it’s a stroke, but something isn’t right. I need to get her to help.
I call the dispatcher to request an override.
“Central Control, what is your emergency?”
“My Grandma isn’t well, she may be having a stroke, I need to drive her to the hospital.”
“Age?”
“Eighty-nine…she just turned eighty-nine last we-”
The dispatcher cuts me off.
“I’m sorry, we only allow emergency transport allowances for subjects under 70 years of age. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Please, I need to help my Grandma.”
The line goes dead.
When it all began they would only cut off vehicle usage during storms, and other emergencies. Then the emergencies became more frequent. Then the emergencies became constant. And now, regardless of circumstance, every vehicle usage is rationed. Everyone only gets four hours of driving time every two weeks, broken down by Sectors. You aren’t allowed to hoard your time either, it is a “use it or lose it” proposition.
Before my Father was taken away for thinking the wrong thougts, he had mentioned a friend he knew who collected internal combustion vehicles. He embraced The Old Way, the Selfish Way. He embraced the old-fashioned notions that the individual somehow mattered. Those were dangerous times, when people believed that way. Now we all pull together. Now…we all struggle together.
I know if I take my Grandma to the hospital they likely won’t treat her. She has “aged out” of viability. But she has done so much for me, I can’t just give up on her. I’m not supposed to even refer to her as my “Grandma” as that’s “gendered language” and it is one of the reasons my Dad was taken away; the usage of wrong language, wrong thoughts.
If anyone gives up on my Grandma it won’t be me. If the hospital doesn’t treat her, so be it. I will have done for her what she would have done for me.
I make a phone call.
The phone is answered by a gruff voice “what can I do you for?”
I explain my situation. He is all too happy to help, but he cautions me that there’s a penalty when they discover me with an old vehicle. Possibly even time in a camp. And I didn’t get the car from him, but he wishes me the best of luck. He says to give him ten minutes and he’ll bring the vehicle to me.
A short while later I hear the purr of an engine, and then I hear the engine cut off in front of the house.
I take my Grandma’s arm and gently lead her to the door.
“Come on Grandma” I whisper.
“Let’s get you some help. And maybe afterwards, I’ll get to see my Dad again.”
