by submission | Oct 29, 2022 | Story |
Author: F. J. Bergmann
Only teenagers would work detasseling corn back in the late-twentieth, my grandmother had told me. Boys, or girls whom no one wanted as babysitters. But I was lucky to get any work at all, at my age. Unusually lucky if I lived another ten years to reach my grandmother’s seventy-three (but Juanita had only been fifty-seven …). And most fortunate of all that this step in the process of growing ever-more-improved maize hybrids, to feed gene-mod cattle whose meat only Shareholders could afford, was still more efficiently done by humans than machines.
The early June sun beat down furiously. I tried to keep the reflective parasol hat (128 China-US dollars, accrued to my wage deficit) tilted to cover my hands. Some of the age spots they bore were precancerous, the harried nursing assistant had said at the mandatory annual checkup (254 Chus per month for minimal medical coverage, with an age-adjusted annual increase). She had recommended gloves (39 Chus for the flimsy pairs carried by the company store) or sunscreen (45 Chus per 4-oz. tube of dubious ointment). The medication for my heart condition made anything beyond basic rations and a weekly shower unaffordable.
Whenever the temperature reached 50°C, Oversight imposed mandatory breaks—without pay. I moved along the rows of corn methodically, trying to maintain rhythm, listening for the whistle, half-hoping it would sound. I was trying to make do with a bottle of tap water and homemade electrolytes this week. Boiling did kill pathogens—except for prions—but the company-provided filters that were supposed to remove chemical contaminants were always off-brand, and suspect.
A wave of cold sweat and dizziness poured over me, and I tried not to stagger. Two warnings last week: another within this pay period would reduce my wage again, leaving no margin of safety. Last winter’s chicken flu would have killed me if Juanita hadn’t shared her rations and brought me hot drinks, and an extra blanket she wouldn’t tell me how she got. I’d promised her we’d grow old together, but her melanomas had already metastasized.
National boundaries were fictions, merely conveniences of taxability and legalistics. Corporations and their Shareholders held no allegiances and spanned continents, the world. Workers were hired, moved where needed, used, and used up. The labor force was the true melting pot, a hodgepodge of ethnicities and origins. Sometimes I thought that they deliberately mixed us and moved us frequently to keep us from organizing effectively—the incentives for transferring to new stations seemed disproportionate.
What did we look like to the crop-dusters spraying fields where the mirrored cones of our hats moved slowly through green leaves? To the luxury dirigibles passing overhead, floating toward the elite playgrounds of Las Vegas, New Manhattan, or Disney-Calgary, we must have been infinitesimal, only glittering sparks seen through a shimmer of heat—if their passengers even looked down. I remembered gazing up at night, at the stars, before the Flyover became permanently clouded with smog. My mouth was too dry to spit; the sweat that dripped from my nose vanished before it hit the blazing ground.
I trudged on through a nearly palpable inferno, my hands reaching up, my feet moving automatically from plant to plant. I felt that I was glowing, on fire, about to burst into flame. When the buzzing in my ears grew louder, at first I thought it was the break whistle, and then I was falling into a night sky darker than I’d seen it in years. I hoped there would be stars.
by submission | Oct 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Huascar Robles
Old Lady Pérez shouted one simple instruction: “You need to gulp it down. Todita la limonada.” Her command was an energy that traveled across Pedro’s skin, each pore. “I have seen the lemonade stand; it’s pink,” he whispered. Old Lady Pérez stretched her neck and through her only eye repeated: “If you want to save the Earth child, drink the lemonade.”
Pedro did not have a choice. His constant headaches were reminders of the nightmares. The distressed Earth child. The storm. Príncipe M.’s claw around the child’s throat.
He whistled for his beloved chupacabra, Perico. They flew over the Buenaventura sky, and landed on the lemonade stand guarded by los enanitos verdes, the most musical all of Buenaventura’s elves. “Quick, enanitos, serve us two tall glasses.” The elves complied. Pedro and Perico felt the fluid begin to transform them. Pedro’s body grew protrusions he’d never seen. He giggled. As with all temporal transfigurations, this one occurred to the beat of bomba and plena.
They reappeared in the unknown universe Pedro saw in his nightmares. As they stood in the backyard of the Earth home, an unfamiliar feeling overcame Pedro. He saw his naked body and rushed to cover it with items dangling from a birdbath. The sky darkened and bits of hail and bones rained over them. “Príncipe M. is here,” Pedro muttered. He instructed his chupacabra to stand guard. “Remember what to do, Perico!”
Pedro entered through the back door. He had memorized the interior of this home from his dreams. Second floor, third door to the right, that’s where the Earth child was. Pedro kicked the door open and before him stood Príncipe M., his claws gripping the Earth child’s throat.
Outside of the house, Perico let out a screeching bellow, the call to the Fairy God. The storm clouds ripped and a fountain of fairies flowed like pink lemonade unto the Earth. The Fairy God descended and sang “Yeh, estoy subiendo como espuma. Yes, I am flowing like bubbles,” over a syncopated trap melody.
Pedro’s eyes widened when he saw the Fairy God rise like foam behind Príncipe M. The volume of the song increased, debilitating the dark prince’s grip on the Earth child. The Fairy God pushed his hand through the window and seized the prince by his neck. In a synthesized, harmonic voice, he uttered the following words: “This is for all the boys in dresses.”
The clouds dissipated. The Fairy God kissed both Pedro and the Earth child on their cheeks. The fountain fairies left a rainbow trail as they returned to Buenaventura. Pedro and the Earth child embraced one more time by the birdbath.
For many years, the pair traveled between Earth and Buenaventura, bridging both universes with their undying bond. Many, many years later, Pedro, now a father of a beautiful Earth child of his own, took a stroll by the old lemonade stand. Perico strode by his side. He glanced at his child and said: “I have a story to tell you, but you have to listen to my voice, the sounds, the colors, this is the only way to travel between worlds, between universes and between bodies.
‘One upon a time, there was a magical boy who fell in love with an Earth child.’”
by submission | Oct 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: A.J. Glen
How long had they been here? There was no way to tell. After the ship, their suits and all their equipment had dissolved away, it became impossible to know what Standard Time it was. Attempts to mark the passage of time using their environment were fruitless – the native rock was composed of an ultra-hard diamond-like material, and the strange foliage that grew out the cracks was equally impossible to break or manipulate with human hands. They resorted to scratching tallies into their skin with their nails, until they realised that the skin would unnaturally and perfectly heal – presumably supported by the same mysterious force that removed their need to eat or drink.
At first their minds could take it. Unburdened with the immediate material concerns of survival, they wandered naked and free over the uniform, universally temperate landscape. Days passed with long, often playful conversations and socialising as they waited in comfort for their eventual rescue.
The Chaplain cheerfully announced he intended to use the situation as an opportunity for deep spiritual meditation. He began his meditation and we discovered that he had become impossible to wake. On discovering this, the Psychologist postulated that his mind was now irretrievably lost without the context of bodily needs anchoring him to reality. In a way, he had escaped. We wish he had taught us how to meditate first.
Time passed, or we presumed it did. The unchanging environment, our unchanging bodies, unable to alter ourselves or our surroundings. We had nothing more to say, or do with each other. Existence no longer rushed forwards to meet reality as comparisons, desires, fears, jealousies, impressions and perceptions became muted.
A discovery was made. A sharp shard of rock was found which had somehow come loose from the landscape. An almost forgotten ‘feeling’ was experienced, that of Hope. Perhaps this could be used to cut the foliage, and make a small start on some kind of civilization. Hope turned to another half-remembered feeling, Disappointment, as it was realised that the shard was not sharp enough to cut the plants. However, it could be used to cut the body deep enough to do serious damage before the healing energy began to work. Several of the crew used the shard to kill themselves in various ways before it was realised that they would wake some time later, completely healed. The trauma of this experience had an interesting effect. When they woke, they screamed at us, saying things like:
‘Why am I still here!’ and,
‘I just want to be human again, to be me!’
But we know better. Being reminded of our situation only causes us pain. Pain brings us back into time, back into existence, back into our nightmare. So when they awoke, those who killed themselves were held down and restrained. After what must have been many years of restraint, they merged with us. Now, no one uses the shard because it is better to be together. It is better to fly as one towards the moment when the unnatural sun above us eventually goes supernova, destroys this cursed planet and ends this terrible consciousness.
by submission | Oct 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I see them on the street corner again today. They’re an eclectic assembly of men and women. I count thirty-seven of them. While some are in their twenties and accompanied by young children, the majority are older—in their sixties and seventies. They’re part of a religious cult who believe that the world will come to an end in roughly sixteen months’ time. They are being led down the primrose path by a handsome, well-spoken young man who promises them a bounty of riches and eternal pleasures in the afterlife in exchange for recruiting more like-minded followers to promote his narrative. No doubt they’ve drained savings accounts and given their worldly possessions to this charismatic leader.
I’m not from this world—or even this time period—yet I still feel sorry for them. I cross the street and walk up to the nearest sign-carrier and ask, “May I?” I reach out and take the sign from her hands. Then I withdraw my pen and cross out the date on the sign and replace it with the actual date of destruction––5,041 years from now.
I hand back her sign and go about my business, leaving a collection of puzzled looks in my wake.
by submission | Oct 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Follow your nose. Trust your instincts. What bullshit. Might as well say a bedtime prayer cause that’s all you’re doing when you go with your gut.” Traisa took a swig and set her highball glass down.
“It’s worked so far,” Darte said, glowering at Traisa’s cocktail.
“That’s because, so far, the competition has been sorely limited. We’ve been competing against ants and termites. Not anymore. And the suits that oversee the lab and all our work don’t get it. ” She reached for her drink, but suddenly pulled her hand back. “You get it. I know you get it, Darte. You must get it.”
“They’re bots, Traisa. Simbots. They can’t evolve. They can’t get smarter. They’re too simple.”
She reached for her drink again. Stopped herself again. “They don’t have to evolve. Simple is smart—when the numbers get big enough. Simple machines following simple rules can ultimately make highly intelligent decisions.”
“Swarm behavior does not mean hive intelligence,” Darte argued. “Simbots do not have a collective conscious. They’re not instinctual.”
“Of course not. I’m not arguing a divinely innate ability. Simbots are coded. Just like we are genetically coded.” Traisa stared at her drink. Stared hard. “It’s all a fixed action pattern. All this crap we call life, the sham we call free will. It’s hard wired. Just like the simbots. We’ve got to figure out the pattern before they do.”
Darte shook his head, reached for her drink. She slapped his hand away.
“You’re the one with an action pattern problem, Traisa. And you need to fix it!” He stood up.
Before Darte could go, Traisa raised her drink to him. “The game from here on out is tic-tac-toe, not chess. So, here’s to three in a row.”
She downed her drink. Then went to the bar and ordered two more.
by Julian Miles | Oct 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch the spheres orbit about one another as they spin within the space defined by the delimiter field. Fractal printers are fascinating. I find their intricate revolutions calming.
“What do you think it is, Derry?”
Gia’s always trying to predict what’s next.
“I have no idea, young being. What do you think it is?”
She grins delightedly. Rocking back and forth on the dampers of her work boots, she points to the delimiter field.
“It’s taller than it is wide. Makes me think it’s an established tree or something like that. Can’t be fauna, because it didn’t put a constraint wire down before starting.”
“Aren’t trees mandated to start as saplings?”
She purses her lips, then shrugs and whispers up her infoscreen. Being polite, she says the query out loud.
“Tree printing size law.”
The screen flashes a single line of text back to her. Looking across at me, she nods.
“Saplings without exception, so it’s not a tree, and not fauna.”
Today’s game is getting interesting.
“Some sort of bush or shrub? Something with berries?”
Gia whispers up another couple of laws, then shakes her head.
“Seedlings only.”
Natan enters the printbay, feathers rippling in the final stages of preening.
“Hello, you two. Guessed it yet?”
Gia stares at me, a look of revelation dawning on her face.
“Fungus! You’re printing a Plutochrome!”
The two of them share a knowing look. I sit there, waiting for someone to give me details.
Natan catches my expression. With a slight bow, they explain.
“Apologies, Leader Being. I received permission to print one of my world’s adaptive organisms. As it’s going to be dropped in the Salantium Marshes, I also received permission to print a mature specimen.”
I nod.
“What’s a Plutochrome, Natan?”
“An environment-salvaging toadstool appearing like a giant member of the earthly Russula class. A distinctive red cap sits above a metallic stipe from which the common name is derived.”
That’s part of the name explained.
“What about the ‘Pluto’ bit?”
Natan nods: “Before our races established relations, your decision to develop a base on Pluto caught us by surprise. We’d been there observing Earth for two of your decades. We levelled and abandoned our outpost, but part of our garden regrew. When you humans saw them, the name ‘Plutochrome’ arose.”
Gia leans in.
“So we’re using the wrong name. It came from your homeworld. What do you call it there?”
Natan coughs a quiet, surprised squawk.
“We have names for every variety, which are distinguished by cap colour and aroma. Unfortunately, the diversity of both fall outside human perceptive ranges. What I got permission to print-revive is a second-year growth Sholtri.”
The three of us watch it take shape. Once complete, a burgundy cap looks like heavy curtains have been cut to size and thrown over the top of a metre-tall stretch of reflective purple-grey stalk. Metallic shades shimmer in the unvarying light.
“That’s beautiful.” Gia breathes.
Natan dons a curious mask that covers both beak and proboscis-horn.
“One breath of the spores would turn you into a small crop of Sholtri within a week. Best leave now. I need to get this into a drop canister before it can sporulate.”
Gia nudges me as we leave.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to print intelligent beings?”
“I’ve no doubt we would if we could, but the seat of consciousness is proving to be a difficult thing to locate. Besides, some plants exhibit advanced behaviours. Maybe we’re doing it already, but don’t know it?”
She looks startled.
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
