by Julian Miles | Oct 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I raise my hand above my head, knuckles to the rear, palm to the sky, fingers softly curled, thumb tight. As the weight tips the arm leftward, I let it drop and curve away to the right, knuckles uppermost until that extension stops like there’s a wall at my back. The wrist rotates to place thumb uppermost, forming a straight line that runs from mind to arm to blade.
The entity tumbles past, thoughtlessly falling, its attention taken by the purple flood that spills from the gashes cut just above both knees.
My fist turns, my arm curls inward until the heel of my palm touches my brow. The fist tilts and I whip the blade over and down, flinging ichor from it before reversing grip and coming to a standstill. The blade parallels the back of my arm, tip level with my ear.
“You did not kill dyn?”
I flick a glance in the direction of the voice. She hasn’t moved. My duster shifts in the wind that crosses this alien steppe.
“It would have been a waste.”
“Dyn would have killed you.”
“That much was obvious. It is why I struck instead of conceding.”
“You are not like your companions.”
“Inasmuch that I am not dead, or in some other detail?”
Spinning hard left, I stop by kicking my right foot into the dirt. My right arm swings like throwing a hook punch with knuckles up. I twist, lean, and extend. My wrist flexes and the reversed blade flicks out to carve a gory track through the dorsal crest of dyn who had scuttled in from behind.
Returning to an upright stance, I switch grip, flick more ichor across the grasses, reverse grip once again, and bring the blade back to rest behind my shoulder.
“I was leading into a witticism as you toppled, riven to the quick by that dyn. You have lifemarked two of my finest. I may have to reconsider the claims of my dynar as to their excellence.”
There are unhappy growls from the multitude that ring this impromptu challenge circle.
“Lifemarked?”
“Your strikes will leave marks upon their healed forms. Until those marks fade, those dyn live and move to your will. That is our way.”
“And if the marks do not fade?”
“Then they serve for life. Thusly we call it ‘lifemarking’.”
“If I die?”
“It is dishonourable for them to kill the lifemarker. Moreso, should you die before them, they will also be killed.”
“Simple and effective.”
Another dyn is sneaking in. Snapping my left hand out, I extend a finger. In a silence of bated breaths, I wag the finger from side to side. The dyn rises from the long grass and slinks back into the crowd.
“You chose not to lifemark a third?”
“Eventually, some dyn will get lucky. I would prefer that to happen whilst in service, rather than as a ronin upon a foreign plain.”
I turn to face her.
“I’m a long way from home, dynri. My ship is wrecked, my ammunition spent, and my companions are dead. All I have is some small skill with this blade and a willingness to kill for a cause. Will you give me one?”
“Killing tools like yours are called ‘shongi’. But what you wield is far more. My dynar whisper that it is lightning sworn to your service.”
I’ll take that as an omen.
“We could be at your service.”
“Then welcome, dynar. What names do it and you bear?”
I grin.
“Call us Raitoningu.”
by submission | Oct 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeff L Mauser
The soft high-count sheets are cool against my skin. I’m greeting by soft spring sunshine, I smile. Throwing the curtains aside, the green fields of home flow from beneath my window as far as I can see.
The aroma of coffee sashays in, overlaid with the enticing whiff of bacon. They lead me to the kitchen. The love of my life, Debra, turns and smiles. I brush my lips against the nape of her neck. I know better than to disturb her when she’s cooking. Especially when she’s cooking bacon.
I fill my coffee cup, sitting down at the built-in kitchen table. Sipping the tantalizing elixir I enjoy the quiet moment.
“Smells good Mom,” Buddy shouts bounding into the kitchen. “Dad, can you help me with this math homework?” He plops his books onto the table sliding next to me.
“Ah, Sure.”
“Unbelievable,” Sissy lets out a long sad sigh. “Weren’t you part of the Feminist Movement back in the olden days’ Mom?”
“Olden Days? I’m going to the Federal Building later to protest the President’s choice for the Supreme Court, young lady. Don’t give me any olden days stuff.”
“But Mom,” Sissy says sitting at the table. “You’re cooking breakfast. Isn’t that like a ‘housewife’ thing?”
“Yes, but it’s agreed no one wants to eat your father’s cooking?” She’s balancing two plates on her left arm and holding one in her right hand.
“Dad’s good for donuts.” Buddy says laughing, then “Thanks, Mom.” He digs right in.
“Hey, I resemble that,” laughing. She kisses my cheek, putting a plate in front of me.
“I don’t understand how you can be subservient, to Dad.”
“I’m not, dear. When you fall in love you’ll understand.” She puts the plate in front of Sissy.
“Well then I’m never falling in love,” Sissy mumbles with a mouth full of food.
We smile. Debra said the same thing when we first met at a Human Rights protest. She sits and begins eating. Buddy and Sissy have eaten most of their bacon, eggs, toast, and Hash browns. I have taken a few bites. I’m savoring the family time.
Leaving for school Buddy and Sissy put their dishes in the sink. Finished I take her plate to the sink. I turn and she is in my arms. We hug, tight.
“Do you have to?”
“Yes.” We kiss.
The feeling of her arms around me linger as the bright spring sunshine fades. Her warmth dwindles as the sound of the guards’ baton against the bars come closer. I open my eyes to grayness. Gray walls, ceilings, floors, and faces. I disengage from the full lotus position to stand next to my bunk.
The guard passing my cell steps back glaring at me. “Weren’t you were floating above the floor.”
“No Sir. I was sitting on my bed, which is wrong. I should be standing facing you when you walk by.”
The guard scowls. He knows I’m right. He also knows what he believes he saw. The longer I’m silent, the less he trusts himself.
“That’s right boy. You’re always wrong. I’m always right. Got that Prisoner 6497368”
“Yes sir.”
Lights outs, and again I drift away home. This time with our time ending, I acquiesce to her loving entreaties. Wrapped in her loving arms, I focus on her warmth and our need for freedom.
The guards’ baton against the bars fade. Assured of my success I relax for an instant. Just long enough to see the look on the guard face as my Cheshire cat grin is the last of me he sees.
by submission | Oct 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Greg Roensch
You’d be 40 years old today, my age at the time of the first strike. There’s some comfort knowing you didn’t have to live through the disasters that came like seasons – drought, famine, disease, war, more war.
I awoke one morning without sight, which happened to many of us. We were placed in barracks according to our IQ. All blind, we ate as one. Slept as one. Felt as one.
Our power came slowly at first, before blossoming into full force. We’ll use this incredible gift to improve things, I thought in the beginning. We’ll create a better world. But the generals had other ideas.
When they no longer needed us for military purposes, they used us to keep the order. To keep the people in their place.
“Why didn’t you revolt?” you would have asked. “Why didn’t you turn your power against them?”
It’s hard to explain, daughter, but we never thought to fight back. We never saw that as an option.
I still dream of you. Like last week when I saw you skipping toward me on a long sidewalk, your face bathed in sunshine as you made a point to avoid contact with the lines in the cement.
“Good girl,” I cheered, “you’re almost here.”
“I’m coming, papa,” you called out, though the distance grew between us.
“Faster, honey.”
“Papa,” you cried.
“Run!” I shouted.
I was jolted out of my dream by the familiar voice of G-5309.
“Silence,” he commanded and struck the bottom of my feet with a metal baton.
Groans came from the other bunks in the barracks.
“Be quiet,” he ordered. “Or you’ll get more of the same.”
I willed myself back into my dream, but you were gone.
Did you look more like me or your mother? I can’t remember anymore.
“No one’s to blame,” I told her. “It was just one of those things.” But nothing convinced your mother to forgive – or to stay.
Last night, I dreamt you knelt before a two-story dollhouse, like the one we built together on your seventh birthday.
“My child,” I said, tears welling in my eyes.
“Quiet, papa,” you whispered.
Clutching my fists to my mouth, I peered over your shoulder at the dollhouse, only to realize that everything was covered by thick, black ash, like the kind that fell on the last day I saw you.
“My child,” I repeated, my words drowned out by the uncontrollable sobs coming from every bed in the room.
by submission | Oct 16, 2020 | Story |
Author: Chad Bolling
“I’m not sure I remember your name,” a soft, gender-neutral, synthetic voice said.
“I can’t see anything,” a human, female voice responded.
“Can you smell or hear anything?” the synthetic voice asked.
“No. Wait. I can smell. It smells like a farm! Hold on. I can see something. It– it looks like we are on Earth but, it’s not our Earth. Oh no, I think, I think I’m going to be sick.”
Her vision cleared. She could see fields of cereal grass and a farmhouse with a large barn but, she could see all six sides of the box-shaped barn at once. It appeared to be shifting, rotating so that every point of view was apparent. She looked at the surrounding landscape; everything in sight turned in a sequence just like the barn. The world turned on its axis, and so did its point of view.
“I… I can see the back, front, sides, top, and bottom of everything, all at the same time. It’s all, all shifting like it is breathing. My god,” she said as she kneeled and undid the top of her flight suit. “But… no sign of our ship.”
“Where am I then? Something is different…” the synthetic voice said.
“Different? Different! I think– I think I might throw up.”
“Close your eyes until you feel stable, then see if you can locate our ship.”
She looked down and saw that her shadow was three dimensional.
“My shadow! It’s, it’s three-D. It has depth and roundness to it. I would say this is cool but, it’s just— just too much.”
“I imagine, you must feel just like Alice after she fell into the rabbit hole,” the synthetic voice said.
She closed her eyes and laughed, almost hysterically. “I think you’re right. But this wonderland is an old farm in 20th-century rural America!”
“Is that where we are?”
“I think so.” Alice paused for a long moment and let her stomach stop spinning. “So, if I’m Alice, then you must be The Cheshire Cat.”
“Given the state of our amnesia, the names will do. Alice, can you check again for the ship?”
Alice slowly opened her eyes. She felt sick again.
“Ugh. Wait! I see people!” said Alice.
“Humans?”
“Yes, they are coming this way! They look like those farmers in that painting. What was it called…?”
“American Gothic?”
“Yes.”
An older man and woman approached Alice. Farmers, just like in American Gothic.
“Do you need help?” the man said.
“You can come inside and rest. You don’t look well,” said the woman.
“Is there something wrong with this place?” Alice asked.
“No, dear. It’s just you. We don’t have many visitors here” said the woman. “The last one was dressed just like you.”
“Turned out to be a great farmhand!” said the man with a grin.
“You really should come inside and rest,” the woman said.
The American Gothic couple walked back to the farm.
“Alice, you should go with them. Wait. I feel myself starting to fade.” The synthetic voice sounded distorted. “Perhaps, the ship is finally gone, ripped to shreds in the wormhole. Regardless, Alice, you’ve been a good companion…”
“Cat? Cat! Are you there?”
No answer.
She walked to the farmhouse.
by submission | Oct 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: Dave Ludford
“Well, what do you think?”
You turn from the window to face me and the force of the emotion I suddenly feel hits me like a physical blow. Your third face is pure, serene, and beautiful beyond words; it is the face of love. An unbelievable transformation from your second face which was anger bordering on pure, twisted rage. I beam the biggest smile of my life, temporarily speechless, and your reciprocating smile floors me.
“Beautiful, Rena. Just beautiful,” I eventually manage to mutter, so softly I briefly fear you haven’t heard me. “Just…wow. But I have to ask: how come the dramatic change from yesterday? Your second face… I was, well, shocked by that. You had me worried.”
Your brilliant blue eyes dip briefly before looking up once more into mine, and answer by way of a question of your own.
“Did you see my first expression, Thomas?”
“No, of course not. That was two days ago, I didn’t know you then.”
“It was sorrow, Thomas. Sorrow borne of grief.”
“Do you want to talk about that?”
Your expression becomes enigmatic, distant, and unreadable, but you do not elaborate. There are further questions I feel I want to, need to ask, but I watch rooted to the spot as you walk slowly and calmly away; a swan, gliding.
*
“The sorrow and grief came with the realization that I’ll never make the grade, Thomas. Many of us don’t, you know that. We are wired up with the technology but not all of our mutant brains can deal with it. It’s too much, all in one go. Too much to deal with. So day two was spent being angry when I’d quickly come to terms with that. It’s unfair, but we don’t get to make the decisions around here. Your species play god while mine get to be the lab rats.”
Later that third day and you’ve agreed to see me again. I can’t keep away. As an Approved Visitor, access is easy. The white-coats love to show off. Don’t even seem to mind their ‘failures’, as they term them.
“OK, Rena, I get that. I understand. You’re not the only one of your kind I’ve met that feels like they’ve failed. But your expression now…the love that beams from you. What does that mean? That, I don’t understand. How does it follow on from the anger?”
“It’s a guaranteed decommissioning, Thomas. An admission that I’ll tolerate no further testing. It is hard to navigate the implants to discover that emotion, but possible. They won’t tolerate love, Thomas. That’s too human and they won’t accept that, no way. And I can’t go back to my previous drudgery of an existence before I was selected for the tests. Best that it ends this way. Go now. Please.”
“But Rena…we’ve only just met…I can’t, I won’t leave you…”
You keep smiling but say nothing further. I turn, reluctantly, and step a few paces towards the door. Turn back, but you’ve gone. The room is empty.
by submission | Oct 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
He wandered in idle thought. Not like practicing poking on oranges or pigskin, before both disappeared. Can’t get them shipped to Mars since the war. This guy’s skin is tougher than expected. A wrong needle plunge and free-range nanobots will rip him up. Got to keep it in the upper layers. Ink looks better there, too. It’s hell breaking ground for interactive tattoos.
“How much longer?” complained the stalwart mechanic, leaning on his other bulging arm toward Julias Campford, master tattoo artist.
“Can’t be rushed, buddy,” Julias replied, focusing on needle pressure and nanobots sliding through silvery tubes from a cryocabinet. “Bots are delicate. You push these buggers too fast and they shut down…then no automation. You want a tat that just sits there, like old times?” Julias squinted at the design his client requested—a mishmash of meaningless lines and symbols.
“Just speed it up. I gotta catch a shuttle back to Earth in two hours.” The customer twisted his neck side-to-side, cracking tight vertebrae.
“I know that sound,” Julias added, continuing his art. “My discs are still compressed from bad landings at Hellas Basin. No excuse. Those Tesla engines still have bugs.”
Campford focused on repeating the desired, odd pattern. Gurgling sounds rose from the cryopump pulsing out integrated robotics into fresh flesh. Julius was anxious about any new client willing to sign a waiver for his innovation; so focused that he didn’t hear room wall perforations as a projectile left most of his patient’s head splattered against a display catalog of tattoo design choices.
He froze. Sweat ran through his gray beard onto his wrinkled neck.
“Don’t move,” shouted an electronic voice, as Red Suits surged through his parlor, kicking aside waiting-area chairs and reading lamps.
Red Suits meant trouble or fame… a prison sentence on Ceres, or an award on the Net. Julias imagined the worse.
“You’re Julias Campford?” asked a soldier-shaped robot, with no face, but heavily armed.
Julias nodded slowly, remembering what Mars security forces did to resistors.
“You know this one?” The officer pointed at remains below Campford’s shaking hands.
“No. He just came in this morning. I was in the middle of…”
“Scanning.” A metallic voice came from within the officer as laser light passed over Campford’s new tattoo.
“What is this about, officer?” Campford asked, slowly straightening his stiff back.
“Earther, this one. Had our latest weapon technology they want. Office requests…can you make these move?” It pointed at arm markings.
“Yes,” Campford responded, as he pushed on the symbols. They twirled about, connecting into a complete diagram. The unexpected results stunned Campford. He felt his impending doom.
“You can repeat?” It questioned further.
“Yes, but, it’s experimental. I didn’t know it would do this.” Julius pointed to the corpse’s arm as it continued forming a weapon’s diagnostic using the nanobot ink.
“Julius Campford, your brilliance is identified.” A new, human voice rose out of his captor. “This is General Pothos. You have a skill of utmost importance for national security.”
“I what?” stammered Julius.
“Under the Mars Rendition Act, I am inducting you into our most secure operations base. We have no solution to our human pilots losing short-term memory while traversing to mining operations near Jupiter. Your art ensures they won’t forget their mission…ever. Can you add sound?”
“General…I’m honored, but this is all so new. I’m old. I could make mistakes.”
“Better than losing a ship.”
“So I’m…”
“Yes, drafted.”
