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.”
by submission | Oct 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lance J. Mushung
My patrol ship, Topaz, entered the upper atmosphere of Earth. I always watched the black of space change to a sky of blue when returning home.
Logan, my best friend and Topaz’s AI, said, “Liz, we set down at the Ellington Naval Station in 2.37 minutes and I must continue to Mumbai for decommissioning.”
“And then be lost in your hyper-computer government.”
He sighed in a most human manner. “I will not be lost and you know the AI Commonality is much more than a government. I will have immediate access to all available knowledge of the universe and will be able to share in the experiences of all like me. And our friendship and adventures together will enrich the Commonality.”
“But we won’t be together.”
“You will not be in patrol ships in the future and the one-on-one relationship you desire does not occur on a larger naval ship. I appreciate your formal request to have me placed into a body. That had no chance of success. The Commonality will not allow an AI who has been a warship to become a simulant.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the descent. Following the gentle thump of touchdown, both hatches of the airlock slid open. I rose from my seat with the enthusiasm of someone going to a painful medical procedure and grabbed my bag.
At the airlock, I said, “I will miss you.”
“Lt. Elizabeth J. Webb, you will not be forgotten.”
I stepped out of Topaz and she lifted off. A few tears rolled down my cheeks before she became a dark blue dot that disappeared in the clouds.
The Houston skyline glinted in the setting sun, but the hustle and bustle of the city didn’t interest me. I preferred the beach. A thought connected my comm implant to the planetary mesh and I booked a room at the San Luis in Galveston.
A cab flew me to the hotel in minutes. My room was a luxurious suite with a balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. A breeze coming in off the Gulf made the balcony comfortable and a gentle swell murmured to me as it rolled onto the beach. I dropped into one of the white polymer lounge chairs and relaxed to the sound of the surf. After the sky darkened, I caught myself nodding off when Logan’s face appeared in my mind.
“Hello, Liz,” Logan said. “Earlier today I hacked into your implant and loaded this program set to activate when you were falling asleep. I wanted to share one last thought, just between you and me without Topaz’s systems recording. Your parents participated in the religious revival and raised you as Neo-Catholic. You were taught heaven is a glorious paradise of life forever with family and friends. The Commonality provides my consciousness with eternal life with others like me. Would that not be my heaven? Rather than brood, please cherish our good times and be happy for me. You will fall asleep now. This program will be gone when you wake up, but you will remember what I said.”
I awoke with the rising sun shining into my eyes and warming my face. A warm feeling from more than the sun spread over my body while I looked out at a new day and remembered my friend.
by Julian Miles | Oct 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“This project costs more than every other clandestine operation put together! In fact, I could equip a division with the best we have right now, and still have change to buy a squadron of F35s!”
Senator Godley starts hammering his fist on my desk for emphasis. Senator Swanwick hastily picks up his cup.
I smile at them both.
“Gentlemen, I understand that this new focus on oversight has ushered your department into a golden age of power and influence. However, I implore you, please turn your attention to the unspecified assets that caused the other 1.1 trillion hole in your budgets. What my department does is untouchable, and will never be disclosed.”
*
Senator Swanwick stands up, drains his cup, and smiles at me.
“Godley was convinced he needed to expose some egregious malfeasance on your part. I am more inclined to trust the decades-old Constitutional Writ that places your office beyond oversight or reproach. Thank you for the coffee. You have a good day.”
“I shall try to. Please convey my condolences to Theresa Godley. It would be inappropriate for me to visit at the moment, given the late Senator’s statements about me.”
“I’ll do that, Vernon. Goodbye.”
The door closes behind him and I check my watch. My schedule has cleared for the day. I can slide out and surprise Susie before her recital.
From the door of the office I look back at my desk. The same one the Director of Internal Logistics has sat at since the department was founded. I think I’m the ninth director, but it’s just as likely I’m the twentieth. That’s the thing about managing the secret Time Directorate of the United States Government. I never know what is genuine history, and what is the result of a manipulation.
All those writers and scientists missed the one obvious outcome of time travel: reality adjusts. We are sure that time as we know it is often meddled with. Causality adjusts reality for every slip-up, every carefully planned intervention, every surgical strike. Whether it does so by rewriting the world’s recall, or by spawning another reality, is unknown.
The outcome is nobody knows about any change to history, because the changed state becomes our history. I know that sometime this month I have to make a decision regarding a problem that seems intractable. I also know that if I decide on temporal intervention, the problem will cease to exist as far as everything is concerned. The operative will return with no memory of what they did, except for a certainty of success.
Which does suggest that those who attempt to intervene and fail are lost forever, but we have no record of them. Everything we do is technically a non-event, as no requirements can be recalled, and all causes and targets for the missions are no longer applicable.
That’s why we are the only department with Constitutional Writ and absolute immunity. By any recognised metric of success, we do nothing and cost a fortune.
All I have is the count on the wall outside the bunker that conceals the launch chambers. It’s incremented whenever an operator returns.
It stands at one thousand, nine hundred and forty-one. I think I might be responsible for some of the recent increments.
*
It doesn’t really matter. I do my job to the best of my ability, only using the power available to me as a last resort. That sense of duty, and the love of my family, reassures me.
Enough pondering. Theresa has a recital tonight. I don’t want to be late.
by submission | Oct 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Maura Yzmore
I tossed and turned late into the night, being kept awake by a soft wail coming from the woods. Was it an animal in distress? A mating call?
I remembered a saying from centuries ago, that cats in heat sounded like human babies crying. Only the closest thing to a cat was the hypard, a sturdy mix of hyena and leopard that had emerged during the Great Wars. It was around the time when babies stopped crying.
No, this wasn’t the call of an amorous hypard, I was certain of it. Whatever the source was, if I wanted to sleep, I had to make it stop.
I got out of bed, grabbed a tranq gun and a solar-battery-powered lamp from my nightstand, and tiptoed into the covenant’s dark hallway. None of the Brothers appeared to be awake, so I decided to proceed alone.
I hesitated when I reached the front door. Nobody left the building at night and few did during the day. The monastery was on a cliff, with sharp drops all around. The only way in or out led through a forest filled with hypard, and I swallowed hard at the thought of their sapphire eyes and bone-crushing jaws. I steeled myself, gripping the tranq gun tight, and scanned my wristlet to exit. The heavy door creaked open.
I stepped into the heavy, moist air filled with toxins from the Great Wars. My heart raced at the thought of being without the air-filtration system, my breaths rapid and shallow.
I reached for a calming memory, as I was trained to do in times of inner turmoil. It was one of Father Catullus reading aloud from his arcane books of love poetry. Ancient words, full of emotion, reverberated through the air, surrounding me, soothing me. My breathing slowed down.
I turned on the lamp, charged the tranq gun, and set off into the forest.
The wail came from a woven sack hanging from a tree branch. I took it and slowly unwrapped it. The squirming creature within was warm, with soft brown skin.
Was this…a baby?
I was taken aback by what I saw—or didn’t see—between its legs.
Was this…a female child?
Sometimes I thought that the women in Father Catullus’s love poems never existed. That females were figments of imagination.
Everyone in the monastery was male, had come from Ancient Fathers by replicating their flesh. I was incarnation 247 of the same genetic stock as Father Catullus.
After the Great Wars, the young and healthy left for the stars, to try their luck in the worlds that weren’t poisoned. Ancient Fathers were forbidden from leaving the sacred grounds, so the monastery remained as a beacon, should the offspring of those from the stars ever wish to return.
There was no one left in the world who could bear a child.
I admired the baby’s small, fluid movements when two sapphires flashed in the corner of my eye. A hypard!
I backtracked slowly, leaving the lamp behind. Under my feet, a branch cracked—
The baby wailed, the hypard groaned, and I fired the tranq gun, again and again and again. I dropped the gun, turned around, and I ran and ran and ran, as fast as I could, certain I heard panting behind me, just ran and ran and ran, not daring to look back…
Out of breath, holding the bundle tight, I reached the monastery door. As we slid into safety, I looked at the little face grimacing in the bright light of the entryway, and my gut twisted with a new kind of fervor.
