by submission | Nov 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Peter Fossey
Ria is eating one of those flaky pastries with almond paste in, so my coffee tastes like I’ve snuck in a shot of Amaretto, and that makes her laugh. Or one of us, anyway.
It was hard to get to know people, for a while. Meeting face-to-face became too risky, then illegal. Then everyone had holos, and we sort of went off the idea of being in the same place. We still talked, sure, but some things can’t be done at a distance. There was this one summer when delivery drivers suddenly had massive social capital, not to mention sex appeal; but then they got the drones legalised, and that was that.
It turns out that most of us need presence, and we need to be able to share experiences. Not just the visual, but everything. Meeting up feels like such a huge step. You’re so exposed, so vulnerable. There are creeps who get their kicks meeting randoms, but most of us don’t. There’s no stepping stone between the holos and reality, so a great many people have stopped trying.
I think that’s how it started. It was there to fill a simple need. I’m in my office, leaning out of a sash window to enjoy the autumn air. The coffee is bringing on my nicotine cravings. Or someone’s, anyway.
So we lived alone, packed in next to each other, paths never crossing if we could help it. My kitchen, my bed, my office, my jogging route; a razor-thin slice of space and time that I don’t share with anyone. There was no world any more; we segmented it into oblivion.
The Sharenet changed everything. A monofilament web that sinks painlessly into the skin on your fingers, tongue, cheeks; as much of your body as you can afford to cover, really. AR contact lenses and microscopic aural inserts. You could kit yourself out in minutes, make a connection in holo, and sync up your sensory data with a friend. Not just see them, but see what they see. Not just seeing, either; you would feel everything.
We’re making something together. I’m not sure what it is; I get bits of it all over the place, but I only fully understand my own piece of it. It’s something new. A kind of multimodal collage, created simultaneously by all of us, everywhere at once. An installation.
And then, the shift. It was innocent enough. A handful of modders wanted to see what would happen if you synced three or four streams at once, and it blew their minds. In a fit of blissed-out bohemian anarchism, they set their code loose in the central servers. They let everyone sync with everyone else, all at once.
I write about the satisfying thunk of Ria’s chisel biting into the wood, the slow-burning wonder of creating a thing by introducing space into it. Yang mixes thick acrylic paste and the plastic smell becomes a refrain in Luca’s melody, which Ita is jamming to; Amos is setting my words to their music, and Ria’s giving it shape. I can feel a rush of movement, muscles tensing for a pirouette or plie, but the sensation drops in and out, and I don’t know who’s dancing, so I must be getting it third hand.
You see, old habits die hard. We still don’t meet face-to-face all that often; but we aren’t alone now either, unless we choose to be. We’re making something new. Sparrows in the hedge outside my window flitter in time with Luca’s guitar, and Yang paints the clouds.
by submission | Nov 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The hardest part for me was the departure, turning from the body, walking away from my earthly remains. I lingered knowing it was dangerous to do so. I couldn’t stay there, in that room.
I stepped backward and gazed down at the body slumped on the sofa. I pressed the palm of my hand against my forehead but there was no bullet hole, and my hand came away clean, no blood. I turned and moved across the room and stood in front of the mirror above the fireplace. I looked the same. A little ragged, a little frayed at the edges but much about the same.
I wasn’t angry and I tried to make sense of how I did feel. I was shaken, a little taken aback by my indifference. I didn’t crave for answers and I had no desire for vengeance. I really didn’t care about the investigation and certainly didn’t want to be there when it began, when the authorities arrived. But it would be days, at least, or weeks before anyone noticed my absence and reported me missing. I knew instinctively the longer I lingered the more difficult the transition would be.
I took hold of the body by the shoulders shaking it. The head slumped forward. The back of the sofa was a bloody mess of hair and skin and tiny pieces of skull. I pushed my fingers into the hole in the cushion and the fabric split and tore until I could get my whole hand inside.
I removed my sweatshirt and wiped the blood from my hand. The bullet wasn’t what I had expected, it was a tiny misshapen thing. Pacing the room I set to work, polishing it, with the stained sweatshirt, on the front of my t-shirt and between my thumb and forefinger. But I couldn’t make it shine.
Eventually I did manage to step away from the body. I took to wandering the house, making a circuit, a quick sweep of the rooms. And each time around I found myself stalled in the spare room. It was filled with things from my life – mostly books and my old record collection. I found myself sifting through it, sorting through those mementos, markers from my past. Searching for a particular book; not because I wanted to read it but simply to reassure myself, to know it was still there.
I flicked through my old albums realising that if I wanted to listen to music, no matter how obscure, all I needed to do was tap a few keys on my phone. I started to panic, and began grappling my pockets but it wasn’t there. It was downstairs on the sofa, with the body. I wondered if I should go down and retrieve it, bring it up here and leave it. A final memento, the last marker, but, shaking my head, I stepped from the room and closed the door.
I kept at it, stalking the house, prowling through its rooms. In the kitchen I looked in the cupboards, in the fridge, in the cooker. I searched every nook and cranny. I scanned the walls, moving from corner to corner, but I couldn’t find it. There wasn’t anything I needed, that I wanted.
I would take the bullet and that at least would create a little mystery. But it would be a puzzle that was solved all too easily and too quickly. How could they not conclude that the shooter had retrieved the bullet and taken it so it couldn’t be traced back to the gun. But of course, they would be wrong
by Julian Miles | Nov 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The viewing room is hushed as we approach the co-ordinates. Every being not on duty has gathered. For some, it’s a rite of passage. For others, a renewal of faith.
“Exiting shiftspace in three, two, one.”
Conventional space and time welcome us back with their usual indifference. As the spinning greyness streams away like impossible mist, distant stars catch our eyes. Then it becomes clear, and everything else is irrelevant.
You’ve seen the descriptions of Artaxerxes. Might even have seen a blurry image or two. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen one of the captures from the first mission. No matter how you came to be aware of it, nothing can prepare you.
At some point before life appeared on Earth, it had been a habitable planet. Now, it’s a wandering mystery.
We’ve mapped this battered sphere, can show you depictions of what it used to be like, with deep oceans and continents much like Earth was in the first millennium of man’s dominance.
Except for the chains.
Those impossible artefacts, anchored deep within opposite sides of the planet by means we’re still trying to grasp, trail back for nearly twice the planet’s diameter. One side has four links, the other five. The broken links of either side have been lost somewhere on the journey. They certainly aren’t anywhere nearby, so their loss must have happened long ago.
Not as long ago as the event that launched this world upon its lonely travels. Something so vast we struggle to imagine. What was this planet chained to? There are many theories. My favourite is that there were many worlds arranged to form a necklace around a star for reasons we’ll never work out. The one that still makes me laugh is where some gargantuan spaceship carries planets as weapons.
Our finds under the surface of Artaxerxes have only increased the mystery, whilst getting the entire project placed under a veil of secrecy.
The inhabitants of this place looked like humans! The murals we’ve found hint at a society much like nineteenth century Europe, except for a pervasive religion that more closely resembled that of Ancient Egypt. No writings have survived bar the minimal notations etched into rocks in caves far below the surface.
Artaxerxes was cast adrift so long ago that organic traces are gone. Judging by the condition of the surface, it has endured incredible heat at times along its journey. We’re sure that some survived the initial cataclysm. Most of us agree that the etchings in the rock of the deep caves were made by the last of them. Sadly, we’ve found no equivalent of the Rosetta Stone from which to make a translation.
Backtracking the course of this planet indicates an origin further towards the expanding edge of our universe. Some are convinced it’s not of this universe. I’m not one of them. Yet. We simply don’t know. That’s why I’ve lived here for decades and only return to the worlds of the Accord when I have to. Somewhere in this hurtling mystery is the clue we need. One of them must have predicted this would happen: that some other race would find the remains of their home.
“Welcome back, Professor Tessen.”
I nod to the security guard. This year’s intake of students and recruits follow me into the converted battleship that keeps pace with Artaxerxes to serve as our base.
Maybe this is the year we’ll find that clue. I don’t care if it’s not me. I just want someone here to earn their place in history while giving me a lead at last.
by submission | Nov 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: T. Thornton Gray
It’s called no man’s land. That space between the entry doors and the actual store. The sensor zone one must pass through to get in and out. I can see the drone docks overhead and the red blinking eyes of the Taser firing drones where they perch poised for action.
I’m a bit surprised not to see anyone shopping. A rare thing in a Z-Mart, even at a little after two A.M. I survey as much as I can see as I pluck a grimy basket from its rack and begin my shopping. I look for the eyes that always watch a person like me.
The only movement is from the suitcase-sized automated floor cleaner. I watch the Zamboni like machine with its strobing yellow light whirr and methodically work its way down the aisle.
The coolers hum in their florescent light as I peer into their glass-covered depths. Again, I stop to look around. Look for the evidence of another human soul. There is no one. I know from the days I used to work at Z-Mart that there was supposed to be an actual human employee on duty. Someone to monitor the systems. In a hundred thousand square foot facility there are never more than two people on any given shift. I also know that is not always the case.
I pull open the door and pull out a crisp dew-covered bottle of water. I peer into the clean clear liquid. I look for the sensors, as if I could see them. The microscopic sensors suspended in all liquids sold at Z-Mart. Added so that even if poured into another container it could be tracked at No Man’s Land and the drones dispatched if payment had not been made. I remember the protests over it. The violation of rights, the health concerns. But the FDA deemed it to be completely safe. The sensors would pass right through and be re-harvested at the water treatment plants.
My shopping complete I move to the check-out and run each purchase over the shimmering scanner. The process so much more secure since the outlawing of cash and cards. Now, everyone must have the commerce chip. Usually in the palm of one’s hand. Always in one’s body. I still laugh when I remember the news story. The one about the veteran of the Lithium wars. A multiple amputee who had it implanted in his ass cheek.
The total is displayed under the Please Pay sign.
I open my coat and withdraw the plastic bag. I pull back the bag careful not to get the blood on me. It’s mostly crusted now and the fingers of the severed hand are growing stiff. No matter, the chip still works. I collect my receipt and go.
I step into No Man’s Land and pause to look at the drones as their red lights wink at me. The doors slide open and lets me back into the night.
It’s probably time to find more funds.
by submission | Nov 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“Good morning! Welcome to McDonald’s”
It was just after 11. The young brunette, Britney, was still going strong. She’d been on counter duty since 6, the friendly gal with cat eye glasses.
There was the early rush, the gaggle of seniors, a few travelers, some straggling students, and now it was light foot traffic until noon.
She was in a good mood, keeping her station clean, greeting customers with a smile. She’d heard complaints from her co-workers about working there, but she didn’t mind. She was young, it was a job, maybe she’d stick with it and go into management.
Clarke had been traveling for so long. He couldn’t remember the last human he spoke to. Everything was robotic and pre-recorded nowadays. He was weary. A trip to Micky D’s was just what the doctor ordered; comfort food, no surprises, just a fast food stop like when he was a kid.
A recent widower, Clarke, on the back side of middle-age, sought comfort where he could. He was as blue-collar as they came, down to his tool belt and steel toe boots.
He leaned on the counter and looked above. They’d added items to the menu since his last visit. A little embarrassed, at his age, if he couldn’t figure out what to order at the Golden Arches, what hope was there?
Clarke smiled and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just need a minute.”
“Absolutely,” Britney responded with a warm nod. “Take your time.”
“You don’t have the McRib, do you?” Clarke asked.
“No, sorry,” she replied, “that’s a limited time offer. We hope to bring it back soon.”
“Got it. OK, I’ll have a Big Mac.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“Sure.”
Britney typed the order into the register. “One Big Mac and fries; and to drink?
“Coffee, black,” Clarke said.
“Big Mac, fries, and black coffee. For here?” Britney asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like to sign up for our McDonald’s Loyalty Card Program?”
“What’s that?”
“It entitles you to protection from attacks involving competing eating establishments, as well as a free coffee after four purchases from our breakfast menu.”
“I’ll pass. Is the McLobster coming back?”
“Not that I’ve heard. That was also a limited time offer.”
“OK.”
“Have you been injured recently, on the job, while traveling, or in the home?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be? Our legal offices are standing by.”
“No, thank you.”
“Did you want cloning or non-cloning while you’re here?”
Clarke paused. It wasn’t too long ago that McDonald’s only sold food. “Non-cloning is fine.”
“Virtual adult activities?”
“What does that include?”
“Your choice of sex, violence, or a combo meal of both?”
“Not today.”
“Were you interested in joining our church and learning to be one with the universe and embrace all that it has to offer?”
“Does that come with anything?”
“A sense of community, a robust appreciation of life, and a yogurt parfait.”
“Sounds good.”
“All right. As part of our value meal, would you like us to supply you with a new wife, husband, or child?
“No, I just had one. Maybe next time.”
“All right, sir. Here is your total. Did you want actual food or just the injected memory of it?”
“I am watching my weight. I’ll take just the memory.”
“That’s fine, sir.” Britney leaned forward slightly over the counter. Clarke leaned in and took the shot in the side of his neck.
A very old song played in his head… “You deserve a break today…so get up and get away…to McDonald’s!”
by submission | Nov 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Captain Stanton’s attorney calls him to the stand. I know the blurry figure is indeed the captain, but it’s my job to prove he’s a murdering imposter, a Triklorian.
Earth opened its arms to Triklorian refugees after we over-mined their planet and nearly destroyed their environment. We brought millions here. They proved to be fast-learners, which, along with their elongated heads, was threatening to many people. The Enough Is Enough movement was born and convinced the governing council to ban further Triklorians and deport those already here.
Captain Stanton is a victim of the anti-Triklorian sentiment. He’s also a victim of extreme transporter degradation. While negligible degradation occurs with every beam-up and beam-down, a transporter malfunction turned the captain into something resembling an out-of-focus photograph.
Trying to avoid a lawsuit, my employer, Highly Advanced Technological Enterprises, denies the malfunction. They assert that the being claiming to be Captain Stanton is a Triklorian. They say he killed the captain and tried to shape-shift to take his place and lead the good life on earth. It’s a lie, but plausible. The Triklorians are known to be trying to reverse-engineer earth’s shape-shifter technology. The company maintains that the defendant is a Triklorian blurred out from a failed shape-shift.
When the captain takes the stand, his lawyer asks him to state his name and rank.
“Michael Stanton, captain, Interplanetary Safety Force.” His degraded voice sounds as if he’s talking under water.
I object. “It’s unproven this is Captain Stanton.”
“Sustained,” the head of the tribunal says.
As the fingerprints, dental work, and DNA of the captain are degraded, the lawyer asks him to verify his identity by indicating his age, marital status, career highlights, and so on.
“Meaningless,” I say, beginning cross-examination. “Information just provided is available to any Triklorian.” I lean close to the defendant. “If you’re Captain Stanton, you’ll know personal details not available on Trikloria, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he glubs.
“You and your wife had a young son, correct?”
“… That’s … correct.” The words are slushy, his voice sounding more deeply submerged.
“Please describe in detail the accident that claimed the boy’s life. The tragedy the real Captain Stanton blames himself for.”
The captain’s shoulders rise and fall. He tries to speak but can only gurgle. As I suspected, his grief, guilt, and degraded state render him unable to talk about his son’s death.
“You can’t tell us about this horror from Captain Stanton’s life because you don’t know, do you?” I turn toward the tribunal. “Because he’s not the captain.” I whirl back toward the captain and sneer. “You’re a Triklorian imposter, aren’t you?” I go at the captain hard. By the time I finish, he’s an emotional puddle.
The tribunal finds Captain Stanton guilty of murder and being a Triklorian. They sentence him to life imprisonment on his home world. As he’s being led out, he breaks free and approaches his wife. She shrinks away at first then collapses into his fuzzy hug.
A representative from Highly Advanced Technological Enterprises comes over and tries to shake my hand.
“I hate this job,” I say. “You need to find someone else.”
“We’re happy with you.” She takes out a blinking disc and hovers a finger over the keypad. “You know I can reverse it.” As she speaks, the bailiff separates the Stantons. The wife sinks to her knees.
It’s more than I can bear. I approach the tribunal and ask to see them alone in chambers. I pray they’ll believe me even as I feel my head elongating.
