by submission | Feb 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Bruce McAllister and Patrick Smith
What does a county animal control officer do when people throw away the pets they’ve ordered, had designed for absurd amounts of money, but no longer want? The Purple Poodles, the Forever Kittens, the Songbirds Just for You. What does she do with the mistakes—the ones with too many legs, two heads neither of which can see, or a six-chambered heart that shouldn’t be in this world—all dumped in the roughest neighborhoods of the city where the fly-by-night companies that have engineered them always dump them so they don’t have to pay bio-materials recycling fees?
She takes them in, of course.
The officer is Gabi Uong-Simspon, and she lives in El Monte, the same city where three generations of her family were born and grew up. Her house is a modest Millennial stucco in a multi-zoned area off Garvey. It has, at last count, twenty-three rescued engen-pets ranging in size from a sparrow to a pit bull, and all permitted by the city. She’s converted her garage and added a second story to the house to accommodate this menagerie, but she’s taken her time because the health and welfare of her rescued pets are everything to her.
“I’m no ‘cat lady’ with starving cats,” she explains. “I’ve always loved animals. As a kid, I tried to fix every injured animal, domestic or urban-wild, I could find. Must’ve been a pain to our neighbors,” she laughs. “With the epidemic of dumped engen-pets these days, a lot of them are injured.”
Do her animals ever cause trouble for her neighbors?
“Not often. If there’s a noise complaint, that’s only because a neighbor is concerned about the animal’s welfare. When both of us are away, we monitor everything with the two dozen cams we’ve placed in the ‘compound,’ and one of us is always within a fifteen-minute drive from the house. Occasionally one of the animals does get away, but they’re chipped, and we’ve given neighbors pics of all of the animals so no one will be too surprised.”
Do the children in the Uoong-Simpson family like visiting?
“Oh, yes! We give our nieces and nephews, especially if they’re really young, a little informal training on how to handle certain pets, but they’re good kids.”
Any children for Gabi in the foreseeable future?
“My partner and I have discussed it,” she answers quickly, with a ready smile. “But we’re just not ready yet. Maybe instead an engineered sub-human primate, a species mix of some kind, what some companies call a ‘forever child’—totally illegal to make or own, of course, but they do get made and they do get dumped (there’s a story for you!)—but only if I happen to run across it as a rescue and we can get it permitted by State and city.”
Is Gabi happy with her life these days?
“Oh, yes,” she says. “There couldn’t be more important work as far as I’m concerned.”
That smile again.
— from “Gabi Uong-Simpson: A New Kind of Animal Control Officer,” Los Angeles Times Online/El Monte Edition, February 14, 2033
by submission | Feb 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Moriah Geer-Hardwick
“Henry?” Bringdown raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You don’t think he looks like a Henry?” Allgood turns the skitter over in his hand and snaps the activation tab forward with his thumb. Its little legs snap outward and immediately begin hacking at the air.
“I think it,” snorts Bringdown. “Looks like every other mass-produced piece of garbage they issue us. Why the hell give it a name?”
Allgood gently sets the device upright on the ground beside him. Once in contact with a solid surface, it clicks around in a little circle to get its bearings and then stands there, bobbing up and down, contentedly.
“Don’t listen to him, Henry,” soothes Allgood, softly running a gloved finger down the skitter’s dorsal plate. It hesitates, anxiously waiting for a command. “Humans are biologically compelled to let collective behaviors dictate their personal identity, but recognizing the significance of the individual self is the pathway to empowerment.”
“What kind of existential bullshi…”
Bringdown’s response is abruptly cut short by the sharp crack of gunfire. Instinctively, both men flatten themselves against the concrete barrier. They can feel the incoming rounds gnaw viciously into the opposite side of their cover. The skitter angles its single optical port towards Allgood, expectantly. Allgood gently pats above the lens housing, in a reassuring manner. Snarling obscenities, Bringdown fumbles for the centrifuge cannon. While he’s positioning it between his knees, the gunfire pauses.
“I don’t think individuality should be simply an indulgence of society,” muses Allgood. “The success of a group is directly proportional to the value it places on its members. A hierarchy that delegates the whole as greater than its parts ultimately risks undermining the foundations that support its very existence.”
The gunfire starts up again. One round comes in high, catching the top edge of the concrete barrier and showering them with debris.
“I think,” says Bringdown, brushing bits of rubble from his sleeve. “You’re anthropomorphizing things because you’re struggling with your own insecurities. You still got that peeper?”
Allgood digs around in his shoulder pouch and produces a marble-sized metallic sphere. He tosses it to Bringdown.
“You want to name it first?” asks Bringdown, as he chambers it into the centrifuge cannon.
Allgood shakes his head. “Simple cause and effect functions lack the complexity needed to establish distinctive behavior,” he explains. “Peepers don’t choose when or where to be fired, or what to do once they’ve been launched. They take in light and return data, with no ability to do otherwise.”
Bringdown swipes his helmet’s display module into place, angles the cannon straight up, and thumbs the firing button. With a quick whiz-thump, the peeper shoots skyward.
“So you’re saying,” he says, waiting patiently for the imagery to compile. “If it doesn’t have free will, it’s not a person.”
“No, I’m saying simple binary existence fails to provide compelling…”
More gunfire.
“Hold up.” Bringdown raises a hand, staring intently into the display module. “I got our shooter.”
“In the open?”
“Nope. Holed up under that wrecked transport, fifty meters out.”
“So, no angle with the cannon?”
Bringdown shakes his head. They both look down at the skitter. The skitter stiffens in anticipation. Allgood sighs.
“Alright, Henry. You’re up.”
With a single motion, he scoops up the little device and hurls it over the concrete barrier.
“FRAG OUT!” chirps the skitter, in a decidedly feminine voice, as it flies through the air. It lands with a delicate clink, and then tinkles away on its tiny legs, scurrying towards the source of the gunfire. A few moments later they hear the sound of an explosion.
by Hari Navarro | Feb 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
They seeped through the fissures and oozed through the sands as they rose up from the black and into the quivering blue. Ancient and hungry they feasted, stripping the meat from shells that clamped to the rocks and picking clean the bones that fanned in the fish.
From the tiniest to the largest of sea-bound things these sodden daemons consumed as they tore every last bit of life from the waves. They bloated as they gorged, but still, they wanted more.
They want us. They want to tear down the things that live up above and so they tore to the surface for they could smell the very blood that punched in our veins.
En masse they swarmed and the suns awesome rays fingered down and it seared and it groped and it plucked out the eyes of our attackers. So it is that blind they now diligently stare.
Go down to the cliff-tops and look for yourself. Legion after legion undulating just below the surface as with creamy orbs they watch and they wait.
They wait and they want for the day when they evolve their charred flesh and their blackened corneas peel away and they step out onto our shores. They will find you quickly and they will find me in the end. It matters not where we cower and they will again wrench flesh from its bone.
by submission | Feb 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“I’m sorry, Mister Bennett?
“Yes, Ronald Bennett, my first day.”
He pulled the tan card from his pocket that came in the mail the week before. The receptionist, a tall, pale woman looked down her glasses at him. She wore a pristine tan blazer like everyone else in this bustling lobby.
“Debbie told me something like this might happen,” Bennett said.
“Debbie?” she asked.
“My wife,” he said, smiling. “She’s always looking out for me. Ah, here it is. Mister Bennett, your application has been accepted… Temporal Resources, Class D.”
The woman frowned. “Oh, Class D, rare for this branch. Almost everyone here is at least Class C. You can sit over there. I’ll get to you when I have a moment.”
Bennett wandered to some chairs and ferns in a poorly lit area. He felt slighted, self-conscious, wearing a tattered, gray tweed jacket his mother bought for him at a thrift shop years ago. He knew accepting an entry-level position at his age was beneath the aspirations of many people, but Debbie said it was his time.
“Ronnie,” Debbie said, “when the farm fell on hard times, it drained the life from your folks. You cared for them the best you could. You’ve got to try something new. You’ll be great!”
Bennett felt flushed thinking about her. Debbie was short with dark hair, liked to wear overalls spattered with paint from her landscape artwork. She was starting to show; due with their first in August. Whatever he’d been through, at least he had her.
“Ron? Ron!”
Bennett looked up at hearing his name. There were so many people in blazers buzzing about he couldn’t focus. A waving figure approached him, a friend from school.
“Ron Bennett! It’s been ages.”
Bennett shook hands with Devin Cox, a smooth-operating, fast-talking guy born to sell.
“Hey Devin,” Bennett said, “you look great.” Devin had the hair, the smile, the blazer.
Devin said, “Are you joining us here in Temporal? I thought you’d be stuck on that clunker of a farm forever.”
Bennett stiffened. The farm was a disaster, could barely grow rocks, but it was his parents’ dream.
Devin snapped his fingers. “Ron are you in there?” Bennett was lost for a moment, but came back.
“Same old Bennett,” Devin said, “hey, you still going with that cute girl, Deb Crossczyk?”
Bennett smiled, “Deb Bennett now. We got married last year.”
Devin smiled his salesman smile. “Well, that’s solid! Good for you! Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Devin marched to a computer console across the lobby. People got out of his way, he had that power. Bennett rubbed his eyes, a little tired. Devin returned.
“Sorry, Ron,” said Devin, “It’s so busy here. Let’s get you set up.”
Cox walked Bennett to the receptionist.
“Marcie,” Devin said, “I’m bringing Mr. Bennett in personally. We can’t have a star B-7 recruit sitting here idly wasting time.”
“B-7?” Marcie was impressed. “Well, Mr. Bennett, it’s been a pleasure. If there is anything you need.”
“Yes, Marcie, that will be all,” Devin said, leading Bennett through security to the elevators.
“Some people, once you reach B-level, they can’t kiss up enough. Better get used to that as a B-7, just a rung below me. So, Ron, what have you been up to all this time?”
Bennett paused, “I’ve had some ups and downs. Happy to be here. Still single. You?”
Devin smiled. “Married. It’s great. Remember Deb Crossczyk from school? Real cutie. We’ve been married a few years now. We’re expecting our first this August.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Her shaking fingers reach for the yellow lozenge.
“No, not that one. Try the green one.”
Olivia does so and her eyes go wide, then close. She slumps.
Smiling, toothy and benign, he steps over her twitching body, then shakes the bowl and proffers it again.
“Her mind is flooded with synesthetic euphoria. Never again will she fear, never again will she hunger. Now, who will try a blue one?”
A broad-shouldered man stands up.
“I’ll take a purple one.”
The snout lifts. A howling laugh echoes.
“Purple it shall be. Come.”
He takes his choice, then drops to his knees. Melting eyes gaze back at us as smoking tears cut lines in his face. Without a sound, he topples, head splashing across the floor.
“Poor choice.”
The bowl is shaken again. The Wolfclown extends it toward me.
Long ago, my wife and I played a question game. One of them stuck in my mind: held in separate rooms, knowing we both would die in an hour, but the other would be saved if we pressed a button, would we press? We both said we’d wait until the last second.
Yet, here and now, Olivia had stepped in front of me.
Our starliner has been lost in space for two hundred weeks. Released from translight field by freak chance, we celebrated our luck at not being disintegrated – the predicted outcome of translight failure. Then the captain told us we’d emerged in an uncharted sector. It could take centuries to reach anywhere useful. We voted to head homeward and leave messages for those who would eventually find our remains.
Yesterday our sublight drive flickered out. The captain announced a ship had docked with us. We all heard the gleeful howls as something rampaged through the ship, killing all who resisted, herding the rest into the ballroom.
A lupine biped dressed in jester’s motley. Clawed hands held a bowl of gewgaws. Clawed feet peeled strips from the carpet.
“I be Wolfclown, with space for one more on my ship. To see who shall take it, you must sample my wares. Amongst them is a confection that will allow its consumer to best me. Thus one could become two. Who will partake?”
Sweets! Containing anything from sedatives to lethal picotech. Hoping to live, desperate for painless oblivion, we took candies from the monster.
Today, the dance floor is littered with bodies.
The bowl wags from side to side.
“Feeling lucky?”
I step up. Looking into the bowl, I see a blue teardrop to the left of a yellow lozenge. There are other blue sweets, but no more yellow.
The Wolfclown grins, purple tongue lolling. I stare into its jaundiced eyes. Without shifting my gaze, I snatch a sweet and swallow without chewing. Our eyes drop to see the blue teardrop fall to the right.
“Lucky. Now for the feeling.”
Something blossoms in my gut, then crawls outward with scalding heat. I go blind. All is lost in howls and screaming.
The bowl smashes on the floor.
Strange clarity: I am furry, and am no longer in control of my body.
I’m kneeling on a floor covered in sweet-dappled blood, pulling a yellow lozenge from a lupine head with my long-clawed hand. I stand up, leaving Wolfclown lying next to Olivia.
My usurper whispers to me.
“We two: eternal, yet alone. Sometimes one gets lost in the song of the beyond. But that maddening song always finds a way to set the other free. I be Wolfshadow, returned at last. Fear not, for you will fade.”
I have no mouth to scream.
by submission | Feb 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Philip G. Hostetler
“Many have failed but perhaps you will succeed.”, said Torjen,
“The trans-galactic download is paramount to the ascension beyond space-time and admittance into the Multiverse Associates. You, you…”
Torjen looked inquisitively at his tablet, a list of names and metaphysical capacity ratings shone back at him, this one’s was low,
“Ah… Brouften. You could be the very one to usher us into the Multiverse Associates, provided you can contain the data from many worlds, many species. It says here your Xenolinguistics are unparalleled, an impressive 18,333 alien languages you understand and 11,393 practices of these world’s relative physics.” Brouften nodded and spoke,
“Yes sir, I’m confident I will be a worthy receptacle of the Associate’s downloads.”
“Good! Very good, Brouften. Then come, sit here at the Metanode.” Brouften walked into the single cell room, all full of pride and confident apprehension, he sat at the Metanode in a kneeling posture, a biomechanical neural injector violently clamped into his prefrontal cortex and began pumping him full data. The data of tens of thousands of civilizations coursed through his consciousness; all the pain, pleasure, glory and defeat of tens of thousands of Goldilocks worlds trying to make a home in his consciousness.
But it couldn’t, his mind was too feeble, his confidence too great. His brains liquified and began pouring down his esophagus, dying of brain death and asphyxiation.
Torjen looked down at Brouften’s corpse with procedural dismay.
“What a shame.” He thought,
“Bring in the custodial bots.”, he said over the P.A. The bots emerged into the single cell and removed the body. They cleaned all the brains, blood and bile that leaked from Brouften and vacated the cell. Torjen walked outside of the cell and looked at the cue of thousands of trans-galactic hard drive volunteers and ushered the next in line into the cell.
“Next, please! Many have failed but perhaps you will succeed, ah…” Torjen looked down at his tablet.
