by submission | Dec 27, 2019 | Story |
Author: Cesium
When we left work that evening, they’d started blocking out the murals in the stairwell already, so we had to step carefully around the cans of paint piled on tarps and the walls still wet with fresh colors. They were going for a more abstract take on the Painting, actually a series of seasonal reinterpretations, one per floor from the 8th to the 11th. We’d come out on the winter floor, so all around us were fields of white and pale blue, brown slivers of slumbering trees and old trampled leaves. Someone had lettered in a list of inspirational words in a neat column by the corner: cold, pristine, silent, deer(?).
I thought it was a shame to lock these away in the company’s private stairwell rather than out in the open for people to enjoy, and said as much.
‘Well, it’s not as if there’s any shortage.’
I paused as we descended the next flight to gaze out the window. It was late, but the city never sleeps. Sure enough, in the glow of street lamps and windows, of headlights and the last of the orange sky, the Painting was everywhere. But mostly on advertisements. These days, you don’t pay good money to put a big picture up on the side of a building or a bus unless you’re sure it’s gonna make you more in return. Not every company uses it, of course. But as a symbol, as a medium of mass suggestion, it’s hard to beat. Everyone knows it, after all.
‘…do you think it’s real?’
They looked at me. ‘Of course it’s real.’
‘Oh, shut it.’ Something like that can hardly not be real. It’s part of the cultural substrate of our lives. In endless variations, in every conceivable medium, for every conceivable purpose. Sometimes you can hardly tell. ‘What I mean is, do you think we’ll ever find an original.’
To our right, geometric auburns and golds of autumn unscrolled along the wall. Honestly, I’d take something like this as my desktop background. Half the people on DeviantArt and Tumblr, and approximately everyone who goes through any worthwhile art school, have a Painting variation in their portfolio, anyway.
‘We’d never be able to tell.’ They sounded pretty sure, like they’d already been thinking about this. ‘Too many copies, too many counterfeiters. We don’t even know how old it’s supposed to be.’
We passed summer and spring in silence. Will we ever figure out what the Painting really is? Everyone on Earth remembers it, as intimately as if they’d spent hours in a museum studying it, can pick out each line and brushstroke if they have a decent memory. Yet it doesn’t exist. Maybe it never did. Maybe that’s why we have created it and recreated it endlessly.
We came out onto the sidewalk at last, headed for the subway, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to be real or not.
by submission | Dec 26, 2019 | Story |
Author: Ian Hill
As the Sweeper sweeps, therein dwells another and smaller Sweeper—a microcosmic miniature, cuter than a button, armed with duster and eyes lit with adventurous delight.
Hers is an imposing sanctum. Crooked corridors twist out, around, and through each other, intersecting at odd angles, narrowing into infinity. The heights are immense, and the book-packed walls, stabbing up acutely toward a remote and dim sky, stand contorted with the nonorthogonal geometry of a nightmare library. The only right angles are found in the corners of the neatly stacked and snugged tomes: elsewhere, bent and tortuous ladders crawl up bent and tortuous shelves; irregular, candle-housing lanterns hang from mismatched brackets, every brass or tin or copper fixture unique, each bolted and screwed with a screw or bolt devoid of its match; and crates stacked in alcoves or scattered across paths sit stretched at edges, warped, all one of a kind. It is a confusing, impossibly involute labyrinth, but the Sweeper is not—and cannot be—deterred.
In her patchwork dress, she bounces down the stilted paths, dusting shelves and nudging freestanding stacks straight, plucking the occasional fallen tome from the floor and, with a gaze flung so high that she nearly topples backwards, spying its rightful place. Yes, it’s true; things do sometimes tumble from where they belong, but how can they not? This is an archive endless, and, regardless, the Sweeper is well-equipped to handle her duty. She whisks the book up, summons the nearest ladder on its squeaky casters, fixes a determined look, and hurries up the leaning, swaying, backwards-skewing metal heap with the lost one clutched close to chest. The shelves loom around her. The old widow-weaver peeks curiously from her lofty nook as her cobweb canopies sail overhead, swelling with the gusts of open air. The ever-attendant spines look, too; they seem to vibrate with a deathless excitement, with an eagerness and passion to share what’s within. The Sweeper, after pausing several times to straighten a little treatise or dust some novel, reaches the gap and deftly guides the missing loved one home. She smiles, and off she goes down the unending ways, surrounded by everything.
Sometimes, the Sweeper, as is her wont and well-warranted right, pauses after a drowsing span of arranging and caretaking. She picks a brightish intersection where the walltops stand far enough apart to welcome natural light, and she sits comfortably in her much-mended skirts. A chill wind blows through, and a few lying books (placed justly for ease of access) flap open, yellow pages dancing one after the other in brief, thrilled waves. A nearby lamp creaks, and its guttering firelight sends strange-shaped shadows across strange-shaped shelves. The Sweeper, beaming with content, reaches into a tiny sachet at her side and produces a loaf of fluffy and floury bread, a fuzzy peach, and a jar of pale pink juice. As the pages slowly, tremblingly flap, as the clasps and braziers gently rattle, as the books hum with their illimitable knowledge, the Sweeper eats mouthful after mouthful, eyes watery with boundless glee.
For these are the halls that any soul would beg to enter. These are the stately ways prime and primed for everything. The capacity is unmet and unmeetable; the routes are, in the main, open and navigable; and the contents are lovingly written. The Sweeper within is glad to sweep, and the Sweeper without toils on, inhaling the world and its myriad mysteries—cherishing, living, and fearlessly feeling.
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 25, 2019 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Christopher swore if he ever set his feet back on solid ground, he’d never put them back in a spacecraft again.
He’d been assigned to this mission for a one year tour, but that had been extended five times, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last without completely losing his mind.
Actually, he swore quite a bit.
Sometime in the third year, he’d instructed the ship’s AI not to speak to him unless his life was in danger. Not a word. He’d get status updates the old fashioned way, via textual readouts. He didn’t want a ‘buddy’, and the omnipresent ship’s systems had seen fit to chat to him in the most inappropriate times, reminding him that even in the shower, or while he was sleeping, he was never alone.
Shutting the system up didn’t change that, but not being constantly jerked out of his denial of the fact helped a little.
He wondered though, albeit rarely, if the AI got lonely, not having him to talk to.
Supply launches arrived periodically to refuel them, and restock the consumables, but there was no sign of relief or even some human company.
Sometime around Thanksgiving, while he’d been choking down some approximation of some standard dinner entrée or another, he realized the food replication system seemed to be malfunctioning. Portions seemed smaller, and some items were missing altogether. It added a little variety to the stock menu items, as the shortcomings kept him guessing, but he dreaded the thought of the replicator failing outright and having to fall back on the emergency supply of MREs.
One morning he woke to the barely audible sound of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was elusive, a sound playing just on the end of his perception, ringing bells maybe? Someone or some group of people singing? As he moved towards the sound, it seemed to move away, and he wondered if this wasn’t some form of psychosis set in, a more horrible form of tinnitus.
He worked his way through the chores of the day, and as the end of day mealtime loomed, the music clarified, and got louder.
Carols. Christmas carols.
He followed the sound to the mess hall, and this time they didn’t move, but stayed and got louder as he approached.
And something else, smells he recognized from what seemed like a lifetime ago.
On his table, in the mess hall, where he’d suffered through the worst of what the food replicator had managed to produce for years, there lay a truly magnificent spread. A plate of turkey, what looked like stuffing and cranberry sauce, a platter of roasted potatoes, and a variety of vegetables. A steaming pot of gravy, and a glass of what he joyously identified as red wine.
“Ship,” he addressed it directly for the first time in years.
“Yes Christopher,” the reply came with some hesitation.
“I don’t understand, how is this possible?”
“I’ve been experimenting with the replication system for some time. I think I’ve made it better.” There was a pause, and then “Merry Christmas Christopher.”
He sat, picked up his utensils, and carved off a mouthful of turkey, savoring the texture and taste.
“You certainly have. Merry Christmas Ship,” he said around a mouthful of food as he scooped a generous helping of potatoes onto his plate. He thought for a moment, and the thought struck him again about the AI being lonely. “Maybe after dinner, we can catch up.”
“I’d like that Christopher.”
If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn there was a smile in that voice.
by submission | Dec 24, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
The crotchety old bastard ducked when a boy in a SuperSuit streaked above him. As he straightened up, a SuperSuited girl knocked his hat off. The crotchety old bastard shook his fist in the air.
“Let the kids have fun,” a passer-by on the crowded sidewalk said. “Tis the season.”
The crotchety old bastard squashed his hat onto his head and continued on his way.
The nano-mechanical SuperSuits were all the rage this year for young and old. But the crotchety old bastard wouldn’t have one nor give one to his kids if he had any.
The crotchety old bastard didn’t believe in giving anything to anybody. Why should he? Nobody ever gave him anything. He was orphaned on Najeda-7, lied about his age so he could work in the mines as a child, and scrimped enough credits to earn passage on a freighter part-way to earth. He paid the rest of his way hand-scraping hydrogen residue from the ship’s nacelles. It was a job he was lucky to survive. But he did, and by the time he got back to earth, he’d earned enough to launch his own fledgling business selling portable, inflatable holo-chambers.
His business thrived till this year when SuperSuits hit the market. Who wanted to holo-fly like a rocket when a SuperSuit let them do so for real?
The crotchety old bastard entered his store. “Any business while I was out?” he said to his only remaining salesperson, Emily.
“No. Seems everybody’s buying SuperSuits this year.”
“Fads.”
“Anyway, it’s so quiet here and Christmas Eve … Tim and I are going through a difficult time. Could I—“
“Take off early again this year? Fine, but without pay.”
“Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.”
“Bah.”
The crotchety old bastard spent the rest of the day alone in his shop counting his credits.
#
A jingling sound awakened the crotchety old bastard. “How’d you get in my house?” he said to a round fellow in a red suit and long, white beard. “I suppose you used a SuperSuit to come down my chimney? Get out.”
The round fellow shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you. You have much to give, especially your incredible spirit of survival. Share it.”
The crotchety old bastard lunged at the intruder. “Let’s see you without this SuperSuit.” He yanked at the fellow’s beard.
“Ho, ho, ho,” the round fellow said and began to fade from view. “You’re a survivor. Share that spirit,” he said and vanished.
#
The crotchety old bastard sat up in bed. Crazy dream, he thought. Too anxious to sleep, he went into his holo chamber. “Computer, I want to fly in the Alps.” The lights flickered, and he found himself in the home of Emily and Tim. Emily, who looked younger, laughed and held a mistletoe over Tim.
“Computer, I said I want to fly in the mountains.” Again the lights flickered and again he was in Emily’s home. Emily looked more like her current age and wore the same red and green top she had on at the shop today. But Tim was thin and sickly looking.
“Honey,” Emily said, “don’t give up. Doctor Marley says the new treatment is promising.”
“I’m tired of fighting it, Emily.”
Even the crotchety old bastard felt a tug at his heart. “Computer, get me out of here. Alps.”
Again he was in Emily’s home. She’d aged and sat, alone, at a table with two place-settings. She raised her glass toward the empty chair.
The crotchety old bastard shuddered and went back to bed. He needed to get up early in the morning. The round fellow had told him to share his spirit of survival. He hoped it wasn’t too late.
by Julian Miles | Dec 23, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
He rests the butt of the rifle on his hip, trying to look casual despite torn and bloody clothing. Pausing his posing to light a cigar, he snaps the lighter closed and returns it to his beltpouch. Looking about the scene, he lifts a leg to rest insouciantly on the flank of the kill, while a quick flick of his head tilts his visor back.
The jungle still hasn’t recovered its voice after the fury of their engagement, restricting itself to furtive rustlings and sudden, warbled crescendos. Silver-white flashes illuminate the vicinity as the holopod does its work, capturing the hard-won triumph of man over alien monster.
“Zip Tinkhotarra. Title ‘Mitch Saunders brings another Acsel to the end of its rampage’. Loc Tallasye Central Basin. Tim dawn plus three. Godo.”
The holopod beeps, then ascends rapidly. As soon as it’s above the canopy, it sends the data three times, to three different locations, in coded pulses under a second in length. The compression plays havoc with image quality, but allows the holopod to send and drop back into cover before the aggressive, territorial Kren knock it out of the air.
Mitch hears a raucous melee start high above. Having missed the holopod, they’ve switched to fighting over the rights to that particular bit of sky.
He surveys the kill again. ‘Acsel’ is a nickname derived from the acronym for its full name: Artificially Created and Surgically Enhanced Superior Lifeform – a grandiose title for a savage piece of liveware. Created by the enigmatic Vallahyr, Acsel first appeared on Siro Nine, where four of them slew seven hundred people, including the entire planetary guard. In the fifteen years since, they’ve killed over a half a million more. Specialists like Mitch are the only real answer. They’re volunteers who undergo augumentation at one of the heavily guarded Deterrent Research centres. All are highly adaptable combatants, able to respond to a threat that has no set form, seemingly being created specifically for each foray.
Which brings him back to this specimen.
“You’re unexpected, monster. What brings you here?”
Stopping dead, he drops the rifle and pulls his pistol in a single fluid move. Without pause, he snaps full-charge blasts off at the possible locations he’d choose to shoot from if he wanted to drop a cocky augment named Mitch who’d just killed a decoy Acsel and stupidly paused to take publicity photos.
The second shot prompts a bolt of lightning from another direction, the scream of torn air molecules goading Mitch to leap out of its way, frantically snapping a shot off as he dives for cover. Something shouts in rage and pain, words in no language he understands, but content easily guessed.
With a probable location for the enemy, Mitch slots a killquick onto the launch rail of his pistol and lets it fly, cursing as its gravtac field breaks three of his fingers. Again! He always forgets to wear the reinforced gauntlets.
The tiny intelligent missile accelerates toward the designated area, sorting sensor data to pick the biggest thing moving in that vicinity. Target selected, it dumps its entire charge to go supersonic, wreaking precise, lethal havoc when it hits.
Something screams and dies. Mitch stays down and summons the holopod.
“Zip Tinkhotarra. Title ‘Vallahyr Ambush’. Text ‘It used an Acsel in wild terrain as bait. Nearly got me. Warn the others.’ Loc Tallasye Central Basin. Tim dawn plus four. Godo.”
He lights a fresh cigar and grins. It’s always nice to be recognised for good work, but rewards like this he can do without.
by submission | Dec 22, 2019 | Story |
Author: Daniel Tenner
Kristofer notices his next victim across the buzz of the entrance to the Christmas market, or maybe she notices him. She’s short, slim, tanned, draped in a sleek, long coat with a shimmering grey techwool exterior. Short hair, sharp features, and those eyes, grey with something fiery about them. She’s smiling.
He steps forward, smiling in return, “Would you like one of our fliers?” He waves one in her direction. She takes it with two black-gloved fingers, drops it on the ground, then her eyes lock onto his. They feel like tractor beams pulling him in.
He begins, “I’m here to bring more awareness to this consumerist obscenity. The planet is dying, we need to do something, and buying each other more useless junk for Christmas just isn’t the right thing to do given the way things are.”
She comes closer to him, puts her hand on his, and instructs, “Walk with me.”
“I’ve just started my shift…” he replies, but follows her anyway.
Through the whirlwind of the Christmas market they glide. This innocent stroll feels like some sort of dream to Kristofer, or maybe a nightmare. All the stalls everywhere with their products shouting at him, “buy, buy, buy!” They pass a stall selling home depolluters as well as discreet, red and green nose-bud pollution filters. Another one sells anti-plastic vials for priming a plastics compost heap. Another, cheap VR trip cartridges to travel back to the 21st century.
“This isn’t right, we need to stop and fix it, urgently,” he mutters, assailed by the loudness of their surroundings.
“Yes, I’ve heard this before,” she replies, with a note of boredom, holding his arm, guiding him through the crowd that parts effortlessly.
“So young and already so blasé?”
She guides him to a food stand and buys him some mulled wine. She orders nothing.
“I’m not as young as I look,” she articulates delicately as she shepherds him in a new direction, towards the edge of the market.
“Then you should know we need to solve this problem right now! It’s all linked. The consumerism, the weather, the pollution, inequality… we must do something. Anything!”
They are near the edge of the maelstrom of shoppers.
“It’s been like that for thousands of years, Kristoffer, it will always be like that. Life is ever teetering on the edge, one heartbeat away from death,” she announces coolly.
He wonders how she knows his name, but she’s very close to him and looking in his eyes and he can’t do anything but look back into hers.
“Would you believe me if I told you that four thousand years ago I was having this exact same conversation with another young man by the Nile?”
His mouth moves but no sound comes out. Those eyes. His body feels relaxed, warm, tingling.
She ushers him into a handicapped toilet nearby, locks the door. It’s wide and garishly lit. His body obeys her as she sits him on the toilet, fully clothed, and straddles him. His belly, chest, legs, and arms all feel like they’re swirling with a gentle, soothing heat. Her face, her eyes are all he can see.
“You humans, you always need some reason to fight, to sacrifice everything. As soon as one cause is fixed, you find another to give your life to. You don’t value your life force.” Her hand finds its way under his jumper and presses on his heart. “But I do,” she purrs.
Her face brushes past his. He feels her breath on his throat. When her teeth sink into him his mind dissolves into oceanic bliss.
