by submission | Sep 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: India Choquette
The first word that comes to mind when I think about RE-Gen Beach: fresh. As soon as you step onto the property (see my post on cute protective boots), you’ll immediately feel why a day pass costs so much. You won’t find anything this strong in a city spa—it’s too potent to export! (It literally melts the containers!)
Start at the main resort building. The air is a little gentler there because it’s the furthest from the actual meltdown site, and when you’re aiming for a natural chemical peel, you want to ease into it and let the air slowly break down the outer layers. You will feel a little stinging to be honest, and definitely bring an umbrella because the sun will feel extra strong as the old skin melts off.
If you take the walkway, you’ll see venders who sell local oranges. Buy them! The oranges are infused with the chemicals and will give your colon a good cleansing. My advice: choose the vendors with the most deteriorated features. True locals will be missing all or part of their noses, and they sell authentic fruit (see my post on scammers).
I don’t recommend that first timers go off the walkway because you don’t want to trip, but if you’re a returning visitor, it’s worth seeing the foundations. People scratched messages as the disaster struck. My favorite: “I reach for you, but time has ended.” And at Re-GEN, time can end for your skin, too!
by submission | Sep 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Barber
So far, the Time Traveller had found nothing worth collecting.
Also, he was being stared at as he walked round the market. He seemed to be the only person dressed in a suit and tie as portrayed in pictures from this time, and while some of the locals wore head coverings, none resembled the brimmed hat of his own costume.
These were notoriously violent years, perhaps they sensed a victim.
He clutched the money tighter in his pocket.
#
“Books are all priced,” said Chelsea Dog. “Just sit and take the money.”
He had somewhere to be, details not explained, like everything Chelsea Dog did. Like his name.
“And don’t go putting customers off moaning about stuff.”
Frank said nothing. He owed Chelsea Dog a favour and was looking after his market stall for the afternoon.
The stall on his left was festooned with dream catchers and scented candles. On the other side was old vinyl. From opposite wafted the occasional smell of speciality cheeses.
Perched on a wooden stool in a cave of books, Frank watched people drift by as if borne by an invisible river. Sometimes they snagged long enough to examine a paperback or two.
Chelsea Dog couldn’t be making much money here. Frank thought it more likely it was how he laundered cash from his other dealings.
The record guy was about Frank’s age, with the same greying beard, but he kept his headphones on. The thin woman with the dream catchers didn’t seem very New Age and complained at length about inflation and rent increases.
A man in a grey double-breasted suit and trilby was studying the cover of Steppenwolf.
“A classic,” suggested Frank, but the gent dropped it back in the box.
“I already possess a less damaged copy.”
After a moment he asked about the badges on Frank’s lapel.
“These? Well, this one’s Kyoto Hi!” Frank pulled a face. “Some fights we lost, just hot air and Dubya moaning about the cost.”
The gent peered more closely, so Frank tapped another.
“Got nuclear power nein danke in Berlin the year the Wall came down.”
“This is most interesting. And do you have provenance for each of them?”
“Stop the bloody whaling. Remember those Greenpeace inflatables banging through the spray to put themselves between the harpoons and the whales?”
Usually by now folk remembered they had somewhere else to be, but the gent smiled encouragingly.
“I was in the Oil Wars,” Frank heard himself saying. “Hard to believe they put lead in petrol then. We put a stop to that and fixed the ozone hole.”
He ploughed on despite the man’s puzzlement.
“You know, the Montreal Protocol.”
“Ah, the banning of chlorofluorocarbons. Though the replacements were greenhouse gases and in the end it was all futile.”
Frank opened and closed his mouth. Who recalled Chernobyl now? There were always new spills, new melt-downs, new extinctions. He’d warned them, but no one ever listened.
“Ephemeral markers of history like your badges rarely survive,” the gent was musing. “So much was lost in the Melt.”
“If you would sell them,” he confided, patting his pocket. “I have money.”
Somehow whales had lingered on, pollution hadn’t fouled everything, and thanks to fossil fuels, sunsets took your breath away.
It’s believers who need hell the most. In his heart, Frank hoped global warming saw everybody roast.
by submission | Sep 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
I was between cons and heading down towards Damascus, Arkansas, when I heard the Word. It being Sunday, the holoscreens in the corners of the diner were showing a syndicated broadcast from one of the Texan megachurches.
“Welcome, friends! Welcome all, whatever your age, sex, gender, ethnicity or degree of cybernetization! The Church of Christ Spacefarer welcomes you!”
The speaker was tall and boyishly handsome; I was pretty sure he was bodysculpted, and to hell with vanity (one way or the other).
“We’re delighted to see you all today, and to share with you a unique and exciting opportunity: the chance to ascend to a truly blessed planet! Yes! As the Lord sent his Messenger to us from the Cosmos, now you can come closer to Him by going forth into the galaxy yourselves! Leave poverty and inequality behind! Move on from being constantly extorted by governments or badgered for handouts by heathens who have not seen the Truth! If you’ve been successful in life, now is the time to reap the rewards! Bring your family to an idyllic world that’s being shaped with Believers in mind, by joining one of our annual Ark Flights.”
Not a bad pitch, I thought. The outer worlds were always looking for colonists, and this seemed like a religious spin on the usual recruitment and resettlement efforts. Hey, why not? It worked for the Pilgrim Fathers. And with the World Government looking to deal with overpopulation by sponsoring flights and subsidising the up-front equipment costs for terraforming, the barriers for entry were getting lower all the time.
“We’re offering you the experience of a lifetime, and more – the chance of a righteous afterlife! Let the Oasis class warprider “Zion Express” usher you in comfort to Chalice III, a homeworld for people of faith seeking a purer life. Find peace and joy through the Church’s simple, Biblical teaching as you initially stay in our orbital chapterhouse.”
My ears pricked at that. The marks wouldn’t be dirtside? This was new.
“You’ll be joining a community where Mammon holds no sway, a cashless society devoted to creating a new Eden on a pristine planet. There’s a place for everyone as our enlightened clergy help you to discover your new purpose and apply your God-given talents for the good of all: from working with the climate change or tectonic realignment teams to helping maintain the aeroponic market gardens and protein vats, from providing medical support to keeping the air circulating.”
Aha. So they were looking for people to actually tame the planet… and didn’t plan on paying them for their labour. That was suss.
“Talk to one of our deacons today for details of how to assure your place by making a suitable donation – and don’t forget to ask about our reduced rates for larger and extended families, and young children.”
And then it hit me. It wasn’t suss, it was brilliant. A masterclass, even, and I’d almost missed it, something bigger than anything I’d ever dreamed of pulling off. The devil was in the details: they were getting people to actually PAY to effectively become serfs. Leaving themselves as the ultimate planetary owners without needing to pony up the cash. They were getting set to make a fortune.
“Remember, whatever your status in this world, a new and better one awaits you on Chalice III! Join us now!”
I noted down the number. If they were hiring, this was a grift I wanted in on. Truly, I had seen the Light.
by submission | Sep 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
We spend most of our time within the game. Until less than a year ago, I had been one of the majority and I believed that the opportunities we had were unlimited. It is all right there at our fingertips. All we have to do is simply reach out and grab it and we can do whatever we want to do; climb Mount Everest or swim the channel or trek across the Sahara. There isn’t anyone alive now who remembers a time before the game. All those old arguments that, whatever we do within it, isn’t real, that it doesn’t count or matter are of course redundant. If you decide to climb the mountain you have to be prepared and committed because you will experience every single footstep. Every second of the journey will feel authentic and the experience will be real.
But it isn’t the big stuff that concerns me, or at least it wasn’t to begin with. It was the small things, the mundane and everyday rituals that hardly register with us. Sitting and reading a book or newspaper, watching television or a film, listening to music. We all do these things but only within the game. But of course, it didn’t matter, everything was available, and our choices were infinite and then I discovered my grandfather’s list.
I found the list tucked in a drawer whilst sorting through my mother’s belongings. I presumed at first my grandfather had recorded his reading habits for that particular year, although there was a no preamble or introduction, and he hadn’t reviewed or rated any of the books. He had simply listed the titles and the names of the authors, none of whom I recognised.
It was a printout of a blog post but when I looked for the site on the outside it had been deleted. I was intrigued and decided it would be interesting to read some of these works and was surprised when I found they were all unavailable within the game. But I assumed that when something fell out of fashion and was forgotten it was removed. After all, the game is all about what we want and what is relevant. Anyway, I could easily find the books on the outside.
The game is a vast online continent where we all reside, and the outside is the abandoned wasteland that surrounds it. Equally as vast, it is the continent that hardly anyone now visits.
I was shocked to discover that the books were also missing on the outside. Some of the writers were fleetingly mentioned in a few articles and reviews but there was no real information about them. No biographies or obituaries. And I couldn’t accept that, because something had been forgotten, it could disappear entirely.
I was determined to find the books and I have begun to search out in the real world, where there are still mountains of old books and although hardly anyone buys or reads them, there are still shops and libraries. These places are often hidden away and difficult to locate but I will seek them out wherever they are and whenever I am able.
I still spend time within the game of course but my heart isn’t really in it, not anymore.
by Julian Miles | Sep 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Time of death: five twenty-one.”
Ben glances away from the clock as the doors of the operating theatre swing open. Three figures in grey suits enter. Following behind them is a cadaver drone.
The foremost points to the body on the table.
“Ours.”
Ben’s about to obstruct the intruders when Nurse Kino grabs him by the arm.
“Let them.”
The nearest figure turns slightly and inclines their head towards her. Ben notices the rest of the surgical team have stepped back.
The drone opens to reveal a padded bench. As it does so, the body on the operating table lifts into the air. Implements and equipment drift down to settle gently on the table. Sutures and staples spring from the body and alight like feathers.
With the shedding of medical sundries completed, the body floats into the drone and settles on the bench.
The rearmost figure speaks.
“Thank you for your respect.”
Before Ben can formulate a reply, the three visitors exit, drone in their wake.
The doors swing to.
He looks about, watching the others exchange glances.
“Somebody care to tell the contractor what just happened?”
Nurse Kino hastily releases his arm, then pats it lightly.
“That was a retrieval team from Re:Life.”
He pauses, smirks, then bursts out laughing.
“Okay. You caught me with that. Don’t try following up with cryogenics, though. Who were they?”
Senior Nurse Clara steps across to back Kino.
“She wasn’t joking. You just encountered the Beings from Heaven.”
Ben raises a hand.
“You’re serious. You believe those were Angelics?”
“They exist. Third time this year they’ve come for the dead.”
Ben looks about. He sees nods of agreement.
“I thought they only turned up for the rich?”
Nurse Naront waves a tentacle in disagreement.
“It is said they come for those who have made an arrangement with them. Others do say it’s down to being able to pay. Yet some say they’re being taken to pay for another’s sins. A few believe it’s selection by genetic purity, but there’s no agreement about criteria. The truth? Nobody knows.”
Ben dodges the nurses and runs through the doors. Only way to find out is to ask, because it’s clear the surgical team haven’t. He calls to a nearby orderly.
“Three suits. Drone carrier. Which way?”
The man points back past him towards the grav shafts, then points up. Ben races that way and throws himself into the ascent shaft. Wafting rapidly upwards, he thinks about which floor: long term care, premiere ward, Skyline Restaurant, or landing pad?
“Landing pad.”
Exiting the grav shaft, he jogs along a short hallway and arrives on the open roof, chill early morning air cutting through his scrubs to make him shiver.
The pads are empty.
“We don’t need vessels, Ben.”
Ben spins about. One of the figures stands nearby, a portal of sparkling energy at their back.
“We merely avoid witnesses.”
“Why?”
“Secrecy. The truth you want is simple: some beings deserve a second chance, free from the ties of their previous existence. We provide it.”
“How much?”
“Nothing. We choose.”
“Why bother to talk to me, then?”
“You’re wasting your talent because of one mistake.”
Ben takes a step back.
“If you die without forgiving yourself, we will offer you this chance.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because if this encounter changes the direction of your life, another can be gifted.”
“How will you know?”
“Things work differently where we come from.”
“So that’s it?”
They step back through the portal.
“Yes.”
The portal closes.
Ben stands and watches the dawn, wrestling with both conscience and disbelief.
by submission | Sep 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Emeril Ainsley leaned his head forward, studying the finer details of a satellite probe’s scanning transmission. Martian storms were quelled, leaving the target crater clear for deployment.
“We’ve got a go, team. Let’s make it count. One try. One win.” Captain Ainsley alerted those in the control center that the moment had arrived.
A severely pale, short middle-aged man with balding hair shook his head.
“You’re still the doubter, Carmine? A little late for that.” Ainsley made his displeasure clear, tiring of the naysaying of his assigned Moonie weapons advisor.
“We made this monster on my beloved Moon because of fears that if it was transported from Earth, and a rocket failed during ignition, the payload might fry every living thing on any continent below it. Our Moon’s helium-3 resources were supposed to help build faster computers and heal cancer, not create a ten-thousand-megaton planet killer. It’s Teller’s karma to use it.” The room stilled. Carmine played his role of tenth-man advisor as everyone else celebrated with anticipation.
“This isn’t a moment for dawdling,” Ainsley snapped back. “We need Mars for colonization soon, not a hundred years from now. The short half-life of helium nuclides from the Aqua Regia explosion will ensure all those freshwater resources we need for our pioneers’ survival, unlike Musk’s failures fifty years ago. We already tested the potential for this weapon in Antarctica using a revised W48 nuke design. It wrenched up an underground lake to the surface in a day. In two years, we’ll have people using that lake on Earth’s southern pole for further research under a helium-4 glass dome you Moonies built. So what’s your problem?”
All eyes were on the diminutive consultant, while some moved away from his corner, fearing the wrath of their short-tempered leader.
“I understand,” Carmine responded, quietly. “Hellas Planitia has the only crater on Mars already reaching the critical seven-mile depth. It’s the sweet spot. But I also know, that as of this morning, this operation was still without the approval of Chinese, Indian, and Brazilian space authorities. The Mars Treaty promised them parts of this planet. A mistake could damage their future landing sites. We have never tested weapons this large, even in underground shots. There will be no going back if this goes badly.”
“Fine, then you can sit this one out. I don’t want someone nagging at my back. We’re plenty safe in this bunker on this side of Deimos, away from the blast site. Chief, take Carmine to his quarters and keep him there until further ordered.” The security officer moved forward, directing Carmine out of the control room with little resistance.
“Remember,” Carmine yelled back. “They didn’t think TSAR Bomba would destroy tens of miles of the Earth. You’ll be judged, Captain.”
“Not by the Moonies, pal. Your race will still be sitting inside your hollow fortress floating around Earth like ghosts while Mars grows into a superpower. All you are now is a bump on the road to progress.”
Murmuring went through the room as the door closed, shutting off Carmine’s tirade. Light applause followed.
“Enough of the festivities, folks. Time to make the omelet. Let’s crack a few eggs.” The captain turned to his remote control operators flying the weapon satellite over the Southern Hemisphere of the Red Planet. “Let her rip!”
