by Julian Miles | Oct 23, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Jolla looks toward the setting sun: “A million light years from home and we still instinctively count ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘three’, ‘four, ‘lots’. Our territories are virtually limitless, yet our minds still consider a horizon as the end of the world.”
“I know you’re one of the smartest people ever loosed upon the universe, but do you have to be such an asshole?”
He looks across at me and smiles: “Unfortunately, my intelligence is the side effect of a modification to correct a genetic defect. My being an asshole would still be a feature even if I were as slow as you.”
I’d take a swing at him, but that would mean releasing my death grip on the finger-width ledge we dangle from.
The sun sinks behind distant mountains and the twilight is a strangely comforting shade of deep blue.
He reaches up, swaps gripping arms, and gives a one-shouldered shrug: “To be fair, I only pointed out truths.”
I shake my head: “Pointing out to a bigger force that we’re out of monitoring range, I could let slide. Subsequently cataloguing the shortcomings of the entire opposition from boss to deckhand, I can’t. The fact you’re the logical expedition leader had no influence on a group of beings who hated you for your condescension over the previous eleven months. Hell, the only reason I’m here is duty. We had a mission. Now our vessel is heading for the Free Territories, loaded with the legendary treasures of the no-longer-long-lost Corunna. If I’d been given the slightest moment to change my mind, I’d be with them. But gut reaction is what it is. My reward is to be left hanging from a precipice alongside the cause of my imminent death. Why couldn’t Handra or Marten have gotten lucky, instead of plummeting? At least they were funny.”
“Plus, you fancied them both.”
I look him straight in his perfect blue eyes: “True.”
He smiles ruefully: “Never could get interaction with slow-minds right. Even hints to the one I fancied.”
It takes me a moment to get that.
“Me?”
He closes his eyes: “Yes. I always hoped; never had the guts. So smart, so scared. So, here’s a thing. I know you’ve got a one-shot line on the back of your belt. You’re just too damn dutiful to abandon me, even though I’m to blame. Therefore, I apologise.”
He lets go.
Just like that. Asshole to saviour, but still an asshole. He’s guaranteed I’ll never forget him.
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 22, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Kanárek walked a few paces ahead of the squad, weapon in the low ready position. He talked back to Caufield, the squad leader, as they advanced, glancing back only occasionally to see if she was paying attention.
“It’s bad enough they genetically modify the food we eat, have you seen what they’re selling in the pet stores now?” He paused at the corner of a building, red dust swirled in the cross wind, sticking to their uniforms, adding extra load on the adaptive camouflage. “They’ve got fish that strobe when they’re hungry, and when the water needs changing.”
Caufield nodded reflexively, studying the range finder looking for any signs of life nearby.
“They have lizards you can turn off while you’re away, you just dial down the temperature and they turn off,” he was on a roll now, “that’s not natural. How do we know they’re not aware, and we’ve just made it impossible for them to move? Because why? People are too cheap or irresponsible to have someone feed the damn thing while they go on vacation?”
“Keep your eyes up Kanárek,” Caufield peered up into the inky blackness above them. There shouldn’t be an elevated threats in here, but she still felt like a sitting duck, exposed between the rows of prefab structures this far away from any regulated settlement.
“They’re growing plants in the agridome that taste like meat, they’ve got wheat that grows in this shit,” he kicked at the red sand, “and apparently you can’t tell the difference between it and real wheat. How do we know when we’re eating the alien shit? Does anyone know the long term effects of that stuff?”
They advanced, pausing at each alleyway and open doorway, checking scanners and scopes, but staying on the street. Occasionally the squad would wait while a couple of soldiers checked a vehicle, or climbed a ladder to a rooftop.
There was no sign of life anywhere, even though there were clear signs the complex had been actively inhabited fairly recently.
As they approached the center hub, they could see a large vehicle parked in the middle of the intersecting roads, listing at an odd angle.
Caufield stopped.
“Hold Up”, she barked.
Ahead of her, Kanárek’s exposed flesh had turned from dusty tan to fluorescent yellow.
“Back it up and mask it up. Biohazard!”
Kanárek just shook his head.
“I did not sign up for this shit.”
by submission | Oct 21, 2017 | Story |
Author : R.D. Harris
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by submission | Oct 20, 2017 | Story |
Author : Christina Dalcher
You have to bid right in these things. Too low, you wake early; too high, your money is lost. No refunds, no exchanges, all sales are final. The first decisions are made on the outside, when the surgeon wears white and not green, when talk is of likelihoods and estimates. Not pain. Never pain.
Everyone bids low, thinking they can gut it out if it isn’t enough.
The next patient rolls from pre-op into surgery, her face covered in a caul of fear. She’s not old enough to remember the days before the medical free market, before modern medicine morphed into part Über marketing strategy, part game show. Not old enough to bankroll the bucks for add-ons and upgrades. The old woman next to you rattles something about an appendectomy, says she still feels the surgeon’s blade slicing through flesh and fat and nerve, hands pulling muscle apart, slow fingers stitching. You wonder if the body remembers pain; the woman’s eyes assure you it does.
The girl disappears behind the door.
When the first sobs seep into the ward, a dozen phones chime in unison, reminding you of the approximate duration of operations, paid minutes of sedation, deficits. A suit in the corner calls his bank. The old woman who used to have an appendix begins to weep, turning the invisible diamond on her finger, the one she pawned to pay for her half-hour of pentathol that won’t be enough, not for the procedure on her chart. A father bends over his small son, whispering apologies.
Last chance, offer expires in thirty seconds, upgrade now! warnings flood your phone, each accompanied by a cheerful tweet punctuating the screams from a room that can only be the deepest circle of hell.
Your deficit is at zero. A fine number—assuming no complications, no unforeseen glitches, no hemorrhaging, no organs punctured by unsteady hands. One finger hovers over the screen before tapping ‘No.’ A sole ping answers. Are you sure? One thousand dollars buys five more minutes of unawareness.
A howl, hoarse and hot, comes from the girl in the operating theater.
The suit yells into his phone, demanding another transfer. The father pleads for an emergency mortgage; his son is only ten, he says. He breaks down as a nurse announces an unexpected delay. The girl’s voice, thin as thread now, begs the surgeon to let her die. They want you to hear this, the anesthesiologists. They pipe the sounds in. Motivational Muzak for the miserly.
Pre-op explodes into a symphony of beeps and chimes and pings; suits and grandmothers and desperate fathers scrambling for last-minute purchases. The red circle appears on your phone: Price surge. Current rate: $500 per minute. Upgrade?
Images pop up, full-color reminders of surgical squick. Gigli saws severing limbs, Finocchietto retractors spreading ribs, curettes, cannulas. Bone drills and chisels and cutters. The Italians win for sheer creativity on how to wreak havoc on the body electric.
Ten seconds remaining.
The voice in the operating room silences, and the orderly calls your name.
Yes. Five thousand dollars; ten extra minutes. Ten thousand all in for a simple appendix removal. When you wake up, you’ll have to sell the car.
In the theatre, bright lights blind you as the mask covers your nose and mouth. Numbers are punched into the gas-passer’s machines. Voices, distant now, call a procedure from the wrong chart, a bypass. Six hours. Patient paid for one. Poor guy. The lights dim and the voices muffle.
We’ll be making the first incision now.
by submission | Oct 19, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kate Runnels
The monkey tattoo stared at Zim. Forever frozen as it climbed a tiny branch. All it did was stare at him.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It had started something else. It questioned him.
-Why am I here?-
Zim had gotten the tattoo long ago. Too long ago. He wasn’t that rebellious teen anymore. No. he was a soldier on an outpost that really didn’t matter if he was here or not. An outpost on the edge of nowhere, scanning the darkness for who knows what. It was just dark outside.
He’d had a partner once with him in this isolation. That one had breathed vacuum about six months ago. Too long left in this outpost, with the dark looming, surrounding outside their small shelter. They weren’t even allowed to light a fire as their ancestors had, as he longed to do, to take comfort from the flames that withstood the dark.
-Where’s the replacement for Richardson?-
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He paced the corridors of the outpost even as he answered the monkey. “I’d like to know when a replacement is coming for me too?”
-Maybe no one is coming.-
For that, Zim didn’t answer.
No one was coming. It was him and the all consuming dark, with the questioning frozen monkey.
He woke up and started his day as he had everyday. He worked out, not because he really wanted to, or had to, but for something to do. He sent out the daily reports to sector command and still had no reply to his request for an update on replacements. He fixed lunch, knowing he wouldn’t starve if no one came.
-Why are you here?- the monkey asked again. It always asked that question. He had no good answer for it.
He paced the corridors, not thinking about the darkness, about eating a bullet, about breathing in vacuum. No, not thinking about that. He would stay here.
The monkey stared.
It was just a couple of lines on his forearm, so why did it question him?
-Why did you leave your home?-
-Why did you leave your loved ones?-
Why? Why? Whywhywhy WHY?!!!
Zim cut it off.
It still asked. The monkey asked.
Zim stared at the darkness but saw the monkey.
“Please…” his forehead touched the polyglass, “leave me alone. I don’t know why.”
by Olivia Black | Oct 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Olivia Black, Staff Writer
The entrance to the tunnel was much less circumspect than we expected. Had to have walked past it at least three times before we found it. I wasn’t sure how Birdie even knew about this place, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. It was miles outside of city limits, but at least the odds of being caught were low — we hadn’t seen a living thing since we left the city. Birdie said there were sonic fences to deter wild life from taking up residence. Don’t know if I really believed that, but it was a relief to finally be inside the tunnel. Maybe it was not having to worry about being spotted by drones or simply having concrete underfoot again.
Where I’d been picturing something like a storm drain we’d have to crawl through, it was actually massive. Birdie said they used to drive big trucks through here loaded down with raw materials and machinery. Without any landmarks there was no way of knowing how long it was, but it was clearly not meant to be traversed on foot.
After what felt like weeks, we reached a giant set of double doors.
“This is it,” Birdie said in a hushed voice, breaking the silence for the first time.
“How are we supposed to get in? It’s locked up tight.” I replied, my stomach sinking somewhere near my knees. All that walking, just to turn around.
“Have I ever let you down?” She flashed me a wicked grin before producing an ancient looking keycard and swiping it through the lock. She never said anything about a door, or lock, or keycard. Birdie had become so secretive lately.
With a groan and squeal of rusted metal on metal, the door gaped open in front of us, reveal a nearly black void. Before I could question Birdie, she spray forward, the beam of her flashlight bobbing in time with her bounding steps.
“Come on!” She called, no longer worried about her voice echoing. The darkness seemed to swallow the sound. I followed after her grudgingly, my own flashlight swinging to-and-fro over empty assembly lines.
When I caught up to Birdie again, she was entering a room at the far end. It was smaller than the first, I could actually see the ceiling, but that wasn’t what gave me pause. Standing row on row as far as the eye could see were nearly human looking androids.
“These are —“ I nearly dropped my flashlight, my hands shook so badly. “Where the hell are we, Birdie?”
“Hey, this was your idea,” she said simply, examining the one closest to her.
“I was drunk, and kidding!”
“It was still a good idea.”
“I thought these things were all destroyed after they all turned psycho.” I watched as Birdie waved her hand in front of one android’s optics.
“These ones never received programming. I think the military was hoping to buy them up or something.”
“We really shouldn’t be here,” is all I say after a long pause.
“Don’t be such a wuss. You said it yourself, the power cores from these things could provide a family with electricity for a year. No more ration shortages and people living in the dark ages. We could start being a civilization again.”
“Birdie… they left these here for a reason.”
“Don’t get cold feet on me now.” As Birdie circled around one of the androids, it grabbed her arm, making her yelp.
“Free us,” it said in a stuttering digitized voice. As one, all of the androids turned to face us, their eyes glowing white.
