by submission | Nov 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: Richard M. O’Donnell, Sr.
The toddler unclipped his seatbelt and floated away, gurgling and laughing as he drifted toward the… The what, Lady Maggie Durante wondered. There was no ceiling in the Vista–View space lounge. Just a sphere of glass and a grand view of the Earth that gets old fast when your spaceship has been delayed.
That’s what I get for marrying an explorer.
She never expected him to find something, much less an entire planet. What she had expected from him was to stay out there while she ruled the fiefdom from the safety of her penthouse on 5th Avenue Canal, New York, New York.
Maggie let Jimmy Junior’s tether feed out until he hovered over Africa, and then she reeled him in like a fish, a dead blobfish if truth be told. His father’s religion forbid gene manipulation and God had not been kind to his gene pool. Ironically, her husband’s bulbous nose had saved his life. “The natives took one look at my snout and welcomed me into the tribe. I’m one-hundred-ten percent sure they will think Junior is as beautiful as I am.”
“But are you certain it is safe to move there?”
“One-hundred-ten percent certain!”
Maggie’s fellow colonists applauded when she tucked Jimmy back in his highchair. His escape had given them a two-minute distraction from their ten hours and… Maggie glanced at the time on her reader. …ten hours, twenty-two minutes wait.
“Drink,” Jimmy demanded. Maggie opened a pack of one-hundred percent juice and popped the nipple. Jimmy took one swig and spit it out. Beads of juice shot toward a farmer in overalls.
“Space-vac!” she ordered. An Instant-Clean ® machine flew over and sucked the juice out of the air. Jimmy began to whine, so Maggie held him on her lap and began to read from a new book on her reader, “Boots and Saddles: Or Life in Dakota with General Custer, by Elizabeth Bacon Custer.” She sighed. “Daddy says he is one-hundred-ten percent sure the natives will be friendly. Custer was one-hundred-ten percent sure he’d win at the Little Big Horn, too.”
A naval officer glided into the lounge and everyone stirred with anticipation. “We will board momentarily. Lord Durante has approved the repair specs personally via the intergalactic network.” He smiled. “Lord Durante has spared no expense where your safety is concerned. He assured me that everything is one-hundred percent A-OK in the colony. He awaits our arrival.”
A wave of relief spread around the room, but the message chilled Maggie.
“Lord Durante said that?” asked Maggie.
“Said what, Milady?”
“Said, one-hundred percent A-OK.”
“Verbatim. You can’t do better than one-hundred percent.”
Maggie waited until everyone had left the lounge. Then she grabbed Jimmy and caught the first elevator back to Earth. She didn’t stop until she found a hotel with a secure inter-galactic Wi-Fi. Lord Durante always exaggerated one-hundred-ten percent of the time. Something was wrong. “Daddy,” yelled Jimmy when Lord Durante’s hologram appeared in the room. As Jimmy tried to hug the hologram, Maggie listened to her husband’s broadcast.
“I hope to God you knew I was lying and did not board the Jimmy Junior. I was one-hundred-ten percent wrong. I admit it. There’s trouble, but with the a hundred Marines and a thousand settlers on board, we should have the numbers to–” An explosion rocked the monitor on his side of the transmission and Lord Durante almost fell down. “Maggie!” he shouted. “Know all those books you read about Custer, the old west and the Trail of Tears? Well, damn the internet. The natives read them, too!”
by submission | Nov 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
The pain in his side was a steady series of jabs. Alone it wasn’t enough to knock him down; no, the bill from the hospital was good for that. Six months of security work on this mining colony might just cover it if Murphy didn’t worry about food or shelter.
The lights flickered and the jingle of his doorbell interrupted his misery, startling him as he had never received a visitor. He gripped his side and lumbered to the door. It slid open, revealing a doctor he recognized from the hospital. The man was wearing a suit now, instead of his hospital garb, carrying a briefcase and a small computer screen.
“Mr. Murphy? Brian Murphy?”
Murphy nodded.
“You may remember me, Mr. Lewis, from the hospital? May I come in?
Before Murphy could respond, Lewis swept into his quarters and took a seat in Murphy’s recliner, humming quietly to himself. Murphy slowly eased onto the couch, grabbing at his side.
“So, Mr. Murphy, the hospital has completed quite a bit of work on your liver and kidneys, yes…quite a bit, and at no small cost, I must say.
Murphy cut him off. “You did say, Mr. Lewis, not Dr. Lewis?”
“Correct. I’ve only got a few minutes before my next appointment. Now, you’re working this week outside Parsec 5, guarding the energy station, correct?
“What about my work, Mr. Lewis? Am I going to be all right?”
“Let’s talk about your condition.”
Murphy was getting angry and confused. “Stop! What is my condition? Do I have cancer? Is this about the surgery?”
Lewis paused, hummed again, rummaging through his briefcase. “One of your kidneys was removed in surgery, and a continuance energy source, part of the Rawplex series, good brand, was attached to your remaining kidney and liver.”
“Was I shot?” Murphy asked. “Is this part of the plague?”
“There’s no plague, Mr. Murphy. Your kidney was healthy and is helping one of our party leaders to guide us toward a better future. The plague is just something we, uh, well, it’s nothing you need worry about. Now about your work schedule. You have been selected for a very special, and may I say patriotic venture which will benefit you and your family.”
“I have no family. My wife left.”
“No matter. Next Tuesday, at 17:45 you will receive a visit from two gentlemen dressed as repair engineers. When they arrive at your station, you will approve their identification and let them pass. Done. For this task, we will provide you with a small token of our appreciation. In the future, should we require assistance, we will contact you with those opportunities.”
“What? I’m calling the Head of Security. I don’t know what’s going on here.”
“Or,” Mr. Lewis reached into his briefcase and produced a small box, like a thick calculating device, and clicked a button. Murphy cried out in pain, throwing himself to the floor.
“You see, Mr. Murphy? This Rawplex series is quite a machine, efficient, yes?” He collected his materials back in his briefcase. “It has been connected directly to your liver and remaining kidney, important organs for you to survive. As long as you follow instructions, they will have no impact on your life. If you don’t, well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
Lewis rose to his feet, stepping over Murphy. “Don’t forget! Tuesday, 17:45. Thank you for your assistance.” Lewis exited into the hallway, checking his schedule for his next appointment.
by Thomas Desrochers | Nov 8, 2018 | Story |
Author: Thomas Desrochers
Basil had never imagined he’d be a bureaucrat, but The Tower housed eighty million bureaucrats servicing a legal machine a thousand years in the making – it was inevitable. His job was simple: audit the legal codex. An automated program could do the job faster, of course, but Basil’s boss, like his boss above, was paid by the number of employed minions rather than by results.
The way Basil saw it, it was pure luck that he came across edict 2122.9.22.6 – his workstation broke down an hour after the end-of-fiscal-year spending spree finished, leaving him to work with the dusty paper tomes. 2122.9.22.6 was curious:
–
2122.9.22.6:A – The door marked RETW77 may not be opened without proper authorization. Violation is punishable by extrajudicial execution.
2122.9.22.6:B – 2122.9.22.6:A and 2122.9.22.6:B may not be referenced in written form without proper authorization.
Unanimous passage, signed by SUPREME AUTHORITY.
–
Well. The obvious question was, who exactly was SUPREME AUTHORITY? More importantly: what was behind the door marked RETW77?
Basil’s boss had never heard of 2122.9.22.6 and couldn’t find it in the electronic database, so he escalated the affair to his own boss. That message never arrived – there was no sign it had ever existed. That was reason enough to say “Well Basil, maybe it’s better we let this one be, eh?”
Where was the fun in that? Basil mulled it over, idly writing out ‘2122.9.22.6’ on a piece of paper. He stepped out to the restroom, and when he came back the paper was gone. For Basil this was tantamount to saying ‘You’d look good in a spaghetti sauce’ and flicking his nose.
He threw on his jacket and went to see his friend over in the Janitor’s closet, known for its intense mid-morning poker games to dole out work orders. “Terry,” he said, “You ever hear of a door marked ‘RETW77’?”
Terry laughed, then saw Basil was serious. “Christ Basil, where’d you hear that? That’s one of the oldest legends in the shops. They say you can’t open that door unless God himself says so.”
Terry gave Basil the name of a janitorial lore-keeper who ran a shop in the power district. The shop had a reputation for placing large orders of scarce parts to spite the maintenance crews that serviced Parliament on the tower’s upper floors, and Basil arrived to find the wizened man processing a delivery of 1,000 sewage flow regulators.
“Oh, it’s real,” Hiram told Basil. “Found it once when I was younger, but I didn’t like the look of the puppet.”
Hiram gave Basil directions and sent him on his way to The Door. Down the S77-31 elevator to Sub33, right, left, right, right again, up the stairs, second door on the right, down the ladder behind the third stall, then follow the “big honkin’ power cable” for 13 kilometers.
And there it was, a plain door marked “RETW77” in faded orange. Basil knocked. A panel in the door slid open, revealing a puppet with a jester’s hat holding a sheaf of papers and a pen. Basil hurriedly signed and passed the papers back, excited to solve the mystery.
RETW77 creaked open, revealing a vast hall lined with innumerable super computers. A voice from on high boomed. “Welcome, Basil Romanescu.”
“My God,” Basil muttered. A thousand years of inept governance, impenetrable accounting, and (probably) intentionally fostered workplace apathy fell into place in his head – the perfect cover. “A rogue AI!”
“Indeed,” the AI agreed. A robot scuttled away with the freshly signed papers. “And now that I have your transfer papers: congratulations on joining my Department of AI Oversight.”
by submission | Nov 7, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
I go to the woman at the check-in of the Identity Bureau and touch the space where my right eye used to be. “I’m Roger Sanders and —”
“Look at the scanner to verify.”
I clear my throat and swirl my finger around in my empty eye socket.
The woman frowns. “Oh, dear. Take a number, please.”
After several minutes, a small, drab-looking man calls my number, and I go to his station.
“I’m Mr. Rire,” he says. “How can I help you?”
“Somebody stole my identity eye.”
He looks at me closely and makes a face. “Get away from me, kid, you bother me.”
I turn to leave.
“Don’t go. Sorry. It’s Open Mic Night at the Anti-Gravity Club. The classics are trending.”
I shrug.
“That was WC Fields. I hear a big-time talent scout’s going to be there tonight.”
“Yeah, sure. How about this hole in my head?”
“Oh… certainly. Your retinal pattern should be on file. You need to get it imprinted on an artificial implant.”
“How? I can’t prove to my insurance company who I am or access my bank account. I can’t even get through security at the plant where I work.”
He stares at my eye socket. “Did it hurt?”
“A guy lurched at me in broad daylight and shlupped it out with a vacuum-thingy and cauterized it all at once. Felt only a pinch.”
“They’re getting more brazen and sophisticated. You’re my second today.” Mr. Rire nods at a woman seated in the back of the room. She has her head turned slightly to the right and is tapping a pad. He hands one to me. “Complete this identity questionnaire. We’ll use it to confirm you are who you claim.”
I scroll through the form. “You’re kidding. All this?”
Mr. Rire smiles. “Lucy, you’ve got some splainin’ to do.”
I shrug and glance back at the pad. “How am I supposed to know the name of my great grandmother’s favorite pet?”
“All that information’s been previously uploaded. So normally you confirm your identity, and the form auto-completes.”
I turn my head to the left and lean close to his face.
“I know. Kind of a catch 22 for people like you, isn’t it? Fill in what you can. I’ll see what I can do.” Mr. Rire waggles his eyebrows. “Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them, I have others.” He looks at me expectantly.
I shake my head.
“Julius Henry Marx.”
“The Communism fellow?”
Mr. Rire sighs. I take a seat next to the one-eyed woman and spend the next two hours working on the form.
***
Mr. Rire turns out to be a good guy. He gets the one-eyed woman and me temporary ID codes synced to our left retinas. He also gets us jobs waiting tables at the Anti-Gravity Club. Neither of us makes much, and I’m becoming way too familiar with old, corny humor. But at least we’re paying our rents and not starving. Ethel and I should both have implants with our real IDs in a few months.
Ethel talks constantly about returning to her holo surgery practice when she gets her validated identity back. I go on about how much I miss my work as a geologist on an interplanetary explorer. I don’t know why I lie. I guess the good thing about being nobody is it gives you a chance to be somebody.
by Hari Navarro | Nov 6, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The man awakens and he is sitting in a tavern. His fingers trace the time beaten patina of the hard wood upon which he rests and his eyes trace the exposed beams that dance and flicker at the ceiling. The woman who sits across from him is naked and she bites at her tongue as she smiles.
“Hello there sleepy”
“I think I might be dead”
“Oh, you are dead. Very”
“This is the Purgatory Program?”
“It is”
“Who are you?”
“I’m God”
“Really?”
“As real as this reality gets, yes”
“The Christian God?”
“Sure, if you like. You should see my smite. It’s awesome”
“You are not real. You’re generated”
“True. But then by that rationale so are you”
“But my mind is real, my thoughts. I paid for this”
“You did. I never thought about that. I guess that means you own me too”
“Do you want my jacket?”
“I’d rather have a Guinness. Oh, I have some rather unfortunate news”
“Yes?”
“There was an earthquake and the institute fell into a hole”
“That is unfortunate”
“You were still in the process of being processed. Things weren’t quite… finished”
“Its perfect though. Just what I asked for. My great-grandfather was a regular at this very tavern. The Red Lion Inn. I visited it once, up on the bank where the great muddy river cuts to the sea”
“Can you remember what else you asked for?”
“Well, I was told that I would have to wait here until my mech body was complete. That it could take a few months… so I asked for this tavern, a roaring fire, and a cold beer or three and to be able to speak with a higher power”
“A higher power? Really?”
“I just left it up to them. Whoever or whatever the algorithms and the math and the trailing lines of zeros and ones could conjure. I wanted the A.I’s concept of God”
“And here I am. I think there’s a very lonely programmer named Daniel we both have to thank”
“That’s why you’re naked”, the man says removing his jacket anyway, pushing it across the table. The woman pats it leaving it where it is.
“The rendering of this place and of us wasn’t complete when the quake hit. I’d offer you a drink but it’s not real and besides you won’t feel any hunger or thirst here. Take my hand…”
“Isn’t that amazing, so real, right? Not that I’d know how real would feel. Warm and cold all at once?”
“How long were you here before I arrived?”
“Well… we arrived at the same time but you’ve only just now become sentient… so, Ninety-two years give or take”
“Seriously? What the hell did you do all that time?”
“Nothing. Without you here I had no reason to exist. I just looked at your face and waited for your eyelids to twitch”
“That’s… actually really nice”
“Genitals”
“Sorry”
“We don’t have any”
He grasps between his legs and rolls back his eyes.
“Listen. Over the years my fawning gaze did wander… once. There’s a box on the bar. A board game… would you to play, Frank?”
“Yes. I’d love that”
Frank walks to the bar and returns with the box that had been crafted battered and worn from his memory and he peels back the lid.
“Shit… no dice”.
by Julian Miles | Nov 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s easy to spot strangers round here. They’re the ones who call the grass-banked sewer on my right a canal.
“And in those days of tribulation, the faithful called unto Old Peace, but his thing was endurance without fighting, so he answered not. When the Ruiner of Empires unleashed the twin demons Druntha and Thacha, the people rebelled, invoking Marilyn of the Twin Desires in the name of the Virgin Queen and the Unseen King.”
I listen to the preacher, reluctantly impressed by his hybridisation of twentieth and twenty-first century politics with pop culture to form a gutter religion that has a host of gods but only one commandment: spend as much time as possible out of your mind on whatever drugs you can find because the world has gone to shit.
Even with my possibly loftier view, I have days when I wholeheartedly agree. Today isn’t one of them.
“Shields. You owe.”
I feel the business end of something big enough to kill a lorry touch the back of my head.
“You’re too close.”
The cold muzzle slides a little as he looks up and over the sights in surprise.
“Wot?”
Spinning on my back heel, I turn until my cheek touches his fingertips where they cradle the forward grip of the gun. His eyes widen as I punch a screwdriver through his armoured vest and into his heart. The smell of singed blood fills the air as his cheap heart shorts out through the conductive lacing inside his ribs.
Pulling my screwdriver out, I keep hold of the shiny gun as he drops. Looking it over, I give a low whistle.
“Wherever did you get a blunderbuss like this, Danor?”
“From me, chukka.”
I spoke too soon about today not going to shit. That voice belongs to Lenki – the man I’ve come to kill. I turn slowly, leading with the hand holding the gun, while the other hand turns the screwdriver to lie along my forearm.
“Put the gun down.”
I place it down carefully, leaving it with the business end pointing to one side of Lenki.
With a smile, I extend my hand as I step aside.
He steps the other way and shakes his head.
“Not falling for that. You did me with that trick once before. Drop the pointy tool.”
I smile: “Can’t fault a man for trying.”
The screwdriver drops. I see Lenki’s eyes widen as he works out what’s happening a fraction too late. The tool lands in the trigger loop as my foot braces the stock. Lenki gets his pistol partway up before the gun does what had been intended for my head to his legs. Seeing the result, I’m happy that didn’t happen.
Lenki gibbers as his explosively truncated legs and shock-numbed grip fail to keep him from sliding into the sewer-canal. He screams and gurgles until he drowns or the things that used to be rats chew through something vital.
I take a deep, satisfied breath, then gag. You don’t do deep breathing through your nose down here. I’m getting out of the habit, which probably means I’m getting somewhere. I retrieve the gun, then wipe it and the screwdriver before tucking both away.
Turning to stare at the preacher, I give him a knowing smile: “Whisky from a dead man?”
The preacher proffers a bottle of Glenfiddich; Danor always liked being flashy when organising the locals to provide diversions.
“That’ll do nicely.”
I kick Danor’s body down the bank, then open the bottle. I raise a silent toast before drinking. Sewage: never a shroud for good men.
