by submission | Aug 2, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
“Children are a protected resource!”
The nine-year-olds repeat the Camp Haven creed and then take their seats, gaze never wavering from the flag.
At the head of the class, a strapping man swells with pride at the sight of these glowing youth. “Hi boys and girls! My name’s Sergeant Wallace.” He waits with an expectant grin.
A smattering of mumbles returns: “Hi, Sergeant Wallace.”
“First, I want you all to know: your parents love you very, very much–” he places emphasis on each syllable,
“–and that’s why you’re here at Camp Haven.” A blank smart-board buzzes on the wall behind him.
“Would anyone like to share their story with the class today?”
A boy in the front raises his hand tentatively: “Well, uh, one night I woke up in bed–and my Gramma was there in the room with me. And she had a big needle and she was about to stick me with it and I screamed and my Dad ran in. And then my Mom and Dad said I had to come here for a while to stay away from Gramma and the old folks and–”
“Thank you, young man,” Wallace bends to pat him gingerly on the shoulder, “what a great start to my story! Today I’m going to explain why it’s so important to protect kids like you.” He clicks the device in his palm and the smart-board blinks to life.
“Has anyone ever heard of Professor Kuruwaza?”
A girl in the second row shoots up her arm: “My Uncle said that he took a really old mouse, and he put some blood in it, and the old mouse got young again.”
“That’s right! He drew some blood from a young mouse and put it in the old one, and that reversed the old age. And that’s why we call it the Kuruwaza effect.”
Wallace summons the next slide onscreen. “And then he tried the experiment on real people like you and me, and you know what? The same thing happened!” Two panels: on the left, a woman in her mid sixties–wrinkled and frumpy, wearing a vacant expression; and on the right, after treatment, looking thirty years younger.
“After that experiment, a lot more old people wanted to try it out too. They wanted to be young again like the lady here. So the government–you guys know what the government is, right? The government made special laws to protect kids like you. Because you’re very special, and you deserve to keep your blood all for yourselves.”
“Eww!” drawls the redhead in row three.
Wallace smiles. He can see a sentry fidgeting nervously in the doorway but ignores him; he’s on a roll.
He spins on his heel and jabs a finger at the next image: an ancient crone, his sly grin revealing a snaggletooth. “Now what should you do if you see one of those?”
“Tell a Guardian!”
Wallace’s grin widens. “That’s right, boys and girls. You just tell me or anyone else here at Camp Haven.”
The young guard finally musters the courage to step over the threshold, marches up to Wallace and stammers into his ear: “Sir, we just took down a pack of Boomers outside the fence.”
“Okay, double our men on patrol. I want–”
When the propane bomb shreds the gates of Camp Haven–triggering the klaxon alarm and a general lockdown–the men don’t hesitate before throwing themselves into battle. There will be carnage, but their mission is sacred.
They know that young blood is too precious to spill.
by submission | Aug 1, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
Excerpt from Dr Harriet Walters’ report:
We can confirm that the new procedure has been a resounding success from a physiological point of view. The subject has not reported any headaches or other adverse physical symptoms. Psychologically, the subject seems stable and has integrated the loss of targeted memories well. There are no signs of adjustment problems: no anxiety, psychosis or any kind of emotional distress. The problem seems to be coming from an unexpected direction. It appears we have underestimated the link between memories and character development. Please refer to the transcript of my recorded session with the subject’s husband attached to this report:
“- Doctor, is there any way to reverse the procedure?
– I’m afraid not. But why would you wish to reverse it? Everything went well and your wife seems happy and relaxed. We have been closely monitoring her for three months and she herself has not reported any ill effects.
– You’re absolutely right with that but, you see, she doesn’t know what’s missing. She doesn’t know she’s not herself any more. The traumatic memories of the years of abuse and neglect in her childhood are gone. The night terrors have stopped but… I suppose I never realised how much my wife was shaped by those horrendous experiences. She’s like a sweet and biddable child now. She reminds me of a… Stepford wife.
– So you’re telling me your wife is now, um, too perfect?
– No, yes, I don’t know… I guess I’m telling you I miss who she was – she used to have a core of steel, such determination and, well, balls. Wouldn’t take any shit from me or anyone else. God, I even miss our arguments!
– So your main complaint is you don’t argue any more?
– No! My main complaint is that this procedure killed the vibrant, brash, irritating, bull-dogged and adventurous person she once was. I would never have supported her in this if I’d known it would be tantamount to killing who she was.
– I see. What do you intend to do now?
– My wife is gone but I will look after her shell because I once promised for better or for worse. And I want your personal assurance that no one else will undergo this procedure without being informed of all the effects of targeted memory deletion. I don’t have any illusion that this procedure can be buried, but I want your promise that you will ensure that others benefit from our loss. Otherwise I will sue you to hell and back.
– You have my word.”
I recommend further research into memory and personality. I also recommend that we proceed more cautiously, perhaps targeting a key memory or two rather than a block of years, in the next procedure. Finally, I would recommend using a subject who is perhaps more isolated and less well-connected than the wife of a popular judge.
by submission | Jul 31, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro
My daughter was raped as a baby. Does the fact that she was nine and not a baby make me a liar, does it take any of the sting from an opening sentence surely designed to shock and pull you into the tawdry undertow that sweeps through these words?
But you see I’ve always scorned those you refer to their children as babies when they are not, to label them such is to deny them growth. It belittles the struggles overcome as they claw to a crawl and stagger from cradle to ash.
But she was my baby.
An infant led into a filthy warm cellar by those she trusted and loved. Sibling neighbors, who stroked her long hair and locked the door shut as they pushed her down to the floor. She had been bad they said, perhaps even evil as they warned of the wrath that was visited upon all those who spoke of the punishment they dealt.
So that’s why we took her to the clinic, that place where gastropods had run up behind cognitive neuroscience and shoulder barged it into the future. We sold all that we owned to finance this wonder of science; this harnessing of the engram, epigenetic modification beneath the snap-crack of a ribonucleic whip.
We paid for the ability to peel away memories, to hack out those things that haunt her, those things that compact her teenage mind and stuff it into the dark. The pit where she cuts and she spits at the mirror. Where the wallpaper it peels and lays the truth bare as she scratches away at her skin.
It’s been six weeks since the procedure. The day they nudged aside her synapses and plucked instead from the shriveled and blackened neurons that stored each wretched second of that day in the cellar. And then, it wiped it clean from her mind.
Listen as she sobs alone in her room. Though now she has no idea why. It’s her spirit, the essence of what it is that makes her who she is, that now mocks inside her head.
Her mind cant play for her the images but the blood in her veins, the integumentary system that again feels the dig of her nails and the razors slit edge, it remembers.
It’s her strength, this overriding connection of body and mind, it is this she can mine to rebuild the childish things that she lost.
If I could I would put back that pitch darkness we took. It’s part of her. I’ve stolen from her the key. I’m so sorry, for how in the world can you now own that which you no longer have?
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 30, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dmitri shuffled through the crowd, his handler’s grip tight on his elbow. Someone had draped a jacket over his hands, tightly zip tied as they were in front of him, presumably to stop onlookers from becoming anxious.
“When you’re on the plane, we’ll release you,” a voice in his ear, “you’ll be a free man when you arrive on your home soil.”
He’d come to this country as a young man, recently wed, and with a young child not yet walking.
There were no opportunities in his country for people with his talent, and the intelligence community here paid well for what he could see.
He spent years in virtual, surfing the netstream, a constant flood of real-time information jacked right into his brain, sifting through raw data identifying patterns the AI’s could not see.
There had been complications from the ocular implants, and his optic nerves were burned out, leaving him blind in the real world, but he never noticed as he was constantly immersed in the vibrant colours of the virtual. He had been promised replacements when they could do without him long enough for the surgery.
Then his country was sanctioned, this country’s leader lashing out at a perceived slight from the leader of his own.
He saw the patterns in the data before it happened, but there was nothing he could do.
At first, he was just no longer able to send money home to his family, but then his security clearance was revoked, and he found himself here, in custody at an airport, no job, no assets, not even his personal belongings. From data analyst with the highest clearances to persona non grata in a matter of hours.
Without clearances, his implants became dead inputs, should he try to use them, his mind would fill with static. His life, as he knew it, was over.
“Mind your step,” the voice again. He shuffled his feet forward until a shoe caught the lip of a stair, and he tentatively climbed the steps.
“You’ll be seated, and the flight attendant will strap you in after I release you.”
He was guided into a seat, the weight of the jacket disappeared, and then so too did the pressure of the restraints.
Also gone was the guiding hand at his elbow, and for a panicked moment in the darkness, Dmitri realized he was completely alone.
“There are soldiers stationed at the end of the boarding tunnel, should you attempt to escape and remain in the country, you will be shot.”
There was a brief pause, then, almost as an afterthought, “Thank you for your service.”
Dmitri sat in silence. He listened as the plane filled with other passengers, apparently oblivious to his status. The flight crew was gracious, offering him food and beverages as they crossed the ocean.
On arrival, he was asked to wait until the other passengers deplaned so he could be afforded extra assistance.
On the ground again he was guided through customs without incident, and without so much as a ‘good luck’, left in the cacophony of what he could only hope was the airport of his homeland.
“Papa?”
That voice, although the first time he’d heard it without the artifacts of filtered digitization, was unmistakable.
“Europa, is that you?” He could feel pain in his cheeks where tears should flow.
She buried her head in his chest and wrapped her arms around him, and he held her tight.
When she finally stepped back a little, he reached out tentatively to trace her face with his fingertips, memorizing the contours of his child’s visage, one that had grown from an infant into a young woman without him.
“You’re more beautiful now than ever,” he beamed, “and I don’t need eyes to see that’s true.”
by submission | Jul 29, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“He’s blind. He ignored shielding restrictions.” Carose bent away from his medical monitor while speaking to Captain Wolir on video screen. “There’s nothing to do. Earthers never evolved protective eye membranes for such space encounters. How did he get through psych screenings?”
“Not sure, Carose. Central Command assured he was fully vetted. Such a loss. What is it this cycle; thirty or forty have found ways to reach 35W7 just to peer into what they believe is the face of their God? There are so many beautiful nebulae to visit, but of course, up close, they are just dull dust clouds…except this one that generates its own light. Maybe that’s why they believe this myth. I wished we didn’t have to vacuum these rare ions from here for our power units. It draws fanatics who desire direct cosmic experiences at any cost.”
“It’s a pity. I’ll do what I can to maintain him as long as I can.” Carose looked over the young ensign lying before him on a metal inspection table. “He can be assigned to parts cleaning in storage.”
“Truly a waste of his skills. He won’t last long. We only send condemned prisoners to handle those chemicals.” Commander Wolir sounded peeved.
“Doesn’t really matter,” Carose interrupted. “Once Earthers have their exposure to 35W7’s light their autonomic nervous system fails in weeks. He’ll stop eating and then drinking. You’ve seen films of them staggering aimlessly, with that disturbing grin, while circling endlessly until they drop. Most of their brain reaches a vegetative stage. What was his assignment onboard?”
“Unfortunately, he was our primary engine charge specialist. Luckily, we’ve got a Sreontan who is also trained as his backup.”
“This disturbing compulsion of humans risks all of our work here. What hubris to seek the face of God.” Carose did not hide displeasure in his voices or contorted facial features in both his heads.
“Really, Carose, I’d expect a being with your experience to understand such attraction. Would your people not risk anything to meet Chalac, your creator myth?”
Yellow streaks erupted and bubbled about Carose’s facial membranes. Commander Wolir noted he had broken protocol regarding religious sensitivities.
“We do not speak of Chalac with your kind, of He who had two faces, then split them to make those of us with two separate heads to honor His binary holiness. Now, do you need me to write another report on this incident, Commander? There are so many insane humans seeking 35W7…it seems redundant.” Carose scanned over his current readings, evaluating efforts it would take to reproduce a new summary workup.
“Sorry, but Central was clear on this. Their policies need strengthening for enforcement after bootleg movies of 35W7 were smuggled onto Earth, before that planet blew up. There is no certainty that it caused their chaos, but when billions suddenly believe they’ve seen their God, civilization collapses. We’ve got to use our powers to reduce future losses of their species still traveling in space. Every report helps establish better barriers to prevent suicide encounters threatening commercial vessels.”
“I’ll have it to your office tomorrow. Meanwhile, send someone down to escort this fool to the parts department. We might get some use from him before he shuts down. I hope what remains in him is at peace.”
“It’s a shame Earthers don’t follow warnings in their own holy books.”
“How’s that?” Carose asked.
“In my study of this phenomenon, I encountered a passage in their Bible stating, ‘You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live!’ How could they ignore that?”
“How indeed?” Carose pondered.
by submission | Jul 28, 2018 | Story |
Author: Susan Cornford
Breakdowns always happen at the worst possible times and places. I was already running late on my last cargo run between the Four-Parsec star group and home base. If I got a little creative with my log entries, the old crate could be pushed up to just a bit more than the maximum cited in the specs. It could, until all the warning lights lit up like a super-nova. Sigh!
Nothing had actually exploded or imploded, so I eased her down to a crawl and looked for a place to set down for repairs. Doing them in space is fine, but finding a planet where you can siphon up a few essential atoms will save you a great deal in expensive replacements. Scanning showed a very usable spinning ball of elements that even had a compatible range of gravity, atmosphere and temperature so I could do without a spacesuit.
There was only one tiny problem. It was inhabited and The First Rule of planetary landings is: “Never interact with the locals”. This is not a problem in places where the light wavelengths make you and them invisible to each other. But no such luck in this case. So, I had to chance it, using only a masking emanation around the ship and myself.
I got down to work and the dry, sandy soil was perfect raw material for my needs. Soon all I had to do was to wait until all the atoms re-aligned themselves into the speed-boosting components that would let me make up for lost time. So, I had a look around for entertainment.
The locals mostly seemed to be bi-ped creatures of about my mass, covered with a layer of some kind of animal or vegetable fiber. They communicated with sound waves that came from the top part of their bodies, and apparently perceived light and movement with two pivoting balls in the same area.
There seemed to be quite a few of these creatures, milling around outside one of the caves that were numerous in the area. Some of the sound waves being produced were more high-pitched than I’d noticed to be usual. On close inspection, liquid was also abnormally flowing from their perception-balls. Another of the creatures arrived and was surrounded by the rest. I could tell by movements that the newcomer wanted the rock that was blocking the cave to be moved away. There was much waving of appendages, shrill noises and flowing liquid. But the rock was moved.
By then I was consumed with curiosity, so I popped into the cave to see what the cause of all this excitement was. The locals would just perceive me as one of the small, flying things that they waved their upper appendages at. There was another of the creatures in the cave, all bound up in even more fiber layers than the others. Its metabolic rate was almost down to zero and about to be extinguished. Now, I’m always being told that I’m too sentimental and I should harden up my soft crust. So, I know I shouldn’t have done what I did but, for goodness sake, how much difference could it make? One little jolt from the reviver pen and the creature was up like a shot and ambling back out of the cave to join the others. I’ll never forget the sound they kept making, over and over: lazarus, lazarus, lazarus!
And, you know, it was funny but it seemed to me, just for a moment, that the last creature, the newcomer, could somehow see me as I really am.
