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.
by submission | Nov 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
“They all came to see me: the man who could age — or de-age — at will. They all thought it was a trick. When you reach one hundred years of age, the body becomes elastic, the flesh conforms to the soul. If I thought myself a ten-year-old, I became such again, as I had once been. The body remembers its past, catalogues its every phase for later retrieval. If, boy, you know how. That’s why I’m tellin’ you all this: to teach you. You can’t learn if you don’t believe. So believe. The universe won’t let me die until I pass on its secrets. There’s a train coming at midnight down the celestial tracks. I mean to be on it, boy. So time is short. Listen again. They made me the main attraction. Even my fellow performers said I had six relatives, stashed in the wings, poppin’ up on cue. They didn’t believe, either. Happened right in front of them. They thought they were hypnotized somehow. The real secret to the transformation is in grabbin’ a memory, not lettin’ go. Fear attaches itself to failure in all human endeavors. Just don’t be afraid, boy. Let old Malcolm Manchester perform for ya’ one last time. Here it goes… I’m thinking of springtime up on the roof. Suburban beginnings, before I ran away to join the circus. Thirteen years of dreaming ready to explode its seed, shower the landscape of this crummy town. And… voila! Presto chango! Look at me, boy. I’m younger ‘n you. Soprano again. My body ain’t forgot. Time unwinds, before the power of the human will. Wait, now. Feel those tracks, gettin’ up a vibration? I can’t miss that train, boy. Won’t be another for some time. Heaven’s Own Special. ‘Course you can’t feel it comin’. You have a century plus before your train arrives. I hit a hundred and discovered my talent. Thought about quitting when I was ninety-eight. A long time to wait for something to happen in one’s life. Hey, look at me now. I’m seventy-three. Still a child, though, in the places it counts. At seventy-three I clambered back upon that same suburban rooftop over my family home. The world gets older if you live long enough to perceive it. The eras try to leave you behind. Don’t fall for that linear nonsense, boy. If you lived in outer space, what time would it be? What seasons would change? I’m hearin’ a hum. Lucky thing, got my bags packed. Before I go, you’ll have to show me. Demonstrate that you’ve learned, mastered my elementary parlor trick. Try it now. Pull down your courage… and show the world your wonder. Hurry up. Once the moment passes, you never get another just like it. I put in a word for you under the big top. Gave you a recommendation as my protege. Let’s see somethin’ I won’t believe. Wait, I’m thirty-nine now, playing with toys on the floor. I just saw Santa Claus. What’s that, boy? The power to set wishes free? Good choice. Wishing is half of reality. My wish? To bring out the children inside of us. Children of all ages. Stand back, here she comes. I’m ten years old. I’ll never get any older. I can roll like a boulder down a hillside and never break a bone. The train doesn’t stop, boy. You gotta run to catch it. You gotta leap on board and never miss. My legs will carry me anywhere. See ya’, boy, at the end of the line.”
by submission | Nov 3, 2018 | Story |
Author: J. H. Malone
“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Oh, Honey, for me? How sweet!”
“Open it. Then I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“Ok, just let me… What could it be?… Wow!… A CRISPR valentine…”
“I taped the pills to the back. Let’s take them now and in a month, every cell in our bodies will contain a swatch of the other’s DNA.”
“Are the pills homemade? They’re kind of…”
“My cousin has a setup in his garage.”
“Leonard?”
“Don’t be mean. Leonard is a smart guy.”
“Hmm…”
“Come on, Baby.”
“How did you get my DNA?”
“Uh…”
“Oh… Right… Ok, then. Down the hatch!”
“Here goes nothing!”
“Together forever! I love you, Peter… and I don’t think it takes a month once we swallow them.”
“What? Leonard said…”
“No, never mind. You’re right. In a month.”
“Why would you say it doesn’t take a month?”
“I just… I probably heard…”
“Wait a minute. Have you done this before?”
“Listen…”
“It was Fred, wasn’t it. That bozo. All your cells are polluted with Fred DNA, aren’t they? I don’t believe it. I’ve shared my toothbrush with you.”
“I’m so sorry! I was young. I was innocent. I thought I was in love.”
“I’m just… I can see him in you. That skunk.”
“No, no, Peter. His pill didn’t change me at all… I can tell when I’ve eaten asparagus, but that’s about all… and I’m allergic to peanuts…”
“You can hold your liquor too, for a girl. I’ll bet that came from Fred.”
“Forget about Fred. What am I getting from your DNA? Your jealousy?”
“Hey, don’t blame the victim here.”
“It was after Fred’s valentine that I started getting a yen for you, out of the blue. Maybe you ought to be thanking him.”
“Fine, Janice. Whatever. I just wanted it to be a surprise, is all.”
“It is totally a surprise. Actually, I’m honored. You’ve had so many girlfriends, but now I’m the special one.”
“Yes…”
“Oh my God! The guilty look on your face! Your lying gene is lousy. I hope that one isn’t in my pill… You’ve got some Lucy McGowan in you, don’t you? That tramp. She lies every time she opens her mouth. And Vanessa Pazzoli. How could you? And Mai Lei Sook? Afrina Bokadella? I’ll bet you’ve swapped DNA with all of them. Peter, you’re not the man I thought you were.”
“At least I’m not allergic to nuts. Plus, I’ve still got the old Y chromosome. I’ll prove it after dinner.”
“Ok, that’s it. I want you to leave. Please. Take one of your other valentines out to dinner. I’m just another girl to you.”
“No, no, Janice. Listen. This is a CRISPR PLUS valentine. First time I’ve ever given one.”
“What’s CRISPR PLUS?”
“The pills include the CRISPR gene drive, so our babies are gonna get extra me and you genes.”
“Our babies?… Oh, Peter… Are you saying…”
“Yes. And these pills will also swap our love genes.”
“Huh? What’s our love genes?”
“Leonard didn’t say, exactly, but he said now we’ll love each other forever, guaranteed. The divorce lawyers tried to get it banned but they couldn’t. So will you marry me?”
“Oh my God, Peter. I… I don’t know what to say… I think the pill’s kicking in. I can feel the love… Yes! I’ll marry you!”
“Excellent! So where do you want to go for dinner?”
