by Julian Miles | Sep 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m standing a little too close for his bodyguard’s liking, but it’s crowded in here and I have to be sure. I stumble a little and Ileo himself reaches a hand to help. I take his arm and smile. He doesn’t recognise me.
“Thank you.”
“Least I could do.” He’s flirting with his eyes – about all he can get away with. Far too many functionaries about. I see his bodyguard move in.
“Looks like you’re taken.”
He glances sideways at his approaching minder: “Unfortunately, for tonight, it’s something we both must bear. Maybe another time?”
I smile as I step back into the crowd: “Definitely.”
He smiles. I’m gone.
Jonas is his waiter and Elle is his escort. She only got out of bed because serving Ileo pays so much. Jonas rose – from the same bed – because I pay his wages. I watch them exchanging passionate glances whenever Jonas passes the table. That’s unfortunate.
Ileo leaves at oh-three-hundred with Elle on his arm. Jonas changes hurriedly and rushes to meet me.
“Will she be safe?”
I smile as I look up from my phone: “Yes.”
His sigh of relief halts as I taser him with the ‘phone’. Catching his body, I step back into the alley, lean him against a dumpster and stab him several times. Just another mugging gone wrong.
As he slides down, I answer the question in his eyes: “She lives because you’re gone.”
I step out the opposite end of the alley, check my tracking and see that Elle has been dropped off – not that it matters if she wasn’t, but I prefer to be honest when answering someone’s final question.
“This is Hive. This is Hive. Please confirm delegate.”
Right on time.
“Delegate is marked, Hive. Go code is XY671020.”
My touch contained two ingredients in fingertip pads. Jonas’s serving cloth had the activating ingredient, while Elle’s dress and underwear were soaked with tracer elements that would only bond with a microadhesive base made of the first three parts.
Far away on a cypress-covered hill, Ileo steps from his armoured limousine and the stealth drone that’s been orbiting since nightfall locks on. Eight antipersonnel grenades rain down and Ileo goes to meet his maker along with his bodyguard and driver, killed with munitions from a nearby country that most will believe held a grudge.
We came up with how to get away with drone operations over ‘friendly’ soil while at college. I did the time in the military necessary to acquire the obscure skills and contacts we needed.
We formed Hillsdon and Vemas, a.k.a. ‘HiVe’. An international company founded in secret, grounded in anonymity, and based on neutral ground. We provide ‘deniable lethal oversight with global reach’. These days, for an increasing number of people and organisations, HiVe is the ace up their sleeves, and they will pay handsomely to retain – and defend – it.
Our notoriety led to Ileo Vemas starting to doubt our moral standing. Arguments escalated into separation. I changed my face within a month of leaving, then killed those who did the work. It’s taken two years to exploit the protocols of our invisible hierarchy to action his assassination.
My de facto takeover will be a side effect. I did this to wipe away that look on his face. The one he got when he realised I simply couldn’t understand his objections to killing for money. I had to. Just had to. I can’t be as bad as that look suggested, can I?
by submission | Sep 17, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
One morning I have a horrible pain in my right side. I go see Dr. Ivan, my organ manager. She concludes my body is rejecting my liver and quickly puts in another. Less than a week later, I can barely get out of bed.
“We’ll have to put in a mechanical,” Dr. Ivan tells me.
Surprisingly, my body rejects it, too.
***
“I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“You don’t have much choice,” Dr. Jenkins says. “Unless you want to be the first person to die in a thousand years. You’ll get used to it. We can give you the same appearance. Not sure you want it.” Wise guy.
I reluctantly agree to have my consciousness transferred into an android body. Mechanical organs are one thing, but I’d rather not be a full artificial. I tried it decades ago. The extra strength is enjoyable for awhile, but the thrill wears off, and sensations are never as genuine as with truly human senses. That turns out to be the least of my concerns. The artificial brain doesn’t accept my mind.
***
I lean back, and Dr. Wilson places the metal band around my head. The last resort, no pun intended, is to preserve my consciousness by uploading it into Virtual-Land. Virtual-Land! Where people go on holiday! What else am I to do? I choose to go to The World That Was exhibit. Dr. Wilson begins tapping a keypad. I close my eyes, and giant sequoias flicker into view then vanish. I open my eyes, and the doctor is shaking her head.
***
“We think a passing muon did something to your neural electrical system. A one-in-a-trillion occurrence. We don’t fully understand, but it’s stymied everything we’ve tried to do.” Dr. Spangler opens a box with 10 small bottles. “I did some research and had these processed for you. They’re called ‘pills.’ Take three of each every day.”
“Take?”
He cups his hand to his mouth and tilts back his head. “Swallow them. With water. They won’t cure you, but they’ll prolong your life. You are going to die though, no doubt about it.” I swear he’s trying not to grin.
***
Dr. Spangler wrote up my case and is now famous throughout the medical community. But as renowned as he is, he’s not half the celebrity I am.
I can’t keep up with all the requests for interviews. My face is on hover buses and sky posters. Whenever I venture out, I cause a commotion with hoards of people clamoring for my autograph. “No, don’t sign your name,” they always say. “Sign it Dying Man.” I usually oblige.
I’ve been offered a fortune if I allow my every moment to be continuously live-streamed till my last breath. The colonies are begging me to visit but I’m too weak for hyper-travel.
There’s even a memorial — a thirty-meter holo of me. I’m standing with my arms outstretched, staring pensively into the distance. It’s called “Dying Man Looking Into The Abyss.” Pretty corny, but it’s what most people want to know: How do I deal with the fact one day soon I’ll simply cease to exist.
I never know how to answer them. In fact, I’m embarrassed to admit how I’m coping. I’ve become proficient at one of the rituals practiced by the ancients. Like everyone else, I used to belittle it. Now I understand why our ancestors prayed. They wanted to live forever, too.
by submission | Sep 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Charles Paul Wallace
I thought I’d got lucky.
She was my type, you know? Late ’20s, not-too-pretty-not-too-plain, intelligent…and, apparently, interested. I was in one of those black-light bars by the Thames, near to the corporate headquarters of my employers, Allwood Associates. She took the seat next to mine and ordered a sesame-oil tequila infusion. Class, I guess. We got to chatting. Things went well. We retired to a booth, then went on to a waterfront okonomiyaki stand in the shadow of Canary Wharf and ordered a pair of prawn specials.
The name she gave me was Rita. Authentic enough for me. “So, Seb.” She laid a gentle hand on my wrist. That should have set alarm bells ringing – but I’d had a few, and…well. You know. Lonely souls in the city and all that. “Guess you’re one of the lucky ones, right?”
“How so?” I leaned in towards her. The chef flipped our pancakes over and hummed a tune to himself.
“Well…” She swept an arm to indicate the towering temples of commerce a hundred metres away. “Not everyone has the luxury of a job nowadays.”
“And you?” I replied. My head felt fuzzy.
“Oh, I’m just like you.” She extracted a flask from her handbag and unscrewed the lid. An odour of absinthe and mint drifted out, mixing with the cooking smells. “So here’s to luck, huh?” She tipped her head back and drank. I almost fell in love there and then. She offered it to me. “Share and share alike, Seb.”
“Then here’s to you, Rita,” I said with as much seriousness as I could muster, and put the flask to my lips. The drink tasted warm like blood and cool like permafrost. When I handed the container back her eyes flickered cold for a second.
“Ready,” the chef called. I paid him and passed her one of the pancakes. The first mouthful tasted strange; like something dead was squatting beneath my tongue, sucking my vitality out. By the second bite Rita’s face was phasing in and out. Was it me? Or something about her?
“Seb,” she said. Her voice sounded metallic now. Her right eye-socket shone, as if made of plastic. “You won’t remember any of this. Not consciously. But I am legally obligated to inform you that you are now the property of ProvoTech Ltd, company registration number 10429199. Any prior employment contracts have been rescinded. You will report to us any and all protocols, blueprints or minutes related to the period of your employment at Allwood Associates, Ltd, not limited to –”
But she never got to finish what she was saying. Never got to, because at that moment her face caved in on itself and the mesh of wire filaments thus revealed began to melt. She – it – stumbled forward into my arms. Behind her stood the figure of the okonomiyaki chef, legs akimbo in a combat stance, his heat-gun still pulsing.
“Lucky boy,” he said, shaking his head. “Getting taken in by a spy-bot, eh?”
‘Rita’ crumpled to the ground, its mouth emanating a low electronic moan. The chef murmured code into a lapel-mic. I ran before whoever it was he was talking to turned up.
Back at my apartment I found a black-light scanner waiting for me on the kitchen table. My right eye-socket shone beneath its unflinching illumination, as if made of plastic. Something clicked inside my head.
I got out my phone. “1042-18 reporting,” I – or something inside me – murmured. “Spy-bot neutralised. Returning to base.”
On my way out I shoved the scanner into the toilet. I didn’t lock the door behind me.
by submission | Sep 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Edward Turner III
This isn’t really about the divorce now. Nor is it about the cheating, I am coming to terms with the fact that he truly wants me to die.
He is still speaking, running his mouth, pretending to be the good guy. He is smiling a big toothy grin as he speaks, “I don’t give a damn what happened between us anymore. I don’t ever want to hurt you, I just want everything to be as fair as it possibly can.”
“Fair? How is this fair at all?”
The local Magistrate, sitting in on our divorce proceedings speaks up, “As you know, the law states that this is what must happen to proceed with your divorce. Your husband has not specifically chosen this punishment ma’am.”
I shake my head, “All right, let’s get on with it.”
I look down at the contract between us. The Magistrate speaks softly, “One berry and freedom from marriage will be granted. You will receive 80% of all money and property.”
I look up at him, “What about the children?”
My husband scoffs, you know that sound someone makes as though you are being nothing but ridiculous, “Don’t worry about the kids, if you survive, you can have them.”
The Magistrate nods and adds this to the contract. His pen leaves a shiny sheen on the paper as though it will never dry. He turns the contract around, “Please sign.”
I do and then my husband takes it into his bony hands. He reads it again as though it has changed in the last seven minutes.
The Magistrate open\s the box before us. The box is adorned in gold and beneath the lid three small blackberries sit on top of three tiny exquisite pillows. Lace is even sewn into the edges of those pillows.
I look at my husband, “You really don’t care at all do you?”
The Magistrate tries to keep the peace, “This really is standard procedure when one party is found to have committed adultery.”
The tears are beginning to show. I pick up the third berry. Supposedly you feel nothing in the three minutes it takes to kill you, drowsiness and then death.
With that you are, gone forever from the life and the world we live in. I pop the berry into my mouth. I bite down, it is too acidic and suddenly I know I am going to die. I am sure I can feel the fatigue coming on.
I should have chosen a different berry. I don’t want to die.
The Magistrate has already flipped over the timer. I am supposed to watch as the final 180 seconds slip from my life.
I cry into my hands.
I wipe my tears and as the final grains of sand fall, the Magistrate says, “You are safe, it was the second berry.”
A loud bang scares the hell out of me. My husband is staring at me. He has hit the oak desk hard enough that I wonder if he broke his hand. The Magistrate gives him a stern look but says nothing.
The Magistrate stamps the bottom of the contract and lists the results with that pen.
The house is mine, the kids are mine, I won.
I stand up and say, “Thank you so much.”
My husband grabs my arm, “You don’t deserve this.”
I yank my arm from him and I say, “Maybe I don’t, but neither do you.”
I walk out of the room, tears filling my eyes. I made it.
I made it.
by submission | Sep 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Adam Byers
Case File: C7-40415
Description of event:
At 8:42 am on September 27, 1988, Kenneth James Walker was struck and killed by a bus. The Deviation occurred at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Rutherford Road, District C, Sector 7. Mr. Walker was 28 years old.
Rationale for Deviation:
Mitigation of projected damages from an aberrancy resultant of Deviation K3-04117. Analysis showed 97% likelihood that the Rutherford Express Bus would crash into the Third Street Market at 8:51 am, September 27. The event would kill forty-seven people, forty-six of whom had extensive connections to future timelines.
Interventions taken:
One individual—Kenneth Walker (timeline node NC7-108412)—had much weaker connections to the prime timeline. Mr. Walker had a cancer of the brain that was both undiscovered and incurable. Due to his imminent deterioration and relative isolation from future events, Mr. Walker was selected as the catalyst.
The night of September 26, Agent Six visited the subject in a dream, assuming the form of Mr. Walker’s childhood dog, Benji. Mr. Walker was informed of his latent illness and of the anticipated accident. The subject was guided through his future timeline links, as well as projected nodal connections of the three most influential casualties: a child piano prodigy (NC7-130873), a mother of seven (NH5-P089218), and an orthopaedic surgeon (NC9-064112). Mr. Walker understood the request and consequences, and consented to serve as the catalyst. Instructions were inserted and his memory of the dream was erased.
Resolution:
The morning of September 27, Mr. Walker forgot his umbrella. He doubled back to his apartment, retrieved the umbrella, and ran to catch his bus. Approaching Fifth Avenue, while crossing against a traffic light, Mr. Walker altered his gait to avoid a deep puddle. He stumbled into the path of the Rutherford Express Bus and was struck. The vehicle did not complete its route to the Third Street Market, preserving forty-six lives.
Paramedics responded to the scene but were unable to revive the subject. A preliminary police investigation ascribed no fault to the driver, and a small memorial service was held for Mr. Walker on October 9. It was a poignant affair attended by family and friends, the appropriate mixture of reminiscence and grief. None of the ninety-seven guests in attendance know that Kenneth Walker died a hero.
Follow-up:
Case file to be monitored for aberrancies for a one year period, with weekly review of timeline connections surrounding Mr. Walker’s parents (NC7-053441, NC3-242168) and the driver of the bus ND3-041333). If no aberrancies are detected during that period, status will be updated as Deviation: resolved.
Agent Nineteen
October 12, 1988
by submission | Sep 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Ken Carlson
Parallel universes can be tricky. They create confusion, fear, and a false sense of hope.
So when I informed Nelson, my best friend from our original lives in Manhattan that I intended to destroy the portal between our universe and the other, as well as a good chunk the other’s New York, I should not have been surprised by his reaction.
“Have you gone mad, Brian, or simply cruel!” Nelson yelled at me, shaking his finger up at my face, as his face turned red.
“Calm in the eye of the storm, Nelson,” I said. “You’re here in this world now. Here is where you belong. Whatever happens back there is no concern of yours.”
I had been Nelson’s guide to this Manhattan. As liaison between the universes, my job was to negotiate and protect the path that connected them. I simply led Nelson to a subway stop at 1st Ave and 23rd Street, the H train on the Pink Line. Nelson, a fairly nebbish fellow at heart trusted me and I made the offer to pay for dinner after a long day of working together at Obligatory Mutual Insurance, he came along. At the appropriate stop, I gave him a gentle nudge, stranding him in our other world.
To the casual observer, our two worlds are fairly similar, but this Manhattan made the choice to save itself from a horrendous deadly future. Its technology was decades ahead of Nelson’s world, but you wouldn’t know it because many breakthrough items had become illegal.
Cell phones and personal computers had become a menace to the inhabitants many years ago. Socially, it created a generation of paranoid introverts. Politically it was a hazard as systems could be easily hacked and barriers to protect online fortunes, credit reports, environmental controls, and, most importantly, weapons, were frequently breached.
Violent skirmishes broke out world wide, started and completed before the average person on the street could be bothered to take a moment to silence his or her phone. As nations crumbled, the most powerful in charge took notice. They finally agreed on a new method—Return to a time when cell phones and its technology were never invented. In ways that climate change and nuclear weapons could never be suitably resolved, insecure computers risking dollars and power were.
After the initial wave of discontent of having to give up their Internet addictions, there was mention in the printed newspapers of many addicts committing suicide due to the overwhelming loss to their lives. They returned to speaking to people, rather than typing at them.
“Nelson,” I said, “the action has been decided. The risk is too great for cell phones or the wrong technology to come back in over here.” Our walk had taken us back to the subway.
“Brian,” he said, “what do you mean, ‘action.’ And why are you carrying a briefcase.”
“It’s simple,” I said, “I’ll take this train back to your old stomping grounds. Once I reach there I’ll disembark to leave the briefcase behind, then return. Once it self destructs, the portal will be closed, and the other world, well…”
As the old H pulled into the station, Nelson said he had a question. I leaned in as the loud train slowed to a halt. Nelson clocked me good with a right to the ear. He grabbed the briefcase and ran toward the train himself.
I shouted through the glass after he’d boarded. He didn’t answer. Since the train never returned, I can only assume he detonated it between stations, destroying the portal and leaving both worlds intact.
