by Julian Miles | Aug 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The door opens slowly. Lawgiver James comes in, helmet in hand. He’s got a look on his face that tells Maddy everything she doesn’t want to know.
“They found him, didn’t they?”
James nods.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Deputy Evans nods as he follows James in.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looks at them.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
James steps forward to put a battered datapad on the counter. She recognises the tattered charm hanging from it: she and Tanya spent a summer afternoon making it, three years gone.
James points to it.
“He left you a message. Report that accompanied this said someone listened to it, as it could have contained evidence.”
“You listen too?”
Evans shakes his head and points to James.
“He wouldn’t let me.”
She nods her thanks to James. He points to the datapad.
“That’s yours. Sorry we couldn’t return more. We’ll leave you, now. Our condolences for your loss.”
The two Lawgivers don their helmets and take their leave. James pauses to turn the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ before exiting.
Maddy looks at the datapad, then at the clock. Surely there’s enough time before Tanya comes in from school. She needs to listen first, to see if they can listen to it together, or whether it’s something for Tanya to hear eventually. She reaches out and taps the screen. It lights up with a single icon –
‘For Maddy’.
Taking a deep breath, she taps it. Brion’s voice is clear, like he’s standing there. ‘He sounds tired’ is her last cohesive thought for a while.
“Hi there, Derry girl. Sorry for this, but I had to give you something. You never kept anything from me. By now, you’ve guessed I had secrets. All I can do is ask you to forgive me, one day. I trust you to tell Tanya what she needs to know.
“Before we met, I was what you joked about that first time. You the poor girl who found her home among the stars, a long way from North Eire. What a contrast: me a street kid who only made it off Portena by being willing to do what others wouldn’t. You said I looked like some interstellar assassin off some cheap AV show, then laughed when I blushed. I should have done what half of me wanted to do right then: run. Instead I went with the other half: I stayed.
“Yes, there was someone on Chanton I was sent to kill. No, I didn’t. Once I met you, it all changed. But running a store was hard. I’d gotten used to living high. The change brought my childhood back. I admit, I got tired of it; nearly gave up several times. Then we had Tanya. We went from having nothing much to having one thing that mattered above all… But it was still difficult, and even more tiring. Every day I watched hard choices grind you down. Even when things picked up, your expression played on my mind. Every little frustration got magnified. I couldn’t see we were actually happy. I was headed for ruining everything through worrying over nothing.”
He sniffs.
“Then I recognised a pair of ex-colleagues at the spaceport. Might as well have been a sign. The tiredness lifted. I took the next ship out.”
He clears his throat.
“You don’t need to know anything of who I was before we met. That was a different person. All you need to know is I love you both more than life itself. Kiss Tanya for me. I’m sorry, Maddy. Goodbye.”
by submission | Aug 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
A scholar I know read this Latin passage in an ancient manuscript containing a complex formula for presumably transforming lead into gold. Yet the formula looked peculiar and unlikely to accomplish its goal. I once worked in a research lab studying the neurochemistry of crime before taking my current position.
After I promised to keep the formula a secret, he gave it to me, in translated English. I then performed the various steps to see what would happen.
Alchemists never provided specific details on their procedures so failures by others could always be dismissed. But when I mixed the chemicals in the proscribed amounts and order for the specified times at the required temperatures, I finally realized what I was doing. This wasn’t literally about turning lead into gold but about transforming base people into upstanding individuals.
If enormous quantities were dumped into rivers, it could eventually transform humanity, not only for the current generation that partook of it but also for later ones in the womb. It had irreversible neurological properties. How they ever stumbled onto this, I’ll probably never know but I will devote the rest of my life to trying to figure that out.
Nonetheless, as a prison warden, I sprinkled a tiny amount into a hardened criminal’s morning meal. Didn’t matter which one, all of them in the line were evil devils, some of them obviously pretending to have reformed. But this fellow instantly tuned into a really nice fellow.
I pushed for him to be paroled and after two years, based on his behavior and my recommendation, he was released. O yeah, the very day the drug was administered, he sought an interview with the FBI. Two days later he spilled the beans on his cartel. And the day after his release from prison he was shot in the head.
by submission | Aug 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: C.R. Kiegle
“You’ll need to initial here, here, annnnnd, here,” the man at the check-in counter told Estella as he flipped through the pages of the form. The room was lit with white, sterile lights that had a slight blink.
“Mmm. Okay,” she replied quietly, marking her initials with pen strokes that looked less like letters and more like the scribblings of a toddler on a sugar-high.
“Don’t you want to read through the form first?” the man asked. Estella shook her head.
“I want my mother’s eyes.”
“Yes, but, the procedure-”
“She was murdered.”
“Ah.”
That was all that needed to be said. Sure, the procedure to transplant eyes was not one that could be reversed. Sure, her eye-see computer and all the memories of her life she had stored within it would be replaced with those of her mother’s. But despite all the happiness she had experienced in the three years since her mother had died, living with the knowledge that she would never really know who killed her mother had gnawed away at her until even what should have been the happiest moments of her life felt numb.
Estella took a seat on one of the grey waiting room chairs whose backs barely reached the curve of her back, staring ahead blankly. A moment, a breath, and she opened her eye-see.
“Awake at last, mi amor,” her husband whispered at her in the first memory she had queued to watch. It was the second day of their honeymoon on an island in the Pacific, and in the distance behind him she could see the pinks and oranges and blues of a tropical sunrise.
“It’s still early, dear,” she had replied. His greying hair had an attractive orange tint in the rising sun, but the shadows exaggerated the lines of the wrinkles on his face.
The memory flashed away as Estella waved her hand, and another appeared in its place. Her mother sat next to her at the top of the mountain they had scaled for Estella’s 18th birthday, just four years ago.
“Good choice, going early,” her mother had said as they watched the sun rise below them. “And happy birthday.”
“Thanks, mom,” Estella had replied. She watched her mom put her arm around her shoulders, and the current Estella felt cold when she couldn’t feel the warmth of her mother’s arms around her.
“Estella?” a nurse’s voice interrupted. Estella waved her hand again and the eye-see flashed away, and once again she was in the sterile white room.
“We’re ready for you.”
Blue eyes shut and green eyes opened hours later. Estella was still Estella, but even before she went to start her mother’s eye-see computer she could tell her eyes were no longer her own as she realized how poor her mother’s vision had been.
“Queue my last memory,” Estella told the eye-see. Within an instant she was in her mother’s office at night, walking to the elevator. Forgetting it was a memory, Estella tried to turn her head, but found herself unable to swivel her head.
Footsteps sounded louder and louder in the hallway behind her. Sterile white lights blinked above her.
“Hello?” Estella asked in her mother’s voice. At last, she turned.
“Your daughter looks so much like you, mi amor.”
Estella waved her hand before she could watch the man move any closer, tears falling from her mother’s eyes.
“You alright?” a nurse asked as she checked Estella’s vitals.
“Can you- can you-” Estella stuttered.
“Do you need something, honey?”
“Can you- can you delete a memory from the eye-see?”
by submission | Aug 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
A massive bright white RV was parked oblivious to the dangers of LA criminal elements on Figueroa Street. A sloping blue ramp led to a double door in the rear. The words “Second Chances” were stenciled over the back entry along with a welcome “Please Enter” sign.
Sheila McKenzie climbed the incline, wobbling in three-inch platform heels. Her tight shredded one-piece black dress was streetwear for business as usual, but today was different. Two of her friends mentioned Second Chances. They both disappeared. Sheila was tough. Cops didn’t listen. She was going to find them, one way or the other.
A slim, older man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the doors before she reached them. He was dressed in casual business attire and spoke in a soft, gentle manner.
“Hello, Sheila. I’m Ronald. Please come in.”
Sheila turned her head aside, startled by a stranger knowing her. “You a cop?” She started her interrogation.
Ronald smiled, motioning her inside. Sheila was worried she couldn’t see behind him. Every sex worker knew to evade any car, van, or truck if you couldn’t see everything inside. This was different. She had her tiny Beretta pistol hidden near her inner thigh. She’d do whatever was needed for her BFFs.
“What’s up? Why should I come in?”
“No need for concern Sheila McKenzie. Ruth and Emma are fine. We know you want out of this lifestyle just like your friends. We have a path for a second chance. You won’t need your weapon. I’m harmless. They’ll tell you the same.”
“They’re inside? How did you know?” Sheila stopped talking.
“We anticipated your visit. You’re a decent person. We’re glad you came.”
Sheila resisted for a moment but let her guard down long enough to take his outstretched hand, helping her over the elevated doorway into a waiting office. She was surprised by the RV’s spaciousness with its beautiful, clean, and welcoming atmosphere. The walls were covered with gorgeous photos of wondrous outdoor vistas. She took a seat in a soft chair across from Ronald near his table supporting a large screen.
“Is this a job interview?”
“No, Sheila. You’re already approved. Did you feel a change since you entered?”
She hadn’t until he mentioned it. The fire in her uterus was gone–the gnawing pain from several STDs. Her crippling scoliosis was gone and pimp scars. Partially lost vision in her left eye cleared, letting her see her friends clearly as they appeared on the screen, with welcoming live outdoor scenery behind like the walls around her.
“Sheila…you came!” the two women twittered. Sheila knew their voices but had never seen them so healthy and happy. “We’ve found men of our dreams here, girl,” one chimed in. “We are safe and free of all the pains of LA. Please join us. It’s wonderful!”
The screen went blank. Sheila sat stunned, tears in her eyes.
Ronald waited and then explained to her that her friends had chosen the Second Chance. His world, far away, needed women to grow their new colony currently filled with lonely men. She would be treated as royalty if she agreed to the transfer, as her friends had. He was aware she had no ties on Earth…no family, children, and now no close friends.
Ronald made it clear she would not be forced, but she would not remember their meeting if she left of her free will, though her healing would remain. Her answer came quickly with no remorse. “Now,” she exclaimed, placing the Beretta on the table. “I’m ready. I think I’ve always been ready.”
by submission | Aug 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The V-Training has always been controversial, even more so now, some forty years since it was first introduced. The ground offensive has been obsolete for decades and wars are waged from afar, controlled by the kind of people who first designed the V-Scapes, the war torn and ravaged world in which the recruits are forced to spend so much time.
The protestors argue that the training is barbaric and draconian and has become simply a badge of honour. The Factor Rite’s argument hasn’t changed, although they are always careful with the language they use. They declare the training is necessary because they have to be sure all soldiers are able to cope with whatever the world might throw at them.
The V-Scapes, they insist, are closely monitored and controlled and all recruits are able to exit at any given time. Factor Rite argues that it isn’t real but of course the trauma is; not just for those who fail and are forced back out into the very real world with their very real trauma, but also for those who pass, the soldiers with their demons festering, their trauma bottled and stored, saving it for later, for another day.
Recruit 857 had been shocked by how grotty and rundown the Holo- Suite was. The paint, behind the consoles lined up against the walls, was yellowed and stained. The cheap wooden desks were scuffed and scratched, cables snaking across the floor, in all directions, searching for available connections points. He had been forced to step carefully between them as he made his way toward a headset that had lost its lustre and sheen.
But getting back there, to that grubby and dimly lit room, was all that mattered to Recruit 857 now. His hand hovered over the exit button, aware of course that the training time varied from recruit to recruit. But it was always at least a month and often as long as two. Could he last another hour, another day, another week, another month?
Recruit 857 had already seen so much, so many dead; citizens, comrades and the enemy, although he was no longer able to differentiate between them, and he wondered if this was a good or bad thing. Was it possible that this was what they wanted, what they needed from him?
by submission | Aug 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
We were all enjoying a day on the beach. The sun was bright, and the water was cool. People were laughing and swimming. People were sunbathing and picnicking under umbrellas. People were having a fun day.
Then slowly, there it was, a dark cloud over the distant waves on the horizon. The weather forecast didn’t say anything about rain. The cloud came closer. Not many people noticed at first, and those that did thought it was just curious.
But then the cloud wasn’t a cloud. It was dragonflies — swarms and swarms of dragonflies buzzing about, bumping into things, flying all over the place, hitting people in the water, and hitting people on the sand.
Swimmers started running ashore. Children and women were screaming and grown men, too. Some people were still sitting, recording the scene, taking selfies, sending messages, and searching their smartphone apps to figure out what was going on.
I guessed, probably as several others did, that the swarm was an insect migration, and the dragonflies had gotten lost. I searched on my smartphone like the old grey-headed man next to me was doing, sitting on a blanket, with his old wife lying down, trying to sun her back.
The news said the dragonflies were everywhere. Social media alerts and social influencers reported dragonfly clouds all across the country. Emergency conferences with meteorologists and insectologists were livestreamed, but the experts and specialists couldn’t explain the “entomological anomaly” that was happening.
More and more dragonflies were coming, and the situation was turning dangerous. People were getting struck in the eye. Some went blind. Others choked on the dragonflies. People couldn’t drive with dragonflies raining on their windshields.
There were accidents and crashes and turnovers on highways and sidewalks. There were explosions. States of emergency were declared in townships and city centers nationwide, yet there was nothing the National Guard or the Army could do.
The president rapidly issued an executive order for the pest-control and fumigation industries to work with the Air Force, and 24/7 extermination initiatives were launched by every state government on the continental landmass.
More dragonflies came. Demoralized and frustrated senators, governors, and mayors were motioning to release drone bombs and drop fire bombs and atom bombs to stop the dragonfly invasion. Those demands were too extreme, but they gave lots of people an idea.
Men, women, and kids in towns and cities — even big cities like New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago — started making smoke bombs, pressure-cooker bombs, and bonfires for the fireballs and white and black smoke to repel the dragonflies. Great fires started to break out uncontrollably, some by accident and others intentionally. Pandemonium let loose as the fires raged from sea to sea.
Soon enough, all sorts of individuals and groups began crawling out of the woodwork — crime gangs, fascist killers, lone wolves, religious cults, secessionist rebels, terrorist radicals, vigilante punishers — all vying for power and control, all because the dragonflies came.
The dragonflies kept coming for days and days, months and months, and they never stopped, except briefly in the winter. The next wave was worse.
Now’s over a year. America is a third-world war zone. State and local governments have collapsed. Nowhere’s safe. Children can’t go on the streets alone. Day and night are death sentences. People hide in their homes. There’s no more food.
Emergency aid is slowly on its way from Africa, Asia, and Europe, but nothing’s guaranteed. The dragonflies are still coming. They’re still coming.
There’s thunder in the air.
