by submission | Oct 21, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
“London is ours! Zero-ing in on infamy!” announced Haggard Elsson, winking to the air steward and striding purposefully from the First Class exit from BA0171 with his Executive Assistant Freya trailing him, awkwardly wheeling both of their suitcases.
London’s City Airport was one of their first customers and remained a flagship project for sustainable technology in a fractious age. Haggard’s smile was broad as his vibrating footsteps on the skywalk spurred the Zero-walls into life, broadcasting BBC’s News24 in Norwegian – his selected language. On the floor, ceiling, and sides, the world’s daily tribulations laid bare, using zero carbon, solar and kinetic energy and little maintenance.
Yet with considerable dismay, Haggard saw the news displaying on his Z-walls was all about technology, with today’s expert a gleaming, stern-faced liquid-eyebrowed Professor Nochs promoting his latest management book “Progressive Notches”.
Haggard moaned, “Can’t we firewall this insolent turd and his insidious nonsense?”
“Unfortunately”, began Fleur sweating heartily alongside, “we sold the lease rights to our Zero-walls technology, not their content; they can show whatever feeds they want”.
Haggard knew this already. Close-lipped, his eyes husking groundnuts, his arms windmilling as he flipped the bird and other fingered profanities at the Professor’s twenty-foot-high face as they wheeled along endless skywalks towards the elevators.
“Screw you London! This isn’t the welcome I expected!”.
Freya sighed. She quite liked Nochs’ delivery, it was understandable to the layman, and he had a childish fascination that piqued her fancy. She would never tell Haggard. He’d hated him since their childhood rivalry as Rubik’s Cube prodigies.
“Flipping inefficient lifts”, shouted Haggard at no one, pointlessly pushing repeatedly the call button.
Nochs’ bore down on them like a bad dream about a dystopian future. “Everyone talks about progress, and giant transformative leaps being made by technology, but it is only now we can make this leap, with the Omni-cell technology. We will create over 50 million new jobs worldwide. And we will eradicate many inefficient jobs. Did you know the only job that disappeared in the USA since 1950 is ‘lift operator’? We have 50% of the funding from Canadian and US pension funds, I am here in London in final discussions to obtain the remaining 50%”.
The lift doors opened, Haggard shook his head impatiently as Freya bashed her way in with their oversized luggage.
As the doors finally closed and the Z-walls abuse stopped, Haggard let out an audible sigh. Followed closely by a harrumph. “Lift operators, eh, Nochs. Interesting. Let’s ride this lift a few times, Freya”, he enunciated clearly, pressing the Down button once, firmly.
Freya tolerated his peccadillos. She was sure he was returning to punch the Z-walls.
After three fruitless trips up-and-down, Haggard was smiling again, almost giggling.
“Freya, remind me what sort of contract we have with the lease of Z-walls?”.
“Standard lease of hardware, own-maintenance insurance and cover, full tech and hardware support, 0.25 FTE on site, and zero content restrictions”.
Haggard’s eyes were sparkling, “Can we slip a new job into each one that is in a building of more than, say, six floors?”
“An additional maintenance or tech support role you mean?”, Freya quizzed.
“Nope. Marketing. I want a Lift Operator written in. No cost to the clients at all. We will pay. We will use interns, dress them in company pink, and…..”
“….make sure they are charismatic and …”, continued Freya
“…sell the absolute heck out of our company while pressing buttons!”, finished Haggard.
“How can Professor Noch start or obtain funding if his theoretical foundation is built on a historical lie!” exclaimed Haggard proudly.
by submission | Oct 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: James Hornby
In all my days on Gulliver’s Rest, I never believed that the War would reach us. From the window, I see the sky is pitted with scars from the wreckage of an Artari Sunskipper, ripped from history in a series of blinding flashes. I came to this planet to escape from the violence. Now I realise that maybe there was nowhere I could have gone to hide.
I pull Meren and Egar close, kissing their heads, trying desperately to assure them that everything is okay, even if I know it isn’t. They’re my only family; I have to keep them safe. Meren asks me why the War has come to our world. I say nothing, for I have no answers for her, only worries.
There was no time to pack. Even if we tried, the contents of our bags could empty or reproduce due to the twisting and shaping of the timelines around us. On reflection, I doubt we’d even realise if they had. Instead, I take their hands and run from the homestead, out into the chaos beyond the threshold.
Outside is ghostly quiet. I keep thinking I hear someone screaming, yet almost the instant I do my mind moves onto other things, the moment forgotten. I wonder if I’m forgetting because the people who scream no longer exist. Regardless, we must press on if we are to survive this.
I tell the kids that we have to make it to the hill. It’s not far, just a few minutes from where we live. Inside is a bunker, containing a time capsule I stole from the Enemy’s homeworld long ago. The time machine is our way out of here. It’s the only way we can ever be safe now.
I catch glimpses of foot soldiers, slipping in and out of higher dimensions, fighting their battle on every plane of reality. I grasp Meren’s hand tighter, keeping her close. She’s my only child; I have to keep her safe.
We reach the hill and make our way into the bunker, chanting incantations to open the seals that allow our entry. Inside the room is dark, save for a single light under which the time capsule is stood. There it has been for thousands of years, or just a few minutes, for that is how this creation exists.
Tara protests, she is scared of the machine. I reassure her, there is no time for emotion, not now we’re so close. She’s my only child; I have to keep her safe.
The time capsule is warm to the touch, and hums when it feels my presence. I fumble in my pocket for the key, sliding it into the lock with ease. I push against the door and stumble inside. The lights on the console flicker the moment my feet hit the floor. The place is dusty, yet holds that pleasant smell in the air like you get from a freshly printed magazine.
I waste no time and set the craft in motion. I have to get away from here, as far away from the War as possible. Sometimes I forget why I’m running, but I know that it is what I must do. I don’t know where I’m going, somewhere nice, I think. Perhaps it was time I settled down, start a family with someone.
After all, I’ve never had a family before.
by submission | Oct 19, 2018 | Story |
Author: Malcolm Carvalho
Pa is sleeping. It’s one of his intermittent naps. They said the meds would make him drowsy all day. He looks serene when he is asleep, even in these fifteen-minute sessions. Must be enough time to mine his memories, and perhaps a little of his subconscious. They’ve tested the program extensively. At least they claim that. I cannot do worse than believe them.
I look up the monitor. All the connections seem to be running fine. Will a few days of running the program image all of his persona? Again, I have no option but to rely on the tech.
I lean forward from my chair and hold his right wrist. I detect a feeble pulse, the beat like the slow drip from a shower. Maybe 45 per minute. I let go and interweave my fingers with his, trying to imprint his warmth onto my memory. I remember the time he held my hand as we walked down the beach. I must have been seven then, my little fingers caught in his firm but gentle grip. The sound of the horse’s hooves exciting and scary at the same time. Pa putting me in the saddle and walking beside the keeper. My heart jumping almost to my throat, and Pa’s voice reassuring me. “I’m right here, Rubu.” And all feels fine in my world. I feel a deep sense of gratitude. I pray these memories have the heaviest weight when the whole thing rolls out. After all, I would not want Pa to have a weaker experience.
I bend and kiss his forehead. I’m sorry, Pa. I need to go. Your medical bills are running too high. My job here can only pay so much. Mars will have better opportunities, and if the laws change, I might even get you there.
It may take a couple of years. I hope he can survive till then. The guilt rankles me. I quieten myself. How else can a planetary analyst pay for this without moving to another planet?
I hope the software makes his mind malleable enough to allow the virtual copy to sink in. I’m prepared to have trouble accepting his version, but I can handle that. There will be enough to do to distract me.
They have mapped my memories well, they said. I even had a quick look at the dry run. In some cases, I could not even figure out which was the real me.
His fingers twitch. Time to leave before he wakes up.
But I am not convinced enough yet. I walk out and pull the door closed leaving a small gap through which I can see him. I turn my hand towards the sensor and wave to turn on the simulation.
Pa wakes up, his eyes blank like life has been drained out from them. He turns to one side to get up. I look to the figure on the chair. He rushes to hold Pa by his arms and props him up.
“Time for our evening walk,” Pa says as he presses his toes to the floor. The simulation thrusts a hand, holds Pa’s elbow and helps him to his feet.
“Let’s skip the park and head to the lake today,” the simulation says. Exactly the same words, exactly the same tone. Or was it me talking?
Pa smiles and begins walking to the door.
My eyes are welling up. If I wait for longer, I might just change my mind.
I walk out, hoping his simulation will not make me miss him either. What the hell! I know the difference.
by submission | Oct 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Thomas Desrochers
The sweaty politicians like to remind us that the EcoFasc League were monsters, especially before we do a round of flyovers. “Remember,” they scream at us, “remember the billions.”
We come in off the eastern seaboard. It’s lovely this time of year, stretching away, an infinite green carpet. Back home the trees are planted in rows. They’re big enough, but you’re always reminded that it’s an artificial thing. Here the trees fight and jostle, untamed.
Billions. Unbelievably large, except when you fly by the countless shattered wrecks of the cities. Just, enormous. Reminds me of home: crowded and gray. Every piece of land we can use, we do. Not many animals left.
Not like here. Here, plants and animals build up in the streets, on the floors and rooftops – the sheer weight of life bringing down steel and concrete. Untouched, though. In a hundred years we’ve seen people wandering these places a dozen times. Elderly, usually, on some final pilgrimage.
It’s beautiful, this endless forest broken up by quiet glades, teeming with wildlife. Don’t go down there. That’s the first thing they tell you in training. Don’t go down there – you’ll cook.
The people there don’t cook, for whatever reason. They live in small communities turned towards the sun, sheltered from the wind, surrounded by fields and gardens that my grandmother would envy and ponds teeming with so many fish my grandfather would cry. We get close enough to take a look. The other guys like to ignore them, but I wave. The kids always wave back. They look happy.
It was a fast affair, if you read between the lines. The books talk about the decades of build-up and turmoil, but it was the blink of an eye. One year the news teems with references to a grizzled man speaking at a pub rally, and the next Asia is coated in VX.
Bummer.
War for a week after we beat back their missiles, but then the League saved everyone the trouble: they cooked off all the New World’s nuclear piles. It was impressive, really (but don’t tell anyone that – you’ll regret it). Invade? Why bother? They paid special attention to their minerals, and the days of heartland grains were over. No more fish from the oceans either, unless you like them hot. My forefathers starved.
Double bummer.
They’ve got technology still, though we’re not sure what or how. We’ve never figured out how they didn’t die out down there. Higher-ups worry: how many, and who? I say, who cares? They’re friendly enough for me.
Plains roll by, endless. I think the people here are obligated to feel free, but maybe they feel trapped. We cross over the continent in a day and it takes the riders and wagon trains half a week between settlements.
The mountains slide past. Before you know it you’ve hit the Pacific. Squalls roll under lingering clouds; it’s a rainforest down there, you’d better believe it. Our satellites watch as the forests grow back like hair on a ten year clear cancer patient – wild. The trees eats up our smog like candy.
I remember the billions. I shouldn’t be, it’s terrible that I am, but I’m grateful they’re gone and glad it happened. I love the flights. The doctors say flyover duty steals decades from us, but nobody’s ever quit.
We had an emergency put-down once – engine trouble. All I remember is the trees as big around as I am tall, wildflowers like scattered paint, and the choir of birds in time to the anxious whine of the geigers.
Paradise, I said. Who could disagree?
by submission | Oct 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
“Hi, Dad, how are you today?”
“Same old, same old, Danny. Come in.”
Daniel and Stanley go into the kitchen, and the two sit at the table. Stanley begins scribbling in a notepad.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re writing about, Dad,” Stanley says.
“Just an idea … an invention I thought of.”
Daniel sighs. “Now what?”
“I call it a DRTS — a Dematerializing Rematerializing Transporation System. It’ll beam you anywhere in the blink of an eye. That’s how we’ll get from place to place in the future.”
“There you go again, Dad. Don’t you see how you’re … confused?”
“I’m never confused, Son.”
“My gosh, Dad, you told Billy last month, this —” Daniel raises an arm and sweeps it around him — “is all just a simulation.” He raps his knuckles on the table. “You told Billy nothing is real, Dad. He could’ve hurt himself when he tried to walk through his bedroom wall.”
“I’m really sorry about that, Danny. I gave it some deeper thought after reading about this ‘Occam’s razor’ thing. I don’t think everything’s a simulation anymore.”
“That’s a relief, Dad. How about what you told me the last time I was here — how we’ll all have computers in our heads? Years from now?”
“Son, it’s only logical. Computers keep getting smaller, right? It’s inevitable that sooner or later they’ll be implanted in humans to enhance our capabilities.”
“Dad, please. Don’t you realize —”
“And not just humans. In the future, we’ll put chips in the heads of animals. Their thoughts’ll be translated into human speech. Mainly your higher mammals — pigs, dogs, some horses. Computers,” Stanley continues, “eventually will lead to all kinds of amazing things — levitation belts, invisibility cloaks, time travel and —”
“Eventually time travel? Talking pigs? Oh, Dad.” Daniel takes his father’s hands in his. “I’m worried about you. I’ve got to run now, but we’re going to … fix this.”
Stanley pulls his hands away from Daniel. “I’m fine, Danny. You don’t have to worry about me.”
***
“How was your father today, Dan?” Lydia says.
Daniel shakes his head. “Well, he’s off the kick about nothing being real. But otherwise about the same, unfortunately. Where are the kids?”
“Billy will be home a little late today.” Lydia says. “Field trip to the Mesozoic. I —”
“Boo!” Sally yells, suddenly appearing next to her father, then rising to the ceiling.
“Young Lady,” Daniel says sternly, “how many times have I told you? No cloaking in the house. Now come down here. Then switch off that belt, too.”
Sally does as she’s told. “Never get to have any fun,” she mutters to herself.
“As I was saying,” Lydia continues, “I think before we go to Jupiter,” she nods toward the family’s teleportation chamber in the corner of the room, “we should take your father in like we talked about. I think he needs is his memory enhancement chip replaced.”
“I agree. I know older people sometimes tend to live in the past, but not like Dad.” As Daniel speaks, a pot-bellied pig saunters up to him. “How are you, Hamster?” Daniel says, scratching the pig between the eyes.
“Absolutely famished,” Hamster replies.
by Hari Navarro | Oct 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
She makes love to him in the long grass that encircles the base of the old stone lighthouse in a moat of shivering green. His untrained skin too it quivers. Though her hands they grip and caress as her passion it distills and smooths him and the sun it rolls at her back.
He opens his eyes and his teeth bite at each other and muted hues they stream through the dried twigs and spring petals that twist and trap in her hair. His fingers play out and pull in the rocking of her hips and he gets lost in the sweat and he loses her words as she whispers.
“What did you say?”, his words grasp for they know it is vital this thing that he missed.
Smiling, she rolls from his embrace and drifts over the strewn detritus of their clothes and she bolts to the now open door that punches the foot of the tower.
Instantly he follows, he bounds the cling staircase which curls up so narrow that it is hardly but there. No ornate rails protect his ascent as he draws to the acrid sweet scent of their love and the beautiful wisp blur of her form.
His pace does not ease even as he flies missing slab steps that glimpse the dark void which now pulls up from the unseen floor far below. And his arms they pump at his side.
“What did you say?”, he calls out. His words harassing the play of her feet as they dance ever on and up.
Her reply falls but still it hides and a child it weeps from up high.
He flows through the pollen blown blast that stabs through the deep recessed slot of a window and it fingers the mote stew of the void. And the staircase it widens at his feet.
But the man does not notice as he too does not notice the wet leaves that are stuck to the thick glass that offers a soft light to this path he continues to pound.
“I love you with all of my being”, his flotsam words how they warm at her ears. And she smiles and cries for this man that bites at her heels.
This man who now pauses and steadies his hand on the gnarled wrought-iron rail that thankfully appears and for the very first time he looks down and not up. Down to his feet and though they are bloodied and his veins they bulge and snake he is buoyed as he again catches her voice. And a thin warmth it sweeps through the stone and it feels so good at his face.
There are voices, not just hers. Familiar, family that pull his weary carcass and beckon it up from the dark. They are laughing or is that screams that fall as he climbs and his knees crack and they ache.
He stumbles and like that there are no more steps to be had.
Here at the top the flames of the beacon they pinch the sag skin of his face and ancient ice it dances in fluted twists. The fire is orange and crackling white and she lays with hands draped from its centre.
Exhausted he slumps and with his back to the warm touch of the plinth at the base of the pyre and he holds his loves hand as it burns.
“Come with me”, she breathes into the cold night.
And again he follows her whisper.
