by submission | Jul 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Samuel Stapleton
I get very tired of the color blue. But other than that, I have no complaints. Well okay. One.
I work on a synthetic farm you see. A portable pod anchored in the ocean.
The company grows synth plankton, krill, shrimp, crabs, fish, and even a few synth marine mammals. But the mammals are only sold to zoos, aquariums, or conservation groups. Everything else gets eaten. People gotta eat. And the animals people eat gotta eat.
It’s a lonely existence when comms are down. Even with accelerated growth it’s still six months between harvests. And the harvest vessels are automated. But the isolation has its advantages. Free housing. Incredible views. Plenty of leisure time. Great satellite reception…except when it storms. But hey that’s alright, there’s nothing like watching warm ocean feed a hurricane. Satellite has nothin’ on mother nature.
Couple times a year I’ll see a boat. A tanker or a military vessel if I’m lucky, otherwise they’re just container ships. Our chats over radio are always appreciated, I take notes sometimes. In case they come back and I need to remember names.
There are a few storage rooms downstairs that I’ve never been given access to. Never bothered me. I worked for a large corporation, in a large biodome. The pay was good, the work wasn’t too hard, so I didn’t ask too many questions. Capiche?
Then one day I’m making the trip down to get some environmental supplies. And I realize there’s something on the floor of the elevator. I reached down and touch the fine substance. It’s salt. From evaporated ocean water. I see it all the time on the outdoor decks, but this part of the facility is supposed to be watertight. Never had a leak. I was still scratching my head when the elevator doors opened to the lower levels. Before I’d even gone to step out I notice something else on the floor. I bent down to get a better view, the dim lights coated the floor in a reflective film and I studied them. Puddles. Little. Elongated. Puddles. Maybe a meter apart each, always one slightly left, and then one slightly right. The one closest to me looks slightly larger than my hand print would be. The trail…as far as I could tell…disappeared into a locked storage room.
I’m not the brightest guy. But I know footsteps when I see them. As soon as the next harvest is over, I’ll quit. It’s only two more months now. And I’m so tired of the color blue. And so scared of the puddles.
by submission | Jul 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Samuel Stapleton
“Hey Doc,” I said as I leaned into the recliner.
“Ian, so good to see you again. I hope everything is relatively okay. Why am I seeing you today?” She said softly.
“Straight to the point, huh?”
“You and I know each other well enough, I recognize you must have something you feel you need to talk to me about.” She said. I nodded the affirmative.
“I’m human. Or rather I…I feel human,” I said in a near whisper. Her face split into a wonderful smile, I couldn’t help but return it in kind. We sat for a moment, stupid grins on both of our faces until I cleared my throat.
“Um. I just. I don’t know what this means, for myself. Or I’m not sure…how I feel, is the problem.” She nodded her head gently but motioned with her hand.
“Keep going, I want you to hear what you have to say,” she said, her voice having retained more of a professional tone again.
“I know I’m not a human. I know exactly what I am, and that people who really know me know what I am. One of the eleven-hundred. But I was walking to work the other day and I…saw this woman walking her dog and…just out of nowhere asked her if I could pet it. And she said yes and started telling me about it, Chauncy, and before i knew it she asked for my comm number.”
Dr. Reed kept her face plain, doing her best not to react too much in either direction as she took in this new development.
“So,” she said, “will you pursue this friendship, perhaps more? These are all perfectly normal feelings it seems.”
“I…she’s a few years younger than me, middle twenties if I had to guess. And she’s beautiful, stunning really. I just…I don’t know.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“I would have to tell her eventually and…I mean could you do it doc? Could you love a robot?” I asked in earnest. She scoffed at me.
“Ian, my coffee maker is a robot, cars are robots, hell – many things in this world are robotic, but you are the most advanced bio-mech synthetic humanoid humanity has ever developed. Robot doesn’t begin to cover it and you know it. Not only that, there’s only one-thousand and ninety-nine others, not one of which is like you. You have DNA even though you are technically a machine. You have a brain comparable to a human, and you have a personality unique in all of history – just like every other person on earth.” She took a deep breath and waited.
“As always doc, everything you say is true, very down-to-earth, but I guess thinking it, and feeling it, are much more different than I imagined.”
“Ian, if I spoke only with you through comms or chat, I would only ever be able to label you as a healthy, functioning adult male. I don’t think you should stress over it. Yes, there will be people who have a problem with you over what you are, but that’s what it is to be human. There are always people who’ll stand against you, no matter how trivial the reason. Race, religion, intelligence, upbringing, background, robot or not.” She finished.
A thought occurred to me and I laughed aloud.
“So doc. Does that make this a diagnosis, or a diagnostic?”
She smiled at me for a moment, human to human, and shrugged.
“Yes.”
by submission | Jul 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : C. James Darrow
“If you think you are ready for this race, I assure you—you are not.” That had been the first thing out of the host’s mouth in quite some time since they arrived planet-side. But now the cameras were rolling and his charisma resurfaced in the limelight.
Tonight marked the sixtieth anniversary of the original ‘trials,’ since which it had turned into a coveted race—as well as a galactic phenomena when it came to commercialized television.
Flynn was the only woman out of the fifteen runners this race.
“You all know what’s out there. Any creature will not hesitate to make a quick meal of you if given the chance.” the host told the runners as camera drones buzzed around them gathering footage.
Everyone had seen past races, and this was true: the chance of getting mauled and/or eaten was quite high.
The host of the race told this history lesson to cameras beforehand: The Hephaestus Trials had originated decades ago when a man by the name of Roger Buckley found himself the sole survivor of a spaceship bound for Meridian mining colony on the inhospitable world of Eos. His spacecraft crashed nearly fifty miles off course due to engine failure upon atmospheric entry. After waking up bruised and bloodied and his crew all dead, Buckley charted a path to Meridian using his skills and prior knowledge of the planet when it became apparent help wasn’t coming. He grabbed only a machete from the wreckage and set his watch’s timer for dawn and began to run, immediately contending with jagged terrain and hostile wildlife. He knew that if he wasn’t knocking at Meridian’s door as Hephaestus’ light broke the horizon at dawn he was a deadman. During the day surface temperatures on Eos would rise to well over three hundred degrees, enough to kill him if caught in its blinding morning light.
“Thirteen hours until dawn.” the host went on to say, “If you aren’t under the solar shields by then—well—you know what happens.”
Flynn knew. They all knew. Every rational part of their brains at that moment told them not to do it. Yet they stood stoic and composed for the the cameras buzzing around them.
They had all trained for years. They had all seen past races. Statistically, adding up all the participants over the years, nearly a third never made it to the finish line. A trial of strength and endurance, and a testament to one man’s will to survive—now it was a televised sensation.
An imitation of original real trial.
But a very real imitation at that.
Some considered the show barbaric, but most just placed bets on runners, watching from home, and remained unsympathetic when a runner didn’t finish.
Many had tried to get the race abolished.
But ratings only climbed, year after year.
And there was an endless supply of applicants who would gladly stake their lives for the million dollar prize.
But for Flynn the race wasn’t about that.
“Good luck” was the last thing the host said before the door opened into the dark uninviting alien landscape glowing beneath the light of the planet’s twin moons. The runners gazed uneasily into the silhouetted terrain for a moment until the announcer shouted “GO!” and they took off into the chilly night with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, a watch, and a machete—just like Roger Buckley once had done.
Flynn hoped she would make her grandfather proud. He had always told her that his race against Hephaestus was the most significant moment of his life.
by B. York | Jul 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : B.York, Founding Writer
Knowledge is power.
Carved into the stone next to her in an elegant font as Maisy slumped back against the structure to catch her breath. Salty tears drew down her cheeks. She stretched out her hands and observed the fingers shaking, almost twitching with such adrenaline coursing through her veins. Clenched fists, biting her lower lip as she tilted her head back against the stone.
She felt heat. Wet heat. On her hip. Fingers tugged up her shirt to reveal the wound. Just a graze. But Taggart hadn’t been so lucky. They were hunting him and she got in the way.
Who were they? Why did they ask Tags about the code? Why did they murder my friend?
Had to think fast. Boots were heard in the distance but there was no way she’d have the knowledge. Tags had been dead a matter of a few minutes so if what she was thinking was going to work she’d have to pull the trigger now.
She reached behind her head, feeling for the rough patch of skin. It got rougher with age, she could only vaguely remember the small bump as a child. Pressing it, a low hum jolted through her head. The thoughts came rushing in…
ACCESSING…
…
TAGGART, GILES >>> CURRENT STATUS: DELETION PENDING
…
…
Images. Swirling in her heard in quantum computations. Electrical brainwaves became pure hard data in seconds.
COOKING BRAISED DUCK
The scent of it, along with the exact ingredients and methodologies began sinking in.
No.
THE SEVEN THINGS TO REMEMBER ABOUT STACY
Stacy is the most beautiful girl you know. Stacy likes green. Stacy likes–
No. Damnit, c’mon!
WAYS TO RUN FROM—
ASPECTS OF CRIMIN—
UNLOCK CODE >>> PASSWORD
All right, hacking the cloud wasn’t exactly a science to a street rat, but Maisy had done enough crowdsourcing to know that cloud codes were usually a fixation.
Thoughts turned to ideas, images and things. Maybe Tag’s favorite jeans, the watch he always wore. She focused in one each, thinking of the details and letting it linger for a moment. Nothing was sticking.
Voices. They were getting close.
Wait.
Stacy. Could she remember Stacy? Didn’t have to, she was already in Tags’ cloud. She went digging and found the long black hair, the tattooed skin, and thoughts of both sweet and pornographic acts. That had to be it. Focusing more, she slid lower against the bulwark.
In all her glory, both naked and clothed, sad and happy, and with him and without him all simultaneously. Stacy.
ACCESS GRANTED
CODE>>>
“Shit.”
Maisy snapped to, she wiped the tears from her face and knew now. She knew just like Tags knew why they raised the gun and fired. The throbbing in her implant slowed to a halt.
Had to hide, had to get out of sight. The stone structure she was against was huge enough. She slid against it, glancing upwards into the sky where the tether in the stone ended with one of the colossal synthetic clouds. She looked where she had bled on the stone. It read “DATA CLOUD H6”. Somewhere up there, Tags was going away forever. But down here, in Maisy’s head, she knew he’d live just a little bit longer.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Nikki sat on the edge of the bed. The neon flicker from the motel sign outside bathed the room in intermittent blue through the thin fabric of the curtains.
The girl behind her stirred, then rolled towards her and curled almost fetal around Nikki’s bare waist, propping herself up on one slender elbow.
In a few hours this girl would be well on her way to three days of the deepest sleep of her life, before waking to an empty room, an empty bed, and having been relieved of a week’s memories.
There would be nationwide warrants waiting when she stumbled back into the world.
Nikki already was starting to adopt her physique, and once she’d uplinked with her soon to be sleeping companion, she’d become the United Nations translator completely, from the big lower lip pout to the way she smiled ever so slightly when she said ‘bottom’, enunciating the t’s crisply.
By this time tomorrow, she’d be in another hotel room, with another carefully chosen partner playing the chameleon yet again to secure the means of her exit from the country.
So many faces, so many bodies, so many personalities written and unwritten, scribed and erased into the malleable matter of her mind and body. It was supposed to be clean, surgical, but the original tech was designed to load in minor abilities into unused spaces, like how to surf, or speak a foreign language. The physical rewriting was dark ops, and nobody had ever intended it to be used so completely, and so many times. There were countless latent memory fragments that drifted up through her consciousness, she wasn’t sure which were hers and which were crosstalk and shrapnel.
“Hey babe, what’s the matter?” That voice, Nikki had to be careful to modulate her reply for fear of already sounding just like her.
“Nothing, just restless, can’t sleep.” A half truth. The stimulants coursing through her own system would keep her lit up for days. Plenty of time to come down when she was safely out of reach. Besides, the head crash made the unwiring easier to get through.
“You look like you’re a million miles away,” the girl ran her fingers up Nikki’s back and scratched gently through the hair at the base of her skull, like one might rub a cat, “where are you baby?”
“Where am I?”, Nikki thought to herself, “that’s the easy part, the real question is who am I?”
She wasn’t sure she knew herself anymore.
by Julian Miles | Jul 10, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Ninety-eight gazillion miles from anywhere I want to be and some teenage alley-captain and his squad manages to get the drop on me. That’ll teach me for daydreaming about places I’d rather be.
“Well, now, what do we have here?”
Oh, great. He’s examining the rod. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll figure it out quickly and things will get interesting.
“Targalla! This is an Aiming Wand!”
Correct. And you’re a devotee of the local war god.
“Well, now, why shouldn’t I bring the thunder down on you?”
One of his squad looks about nervously: “Climel, we’re too close.”
Alley Captain Climel looks back, his tone witheringly contemptuous: “You scared to face Targalla, Rufutz? To take a spotter down, you’d hesitate to go in glory?”
I’m a bit more than a spotter, numbnuts. But, as long as you think that, I might survive this.
Climel waves his squad back. Looks like he’s not prepared to try and enforce his authority over suicidal moves. The verbal lashing is sufficient to keep up appearances.
From the end of the alley, he points the wand at me. I suffer a moment’s glare blindness, then he’s centred the dot on my forehead.
“Time to go, spotter. How does it feel?”
“I feel Targalla is about to bestow his blessings.”
That doesn’t go down well. Climel looks uncomfortable. The squad mutters. Invaders like me aren’t meant to speak like devoted. Climel utters a dismissive bark of laughter and squeezes the wand’s initiator.
Far above, something detaches itself from my nearest companion drone. It’s not what Climel expects it to be. He’s expecting something to mangle and burn me.
With a ‘crack’ of ignited air and a flash that turns my view monochrome for a while, a stroke of artificial lightning leaves nothing of Climel but his arms and charred pieces. As the bits fall, Rufutz doesn’t even move – he just turns to one side and pukes hard. He’s not alone.
I roll to my feet and steel myself to show nothing but nonchalance. Strolling out to the remains of the squad, I bend down and pick up my Aiming Wand. I feel the tingle as it recognises the tags embedded in my sternum and pelvis. Anyone who tries to use it without those tags automatically becomes the target, regardless of anything marked by the wand’s beam.
The squad is badly shaken and hurting. The looks in their eyes are those of frightened kids rather than fledgling resistance members.
“So, who will take Targalla’s revelation over the squealing of their elders?”
They swap stares, the hidden meanings within lost as their team cohesion collapses.
“I will.” Rufutz remains outspoken, at least.
“Alley Captain Rufutz, I am Deldrac. I was born farther from this ground than you would believe, but will you believe I know Targalla’s favour?”
He’s still coping with me promoting him. This is the acid test. An alley crew on our side will be an asset, but he has to roll with my cues – and the squad has to accept it.
“Can you fetch aid for my people without bringing down enforcers?”
Got him! I see nods exchanged. Rufutz just became their boss.
“I can. Whilst they are attended, let’s discuss bringing Targalla’s peace to this neighbourhood.”
We like their war god, he comes with straightforward values: honesty, fealty, duty, family, society. Things we can work with to make this planet peaceful for those who remain now their warlords are dead.
