by submission | Jun 29, 2017 | Story |
Author : Jules Jensen
She needed a couple more voice samples. And then this would be the perfect catch, exactly what the buyer wanted.
She sidled up closer to him, and nodded to his wife as she browsed the wares for sale at the next booth in the bazaar.
“So, does your wife have an eating disorder?”
“No, she does not! What’s wrong with you?” He whispered back, just like she wanted, and he even did her the favour of offering up several inflections of horror and annoyance.
“You‘re just too cute.”
He blushed. Oh, that was gold. She sincerely hoped that she got that on her hidden camera. She winked at him and cheerfully bounced away. Just as she ducked into an alley, her phone rang and she answered.
“Christen, I need another identity before you come back.” The voice of her buyer barked over the phone.
“Another one? I just got the best hot-young-nerdy-male identity you could ever ask for.”
“Then get me the perfect one to go alongside it. Maybe an older woman, the cougar type.”
“Just what do you need these identities for?” Despite her hesitation, she was standing at the edge of the alley and already looking for the right kind of lady for the job.
“Foreign advertising, for those poor countries wracked by skin disease.”
“I’ll be done in an hour.” And with that, Christen dove back into the fray, stepping into the middle of the bazaar.
Not even an hour later, she had the perfect identity.
Back at her apartment, she uploaded the identities to her buyer’s server, and he gave her a code. She typed into her bank account, and watched the funds pour in. She decided tonight was worthy of being pizza night.
The next morning, she turned on the TV and snatched up a piece of cold pizza. She flopped onto the couch and watched the muted news while she ate.
The bite she just took fell out of her mouth. The reporter was talking on mute, but she could see that the man from yesterday was paused in a film where he was crawling all over a naked lady. Who happened to be the other identity she stole yesterday.
Christen scrambled for the remote to un-mute the reporter.
“-accusations are totally false, according to the man in the video. As the heir to a very successful hover-delivery company, this kind of behaviour is clearly inappropriate-”
Christen rapidly dialled her buyer‘s number.
“What? It’s too damn early.”
“The news!” She sputtered, nearly choking on a piece of pepperoni that was stuck to her tongue. “How’d this happen?”
“Oh come on, did you really buy that crap that those identities you steal are used for advertisements? I sell them to some skin-flick company-”
She hung up on him. She was horrified as she thought about all the people she scanned, what their identities were used for. She was never going to steal another identity again.
A knock at her door made her jolt. She reluctantly went to the door.
The moment she opened it, a man snapped a magnetic cuff onto her wrist. His black police uniform was unmistakable.
“Christen Dorden, you are under arrest for drug trafficking.”
“What? I have never-” She started to protest, but then she thought about her buyer. Who’d just told her the truth about what he does with stolen identities, when he had no reason to trust her.
And how many times has she walked into his computer shop, surrounded by all that recording equipment?
“That son of a-”
“Ma’am, I’d advise you to remain silent.”
by submission | Jun 28, 2017 | Story |
Author : Janie Brunson
“Welcome to the Talent Exchange Office. You must have a talent you would like to trade?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? Your talent?”
“I … I can write poetry. In two languages. Puedo escribir en inglés y español. Sorry, English and Spanish.”
“A poet! There’s a very high demand for a talent like that. Both musicians and politicians can always use that kind of gift with words. Right through here, please. Now Mr. …”
“Just Eddie.”
“Eddie, then. Lean back and try to relax. It only takes a moment, and it’s painless. Physically, that is.”
“Señora! What do you mean?”
“You’re trembling, Eddie. It will be more difficult if you’re nervous. Deep breaths. Now, why are you trading in this talent?”
“My fiancée. I want us to have the wedding she sees in her dreams, with a white-frosted cake and beautiful live music and everyone in our family there, even the ones de México who can’t pay to travel.”
“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure you’ll get enough money from this to make it happen.”
“The thing is, she doesn’t know I’m here. She said I didn’t have to do this but … do you think she’ll notice a difference?”
“I’m afraid so, Eddie. Your ability to communicate will be … not what it was. Don’t look so terrified. You’ll be fine. You just won’t be able to carry on with descriptions of things people see in their dreams like you just did.”
“But I …”
“Tell me, what do you do for a living?”
“I work in the fields. I pick strawberries.”
“I thought so. Those rough hands of yours. Does your poetry help at all with your work? It seems to me that it might even get in the way, be distracting.”
“No, but it’s …”
“I’m about to start the procedure now, so please don’t talk until it’s done. Close your eyes. You’ll just feel a touch on your temple … Anyway, your talent will be put to good use by someone else. It will be used to lead people, to inspire them with art, to spread messages. It was always such a shame that so many of those with power and resources lacked that final component: talent. With yours, someone will do great things. Now, open your eyes, Eddie. It’s done. Didn’t hurt at all, did it?”
“No.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel … it’s different. I can’t say.”
“That’s normal. It will be a bit difficult to express yourself for a while. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Did … did you take all of it?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that’s the only way it works. I’m sorry. Take a moment. Here, dry your eyes. This emotional response is normal, too. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Gracias. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’m skilled at comforting people. That talent wasn’t mine originally. Now let’s see about your compensation.”
“Señora?”
“Yes, Eddie?”
“If I can’t use words, how will I tell her that …”
“Don’t get frustrated; just say it as best you can, even if it doesn’t feel like enough. That’s what the rest of us do.”
“That I love her. How will I tell her that I love her?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage. You’ll be able to bring this money home to her. It will be a lot. You are—were—very talented indeed.”
by submission | Jun 27, 2017 | Story |
Author : David C. Nutt
Major Janus took one last look at the soldier’s file. Rank & Name: PFC Johnny Benton Ralston. DOB: 12 SEP 2134. HOR: Southington, CT. Psi Aptitude: Off the charts. The accompanying progress reports told a familiar story. Phase I & II of training showed top marks and strong progressions- clairvoyance, telepathy, psycho-cognizance. In fact, PFC Ralston was only the second candidate in the US Army’s PsiCorps 100 year history that exhibited indications of apportation- the ability to materialize, disappear, or teleport an object. They had so much hope for him. Then, the mid Phase III decline. Inability to control mastered areas, lack of concentration, regression to level I skill sets, and finally, failure in all areas. Janus shook her head. It was a sad but familiar tale. Only 6% made it to Phase IV and of those, very few had weapons grade skills as opposed to just reconnaissance and remote viewing.
There was a halfhearted knock on the door.
“Enter”
A baby faced young man stepped into her office. “PFC Ralston reporting as ordered.”
“At ease.” Janus motioned for him to sit. “Johnny do you know why you are here?”
There was a heavy sigh. “Yes Ma’am. I’m failing. I’m here for you to tell me I’m out of the program.”
Now it was Janus’ turn to sigh. “You are correct PFC. It’s my job to tell you the bad news.”
PFC Ralston swallowed and nodded. Major Janus could tell he was holding back tears. “I figured as much. I know it means not only am I out of the program, but out of the Army as well.”
Major Janus nodded. “You’re correct again Johnny. We’ve found that once a soldier is bounced from PsiCorps, they really can’t be returned to the greater Army. If your skill set hasn’t degraded entirely, then you could, willing or unwilling, unduly influence your peers and superiors. We can’t have a rogue psychic influencing command decisions and troop morale could we?”
PFC Ralston shook his head. “No Ma’am.”
There was an awkward silence. Major Janus stood up and PFC Ralston scrambled to his feet. “Well, PFC Ralston even though you are out of the Army you’ll find that the PsiCorps severance bonus is quite generous and you automatically get education benefits so college is tuition free.” Major Janus leaned over her desk and shook his hand. “Good luck son.”
“Thank you Ma’am.” Johnny came to the position of attention, snapped off a smart salute and left Major Janus’ office.
Back at his room Johnny waited for his ride to the train station. Johnny looked into the duffle and noticed there still was some room left. He looked at his watch. There was just enough time for one more go around. Johnny took a deep cleansing breath and exhaled. He cleared his mind as his instructors taught him to do. With great effort he dialed down all of his senses and focused on his target. Johnny felt his face get hot then sweat. He felt the familiar “elevator down” feeling deep in his gut that made him feel queasy, but in a familiar and good way. Johnny nodded. Success. With great effort he closed the full duffle and went to meet the cab.
“Jeezum Crow son!” The cabbie complained, “What do you got in that duffle, gold bricks?”
Johnny Smiled. “No bricks. Just three million dollars in hundred dollar bills, sir.”
The cabbie laughed and they both got in. Johnny made a mental note to give the cabbie a good tip. After all, with his PsiCorps benefits, he could afford it.
by Julian Miles | Jun 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“I can see it from here, Duke, and it’s quite something, I can tell you. Let me give you and our other listeners what I see.
I’m on Parliament mound, facing south. The river Thames is a shallow umber trail flowing sluggishly from west to east, obscured by smoke and ruins before reaching either horizon. Below and to my right is the glassy common that comprises what used to be Kensington, Chelsea, Hammersmith, and Fulham. I still see the occasional bird falling from the sky, emanation-struck as it carelessly flies too low, too far across an edge. Beyond that scar, Ealing, Hounslow, and Richmond are landscapes of blackened ruins and twisted metal. But, at least there is scavenger activity over there, unlike across the river to my left: the wasteland that is Lambeth and Southwark. The hellstorm didn’t leave much, and what moves there is death to anything that ventures in.
Central in my view is the broad corridor comprising Wandsworth, Merton and Sutton. I can see the attackers coming towards me, armour at the front, levitroopers above, a few choppers above them. Behind the armour I see personnel carriers, stormtroopers hitching a lift on the exteriors, drone trailers behind. From that point, back to beyond the outskirts of Croydon, the dust-shrouded ground is covered in combat teams loping along in exos, weapons ready. They’re making good time, given the terrain. Their strategic bombardment over the last few weeks levelled the ground well.
These brave folk are risking their all, attacking the Quintessian burrow that gutted Camden and Islington; a living habitat that is now spreading inexorably into Hackney and Haringey. Their targets are the three great entrance portals that open south of the Thames, two in Wandsworth, one in the uppermost reaches of Richmond. They’ve chosen their time well: Quintessia are largely dormant in temperatures above twenty degrees and it’s a scorching summer afternoon at the moment, with the temperature approaching thirty. The location has also been carefully selected: London is on a large island. Quintessian reinforcements would have to be shuttled in.
They’re crossing Wandsworth! I can see the massed force trifurcate, spreading apart to attack the portals. Within minutes, we’ll see if humanity’s last offensive can turn the tide. The noise, even at this distance, is incredible.
What’s this? There’s a commotion within the dust-cloud concealing the far flank of the easternmost strike force. I can hear firing. Small arms and heavy weapons. There is definitely something – oh, good fates! I can see. Oh, no. This could be disastrous.
It looks like the deadly inhabitants of Lambeth and Southwark are attacking! Huge centipede-like creatures, moving with incredible speed and unerring accuracy. Where impact damage doesn’t down their opponents, powerful jaws or corrosive, flammable venom does. Their night-black hides seem to repulse all but the heaviest weapons, which cannot be used because of the friendly casualties they would cause.
And now, more of these many-legged aggressors are boiling forth from all three portal entrances, where they’ve obviously lain in wait. Is there a chance? Can the attack win out? We’ll have to see.
It’s a massacre. These combatants are too much for human forces. Their every riposte is ignored by these creatures – it’s as if they had been designed to be the nemesis for anything humanity could bring to bear. This is the end of it. Demoralised and decimated, the half-life of a futile resistance movement is the best that remains for the survivors.
Let me be the first to say it clearly, Duke. We’ve won.”
by submission | Jun 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : Anthony Rove
King Alexander—that was the name he had chosen for himself, anyway—leaned back on his throne. It wasn’t very comfortable. After a lifetime of resting his considerable girth on plush synthetic fabrics, the primitive wood-on-iron chair hurt his backside. He disliked the austerity imposed on him by indigenous tech. But then again, he wasn’t here to be comfortable. He was here to win. And victory was so damn close he could almost taste it.
The Royal High Priest stood at attention directly across from the throne. It (Alexander was never quite sure whether the beasts he had dubbed the “Macedonians” had any proper gender) was a short, squat, two-legged thing. At a quick glance, the creature looked like a shrunken, pale, misshapen human. It had a face, two black eyes, and a gaping central opening that might charitably be called a mouth—although it wasn’t used for speech.
The High Priest’s chalk-white skin began vibrating. A tiny device lodged in King Alexander’s ear canal detected the delicate series of pulses, and whispered its translation,
“Glorious God-King Alexander, I have excellent news from the front. The campaign was successful. Paris has been taken, and Napoleon captured.” Alexander leapt from his throne and raised his meaty fist into the air. Alexander had never been a dancer, but after clinching the semi-final, he felt like dancing. He shuffled his feet rhythmically while the High Priest looked on patiently. After a few moments, Alexander managed to compose himself.
“They didn’t try to hurt him did they?” he asked. The High Priest shifted its weight back and forth. Over the last year and a half, Alexander had learned that this seemingly nervous movement actually indicated bemusement.
“Of course not, my Lord. Even the most brutish foot soldier knows better than to try to harm a God.”
“Right. Yes. Of course. Just making sure.”
The man who called himself King Napoleon arrived in King Alexander’s throne room a short while later, escorted by two Macedonian guards. He arrived unfettered and surrounded by a dim, blue light.
“Leave us.” boomed Alexander in the most god-like voice he could muster. The guards obeyed, leaving the two men alone in the throne room. King Napoleon let out a prolonged sigh and extended his hand. King Alexander shook it vigorously.
“Good game, Alexander.”
“It really was. If you had asked me six months ago, I would have said you were going to crush me for sure.” Napoleon winced at the compliment.
“Yea, well stuff happens. I have to admit, poisoning our wells was a good move. Scared the crap outta ‘em. Made ‘em think I couldn’t manage our resources. They pigeonholed me as a war-god.” King Alexander understood entirely. Even if the locals were a bunch of savages, it was extremely difficult to keep up the veneer of omnipotence.
“Although,” Napoleon continued, “I’m not quite sure how you managed to get your guys around my sentries at all.” Alexander grinned.
“I’ll tell you after I’ve won the championship on Trappist-1e.” At this, Napoleon managed a weak smile.
“Well, enjoy the perpetual winter. After this hell-hole of a planet, I’m sure you’ll be glad to get out of the heat.
“Out of the fire and into the ice box,” Alexander agreed. “The other good news is that the locals on Trappist-1f are supposed be a little bit more tech savvy than these guys. Hopefully they’ve figured out how to make a comfortable throne.”
“Well, best of luck. I’ll be watching on the casts. But now, I’ve gotta catch my ride back to Earth.”
by submission | Jun 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Andrea Friedenson
“Such an expressive planet,” Lana said. I watched the reflected light from her monitor flow reds, greens, and blues across her perfect face as she admired the image of Earth that floated before us. The data visualization made the planet seem to shimmer as surface temperature, population movements, and emotional tides all shifted.
“I just wish we didn’t have to lose sleep to watch it,” I said. I was hoping this would lead to a her napping on my shoulder. It had happened before. But this time, she was too distracted.
“Why do you think they leave so much of their communication unencrypted?”
I sighed. The humans’ openness was a favorite topic of hers. All of the other known Hominoidean species were like ours, with layers of privacy, formalized paths towards intimacy. Our sociologists had long ago agreed that this etiquette was the basis of our current prosperity. Ritual contained and sublimated our natural violent tendencies into universally-understood gestures and language, which prevented war and preserved genetic diversity. The prevailing academic consensus dictated that without etiquette, we would devolve into bloodthirsty troglodytes in less than three generations.
But somehow, the humans had developed a society with the barest whisper of shared ritual. Each individual dumped out every thought upon whatever other individuals were proximate, sprayed his or her feelings across the electronic communication systems they had somehow come together to engineer like a berlip marks a jaj. To the rational person, it was disgusting. But to Lana, it was a miracle.
It was why we had deployed this space station, disguised as a dusty rock in orbit around Earth. The humans had of course noticed us, even come out to greet us in their clumsy way, but interaction was outside the scope of our mission. We watched them bounce around on our station’s shell and were able to collect granular data with a non-lethal dosage of radiation. Lana had cried and said it was the most rewarding experience of her life. I retreated a few layers of intimacy to give her the privacy to process her emotions. It had taken me weeks to re-establish our connection.
Now we sat together in the dark. The only observers on the late shift. But she hadn’t looked at me once. Her eyes were wide and stayed on the monitor as she said: “Don’t you wish sometimes that we could be like them? That we could just say what’s on our minds and in our hearts?”
I said: “No.”
