by Julian Miles | Jan 1, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Just another day at the office, sitting on my ladybird, chatting with my blue owl friend. I named him Percy, and he’s smarter than your average owl. Which he should be, being that up until 09:16:32 this morning, he was the icon for my personal AI.
“Any luck finding the intrusion?”
Percy sounds mournful. Think I should have named him Eeyore.
“No trace, no trail, not even the whisper of a flag reset. Whoever did this is a category above Wizard class.”
Not good. Wizard class hackers are supposed to be the best. But there is one, unofficial, higher category: Hazard class – because they’re a menace to anyone near them. Either by being crazy or attracting the attention of agencies with a preference for using area-effect weapons. Sometimes both.
Outside my window, the Mad Hatter lies amidst the debris of his tea party. The Queen of Hearts is curled, drunkenly snoring, in his lap.
“What do we have to track Hazard class?”
“Jill.”
A tingle runs up my spine. Should have guessed. My ex-wife is a ‘white-hat’ Hazard class. It’s why I divorced her: way too many bad people trying to kill her on behalf of worse people she’d upset. After my cat got converted into a three-metre scorch mark with barely a yowl of indignant surprise, I left. The divorce was finalised by Autolaw Processor within a week.
“What else?”
“Luck or prayer.”
I don’t remember adding sarcasm or humour modules.
“Your recommendation?”
“Jill Shaw.”
“Second recommendation?”
“Offline, military grade erasure, secure reinstall, monitored reboot with full logging.”
That’s a minimum of two weeks downtime, costing me a Eurodollar a minute, on top of non-delivery penalties for a pair of missed contract deadlines. I can’t afford that.
The White Rabbit hops into view, earrings catching the sunlight as she adjusts her bustier. She starts slipping the rings from the Queen’s fingers.
“What is Miz Shaw’s current rate?”
“She’s doing a free day consult and discounted long-term rates. It would be cheaper to engage her for a resident month than hire her for a week of onsite during business hours.”
Just a moment.
“Disguise origin via external routing and repeat query.”
“Two thousand a day with a non-refundable three thousand Eurodollar deposit.”
The White Rabbit winks at me.
“JILL!”
The White Rabbit leaps out of sight behind the table, leaving only a familiar pair of eyes floating in mid-air.
“I really meant it when I said sorry for Caffrey getting killed, Justin. But since you Autolawed the whole thing, I couldn’t contact you directly. After that, I moved to a townhouse in a properly secured community. There’s room for us to have several cats, if you like.”
“You hacked my office just to get my attention?”
“Actually, I’ve got your whole office block’s data and security infrastructures. Can’t have alarms going off while I’m trying to win my fella back.”
She’s a wee bit unhinged, very stubborn, and I still love her. Well, damn.
“If I agree to come and visit, will you drop this hack – and drop it tidily?”
“I even promise not to cook.”
She must be serious. Time to push my luck.
“You’ll order in from Esplendia?”
“Ouch. Then you’d better bring an overnight bag, you shameless man.”
Excellent; I’m doomed.
“Done.”
by submission | Dec 31, 2016 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
Road-weary we pulled in and parked outside the motel office.
This was our first time in the North East, and we weren’t even sure exactly where we were.
Somewhere outside Maine, I think.
I looked out at the horizon, and it lit up twice, briefly. Maybe the Aurora Borealis, maybe just some reflection off of something. Hell, maybe a plane.
My wife was asleep beside me, and the word I could come up with for the town, the sky, the clear night, was “charming”.
It was welcoming us with the cool crisp air.
It was inviting us with the starry skies.
It was charming us with the quaint surroundings.
We were to feel at home.
We were to feel safe.
For some reason I wasn’t buying it.
My hackles stood up, as my wife lay in the passenger seat, in a bit of a ball.
She was breathing gently, sound asleep, safe.
Yet, for some reason, I still felt like maybe we could just stand to go another few miles before we hung it up for the night.
My world was content, dreaming her dreams, but I was restless.
I felt like escaping.
In the direction of the flashes I had seen, I now heard something like a dull thud, followed shortly by another.
I climbed back into the car, something was amiss, I wasn’t sure what yet, but we weren’t going to sleep here tonight.
Well, at least I wasn’t going to.
The second thud took longer than the first, but something in me felt that it would come.
I heard a familiar crackle.
I had heard the same or similar when I fought fires a lifetime ago in California.
I knew it was moving too fast, and I instinctively knew there would be no clear exit.
I closed the door, placed my hand on the warm back of my everything as it raised and lowered with her breathing.
She settled into my hand, safe, assured.
If she only knew.
I could see the horizon begin to glow, now, and my eyes began to water with the incoming smoke.
Lights began to come up in the windows of the scattered bungalows.
Confused tourists, and the occasional year round resident, began to mill around, murmuring speculatively in their pajamas and robes.
We just sat, as you could now hear distant thuds.
The footfalls of some giant being.
Her sleep was still restful, her breathing calm.
We would ride this out together; in this charming little parking lot, of this charming little motel.
But we would not be charmed.
by submission | Dec 30, 2016 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
My hand shakes as I desperately try to keep myself from pulling the trigger. I stare at the man who wears my husband’s face, my eyes filled with tears. He looks hurt. Concerned. Maybe even betrayed. So convincing.
“Sarah, put the gun down. Please, baby, you know it’s me.”
The stranger’s eyes are welling up, tears forming to match my own. We cried so many times in this apartment, my husband and I. We cried when my mother died, when his cousin was diagnosed with cancer, when we found out he was being shipped out.
“Baby, please, put it down.”
The man approaches me again, and I feel the pressure in my chest deepen.
“Stay back! I’m warning you!”
My husband is dead. This man is not him.
“Sarah. . .”
My finger finds the trigger, but I do not pull it.
Does he deserve to live, this creature who calls himself my husband? He seems so real, so sad. Even if he isn’t the same man who left six months ago, doesn’t he have a right to live as much as anyone?
“Sarah, this isn’t you. . .”
I point the gun back in his face, hating him for remembering how foolish my past self would find me now. I was heartbroken when my husband left, but only because I feared he would die in some war-torn planet half a galaxy away. I never concerned myself with the superstitions surrounding HOW he would get there; I only cared that he came back.
But he’d never come back. This crying stranger is not my husband. He is a copy, a soulless shell built from the atoms leftover after the transporter picked my husband to pieces. This man speaks the same, carries himself the same, and remembers even the faintest details of my husband’s life. But he is not my husband – just a soulless replacement. Dead inside.
My finger twitches, my resolve strengthening. I take a deep breath and wipe the tears from my face with my free hand. The stranger does not move closer.
“Do you want to live?” I ask.
For the briefest of moments, I wait for the man to keep pleading, to keep begging me to put the gun down and embrace him, to recognize him as my lover. Part of me wishes for that future. But instead, the stranger only nods.
“Then leave,” I say, fighting tears again, “and never come back.”
I keep the gun on him as he gathers a few belongings – not letting him take anything my husband really cared for. This creature already took his face. He would have no more. When at last he is gone, I collapse into a heap in the center of the apartment, the floodgate of tears opening fully. The gun clatters to the floor as I accept the truth. My husband is dead, replaced by a soulless replica. And there are more of them out there. A hundred thousand replicas walking the streets, empty husks of those murdered in the name of convenience.
by submission | Dec 29, 2016 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
The week was ending. I was typing up my summary report, excited to enter the weekend and chill at the house with my girlfriend for a couple days. My spreadsheet was half-done when Bertin came up to my desk and “checked on me.”
“How’s it going?” he asked casually. He looked over at my spreadsheet, pretending to be interested. “You know, I already finished mine. And– need I say it?– it’s spotless. I think I’m due for a promotion in a week or two, whether or not I ‘keep up the good work,’ as they say.”
Normally, I would’ve given him a half-hearted “Wonderful,” but I wasn’t in the mood to say even that much. I was not about to ruin my end-of-the-week stretch by getting into a conversation with him. Met with no response, he just changed the subject. I guess he figured he’d get more out of me if he went to something personal.
“So, your girlfriend’s pretty hot, huh?”
I looked at this freak, wide-eyed.
“Yeah, I saw you two at the store the other day. She’s smokin’. A good catch. I’m sorry you got her before I did.” He laughed at his own joke. I remembered that I was supposed to smile, and managed an approximation.
“Man… if you guys ever break it off, just gimme a call. She was wearing a skirt when I saw her, and all I could think about was the wonders under it. You know what I mean?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, standing up. “I know what you mean.” I rolled up my sleeves and curled my fingers into my palms.
“Hey man, calm down. I was just–”
Too late. In a split second, my hand was around the back of his head, and I thrust his skull into the edge of my cubicle as hard as I could. A horizontal line of blood formed on his forehead, and as a I let go, he fell to the ground, unconscious. The funny thing was that no one in the office reacted. I had barely enough time to get confused by this, and to regret my huge mistake, when the sim ended.
Somebody lifted the headset from my scalp, revealing the small testing room to me. I started to remember my situation as they removed the straps from my wrists and ankles. “Uh oh. Shit, no! Please let me redo it! Come on, it was an accident, it won’t happen again–”
“Actually,” the interviewer said, “yes it will. Trust me. That’s why we don’t give redos, Mr. Adderman. This test elicits responses straight from the subconscious, and your long-term memory is suppressed the whole time. You can’t trick this system.”
“I don’t wanna trick–”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve failed. I regret to inform you that I must decline your application, and in fact, because your response was so violent, I will need to report you to the authorities for a mental examination.”
“No! I need this job! And I can’t get a black mark on my record!”
“Sorry, there’s nothing I can do. I’m oath-bound to do this. Better luck next time.”
by submission | Dec 28, 2016 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
My music teacher, Miss Herenka, gesticulated through the blue-tinged, sound-proofed glass. I watched her thin hands glide. Her voice came down from speakers in the circular ceiling of my training cell.
“Jenna come on! It’s not enough to go through the motions. Close your eyes, use the full length of the bow.”
I sighed. I gripped the bow more firmly.
“No. Soft hands! Tease the charge from each string. Find the frequency that maims.”
She could sense that my motivation was off.
“This simulator, I accept, offers little satisfaction…but in battle… oh, the chords will resonate.”
So passionate, this old musician. And I had to accept, she had seen it all. And survived.
“Death will dance forward. Together, Jenna, we’ll watch a black tango weave through the ranks, leaving doubt on every fingertip she touches.”
Yes. The power I could wield. I had seen glimpses of it.
The first school concert, high summer, out in the field. My playing caused half the school to collapse in a swoon. Three children and two parents died. I was taken to the mountains where I joined the Conservatory at the age of eight and entered higher training.
The nature of my gift was explained to me – the ability to match the frequency of the music I made to a person’s emotions… and more, the power to manipulate those emotions. As the first year progressed the broad strokes of feeling were dissected and re-arranged, through tiny adjustments in technique: the speed with which I sawed the horse-hair bow, the pressure of my fingers on the cat-gut strings, the way my body swayed. Soon I was able to give instructions, or orders. Prisoners of war were made to stand within earshot, and I watched them tremble. My orders could not resisted, because they were packaged in strong emotion.
My music had been weaponised.
Danny.
My first friend.
Miss Herenka sensed my sadness. Yet, monster that she was, she seemed to have forgotten his name.
“Oh Jenna. Your friend, the boy. I know you are sad. But you should have seen him last week. He requested the Eastern front, he knew we were weakening there. Dropped into the field, he didn’t even look up. His parents watched from the orbiter with me. So proud.”
I knew the truth. He had understood the child soldier’s fate, so he chose the most dangerous theatre.
“The chords, they were beautiful, entered their collective consciousness… and led the sixth army off the Galen plateau. Victory! After two years of bloody attrition!”
It was true. He induced mass hysteria and ran a feared army off the high ground. I had seen the war report. But it had not mentioned Danny. And he had not come back.
“His name will live long. You have that talent Jenna, more. I am confident in you. It has been privilege. Now, come out of there and follow me. The General is here.”
The time had come.
My parents.
Would they sit in the orbiter looking down into the fire-lit smoke? Would they see me standing alone behind the enemy lines, playing, playing, playing… hoping to find the resonant frequency before a patrol picked me off with a single bolt.
“Come Jenna. Come.” She brushed my head affectionately. I knew Miss Herenka was genuinely fond of me. A bond existed. This would make it easier, I knew, to throw out a few toxic notes just for her during the final performance. Relayed to the orbiter, they would enter her mind and avenge each child doomed by her lethal tuition.
by submission | Dec 27, 2016 | Story |
Author : Riley S Meachem
I passed a filling station the other day. It was covered in some sort of vine, kudzu maybe, and the roads were cracked, so no cars could get through. (Hey, remember cars? They used to be everywhere!) I stepped cautiously over bleached bones, picked clean. Whatever they were, once, a small child or a dog, I couldn’t tell. The skull and the limbs were gone, mostly, carried off by rats, I’d wager. I checked inside the darkened store; Grey rainy light poured through the windows (Windows? They’re like holes you can touch. I’ll show you one, sometime.) It was mostly empty, racks overturned, and the food had been taken back twenty years ago when people still thought there was a shot. At what or why, I don’t know. There was a jug of Hawaiian punch, half empty, that I was too nervous to taste, (Trust me, you’re glad you’ve forgotten that stuff,) And a CD (It’s like a silver ring that plays music—yes, music is the sound that speaks to you without words) that I took, even though I’m not sure how I’d play it.
I miss that stuff the most. More than food, or sex, or civilization. Any of it.
After that, I set back up the dirt road, through the forest, towards camp. The higher up I got, the more of the road below I could see. Trees have burst through the concrete in some places (Yes, I already told you what concrete was, it’s like the ground, but harder and smoother.) Soon, there won’t be anything left there at all. Just trees. And an old man who remembers.
