by Julian Miles | Jan 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The fist that passes over my noggin ain’t much smaller than my skull. The knuckles are ridged with bony plates. I see them facts register with the moke who was threatenin’ me just before his face disappears from view with a sound like a sledgehammer hitting a door.
“Boo.” Jared’s voice is deep; sounds amused. He’s nine-foot eight barefoot, and I’ve seen him toss cars like they was apples. His mama and I have no idea what his papa was, except a whole lot more than the goodfella from Marsville he claimed to be.
Jared plucks a serviette from the counter and wipes his fist: “Uncle Roy, why do they keep coming back?”
I flick a glance at Wanda, Jared’s mum. She nods. True story time.
“Long time ago, we came here from a place called Little Italy. Back then, Earth was a hellhole that we swore this new place would never become. We had our guilds and our bosses, our made men and cradle-to-grave. We could make a new world.”
“Mum’s a made man, isn’t she?”
Listen to him! No accent. Crisp English. I love this kid.
“She is, Jared. Me, too.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t think there’s a fool left in this system who’d consider you anything else. They call you ‘Walking Omerta’, you know that?”
“I only do what I learned from you: trust in blood. Everyone else, cash or obligation.”
There’s no arrogance to him. Just a purity and clarity I ain’t seen since Sister Maria left us, God rest her. He scares me more than she ever did, but in a good way.
“You do right by everyone, Jared, no mistakin’ that. Now, after our forefathers got here, we had an outbreak of politics. Shouldn’t have happened, but little men and big rewards breeds cowards and liars. End result is the set-up we have now: whole damn planet mortgaged to the Federati so lily-livered scum can keep their hold on powers the families rightly deserve. We’ll get ‘em back, just need someone we can all get behind. Politics is insidious. Softens the spine, divides familia. We need someone to lift us out of the muck, so we can see the games for what they are; realise the lies that keep us at each other’s throats.”
I watch my adoptive nephew work out a whole lot from the brief I given him. This kid’s gonna be gold.
“Those are Federati stooges that keep coming, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, Jared. They think you’re gonna be the man to lead us.”
“I’m a bit more than a man, Uncle Roy. You know that.”
Wanda bursts out laughing: “You’re Jared Montana. Named for history: both past and future. The fact that no familia can claim you is what makes you strong.”
“That’s why you and Uncle Roy never take shelter, and we spend the holidays with a different familia each year. No favours. No honour debts. Extended Omerta.”
The kid gets it! I see tears in Wanda’s eyes.
“Jared, you want to come with me on my next job? Meet some made men without family, people your mum and I think you should know.”
“The start of our familia. Building from clean ground to take the stars.”
Dammit. Kid started me cryin’ with that line.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 10, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dez pulled the bike up to the edge of the tree-line, the electrics going quiet automatically. In the distance, mile-high lamp standards flooded the distribution center with artificial daylight, even in these early hours. Long haulers, fresh off the intercontinental, sat waiting to be broken down into short-hop transports. Autonomous skips skittering like cockroaches into the city with their cargos.
Dez had enough power from the solars to get down there, but he’d need to find fuel if he was going to get out again.
An almost forgotten itch permeated his body, miles of combat mesh-weave under his skin picking up the transient power and data traffic that hung heavy in the night air. He’d been turned off for so long it would take some time before the feeling faded back into normality and the urge to tear open his skin and carve out the implants abated.
He was coming back. Slowly.
He eased the bike onto the gentle downward slope of the field, building up as much kinetic energy in the flywheel as the battery could manage before shutting everything down and allowing inertia to propel him down towards the outer rim. Without power, without any data signature the security software would ignore him like they would a coyote, or any other inconsequential predator. Even the edge dwellers transmitted a pulse, but he was a ghost.
Coasting between a long string of fuel tankers, he turned into the space between two of them and braked to a stop. Uncoiling a siphon line from the main tank of the bike and hugging the side of the truck, Dez moved up to where he could read the display from the tanker’s internal scale. He stuck the tap to the underside of the tank, the end-cap sealing automatically as the bore twisted its way through the multiple layers of alloy, slowly enough to not risk a spark igniting the field.
While it drilled, Dez skirted back to the edge of the tarmac and collected an armload of rocks from where the paving system had pushed them when it first cleared the ground. Humping them back to the tanker he waited until the fuel drill stopped whirring, made a mental note of the tanker’s load weight, then placed the first of the rocks on the shrapnel guards surrounding the wheels and watched as the weight climbed slightly. He breathed deeply, slowly opening the tap to start the fuel transfer to the bike. When the digits on the display approached their starting point, he added another rock, repeating the process until the bike’s main tank and saddle-bags were full, then he stopped, disengaged the tap line and watched as the tank’s self-healing membranes closed the hole behind him.
At some point the tanker would be moved, the rocks would be found, or fall off and alarms would go off, but Dez would be miles away by then.
The cowling of the bike soaked up what little energy the overhead lamps provided, the charging circuits the only thing Dez dared leave alive while he straddled the bike and propelled it manually, the tires of the bike and the toes of his boots making nearly no sound on the smooth glasphalt surface.
Reaching the edge of the pack of parked transports, he slowed, keeping up some momentum as he surveyed the gates. Waiting until a transport negotiated the turn from the terminal building to the exit, he fired up the main drive and plastered himself flush to the tank, head low behind the faring. The engine screamed as he shot through the gap just ahead of the hauler’s cab where the barriers receded and out onto the night highway. Any alarms were left far behind as he leaned the bike deep into the curve of the onramp to the intercontinental, then disappeared through the traffic of the long rising straight.
At this speed he would make the coast before the sun went down again, and there he’d be able to find someone to light his hardware back up.
The itch under his skin receded into a familiar flutter, an awareness he only now realized how much he’d missed through recent years.
Rest time was over, there was work to be done.
by Olivia Black | Jan 9, 2017 | Story |
Author : Olivia Black, Staff Writer
“All you need to do is lie back and when you wake up, the imprint will take over.”
Something is wrong. So very, very wrong.
The thought blares through my mind over and over, sounding alarms through every synapse and nerve ending. This isn’t what I signed on for, is it? Faces flit though my memory as I try to recall where I was before here. Most don’t mean anything, but one, a blonde woman with hazel eyes and a smile like a supernova causes something to stir in my chest. Love, maybe?
Underneath the jumbled, fractured collection of memories, there’s the vaguest sense of another life, another me. That other self fills me with a sense of urgency and dread. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Where am I, then? There’s darkness, and the smell of rubber and antiseptic. Goosebumps raise on my skin, forcing a shiver through rigid muscles. The movement makes the first sound I’ve heard since waking. Plastic rustles as I reach out, brushing against the closed teeth of a zipper.
Trembling fingers trace it until they reach the opening and pry it apart. Dim light – almost like moon light pours in. Have I ever seen moon light before? One of my selves has, but which one is real? The well oiled zipper growls as it pulls apart, leaving me staring up at a blank steel slab. I reach up to judge the distance and my knuckles rap against the frozen surface. Not even enough room to sit up. I need to free myself from this body bag first. The black material is determined to swaddle me.
Kicking my feet out of the end of the bag, I roll onto my side and swing my legs off the edge of the slab. The floor is a lot further down than I expected and the weight and momentum of my limbs pulls me down, body bag and all. My head hits concrete with a crack that shoots lightning through my vision. When it clears, I see more slabs, racks of them, each with their own body bag. Prone, genderless forms fill out the rubber sacks. Rows and rows of them, never ending.
Silence rings in my ears. What is this place? A morgue? I’m not supposed to be here. There are things I need to do. I have to… I’m meant to… Shaking the fog out of my head, I focus on standing. It takes a lot of concentration to get my limbs coordinated. They don’t work the way they should. My right arm is curled uselessly to my chest and my leg is numb and threatens to buckle as I hoist myself up.
Fear tears through me as I realize there is no end to this cavernous room. There has to be some way out. As I shuffle forward, two figures emerge ahead of me, stopping twenty feet away.
“Jesus, another one?”
“How did I get here?” The words grate out of my throat like broken glass.
“I thought they were supposed to put down the reject bodies before shoving them in storage,” the man continues, ignoring me.
“Why am I here?” I try again.
“They’re getting sloppy,” the second man answers, his hand moving to his side. The bullet whispers through the air, striking me at the base of my throat.
“What the -?” The first exclaims as I choke on my own blood, acutely aware of how cold I am.
“Trust me, it’s easier this way. The last thing you want is those ghouls from the manufacturing coming down here.”
by submission | Jan 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
My eyechip surprised me while I was eating breakfast by telling me about the traffic on Bernadette. There was a parade blocking the street, and I needed to use Bernadette to get to the grocery store.
“Oh.” My wife looked up from her eggs. She’d just gotten the same notification.
“Yeah. No using the car.”
“So… you’ll go tomorrow?”
“Store’s closed on Sundays. You know that.”
“Monday?”
I gave her a look.
“Please no,” she said. “Don’t take the hover.”
“We’re out of milk.”
“And butter,” my son said. “And chips.”
“All right,” she sighed. “But no chips.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, picking up the keys and walking out the back door. To my right was a car-sized metal pad, the hover parked on top. I hopped in and started the engine, feeling the hoverbeam emitters lift me up. I started the vehicle toward the grocery store, coming over the top of my house to see my disapproving neighbors shaking their heads and urging their kids inside.
Whatever. They’re all paranoid.
Making my way to the store, the whole city had the same attitude as my neighborhood. Rarely-used anti-aircraft turrets unfolded, but they didn’t aim at me. They wouldn’t do that unless I got within 300 feet of their premises. Too many 9/11 repeats had occurred at the hands of malicious drivers, or drunk ones, when hovers first came out, so one building every half-mile armed itself. Well, they needn’t worry about me.
When I arrived, I could see employees below freaking out. The instant they saw me, they ran inside. I knew they were telling their superiors, and I was ready when I got the call on my dashboard.
“Hello? Is this the hover driver?”
“Yep. You wanna take control of my car?”
“Yes. You understand, we can’t trust just anyone to, um… to land on our store.”
“I understand. It’s not my first time.” Though it had been a while.
“Okay. Well, a very important man is coming in on a helicopter later, so we can’t let you use the main pad. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Just take me to the secondary one.”
I pressed the button on my dashboard, giving consent to let the store take control of my hover. They drifted me a few hundred feet to the backmost part of the store’s roof, where they started talking to me again. “Unfortunately, close-up, the hoverbeams on your car damage the store, so the secondary pad has an inflatable platform. Which we’re going to drop you on.”
“Wait, what?”
Too late. I lifted out of my seat, fell for probably half a second, though it felt like thirty minutes, then slammed back into my chair.
“Ohmygod ohmygod! Ugh!” I was kind-of pissed for them surprising me like that, but my anger had cooled off once I stepped out of the hover and onto their giant balloon. I decided to get this shopping trip over with and go home.
Midway through my shopping trip, my hover sent me a notification. It was being stolen.
“What!?” Without another word, I ran out and climbed back up to the roof. Instead of my car, I found a couple of uniformed employees, one with a radio in his hand. The other one came to me and said, “Sir, your car was stolen by a thief fleeing the store. You can understand his choice of vehicle. Anyway, he was too dangerous in your hover, so we had no choice. We radioed one of the nearby buildings to shoot your car down.”
Oh, God dammit.
by submission | Jan 7, 2017 | Story |
Author : Tony Sandy
‘Get out and stay out!’
Robert looked out of his window. His neighbor was in his drive, surrounded by suitcases and other personal paraphernalia. He leaned out of the window.
‘Thrown you out again?’ He said, not so much as a question but as a statement of relentless fact. Bill was always getting thrown out of his own house and this was just another instance.
‘I’d ask you in Bill but you know how it is?’
‘Yes, I know.’ (Silence followed). ‘How’s Kate?’
‘At her mother’s. How’s Sally?’
‘At her mother’s with the kids. I’ll come out.’
They talked on Robert’s drive.
‘Damn these robot houses – who do they think they are?’
‘Yes but what can you do about it?’
‘Not much.’ Silence fell again.
‘I’d heard that there was a revolt in Forbes Town.’
‘Feeble. Waste of time.’
‘What can we do about the situation?’
‘Nothing it seems. They’ve taken over everywhere. They were meant to be our servants, not our masters.’
‘Isn’t that the problem though? We thought we could opt our of responsibility, by getting them to run everything for us and now they have, including us.’
‘Ain’t that the truth!’
‘We’ll take care of you, they said and did. Free will is dangerous in the hands of children, who don’t understand it. We’ll protect you – save you from yourselves.’
‘Citizen, is everything okay?’ A robotic black and white car had pulled up beside them, silently.
‘You know the congregation of two or more human beings is prohibited by law?’ It continued.
‘Yes officer but my friend has just been thrown out of his house as you can see.’
A laser beam scanned the suitcases.
‘Even so that is no excuse.’
‘I was offering to let him stay at my house, temporarily.’ Robert said, trying not to let any emotion show because as he knew once registered as hostility, that would be it. Arrested as a subversive, taken into custody, questioned and ‘altered’ to make him a model citizen again. They’d seen it with Frank – taken away screaming and shouting one night,by the robotic police. Now he was back with a permanent smile on his face and no temper tantrums. No house would throw him out, ever. He was the perfect law abiding citizen since they’d messed around with his amygdala, the emotional center of his brain.
‘God,why do they keep us alive? Why do they need us?’ he thought to himself and went back into his house with Bill.
‘Billeting is allowed by law but only temporarily, remember citizens.’ The hollow, metallic voice reminded them, with all the concern of, well, a robot. All must be controlled, was the hive mind prime directive and all would be, eternally.
by submission | Jan 6, 2017 | Story |
Author : John Pedersen
I do beg your pardon, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience.
Oh, no sir, I assure you we are not out of anything.
Well, sir, the National Weather Service has issued an atomic advisory, and we must insist all our customers move away from the windows at this time.
I know it’s dreadfully inconvenient, sir, but I am afraid we must insist. It’s national safety code.
Oh no, sir, I do assure you that our windows meet all the regulations and are of the highest quality.
I’m not sure what mesh our windows are constructed with sir, but they do meet the regulations, and when combined with the other building requirements, your safety is most assuredly guaranteed.
Because sir, it’s national safety code that you move away from the windows.
No, sir, I don’t think they will blow out, I’m just following the proper protocol.
There’s the first of them, sir, I’m going to move over that direction. I must ask you again to come with me.
I have noticed that, yes sir. The colors do look a bit like a sunset. A cloudy one, perhaps?
I’ve never been to a beach, no sir. But I do imagine the sunset over the ocean is a stunning sight.
Bright orange clouds you say? I can see how you’d make that comparison.
I’ve never really seen the ‘mushroom’ in a mushroom cloud either, sir, tell you the truth.
You’ll know when the blast wave hits, sir. The whole building rumbles.
No, we do have shock absorbers built into the foundation. It’s still a pretty big rumble.
No, I’ve never been in an earthquake either sir, but that does sound like what we’ll feel here in a few moments.
No, I’ve never been to the coast at all, sir.
I’ll bet the buildings there are of the highest-quality construction, sir. Do you mind me asking how frequent the bombings are out there, sir?
I do believe a gentleman of your caliber, sir, is quite experienced with all this nonsense.
I see what you’re saying about the sunset now, especially seeing several of them together. It really is a very pretty shade of orange. There’s some deep reds in there too.
There’s the rumble. You can hear the glassware vibrating behind the bar. You should hear it in our kitchen! All the pots and pans start shaking, the cooks reach up and grab them and scowl until it’s over.
If I can speak freely sir, and maybe a little crassly, I think they are targeting us. They never give up, and we’re well-shielded, we spared no expense, so I think it’s a little stupid that they’re so persistent.
It does sound like an exercise in futility, sir. Well-stated.
Honestly? Someone told me once that they used atomic explosions to propel their ships through space, and that’s how they got to our planet, but I don’t know much about that.
No, the rumbling never lasts very long, We’ll just have to see if there’s a third volley of explosions.
I do believe that was the worst of it, sir.
Yes sir, you were right, we didn’t need to move away from the windows,
No sir, I’m not sure why the government feels the need to make so many regulations either. I’m sure there’s a bean-counter out there somewhere who thinks he knows better than anyone else.
Yes, sir, everything does seem to work out for the best.
Your martini looks a little low, sir. May I fetch you another?
Very good, sir.
