by Julian Miles | May 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
That’s a Keilvogel up there. I recognise the contrail: a centre line triple the size of the flankers. This world has such a glorious sky. I’ve never really taken the time to appreciate it, but as I’m lying in a swamp of blood and oil that used to be a battlefield, I might as well take some beauty from the moment.
History has come full-circle. Many medieval knights would be helpless when they toppled from horseback, due to the weight of their armour. As the battle lines swung back and forth, each army had a small group of squires who followed the line, armed with only mallet and stiletto. Their job was to sneak up on downed knights, stab the stiletto through one of the slots in their visors, then ram it into the knight’s brain with the mallet. I still can’t think of a worse way to go than lying there, watching that knife come down.
So, here I am. Lying, in armour, looking up at the sky. Our powered suits are the envy of many divisions, until they find out the one flaw: we only have about forty minutes of power. Then our formidable suits become inescapable prisons. Prisons that can be targeted as our protections are down. I’ve seen the remains of those fired from rail guns, slowly dissolved by acid dripped through their vents, broiled on open fires, the nauseating list goes on. Vengeful beings get creatively nasty.
Normally, we’re first in, devastation wreaked, and out within thirty minutes. The remains of the day are handed over to regular troops. Today was not normal. We lost three pickup ships to suicidal interdiction. As the third one fell, I knew we were being targeted. Multiple power trooper mutilations to livestream would do their morale good.
We held them for as long as we could, but the pitched battles raging about us betrayed their determination. One by one, my colleagues powered down. It’s not like we can pop open the suit up and hop out. We’re hardwired and tubed, needing two specialists apiece to assist us in and out.
Here they come. I can hear their wary steps squish in the goo about us. Given how quiet it’s gotten, I reckon we’re only minutes from a full-sortie rescue mission led by the power troopers of Battalion Three. We try to look after our own – unfortunately that only happens when we have a power trooper unit in reserve.
There’s a skinny little runt with a welding torch all hot, white and heading for my faceplate. This is going to hurt – him.
“Now!”
There’s the howl of sleight fields engaging and screams from a battlefield full of lightly-equipped would-be murderers.
The runt standing over me takes a half-clip of subsonic in the groin, which pretty much means the last things that pass through his mind are bits of his crotch.
I stand up, my top-mount swinging into line. A couple of very fast runts have nearly made the treeline. Their remains paint the trunks for six metres.
It’s over. There are a few other runners, but we let them run with only low-power pulses to make a scary lightshow. There isn’t one of us with more than sixty seconds of power remaining.
“Drop with three minutes to spare. Fucking genius!”
I wave my hand in acknowledgement.
“Thank me when it’s in the tactics manual.”
There’s a roar as a dropship clears the treetops, spewing power troopers as it comes.
“We thought you needed rescue!”
I give the descending commander a cheerful finger: “Give it a minute; we will.”
by submission | May 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : James Hunter
Joe Miller stood silent in his dressing room. He was set to take the biggest stage of his life, yet he felt no nerves, no butterflies, he felt dead to the world.
Joe “Knuckles” Miller had wanted to be a pro fighter his entire life. He had done well on the regional circuit but once he received the call up to the big leagues, he had appeared to find his ceiling. After losing his first three fights Joe was faced with a do or die situation. Another loss, or even a close win, would end with his contract being terminated.
With an indignant end to his short career in sight, Joe began to get desperate. He was willing to do anything to start winning, even if it meant cheating.
One’s willingness to cheat however had little bearing on one’s ability to do so. The days of performance enhancing drugs had long since passed leaving little options other than to try and sneak in the occasional low blow or eye poke. It wasn’t until one night over a few drinks with his uncle that Joe found his easy out.
“I know it’s hard out there Joe, some of those guys are killers.” Uncle Tim said behind a sip of whiskey.
“I’m a killer! You should see me in the gym. I’m like a master painter or something but under the bright lights I can never put it together.”
Tim nodded and took another drink. “It’s all about having an edge over your opponent. They used to do it with drugs but now all the best fighters have cybernetics.”
“Huh?” Joe stared blankly with his mouth hanging open slightly.
“Implants, state of the art stuff. My company designs them. One in each eye and hand, then you’ll land every punch you throw.”
“But if I got caught…” Joe trailed off.
“Nothing they could do to you. This is that new, there aren’t even rules about it yet.” he said with a smile and a clumsy wink.
This was exactly what Joe had been hoping for. Within six months he had undergone three surgeries to complete the procedure. Now only two years since receiving the upgrades he was fighting for the title.
A cameraman entered the dressing room and immediately swooped down in front of Joe for a low angle.
“Throw some combos for me.” he said.
Joe shadowboxed for the camera and bounced around on his soft, spongy practice mat. He was moments away from his walkout and still he felt nothing but despair. He knew he could never truly realize his dream. Even if he left that night with his arm raised and a belt around his waist, he would never be a champion.
by submission | May 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Matthieu C. R. Cartron
Funny that they called her a mother, for she had neither sons nor daughters. Ancient but lively, she was as old as all of those who had been created alongside her. Every day she would look around, slowly, to watch her neighbors, hoping that it would be different, that they might awaken from death. But every day she was given a sorrowful reminder.
She was alone.
She ate the warm light, and had no choice but to do so. She waited. And waited. Eventually, she experimented, and found a way to create it–something to bring her a passive sort of company. She had found a way to create them, microbes, and once they came into existence, they became essential to her.
They borrowed some of her energy, but she didn’t mind. They returned the favor with their innocent presence, an ignorant sort of mutualism. She knew of them but they never knew of her.
For some reason she had survived. The red being to her right and the yellow being to her left had also survived, but only for a desperate moment. Putting up a vicious fight, the red being came the closest, but like the others, he too fell into a deep sleep. If anything, the Mother thought, he would be the one to awaken once more.
She wondered if there were others out there in the darkness, others who had survived the blast long ago. Maybe they too could entertain themselves with the microbes. Were their creations the same as hers?
But in the latest few seconds of her existence, something went horribly wrong.
A new microbe had evolved onto her blue and green skin, and they were unlike anything she had ever seen before. They were neither the smallest nor tallest, the fastest or slowest. But they were the smartest. In the first few moments the Mother could sense promise.
But after that brief moment, they attacked her. They dug into her crinkled skin and let the black and blue blood spill. They multiplied, using her flesh to produce more offspring and propel their devilish mutation. Why were they not like the others?
She writhed in pain, jolting and disrupting the mutated microbes. They seemed to take no notice though, and perhaps this was because they simply did not care. They were galvanized by self-interest–but if only they were when it mattered. Had that been true, it might just have saved them.
No, she thought. Perhaps they weren’t all that smart. The holes they had dug would become their own graves, she thought. What stupid little things they were. She searched her memory for a solution but came up empty. Her mind fought for ideas but yielded nothing.
Mother Earth sat there, on her axis, wondering what she could do in the next few moments before she too, was dead. And this time, no one would be around to hope that one day she might wake up.
by submission | May 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Adel
I felt the urge to write speculative fiction. But I couldn’t. So I swallowed a nil pill. Still I couldn’t. So I swallowed another nil pill.
Then I couldn’t remember my name.
But when my fingertips touched the keyboard I realized I was sitting in the part of heaven that had been settled centuries ago by Native American Zen monks.
“Amazing,” I said to a small weathered man sitting beside me at another keyboard. He was typing with the index finger of his left hand, while in his right hand he held a short stick wrapped in a strip of leather and adorned with feathers and turquoise beads.
Because he didn’t acknowledge me, I decided to fill the silence: “Is this going to be speculative fiction? Is this going to be an epic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink story, a sprawling conceit, a junk drawer that holds the meaning of life and whatever in the universe has no home and belongs nowhere but here?”
“No,” the old man snapped, whacking my knuckles with the stick. “It’s going to be painful unless you stop babbling like an idiot while I’m holding the talking stick.”
“May I hold the talking stick?” I asked, rubbing the back of my hand. “I have a question.”
The old man whacked my knuckles again and said, “Quiet. You asked a question and you were not holding the talking stick. And what makes you think this is speculative fiction. There’s not a speck of speculation in it. There’s not a speck of fiction in it. Everything here is true.”
I pointed from my mouth to the stick to my mouth again, trying to pantomime that I wanted to hold the stick so I could talk. The old man whacked my knuckles again.
“Hey!” I cried. “Why did you do that? I didn’t say anything.”
“Not with words,” he replied. “But you spoke with your hands and there’s no difference. You’re lucky this is not a gangster mondo. Then you’d really get whacked.”
“But—” I started to say.
He whacked my knuckles again and said, “Knucklehead! You are Knucklehead! The name you can’t remember is Knucklehead!”
by submission | May 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : Vanessa Kittle
Max stood looking out of his window into the night. He lived on the 50th floor of the Palmer building in New York. The rule was the higher the better, and while he was nowhere near the top, he was still far up enough to get above most of the smog. He could just make out the jeweled lights at the top of the wall that circled the city and protected it from the ocean. It was a lovely view that was worth the cost. Over half of Max’s pay went to the rent for his apartment. Max kept the servers running for Palmer holdings. Of course he had never actually met Harald Palmer, but he was good at his job. It was easy so he enjoyed the work.
His controller buzzed. It was Cara Wite, the Cara Wite, inviting him to a party that very evening. Sure, it was a mass message, but this meant that he was on her contact list! He would go of course. What would he wear? It had to be something special. Max screamed to the room, “Emily, I need you!”
A holographic representation of his life helper appeared in front of him. She looked calm and cool as always in her gray skirt suit. Max had an odd sense of pride in the professionalism of his helper’s settings. There was some very subtle sexuality there. He didn’t deny that, but it was buried beneath a layer of cool intellect. So many people he knew had theirs set like a teenage boy would, with a bouncy short skirt that barely covered anything and just a push-up bra for a top. “How can I help you, Max?” she asked.
I’ve been invited to Cara Wite’s party. It’s in two hours. What should I wear?”
Emily took off her glasses and put one of the ends in her mouth as she considered the problem. “Your new yellow suit and blue tie are the best selection. You will look very handsome, Max.” She smiled reassuringly to punctuate her suggestion.
As Max began to think about actually going to the party, a wave of dizziness hit him. He steadied himself by holding the back of a chair. “Emily, what will I have to do at the party?”
“There will be hors d’oeuvres and drinks. There will be music, accompanied by some light and voluntary dancing.”
Max nodded. That sounded all right. Then a terrible thought came to him. “What will I say at the party… if someone talks to me?”
“I’ll be right there with you if you need me, Max.”
“I know that but I can’t wait for your suggestion every time… or can I? Won’t that look odd?”
“Most of the people at the party are very similar to you, Max. I have analyzed their profiles from your invitation. I suspect they have similar concerns.”
“So you think I should go to the party?”
Emily considered his question for some time, before responding, “You shouldn’t go to the party if it upsets you, Max. Your blood pressure is elevated. Sit down and relax.” Max sat on his sofa. Emily spoke to him again in her most soothing tone, “No one will know you weren’t there. Send a message thanking Cara. The result will be better than if you went.”
Max suddenly brightened and stood up. He was able to take a deep breath. He smiled at Emily. “You are a genius, my dear,” he said. Then he asked her, “What shall we have for dinner now that we have the night to ourselves?”
by submission | May 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Linda Breneman
“I can control a computer with my mind—from inside a dream,” New Scientist, February 2017.
At first I was content to fly like a bird and have brief tea parties with my dead mother.
Later I took to diving off buildings and bridges. Like the patron saint of lucid dreaming, the Marquis d’Hervey de Saint-Denys, I’m a glorious fool.
When I was recruited by the government spooks, I leapt ahead. Their tech, the LD3000, is a groundbreaking headset that delivers harmless, quick zaps to the brain while you sleep, a 40-Hz alternating current transiting your cranium. When they add infusers to deliver smells linked with your favorite activities—such as flying, eating, and libidinous encounters—it’s not long before you can control the plots, the scenery, the characters, and your point of view.
Recruits: I’m sure you’re aware that we are an elite force. We move attack drones with our minds while we’re sleeping, eliminating insurgents as necessary. What you might not know is that our job doesn’t have to be unpleasant.
While stabilizing and sweetening your dreams can be difficult, it is not by any means impossible. Think of dreams as little children who do not wish to be tamed. The more intent you are, the more recalcitrant they become. But with patience, time, and a little Skinnerian conditioning, you can learn to direct your dreams like Spielberg.
It helps that the LD3000 multiplies the gamma brainwaves in your frontal lobes, temporal lobes, and hippocampus.
What’s really going on is brain regions telling their inside-out stories to each other, like the one where you’re swimming with dolphins rather than bombing villages.
When a giant baby grows the head of a camel and waltzes with you in the oasis, you know you’re getting there. All you have to do is dart your eyes right and left. That’s the signal that you’re ready to let the bombs fly.
Just between you and me, juxtapositions are your friends. Transform that desert hut into a delicious frosted cupcake you’re about to savor.
Let the convoy of Humvees on the highway become a ribbon in your lover’s hair.
Maple trees in lovely fall garb are one of my favorite morphs for fire.
If witches and monsters startle you, or if video manifestations of maimed enemy combatants leak into the dream, run straight at the apparitions with your chest open, and they’ll slip right through.
You’re a conjurer, making up the future as you go along.
You’ll almost fall in love with this job, I guarantee it, once you realize you are in control, and reality is only another place, a place filled with suffering and pain, but a place you have official permission to ignore.
