by Stephen R. Smith | May 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Tomas entered the sushi bar ten minutes before noon, ten minutes before his assignment would arrive. The restaurant was busy, not packed, and there were a few vacant tables along one side. His assignment would take the one closest to the kitchen, as he always did. Tomas left his jacket on the chair back of his own table, where the maitre’d had left him with a disinterested wave, and walked back towards the kitchen, pausing only long enough to lay a new QR code sticker over the one on his assignment’s table before continuing on into the bathroom.
He rinsed his hands, waited a few minutes and then returned to his seat to wait.
At noon his assignment walked through the door, an imposing man in an electric blue suit, double chins cleanly shaven, hair perfect.
The maitre’d showed much more interest in this man, and ushered him excitedly to his usual seat.
The man produced his phone and scanned the QR code on the table to begin his order.
Tomas heard an annoyed grunt. The menu app that would normally have launched immediately was now asking him to download an upgrade. Hungry and annoyed, he typed his passcode with fat well manicured fingers to remove this obstacle to his gluttony.
Moments later Blue Suit was ordering, and before long food was arriving. Tomas sat with his back to the man, listening to him wolf down plate after plate of sushi, sashimi and all sorts of dim sum. The sound made him nauseous, and any interest he had in eating faded quickly away, his own meal now abandoned before him.
At twenty minutes past the hour he heard the phone ring behind him, and for the next hour and forty minutes between gulps of green tea and around mouthfuls of raw fish, Blue Suit talked to nearly every politician in the city, most of the construction union leaders and several members of the local organized crime rings.
While they talked, Tomas’ modified menu app whispered from a list of NSA hot codes into the line, burying phrases under the conversations, painting targets under the noses of a very specifically targeted group of men.
Shortly after two Tomas had checked off all the names on his mental list from the conversations he had overheard. He left several bills on the table to cover his food and an allow for an unremarkable tip, and then slipped quietly out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.
On his way to the subway Tomas made one call.
“It’s done,” there would be no response he knew, “they’re all as good as dead.”
by Julian Miles | May 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Bloody hell but it’s a long way down.
It always gets to me at least once each shift. Burlaria has a vast atmosphere envelope. The result of it becoming the capital of the Nineteen Worlds was a huge increase in population. As the planet prided itself on the beauty of its natural countryside, something had to be done.
An architect called Gingky came up with the idea of ‘Skyspires’. Vast tower blocks, supported by the latest in deep space technology and each independently powered by the gravitic core housed at the apex of the tower. Which allowed the core to be jettisoned into orbit with ease in the event of an emergency.
The idea swept all before it and within the constraints imposed by the physics involved, each Skyspire was permitted to be individual in appearance and style. Kilnrock looks like a classic evil wizard’s tower from old fantasy tales. Orbitville is the preferred habitat for spacers. There are six hundred Skyspires and they themselves have become a tourist destination: airships full of sightseers take tours around them, snapping movies and stills of the light shows, inlaid designs and, my personal favourites: the gargoyles.
The gargoyle had been a mountain dwelling winged predator in danger of extinction. Burlaria had tried so many times to halt the decline of these long-lived, magnificently ugly, stony-skinned pre-sentients. They were unique in the experience of the NWFPC – Nineteen Worlds Fauna Protection Council – but that uniqueness doomed them. There were no applicable behavioural or environmental models to adapt.
Then the Skyspire I’m on today, Lifespear, was completed. Within a month, there were sightings of gargoyles in the uppermost zones. Investigation showed gargeries in numbers never before seen.
The height was the thing. When Burlaria had been discovered, it had gigantic polyps drifting in the high sky. They were part edible, part refinable and part weavable. The rest was top-grade fertiliser. Extinction occurred before controls could be introduced.
It seems that the gargoyles needed the polyps to lair and reproduce, high above the highest-flying competing raptor species.
Skyspires gave them back their havens and their population has recovered, with divergent species and variants still being catalogued, eight decades later.
Something small, fluorescent and purple hurtles past me, a vicious rattle emanating from its throat sacs.
“Leave me be, you ugly son of a gull!”
I patch my video feed directly to ‘Gargoyle Central’, as we call the NWFPC watch station here.
“Gail, darling. What’s glowing purple and wants to eat my eyes?”
“Casey, that’s a broodmother of the Lesser Mauve Tyrant subspecies. Very, very rare. If she’s threatening you, you must be near a newly-established gargery. So stop what you’re doing.”
A gargery? Made from excreted resin and scavenged rubbish in whatever aperture appealed.
“Gail. Is this species a hot laying or cold laying one?”
“Hot. Why?”
“I’ll come back in, but you have to call Lifespear Maintenance and tell them exactly why their expensive contracted external works engineer will not be clearing the heat exchanger on level seventeen-hundred, but will still be charging them his premium callout rate.”
She’s laughing as she replies: “Done.”
by submission | May 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I hugged the grieving woman and told her I was sorry for her loss. I said her son had been a good friend and good soldier. I told her I would be thinking about her and then stepped aside to allow the mourners lining up behind me to offer their condolences. I looked back at the casket, at the old woman, at the fifty or so people attending the viewing, and walked out of the funeral home. He’s better off, I thought to myself. Another veteran of the Battle of Eternity who’s finally found peace.
That’s what we called it. The Battle of Eternity. The official name was the Second Battle of Winnipeg. It was the biggest battle of the third and final year of the war. We’d liberated Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. We had momentum on our side. The Canadians launched a major offensive from newly liberated Ontario into Manitoba and we made a push from North Dakota across the border. The enemy wasn’t prepared to fight on two fronts. They pulled back immediately. We had them on the run. Then the bomb hit.
It was a nanotech weapon. The enemy hadn’t used nanoweapons up to that point. We’d deployed them discretely, knowing we were violating the Bucharest Accords. An enemy platoon here would get taken out by a debilitating febrile illness. A regiment there would suddenly have trouble comprehending orders. That was us. It was fighting dirty. And it was quite illegal. But we figured when the war was over we’d rather face our own war crimes tribunals than the enemy’s.
Both Canadian and American forces detected unauthorized molecular technology. We knew we’d been hit. We also knew that nanotech countermeasures would have already been triggered. They’d work or they wouldn’t. We pressed on. After ten days, Winnipeg — what was left of it — was liberated. Nothing that could be definitively attributed to the enemy nanoweapon attack was discovered. We figured the countermeasures had worked.
Six months later, the war was over. The United States and Canada were battered, but victorious. It was a couple of months after that when the first symptoms started showing up.
“Hurry up, we’re going to be late,” I’d said to my wife one Saturday as we were heading out to the movies.
“Be right there,” she’d replied.
When she’d come downstairs, I told her we may as well forget going. There’s no way we could make the movie.
“We have plenty of time,” she’d said.
“I told you to hurry up a half hour ago. You took too long.”
“A half hour? That was less than a minute ago.”
I’d checked the time. She was right. The drive to the theater seemed to take well over an hour. But the clock in the car showed it had only taken twelve minutes. The movie was two hours long. It had felt like ten.
In the weeks that followed, most of the soldiers who had fought at the Second Battle of Winnipeg experienced similar symptoms. The subjective perception of time had changed. Diagnostic imaging scans found changes in the cerebrum, cerebellum, and basal ganglia of those afflicted with what the media dubbed Eternity Syndrome. They’re still trying to find an effective treatment for those of us who haven’t committed suicide, tired of the living death of a world where everything takes forever.
I look back at the funeral home. I recall the sobbing old mother I consoled not three minutes ago. For me, it seems like it’s been a year.
by submission | Apr 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
The dense battalion of grey-clothed workers strode through the militant capital, their stiff legs rising and falling in finely tuned unison. Their perfectly timed footsteps echoed around the dark square like gunshots, deafeningly loud compared to the enveloping layers of oppressive silence that hung like a pall over the rest of the city.
A taskforce of bright-faced officers marched at the head of the contingent, proudly holding red flags that displayed the royal standard of their glorious nation. Crows watched from dirty rooftops as the tight ranks marched toward the central meeting point.
The crowd spanned throughout most of the city, its fringes filling alleyways and distant streets. Everyone stood on the tips of their toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the raised metal stage. A man clad in a black uniform waited expectantly behind the monolithic podium, his sharp blue eyes gazing out at the blank-faced people before him.
Eventually, the battalions converged and blended into the crowd. Biting wind passed through shattered windows and shook loose power lines. The man on the stage stood backlit by the imposing capital building. Red banners torn at the bottom hung from the stone façade, billowing slightly. All was silent as the marching ceased.
The man smiled and leaned forward, placing his gloved hands on the podium’s edges. He brought his quivering mouth closer to the cylindrical microphone and spoke. “Amongst you is a dissenter.”
The words boomed throughout the city, echoing ominously and stirring birds from their perches. His voice was deep and rich, revealing a hint of sarcasm intermingled with patronizing spite. The peoples’ glassy eyes twitched slightly as they digested the foreign information. Their ears rang with omnipresent tinnitus as silence returned.
“In your pockets you will find the key to weeding out this pest.” the man continued as he glanced around at the numerous pale people. A brief flash of worrying consciousness flicked across a few of their faces.
After a brief period of hesitation there was a soft shuffling as everyone reached into the pocket of their working pants to retrieve a yellow capsule. They gazed down at the small pill in their hands, head cocked to the side curiously.
“Think about the greater good.” the man said sweetly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
As a single unit the mass of selfsame people placed their palms to their mouths and swallowed the pill. Their eyes dimmed further as they all collapsed to the ground, their limbs splaying outwards and becoming intertwined with others. It was as if a virulent plague was sweeping through the populace, poisoning and killing the people in one fell swoop.
The man at the podium squinted and glanced all around the fallen crowd, searching for the standing dissenter. He frowned and straightened his back. After a few more moments of half-hearted search he shrugged inwardly. “Better safe than sorry.”
by submission | Apr 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Rove
The night when Joey saw his first drop-off, dense grey fog hung over both sides of the Line. Across it, through the pea-soup clouds he saw the Liberator’s outline. Joey imagined that he could see Ben sitting upright in the driver’s seat with his noble stare locked forward, but in truth, it was too dark to see much of anything other than the Liberator’s bulky frame.
The Liberator was nothing more than a broken pickup truck covered in rust from top to bottom. From a distance, the deep brownish-red color gave it the appearance of being made entirely out of wood. Without making a sound, it crept towards the Line. Its progress was painfully slow, but after what seemed like an eternity, the truck’s back wheels finally slid over the thin stretch of white tile that separated evil from good; the axis from the allies.
The truck pulled up next to Joey. Now that it was close, Joey could see the bulging outlines of five pitiful survivors doubled over in the Liberator’s bed and covered with a blanket. Ben opened the driver’s door, and climbed out of the Liberator.
“How’d you manage to sneak five of em out?” Joey was trying to keep his voice calm and impartial, but his eyes were wide with admiration. The dirt on his face served to accentuate their milky white glow.
“Quietly,” Ben responded. “Let’s hurry up and get ‘em out of here. You got the clicker?” Joey nodded without speaking and pulled a thin metallic rod, no larger than a pen, out of his pocket. A pale blue light emanated from the device, throwing a sickly blue tint onto Ben and Joey’s faces. It had no dial. It had no display. Its only adornment was a small black rubber button on its tip. Without lifting the blanket which concealed them, Joey pointed the clicker towards the pitiful survivors who were doubled over in the Liberator’s bed.
The idea of racial superiority is not unique. It has been rather common throughout the course of human history. But in every era of racially motivated violence, there have been angels. Angels who hide the era’s most pitiful survivors. During the Civil War, Harriet Tubman helped slaves find shelter in the north. In World War II, brave Germans would sneak Jews into the nooks and crannies of their homes. But Ben, Joey, and the Allies knew that the best hiding place wasn’t a place at all. It was a time.
“You will be safe now.” Ben’s brusque voice fell through the pitiful victims’ blanket and into their ears. “Soon, you will be in America, in the twenty-first century. When you arrive you will meet Sergeant Roberts. He is in charge of that century’s safe house. He will ensure you have what you need: food, shelter, and eventually a job and a new life. No one will find you there.” As Ben spoke, muffled sobs began to rise from the Liberator’s bed. Joey could just barely hear a fragile voice saying, “thank you, thank you” over and over again. Ben looked at Joey and nodded. Joey pushed down on the clicker’s small black rubber button, and the pitiful survivors disappeared.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jams took the offramp still pressed flat against the fuel tank, arms outspread, hands clutching the handgrips with intent. The suspension fought to press the tires into the asphalt while mass and velocity tried to launch bike and rider into the night sky. He could feel his heart beat once, twice, thrice before gravity pulled everything back under his control, and he let his muscles begin to unclench.
“Goose, ride. I’m out.”
He let his arms fall away from the grips as the bike took over control, throttling down and navigating onto the local route beneath the interstate. He lay his head on the tank, felt the steady pulse of the massive gasoline power plant beneath him radiate through his helmet and into his head.
“Goose, find fuel. Wake me when you do. Don’t engage the locals.”
Maps and scrolling lists of possible targets splayed across the inside of the bike’s armored bubble. Goose knew he didn’t need to see them, but she also knew he never stopped soaking up information.
“There’s a farm on the fringe, taken delivery of fuel two days ago, self-con.” Goose spoke in low tones right into Jams’ head.
Self-con. Self contained. Off the grid, or at least as off the grid as was corporately possible. Fuel and power regulations kept the wires in, but if they were truly offline, they might not know yet, and it was only with the unwired that Jams could stay ahead of the information. He was fast, but nothing could outrun the data; lies spread at the speed of light designed to ensnare and entrap. All the stealth tech in the world couldn’t keep them safe forever, he could elude the eyes on the highways, slip unnoticed beneath the satellites, but as soon as he pulled fuel off hours from a farmer, a light would go on somewhere and someone would turn to look. He’d have to be well on his way somewhere else by then.
If they was lucky, Goose could get them over the border and into Mexico in a few days, and if their luck held up, into South America.
At least down there he’d have no illusions that he could trust anyone, as long as he had data, there would be money and people would maintain a respectful distance.
Compared to the freedom of home, that would be paradise.
