by submission | May 9, 2015 | Story |
Author : Lewis Richards
Here we go.. The sound of self-entitlement..
Max Holmes glanced up from his Med-Tab as he heard the rhythmic tapping of heels on the sterile Metal floor; Heels that could only belong to the companies most valued Customer.
Striding down the Ward towards him, with an air of confidence that only money can buy, came the most stunning woman he’d ever seen, too beautiful he thought.
Extensive genetic modification, he noted, she shares about as much DNA with her parents as I do.
“Madam Devaux, a pleasure as always.” He held out his hand as she rounded the corner of his station, she extended one perfectly manicured hand, pulse cells in her fingertips leaving tingling trails along his palm, “Ah Monsieur Holmes, My Husband sends is regards, and please, I have asked you to call me Ola” Her French Accent colouring her words. Max ushered her through to her private suite, owned and paid for by the Devaux family Dynasty.
“Tell me, how is ze child?”
“This is what I wanted to discuss with you today,” her eyes flashed with alarm “please don’t be worried, I assure you, you’ll be pleasantly surprised”
“No unexpected surprises are happy.”
They arrived in a softly lit, round room, occupied by a platform in the Centre, above which an inverted metal pyramid was suspended. Max tapped his Med-Tab twice, authorizing the pyramid to begin Observation Procedures. The Pyramid opened, as if a metal flower were blooming from the ceiling. From the open pyramid, a sphere was lowered, emanating a blue light, revealing its contents to the room. Max tapped his Med-Tab again, magnifying a small patch on the surface of the Sphere.
“Sacrebleu!” the woman gasped, moving to get a closer look.
Max cleared his throat “As you can see, the Zygote has split, so I’m happy to tell you that you’re expecting twins.”
Ola pulled out her phone, speaking urgently into the handset, “Nous avons un problème très grave..” her voice demanding and concerned. Max stood to one side, listening to the torrent of words, his confusion growing with every syllable. Finally she ended the call, and composing herself, turning to the doctor.
“What options do I have?”
“Options? Sorry, I don’t understand?”
“Doctor Holmes, what you are currently showing me are the Heirs to my families Enterprises and fortune. Heirs, Doctor, that is the problem. My families Company cannot handle the stresses of competing Heirs; we have enough competition from outside of the family. This is not acceptable.”
Realization dawned on Max; he set his Med-tab to retrieving protocols, gathering documents and Legislations.
“How would you like to proceed?”
“There is only one option, only one can continue from this point.”
Max sighed inwardly, already knowing his answer even as he examined the files his Med-Tab filtered.
“I’m sorry, but, as this was an Elected Gestation, Neither Zygote can be terminated.”
“Excuse me? There must be something you can do!?”
“Madam, you have two options, you keep both, or you sell the Gestation of one, a sort of Selective Adoption if you will.”
“Sell? To who? I will not auction off Devaux Genetics to our competitors.”
Business over blood as always
“I can personally guarantee your Anonymity as the er.. Donor, and if you wish, I can handle the selection process for you.”
“We’ll go with that, I’ll have my lawyers contact you about the selection. Sell the Weaker of the two. ” with that, the woman smiled and left, leaving Max alone to order the Separation of the Twins before him.
by submission | May 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : LB Benton
I am a simple watchmaker. Once I owned a watch repair shop on West 38th Street, near the jewelry district. The shop was very small and, now, I barely remember it—worn wooden floors that softened the footsteps of customers, the sweet smell of lubricating oil, a door that jingled when it opened. Many things about it I have forgotten. Now I sit at a worktable in a damp cement room and repair the inner workings of androids. Like a surgeon bent over an operating table, I hunch over the lifeless forms of one android after another and bring them back to life, so to speak. Only someone with the skills and knowledge of a watchmaker can repair their complex, finely tuned mechanisms and overhaul the labyrinth of intricate wheelworks.
The horrid creatures tell me I am the last human, the last watchmaker. I don’t know if it’s true. Surely they are capable of lying, but I haven’t seen another human in months, perhaps as long as a year. Our tragic and fatal mistake was programming reason into the droids, giving them thoughts and freedom of choice. We wondered if they were sentient and self-aware, but that ceased to matter once the killings began.
They believed in their rationality, but in their heated frenzy to eliminate every living person, they made a serious error. It was an error likely disastrous for them. Strangely they did not know exactly how they themselves worked internally. They had not grasped the concept of parallel drives, the interaction of rods and tensors, the oscillation of the escapement, any of it, even the blinking of their eyes. For at the center of every android is a powerful mainspring which drives all animation and motion. Too late, they realized they did not understand the mainspring, the precision machined gears, the linkages. They simply didn’t know.
But the killings had gone too far. I was saved at the last moment from the chemicals. I was pulled from line when they realized their mistake. But I was the only watchmaker saved, the others were exterminated. Through bad luck, the Swiss went early. Now, I am toiling 10-12 hours a day making repairs. Without my skills they would cease to move, some inner part would malfunction and stop. They could not be repaired and would, in effect, die. Eventually, all of them would cease to be.
I try but there is too much work. Broken androids are piling up. They tell me to work faster, threatening me, but I can’t keep up. In their desperation, they are forcing me to teach them to be watchmakers, to give them the tools and techniques to do the work themselves. But once I teach them, I will be superfluous, and they will certainly kill me. My knowledge is the only thing keeping me alive.
My knowledge is also the only thing keeping them alive. I have begun the training, but I will not finish it. I will not tell them everything. I will not teach them all I know. All I have left is my skill and my art. This they must not acquire for, with it, they can live forever, will live forever. So, I have decided on a bold step—a step more than a little frightening for a simple watchmaker. It will soon be over, for I have a plan. My knowledge must vanish; it must sink into the final darkness. May God forgive me.
My only regret is that I have no one to say goodbye to.
by featured writer | May 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix, Featured Writer [ bio ]
“I remember when there were forests and farms right up to the border. I’d shout hello from my dad’s tractor and Americans would shout back. We crossed the border to shop. Before the DPA.”
“There you go again, old man. You could have retired years ago,” meaning he should have. “Why keep working?”
“Who can live on a pension nowadays?”
“Hey, pay attention, look at your display.” Pointing, “Right there.”
Only an expert controller could glance at another’s screen and make out two indistinct thermal signatures against rocks still warm from the Sun. The kid was good.
Below, having rested as long as they dared, two intruders put on hoods and walked by starlight on the dry bed of Belly River, now a trail, an escape route for desperate refugees from a parched, hungry, violent homeland. Even if they had heard the quadcopter buzzing above, these two wouldn’t be worried, having paid thousands to make themselves undetectable.
The older pilot activated his mike, “Four-zed, crank up your sensitivity and look for two partially cloaked illegals to come around the bend in few minutes.”
From a truck on the bank, looking upriver through his thermal scope, “Will do.”
Mutual Assured Destruction kept the US from invading. As the situation in the states had deteriorated, the Canadians had secretly positioned nuclear tipped missiles. When they had enough to obliterate their neighbor to the south, Parliament simultaneously passed the Dominion Preservation Act, sealed the border, and offered a non-aggression treaty.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing to a stack of rocks. The two figures, their cloaking gear looking like bulky hazmat outfits, headed up the creek.
“Four-zed, do you see them yet?”
“Nope. Are you sure of what you think you saw, old man?” He laughed and nudged the other officer. “Better crank up the sensitivity on your bifocals.”
“They must have deked up a creek, four-zed, heading for the campground or Highway 6. Check it out.”
Neither officer moved. They had hoped to sit in the dark until sunup, when they would be safe from the triangles. Drawn to lights like huge moths, the craft had been seen sucking out the contents of homes and swallowing up vehicles whole.
“Four-zed?”
Finally, a reluctant, “OK.”
The heat and moisture inside the cloaking gear was becoming unbearable.
Checking his watch, “They’re supposed to pick us up in about 15 minutes.”
They removed headgear and sat on a picnic table. Hearing what sounded like the buzz of an insect, she swatted the air, nearly slapping him. He laughed and playfully swatted back.
Zooming the drone’s camera, “Four-zed, they’re in the campground, end of the road.”
The driver flicked headlights on, and the Americans froze.
Watching his display, “We’ve got ’em,” said the old man. But he cringed, knowing the two intruders faced death sentences.
A shaft of light fell towards the truck, engulfing it. The old man later described it as “a bright waterfall.” He pushed the video record button.
All four at the scene fought to make sense of what was happening, but their mental processes were labored, as if they had been drugged.
Suddenly, the man behind the wheel slammed the shift into reverse. The truck spun its rear wheels but didn’t move an inch before the light fell upward, taking the vehicle and occupants with it. A dark triangle silently floated away.
The video’s sale funded retirement on a New Zealand hobby farm, where the old man spent endless hours driving his tractor and chatting up neighbors. His new island home was like a lifeboat in a worldwide sea of misery. Until the triangles arrived.
by submission | May 6, 2015 | Story |
Author : A. Katherine Black
Green paint peeled uniformly across the surface of the only door in the dark hallway, revealing a dirty brown history. Bastian slowed as he neared it. His partner walked around him and opened the door, entering the room without hesitation.
Bastian held back, scanning the hallway, wondering where the medics hid after prepping the space. Then he stepped into the small room, stopping when he saw the figure lying on the table.
“Jesus, Stewart.” He closed his eyes for a long blink. “This is a kid.”
Scents of salt and burnt rubber filled the room and made him nauseous.
“Oh, come on, Bas. You know what this is.” Stewart’s head craned forward in exasperation. “Unofficial. Under the goddam table. We can’t use a regular for this.” He reached behind Bastian to shut the door and turn the lock.
Bastian exhaled deeply as he sat in one of the two chairs at the head of the table. “Have you ever seen one this young before? What, is he six or something? Is it safe at that age?” He silently thanked his bad luck he wasn’t a parent himself. He couldn’t stand the weight of this if he was.
Sickly yellow lights hummed above the peaceful slack face on the table. The boy’s body was thin, his legs withered. A red cap dotted with metal beads attached to his head like a giant suction cup. Multicolored wires sprouted from spaces between the beads like roots dangling from a roughly extracted plant. Bastian was glad the kid, however old he was, slept like a baby. Christ, a baby.
He turned to the equipment between the recliners, trying to refocus. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision, pulling his eyes back to the kid, who laid still as stone. He must’ve imagined it.
He rubbed sweaty palms on his jeans and reclined his chair, taking one of the headsets and strapping it on. The metal was cold on his forehead. He pulled the pad from his front pocket and prepared to take notes. Stewart was right. This damned dictator was guarded better than their own effing Minister. They’d need this space if they were going to map out a plan solid enough to take the guy down.
Stewart took the other chair and bounced on it a few times with a satisfied smile before reaching for his headset. His face soured when he regarded Bastian.
“The kid’s older than he looks,” Stewart said. “The crippled legs just make him look shorter.” He looked squarely at Bastian, daring him to disagree. “Man, you know we need this space.” He reclined his own chair. “Don’t worry, these undocumented jobs pay way better than licensed ones. We’re helping his family.” He squinted at moldy spots on the ceiling. “I mean, look at those legs. He needs the money for medical bills.”
Bastian looked toward the boy once more. From his reclined position, all he could see were wires. He almost said something else, but then Stewart pressed the button to activate the session. They both inhaled sharply.
Bastian’s mind was a cavern. So much space waiting to be filled. Suddenly everything was crisp and obvious, from the sound of air hissing through the vents to the metallic taste in his mouth. It all made sense.
They discussed assets, intel. They planned. Bastian’s hand danced over his pad as the path unfolded before them. He laughed at the simplicity, the clarity of it all.
Every now and then, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. No one was there, of course, but the feeling of being watched lingered.
by Julian Miles | May 5, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Jack came down from Elevator Town with a tale to tell and a song to sing. He sung it good and told it fast, but we didn’t believe him. Who would? What could make a man flee from Orbitopia to come and grub in the dirt with us who didn’t pass the tests?
Okay, there were a lot of us dirtside: more than made it upside. But we didn’t pass the tests. We spent our days working to provide for the upsiders and pay for our training, all the schools and tuitions and folk who could help us pass the tests – for a fee. That’s all we did, back then. All the game shows only had one prize: a ticket to Orbitopia.
Next thing we knew, Jack had himself a cable channel: “Jack’s New World”.
We thought it was something about a new Orbitopia habitat. But it wasn’t. Just about Earth. Nothing interesting, we told each other over our pseudobeer.
But it was. Jack went outside the colonies and visited mountains and did something called ‘skiing’. He strolled through somewhere called ‘alpine meadows’ and went ‘skinny dipping’ from tropical beaches. We couldn’t help it. We watched. All the feeds from Orbitopia were about parks that curved over your head. Jack went places where you couldn’t see the end of the place. Just something called a ‘horizon’.
Then he started offering tours. After that, he started settlements to support the tours. Those settlements became the first Freetowns. All of us suddenly wanted to go out there, not up there.
It was almost five years to a day after Jack came down that the unthinkable happened. Orbitopians came down here to go on one of Jack’s tours! They had to come down in exoskeletons, they were so weak. They couldn’t eat the fruit from the trees outside the Freetowns; they had to have their protein drinks shipped along with ‘em in great big cooler wagons.
We looked at each other and the question Jack had asked rose on our lips. “Do you want to sentence your kids to this?”
We didn’t. No sir, thank you very much, we’ll work to supply you and save to move to a Freetown. Jack’s set up Freetowns near the cities. We can ‘commute’. It means we can go to the city to work, but come home to our town when we’re not working. We can watch our kids run in the sun and play, while the Orbitopians hum by looking tired and sad in the machines that hold ‘em up.
We didn’t believe Jack.
He didn’t mind.
He just gave us a new song and made us part of his story.
by featured writer | May 4, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix, Featured Writer [ bio ]
Richard walks the dark streets of the worst part of town, a noir figure in a fedora and trench coat, his eyes casting about for shadows that move, his ears yearning to hear a cry for help. Nothing. He can’t remember his last assignment, his last rendezvous, his last secret password, his last foreign intrigue… no memory of claptrap from a bygone era, because memory was at a premium in the old days, and they’d only issued him 16K.
Even though he’s a walking relic, he feels young, as if he’d joined the Service just yesterday. His girl has a lot to do with that. The girl of his dreams come to life, she has Grable’s million dollar gams, and Russell’s voluptuous bazongas, and Bacall’s sultry pillow talk. What a dame. But deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve her. He hasn’t won her for sending the bad guys to jail, or to hell.
And worst of all, he’s a kept man. Yeah, it crushes his soul to depend on her for everything, for life itself — for vacuum tubes.
Back home, Constance sits by the window, looking onto the dimly lit street below, waiting for him to return from his midnight walk. She knows he aches to get into the fight, to right wrongs, to defend his country, to earn the devotion of a dame like her. It was designed into his circuits, and she loves him for it.
He is the man of her dreams. Literally one of a kind. The shining achievement of a top secret project to make a robot agent generations ahead of its time — able to outthink Enigma, to shed bullets, to overcome evil, to go 24 hours without recharging, and most important to her personally, to pleasure women. That last feature was added in hopes of turning foreign fems into spies for America. Connie gladly role-plays Axis Fraulein to stimulate Dick’s Allied Powers.
She had come across him at a government surplus auction, standing next to the crate that had preserved him for nearly 70 years. Others had thought he was a statue or a clothes mannequin and passed by without stopping. But she immediately saw something special about him. He was a hunk of a guy — healthy mop of brown hair, laughing green eyes, kissable lips, square jaw, and the body of an Olympic athlete. Lingering to examine him carefully from head to toe, she marveled at the attention to detail. Moles, scars, hairs in nose and ears. She found his power cord and wondered what it was for. Some sort of pre-Disney animatronics? Whatever. It didn’t matter. She had to have him. Didn’t bargain. Just paid the $100 cash and had him placed in the passenger seat of her Prius. Almost forgot his user manual!
To this day, three years later, she still wakes up in a panic from the recurring nightmare of forgetting to take the user manual. But it’s always right there on her bedside table, and he’s next to her, emitting the reassuring hum of his battery charger.
He stops. A muffled cry? Over there, in the alley behind the tavern. Two figures silhouetted, a man and a woman, struggling. He runs towards them, kicking a can, alerting the man.
“This is between me and her. And I got a gun.”
He’s just twenty feet away when the bullets ricochet off of him. He slams into the man, who collapses like a broken mannequin. The girl runs away.
He dusts off his coat, picks up his fedora, and heads for home. There will be no need for role-play tonight.
