by Patricia Stewart | Feb 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“I’m sorry to report Mr. Jones, that your suspicions were correct,” said the private detective that I had hired to follow my wife. “Delilah has been cheating on you.” He rotated his padd so that I could see the cascading slideshow of my wife rendezvousing with a handsome man at an internet café, followed by images of them entering a sleazy motel. “I also had a camera in their room,” he added, “but I don’t think you want to see those images.”
“No,” I replied. “I need to see them.”
Reluctantly, the detective called up another slideshow. As I watched the images of my naked wife and her lover flash by in agonizing clarity, I struggled to control my anger. “I gave her everything she could want,” I hissed. “How could she do this to me?”
“It gets worse,” the detective added.
“How?”
“He’s not human. He’s an android.”
My mind exploded with rage. Sex with an android? She might as well have done it with a farm animal. “God, no,” I said aloud. “Only a sick, perverted person would have sex with an andro…” I couldn’t force myself to say the word.
“The laws are quite specific about this kind of activity, Mr. Jones. She can get up to twenty-five years under the current morality statutes. But I warn you, if you pursue that avenue, you will also be disgraced.”
“There’s no need to make this public,” I stated. “I’ll handle it myself.” I stood up and tossed an envelope onto his desk. I was confident that there was enough money in it to buy his silence. But I didn’t care about the consequences. I was so enraged that nothing mattered anymore. Well, nothing beyond the thought of staring into her repulsive, nauseating eyes as I strangled her with my bare hands.
I took the turbolift to the parking garage and climbed into my waiting limo. I instructed it to take me home. I didn’t try to talk myself out of killing her. I had already convinced myself that I had no choice. First, I would kill her, and then I would destroy it. Afterwards, I didn’t care what happened to me.
When I arrived home, I found Delilah in the kitchen. “Oh, you’re home early,” she said as she approached me for a hug. But she pulled up short. “What’s wrong, honey? You look upset.” She stood there with a genuine look of concern. Her crystal green eyes innocently blinking at me. She’s so lovely, I thought.
That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that maybe she didn’t know her lover was an android. Maybe she had been duped. “I know about your affair,” I blurted out. “Don’t deny it.”
Her expression of “concern” changed to a dismissive smile. “Oh, is that what you’re upset about. I can explain.”
“No! Don’t bother,” I snapped. “I just need to know if you knew that it was an android.”
She laughed. “Well, of course I knew, sweetheart. Honestly, you’re so naïve, it’s adorable.” And she continued to chuckle in the most mocking tone imaginable.
I snapped. I grabbed a knife from the counter top and drove it into her abdomen. The blade penetrated about an inch before snapping off at the handle. I looked down and saw a needle thin spray of pink liquid squirting from her stomach. I dropped the knife handle, and backed away. The room began to spin. I fought to steady myself. “What the hell,” I mumbled.
“Now, look at what you’ve done,” she protested. “You ruptured one of my hydraulic lines.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Lewis sprinted the last few yards across the wasteland and dove head first into the trench. He clutched his rifle tight against his chest as he lay in the dirt, chest heaving, heart pounding out of sync with the artillery barrage overhead.
Move, Lewis, get up and move.
A shell exploded nearby, showering him with sticky blue dirt. Ears ringing he pulled himself to his feet and, hugging the facing wall of the trench, half walked, half ran forward. He didn’t stop to pick a direction, didn’t reason which way was most likely to take him back towards friendlies, he simply ran.
Minutes stretched like hours, hours like days, energy weapon discharge cracked overhead and a constant pounding of artillery kept a beat and kept it strong. Lewis just ran, rifle clenched in his fists like the lifeline basic had taught him it would be.
His legs burning, eyes stinging from the smoke, Lewis ran past an advancement point in the trench. Here, a tee intersection had been cut out, hardened spray-plastigel buttressed the sides and a downed landing craft bridging the trench above blocked out what little sun was visible overhead. The trench continued on the way he’d been heading, but another trench met at right angles, heading towards the enemy. From ahead Lewis could hear gunfire, and not just the staccato blast of the enemy’s shard guns, but also the heavy thump, thump, thump of energy weapons like the one he still clutched white knuckled.
Lewis didn’t stop to think, just turned and ran towards the gunfire.
Within moments, he found himself at the back of a frightened young man huddled into a slit in the wall of the trench. If not for his shaking and the barrel of his weapon protruding, he might have run right past him.
“Soldier, let’s go, cover me.” Lewis barked at the frightened young man, glancing furtively along the trench.
“Sir, s-s-s-sir,” the soldier stammered, “I’m out of ammunition sir. I’m no use to anyone now sir.”
Lewis paused a moment, thinking for the first time of his own weapon, and the moments before he was sent diving for cover in the trench. He thought of the impotent whine that meant his rifle was fully discharged as well. Listening, he realized the staccato cracking of gunfire from farther up the trench had also stopped, and not even pausing to think he pulled the shaking soldier out of the hole in the trench wall and barked simply, “Barrel up, cover me.”
Together they marched up the trench, one empty rifle and one empty heavy repeater pointed towards an enemy they hoped was more scared than they were.
Within minutes, they stepped past a haphazard barrier of crates and plasteel panels, and found themselves staring down three of the enemy soldiers, guns levelled, mandibles clacking, multifaceted eyes reflecting the two commandos back a thousand-fold.
Lewis didn’t hesitate, just jammed the barrel of his rifle into the closest face he could find.
“Surrender. Surrender or I blow your fucking head off.” The force of his words for the moment drove out the fear in his heart.
Seconds ticked away like hours before the enemy soldier tossed his weapon aside and bowed down into the dirt.
“Surrender”, it said, in poorly translated mechanical English, “please, surrender.”
Lewis and the still shaking soldier stood over their prisoners for hours before reinforcements came up the trench and relieved them. Lewis walked twenty or so meters away from his prisoners before vomiting into the dirt.
by submission | Feb 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Langdon Hickman
There wasn’t a conscious decision to eliminate sound. At least not one that anyone could remember. One day, the world woke up to silence.
No one was bothered by the sudden stark silence. It felt freeing, like a burden had been lifted. They wanted it, yearned for it. Each day was spent in radiant joy, their hearts beaming out love to each other. Crime rates dropped. Domestic violence almost ground to a standstill. Drug use practically evaporated overnight and those who once had judged the addicts of the world aided them in overcoming their withdrawal effects.
There had been a sound before the silence came. It was like an infection, a virulent sonic meme forcing its way through the veins and arteries of the sound-drenched planet like cocaine careening for the brain. One day, a song appeared on the internet. The file description was empty. It was entitled Song 1.mp3. It started spreading through forums and chat rooms at lightning speed, exploding into life almost the moment it became available. It was a curious song, just a throbbing dance beat, staccato synthesizers, cold washes of sound and steady pulse that almost demanded that you dance. It was an epidemic. It was uploaded to iPods, burned to CDs, recorded to tape, pulled to almost every medium imaginable. Missionaries and aid workers would show up to the poor areas of the world carrying it with them and would leave it in their wake on old boom boxes and Walkmen. The song knew no limits. The internet would not be its cage. It would live.
Musicians began incorporating it into their works. It was simple enough. The piece was skeletal, could fit comfortably almost any song with minor modification. Remixes were pressed, bedroom musicians pumped out material laced with Song 1 and its pulse. What was stranger was when older albums started to show the sound, as though it had always been in the DNA of the music waiting for humanity to know what to listen to. Every song on every album. A single pulse echoing forever.
People said that if you translated the synthesizer lines using a complex computer program, you’d see alien messages. Some said no, it’s Morse code and it says the name of god. The song became an obsession and decoding it became everything. But then the silence came.
Sometimes there would be gatherings, spontaneous and inexplicable, people joining together in masses of thousands in empty spaces without a word, without a sound. They would stand together and they would hear the pulse and then they would disperse. No one knew why. No one cared anymore. There was peace. Peace and the pulse.
by submission | Feb 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Krista Bunskoek
Racing down the barren street, she grinned like an escaped fugitive.
She’d done it. She’d done it again!
Taking away her network privileges! Ha!
It only fueled her flame. With more time to plot, to create, to be on her way to feel the thrill of freedom. Freedom once more!
And, well, what she really missed were her friends.
They hadn’t disconnected her ‘vital’ Education network. Parents!
Ha. She’d figured it out, of course. The tiny loophole in the code. The connection to the house network. She’d worked on it every day, chipping away like a rock hammer to stone. She found the way. Undetected – the network still showing her as grounded.
Her parent’s schedules. Easy-peasy. The small security changes made after her last breach – child’s play.
Then there was the house alarm. The multiple levels of security. This took some time, and a few errors which she laid squarely on her brother. But she figured it out. There was always a way.
With the house network hacked, she owned it.
Turning off the front door alarm, she was out!
Freedom!
It was dark. It was silent. It was the thrill of the forbidden.
No one went out at night. It was unsafe.
She was out, and it felt good.
Now she had to be quick. She had to make her way down the street to Alexi’s house. She was late. She hoped he got her message.
It was chilly. It was strange. The slight breeze left icy kisses on her cheeks. So this is what night feels like, she thought.
A street lamp flickered. She darted from its range.
Glancing upwards, she raced in awe.
Stars! Not one or two, but hundreds, no – thousands! Her heart skipped a beat. She thought briefly of her parents. Wondering for a second if she might find their space station flying in orbit.
It was live. It was real.
Mesmerized, she felt like a small part of this enormous universe.
This was freedom. This was like nothing she’d experienced before. This was like nothing left to loose.
A sharp breeze whipped at her, snapping her back to the hunt. She had given Alexi a specific time, and she could not be late. Too risky.
Her stealth instincts kicked in again, she focused on the pursuit.
Alexi’s house.
A rock. Solid and heavy.
Hurling the rock in the air, it banged in perfect precision on Alexi’s bedroom window.
No response.
Wait. A shadow.
Was it Alexi? Was that a signal?
Too late.
The front door opened. Alarms.
No.
She stood frozen.
Too late.
The compliance police. Trapped.
She was put in the back seat of the extended unimobile, and zoomed silently to her house.
Her parents stood in the doorway. Glaring in disapproval.
Elana was sent straight to her room.
Deflated.
Defeated.
Dismally crushed once more.
She would always know, though, the thrill of freedom. A freedom so frightfully on the edge. A freedom so real, so rare.
This could never be taken away, and she knew it.
by Julian Miles | Feb 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Hadrian’s bloody Wall. Originally built to keep the Picts out when the Romans finally realized my ancestors were too surly to civilise. Since then it’s been used in books and films, every damn time to keep something nasty in the North from overrunning the lovely people in the South.
I’m standing on it tonight as repair crews struggle to conjure up the unobtainable with swearing, prayers and gaffa tape. Alison and I are peering down the scopes of Bursinger S3 minimissile launchers, looking for the faster ones in the endless shuffling horde coming towards us up the M6. A six lane shooting gallery where speeding is deadly. The longer period ‘infected’, the faster it moves. An easy selection process because the faster ones are smarter too. They can organise the newer reanimates into inhuman pyramids for others to climb. It’s happened twice and thankfully we had working flamethrowers on the sections where it happened. Now we have constant monitoring and helicopter gunships. But there is always some twit who doesn’t clear the napalm zone in time and ends up as trooper flambé de jour.
“You realise that we outnumber you?”
Alison does not take her attention from her eyepiece. Her tone is conversational. I keep my attention focussed as well.
“We’ll keep fighting. Eventually you’ll run out of meat and decomposition will get to you.”
She pauses and looks over her scope into the mob before squinting down the eyepiece with intent.
“Hello Gantiur.”
Her minimissile zips into the shuffling crowd and I see a figure try to dodge before it is reduced to a shambling lower torso and legs.
“Friend of yours?”
She grins nastily.
Alison’s world was reduced to ashes by their sun doing something unexpected. They had enough warning and managed to transmit their consciousnesses intergalactically. On Earth they found compatible hosts in the recently dead. They were clumsy at first and by the time they had figured out how to control their new bodies, they were cannibalistic to repair decomposition damage to their hosts. Most never progressed past that stage. The few who did were indistinguishable from full humans.
Alison had been my partner in and out of the military. When the ‘zombie apocalypse’ occurred, we got called back. Then she died in a transport chopper crash. All we knew was that she disappeared in the Highlands and returned two months later suffering from ‘amnesia’. I spotted that she had changed and she was among the first to come clean. At first there was hatred; but eventually, surprisingly, sympathy had arisen because the Metharran plan had gone so hideously wrong.
The bestial traits their civilisation had suborned for so long manifested when linked to the memory remnants of humans, unless the human had died with an emotional bond. That enabled the new reanimate to rapidly achieve full sentience; to become a Methuman. But the loss of that bond sent them immediately, irretrievably bestial. Our mixed defence unit has pets, cars, relatives, ornaments, books and the whole range of things that full humans can become attached to. The Methuman call them Sanity Totems. Each Methuman keeps their totem near them and protects it with insane dedication. Because without it they are no better than any of the plague of reanimates that are assailing the world.
I am Alison’s sanity totem. She has had a minuscule device implanted in her head, so that when my heart stops beating for more than five minutes she will be explosively decapitated. Until then, we have a strange love to keep us warm as civilisation crumbles.
by submission | Feb 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : O. Alexander
I open my eyes. They burn after another restless night, filled with nightmares. Three weeks in the jungle, playing deadly cat and mouse games with a neo-leftist demolition squad, can have that effect.
I get up and walk unsteadily into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, dark fear swells within me.
The Incident.
It is never far from my mind.
My man lost. A village massacred in retribution. Innocents slaughtered. I stood by, silent.
I pound both my palms against the hard porcelain sink, the pain clearing my head for a moment.
The One World de-brief begins at 9am. No time for regrets now.
Moving back into the bedroom, the TV is showing another cratered launch pad. This time they hit a base to the West. A primitive bomb again, crippling another launch facility.
I dress quickly and walk outside. The protestors just beyond the fence notice me and a swell of hatred is hurled in my direction.
“No to human murderers,” a strained female voice rises above the others.
My squad is part of an experiment. We are the first biologicals One World has allowed into front-line combat on its behalf in thirty years. With the rise of autonomous fighting machines, and the breakthroughs in Moral-Software that soon followed, war became a wholly non-human affair for the developed world three decades ago. Then, last year One World’s autonomous forces proved incapable of pacifying this jungle insurgency. The genetically enhanced locals proved too tenacious and clever for the agile machines.
Our baseline human squads have a good record in the test so far, giving the insurgents a series of bloody engagements with no civilian casualties. An Autonomous Witnessing Unit, the size of a small bear walking on four legs, is sent out with each squad. It records and reports the squad’s interactions with civilians and combatants back to One World.
The Incident happened in a zone too dangerous for communication transmissions. The images from the village remained inside the AWU when Owens attached the armor piercing explosive to its underbelly. The report we later filed told the story of our squad coming onto an atrocity clearly committed by our enemies. My job today is to walk the Council through that report, to keep the Baseliner’s record clean and my men off the gallows.
———-
Thirty minutes later I sit at the center of a drafty room, surrounded on three sides by elevated podiums. I watch as the colorful One World uniforms file in. When the last seat is filled, I sit up straight and prepare for my testimony. The room grows silent. A minute passes. Then five. No familiar words of welcome from the Director. Just silence.
Panic slices through my stomach. I stand, taking two steps backwards. Four strong arms meet me. I try to whirl, to run. The strong arms jerk me off my feet, carrying me to the far wall. One of the hands fumbles in a pocket, then holds something cold and metallic to my head. I am instantly paralyzed. They place me in a stiff chair. A metallic cap is fitted to my head. A screen descends from the ceiling.
To my horror, my skull under the metal cap seems to split in half. It happens smoothly. Mechanically. Without pain. Connections are made under the cap. A jungle scene appears on the screen, showing a view from just outside the village. The huts are still intact. Miller is just ahead on the trail. I remember this view. It is mine.
As the image leaps to life, I fear it is the end of mine.
