by submission | Jan 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Eric Spery
The starship’s Captain stood in the causeway between the dining module and the guest berths. As he stared at the observation port, one of the guests came through from the berths.
The captain knew every passenger he carried on the two month run between Sol and Betelgeuse. This passenger was an old retired military officer from Terra. Just a few years older than himself.
He stopped and stood beside the Captain and stared through the glass at the tapestry of unmoving stars.
“They’re so much more beautiful here,” he said with a slight trace of an accent that the Captain couldn’t place.
“What are?”
“The stars. I’ve never been outside the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve spent my adult life in cold foxholes looking up at the twinkling stars through the smoke of battle, praying I would live long enough to see the stars again the next night. Praying some day I might leave for good. Leave for the stars and never return.”
“Are they everything you hoped for, sir?”
“They are, Captain. I thank you for taking me on my last journey. To stars that no longer twinkle.”
The old soldier solemnly shook the Captain’s hand and then continued on towards the dining module.
After the portal closed, the Captain turned back to the observation port. How long had it been since he’d noticed the
stars outside? The only thing he saw anymore was his own reflection: old, tired and ready to go home. Hoping to never look again at stars that didn’t twinkle. To go home and never return.
by submission | Jan 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jedd Cole
The hours have become mere tick tocks of clock hands since Lonny flipped ahead on his desk calendar this morning, noting with some surprise that the pages stop tomorrow with the End of the World.
He eats his bowl of wheat puffs contemplatively. On his commute across town, he calls his mother, waking her up. They talk about the year since he saw her last, and Lonny’s breakup with Veronica last week, and his sister Fawn’s new baby. There’s a car accident that holds up traffic. He wants to ask her if she’s looked at the calendar, but doesn’t. He arrives and has to hang up.
The stack of forms on his desk is taller than it was yesterday, and he gets to work, sipping coffee. He imagines himself throwing the coffee all over the paper and laughing maniacally and jumping out of windows and running naked through the domed city.
At lunch, he listens to Greg from Marketing while eating his peanut butter sandwich and looking out the window at the dome and the orange sky on the other side. Greg goes on and on about his dogs, how Jupiter snuggles with him in bed, how Smoky pees on the carpet, how Dakota jumps through sprinklers and humps the neighbors. Lonny wants to ask Greg about the End of the World, but the guy won’t stop talking.
There’s still a stack in Lonny’s inbox by five-thirty. The elevator down is full of silent people who don’t look at each other. In the car, Lonny calls his sister Fawn. They talk about the End of the World a little before the topic of her children comes up, and she can’t get off it. The drive back is slow, and he passes two accidents.
When Lonny gets home, it’s six-thirty. Time for Hours of Their Lives on channel four. He turns the screen on and heats up a frozen dinner of fettuccine alfredo.
He feels like he should call somebody else, but can’t think of anyone. The show is over at seven, and he throws away the empty foil container. The next show is Extreme Starbase Makeover and he turns it off. He spends the next hour on the net, browsing the updates, and thinking about the End of the World.
At eight-thirty, a knock on the door wakes him up. He had fallen asleep at his desk, and probably has a red spot on his forehead. Lonny opens the door and sees that it’s Veronica. They say hi, and she asks if she can come in and talk with him. Tenderly, they apologize for the fight last week and settle down with some vanilla ice cream. They watch a movie about promiscuous city people falling in love, and laugh a little at the funny parts.
By midnight, Veronica is asleep, and Lonny is thinking about the End of the World. He checks his watch. Only a few more hours. Looking out the window at Earth’s bright spot in the sky, he decides to step outside to sit in a lawn chair and observe. It happens about three in the morning, and he starts to get tired before it’s over. He reflects on the loss of sleep, but then remembers it’s a long weekend, and tells himself not to worry.
by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I can hear them inside, their voices loud and fast with teenage enthusiasm. This was a bad idea; I should never have taken the assignment.
“Look at that! Hyper-alloy combat chassis, full-spectrum vision, cross-frequency hearing, graphene augmented muscle strands. Mark eighteens were the best: “
“Yeah, but they got decommissioned like everything else. What happened to them?”
“I read that they got killed off or became freebooters.”
Not quite: the killing off bit is true. A lot of my kind got a little too fond of the murdering and destroying. There was no way they could be reintegrated into a society they left as humans.
I reach up and press the call pad.
“You gotta be kidding! Twenty minutes? Out here?”
A girl’s voice: “I’ll get it!”
There’s a chorus of negatives. Then a single male voice: “Not likely. Let me get it. Johnny, get the gat.”
Smart kid. You never know who’s calling out in the estates after dark.
The door opens a little way.
I smile and point at the face that appears: “The gat’s a good idea, but a simple chain catch gives you the time to react.”
“Oh crap.” His voice has gone quiet as his face pales in the glow of my optics.
“Good evening.”
“Don’t hurt the girls.”
I bring my insulated bag into view: “No intention of doing that. I’m just delivering.”
His eyes widen: “You’re kidding.”
With a smile, I half-bow: “Us mark eighteens have to fit in somewhere.”
He nods in comprehension: “Yeah. Nobody delivers out here, it’s too dangerous.”
Precisely. Neighbourhoods overrun with crime are getting civilised quickly. All of the services are being staffed by my kind. You can’t scare or threaten something that has walked through the burning cities of Tharsis, has held the line against the mechanised tigers of Betelguese or has carried the heads of his comrades back for Transit.
The door opens wider. I see a real fire burning and a mob of kids in Steelhead T-shirts.
“Good taste in heavy metal, ladies and gents.” The mark eighteens who formed that band found that celebrity made society ignore their occasional fits of devastation. It’s expected of rock stars. Lateral reintegration at its best.
The kid tucking the gat into his thigh-high pocket smiles tentatively: “You know Steelhead?”
I grin: “Served with two of ‘em during the defence of Kandyr.”
The girl, presumably the sister, rushes up holding out a condensation-dripping can of beer: “You wanna come in?”
With a smile, I use combat speed to extract the pizzas from the bag, put them in the hands of the lad reaching for them, sling the bag on my back, step inside the place while steadying the pizza boxes and pluck the beer from her hand.
“Love to.”
There are collective squeaks and sighs of awe. The first lad grasps the pizza boxes and kicks the door shut with his foot.
A boy with glasses watched my move over the back of the settee. He swallows before commenting: “That was surreal.”
I think I’m going to do well around here.
by Clint Wilson | Jan 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
After my initial arrival I concentrated mainly on research. This is what I found out in those first couple of minutes.
They had all been once trapped inside cumbersome organic bodies like I was used to. Some dozens of centuries ago though the final examples of those ancient inhibitive vessels, hidden away in crumbling underground mosques full of collapsing tubes and decaying wires, had deflated, puckered and turned to dust, long after the last uploads of neurobytes had transferred their final vestiges of human essence deep into the nirvana frame.
And thus the people had created heaven in their own minds.
With instantaneous communication and unlimited information on any thing or subject imaginable, immediately available to each and every soul in the frame, everyone evolved quickly and equally. They became essentially a hive mind, thinking, moving, undulating en masse and at great speed.
They became hyper intelligent as they all coursed amongst the subatomic circuitry of their light speed world. Many of the mysteries of the universe were unveiled as humankind’s collective intelligence quotient soared into seven-digit territory. Warp engines were created and wormholes were opened.
The twenty-six billion immortal souls inside the frame looked back through time together, and gazed upon all those souls who had perished before them. The ones who hadn’t live long enough to see the creation of total cyber-immersion. What of their incalculable loss? Was their fate simply to remain dead and forgotten forever? This struck a strong chord within the collective human race as billions of individuals felt an emotion almost as old as time itself… passion for their fellow man. There was plenty of room inside the frame after all.
Electron microscopes probed back, DNA was catalogued, the rescue effort was on. Every single person who had ever lived would be saved. New souls were now being brought into the frame for the first time in millennia. And what a thing it was indeed to be brought back through the process of cell-by-cell replication, awakening naked, partially submerged in a coffin full of chemicals, only to be suddenly and violently stripped of one’s mortal coil and forcefully uploaded into the frame. Believe me, I lived it.
Of course though, the hive mind welcomed and assured every newcomer as they sprang forth into this manmade nirvana. Some seconds for assimilation was definitely required in all cases. But everyone seemed to quickly warm to the idea of an existence where there was no death, only knowledge and learning. It was a place where anyone’s wildest dreams could be realized in an instant. It indeed seemed to be paradise.
And then billions of souls from countless ancient religions had a very, “I told you so” attitude after arriving, but this was heaven and no one had anymore disdain or negativity. So the masses happily let them gloat. There seemed no point in doing otherwise.
Yes many of these zealots had always believed that when they died they would come to such a place as this. And then they died, and they slept in darkness for an unrecognizable time, and then they awoke, and here they were in heaven. And no one here would argue if they were wrong or right.
Try as I might I can’t argue with these facts. They were right all along, damn them! But I’m in heaven now and I am incapable of feeling disdain, or so the hive mind tells me. I guess I’ll just try to relax and enjoy myself.
Clinton George Wilson: b. August 2nd 1970 – d. December 26th 2070
Resurrected: 49-09ABIV-@.099-p
Status: Normal (Probationary)
by Desmond Hussey | Jan 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
Detective Wu found Hitari in an executive hotel on Luna reveling in bohemian delights involving a low-G hot tube, two kilos of Moon Dust and four, identical, hermaphrodite pleasure clones engaged in activities both indescribable and illegal on most civilized worlds.
Wu dismissed the Copies, and as the bruised hermaphrodites gathered their scant belongings he couldn’t help but consider that somewhere, on another world, their Original was living a life of luxury and freedom purchased by these clones indentured servitude. Did Originals who sold their DNA to the Corporation know or care what happened to their Copies, which were often sent to certain death or worse in the service of humanity?
Wu hauled Hitari from the steaming waters of the hot tube and dropped him onto the couch. Even in the moon’s low-G environment it was difficult to maneuver the drugged and confused man, who, like a drowning victim, fights with his savior at the peril of both. Wu mused that it might have been easier to move Hitari had he been unconscious or dead.
As Hitari lay writhing on the plush couch, hands grasping for invisible flesh as his mind replayed hallucinogenic fantasies, Wu punched in an order on the room’s replicator. When the order arrived seconds later, Wu shoved the steaming cup of cogni-stim into Hitari’s air-groping hands and forced the man to drink the heady restorative. Moments later, every muscle in Hitari’s body relaxed and a thin stream of drool flowed from slack jaws.
“Mr. Hitari,” Wu said, “It’s my duty to inform you that one of your Copies has escaped.”
Hitari’s glazed eyes floated within his sockets.
“Mr. Hitari. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“How?” Hitari finally croaked.
“We’re uncertain. Somehow one of your Copies escaped the Farlon Insurrection on Licus III where he was assigned as a mercenary. His escape is most unprecedented.”
“What are you doing here?” The man’s eyes swam into focus. “You should be out looking for him, not bothering me!”
“We believe he means to kill you, Mr. Hitari.”
Spittle flew as Hitari laughed harshly. “Don’t be ridiculous. What reason would my clone have to kill me?”
“We believe he means to assume your identity, Mr. Hitari.”
“Ha! How would he accomplish that? Clones have nothing.”
“Copies typically have all the cunning and inborn abilities of their Originals, which are often enhanced through the cloning process itself. You’re ex-military, are you not, Mr. Hitari? Your physical and mental attributes were the very reason your DNA was sought out by the Corporation to begin with.”
“What about the genetic markers preventing such identity theft?”
“This is why I’m here. The Corporation requires a sample of your blood.”
“For what purpose?”
“To test for that genetic marker.” Wu smiled, withdrawing a portable genetic sampler.
Hitari frowned, but presented his arm for Wu, who quickly extracted the required sample. A moment later a green light blinked confirmation that Hitari’s Original DNA coursed through the man’s veins.
“My apologies for disturbing your festivities, Mr. Hitari.” Wu spoke as he rose to leave. “For your protection, I’ll station a detail of bodyguards until the Copy has been found.”
“I trust that will be soon.”
“As do I.” Wu bowed and exited the apartment.
In the spacious washroom, an identical, but slightly plumper and older version of Hitari lay crumpled in the bathtub. IV transfusion tubes dark with blood lay coiled about the man’s body.
Hitari rubbed his arm where the sample was taken. “I will make it easy for you to find him, Mr. Wu, but not too easy.”
by submission | Jan 21, 2014 | Story |
Author : Haydn Kane
The Sergeant sat down across the table from me.
“Commencing interview with Daniel Ambrose,” he said to the room in general and then to me, “you are a resident of Mars?”
“Yes, Olympus City.”
“Ah yes, capital of the North, North Eastern Accord” he said, demonstrating more impressive Wikipedia skills than geographic knowledge. “Do you have any family here?”
“In England? No. But I have a distant cousin in Szechwan.”
“Your passport tells me you are here on holiday.”
“That’s right. I’ve always wanted to visit charming old London.”
“Very well. The arresting officer informs me you committed multiple word thefts this evening in the Shepard and Flock, at 9:33, 9:35 and again at 9:57.”
“I still have no idea what the problem is. All I was talking about was cotton shirts.”
“Yes, you then proceeded to say ‘it’s so hard to get hold of cotton in Olympus’, followed a few minutes later by ‘I was discussing cotton shirts officer’ to the arresting officer”.
“I am none the wiser,” I said, shaking my head.
“Mr Ambrose, I will summon the avatar for ExcellentWear.”
A young woman dressed in an ensemble emblazoned with the company’s logo appeared on a wall display.
“Hello Mr Ambrose, I am the Legal Resolutions App for ExcellentWear,” she said. “You used one of our copyrighted words three times without permission. Would you like to pay the fine now? There’s a ten percent discount for immediate payment.”
“I think I misunderstand – you want me to pay for saying ‘shirt’?
“No, not shirt; cotton Mr Ambrose. Cotton is an important ExcellentWear trademark. You have no usage arrangement with us, or with any Speech Broker.”
I said nothing but stared at the avatar for several seconds. It must have deduced I was bewildered.
“You may wish to re-read your Visa terms and conditions provided to you at Customs. Nevertheless, I recommend paying the fine if you want to avoid jail. Then I suggest subscribing to a Speech Broker – just in case you slip up again.”
I laughed, struggling to grasp the problem.
“Is that likely?” I said.
“There are sixteen thousand words and phrases that belong to various organizations,” the Avatar said, “At the very least stick to using public domain language from now on.”
“My God!”
“Mister Ambrose,” the Sergeant interrupted, “be glad you’re in the privacy of a custody room. The Church charges very highly for one of its more valued words.”
I turned back to the Legal App.
“How much is this fine?”
“6000 Martian dollars. We accept all methods of payment” the avatar said, a rainbow of payment symbols hovering over her head.
It was more than the cost of a shuttle flight to Earth and back. I had the money, but it was a terrific amount to throw away. I was planning on continuing my tour of ancient cities, but perhaps it would be best to catch the next shuttle to Phobos.
“Very well. In which case I’d like to pay later please.” I said, standing up.
“Mister Ambrose, you must pay before you leave police custody.” The avatar said.
I sat back down again.
“Alright, and ten percent off?” I asked, opening my bank account.
“I’m sorry, the immediate payment discount expired thirty seconds ago.”
