by submission | May 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : Joseph Pascale
My ears were assaulted by a variety of sounds as I entered the 21st Century-style café. The most alarming was the grinding sound that could have come from a malfunctioning robot, but was actually emitting from large copper contraptions. I was also unaccustomed to the period music and the actors working behind the counter, shouting orders such as, “Decaf mocha latte!”
“Welcome to Café Literarti, may I take your order?” one of the actresses said to me as I peered at the handwritten menu.
“Um, I think I will go with a standard coffee.”
“I’d be happy to make that by hand for you just as soon as you verify your age,” she said, her affixed smile unwavering.
I flicked my wrist over her micronner to prove I was old enough to purchase the drug.
“Perfect. Will that be all?”
I nodded, sending the payment.
She pretended to use a cash machine and when she pressed a button it beeped. “Please wait over there while we hand-make your order.”
“Wow, this seems like real paper,” I thought as I took my steaming hot beverage and found an empty table. It was small and wobbly. “Did the tables really used to be like this?” As I moved a chair, it scraped up against the tile floor, and once seated, I found it to be hard and uncomfortable. “People couldn’t have stayed in these for long, could they?” I thought. “Well, I wanted to be in the appropriate atmosphere. Maybe it’s working.”
Taking the slightest sip of coffee, my tongue told me it was tasty, but still too hot to enjoy. Accessing my Libraria Ultima, I found the beginning of the first novel I intended to read. It was the debut work of an author from the 21st Century who I’d never heard of before an acquaintance mentioned him yesterday. As I began to read, I found his writing style simplistic, but engaging. The smell of my coffee tempted my eyes away from the words and I took a few more sips. It was beginning to cool down. I was midway through his third novel when the coffee was cool enough to swallow in gulps. After I read all of the fiction, I began to make my way through the blogs, diaries and letters. The coffee on the bottom of my cup was lukewarm by the time I got through the final message he had ever sent, and I held strange emotions about what I had just read.
Peering down at my empty cup, I decided against staying for another coffee and took the cup back toward the counter. I tried to hand it to one of the actors, but was pointed in the direction of a “garbage” container. I laughed as I dropped my cup into the cylinder. “This place must be pretty authentic,” I thought as I made my way toward the front door. The recently read fiction returned to my thoughts due to my confusion over one of the motifs. Crammed among the stacks of books in his room, the author treated literature as if each book were a window in a city of unstable skyscrapers, and he was the window-washer tasked with the impossible job of cleaning them all. Not only did he lack an easy way to scale the buildings, but the city was so vast that he hadn’t yet managed to clean all of the first-floor books. I suppose that was how a reader felt living in an age before they began to augment humans.
I left the café, but the thoughts stayed with me.
by submission | May 23, 2013 | Story |
Author : Aldous Mercer
Gerrard goes down on one knee to tie Junior’s shoelaces. He double, then triple-knots the things, and wonders what else she’s left deliberately undone.
“Did Mommy tell you why I wanted you to come today?” His voice is low.
“Uh-Huh.” Junior’s toddler-treble is appropriately hushed. “I have to meet Daddy’s Mommy.”
Daddy’s Mommy. Not “your Grandma”, not “my mother-in-law”. Gerrard’s wife tiptoes so quietly around her relationship to the screaming sky.
“It won’t be fun. You’ll have to be very brave, ‘kay?”
He feels a little disappointed at the half-heartedness of Junior’s nod.
Gerrard straightens, looks around the square. So many faces he recognizes, faces he’s grown apart from with every dog-year between Transmissions.
Some of the others have kids in tow.
On the buildings around the square, the advert-screens blink out, right on cue. The lag in the signal—GEO to Hawaii to Relative Square—4.1 seconds.
“Hello Earth!” The voice booms out from pole-mounted speakers all around them. “This is the Captain and crew of the Magellan, wishing you all a very Happy New Year. It’s been a few hours for us, but seven years for you, so before we transmit the logs, we’d like to send some personal messages to our families—”
Static.
Gerrard knows every hiss and pop of the twelve-second stretch of noise.
He feels his palms grow clammy. Junior is pulling at his hand; confused, probably, at the suddenly over-tight grip.
The screaming starts.
The signal has been taken apart, analyzed, put back together infinite times. Voice-pattern analysis, background analysis, stress analysis. Thirty-five years’ worth of analyses.
Gerrard’s ear, overfamiliar with the voices in the signal, detects a slight change in their agonized cacophony.
Magellan was aimed at a star twenty-one lightyears away. The ship has surfaced six times now. And as far as anyone can tell, it will keep surfacing, transmitting, till it is so far away that the Sun will bloat and swallow the inner worlds, and Earth will reach the end of all things, and have nowhere left to go.
He looks down—Junior’s eyes are closed, tears leaking between his scrunched-up eyelids, unoccupied hand clamped over his right ear. Gerrard relaxes his grip; Junior snatches his hand back to cover his other ear.
Three minutes after “Hello Earth”, the screams cut out.
The logs and data-packages and visuals never come. Just the same recorded message, then the static.
Only the screams change every time.
The screens around Relative Square blink on, return to their subdued still-frames. No video. No audio. Everything has become quieter since Mankind’s first—last—attempt at hyperspatial travel. Loud voices, loud advertising—they’ve given way before the world’s newfound sense of decorum; people have adopted a hushed way of speaking. And just when it seems everyone is likely to forget, and break out into unseemly chatter, the Transmission comes again.
It takes Junior a minute to realize it’s over. He tentatively opens his eyes, looks up at Gerrard.
“It’ll happen again in seven years,” says Gerrard. But at the panicked look in his son’s eyes, he relents. “You don’t have to come.”
“I was brave?”
Nobody is brave anymore. Not Junior, not Gerrard, nor any of the Earth’s other twelve billion. And the people on Magellan just keep screaming and screaming, and nobody knows why.
“Very brave—so brave, you’re going to get an icee on the way home.” Which will put off his wife’s frozen silence for another half-hour.
Junior answers Gerrard’s wan smile with one of his own.
And the ice-cream parlor will have a restroom where they can both wash their faces.
by submission | May 22, 2013 | Story |
Author : Roger Hammons
The Lady of the House had a mind of her own. “Christopher James Robbins!” she scolded. “Yes, ma’am! Yes, ma’am!” he replied, picking up the dirty clothes. The forceful puff of hot air from the vents made him chuckle, which seemed to annoy her even more.
He hadn’t programmed her puffing behavior, at least not intentionally. It had emerged all on its own, much to his surprise and delight, after they had lived alone together for almost a year. “I guess the honeymoon’s over,” he thought at that time, bemused. He still marveled at how it reminded him so much of his ex-wife Patricia’s exasperated huffing when he’d done something that particularly annoyed her. Such a whimsical interpretation, the fidelity was uncanny, a masterstroke of emergent behavior.
For Dr. Christopher Robbins, the Lady of the House was “déjà vu all over again” in so many remarkable ways, large and small. That was by design. That was his success. She was his grand experiment–his great obsession–an evolving computational cognitive model based on in-depth real-time data recordings of Patricia, spanning their thirty-two years of marriage. He had recorded everything in minute detail–the stimuli, the reactions–and then synthesized a model congruent with the observations. It was painstaking, bleeding-edge work.
By the halfway point of his marriage, Christopher had succeeded in creating the initial prototype. Dubbed the “Lady of the House” by Patricia, she ran on an ultra-dense, nano-core hypernet, built especially for her, using the entire structure of the Robbins house and would interact with the house occupants via elaborate multi-media installations. In the early years, the interactions were carefully controlled and served as entertainment. Later, as the novelty wore off and the Lady matured, the interactions were casual, unscripted.
The early prototype delighted guests with a personality they swore bore a sisterly resemblance to Patricia. Encouraged, Christopher worked the science and the engineering intensely—continually upgrading the hypernet with new sensors, nano-core elements, and multi-media devices; tweaking the data collects and information extracts; and refactoring the software as new scientific insights and algorithmic breakthroughs were achieved. Over the years, the Lady of the House grew in depth and subtlety, ever more recognizable as Patricia’s disembodied twin.
Patricia once teased him, “I hope you’re not planning a Stepford wife, Christopher!” But, unlike a Stepford wife, the Lady of the House wasn’t there to flatter him or to be subservient in ways that Patricia refused to be. Indeed, the Lady was just as capable as Patricia of making those trenchant, sometimes petulant, observations about Christopher’s moods or actions. Like Patricia, she did so often.
Nearly ten years after Patricia’s departure, the Lady had become his steadfast companion and helpmate. She inquired about his day and nagged him to take care of the mundane tasks that she couldn’t do for him–eat, sleep, bathe–when he was too obsessed with work. She encouraged and comforted him as best she could.
The Lady of the House was indeed a remarkable entity, but Christopher knew she was a poor substitute for a wife. He missed Patricia. In perhaps five more years, he would begin processing the data from their last miserable year of marriage. Then, it wouldn’t be long before he lost Patricia again, completely.
His worst fear was that when his life’s work was done–when all of the existing recordings of Patricia were completely analyzed and the last insights incorporated into the model–the Lady of the House would remain incomplete. Incomplete when he needed to ask. Incomplete when he needed to know.
And, without perfect completion, how would she be able to explain, truly, why Patricia had left him?
by Clint Wilson | May 21, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The piles of scrap starship parts stretched off toward the horizon in every direction. I’d lived on the junk planet for almost five years now, but my escape was imminent.
I wound up here like so many others, stranded in orbit with a broken ship, unable to pay the outrageous prices the thieving proprietors of this wasteland demanded. Finally I had crashed, and by the letter of the law my damaged ship had become their property. Fortunately the same laws also forced them to grant me refugee status.
They had chased me, as they did all other refugees, into Zone 470, a place where the junk was extremely old and deteriorated, and of little value. Yet my small band and I clung to life here, making valuable reconnaissance runs into other zones. Now finally we had our warp drive.
I stood back with Zeptag the three foot tall Rodachian. “What do you think?” he asked me in broken common.
“I think it looks like a pile of garbage,” and then added, “And I think it looks like freedom.”
With our limited resources one of the biggest challenges had been to put together a craft large enough to hold all of us. Zeptag’s genius with fluidics had been our savior as he had been responsible for bringing a two-century-old hover crane back to life. Without it we would have never been able to assemble the heaviest pieces.
My old maintenance robot Freddy was putting the finishing touches on some welds and the others were busily loading our meager supplies. I shook my head as I gazed upon a Croanthan freighter cockpit scabbed onto a Zachtarian troop transport hold. You could tell it was Zachtarian by the faded remnants of the yellow patterns they seemed to paint on all their ships, save for the dull gray side heat shields pillaged from an old Hoolyichie battle bird, of course heavily modified to fit. But what really scared me was the thruster cluster on the underbelly. It had been everything our old hover crane could do to bring the heavy Tenzonite engines across miles of terrain under the cover of darkness. But they were ancient, and even with Freddy’s reinforcements I wondered if they would hold together long enough to get us off the ground.
If we could only make it into orbit we would be safe. The warp drive, still with half-charged batteries, was our biggest prize. It was Rodachian, pillaged from Zeptag’s old ship at incredible risk.
Now we all piled aboard. I crossed the rusty deck plates and took the captain’s chair. All lights were green, save for the rear escape hatch alarm, but I knew it was faulty and welded up tight by Freddy so no risk there. I flipped the ignition toggles and ran my hand over the screen. “Here we go kids, it’s now or never.”
The old Tenzonite engines belched to life and every fastener in our makeshift craft tried to rattle apart, still she seemed to be holding together, for now.
Freddy warned, “Here they come, over the south ridge.”
The dust rose in the distance as the junk planet proprietors raced toward us. I increased the lift and surprisingly, as she shuddered once more, even harder than before, our makeshift tub began to slowly rise into the air. Now our pursuers were close enough to see, and they were setting up an ion cannon. I shoved the thruster lever forward and as the hull strained and old metal shrieked in protest I closed my eyes and uttered, “Come on baby, you can do it.”
by Desmond Hussey | May 20, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
I’s down at Calhoon’s Saloon washin’ the day’s grit outta my mouth with belts of sour mash. Was hotter’n a cat-house on nickel night with nothin’ to jaw on but leathery yarns told too many times.
Sudden-like, I feels a cold wind ‘cross my arm n’ the room goes graveyard-hush. So I turns my head ‘round, reeeea-l slow – n’there he was. The Stranger. Lookin’ right stumped.
An odd stick to look at. Outlandish digs – some sorta ashy, one-piece get-up fulla pockets n’whatnot. No granger, fer certain, but he weren’t no city-slicker, neither. Mighta taken ‘em fer a fancy gunslinger, but din’t see no shooter on ‘em.
Everybody was all bug-eyed like he’s a rattler, or juss walked through the wall er sumthin’. Then I re’lized, he was right next to me n’ there ain’t no way he coulda crost the room without me seein’ ‘em.
Real casual-like – like he done it a hunnerd times, he says, “Bar Tender. Two large, uncooked potatoes, please.” Then he says, “And a bottle of your finest whisky for the house.” Def’nit’ly a for’ner, but his anglish was al’right, I guess. Then he lays a chunk o’gold the size of my fist on the counter.
Well, that bar went from lynch mob to hootin’ fandago in two seconds flat n’ that Stranger becamed everybody’s bestest friend. I ain’t never seen ol’Calhoon move so fast. Lickety-split, he laid out two of Gramma’ Wilkes’ finest russets.
Then, the Stranger laid a black thingamajig on the counter n’ tugged two metal rods with wires outta the side n’ stuck ‘em into them taters. A red doohickey started a-blinkin’ on it. He was real anxious ‘bout sumthin’.
“You look like a man in a predicament,” I said gravely as Calhoon carefully measured our shots.
The Stranger scanned me with Chinaman eyes, but bigger n’ bluer. Bluest eyes I ever seen.
“Yeah, could say that.” His jaw tightened n’ he hobbled his lip.
Normally, I’da hobbled mine too, but I’s curious ‘bout this feller.
“Where you from, Stranger?”
“You should ask, ‘When you from?’ since, geographically, I haven’t moved.” Had me stumped.
“I’m from the forty-second century.”
“That near Cincinnati?”
“No.”
We knocked our shots back. – mmmmm – Fine as cream gravy!
After that, he minded his contraption n’ I minded my own damn business, while everyone else got right roostered up.
Sumthin’s squawked like a turkey inna rainstorm.
“Damn! Found me.” He packed his plunder then whispered in my ear, “Word of advice, friend. Close your eyes. Count to a hundred.”
A green light blinked on his thingamajig, real fast. “And invest in the railroad.” His finger jabbed his whats-it n’ he juss vanished. Poof.
Well, I ain’t no idjit. I shut my peepers. If’n I hadn’t? Wouldn’t be able to tell y’all this tale. I’da fergot, juss like them others.
See, with my eyes closed, I heard some thangs, strange thangs. Thangs ain’t no words to describe. Sumbody, er sumthang came into Calhoon’s – lookin’ fer the Stranger, I s’pect. Who, er what, couldn’t tell. All’s I know is, when I finally peeked out my oculars, everybody was pee-tree-fied, not movin’ er breathin’.
Then suddenly, they’s carryin’ on s’if nothin’ happened.
Calhoon snaps out of it n’ spots the lump o’ gold n’ his eyes growed wide with ‘mazement. “Gerald,” he asks, “You finally hit it big with that dried up claim o’yours?”
He din’t remember nothin’.
Nobody did, ‘cept me.
I know opp’rtunity when I see’s it. I wrapped my paws ‘round that nugget with joyful relish. “Yessiree, Calhoon. I done did hit it big!”
by submission | May 19, 2013 | Story |
Author : Mark Tremble
The gravel road leading to the dumping ground is the colour of washed bone in the moonlight. Nothing moves except the leaves of ironbark trees when the night breeze comes. Inside the caretaker’s trailer, which is parked closer to the piles of industrial waste and away from the thick stench of rot and decay, Ted Murray wakes to begin his night’s work.
Ted takes his mug of tea over to his workshop, a big iron shed really, annexed to his trailer. He flicks on a single light and sits on the stool behind a long bench. He takes a rectangular box from under the bench, checks its contents and closes the lid. He goes to the shelves on the wall behind him and begins sorting through the various tools and stacked containers. The objects within look like rejects from a mad scientists’ fair.
Outside, despite the moonlight, another illumination, much brighter, flashes in the sky. A sound, like a single deep note from cello strings, can be heard but, at this hour, so many miles from the town and its adjacent mine there is no one but Ted to hear it. An accompanying gust of wind sends a flurry of white dust across the shed’s corrugated tin walls but Ted continues to rattle about behind his workbench.
From outside the locked door comes the sound of faint scratching in the gravel. Ted stops mid-lift, a box in one hand, turns his head. The scratching grows louder and comes closer to the shed. Ted replaces the box and paces quietly toward the door.
He stops, holds a breath, because the noises have ceased. Ted moves a half-step closer to the door handle. An outstretched hand shudders. He is sure he can hear someone, or something, breathing. Ted shakes his head and takes a full stride to the door, flicks the lock and wrenches the door open.
On the other side stands a creature half his height. Its skin-like covering is a faint purple. It looks up at Ted with a quizzical countenance. In its small right-side appendage is a battered metal object.
“Geez Namon, what’s with the sneaking up? Just knock next time!” Ted says to the creature.
“Didn’t know if you were open or not,” Namon replies in pretty good Earthspeak, his long arms held wide. “I just flew 57 light years to get here!”
“Well, you could always fly on to Centauri and get yourself a bargain there,” Ted counters, eyebrows raised.
“Those pirates?” Namon asks.
“Come in. Whattya need?”
“A new velodrive interchanger. This one’s had it. On my account?”
“Account?”
“I’m a loyal customer,” Namon says.
“And I’m trying to run a business here. I can’t give credit to every creature in the galaxy, can I? Especially you.”
Soon, Ted finds the same thing Namon has brought; only Ted’s is polished and new-looking. The pair exchanges goods for legal tender. Ted catches the little creature’s despondency when the last of the money drops into his lockbox. Ted opens the lid again and returns a single note.
“Get something for the little one,” Ted says and tries not to smile when Namon’s pond-like eyes brighten.
“Ted, you’re the kindest human being I know,” the alien says.
“I’m the only human being you know,” Ted replies. Namon nods, turns and opens the door to the shop. Another creature, even shorter than Namon, waits on the stoop, object in claw.
“Alright, who’s next? Gronsil? What’ve you broken this time?”
