by submission | Oct 8, 2011 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
“John, I asked you a question.”
I shake the images from my head as quickly as I can. It can sometimes be hard to concentrate after engaging the interface. For some reason I always thought I’d get used to transitioning in and out like this, but she’s starting to suspect.
“Every time you space out like that I worry that you’re…”
“That I’m what?” I ask, trying my best to look incredulous.
She hesitates before continuing. “That you’re… going somewhere else.”
“You know I’m not,” I reassure her, subtly preparing the interface in my pocket again. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“How can I tell, when you’re~”
A flash of light, and she’s gone. In her place stands a busty blonde in sepia-tone. She tells me her husband is missing. The police have no leads. I’m the only one who can help her. I straighten my fedora and get on the case. Two informant meetings, three firefights, and a dead husband later, and I have that pretty blonde thing in my arms. Case solved. Day saved. Tomorrow a distant, future thing. Her perfume is so sweet.
“~always spacing out like that.”
I shake my head again. Gotta get quicker with this.
“You know I only use the interface sparingly,” I say. “I’m not addict.”
“God, I’m not saying that you are!” she says, for once looking genuinely concerned. “I just don’t like what it does to you. It’s like you’re not even you anymore. You’re someone else. Or lots of people. Or something…”
“Lucy, you know it’s me,” I smile, pressing the main switch again. “I’m John. You have nothing to~”
Flash. The dragon bears down on me, full of elemental rage. I raise my shield, buckle under the force of its breath, feel the heat, smell the smoke. The stream of fire ends for a moment as the dragon takes another breath. I strike, sword meeting scaly flesh. Sparks fly. Blood gushes. The huddled masses exit their smoking huts to thank their hero. Their cheers fill my ears.
“To ah… worry about… milady.”
“Milady?”
“What?” I’m struggling for an objection. “I can’t be chivalrous?”
“This is what I’m talking about, John. Your vocabulary changes daily. It’s not normal! How can I keep up with something like this?”
“You could always come with me from time to time.”
“Where? To your fantasy worlds?” she asks, looking disgusted. “To your 15 seconds of fame? It’s not real, John! How can I live in a world that isn’t real?”
Flash. The zombies amass around the compound. We level round and round into them, but the bullets have no effect. As we continue to fire, the stench of rotting flesh gets stronger and stronger, closer and closer. My left flank falls. The zombies swarm in. My leg gets bitten. My vision starts to fail. My only thought is to spare myself the dishonor of joining the zombie hoards. I put my gun to my mouth and pull the trigger. Before I die, I feel the odd sensation of the discharged ash tickling the back of my throat.
She stares at my blankly. She knows. She’s known all along, I guess.
“That’s it,” she says, standing and gathering her things. “I can’t take this anymore. When you’re ready for a REAL relationship, call me.”
I say nothing as she marches off. I don’t go after her. She’s inconsequential, the empty filler between the thousand adventures I live daily. It looks like I won’t be having her as a partner after all. Maybe I should just create one…
by Roi R. Czechvala | Oct 7, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Soft blue eyes. She had on a rumpled olive drab Viet Nam era jacket. An embroidered patch of a bald eagles head adorned the right shoulder. It was worth a small fortune. Obviously she had money.
She was drinking a Jovian Blast. A cacophony of liqueurs carefully layered to represent the banded planet. A sliver of dry ice added to the otherworldly affect.
Despite being over six feet, muscular but not burly and possessing weathered good looks, he was still uneasy around women. He slammed back a shot of Jack Daniel’s. The amber fluid gave him the strength needed to approach her.
He walked up beside her, started to speak, looked away and tapped his drink order into the bar top. “Um, hi,” he finally managed.
“Hello yourself,” she replied. It would have been mocking if it weren’t for the disarming smile. She found his unease attractive. “Can I buy you a drink?” Her boldness caught him off guard. Before he could splutter some incoherent nonsense, his beer appeared and he quickly took a swig.
“You’re cute,” she said. A spray of beer showered the bar.
“I… um… I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean to bother you… I,” he stammered, as the bar, somewhat pissed, cleaned itself.
She placed a hand atop his. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Sit down.”
“Really?” A huge grin spread across his face. “I mean, thank you,” he replied a little more solemnly. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought, mentally kicking himself. Her soft smile never faltered.
“I’m Rachel,” she said extending a hand, “and you are?”
He took her hand and fell into her eyes. “I’m uh, I’m… I’m Ray. I’m an architect. I designed this tower. I’m really proud of the docking ports. The owners originally wanted a single docking area on the roof, but I thought the individual ten car docking ports scattered on the outside of the tower added to the overall aesthetics of the tower itself. What do you think,” he blurted in one breath. He plunged his face once again into his beer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I think you’re cute.” A second stream of beer shot out. If the bar had eyes to roll, it would have rolled them. Had it a head, it would have shaken it slowly while making ‘Tsk tsk tsk’ sounds. Instead it just quietly cleaned up and reminded itself that it was payday.
Embarrassed, he turned and stared out of the floor to ceiling windows. From the 173rd floor lounge, they offered a breathtaking view of Dallas. He could see a shuttle lifting off from the port at Arlington, bound for the orbiting launch facility.
“What do you see,” she asked quietly.
“I see… Everything.” He turned towards her. Again he plunged headlong into those deep blue eyes. A split second of terror washed over him as he leaned forward and kissed her. She took his face in her tiny hands.
Somewhere in a room smelling of antiseptic and painted neutral beige, Ray raised a withered and liver spotted hand to his temple and removed the memory augmentation device. The vision of his wife, their first meeting, slowly slipped from his mind. He smiled a sad smile as a tear rolled down his cheek.
He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. He thought of Rachel, gone many years. He turned to the medical technician waiting patiently by his bed. “I’m ready,” he said.
The med tech inserted a syringe into Ray’s catheter and depressed the plunger.
by Patricia Stewart | Oct 6, 2011 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The regiment’s remaining survivors set up a parameter around their crashed transport ship. “Lieutenant Colonel,” called out Corporal Kuroki as he climbed over the twisted remains of a cargo hold bulkhead. “Colonel Searcy is dead too, sir. Looks like you’re the CO.”
“Understood,” replied Bourke. “Do you know if the pilots got out a distress call?”
“They did, sir. But the ETA for evac is 15 days. We have enough food, but the transport’s water tank ruptured on impact. We only have enough potable water for a couple of days.”
“That shouldn’t be too big a problem, Corporal. This may be an arid planet, but I can see an oasis in the distance. It can’t be more that a couple of klicks from here.”
“Yes, sir. But according to the planetary briefs, the oases on Inculta are all guarded by an unidentified apex predator. It is strongly recommended that they not be entered.”
“Need I remind you, mister, that we are United Earth Marines? We are the galaxy’s ultimate apex predator. Now, take a squad and recon the oasis and report back.”
***
Several hours later, Lance Corporal Swensholm approached Bourke. “Sir,” she said, “Corporal Kuroki reported in. He said he found a small lake in the center of the oasis. Then we lost contact. I haven’t been able to raise anyone in his squad.”
Getting more angry than concerned, he said “Instruct Sergeant First Class Craddock to take a phaser platoon to the oasis and burn a thirty meter wide path to the lake. Tell him to locate Kuroki’s squad and secure access to the lake using whatever force he deems necessary. And just to cover all the bases, have the maintenance engineers uncrate a few Samson Assault Vehicles and stage them just outside the oasis.”
***
The following morning, Bourke stood in the open turret hatch of a Mark III Samson. He surveyed the still smoldering path that his platoon has scorched through the dense overgrowth of the oasis. He could see the glistening lake less than a kilometer away. “Still no contact with Kuroki’s or Craddock’s teams?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied Swensholm. “It’s like they simply vanished. Sir, do you really think there’s an apex predator in there?”
“Unsure, Swensholm, but I’m going to find out.” With Bourke in the lead Samson, the three assault vehicles began to move single file down the center of the newly created path. As the Samsons lumbered toward the lake, the rapidly rotating proximity sensors scanned the nearby vegetation for any evidence of alien creatures. The radar controlled pulse cannons were set to automatically discharge at the first sign of any predator more that 50% larger than a human being. When the vehicles pulled up to the lake, Bourke spotted a dozen soldiers lying on the ground. He drew his hand phaser and swept a 360 degree arc, looking for something to shoot at. To his disappointment, he saw nothing. He climbed down from the Samson and approached his fallen men. Although their body armor was unscathed, there was nothing left of his men but skeletons, as though their flesh had been consumed by acid. One soldier lay on his back, his hollow eye sockets staring upward. Suddenly, a stabbing pain shot up Bourke right arm. He instinctively slapped at a mosquito-like insect on his right hand. Unaffected by the blow, the insect continued walking toward his forearm. “What the Hell?” He was dead before his body hit the ground.
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 5, 2011 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Tom fished through the basket of coffee pucks until he found one marked simply ‘Columbian’.
“Got a thing against coffee flavoured coffee do you Sam?” He couldn’t see his friend through the glare of the flood lamps, but he could hear him shuffling around in the shadows. “Sure I can’t make you one?” He lifted the lid on the battered stainless coffee machine, inserted the puck and picked through the assortment of mugs while the heater primed.
“No. I can’t…” Sam’s voice was different, deeper. “don’t want to mess with stimulants just yet.”
Tom laughed, slamming the lid and punching the button to begin brewing.
“When have you ever been one to not take anything?”
With a sharp click one end of the loft space became bathed in the cold glow of hanging sodium lights. Sam stood beneath the harsh glare and dropped the switch box to let it swing by its wire from the ceiling.
Tom forgot all about his coffee.
“Since I got here, Tom, this is what I wanted to show you.”
Tom’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he moved away from the makeshift kitchenette in the middle of the room to the open space where his friend now stood.
“Christ Sam, what the hell did you do?”
Sam stood, clad only in surfer shorts, his skin glistening chameleochrome over rippling chorded muscle. He’d become a caricature of the man Tom had known before. His hair was gone, his feet larger and more solid than Tom remembered from all the summers they’d barefooted at his uncle’s cottage. His hands, too, seemed larger, the fingers elongated and sinewy.
“I’ve changed, Tom. I’ve taken everything I’ve studied, everything I’ve worked with in genetics, biomech, nano-tech and kinetic design and applied it to building a better me.” He smiled at this, revealing powerful looking teeth punctuated by gleaming fangs, wickedly curved and cat-like.
“Watch.”
Sam crouched, flattening himself almost to the floor, his legs coiled beneath him like springs and then erupted towards the ceiling, crossing the distance in a blink to hang, one handed from the steel structure twenty meters above his head. Noiselessly he swung his feet up and braced himself between two rows of girders, then spider crawled at alarming speed across the ceiling to the darkness at the far end of the room. Tom watched awestruck as Sam dropped to the floor and literally bounded across the space, covering ten meters in each step, clearing the entire kitchen counter and snatching up the forgotten mug of coffee, sealing the lid with one massive hand to cartwheel over Tom’s head and land mere inches in front of him.
“Your coffee Tom?” Sam grinned, barely breathing and not having broken a sweat, or spilled a drop.
“Holy shit Sam,” Tom took the mug and gaped. “Holy shit.”
“It’s been quite a ride, I made some mistakes earlier on, but nothing uncorrectable. I think I’ve got this pretty much figured out, now I just need to decide what to do next.”
“Next? Sam, you’re like…” he paused, his eyes wide and hand waving, “like freaking Superman.”
“Yes, I suppose I am in a way,” Sam crossed his arms, then stroked his chin, “but Superman was a good guy, wasn’t he?”
by Duncan Shields | Oct 4, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I was ecstatic that I could create this kind of complexity in a chain-reactive static chemical crane array. The underchains made a little room between the different string permutations when the time came. It was the moment I’d been waiting for. The oven timer went off with a ding.
Seconds before the oven mitt caught fire, I let the retractors go and turned the electron ginny to six. With a little wiggle and a snap down to the quantum level, the lattice formed. It was perfect.
I’d made a fourteen-molecule high exact replica of my living room. It was there. I’d routed my electron microscope through the projector so that I could see it. The image of tiny green-tinted chairs and a coffee table was projected there in monochrome perfection on the pulled-down screen. I even managed to recreate the broken lampshade with a salt bonder, revised electrolyte silver off of a fork of my mother’s, and just a little monomole.
Light even streamed in through the basement windows. It was perfect.
I sat back to watch the show.
I had made her from pure electricity and wound her cored skeleton up from polymer attractors. The barest sheen of flattened oak protons and a hexideximilliliter of her own blood coloured her hair. She walked into the room, a little unsteady on her feet, and looked around in confusion.
I could actually see her hesitancy. The resolution wasn’t high enough in the scope’s view but it if was, I’m sure I would have been able to see a scurry of electrons form a sparking furrowed brow. She knew this room but she seemed to suspect something. She held her hands up in front of her. If she noticed that they were made of kaleidoscoping cohesive energy waves, she didn’t show it.
Barrelled underwards and hidden side-by-side on a level of predictable uncertainty in between this universe and the possibilities of our nearly identical neighbours, I’d stored the entirety of her mind in a recording.
She was almost pure theory based on a shrunken cascade of concatenated decision processes mapped out at the moment of transition as she fell asleep. She’d fallen asleep because I had drugged her hot chocolate before I let the nanotech do its work and transfer her consciousness to her tiny doppleganger.
Her macro-world body lay unconscious on the work bench behind me. Her breathing was steady. She’d be fine. I’m no monster. She’d have no memory of the last hour, though. I wanted no trouble.
Soon she’d wake up on my mom’s couch upstairs and assume that she’d had a little nap. I’d be there in her groggy state to back up that assumption and make it fact that would be seamlessly woven into reality by tomorrow. She’d have no idea about the copy of her that the boy in the basement next door had stolen.
I couldn’t wait to make the adjustments tonight and put a copy of me in there as well.
Time to see if she meant what she said would happen if we were the last two people on earth.
I believe in science. I believe in love. I believe in controlled conditions.
by Julian Miles | Oct 3, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
In the steamy clearing, Roda crouched to be at eye level with the small centaur-like creature dressed in spider silk trews and waistcoat. Professor Malken stood, dressed in a way that indicated many years of expeditions. Roda’s fashionably shabby clothing already showed wear after only two days. He smiled as Roda hastily withdrew his hand from the creature’s lightning fast movement.
“It bit me!”
“No, she said hello.”
“She?”
“Pretty sure.”
“So ‘I didn’t rip your hand off’ means ‘Hi’?”
“Gross over-simplification, but basically yes.”
“And these horse-rat things rule this planet?”
“These ‘horse-rats’ as you call it are a unique feline-rodent centaur with an advanced no-metals culture that has no spoken language.”
Roda went white.
“Telepaths! Oh my god, my secrets are going to be sucked out!”
Malken sighed. Another student only here for the huge course credit available for expedition work. Shame, he thought Roda had been deeper in his motives as he always seemed so intense.
“No psionics. They have two sets of teeth. Front for communication, back for biting. A fascinating society. Our work is creating linguistic definitions for their complex communication that uses facial expressions and what we have called Clanching, the use of the front set of teeth. Equally, we are working with their greatest scholars to help them get a grip of the concept of a written language. There are decades of work here with scientific recognition and careers being made.”
“So what about names?”
“That presents a problem. As far as we have discerned, facial patterning is their individual identity. Our lack of significant facial markings is confusing. They regard any clean shaven human with two eyes and a nose above the mouth as my assistant Chando. That is why the ‘no beards’ regulation is enforced. I am the only human they can distinguish. I wish we could find another way. Some facial markings even seem to have some sort of duality as a rank significator as well.”
Roda stared at him. Malken raised an eyebrow. Roda turned to stare at the creature, then up at the pristine sky above. He smiled.
“You say that there are years of work here? So a dedicated researcher or someone who brought a useful ability could make a living quietly and contribute on his merits rather than history?”
Malken was startled by the intensity of the stare, but actually liked what he heard.
“Yes and yes. Roda, what are you getting at?”
Roda turned his back on the creature and Malken. He reached into one of his pockets and emerged with a strange blue-white glossy cloth. He seemed to look at it before taking it in both hands and wiping his face vigorously. Then he turned back. Malken paled. Roda waved the cloth, now dull black.
“It’s an illegal, undetectable, one-use epidermal masking kit. This was the removal tool.”
He carefully folded the cloth and put it back in his pocket before looking up at Malken.
“I am Rodney Chase, last surviving relative of Hadra Chase, deposed capo of the Ellis Quadrant Maori triads. I need a place to be someone else and to do something useful for once. I do believe I may have found it.”
The centaur stared at the elaborate caste tattoos that marked Roda’s face, then abased herself, front teeth chattering. Malken smiled.
“Senior Liaison Roda, I do believe you have been recognised as royalty by the locals. Can I interest his majesty in learning how to chat with his peers?”
Roda laughed, his face relaxing at last.
