by Duncan Shields | Apr 18, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
No one misses prisoners with life sentences. That was the key. Mars was turned into a prison planet.
NASA had set up fledgling terraformed domes on Mars and teleportation technology was a reality. After a life sentence was passed on a criminal for a crime, they were teleported to Mars.
There, it was alleged that they were put to work as slave labour. It was astounding what humans could do once they set their minds to it.
Leroy Pedersen was being escorted to the teleportation chamber by two burly guards. He’d been found guilty of killing three families in upstate New York. His sentence was life imprisonment on Mars. He was walked in chains into the capsule that would scramble his atoms and rearrange them on Mars.
“I’ll find a way back here, bitches.” He said to the guards as they finished strapping him into the sender.
The guards smiled politely and left the room. A scientist came in to operate the machine.
“You got a wife and kids, egghead? I’ll kill them. Just you see. I’ll make friends up there. We’ll hijack a ship and come back. You’re a dead man.” Leroy snarled.
The scientist smiled. “You think so Leroy? You know, I’ve never told anyone this but I worked on the terraforming domes up there. That’s why I’m happy to throw the switch.”
Leroy tilted his head like a dog to listen to the scientist’s words. There was something not quite right about his attitude.
“Here is some top-secret information, Leroy. Decades. That’s how long it will take before a human can breathe unaided on Mars. You know what?”
Leroy stared coldly at the scientist.
“Decades.” He said, staring at Leroy. His smile was gone now. “We do have teleportation technology. What we lied about was how long the terraforming will take. We’re beaming you prisoners to mars but there’s nothing there. We’re thinning the herd.”
He threw the switch and Leroy screamed. The tang of ozone hung in the air and Leroy’s molecules zipped through space to the receiving station on Mars, a receiving station set outside of the domes on the naked surface.
Leroy’s breath crystallized as he collapsed and died, gasping like a fish and bleeding on the red sands. The terraforming robots came out to collect the body.
The one thing Mars needed most for the next few decades was fertilizer.
by submission | Apr 17, 2011 | Story
Author : Marlan Smith
Rob ran into the bar and slammed the black leather bag down on the counter.
“Done! Gimme!” His eyes were wide with fear.
Hal looked at him, then down to the bag. He casually emptied his drink between thin lips and then smiled. “You know the arrangement. Not until I count the money.”
“Come on, Hal. This isn’t funny anymore,” Rob was trembling, a silent countdown running through his head. “I did everything you asked.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Hal. “Next time though, maybe you’ll think twice before claiming such an extravagant loan, eh?”
He looked at Rob from down his long, thin nose. He thought for a moment then presented the liquid-filled, synthetic diamond glass, which Rob snatched away from him.
It was a yellow mixture, on the rocks, and slightly cloudy from the millions of nanomachines that swarmed inside the liquid. Each tiny device, no larger than a single cell was a hunter-killer drone designed to track down and destroy the same number of microscopic robots currently swimming through Rob’s bloodstream. Only Hal knew the exact number.
Rob lifted the glass, but Hal gripped his arm abruptly. A shrill little whine escaped Rob’s lips as he thought he might spill the drink. Even one drop lost could mean thousands of artificial prions roaming unchecked through his brain. He estimated roughly a half hour before they began burrowing like tiny drills through his soft gray matter.
“It had better all be here,” said Hal, his cold eyes level on Rob’s. “Maybe next time you’ll toast a business deal a little more carefully, eh?”
He laughed and released Rob’s arm. The glass trembled. Rob gripped it in both hands, carefully lifting it to his lips. The cocktail slid frictionless over the nano-tempered glass, specially engineered to allow every molecule to pass over its surface unscathed. Not a single drop was wasted.
Rob swallowed greedily, slammed the glass down and ran a hand through his spiky hair, crunching the ice in his teeth. He swallowed and let out a long, lip-pursed breath, a silent “whooooo!”
Hal opened the bag, blinked. “I think we have a problem here, Rob. You’re short.”
“I think you have bigger problems than that,” said Rob, now smiling. “About how much Mad Cow Special would you say someone could purchase with all that money?”
Hal scowled back at him, knuckles white on the handles. Then suddenly his expression softened. His eyes went wide, then glassy. Hal blinked. Looked up at the bartender. The tall man winked back. As Hal’s hand began to tremble, Rob stretched lithely along the bar.
“It can buy quite a bit,” Rob said. “And with money left over to bribe the barkeep.”
A tick formed along one side of Hal’s face as Rob stood up, adjusted his collar and took a second bag, handed to him by the bartender. He then bounced out the door as Hal slumped in his stool, staring at nothing.
by submission | Apr 16, 2011 | Story
Author : David Bastin
It was the third year of the drought of 2130 when San Francisco rebuilt itself, put out to sea, and sailed away.
***
At first, when they heard what San Francisco meant to do, everyone laughed. Nobody thought that the people of San Francisco were serious.
“Do you expect it to float?” they asked.
“Yep!” said the people of San Francisco.
They kept right on building.
***
The people of San Francisco were simple and practical, and they built San Francisco that way. They built it with plastic and teakwood and glass. They shaped it in spheres and donuts and coils, and they put a promenade deck on the top; and they capped the whole thing with a city hall and a bridge and a mast with one sail.
“We’re not in a hurry to get anywhere” they explained.
San Francisco was self-contained and self-sufficient.
“We’ve got everything we need,” said the people of San Francisco.
***
At the end, when San Francisco cast itself off, some people got scared.
“What about the commuters?” they cried. “What are the commuters supposed to do without any San Francisco?”
The mayor’s voice, amplified by a bullhorn, answered the question across a widening expanse of water.
“Berkeley!” said the mayor. “Send the commuters to Berkeley or tell them to Oakland!!”
The mayor’s voice was now fading and faintly audible.
“Or tell them to go to ….”
His final words were lost, carried away on winds blowing onto California’s coast from beyond the Golden Gate.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 15, 2011 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Janie loved the restaurant from the minute she walked in; dark wood panelling, slate floors, high ceilings broken up by a latticework of heavy wooden beams.
“You see, we’ve put your investment to good use Janie my darling.” Markus slipped his hands around her waist, pulling her close enough to brush his lips against her neck and whisper in her ear, “Come, see what it’s like at center stage.”
She followed him down between the rows of leather seating, semicircular boothes arranged amphitheater style, radiating outwards and upwards from the cooking floor to form a shallow bowl.
The lighting overhead traced a path through the aisles as they walked, lighting just ahead of them and dimming as they passed, anticipating, it seemed, where they were heading.
Reaching the expansive circular kitchen area, a portion of the stainless counter and fascia retracted, allowing them to step through before closing silently behind them.
“It’s entirely automatic,” Markus explained, “the system predicts what’s about to happen and provides all the right ingredients, just in time. Faster, more efficient, allows the artist to spend the time creating art without wasting a moment preparing or cleaning up.”
“It’s beautiful, I know I complained about all the money you spent, and I’m sorry, truly, this is far more than I imagined.” Setting her purse down on the counter, she ran her fingers over the seamless matte metal finish. In an eye-blink, an articulated arm snaked out from beneath the counter and the purse disappeared, leaving the counter pristine again.
“There’s more,” Marcus appeared with a pair of bulbous glasses filled with red wine and offered one to her. As she sipped, he continued. “The kitchen discusses the food plan in advance with the artist, places orders for the food, unpacks and prepares, it even cleans up. The artist simply puts on a show inside this room and then takes his or her leave, the kitchen does all the dirty work.” He walked around the galley area as he spoke, circling a massive wood filled, gas fired cooking grill at its center that reached almost ten feet across. “Everything gets cooked on here, mostly for dramatic effect. All the food waste gets collected from the cutting surfaces and channelled to it. Everything’s shredded, baked dry then blown into the fire-pit as fuel. No waste, energy efficient, and stunning to watch.”
Stopping across from where Janie was leaning against the counter, Marcus set down his glass and unbuttoned his shirt. Janie smiled coyly, “Are you sure there’s no-one else here?”
He slipped off his shirt, carefully folded it and set it on the counter. Behind them both, the glass panels separating them from the seating area began to opaque.
“Doesn’t matter if there is, it’s been determined that we’d like privacy, and it’s being taken care of for us.” As he spoke, he slipped off his undershirt, then his shoes. Janie giggled as his pants and boxers joined the rest of his clothes in a neatly folded pile on the counter, on top of which he placed his shoes, carefully stuffing a sock in each one. No sooner had he finished then the pile was swiftly whisked away through a cupboard door in the counter.
Janie straightened up, set down her glass, and turned her back to him, holding her hair up off her neck.
“Unzip me.”
Behind her, the giant cooking furnace roared to life, flames licking hungrily up through the grill. The windows surrounding them turned completely black, and overhead a gentle mist began to emanate from the sprinkler system.
Janie certainly had never done anything like this, but, more than little giddy from the wine, she was liking it already.
“I think the kitchen computer might have some bugs Marcus, I hope there’s enough money left to get them sorted.”
Marcus closed the distance between them. “No, not a bug dear, she’s just getting a little ahead of me, that’s all.”
by submission | Apr 14, 2011 | Story
Author : Ian Sweeney
We sat at the computer and accessed the System.
First, we needed to select the reason for our application. We scrolled through the options. Domestic violence. No. Infidelity. No. Incompatibility. Linda looked at me with sad eyes and I nodded.
Next, the System wanted examples of how this incompatibility manifested itself. Just a short statement. 250 words or less.
“Shall I do this?” Linda asked.
I watched her words appear on screen. She wrote so effortlessly, so fluidly. As if she’d put this case a thousand times to the imaginary jury in her head. Linda’s description of the situation was as thorough as you’d expect from a solicitor. She outlined our differing values and attitudes to work. This, quite rightly, formed the bulk of her argument and it all sounded very convincing.
I had never lied to her about my aspirations. I was content to remain a jobbing graphic designer. It wasn’t steady work, but it was fun and it left me with plenty of spare time. Time I mostly spent on my own, resenting Linda for putting her career before me.
Linda had always been ambitious. And I liked that. But things were different now that she was successful. She’d often tried to explain why she worked so hard, but the more she talked about her responsibilities, the more insignificant I felt.
Now, the System wanted to know about our sex life. There were two questionnaires in this section. One for each applicant.
“You go first,” I said. “I’ll make some coffee.”
In the kitchen, I tried to remember whom the coffee machine belonged to. Strange to say, but I couldn’t recall much about the week I’d moved in. The apartment, of course, was hers.
Before being partnered with Linda, I’d been renting a place with Sarah. I went straight from living in a damp ground floor flat, to Linda’s riverside penthouse.
“You’re good to go,” Linda called from the living-room.
I brought two cups of coffee over and she disappeared into the bedroom while I filled in my half of the sex-life questionnaire. I made it all sound worse than it was. The System doesn’t like couples that don’t get on in the bedroom. It knows that they are less likely to have children. Which is the only thing that really matters.
Linda wandered back in.
“All done?” she asked.
I nodded and she tapped the ‘send’ button.
We sat together in silence. There was nothing we could say to make the moment any easier.
As I thought back to the time we’d spent together I couldn’t help thinking that we’d been lucky. It was easy to end up with someone you liked and respected, but for the System to partner you with someone you fall in love with – even if that love is flawed – was rare.
The computer beeped and the words ‘Break-up Accepted’ appeared on screen. I looked at Linda. Her eyes were red and wet. She gave me a sad smile and wiped a tear away.
The System informed me that it was dispatching moving boxes and that I should vacate the premises within two days.
Then two profiles appeared: our new partners. The System had clearly diagnosed the cause of our break-up as a career mismatch.
Fran was a graphic designer and had recently been widowed. She was pretty, had red hair and a kind smile. Brett McNally was a solicitor. He was older than Linda, but was slim and good-looking. His suit looked expensive.
“Linda,” I said. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”
by Roi R. Czechvala | Apr 13, 2011 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
The morning sun cast a dim ruddy light through Frank’s single window. He missed the cheerful yellow light of Sol, though in this incarnation he had never been to Earth. Though his heart was attuned to his home planet’s local star, his eyes weren’t. He pulled himself from the Jesus tank and towelled himself dry.
“Curtis, blinds,” he ordered the room, squinting in the Betelguesian glare; he stumbled to the wall and unfolded the kitchen. “Koff, breakfast.” Without further instruction Curtis produced a mug of synthetic coffee and a plate of egg material grown in a vat from imported tissue.
“Curtis, sitrep,” through his ‘plant, Frank heard the usually sarcastic, mostly sardonic, frequently cynical and for some reason, Russian accented voice of his AI.
“White team mission successful. Target adequately nullified. The strike leader’s remains were returned to his quarters for resurrection.”
“How bad was it?”
“They found your toe, Sir.”
“Damn.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
Frank folded the kitchen away, unfolding the bathroom in the process.
“Um… Curtis?”
“Sir?”
“Where’s my dick?”
“Gender reassignment was necessary for the current mission specs.” Frank could have sworn the AI snickered.
Frank turned to the mirror and gasped in horror discovering that he was now a young, attractive, red headed female with, he had to grudgingly admit, nice tits. “Curtis,” Frank asked a quaver in his voice, “what are the current mission parameters?”
This time there was no mistaking Curtis’ outright guffaw. “You are to infiltrate Kim Sung Mung’s compound as a,” here the AI broke off in uncontrolled laughter.
“Curtis!”
“Sorry, Sir. You are to infiltrate the Asiatic commander’s compound as a pleasure companion.”
“OH GAWD, NO!”
“Shall I pack your mouthwash, Sir?”
The AI’s derisive guffaws could be heard in the corridor outside and beyond.
