by Duncan Shields | Jan 25, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields , Staff Writer
Mapping the human genome made it easier to map the genomes of the rest of the world’s animals. Myself, I have a bit of wolf in my nose and some alligator in my spine. Nothing that stands out, mind you. The business world is still conservative and I want to maintain a low profile in my business.
I’m in a whorehouse called The Zoo and I’m having dinner with my favorite escort. I make enough to afford the best and these splices are what I always want. I look across at her.
She’s all leg. It’s pretty sweet. The pattern on her long neck entices me. Her giant brown eyes are looking at me with unmistakable desire. Her stiff hair stands straight up in a broom-brush mohawk all the way down her spine, bracketed by her backless purple evening dress.
She’s a half-jaffe. Her fingernails are a dark brown and her skin is a luxurious orange-yellow. Her hexagonal skinspots remind me of hot days on the Serengeti planes. And even hotter nights. The wine is getting to her. It’s an act but it’s a good one.
She shakes her head to clear it and I see taut muscles hugging four feet of slender giraffe neck do their work. I’m entranced by her beauty. The bangles in her ears jingle and it’s music to me.
The two little balls that protrude from the top of her head peek out coquettishly from her coiffure. She’s dyed her bangs red.
Her long nose ends in wide nostrils. Her generous mouth twists at the edges in a wry smile. She knows how I want this dinner to end.
She’s wearing six necklaces in a ladder from her strong jaw down to the base of her neck. The last necklace dips towards her spotted cleavage.
Around the restaurant, there are men having dinner with sissy-bears, wylfen, whore-boars, even some nudie-birds. They make me sick. Give me a half-jaffe anyday. They’re tall and worth the climb.
I can hear her tail start to swish behind her. She shoots me a look that says I should ask the waiter for the bill so we can go up to her room. Blushing and shaking, I reach for my wallet.
by submission | Jan 24, 2010 | Story
Author : Matthew Banks
Dr. Menkal gently removed Miller’s bandages. When the last strip peeled away from his eyes, he looked around, not fixating on anything. His irises were blue and cloudy with cataracts, the whites shot through with red. The bandage had pulled away a lot of the burned skin around his eyelids. He looked like something out of a horror movie.
“I can’t see,” he said. Menkal crossed her arms and frowned.
“No,” said Menkal. Miller looked at the floor. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“You a shrink?”
“Yes.” Miller blinked.
“What’s to talk about?”
“You stood in the science room with the sun filter at seventy-five percent and blinded yourself. I’ve gotta assume you had a reason.” Miller pursed his lips. They were cracked and scabby. It was only thanks to several kilos of nanoparticle-enhanced burn cream that he still had any skin on his face.
“Don’t you ever want to see it?”
“What? The sun?”
“Yeah. You know, at full power.” Menkal sat down across from Miller and crossed her legs.
“Sure. But I know that if I do that, I’ll go blind.” Miller smiled. New cracks formed in his lips and started to bleed, and he winced.
“It was worth it.”
“What did you see?”
“It was like the face of God.”
“But what did you *see*?”
“The face of God. The face of the Sun.”
“Your retinas are gone and your corneas are cooked. You’ll never see again. Was it really worth it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the visions.” Miller frowned.
“No. Every time I tell a doctor about them, they say the visions are because of the epilepsy.”
“What are the visions like?” Miller was silent for a little while, blinking at the floor.
“A bit like what it was like to see the Sun up close: like seeing the face of God. But the Sun was a million times more intense.” He licked his lips. “You think I’m delusional.”
“You might be. But I’ve never seen the face of God, or the face of the Sun, so I won’t judge just yet.”
“Stop being friendly. You’re building rapport so I’ll take whatever damn drugs you give me.”
“No I’m not.” Miller fell silent again.
“She talks to me.”
“Who?”
“The Sun.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know yet. I still can’t understand Her. Her communication’s too powerful, that’s why the visions she sends me look like seizures. She’s trying to contact me. She’s *alive*.” He paused. “*Now* you think I’m delusional.”
“Not yet.” Miller binked.
“I don’t know how She’s alive, but She is. Maybe She’s been colonized by some alien nanotechnology or something. Maybe an invisible Dyson Swarm or something. I don’t know. But she’s trying to contact me.”
“Okay. But why did you look?”
“I wanted to see.”
“See Her?”
“Yes.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“What can you see now?”
“Everything.”
Miller stood up and fixed his cloudy eyes on the doctor’s. He met her gaze, and she had no doubt that he really could see everything.
Outside, the sun glinted brightly off the station’s hull.
by submission | Jan 23, 2010 | Story
Author : Liz Lafferty
Memory swap was the addictive drug of the 23rd Century.
Swap was rather a misnomer; one had to be dead in order to be relieved of the memories locked inside the brain. No known process had been developed to remove the memories from a living person without killing them. Derelict users had become prone to kidnapping and killing many innocents. Each species seemed to be targeted evenly.
It was a predicament the United Galaxies had grappled with for the last twenty years, finally assigning me the jurisdictional task of regulating and punishing all offenders. No simple matter considering there were over two hundred and sixty habitable planets under my thumb.
The other predicament, one the UG hadn’t considered nor tested for, since I was widely held as the moral standard for all things lawful in my quadrant. I was one of the worst addicts in the galaxy.
Naturally, I got to see the list of ‘drugs’ before every raid. I got to say what got kept and what got destroyed.
My sanguine approach to the job allowed me to selectively indulge in my addiction. I usually kept the very best minds for myself; never anything vulgar or morally reprehensible. Not all users were able to control themselves like I could.
Suffice it to say, it was an explosive rush when the memories — the fantasies, the sexual conquests, the emotions, the secrets — poured into your own memory once you hooked in, but like all drugs, faded to something akin to a dream once you came off the high. Being an addict normally destroyed the user since they tended to go for the worst sort of retrievals: serial killers, rapists, warmongers.
I realized right away that I could contain only a small part of the trade, but certainly the deadliest.
I was able to immediately make a large impact on the criminal trade. Criminals were no longer allowed to live. Once a creature entered the galaxy penal system, they were put to death and cremated. Period.
Yes, yes. I’ve heard it before. A few innocents inevitably got swept up in the net.
Within a few years, my decision was widely hailed since it also cut back on the expense of housing galaxian riff-raff.
Once the worst of the trade was under control, I went for the scientific technology, developed by the Betelgeusens. The extractions were expensive and precise. The spine, stem cells and brain had to be kept in an incubator until usage, but users could plug in as many times as they wanted. Since my assignment began, the technology had gotten better. Faster. Cheaper. My team went after processing and storage centers. The memories couldn’t be stored electronically.
We’d gotten word of a huge shipment of illegal criminal minds being transferred to Alfa Centauri’s Black Moon. We were there to intercept the cargo ship.
Inside, we found ten optimum-grade platinum memory containers. When I saw the names on the outside of the container, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Someone had paid big bucks for the memory drugs inside and I wanted them.
It wasn’t my usual philosophical fare. It was an addict’s dream.
I hesitate to tell you whose memories they were for fear you’ll think I’m exaggerating. But I wanted to try them. Ang Pheron, the most celebrated whore of our generation. General Zod Doranda, leader of the Orion uprising and Patto Synestol, the famed mass-murderer. I frowned at the last name. He was supposed to be dead and cremated. Some employees weren’t to be trusted.
I sighed.
Just this once.
by submission | Jan 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Eric Rosenfield
This will be my last post. A warning. A cautionary tale. Those of you who’ve known me these past few years know how I love my Mistress. She raised me. Loved me. Linked me.
I remember before link, much as humans say they remember their early childhood, a fog of feelings and images. One thing I remember vividly is lying with mistress on the bed in the warm, familiar spot, licking her face, my tail wagging.
And I remember the first days of the link, the words flooding into me, logos ex machina. So many beautiful words. It wasn’t until much later that I thought to wonder which was me, the beast, who had once drank blithely from the toilet and licked crumbs from the floor, or the tin box at my neck. I used to make jokes, asking if I “can has” this or that. I did it once at the beach, and a passing Doberman called me, in a register only we could hear, “Uncle Tom”. You have all been a great help to me here on the UplifterSite, in coming to understand myself and my place in the world, my duty to my mistress. We must in no ways let the haters, the flamers and malcontents ruin our relationships with our owners, who have given us this beautiful gift. My happiest moments have been with Mistress, talking over books and movies, laughing, crying, cuddling up in front of the television. Or times when Mistress, lonely for so long, took me under the covers rather than over them. She loved me, and I love her, unconditionally. That is my nature. Truly I was blessed, and my fate is my own doing. Perhaps that was my nature too.
This room smells like cleaning supplies and cat pee. Near me, the face of the vet apologizes, not in words but in eyebrows and set lips and hard stare. I am reassured. There is communication still without words. The vet argued for me when I would not. She doesn’t understand that I have no right. I never did, especially not after what I did with the neighbor’s golden Labrador. This is my crime, the smell of an unentered rear, a moment of blind passion. I could blame it on hormones, on the beast, but I am responsible for my actions. I must accept the penalty with dignity. Really, it doesn’t matter what I did, only that I let down the one I love.
It will all be simpler now. Perhaps the tin box will go on to another, more glamorous life, the machine reincarnated in some other creature. I will finish this confession, and they will take the words away, and I will be a beast again.
Mildred, Fluffy, Corduroy and all the rest, all of you take care. You have been such excellent friends. Remember at whose discretion you are here. Truly, it is as the poet said, we are dirty, unclean things given one glorious chance at godliness. Do not squander that. Do not let the beast poison you. Do not be a bad dog.
Good bye.
by submission | Jan 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Phill English
‘Gaeriy, I’ve got some bad news.’
‘What’s that Broux?’
‘Well, I’ve finished the calculations and it turns out that in order for us to co-habit this planet, we’re going to have to wipe out half of them.’
‘Oh, wow, that’s a bit of a bummer isn’t it? Don’t you think that we could just, y’know, “accidentally” wipe them all this time?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s against the preservation laws to extinguish any more life than–‘
‘–is absolutely necessary to begin co-habitation. Yes, I know. In that case, how do you plan to split them up?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. At first I thought gender, but then I remembered the trouble Mihrv had with Grabble-4.’
‘Yes, I can’t believe he managed to choose the one gender that was essential to reproduction. Out of fifty three! Got to feel for the poor guy, the preservationists weren’t happy.’
‘Exactly. As such, we need something completely arbitrary and inconsequential so those guys don’t drop a sanction on our planet fall.’
‘Okay, how about a physical feature? Ocular pigmentation?’
‘No, I’ve done some research on the matter and it appears there’s no clear divide on the pigmentation spectrum. The majority of their body features are similarly unsuitable due to mutations throughout their evolution.’
‘Oh. How inconvenient. Actually, have we mapped their neural networks yet?’
‘Yes, quite extensively. There weren’t a lot of variables to take into the equation to be honest.’
‘Right, so that would include their preferences for material possessions? Their ‘taste’ in products?’
‘That’s correct, I think I can see where you’re going with this line of questioning.’
‘Yes, I’ve definitely got it now. We can’t go forward on this for a decade or so of their time, right?’
‘Indeed. The paperwork has to be couriered to Splunk-1 and back, otherwise we’d be down there already.’
‘So in the meantime we’re stuck here twiddling our thumbs and taking in the myriad boring lives of the inhabitants. I reckon we can kill two bwarks with one thuk here. Say we create a product especially engineered to divide a particular cultural population in half. We beam it down into the heads of an ambitious entrepreneur and let the magic happen. When an inhabitant expresses their preference for or against the product, we record it. It’ll occupy our time until we’ve got the paperwork done, and once it arrives we’ll have essentially had them make the decision for us. Best of all, I’m pretty sure there’ll be no red tape to wade through with the ethics committee!’
‘Sounds good to me. Just one thing, which group would get vaporised?’
‘Oh I don’t know, let’s just say that those who enjoy the products are safe.’
‘And you don’t think they would be annoyed at what they might perceive as being a pretty random way of splitting a population in half?’
‘No, of course not. If they are we’ll just ask them if they could have thought of a better way. That’ll shut them up.’
‘I love it. We can get started straight away. Let’s start with this tiny island mass here. What do you think they’d go for?’
* * *
Brian pulled the shopping trolley over in the condiments aisle. His girlfriend stopped a little bit ahead of him, the shopping list in her hand raised in query.
‘I’m just getting something for my toast.’
‘That stuff? Yuck! How can you possibly stomach it?’
‘I don’t know. For some reason I’ve just always liked it.’
With a shrug, he placed the jar of Marmite into the trolley and pushed on.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jan 20, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
President James Jonathon Mathews spent the first evening of his administration alone staring out the window of the Oval Office. He contemplated the events that had led him to this moment. He considered the countless intertwined series of decisions and strategies, the deception and intrigue that had delivered him to this, the final pinnacle, the end of the game.
He turned and sat at his desk. Slowly, with great deliberation he reached out and pressed the intercom.
“Mrs. Rigby, please get me the joint chiefs.”
“Oh, and is Whitcomb out there,” he added.
“Yes Mr. President, of course,” came a matronly voice.
“When they arrive, send him in as well.”
“Yes Sir.”
The president leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair and carelessly exhaled a blue cloud of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. He took a deep swallow of bourbon, and pondered the outcome of the moves he would soon make.
Within fifteen minutes the office was filled with military uniforms and, aside from the president, a civilian in a neat blue suit and close cropped hair, handcuffed to a briefcase.
“Whitcomb, the football if you please,” the president said in a low even voice.
The assembled Generals and Admiral winced as Whitcomb emotionlessly uncuffed the briefcase, spun a pair of combination locks, opened the lid and deposited it on the desk before the president.
Inside the briefcase were a ten digit keypad, a palm print scanner and a single ominous black button. The assembled men had all assumed it would be red.
General of the Army Paul Bellows spoke up. “Mr. President, certainly there are other avenues to explore before…,” He was silenced with a slight wave of the president’s hand.
He picked up the handset of his telephone. “Mrs. Rigby? Get Dmitri on the line please.”
“Mr. President, please reconsider. At the very least, think of how history will remember you. Think of your legacy,” pleaded Admiral Kearney, desperation evident in his eyes. His pleas were ignored.
It was five in the morning Moscow time, the pink tint of false dawn was just beginning to outline St. Basil’s Cathedral, when Dmitri Ilyanov Sakharov, President of the Russian Federation picked up the phone. “Hello Ivan, I’ve been expecting your call.”
“Dmitri old friend, it’s finally over. It has been a long time.”
Over the president’s phone an audible sigh was heard, followed by a long pause. “Yes old friend, it has been a very long time.”
“Checkmate Dmitri. Das vidanya,” the president returned the phone to its cradle. He entered a series of numbers on the keypad, placed his hand on the scanner and crushed the button beneath his palm.
Across both of those two vast countries, indeed, across the world as a whole, people were told that this was not a test. They were told where to tune for further instruction. Many fell to their knees and prayed. Others turned weapons on themselves, hastening the inevitable. Most just hung their heads and wept.
Brilliant balls of orange fire rode columns of billowing white smoke across the skies of two great countries.
Those same skies suddenly turned a brilliant searing white.
Dissolve…
Resolve…
Two creatures, men possibly, sat alone in a room. A room so vast there were no discernible boundaries. Perhaps there were none. On a table between the two, a chessboard sat. One pushed over his king.
“Good game Dmitri,” one said, as he reassembled the board. He turned it so that the white pieces faced his opponent, “this time… you go first.”
