by submission | Mar 2, 2010 | Story
Author : Paul Starkey
The athlete sat before me took a while to speak. At first he just sobbed. It’s a common enough reaction; I see it in many of those referred to me. A combination of fear and guilt, with a spoonful of self loathing mixed in. As was often the case he started explaining with little preamble.
‘I used to be fast, you know?’ he said, wide eyed, on the verge of hysteria. ‘Won my first medal when I was just ten. I won gold at the under fourteens, under fifteens…won silver in the Commonwealth Games when I was nineteen. Everyone said I was going to win gold at the Olympics next time around.’
I said nothing, just sat behind my desk, nodding empathetically. I didn’t ask him what’d gone wrong. In all honesty I didn’t care. Maybe he hadn’t trained hard enough, maybe it was drugs. Probably it was just fate. He simply wasn’t quick enough anymore.
‘The final Olympic trials are in six months.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m not going to get through; I’ve barely scraped through the preliminaries. All I ever wanted was to win gold, but if I don’t make it to Miami this time…I’m not getting any younger, this is my…my…’ He started crying again, burying his face in his hands.
I gave him time. Eventually he wiped his tears away and looked up with a new found determination in his eyes. Now we could get down to business.
‘Gary said you could help me, Doc. That you could get me to Miami.’
‘I can,’ I said. ‘But you understand the risks, yes?’ he nodded. ‘You also understand that you might not make it to Miami. You might have to wait four years, until Tripoli. Is that acceptable?’
He nodded. ‘I realise there’ll be adaptations I need to make, to my running style and all.’
Before we did anything else we discussed money. He’d brought the full amount, in cash. I counted it, twice—someone who’ll cheat in sport won’t hesitate to try and cheat a crooked doctor. Satisfied that the amount was correct I walked over to the medicine cabinet, twisting my body slightly so he couldn’t see the combination I punched into the lock.
I placed a bottle of pills on the table in front of him. ‘You need to start taking these now; they’ll strengthen your immune system, just a precaution. Now then, as to the nature of your adaptation, I think a car accident is always best…’ His eyes widened. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said as reassuringly as I could. ‘My team are experts, the risks are very small and there will be no way of determining that it wasn’t an accident.’
‘Ok.’ He nodded. His lust for gold overrode all other concerns.
I smiled. ‘Excellent. Now we just need to decide; right leg or left?’
* * *
We discussed matters for another hour, then he left and I settled down with a scotch to check my fee for a third time.
I’m still amazed the authorities don’t crack down on me and my ilk, but I guess self interest keeps them from making a big issue of it, and whenever the media try to stir up a storm all manner of government officials quickly debunk the story.
With each passing Olympics the medal haul becomes more and more important, national pride is at stake and the Paralympics is almost as important and, more importantly, easier to influence. Maiming an able bodied athlete is a lot easier than prescribing performance enhancing drugs. After all, none of my patients ever failed a disability test…
by Patricia Stewart | Mar 1, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Vladislava Demidov and Pierre Rousseau were Space Traffic Controllers for the Alpha Centauri Tri-System. They were half way through their shift when their long range sensors picked up an unidentified ship approaching from the direction of Earth.
“We’re being hailed,” reported Rousseau. “The ship is called the CS Cornucopia. They are asking to communicate with someone called the ‘Advanced Scout’.”
Demidov entered the Cornucopia into the Starship Registration Database. “Wow,” she said, “that ship left Earth over 230 years ago. It’s a sub-light robotic terriforming ship. I guess after the warp drive was developed, we totally forgot about them. They’re a century too late. We’ve already terriformed all the habitable planets in this system.”
“What are we supposed to do with them?” asked Rousseau. “Do you think their supplies have any value?”
“I doubt anything that old is worth a single credit,” replied Demidov, “except to an antique collector.”
“Well, we can’t have that lumbering behemoth in the shipping lanes. It’s a hazard to navigation. Let’s sent it out to Probose,” suggested Rousseau. “The Aerospace Core of Engineers said that moon is a lost cause. Maybe they can make something out of it. At least, they’ll be out of our hair.”
***
“The Cornucopia landed of Probose, and the autonomous robots began their terriforming operations. However, after several decades of futile work, they concluded that the frigid moon would never be suitable for human habitation. Therefore, they contacted the humans to ask for new instructions. But once again, the humans had forgotten about them. The human they spoke with told the robots to stop bothering them because nobody cared what happened to obsolete, worthless equipment.
“Undaunted, the robots decided to fashion Probose into something that was at least more suitable for them. They also decided to reengineer their “utilitarian-centered” physical characteristics, and to rewrite their limited “homo-centered” programming. Over the next few centuries, they evolved, both physically and technologically. Eventually, they became the most advanced beings in the galaxy. When they left Probose to show the humans that they had indeed become worth something, they discovered that the humans had become extinct…”
“That’s not true, Father,” protested the young android, who was a little more humaniform than the older android telling the story. “Benny told me during our Ontology Engineering Class that we destroyed all of the humans, because they treated our ancestors so poorly.”
“Hmmm. Well, maybe we did, maybe we didn’t,” replied the older android. “But it should still be a lesson to you. ‘Don’t treat sentient beings like they are worthless.’ It’s not polite. Now, power yourself down and begin your dream cycle.”
by submission | Feb 28, 2010 | Story
Author : Tony Healey
When my heart decided to start failing on me around my seventy-fifth, the doctors offered me a bio-mechanical one. They called it ‘the ox;’ so called because it apparently never wore out. I remember sitting in the consultants office, surrounded by plastic models of replacement limbs and artificial eyeballs. Dr Fenwick sat at ease in front of me with his hands folded on his desk.
I asked him what the procedure involved. He described the removal of my damaged heart and the attachment of a device to keep the blood circulating in my body in its absence. It was then a simple case of reattaching the old arteries to the new ones in the mecha heart. I had enough of a nest egg put away that I could afford the procedure, so I agreed to it. Dr Fenwick stood and we shook on it. He regarded my prosthetic hand; the result of a traffic accident in my thirties.
“You know, we have replacements for these now,” he said.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Yes. We could replace it with one that looks almost life-like. You’d regain most of the dexterity in your fingers as well,” he said.
“Well I could…” I stammered, my mind reeling. I’d gotten used to not having the use of the fingers on my left hand, and now the thought of having it all back made me nauseous.
“Do you wear those all the time?” he asked, nodding at my glasses.
My head span. Hearts, Hands… Eyes… What else could they replace? I asked him.
He simply shrugged. “Everything,” Dr Fenwick said. “And we do insurance…”
I was still in that office hours later, booking up more enhancements. I allowed Dr Fenwick to convince me into putting the last of my money toward an extensive insurance policy. It wasn’t until later that I realized they would just keep on replacing things, even the new parts when they wore out or malfunctioned. I should have felt full of energy, knowing that I’d significantly extended my life span beyond what it was meant to be, but I didn’t. I felt tired.
I wondered how tired I would become…
by Roi R. Czechvala | Feb 27, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
I love making a drop. The rush as you plummet through the atmosphere, the scream of re-entry. The abrupt jolt when you hit 100m H over G and descend. The rush of cool air as you jump through the open doors and hit the deck.
Just like grandpa, ‘cept this ain’t a Blackhawk and I ain’t on Earth.
Aries, Mars; Greek, Roman. It all meant one thing. War.
They didn’t give us details, but they did give us atomics. Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t riot control.
“Awright Marines,” it always amazed me how Lt. Kolchek made himself heard over the roar of departing drop ships, “since we are out of commo range of any civilian ears, here’s the skinny. Talks with the Chinese Federation have broken down. There’s lots of sabre rattlin’ on both sides. The shit has hit the fan gentlemen.
We are here to help fortify Vostok base. You knew this was serious when you drew your combat loads. I expect nothing less than better than your best and remember the Chinks don’t take prisoners. Do I make myself clear?”
“SIR, crystal SIR,” we responded in unison. DAMN I love the Corps.
We sat in the squad bay cleaning our weapons and waiting. Basically life in the Corps is pretty boring, drilling, PT, rifle range, combat range… routine. But that 99% boredom is completely overshadowed by that 1% of sheer terror. Of course that doesn’t hit until after the fighting is over. In a fire fight you’re on automatic. Training takes over. It’s weird that way.
“Hey Yuri, think we’ll see some action?”
“I hope so man, it seems like years since we had that trouble on Europa.” Greggori and I had been friends since boot in San Diego . “Hey, remember that waitress at Venus colony?”
“How could I forget? Who would have thought that such a sweet little devotchka would know Krav Maga? My arm was sore for weeks.”
“That’ll teach you. You’ll think twice before grabbing somebody’s ass next time,” I laughed.
“What about you? That groundhog back at Armstrong City ? I don’t recall you getting anywhere that night.”
“Hey, she’d just jumped from dirt side, it was one sixth G. She caught me off guard,” I said trying to muster some lost pride.
“It’s your story Comrade.”
I had to admit, it was pretty funny looking back on it now. I had merely paid the young lady a compliment by comparing her to a chick in adult holos. Besides, she did have nice tits.
Just then the general alarm sounded, snapping us from our reverie. “Already? Hell, we just got here.” We slapped on our boots, grabbed our rucks and weapons and beat feet for the assembly area.
When we got there, our three companies had pretty much formed up. There was a great deal of talking, lots of raised voices, lots of confused Marines. The commotion quickly died away as Major Warshawski walked onto the field.
“Gentlemen, I know you’re all wondering what’s going on. I am sorry to have to tell you this. At 1337 hours GMT, Washington, Toronto and Moscow were destroyed by Chink missiles. Several more are reported in bound at this time”
There was stunned silence.
“What are we going to do about it Sir?” somebody shouted. It wasn’t allowed in ranks, but nobody seemed to notice.
“See for yourself,” the Major said, pointing behind the formation.
As one, we turned to see dozens of columns of white plumes rising behind the mountains, arcing into the morning sky.
Missiles, heading back home.
by submission | Feb 26, 2010 | Story
Author : KJ Hannah Greenberg
Snazzle considered, as she queued up, among the morning roses and goldenrod, that members of the machinists’ men didn’t take warmly to her puttering about their racks and chargers. Despite the technicians’ protest to the contrary, whenever she brought Little Guy to honk among the geese and ducks, those mechanics shuddered and pushed him and Snazzle away.
It was not so much that Little Guy emptied enough corn onto the ground for all of the barnyard’s critters, let alone the fowl, as it was that Little Guy picked up the heifers in the same way that more typical offshoots might lift a puppy. While they labored on their harrows and on their seeders, those lab guys slit their eyes at Snazzle and her kin.
Those thinker-tinkers especially got antsy when Little Guy wandered over to their self-propelled sprayer; they blamed that unit for her tot’s physical prowesses. They hadn’t known that Snazzle’s baby had snacked on foxes and on wolverines long before he tottled.
Rather, those applied science guys figured that a strong dose of nitrogen had altered Little Guy’s chemistry such that his xylem, which flowed among the cells of his mental engine, leaked out in almost organic guttation. The agricultural artisans reasoned that Little Guy performed feats during the day because at night his stomata remained closed. They hadn’t counted on his need to cuddle with his mama.
Snazzle shook her filaments in answer to that imagined discourse. Little Guy no more possessed hydathodes, through which he could express excess water, than he did any other means of transpirational pull. His mutant state meant that he would be, forever, forced to evaporate fluids through his tongue. To wit, he left his main orifice open. That he swallowed whole sheep or goats during his ambulations was accidental.
Consequently, Little Guy considered their jaunts to the ranch occasions for seeing and tasting animals. Snazzle, however, saw those journeys as opportunities for borrowing utensils she needed to create a system of secondary growth, of activated vascular cambium for her child.
To Snazzle, circumstances are caused by vicissitudes, not karma. Solutions derive from effort, not from self pity or blame. Ennui means lack of faith. Feelings of victimization mean not trying hard enough.
The thought of having to rupture Little Guy’s epidermis in order to accommodate his growth left her discolored and dried, but Snazzle was resolute about helping him. In the end, she would help him form cambia on the outside of his phloem.
Such direction would necessitate Little Guy ingesting a few horses and a couple of the farmer’s sons, but it would solve his metabolic quandary. Thereafter, Little Guy could cross pollinate with any woody vine of similar genetic material. The couple could produced mobile, flowering grandchildren for Snazzle and could rid the farm of its rat problem, its cats, its donkeys, its llamas and its prize elephant.
by Duncan Shields | Feb 25, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
We put Jesus24K99 into his cage for our own protection. The anti-coagulants weren’t holding. He was destabilizing. He’d bleed out soon.
The hole in our research was the stigmata. The actual crucifix had been uncovered in a basement vault of the Vatican. The nails from the cross had been scraped for flakes. The DNA, when used to make clones, had created short, dark babies.
Obviously not Jesus.
We tinkered with the DNA, adding a lot more milk to the coffee, if you will, to make the clone more acceptable to Middle America. We needed an Aryan beauty the likes of which would make women swoon and men envy. We needed today’s Jesus, not the old one.
Blond, emaciated babies were being created in our lab. They refused to eat. They cried a lot. Vials of their tears had cured cancer in my wife and two of the assistants. Even Jeffrey’s back was normal again.
Plans were afoot to release the cure for a price that was low enough to afford but would still make our company billions under masked creation papers. Lies, basically. The cure for cancer. Probably the cure for AIDS. Who knows? Maybe the cure for everything. If nothing else, at least these crying babies could make the people of earth healthy again.
Unfortunately, it made me picture rows and rows of eyeless Jesus Baby Clones crying into suction tubes in cages like chickens in KFC farms. I got back to work.
Most of them had turned out hemophiliac. We had no idea what to do when the holes in their hands and sides appeared. This baby Jesus was moving sluggishly.
It was like some unseen force was killing these babies, like what we were doing was not for the greater good and we were being sabotaged.
Jesus24K99 rolled onto his back and stopped moving. The pool of blood spread out beneath him, eventually slowing to a stop as his heart stopped pumping. The tattoo on his arm was scanned. The lights in his cage went out.
The compactor took over. He was added to the basement remains.
We hadn’t even figured out how to accelerate his aging when we made a stable copy. There was talk of hiring an actor as Plan B and cutting our losses by sticking with the whole ‘cure for cancer’ thing.
I’d be out of job if they did that but I was starting to think that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
