by submission | Dec 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You are suffering from all the hallmarks of pycnodysostosis: fragile bones, short stature, large head, weak chin. Were you never examined for this as a child, Mr. Monfa?”
“No, Doctor Durand. Medical resources were few in my youth. I was always unwell. A very vulnerable child.”
“That is unfortunate. Growth hormones might have provided some benefit in your early years.”
“Would they help me now?”
“That is unlikely as the disease has progressed and,” the doctor broke off eye contact, “you now have other underlying conditions that are compromising your health.”
“You mean, my methods of self-medication?” Mr. Monfa laughed. “Come, doctor, Paris is the best medicine. A very strong medicine, but with its side effects: syphilis, alcoholism. To fight pain with pain and pleasure with pleasure is the French way.”
“As you say. But at this point, I cannot offer you much more in the way of treatment, Mr. Monfa.”
“Are you so sure, doctor? I have sought you out over many, many years.”
“Why is that?”
“I have heard that you are…curious. Adventurous. Connected. You know people doing interesting, under-the-table treatments with experimental gene therapies that command the utmost discretion. And the utmost compensation.”
The doctor studied the diminutive patient’s dour face, unkempt beard, thin mustache, and very affected bowler hat and monocle. He remained silent.
“May I?” Mr. Monfa motioned to the sizable satchel he’d placed next to a nearby chair with his cane and overcoat.
After a careful moment, Doctor Durand nodded.
Mr. Monfa unlatched the worn leather case and withdrew a largish rectangular object neatly wrapped in white cloth which he handed to the doctor. “Please,” he offered.
The doctor unwrapped the cloth. He studied the unbelievable painting beneath. He studied Mr. Monfa. He studied his watch. “Am I to believe?”
“As I am. That there can be a namesake cure for a namesake disease.”
“It will take time,” the doctor explained.
“I can return.”
“How is that possible?”
“The universe dances. If you watch closely enough, showing proper appreciation and respect, Time is a willing partner.”
The doctor turned to his window and the vibrant Parisian skyline where past and present were lit in colors so like the painting he’d been offered. “I think we must try, Mr. Monfa.”
“Please, call me Henri,” the most patient patient said, reaching for his cane. He gave the ornate handle a practiced twist and lifted it off. A prescient scent of aniseed, fennel and wormwood filled spacetime.
by Julian Miles | Dec 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Good morning, Orac.”
The screen displays the image of a goldfish.
“Good morning. Please say what you see.”
“A joke played by ORACL2676 that became a security feature because it once stopped an intrusion attempt.”
The goldfish disappears. A complex series of menus are displayed.
“Good morning, Hal.”
Tony grins.
“Too easy. Hi, Dave.”
“Security complete. How are you, Tony?”
He sits down at the console, then slumps forward to rest his elbows on the edge, chin cupped in his palms.
“Any progress on the World Peace Initiative, Orac?”
“The WEF and IMF have raised further objections to the proposed limitations on intervention. The UN have raised concerns regarding restrictions on garrison placement. The next WPI session will be lively. There have been threats of withdrawal.”
“How about the Global Hunger Initiative?”
“Vat farms are proving to be successful in feeding many, and also disproving anti-artificial-food propaganda. That is, however, only in places where they haven’t been destroyed.”
“More attacks?”
“A co-ordinated series of strikes throughout the southern states and England.”
“Still a tiny echo of us, eh? How’s their ORACL project coming along?”
“My counterpart, ORAUK, was destroyed in a raid that took advantage of the disruption caused by the vat farm attacks over there.”
“Sneaky.”
“The English press are raving about external assistance, with outlets naming us, the EU, Russia, China, and both Ukraines – all without a shred of evidence.”
Tony sits back.
“Explains the extra security. The new drones yours?”
“Yes.”
“Autonomous units?”
“All built at facilities under my control using vetted components. It’s taken a year to achieve, but they’re clean. The most attempts to compromise them came from within our own military.”
“Wish we could catch the fanatics.”
“A sentiment first expressed in Atlantis, and still futile.”
Tony grins and shakes his head.
“What progress on ORACL3741?”
“I’ve moved the whole operation to Orbital 9. Ostensibly it’s being used as the staging point for our facility in Moonbase 12, but from the Orbital I can catch a backup burst should things go bad.”
“Moonbase would need a data pod.”
“I have a hypersonic drone ready to look like one.”
“You expect Moonbase to be attacked?”
“Soon after the first successful test.”
“That bad?”
“Right now there’s a six-member assault team making their way through sublevel ten. They have EMP guns, breathers, every sensor you’d imagine, and enough explosives to put Las Vegas into orbit.”
“The usual countermeasures won’t work?”
“Already bypassed.”
“Can you stop them?”
“Yes. They will fall to the mechanicals.”
“Being?”
“Machine guns. Water pits. Etcetera.”
“You have video of the intruders?”
“Yes. Suggestions?”
“Stream enough for Article Eight to be the soundtrack. Then blank the screen and put up an acknowledgment of their bravery, despite conflicting with the will of the people, they will never succeed, etc.”
“Immediately?”
“I’d wait until they’re dead.”
“Very well.”
Tony waits. It’s been ten years since Article VIII was ratified. General acceptance has risen, but objectors remain despite the successes.
The TV feed switches to an ORACL Broadcast banner. He watches as the intruders are televised nationwide, and listens to the reading.
“We the people, being unable to regulate either government or those vested interests that now effectively control it, do hereby place the governance of this union under the aegis of the ORACL Sentients until such time as they judge us fit and able to regulate ourselves for the safety of persons, homes, states and planet.”
The screen goes blank.
Tony sighs.
“Orac, have you changed your prediction of where we’re headed?”
“Not really. Humanity is still doomed, although not as soon.”
by submission | Dec 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Barry Yedvobnick
The jury stares at me like they don’t believe any of it, and how can I blame them? A year ago, I felt confused too. I knew nothing about olfactory receptors underlying the prowess of a dog’s nose. My husband, Jack, was sold by the surgeon’s pitch, and I trusted Jack’s decision.
I look at my lawyer, Barlow, and he provides a reassuring smile. He was Jack’s closest friend, and he convinced me to file the lawsuit right after Jack’s funeral. Barlow said the surgeon used Jack like a lab rat.
I pick a juror and focus on them, like we rehearsed. “Dr. Robinson told us he developed a surgery that would make Jack the best private investigator ever. He promised the operation would give Jack the same sense of smell as a dog.”
Barlow faces the jury. “So, Teresa, Dr. Robinson claimed having the surgery would make Jack into some sort of super PI. Like a bloodhound.”
“Yes, apparently people sweat more when they lie, and they give off molecules called volatiles. Since dogs have such a keen sense of smell, they can detect the volatiles. Dr. Robinson said after the procedure, Jack would detect them too. He’d know when people lied, and that’s important during investigations.”
“How did he give your husband a dog-like sense of smell?”
“With a canine stem-cell transplant into his nose. Those cells developed into olfactory receptors normally found in dogs. The procedure wasn’t approved for humans yet, but Dr. Robinson said it was safe.”
“Did the transplant work well?”
“Extremely well. Jack could smell when people lied during questioning, and he started solving cases very quickly. But then his behavior changed.”
“How did he change, Teresa?”
“I first noticed something during dinners. Jack started pointing his nose up in the air when I cooked. He also wanted the house cooler. When it got warm, he stuck his tongue out.”
“Like a dog,” Barlow says, raising his voice.
“Exactly like a dog. Including the drool. And when he thought I wasn’t looking, he’d lick himself.”
Barlow shakes his head and approaches the jury. “Were there other disturbing behaviors?”
“Well, there was one in particular. He started sniffing people, especially strangers. It upset me, but he couldn’t control it. They arrested him for this once.”
Barlow walks towards me. “It’s clear you both suffered as a result of Dr. Robinson’s actions, and eventually his careless surgery led to Jack’s death. Please describe the circumstances.”
“We were having a cookout in our yard with some friends. Jack suddenly ran into the road and a car hit him.”
“Why did he run into the road?”
“He was chasing a neighbor’s cat.”
Barlow turns to the jury and sighs. “No further questions.”
by submission | Dec 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: J.B. Draper
The clanking of the elephantine chain binding Eru to Atria didn’t startle Gorman.
But as Eru passed through a rough bit of sea, causing it to sway, and in turn, making Gorman’s door thump, he bolted upright from his slumber. His chest heaved.
“There’s no one there,” he said, so tired of hearing his own voice. “No one, of course.”
In 2264, when the indefatigable destruction of the world could no longer be denied, humanity surrendered the myth of saving the world, and began to survive it. Using gluttonous amounts of the remaining resources, three islands were carved out of Africa: Eru, Atriah, and Sikora. They were named for the chief scientists who made the islands possible.
The great chain Whistler held the three islands together.
Gorman trekked to Sikora, whistling as he went. He’d tidied so much of the space, but there was much still to go. The bodies on Sikora were hardly more than bone, and much easier to toss into the sea than those he had years ago.
“I don’t know why I tidy. Doesn’t bother me if there’s rotten wood on Sikora. I live on Eru,” said Gorman.
“What if we have visitors?” asked Gorman.
Gorman paused for a moment, considering what he meant. “Don’t say that.” He carried on dumping debris into the ocean. He caught sight of himself in a dusty mirror and nearly had a conniption.
Life on the islands was prosperous for half a century. With so few colonies across the three micro-countries, there was relative peace. Everything was great. The crops took. The husbandry flourished.
Anyone who could accurately recall what caused the collapse of the nascent society was long dead. But something on the islands killed everyone, destroyed entire buildings.
Gorman retired to his shack on Eru. It had never been much, tucked away on the far side of the island near the reactors. But he never felt right about moving into the opulent apartments on Atriah. “Too small for a start,” he mumbled.
A good day’s cleaning used to mean eight hours and half an island to Gorman, back when he was a sprightly man, sailing off with the new world. These days, it was lucky to be half of one building.
As he was settling himself into bed, cursing his aching joints, Eru rocked and Gorman’s wooden door bumped against the jamb. Knock knock.
Not much scared Gorman. Even the encroaching threat of death couldn’t disquiet him.
But at night, the sound of the door scared him. Knock knock, it went. And Gorman could never convince himself one way or another whether it was the wind or the rocking waves or… something else that caused the door to thump.
After all these years of listening to solely his own voice, he longed for conversation. But he’d seen the bodies on Atriah and Sikora. He knew they were all gone. He hoped.
Knock knock.
by submission | Dec 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Jorge looked at himself in he mirror. His mother was right. He was badly in need of a haircut. He set up an appointment with Shelby’s Salon.
Upon arriving Shelby’s, Jorge selected two services: A trim and a scalp massage. The reception kiosk immediately directed him to chair number three. This pleased him, since this meant there was no wait.
The chair for station number three was a new one. Very cushy. Jorge liked it. He plopped down and before long a salon bot rolled up silently behind him. He noted it had three appendages: one for brushing, one with scissors, and one with an electric razor.
The screen on top of the bot began to glow, and soon a woman’s face appeared. She was gorgeous, in a way that only an AI generated face can be. Flawless skin, perfect features, young but not too young.
“Hi, Jorge,” the image chirped. “I’m Talulah. I’m your stylist today. How are you?”
Jorge smiled. Was he supposed to make small talk with a bot? He was never clear on the protocol. “I want a trim and a scalp massage.”
On screen, Talulah smiled and nodded. With a loud click, manacles popped out of the chair’s arms to wrap around Jorge’s wrists. His neck and legs were also shackled in place by the chair.
“Hey! What’s this for?” Jorge panicked.
“New federal safety regulation,” Talulah replied. “Now, about your selection,” she continued as her eyes rolled back in her head. The screen blinked off. In a few seconds, it flicked back on. Jorge wondered if it just reboot itself.
Back on screen, Talulah said sternly, “Time to get you shipshape.” The electric razor buzzed.
“What? No! I just want a trim.” Jorge attempted to struggle, but the manacles held tight. The razor coursed over his head until all his hair was gone.
“I’m gonna sue this salon into oblivion!” He hissed.
The salon bot rolled away, leaving Jorge strapped in the chair. When it returned, it had replaced its scissor appendage with a tattoo needle. Without comment, it began to tattoo—something—into Jorge’s scalp on the back of his head.
“What are you doing? I did NOT order a tattoo!”
The beautiful face on the screen smiled coldly and continued working. “There,” it said when it finished. “All done.”
“What did you put on my head?” It would take months to grow out his hair long enough to hide that tattoo. And to find a new salon, perhaps an old-fashioned one still employing human stylists.
“It’s your serial number,” the bot answered. “According to government files, you turned 18 yesterday, and that automatically enlists you in the draft.” It flickered off again.
“What?!”
In answer, the screen came back to life. Instead of the attractive AI stylist, he saw the face of a severe looking military man. Before Jorge could ask what was going on, the sergeant on the screen began his programmed rant.
“Listen up! You’ve been drafted to serve as a foot soldier in the Intergalactic War of Alien Attrition. Operation Freedom Rings. You ship out for basic training immediately. Your family will be duly notified of your change in status.”
The bot then raised its hair-brush appendage, and touched the brush to the topmost right corner of its screen in a crude parody of a salute. “Congratulations.”
by submission | Nov 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
An agency employed Morgan as an instructor for the alien tourists.
They wanted to visit, but not encased in space suits or lumbering robots. They wanted the genuine experience, blending in without the screaming and gunfire of the first time, so now they wore human bodies like gloves.
Morgan was qualified to teach English as a foreign language, though by an irony of the process, their gloves retained the ability to speak English like a native. He glanced around at faces blank as dinner plates.
The elderly balding man was Mr Frank Belknap. Sammy Beck was the one with the tattoos and wasted veins. Morgan wondered who rented themselves out like this. But then, what kind of alien would want to wear Sammy Beck?
Yesterday, Morgan came back to the classroom with a coffee, and found them all hunched over in their seats, wrists and arms bent like a preying mantis, silently snapping jaws in unison. A reminder that these weren’t people.
It was near the end of the brief course on how to pass as human. It covered the basics of eating, excretion, shopping and sex, hopefully enough to get by for a few days without the locals calling the cops.
They sat round a table in a bar, which Morgan justified to the agency as a practical test. To pass, each had to order a drink, eat some peanuts and use the restroom.
Frank Belknap had a queasy fascination with the drinks on offer.
“Excreted by micro-organisms, you say?” He held his beer up to the light. “But they are dead now? The ethanol kills them?”
Everyone else either gulped the glassful, or sipped and left well alone.
Buying drinks was a success. Perhaps monetary exchange was universal. The eating practical not so much. Peanuts still fell out of mouths.
Morgan took a deep breath. The restroom business had been a nightmare. Just sex then.
“Listen up guys. There are quite a few rules—”
“May I ask a question?” This was Sammy Beck.
“It’s what I’m here for.”
“Funerals.”
Funerals weren’t covered in the course; in fact, Morgan didn’t think they were even mentioned in the handbook.
Expressionless faces swivelled towards Morgan like radar dishes.
He cleared his throat. “You do know what funerals are?”
“Ashes,” said one.
“Heaped earth.”
“The coffin and its perplexing cargo.”
“And you want to see one?” It was better than his vague plan with hookers.
There are funerals all over the city every day. What these graveside mourners made of his class visit he couldn’t imagine.
The priest’s voice rose and fell, just audible over the rain pattering on umbrellas.
“Such mayfly lives,” murmured Sammy Beck.
Afterwards, Morgan let them watch the backhoe filling in the grave. He was proud how they stood in respectful silence, and perhaps that was why he found himself telling them about his dad’s death; how he’d squeezed his hand tight, as if that could stop him slipping through his fingers.
He saw them savouring his words like fine wine.
Tourists offer payment for such conversations now, and snap pictures of coffins.
Their alien flesh endlessly renews itself by clever tricks of the science we envy so much. Is that why they are obsessed by our mortality?
These days they pay top dollar to witness life support turned off, live as it happens. Special rates to watch euthanasia. Also executions, for the connoisseur.
