Random Story :
James’ Bus
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer I don’t get to …
Reheat Sequence
Author: Aaron F. Schnore
Dr. Alison Starr is sobbing behind the pod-bay door of the latrine. She must be brushing her teeth.
“Smile bright—”
It’s back. The goddamn bug in the VEIN-9 (Volumetric Emotive Interface Network, version 9) code.
A recursive advertising loop, the help desk says.
Nothing they try will stop it.
Only the Professor knows the kill-string.
“—sleep tight—”
The hologram strobes from the ship’s projector for the ten-thousandth time, a thirty-second spot starring the galaxy’s favorite toothpaste mascot, Mr. Smiley. His pear-shaped body spins, bulging eyes, flashing enamel as he sings falsetto.
To me, Mr. Smiley is an annoyance.
But to Alison, he’s a tormentor who must be destroyed.
“—Mr. Smiley’s watching tonight!”
The ad targets our core demographic—researchers, miners, cosmic drifters—but it’s been playing to a captive audience of two for six weeks.
The latrine latch snaps. And so does Alison. She charges out, wild-eyed, mouth foaming with toothpaste, belly swollen with our child. “MR. SMILEY EVERY MORNING AND NIGHT!” she screams, hurling a wrench harmlessly through the hologram.
Earplugs failed months ago. Even white noise won’t stop the jingle echoing in Alison’s skull. Smiley is killing her. Endangering our child. She hasn’t slept in weeks.
Mr. Smiley’s toothpaste, available in seven bold flavors, is one of 300,000 brands owned by the Lastick Conglomerate. I’m a third-generation Lastick man. My grandfather helped patent time travel. My mother ran the Psychic Weaponry Division until the merger with the U.S. Army in 2180. Ah, the Eighties. Simpler times.
I’m a Senior VP in Intergalactic Media. Don’t be impressed. I sell toothpaste ads in space. Once I collect my mission bonus, Alison and I can vanish somewhere quiet with our kid. No ads. No slogans. Real smiles for a change.
The Professor, an MIT contractor who created VEIN-9, is brilliant but unstable. I filed reports accusing him of tampering with morale algorithms. Alison corroborated. Mission Control authorized me to sedate the Professor and initiate “preventive cryo-containment.”
Alison sits in the egg-shaped MedUnit-7. “Maternal heart rate elevated,” she reads from the console.
“Cortisol 2.3 above baseline. Fetal arrhythmia detected.”
I kiss the crown of her head. We have to reheat him.
At 0900, Mission Control pings.
“Commander Rusk,” says the controller. “Are you certain you wish to reverse containment? You made a strong case four months ago.”
I look at Alison. She’s silently mouthing the Mr. Smiley jingle.
“Affirmative.”
“Permission to initiate reheat sequence granted.”
We hurry to the cargo bay. I punch in the code. “Reheat sequence activated,” intones the bot.
Steam hisses from the vents.
I hold Alison’s hand while I still can.
Blue light flickers inside the coffin-like pod. The hatch pops open. The Professor sits upright. He is reedy, pale, blinking. Reheated.
I nod. “Good morning, Professor Starr.”
“Where’s my wife?”
“Right here, Frank.” Alison hands the Professor his glasses. “We have some things to talk about, but…”
“Smile bright—”
Alison covers her ears.
I flash my winningest smile.
“We need your help.”