by submission | Apr 30, 2011 | Story
Author : Juliette Harrisson
‘I don’t know why you still bother with this,’ Sam said, looking down at me as I crawled along, knee-deep in mud. ‘There’s no funding for it, no one wants it, no one’s interested in it. Why do you do it?’
‘That’s not true,’ I answered testily, ignoring his offer to help me out of the ditch and deliberately brushing my muddy jacket against him as I hauled myself up. ‘Plenty of people are interested, they’re just not people with money.’
‘Don’t you think you should get a proper job, and stop pestering Mum and Dad for money?’ grumbled Sam, saddling his horse and preparing to head back to the city.
I pulled out my quill, ink and notes and prepared to write up the day’s work. ‘This is a proper job,’ I answered in a flat monotone. I sighed and looked up at him from my desk. ‘If you must know, I think there could be money in this.’
‘Oh?’ Sam paused, about to mount, and re-tethered his horse to come and talk to me, adding another log to the bonfire on his way.
I took a deep breath, not sure how to start. ‘There’s money in science and technology, right?’
‘Of course!’ Sam snorted. ‘Scientific and technological advances make our lives better!’
‘Well, I – that is to say, several of us at the Department – we have a theory. We think that a long time ago, maybe a thousand years ago, people were more technologically advanced than they are today. We think that something happened – we’re not sure what – and that technology was lost. But if we can find something from that period, some remnant of their technology that will give us a clue how to work it, perhaps we can re-develop their old machines.’
Sam raised his eyebrow and said nothing. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling frustration gnawing at the edges of my bones.
‘Look, you’re my brother, you love me. Don’t you want me to do something I’m passionate about, something I care about?’
Sam turned his back to me and mounted his horse, and for a moment I thought I’d lost him. But then he looked down at me and managed a small smile. ‘As long as you don’t bankrupt us all while you’re at it,’ he said.
He started to ride away and I jumped back into the ditch. But within a minute or two I was yelling at the top of my lungs, ‘Sam! Sam, come back! Come and look at this!’
I had broken through a layer of dirt to a hole in which lay a trove of discarded goods – most likely, the remains of an ancient rubbish dump. I could see a small, dark grey box with thin brown material spooling out of it, lying against a bigger, more square box and two small cylinders. Hands shaking, I pulled out an academic paper entitled ‘Batteries – the electrical missing link?’ and an illustration of an ancient portable device called a ‘Walkman’.
Wordlessly, I handed both to Sam.
‘ “Mains electricity,” ’ Sam read aloud, ‘ “is currently beyond the financial or technological capabilities of our government. However, if we could successfully reproduce the antiquated device known as the ‘battery’, it might be possible for limited use of electricity to return to our homes and offices.” ’
‘What does that look like to you?’ I demanded smugly, pointing to the illustration and the object I had uncovered.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Sam, looking both pleased and embarrassed. ‘You just got lucky!’
by submission | Apr 29, 2011 | Story
Author : Garrett Harriman
The dockyard was fragmentary; it reeked of grease and seal. Jetties devoid of craft sprawled like shattered ribcages, and two figures perched atop a decommissioned cruise liner.
This murky scene had backdropped thousands of Proto-Mob outings. Since the advent of TelePersonals and catholic surges in blip vacationing, however, the Carnival Fiesta’d graduated to a decaying national monument.
Its hulking obsolescence also dutifully cloaked a Neo-Mob proving ground.
Clay, guts equalizing, canvassed loaves of morning mist. Then Irving’s hand thudded his hunchback. “I warned you, Boss: this hit was vintage.”
The rookie’s knees swashed, pillars in the wind. He buckled and cussed, eyes averted from their “patsy.” Codenamed–intercepted–Sunday.
“I’m~m gonna yak, Irv. Ah-h Jesus, gonna lo~ose it—-”
“No. You won’t.” Irving unholstered an amorphous Wrigley’s pack from his trench coat. “You’re gonna squat till you can chew this. Then you’re gonna chew this.”
Great, loathed Clay. Another antique.
His fingers convulsed, disrobing the foil. Irv injected a stick of his own.
Clay cudded and glared down the lido deck after Its hurled trajectory. He still couldn’t concede having “chilled” his own Sunday. Least in the aftermath he was officiated.
What a fucking tradition.
Irving ruminated to the eroding coastal walls. “Proto-Mob bumped goons on every corner like that, kid. Drilled ’em fulla Tommy pills, too.” He mimed hugely. “Ratta-tatta!”
Clay didn’t comprehend. Boilers like Irving were rites of passage to Neo-Mob debutants. Memorabilia buffs shoehorning Prohibition lingo like “whack” and “kapish” and circle-jerking on Valentine’s Day. They were overbearing. Universally ignored outside initiations. And, reputedly, amassed pre-dematerialisation arsenals.
Clay was now a convert to such claims.
He swam a throbbing palm through his hair, depleted. “They used those how long, Irv?”
“Sixes? Centuries. They were dietary staples. Then we got lousy with TPs. Chiseled ourselves outta car trunks and counterfeiters. We’ve ransomed tourists ever since.” He shrugged, unimpressed. “Families say pieces’re old hat. Blip-Snatching’s cushier, I guess.”
A fearsome smile seized him. “Folks used to kiss dirt though, Clay. Ohhhh yes. Riddled into meaty little puzzles…”
Again the man relinquished to invisible weaponry.
Clay gnashed Wrigley’s, forfeiting imagination.
Suddenly bereaved, Irv ceased his bloodbath. “Bosses’ sons revolve, Clay. Always. You and me, though…we’d keep history alive. You’re a natural with a rod. The genuine article. Be goofy to follow the leader.”
Fogbanked buoys plugged at breakwater. Unseen gulls confronted steely wind.
Still Clay didn’t answer. Instead he beelined, forgoing the indignity of brushing off his ass.
The thirty-eight special had fumbled fifteen yards aft. Clay approached the archaic iron curio. Its recoil still blizzarded his upper-neck.
And the racket It’d drawn–KAPOW!
With a remote islander’s apprehension, he shuddered and scooped It by the barrel. Fucking hot, he clanked and snagged Its nickel-plated butt.
Irving jerked to reclaim it, make It “safe.” Pacified, the mafioso appraised him without gentleness. “Feel like yourself again?”
Clay considered. “No.”
Irving’s impervious bust nodded. “Close range’ll do that.” He flicked his gum wad to their cadaver’s soiled dungarees. Slithered the “bean-shooter” twixt his “mitts.”
Both eyes unfocused: “You absolute, kid? I mean…we could grift everybody…”
Inconceivable. Clay gelatinized just tracing Its curvaceous revolutions. How had the rudimentary gangsters managed?
He politely abdicated. “Sorry, Irv. Got no moxie.”
The Boiler’s eyebrows piqued at the term. Truly, he was an anachronism. “Born too late, weren’t we Clay?”
Together they eyed the lapping swill. Irving sighed with futile propinquity.
“Grab his arms then, Boss. Before dawn.”
The Neo-Mobsters hupped Mr. Sunday, activated their TPs, and dusted out, tandem-blipping to their safehouse to squabble over the palooka’s disposal.
Some things never changed.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Apr 28, 2011 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Who are they,” the chief officer of the starliner, Raumfahrer, asked Captain Kurtzmann.
“They’re a group of fanatic pilgrims,” he replied through a tight smile as he nodded perfunctorily at a small mass of red cloaked figures marching by. Several of the men smiled meekly and made odd gestures to the Captain and his crew. “They’re followers of the Slain God.”
“I’ve heard about them. They worship an ancient myth. Their God was violently murdered for preaching peace to his followers. Very ironic, if a bit anachronistic.”
“These ‘anarchists’ chartered an entire liner for their pilgrimage. Please bear that in mind,” the captain hissed in a ‘watch your ass’ tone.
A figure, conspicuous by his white raiment and the ornate staff he carried, broke from the group of crimson frocked men. “Are our quarters ready?”
“We have cleared an entire hold for your group. Your uh, uh Your Eminence,” he quickly added, remembering the term of address from an article he had read.
“Please, so such formalities. I am but a humble pilgrim. I’m sure what you have arranged is adequate.”
“I must implore you to reconsider, Sir. There are only 30 of you, and you have the entire ship of 450 staterooms. Surely, you would be more comfortable…”
“Is everything prepared as requested,” the wizened figure interrupted.
“Yes Sir. The hold has been cleansed and spread with the leaves you provided.”
“I’m sure it will be most adequate for as far as we need to go.”
“I don’t know how comfortable it will be for the entire journey. Even with the torch drive, Copernicus is a long way off.”
The old man smiled warmly. “As I said, as far as we need to go.”
“Weird group, this,” remarked the helmsman as the captain stepped onto the bridge.
“Yes, they’re friendly enough, but they make me uncomfortable. There’s something about their leader that bothers me.”
“Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“It’s not that. It’s as if he’s expecting something. As if he’s got an inside joke and I’m not in on it.” The captain became lost in contemplation for a moment. “Pull up the feed from hold three, please,” He said turning to the communications officer.
In an empty space in front of the bridge, the cavernous interior of hold three appeared. Before a large mass of palm fronds, the men had erected a wooden structure and now knelt before it. It consisted of an upright, neatly bisected by a shorter cross brace. A low chant came from the men. “Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.” The chant was repeated, rising and falling in volume.
“Well, nothing sinister there, but I just can’t shake…”
“Sir,” a sharp ejaculation cut him off, “what the hell is going on?”
Startled by the brusqueness of one of his officers, Kurtzmann spun around to confront an ashen faced ensign pointing at the ships forward view.
The bridge crew stared as, one by one, the stars winked out.
by Duncan Shields | Apr 27, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I could tell from the way she softly clicked her teeth together twice while keeping her mouth closed, flicked her eyes to the top left and grunted once subvocally that she’d just adjusted me to be more handsome. She would probably pass it off as checking her messages if I confronted her.
She had this annoying habit all through dinner of either blinking or darting her eyes to one side after making a point or a joke. I knew she was sending images, links, and videos to my eyes to assist the conversation. I saw nothing. I’d never had the work done.
She sat in front of me, mildly pretty in a way I could adjust to gorgeous if I had the right hardware in my head, humming and twitching like someone with mild tourette’s syndrome. She seemed to pick up about halfway through the date that I wasn’t just being stoic or ignoring her on purpose. The expression on her face took on a feeling of revulsion and then polite smiles as the rest of our night progressed. It didn’t last much longer. Her tics didn’t stop, they only slowed down to motions that indicated to me that she was talking to other people and staying current on the feeds. I found it rude but no doubt she found it rude that I couldn’t join in.
I still had my communicator tablet iLife screen in my pocket. I’d check my traffic after the date ended like I was raised to do. It was only polite. I wasn’t raised in the city like she was. I tried to pay for dinner but she said she’d already taken care of it. The date ended.
I looked at my phone after a polite peck on the cheek goodbye from her. I saw that as she had sat down at the beginning, she had friended me on FB3, added me on Starcrossed, met me on Saw-u, hailed me on Communicator, knocked on me through FrontDoor, rated me on Datemate, invited me on Contact, opened to me on NiceOne, queried me on AskMe and sent me virtual flowers and a kiss through Sendlove.com. Our conversation had been webcast.
Only eighty hits so far and none since the beginning of dessert. Sad.
As she left the restaurant, I watched her requests get withdrawn. I was blocked, ignored, shunted, slammed, hung up on, darkened, erased, blinded, stealthed, closed and deleted. Her profiles disappeared off my networks. The invitations disappeared. The flowers and a kiss evaporated. I wouldn’t even be able to call her now.
Blogged, vlogged and flogged, they called it.
The comments on the webcast weren’t flattering. She rated me two stars out of ten. The top tweet said that she was being generous.
I have to get implants.
by Patricia Stewart | Apr 26, 2011 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“This is Captain Thomas Rider of the Starship Dunkirk. What’s the nature of the emergency?”
“This is Governor Wingfield of the Constant. We had a core breach, and had to jettison the reactor. We’re operating on minimum life support. Not sure how long we can hang on. We have over 2000 colonists aboard.”
“Understood Governor. Can I speak to the captain?”
“The captain was in Engineering during the explosion. He was killed. I’ve taken command.”
“That’s not the protocol Governor. Command cedes to the next ranking Bridge Officer.”
“I chartered this ship, Captain. I’m in command.”
No sense debating this now, thought Rider. I’ll sort it out when we get there. “Here’s the situation,” he said, “The Dunkirk is only a scout ship with a crew of 15. In an emergency, we can carry an additional 30 adults, or 70-some children. We’ll be arriving at your position in eight hours. Have the evacuees ready for transfer. More ships are on the way, but won’t arrive for at least a week. Can the colonist survive until then?”
“It’ll be close, Captain. We’ll have your passengers ready when you arrive.”
Eight hours later, the Dunkirk docked to the primary cargo hold of the Constant. When Captain Rider walked through the docking hatch, he spotted 18 adults, 10 children, and six large crates. “What’s going on here?”
A large man walked up to the captain and handed him a list. “I’m Wingfield,” he said. “These are the evacuees. They were chosen by lottery.”
The captain studied the list. “How fortunate, Governor. It appears that you and your staff hit the lottery. What’s in the crates?”
“Our valuables. We won’t leave without them.”
“Well, you got that much right, Governor. Ensign Stahler, bring a security team out here and escort the Governor’s administration to the far side of the hangar. If any of them approaches the hatch, shoot them. Lieutenant Hathaway, find the ranking bridge officer.”
***
Captain Rider was studying the passenger manifest when the Constant’s First Officer was escorted into his Ready Room. “I don’t want to play god,” stated Rider without preamble, “but I’m going to.” This is a list of the children by weight. Starting with the lightest, gather the children until you reach 2000 kilograms. If the parents want to keep the family together and hope for the next rescue ship, fine. Skip them. Understood?”
Several hours later, 83 children were being escorted onto the cargo hold. The first officer explained, “It could have been 85 children, but I needed to keep two here so I could send enough baby formula to feed the ten infants. But Captain, I need to ask you a favor. Can you leave us a few weapons, in case the governor decides to be more resourceful next time?”
Ensign Stahler, who had been eavesdropping, spoke up. “That won’t be necessary, Captain. Lanyi and I would like to volunteer and stay behind and maintain order until the other ships get here. Beside, it’ll give you room to take another four or five children.”
“Ensign, you understand that the next ship might not arrive in time?”
“Aye, sir. We’ll take our chances.”
The captain nodded, and the first officer headed off to the passenger section.
An hour later, Captain Rider returned to the bridge of the Dunkirk. Children were huddled in the nooks and crannies. Some were crying, some were whimpering, all of them were scared. The captain forced a reassuring smile. “Mr. Cunard, maximum warp. Let’s see if we can make the round trip in record time.”
