by Jared Axelrod | Feb 19, 2006 | Story |
The roads of Rajeev were packed due to the mass exodus to the docks, and presumably, off-world. My skimmer was resting quietly on the dusty pavement, the hours–no, days, it had been days, hadn’t it?–spent idling had left the poor conveyance without enough fuel to keep it hovering, much less actually moving. Not that it mattered. A road filled beyond capacity has a tendency to turn into parking lots, and this one was creeping in that direction even before I showed up and nudged my way in.
If I hadn’t been hauling someone else’s life, I would have gotten out and walked.
I heard the fuel peddler before I saw him. His progress down the line of non-moving vehicles was slow, but his amplified call carried far across the grassy expanse.
“Keep you moving! Keep you moving! Solid, liquid and atomic! Chemical means of forward motion! Keep you moving!”
It seemed like an eternity until he reached me, his progress determined solely by the whims of the mule that pulled his cart. From the way the man sat, it was evident that he had long resigned himself to the fact that while he sat in the driver’s seat, it was his four-legged partner that handled all the controls. I searched in my pocket for a sugar cube. The mule pulled back its thick lips and stopped.
“Howdy,” said the fuel peddler, doffing his Shanghai Lions baseball cap. “You look stuck.”
“I am,” I said. “And you look like just the man who can get me moving.” I inquired about the price of fuel for my skimmer. With a straight face, he told me.
“That hardly seems fair!”
“No, it’s not,” said the peddler with a grin. “But you ain’t moving without it.”
“Then I’m not moving at all. I don’t carry that sort of dosh on me.”
“No matter,” he said. “I am an adaptable man. I see that’s not air you’re hauling.” He motioned to the load on the back of my skimmer, the clocks and pillows, the flatware and picture frames.
“None of that is mine to give. It is someone else’s life. I am merely removing it from this planet before the cataclysm.” The mule was attempting to fish another sugar cube out of my coat pocket. I gave him a carrot instead, which he munched noisily.
“But…Why?”
“Because I was asked to. Because I did not arrive in time to remove the woman who owned it.”
“So you’re stuck here, ” the man said, sandpapering his thick fingers against his stubble. “Possibly going to get caught in the cataclysm because someone wanted the remains of a life?”
I scratched the mule behind the ears and under the chin. “That’s the long and the short of it.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“No, it’s not. But I ain’t moving without it.” I gave the mule another carrot. “If you are as adaptable as you say, I think we can arrange something…”
It took the rest of the day to reach the docks by mule. And while I was out a skimmer, I did manage to get the old woman’s life off the world, before it ended. That skimmer couldn’t run over grass, anyway.
And I had plenty of sugar and carrots.
by J.R. Blackwell | Jan 28, 2006 | Story |
We know its flimsy façade, we know it’s a broken promise waiting.
They said that if we kept working, someday we could make enough to send our kids to college, never mind the dying, the slaughter in the world. Remember the holocaust, they said, but forget the horror of today. Love the planet, but buy a car that guzzles foul gas. Study hard, get a good job, spend your cash on trinkets and drugs. They want us to live with success and debt, hand in unlovable hand.
The thing that still gets me is that no one noticed. It was a hunch that no matter how obvious we were, the fact that we were middle class, well-dressed white people would keep us safe. It was racist, and oligarchic and it delighted and disgusted me that it worked. We looked like we were doing what we were supposed to. We studied hard, politics, chemistry, biology, psychology, physics, film, sociology, philosophy, and computer science. We studied hard. We learned how the world works, and now we plan to change it.
We can build a hundred different kinds of bombs. We can genetically engineer a bacterium that could give everyone colds for weeks. We can send you a virus in the mail. We could break your servers. You cannot find us by your profiles, we come from different faiths, we are poor and wealthy, we are students, union workers, and businessmen. We could kill billions.
You are lucky. We are not as brainwashed as you wanted us to be. We will use the power we have to recreate the system through the frequency of sound, through the meter of light. We will alter the status quo; we are moving slick and sweet over your mega-conglomerate. We will be the underground and the mass consumer appeal. In every dot of perceivable digital light, we will be sending our message right to the brains of your friends, your children and your pets. You can’t hide, we are the mainstream.
This is the Revolution of the Meek, stay tuned.
by J. Loseth | Jan 8, 2006 | Story |
“’Scuse me, is this the sunbound dock?â€
Harrison started and nearly dropped the bouquet he was holding. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. “Uh… yeah, it should be.â€
“Thanks. Is this seat taken?â€
He shook his head mutely in response. Vibrant. It was the first adjective that popped into his mind, and it stayed there as she sat down and pulled out a compact. Every movement was sure and determined, as if she knew precisely what action she planned to take and followed through every time. He watched in awe.
“Are you going to Prime?â€
The unexpected question reminded him of his manners, and Harrison quickly averted his eyes. Prime was the first colonized planet in this system, and by this point it was entirely city, filled with excitement and flashing lights. “Ah, no. Not all the way.â€
“That’s a shame. Nothing else interesting along this flightpath.â€
Harrison was shocked at her casual attitude. He couldn’t imagine saying such things to a stranger. “I, uh… I guess not,†he agreed lamely. Serena—the intended recipient of the flowers—lived on one of the residential planets in the system, zoned to keep it from growing too congested but with regulations that prohibited any sort of bad neighbors.
“Can’t see the point of suburbs, personally.†The woman pulled out a red lipstick, applying it expertly, even while speaking. “If I want a city, I’ll go to the city. If I want the country, I’ll go to one of the outer farmworlds instead. Trying to compromise, trying to have everything—it doesn’t work. In the end you wind up with nothing at all. Not worth it, really.†The thick chemical smell of the lipstick pressed against his senses, and Harrison found it impossible not to notice how smoothly it went on as she rubbed her lips together, never taking her eyes off of the mirror.
What he said was: “That’s a very interesting point of view.†What he meant was: Serena never wears lipstick.
“I like to think that all of my points of view are interesting.†She capped the lipstick and rummaged in her purse for a moment, coming up with a light green compact that she offered to him. “Here you go.â€
Harrison blinked. “Uh… what?â€
“It’s makeup. For your black eye.†She turned and looked at him for the first time. The whoosh of air signaled the approach of the next ship on the outbound dock, and she raised her voice to speak over it. “Your skin’s about the same tone as mine, and this is the foundation I use to cover things like that. I figured you might appreciate it.†She inclined her chin, indicating the bedraggled roses. “And so will she.â€
Two ship gongs sounded, one from the transport pulling into the station and one from the trnsport that would arrive momentarily to whisk this woman away. Harrison’s cheeks flared red. He hadn’t realized the bruise on his face was that obvious. “What do you mean, ‘she’?†he asked, quickly trying to change the subject.
“The woman you brought those flowers for.â€
The station was filled with noise and clatter, filtered through the air systems. On the opposite dock, passengers were unloading, but Harrison didn’t pay attention. He picked up the roses. “Actually, I brought them for you.â€
by B. York | Dec 30, 2005 | Story |
TURN THE SCOPE. Earth-124. Subject: Davis, Conner. Occupation: Car Salesman.
It was an ordinary day of waking up, drinking coffee, and making his way to the lot again but Conner was glad that every day had its predictability. New Fords meant New Mustangs with all their pretty little colors and displays, and he never ceased to enjoy selling them.
Conner was happily married, and enjoyed life with his son, Parker. He was a quiet man who lived a quiet life; a mediocre life that would leave him dead from heart disease at the age of 55.
Destiny: .01%
TURN THE SCOPE. Earth-273. Subject: Davis, Conner. Occupation: Assassin.
Gunshots were not his cup of tea, but ever since Conner had graduated from being an apprentice to actually doing the hits himself he hadn’t had much time for tea at all. This particular day, while he’s thinking about what it might be like to settle down with a wife while blood dripped from a gunshot wound to his side, he was on the brink of completing another mission.
Mr. Davis was an enigma in the eyes of all systems, and right now his one redeeming quality was shooting the fuck out of the newly-elected President of Unified Territories and the change that would ensue would be as important to him as the huge pay-off. Unfortunately, Conner would die of that wound before he could report his near-success.
Destiny: 9.05%
TURN THE SCOPE. Earth-5890. Subject: Davis, Conner. Occupation: Chemist.
Early days were no stranger to Doctor Conner Davis, who labored heavily over limitless lines of formula and code to decipher what the cure would be. Humanity was fading fast from the plague spreading through each and every citizen and time was running short for the underground lab he kept in Bismarck.
Dr. Davis had lost everything in his study for a cure including any hope of a relationship. He’d lost care of personal gain and took sight of what really mattered. Life mattered. His eyes saw the necessary means to create a cure and he might be able to save more than just his sanity by finding one soon. Doctor Conner Davis died of an aneurysm at 98.
Destiny: 45.39%
TURN THE SCOPE. Earth-1. Subject: Davis, Conner. Occupation: Unknown.
Conner Davis lived every day as if it were his last. He took everything as it came to him and never took any of it for granted. He never wrote a book, never saved a nation, never killed a villain or moved a mountain. Mr. Davis was going to Sydney and he was getting married to the love of his life.
Mr. Davis never knew happiness outside of how he felt for other people. Material possessions never occurred to Conner to mean anything. He lived, and he loved with the best of his ability and compromised nothing. Conner Davis dies tomorrow.
Destiny: 100%
TURN THE SCOPE.
by J.R. Blackwell | Dec 11, 2005 | Story
Moresheck was one of the brutish, ham handed psychics that roamed the twisting urban alleys of the north face of Mars. All his rapes were consensual. All his fights were fatal. He was a free citizen bound only by his ability to pay for damages, but no one ever got far enough to charge him. Getting close to Moresheck meant getting lost in a personal hell.
He was thirteen when he had been manually altered, sold by his parents to the Corporation that ran Mars, pumped full of steroids and a cloud of little machines that created a complex cocktails of enzymes designed to produce emotional reactions in a projected subject. Years later the practice had been outlawed but by that time Moresheck had twisted enough minds to get himself made into a free citizen. Even the government Pods couldn’t touch a freeman. He wore yellow to appear dangerous and sleek, but it was the brain cocktail that really made people quiver. Moresheck wandered the streets invading minds, thrashing around in higher consciousness like a mad bull in a shop of Venetian glass.
Sleeping was the dangerous time for Moresheck; it was only then that people could hurt him. Moresheck stole pills so that he could stay awake for a few weeks before collapsing. When he did sleep, he crashed in empty apartments and in the deserted Martian sewers, where streams of mud slugged slowly under the planet.
Moresheck first saw the dark man outside the sewer one morning, just sitting, watching the sky and smoking as if he didn’t see the giant brute emerging from the sewers. Moresheck thought about taking his cigars, smoking was illegal and cigars were a hard item to find, but for some reason Moresheck just passed him by. Two days later, the dark man was outside a shop where Moresheck had convinced the employees to fit him for new clothes. Afterwards, he tried to remember the dark mans face and realized he could not. Not one detail. Moresheck began to grow worried. What if he was becoming schizoid? It happened, sometimes, to psychics, especially powerful ones. Maybe the dark man was his mind playing tricks.
After that, he saw the dark man more often, standing on buildings looking down, at cafes and hubs and transport docks. As much as Moresheck hated the figure of that dark man, he was for the first time since he was a child, afraid to approach someone. What if the dark man has the power to hurt him, or worse, what if the dark man wasn’t real, what if he would dissolve when Moresheck got too close?
Moresheck felt a heated pressure growing inside his body and he needed to blow it off, to relax again. Moresheck headed to his favorite little spot, one he saved for special occasions, the one with the girl with the small hands. Moresheck thought of her as his girl, his alone, the one who would love him and wait for him. Her mind was so soft, she would say whatever he wanted, however he wanted. An hour with her, and he could forget about the dark man.
The dark man was waiting in the street outside the girl’s place, hands jammed in his pockets. Moresheck tried to memorize his features, repeat them back to himself but they drained out as quickly as he said them.
“I think you’ve done enough.” Said the dark man, reaching into his coat. Moresheck concentrated. If the man was real, he would bend to Moresheck’s will. The man just stood there as the brutes face puffed red.
“I pay for all my damages.” Said Moresheck, shaking his head.
“I’m not with the Pods.” Said the dark man as he reached into his coat. “I don’t care about your crimes.”
“You are not real, dark man. You can’t hurt me.”
Moresheck ejected the little chemical compounds, the little bugs that changed the minds of his victims. The man pulled his hand out of his coat. Moresheck was surprised to see that it wasn’t a flash gun. It was a tissue. The man blew his nose.
“Buddha’s belly, Moresheck, your ejaculate makes my head hurt.”
“Fear me.” Said Moresheck, trying to inject strength into his voice. It was flat. He spit on the ground and scratched his hands, releasing more of his cocktail into the air. The mans nose bled, but there was no fear in his face.
“You’ve been all over this city, raping whatever moves, taking what’s not yours, splitting minds, making madness. It’s over, you are done.”
Moresheck roared with the temper of a thirteen year old boy defied, red faced, he rushed at the man in the long black coat, screaming. The man cut his own hand with an unfolded pocket knife, and splattered the blood on Moresheck s face. The blood boiled on Moresheck s skin, like acid on plastic, bubbling and warping. Moresheck launched himself at the dark man, wrapping his huge fingers around his throat. The man struggled, smearing his bloody hands over Moreshecks melting skin. Moresheck roared in pain, and then his eyes rolled back into his head, his body convulsing, a cloud of metallic dust blowing out his nose and mouth. Moresheck collapsed and the dark man rolled the giant off of him and stood, shaking his bloodied hand on the red dirt, which sputtered and fumed at the with the touch of the acidic droplets.
The dark man rubbed his throat where the prints of Moreshecks fingers were bruising his skin and clutched his hand, waiting to feel relief.
