by submission | May 24, 2011 | Story
Author : Krista Bunskoek
Stealing the unimobile gave her the rush of a lifetime.
Speeding up the mountainous, winding highway, she laughed like a youthful mutineer.
“Change sound,” she commanded.
“Sound changing,” stated the pleasant sync voice. “Which sound would you like?”
“F1”
The car zoooooommmmed as she sped through the corner at 150 mph.
Freedom. Wasn’t this what her parents had told her life was about? While they slaved all day working on new devices. Devices to track your every move.
She had been very careful this time. For months she had been plotting it out. Plotting to feel the thrill of unwatched, unrecorded freedom.
The toughest was the Smartphone. The tracker of all. Getting her device detached from her wrist was not so straightforward. Initial attempts left alarm systems blaring, and a short visit from the compliant police.
She had to do it in a way that tricked the network. To make the network believe her DNA was still attached. Hair. Hair had DNA. A few fair locks would not be missed.
Then there was the uni itself. Only her mother’s fingerprints and correct grip could open its door. And only her mother’s voice could start the silent electric engine. The voice was easy. She had been practicing her mother’s voice all her life, being trained to be just like this internationally acclaimed woman. She knew the voice.
The fingerprints. They were a different matter. The fingerprints required trickery. An hour long mother/ daughter sculpting class, and mounds of modeling clay. That would do it.
The grip she could wing. So many parties with dignitaries shaking hands. She knew the grip of her hereditary chain.
Then there was the timing. Well that was simple. Her parents were always jetting around the globe, with the occasional journey to a space station. All she needed to do was hack into their calendars, find a time they were both away – and she was scot free. Scot free to freedom!
The plotting worked. The universe was unfolding as she wished.
“Turn engine on,” She stated in her best impression.
The panel lights came on, the seatbelt self fastened. She had done it!
Freedom!
She laughed with the thrill of cracking the code to independence.
Stomping on the power pedal, the F1 engine simulation roared. Now at 160, her eyes fixated on the windy road, her knuckles whitened with her own grip on the faux leather wheel. Her heart raced. Her mouth salivated.
Then she froze. The car was slowing. She pressed the power pedal. Nothing. She was slowing down. The steering wheel began to turn beyond her control. The car was turning into a gravel parking lot.
Her face froze in terror. Her head stopped thinking. Up ahead, there in the parking lot, was it? No!
Her parents.
The GPS.
She was grounded for a month. With no network privileges.
But she would always know now the taste of freedom.
by submission | May 23, 2011 | Story
Author : Colin O’Boyle
Edgar Miller was a convict. Currently, he was an escaped convict, and that was the way he intended to stay. He’d broken out of prison through a series of well-laid plans, noticed opportunities and a bit of luck, not to mention violence.
“I said, ‘Give me the money!’” Edgar waved the gun in the storeowner’s face. The man, a balding African-American gentleman, was quaking in his boots, and from the smell, had peed his pants. That, plus the smell of the sweat on the man’s shiny palate were starting to irritate Edgar, so he decided to give off a warning shot to convince him that he was serious. He did so, the shot thunderously loud in the enclosed space, and the storeowner gave up hope that someone was going to stop this madman.
With pudgy fingers, he emptied the drawer of the cash register into Edgar’s canvas bag. Edgar, not wearing a mask of any sort, considered killing the man, but the lack of security camera gave him pause. As he ran out of the store and took off down the highway, he told himself it was because people in stressful situations don’t make good eye-witnesses.
The actual reason, however, was somewhat different.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Dr. Johnson from his podium to the roomful of reporters, “I’d like to thank you for coming out to the cave today.” He gestured to what was behind him, a device that could only be called a pod. It was roughly the size of a couch, but was shaped like a transparent egg. Metal arms cradled it, and strands of colored wires emerged from its sides. Resting securely within this metal contraption, on a bed of gel and foam, lay Edgar Miller.
“We call it the cave after a famous thought experiment by the Greek philosopher, Plato. In this thought experiment, people were born and raised in a cave and forced to sit and face a single wall. On the wall, a light would be projected, and the people…essentially the wardens, would make shadows on the wall. Now—” Dr. Johnson pushed his glasses back up his nose, “—the people in this cave, since they had never been anywhere else, would see these shadows and, for them, that would be the world. We here at the Virtual Correctional Institution are a bit more technologically advanced.”
Dr. Johnson gestured toward the pod. “Mr. Miller is aware that he was placed in prison. He remembers everything in his life up until that moment. After that, however, things get a bit tricky. Mr. Miller was selected for our project as he was considered by the psychological staff that evaluated him as an incorrigible criminal, and that the best one could hope for was for him to be contained.” Dr. Johnson smiled. “We thought we could do a little bit better than that. In the cave, we control every aspect of our subject’s lives, far more so than any normal prison. Thus, when a subject makes a good choice, he can be rewarded and, eventually, be introduced back into society a rehabilitated man.” Dr. Johnson paused, allowing this to sink in a little, before saying, “Now we’ll adjourn to the atrium where I’ll take any questions you might have.”
As the room cleared, a journalist happened to look upwards as he walked out of the doors to the atrium. Above the doors to “Plato’s Cave,” was a quote by the Institute’s founder:
“The perfect prison is one in which the prisoner thinks he’s free.”
by submission | May 22, 2011 | Story
Author : Justin Short
The world’s largest man will tell you like he has told half a dozen others: you are not experiencing time travel. Just relax. Of course, he’ll feed his face on a double bucket of chicken as he explains it, but that part isn’t vital to understanding.
“This so-called time travel,” he laughs. “Like, picture the guy here last month. Begged me to let him in on the secret. Man was dying to get back to the 1960s and go to Woodstock. Couldn’t help him.”
Impossible. Just a romantic pipe dream. Traveling this way is as farfetched as world peace, as unlikely as a dog not eating its own puke. So sorry, hippie wannabe. Sorry, world.
The bucket is low. No problem, the man just pulls out a five-gallon water tank filled with twice-baked potatoes. Your feet burn with anxiety; why, after all, are you here? You beg him to get to the point. And with potatoes shooting down his throat like whipped cream, he does so.
“Now, first thing: we’ve never actually met. And this part may surprise you, but this is the first time you’ve ever stepped foot in this room.”
You try to argue. You’ve been here before. Every detail is familiar – that’s a fact. And it’s not some kiddie notion like déjà vu.
“I could use a glass of water,” he croaks, turning red from his tray of biscuits. “But I repeat: this is nothing so juvenile as temporal manipulation. Not even a vivid flashback. Thing is, pal, you can recall the future. Even predict it sometimes. And that feels funny when you try to deny the fact. I know.”
You shrug. Instinctively, you knew that. The way you visualize people a day before you meet them. Those daydreams of conversations that don’t occur for weeks. Even tried to confide in a friend once – embarrassing mistake.
Still, his response doesn’t satisfy. So why am I here?
The blob smiles, one jowl puffing out in a friendly gesture. “You forgot this part, I reckon. Too bad.”
You remember (or remember when you remembered), but not soon enough. The pistol was hidden under the pie pan. It’s leveled at your nose. The fat man gives you an only-doing-my-job shrug. “Of course I’m sorry. Nothing against you, bud. Just…you remember the future like it’s a boring memory, but so do I. And it’s my job to make sure that memory doesn’t happen.”
A flash. Dying stings worse than you recollected.
by submission | May 21, 2011 | Story
Author : Martinus Guzman
My confused senses grasped at the world about me. Skin pulsed along with a faint rhythmic metal tick of a clockwork engine. Ozone, cinder and iron burst over my tongue, tasting a room filled with energy and power. Dank corners and oiled machinery echoed in deep tones. I inhaled cold metal and pain. Eyes drank of hazy images in dry brown, blood red and steel blue. I screamed, agony reverberating on my skin, synesthesia swirled my senses into a horrendous nightmare. The angelic voice of my love whispered a word of peace and I drifted to darkness, thankfully.
Madrid was the site of our meeting, a city under the spell of science and art at the eve of the new century. I lived a lavish life of a professional student paid from my inheritance. By day, my intellect drank in the lectures from the most progressive thinkers of our age. By night, my body consumed beauty from the women of blessed city. But alas, under legal advisement, I was forced to seek employment as a tutor to defray the cost of my delicious excesses.
My ward, the darling Adeline, was a slender girl of fair complexion with eighteen years of sunlight captured in her raven hair. On our first meeting, she sat bemused through my flirtatious preamble but shone brightly when I commenced my instruction. As the day progressed, she entered a state of rapture, body thrown back upon her chaise with climax upon her lips not unlike the Saint Theresa receiving the holy ghost.
Those intelligent amber eyes were never quenched and soon I was forced to bring my maestros along to feed her desire. With Qevando, she built delicate automatons. With Caja, she sowed various animals into small magical beasts. And yet this was not enough, for as i would part for my nightly roguery, she would hold vigil with spiritualists and alchemist, gorging on all knowledge with equal excess. Yet I remained her confidant, when nightly as I swayed on the edge of the chaise from drink, she press her head against my chest to discuss the progress of her studies.
Upon notification by my jackal lawyers of my diminishing inheritance, I asked for my siren’s hand. She accepted without hesitation with but one condition. My nightly excursions would be ignored but my presence would be required to feed her intellectual needs each night. So I would return, still smelling of wine and woman, to find her within the laboratory. She would lounge seductively upon my chest, now a woman of staggering beauty, to spend hours in shared scholarly passion.
One night, as I stumbled through the streets, recent from the arms of a deflowered maiden, I was confronted by no other than my prey’s father. I remember little of what followed save for the snap of my back upon the stoop and the smell of my skin as the lamp oil caught fire.
Three days later, the whisper of my angel awoke me, “don’t worry m’love.” My head shifted downward with the whorl of gyros to spy my patchwork body of flesh and metal. Agony burst from my lips powered by the bellows in my hollow chest. A simple word of silence uttered by my love, caused my mouth to snap shut. Upon her direction, whispered in tender tones of seduction, I moved to my customary spot upon the chaise to receive her buxom body pressed against my new frame. She recounted her advances which had finally turned me into her dutiful husband.
by submission | May 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Steve Hall
The spectators watched raptly as the assault team crept through the artificial cityscape. Their experience was obvious – steady, even steps, eyes and weapons constantly scanning a full hemisphere of potential threats.
The point man held up a closed fist, and the entire squad froze in place, momentarily focused on his lithe form. After a second, he turned slightly, tapped his nose, and pointed to the center of the road. Fist still in the air, he tapped an ear, held up two fingers, and pointed to one of the small concrete buildings.
One of the spectators turned and whispered to their neighbor.
“He caught the mine in the road and the ambushers in the blind. Not bad, George”
The soldiers split around the mine, three taking the left side, three taking the right, while the last fire team went in the rear of the indicated building. They emerged noiselessly from the front a moment later, as the spectators’ displays changed to indicate the quietly eliminated threat.
The neighbor turned to his companion.
“General, they could do this all day, so we’re going to give them a little surprise, see them a little more dynamically.”
Gunfire erupted from the target building ahead, sweeping across the team and knocking one man down with a simulated leg wound. The team medic grabbed him and pulled him into a sheltered corner, returning fire and dressing the wound at the same time. A mass of fire erupted from the team, efficiently recording kill after kill on the displays until finally the scene fell silent and still.
The team reassembled next to the target, the injured man supporting himself on a packable crutch while his weapon continued to protect the rear of the group. Most of the team burst into the building to finish the operation, leaving a fire team outside for security.
“General, look up on the hill.”
Two kilometers away from the artificial town, well out of small arms range, a helicopter shell rose on a hydraulic lift. Simulated rotor noise swept across the field of engagement, followed by the bark of heavy weapons fire. Seconds later, another such emplacement blossomed from another hill behind the team, capturing them in a crossfire.
“George, it’s not a great demonstration if your guys get killed.”
“General, just watch.”
One of the soldiers on the security detail stepped partially out of his sheltered position, an impossibly massive weapon in his arms. A solid stream of heavy tracers briefly connected the soldier to the helicopter before it erupted in flames. Seconds later the other helicopter fell silent as well, torn apart by the same withering hail of fire.
“All right George, I’ve seen enough. Let’s look at the close-ups.”
The General picked up a helmet from the display table, modified to accommodate the point man’s bat-like ears.
“How long does it take?”
“Six months for the mods, anywhere from six months to two years to become fully operational”
“And how long until they catch up?”
“We think five years for the Russians, perhaps four for the Chinese. They don’t have some of the considerations that we do, so it could be sooner.”
The General stared at the close-up videos, a medic administering first aid with two extra eyes and two extra hands while still maintaining fire on the enemy, a machinegunner toting a fifty-cal in two huge arms while a massive tail turns him into his own tripod. Inhuman, perhaps, but American. And effective.
“George. Start production.”
“Yes ma’am.”
