by submission | Jul 8, 2010 | Story
Author : John Logan
At 34 years old, I was in bad shape. Sixty pounds over weight and wheezing like a dying man every time I trudged up a flight of stairs. The cigarettes didn’t help. My wife, Claire, constantly nagged at me to stop. She hated the smell. I also drank heavily. I’d abused my body. I was a wreck, a biological time bomb just waiting to explode. The day of reckoning finally arrived when I dropped off Claire at her office and moments later was clutching my chest while trying to breath through the intense pain.
Somehow I survived the ordeal. Angina they told me. After recovering, my physician insisted I visit one of the New Life clinics. I took his advice and ignored the financial grumblings of my wife. That’s when my life changed drastically.
I’d always been skeptical of their ads. “Take back your life, you deserve it!” said their slogan. They promised a total body transformation. And what did I have to do? Nothing. The tech at the clinic went through the details with me, I signed the papers and the next day lumbered into their lab room where a slab of metal awaited. Next to it, a man laid completely naked and deep in slumber.
“That him?” I asked.
“Yup, your trainer, Mike, he’s the best,” said the tech. “He’ll take over your body and get you into top shape. You’ll feel like a new man, mark my words.”
He was a fine specimen, rippling torso and bulging biceps.
I mimicked Mike’s posture and lay down on my own slab while feeling self-conscious of the rolls of fat that wobbled over my unseemly gait.
“See you in six months,” said the tech and smiled.
Syringes filled with colored liquid descended and the world turned dark.
#
I woke.
A voice beckoned me to sit up. I hunched my shoulders, expecting old pains to return. None came. My abdomen felt taut and strong as I sat up effortlessly. The room was a touch cold and for the first time I looked down at the gooseflesh skin covering my biceps. They were thick, powerful and vascular, like they’d been when I was an athlete in my teens. My breathing was steady, my mood pleasantly euphoric.
“Bad news I’m afraid,” said the tech who appraised me with a furrowed brow.
I shifted from the slab, marveling at how fluid my body moved, how light I felt with each step. “Bad news?” I laughed. “But I feel fantastic!”
The grave expression the tech returned cut short my pleasant mood. “What happened?” I asked. A feeling of apprehension began to worm its way under my skin.
“It concerns your wife.”
“Is she ok?”
The tech paused. “I’m afraid she committed suicide last night.”
“What?” I shouted and swayed slightly as though slapped in the face. “How?”
“Mike, your trainer, evaluated your lifestyle and determined that your wife was the main factor in your poor health. Five months ago, he divorced her.”
“What the hell?” I shouted louder. I heard my knuckles crack. “You can’t do that.”
The tech looked apologetic. “It’s in the contract,” he said then sighed. “Look, for what it’s worth I’m sorry for your loss but just look at you now. Mike made you his masterpiece.”
He gestured to a mirror. I turned and stared in amazement. Mike really had turned me around. “I suppose it is time to move on,” I said and my thoughts drifted to a cute twenty-something I’d had my eye on at work but never had the confidence to approach, until now.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jul 7, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
Drop capsules are virtually impregnable to anything man or xeno can throw at them. They have consistently proven themselves many times in combat under the onslaught of increasingly sophisticated weaponry.
We don’t feel anything during a drop since we are in complete stasis until planetfall. Hell, we really don’t exist until we smack into whatever little dirtball we are fighting on. I am basically a holographic version of myself that coalesces into a brave, stolid, exceptionally handsome Lieutenant of the Alliance; or whatever passes for handsome on the planet I slam into.
I began to feel my senses flooding into my new body. I caught a glimpse of myself on the mirror bright inside surface of the capsules leaf before it peeled away. On this planet, handsome apparently runs to the dark, squat and lumpy. In short, I became an anthropomorphized turd. Oh well, I’ve been worse. Ask my ex-wives.
I opened my neural band and scanned for my drop group. No signal. That’s impossible. If they were dead, I’d still pick up the static from their bands. I couldn’t even raise the orbiting ship. Something was seriously wrong. I grabbed for my weapon, determined to find my men in this thick jungle. My plaz weapon wasn’t there.
“What the hell is going on here?” To my ears, my voice resembled large boulders crushing a family of terrified and generally pissed off cats. I thought back to my orders. To my shock, I realized I had no orders. Or at least I had no memory of my orders. I had no memory of the ship, of downloading into the cube, nor even of prepping for this mission. I had no clue who I was, where I was, and the means of my delivery in the drop capsule were already quickly fading from memory.
Panic began to well up within me. “Okay, okay. Calm down. You’ve been in worse scrapes than this. You’ll get through it. Rely on your training.” I reached back to the years of military training I had undergone. What training? I wasn’t even sure what army I was in, or who I fought for.
This wasn’t making any sense. I was on a planet that must have resembled Venus before the greenhouse effect went into overdrive. Through the dense foliage I could see more turd-people moving towards me through the thick, barrel-like trees. Were these my men?
The creatures gathered around me and one by one, embraced me with their thick rubbery arms. They began to make a low noise deep in their throats. Again the sound of very tired, but still pissed pussy cats being pummelled in a landslide, washed over me. It felt strangely soothing.
I crouched down on my stubby haunches and tried to make sense of all this while the others continued to stroke my back and make consoling noises at me. Suddenly, I felt as if my skull had been ripped open and was blinded by a wonderfully painful flash of light.
A man in the uniform of a Confederation colonel, appeared in my pain wracked brain. “Lieutenant Ito Yokamiso of the Asiatic Alliance; for the high crime of genocide against the innocent civilian families of the Confederation colony on Europa, you are hereby sentenced to 300 years exile on the penal planet of Thulcandra. May God have mercy on your soul.” My memories flooded back.
Crooning their consoling wails, my fellow inmates led me to a ramshackle collection of hut’s that would be my home for the next three centuries. I lowered my head in shame.
Who knew turds could cry?
by Patricia Stewart | Jul 6, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Jason Hausen studied the 3D holograph of the star Adhara in the constellation Canis Major. Imbedded within the image were the telemetry tracks of the two dozen spaceships that had entered the star system in the last 20 years. Entered, but not exited, noted Hausen. In each case, the ships changed course to either spiral into the system, or to double back after having originally passed it by. “They appear to be landing on the second planet,” observed Hausen.
“That’s our guess too,” replied Kirk Lido, the operations director of Galactic Transportation Inc. “But that planet was not the destination of any of our vessels. We’re not sure why they deviated from their flight plans. In fact, we lost subspace communication once they approached within a light year of Adhara.”
“Perhaps they were seized by pirates?” suggested Hausen.
“No, we’ve ruled that out. There was no evidence of any other ships in the area, and their warp trails didn’t show any sign of resisting a tractor beam or gravity well. Apparently, they flew there of their own volition. We suspect the crew was irresistibly drawn to the planet, not unlike how the mythical Greek Sirens lured sailors to their deaths on the rocky coast of Anthemusa.”
“I’d prefer to believe in a more scientific explanation,” replied Hausen. “Anyway, what does this have to do with me?”
“Well, to be perfectly frank, Mr. Hausen, with your remarkable reputation, we want you to captain the research ship that we plan to send to Adhara.”
Always up to a challenge, Hausen took the bait, “I’m listening.”
“Excellent. Well, we’ve constructed a unique ship for your mission. For the lack of a better description, the HMS Alecto is a one-man interstellar tank. You’ll be in command, but the ship will be run by autonomous robots. In the event that the Sirens, if they exist, manage to take control of your mind, the robots have been programmed to ignore your orders and return the ship to base. I know, I know,” added Lido, anticipating a confrontation, “nobody wants to relinquish command, but believe me, it’s for your own protection. Consider it a fail-safe contingency plan. If you’re right, and the Sirens don’t exist, then you’ll maintain command.”
“Relax, Lido. It will be worth the risk just to prove you wrong. Now, let’s have a look at this ship.”
***
“Lido, I’m almost within a light year of Adhara, so we’ll probably be losing contact. Just so you know, the first pass will be a fly-by at two times the orbital radius. I’ll simply fly through the system. I’ll call you after I emerge on the far side of the black-out region.”
“Roger, Jason. Good luck.”
As the HMS Alecto approached Adhara, the robot helmsman altered course toward the second planet. “What are you doing?” barked Hausen. “Return to the original course.” But the robot didn’t comply. When Hausen stood up to approach the helm, two robots flanked him and forced him back into his seat. “Hausen to computer, override the helm. Return to base immediately. That’s an order.” But the ship continued toward the planet. When two more robots surrounded him he realized Lido was partially right. There were Sirens on Adhara, but their songs weren’t intended for human ears.
by submission | Jul 5, 2010 | Story
Author : K.S. Kim
It’s certainly nothing new. Shipping off the old to make way for the new. They used to call them homes for the elderly. They would have them everywhere, just to make it easier for the younger generation to pursue their everyday lives and goals, without having to care for the increasingly longer living old.
“It only makes sense to let us care for your elderly.”
The man on the soft screen was trying to convince my son to send me away. It made my blood boil. It wasn’t fair.
“…so offer nutri-solutions and muscle stimulants to encourage the revitalization and rejuvenation of dead or dying ce…”
I wasn’t even paying attention. My son’s eyes and ears, on the other hand, were glued to him, a sign of respect I wish he gave me sometimes.
“…ave the state-of-the-art virtual plane if your elderly prefers to experience life to it’s fullest but are physically unab…”
Oh yeah, sure, take all that anti-age tech that my generation heralded to try and make it seem any less cruel. My son sure seems to appreciate the idyllic image of an army of old minds in young bodies running freely on a farm somewhere. My parents used to tell me that my dog was running around free on a farm somewhere too. I found out that they had to put Koenig down. It was a lie to make my seven year old self feel better.
I wonder if my son realizes that they plan on putting me down.
“…ment plans are flexible and based on your insurances and current…”
Though, I guess I’ve lived long enough. I’ve spent the last four decades on the GenShip, “Malenfant”. My son must have grown tired of having his father haunt his every step.
“…ply for a Virtual Manifest in our systems if you ever want to visit. It’s very convenient and comes included with the Uploaded Legacy Packa…”
Great! Now their talking about making a damned copy of my mind?
“…chever decision you make, we suggest you move quickly. Your father’s brain is deteriorating quickly. He’s starting to show signs of the Ancestry Disease. That’s most likely thanks to the fact your father’s anti-aging involve a good deal of out-dated methods and from using expi…”
He’s bad-mouthing the tech that helped him make a business. If it wasn’t for our generation and our discoveries, you wouldn’t even be alive today. I swear, this generation has no respect for what came before. They only care about what comes after.
“…emory loss is usually the first major thing we notice. It’s okay though, we’ve seen this very often and we can restore much and continually maintain the rest of their mind. We just have to upload him before he get’s stuck in a repeating loop. Otherwise, even in a digital state, he may forever be stu…”
It’s certainly nothing new. Shipping off the old to make way for the new. They used to call them homes for the elderly. They would have them everywhere, just to make it easier for the younger generation to pursue their every… wait. This seems familiar…
But I wasn’t even paying attention anymore.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 4, 2010 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jeanine walked the length of her racer, running her bare hand across the seams, feeling for any fastener stressed out of place, trying to get a sense of any uneasiness in the craft. She paused and read the name stenciled down the side, “Spirit of America : Ultra III”.
“Craig ran the Spirit to four hundred miles an hour in nineteen sixty three.” Jeanine talked over her shoulder to the small group of friends and family that had gathered on the Salt Flats to cheer her on. “In sixty three, Corvettes were pushing one hundred forty, maybe one fifty miles per hour. Breedlove took her to four.
The fifty foot long silver tube lay slung between four tall skinny wheels at the end of axels shaped like aircraft wings. The cockpit was barely a sliver disrupting the graceful arc of the craft ahead of the massive intake ports and menacing teeth of the turbines.
“He almost got to seven hundred before he crashed. Might have gotten eight if he’d had a better day.”
The salt crunched softly under her boots as she continued her walk around, pausing at the tail of the craft to pull away the exhaust cover and hand it off to a ready set of hands. Deep inside the heart of the new Spirit was an engine that had been liberated from a research facility near Black Rock. The exact circumstances of its disappearance were unknown, but it had arrived at her shop late one night by trailer, an unusual hybrid of conventional jet technology and something she’d never seen before. She could tell it was something special and asked no questions.
The engineering of the jet tech graft made it fairly straight forward for her and her crew to swap it in, replacing the GE turbojet that had to that point powered her Spirit, and many Spirits before.
“I’ll bet we break a thousand miles an hour today.” Jeanine’s grin split her face between the ears, eyes sparkling as she ran her hand across the edge of the exhaust nozzle. “A thousand easy.”
Her reflective demeanor gave way to one of purpose, and Jeanine collected gloves and her helmet from a crew member, waved at the nervous and fidgeting crowd and slipped into the cockpit of The Spirit.
There was a rumble, then a whine steadily increasing in pitch as the turbine came to life. The crowd hastily pulled on headsets or covered their ears and moved away as Jeanine rolled the Spirit out onto the flats to line up her run.
The noise was deafening, and The Spirit almost disappeared in the haze of exhaust gasses heating the space behind her.
“Ok baby, let’s show ’em what we’ve got.”
She pushed the throttle forward, holding wheels steady and straight with both feet braced against the steering pedals. On the dash, streams of data flashed by as the onboard systems reported the state of virtually every component, and every compensation or adjustment of her course.
Her suit adjusted pressure in step with the rising force of acceleration, and she pushed the throttle farther still, watching the ground slip past outside in a smear. Five hundred miles an hour flashed past in an instant, eight hundred an instant later. The thousand mile an hour milestone came and went and still the craft was surging forward, wanting to go further, faster.
Jeanine’s hands were frozen on the throttles, pushing them hard against the forward locks. She’d never felt such emotion in her entire life. They’d done it, pushed The Spirit back on top of the record books.
From the ground, the crowd watched the glimmering point of light streak across the flats before nosing up and tearing a hole in the midday sky.
There was a rapid series of snaps, then The Spirit left earth bound for the heavens.
