by submission | Jun 3, 2010 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
The music for News Night faded from the surround-sound speakers. Robert waggled an outstretched finger towards the sensor on the TV and, on the second attempt, dragged the window containing the security camera feed to one side.
“Tonight,” the interviewer intoned, “we are speaking to the controversial Home Office Minister, John Simmons about recent legislation…”
Robert let his mind wander, watching the three figures, hoodies obscuring their faces, who stood in view of the camera that overlooked the front gate.
“But Mr. Simmons,” the interviewer sneered, “the Prisoners’ Rights Group is up in arms about this.”
“This is not about prisoners, is it?” countered the Minister. “The very name of the organisation shows that they are out of touch, both with our policy and public opinion.”
Robert was distracted again: one of the men at the front gate pointed directly into the camera, then at the control panel for the gate; he was saying something to his companions, but the security system did not carry audio.
Robert turned his attention back to the Minister.
“There is no longer room in our country’s prisons to hold every person convicted of a crime. Nor do the police have time to protect every scumbag, mugger or rapist…”
“Please, Minister, can we restrain the emotive language,” the interviewer interjected.
“This is an old solution to an old problem.” the Minister stated, calming himself. “Placing repeat criminals outside the protection of the law allows the public to protect themselves, the police to do their job and the treasury to save taxpayers’ money.”
“And they can no longer claim benefits or access health care?” the interviewer queried.
“Did you know that 80% of attacks on nurses are carried out by known offenders?” The Minister thumped his fist on the desk for emphasis.
Robert looked around the room, at the top of the range 110” television, at the Rembrandt sketch in the gold leaf frame and at the latest auto-barista. Then he looked back at the camera feed: one of the men was stabbing a finger at the screen of his mobile. Did he imagine that another, half in shadow, was cocking a gun?
On the TV, the interview continued.
“A citizen’s status is visible on any console,” the Minister justified. “There is no reason innocent people should become involved.”
Unconsciously Robert checked his own status in the bottom left of the display.
“Still green and clean,” he mumbled to himself.
“And how do you respond to accusations that this is a criminals’ charter;” the interviewer asked, “that it allows career criminals to target those already convicted without any fear of reprisal.”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” the Minister said emphatically. “Would you rather they targeted law abiding citizens?”
Outside, Robert noted, a man was now hunched over the gate’s control console, hands moving in quick, precise motions.
On the TV the interviewer was now holding up a copy of the Times, showing today’s headline: “CRIME BOSS CALLAGHAN TO BE SENTENCED”. Even though he’d been waiting for this, Robert was no longer listening; in the bottom left hand corner of the screen his status had changed from green to red.
Then the power cut, the TV was silent and everything was illuminated by the soft, red glow of the emergency lights.
Robert Callaghan stood, lifted the pump action shotgun from the table and cocked it.
But the whole time he stared at the now-blank screen, stared at where a single yellow word had been, block capitals on the red background of his status box. That word had been OUTLAW.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jun 2, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
The leaves of the overhanging canopy cast a restless pattern of light and dark on the forest floor. The soft trill of flying animals and the occasional flutter of branches as some unseen creature passed on it’s arboreal thoroughfare were the only sounds to intrude upon the tomblike solemnity of the forest.
Moving silently below, a group of black clad men made their way, careful not to disturb a single twig. Inaudible within their armoured helmets, the men still spoke quietly into their com-links.
“It came from this direction,” Sergeant Sakharov’s hushed voice rasped over the net.
“What the hell was it,” PFC Josten asked, the flow of adrenalin evident in his voice. Growing up during the early years of the Martian Rebellion, Mark Joston was a born soldier.
“Judging by the size of these tracks, whatever it is, it’s big.” Corporal Schmidt remarked with a casual air. He was Earth born, and lived in a world a little more rarefied than the other six men of the strike group. Such things were barely within his sphere of concern. He had joined the Corps on a whim “for the adventure“. Something to tell the boys back home of his days among “the little people”.
The ravages of the rebellion had escaped the confines of the Martian atmosphere and spread to the rest of the colonies in the system. Mother Earth had been spared the carnage. Partially due to her position as the cradle of humanity, but more notably for her impenetrable string of Planetary Defense Satellites, the PleiaDeS, and her massive swarms of HK ships, bristling with plasma cannons and nova clusters. So, with no where else to turn, the next phase of the ongoing war had spread to the Morning Star. Venus.
“What do you think it is? Some sort of Allied secret weapon?” Pvt. Zalar was green, fresh from boot. The seasoned marines laughed derisively, concealing their own fears.
“Nah,” replied Sgt. Sakharov testily, “if there were any slopes around I’d smell ‘em. Even through the scrubbers. Whatever it is, it ain’t Allied.” Fatigued by the heat, and the weight of the cumbersome armour, Sakharov called a halt.
The men were exhausted, sweltering in the early morning sun despite the cooling mechanisms of their armour. The men walked in a staggered “V” pattern, invisible to each other through the dense foliage, though separated by mere meters. Their locations, as well as a 360* view of their environs was projected directly into their eyes by the opaque faceless helms.
Lcpl Pohl on point, squealed sharply. “Hey, there’s something directly on our twelve… something big.”
Sgt. Sakharov spoke up. “Where? There’s nothing on my scan… Oh shit…” His voice trailed into silence.
A thunderous bellow blasted through the trees. The heavy dampening effect of the lush undergrowth did nothing to squelch the deafening explosion of sound. The birdlike creatures and the scurrying denizens of the upper branches scattered like leaves before a hurricane.
Rising above them on legs thicker than any surrounding tree stood a beast resembling a nightmare predating mans very existence. Without an order given, or necessary, all seven men simultaneously opened fire with their blasters. Seven individual tongues of green plasma bathed the beast with little noticeable affect.
Stunned into immobility, the men stood and stared as the monster reared back to take a massive lungful of air, and swiftly stooped down showering the men with a sticky gel like substance that ignited instantly upon contact with air.
The anguished cries of the par broiled men were silenced as the dragon bowed to devour his prey.
by Duncan Shields | Jun 1, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Our server’s arm whined with steam driven pistons as she set our drinks down. This was body modification on a new level. She must’ve been on eleven different kinds of immunosuppressants. She probably had a biotechnician on call to handle emergencies when her body started to reject the parts she’d shoved in. Her skin looked inflamed around the insertions. The itching alone must have driven her crazy.
I was trying to figure how much mods like that cost and how she could afford them on a waitress’s wage when Trucker sat down across from me.
Trucker was a strong man with a lisp. The hissing of his sibilants had made him a big target and a vicious fighter. He had eyes like blue marbles punched into a face made from dough. This was not a man you wanted to have angry at you.
So naturally I wanted to piss him off. The drugs hummed in my veins, giving me confidence.
I casually reached into the pocket of my short coat and thumbed back the safety on the pocket Mauser. It was coded to follow my line of sight. I kept staring at Trucker’s left eye.
This was the industrial district. The stink of diesel wafted through the bar here along with the smell of burning pork, cigarettes, rubber, and wet brick.
“Hello” said Trucker. His voice was surprisingly high for such a big man. “My money.” He said, avoiding sibilants that would highlight his lisp.
“Yeah.” I said. “Funny story, actually. True story. It’s not here.”
Trucker squinted at me with his glittering piglet eyes, confused at my suicidal attitude. He was smart enough to realize that I wouldn’t be this arrogant unless I had some insurance so he waited.
“Where ith it?” he asked, accidentally exposing his lisp. He immediately pursed his lips together and reddened. His eyes glittered spider-like in his embarrassment. I knew I didn’t have long before his anger overrode his caution.
“Seriously, sir, it’s being sent somewhere secret so that I can be assured of safe passage outside the city soon.” I drawled, loading as many s-words into my speech as possible. I giggled through a light drug sweat, my heart thudding out confidence.
Trucker became a statue across from me. He was as still as a lion watching an antelope get closer. I’d crossed a line. I’d signed my own death warrant. Good. I had his attention.
“And where might that be?” asked Trucker, back in control and disturbingly calm.
“I sent it to your sister. She’ll receive it by Sunday morning. That’s six hours from now. I’m going to leave now, Trucker. If your sister doesn’t have it by Sunday, come and get me. If you take your hands off the table in the next two minutes, I’ll blow your head off.” I said calmly and stood up.
“I have a lot of people, kid. Everywhere. You’re a dead man whether I get the money or not. Have a good night.” Trucker said to me. It even sounded cordial.
I backed out of the diner feeling stupid. He watched me the whole way. I was counting on Trucker to be less patient. Maybe I played this wrong. I could feel the drugs wearing off and panic starting to seep in. All I knew was that I needed to run as far as possible in the next six hours.
by submission | May 31, 2010 | Story
Author : Neil Shurley
“Will you just cool it about the jet pack?”
It was all I could do not to shout at him. Barry’s daily tirade against the state of the world left me feeling nothing but tired. Ever since New Year’s Day he’d go off for at least ten minutes every morning about the alleged lies he grew up on, about the lack of domed cities, flying cars and jet packs.
“Can you say redundancy?” I continued. “If your rocket goes out when you’re flying through the air at 80 miles an hour, how are you going to do anything but crash land? Splat, Barry.” I grabbed a raisin out of my bowl and squished it for emphasis. “Splat. Right on your moving sidewalk.”
Barry drained the coffee from his Mystery Science Theater 3000 mug, then took another bite of pie.
“Can we just accept it now?” I said. “We got the future we got. We’re going to have to just make do with it. And look at the good side. No nuclear holocaust. No robot rebellion. No super-intelligent apes taking over. It’s all good, right?”
Barry scraped the remaining cherry filling off of his plate. “So you’re saying I should be happy there’s no jet pack in my garage?”
“First off, you don’t have a garage.”
“I’d keep it in the closet. With my coats.”
“Where would you keep the fuel? You’d have to buy it by the barrel. And rocket fuel ain’t cheap, my friend.”
“Mister Fusion,” he said. “We were promised nuclear fusion. It would totally run on that.”
I just shook my head and slurped the sugary milk out of my bowl.
Barry slid his plate into the table slot and double-tapped his mug. He warmed his hand over the steaming coffee.
“What about the moonbase, Chad? Where’s our moonbase?”
“Hey, at least we didn’t blow the moon out of orbit with our spent fuel rods.”
“Pppft. Give me a break. We should have hotels on the moon by now. And you know it.”
I shook my head and sighed.
“Fine,” I said. “You’re right. We were screwed.”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
I double-tapped my temple and tweeted to my 14,608 followers: “Barry says we’re screwed. What a moron. He hasn’t had a positive thing to say since he turned 107.”
“Hey,” Barry said. ”I see that.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” I said, staring through the windshield as we shot past endless green fields. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
by submission | May 30, 2010 | Story
Author : James Riley
“Oof!” Miller grunted, raising the bar for John to take it. He exhaled deeply and sat up. John casually dropped the weight onto the maglev lifts and patted his friend on the back.
“Think that’ll do it?” John asked.
“Should. . .” Miller replied, tapping his left forearm twice. A pale blue display appeared on his skin. A graphic was rotating and a box of text popped up that read “Updating. Please wait.” Expectation began to stir within him.
A faint vibration on his forearm indicated that the calculation was complete. Miller watched a cherry red bar slide from left to right on the display. He urged it forward. There was just a bit further for it to go. . . and. . . a loud metallic chime was emitted from the display and rang through the gym. It was wholly satisfying, like taking a long drink of water after waking up in the middle of the night. “Ding,” Miller said, grinning widely.
“Grats,” John said, giving him a high five. Several other weightlifters echoed John’s congratulation. Miller’s strength level was now 42, almost where he wanted it to be.
His display buzzed and he looked down. A message had popped up in a small square toward his elbow, “Just reminding you about our date tonight–Marina.” A heart graphic pulsed below the text. Miller smiled again and headed to the showers, he didn’t want to be late.
For hours the sun had been setting, but Marina and Miller, walking hand in hand, never noticed. Part of the reason they didn’t was that the light posts lining the street had been smoothly illuminating, little by little, to compensate for the waning sunlight, but mostly it was due to the fact that they were having so much fun together.
As they were walking Marina was telling a story about how her shoes got stuck in a vent that day at work forcing her to walk around barefoot for the rest of the day. In between laughs Miller quickly glanced down at his display. Tonight’s date pushed the little bar forward that measured their relationship. He wasn’t surprised. He had ordered Eggplant Parmesan, her favorite, for her at the restaurant, given her his coat when they went for a walk, and had even complimented her new shoes— Miller had done everything a good boyfriend should. And each correct decision had automatically been given a value and recorded.
Soon, they reached Marina’s apartment. “Oh,” she said, before opening the door, “Julie’s engagement party is next month. Want to be my date?”
Miller chuckled. “Want to? Nah. Boring small talk with people I don’t know isn’t my thing. But I’ll come, because I know it’s what you want, and that’s what good boyfriends do,” he continued.
“But you’d rather not come?” she asked, her tone cool.
“No, to be honest, but I will, because it’ll make you happy.” He hadn’t noticed her demeanor change because he was glancing at his display. Sure enough, his willingness to do something he didn’t want to for her sake caused the relationship bar to inch forward. According to the meter, Marina should be elated with him. He looked up from his arm, though, just in time to see her slam her front door in his face.
Miller stood for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. The meter indicated Marina’s happiness with him should be at a peak. He snorted. “Stupid thing’s broken again,” he muttered, shutting the display off by punching his arm so hard that he made himself wince.
