by submission | Jul 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Tomov couldn’t help but climb up to the marble altar. It was underwhelming: red shroud embroidered with a white shepherd, a single candle, an offering of roses. A quiet place, hidden from the world by the rows of towering quartz, the vast and ancient ceiling hidden by their upper reaches. The southern edges of the silent worshipers glowed red and blue in the stained glass light.
“It used to look much different.”
Tomov jumped at the priest’s voice, turning to find her standing beside him, naked body glittering as the living memory drifted down her skin.
“Instead of stones there were benches,” she continued. “Instead of interning themselves after death, the flock would gather once a week in life to worship.”
“That’s not what my mother told me,” Tomov said. “She told me the church has always been this way.”
“Oh no,” the priest said, smiling. “Heaven on Earth has only existed for four hundred years. The church is almost two and a half thousand years old.”
Tomov frowned. “Is that even possible? What happened to all the people from before?”
“They died, just like we will. Their memories were scattered to dust.”
“Then they couldn’t exist after death?”
The priest laid a hand on Tomov’s head. “Do we exist after death?”
“That’s what my mother told me,” Tomov replied. “She said that we put our memories into the pews so that we can be with the flock forever. In this manner the essence of our ego can persist beyond the dissolution of our corporeal selves.”
The priest turned to Tomov, taking his hands in her own. Tomov watched the endless scripture as it slid down her hands, his eyes catching
how much of the nose on your face can you see, unless someone holds a mirror up to you?
before it slipped away between two knuckles.
“Tell me,” the priest said. “What do you remember of your own life?”
“Well.” Tomov paused. “I remember getting into a fight with another boy because he didn’t like my metal hands.”
The priest shook her head. “That’s your great-grandfather’s memory.”
“Wait.” Tomov frowned, trying to make sense of what he remembered. “I- I remember Job’s face when his heart fractured, the sound of it ringing in my ears as he stumbled. Wait, no…” Tomov shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. “That’s not who I am.”
He watched
away with those prophets who say to christ’s people “peace, peace,” where in there is no peace
crawl down the priest’s stomach.
“You are Tomov,” the priest said. “You are thirteen. You wanted to stargaze, but the stars were clouded by smoke and the horizon was lit with the fires of the Sixth Cleaning. Do you remember?”
Tomov was still for a moment. Tears began to move. “I remember it was so hot,” he said. “I remember the fires, and I didn’t see the scrappers until they were on me, with their masks and tools.”
“And they shattered you,” the priest said. “They were afraid of you.”
“I’m dead, aren’t I,” Tomov said. “I remember it now.”
“Yes,” the priest said. “You died out there. Which is why you’re here, among family.” The priest knelt down, looking Tomov in the eye. “Would you like to enter into heaven?”
Tomov nodded.
“Welcome,” the priest said. She kissed Tomov’s forehead, sending his essence off into the milky stones of home.
by submission | Jul 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“C’mon, judge, you can’t be serious. That’s an old Earth name for an ancient product. There can’t possibly be trademark claims. There isn’t anything living in North America…it’s under a mile of ice.” Praxton Billings sat up straight before the judge. He rubbed his mustache a few times. Nerves.
“We, the court, understand your defense, but the retention of ancient code is a tradition upholding our humanity, far beyond our origins. This is the last Earth colony. We maintain our culture or we become another lost, migrating species passing through space.” Three judges sat before the lanky space cleaner, under a fiber tree, as was the custom.
“Look, I just clean ships. I barely make out after costs for fuel and repairs. You have to admit it’s one reason they come to our little outpost; that, and the water. If they don’t get the crap off their bulkheads they risk miscalculating exits from star drive. No one wants to eat an asteroid through the hull. Penalizing me for using Mr. Clean as a business name could close me down.” He raised his pale hands, stretching his white jump suit in supplication to the tribunal.
“You had an approved name from the licensing council. Was that not sufficient?”
“Not really. They picked it. Barnacle Bill…really? Nobody out here knows what the hell a barnacle is, and my name is Praxton. Their business name dishonored my parents.”
“And your reasons for desiring to continue this line of work?”
“Not too hard there. With my puny physique I was unfit for farming or water works. Sex slave would have been ridiculous. But the first time I learned about dark matter, and all those life forms that were building up on the skins of spaceships, I knew I could make a difference just removing debris, making junkers and cargo hulks look shiny again. I could bring pride back to the lonely pilots and crews that were ashamed of the hulks they pushed through vacuum. I love what I do and my clients relate to me as Mr. Clean.”
“So why didn’t you reapply to the council? That is the normal process.”
“And be down for six months, waiting on their decision? Think of the lives lost if those ships aren’t sparkling. I couldn’t sleep if I knew that I caused their deaths. And consider the critical cargoes that show up late when stellar customs finds creatures on the outside that are forbidden in our sector. Pilots have no way of knowing what snatched a ride as they move out of hyper drive. So, not only do I protect other worlds, I protect ours, before they land. In fact, I was scheduled to work on a contaminated cruiser before it sets down over there this afternoon.” Praxton pointed at the city’s single space port.
The senior judge scowled before calling his adjutants to his side to whisper. They soon turned and faced Praxton.
“We have judged that you have a special case worthy of dismissal. Based on need and value, we have selected to overturn the council’s claim and we reinstate you as Mr. Clean. Now, for the sake of us all please go decontaminate that ship.”
Praxton rose, bowed lightly to the tribunal, and walked off the field to his waiting cleaning scow. His brain was spinning, trying to remember if there was any scheduled incoming freighter he could offer free services to cover his story.
by submission | Jul 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
Tumultuous ocean waves crashed against the ship’s vertical hull, spraying the flat deck with salt, white froth, and chunks of viscera torn from oceanic creatures by the raging storm that had passed over only a few minutes before. The vessel crested the dune-like water’s ridges and sunk low in the valleys, moving like the rocking cradle of an infant. The sky, still wounded from the raging storm, stood as a minefield of densely packed grayscale clouds surrounded by endless, pristine, pearlescent blue punctuated by flocks of ivory birds that flew in arrow patterns. The water itself was dark and choppily faceted like a field of imperfect gems, blue on the ship’s right and violet on the left where the sun cut bloody hues at steep angles through the thunderheads that dominated the western horizon.
There was something violent about the atmosphere despite the relative calmness that had settled in the storm’s wake. The air itself felt purified by the raging wind, still and raw like a freshly cut wound. Those who stood at the guard rail of the ship’s deck stared out at absolute sterility contrasted by the accumulating chunks of slashed organic material that slid about, caking the heels of their rubber boots.
Adrian Galbraith was one such watcher, a land-faring man who now found himself tossed about by a tormenting, playful sea. He clung white-knuckled to the rusted iron guard rail, eyes focused on the infinitely flat horizon line where fluffy white clouds blew from right to left like the leftover smoke of a war-torn battlefield. Adrian’s sluggish eyes slid down to focus on the gradually calming waves that collided with the undecorated hull, covering his pale face with invisible flecks of liquid. The way the skewed sunlight played against the angular, ever-moving surface caused his stomach to churn.
Adrian flicked his glassy, red-rimmed eyes back up. He focused instead on the sky this time, attempting to smother the ceaseless parade of nausea that had begun to fester ever since they launched this research expedition. He selected a particular island of grayish clouds that hung like a paralyzed insect in the sky, rolled over and exposed. Anything could be hidden behind that façade of indistinct haze, he thought. It was a strange idea that didn’t help set him at ease.
“You ever hear of The Roamer?”
Adrian flinched at the intrusive voice and glanced over his shoulder to find one of the sailors, a particularly old man with a white beard, standing not far away. He leaned against nothing, staying upright against the vessel’s wallowing as if it were no feat at all.
“Well?” the sailor asked, one hand in his jacket’s pocket and the other tugging at his beard.
Adrian shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
The sailor smiled and moved to Adrian’s side. He leaned against the guard rail and stared up at the cloud. “He’s up there now. Watching, eh?”
Adrian followed the man’s gaze but remained silent.
“The Roamer roams, stalking the creatures of the sea. It passes overhead, droning like some giant mother beetle. It crouches and it glides, its tendrils hanging low and dragging across the ocean’s surface. But,” he turned to face Adrian and wagged his finger menacingly. “But if someone like us comes a-calling, The Roamer stops roaming. It retreats to the clouds and watches from a distance. Observing. Waiting.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, feeling a dreadful sense of unease creep over him. He glanced up at the gray patch of clouds and suddenly felt as if he were being watched.
“Don’t fret, son.” the sailor said with a grin. “We’re roaming now.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 14, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They call me Wrench. It’s not particularly imaginative, but it does the job. Just like Socket, who still has a case to keep all the fiddly bits together. I like the adaptability and extra weight of a wrench, though. Socket has to be sneaky, coz if he hits anyone hard he might bend the case, so he has to use the long-handled socket drive as a little club. Still, it’s better than the spannermen. You get a poxy little quarter-inch or seven-mil to start. You can’t kill anybody with that easily. You have to get really personal about it, almost like knifework.
Knives. Yeah, I remember knives. I’m old. Seen one once, but the guardsman put it away before anyone could make a grab for it. It was just after Ma and Pa got downgraded. Good thing Pa dabbled with mechanicals as a hobby. Down here among the piles, if you can’t fix anything, you’re just fodder. Nobody wants to be fodder.
How did it get this bad? You’re asking at the wrong end of this society, chum. You want to go upside to get the lowdown on that. All we know is that our uncles and aunts made a bit of a stink about being chosen to be the underclass. They kept on making a stink until the upsiders had just about banned everything we could use against ‘em. The Bandroids were the trick. Couldn’t fool one of them. We just got our sharps taken away, then they took our blunt gear too. Left us with not a whole lot to do anything with, truth be told. But the treadmills at the powerplants don’t need tools, they just need legs.
Spanners? No, I don’t know how that came about either. Somebody screwed up, is my guess. Bandroids don’t consider spanners and similar to have weapons potential, so they leave us with ‘em. My adjustable wrench came from me pa. Biggest one not confiscated, so he said.
Blades? Yeah, we have a few. Problem is, Bandroids come in a lot of sizes and the small ones will call big ones and so it goes. A man can’t even get a decent shave no more. Got to use that cream instead. It’s just not manly, I tell you. A man should be able to shave with a razor. But at least we can mix that cream with solvent, freeze it and get Dust crystals. Makes a man forget his troubles for a few hours, does Dust.
Rebellion? You’ve been listening to those resistance stories, haven’t you? Well, come with me. That much I can give you a clear steer on. You see that place up there? That’s Socket’s girl’s place. Yeah, it’s proper clean. She can do that because she is the resistance. Well, she writes a good resistance. Your bosses pay her a good-damn fortune for articles about a rebellion that only exists on paper.
Illegal? Not a bit. Socket’s girl is smart. She got it all cleared with the Department of Bans. Seems she can write about rebellion as much as she likes. Makes the folk upside all nervy and obedient, she got told. That’s a good thing, apparently.
Why would I want to fight a battle where most of us would die to get to a place where I don’t know how to live? We’ve about got it sorted right here. Spanners and Dust. It’s all a man needs, these days.
by submission | Jul 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
[In the control room they hear what she hears in stereo and see what she sees on left and right vision monitors.]
A well-dressed man is sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone. His tag IDs him as “Technical Recruiter.” She stands nervously until he gestures for her to be seated.
[“What a prick.”]
After several minutes, he hangs up and, dispensing with a greeting, starts the interview abruptly with, “Your name?”
[“Now he’s turning on the charm.”]
“Maddison Fox. That’s with two d’s.”
His expression is quizzical.
“Is that a British accent?”
“Australian.”
[“Synthetic voices with foreign accents are accepted more readily as human.”]
He makes a notation on a pad, “Of course.”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you have my resume?”
“No. My assistant reviewed it, but I’d rather you tell me about yourself.”
[“She doesn’t recognize that as a request.”]
“Tell me about yourself,” he repeats.
“Oh,” embarrassed, she begins, telling him she graduated with high honors in mechatronics from a respected Australian university and worked three years for a startup robotics company in Sydney.
“Why are you leaving them?”
“Well, I haven’t made a final decision to do so, but I’m combining my vacation in San Francisco with interviews. Actually, FirstAmeriBot is at the top of my list. I want to work with the best in the world.”
He asks about projects she’s worked on, and as she talks, he makes notations and shows increasing interest in her answers.
[“She fits the specs perfectly; he’s taking the bait.”]
As the interview progresses, he becomes more cordial and it’s obvious he’s not only impressed with her professionally, but personally. He cracks a smile.
[“Her hair, facial, and body features, as well as her clothing and behavioral patterns, are all designed to make her irresistible.”]
He says her education and experience would qualify her for a temporary worker visa, and she says she won’t need one because her mum is an American, so she has dual US-Australian citizenship.
[“Reel him in.”]
The interview turns into a relaxed conversation in which the two laugh often. When he hands her a brochure, she lets it drop to the desktop and brushes her fingers on his hand. He quickly withdraws it and summarizes medical-dental benefits. Finally, he says he will arrange for her to meet the team leader for robotics before week’s end.
[High fives all around.]
Answering the phone, he holds his hand over it to say “Sorry, I’ll have to take this privately, but I’ll call you this afternoon, Maddy.”
[“Maddy?”]
As she exits, a glance back shows him admiring the sway of her hips.
[“He can’t stand up or she’d see his…”]
Her POV approaching an elevator shows a man risking his fingers to stop the door from closing. He’s all smiles as she enters.
“Do you work here?”
[“After she’s hired, we’re going to have to dial back her… She’s not equipped for intimacy.”]
[“What’s the point of planting her in FAB, since they’re behind us?”]
[“To take them down technical dead ends, sabotage their R&D, make sure they don’t catch up.”]
Two people enter the interview room. Their tags ID him as “Team Leader, Robotics” and her as “Chief Scientist.” She unplugs the interviewer and pulls him backwards, revealing an upper body and chair back attached to a metal box on wheels.
Removing a side panel, “I can’t wait to get her in the lab and reverse engineer her locomotion hardware and software.”
“It’s Thanksgiving in July and she’s a gift turkey,” he says, “to be plucked, gutted, and devoured.”
