by submission | Dec 24, 2006 | Story |
Author : Ashley Bonkajo
The old woman had not been seen for quite a while. Nor was it unusual for a person to not be seen for months at a time. Robot or (for the very wealthy) android assistants handled the details of day to day life.
The old woman had not answered the door when a server had tried to present her with a summons to appear over the unpaid rent. Some few legal issues were conducted solely face to face.
The owner of the building sent for the police to look into the matter of the unanswered summons. An assistant was dispatched with a master key to let the police, and subsequently, the paramedics into the apartment.
They found that she had died in her sleep some weeks ago.
A smaller assistant robot was standing near the gurney crying. It was one of the earlier models with a flat screen display for facial expression. Blue animated tears spattered from down-turned crescent eyes. A larger crescent for the mouth also denoting sadness. If it had been a later model, it would have been wailing as well.
“Sergeant, I can’t find a listing for next of kin.â€
“That’s alright.â€
Looking at the small assistant which was still running the animation of tears.
“I think they already know.â€
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by submission | Dec 23, 2006 | Story |
Author : Benjamin Fischer
Basajaun sighed and rubbed the sweat from under his eyes. A shadow had fallen across reflected rays of his private sun.
“What is it you want?†he asked, blinking and groggy.
The shade resolved itself into the slim image of a woman standing over him.
“Mr. Miquel, I am Yasamin Judd,†she said. Mocha skin, some sort of South Asian. Medium of height, medium build, dressed in a generic gray skintight softsuit that could have belonged to one of a thousand extraterran concerns.
“They always send a pretty one,†Basajaun muttered.
“The spa staff granted me entrance,†Yasamin said.
Basajaun grunted and made no attempt to cover himself. Lying flat and naked on a cedar deck chair, he rubbed his belly.
“You are from Palamos?†he asked her.
“Yes, I represent the Pioneer Union of Palamos.â€
Basajaun fumbled around at his side.
“Pioneer Union. Hmph,†he said, bringing a bulb of oil up to his prominent stomach and farting out a glob onto his belly button.
“We wish to renegotiate-†Yasamin continued.
“Renegotiate,†Basajaun said, an ugly look on his face like he’d just caught a whiff of something foul.
“Yes,†said Yasamin.
“Have you read the contract?†Basajaun asked the woman. He began to rub the oil in slow circles around his paunch.
“Yes-â€
“Then there is nothing to renegotiate,†Basajaun said. “The contract explains all.â€
Yasamin made to open her mouth again, but he waved her off.
“No renegotiation,†he said. “If you had found nothing on that rock, would you come running to me? No. You would have taken my wages and been happy for them. But now that there is copper and platinum at Palamos and you grow greedy.â€
“We are not looking for a higher percentage,†Yasamin replied with patience.
“Bullshit,†Basajaun barked. “I have hired gypsies and tinkers and jews before–you always want more.â€
“Sir, the Union remains ever grateful for your employment,†Yasamin said.
“Then be silent,†he replied.
“We are,†said Yasamin. “These negotiations exist purely between us. The Union does not wish to give the appearance of labor difficulties at Palamos.â€
Basajaun rotated a pair of beady eyes onto the woman.
“So that’s your threat?†he said.
Yasamin shifted on her feet.
“What to you want?†Basajaun asked.
“Rights to the asteroid,†Yasamin said.
“Minus the heavy metals?†he replied.
“Mineral rights will be maintained per the existing contract,†she answered.
Basajaun shut his eyes and sighed.
“I don’t understand–that rock is worth shit without the platinum,†he murmured. “And that’s all you want.â€
“We want a place to call home,†Yasamin replied.
Basajaun shook his head.
“The membership of the Pioneer Union consists mostly of refugees,†started Yasamin.
“I know, I know,†said Basajaun. “Those without hope will work in the worst places for the worst pay. I know this–it is why I hired you.â€
He paused.
“Finish the extraction a month before the scheduled time and the rock is yours,†he said.
“Thank you, sir-â€
“Go away. I have to tan my ass,†Basajaun said.
Yasamin nodded politely and backed out of the sun booth. Basajaun could see that she was trying not to smile too broadly.
When she was gone, Basajaun looked up at the heavy mirror high above him. There the sun blazed away, its glare beading up the sweat on his cheeks and his chest. Almost hidden in its rays was a tiny sliver of blue and white where the ruins of a flooded Costa Brava fishing village lay blistering under a similar heat.
The deck chair creaked like the worn planks of an old trawler.
Basajaun sighed and rolled over.
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by submission | Dec 22, 2006 | Story |
Author : John Mierau
“Mr. Jerome?”
Pen and thoughts still pressed to the page, the writer looked up: a tall man in an old-fashioned suit weaved his way through the happy hour crowd.
“David Jerome. It’s really you!”
Another fan? God, why can’t people be happy with the books and leave me alone! “Uh, look, I’m right in the middle of…” David gestured down at the page.
“You write the way people think, did you know that? Almost like you read people’s minds.” He reached out a long-fingered hand. “I’m Jack.”
David didn’t take the hand. “Jack, I’m really -“
“Would you like to? Read minds?”
David snorted. “I don’t write that kind of fiction.”
The tall man shook his head. “‘I’m not making fun. I know… how much it hurt when Prudence left, how scared you are. I can fix that.”
David shrank away as the stranger rubbed salt where Pru had left him raw.
“I know… your publisher scares you. He yells at you, wants the novel you owe him. Short stories are a waste to him.”
David’s knuckles whitened around the pen. The tip cut, slicing his palm.
Jack smiled at David again. “Sorry. I bet your brain’s about to burst…” The stranger reached across the table, ran two cool fingers across David’s temple. David let it happen, couldn’t think what to say or do to stop it.
“You got into people’s heads better than anyone,” Jack whispered. “It’ll all be clear soon. I wish I could stay, but they’ll be coming…”
David watched Jack rise, unable to speak, divining greater meaning in each word than sound could carry.
“If it wasn’t for you, David, I’d have never known Mystery!” Jack giggled, backing away from the table. “Now all mysteries will be, heh, open books to you.”
David didn’t see Jack leave as the world roared in like exploding bombs, like a lover’s whisper.
David knew…
The bartender didn’t notice the pretty blonde who’d bought her blue dress just for him, after he’d chased off the drunk who spoke ugly words to her and clawed under her skirt.
David knew…
The old man in the corner tried not to be angry. His son hadn’t shown. The boy always sent his mother flowers, and he’d paid to fix the roof last summer. He felt horrible for wondering if the boy remembered today would have been his mother’s birthday.
David knew…
The guy on the stool by the door had slaved six years to pay for the ring in his hand, and the down-payment on the house Shelly loved. He couldn’t wait any longer: he’d pop the question tonight!
The words… David had gotten them almost right. He looked down at the page and his ink-stained fingers; at the words so close to truth and now so empty.
Across the room, the blonde’s insides shook as the bartender noticed her dress.
David dropped the pen. It fell to the floor as the writer put his head in his hands and wept.
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by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 21, 2006 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The big bike tugged at his gloves, pleading for the roll of the wrist that would send the 6 cylinders into a frenzy of combustion and release. Patience. He eased out of the garage, coasting down the parking ramp onto the drive before gently throttling up to escape the confines of the ‘civilized’ community in which he lived.
Outside this walled world, miles of twisting and drifting asphalt were waiting.
The smell of hot metal and spent fuel evaporated in a torrent of burnt rubber, and then nothing but the rush of country air as he stretched out atop the gargantuan engine held aloft by two massive gyroscopes of alloy and polymer veneer.
This was what it meant to be alive.
The tach alarmed through each gear shift, redline overlaid in his visor as he pushed the hardware as far as his courage would allow. 200 kilometers came and went in a heartbeat as the world rushed towards him through the ghostly image of the speedometer, the machine purpose built for speed tightening and tuning on the fly. The countryside blurred, thousands of milestones on the periphery of his vision turned liquid in a single stream of molten landscape.
A sudden sharp rise in the road forced the suspension to load up, and as the bike flew over the crest of the hill, that potential released as bike and rider caught air and flew. The sudden rush of adrenaline and endorphins lasted only a fraction of a second before the image of a truck crashed through the ‘260’ emblazoned in his visor, through his brain and turned his world dark.
The light was faint at first, and there was the sound of some throaty beast heaving breaths nearby, keeping time with the rising and falling of his chest.
Antiseptic, and ammonia, the smells were unmistakable and cut through the haze. The light was bright now, and defined as he opened his eyes to the silhouette of a woman hovering over him.
“Nathan… Nathan, can you hear me?” The voice was pleasant, calming. A different voice spoke from somewhere nearby, one almost familiar. “Yes… what happened? Where am I?” Nathan realized the words were his own.
“You were in a terrible accident Nathan, you’re in the hospital now, you’ve been here for some time. It’s a good thing your RAAC tag was up to date.” He vaguely recalled the ‘Resuscitate At All Cost’ tag he’d been issued when he reached his eighteenth birthday and his donor commitment was up.
“They’ve done a wonderful job with you.” The cheerful voice moved around him now, straightening sheets.” I was able to get you prime plus a quarter on a twenty five year term, so you’ll be able to make reasonable payments. You were partially at fault, so the Insurance company only covered the basics. We’ll go over the documentation with you when you’ve started rehabilitation.” Nathan’s mind reeled, twenty five years of payments on what? He felt a sudden rush of anxiety.
“There will also need to be a change in your accommodations once you’re released. You’ll go through mandatory integration into a restricted community.” The woman stopped fussing for a moment and stepped back.
“Restricted?” Nathan puzzled aloud.
“Oh, yes, restricted. You lost both legs, one arm from the shoulder and one from the elbow. Your jaw and voicebox have both been replaced as have your kidneys, spleen and a significant portion of your digestive tract. Your left lung and two valves in your heart are new and your torso has been extensively reskinned. You were above the threshold for integration for a while there Nathan, until your second kidney failed, but I’m afraid that tipped the scale.”
“Scale?” Nathan’s voice shook as the scope of his injuries began to set in.
“The Scale Nathan, your Humanity Index. I’m afraid with the amount of synthetic material in you, you no longer meet the burden of humanity, and as such we can’t exactly integrate you with the mainstream communities. You’ll be found work, of course, and a residence. Don’t worry Nathan, we won’t abandon you, we do pride ourselves on being humane.”
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by J.R. Blackwell | Dec 20, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
The recruiter says that you are a dumbass. He tells you he wouldn’t put you in the infantry for the eighteen worlds, because you would get someone shot. Later you learn this is the worst insult he could give. The recruiter tells you that you would never make it as a pilot, because you haven’t got the head for numbers. Your test scores are low enough that they can’t place you anywhere based on skill. The only thing you can do, he tells you, the man who will decide your fate as a human, is get the genetic restructuring and become a psychic. A councilor.
It’s serve in the military, or slave in the mines, and though you don’t like the idea of changing your genetic code, you know you don’t want to be in those dark mines, so close to the core that you sweat out your life under artificial light. The recruiter gives you that choice, smelling like tobacco and piss, a bus out back to take you to the military and a truck with metal doors waiting for anyone who can’t find a place. You take the bus.
The genetic restructuring has you vomiting in a hospital for a week. The doctors laugh as you spit up blood and chunks of meat from your insides. Get it all out, they say, everything human must go. Laughter, but it’s distant, hollow. Maybe that little grey piece came from your liver; maybe that red slice is a shaving off your heart. At some point, you start to hear voices, bouncing around people, things they tell others without talking, words they tell themselves. A doctor hears her mother telling her she is a whore. A patient sings a pop tune to himself over and over.
Shave your head. Take a post on a military transport. Everyone hates councilors, reading minds, prying, looking for hints of treachery or deviance. They short sheet your bed, spit in your food, and dump your things out onto the floor. You know who did it, you know because you can feel their guilt like warm winds, but you can’t say a word. You tell on them and the captain would spit on you herself, and the rest of them would never forgive you. You are locked in a metal can with people who hate you, spinning through space.
Out in this silence, surrounded by cold, you reach out beyond the glass and plastic ship to the silent falling cold. There in the falling dark, you reach out to the thoughts of planets, hear the thrumming song of their replies.
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