Free to a Good Home

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

YOUNG DOMESTICATED HAND-RAISED HUMAN BEINGS

FREE TO A GOOD HOME

I have 5 young (13 Earth Years) DOMESTICATED pet humans that are looking for loving nest hives. These humans have been handled since birth, have no problem with tentacles, and love us blogdors. Humans make great pets for blogdors of all ages, are very affordable to care for and their short (60-80 Earth Years) life span leaves no long term commitment. These humans are extremely social and love to cuddle. They are (mostly) litter box trained, and will eat nearly anything you feed them. Humans do best in pairs, and can get very depressed without a friend. Although, if you have a lot of spare time, humans make lovely solo pets as well.

These humans ARE NOT KORRA FOOD. I understand that korras need to eat, too, but so much time and energy has went into raising and domesticating these little ones that it would be a waste of such precious tiny lives.

Experience with offworld animals is recommended, but as long as you are willing to provide a loving home, they can be a great beginner pet.

Supplies needed to adopt pet humans

-Airtight, pressurized cage (at least 10 square tentacle-lengths)

-Water bottle

-Oxygen/nitrogen mix with transposer

-Litter box (with litter obviously)

If interested, leave pheromone trail near the pupae farms before second moonrise.

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Gather Unto Me

Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer

The sea of faces looks like a spattering of pale raindrops against the dark pastiche of their clothing. This demonstration promised to be ‘a spectacular denial of President Lacorn’s policies’ and it is. The estimates place the heaving crowd at over a quarter of a million people. There are snack vendors and even souvenir stalls!

“No tyrants! No tyrants!”

Their cries are consistent, carefully orchestrated. My people have confirmed that all the lobbyists and hardcore groups have come in force. Speeches have been given.

“Ninety seconds before optimum is exceeded, sir.”

I look up at the ceiling. This will be a defining moment in the campaign. I walk over to the console.

“Stand clear. There will only be one with blood on his hands today.”

They look at me in surprise, relief plain on their faces. This may be necessary, but the scale is stupefying. It has kept me up vomiting into the early hours for a month. I think that nightmares will replace nausea after this.

“Sixty seconds.”

There is silence. Some of the para-military elements in the crowd have noticed the lack of official presences or watchers. They are starting to wave their hands to get attention when I reach down and press the button.

Thermobaric weapons are devastating. The fuel-air bomb is unbelievable in enclosed spaces, but used in the open it merely sentences a lot of people to an agonising death instead of pulverising them. The one slung under the media stand at the centre of the gathering has an augmented warhead to make it more deadly, not more humane.

I watch it all. Ignoring the tears streaming down my face and the sounds of my staff retching into waste bins behind me. People turned to flaming mist, people suffocating in a vacuum then screaming in silent agony as burning fuel fills the place where air should be. At the edges of the demonstration, I see people with blood shooting from their ears, noses and mouths. Then firestorm follows pressure wave. Obliteration rolls across the view.

“Close the borders. Implement Emergency Procedures.”

My staff stare at me. They have had the luxury of only bracing themselves for today, the start. I have not.

“This act will be condemned globally. Closed borders and martial law will make them hesitate. When we don’t do anything against them, they will hide behind their words and do nothing.”

“Sir. The fleets?”

Exceptional thinking in extremis. I nod to acknowledge the quality of question; although the answer is something I have had for weeks.

“All fleets are to co-ordinate with overseas bases to lift our entire presence, then return to international waters as soon as possible. Bring our boys and girls home.”

They kept on insinuating they wanted us to stop meddling. So we will gather in and see to our internal strifes. Intercontinental trade agreements with China will supply what we cannot make. The Chinese rulers have withstood nearly three millennia by being insular. Let us see how we do.

The rest of you? You’re on your own. Good luck.

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Yearning for Humanity

Author : James McGrath

He would arrive soon. My partner, DA09-V65, was sure of that.

“The programming of your ’emotion’ is conflicting with your logic,” he replied when I questioned his certainty, “With the information we have that is easy to deduce.”

I sighed, “Ok Dave, no need to get like that.”

It took an additional 0.003 seconds for him to reply when I called him Dave, but he had learnt not to ask me to stop, “It also causes you to be easily insulted.”

“It’s needed for empathy, you know that!” I snapped back.

A short silence followed and I concentrated on watching the warehouse across the docks. Surprisingly, Dave spoke first.

“They’re insane.”

Why was he saying that?

“I know!”

“Good. Apologies if I caused further offense, but regarding this your thoughts elude me.”

It’s like he could get into my mind!

When had I begun calling it my ‘mind’?

That worried me.

Doctor 9045-00R scuttled across the docks with a sack over her shoulder and a briefcase. She failed to spot us and after a hurried glance around, entered the warehouse.

“Where do you think she got them?” I asked, killing time to let the doctor begin. We needed concrete evidence.

“Statistics suggest China. Africa is possible,” again Dave’s answer was slower, this time due to concentrating on the warehouse.

“Crazy to think that there’s any left.”

“Your RAM would be put to better use concentrating on the task at hand.”

Dave couldn’t get bored.

The sound of a circular saw told us that it was time to move. We strode across to the warehouse unit and drew our pistols as Dave carefully slid open the door. The doctor could slip if we startled her and kill… I mean destroy the patient.

However, the doctor was quicker than we thought. The saw lay at her feet and what she was doing was far more disturbing.

Another robot lay on an operating table; he was silent which suggested his pain receptors had been disabled. His left hand lay severed on the floor beside the saw.

“Desist from what you are doing and raise both arms,” Dave said stoically as though he was asking for a simple favour.

The patient began to scream unrelentingly in response, while the doctor’s hands sped up. She was attaching the wires in the patient’s arm to an object that she was leaning over, obscuring it from view.

We knew what it was.

It was a human hand.

I felt repulsed, then realised this was unprofessional and shouted, “9077-8V2, be quiet! 9045-00R cease your actions!”

“My name is OLIVER!” Screamed the patient, “I am almost HUMAN!”

He certainly sounded insane.

The doctor stepped back and raised her hands, her work now complete.

“You can’t take me!” screamed the patient, “This is fine! Look!”

He held out his new hand and the little finger twitched slightly.

“Irrelevant,” Dave told him, “You are under arrest.”

When the back-up car arrived they took “Oliver” and the doctor away and Dave handed me the sack.

“Look.”

Inside was what appeared to be most of a human male.

“Don’t, that’s repulsive.”

“Good,” There was a pause, “They were warmongers. They slaughtered one another and crippled this world due to their emotions. We can never be them; we will always have a processor, never a brain, no matter how hard some of us desire it. Should we become too close though, we could develop their destructive instincts.”

“I need to get to the station and interview them.”

I was glad Dave was incapable of disappointment.

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The Swamp Moon King

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

A gas giant named Zeus in the Organa cluster is so big that even its moons have moons. These mini-moons are called moonlets. There are 45 moons and over three hundred moonlets. It makes for very complicated diplomacy.

Resources were too scarce for outright war between all the moons but skirmishes broke out all the time. Diplomats became necessary. The Moon Council consisted of 352 representatives, one from each inhabited moon and moonlet.

One diplomat stood out from all the rest and not just by reputation. He dressed in leaves and rags and had a long beard.

His moonlet was known only as the Swamp Moon and it had a population of one: him. It was the smallest moonlet, just barely over the asteroid line.

He had proclaimed himself the Swamp Moon King. He was so ridiculous that the rest of the Moon System decided to go with Prime Ministers, Presidents, High Masters, Council Heads and Representatives rather than name themselves kings or queens. Ironically, in their attempt to avoid being anything like him, they made him the only king in the council.

He was quite old now. Many of the other diplomats here on the Moon Council had come and gone due to elections, border disputes and death yet the Swamp Moon King remained.

The Moon Council was called to order and The Swamp Moon King sat down.

“The council is called to order, by the shadow of Zeus.” Said Pretoriat Minister Reddia Morecombe, presider of Fiddler’s Moon and speaker of the house. “Firstly, let’s tackle new business. Anyone have anything to bring to the council?”

The Swamp Moon King raised his shaking, elderly hand with a rustle of leaves. The last time he’d brought something up had been three years earlier. It had been a motion to legally recognize plants as family members. It was struck down with a good deal of laughter but it was remembered fondly. The King raising his hand as always a welcome departure from the usual boredom of diplomacy.

“My time grows short and kings need an heir.” He began. The gathered diplomats smirked, entertained anew by his always ridiculous attempt at regality.

“I would like to introduce my daughter.” The council fell silent, intrigued. Daughter? Everyone knew he lived alone. “The Swamp Moon Princess.” He continued.

He opened his coms and the giant televiews pinged to life with an image of a beautiful young woman. Comely, curvy, and head held high.

But her eyes were the orange of autumns leaves and her skin was the bright green of the inside of a sapling. Her ivy hair spilled over her shoulders.

“Her mother passed away last year. She is all I have left.” Mother? A rustle of whispers blew through the hall as the gathered council talked in confusion to each other. Viewer counts from the moon network climbed as news of an actual princess spread and people switched over to see.

“Her name is Petal. But in a short time, you will come to know her as the Swamp Moon Queen. I hope you will afford her every courtesy and accept her reign as you have mine.”

“But you live alone! How on earth did you produce a daughter?” asked Leviah Miranda, Second Minister of the moonlet Mecon.

“I am a xenbotanist first and foremost. A human biologist second. Her mother, you see, was a tree.” Said the Swamp Moon King, and smiled serenely, eyes tinged with sadness.

“We hope to find a decent suitor for her before I die.” He said.

The flurry of activity that followed pleased them both greatly.

 

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Unplugged

Author : Tony Taylor

“What do you mean a technical difficulty?” Catherine spoke down to him, in more ways than one. Her tone was sharp and her stature intimidating.

“Well, I d-don’t know exactly.” A hunched over man replied. “I ran some tests but haven’t found anything.”

Catherine couldn’t make up her mind if he was a coward or a buffoon. “Need I remind you how much hangs on this facility? The investors are not happy.” She said.

The two strode through a narrow hallway. Wires hung from the walls by metal hooks, overflowing precariously. They stepped over a knot of even more laid upon the floor.

“I un-understand.” He said.

“I do not believe you. They demand a better answer.”

“It is just…” He stopped and looked up to her steely gaze before turning away.

“Speak your mind Mr. Crane,” She said as they stop near the end of the hall.

“I-I don’t have enough resources. I just need a little more time.”

“Do you know what a three second outage costs the company?”

“Abou-“ Mr. Crane was cut off before he could answer.

“327 million credits. There were nearly 100 million people without personalized advertisements.”

Mr. Crane remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Catherine decided that her lesson fell on deaf ears. She leaned forward to press a button on the wall. “N.A.N. prides itself on continuity and profits. You will make it work, Mr. Crane, or we’ll find someone who can.” Two metallic doors slid apart and Catherine stepped inside. She started straight ahead, adjusting her skirt as the doors closed.

Sure that Catherine was gone, Mr. Crane straightened his back. It cracked as he did. Like a spider climbing a wall, the edges of his mouth crept upward.

He strolled back down the hallway, kicking his legs out playfully. A few steps back down the hall, he tapped on a small control panel. A door slid open and Mr. Crane slipped in. Lights flickered to life as he did, revealing red stains splattered on the wire covered floor. Mr. Crane stood there for a moment, eyeing a bloody little man tied to a chair. A cloth, damp and stained a deep red stuffed into his mouth.

“Mrummmgh, mrupgh, mruagh.” The man attempted to communicate.

“Yes, I must admit, the s-stutter might have been a bit much.” Mr. Crane strutted over to the man in the chair. With a bend at the hip he leveled his eyes with his frightened captive. “We won’t be unplugging anything again, now will we?” The edge of his lip curled as the last word dripped off of his tongue. He savored the taste. “No, we certainly won’t. Not until it’s time.” He stood back up again and paced over to a control panel filled with buttons, knobs and flashing lights. “I am quite lucky that the Neural Advertising Network is so trustworthy…” He stopped for a moment, holding his hand to his chin. “…or foolish. I can’t decide.”

The captive whimpered through the bloody rag in his mouth.

“I agree Mr. Crane. It is time.”

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