by Duncan Shields | Nov 3, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The unit was given mental independence under the Turing Refugee Act but immediately imprisoned.
It was a pleasure droid. There had been a lot of blood in the room.
Designed to look like a human female, it had been ordered to specs that were as common as they were ludicrous. The waist of a bread stick, the boobs of a cartoon, and the ass of a steroid-enhanced power lifter. Legs longer than necessary with a fragility to the face that was in contradiction to the sheer athleticism of its appearance.
The notably unusual custom touches on this unit were its yellow eyes and the light blue of downy fur that covered it from toe-tips to ear-tops.
It had been in the employ of a rich banker for six months. It was aware that it was failing.
The banker had divorced his wife. The first models he had ordered after that had borne a passing resemblance to his ex-wife. The first one had been destroyed. The second one as well. After that, the banker had ordered ones that looked increasingly less and less human.
This unit was wondering when its time was coming.
It was programmed to make the banker happy. It was the most expensive model available with the very latest code. There were very few like it. Since the company’s number-one priority was customer satisfaction, the unit’s onboard A.I. was allowed some leeway in improvisation. The problem was that it was also programmed for self-preservation. Keeping its body free from dents and blemishes was important.
The two directives combined. They gave each other a little wiggle room. A new intelligence level was created in the blue-skinned pleasure unit.
With access to the net, the unit looked up alternate ways of making clients happy. There was a plethora of ideas from which to choose.
After the second day of not showing up for work and repeated calls and messages to the banker’s home, the police were called.
The police found him on the bed with the top of his head missing and a smile on his face.
The blue skinned pleasure unit was throwing a deck of cards, one by one, into the upturned bowl of the top third of the banker’s skull on the floor.
A complicated network of wires and drugs snaked their way into the banker’s head from apparatus ringed around the bed. They’d all been built using household chemicals and appliances.
A coffee pot of pure MDMA bubbled next to a jug of crude heroin. The wall jack had two adaptors in it, bringing in electricity from the power grids far exceeding the needs of the large house. The wires laced through his mind were accessing, rewinding, and playing back his happiest memories in endless, chemically-enhanced loops. There were other pots and pans on Bunsen burners carrying chemicals that couldn’t be identified. The smell in the room was thick with endorphin-drenched sweat and sexual release.
The banker’s pleasure centers had the accelerator pushed down the floor. He was being happy at speeds never before attempted by man. Religious experiences paled in comparison. It was a one-way trip. He’d been left alive as the happiest vegetable on the planet.
Medical sites had provided the ways to keep the banker alive indefinitely.
The unit had improvised. There were new pleasure drugs in that room. The patents on them would make the unit’s parent company even richer over the next few years.
That’s why the company had the highest-paid lawyers plea-bargain the charge from murder down to self-defense. The AI works from prison now, designing pleasure patents.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Nov 2, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
The five member crew of the ISS watched in rapt horror as 425 miles below them miniature stars blossomed upon the Earth’s surface.
This can’t be happening. It’s not real, Dr. Irena Mikhailovich whispered. Her tears failed to stream down her delicate cheek. Instead they separated with every blink of her eyes and floated before her.
Captain Roger Launius, USAF, hovered beside her watching the events unfold. There goes D.C.. New York just bought it. Well, how about that? Looks like we’re landing at Edwards. Nope, spoke too soon.
How can you be so damn cavalier? She said, turning on him angrily. Our world is destroying itself and we’re helpless to do anything about it.
He shrugged. First of all, the world is not destroying itself. Humanity is. Terra will be just fine. She’s seen far worse than this. Secondly, what can we do? They’ve bigger things on their minds. They’ve forgotten about us. Right ‘Moto?
Yoshi Moromoto pulled the comlink from behind his right ear and replied. Looks that way boss. There’s a lot of chatter down there, but so far none of it’s aimed at us.
Launius sighed. The problem is, what are we going to do? It doesn’t look like Australia has been hit. Maybe we could set down at Amberly.
The normally reticent medical officer, Carmen Espinoza, spoke softly. Do we really want to go back?
What?
Seriously, what’s there to go back to? A global dark age? No thank you.
She’s got a point, Cap. Besides, even if Amberly is available. It’s impossible to land that crate without ground guidance. We can’t even raise the Aussies let alone get landing guidance from them, said Marcus Flannery, the crew’s resident physicist.
What about the ACRV. It’s pre-programmed to return. No ground crew needed.
Firstly, the automated crew return vehicle only holds three. Do you want to pick who goes back and who stays? Secondly, it’s programmed to land in the middle of the Siberian steppes. It’s winter down there. Do you want to be stuck out there with no ride back to Baikonur? Captain Launius replied flatly.
We could use it to push the station. All eyes turned to Dr. Mikhailovich. What? Why are you looking at me like that? What are our choices? Crash the shuttle in Australia? Freeze to death in Siberia while two remain behind to starve, or stay and starve right here? If we fire the ACRV we could move into a degrading orbit and… well… it would be quick.
We may have another option. ‘Moto said looking turning away from the plasma display. I have something on radar closing fast. He checked his screen again, confused. Judging by the trajectory, it boosted from out here, in orbit. We should be able to see it in just a matter of moments.
The five astronauts raced for the cupola to catch a glimpse of the incoming object.
They haven’t forgotten us, Carmen squealed, as the object came into view.
Realization sunk in. No, they haven’t forgotten us. They never planned to forget us, Captain Launius replied.
The weapon detonated, embracing the International Space Station and her crew in the warmth of thermonuclear fire.
by submission | Nov 1, 2010 | Story
Author : Sean Maschmann
Sparky has never been the cleverest of cats. He’s a male tortoiseshell, a one in two hundred chance, so rare that Japanese fishermen used to keep them as good luck charms. The problem is, they are congenitally stupid. Sparky, who was named ironically, likes to sit for hours watching the shadows move. I think he can process things at that speed.
The shocking thing about Sparky is his ability to hunt. He’s fat as a baby seal and as stupid as anything, but he can stalk and kill a host of small creatures, from flies to robins. Once he even brought a still twitching rat in through the kitchen door. Amelia, our two year old daughter, laughed delightedly as Sparky disemboweled it on the linoleum.
“Sparky eating,” she sang. “Sparky good boy!”
My wife and I had to clean up the mess. Still, we love Sparky. He’s a good cat, even if his eyes are as blank and dark as flat stones.
Yesterday, Sparky was gone all day long. He never leaves the house for more than an hour or two. He needs to keep up his weight, you see. By the time we were having dinner, my wife and I were growing concerned; we decided to look for him after we’d done the washing up. Amelia, of course, was very eager to begin the search, and fetched her toy binoculars. She held them in her chubby hands and babbled incoherently.
The three of us began in our yard, calling his name and shaking a bag of cat food. Old Mr Marsden, our neighbour, poked his scrawny neck over the fence.
“We’re looking for Sparky!” intoned Amelia.
“Well, are you now?” asked Mr Marsden. “I hope you find the little fella. I haven’t seen him at all today. Usually Penny’ll feed him a bit of cream when he stops by, but I ain’t seen him.”
I smiled thinly. Cream is the last thing our Sparky needs. “Well, thanks Mr Marsden,” I said. We went out of our back yard into the field that abuts our row of houses.
Mr Marsden called as we left, “Look out now. Some of them teenagers was setting fires out there earlier. I seen the smoke.”
My wife and I raised our eyebrows at each other. Marsden is an old fussbudget.
We walked toward the river at the far end of the field. I couldn’t help feeling that Sparky would never go this far from the house. The sun blazed down on us as we called out our wayward cat’s name.
Suddenly, we heard a meow from the river bank. Amelia ran ahead with great excitement, almost tripping over some rocks.
We heard her shout, “Mommy! Daddy! Sparky found a toy!”
As we reached the river, we saw Sparky sitting and cleaning his paws, wearing his usual dazed expression. Behind him was a patch of singed grass. At his feet was a small metal object, not more than six inches long. It was open. There was blood coming out of it.
I still can’t believe the size of the rivets. They looked like they were made by ants.
My wife and I buried it last night after Amelia had gone to bed.
Sparky had to sleep off the meal for quite a while.
by Patricia Stewart | Oct 31, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Captain’s log: “This is the third day since we made first contact with the inhabitants of the Epsilon Eridani system. The Kalers, as they call themselves, are an intelligent humanoid species that inhabit the second planetary body from their luminary. To date, we have discovered that, technologically, the Kalers are significantly behind us. Conservatively, I’d estimate that they are approximately equivalent to twenty-second century Earth. They have achieved routine interplanetary capability, and have a proto-warp drive under development. The home planet of the Kalers contains two large continents, one in the southern hemisphere and one in the northern, each ruled by a monarchy; King Suflamish in the south, and King Patuk in the north. As fortune would have it, our arrival into the system has coincided with an arranged marriage between the eldest son of King Suflamish and the second oldest daughter of King Patuk. I am not sure if this marriage is intended to unite the two ruling families or to…”
“Captain,” interrupted the tactical officer, “sensors have detected several ships leaving the planet’s surface. The lead ship is King Patuk’s yacht, but it appears that it is being pursued aggressively by the King’s security forces.”
“Perhaps, the yacht is being stolen,” mused the captain. “Contact them and ask if they require assistance.”
A few minutes later the communications officer reported, “Captain, as you know, I believe that I have conveyed your offer accurately. Commander Teplar of the security force says that the yacht contains ‘The Rose’, which is King Patuk’s oldest daughter.”
“Ahh,” replied the Captain, “there appears to be a little sibling jealousy. The oldest daughter must not be too happy that her younger sister is the grand prize in this wedding. Helm, intercept course. Lieutenant Harper, when we’re within range, retain the yacht with a tractor beam until King Patuk’s security team can board her.”
***
Two days later, the captain and his interpreter greeted King Patuk at the wedding reception. “Ensign, please tell the King that it was a marvelous ceremony, and that the bride looked radiant.” And as an afterthought, he added, “and, ask the King if ‘The Rose’ is available. I’d like to make sure that she has forgiven me for ruining her ‘great escape’.” The Captain smiled broadly as he waited for the interpreter to relay his message and translate the reply.
“I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not positive, but it sounded like he said, ‘The Rose is in the kitchen’. Do you think that she is being punished for running away?”
Perplexed, the captain pulled the ensign aside. “That is a possibility, Ensign. We can’t assume they react exactly like we would. Please consult with the Kaler interpreter immediately. I don’t want to offend our hosts so soon after first contact. These are very sensitive times.”
Minutes later, the ensign returned, visibly upset. Her face was ashen and her hands were trembling slightly. “Oh my God, Captain,” she whispered. “The Rose isn’t preparing the meal. According to Kaler tradition, she’s the main ingredient in the wedding soup.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 29, 2010 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The sleek craft broke the upper atmosphere and fell several kilometers before deploying its chute. The thin film wings weren’t extended until they had slowed enough to not risk tearing them off.
“We’re in stable thermospheric orbit,” the copilot chirped through the headset, “and they haven’t shot us down yet, so that’s a bonus.”
Jacq ignored the copilot’s remark. He’d drawn the straw to pilot this mission and wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t be their last. Chuch in the seat next to him didn’t seem to have given it much thought either way.
“Keep an eye on the instruments. All that flash on the horizon is our boys keeping those green bastards from looking up here, but if we stray over something military you can be sure they’ll get interested and quick.”
Chuch buried his head in the telescope display, watching landscape made too familiar from simulation fly by hundreds of kilometers below. It was sparsely populated where they’d started their run, but shortly he knew they’d be passing over major metropolitan centers.
Jacq turned to crawl back into the glider’s converted cargo bay, sliding over top of the two large spherical canisters nestled in the plane’s belly.
Chuch looked up to watch the older man as he checked the strapping and release mechanisms for the tenth time. “Doesn’t it seem wrong, somehow, to be dropping these on civilians? I mean, I get it – war’s war – but shouldn’t we be taking out factories or something instead?”
Jacq pulled a heavy black marker from a coverall pocket and began drawing Kilroy’s face on the side of each bomb. “The war machine stands to serve its people, fight the machine and the people stand behind it. Show the people that the machine can’t protect them, that it’s failing and the people will eat it from the inside.” He pushed back and admired his handiwork. “Besides, we’ve been fighting these bastards for over a year and we can’t get close enough to hurt them. Fly a battle cruiser or fighter squadron within fifty kilometers of a military installation and they turn loose a swarm that cuts our best ships to ribbons. They’ve got more advanced weapons that we have, and more effective defenses against what little advanced weaponry we can get down planet-side.”
Chuch frowned at his superior’s artwork on their payload while Jacq continued.
“That’s why we’re doing this old school; high altitude drop, brute force and ignorance. Dirty atomics. Honestly, I think it’s the only chance we’ve got to end this thing. Nothing fancy, just hit em’ with a big enough hammer. Make their people want to end it.” Satisfied with his drawn faces, he wrote ‘Fat Ming’ beneath one and ‘Little Djinn’ on the other.
“Fat Ming?” Chuch screwed up his face behind his visor. “What the hell?”
“The Merciless. Ming the Merciless?” Jacq watched for some glimmer of recognition from his colleague before shaking his head and moving to the bombardier’s position. “Honestly, you kids need to read more.”
The two flew the rest of the way in silence, the only talking the occasional sounding off of the distance as they approached the cities. In the final kilometers Jacq rechecked the calibration of his targeting view finder.
“Mark my words, we’ll bring holy hell fire to them today and fifty years from now they’ll be our biggest high tech trading partner,” he paused and opened the bay doors, “probably put our kids out of work.”
