by Duncan Shields | Sep 13, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I was manufactured.
There are no more fathers. There is only one Mother. The humans grew sterile and could not breed by any other means. They were successful in making artificial life but they failed to cure the sickness that took away their ability to make children naturally. They grew old and they died. Now there are only us. We are made by and dependent on machines. There hasn’t been a true birth in two centuries.
I am processed meat.
The human factory of my birth is located in Missouri. I am a body of rejuvenated dead flesh whose appearance marks me as an expendable worker.
The specifications of my birth factory’s product line are one: Strong.
The automated collectors of the dead brought the corpses into the rear-loading rendering tubes at the Factory. There, the bodies are brought inside and separated into elementary components of tissue, fluid, tendon and muscle. Chemicals add elasticity and tensile strength. Vigor is restored.
Like a sausage or a can of spam, these parts of the dead are reconstituted together into a human form by machines designed for the task, moving with the bored speed of efficient programming. Staple gun retractors pull tendons taught over heel and wrist bones and keep them tight with glue-gun biopoxy. Electrical stimuli test-widens pupils and makes all the body’s muscles twitch in a shuddering preset order. The bodies are bathed in anti-rejection microbe gel. Coagulated blood from storage is thinned by chemicals and hosed into the hollow veins.
Sewing machines churn out templates of thick, fatty multi-colored skin by the acre to wrap us when we are near completion.
No aesthetic specifications are included in our reincarnation. Only function. We come off the lines ugly, strong and stupid. Filled with pacemakers, stimulators and regulators. Our behavior would be regulated by pain controls implanted too deep to remove but there are no humans around anymore to press the buttons on the pain sticks. We are sterile zombie eunuchs with skin melted together from all races in a bruised, patchwork, rag-doll, jigsaw collage like farmer’s fields seen from a plane.
No two of us were exactly alike. Our eye colours are random from eye to eye. Hair colours sprout from our heads at the whim of the random flesh pulled around our skulls. Neopolitan morlocks. Shelley’s legacy. True Frankensteins.
We were grown for hazardous labour.
Some are not.
The factories up North and on the Coasts were created to grow humans for the general population and a pristine few grow bodies for the rich. Replacement clones, sex slaves, high-end front-of house secretaries and restaurant workers. The factories still churn out beautiful specimens but without instructions, these flawless bodies wander the growing wilderness in helpless tribes, food for the wolves and other predators.
When they die, they are collected by the automated necro-retrievers and brought back for re-integration. After two or three cycles of this, they are judged unworthy to be made to those factory’s specifications and they go down the ladder of automation until they are brought to the factories like the one where I was born and their parts are made into something ugly like me with no thought of appearance.
I was made with faults. My life span is only ten years. My siblings are the same. But we are strong and can withstand much damage.
Our logic is sound: The more of the pretty ones we kill, the more of us there will be. And the more of us, the better.
by submission | Sep 12, 2010 | Story
Author : Cosmo
Every day I am losing more of my sight. Every night, the edge of the moon blurs a little more. I can no longer see the stars. In its way, this slow drift into obscurity comforts me. It reminds me of my mortality.
The city streams by several thousand feet below as the zepp glides through the night. Rock and metal flow together, become a light-specked river, as above a cold wind snaps through the zepp’s mainsail. I lean over the railing, trying to make out individual buildings, and try my best to ignore the scraping of talons against the elevator wing and the following thunk as Aryan lands upon the deck.
The HARPY joins me at the rail, c-fiber wings retracting soundlessly into his back. For a few minutes we stand and say nothing. I can almost hear his eye shutters irising as he tries to infer my line of sight.
“I don’t understand,” he says at last, rotating his head towards me. “Every night you come out here. What do you expect to see?”
“Nothing,” I reply, trying to keep everything out of my voice. My hand rises, almost unconsciously, to feel the silver cross that rests beneath my shirt. Aryan knows about it, and I know it irritates him. He has taken it from me once before, but sees no harm in me keeping it.
“Your body is failing. We offer you treatment.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You are going to let yourself die?”
“Death is natural,” I reply.
In the ensuing silence I can feel him contemplating forcing the surgery upon me. But he knows that I would escape it afterwards. “I see,” he says. “Why do you wear that cross?”
“Who were you?” I ask. “I mean, before?”
For a moment, I think he is going to respond. Perhaps this time I have caught him off guard. Perhaps, somewhere deep within that network of wires and nanotech, he retains a vague recollection of his past. “I don’t remember,” Aryan finally says. “It is not important.”
“It’s the most important thing there is,” I respond. “It’s why you will never understand.”
Something changes about him. Aryan shifts his weight uncomfortably from talon to talon, then suddenly throws himself over the railing. I watch moonlight spark from his body as he plummets towards the earth. I can hardly see him when he opens his wings and veers left.
Below, the city streams by. Through this long journey, I have been keeping track of the latitudes and longitudes. Somewhere ahead of us, the city breaks against the Dead Sea. Somewhere below, the ruins of Jerusalem lie, sinking slowly beneath wave after wave of metal.
by submission | Sep 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Jacqueline Rochow
Private Collins remained at attention as the guard ran the scanner over him. Satisfied that he carried no electronic devices, the guard left him alone with Sergeant Peters.
“At ease, private. Take a seat, will you?”
Nervously, Collins did as he was told. “Sir?”
“You’re here because you ticked certain consent boxes when you joined us seven years ago. Particularly, an automatic consent to top secret missions. I’m a fair man, private, and I know a lot can change in seven years, so I’m going to give you the chance to walk out of this room now. If you don’t, the only way you’re leaving is in the cockpit of a one-man craft with some top secret orders. Understand?”
“Y… yes. “
Peters stared idly at his fingers for several seconds, then looked up to see that Collins was still there. “Good man. Tell me, have you ever heard of Taxcelon?”
Collins racked his memory. “Weren’t there old folk tales about… some hugely powerful immortal entity? Destroyed whole planets before just disappearing one day? That was –”
“A long time ago, yes. The official story was mysterious disappearance; in actuality, we caught it.”
“How?”
“Tricked it. Some genius engineers rigged up a device that imprisons it inside a material body. Such a form severely limited its abilities. It was only as smart as the brain it was inside, couldn’t do much beyond move material objects. No idea how the thing works, but that doesn’t matter; the important thing is, what the hell could be done with it then? Killing its host would cause it to automatically take another, and we were worried that over time it would figure out how to control that. An enemy with no mercy, a huge grudge and the ability to possess anyone? Not a good thing. A prison doesn’t work as a prison if the inmate can suddenly become one of the guards, does it?”
“So… what happened?”
“We built a guardless prison from scratch. A shell, if you will.” Peters slid a small star map across the table. “You know how the entire Alpha Centauri area has been a no fly zone for as long as anyone can remember?”
“Yes…”
“That’s because of this nearby star, here. We picked a planet and seeded the entire thing with single-celled life, left the entity’s poor host there and took off.”
“Oh! So if it dies –”
“Taxcelon reincarnates into bacteria indefinitely. That was the plan. The no-fly zone is to avoid the remote possibility of it hitching a lift off the planet, but in bacteria it shouldn’t be able to remember what it is or think at all anyway.”
“And there’s a problem?”
“The thing about life is that it doesn’t stay the same for long. That planet, see, now has intelligent life. Smart enough that, assuming Taxcelon is inside one of ‘em, it should be able to remember some stuff, possibly even work a little of its old power. And that species is inventing space travel.”
“So you want me to kill them.”
“From a distance. Make sure you get everything intelligent but leave some bacteria or something, enough to ensure that life will continue. Mission details are in your ship. Get going.”
“Yes sir.” Collins’ salute and stride were purposeful. He had a very important mission.
Once he was alone, Peters remotely checked the condition of the explosive charges hidden in Collins’ ship. It was a pity about the kid, but they couldn’t risk him bringing Taxcelon back by accident.
“That’ll buy us a few billion more years,” he muttered to himself.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Sep 10, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Trust me,” he said.
“Trust me.” How many times had I heard those words before, only to be followed by some horrendous disaster?
From up here, I can just make out the red smear that used to be Dave. Who’s going to tell his wife? I’m sure as hell not.
It was two weeks ago today when Dave told me he had a birthday surprise and as his best friend I had to be there. “Trust me, it’ll be great.” In the army whenever he uttered those words, they were usually preceded by beer and generally ended in tears. I seem to recall a great deal of blood as well.
“Okay, what’s the surprise,” I asked, already in a pre-emptive cringe awaiting the answer.
“We’re going skydiving.”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t breath. I was ready for a shock, but not this.
“What?” I had to be sure I had heard what I thought I heard.
“Skydiving man. I’ve got it all set.”
“Hey Dave,” I said quietly, somewhat fearful of the deranged gleam in his eyes, “um…, we were in the 82nd, remember? We have our wings. We ARE airborne.”
“Yeah, but this is going to be different.” The gleam in his eye was a blaze now. “Meet me at Love Field, 0700, two weeks from today. You’re gonna love this, trust me.” He left me with those words echoing in my ears.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012, 0630. It’s Dave’s birthday and I was at the airport. An ancient panel truck slammed to a stop beside me. Before I could move, Dave was out of the cab and heading to the back of the truck. “Hey give me a hand will ya?”
Inside the truck, he was manhandling what looked to be two fibreglass triangles painted a brilliant black and gold. Army Colours. “What are those,” I asked, knowing full well I would not like the answer.
“Wings,” he replied.
“Shit,” I thought, as we loaded the wings onto a DeHaviland Dash 8. As the plane roared to life, I asked him what this was all about.
“Remember a few years back when that Swiss guy flew across the English Channel?”
“Yeah,” I said, with not a little trepidation.
“Well, I got to thinking…”
Shit. This was not going to be good.
“…with my engineering background I can do that too.”
“I see you made two.”
“Couldn’t leave my old battle buddy dirt side could I?”
“Hey, did it ever dawn on you that you are a civil engineer?”
“Six of one…”
He spent the next ten minutes explaining the controls. “The steering is similar to your hang glider; the throttle is in your right hand the ignition in your left. To climb, push yourself back and hit the throttle, to dive just do the opposite. Give a five count after you bail to hit the ignition. The rear hatch of the plane lowered and talk became almost impossible.
“Ready?”
“I just shit my pants,” I replied.
“It’ll be fun,” he said smiling. “Trust me.” With that he flung himself from the rear of the plane and dropped. I watched in horror as he fell, until four flames, two from each side, shot from beneath each wing.
I watched in awe as he soared off. Then I launched myself from the door. During freefall, I watched him nose straight down. “Show off,” I thought as I hit the ignition. Nothing happened. A thrill of terror swept through me scant seconds before the jets kicked in. As I zoomed away, I wondered what Dave was still doing in that dive. I didn’t wonder much longer as I lost power.
“It’ll be fun,” he had said.
“Trust me.”
by Patricia Stewart | Sep 9, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
After unimaginable losses, The Earth Alliance was still unable to breach the Draconian military installation on Hydrae II. The fortress sat safely within a walled city that was protected by sixteen electrostatic cannons strategically placed around the perimeter. When fired, the cannons projected an attenuated subspace energy wave that caused the electrical bonds between atoms to vibrate out of control; similar in some respects to the way microwaves cause water molecules to vibrate in order to produce heat. When the spectrographic sensors identified the target material, the electrostatic cannons fired a specific frequency wave to break the appropriated atomic bonds, i.e., either metallic, covalent, or ionic, depending on whether the material was a metal, polymer, or ceramic. Once the bonds were broken, the object harmlessly disintegrates into its constituent atoms. Any atoms that might be intrinsically harmful, such as radioactive ones like uranium and plutonium, were repelled by the nucleonic deflector shield. Conventional military tactics appeared useless against the Draconian defenses.
After months of brainstorming, a young chemist proposed an unorthodox solution. Although few senior scientists thought the plan would work, it was eventually approved; mostly because nobody could come up with anything better.
A few weeks later, a 250,000 ton computer controlled space freighter was brought into geosynchronous orbit above the Draconian installation. As dawn approached, the on-board computer fired its massive thrusters to begin the deorbiting sequence. The new flight path caused the ship to drop vertically downward toward the military installation. When the freighter passed the Kármán line, the Draconian spectrographic sensors detected the exterior PICA shielding of the spaceship and the electrostatic cannons began to fire. As the covalent bonds were destroyed, the phenolic impregnated carbon layer instantly spalled away. The spectrograph and cannons continued to rapidly detect, and subsequently attack, the successive layers of the ship. Seconds later, the titanium support structure disintegrated. Then the silicon and oxygen atoms were ripped from the fiberglass insulation. The interior sub-structure, including the aluminum bulkheads, copper wires, steel nuts and bolts, etc., progressively disappeared as their metallic cohesion was lost. Eventually, the cannons reached the cargo holds. Wooden crates filled with solid potassium, coal, and sulfur were all vaporized in quick succession. Finally, the oxygen and hydrogen fuel tanks, the nitrogen purge tanks, a briquette of metallic sodium, and the steel engines were all atomized. In less than a minute, the ship was gone, and the sixteen electrostatic cannons powered down. The Draconians cheered, and mocked the Earthlings once again for their continued impotence.
But slowly, the original momentum of the plummeting ship continued to carry the cloud of dispersing atoms ever downward toward the Draconian fortress. The atomic gasses rolled into the city and through the streets. Finally, when the sodium atoms contacted the morning dew they started an exothermal reaction that caused the oxygenated atmosphere to spontaneously react with the thousands of tons of carbon, potassium, and sulfur that had once been inside the cargo hold. In a tumultuous fireball that could be seen from space, the payload exploded with the force of a nuclear bomb. The churning mushroom cloud turned itself inside out as it swirled upward from the leveled city. This time, there were no Draconians to mock the Earthmen.
