by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 5, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Erik had been in this room before, although it seemed smaller this time.
“Please, Lieutenant Skane, have a seat.” The room’s other occupant was well weathered, maybe not retirement age, but close to it. The bars on his uniform, like the lines on his face, were as much a measure of mileage as of seniority.
Erik pushed his way awkwardly between the chair and the sparse desk, wedging himself between the arms of the seat and feeling the metal complain as he lowered his considerable mass into it.
“Lieutenant, I understand you’re inquiring about discharge; I was hoping we could convince you to stay.”
Erik met the officers gaze, caught the briefest glimpse of discipline tempered revulsion, and looked away.
“I want my old body back. I want you to undo what you did. Looking like this isn’t any use to Ops anymore, and sure as hell it’s no good for me.”
The old man sat back, steepling his fingers. “Splicing in gene code to bring out your current… characteristics, that’s one thing, but excising that code now that it’s physically manifest, I’m afraid that’s just not possible.”
“You made me, made me look like this, made me look like…,” his nose vents flared as his anger grew, “made me look like them,” he finally hissed.
“Yes, and coupled with your training and rather unique qualifications your looking like them allowed you to go where no one else could go. You were instrumental in our victory; you should be proud.” He opened his arms wide in a gesture of welcome Erik knew he could not possibly mean. “Your people are very proud of you.”
“My people? I have no people now. I’m nowhere close to human, and you exterminated everyone of what you turned me into. You didn’t bother to tell me I’d wind up alone and stuck looking like this.”
The officer folded his hands neatly in his lap, addressing Erik as one might speak to an unruly child. “As I recall, you agreed to this project because, and I quote, you had ‘nothing to lose’.” The old man frowned, shaking his head. “You were pretty clear about that when you were trying to get yourself killed in Special Ops. We saved you from yourself Erik, gave you purpose, cleaned your slate. You can’t just expect everything to go back the way it was before.”
Erik shifted uncomfortably, feeling the chair begin to buckle beneath him. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve seen things…” he paused, a sudden surge of anxiety overwhelming him, for a moment. “I just can’t do this anymore.”
“Well, we could put you back into an infantry unit; your Special Ops status would clear you to go anywhere you wanted.”
“No.”
“Deep space? Engineering?” He counted off options on his fingers. “There are mining colonies on several higher-than-Earth-gravity planets where…”
“No,” Erik cut him short “I’m done.” He stood up, awkwardly extracting himself from the chair. “When you made me, nobody ever said you couldn’t unmake me.” He turned, and found himself face to face with an unfamiliar reflection in the polished metal of the door. It stared back, half again as tall as he should be, the harsh light creating highlights on the black matte of his scales. In three years, he still couldn’t connect himself to what stared back at him from every mirror.
He opened the door, hiding the reflection. “I may have had nothing to lose then, but I always figured one day I could have something to lose if I wanted to. I guess I had that to lose after all.”
by J.R. Blackwell | Aug 4, 2008 | Story
Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer
Before the Fall, your father was what they called a temp worker, which means he was hardly anyone at all. Temp workers are like the kitchen boy, every day they show up, hoping there is work, and getting paid in scraps and ribbons.
Your father was working right here when the Fall came. They didn’t call the Hold then, they called it an office park, and it was special because it was so far from the city, and your father had to drive a long way to get here from the apartment where he lived. Your father was very clever though, and he used that time in his car to educate himself. He listened to recordings of all the knowledge of the day. He learned the art of war, he learned about surviving in the wild. His education is what saved us all.
The city had instructed everyone to shelter in place, so the whole of Marketing was hunkered down in the east wing auditorium, sealing the doors with duct tape. Soon, the power went out and even on the battery powered radio there was only static. Then there was a white light that flashed through the cracks in the duct tape. Julie, the Marketing director, had been standing next to the door and there was a yellow blotted line on her skin where the light had touched her. After a week Marketing had eaten all the food from the snack machine and since the water was off the toilets were clogged and smelled horrible.
Carl explored the office building, taking three of the boldest from Marketing with him. They were the first to see the yellow bloated bodies. They brought back barrels of spring water from the water closet and Carl developed a system of water distribution appointing Lieutenants to watch over their precious resource. Marketing, under Carl’s direction, began move outwards through the complex, looking for the other shelters. The smell of rotten eggs and rotten bodies hung in the air.
Customer Service refused to leave their shelter and when Carl pushed, they reacted with violence. They had armed themselves with supplies from Facilities and sent messengers back beaten with a warning never to approach again. Customer Service was in possession of the company cafeteria and although they had no running water, they had food, a quickly waning resource. It was Carl that came up with the plan to take the tower. He divided Customer Service, promising water and safety to deserters. He arranged a lure for Customer Service, carting water bottles in front of the tower. When Customer Service sent out a party to take the water, he ambushed them and attacked, his force split, sandwiching the tower.
In the end, Customer Service laid down arms. Callahan, the young director of the department was the last to leave the tower, but when she bowed her head to Carl in deference, he lifted her chin and they gazed at each other, soiled faces, wild hair, and Carl handed Callahan back her shovel. He leaned over to her, whispered something in her ear, and she smiled.
I won’t tell you it was overnight, what happened between them, but it started there. No one ever said it but the implication there was clear: Carl was King of the East Wing. The people of Marketing and Customer Service joined together to rule the Office Park and, eventually, the surrounding area. King Carl and his Queen Callahan rule peacefully to this day, as you, someday, will rule.
by submission | Aug 3, 2008 | Story
Author : S. C. Wells
“Over there. See it?” Tellis’ gaze followed Mark’s pointing finger toward the last planet in the system they were passing through. The surface was invisible, covered entirely by a glowing cloud, deep blue streaked with iridescent greens and yellows and rich, dark purples. The planet had been filled with prosperous mining colonies, before an accident created the cloud, making the world uninhabitable.
“We’ll be a few minutes passing through,” Mark said. “The energy from those clouds totally distorts sub-space here; that’s why we can’t use the hyper-drive.” Mark leaned casually, playfully on the observation deck railing, eyes sparkling. “We’ll be a on our way again soon. Unless…”
“Unless,” Tellis smiled, “the main engines don’t start once we get past.”
“No one knows what’s wrong,” Mark continued, “but then you pick up odd, transmission-like energy signals coming from under the planet’s clouds.”
“They sound like nonsense, of course.”
“Of course. But we go out secretly to investigate anyway, because you are convinced that whatever’s stopping the engines is down there.”
“How do we–?”
Mark cut her off, not wanting to get lost in a technical discussion. “I’ve figured out a way to rig the jump shuttle to get through the clouds. We land on the planet, and find the ruins of an ancient colony. But…”
“…The planet isn’t uninhabited!” Tellis exclaimed. “The descendants of some of the colonists have been living underground, and they have their own society and culture, and their own form of communication transmissions.”
“Which is what you picked up.”
“Right. They want to be left alone, but the colony’s old guidance and landing systems malfunctioned and stopped our ship by accident, and now that we’ve found their underground city, the colonists’ descendants won’t let us leave so that they can keep their existence secret!”
Mark grinned slyly. “And they’ve heard of you and me by picking up Rendothirii transmissions, so they know how capable we are, and they put us under heavy guard. Their leader doesn’t want to kill us, but her advisors tell her that we’re bound to escape, just like we did the last time the Rendothirii captured us.”
“The leader gives the order to kill us, reluctantly, but just before the public execution, a cloud storm of deadly energy strikes without warning, and the city is in jeopardy! It turns out that the advisors knew it was coming, but were keeping it a secret in order to kill the leader and take control of the city during the confusion.”
“But I save the leader just in time, and you—”
“–Stop the city from collapsing by reinforcing it’s molecular structure with my powers.”
“OK… So then the advisors are arrested, and the leader gives us her thanks…”
“…And the people hold a feast in our honor…
“…And after we swear not to tell anyone about them…”
“We turn off the system that’s been holding our engines, and come back to the ship. No one even realizes that we were gone, because your programs kept the computer misdirecting people about our location on board to cover our tracks, so we wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving without permission.”
“And then,” grinned Mark, “the release of the engines allows the ship to continue as if nothing happened.”
Tellis returned his smile, and they stood in silence for a moment, gazing out on the shifting colors of the cloud.
“You know,” announced Tellis, “I don’t miss TV and the internet nearly as much with you around.”
“Same here,” Mark answered, as the main engines revved up for the next leg of the journey.
by submission | Aug 2, 2008 | Story
Author : Trip Venturella
“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.”
-Mohandas Ghandi
Asher was heavy. Not fat, as it was impossible, borderline illegal, to be fat any more (for health safety, of course), but heavy.
He had spent the last two hours at one of the terminals at the Lifestyle Regulation Office. Half of that time was waiting for a terminal to open up. They were at full capacity, as usual.
The screen flickered, “The next field will require PERSONAL INFORMATION, are you sure you wish to proceed? YES/NO”
Asher pressed YES.
“If you wish to make a requisition, please enter your FIRST NAME and MONETARY IDENTIFICATION NUMBER.”
Asher typed ASHER and *******.
“Are you sure you wish to make a requisition involving a monetary transaction? YES/NO”
YES again.
“Thank you for your time. To complete the requisition, please proceed to room fifteen, floor six.”
Asher almost smiled, but two hours at the LRO sapped anyone’s will to smile. He went to the front door, entered his name at the terminal, and the glass door slid open, a tiny ingress into the immense stone bureaucracy of the LRO. A voice warned him to watch his step. His glasses fogged up in the hot, sterile, soap-scented air. Asher blindly stumbled his way to the elevator. When the elevator arrived, a voice warned him to watch his step.
The voice warned him again when he got off at floor six. He entered his name again at the screen outside room fifteen, and when the door opened the voice warned him. Asher mumbled a warning to the voice.
A lady in a blue LRO uniform was seated behind a computer. She smiled at Asher. Like most LRO employees, she had no name tag. As many times as Asher had been to the LRO, he had never seen the same attendant twice.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was gratingly cheery.
Asher re-adjusted his glasses, “I need to requisition three gallons of gasoline.”
The lady examined the computer screen for a moment, “You are Asher?”
“Yes.”
The lady in blue beamed, “Are you sure you want gasoline? It is both explosive and toxic.”
“I’m sure. I need it to drive a 1991 Chrysler New Yorker to Scottsdale.”
“Have you considered hiring a moving service? I can book them for you here.”
“I just need gasoline. A moving service costs four times as much.”
“But it’s much safer.”
Asher was finally frustrated, “I don’t need a moving service when I can drive myself!”
“Please don’t get angry. Anger results in poor decisions. And if you have any complaints, please register them at one of the terminals outside.”
“I won’t complain, but I need the gasoline, please.”
The lady printed out a piece of paper. She handed it to Asher, “Please read and sign this indemnification form.”
Asher signed it.
“Now take it to the Allocation Office on the second floor. They’ll safely fill your requisition. And Asher?”
“Yes?”
“Drive safely and watch what you eat. A free country like ours needs safe, happy, healthy citizens!”
by Duncan Shields | Aug 1, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The body on the mattress had been there for a while.
She was laying face-down. The pooling blood had left her back unnaturally pale. I knew that when we flipped her stiffly over, the front of her would be a dark maroon. One of her arms dangled off the edge of the bed, still as a tree branch. The blood had settled there, fattening the fingers and turning the hand almost black.
The graphics tattooed on her body showed up in high contrast against her white skin.
The team set up the lights. The boys in the plastic booties and paper dresses fired up their hand-held UVs to look for blood and semen. I had no doubt that in a cheap motel like this one they’d find plenty of both. The manager had told us to hurry. Like we were maids coming in to clean the place instead of police investigating a murder.
I looked at the dead girl on the bed. She couldn’t have been more that twenty-four but she looked much older. To make money, she’d been sponsoring herself out to companies to keep going once she started testing positive and could no longer give blood. I had a problem with the practice. As long as someone was semi-attractive, any of the Big Five corporations would let them pick a product tattoo and give them a ‘grant’ of a few thousand dollars.
Big money to a prostitute with a drug problem.
Her body was layered with dozens of nearly-touching logo tattoos from Pepsi, Nabisco, Colgate, Penzoil, Marlboro, and a bunch of others. I’d seen the same logos stenciled on plastic wrappers in gutters and parking lots. It made her look like garbage, which is exactly what she’d become here in this room.
Someone had crumpled her up and thrown her away like trash. I doubt we’d even learn her name unless a co-worker of hers came in to the morgue looking for her and that was pretty rare.
She had a Hershey’s tattoo on each ass cheek. I wonder if that had been the company’s attempt at wit or hers.
The hookers called it selling out. It started with something tasteful, one of the recognizable big sellers. Just one. Soon there were two. Eventually, the women caught in this inevitable spiral became a billboard, their looks fading from rampant drug use and the Big Five wouldn’t touch them anymore.
After that, the women started taking money to advertise local businesses.
Like this girl here. I saw a tattoo for Lou’s Steak House with a miniature road map underneath her shoulder blade for how to get there. I could imagine customers taking her from behind and looking at that map, possibly passing by the restaurant afterwards for dinner on the way home. It made me sick.
She was like a biological vending machine that had been broken into and completely emptied.
Spatter patterns suggested a hammer. We found one in a dumpster two blocks away with her hair and blood on the end of it. No prints.
I’d been on the force long enough to know that this was going to go unsolved.
God only knows why I kept doing this job.
