by Duncan Shields | Nov 14, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The sentence was passed. The switch was flipped on the transporter and Caleb’s protests were cut off in mid-scream. The concrete block fused with his head.
The first transporter accident taught us a valuable lesson about the covalency bonds between atoms. We already knew that it was the strongest force in the universe. To disrupt even a few of those bonds released the power and destructive energy of an atomic bomb.
Fear made us put safeguards in place to make sure that no transporters could accidentally force two objects to try to fit into the same space at the same time. Two things the world isn’t short on, though, are crazy people and ways around safeguards.
Jackie Shaugnessy was one such crazy person. She wanted to destroy the television station where her ex-boyfriend worked. The possibility of destroying the entire city or even that side of the world was a bonus to her. She was off-balance with love grief.
She also had a degree in microcircuitry and beam theory. She worked all week to disable the safeguard programming and hardware. She was very good at it. She even changed the spatial projectors. A receiving station wouldn’t be needed. She’d just appear wherever at the co-ordinates she entered.
She would have had several patents to make her rich beyond her dreams if she hadn’t gone through with her little act of terrorism.
On Friday the 9th of December, she set the co-ordinates, stepped on to the pad and pressed her remote control. With tears in her eyes, she disappeared from her apartment on the south side of Brooklyn.
Her molecules flew through space.
And reassembled in the wall of her ex-boyfriend’s office. There was a mild jostling at an atomic level but nothing happened other than that.
Her ex-boyfriend looked up from his morning coffee to see the tips of two shoes, an arm in a pink sweater, most of a breast, and a cascade of hair protruding from his wall.
He dropped his coffee cup and shouted. He screamed louder when he recognized the sweater. When he ran over to the grisly find, he grabbed the hand that was hanging from the wall.
It grabbed him back.
There was no way to undo what she had done. That section of wall with her embedded in it is still in a sub-basement of a government facility. No part of her head is exposed so the only way to communicate with her is by touching her hand. The parts of her that are exposed get older. She can still breathe somehow. She’s kept alive intravenously.
This little accident became the basis for the Shaughnessy punishment.
Caleb Johnson was convicted of crimes against humanity two decades later and sentenced to the Shaughnessy punishment.
He hung limply between the arms of the bailiffs, his head encased in a cube of concrete for the rest of his natural life. He would be fed through an IV and kept alive at the state’s discretion.
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 13, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jack withdrew the blade slowly, knowing with the sudden swell of blood from the wound that the blow was fatal.
“Nothing personal mate, it’s a survival of the fittest thing and I’m simply better than you.”
He felt the body beneath him go limp, the fierce tension of just moments ago slipping away limb by limb. Jack counted to twenty before dropping the blade as he rolled off the body. He dragged himself painfully to a nearby wall, propped himself up and surveyed the damage.
The man, for all his advanced years, had put up quite a fight, and Jack was perforated heavily from the short blade his opponent had employed. He took a deep breath and regretted it, broken ribs grinding painfully in his side.
“Jack, Jack, Jack,” there was something unnervingly familiar about the voice, and he twisted too quickly around to see, the room spinning briefly out of focus. “That may have been the poorest excuse for a fight I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few.”
In the doorway Jack could barely make out the silhouette of the man. There was a brief flare of an ignition patch as the stranger breathed a cigarette to life.
“I imagine you’ll be wanting one of these,” in a practiced arc the cigarette pack landed in Jack’s lap, “it’s our brand.”
Jack’s jaw hung slack for the briefest of moments as the reality of the moment set in.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jack started, “You aren’t supposed to be here, Christ you’re not even supposed to exist unless…” The stranger cut him off.
“Unless you’re dead Jack, well the odds weren’t exactly stacking up in your column now, were they?” He chuckled, stepping into the room. Jack couldn’t help but marvel at the resemblance.
“That’s not how it works, there can’t be a recovery while the prime is still alive,” Jack fumbled with the cigarette package but his battered hands wouldn’t work the fastener, “whoever decanted you into that suit’s broken a shit-ton of rules.”
“Jack, you’ve just kneeled on a Senator’s chest while he bled out on the hardwood, and unless I’m mistaken the fire in the archival suite next door is your handiwork,” he clenched the cigarette between his teeth as he pulled each of his shirt cuffs straight in turn, “we’re not exactly the type to adhere to the rules now, are we?”
Jack pulled one heavily booted foot up under his body, letting the cigarette pack fall to the floor unopened, and forced himself upright. His teeth clenched reflexively as he was reminded again of his broken bones. He felt his own shirt sticking to his body, slick with blood and sweat. He swallowed the pain and forced himself to focus.
“So, what do we do now? We can’t both be here, and they can’t exactly put you back in the tank now, can they?”
The man walked slowly across the floor, ignoring the blood and broken glass as his boots picked up both on the leather and in the coarse treads. He bent over the dead man on the floor and with great ceremony checked his pulse, shaking his head. Rising again he closed the distance between he and Jack and stood face to face, surveying the broken man around the smolder of his cigarette.
“You can’t put the genie back in the bottle Jack, you know that. I know you know what happens now, because I know exactly what you’d do if you were me.” He smiled, leaning in close to whisper in Jack’s ear as he slipped the blade he’d palmed from the corpse into Jack’s ribcage, pushing between the broken bones until it pierced his heart. “Nothing personal Jack, it’s a survival of the fittest thing, and I’m simply the better you.”
by submission | Nov 12, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Jimmy Shindorf reclined on the hospital bed. A hollow filament as thin as a thread penetrated his neck over the right carotid artery. An IV dripped normal saline at a slow rate into his left antecubital vein. They had suggested placing a Foley catheter, but he’d talked them into allowing a couple of bathroom breaks per session. In just a few minutes they would introduce the nanomachines through the tiny tubule in his neck; a few hours after that, he would start to forget 60 years of his life.
“Mr. Shindorf, we’re ready,” said the doctor. “It’s not too late to back out.”
“I’m ready to do this,” said Jimmy. “Let’s begin.”
Jimmy felt nothing as the army of nanorobots swam through the tube, up into his right carotid artery, and then into his brain. He thought back to two years ago when his wife started noticing he was getting forgetful. His long-term memory had been more or less intact, but forming new memories had become increasingly problematic.
“Your brain’s full,” the doctor had told him then. And it made a lot of sense. Jimmy was almost 150 years old. After the advent of nanomedicine, people started living a really long time. The memory capacity of the human brain was never designed for storing two lifetimes worth of data. The doctor had told Jimmy about “defragging”.
Defragging was an informal term derived from the disk defragmentation, reorganization, and compaction that was once part of the routine maintenance of antique computers. Doing something similar to a living human brain was a delicate procedure. After taking up their positions within the cerebrum, the nanomachines would reside in a “standby” mode. For several hours a day over the course of several weeks, the subject would view images and videos and listen to audio recordings of episodes from his past under the supervision of a neuroengineering team while functional MRI machines and magnetoencephalography devices tracked down the precise neurons and their interconnections in which the memories were physically and neurochemically stored. When the computers had correlated enough data from the magnetic resonance imagers and the superconducting quantum interference devices and the spin exchange relaxation-free magnetometers, the nanomachines would be programmed to delete the memories deemed suitable and thus free up storage capacity in the brain.
“I hated high school,” Jimmy had told the neuropsychiatrists at several of his pre-op visits. The academic knowledge of his adolescent education could be retained while the recollection of despised teachers and disliked classmates could be consigned to oblivion. His failed first marriage he was advised to keep in his memory. The defragging industry had learned early on that removing certain bad experiences from a person’s mind strongly predisposed to making the same mistakes again.
He parted with a good bit of what had once been called “middle age”. A man could get by with the memory of a single decade of the dull, joyless grind of alarm clocks and traffic jams and work. His first retirement he chose to mostly delete. How much recall of gardening and golfing and vegetating in front of a television for years and years before the first somatic cell rejuvenation techniques became available did he really need? His encyclopedic knowledge of heavy metal bands he had acquired in his twenties? Gone.
He left his first defrag session feeling rested and refreshed. As the car drove Jimmy and his wife back home, he noticed something odd, something he couldn’t quite put into words. In some very subtle and ill-defined way, he didn’t quite feel like Jimmy anymore.
by submission | Nov 11, 2012 | Story |
Author : Methias
He slumbered. He remembered. His recollections were filled with vague, half-things. Muted feelings, dulled senses, broken memories.
He remembered the last time he slumbered. He remembered the fall.
He remembered the fire and the death. He remembered a heat so intense that that the simulated pain cut out to a dull warning tingle, lest it distract him. He remembered the wiring under his hull screaming its protest as the unseen waves of power struck his hardware and caused it to stutter and die. He remembered sleeping then as his repair systems went to work, confident that he would wake to continue his mission. He was built to endure.
Time passed, how much time he could not say. When he slept, time lost its importance.
He remembered waking. The city was gone, a vast plain in its place. He remembered having to dig himself free of the clinging dirt in which he was buried. He remembered completing the journey that had been interrupted by the fall. He remembered seeing men on his way there. He remembered their fear at his sight. He remembered their cries as they fled into the plains. He did not pursue. He had orders.
He remembered.
When he reached the coordinates logged in his memory he found no trace of his destination, but a brief scan revealed a large metal lined mass below him. He dug.
He remembered guarding the room, as he had been instructed before his slumber, until exposure to the elements caused its reinforced thermocrete to crumble to dust.
He remembered slumbering again.
A vague sensation of loss pulled at him. He reached back into his drives, trying to pinpoint its origin.
He remembered back, back to the very beginning of his cored memory. He remembered awakening for the first time. He remembered his issued identifier and his designated role; adaptive autonomous combatant. He remembered his first battles fighting on the forefront of an invasion for his human masters. He remembered his standing orders; critical resource defense and denial. He remembered that his adaptive programming made him a valuable asset, and ensured his continued service through 183 years of active service and 38 refits. He was built to endure, and endure he did.
Still he could not locate the origin of the sense of loss, but there was nowhere left to search. He had examined his entire memory bank and found no source.
The feeling grew, and he began to dream. He dreamed of death, that of others and of his own.
He dreamed of fighting in a war, but not as he remembered. In his dream he was human. In his dream he was a soldier fighting in a war for his home against an army of dead men in machines. In his dream he was shot one night in an ambush, cut off from his friends. In his dream, he died.
His dreams became more and more clouded as he dreamt back, further and further.
He dreamt of children, playing on a swing behind a house. He dreamt of carrying them to bed after they fell asleep in the fort they had built out of the couch. He dreamt of a woman. He dreamt of loving her.
The sense of loss grew, and he remembered.
He awoke.
He had been so long from them, he had almost forgotten.
He examined his metallic frame. It was spotless, free of rust and corrosion, his innate repair systems flawless. He would see them again, but not yet, not for a long while. He was built to endure, and endure he did.
by submission | Nov 10, 2012 | Story |
Author : Suzann Dodd
They were supposed to come for me in a hundred hours. That was the deal.
I was passing for a local, having done the course. I knew how to get over.
I’d been given enough currency to survive for two hundred hours; that was also part of the Contract. What I didn’t spend would be deducted from my bill so I was frugal.
But they didn’t come in a hundred hours, and after a hundred and twenty, I panicked.
I got a job after a hundred and thirty hours, not good pay by any means, but enough to off set my expenses so that I wouldn’t be stuck with a life’s mortgage.
After two hundred hours I had the feeling that ‘something had happened’ and they weren’t coming.
That meant I was stranded.
I moved from the Hotel to a Motel, then to a basement apartment. I changed jobs, and after three hundred hours I realised I might be here for the rest of my life.
I was violently ill. What cured me was that the technology was so primitive I couldn’t dare enter any facility. I had to protect my integrity at all costs and use my knowledge to prosper.
Of course it was a Breach of the Contract and I would be severely punished, but considering I was the victim here, I liked the odds.
I started small, betting on sporting events, investing in stock, using my winnings to purchase value which would double, treble, but staying just under radar.
I traveled to places that didn’t keep efficient records, and occasionally thought about interfering, but kept remembering the ‘Grandfather Principle.’
When I felt like it, I left messages to those from my time who would know that even here, I thought of them.
