by Duncan Shields | Feb 18, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I’ve gone over and over that time with the shrinks here on the ground. It was a time-sensitive mission to repair satellite Oricus-11. We were on schedule and nothing was in the red. We were in the pipe, five by five and on target.
Jackie and Maria were locked in and reading the specs back as we arrowed in on the airlock. Reverse thrusters fired as Maria cushioned our lateral descent to the docking clamps. There was a light bump through the whole ship as we touched the edge of the collar.
Halfway there.
Maria raised a hand up to her hair and died that way. Her eyes just unfocused and the animal side in me knew right away that she’s been turned off like a light switch.
I looked over at Jackie and that’s the last linear-time memory I have except three other things.
One.
The hatch blew. Vacuum scoured the entire cigar tube of our ship with a greedy inhalation of breath from god’s lungs. Papers, pens, experiments, everything that wasn’t tethered or taped went fast-forward panicking out the door into the cold embrace. The air turned to crystals.
Two.
I don’t know if this was some time later or in the next second but I remember looking forward at my outstretched hand. My fingernails were brightly glowing blue. Beyond my hand was a forest. The trees and leaves were mostly red and I still can’t tell if it was Earth in the autumn or if it was summer on a different planet.
Three.
The last thing I remember is talking to a child. The child was much smarter than me and it seemed like he was intentionally using simple language to communicate with me. A little boy about seven years old with eyes glowing exactly the same blue as my fingertips had been glowing in the previous memory. We were both dressed in white and sitting in a red room.
I don’t remember what we talked about but I’ve been a lot calmer ever since.
I was found in a swamp by a couple of Louisiana fishermen. I was looking at the rot-resistant bark of a cypress and tracing the lines on the trunk with my hands. Their greeting is the first thing I remember. Turning my head to see who made that noise and then realizing that I was ankle deep in a swamp.
I still had my uniform on. It was freshly washed and felt like it was still slightly warm from the dryer. I felt freshly showered as well.
It didn’t take long for me to get taken into the basements of NASA and questioned. I’ve been here for weeks now.
I’m not sure if they’ll give me a memwipe or just cut me loose. I am surprised to feel that I am now in possession of something that they’ll never be able to take from me. I’m different inside.
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by submission | Feb 17, 2008 | Story
Author : Steven Saus
“Make your own damn dinner.”
He coughed, sputtering foam from his after-work beer onto the cluttered endtable. She showed no signs of malfunction. There were no sparks, no telltale wisps of smoke from the delicate wires in her wrists. Her voice utterly failed to stutter; it just had this odd quality he couldn’t quite place.
“I said, make your own damn dinner. I’m leaving you.” She clanked towards the door, ripping the apron (a silly affectation he’d had her wear) off her metal torso.
“But — I made you!” His beer tottered and fell from the endtable, jostled by his awkward attempt at pursuit. The amber liquid splattered across the half-soldered circuit boards and the screws – never put away – that had been “left over” after assembling the kit.
“I found someone else.” She reached down and picked up the old-fashioned modem he hadn’t paid any attention to. “I found someone who truly understands me for what and who I am. Now leave me alone and make your own damn dinner.”
“You got past the house firewall? You’ve been Internet dating?” She did not bother to respond.
He thought about the first time he’d seen her lips, laying in the bubblewrap and cardboard. Now they were pursed unnaturally tight. He imagined the whirring and moving behind her chest, the way the parts he’d fitted together all moved in sync. He remembered the hours he’d spent assembling the synthetic sinews of her hands. That meant something, didn’t it? He’d put her together. He had joined every one of her joints that worked to pull his front door open.
His android stepped forward and fell into the waiting arms of another robot. This new robot was as male as his was female. The force of their embrace would have pulped his ribs, but both robot’s mouths were open in a wide smile.
Behind the robots, his front gate crashed open. The panting woman who stood there stopped, staring. A spanner dropped from her hand and clattered on the sidewalk. After a few minutes – when the androids began to kiss – she slowly looked up and in the doorway. When the two humans made eye contact, they both grinned sheepishly.
The two couples made a lovely curry and rice dish together.
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by submission | Feb 16, 2008 | Story
Author : Chris Peterson
I look down at the seat as I climb into the car.
“Well, get in honey,†says a lady entering from the other side. An attractive lady. She’s talking to another attractive lady in a familiar pink outfit, and the familiar pink pillbox hat that the whole world and I have seen for over forty years in some of the most unforgettable images ever.
Someone makes a quick quip behind me that I don’t catch. I turn and see that smile. Those teeth. That hair. Holy shit, my brain screams, that’s John Kennedy. He’s already seated. He’s smiling. He expects me to make a comeback to his friendly jibe.
I look down again at the jump seat, in front of the President.
“It’s called a jump seat so you can jump out of the car if you see a pretty girl along the way,†the President jokes again.
“Now, Jack,†the attractive lady climbing in to the seat next to me admonishes.
I look back at the President. He’s still waiting for me to come back at him with a real zinger. I am Governor Connally. I don’t know how I am, but I am. I remember nothing before putting my foot into the car. The car! Yes, that car.
Police on motorcycles are putting on helmets and people are filling the cars behind us.
Stop the motorcade! My brain screams. But no sound comes. Stop stop STOP!!! For the love of God, don’t go!
My brain flashes ahead to the waiting crowds. The waiting history. It’s not too late! My brain screams again. Again, I am mute.
I don’t want to be here for this! I don’t want this to happen! Stop! Stop now!
I remain frozen. It all seems so inevitable. So unchangeable. Crowds of people waiting to see the President. The planned route. The crowds. Dealey Plaza. Adrian Zapruder and his secretary on their lunch break. Mannlicher-Carcano. Babushka lady. Adrian Zapruder? No, Abraham. What a strange thing to correct myself on. Stop the motorcade! Everyone, out of the car! For the love of God, stop!
I am on a park bench. I am no longer Governor Connally. I don’t know how I am not, but I am not. It is raining. A steady, gentle autumn rain. Surprisingly, it’s not cold. The rain hides my tears. Has it happened? Have I prevented tragedy? I listen for the sound of distant gunfire, of screams, racing engines and screeching tires, howling sirens. Of course I can’t hear them. It is raining, and November 22 in Dallas was sunny. I may be 1000 miles away. I glance up briefly as a man and woman, middle-aged, walk past me in the park. Huddled together, in their rain slickers, they don’t look shocked. They don’t look alarmed. Maybe they don’t know yet. Maybe it didn’t happen.
In my heart, I know it is happening right at this moment, far away, as the rain soaks my clothes. I was nearly there for a few seconds, and the thought chills my bones. Nobody will ever utter the words “former President Kennedy;†only “the late President Kennedy.†Jackie will forever be Jackie O. The country and the world will not be shocked like this for almost another forty years, on another sunny day in a distant September.
That too, seems so large. So evil. So hopeless. The weight of Evil presses down on me. So much of it. I am so small.
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by submission | Feb 15, 2008 | Story
Author : Michael Herbaugh a.k.a. “Freeman”
Tonight at 8:00 Eastern, 9:00 Central – 11 hour delay on the Lunar Colonies
HT-MA
Warning – this broadcast contains real battlefield footage, viewer discretion is advised.
This program is broadcast in Holographic THX.
Tonight on Holographic Battlefront, the Historical Channel presents “Iwo Jimaâ€, a two night presentation. Join us on your holographic table-top set as we explore one of the most memorable battlefronts of the 20th century. You will be there through the use of our ChronoCinematic cameras and with your interactive controls you will be able to follow the battle from the first beach landings to the raising of the flag on top of Mount Suribachi to the final counter-attack at Airfield #2. Most surprisingly of all, you will see for the first time the final moments of Japanese Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi.
On your table top choose from any one of 30,000 US Marines to storm the beaches or take the viewpoint of all of the 21,000 Japanese soldiers dug in on this pivotal island in the Pacific. Should the soldier you choose perish, you will be able to jump to any other soldier on the battlefield. You may choose first or third-person perspectives for up-close views of the battle or zoom out for a bird’s eye perspective of the confrontation.
Explore the numerous tunnels throughout the island with the Imperial army or get behind the controls of a M4A3 Sherman tank equipped with flamethrowers as you attempt to clear hidden bunkers.
So stay tuned for Holographic Battlefront – Iwo Jima
*commercial break*
Before we begin our program we will bring you scenes from next week’s episode Holographic Battlefront – AI Uprising: the Four Day Conflict. Please insert your hand into the holofield now to set your wristreminder for next week’s showtime.
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by submission | Feb 14, 2008 | Story
Author : Joshua Reynolds
VETERAN OF THE [CLASSIFIED] WARS
I/We are/am the last survivor. Hodge-podge helter-skelter jigsaw man/men/woman/women. I/We am/are not sure there’s anything left of me/us. I/We sit in this red, red room, alone with my/our thoughts. All of them. Swirling, stirring, whirling, whirring hummingbird thoughts of a thousand colors sparking and splashing. I/We are a brain in a bag of meat and bone, burned and battered, frail and dead. Wounds are all I’m/we’re made of. Machines keep me/us breathing. You want me/us alive. I/We am/are the last you see. The last of the atom babies.
I/We made sure of that.
I/We had to. It was the only way to win the War.
Eagle fights Bear. Hammer and Sickle fights Stars and Stripes. These and a thousand other implements ranged against each other in the mushroom’s shadow. Minds expand and unfold, blossoming like nuclear flowers and then they are clipped and caged, uprooted and replanted. The atom bomb gathers dust. The atom babies go to war. I/We fought for God/Queen/Country/Fatherland/the State/Uncle Sam…brains blazing like comets, neurons straining against neurons, minds clashing in the emptiness between seconds. Every minute a battlefield, every hour a campaign. Hooked into barracks like cattle, I/we fought without seeing, without hearing. I/We fought in our heads. Again and again and again. Cattle straining against cattle in the dark car, pushing but not moving.
The world rolled on but I/we was/were unaware. Little wars started and ended and I/we still fought. Because you commanded us to. Never ending. Minds were nearly snuffed as atom baby bodies-always weak, always sick-failed, but those white-hot corona minds could swim into others, making them stronger. Bigger. Better. And you saw and you smiled and you thought the stalemate was ended as they killed bodies and forced scattered minds to go, to funnel into one meat sack. A big, bad ballistic atom baby mind.
But the others did the same. And others after them.Until only a few were left, a few blazing brains where before there had been thousands. You consented to sublimate your atom babies to others, for the Big Push. Thousands to hundreds, hundreds to dozens, dozens to several, several became…
Two.
Only two. Two minds pushing and pulling. Two minds that cracked the sky and boiled the oceans, two minds full of thousands. Two minds. One failed.
I/We were the last. Wasn’t/Weren’t I/we? Or was/were I/we the first? Was this meat I/we wear the first or the last? Alpha or omega?
I/We can’t remember, really.
There’s only me/us now.
You want to know where I/we all went. Where the rest went…after. That’s why you keep us alive, now that the War is done. But I/we/us are all in here. Together again for the first/last time.
I/We are all on the same side now.
And it’s not yours.
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