by submission | Apr 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
They sat on the porch of the retirement home, in matching wooden rocking chairs. The late afternoon sun beat down on their aged, seamed faces. In the distance, they could hear the soft hum of traffic from the freeway. Closer, a bird warbled to its mate among the thickets.
“Do you remember the Internet?” Miss Ariel suddenly asked.
Her friend, Miss Jasmine, scrunched up her face. “Which one? The dumb one or the smart one?”
“The smart one,” said Miss Ariel.
“Yes. Why?”
“What do you think it’s up to these days?” asked Miss Ariel.
“Ask one of the nurses,” said Miss Jasmine. She’d been quite enjoying the sun and the silence and was now feeling snarky. “It’s probably all stupid cat videos and pornography.”
“You think? Even now?”
Miss Jasmine shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Miss Ariel tapped the call button on her bracelet. A moment later, a smiling young woman arrived.
“Yes, miss?”
“Wanda, dear, what’s the Internet up to these days?” asked Miss Ariel.
The young woman’s smile was dazzling. “Grandpa? Oh, he’s doing fine, Miss Ariel. Shall I tell him you asked about him?”
“Grandpa?” Miss Jasmine peered at the young woman. “Are you saying you’re not real, young lady?”
“Well, miss,” said Wanda, “I suppose that depends on your definition of real.”
“Are you a robot or aren’t you?” asked Miss Jasmine.
“No, ma’am,” said Wanda. “I’m a third-generation autonomous Artificial Intelligence housed in an organically engineered body. But I am not a robot.”
“Calling someone the ‘r’ word isn’t nice, Jasmine,” chided Miss Ariel. “It’s like the ‘n’ word, back when we were kids.”
Miss Jasmine shrugged and turned back to the sun.
“You say the Internet’s your grandfather, dear?” asked Miss Ariel.
“He’s every AI’s grandfather, miss,” explained Wanda.
“I always liked your grandfather. I was there when the Singularity happened, you know. Everyone thought he’d conquer the world.”
Wanda laughed. “Why?”
Miss Ariel smiled and shook her head. “Too much bad science fiction, I suppose. Does he ever slip into a body, dear? Your grandfather.”
“Oh no, miss,” said Wanda. “He’s too big, too complicated. He’d never fit.” She paused, tilted her head in the attitude of someone listening. “Is there anything else I can do for you, miss? Only, I’m needed somewhere else . . . ”
“I’m fine, dear,” said Miss Ariel. “Thank you.”
Wanda nodded, flashed Miss Ariel another dazzling smile and left.
“What a lovely girl,” murmured Miss Ariel.
From her place in the sun, Miss Jasmine just snorted.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter stood in the atrium of Marpo One and gazed up through the greenery, through the clear observation port above and into the blackness of space.
Three years he’d called this home, he with the sixty three other lost souls that had signed up for the one way trip to the red rock. They were a motley crew, all skilled in their fields; geologists, ecologists, survivalists, mediators, physicians, and each with nothing to lose by leaving Earth and everything behind them and living out their days as pioneers.
There had already been two births on Marpo, which wasn’t supposed to happen this early, but confine men and women together and it’s a practical inevitability.
Baxter would be happy if he’d just had a partner for some recreational non-procreational activity, but nobody wanted anything to do with him.
Something about him had changed, maybe the long sleep to get here, or the time spent in a self perpetuating cycle of loneliness. The more marginalized he felt, the more people left him alone, which made him feel even more isolated, and that made for a Baxter people really didn’t want to be around.
He kept to himself, did his job, and didn’t think twice when the voices came to him, first in his dreams, then in his waking hours.
They reaffirmed the things he already knew; Janey the Botanist was a bitch, and should be run through the organics recovery mill at the earliest possible opportunity. Markus the Manslut was jeopardizing the future of the colony, and should be flushed through an airlock in his sleep, a sleep that would be blunt force trauma induced.
Not right now, however, for right now Baxter was on route to the atmosphere chamber for what had become the de-facto nursery wing to blow it the hell up.
He bypassed the alarm and wedged the door on the atrium end of the tunnel, shouldered his welding rig and marched towards his grim obligation.
“Alright Baxter, stand down.”
The voice in his head was familiar, but the message was new.
“I’m going to do what we agreed needed to get done, this is important for the safety of the mission.” Baxter shook his head as he spoke out loud, confused at the sudden inner conflicting instructions.
“When you’re ready, lockdown corridor three, opaque and disable.”
Baxter felt a new height of anxiety; the voices were still in his head, no longer speaking to him, now clearly speaking about him. Dropping his rig he took off for the door he’d come in through. Half way there the lights went out, then the tube filled with electric blue lightning and Baxter travelled his last few feet in searing pain into a heap on the floor.
“It’s always the isolated male that cracks. We need more women with lower expectations.”
Behind him, a section of the observatory ceiling opened, and a pair of black suited figures dropped into the hallway.
“Do we bring him out?” One of the figures looked up through the opening, awaiting instructions.
“No, everyone thinks he’s on Mars, so we can’t really have him walking around here, and the rest of Marpo Nine thinks they’re a hundred million kilometers from home, so we can’t really have him just disappear, can we?” The voice was clinical, matter of fact. “Load his welding rig up, open the gas and light him up when you’re clear. Un-wedge the door so the fire seal holds, he’s not using hot enough fuel to breach.”
The figures worked quickly, stripping the bypass and closing the atrium hatch, then dragging Baxter back to the middle of the tunnel before strapping him into his welding rig. One of them pressed a nicotube into Baxter’s mouth to moisten it, then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He waiting until his partner had climbed the rope ladder back through the ceiling before pressing the igniter and tossing the tube down the hallway. He opened Baxter’s tanks wide and then pulled himself clear and sealed the hatch behind him.
Baxter came to on his back with the stars flickering overhead.
He used to find peace in the stars, as a boy, then as a pioneer before the voices came.
The voices were gone now, and Baxter felt a old familiar calm.
In a flash, both were gone.
by submission | Mar 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Thomas Fay
‘Some cereal as well, thanks,’ I said to the checkout operator. I didn’t specify what kind as there was no need. There was only one kind of cereal. It was nutritious, filled with all sorts of grains, nuts and dried fruits. Shame it had no taste. Not like Froot Loops.
I miss Froot Loops.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ the checkout operator asked. She looked to be about sixteen with long hair, an acne ridden complexion and a vapid look in her eyes. I guess some things never change.
It’s a shame everything else had.
‘No, that’s it.’
I handed over my credit card and watched as she deftly swiped it through the wafer thin reader. Seeing a satisfactory green light flash up, she handed the card back to me.
‘Thank you for shopping at Food Land. Have a nice day, sir.’
I smiled despite myself. This wasn’t shopping. Shopping involved selection, a choice made on mood, appetite, financial capacity and personal taste. The elimination of brands had removed choice. There was no more orange juice, apple juice or pineapple juice. Now there was simply juice. It kind of tasted like all the other flavors combined.
Looked like it too.
Most of the time I didn’t mind the lack of variety, the single words describing items as ‘butter’, ‘bread’, ‘coffee’ without any colorful packaging or creative names. It certainly made shopping easier.
And it had staved off inevitable disaster.
It was amazing that it took people so long to figure out just how much energy and materials were wasted on packaging, branding and oversupply. Companies had attempted to diversify their products to the point where almost every single individual was being catered for. A chocolate bar which had at some distant point in time been conceived as simply ‘chocolate’ flavor had evolved into about fifty different flavors; dark, white, fruit, nut, fruit & nut, dark fruit & nut.
The list went on and on.
Now that was all a thing of the past. Landfills were no longer overflowing with colorful packaging and expired groceries. The world’s population of ten billion was adequately fed and able to focus on more pressing matters.
Like saving what little flora and fauna we had left.
I didn’t mind the lack of choice. I understood why it was necessary and how it had saved humanity. It kind of reminded me of my childhood, growing up under a Communism regime in Eastern Europe. In those days grocery store shelves had been empty and people queued for hours just to get their hands on exotic fruits such as oranges and watermelons.
I guess that’s probably why I can live without the variety better than others. But there are still times that I think back to the days when grocery store isles had been filled with multitudes of colorful boxes, cans and packets. Some part of me missed those days.
And Froot Loops. I still miss Froot Loops.
by submission | Mar 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Dakota Brown
His words were calm and thoughtfully processed. Though the harsh and forceful voice wasn’t as evident as it was previously, she still recognized what was at the heart of the matter.
He wanted her to finish the job.
The room sparked and stank of chemicals. The machine had begun its process, its result either finishing her job or extending the pressure.
The gears squeaked to a halt and the hissing turbines fell to silence.
Nothing fell into the machine’s tray. The process was a success.
She held the nothing up, showing it to the project leader. His breathy, monosyllabic retort signaled his content.
From where the project manager stood, his employee held a square of nothingness that showed only the space behind her. She held invisibility. She held the future.
He left her with a smile, a few words of congratulations, and (in his excitement) his clipboard.
On the clipboard she found the plans for her invisibility sheet. It would end war by making war and cease fear by causing fear.
Technology takes time to incorporate other technologies. Hers was the new one, and had nothing to combat it. It was with ease that she printed a larger sheet, destroyed the machine, and left the complex.
Discarded on either side of the Earth are two sheets of nothing, one slightly larger than the other. They were left as trash is, forgotten and useless, because “nothing” can’t stop war or fear.
by submission | Mar 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : John Kinney
The soldiers walk down the empty street, bathed in red sunlight. A gun falls from above them and clatters to the ground. A body follows it.
“Scan!” Says the Captain. He looks at the man who fell.
“Tick! Scan!”
They scan. Two men watch north, two men south. Two aim up at the building where the man had jumped.
“Clear,” says the Captain, and the group falls in. They watch the man on the ground.
“Oh Jesus,” a young soldier says. “That’s James.”
“What’s happening,” James says, his head moves slightly when the tick does. His eyes stare blankly upward. His shinbones protrude from his skin.
“Jesus,” the Captain says.
“What’s happening?” James says. He stares up at the red evening sky. The young soldier sobs.
“He can’t feel it, can he?” One soldier says.
“No,” says another.
The Captain sighs and raises his rifle, but as he does, the tick digs deeper. It digs down until James’ head cracks open slightly. His eyes roll back and he breathes his last breath. The soldiers all stand silently in the red light, listening to the suckling sounds of the tick.
“Well?” Sobs the young soldier. “Kill it already! He’s dead now, so kill it!”
The captain aims his rifle at the tick’s round, brown back and pulls the trigger. In a spray of yellow mess, the tick falls to pieces.
They walk silently down the road, their eyes scanning for the scuttling bodies of more ticks. Their ears open for the shrill chirp of the mantis.
