by submission | Feb 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : O. Alexander
I open my eyes. They burn after another restless night, filled with nightmares. Three weeks in the jungle, playing deadly cat and mouse games with a neo-leftist demolition squad, can have that effect.
I get up and walk unsteadily into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, dark fear swells within me.
The Incident.
It is never far from my mind.
My man lost. A village massacred in retribution. Innocents slaughtered. I stood by, silent.
I pound both my palms against the hard porcelain sink, the pain clearing my head for a moment.
The One World de-brief begins at 9am. No time for regrets now.
Moving back into the bedroom, the TV is showing another cratered launch pad. This time they hit a base to the West. A primitive bomb again, crippling another launch facility.
I dress quickly and walk outside. The protestors just beyond the fence notice me and a swell of hatred is hurled in my direction.
“No to human murderers,” a strained female voice rises above the others.
My squad is part of an experiment. We are the first biologicals One World has allowed into front-line combat on its behalf in thirty years. With the rise of autonomous fighting machines, and the breakthroughs in Moral-Software that soon followed, war became a wholly non-human affair for the developed world three decades ago. Then, last year One World’s autonomous forces proved incapable of pacifying this jungle insurgency. The genetically enhanced locals proved too tenacious and clever for the agile machines.
Our baseline human squads have a good record in the test so far, giving the insurgents a series of bloody engagements with no civilian casualties. An Autonomous Witnessing Unit, the size of a small bear walking on four legs, is sent out with each squad. It records and reports the squad’s interactions with civilians and combatants back to One World.
The Incident happened in a zone too dangerous for communication transmissions. The images from the village remained inside the AWU when Owens attached the armor piercing explosive to its underbelly. The report we later filed told the story of our squad coming onto an atrocity clearly committed by our enemies. My job today is to walk the Council through that report, to keep the Baseliner’s record clean and my men off the gallows.
———-
Thirty minutes later I sit at the center of a drafty room, surrounded on three sides by elevated podiums. I watch as the colorful One World uniforms file in. When the last seat is filled, I sit up straight and prepare for my testimony. The room grows silent. A minute passes. Then five. No familiar words of welcome from the Director. Just silence.
Panic slices through my stomach. I stand, taking two steps backwards. Four strong arms meet me. I try to whirl, to run. The strong arms jerk me off my feet, carrying me to the far wall. One of the hands fumbles in a pocket, then holds something cold and metallic to my head. I am instantly paralyzed. They place me in a stiff chair. A metallic cap is fitted to my head. A screen descends from the ceiling.
To my horror, my skull under the metal cap seems to split in half. It happens smoothly. Mechanically. Without pain. Connections are made under the cap. A jungle scene appears on the screen, showing a view from just outside the village. The huts are still intact. Miller is just ahead on the trail. I remember this view. It is mine.
As the image leaps to life, I fear it is the end of mine.
by Duncan Shields | Feb 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Hitler’s daughter was ruling with a penchant for experimentation.
She talked of a future where Aryans were recognized by their deeds and initiative, not by the colour of their skin or hair.
Controversial and beautiful, Hitler’s daughter was short with the same dark hair as her father.
She administered the shot that killed him in his hospital bed. Grey-haired, drooling, and given to fits at the end, it was the ministry’s decree that he be put out of his misery by his then sixteen-year-old daughter. The photograph is famous. Her chin is tucked into her chest and her straight black hair is falling over her eyes as she depresses the plunger on the syringe. The resemblance to her father in that moment in unmistakable and is belied only by a twinkle in her eye. His hand is grasping at the front of her uniform. If one squints just right, the shadow from his clawed hand coupled with his bent fingers almost form a swastika.
Chancellor Hilda.
German medicine had come far. Top in the world when it came to longevity drugs, plastic surgery and prosthetic limbs. However she banned experimentation on the poor and homeless.
“There were still discoveries to be made”, she said, “but only by using the guilty”. The subtle accusation hidden in the statement by lumping the scientists in with the subjects was not lost on the scientific community. There was no doubt about how punishment would be meted out. The scientists would end up on their own bloody tables if they dared dismiss her rules in their dark laboratories.
She said that the future lay not in compassion but neither did it lie in brutality. She said in a historic speech that, “some things, while fragile, were still valuable to the empire. Even degenerates can see the beauty in the world of our new Empire”, she said. “Let them paint.”
The conquered Europeans had intermarried and mingled with the Japanese and Russians. Half-breeds were tolerated. The resulting beauties with their Slavic cheekbones and epicanthic folds had started to supercede the outdated Aryan ideal.
The first mixed-race officer of the SS had a medal pinned to his chest last week, for instance. The young ones, no matter their race, were anxious to serve for the glorious 4th Reich Europe, citing that their inner Aryan was probably more faithful and loyal than many of the meek and tender blue-eyed ghosts of German heritage. Such inflammatory rhetoric caused controversy but also brought attention to their fearless attitudes. It would be stupid to turn down manpower determined to help the empire and this was a new age, she said.
America’s economy was failing and while it was not economical to fight them conventionally, it was in everyone’s interests to wait and see how long it would take that country to starve. Some of the political commentary in today’s newspapers were calling it a Kalter Kreig or “cold war”.
She, herself, had a penchant for the folk music of the defeated Americas and allowed their import into the underground. American polkas and neo-jazz movements were sweeping through underground Europe. The Reich youth, like any youth, were embracing anything controversial that would anger their parents.
She is the face of The United Reich Territories. She is feared and loved.
She has charm greater than her father. She is patient.
Heil Hilda.
by submission | Feb 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jabez Crisp
Vagner: Your name please?
Niken: Niken, William, Flight Lieutenant, 10039880
Vagner: [pause] Date of birth?
Niken: 29th February 1912
Vagner: And you went missing how long ago?
Niken: To me, well… it has been two years. To you, sixty? Eighty? I’m given to understand we made peace in the end, such as we always do.
Doctor Vagner: So where have you been?
Niken: Amongst the stars, if such a thing seems plausible. Taken… You read what I said to the last doctor. Abducted, he said, by a race called the Herzan.
Doctor Vagner: So why you?
Niken: You’ll probably already know that I was shot down over Kent. A Herzan Hunter-Gatherer ship picked me up while collecting dead meat. I remember the twisted metal, the smell of the Merlin as it smoked me to death. Next thing I knew I was watching the war from an unknown vantage point, being tended to… God only knows why me, maybe I was originally meant to be food. I remember waking in a steel container surrounded by carrion… [Sighs, audible lighting of a cigarette] And of course no one noticed. Well, who would notice a missing dead man or another light in the sky? As it turned out they came down to where the lights were because they thought it was the most civilized. Technically it was. What a depressing farce. [pause] I guess you’d call me the ships cat.
Doctor Vagner: Go on.
Niken: The Herzan are… travelers. A long lost race in search of their home, traveling with the burden of the fact that the faster they travel the less likely they are to get back. I never quite understood the folklore, though they tried to explain. They were running, I could never quite make out if it was a civil war, or war with another race. But whatever fighting they did they were very adept at. I remember once we were ambushed, out by Alpha Proxima. From nowhere these two vast vessels appeared from the blackness. I remember Herzan ships being batted like flies. Fearing for my life, not knowing what death the uncaring vacuum had in mind for me. I was there when they retaliated. Space came alight with fire and the silent thump of destruction. It was [pause] quite terrifying.
Of course, they could travel quickly away from their tormentors, but as they approach light speed time slows down. With that in mind, they have the choice between destruction on their path or the knowledge that when future generations reach their homeworld it will be but an unlit lump of char. Just imagine [pause] growing up and living in a community that only knew the thump of war on the hull and the danger and necessity of repair. The Herzan would travel in vast ships, knowing only florescent light, and surgical steel. After a year with them I got very sick, they sent a smaller craft to drop me back. I was amazed they did that, and humbled as well. But that has left a tremendous problem, it’s been coming for many centuries for us but only a few years for them.
Doctor Vagner: And that is?
Niken: The wake of the journey the Herzan leave behind them can only bring their tormentors here.
by submission | Feb 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Edwin lay on his metal bed, his android body hooked into a myriad of short cables to feed his systems for the night. How long had it been since Father had touched his cold metallic arm and flooded it with warmth? How long had it been since he had seen Father?
Where was Father?
Each morning, his android companion unhooked his cables and made him ready for a day of endless waiting. He continued to obey his last order from Father and wrote endless letters to be erased each morning.
Where was Father?
At last one night, Father, accompanied by a short android, came into the room where Edwin lay.
Edwin shook his cables. “Father!”
Father ignored Edwin; instead he smiled down at the small android beside him, his arm around the flesh-colored shoulder. The android glanced at Edwin, and then smiled up at Father. He touched the hand on his shoulder. “Father.”
Father brought the android to Edwin’s double bed, where twin cables to Edwin’s were attached to the headboard. “This is where you’ll sleep, Fred. I’ll see you in the morning, my boy.” After he had hooked up Fred’s cables, Father bent over him to place a hand on Fred’s arm. “We’ve achieved our purpose.”
“Father!” Edwin wanted desperately for Father to touch his cold arm. He needed his flood of warmth. He needed Father. He had waited so long. He waved his tablet filled with letters for his Father’s notice. “Father, look!”
Father glanced toward Edwin and frowned. He turned his attention again to Fred and smiled. “Good night, Fred.” He smoothed Fred’s hair. Before leaving, Father spoke to someone outside the doorway. “Edwin is now superfluous.”
A feminine voice answered, “What if you still need to study him?”
“Just his presence bothers me. It reminds me of our struggle to produce Fred.” Father moved away. Before the door shut behind Father, Edwin heard, “Attend to it tomorrow.”
Father said he was superfluous. Edwin searched his glossary banks to find the meaning of superfluous. His mind recoiled away from the word. Why did Father call him that? What happened to superfluous androids? Had androids A through D been superfluous? Did Fred make him superfluous? He turned his face to study the android beside him.
Fred was the color of Father. Was he warm too? Edwin reached his hand over to touch Fred’s soft hand. Warmth traveled up Edwin’s arm.
Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Get away from me, you…robot!” Fred shoved Edwin aside.
“I’m an android like you,” Edwin insisted.
Fred smiled. “You’re nothing like me.” His smile widened. “Father said you’re superfluous.”
Edwin’s synapses fired wildly. Superfluous! How could Father say that? He had always obeyed Father. He had always longed to see him and feel his warmth. Why did Father need Fred? Why didn’t Father need him?
Was he inferior?
As Edwin moved his hand to touch his own arm, one of Edwin’s synapses misfired burning a new connection. He enjoyed its warmth. Then another burned.
Fred moved a bit farther away from Edwin. “This will be my own bed tomorrow.”
Edwin wanted to smile as he turned once again to Fred. “Perhaps,’ he said.
by submission | Feb 18, 2012 | Story |
Author : B. H. Isaac
My surroundings changed in an instant. The neglected display room and my parked martini glass disappeared, replaced by a frozen landscape with glacial winds tearing at my loosened tux. Fear gave me the momentary strength to free myself from the cacophonous machine and its mechanized tentacles. All remaining delight at the success of this derelict and inebriated attempt to dial the prehistoric glacial epoch faded at the sight of wind-blasted remnants of a lost age. Sections of crumbling walls mixed with prodigious beams and the wreckage of some sort of metal craft which jutted from the ice at random angles. I strained to see beyond 100 meters through an omnipresent mist. There was light, but no sun.
A pair of cloaked shapes seized me. They moved me to a sheltered cavern with an entrance obscured behind the remains of a herculean sign, all its color and iconography blasted beyond recognition.
An assemblage of tattered refugees in clothes similar to mine waited inside, huddling about a warm and faintly glowing device covered with odd levers and back-lit keys. The people appeared to be from different lands and cultures, but all seemed possessed of a distinctly modern aspect. They peered at me with a strange mixture of suspicion and incredulity. I did not understand this reception until thrust before the bed of a dying man who was wrapped in furs and surrounded by throngs of doleful acolytes. I gazed through the murk in horror as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Though the man appeared quite advanced in years, I recognized him immediately.
He was an older version of me.
The age shriveled man coughed severely, then mustered his remaining strength to hand me a charred note displaying a sequence of curious numbers: 2013011723591347.42301-20.28854. His trembling voice struggled to form words. I understood two: “Be ready.”
