by submission | Feb 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : John Conway
Grant pushed through the crowd, ignoring the direction indicator. He longed for elbow room and privacy, luxuries of a forgotten past. But rumor had it there were still places–distant, underpopulated islands. He only dreamed of reaching their shores … until today.
He shoved and nudged through the ebbing crush until he found Cali at 5th and Main–brown hair, golden eyes–now she would finally take him seriously.
“You again?”
“We need to talk.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Alone,” he whispered.
She laughed and gestured to the throngs around them.
Grant scanned the nearby faces. No one paid attention. It would have to do. “I have a way out of here!”
“Of where?”
“The crowd.”
“Oh, please …”
Grant yanked a device from his pocket. “With this!”
He turned it in his hand.
“What is it?”
He leaned into her ear. “A teleport.”
“Teleport?” she said.
“Shhh!”
Several passers slowed, glancing at them. Grant’s face flushed. He shoved the gadget into his jacket. “Move along,” he said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
He waited for the throngs to shift and change. With new faces finally around them, he returned his attention to Cali. “It’ll take us away.”
She seemed doubtful. “Where’d you get it?”
Grant smiled. “I was minding my own business. The crowd I was in wandered through a science building of sorts. We passed this tight clutch of government people and a technician. They had this and they were tense. As the crowd shifted, I lingered. I finally heard the technician explain it. Then, as I’m standing there listening, without looking like I’m listening, some pack of chaos–parents trying to coral their children–the technician was bumped — and it dropped.”
“That still doesn’t–”
“There was commotion. It got kicked. They dove at the floor. I stepped away … and it got kicked right to me!”
“They’ll come get you.”
“They didn’t notice.”
She glanced around. She regarded him. It was more attention than she’d ever given him before. “Let me see it again.”
He gulped. “Sure.”
“It’s kinda complicated.” She touched the Instruction Manual button. An 80-page holographic tome appeared. She whistled. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you stumped by vending machines.”
Grant canceled the display. “Never mind that. I listened. He explained. We don’t need those.”
They heard a disturbance up the street.
“It’s them,” said Cali.
Grant tried, but couldn’t see the source of the approaching uproar. His heart pounded. “We haven’t much time. Will you come with me?”
She scrutinized him. People were tossed aside in the distance. It was the government people.
He could not wait for Cali to make up her mind. “Now or never,” he said, twisting the dial. Finally, she slipped her hand around the crook of his arm.
“You won’t be sorry,” he said.
The government people closed, throwing pedestrians like sticks. “There it is!” one shouted.
“Prepare for peaceful surf.”
Grant and Cali smiled and waved.
Arms reached. “Don’t!”
The machine hummed … and vanished from Grant’s hand.
In an instant, Grant found himself off the ground, lifted by the lapel.
“Where did you send it?” shouted the strong woman holding Grant.
“But?”
“He didn’t set the proximity,” groaned another.
The woman shook him. “Where?”
“K-Kiribati ?”
The woman threw Grant to the ground. He saw that Cali received a similar treatment.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Cali brushed herself. “Directions,” she said in disgust. “You need to read directions.”
by submission | Jan 31, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jarrod Chestney-Law
Sapphire, threaded with white and then a diamond studded blackness. Sapphire and white fill my vision again. They remain now. Chirps and static bursts chatter in my ears. Emerald threads begin to fill my vision, cascading down, faster and faster until a fine web blossoms across my vision, overlaying the sapphire and white before me. I suddenly twist to the left and to the right, but it’s outside of my control. It stops and I stare forward at the vast swell of blue and white.
A tiny green envelope emerges from the web of light and bobs gently in my vision. I imagine it unfolding, and it does. An emerald mist overlays the sapphire beneath and white letters emerge. Look right. I smile and turn. It could have been anyone. Thousands of white dots are floating around us, shimmering and exploding with flashes of brilliance in the untamed sun. Scarlet lines begin to stretch out across my vision and I dismiss them.
Is it how you imagined?
The words flowed from my mind and were made real. With a sad pop, they shrink and collapse to a tiny point that crosses the distance between us.
I never imagined at all.
Of course.
Live forever?
Not now.
There are flecks of brown and green among the sapphire now. Tiny specks that taint what had been pure. I sigh and will myself to move to the right, but nothing happens. Only more of the scarlet lines, which I dismiss again.
Come to me?
I watch and wait. The other hesitates and then gently closes the distance. White arms extend and wrap around me. Long legs follow and the black plane of glass which shows only my reflection gently nudges against mine with a soft thud. I sigh and the sounds of the sigh blink away so quickly I barely see them. There are more scarlet lines than emerald now, and I leave them, watching as they gather and knot together, obscuring the scene in front of me.
Always and forever. These words trickle through, held and released with regret. Watch with me?
Always, comes the reply. My vision warps and doubles, looking down an infinite series of mirrors.
We turn our masks, our bodies still twined together and I push the red lines away one last time. The specks of green and brown consume our vision, swallowing the space around them rapaciously. I grip, and am gripped tighter as the doubled image flickers and vanishes. White flashes past us, again and again. The sapphire is gone. The white flashes one last time and then there is only green and the twisting scarlet lines.
And forever.
The last words having struggled through, shimmer and fade.
by submission | Jan 30, 2012 | Story |
Author : Salli Shepherd
Ant,
You’re not going to believe this. Unzip the folder and check out image 14, number 227. Yes, that’s a jugger you’re looking at, only ten times the regulation embryo mass. And yes, that is an illegal frontal lobe.
Look at those EEG printouts. That says sentient-level brain activity, or I am a monkey’s nutsack. And get this – according the dates, he’s two and a half years old? Still in prenatal phase. Oh yeah, and zoom in on that dark spot on the left. #227 also seems to have grown himself an eyeball.
Our whole agenda here just took one giant leap into workable human rights territory. So let Jim know the plan’s changed. Getting this jugger out alive will achieve a lot more than just sabotaging another lab.
Security’s tight. I’ll mail you when I can.
– B
____________________
Ant,
They excised the eye for biopsy. Makes me wonder if 227 is all about the next big WHO summit, pushing for retina harvests, organ factories, etc. But then, what’s with the frontal lobe? I have no clue what’s up with that.
– B
____________________
Jesus H. Christ. No. Not happening.
Tell Jim he cannot – I repeat, cannot – trash this facility before I figure this out. I want at least a week. Flash your titties at him if you have to.
As for 227, he’s doing okay. Grabbing you a biopsy sample of that eye tonight, maybe.
Wish me luck.
– B
____________________
Four days is just not enough. Flash him again, let me know if it works.
Good news: I got your sample on ice, will send ASAP but it could take some time.
Bad news: they moved 227 up to Level 3, major lockdown. My guess is, they store the other ‘anomalies’ up there, too. Getting him out won’t be easy. I expect things might get messy so I’ll need the whole crew, and the truck geared up and ready to roll.
Miss you too, can’t wait to be home.
– B
____________________
Hey,
With what I found up there, we could feasibly take this whole company down – and maybe the jugger legislature with it. Admit it: I am Superman.
I’ll have eight specimens all up: three ‘special editions’ in formaldehyde, four regular juggers, alive and well, and 227. That makes five travel packs. We can tank that many at the lab, right? Our gear’s pretty rustic compared to what’s here, but better than nothing.
Do not even think about being in that truck. You know how it is. These guards are paid to shoot, not ask questions.
Smile, Lois. Looks like we’re going to have a baby.
– B
____________________
Antoinette,
I must say how sorry I am about Ben. Let me know if there’s anything you need.
Forgive me for talking business at a time like this, but I’m quite eager to know what happened to that delivery he promised.
Sincerely,
Jim
____________________
Jim,
My husband is quadruplegic, not dead. I don’t need your condolences.
This is to inform you that we no longer wish to support your organisation. As I have said to you before, there’s better ways to deal with this. Ways that don’t get people shot.
I’m keeping 227. The files, too, all of it. Think what you will, but I need those jugger stem cells to make Ben whole again. Once he’s healed, we’ll decide together what to do next.
227 is developing quickly without the growth retardants. He even has real fingers and toes now. I think we’ll name him Nelson.
Don’t bother looking for us. God willing, we’ll be in touch.
– Antoinette
by submission | Jan 29, 2012 | Story |
Author : Tom Coupland
Even more of the world watched Jerome II enter the hospital room than had even watched those first interviews with Jerome. Those early interviews had set the world alight. They had watched in their thousands of millions as the gray haired scientist had described the moment he realised he had taken a step humanity had never before imagined possible. The moment he felt his mind tear. When he described how the sensation of fluid filled lungs had caused him to believe he was drowning while standing in his lab, they had exclaimed their disbelief. As he went on to describe how he first saw his submerged premature eyes open and also of opening them, they fell silent. Of how he had looked through the distortion of the growth medium and the glass curve of the viewing portal into his own soul from two pairs of eyes, the clamour began.
All the efforts philosophers had put into the moral issues of cloning; inter clone homicide, asset ownership, even marriage. All the scientific enquiry into the process of tempting cells taken from an individual to form a new whole. Those decades of biological and ethical thinking had never considered how the human mind itself would cope with the existence of two physically identical brains. How the two might entangle at the lowest possible subatomic level and create a new kind of home for a mind. A home with two bodies.
The dispute over what this meant for the human race began immediately. Spiritual ideals formed the first lines around which the debate ebbed and flowed. Was this proof of gods existence or would new branches of the science explain this incredible finding?
As the conversation matured more practical concerns began to dominate. Regardless of whether it was science or spiritual in nature. Was this the end of cancer and degenerative diseases? Would it be possible for those now alive to measure their experiences in centuries or even millennia? Could humanity stop losing its finest minds to death? Had immortality been achieved?
Of course, thus far all of humanity’s greatest discoveries had caused stresses on the race before any benefit was felt. Could the impact of this, the most incredible discovery of all, be too much for us to bear? Would armies of a single mind march across the world waging war? First against those countries that held resources coveted by their creators, but soon just against each other for dominance over the planet.
As the years passed an almost unspoken agreement formed. No one attempted to recreate Jeromes work, they waited until one further crucial piece of the experiment was performed; could Jeromes psyche survive the death of the original host?
So now in their tens of billions they watched as Jerome failed to first find a breath and then another heart beat. Then the whole world turned its attention to the man stood over the bed.
by submission | Jan 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jamie Grefe
It doesn’t take them long to do it, just eye contact. Once they do, and those eyes are locked, instant transmission — you disappear.
I’m not sure if this is just the way my own programming reacts to this planet, but something has happened. I was on the shuttle to the west quadrant. One of them sitting across from me, he must have known. I could feel his pink eyes from across the aisle, just took me raising my head, unblinking, and when he had me, I was back on the ship, except it wasn’t the ship, it was the inside of a brain. The walls were smeared, drenched in rotten grey mucus. There was red light, a table, a bed. It was McKinney’s bed, and he was there, looked like him — strapped down — a button in the middle of the table. I kept hearing this whisper under my tongue, saying, “push,” over and over. Was all I could hear, just moved to the table, pushed it. When I pressed that button, my self, my being, me…I fell apart. I could feel this body being stretched, ripped, splattered, enveloped by some force. The next thing I know is I’m standing in the station, shuttle doors closing, and that one, those pink eyes, he’s at the doors, one of his hands touching the window and I look — there is blood on his fingertips, which is when I notice blood on my fingers, too.
And it gets worse.
When I go to look for the bathroom, it’s like they all know. Everyone is staring, whispering, children point. In the bathroom, there’s this lady on the floor, twitching, hurt or something, vomiting, pool of blood leaking from her body and when I go to pick her up, turn her over, the lights go out, I’m back in the brain room, except this time it’s not McKinney on the bed, but it’s me. I’m strapped down.
You’re there, too. Yeah, you’re standing where I was standing, but now it feels like it happened years ago and I don’t know how I know it’s you, but I do, am certain of it. And when you walk to that table, I’m opening my mouth, telling you not to do it, but you don’t stop. I remember thinking, what if the transmissions are linked and we just haven’t been able to figure out how they do it and they know this, so they kill us whenever they can, make us kill each other and then we, because we don’t know, blame our own faulty systems and repeat the process . . . what I mean is, what if we are misdiagnosing the problem? This must be it, but you, in that room, just won’t listen and I scream your name. You don’t do anything except hold out your hand, press the button and I can’t forget your eyes. They were pink, you were crying, your face asleep, and you looked like the one on the shuttle. Was it you? Please tell me.
I don’t know what happened to McKinney or Johnson or Brooks or Phillips. But, you won’t believe me, will you? That’s why I’m sending this from The South. I’ve met an ex-employee, says he can program a new girl identity so I won’t have to live with the guilt of these accusations about how I murdered McKinney and the rest of them.
And, if it was you in the room or on the shuttle, don’t worry. I know you couldn’t help it. Your tears told me everything.
