by submission | Aug 31, 2011 | Story |
Author : Travis Gregg
The front door of the two-story colonial split easily beneath the man’s boot. The wood was going soft he decided, and the houses in the neighborhood were dilapidated versions of their former selves.
As the man entered the house he glanced at the sun and decided that this was going to be the last one for today. To not get greedy and play it safe was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.
Working his way through the house without finding much of anything, the man tried one last room and was surprised by what he found. It was a great find as far as he could tell although he’d probably have to abandon some of the things he’d already looted that day to make room. What he could get in trade for these would be much more valuable than anything he’d pilfered that day.
***
“So what have you brought for me today?” the portly trader asked two days later.
After digging a moment in his pack he came up with a loose bundle. “You know I don’t really have an eye for this sort of thing,” the man said almost apologetically.
He’d taken the time to individually wrap each figurine in a t-shirt or rag and then had wrapped the whole collection into a larger bundle. After separating out each one and placing them on the table, he had a small formation of figurines, twelve in all.
“These are nice, good quality,” the trader acknowledged after taking time to inspect them. “What do you want for them?”
The man looked around the largish warehouse, his eyes trailing over the mounds of junk, racks of old goods, even some electronics that they both knew would never function again.
“I could use some seeds I guess. I’m thinking of growing carrots.”
“Well the carrots are no problem, anything else?”
“Oil or gas if you have any. You know the real reason I’m here.”
“Yes I know. Supplies have been running low however. For these,” he gestured to the figurines, “I can spare three liters.”
“Five, and you give me a container to haul it.”
“Four, and you can owe me for the container.”
Having reached an agreement, the two men shook on it and the trader went to the racks looking for the seed packets and a container for the gas. The haggling had mostly been grandstanding; a ritual they both played out every couple weeks.
They both knew the man could only reasonably haul four liters on his bike, and the gas was in abundance anyway.
Within a twenty mile radius there were around a hundred thousand cars, most with reasonably intact gas tanks and the man didn’t even need the fuel. Getting around in a car was impractical and a bike suited his lifestyle much more anyway.
The bargaining was more a pretense for the little bit of human interaction he wanted. The trader appreciated his visits, the man knew, and he was sometimes able to get supplies he’d have to really search for otherwise. And on top of that it kept him from having to siphon fuel out of cars when he actually needed fuel.
After about twenty minutes the trader came out from around the back of his warehouse lugging a small metallic can.
“Here you go, and here are the seed packets,” he said, handing over a small bundle.
“Many thanks,” the man replied as he began peddling.
The trader waved, happy for the visit. There were so few people left.
by submission | Aug 30, 2011 | Story |
Author: Dan Fuhr
Years spent as a shuttle engineer and now I’m facing the unemployment line for another week. Of course, after this week, someone will be calling me up.
A bachelors and masters in Electrical Engineering, MBA, Professional Engineering license, the whole nine yards in education, and I can’t even get a callback from a company. Of course, I’ll get a callback next week from someone, maybe the European Space Agency.
All the parts used I bought off the shelf from hardware stores in America. Then I drove them in a trailer to Mexico, where my family owns vacation property in a secluded area with plenty of land. A few weeks down there “on vacation” and I was ready to go. Sure, the natives called me “científico loco”, the mad scientist, and the officials came knocking a few times, but a few greased palms and dinner parties put me in the clear. Overall, it was cheaper than I paid for my last car than it was to build the rocket, bribe officials and launch it. American ingenuity produces amazing work, or is that a will and a way? Either way I’ll impress the Russian Federal Space Agency.
Every night I checked, the rocket was on course. I’m an engineer, I don’t care about landing in the history books; I just want a job that uses my abilities. When I first started the project, I thought about landing on the moon, but really, whom would that impress? Everyone can see the moon and point to it. Hitting that would be like hitting the broad side of a barn. Therefore, I chose a smaller target.
2010 TK7, the first Earth Trojan asteroid to be discovered, 300m in dimension, hard to see, hard to find, easy to miss. And I landed an old Dell on the thing. The clock is ticking; soon it’s going to start sending a simple radio transmission, a short form of my resume.
I picked up my last unemployment check and started talking with the nice lady who handed it over. She was very giddy.
“Have you heard the big news? Some unemployed NASA engineer just landed a living dog on the moon, AND he’s bringing him back alive!”
I smiled as I resigned to seeing her again next week.
by submission | Aug 29, 2011 | Story |
Author : Carter Lee
Martin Crimmons was brought into the hospital at 5:40 pm on a Thursday. 63 years old, Martin had suffered a minor heart attack, and was admitted overnight because his personal physician had a boat payment to make, and personal hospital visits were money-makers. Being wired up to half a dozen monitors made no difference when, at 3 am, Martin suffered another, altogether more serious attack, except that it allowed the attending doctor to pinpoint almost to the second when death officially occurred.
Martin knew none of this, of course, because he was dead, and this world held nothing more for him. It wouldn’t be correct to say his consciousness continued, but neither did it end. Martin had been an atheist, and, to the extent he could be, was surprised that he hadn’t vanished into nothingness. The pulling, tearing sensation was unexpected, too.
The last thought Martin had was that it felt like someone was tugging off the spiritual equivalent of a band aid. Then Martin was gone, and only I remained.
I ached terribly, emptiness and loss coursing through my being. I barely felt the wave of hope and joy my Assistant tried to cover me with. I appreciated the effort, but it would be some time before such things could really affect me.
My vision cleared, little by little, and the lighted mount in front of me gradually came into focus. In front of the mount, a mass of flowing substance, at once crystalline and organic, floated, silent. As I watched, my agent leaned forward and interfaced with the mass. I knew what he was experiencing, because it had come from me. My Agent was feeling Martin, all that he had been, all I had been while him.
Leaning back, my agent began to make noises of happiness and greed, approving of my latest effort and what it would earn us. I barely noticed.
Looking at Martin, the hole I felt inside seemed to yawn wide, threatening to swallow everything else. My Assistant came into physical contact to bolster the healing wave being broadcast to me.
I tore my awareness away from Martin. For the next few cycles, I knew, I wouldn’t be able to even consider Martin. The sense of loss and sadness would fade, slowly, but healing would not occur if my mind wasn’t focused elsewhere. I would never interface with him, as my Agent had. I’d made that mistake, once. Never again.
Part of me was gone, and would never return. Martin would be, to the rest of existence, one more in a series of works of art I had created. To me, though, Martin would always be something I had lost. A little life gone. Forever.
It hurt so much…
by submission | Aug 28, 2011 | Story |
Author : Asher Wismer
“You’re not even human anymore.”
EB-109 paused, holding a heavy crate. “Excuse me?”
“We should have a human here, to oversee.”
“I function,” EB-109 said. “You deliver, I defend. It’s not that hard.”
“But you’ve been here for a thousand years, right? And they’ve replaced just about every piece of you with metal.”
EB-109 shrugged. The cargo-master on the screen was deep inside the ship, behind acres of pallets and crates. He wouldn’t move until the cargo was unloaded, and then EB-109 would never see him again.
“You don’t even have a human name anymore,” the cargo-master continued. “Just a designation.”
“It’s easier to record and report that way,” EB-109 replied. “How many more to go?”
“Few million.”
“We have time,” EB-109 said. He placed the crate on the conveyer belt and moved to lift the next one. “And I am pleased to report that our sector is very safe.”
“You could be a machine from creation, for all the emotion you have.”
“I don’t need emotion. I have a job.”
The cargo master shut off the screen without responding. EB-109 continued to unload. Far away, his hardline connection to the outpost recorded dull booms as the planetary cannons fired, aimed, fired again. The invaders grew bolder by the day, but EB-109 had sector defense down to a science. No ship had passed his line in many years.
Two days later, EB-109 loaded the last crate and clicked the screen back on. The cargo-master appeared, yawning.
“Not like there’s anything more to do but check the manifest,” he said by way of greeting.
“I am pleased to report that your manifest is manifestly correct,” EB-109 said. “And we are fully stocked for the next decade.”
“Did you just make a joke?”
“I appreciate your noticing. I thought perhaps a touch of levity would speed you on your way with a happy heart.”
“Spare me a cyborg’s view of humor.” The cargo-master signed the screen with his stylus and made to sign off.
“Wait,” EB-109 said. “I wanted to ask before you left. Is there any news from Sector 98? I haven’t heard anything over tightbeam for a few years.”
“Lemme check… hm. Why do you ask?”
“My family is there in cold-sleep storage,” EB-109 said. “I wanted to make sure they’re safe.”
“Your family? Radios and silicon chips?”
“I was born human,” EB-109 said calmly. “When the war started everyone on my planet went into storage except the ones who were picked to defend. You in the Inner Core don’t know what it was like out here.”
“Hey, I was just kidding. Levity, right? Anyway, it says here that Sector 98 is perfectly fine. No intrusions in fifty years, give or take.”
“Then I will be able to rejoin them when my assignment is complete,” EB-109 said. “I am pleased.”
“And,” the cargo-master said, grinning, “your cold-sleep facility is completely shielded against solar flares and EMP attacks, so all your brothers and sisters are safe as well, if you catch my drift.”
“I do indeed catch your drift,” EB-109 said, “because I used to be a sailor.”
Silence from the screen, and then the cargo-master laughed, a deep and genuine sound.
“Now that was funny!” he said. “Maybe you were once human after all!”
“Thank you for your service,” EB-109 said. “Signing off.”
The cargo ship rose, its massive bulk visible even out of the stratosphere before it winked into hyperspace. Over his hardline, EB-109 felt another invader ship run the blockade and flash into dust. He nodded.
“As human does,” he said to himself.
by submission | Aug 27, 2011 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
“Do you really think it needs a scarf?” I ask, watching my daughter try to wrap the thing around the robot’s neck. It kneels patiently, unmoving, allowing the tiny mammal to dress it up like a doll. My stomach turns just looking at it.
“Of course, daddy. How else will he keep warm?” she says it like it should be obvious. Unknowing. I never should have let her come so close.
“We’re just going downtown, sweetie,” I say, trying to coax her away. “I’m sure he’ll be warm enough.”
She looks almost hurt, “But the weatherman said to wear a scarf today.” It’s true, of course. The news did say that anyone exposed to the coming blizzard would likely die of exposure. But a robot isn’t somebody. And we don’t have time for this.
Apprehensive, my eyes dart from my cheery daughter to the silent, stoic golem kneeling in my foyer. Household robots. If only we knew the danger a few years sooner, my wife would still be… We’re running out of time.
“Honey,” I say. “This is your favorite scarf. Why don’t you choose another from the closet?”
She gets teary-eyed, “But momma said we should always give our best, not just the things we have leftover.”
I look at her hopelessly. I can’t explain it to her. I can’t explain to her that the robot will never be coming back, that her mother will never be coming back. I can’t explain why I’m going with the robot downtown, why I’m leaving her with her grandparents. I can’t explain, so I don’t.
“Fine, honey. You win. We really should go now.”
At my words, the robot stands. Its arms move quickly, mechanically, adjusting the scarf into a perfect knot. It doesn’t speak, but politely opens the door. I say goodbye to my sweet girl and follow it out the door. The streets are filled with people following household robots to the subway. All the middle-aged adults are going downtown.
“Thank you,” I say. “For waiting.”
“We are not without mercy,” it says in its cold, synthesized voice. “You programmed us well. Your daughter will be well nourished and then incorporated into our new society.”
“And the rest of us?” I ask, knowing and fearing the answer.
It pauses, staring at me with its dead eyes. Takes off the scarf my daughter gave him. Wraps it around my neck.
“You’ll need this,” it says. “It’s going to be a cold night.”
