by submission | Jul 12, 2011 | Story
Author : M.J. Hall
“Is this it?” the young man asked. “The evidence to prove your thesis?”
“Yes,” she said, with quiet conviction. “I think this artifact might be the key to the entire society. If it’s intact. If it still functions. If the scans read it right . . . “
For years she had taught about the Ancestors, a people of networks, and books of faces, and pale skin that would scald in sunlight. Her dark purple arms glowed magenta in the red light of the planet’s dying sun, a skin tone that evolved in their people through a thousand years of UV exposure on a planet practically devoid of ozone.
A beep sounded from the tablet in her hand.
“It’s here.” She spoke softly, as always, but now excitement sang in her voice.
She had read the works of all the old authors in her field—Willey, Jennings, Binford. Strange names from eons ago, and even stranger methods described in their work as they dug into the soil—actually touched the dirt!—with their primitive tools. Despite an odd sense of nostalgia, she knew the ionizing radiation from the loam beneath her would kill her within a week without lotion to block its harmful emanations. She didn’t dare touch it.
She squinted hard at the sheen on the soil’s surface for a moment. Then, with a careful hand, she drew two parallel lines in the soil above the artifact. Changing to the opposite axis, she drew two parallel lines, perpendicular to the first and intersecting them. Without glancing up, she began to lecture.
“Dr. Emuh believes that this symbol was religious iconography. But I think it served a social function. It was a crucial piece of etiquette in relating to others in the social network . . . “ She continued automatically as she adjusted the settings on her sonic trowel. Switching from magnetic imaging to an excavation feature, she carefully manipulated the parallel blades into the earth at her feet. The machine ticked off the centimeters as she squatted to push it farther into the iridescent soil. As she reached twenty centimeters below datum she paused, holding her breath in an effort to hold the blades completely still as she adjusted the settings. One slip now could ruin a lifetime’s work, or at least a dissertation’s worth.
Two more green blades extended, perpendicular to the first. They now formed a box around the location of the unseen artifact, and with the lightest touch she activated the bottom of the cube. Twenty centimeters below their feet another panel sealed off the bottom of the cube. Carefully, gently, and ever-so-slowly she removed the artifact, encased in its matrix of loam, the decayed midden of a thousand generations. Her student moved fast to slide the hovercart under the excavated block. Once it was safely delivered she adjusted the settings on her trowel once more. Sonic waves gently pulsed against the artifact, shaking the dirt of a thousand years away. She barely registered her student’s gasp as the small black rectangle was revealed.
Unconsciously, she held her breath once more as she keyed a final combination. The machine first vacuum-sealed the box, drying the contents instantaneously, then sent a full charge through the antiquated system. Without daring to look at her student, she touched the last key.
The artifact came to life, its screen glowing for the first time in a thousand years. Its mechanized voice droned a single word: “DROID”.
As she exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, she noticed her student’s grin.
“Congratulations, Doctor Aisling.”
by Duncan Shields | Jul 11, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“It must be because they have such a short life,” chittered the softly glowing centipede pilot, easing back on the throttle near the viewscreen as it maintained a discreet distance from the planet. “With almost no time to experience life, the need to see life end must be strong. Why else would they kill? They seem quite bent on it and quite good at it. Look. Entire sections of their organizational structures are dedicated to it. Even the smaller organizations. Armies, they call them.”
The box-like creature with too many eyes in the chair next to the pilot hummed in thought before speaking. “I’m not sure I agree with your findings, Pilot. If that were the case, they’d all be dead by now. Mathematically speaking. There must be some that want to live with others and not see the end of life.”
“Maybe you’re both right.” vibrated the translucent skein of cells wafting on the air currents near the bridge vents, colours rippling across its surface. “Maybe there are factions of people devoted to death and factions devoted to living. Remember, they wear out quickly. No section of their population is long-livers. Perhaps the ones that want to live must kill the ones that want to kill.”
They all paused to consider that.
The green, moist creature with the huge mouth near the back spoke up. “Seems pretty confusing. Killing to protect yourself from killers. Can’t quite get my head around it. Surely one must be one or the other.”
“Well, you are rather binary, aren’t you?” whispered the cluster of feathers monitoring the radiation feeds and power levels. Some of the other creatures chuckled. The green, moist creature turned black with confusion and embarrassment.
“Shut up, here comes the captain.” said the eyeless red octopus lobster on the ceiling.
The doors from the lift parted and in walked the impressive bulk of the captain. “Well, how goes the findings? Does it classify?” the captain asked, beaks quivering with anticipation.
“It’s borderline, captain.” reported the centipede. “I don’t think we can start the procedure yet. We’ll have to leave a marker and come back.”
“That’s too bad. Well, proceed. We’ll return in two turns of the rim.” said the captain, visibly disappointed.
A marker left the ship and detonated high above the planet, leaving behind an invisible anchor in timespace after two weeks of drilling.
Far down below, three kings on camels saw it glowing and followed it.
by submission | Jul 10, 2011 | Story
Author : Julian Miles
The cell was spartan yet comfortable. In the functional frame chair, the figure sat with the plain dark blue jumpsuit hanging on him like a drape over furniture. He looked up with weary eyes as the door opened and a well-dressed figure entered. He reflexively pushed for link, but the implanted screen prevented his uplinks with a painless but frightening silence where the world had once been at his call. The figure closed the door and sat cross-legged on the floor. With a smile, the figure spoke in calm, warm tones.
“Hello, Marten. I’m Steve. Executioner’s Counsel.”
Marten stared at this shockingly normal looking agent of doom.
“You don’t look like I expected.”
Steve smiled again.
“Precisely.”
“So, you here to tell me how it happens?”
“No, I’m here because you have raised concerns. The Executioners will not act without clarity. In action and motive.”
“Look, you have the uplink AV of the event. I killed him.”
“You did. With some considerable overkill, it has to be said.”
“He was a monster, untouchable by law. He oversaw my daughter’s murder and drove my wife to suicide. So I executed him. Simple. Now go tell your bosses to get me dead.”
Marten shifted under Steve’s intent gaze. His uplinks quivered as if they were being queried in anonymous mode, but he received only silence. Steve shook his head and sighed.
“You’re determined to go all the way, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You do realise that uplink recorded your investigations? That material has resulted in several people going to the Executioners without Counsel. Which is more than grounds for you to receive Executioner’s Mercy.”
“I killed him! The court said I had reduced him beyond replication or Transit! What does it take to get you to kill me?”
Marten’s desperate stress allowed Steve to drop into his emotional volition centres and read the truth, but by law, Marten had to say it. He had to commit himself.
“I am here because what you did is justifiable and as such, for you to continue to seek Execution has caused the Five to consider Mandating you.”
Marten reacted like he had been electrified. His eyes opened wide and he gasped for air and words before a hoarse croak tore itself from him,
“No!”
Tears poured down Marten’s face as he continued in a broken whisper
“He took everything and nearly destroyed me. I only stayed to avenge my ladies and make sure my folks were cared for.”
“You mean that you would have ended yourself except that the suicide directives would have reverted your estate to the Treasury?”
“Yes. I want to be with my family. Please. Tell them. I want to go. Their mercy would be a living death sentence.”
Steve sat quietly before wiping a single tear from his own cheek. He watched it dry on his finger. The only real judge of honesty, Executioner One called it. If you felt nothing then you were on the way to being a part of the problem. In the chair, Marten Thompson’s body voided itself and with that spasm, toppled to lie on the floor. Steve stood and turned to face the door. He straightened his suit, then activated his duty uplink;
“Executioner Three. Sanction applied as grounds for Mercy judged to be inhumane.”
by submission | Jul 9, 2011 | Story
Author : Vankorgan
She’s not too young. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. My type exactly. She’s got a firm body that raises the folds of her sundress in less than innocent ways. I watch as she looks at me across the bar. Giving me the look of a much older woman, the kind that knows exactly what she wants.
The waiter responds to my nod and takes down my order plus what I order for her. She watches me as the man heads to the kitchen. She watches in the four minutes of his absence. She watches me even as the well dressed server hands her a drink. Tequila Sunrise with a twist of lime. It’s a drink that works every time here. Plus it’s the only one I know by heart.
She takes a sip and smiles, never taking her eyes off me. Her body ripples under the innocent dress and she twirls a lock of hair, letting me know the interest is mutual. She is pure unignited sex and I am on fire.
My hand strokes habitually in my pocket. The index finger running down the length of the long blade until I can feel the warmth of my blood against my palm. I imagine the blade against the soft cotton sundress. I imagine the taste of her blood, the warm copper running down my mouth, dripping from my chin and falling on my clean white shirt.
I imagine how I’ll do it. Buy her a few drinks to numb. Ask her to dance. Excuse ourselves to the apartment I’ve rented. Watching her walk up the stairs in front of me while I hold the cold, jumping steel in my pocket. We close the door. We kiss.
And so it goes. But first I have to get her back. I stand, ready to ask her to join me for another drink-
TIME HAS EXPIRED. PLEASE RENEW SESSION IF YOU WISH TO CONTINUE.
Fuck.
I fish through my pockets for what’s left of my credits. The empty cotton meets my fingertips with a mocking disdain for my intentions. I have to be quick, the machine times out after ten minutes and then everything I’ve spent the last twenty on will be ruined.
I stand and exit the chamber regretfully. The port is busy during the day. Should have no problem. I sit down beside my chamber, take off my hat and throw a credit in to start the whole thing off.
A man walks by. Another. I get a credit from an older guy who I’m sure wants me to spend it on groceries or vitamins or something. Eight minutes. Two girls walk by and I try to appeal to their innocence. You have no idea what I can do to you. Six minutes. A boy with a dog. A conservatively dressed couple tosses in a credit. You don’t want me out there. Four minutes. A woman who looks like the one in the machine walks through the crowded spaceport. She glances at me and I can see pity in her eyes. She reaches in her purse and pulls out a few credits, hesitates and then tosses them into my waiting hat.
All I need.
I open the machine and am relieved to see it hasn’t expired. Back to work.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 8, 2011 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jack shifted uncomfortably against the handcuffs, the straight back of the chair too wide against his shoulder-blades, the wood irritating through the thin fabric of his blazer.
“A little presumptuous thinking you could waltz in here and kill me,” the speaker’s voice high and feminine in stark contrast to the height and mass of his frame, “surely you don’t think me so stupid?”
Jack surveyed the room casually, gauging the distance between the pillars holding the glass ceiling aloft, to the hedgerow beyond, and to the fence line beyond that. He wasn’t cuffed to the chair, so if he tipped it forward, he could slip over and…
“Jack,” the man shook his head reproachfully, “there’s no point in plotting an escape. You can’t get out.” He smiled, running his carefully manicured fingers down the silk of his lapels. “Fitchburg and Sven designed this place themselves. Energy fields outside render me impervious to rockets, energy weapons,” he waved the Berretta he’d taken from Jack, “clumsy men with handguns. You could crash a heliocopter into the roof without causing serious damage,” he paused, his face pulling into a frown, “you’ll have to trust me on that one.”
From a vantage point more than a kilometer away, a third man opened a briefcase, assembling a long barreled rifle without looking, a ritual practiced to the point of reflex. Attaching a oversized scope to the rifle he took up position, located his target and waited.
“Mogilevich, you think you’re avtoritet – a leader, but you’re just a baklany, a punk. You think I’ll be the last one to come gunning for you? Maybe next time I’ll just lob a grenade through your front door.”
Mogilevich bristled at the open disrespect. “Your grenade would be detonated in your hand.”
From the hilltop far away, the rifleman smiled a half smile at the scene unfolding below. Jack was precisely where he gambled Jack would be. Several rounds of drinks were owed, as was the usual.
Mogilevich chuckled, turning his back on his prisoner and looking out into the darkness. “What to do with you, you tiresome thug.”
The rifleman judged the distance, the wind, accounted for the curvature of the landscape and the pull of gravity. A fourteen hundred meter shot would be a long one, but not unheard of. He’d shot farther, in heavier atmosphere. He laid the crosshairs on his target, adjusted, breathed out slowly and felt his heart beat slow. Beat, beat…, beat…, beat – squeeze. The sharp crack of the rifle still hung in the air as he began tearing the gun down again, returning it piece by piece to its case.
Mogilevich’s ears bristled at the sound, but stood amused as the air between he and the outer perimeter coalesced, the long brass bullet gradually slowing from its faster than sound entry velocity to come to a complete stop, suspended in mid air barely a foot in front of him.
Mogilevich chuckled, his chuckle turning to a deep belly laugh, his body shaking uncontrollably as tears streamed from his eyes.
“Two,” he gasped, pointing at Jack, “two failures out to kill me. This is an outrage.” His laughter settled into tentative chuckles as he plucked the stilled bullet from its flight path. “eight point six, seventy millimeter bullet? Lapua? American…”
He stopped speaking, his brain still processing thoughts, but no air moving through his voice-box with which to produce sound.
Jack leaned the chair forward until he could slide his hands up and over the back, then stepping through the cuffs to bring his hands in front of him he walked around so Mogilevich could see him.
“Cat got your tongue?” Jack was smiling now. “Contact poison, should keep you paralyzed for just long enough for you to asphyxiate.
Jack fished in the man’s pockets for keys with which he unlocked his cuffs and dropped them both back in his pocket.
“Love to hang around and chat, but you and me, this is razborka, we’re even. Now, dammit, I’ve got to go buy a man a drink.”
