by submission | Sep 10, 2009 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
Subject: No man is an island.
From: ISowending@EarnestPeople.com
Dear Robert,
I know that’s not your name.
They call me Jane. That’s not my name.
Does that remind you of something?
If you’d rather, you can call me Maria; because some things we can’t help, they happen on a completely subconscious level.
And all this week I’ve been sending you a message.
You listen to rock music, don’t you? Do you remember hearing Metallica? Perhaps it was on the TV, or the radio, or the internet.
In the 1960s, Stanley Milgram ran some experiments at Yale University. He showed that a significant minority of us are so socially conditioned so that we will just do as we’re told, no matter how outrageous the consequences. And it’s not necessarily the people you think.
I know you don’t think of yourself as a rebel, or even disaffected, but you don’t really fit in, do you? You weren’t one of the cool-crowd at school, right?
Have you ever seen Donnie Darko? It was on TV this week. Do you remember that haunting music? How does it make you feel? Not quite real, right?
If you think about it, you can see yourself sat at your computer now, reading this e-mail. Go on, imagine it; looking down on yourself, like you’re watching yourself in a film. You’re just a character in a film.
In that film, this e-mail is a virus, exactly like a computer virus. Except this virus is for people; it’s for reprogramming people.
You’re a creative person. You have a good imagination. And you remember things. Not always useful things, but trivia, random facts. You make good use of your subconscious.
Not everyone remembers where they’ve come across Hemingway. Perhaps they read the book at school, or saw the film with Gary Cooper; perhaps they just read the synopsis on Wikipedia, or in those encyclopaedias you had when you were a kid. Perhaps they don’t know how they know, or even remember that they do, but some people will remember it all, subconsciously.
I think you’re one of those people; in fact I’m counting on it. Not everyone will respond to this e-mail, and we’ve sent it to millions of people.
But you will.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up; you’ll know were to go; where to collect a van. And you’ll drive the van to a bridge, you’ll know which one. Then you’ll detonate a bomb that’s inside.
Today you don’t think you’ll do that.
And I appreciate your scepticism. But you are still reading this, aren’t you? Ask yourself: why am I still reading this?
If you concentrate, inside your head, you can hear the repeated clang of a single church bell.
You can, can’t you, if you concentrate?
Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it’s for you, sweetie, it’s for you.
Isabel Sowending.
by submission | Sep 9, 2009 | Story
Author : Jennifer C. Brown aka Laieanna
One, two, three fireflies into the jar. Just like that, all at once. Probably some kind of pact. I check the remains. Two girls, one boy, none over eighteen. Nobody brings anything to the jar except the young. They don’t plan, they just go. Money is all I really look for, paper better than chips. Spends immediately without paying for identity wipe. These kids have little between them but I take what I can. Even a shirt from the boy, he’s my size and it’s a color I’ve never seen before. The shovels won’t care what’s left with the remains. Their mechanical eyes see a job, not a loss. They’ll take what I didn’t steal all in one scoop.
I see more coming over the hill. Old man with five fake crying women making a half circle around him as his hovering chair reads and mimics the bumps over a grass path to the jar. No one ever built a real path. The jar is for everyone but no one is invited here. “Never forgotten. Never celebrated.” someone once scratched onto the plaque near the jar. True words.
I’ll get nothing from this geezer and the snakes who are already tonguing the rich out of his pockets. I don’t need to see him put into the jar. The smiles on greedy make me sick especially when they’re tossing into the jar. I take for need, not for greed. I’ll come back at the dark.
I see stars. I count stars till I forget the numbers. Only see stars when high on the hill now. Each time the jar gets brighter and brighter at night. I always hope to take good sunglasses from a remain, but they haven’t left them yet. Might have to buy a less good pair. Eyes half closed, I walk to the jar. No one comes at night. It scares them or makes them cry. Couple times they tried but years have gone by and no one, no more.
The fireflies are dancing, their long sleek bodies without arms, without legs, illuminating white floating in the jar, swirling around each other. Can’t touch the jar or be a firefly. The jar isn’t glass like some food containers, just a barrier between us and them. I can touch the metal ring the jar sits on and feel a vibration in my hand.
“Momma,” I whisper. Four fireflies come a little closer. There are no faces, I don’t know if any of them are her. “Why did you leave me?” I hate tears. Some nights they just come. None of the fireflies will tell me. I don’t know if they even can. Heard different men explain the jar for years. An alternative to the unknown. People can avoid death, live in their minds in the jar. That’s it’s purpose, man-made crossover. Some hate it, some think it’s wrong, screaming about it’s devil workings. Lots take advantage of it, especially the real sick. Most just don’t know, debating it’s use for hours before they cross or walk away.
“Momma” I say again. My heart hurts, my mind takes me back to the day she crossed. Don’t know if she was sick. Think she was just scared. When she stepped in the jar and her remains fell to the ground, I held a cold hand till the shovels scared me away. I was only seven. Been here since and still don’t know if she’s really in there or if it’s all just a lie. Don’t really care. Just can’t leave her like she did me.
by Patricia Stewart | Sep 8, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Alpha Doore is a Mars size planet orbiting an orange-red main sequence dwarf star called BD+56 2966 in the Constellation Cassiopeia. The oxygen and water rich world had several large continents and a flourishing ecosystem. The exploration team was near the end of its six month long mission of categorizing the various indigenous life forms when Commander Komney authorized a two-man sojourn into the subterranean caverns, which had been classified “promising, but tertiary” by the Mission Assessment Team.
The following day, the two would-be spelunkers were a quarter of a mile into an immense corrasional cave when they encountered a herd of giant centipedes “grazing” on the chemoautotrophic moss growing on the damp cavern walls. The creatures were enormous by any standard. Their fifteen foot long segmented bodies were about eighteen inches in diameter; with a dozen horizontal leg-bearing segments trailing two vertical arm-bearing segments capped by a head section. The main body stood three feet above the ground on long but obviously sturdy limbs. The posterior leg pairs were slightly longer than those preceding it, giving the creature a pronounced trough between its “back” and the vertically oriented front end. The head contained two flexible eyestalks that were so high above the ground that the human explorers had to look up to make eye contact.
“Wow, look at the size of those guys,” exclaimed Doctor Zabell, the landing party’s Medicinal Chemist slash Structural Exobiologist (cross-disciplinarian specialization was commonplace on the mission, since crew members were selected using the standard “double-up model,” where each contributor was expected to wear multiple hats). In addition, Zabell fancied himself a zoologist, a botanist, an anatomist, and anything else that allowed him to pontificate ad nauseam. “Adam,” he whispered, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” replied Adam Ryder, the team’s Maintenance Engineer slash Galley Chef, who volunteered for this particular excursion because he needed a break from cleaning the anti-matter injectors, but mostly because be was bound and determined to find a viable supply of Agaricus bisporus for his famous Mushroom Bisque.
“Well,” continued the doctor slash lecturer, “I was thinking that they must be intelligent. Their heads are enormous, and if that’s where the brains are, then they must be twice the size of ours. And look at their four hands. They have opposable thumbs. These creatures are probably capable of delicate manipulation. I wouldn’t be surprised if they can make, and use, sophisticated tools. You weren’t thinking that?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I was also wondering what was driving their evolutionary process. For instance, are they this large because the gravity on Alpha Doore is only four tenths that of Earth? And listen to the rapid clicking noise. I think that they might be trying to communicate with us. And why are they traveling in herds? Earth arthropods don’t do that. I have a million questions. Aren’t you curious about any of that?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, Adam. So tell me, what is it that you’re thinking?”
“I’d rather not say, Doctor. I don’t think you’d consider it very professional.”
Dr. Zabell studied his companion for a moment. The young Maintenance Engineer was eying the nearest centipede with steely determination, his jaw tightening, his fingers flexing. “Dammit Adam, you want to try to ride one, don’t you?”
Slowly, the corners of Adam Ryder’s lips curled upward into a devilish grin.
by submission | Sep 7, 2009 | Story
Author : Steven Odhner
Gerald Forsythe was still too weak to move, his mind still partially asleep, but he knew the walls didn’t look how they should. Ever so slowly he was able to take in bits of information in an attempt to solve this riddle. The walls were flat. Good. They were a pale green color. Good. Gerald felt a moment of pride at remembering the color ‘green’, and then was immediately embarrassed for thinking of that as an accomplishment. Was waking up from stasis always like this?
The walls… were dirty. No. Not dirty, and that was the problem; they were perfectly clean but looked dirty due to the general wear and tear of use – scratches, dents, corners softened by the casual bumping of hips and hands. The walls had been so crisp and perfect what felt like an hour before, but Gerald was almost fully awake now and could remember that his first shift was set to be twelve years into the journey. Should the walls be this damaged already? If twelve years could do this would the ship even survive for the hundreds of years it would take to reach the new homeworld?
Gerald sat up, and darkness pressed in around the edges of his vision for a moment before receding. He turned his head – slowly – and confirmed that he was alone in the decanting room.
“Computer,” he called out, wincing at his sudden headache, “How many years since departure?” The speaker spewed out crackling noises in reply, but Gerald was fairly sure he had heard “Three hundred Seventy-Five”. That explained his hangover, at least.
“Computer… how many people are currently active?” He knew the massive arkship should be operating on a rotating skeleton crew of forty people, each crew member serving for three years before going back into stasis. The speakers crackled again, the reply slightly more audible. “One Hundred Thirteen.” Life support could provide for roughly three hundred Active humans indefinitely so this wasn’t a safety concern, but it still meant something was wrong… Any further questions Gerald had were forgotten as a strange figure appeared in the doorway.
The man had a thick, bushy grey beard and long hair, and his jumpsuit had been cut and dyed so that it was barely recognizable. He had to be at least fifty, and the cutoff age for colonists was thirty – not everyone on Earth could be saved.
“You are Engineer first class Gerald Forsythe?” The man asked. Gerald nodded.
“I am Ethan, son of Eric, son of Lars. I am sorry to pull you from the Great Sleep, but my daughter Sarah is our current Speaker and she says you are needed.”
The man clearly thought this sentence made perfect sense. “What… what the hell is a Speaker?”
“The Speaker,” the man replied, speaking slowly as if explaining to a child, “is the one charged with interpreting the will of the Computer, that it may guide us all to the Reward where your people can once more awaken from the Great Sleep. Sarah has told us that the computer needs someone to enter one of the Forbidden Halls.”
“Which… uh… Forbidden Hall would that be?”
“The Computer calls it Maintenance Service Corridor 36G. It speaks of something called…” the man closed his eyes in concentration as he spoke the unfamiliar words, “a Fused Control Circuit.”
Gerald had a million questions, but the bottom line was that if a control circuit was fused it was still his responsibility… what the hell. “Take me there, I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”
by submission | Sep 6, 2009 | Story
Author : Bill Owens
Shift change is a slow-motion affair. Everything is. They lost the ability to move quickly a long time ago. He’s patient; no sense getting uptight, it only hurts him – they don’t care. They lost that ability too.
The last spot on the line is filled again, his eyes sweep across the room to be sure none have wandered off. A tiny nod, and his assistant, the little sphere hovering silently just above his shoulder, sends a command to the factory. The line starts running. Slowly. Of course.
“Looks good, son.”
He jumps at the voice; nobody on the line ever speaks. “Oh, hi, dad. You surprised me. Yeah, it’s all good.” A thought, a question answered silently by the little sphere at his side. “Ahh, about two, maybe three percent above quota.”
An answering nod, so much like his own. A rare smile, “Can you come upstairs? They’ll be okay for a little bit, and I want to talk to you.”
The conference room door shuts out the last of the sound from the floor. Gestured to a seat, he can’t relax; they never come here. A nervous clearing of the throat, unreadable expression. There’s a small glass bottle on the table – now the tension is tight across his neck. His assistant chirps, alerted. “Umm, dad? Why do you have that?”
The expression changes; he still can’t decode it. “You’re eighteen, son.” A flicker of the eyes to the vial and back. “You can have this any time.” Is it expectation? Fear? Something else.
The cloudy drops will be sweet – he knows that. His friends have told him. It tastes like sugar, disappears on the tongue, floods warmth. Before their voices drift away, they talk about the visions, people they’ve lost, wishes fulfilled, the mother they always wanted, the lover they desired. Their faces relax, eyes lose focus. He’s seen the expression, over and over – sees it every day on the line. They’re happy, contented, they have no worries any more. Life in a dream, as cloudy as the vial’s contents.
If he drinks it, his assistant will know. Change its program without ever moving from its station. Make sure he is fed, cleaned, cared for. He’ll take his place on the line, or in the field, or wherever he’s needed. His body, anyway. It will walk for him, place his hands on the the machine, direct his muscles to pull a rake. He’ll be elsewhere. Dreaming.
He realizes that his father has been watching, doubtless trying to read the expressions he sees. If he’s found something, there’s no sign. His father is one of the few, self-chosen, those who resist and therefore remain themselves. Retain themselves. Only a handful have the strength. Now his only child is staring at that choice.
The vial is open, cap beside it. All he has to do is tip it into his mouth. An interminable moment later, he does. Sweet. Spreading across his tongue, and. . . nothing. A flash of anger at his father. “You gave me a fake?”
Relief. Now the face is plain, finally. Eyes close, a slow, sad shake of the head. “No, that’s full strength. It didn’t work because we’re missing the gene that creates the neural receptor. We’re immune. I’ve tried a hundred variations, and nothing.” Their eyes finally meet. “Now you know why we run this factory.”
