by submission | Aug 6, 2009 | Story
Author : H. Chaskin
Above the clouds, it still rains. No pitter-patter. More like split-pea mist.
Floating highway roars outside. Looks like Jetsons. Smells like Jersey.
Naked Lady Calendar: July. Never used to rain in July.
Electric eye jingles an 8-bit interlude above the door. Octo-Gen with no teeth dodders in. Orders a hockey puck, so I burn one.
Behind the counter, flipping the burger. Synth-beef smells like octane. Octo-gen eyes an antique on the shelf. Faded decal on the side. “Historic Route 66”. Been there since I started here. Décor, I guess.
Octo-Gen: That takes me back. Nice machine. Pre-paperless.
Octo-gens talk too much.
Clock: 22:47. All night job. Kid in college.
My son: Georgetown: What’s left of it. Studying law. Rebuild, maybe.
8-bit interlude: Second customer. Fat Officer Flatfoot. Works the Ottawa shift. Tired, like I’m tired.
Officer: Don Martin Special. American Charlie in Red Pants. Dust the Roof, Hold the Pom-Pom.
Drawer 42. Unwrap green cube. Nuke It: 30 seconds. Enjoy your meal.
Downs it like a duck. Barely chews. Siren: Blip.
Officer: And a java for the road. CHNO-plus, no Sucra.
Bitter bean pills liquify in the styro-can. Flatfoot scans his token, and the black-and-white hovers. Disappears into the soup.
8-bit interlude: Dried-up floozy with blurry lipstick. Little boy with her. Running, maybe.
Floozy: Radio sandwich, mystery in the alley. And Balloon Juice for the kid.
Me: Radio’s fritzed. Mercury recall, you see.
Floozy: Just the mystery, then. And Balloon Juice for the kid.
Me: New special tonight. Graveyard stew. For the kid, I mean.
Floozy: Just the mystery.
Token scan. She puts fifty on one, thirty on another, and the rest on a temp-card. I don’t ask questions.
Drawer 22. Unwrap gray cube. Nuke It: 35 seconds. Enjoy your meal.
8-bit interlude: Man in pilot jacket. Scraggly beard. Looks like mariner.
Floozy pokes at the hash with her chopsticks. Kid won’t drink. Busy night.
Mariner: Jumbled-cluck. Green-o. No synth-prots.
Doesn’t look like a high roller. I remind him.
Me: Greeno’s top dollar.
Mariner: No object.
We keep the real stuff in the back.
Freezer door hisses shut and I come back with egg. God help me, real egg. White and round. Cold.
Tell him to swipe his token before I crack it. Instead, he asks for the register. Tall order. Short gun. Snub nose. In his jacket pocket. Old gun. Wonder if it works.
Me: What’s a register?
He points to the antique on the shelf and it hits me. He’s a past-master. Nostalgia bandits. Luddite Bakunins who order green-o and steal antiques.
Floozy is crying. Kid spilled his balloon juice. I hand past-master the relic. He cradles it like it’s worth something. Backs out of the place, gun pointed my way all the time.
“Down with the automats!” he yells from the door. And gone into the soup.
by submission | Aug 5, 2009 | Story
Author : Joseph Patrick Pascale
An imposing man with the makings of a beard splotched across his face, Garrard skulked down the grimy Philadelphia streets slouched forward as if his muscles were barely contained within his hoodie. He crunched the plastic coffee cups that littered the sidewalk – no newspaper tumbleweed to be found here since paper production had been outlawed. Apparently increased production of plastic was better.
Grunting as he pushed past a throng of pedestrians, Garrard glanced up at the dusky sky with no fear of hiding his face, since most people wore a cybtact in one eye and a speakermic inside an ear to surf the internet. The mind’s autopilot moved them, but they weren’t paying attention to their surroundings. They were probably out for dinner since telecommuting and online shopping removed most of the middle class’s reasons to leave home. Even physical jobs were increasingly replaced by human-controlled robots. Not Garrard’s job though. He had no cybtact, he planned on working with his hands.
He located the manhole with the familiar CTV&T logo on it and once the street was desolate, Garrard easily dislodged it. Climbing down the ladder, he made his way until he located the encasement for the mess of fiber-optic cables that ran underground. He unzipped his sweatshirt and removed a hacksaw, which made quick work of the wires. Reaching into a back pocket, he revealed an archaic rectangular device that filled the underground labyrinth with a white noise echo when he pushed a button.
“SP’s going dark.”
For two days the internet was out. No one knew how widespread it was because there were no streams of communication. Cops were in the streets trying to spread news by word of mouth. “Terrorists,” they’d say. Things were chaotic when people realized that they couldn’t buy anything to eat because their bank accounts were linked to the internet, but the cops got restaurateurs rationing out food with the promise that an emergency tax that would go into effect to repay them.
It was 3:06 AM when people realized that they could connect online. Press conferences were up of the president and other world leaders blaming the outage on widespread and well orchestrated terrorist saboteurs. The leaders assured that the best minds had worked to ensure this would not happen again, and that the new internet they’d rebuilt would be safer and more secure.
As usual, people were posting comments on the websites providing this information. However, users dissenting the official story, questioning the likelihood of such a well organized terrorist group, found their comments could not be posted no matter what they tried. Others who attempted to do their normal share of downloading free copyrighted content on pirate websites found error messages that booted them offline all together. Hackers attempting their traditional routes of hiding their identities and peeking into information that wasn’t theirs were similarly kicked offline.
Over the next few months, these people would be receiving visits from government officials who would ask them about these illegal actives and determine if they were enough of a threat to be imprisoned.
A clean-shaven man dressed in a suit was making his way up a wide stone staircase in Washington, D.C. He pushed his way through the door and past a metal detector that started buzzing.
“Go right through, Agent Garrard,” the security guard said. Garrard continued down the large, marble room toward the elevator. He reported to work in person, the old fashioned way, because when you dealt with secrets, it was best not to leave a trail of text or recordings behind you.
by submission | Aug 4, 2009 | Story
Author : Steven Saus
She is within two hexes before my character notices her perfume. She is approaching from behind. I left-toggle the camera angle back to third person, floating above his head. Minicams hover and spin, filling in the the peripheral things a 120 degree first person field of view misses. She has surprised me, and the transition is faster than I like. A brief wave of nausea flows through my stomach. My character puts a hand on his stomach as well.
Her business suit, usually stiffened into two dimensional polygons of fabric, is wrinkled from her day at work. It is still stiff enough to offer a pleasing contrast to the soft inverted arches of her hair. Click left, right, mouse gesture, and my character moves smoothly towards her. She kisses my character’s cheek all moist warm lips until she notices the eyes.
“Chaz, damn it!” She shoves, and the perspective wobbles. It makes it hard to read the word balloon over her head, but my text-to-speech rig is good enough that I still understand her.
She glares up and back, towards the print of the Warhol Campbell Soup cans behind my character. She draws an imaginary line between its head and the technicolor cans.
“Get back in there, Chaz.”
My fingers fly, and I hear my character’s voice: “Wrong side.” A quick gesture, and he smirks, too.
She slaps my character – bioforce feedback loops simulate it well – then looks dead-on at my viewpoint. Her wedding ring slips easily off her finger, smooth and elegant as a practiced rocketjump. I up the resolution and see her eyes are misted over.
“Remember this, Chaz? Remember the promises we made? I made them to you, not… not this shell.”
Clickety-clack. Enter. “This is me. This is my character.”
Her ring hits my… the character’s chest.
“I wish you had never gotten that damn implant, Chaz.”
She stalks out of the room. She does not need to pack – the bag is waiting – and she leaves our …the… apartment. Several option icons flash softly at me. Follow. Stay. Sleep. Watch TV.
I do not select them. My face is still warm from the force of her hand slapping my character.
I want to restart. I want to start the level over, to try again.
That icon never appears.
by submission | Aug 3, 2009 | Story
Author : Debbie Mac Rory
“Now commencing system test number twenty-three. Ship designation VX1965, given name Skipper, are you receiving me”.
“Affirmative”
Jacob sighed and knuckled his eyes as his other hand reached to the desk to cradle his warm coffee. He wasn’t looking forward to this. He’d designed this model ships core processor and knew the programming like the back of his hand. That it was acting the way it was…
“Skipper, give access of your computing systems to Engineer Hestan.”
Jacob raised his head from his hand to look over to where Keire sat close to the ship, with a remote access terminal resting on her knees.
“Negative”
Keire looked up at him and shook her head, confirming what the ship had already told them.
“Skipper, explain your refusal to cooperate”
Muted white noise sounded in Jacob’s headset. He stood facing the cruiser, blinking slowly as arc-welders and sledgehammers danced behind his eyes.
Keire shifted on her seat, adjusting the terminal. “Maybe if you-”
“I shouldn’t have to”
“But maybe if you were to try…”
Jacob turned his head and looked wearily at her. Keire shrugged and turned her attention to the terminal, randomly tapping panels while she waited. Jacob sighed again and looked back at the ship. Clearly it was going to be one of those days.
“Skipper, can you give system access to Engineer Hestan, please?”
Jacob closed his eyes, unsure of which result he was hoping for. More futile struggles, proving Keire wrong or a chance to get this damn test done. He glanced over to the engineer, noting her smile as the notebook on her lap lit up. A few more taps, and she looked up at him, smiling wide.
“I’m in. Connection’s slow, but it’s steady. We should be able to get the test done fairly quickly now”.
He nodded, noting the commencement of the test in his own log.
“I just don’t know why we have to go to this much bother, each and every time”
“Because you know as well as I do that machine has a mind of it’s own. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was sulking”.
by Collaboration | Aug 2, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer and J. S. Kachelries
Back in 2023, researchers at the Beijing Chemical Company (BCC) discovered a way to reverse the effects of global warming. It involved using a unique new molecule that converts carbon dioxide into atomic carbon and gaseous oxygen. The molecule is called phosphorousdimethylbenzaldpotassiumdicholoroethane, which was ultimately shortened to Carbon Deoxidizer. Carbon Deoxidizer is a catalyst that provides a specific surface geometry that facilitates the splitting of carbon dioxide molecules using ultraviolet light from the sun that has a characteristic wavelength of exactly 24.3 nanometers. This type of ultraviolet light is called “Extreme UV” and is only available in the mesosphere, which begins about 50 kilometers (160,000 ft) above sea level. Below this altitude, the ozone in the stratosphere blocks most of the UV photons, stopping the reaction.
Properly dispersed in the mesosphere, 1,000 pounds of Carbon Deoxidizer is enough to remove approximately two billion tons of carbon dioxide gas from the atmosphere before the Carbon Deoxidizer molecules are themselves destroyed by cosmic ray spallation. Consequently, a replenishing program was initiated to maintain an equilibrium amount of Carbon Deoxidizer in the mesosphere. Since the inception of the Deoxidization Program in 2028, thirty years ago, the average global temperature declined to pre-World War II levels. Now, however, there was a doomsayer beating his drum. Professor Herbert Brewstier was intent on halting the release of any additional Carbon Deoxidizer.
Professor Brewstier had been statistically monitoring the world’s annual rainfall and had concluded that it hadn’t changed in thirty years. Scientist had originally predicted that the millions of tons of newly formed carbon dust particles would be ideal nucleation sites for raindrops. Brewstier believed that since rainfall hadn’t increased, it meant that the carbon dust was not filtering down to the troposphere, but was accumulating in the mesosphere. Furthermore, his model predicted that the carbon dust was about to reach critical density, and would explode in the very near future, releasing 50 quadrillion kilogram-calories of energy, while simultaneously reforming 80 years of carbon dioxide gas.
During the United Nations hearings, Brewstier testified that if we didn’t do something immediately, we would die one of two ways. Instantaneously, if the carbon dust combusted simultaneously; or slowly, if it took weeks for the rarified oxygen in the mesosphere to be replenished. An explosion, or a smoldering fire; either way we would be dead. However, rebuttal testimony from “atmospheric experts” hired by BCC presented enough contradictory data to prevent the UN from acting. Instead, they voted to fund a five year program to study the potential effects to the environment, and to the global economy, if the Deoxidation Program was curtailed. Frustrated, Brewstier gave up and returned to his cabin in Montana to await the end.
Each night, Brewstier would sit on his deck and watch the sky for the first signs of the ignition. Finally, one December evening, he noticed a feint glow coming from the southern horizon. It became as bright as an aurora, but was in the wrong half of the sky. He sighed as he watched the reddish light gradually expanded northward, drowning out the fifth and sixth magnitude stars. The snow covered mountaintops turned a pale blood red as they reflected the light from the slow burning mesosphere. “Damn,” he whispered as he realized that it was not going to be a quick catastrophic end. Instead, it was going to be the slow, agonizing death. But not for me, he thought, as he cocked the 12 gauge shotgun that he’d been holding in his lap.
