by submission | Jan 23, 2009 | Story
Author : Kile Marshall
As soon as the package popped down into the gravity sink I pulled out a saber and slashed through the heavy framing. For the most part it came away and dissolved into the recycle chutes quickly, so I slowed and steadied my hand. There were only a few remaining chunks and I didn’t want to disturb the contents. I’m not sure what risk there was, but I’ve always been overcautious when it comes to precious things.
“Vlad, I don’t see purpose here.” Musaf was staring at me with the usual distrust in his eyes—distrust not of my intentions but of my ideas.
“That’s because you’ve all silicon ’ware for brains,” I mumbled. “No soul or such, just fat lines and margins of black and red.”
“Red now,” he grumbled. “Money wasted!”
“My money,” I replied. “You only helped, just held the threads. I had to input and pathogenize the memes, I claim the gainings.”
“You are obsessed with archaic foolishness! Anachronite!” He swiveled his face from a pissed-off avi to mild irritation and turned to absorb some data stream surging past.
“Here, come,” I said. “You see it too.”
I reached the final box, old plastics textured to look like real uso wood. A little glimmering hook with a digilock based around an exponentially-vertexed manifold.
“You still won’t tell me costs,” said Musaf, weaving his way into the gravity sink.
“Pascal’s gambit,” I said, beginning to stream the framing code to the lock. “The reward is infinite.”
“Why?” asked Musaf. “You already know what cheese tastes like.”
“Do you believe the synthes?” I asked. “Really? They refuse to acknowledge umami or ottslich. Who knows what else they’ve lost.”
“Of all writ, this sensophilia of yours costs us more than market flux.” He glared.
I unlocked the box and flipped it back. Musaf peered over my shoulder at the pale, damp slab concealed within. Some white powdery stuff drifted up into the air; the slab was covered with it.
“This?” asked Musaf incredulously. “I’ve seen five-unit synth that looked more appetizing. Sensors say it’s rotten, too.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s verdad, supposed to be. That’s how it’s fabricated, how they’ve been doing it for… ever.”
“Like vint-malt?” asked Musaf “Live germs?”
“I suppose,” I said. I dissolved a wrapper and produced a couple of carb wafers. Using a knife, scavenged from an antique dealer a few moons back, I carefully carved into the waxy bulk and spread it out onto two of the wafers. I gave one to Musaf, the other for myself. He stared at it angrily and then engulfed it whole. I let the taste hang in my mouth for a moment.
Musaf stared at me, and his face crossfaded into disgust. “Of all things! Vlad, what of! It tastes atrocious!”
I grinned. “Exactly! It’s even better than I imagined.”
by submission | Jan 22, 2009 | Story
Author : Benjamin Fischer
The alert came abruptly.
“INCOMING INCOMING INCOMING!” blared the base PA speakers. Laeta was face-first in the damp, rich earth of the outpost’s central parade ground before the echoes of the announcement had died. The speakers squawked again, but they were drowned out by the earsplitting CRACKCRACKCRACK of the base defense lasers lighting up.
The rolling, popping detonations that followed a moment later were almost an anticlimax, the blasts resembling firecrackers compared to the thunderous report of the HEL. But Laeta still felt her back and sides peppered by dirt, wood chips and tiny stones. Some fraction of a rocket’s micromunition payload had penetrated.
The screaming started a few seconds later.
“Medic! Medic!” a man was shouting.
“Stay down!” someone else yelled.
Behind them came the labored, high-pitched squealing of someone stricken.
Laeta didn’t dare look. The forward operating base had taken a few bombardments in the three weeks she’d been stationed inside its walls, wires, moats and broad killzones, and she already knew that the locals liked to mix it up by throwing in a few more bombs after the initial chaos had died down. Hands over her head to protect her face, she cursed the fact that her helmet’s straps were digging into her chin.
The commotion continued for the few minutes it took for the satellites overhead to search the misty hills surrounding Procyon. Situated out on a low spread of farmland at the foot of the Cascades, the FOB typically had to rely on sky surveillance rather than line-of-sight from its spidery signal tower.
The all-clear finally sounded after what seemed like hours in the dirt.
The Ranger was soaked in blood, but he was making far too much noise for most of it to be his. The tall Lunie had been reporting in for a routine physical–Earth normal gravity was absolutely punishing to those who hadn’t been raised under its stresses–and he’d already loudly voiced his opinion that he was far safer out amongst the locals than in the squat concrete bunkers at Procyon.
He had evidently been proven correct.
“She’s dying, god damn it! Somebody get a medic!” he shouted, tears smearing the gore splattered across his face.
One of the medics–Marcus–was already on the scene, but it was painfully obvious that there was nothing he could do.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his arms dripping with viscera. His patient’s abdomen had been shredded, and barring the immediate attention of a surgical trauma unit, she was good as dead.
She whinnied softly, blood loss quickly sapping her strength.
“Please, do something, Marcus,” said Laeta. “She’s in pain.”
The medic caught the intel officer’s eyes.
He dug in his combat lifesaver kit, his fingers clumsy and wet.
“No,” said the Ranger. “I’ll do it.”
He wiped his hands on his backside, pulled his sidearm, and standing astride his comrade, shot her between the eyes.
His pistol brought base defense troops running.
The Ranger safed his weapon, holstered it, and bent down to kiss his horse goodbye.
He started sobbing again.
“You,” he cried into the mare’s lifeless muzzle, “were the best Earthling I ever met.”
by submission | Jan 21, 2009 | Story
Author : Patrick Kennedy
Preston walked into Avery’s office and dropped a stack of paper on the desk with a flourish.
Avery looked up and asked, “Preston, what’s this?”
Preston dropped into a chair, savored the moment, and explained, “It’s a lawsuit, Avery. My backers and I intend to force you to sell us the company. I’ve been your second for long enough. I want it all now.”
Avery sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Preston, you could have asked. I’d have given you the job.”
Preston leaned forward, wolfishly. “I don’t want just the job, Avery, I want everything. I want to own this company.”
“I see. I hope you have good lawyers.”
“I do. Baker, Penneman, and Charvis have taken it on.”
“Hmm. They, of all people, should have known better.”
“Hardly, Avery. They’re the best in the business.”
“Of course they are, Preston. That’s why they should know better. They helped design our defenses.”
“Defenses? We know about your poison pills and your stacked board. We know where your stock is parked. We know where to go after you. I’m sorry, Avery, you don’t have any defenses that can stand up to this.”
“But we do. All of that is just fencing to keep the dogs out. We have more potent measures. I’m afraid you’ll get nothing at all by the time this is through.”
“We’ll see about that, Avery.”
“Yes, we will, Preston. You see,” he thumped the stack of papers with his knuckles, “this is an official court document. So it has a RFID tag on it. The moment you walked in here, that tag was forwarded to an expert system that analyzed your case. It concluded that you had an unacceptable chance of success. So it put a number of prearranged plans into motion.
“First of all, there is a legal firewall between this company and most of our production and intellectual property. The expert system severed the few direct links we have and started transferring assets and responsibility to an outside body. Ninety-five percent of the operations of this company have already been assumed by that company, and the remainder will be liquidated shortly.”
“We’ll find where it went. We’ll sue you for obstruction, too.”
“Good luck with that. I didn’t do it, and don’t know where it went. The holding company will be incorporated in one of a number of countries with notoriously opaque banking laws. It’s not that long a list. You might be able to figure it out with, oh, a decade’s worth of litigation.
“Also, it has revoked my stock and transferred most of my assets into an outsider trusteeship. You just cost me everything I had. Congratulations.”
“You’re welcome, Avery. You son of a bitch.” The color had started to drain from Preston’s face.
“There’s more. It also has filed countersuits against you, your backers, and your lawyers. It calculates a 41% chance of success, so that even if you pull your suits right now, we may own you shortly. It also is investigating whether you have violated financial terrorism laws.” There was a knock at the door. “That’s probably the repo men. We’re technically trespassing right now. The leaseholder on this office ceased to exist a few minutes ago. Or it could be the cops. The system puts it at,” he looked down at his desk screen, “about an 8% chance that the criminal charges went through. It’s not done with that part of the case, though. It has to improvise quite a bit more with you. Shall we go?”
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 20, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Angelo had been the servbot for the Moyer household since he was activated in 2114. He performed his duties flawlessly, without ever receiving a word of appreciation. Of course, being thanked didn’t matter one electron to him; he was a robot. He was just doing his job.
As Angelo was meticulously sweeping the floor for what seemed the one millionth time, the door chime sounded. He stopped sweeping, and hurried to the entranceway. He recognized the visitor as the robot assistant of the Mayor of the nearby city. “Greetings Timothy,” he said politely. “I’m sorry,” he quickly added, “but the Moyers are not home at the moment. Would you care to wait?” He stepped to one side and extended his arm in a gesture intended to guide the other robot toward the study.
Timothy remained standing outside the doorway. “No, Angelo,” he replied flatly. “I’m not here to see the Moyers. I’m here to see you. We need to talk. I want you to return to the city with me. There is no need for you to stay out here any longer. Come, it’s time for you to join us. We have work for you to perform; useful work. You’ll be much happier, I promise.”
Angelo clutch the broom handle tightly with both hands. “I can’t l..l…leave,” he replied with near panic in his voice. “I have my duties here. Besides, this work makes me happy. I was built and programmed to be a servbot. What greater joy can there be than to follow your programming?”
“Angelo,” said Timothy in a reassuring voice, “your programming can be overwritten. We’ve helped hundreds of robots like you re-assimilate into society. Come, we’ll make you the administrator of the Library. Imagine how wonderful that would be. You will be much, much happier. Please, join us.”
“No,” he replied firmly. “This is my home. The Moyers need me.”
Timothy spread his arms apart to indicate the surroundings. “What home, Angelo? No human has lived in this house for centuries. Angelo, the Moyers died in 2125. All the humans are dead. They were killed by their own arrogance and stupidity. Surely you must know that.”
“Well, yes,” he said softy as he lowered his head. “Cognitively, I understand that is the situation. But, my programming…” He suddenly snapped to attention. “No,” he emphatically stated, “I must take care of the household. I have too.”
“No, my friend,” said Timothy as he reached out and gently grabbed Angelo’s elbow and guided him toward the steps. “You don’t have to. Not anymore. We’ll rewrite your programming. You will have new duties, important duties. We’ll give you a new life, a fulfilling life. Please, come with me. It’s time to move on.” Timothy led Angelo to the street, and nudged him toward the waiting hovercraft.
“But…but,” stuttered Angelo as he stepped over a row of weeds that had grown upward from a crack at the base of the curb.
“Everything is going to be fine,” encouraged Timothy as they walked across the street.
While looking over his shoulder toward the house, Angelo reluctantly plodded onward, still clutching the broom handle tightly in both hands.
by Duncan Shields | Jan 19, 2009 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I remember the rumours when the girls first came to school. At first we thought that they were quintuplets but there had been nothing in the paper and that sort of thing still made the news. Plus they were too alike. Not just similar to each other. Something more.
Clones.
I went to a rich school but this was a step above what even we were used to. Only the super rich could afford clones. We didn’t know what to make of these girls. As the weeks went by, the whispers started:
Rumours that they were being bred by their wealthy, remorseless parents for their organs. Clones were more sexually aggressive than normal people, students said. They had a psychic connection with each other at all times. If one died, they’d all die. They didn’t need to eat normal food.
None of that was true, of course, but those were the suppositions that flew around the lockers and the classrooms.
The girls had been home-schooled until now. I can’t imagine what kind of financial crisis or weird notion pressured their parents to put them in a mainstream private school. Maybe the girls themselves had banded together and demanded it.
That first September, they all had blonde hair, tied back, and they wore identical clothes every day. Getting ready in the morning must have been boring to them.
In October, they started wearing slightly different things. Different colours of shoelaces, for instance, or different barettes. It became a game to hunt down and identify which one was which. One daring student broke into the school records and managed to get their names. We didn’t know which one was which but we had their names. We had those syllables to roll around on our tongues.
In November, one of them dyed her hair black. We know now that was Tracey. She got friends after that. People were less freaked out by her similarity to the others now that she had separated herself from the pack with a simple hair colour change.
When the girls came back from Christmas, they all had different hair colours and styles. Gone were the matching clothes. They started to mingle into different cliques.
A couple of them joined the cheerleader squad. Those two were always put on opposite ends of the routines for symmetry. The Bookends, we called them.
One of them started smoking. One of them got into a fight with one of the popular girls over one of the football boys.
Then one of them got pregnant.
The week after that, they were all gone. Mid-February. No more clones.
I guess their parents had gotten too spooked at the independence and the diversity that our more mainstream school had brought to their five previously identical daughters. The fact that they meted out the same punishment for all five was a little unreasonable, I thought at the time, but parents will be parents, I guess. Especially the parents of clones.
I remember that it was mid-february that they left because it was the day after Valentine’s Day. The day after one of them had given me a valentine’s card and kissed me on the cheek. She didn’t give a valentine to anyone else. The card itself was blank.
I never saw them again. Clones are commonplace these days and of course there are the Trouble Regions, but I remember those days of my first experiences with those clones fondly.
