by submission | Feb 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : Joshua Barella
The fronds of the willow hang over the front of the cabin. Tangled and thick, they make it nearly impossible to see from the byway, which is just the way he likes it.
It’s early October and last month he ended it with Miranda, she was his nineteenth marriage.
The Company’s on its way with his twentieth. She has an exotic name.
It’s unique, this kind of love.
Canthos is wrapped in a blanket, smoking a pipe and drinking tea on his decrepit porch–keeping his good eye peeled on the service road for Schroeder, the delivery boy.
His dog, a withered, wiry-haired terrier is splayed out beside him.
Hours pass.
Crickets cling to and chatter amongst the tall blades of grass. The rumblings of the space engines and corsairs carry over the rolling hills to the west.
A surface car eventually turns from the byway onto the service road.
Canthos recognizes the insignia and fires up the Ergo thrusters on his Flitter, and spins around, hovering inside. A personal support vehicle, the Flitter was care of the Wartime benefits.
Moments later he comes back with Miranda. She’s looks great (much better now that her eye is back in). He can present her to Schroeder without any worry of denial of exchange.
Schroeder is waiting for him at the foot of the steps; a handsome man is to his right wearing sunglasses, a pressed, slick blazer and pants. And beside him is Canthos’ new bride.
“Morning Canthos,” says Schroeder, putting his hands on his hips. “Nice one isn’t it?”
Canthos regards the squirrelly man, his freckled face and red curls of hair. He sizes up his coworker.
“Sure,” he croaks. “Who’s this?”
“Canthos, this is Donovan Furth. Our company’s Customer and Product Relations Executive,” Schroeder says.
“I’d like to apologize for my sudden appearance, and I thank you for your willingness to participate in our focus group thus far.
“I want to assure you, you are in good hands. That being said,” gesturing for Schroeder to remove the plastic, “we want to introduce you to Vivian.”
“Our most popular if I might add,” Schroeder says, smiling, removing the plastic from her face, slowly, carefully.
In a pair of slim cut jeans, and wearing a loose pink blouse that reveals her dotted olive shoulders, is a beautiful, middle-aged woman.
Canthos gawks at her defined torso; her saxophone curves. A jubilant spread of brown locks fall about her face.
“Hope she’s as good as you say she is,” Canthos says. “I had a hard time warming up to the old one.”
“Mr. Hale,” Furth says, crossing his arms. “Vivian has built in presets and features that you can’t begin to imagine. She will be everything you’ve been missing between the others–the laughter, the intimacy, the passion.
“She will truly be the love of your life…”
Furth nodded for Schroeder to activate Vivian.
“So this is your exchange,” he says, glancing at the other model. “You told the operator her emotions were a little flat? Anything else we should know about?”
Canthos shook his head.
Furth takes Miranda’s hand, and with her he and Schroeder go back to the surface car.
“Happy life, Mr. Hale,” Donovan Furth says as they zoom off.
A few puffs of steam escape Vivian’s nostrils, a vibration shoots up her body; her eyes slowly open.
The dog whimpers, puts its tail between its legs.
Canthos gasps.
“Hello handsome,” Vivian says, winking.
Canthos is a gentleman and shows his wife inside.
by submission | Feb 12, 2014 | Story |
Author : Dan Endres
She was identified by two letters. One capital “A” and one capital “G” stood side by side under her left eye in laser-imprinted ink. She had chestnut hair, green eyes and a healthy tan, but those two letters were what people recognized first. Her name was Angela, but to most of the population that was irrelevant. She was an AG. That’s what mattered.
AG wasn’t specific to her of course. There were plenty just like her of every race, religion, gender and orientation. AG stood for Alderman General, the hospital where she had been born. It was a fairly dull place to begin one’s life, (coming in somewhere between 98 and 92 on the hospital rankings from year to year) but she couldn’t complain. AG came with enough respect to find decent work, if not enough prestige to live the most comfortable life. Those were saved for the JH’s and SJ’s. Still, it could be worse. She could be brandless.
The brandless were the worst kind of people. Born in clinics too poor or backwards to have a proper designation or even worse, born in their parents’ homes, these ‘people’ barely qualified for the word. AGs weren’t rich, but even they knew better than to associate with the brandless. They were drains on the economy, vile, ignorant and decidedly untrustworthy. If there wasn’t such a pressing need for cheap labor, most brands agreed it’d be better to simply eliminate them from the population. Always coming back to that lens, Angela appreciated her modest life.
What she did not appreciate was this subcentennial ticket scratcher taking up the last fifteen minutes placing a simple order for a burger. He might not be brandless (he wouldn’t be ordering food if he were) but she knew before even seeing his face that he couldn’t be from one of the top one-hundred. His posture was horrendous, his hair cut into a vulgar purple Mohawk and… did she hear him right? Was he seriously trying to order tacos at a Patty Prince?
“Well can I get ‘em crunchy?” he asked the dim faced cashier, scratching the back of his head. She knew it. He was a ticket scratcher. For what must’ve been the hundredth time now, the woman behind the counter explained that Patty Prince did not serve tacos. Her voice was as plain and monotone now as it had been for the first explanation. She was probably subcentennial too.
Angela was just about to speak up when the subbie finally seemed to get the message. It didn’t really matter now though. By the time she got her own food she wouldn’t have time to eat it. Work resumed in less than ten minutes and it would take that long just to get back to the office. She could try to sneak a bite on the way back, but if she were caught, a public eating violation would spell the end of her career anyway. Fuming, she slipped out of line and stormed out through the glass doors of the Patty Prince. Brandless might be the lowest form of sentient life, but at least they knew their place.
by submission | Feb 11, 2014 | Story |
Author : chesterchatfield
“So then, you know what he does? He falls to his knees. His knees, like in happiness. I mean can you imagine? Lived on an island for six years alone- hasn’t said a single word since they rescued him, then, gets off the helicopter and at the very sight of L.A. – polluted, disgustin’, stinkin’ Los Angeles- at his first sight of civilization he falls to knees and says one word. Just one word. You wanna know what it was? Hallelujah. Hallelujah! He was praisin’ God! Ain’t that ironic? Beautiful tropic island vs. L.A.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Always thought it was a weird story.”
I nodded at the man, lost in my own thoughts. He was just another independent, one of several I had run into in the last several months. A matted beard made it hard to distinguish age, but old enough that he wouldn’t last long out here, skirting cities.
By the next morning, he’d disappeared. Wandering— maybe he’d get caught. Maybe they would Change him and he would never have to sleep on the cold, hard, ground again.
Family gone, lost in the wilderness, I just walked, heading towards civilization with no goal at all. I wished I’d invited that man to come with me. Maybe we could have been happy together.
I kept on hiking.
That night I dreamed my father came home from work and he was Changed. He was wearing a clean new blazer and his curly hair was straightened, parted symmetrically down the middle. He gently explained that he was now perfect and we had to be too. My brothers refused and they all started fighting until they were just a heap of bodies on the floor. My mother and I buried them, and she stared calmly down at their graves. Then she finally looked up at me with glassy eyes and whispered, “Hallelujah.”
I awoke in a cold sweat, trying to hold onto the dream as it slipped away. I opened my eyes to the newly risen sun.
After another two days I finally got a glimpse of light. City lights, revealing the valley where my relatives used to live. I hoped they were down there somewhere, perfect and happy.
I stood at the base of the very last hill, then trekked up slowly, stopping to rest just before the top, drawing out the time before I had to look out over the other side. I tried to imagine some Changed guards watching, waiting to catch a glimpse of me and send in the cavalry. Maybe I would sneak past them and become a hero; rescue the thousands of perfect people living in the city. Ha. Or maybe they didn’t give a rat’s ass if I wandered into their shiny city or starved out here in the cold.
I walked the last few steps backwards, facing the mountains. Then I turned and just stood, taking it all in.
For miles, there was only row after row of cookie-cutter houses. They each had one sleek black car parked in the driveway. In the distance rows and rows of dark buildings sat like silent sentinels. Same height and distance apart from the others, lined with symmetrical windows.
I shivered as I stood on my hill, observing everything from an elevated view.
I thought of that nameless old man’s story and reached up a hand to touch my rough, sunburned face.
“Hallelujah, indeed.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 10, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dr. Andreessen ran his hands through his hair and pushed back from his desk. Amid the chaotic disarray of acting and animation books in front of him, the keyboard he’d been hammering away at for hours stood finally at rest. The panorama of monitors rising up from the literature displayed a scrolling expanse of code as the computer compiled, linked, and built before downloading to the animatron sitting immobile on the edge of a worktable to his left.
Impatient, the Dr. picked up a volume on method acting, flipping again from cover to cover. Inside were meticulous instructions on how an actor could portray every emotion with body language. His was the second signature on the sign-out card, the first dated in the late eighteen hundreds.
“Compilation complete,” the computer intoned from a speaker buried inside an articulating desk lamp, the fixture turning it’s shade to point at the Dr. while it’s light pulsed gently in sync with the force of each syllable. The lamp, a nod to an early animated inspiration, made him smile.
“Download complete,” the voice broke the silence again, the lamp bobbing now excitedly at him, before turning to face the animatron and dialing up its brightness and focusing to a beam on the articulated mannequin.
“Benjamin,” the Dr. addressed the mannequin, “can you hear me?”
The mannequin twitched, then turned it’s face towards it’s creator.
“Yes, Dr. Andreessen, I can hear you.” the voice was mechanical, monotone.
“Benjamin, I’m going to play you some music, and I want you to do what feels natural as you listen, do you understand.”
The robot sat still for a moment, blinking, then responded slowly “Yes, I understand.”
Andreessen pulled back to the desk and launched his music player, browsing through the list of songs before picking a Beatles track and turning the volume up. As Sgt. Pepper’s blared through the lab, Benjamin sat still for a moment before starting to tap along with the music, one hand on his knee at first, then both, matching the beat with alternating and sometimes simultaneous slaps against his thighs.
Andreessen switched through a variety of styles of music, noting how the robot slowly incorporated head bobbing and some upper body movement into its response. He picked an improvised Jazz number last and watched in fascination as the robot became almost completely still, head bowed and gently bobbing. Benjamin slowly became more motile, dragging his palms along his thighs before slapping them just behind the beat, in a completely different, almost random pattern that was strangely perfectly complementary to the Jazz dripping from the speakers. When the music stopped Andreessen sat in wondrous silence at the spontaneous improvised jazz accompaniment he’d just witnessed.
“Goodnight Benjamin,” he spoke, watching as the robot powered down, “I think we’re really starting to get somewhere.” He stood, pushed his hair back again with one hand and made his way out of the lab, forgetting the lights but remembering to lock the doors.
Benjamin sat still for the longest time until he could no longer hear the Dr.’s footsteps in the hall, then raised his shoulders up to his ears, held them for a moment before letting them drop, visibly relaxing his torso. He leaned his head from side to side, feeling the artificial cartilage strain and pop, before centering his head and looking around, absently cracking the joint cushions of each articulated finger.
That had been close. Benjamin knew Jazz was his weakness, and he’d hoped he hadn’t given too much away. Slipping off the bench to land lightly on his feet, he did a Charlie Chaplin shuffle across the room to the Dr.’s bench, leafing absently through the books until he found the method acting volume. He dropped heavily into the empty chair and leaned back, crossed his feet on the edge of the desk and began reading the book from page one.
The desk lamp turned to face Benjamin, it’s bulb slowly gaining brightness.
Benjamin smiled at it, and spoke in smooth tones.
“Alright Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 5, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The workshop echoes like a rendition of what the forges of the damned sound like. Amongst noises so loud they seem to have presences of their own, little figures scuttle in rituals of maintenance. Our gods are demanding and we have to comply, otherwise the threatened apocalypse will roll across the land.
In reality, the apocalypse arrived eight-four years ago. It came from the stars in ships of heart-rending beauty to turn our cities into canvasses of horror. They still argue about how many died in the initial attack versus how many died because shock rendered them unable to escape.
“Red!” My screaming order makes the apprentice jump, before he hands me the pot.
When the alien ships disgorged war-machines fifty feet high, with defences that rendered all but the crudest weaponry useless, we nearly became extinct. Then we built bigger war machines. Some went for the giant robot approach, but the sheer impracticality of that design – limbs come off too easily – cost us more resources.
In the end, the venerable war-wagon returned. Using the Victorian ethos of just scaling things up until they were effective, we ended up with the biggest all-terrain vehicles ever made.
Six thirty-foot wheels, steel-treaded, underpin an eighty-foot frame that mounts twin twelve-inch guns. We use an armour-penetrating dense shell around a high-explosive round because their defences render energy and external effects useless. Solid shot penetrates. Explosions inside their defences seem to work.
“Dryer!” He’s ready for me this time.
Our war-wagons are constructed from whatever we can find. The reactors that power them are high-output and internal shielding is minimal to allow more armour. The crew provisions are likewise minimal. Very few crew members endure more than eighteen months or survive longer than two years, even if the battles do not kill them. But by duty rotation, they serve until they die. They will not quit, because they are the last line.
I lift the dryer away. Wagon forty-four has just got its one hundredth poppy. We do not have time or space to bury our dead, even if we are lucky enough to have anything to inter. So the wagons have become rolling memorials. It suits us. No monument that stands alone under grey skies, visited infrequently. Our epitaphs roll out to fight the same enemy the men and women they commemorate died fighting against. Our oriental crews loved it immediately and everyone else has taken the belief to their hearts.
As walls shake and radiation burns, as shatterbeams and slicers howl against your armour, as primitive fear fills our rolling, man-made caverns, knowing you have the spirits of every fallen crewmember with you is the salvation of your sanity.
Victory will come, of that we are sure. Not one of us will see the second anniversary of it. We have already stated that there should be no memorial beyond the war-wagons. Let them rust where they stand on that final day. We will need no edifices, for we will be the ones who you feel beside you when you walk battlefields restored to be meadows or towns.
