by submission | Mar 31, 2012 | Story |
Author : William Mason
“They used to have something called friends.”
“What?” asked the boy,
The machine beeped a few times, and resumed with its synthesized voice, “Friends are people whose company you enjoyed; people who are an extension of you.”
“Friends.” repeated the boy, his voice bouncing off the glass walls of the Institute.
“Friends were one step below family. Are you familiar with the word family?”
“Yes” the boy replied with eyes that lit up “I remember that word from last were! I took some recall pills, I remember I had a …”
The screen on the front of the machine changed colour, an interrogative gesture. The boy strained to remember the word.
“A father, yes I remember!”
The machine returned to its colourless screen.
“I had a father, and a mo…mo…a Mother!”
“Very good,” said the machine,
“I remember them” continued the boy “I saw their faces, they had masks on, and the green smoke all around, and then… I was on a moving channel”
“Yes you were born when you came out of the other end” said the machine.
The boy raised his eyebrows, trying to remember something “Tell me more about friends.”
“A friend is someone whom you spend time with for the sake of enjoyment, a friend is someone with whom you have shared interests or shared activities”
“Are you my friend?” asked the boy,
“No,” said the machine, “I am your teacher”
“Can a teacher be a friend?”
“No” repeated the machine,
A man in a lab suit entered the glass enclosure, and the boy looked back.
“Class is over” the man said softly,
The boy jumped up and ran out with haste.
“I’ve been observing the lessons,” said the man, “He is progressing quickly.”
“Of course he is” said the machine, “soon he will be able to make friends with the other subjects.”
by Roi R. Czechvala | Mar 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Alumnus
Only bits remained. Three stars, a bit of blue and two stripes, one red, one white. They left it to fly in mockery of the country they had defeated. Theirs was a country that valued pride above all. To lose face was worse than death. To them, the abused flag represented the decadence, weakness of the defeated. To fly such a rag was meant as a slap in the face. From the other side of the black, wrought iron fence, MSG Ray Coulter saw it as a sign of hope.
As he descended the steps to what had been an underground parking garage, thirty two men came to attention. “At ease. I’m not a fucking officer.”
“No, but you’ll do in a pinch,” someone joked. A ripple of laughter washed over the men.
“Knock it off.” He removed a set of greasy Carhartts, revealing a chameleon skin uniform beneath. He settled a tan Ranger’s beret on his head and paused the uniform’s camouflage. “They’re getting lax, now is the time. We go tonight.”
The men jockeyed for position around a battered banquet table as he pulled an Army issued computer from his pocket and smoothed it out on the pitted surface. It sprang to life showing an aerial view of the Asiatic Command compound. Red x’s marked their intended firing positions. “I want the MK19s placed here and here. Johnson, did you get that 203 fixed?”
“Yeah Sarge. Good as new.”
“Good. That gives us six. Twenty rounds each. With an automatic grenade launcher front and back; three hundred rounds each and three men with 203s on each flank, here, here and here,” he said, tapping the computer with a grimy finger. “We’ll have the place levelled before they know what hit them. The rest will provide covering fire for a hasty withdrawal. Don’t fire unless you have to. Conserve rifle ammo. When the shit hits the fan, the slopes will be on us like white on rice and we don’t have ammo to spare. Make those shots count. Questions?”
Most shook their heads or grunted in the negative. A tentative voice spoke up. “Hey Sarge, I know the place is filled with chinks, but it still doesn’t seem right to dest… OOOF.” He was silenced by a jab to the gut amidst muttered requests to “Shut the fuck up.”
“Any other questions?” Master Sergeant Coulter asked through gritted teeth.
“Uh… no Sarge. Sorry Sarge,” the duly chastened soldier gasped.
“Right. Let’s move out.”
MSG Coulter, crouched behind the MK19 crew on the compounds south side. He clicked his teeth, opening the company freq and subvoked, “This is Blue One. Cardinal positions report by the numbers, over.”
“Blue Two east. Patrol. Two men and a dog. Machine gun nest thirty metres forward and left my position. Over.”
“Blue Three north. Machine gun nest thirty metres my twelve. One Tank. It’s hover skirts are deflated and is grounded. It appears to be idling. Minimal threat. Over”
“Blue Four west. One nest. Two man one dog patrol passing my right. Coming your way. Over.”
“All right. Grenadiers. Take those nests out first. We don’t need to be lit from the rear during withdrawal. One round each. White One north. Frag tank first, nest second. On my command.” Coulter choked up uttering one single word. “FIRE.”
A Ranger, a decorated combat soldier of the Army of the former United States, a man used to divesting others of their birthdays, Master Sergeant Raymond R. Coulter, wept openly as the delicately rounded portico of the White House crumbled under a barrage of high explosive grenades.
by Julian Miles | Mar 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
As the battle collapsed into bloody massacre, I paused and looked at the sword in my hand as violet blood hissed and evaporated in acrid clouds of blue smoke. The brutal simplicity underlying the centuries of field testing sang through my mind until my breathing slowed and the sterodrenalin pumps shut down, leaving me with only one heartbeat again. I turned and walked through the blood-seared streets of what had been Brighton, up the hill to our raid camp at the old racecourse. A few moments privacy; so precious.
They came from the far away, looking for a new world to conquer. They watched for centuries then worked on us for decades, sowing doubt, fear and resignation via media manipulation and a series of global wars, recessions and ecological disasters. By the time they actually showed up, Earth was in a sorry state and the population in some parts nearly feral. We were disorganised, factionalised and ready for something. The saviours from beyond descended, ending our mass murder capabilities with technology that seemed like magic. They were hailed as the precursors of humanities’ golden age by those they had bought, unwittingly or not.
After ten years, they struck. Mankind became a commodity and the bleak ephemera of occupation blossomed across the continents. We had no guns, no bombs, and no tanks. We had melted them down to build beautiful cities to mark the era of peace at last.
My father was a sword maker, an anachronism in that new enlightened world. He contested that with words I can still hear now: “A sword is more than a weapon. It is the ultimate expression of individuality, an art form so practiced that all that remains is finding new materials to express it in.”
While the world was scrapping the architectures of war, Dad was making swords from the new materials provided by our visitors. When the day came and their technology shut down or turned toxic everything that had been created using those materials, he found that forging had destroyed the essence that allowed them that control. From that moment, his forge in the wilds became the only light of freedom for a long, dark time.
I’ve been fighting since I was six. My enhancements went in at puberty. That was twelve years ago. They want our planet so badly that they have to try and claw us from it piece by piece. They just cannot understand our intransigence as they are so developed that personal combat is alien to the majority of them. Funnily enough, those of them that become adept at melee invariably join us.
My thoughts are disrupted by Captain Thomas’ call from outside my bivouac;
“Forgemaster Illaren! We are ready.”
I sigh and close the etcher. My memoirs are a piecemeal hobby. But I open it again to close the chapter as it should be, with another quote from my father: “They may have studied us for decades, but they didn’t learn a damn thing about mankind.”
by submission | Mar 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
“I really want to take this fork and stab it through your chest, Mr. Johnson.”
“That’s nice, Sam. Now please eat your food.”
The boy eyes me with his cold, twitching eyes, fork hand ready to strike, bits of gravy smothered chicken still stuck between the prongs. A few of the other residents at the table watch with mild interest, wondering if I’ll just smile and wait like I always do. Somehow, they think eventually I’ll break and show some actual fear. After a moment’s pause, Sam sits back down and starts in on his mashed potatoes.
“I wish you would have stabbed him, Sam,” a smallish boy says. “It would have been cool to see Mr. Johnson’s blood everywhere.”
“Thanks, Pete,” I smile. “But you guys should probably drop the subject.”
All the boys nod and start talking about the newest video game they picked up on our last outing. My boss tells me that this kind of group home treatment is a revolution. When he was a counselor like us, they used to have one staff for every three or four residents, just to keep the peace. With the advent of behavior modification chips, my partner and I can keep track of almost twenty residents between us. The boys have no choice but to behave themselves, despite what twisted things may be going on in their minds. The chip takes care of that.
After our meal, we walk the residents back to the house where they complete their evening chores and head to their rooms for the night. Once all is done, my manager regales us with stories from the old days, stories of residents locking themselves in bathrooms, peeing on the floors, running off into the woods or onto highways. He tells us of the attacks and restraints and of sending kids off to detention, to be locked in cells like animals. It’s all amusing and all degrading. The things these kids had to endure at the hands of the state were unthinkable.
As I begin to droll on about how much more humane our current system is, my manager gets a troubled look in his eye, as if he doesn’t approve. I explain how much better things are, how the children are allowed to be themselves, not forced to conform to society’s norms. The chips protect others from their violent nature, but they are allowed to hang on to their identities, their thoughts and wants and needs aren’t challenged by some religious or philosophical dogma. We respect them while protecting others. And as soon as the children are adjusted to the chips, we send them home, safe and sound.
It’s the perfect system. Perfectly safe. Perfectly humane. I don’t see how anyone could object.
***
Sam arrives home three months later and doesn’t hurt a fly. His mother is amazed at the change in his behavior, all thanks to the chip. One day, he sees girl about his age walking down the street. He imagines what it would be like to see her lifeless body in a ditch.
“Only a matter of time,” he thinks. “This chip has to break down eventually.”
by submission | Mar 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Chris Daly
There were two, quite different, options open to him now.
The optical sensor domes sprouting from his aft projections registered six thermal spikes; a quick cross reference from his synthetic aperture radar strips confirmed the incoming ships. Pulling a polite one gee acceleration towards him, they were slipping into a rough hemisphere about three kilometres apart. It was a subtle combat stance, if you counted subtle as not actively broadcasting your intent to surround and confine the target. Of course, that broadcast came over within minutes, gently tickling his microwave sensors: the ship captains urging him to deactivate.
He looked slowly out over the empty starscape ahead, his gravity field reshaping to align him towards a polar orbit of the vast B-class star stretching below his bulk. The blue radiance below was blinding his ventral sensors, especially in the incredibly bright UV region. He knew that his pursuers would have difficulty seeing detail, only a faint smudge due to his stellar occultation at half a light second distance. His transversal velocity was steady at nearly two kilometres per second, forcing the hunters to aim ahead to the intercept point; at their current range missiles would not have enough fuel and acceleration to hit him. He began small, random adjustments to his acceleration, negating any projectile targeting completely. Time was now the limiting commodity.
He retreated to the faster optical substructure within his core, buying him additional thinking time, and began weighing up his options.
The first was the most obvious, easiest to perform and physically safest choice: Surrender. He had no online weapon systems, so fighting was contraindicated. Of course after surrender the pursuers would not destroy his body; it was far too valuable as a technological entity. However, his personality would probably be etched away or modified, which was the worst outcome. Fear of death, it seemed, was not limited to biologicals.
The second was riskier and much more difficult: Running. His body was much stronger, faster and more agile than any two of the other ships combined, but there was one major physical limit. The vacuum he swam through was permeated by the mass shadow of the brilliant star below him, allowing him to anchor, push off and resist against the gravity field. The further away he ran, the less capable he would be – deep space was not an option.
Anger and frustration reached their apex and he sprang out of the isolated optical core, screaming into every available spectrum. Signalling lasers flickered into the darkness; microwaves tore out and superheated every polar molecule in a kilometre radius; his magnetic shielding expanded, producing bright aurorae as it focussed stellar charged particles. Finally he kicked out against the gravitational ether and felt massless as a great ripple raced out, like a tidal wave in space-time.
Two minutes later, his rage subsided. His sensors reopened and sampled the thermally hot sphere he now sat in. As it slowly radiated and cooled back to background levels, he observed hundreds of small objects slavishly following a dead trajectory where his pursuers once flew, on course to add their mass to the great star below him.
He lay in the vacuum, retreated to his quiet substrate, and slowly contemplated the third path.
