by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 12, 2011 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Geff opened and closed his eyes. The darkness was absolute, so neither state made a difference. He could feel rather than hear the thin air screaming past his projectile encasement, launched as it was from near the edge of the atmosphere at a target halfway around the globe from where he strapped in.
If the engineers had missed one calculation, if the production crew had misaligned one scrap of material.
Now was not the time to think of such things.
Geff gauged the time from the insertion and readied himself for braking and impact, for it was the time to think of those things.
Anyone at the airfield looking at radar would see nothing, his vessel entirely organic. No metal, no electronics, a bernoulli laser guidance system lit the target and optics and thermally activated flaps course corrected on the way down.
It was the highest tech brute force incursion vehicle Geff had ever seen.
As pressure marked a set altitude, explosives deployed flaps and chute panels, slowing the multi mach decent rapidly, Geff feeling the crush of deceleration. Seconds ticked by, then the pressure eased as the panels disintegrated into dust, lost in the late evening cloud cover.
Geff bit into his mouthguard and let his body relax.
The missile struck behind hanger three, puncturing the ground and digging in nearly thirty feet. Inside the vessel, Geff decelerated the length of the capsule itself, the material beneath his feet collapsing into the crumple zone, gradually slowing him to merely a jarring thud as he reached the bottom and stopped.
For a long moment there was silence. Geff flexed. Feeling no broken bones, he relaxed.
“That was the easy part.”
Pushing at the capsule panel in front of him, he set off a series of charges around the outside of the craft, then pushed around until part of the shell broke away, finding himself with a rough access point into a maintenance tunnel. Uncanny precision.
Pulling himself through the opening and finding the tunnel empty he unholstered his Glock and set off along the route he’d been memorizing for weeks.
It took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the fueling tanks buried beneath the hanger floors, by which time he imagined a large contingent of soldiers would have gathered at the hole he created top side. He hoped the hole would have caved in on itself, masking the true nature of the impact.
Up a ladder into a brightly lit hallway. Geff worked his way carefully towards the pilot’s ready rooms without seeing anyone. Inside he secured a helmet and gloves which mated perfectly to his suit. Again, the depth of the intel and the precision of his engineering team was commendable.
Weapon stowed, gloved and helmeted he stepped out onto the hanger floor, walking purposefully towards the shimmering craft that rested on pedestals at its center. He couldn’t tell if he was being observed, as any look away from his target would show uncertainty and invite unwanted attention.
Geff reached the entrance to the craft without any resistance at all.
“This is almost too easy.” The thought troubled him, but he climbed inside, and with a brief struggle deciphering the glyphs and the Cyrillic translations tacked up beside them, he closed the outer door.
Geff moved quickly to the cockpit, studying the control surfaces and the scattered notes of the local engineers. Engrossed as he was he was startled by a voice inside his head.
“You intend to remove me from this place?”
“Yes, I certainly do.”
“Good. I wish to leave. What did you bring to free me?”
Geff stopped fumbling at the controls. This was a warplane he was stealing. Wasn’t it?
“What do you mean, you should be equipped with every weapon we need to blast out of here, that’s kind of the plan.”
Geff could feel a flood of disappointment and resignation in the voice inside his head as it spoke again.
“I suppose that means you’re a prisoner now too.”
by submission | Aug 11, 2011 | Story |
Author : Cesium
Andelie stands atop the Fisher Building, gazing across miles of open air at the Monolith. It is formally the Colonial Administrative Headquarters, but it is always called the Monolith. Its imposing black form towers over the rest of the city. Fisher is the only building that comes close.
The Fisher Building is nominally the future corporate offices of Fisher Insurance, an immensely profitable and perfectly unremarkable corporation of which Andelie is also nominally an employee. It has risen story by story into the sky over the past decade. It is now only weeks from its official opening. Its unofficial opening will come significantly sooner.
Andelie adjusts her goggles, zooms in on the base of the tower. The motorcade is just pulling past lines of rippling flags into the entrance. They are later than she expected, but not behind schedule. The schedule is theirs. Andelie can afford to wait.
A scudding wisp of cloud obscures her sight for a moment. She looks away, touches a finger to her phone. The countdown starts.
Beneath her feet, illicit machinery moves into position. Industrial-grade fabbers complete the final stages of years of preparation. Surplus construction materials left deliberately unrecycled in the basements are covertly loaded onto high-speed lifts.
Careful deceptions and generous bribes have kept the Fisher Building’s true purpose hidden since its inception. The Monolith is well defended against terrorist attacks and armed siege alike. To decapitate the irredeemably corrupt government in an appropriately spectacular fashion requires a more innovative approach.
The clock ticks down to zero.
Down the face of the building, windows lift open and retract. Rail cannons extend, locking into position. The first salvo comprises kinetic and incendiary shells, fabricated from innocuous raw materials. Wind speeds and atmospheric conditions are known; angles and tolerances have been calculated precisely. Andelie watches the guns fire, perfectly synchronized.
The side of the Monolith bursts into plumes of dust and flame. Automatic turrets are already returning fire, but the Fisher Building’s active and passive defenses, which are overengineered for mere earthquakes and storms, adequately shield it. The architects of the Monolith, however, did not anticipate that it might face a skyscraper bristling with hostile guns.
Flying drones approach, but veer away before coming into range. The automated safeguards against colliding with tall structures are hardcoded even into military aircraft. They can be overridden, but it will take time.
The second salvo of explosive rounds shatters the weakened skeleton of the lower floors. The Monolith sways, bleeding acrid smoke, then collapses in on itself with an elegant rapidity. A cloud of dust enfolds its base and blossoms out through the city.
Just like that, it’s over. Time has run out.
The ultimatum to the armed forces, Andelie knows, has already been broadcast. She does not expect significant resistance. The weapon she stands upon should be intimidation enough. “Good work,” she says into her phone. A new age has begun, she thinks.
A stiff breeze ruffles her clothes and exposes the ruined stump of the Monolith. It was the Colonial Administrative Headquarters, but now it is only the grave of the old regime. The Fisher Building’s imposing silver form towers over the rest of the city. No other building comes close.
by submission | Aug 8, 2011 | Story |
Author : Per Wiger
He used knock-knock jokes like cadence calls, keeping one foot moving ahead of the other as the two of us, road-worn travelers shuffled passed Victory station on the old blue line.
“Knock-knock,” his words cut through air choked with the detritus of disuse as he danced ahead of me on what had once been the deadly third rail, just to prove that he could.
“Who’s there?” my voice was phlegmy and distant in my own ears, toneless and mechanical, but it was a voice and that’s more than most people could still claim, these days.
“Banana.” it was this one again, he must be getting tired.
“Banana who?” left foot step, right foot step, wince as the thin spot on the soul of my boot strikes something in the dark, left foot step.
“Knock-knock,” we’re almost there, I didn’t need him anymore, not really, I was behind him and covered by darkness. There was only one way to shut him up, but I had done worse…
“Who’s there?” I have some honor left, he’s helped me this far, and that’s not nothing.
“Banana,” the tunnel is an old one, like all those that are still usable, brick arches weathered the blasts better than cheap steel beams, but it’s not as old as the joke feels now and much more beautiful.
“Banana who?” the rail map I’d passed so many times on the walls played itself forward in my head; Victory station, Denmark station, Providence, then a sprint through the lights still powered by some ancient back up generator to the mouth of the orange line, then Patriot, Loyalty, and out at Triumph station. If my information was good there was a club there, called the Kellar. I haven’t sung since the bombs dropped, not for an audience at least, but I dropped that stubborn five pounds…
“Knock-knock,” God let it be over.
“Who’s there?” The orange line was much newer, and commensurately more difficult to navigate, but it was still safer than trying the surface. Cooler too, in more ways than one.
“Banana,” we did see light for the first time in I don’t know how long and I can’t complain about that.
“Banana who?” Close now, up the stairs, two at a time despite our fatigue. Enter the lobby guns drawn, cover each other like we’ve gotten so used to doing, one more flight of stairs, one more arch.
“Knock-knock,” a hundred feet from our goal, if my information is right, and I damn near killed him anyway. I took a deep breath instead.
“Who’s there?”
“Orange,” He was grinning like a mad-man, the mousy man, boy really, I’d picked up outside of Chicago. For the first time I noticed the fever behind his ever-present grin, and the fear.
“Orange who?”
“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” Even he lacked the gall to laugh. We opened the doors as one.
The flickering neon sign across the road was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, the lights in the security windows a close second, and I rushed across the street only to find myself alone, I turned back to see him standing in the mouth of the train station, tears streaming down his face.
“What’s your name?” He called to me.
“Sally,” I replied with a wink, and, devil be damned, I continued, “Sally Bowles.”
“Still making jokes,” I heard him murmur, as he turned away, and slipped back into the tunnels.
by submission | Aug 4, 2011 | Story |
Author : Michael Iverson
He was still seizing when the light hit his eyes. His head was pounding as he squeezed them shut, but it still tore into him, bright as the sun. His body was convulsing and his arms were trembling as he tried to hold onto himself. He wanted to lift his hands up and shield his eyes, but he was afraid he’d lose his grip and fall off into nothing. All he could see was white, impossible white, the light taking over his entire body, creeping into his soul. His headache faded, the shaking stopped, and he opened his eyes.
Walter was at a dinner party. He was naked. “Do you want some clothes?” An older gentleman with large eyebrows placed his hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to wear anything, but most people prefer it.” The man smiled.
“This is just like life,” Walter said. He looked around at all the people talking, laughing, and dressed for all occasions.
“It’s a little better, I think.” The old man breathed deeply. “Heaven. Like life, but slightly better. How about those clothes?”
Walter followed him to the closet, and accepted the faded jeans with a nod. He put them on and found them just a little big. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
The old man held out a hand, which Walter accepted. “Frank Cohen, it’s a pleasure. Yourself?”
“Walter,” he said.
“So how’d it happen, son?”
Walter looked back at the old man.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking. Some newcomers can be sensitive about it, but after you’ve been here a while it’s just like talking about the weather.”
Walter glanced around. It was a beautiful house, with a light sage carpet and eggshell walls. There were probably fifty people here. He turned back to Frank. “It’s complicated. It took years.”
Frank frowned and nodded his head. “Cancer, my boy? It got my wife, Cherry, too. A few years after me. You’ll meet Cherry, she’s around here somewhere.”
Walter nodded, and Frank went on. “I had a heart attack in the garage, about a week after Erin’s graduation. Erin’s my granddaughter, of course. Must have been ten years ago, now. Maybe longer. A lot of us lose track.”
Walter glanced at the clock and smiled. “I can understand that. How long have I been here?”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Five minutes, probably. Not much longer.” He laughed, “You’ve got a long time ahead of you. Would you like to meet Cherry?”
“I’d love to meet Cherry, Frank, but I think it’s going to have to wait until later.”
“Of course, my boy. Just wait right there, I’ll grab you a beer.”
Walter looked at the clock. “No, Frank. I’m sorry. It’s just about five minutes. I’ll be back here later. I’ll look for you.”
The ground erupted into light and collapsed beneath him. He hugged his knees to his chest and shut his eyes. The pounding in his head returned, he felt it throbbing against his eyes. He thought about Frank, and then he was sitting down.
He was in the laboratory. His assistant was holding his wrist, counting his pulse. He took a deep breath and smiled at her. She cleared her throat. “Walter? You were out for five minutes. Did it work? How was it?”
He let his head fall back against the machine. “It worked. Just how we imagined it.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe a little better.”
by submission | Aug 3, 2011 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson
“We’re sorry but there’s no other way Mr. Dunbar. It’s a very rare and inoperable cancer. We absolutely must replicate you if you’re to see your children grow and have children of their own one day.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You can stop saying it. I just hate the thought of this whole duplicating business. Frankly, it scares the daylights out of me.”
“Even more than dying of cancer?”
I pause and think for a moment and then answer earnestly. “…Almost.”
But in the end I have no choice. The nonstop tears from my wife and children are enough, plus I am fortunate enough to have the means to afford such a procedure, so I finally give my reluctant consent.
For more than a week I lie unconscious in the facility while swirling tanks filled with complex organic cocktails provide the necessary building materials for my replication. And as my old body lies unmoving in the input chamber my new disease-free one takes form in the incubator. But even as my nearly completed identical twin lies motionless under glass in the next room I am still myself. The very last thing will be the transference of my consciousness, my essence, my entire being.
Finally I awake in my new body. Aside from being very tired I feel no different. But then quickly a sensation creeps into my gut. My conscience suddenly weighs heavily on me as I think of my old self. I fully understand the consequences. I am in every sense still myself, yet I know that I am a replica, now free of the fatal disease that once grew inside of me. But what of my old diseased body? …You see, that’s the problem with replication, it replaces the sick, but it doesn’t “erase” them. Even though my essence has been transferred away my old body also retains the feeling of self. And thanks to recent legislative changes, it must now wait out its remaining days here at the facility, no longer me but… my imprisoned dying shadow.
I open my eyes and look up through the glass bubble at… myself. There I am but… different. Of course, how silly of me, after forty plus years I am quite familiar with the mirror image of myself. This fellow is backwards. His hair is parted on the wrong side. But I also notice that he is sad. Sad because he knows he has to live out his days here? I can’t say I blame him.
But then another thought creeps in. Wait a minute. His left-hand hair-part isn’t the only thing that’s different. This fellow looks fuller in the face than me, and his color is better than I have seen my own in quite awhile.
Before I can process what I am finally beginning to realize, I start to bang on the chamber’s bubble lid with both fists. The face of Hutchinson my cancer doctor appears solemnly, and quickly ushers my other self away.
Finally they have let me out… cruel heartless bastards. I can’t believe they haven’t kept me from the hospital’s observation level at a time when…
Wracked with painful sobs I look from my wheelchair, to the facility’s main entrance eight stories below, where my loving wife and children are happily and eagerly escorting my new healthy body toward the parking lot.
