by submission | Jul 23, 2011 | Story
Author : Alia Gee
While the care and feeding of your child in ideal non-planet-dependent conditions has already been covered in Dr. Krugheimer’s “Happiest Baby on the Space Station” holoseries, I feel it is important not to neglect those new parents who are in more extreme states of habitation.
To whit, here are a few hints I picked up while raising my little family without the blessings of gravity. I only hope they may assist others in their domestic efforts.
My initial concern when faced with my first infant in space was, “Oh, no, the diapers!” Yet here Mother Nature aids us, even when far from our natal gravitational fields. Newborn waste sticks to diaper or bum with great tenacity. Merely make sure the child is securely fastened to the changing table or wall, and the vacuum on your trash receptacle is functional, and sanitation is a breeze.
Moving up the alimentary canal, your next worry will likely be feeding your wiggling spawn. Nursing, bless those mammary glands, is not dependant on gravity.
If you, like me, discovered this knowledge was insufficient to your needs, the standard advice is to use a squeeze bottle and hover. I found that this allowed too much air into the poor infant’s stomach unless always vigilant. And, gentle reader, what parent can exert constant, even pressure over a long period of time when wakened mid-sleep cycle?
Vexed and sleep-deprived, I created a container much like a balloon: small and flaccid when empty, but able to expand to hold up to a liter of nourishing liquid. As the infant sucks, the vessel constricts of its own accord with textbook gentle, even pressure.
As the child gets older and tries to squeeze the bottle, life can get more colorful. In these cases, and also when the infant gaily burps up more than air, my best advice is to remind your parenting partner(s) that (t)he(y) got you into this mess and now (t)he(y) can jolly well help clean it up.
Note: For more on how to create your own blobule from common chemicals you will have in the lab, please see the link at the bottom of the article. Stockists also available on request.
I have occasionally seen the Ideal Space Infant caricatured as an adorable hydra: bottle, blanket and toys tethered neatly to the little darling by long strands of some anonymous fiber.
For shame! This, as any experienced parent can point out, is one big, pastel choking hazard.
Still, it raises a valid question: How does one keep all the essentials near at hand? Some (Jennings-Ho, Xiao Universe-al Baby Care 101) are wild proponents of industrial strength Velcro.
Velcro and its cousins do have their place, make no mistake, and I was grateful for them when trying to keep my young ones in their sleep sacks. However, no one product will solve all your parenting problems; it is best to think creatively when facing those hurdles our mothers never dreamt of.
In my own case I found that the simple application of some adhesive to humble hose-clips worked a treat. For preference, I glued the item to the handle, and attached the pinching end to my child’s clothes. One could go the other route, of course, gluing the hose-clips to the clothes; but if your aesthetic sensibilities are not offended by this, may I suggest that you stick with Velcro?
Whatever methods work for you, I leave all you star-hopping parents with one final happy thought (assuming your precious offspring is one of those individuals who can survive in vacuum): In space, no one can hear your baby scream.
by submission | Jul 22, 2011 | Story
Author : Martin Sumner
The matter of the Checks & Balances Office in dispute with Collins-Chapter was ordered onto the Administrative Ladder to be passed up to State Query. Deputy van Aerts stamped the case file, the Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and signed it off. Committee Clerk Corvidius placed the file with all due ceremony into his legal satchel, and pulled out a new file for consideration. He read from the cover:
The matter of Detention Colony E, Seventy-Sixth System.
“Don’t tell me they’ve finally found it again!” said Committeeman Ibarra, quite against protocol. Corvidius was scanning the summary page. In the ensuing silence, the Oversight Governor-General decanted ice-water into a crystal goblet, and sipped.
“It seems, my esteemed colleagues, that the colony host planet has indeed been recovered,” reported the clerk, “at the farthest end of the Black Pearl Spiral.”
“What of The Cartel, Corvidius?” – Deputy van Aerts.
Committee Clerk Corvidius proceeded to read out the Executive Summary. Lost in the wilderness for nearly one hundredth of an Age, with no means of escape from E, the Cartel members were long since perished and gone to dust. And with them the last vestiges of the most terrible criminal clique across time, space and the dimensions. A long-range survey had finally identified the planet, lost to the Detention Service for so long after a bureaucrat’s administration error had deleted all records of it’s whereabouts.
But there was a problem. An Anthropological Census Analyst from the survey team had been called to the Oversight Committee to explain his findings.
“Call in the witness, Corvidius, let’s hear it.” – van Aerts again.
The Committee Clerk paced steadily to the great panelled door that led into the Visitor’s Receiving Hall. He formally called for Anthropological Census Analyst Settus to present himself before the Oversight Committee. Settus was waiting nervously in an ancient Empire chair by the door. He followed the clerk into the Oversight Chamber and took his place at the stand.
Deputy van Aerts addressed him: “Mister Settus, kindly appraise us of your analysis.”
It seemed that The Cartel, though long since dead and passed out of all knowledge on E, still had a profound effect on the planet’s environment and governance. A global civilisation had sprung up from a genetic mix of the prison colony and an indigenous species that was a close match to our own. The planet was dominated utterly by this human-amalgam, and it’s civil systems based on acquisition, conflict, and oppression were built in the horrific image of their Cartel progenitors.
“In short,” concluded Settus, “the planet is a living hell of suffering and misery. A picture postcard from The Cartel.”
Committeeman Ibarra slammed his fist on the table, issuing a volley of expletives. He was quietened by the raised hand of the Governor-General.
“Corvidius, erase all recordings of this hearing and pass the case file to me. I think we must all be agreed that our Paradise of A Billion Suns does not need the worry of a potential return of The Cartel. Mister Settus, I expect a promotion to The Admiralty, with a purpose built ship of your design and a posting to anywhere in Paradise will be adequate recompense for your good work thusfar, and your future discretion. Deputy van Aerts, please contact Stryker by secure means and inform her that we require an unexpected, inexplicable and catastrophic super-nova in the Seventy-Sixth System with immediate effect. That is all for today, I believe.”
The Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and dismissed his committee.
by Duncan Shields | Jul 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Blood dripped off of its thick horns under the arena lights. On the ground beside him were the bodies of the six last tigers from Earth. There were deep slashes over his torso that were already scabbing over thanks to the gladiator coagulant in his bloodstream. His breathing was deep and even from the fight but it wasn’t ragged. It wasn’t taxed. It plumed out from his massive nostrils in the cold silence of the battle’s end.
The audience waited in anticipation behind the force shields and on two hundred civilized worlds reached by the broadcast. The tigers were just the warm up. Now it was time to fight something intelligent.
Me.
This was still part of the opening entertainment. It was clear from the size difference that I wasn’t favoured to win. Best to whet the audience’s appetite with a little slaughter before an actual contest. At least it was bare handed. If it had a projectile weapon, I would have been told.
I really thought that the aliens would be better than us. More enlightened. I pictured art installations the size of nebulae, Vulcan mind bridges, peace at all costs, that sort of thing.
Not so. Turns out our thirst for violence is weak in comparison. Every single person, predator, poisonous plant, and insect on Earth has been conscripted as fodder for the games. While we’re gone, Earth is being mined to a husk. We humans have been promised riches and freedom if we become champions but we can never go home again. I have my doubts about the validity of those promises.
I’m in great shape but I’m half the thing’s size. It’s slow but if even one of its blows connects with me, I won’t be standing back up. I’ve been given lots of rest, nutrition and awareness supplements but I can still see that they’ve pitted me against this creature with no intention of a fair fight. This is an execution. I can see the odds flashing across the screen up in the stands. It’s all about how long I’ll last, not whether or not I’ll win.
“What’s your name?” I shout across to it.
“One Hundred Fifty.” Says the man-bull.
“That’s an odd name. Where did you get it?” I ask.
“If I defeat and kill you tonight, then tomorrow my name will be One Hundred Fifty One.” It said.
I really didn’t like the way this was shaping up.
by submission | Jul 15, 2011 | Story
Author : Michael F. da Silva
Being dead, I wasn’t expecting much conversation at the café.
I had loaded the environment as soon as I was uploaded. The red carpet and round lamp-lighted tables stretched out to infinity in all directions. The Viennese coffee that had melted into being tasted as real to my digitised thought patterns as anything I had had before my retirement.
So I was surprised when the legal avatar came down the carpet like a supermodel on the catwalk, successfully pulling off someone’s idea of legal chic.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vieira. I trust you’ve enjoyed your stay?”
Afternoon was a relative term in Lalaland. It was whatever time of day I wanted it to be.
“So far.” I answered trying to keep annoyance out of my voice and admiring the curve of her hips. “It’s only been a few hours, you know.”
I tried to undress her with the avatar control suite, thinking she might be just some cover girl I had fantasized about when I was a teenager.
“I’m afraid I’m quite the real thing, Mr. Vieira. I’m here about your return to Reality.” She pronounced the word like it came with its own punctuation mark.
“There must be some mistake. I’ve only just uploaded. I signed up for the Bachelor Retirement Package. That’s fifty years simulated vacation. I just got here, like I said.”
“Mr. Vieira.” My own name was starting to get on my nerves at this point. “There seems to have been a problem with your upload procedure. As you may recall, we perform a thorough analysis of each client’s neural pathways prior to digitalisation and upload to their vacation servers.”
“Yes.” I contributed, hoping against hope that this was going to lead to a champagne-drenched lap dance.
“What is left to the fine print, however, is that there is always the small chance of a mimetic neural virus being present in a client’s subconscious.”
I blinked incomprehension. Technical mumbo jumbo. Not my forte.
She plodded on, legally obliged to keep me in the loop. ”What that means, Mr. Vieira, is that you have had your fifty years simulated vacation. You just lose all memory of it after an interval of three hours and two minutes. I hope you understand.”
“Wait a minute. This has to be a mistake. I’ve only just arrived!”
“It’s not a mistake, Mr. Vieira.”
“Well, fix it then! Make me remember. I’ll be damned if I get packed back into a synthetic with no memories of my own vacation!”
“I’m afraid that can’t be helped, Mr. Vieira. A mimetic neural virus is intrinsic to a subject’s specific thought patterns. It can’t be removed without severely damaging the subject’s thought patterns at their core level. I would suggest you make good use of the next hour.”
And then she just walked away towards a crimson horizon leaving me with a panic-laced erection and not enough time to do anything with it. I considered running her down and bending her over a table for one last hurrah.
“That simply wouldn’t do, Mr. Vieira.” She said turning neatly on one foot. “There are security measures to prevent such things from happening in virtual environments. And you would still face legal action for making the attempt.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, you courtroom drama bitch?!”
She cocked her head to one side and narrowed icy blue eyes. “You still have both hands, don’t you?”
by submission | Jul 14, 2011 | Story
Author : Ossian Ritchie
Frank Henstein stepped into the Huvver lift and was propelled upwards through the daily debris of handywipes and food wrappers that bobbed in the impossible antigravity lift field. The office stinks of fake pine and ice-cream aftershave.
Frank was born in Croydon, 1987, his brother Barry had been the one keen on Cryo. At twenty-nine Frank begrudgingly signs up to help promote Barry’s faltering Cryo business. The full body scan and physical checkup reveals Frank is dying of an incurable cancer. Without blinking, Barry enthusiastically suggests Frank freezes himself until science can find a cure.
Frank does not want to die. Getting frozen seems as much like death to him – and Barry wanted the Cryo done right now. Frank explains this to Barry, the two embrace and Barry cries and tells his little brother that he does not want to do anything to hurt him. It is touching. Frank wakes the next day, one thousand years in the future: his cancer cured.
On his break, Frank opens one of the few cartons of cigarettes left in the world and smokes at his desk. It is somebody’s birthday, but he can’t remember their name, or their nickname, or hair group. He is sure half the room are at the party right now: impossible to tell when the party is inside the computer.
Barry has already been and gone. They told Frank how long Barry lived, but four hundred and fifty years is too long for Frank to fathom. Frank can only wonder why his big brother hadn’t called for him.
His sister lived next, she barely lasted a year before calling her mother and father back from the dead. She died for real at the age of sixty, and their parents both went around the same time. The records don’t say why they died, or why they did not call on Frank. Maybe they all felt like he did, that this was unlivable, that they would not share this hell with the ones they loved?
Frank tries to relax, but only succeeds in starting another cigarette. He wants to watch more about what life was like two hundred years ago, when his parents lived. Frank remembers the last time he tuned in to History Unlimited – the next day, everyone turned up for work dressed as prehistoric men and spent the day throwing mud and staging crude, electric wars.
The girl that Frank tries to talk to every single day stops at the end of his desk.
“Chup,” she says.
“Chup,” he copies. She laughs and walks on. She greets her friends with a manly ‘chup’ and there is more laughter. Then she dances in a caustic 3d haze. It hurts to look at it if the broadcast is not meant for you and Frank winces as he tries to pick out details in the fizzing digital mush.
Frank wonders what to do after work. Even in his daydreams he goes home. Home to cushions that behave like pets and beds that burn his covers off in the morning with a fake fire he will never get used to. He dreams of the robot kitchen and how he will react, disgusted by every single meal he is presented with. He wonders how his sister lasted, almost a year, like this.
