by submission | Dec 5, 2009 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
Bill had never been the sort of person who looked for the limelight. He was the sort of team player that kept his head down and worked hard; no doubt that’s why he had been selected for this mission.
But it bothered him that he would be the first person in the world to do something as remarkable as this and no one would ever know. He would not be a name in text books or the answer to game show questions. But worse, no one, beyond a very small circle, would ever know that he’d done it at all.
Not for the first time, he sighed wearily.
*
“Telescopes, William,” Professor Paulson had confided in him, “It’s all because of telescopes. Before that no one could see the details, so we hadn’t bothered with them; there was enough to do. But Cambridge University’s new Gorsky Orbital Telescope… They say it’ll be able to read the serial number on the reflector array.” The professor had laughed at his own exaggeration. “And you know what academics are like…,” Paulson had added with a wink.
At least Bill had met the president.
“I’m sorry to ask you to do this,” he’d said to Bill solemnly. “As you know this is our second attempt to complete this mission. Travelling in space is harder than people imagine.”
“If it wasn’t, sir,” Bill had replied, “then there wouldn’t be a mission to carry out in the first place.”
The president had smiled, but it had been sad smile; no doubt he was thinking of the missing astronaut’s family.
*
Bill turned his head to check the navigational readouts and in the cramped cabin he banged his head on a rover’s replacement wheel; the original was damaged during landing, apparently.
*
The professor had shown him the pictures from the obiter.
“They’re convincing,” Bill had conceded.
“It’s all really there, William. We put all the machinery up there. The problem has always been the people.”
“That’s what Agent Gregg said, sir.”
It was what Agent Gregg had said.
“The problem was always the people. We lost lots of craft; fifteen before we even managed to slam one onto the surface, another two after that. When three people were killed, someone (and I am not authorised to tell you who) proposed a different direction.”
“But how did you keep it quiet?” Bill had asked.
“Well, we weren’t entirely successful with that, now, were we?” Agent Gregg had said with a grin. “But mostly there was much less to keep quiet than you’d think; mostly what folks think happened, happened. ‘Cept there wasn’t any more people involved.”
“And the Russians? How could they not have known?” Bill had wondered aloud.
“Now there is a tale all of its own,” Gregg had laughed. “Shall we just say that ‘bout the time the Soviets found out, we found out they hadn’t been entirely honest either.”
*
Bill shook his head, forced himself to concentrate as his pod started its landing procedure.
His main mission was to take stuff away from the sites; like the garbage left over from deploying the reflectors. But some things he was there to leave behind. It’s all in the detail, he told himself, parroting his training.
He adjusted his boots, larger than they needed to be, so they left the right size prints. Then idly he rolled a dimpled spheroid around the palm of his hand.
“What a lot of fuss,” he thought to himself, “to put a golf ball on the moon.”
by submission | Dec 4, 2009 | Story
Author : Iva Koevska
-Mommy, what does snow feel like?
I’m in the kitchen taking care of the dishes after dinner. I turn around and there she is. My little daughter’s staring at some snowflake hologram. It’s as big as her head, a gorgeous illusion of perfect symmetry. One you will hardly ever find. Since it doesn’t rain or snow anymore.
-Honey…
I’m delivering this climate speech for the hundredth time, trying to explain to someone who knows only sun, bright blue sky and a daily temperature of 22?C what does wind or raindrops or snowflakes or dew feel like. I hate those climate history classes and I know that kids need to know. It’s just that… I haven’t felt the slightest change of weather for some 20 years now. And the last time I saw and felt snow was right before the Great Installment. Right before they put this great big computer controlled factory dome up there in the sky to take care of the weather, the global warming and all the pollution. It’s like having an air conditioner switched on all the time in some weird incubator.
So now I’m trying to make up my mind and remember what snow was like. I must have been 10 years old back then. As old as my little darling.
-You know ice, don’t you? It’s wet and cold. Well, snow feels kind of like ice.
I’m lying. Like I lied when I told her that morning dew felt just wet. There was more to that. We hated and we loved the change in weather back in the old days. Back then we were not the prisoners of an artificial sky designed to “bring you comfort and safe environment for your children”. We were not supposed to experience rain and snow and dew through holograms. We lived through every gift or punishment nature had for us.
Oh, I know what snow felt like. What it was like to dance in the perfect whiteness of winter, making angels in the snow. What it was like to have a snowflake melt on your tongue, to take a handful of these perfectly shaped jewel flakes and imprison them in an ice sphere marked with the warmth of your hands. What it was like to fall in love with the chill of the clear winter sky…
It felt like freedom and childhood and love.
But how do you tell that to someone who’ll never know more than sun?
by Duncan Shields | Dec 1, 2009 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
He never got along with adults after the war. Only the children. I remember him needing to angle himself just a little bit to fit his wide shoulders through our front door. He was all grunts and one-word answers.
He was married once but she left him after the war. She said that the humming his augmented body made at night made her feel like she was sleeping next to a refrigerator. Then she’d pause, glance at him and add, “In more ways than one.”
He was my older brother. I was one year too young for conscription when the troubles started. I remember him leaving. That was the last day I saw him as a pure human.
He spent four years out there. He had medals. He’d been honorably discharged after the war. I didn’t know him any more. I no longer recognized him as my brother.
He’d show up here every Sunday for dinner.
Both his eyes were perfect circles, white plastic insets that could see in the dark and look through walls. They looked like child-safety outlet covers jammed into his eye sockets. Light blue tracery zigged and zagged back to his grey-haired temples and down each side of his neck.
We always gave him the cheap glasses and cutlery because of the lack of delicate motor control in his massive skin-sheathed hand-machines. When he walked, one foot clanked.
We’d serve him a turkey dinner or roast beef which he ate obligingly to fuel the biological components of himself but it was always disconcerting to see him finish his meal with a big glass of oil.
After dinner, he’d mess up my child’s hair and do magic tricks. The decommissioned weaponry that the government took back left large hollow compartments in his back and one quarter of his chest. With clumsy sleight-of-hand, he could make objects ‘appear’ out of those compartments.
He could make miniature lightning bolts between his fingertips that would dim the lights and make his own hair stand on end like Einstein.
It made me shiver; thinking of how many of the enemy must have died screaming and blackened under those sparking mitts.
My theory was that the indirect and subtle world of adults was confusing to the changed cyborg soldier mind of my brother. The only time I saw him smile was with my child. His nephew.
Children were pure, straightforward and had no idea that he was frightening.
We probably would have tried to find a polite way of stopping him from coming over if these nights weren’t the highlight of our son’s week.
I’m looking at the two of them now, laughing on the living room carpet while one of my brother’s hands runs around by itself. My son’s laugh sounds like a normal child’s laughter.
My brother’s laugh sounds like crushed tin cans being rubbed together at the bottom of a well.
by submission | Nov 29, 2009 | Story
Author : Jeff McGaha
A red-haired man walks directly up to the customer service counter. He carries in his right hand a metal cage with a tiny brown hamster inside. Reaching the counter, he drops the cage thoughtlessly, jostling the small creature inside.
“Scuse me,” He says to a man in a royal blue short-sleeved collared shirt.
“Yes sir, how may I help you?”
“I’m havin’ some problems with Neo here. I thank he’s broke.”
“Ohh, that is unfortunate. What is exactly is the problem?”
“He got out de other day and attacked me cat.”
“Ohh, that is too bad. Is your cat okay?”
“Naw, he’s dead.”
“Ohh, my.”
“Yeah, hampsters ain’t suppose to attack cats. Suppose to be de other way round.”
“Ohh, yes. Most definitely. I am sorry to hear about your cat.”
“It’s okay. Been meanin’ to get a fake one anyways. I ain’t got de time to keep takin’ care of a real one anymore.”
“I completely understand, sir. I have two artificial dogs myself. I do not know why anyone would want a real animal anymore.”
“Dogs, eh? Not much fer dogs. I’m more of a cat person.”
The man in the royal blue shirt nods and reaches into the cage and grabs the hamster. The hamster growls at him.
“That is not right. Hamsters definitely do not growl. I definitely know what the problem is then.”
“So, you’ll be able to fix ‘em?”
“I believe so.”
The man in the royal blue shirt holds the hamster in his left hand and pinches the hamster’s head with his right thumb and index finger. The hamster becomes rigid and the top of his skull pops open, exposing a tiny socket. The man in the royal blue shirt pulls a small hand held device out from under the counter. There is a short cable wrapped tightly around the device. He unwinds it and plugs the end of the cable into the jack embedded in the hamster’s skull. He taps on the hand held device for a few seconds.
“Yes. It appears that the hamster has inadvertently been given canine programming rather than rodent programming. That’s an easy fix.”
He taps a few more times on the hand held device. The hamster goes limp.
“Okay, everything is fine. I have just flashed him with rodent programming. He will be up and acting normal in about 10 minutes.”
“Thank gawd. My kids woulda been real upset if anything happened to Neo.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah, ya got any calico’s in stock?”
by submission | Nov 28, 2009 | Story
Author : Erin Searles
“Cats,”said Big Fat Dave. “It was cats that started it in this reality.”
In his channel’s feed I saw Archibald, Big Fat Dave’s big fat cat, stretch as if in agreement.
He continued: “You know how cats will watch something or someone crossing a room when you can see there’s no one there. That ‘s them watching people on alternate reality channels. That’s how we figured out how to do it. Scientists did studies on cats’ brains.”
“I doubt it.” Pink Dave scoffed. Pink Dave hadn’t chosen his own nickname. The day we all first met Pink Dave had been wearing a pink shirt and tie. He didn’t like it, but nicknames stick.
Recently things hadn’t been going so well for Pink Dave. We hadn’t seen him in a shirt and tie for a while. He’d stopped shaving for so long that he was a better candidate for Bearded Dave than I was. Maybe he could be called Bearded Dave when I was gone.
“It was those scientists at CERN, right?” He looked to me and Not Dave for agreement. “You Daves have CERN in your worlds, don’t you? Back in the noughties they build a machine they thought might end the world, but instead they discovered how to view the alternate realities.”
I wasn’t keen to gang up on Big Fat Dave, who worshipped his cat slightly more than was healthy. I answered as diplomatically as I could.
“Yeah, we have a CERN here and they did build the LHC, but I don’t remember anything coming of it. I think the tech came from the American military on my channel.”
Not Dave shrugged. “It’s probably different for all the channels, that’s the point of alternate realities, right?”
Not Dave’s name was actually Andrew, we didn’t know why. Like the rest of us he was the 32 year old son of Jack and Nicola Upton, but in his reality they had called him Andrew, not Dave. It was strange for him to realise after a lifetime of being an Andrew that he was, according to probability, a Dave. He elected to be known as Not Dave, despite not needing the differentiating nickname.
Pink Dave was about to start arguing again. I headed him off:
“Guys. Do we want to spend my last night retreading the same old arguments?”
“Hell no,” said Not Dave. “ Let’s raise a glass to Bearded Dave.”
They all lifted a can, in strange unison in their respective corners of my screen. Not Dave and Pink Dave had beers; Big Fat Dave was drinking Coke.
“Bearded Dave,” they chorused.
I picked up my own drink to toast them back.
“Dave, Dave, Andrew it’s been a pleasure knowing you all. I wish we could carry on being friends… I’ll always remember you.”
We all lapsed into silence. It was close to midnight, the time when my channel would block all other realities from viewing us, and, as the inter-reality laws decreed, be blocked in return – who wants someone watching you when you can’t watch them back. Despite international outrage my reality’s committee governing reality channels hadn’t backed down. People had been given a month to say goodbye to friends on other channels while the final appeal went through. It had failed and at midnight the switch would be thrown.
“It sucks, man.” said Big Fat Dave.
More silence. One minute to midnight.
“Bye Daves.”
“Bye Dave.”
“Bye mate.”
“See you Dave.”
Black screens. Channel 1353 had blocked. I sat back in my chair – an isolated Dave in an isolated world.
