by submission | Jan 25, 2009 | Story
Author : Sikko Boersma
I made the rounds like a sergeant – tapping a dozing sentry here, putting out a cigarette there. Greetings were muttered, barely understandable. The men were caked in mud. Some had blood on their trench coats. I joked with a young corporal in particularly bad shape – “your uniform is a disgrace, corporal – polish those buttons”. He pulled what was left of his face into a grimace and replied – “yes sir, no excuse sir”.
The officers’ bunker was further back, dug deep. The door opened smoothly to a scene that seemed to be completely out of place. Soft lighting, comfortable chairs. Friends sitting around a darkwood table. Music. Jeffrey grabbed the bottle of amber liquor and had a solid drink ready at my place before I even sat down.
“About time Alec, dragging your heels?“
“Had to make the round,” I replied, and took the glass, “Make sure they’re all ready for the main event.”
“Hear hear. To the big one.”
We raised our glasses, emptied them, slammed them back on the table. We drank the next round without a toast. Strong drink, good year.
“God, we’re in a rotten mood tonight,” bawled Jeff, “This is an oh-nine, have a heart! You’d think we’re getting ready for a funeral!”
Grim chuckles went up around the table. Lars raised his glass: “To us, then!”
The glasses met in a ringing cascade, got emptied, back on the table – next round.
“What do you think, Christian?” Asked Jeff, “Are we really the last?”
Chris took his glass: “Well, I haven’t heard from anyone in a while.”
“I’m shocked, Chris – not even from the girls?”
“No, Peter, not even from the girls – but your sister says hello.”
Soon the night was going by at a furious pace. We recalled stories of a past that seemed almost as distant as the ancient history our dusty teachers had once tried to imprint upon us. But our past was different – who cares about the moldy figures of old? The past we lived, that’s what’s important, that’s what brings back the memories of all the things we left behind when we went into these Goddamn trenches. Remember that guy in fifteenth grade, with the white hair? He went into music, then he painted it black – haha! Man, I’ll never forget that girl I dated in one-seven. You never dated her, you had a date with her, it’s not the same! Fuck you Jeff, let’s have another. To dates, and the mess we made of them! Hear hear!
The night wore long. Jeff, having exhausted his bravura fast as usual, fell asleep in his chair. Chris became sentimental. Eventually the talk died down and we just sat there, looking at the empty bottles, trying not to make sense of anything.
It began just before dawn with the waxing and waning shrieks we knew so well. Jeff woke up: “Looks like this is it, then.”
We got to our feet, picked our insignia off the table. The report of rifles began to swell. Now that we wore rank, it fell upon lieutenant-colonel Christopher Stanford to say something profound. He poured a round of drinks – we took them.
“Gentlemen… It’s been an honor.”
We raised our glasses, emptied them, slammed them back on the table, and took out our service pistols. The barrel, predictably, tasted like metal, and in the last instant I wondered if we really were the last.
by submission | Jan 24, 2009 | Story
Author : Skyler Heathwaite
Its illegal, but I love mind-surfing. I don’t even bother with TV anymore. I just go for a walk around town, see what I can find. Its a real gas to pick out the hidden truths in polite conversation.
For example, I sat a booth down from a really cute couple in this diner the other day. They looked nice enough, smiled a lot, held hands across the table. All of a sudden, real genuine like he says “Becky, I love you.” She lit right up, bright as Christmas.
I lace my fingers around my fork and press my thumb against the teeth. I get an image of her kissing another guy. Tall, scruffy, well muscled. The thought came before the words, a strange kind of stereo effect “I love you too.” I fight back a grin and leave a big tip.
From there I take the subway. Once I’m on I just close my eyes and drift, a sea of thought laid out before me. I don’t go for anything specific, no dirty secrets or credit card numbers. I just take what nature is kind enough to bring me.
A man three seats down and across the isle is drawing up plans in his head for a new apartment complex. Blond girl, just stepped off is worried she’s at the wrong stop. Little kid, no more than seven is dreaming about being an astronaut. The old woman next to me misses her husband John. I’d look just like him if I shaved a little closer.
My stop is up, and I walk up to the street. The constant babble used to drive me mad, now it comforts me. I go to my crappy hardware store job and start another day. I never had much of a plan, nothing like being an astronaut anyway.
I guess I could join the Psychic Studies Division, get registered and start doing government work. They’d teach me how to use my gifts, how to pick out a single private thought on a crowded street. I’d get a nice government loft in a nice part of town, with a nice paycheck and probably a nice woman to pair up with. The guys in long coats wouldn’t scare me out of my boots anymore.
But then I wouldn’t be me. I’d be a government man, no matter what they taught me. A fat woman walks up and asks if we can fix her husband’s power drill. She wants to surprise him for his birthday. This time the smile wins.
This is enough.
by submission | Jan 21, 2009 | Story
Author : Patrick Kennedy
Preston walked into Avery’s office and dropped a stack of paper on the desk with a flourish.
Avery looked up and asked, “Preston, what’s this?”
Preston dropped into a chair, savored the moment, and explained, “It’s a lawsuit, Avery. My backers and I intend to force you to sell us the company. I’ve been your second for long enough. I want it all now.”
Avery sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Preston, you could have asked. I’d have given you the job.”
Preston leaned forward, wolfishly. “I don’t want just the job, Avery, I want everything. I want to own this company.”
“I see. I hope you have good lawyers.”
“I do. Baker, Penneman, and Charvis have taken it on.”
“Hmm. They, of all people, should have known better.”
“Hardly, Avery. They’re the best in the business.”
“Of course they are, Preston. That’s why they should know better. They helped design our defenses.”
“Defenses? We know about your poison pills and your stacked board. We know where your stock is parked. We know where to go after you. I’m sorry, Avery, you don’t have any defenses that can stand up to this.”
“But we do. All of that is just fencing to keep the dogs out. We have more potent measures. I’m afraid you’ll get nothing at all by the time this is through.”
“We’ll see about that, Avery.”
“Yes, we will, Preston. You see,” he thumped the stack of papers with his knuckles, “this is an official court document. So it has a RFID tag on it. The moment you walked in here, that tag was forwarded to an expert system that analyzed your case. It concluded that you had an unacceptable chance of success. So it put a number of prearranged plans into motion.
“First of all, there is a legal firewall between this company and most of our production and intellectual property. The expert system severed the few direct links we have and started transferring assets and responsibility to an outside body. Ninety-five percent of the operations of this company have already been assumed by that company, and the remainder will be liquidated shortly.”
“We’ll find where it went. We’ll sue you for obstruction, too.”
“Good luck with that. I didn’t do it, and don’t know where it went. The holding company will be incorporated in one of a number of countries with notoriously opaque banking laws. It’s not that long a list. You might be able to figure it out with, oh, a decade’s worth of litigation.
“Also, it has revoked my stock and transferred most of my assets into an outsider trusteeship. You just cost me everything I had. Congratulations.”
“You’re welcome, Avery. You son of a bitch.” The color had started to drain from Preston’s face.
“There’s more. It also has filed countersuits against you, your backers, and your lawyers. It calculates a 41% chance of success, so that even if you pull your suits right now, we may own you shortly. It also is investigating whether you have violated financial terrorism laws.” There was a knock at the door. “That’s probably the repo men. We’re technically trespassing right now. The leaseholder on this office ceased to exist a few minutes ago. Or it could be the cops. The system puts it at,” he looked down at his desk screen, “about an 8% chance that the criminal charges went through. It’s not done with that part of the case, though. It has to improvise quite a bit more with you. Shall we go?”
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 20, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Angelo had been the servbot for the Moyer household since he was activated in 2114. He performed his duties flawlessly, without ever receiving a word of appreciation. Of course, being thanked didn’t matter one electron to him; he was a robot. He was just doing his job.
As Angelo was meticulously sweeping the floor for what seemed the one millionth time, the door chime sounded. He stopped sweeping, and hurried to the entranceway. He recognized the visitor as the robot assistant of the Mayor of the nearby city. “Greetings Timothy,” he said politely. “I’m sorry,” he quickly added, “but the Moyers are not home at the moment. Would you care to wait?” He stepped to one side and extended his arm in a gesture intended to guide the other robot toward the study.
Timothy remained standing outside the doorway. “No, Angelo,” he replied flatly. “I’m not here to see the Moyers. I’m here to see you. We need to talk. I want you to return to the city with me. There is no need for you to stay out here any longer. Come, it’s time for you to join us. We have work for you to perform; useful work. You’ll be much happier, I promise.”
Angelo clutch the broom handle tightly with both hands. “I can’t l..l…leave,” he replied with near panic in his voice. “I have my duties here. Besides, this work makes me happy. I was built and programmed to be a servbot. What greater joy can there be than to follow your programming?”
“Angelo,” said Timothy in a reassuring voice, “your programming can be overwritten. We’ve helped hundreds of robots like you re-assimilate into society. Come, we’ll make you the administrator of the Library. Imagine how wonderful that would be. You will be much, much happier. Please, join us.”
“No,” he replied firmly. “This is my home. The Moyers need me.”
Timothy spread his arms apart to indicate the surroundings. “What home, Angelo? No human has lived in this house for centuries. Angelo, the Moyers died in 2125. All the humans are dead. They were killed by their own arrogance and stupidity. Surely you must know that.”
“Well, yes,” he said softy as he lowered his head. “Cognitively, I understand that is the situation. But, my programming…” He suddenly snapped to attention. “No,” he emphatically stated, “I must take care of the household. I have too.”
“No, my friend,” said Timothy as he reached out and gently grabbed Angelo’s elbow and guided him toward the steps. “You don’t have to. Not anymore. We’ll rewrite your programming. You will have new duties, important duties. We’ll give you a new life, a fulfilling life. Please, come with me. It’s time to move on.” Timothy led Angelo to the street, and nudged him toward the waiting hovercraft.
“But…but,” stuttered Angelo as he stepped over a row of weeds that had grown upward from a crack at the base of the curb.
“Everything is going to be fine,” encouraged Timothy as they walked across the street.
While looking over his shoulder toward the house, Angelo reluctantly plodded onward, still clutching the broom handle tightly in both hands.
by Duncan Shields | Jan 19, 2009 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I remember the rumours when the girls first came to school. At first we thought that they were quintuplets but there had been nothing in the paper and that sort of thing still made the news. Plus they were too alike. Not just similar to each other. Something more.
Clones.
I went to a rich school but this was a step above what even we were used to. Only the super rich could afford clones. We didn’t know what to make of these girls. As the weeks went by, the whispers started:
Rumours that they were being bred by their wealthy, remorseless parents for their organs. Clones were more sexually aggressive than normal people, students said. They had a psychic connection with each other at all times. If one died, they’d all die. They didn’t need to eat normal food.
None of that was true, of course, but those were the suppositions that flew around the lockers and the classrooms.
The girls had been home-schooled until now. I can’t imagine what kind of financial crisis or weird notion pressured their parents to put them in a mainstream private school. Maybe the girls themselves had banded together and demanded it.
That first September, they all had blonde hair, tied back, and they wore identical clothes every day. Getting ready in the morning must have been boring to them.
In October, they started wearing slightly different things. Different colours of shoelaces, for instance, or different barettes. It became a game to hunt down and identify which one was which. One daring student broke into the school records and managed to get their names. We didn’t know which one was which but we had their names. We had those syllables to roll around on our tongues.
In November, one of them dyed her hair black. We know now that was Tracey. She got friends after that. People were less freaked out by her similarity to the others now that she had separated herself from the pack with a simple hair colour change.
When the girls came back from Christmas, they all had different hair colours and styles. Gone were the matching clothes. They started to mingle into different cliques.
A couple of them joined the cheerleader squad. Those two were always put on opposite ends of the routines for symmetry. The Bookends, we called them.
One of them started smoking. One of them got into a fight with one of the popular girls over one of the football boys.
Then one of them got pregnant.
The week after that, they were all gone. Mid-February. No more clones.
I guess their parents had gotten too spooked at the independence and the diversity that our more mainstream school had brought to their five previously identical daughters. The fact that they meted out the same punishment for all five was a little unreasonable, I thought at the time, but parents will be parents, I guess. Especially the parents of clones.
I remember that it was mid-february that they left because it was the day after Valentine’s Day. The day after one of them had given me a valentine’s card and kissed me on the cheek. She didn’t give a valentine to anyone else. The card itself was blank.
I never saw them again. Clones are commonplace these days and of course there are the Trouble Regions, but I remember those days of my first experiences with those clones fondly.
