by J.R. Blackwell | Oct 2, 2006 | Story |
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
“Does it hurt?” asked Tom
Dana brushed her fingers against her straight black bangs. “More than ever.”
“Mine too. You’re lucky you don’t have them on your face.” Tom motioned to the blue, red and brown lines that twisted on his cheeks like veins under pressure.
“I do have them though, look closer.” Dana leaned across the table and Tom saw faint traces of blue under her pale skin. Tom’s eyes followed the veins down her cheeks to her small breasts, tucked in her black silk dress.
He wanted to touch her, but he kept his hands twisting on his lap. “Not too bad.”
“Every bit as bad as yours Tom. I’m a professional makeup artist.” She shrugged. “Well, I used to be. This is my full time job now. This illness.”
“Yeah.” Tom sipped his frappachino. He liked cool things on his skin; they did numb him a little, make it harder to feel those snaking veins. “So, why did you shut down the forums?”
Dana played with her red beaded bracelet. “I didn’t. My hosting service gave me the boot. Password denied. I called them, and they said they had no record of ever getting payment from me. I tried to buy the domain name again but they won’t sell to me. Nobody will. I’ve been shut out.” She shrugged. “I got freaked out, and then you called me.”
Tom called Dana two days ago. He was worried she might have died or committed suicide. He wouldn’t have blamed her for suicide. Dana’s forum was the only place where he could find anything about the strange lesions on his body that wouldn’t heal, the veins getting huge under his skin and the fibers that poked out of his wounds. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“What do doctors tell you about all this?”
“I never saw a doctor. It was just too weird.”
“I went to eight doctors, two of them wouldn’t even look me in the face when they told me to get out of their office. One doctor saw me, but once he saw the fibers, he was on the phone to security in seconds.”
Tom curled his hands around the cold drink. “So that’s it, they just shoved you out?”
“One doctor took a look at my neck and gave me sleeping pills. Lots of sleeping pills.”
Tom looked at the floor of the tiny coffee shop. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” She peeled back the palm-sized bandage on her neck. Three brown, blue and red veins poked out of her skin, tapering like shaved wires. “They’ve gotten worse.” She replaced the bandage, wincing as she pressed on the tape. “Will you show me yours?”
“Well, they’re on my leg, my upper leg. My inner thigh.”
“Really? Lets go to the bathroom then.” She pointed to the one room unisex bathroom.
“Together?”
“Yes, together. What, are you afraid what other people will think? Afraid people will think you’re doing me in the bathroom.”
“I’d be happy to do you in the bathroom.” Tom shook his head. “I guess I don’t have anything to be proud about.” Tom felt eyes on him, but he followed Dana into the bathroom, and surprised himself. He really didn’t care. The bathroom was painted with a mural of dogs in ballet costumes, holding umbrellas in a park. Tom dropped his pants.
Dana stared. “They’re just like mine.” she knelt on the tiled floor.
“Hey, it’s kind of filthy down there Dana.”
“Does it matter? I’m sick anyway.”
“I guess not.”
“You don’t wear a bandage?”
“No. The bandage always feels too tight, even pants feel like I’m salting a cold sore.”
She put pale fingers on his thigh. They were cold. “These fibers look just like mine, blue, red, brown.” She pulled back her own bandage. “Tom, why do you think no one will acknowledge what’s happening to us?”
“I don’t know, but if I have to feel like there are bugs under my skin for too much longer, I’ll kill myself.”
“I hope you don’t kill yourself. I like you Tom.”
Tom scratched his chest. “If we didn’t both have this crap, you wouldn’t have ever looked at me twice.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m a nerd, and you’re a punk.”
“Punks love nerds. We are nerds, if you think about it. Just with a different sense of fashion. Besides, I think you’re thighs are tight.”
“You done looking?”
“No.” She looked up at him, her lipstick bright as paint. “Do you think we should put the wires together?”
“The fibers?”
“Whatever, you think we should put them together?”
“What do you think is going on Dana? You know something I don’t?”
“Would you try?”
“What if something happens?”
“You were telling me about killing yourself a minute ago. If something happens, if we both die, then we die. It’s not like anyone cares.”
“You’re right. No one cares. Not even me. Do it then.” Dana peeled back the bandage on her neck and scooted closer to his legs. “Hey Dana?”
“Yes Tom?”
“You really think nerds are cute?”
Dana touched her neck to his leg. “Yes Tom.” she said, but the voice was in his head.
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by submission | Oct 1, 2006 | Story
Author : Don McCoy
“I don’t think you ought to post that one, Sam,” Liana said over Sam’s shoulder, looking at the monitor, “they’re really cracking down on hate speech.”
“I told you not to use that term with me,” Sam said, tensing, “an opposing viewpoint is not “˜hate speech,'” he made air-quotes. “Anyhow, what happened to the First Amendment? Their gracious deal was to allow us the same Constitutional rights once they took over.”
“They didn’t take over,'” Liana said, making her own air-quotes. “We needed to stop abusing our superpower might, to join the global community instead a alienating it—and that globalization includes understanding that the proliferation of certain philosophical ideas only causes unrest. At best it’s irresponsibility; at worst, sedition. Come on, you’ve read the literature.”
“Literature? Try propaganda. Let’s not have this argument again Liana. Please,” he was quiet for a moment. And still. Then he laughed and shook his head, “I’m posting an article about the new requirement that we get government permission to have a child. What’s seditious about that?”
“Resources aren’t as plentiful as they once were,” Liana said, “they just want to make sure each zone can support its citizenry. It beats famine and poverty.” She rubbed his shoulder.
“Yeah, each zone…let me ask you this,” he half-turned in his chair, “if this country wasn’t forced to export the lion’s share of her agricultural and industrial production to support the world, would we have to worry about any of that?”
“We’d still be fat, complacent, greedy, and wasteful,” Liana said, “I’m proud that our society has finally matured to the level the rest of the world did decades ago.”
“I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” Sam said, “if you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. My own wife is one of the “˜masses’ that were lulled into letting this happen.”
“Actually, people like you opened the door for them,” she said, “without your attitude of entitlement America would never have come to this. We wouldn’t have needed the international community to set us right. We needed leadership”they provided it.”
“We needed leadership?” Sam asked. “President Mouchard rolled over on us. For the simple price of a permanent ambassadorship more than 300 years of sovereignty were burned to the ground with the stroke of a stylus. And with them freedom. Not just America’s freedom, but the last vestiges of freedom left on the planet. We were the last bastion of liberty.”
“Well, the people obviously approved it.” Liana said.
“How do you know?” he asked, “the “˜literature?'”
“OK, then how did it happen?”
“Maybe we did get complacent. Just not your kind of complacency,” Sam said, “A dozen years ago someone got sensitive and agreed that the size of our military was antagonistic, so we sawed it off to quell the fears of the world,” Sam said, “five-years ago we signed the International Small Arms Pact and disarmed our population. How could we stop them once they bribed the president?”
“They didn’t need to bribe him,” she said, “it was time we left the Wild West, time we left behind the daily killings in the streets.”
“There are still daily killings, now they’re just committed by the security service.” Sam jumped up and ran to the window as a huge diesel engine rumbled outside. He saw dust settle around the white armored personnel carrier as the boots of a small army pounded up the stairs to the den.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sam,” Liana said, “I tried to make you see reason. They only gave me so long to make you see reason”
Sam didn’t look surprised as the blue-helmeted United Nations security force kicked in the door.
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by submission | Sep 27, 2006 | Story |
Author : Patrica Stewart
Jim Roberts continued to stare at the chronometer in the center of the ship’s instrument panel. Thirty minutes past the scheduled departure time. Damn, why can’t they ever depart on schedule? He pressed the intercom button. “Sam, I’m losing the launch window.â€
In an effort to calm himself down, Jim decided to use the delay to run through the checklist again. Primary oxygen, secondary oxygen, carbon dioxide scrubbers, food, water, medical supplies, telemetry, subspace transmitter, backup transmitter, antimatter reserves, etc., etc. He then reviewed the flight plan. He had worked out the details of the plan with a buddy of his, who had made a career of flying replenishment missions to the science, military, and adventure stations in the outer solar system. The plan called for a sling shot gravity boost around the moon, then maximum acceleration along a flatted parabolic path until achieving maximum velocity about 1,000,000 miles above the asteroid belt. Then, on to Titan for a retrograde capture.
Finally, Sam entered the cockpit and sat in the co-pilot’s seat. “Ok, Ok. Every body’s on board, the cargo is stowed, and all the hatches are secured. We’re ready. Have you filed the flight plan?â€
“Transmitted, received, and approved an hour ago. I’ve just been waiting for you, as usual. One day, Sam,†he threatened, “I’m going to leave you behind.†He activated the transmitter. “Tower, this is bravo-delta-epsilon-three-two-niner requesting permission to lift off.â€
“Roger that, bravo-delta-epsilon-three-two-niner. You are number four on the launch pad. Follow Transport Tanker gamma-omega-epsilon-three-seven-seven.â€
“Acknowledged. Buckle up, Sam.†Jim primed the antimatter engines, and taxied toward the launch pad. Three minutes after the Transport Tanker lifted off, he initiated the launch sequence. As the ship accelerated upward, he felt his back begin to press heavily into his seat. With the skill of a seasoned pilot, he adjusted the inertia compensators to maintain 1g. Once in orbit, he set the powerful engines to maximum, and headed toward the leading edge of the moon. After the close approach, the ship wiped toward Saturn (actually, slightly ahead of Saturn, and slightly above the ecliptic). The engines roared continuously for three hours before they automatically throttled down when the ship’s velocity reached 0.55c (Max-V). Jim peered out the viewport and watched Vista’s thin crescent disappearing behind them. “Ok,†he said, “double nickel for the next two hours, then deceleration begins.â€
Sam had no idea what Jim was talking about. “Double what?â€
“Double nickel. It’s an archaic Earth term from the twentieth century. It means your velocity is 55 MPH.â€
“What’s that got to do with nickel?â€
“Not the metal, dummy. A ‘nickel’ was a unit of American currency equal to five cen…†Jim stopped himself mid-word. Earth had stopped using coins over 300 years ago. Nobody but a history buff like himself would know, or even care, about primitive societies. “Oh, never mind,†he finally said.
After a few awkward minutes of silence, Sam decided to change the subject. With a thumb motioning toward the passenger compartment, Sam said, “You know, it’s been awful quiet back there.â€
As if on cue, a shout came from the passenger cabin. “Stop it.â€
“No, you stop it.â€
“Stop it, or I’ll tell Mom. Mom, Katie keeps touching me.â€
“He’s on my side.â€
“Am notâ€
“Are too.â€
“Am not.â€
“Liar.â€
Jim cupped his hands over his ears. “Well, Samantha, I hope you’re happy. You jinxed us.â€
“Did not,†she replied mockingly. “Besides, we just set a family record. We made it all the way to the asteroid belt this time.â€
“Next year, I’m putting a force field between them.â€
“Dad, I’m hungry.â€
“Me too.â€
“I have to pee.â€
â€Me too.â€
“Are we there yet?â€
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by submission | Sep 26, 2006 | Story |
Author : S. Clough
“All units, fall back to waypoint epsilon. Marking recommended routes now.”
Reeve did as he was told. Command whispered into your head and they could easily put pain there instead of whispers. He was with four tax regulars, covering a breach in the stronghold’s outer wall.
“There has been a breach of contract,” command spoke softly, melodiously. “Dropships are inbound to epsilon, and a communiqué has been sent to all aggressors. We are leaving this fight to the regulars. All non-secured equipment will terminate in five – four – three – two – one…”
Reeve smirked at the cries of surprise and horror that came from the Tax soldiers nearby. The equipment the Legion had hired out began to melt in the hands and on the body of the Taxers. The drone guns which had been holding the Anti-Tax combat frames at bay exploded violently. Discarding his weapons, Reeve began to run.
The Tax battlefield radio was swamped by screams. Command switched it off.
“Estimated time till total overrun by anti-tax forces: eight minutes. Step on it.”
Four other Legionnaires had caught up with Reeve. They’d thrown their primary weapons, too. They didn’t speak, but just ran with a measured, rapid pace.
“Anti-Tax unit will cross your path, twenty seconds. Retfire only.”
Reeve held seniority, so drew his sidearm. A lithe, low combat frame slid out of the shadows ahead. It saw them, and hesitated for a fraction of a second. Quickly, it pressed itself back into the shadows. As Reeve passed, it bobbed it’s sensor cluster almost imperceptibly, a weak imitation of a nod……
……Ana flicked the screen off ‘mute’, just in time to hear the Tax representative’s final denouncement of the Legion’s withdrawal. Reeve stood at her shoulder, in full battle gear: his presence was intended to give the Legion’s pretty face a degree of authenticity.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Powell. The contract that you signed clearly stated that the detonation of any N.B.C weapon on the battlefield constituted a breach of contract. I’m sorry for your losses, but you were the one who broke the terms. We had no choice but to withdraw our forces and equipment.”
“After your retreat, we were completely wiped out. You have the deaths of eighty soldiers on your conscience.”
“No, Mr. Powell. You are mistaken. They are on your conscience, as you are the one who requested the detonation of a micronuke. Each of our legionnaires received twenty sieverts, adjusted from the explosion. This constituted a clear danger to their health. Legally, it was as if you’d ordered your men to turn and fire on us.”
“We had no choice! Even with you, we were going to lose.”
“We never lose, Mr. Powell. We have traded upon that very fact for many years now. Too many people have interests in our organization for us to achieve anything but victory on our own terms.”
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by submission | Sep 24, 2006 | Story |
Author : Marco Chacon
She had one of those new things: A USB port in the back of her neck, just under the skull. We’d plug her in at parties and, with the controller, she’d do all kinds of wild things—karaoke, belly dancing, there was even a “Mardi gras button‖but we didn’t use it too much.
Afterwards, she wouldn’t remember anything but a soft warm feeling.
My friends said I was the luckiest guy alive (none of their girlfriends would do it) but I wasn’t too sure.
When I hugged her, I’d run my fingers through her hair and I’d feel the little holes with their metal teeth.
We tried some downloaded porno-ware but her eyes were like glass marbles when she was jacked. It kinda creeped me out.
When they came out with the new ones she didn’t have the money to upgrade and I don’t think it’s a coincidence we got into a lot of fights around that time. We sort of drifted apart.
“You’re whacked,†my friends said. “That’s a dream girl.â€
“It’s totally on fire,†they said, “no one’s getting hurt.â€
“What’s the matter with you,†they said, “it’s hotter than you deserve—you better hang on to that.â€
But I let her go. Today when I’m asked, I tell people we were incompatible.
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