Ice Rustlers

by submission | Sep 3, 2006 | Story

Author : Patricia Stewart

The annoying throb of the proximity klaxon woke the two security guards (aka, Comet Cowboys) from their mid day rest period. They drifted into the control room and floated above the sensor-generated hologram of the “herd.” The “herd” consisted of approximately 3,000 mountain-sized blocks of ice that once were comet 2P/Encke. In the early twenty third century, The Mars Water and Mineral (MWM) Company bought the rights to the comet and spent years breaking it up into manageable fragments. Then, every 3.3 years (when its orbit brought it nearer to Mars) they would “corral” a few blocks and sell the water to the farming conglomerates on Mars, at a substantial profit of course. However, the conglomerates considered the markup so unreasonable that they revolted. They hired ice rustlers to raid the herd and steal large fragments of the comet; thus starting the Great Ice War of 2279. Eventually, the United Worlds stepped in and negotiated a peace, but there were still some bands of freelance rustlers who would occasionally try to steal a block or two to sell on the black market.

Roy Cody surveyed the hologram and spotted the intruder. “Just one ship,” he said pointing the sole flashing red light amongst the 3,000+ drifting white dots. “They must really be stupid to think they could slip under our sensor grid. I’ll handle this one myself.”

“Fine,” said his partner. “But remember the treaty. You can’t blow them up unless they fire first. But feel free to disable their engines, or cut their grapple line.”

When Cody arrived at the designated location, he discovered a dilapidated one person skiff, which was at least 100 years old, and it was struggling to flee the herd with a comet fragment the size of a small house. Roger pressed the ship-to-ship communications button. “This is security. Unknown ship, please identify yourself.”

“Cody, is that you? It’s Buck, Buck Cassidy. How did you know I was out here?”

Buck was one of the original “cowboys.” He had worked the herd during the war, and had trained Roy when he became a guard in ‘98. Buck had retired a decade ago, and didn’t know about the security upgrades.”

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me. Where you goin’ with the cube old friend?”

“I’m desperate, son,” he replied. “They stopped delivering water to Demos. They’re trying to drive me planetside. I’ve lived on Demos all my life. I’ll never survive Mars’ gravity. Look, Roy, this block won’t survive perihelion anyway, and it will last me the rest of my life. Can’t you cut me a break?”

Cody knew Buck was right; they don’t shield these little chunks. It would probably evaporate next time it passes the sun. What the hell. “All right, Buck, get moving. And, listen, don’t shoot back.” As Buck continued to limp away, Roger fired two shots across his bow. “Base, this is Ranger One. It was just some teenagers on a joy ride. I ran them off. I’m heading back to the barn.”

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Missing Persons, Case T324.93

by submission | Sep 2, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : J. S. Kachelries

I hate androids. Especially these high tech laboratory assistants. They’re good observers, but they can be instructed to lie. Worst of all, they can’t be intimidated or frightened into making a confession. I’ll take a human witness (or ‘suspect’ for that matter) anytime. “OK, bud, what’s your name, serial number, and date of sentiency?”

“I am called Daishin. My serial number is LAM34987650998-5. I became sentient on March 1, 2055. How can I be of assistance, Detective?”

I resisted the urge to send him/it for coffee. “Well, Daaheecheen, you can start by telling me where Dr. Hopkins is. He’s been missing for three days, and you were the last one to see him alive.”

“I am sorry, Detective. I do not know ‘where’ Dr. Hopkins is. I was assisting him with his time dilation experiments when he vanished. Technically, it is a matter of when.”

“What? Time travel, you say? But that’s impossible.” I happened to know it was impossible because of a holovision documentary I watched last week, where they made fun of 20th century television shows such as ‘Star Trak’ (or something like that) which created ridiculous timeline paradoxes in their storylines.

The titanium irises in Daishin’s photo-optic cells contracted to pinpoints. “It is true, Detective, that it is currently impossible to travel backward in time. But, it has been known for over 150 years that you can relativistically move forward in time simply by traveling at, or near, the velocity of light. That is the nature of Dr. Hopkins’ experiments. His temporal dilation chamber, there in the corner, can be used to move forward in-”

Just then, a red light above the whatamacallit chamber began flashing, followed by an irritating pulsating buzzer. Then, some idiot (who I assume was Dr. Hopkins) came running out of the chamber, grabbed the android by the lapels of his lab coat, and began shaking him. “Daishin, Daishin, how much time has elapsed since we activated the chamber?”

The android cocked his head and replied, “My internal chronometer indicates that you were gone for 75 hours, 18 minutes, and 17 seconds.”

Dr. Hopkins pulled a watch from his breast pocket and studied it. “According to my stop watch, I was only in the chamber for 67 seconds. This is fantastic. Come, Daishin, we need to perform a full molecular scan of my blah, blah, blah…” He continued to mumble something or other as he headed down a hallway. Before entering another lab, he paused and yelled back, “Hurry along, Daishin. And tell your friend there that we don’t need any of whatever it is he’s selling.”

Daishin straightened out his lab coat and said, “I see Dr. Hopkins has returned, and appears to be functioning normally. I believe, Detective, that your missing person problem is now resolved. If you do not need me anymore, I will tend to Dr. Hopkins.” He turned and headed down the hallway.

I changed my mind. I hate androids and mad scientists.

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Time, 101

by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 29, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

“Paxton – Porterhaus – Pratt.” The name was enunciated with venomous care, as though each word were an expletive of a most unpleasant nature.  The professor spoke across a desk cluttered with piles of documents, large texts and time keeping and measuring devices, to the youth lounging lazily in the chair opposite him. “I fear you have run afoul one too many times of this institution, Pratt, and this time you’ve gone too far. Beyond disrupting my classroom, you have stained my reputation, and this” he paused to push his glasses up the crooked bridge of his nose “this I will not tolerate.”

The youth shifted only slightly in his chair, gazing smugly through a sea of clocks and whirling planetary models at his agitated teacher. He made a show of straightening his tie, a striped affair with the backside facing, the fat end terminating at his breast pocket, while the tail hung between his legs.

“It was bad enough your turning in a summary of text so obviously penned by another, and someone that had either himself never laid eyes upon the assigned text, or harbors you no amount of goodwill.” The professor paused a moment, moving carefully aside the student record labeled ‘Pratt, Paxton P., III’, the cover of which sporting an equally disheveled version of the student now before him, similarly smug, and gazing idly from side to side inside the holo’d cover. He lifted a textbook from beneath it, and turning it towards his student poked angrily at it. “That was bad enough, but you, you had the unmitigated audacity to accuse me of ‘gross and libelous conduct’ and ‘harboring a clear prejudice against you’ for my failing grade.” At this, he leaned forward, rising slightly out of his chair. “I had to actually defend myself to the Dean Construct against your charge that I ‘clearly did not understand the author’s theories or proofs sufficiently to grade your exceptional paper’. Mr. Pratt, read for me the author of the text I’m holding.” He held the book as far as his reach would allow, and glared past it as the reluctant Paxton Pratt eyed the title without speaking. “You’ll notice, Mr. Pratt, that is my name on the cover.”  At this, Paxton shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his smug look softening ever so slightly.

The professor dropped the textbook loudly in the middle of his desk, and slumped back into his chair, a tense silence taking hold as various units of measurement ticked on the various time keeping devices around the room. Somewhere, something clicked audibly, the noise setting the professor back in motion.

“Mr. Pratt. I would have expelled you at once, however your father assured me that were I to make you his burden again, his generous funding for the ‘Pratt Faculty of Time Studies’ would immediately, and with great prejudice run dry.” The professor picked up Paxton’s file from his desk and tossed at the student, who caught it in surprise. “Keep that, will you. I shan’t be needing it in a moment. You see, if you had listened in any of my classes, you’d know that manipulating the past is strictly prohibited. However, if you had bothered to read the textbook you were assigned, you may have taken an interest in the appendices, specifically the one titled ‘Exceptions to the Timeline Rule’. You see, Mr. Pratt, arranging for a house to drop on your head as a child, while enormously gratifying, would constitute a gross variation in the Timeline, and as such is prohibited. It would seem, however, that your parents, as your father was so kind to enlighten me, never wanted another child. You were apparently an accident brought about by a failed vasectomy, and as you were already so very close to not existing, a subtle manipulation to the Timeline where you are concerned is perfectly acceptable.”

At this, the professor paused a moment to straighten several piles of documents on his desk before speaking pointedly at the shrinking and confused looking youth now almost cowering in his chair.

“Mr Pratt – I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a tubal ligation after the birth of your older brother Weston.  In a moment, the Continuum will refresh, and the displeasure of your existence…” he paused for a brief moment “…will have been all mine.” These last five words he spoke to an empty chair.

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Greetings from Tarpoint

by submission | Aug 28, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Frank Ruiz

It’s my favorite Super oldie playing from the speakers above: “I think we’re alone now…” The lights are just right, bringing the girl out against the dark room, making the furniture behind her suggestions; a white body rising from black waters. Slick red 12 inch hydraulic heels. She’s got some new adjustable tits. I can tell because they’re way high. They’re set to a C. She sees me frown and flicks her wrist out like she’s checking her old timepiece. Now they’re D’s. Her eyes stay steady brown. She’s got no color changers there and her hair looks real. She must be new to this trade.

“Not here to buy, ma’am.” I say. Her heels drop to the floor and the tits deflate. “I’m with the Temporal Watch Service.”

“Time cops. What are you here for? We just opened.” She closes her open robe. “How would we ever be associated with a paradigm aberration?” She reaches one hand between her legs and hugs herself across the chest with the other. “All we got here is a little bit of this and a little bit of that.” She gives me her business smile.

“In a minute, a man will come through that door looking for a trick. He is not what he seems. This man is actually an escapee from the planet Tarpoint. Bred in a genetic lab for the purpose of killing that planet’s rodents, he gained sentience and bolted. His flesh releases an airborne pathogen upon excitement that will kill anything.” I walk to her. “On this planet, he is a famous person. You would never turn him down. But what he’s got in him and what you’ve got in you mix together to create a plague that wipes out the whole galaxy. We’re talking diseases from thoughts.”

She puts the work grin away. I can tell she doesn’t believe me but doesn’t want trouble. “All we got here is beaver, honey. You do whatchoo gotta do, sweetie. Make sure none of my girls get hurt and I’ll treat you right myself later.” She flicks the wrist, turning off the lighting system, then walks away, returning the room to mundane.

“See you in a bit, brown eyes.” I sit on a soft sofa across from the door and think about my blue eyed wife and the boy.

The door creaks open all the way, shoving light into the room. A man shuffles in, loosens the tie on his collar.

I unsafe my gun. “Good afternoon, Mr. President. Greetings from Tarpoint.”

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