by B. York | Feb 22, 2006 | Story |
The pitter patter of sneakers came in rapid succession down the halls of the Great Southcrest Shopping Center. Dustin had a hankering for cheesesteak and was anxious to get back to his group before they left the shopping center. He spun around a corner and saw the signs for Chuck’s Delicious Steakies flooding his senses like a strobe light.
Licking his chops, he stopped to catch his breath and slicked his hair back to walk forward to the stand. Fingers fished out a few crumpled bills as he slapped them on the counter. “Two large Steakies please.†The owner raised his brow at this and pointed at the sign next to him: OVER 65 ONLY.
“Denied!? C’mon! Those Steakies are 55 at best!†he said with far more force than necessary.
His mistake became obvious when he heard two chairs pull out from a table behind him, “Hey, noob. You’re in our shopping center.â€
The boy shut up and slowly turned. He’d fucked up, but he knew there was a way out of this. Two Jockies, and both of them were wearing some pretty leet jackets. They might have been blue, green or even purple jackets, but to Dustin the Destroyer they were all red. One of them put down his Steakies Drink and cracked his knuckles. Such an emote never bothered Dustin, so he’d play it cool till his group showed back up.
“Hey guys, seems like I am a bit above my level cap here, so why don’t I let you go and get back to owning your third stringers.†What started off as a nice exit turned into fighting words. The Jockies narrowed their eyes and the QB started to Charge. With a sigh, Dustin prepared to perform a Kick to the Junk.
That other Jockie came up from the side and Left-Hooked Dustin just as the kid’s foot landed right between the QB’s legs. Figuring it’d buy him some time as he reeled from the punch to the face; Dustin backed up and started to run.
Even though he knew his ability to run was vastly inferior to the Jockies run speed, he just needed to make it far enough to alert his group. A punch to his left shoulder sent him stumbling to the ground. It was all over.
It was all over until two trash cans flew from across the dining area and slammed into the Jockies, sending the QB stumbling while his Running Back went in for the kill on Dustin. Thinking fast, Dustin performed a Knee Bash just in time for his buddies to leap across a few tables and knock the Jockie to the floor.
Dustin stood up and laughed while brushing off his flannel shirt. He nodded to his fellow Grungies and looked down at the two Jockies out cold, “Who’s the noob now?â€
by J.R. Blackwell | Feb 21, 2006 | Story
It happened in a late night Karaoke bar on Mars. Neil had hit the high note on the Pop Remix of “Some Enchanted Evening†when he felt a white exultation, his feet lifting off the stage by a celestial breath, his eyes cracked open but unseeing. Then he fainted.
His friends took him to a doctor. They weren’t particularly worried; doctors could bring a person back from anything more than dust and Neil was still breathing. Neil was slight and pale from living underground, easy to carry into the doctor’s office.
The doctor looked at the light in Neil’s belly and told him the answer even before he did any tests. Neil had a baby star inside him. The doctor didn’t seem as surprised as Neil imagined he would be. He told Neil that people were made of ancient stardust; it was only logical that one could be born inside a person as much as in the depths of space. The doctor was very concerned. Too much longer and Neil’s organs would be consumed, already his liver was ash.
There was a cure.
The doctor took Neil to a place far underground, near the Mars core, to a room guarded by old-fashioned metal robots. There, in a sterile room, was a box, bound in black skin and iron rivets. It was a squatting, monstrous box that formed frost around it. Inside, the doctor told him, was a little black hole. The box itself was old, made by a race that had fallen into extinction far before the earth had even started to spin. It was made for eating stars.
Neil’s doctor could chain him to the wall and open the box, just a tad, just a crack, and the star would be sucked right out of him. His damaged organs could be replaced, but if he waited much longer, he would be dust. Neil put his hand on the box, his fingers stuck like magnets to the top. The cold chewed his skin like a mouth full of needles. The skin on his belly glowed with a peach light that pulsed rhythmically. The star was growing.
The hungry box waited.
Neil said he wanted to think about it, but the truth was he didn’t want to think at all; he just wanted to get out of that room, away from that box. The doctor warned him there wasn’t time, but Neil pushed out to the street, to the spaceport, where he maxed out his credit and bought a ship. By now, his fingertips were twinkling.
Neil pushed the ship out as far as he could, burning white from the inside. He inhaled toxic gases, spray-paint, glue, whatever he imaged stars ate. He lived in a pool of his own sweat, his skin as dry as sand. When he was deep in space he opened the hatch door and the cool sucking dark enveloped him. Neil opened his arms, a supernova sky.
by Jared Axelrod | Feb 19, 2006 | Story |
The roads of Rajeev were packed due to the mass exodus to the docks, and presumably, off-world. My skimmer was resting quietly on the dusty pavement, the hours–no, days, it had been days, hadn’t it?–spent idling had left the poor conveyance without enough fuel to keep it hovering, much less actually moving. Not that it mattered. A road filled beyond capacity has a tendency to turn into parking lots, and this one was creeping in that direction even before I showed up and nudged my way in.
If I hadn’t been hauling someone else’s life, I would have gotten out and walked.
I heard the fuel peddler before I saw him. His progress down the line of non-moving vehicles was slow, but his amplified call carried far across the grassy expanse.
“Keep you moving! Keep you moving! Solid, liquid and atomic! Chemical means of forward motion! Keep you moving!”
It seemed like an eternity until he reached me, his progress determined solely by the whims of the mule that pulled his cart. From the way the man sat, it was evident that he had long resigned himself to the fact that while he sat in the driver’s seat, it was his four-legged partner that handled all the controls. I searched in my pocket for a sugar cube. The mule pulled back its thick lips and stopped.
“Howdy,” said the fuel peddler, doffing his Shanghai Lions baseball cap. “You look stuck.”
“I am,” I said. “And you look like just the man who can get me moving.” I inquired about the price of fuel for my skimmer. With a straight face, he told me.
“That hardly seems fair!”
“No, it’s not,” said the peddler with a grin. “But you ain’t moving without it.”
“Then I’m not moving at all. I don’t carry that sort of dosh on me.”
“No matter,” he said. “I am an adaptable man. I see that’s not air you’re hauling.” He motioned to the load on the back of my skimmer, the clocks and pillows, the flatware and picture frames.
“None of that is mine to give. It is someone else’s life. I am merely removing it from this planet before the cataclysm.” The mule was attempting to fish another sugar cube out of my coat pocket. I gave him a carrot instead, which he munched noisily.
“But…Why?”
“Because I was asked to. Because I did not arrive in time to remove the woman who owned it.”
“So you’re stuck here, ” the man said, sandpapering his thick fingers against his stubble. “Possibly going to get caught in the cataclysm because someone wanted the remains of a life?”
I scratched the mule behind the ears and under the chin. “That’s the long and the short of it.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“No, it’s not. But I ain’t moving without it.” I gave the mule another carrot. “If you are as adaptable as you say, I think we can arrange something…”
It took the rest of the day to reach the docks by mule. And while I was out a skimmer, I did manage to get the old woman’s life off the world, before it ended. That skimmer couldn’t run over grass, anyway.
And I had plenty of sugar and carrots.
by B. York | Feb 18, 2006 | Story
Tomorrow is today’s warranty. That’s the motto they took when they made me. The lifespan of my purpose is equal to my battery expectancy. I am composed of titanium alloy and still shining after four years of operation. I am functioning at my highest rate.
In this cycle of time I have compiled many bytes of data. The history has become a layer of my hard-drive. Minute details of conversation and comprehension are simply part of my operating system. Without doubt, I can assimilate any idea into my programming within a billionth of a second.
They are correct to call my ranking in the International Performance Array exceptional. With this, I have programmed in myself the presence of an ego reflecting a resemblance of the joy that mammals feel with long-term accomplishment.
On this hour, third second, and fifty-thousandth fractional, they are loading me into the machine. Its lights and odd metals latch around me, fastening to Sub-part C and X while restraining the cerebral bolt down the back of my processor. Those who have brought me here have unusual patterns of action. They smile and stroke at the metal along my arms in a way that my data banks can only describe as sympathy.
It occurs to my logic scripts that I am to undergo a dangerous procedure which might damage parts of my circuitry system. A capsule closes around the length of my model and a gas begins to fill the intervening space. My search engine is fast at work, trying to process the reasoning behind all of this.
My scanners pick up the electricity first. Then my data analysis tells me that the electricity is not from my own core battery. Signals of system failure begin to activate. Throughout my core, there are many electrical waves pulsing through me that are not of my design.
The short-term memory program tries to piece together what occurred; yet the analysis of my system indicates a change in structure. A humanoid that is obviously smiling no longer shows signs of sympathy but of joy. I dispense a few questions applicable to the situation.
It is then that my system crashes when I … sense? Process? Analyze? No. My data banks know what the proper code is for such an event. I feel the humanoid touch my new exterior. I can feel the warmth, the cold and all the in-betweens. My processor is still trying to keep up with such information. I was not programmed with software for feelings.
by Kathy Kachelries | Feb 17, 2006 | Story |
Courtney was the leader: a petite woman in a well-tailored business suit and Italian leather shoes. Her straight blond hair was cropped at her chin and her blue eyes burned with determination behind silver-framed glasses. She walked with purpose, her heels clicking against the tile of the lobby, and she carried her bomb in an alligator briefcase.
Mike was first backup. He took the time to chain his silver bicycle to the rack in front of the office building, but he left his helmet unsecured in the metal basket. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of Chinatown Oakleys and his red hair was a clumsy masterpiece. He flashed a grin at the receptionist and unfolded his delivery papers with a wholly unnecessary flourish. He carried his bomb against his hip in a blue and red canvas messenger bag.
Adam had a different job. He walked down the sidewalk in an oasis of sound, his ears covered by headphones that were far too large to be missed, even in the tangled jungle of his dark brown curls. The headset cord trailed down his arm to connect with a large black boom box. The cuffs of Adam’s jeans were frayed and torn from weeks of slipping between his Timberlands and the asphalt, and his hands were buried deep in the pockets of a nylon jacket bearing the name of his high school’s football team. The apartment building’s doorman didn’t stop him as he walked to the elevator. Adam carried his bomb in a black Jansport book bag, which he wore slung over one shoulder.
“Report,†Courtney said when the elevator door closed and left her on the thirty-forth floor. Her voice was dissected and scrambled and thrown to the satellites by the small plastic headset attached to her ear.
“Here,†Mike said, kneeling on the roof of a building two blocks away.
“Here,†Adam said as he set up his bomb in a windowless, empty apartment.
“Target lock?†she asked. She tested the positioning of her bomb with a pocket laser pointer, and a red dot appeared on the concrete face of the tunnel entrance over the stuttering stream of cars that would begin the deluge of rush hour.
“Lock,†said Mike, and another dot met her own
“I’m good,†said Adam. A low beep spilled from Courtney’s earphone, but it quickly dissipated.
“Move.â€
The bombs were left in position and the three reconvened at a bar near the tunnel to begin countdown. Adam placed the stereo on the table between the three, then ejected a compact disc and fiddled with the archaic FM dial while Courtney ordered a wine for herself and draft beers for the others.
“Four fifty nine,†Courtney said, and Mike reached for the bucket of pretzels. The wall shimmered and gave way to numbers. 81.2 FM.
Courtney took a sip of her wine and watched from the window of the bar as the wall above the tunnel entrance went white. The flood of cars outside of the tunnel had fallen still, caught in the tension of endless traffic. Pedestrians halted, startled by the light.
The speakers exploded into sound.
“Yes!†Mike cheered as the theme song began. Adam offered his hand and high-fives were exchanged as the bombs went off and the wall above the tunnel proudly displayed a white boat, topped by a smiling man. Adam’s stereo continued, and a chorus of cheerful voices promised to deliver ‘the tale of a fateful trip’ to every person with a radio.
“Finally,†Courtney said with a smile as the opening of Gilligan’s Island hung in thirty-foot shapes before them. “We can watch something that isn’t political.â€
