365 tomorrows

“The fact remains, ladies and gentlemen, we have to meet the Geert price,” Fawzia Chiranov said. “We ought to do better than the Geert price, but due to the nature of our company, we’ll probably get by merely with meeting them. But I will tell you this, we lose this bid, we lose the planet.”

Naturally, this was scoffed at. Fawzia was used to this. She charged a great deal for her opinions and consultations, and she was paid for them because she was always right.

“You mean, we’ll lose the contract.” Usamah Afifi had a tendency to bob his shriveled bald head when he talked. Fawzia found it difficult to look at him and not to picture a turtle in a Brooks Brothers suit. “We’ll lose the bid. We’ll get ‘em next time.”

“No,” Fawzia said. “We won’t. There won’t be a next time. We lose this bid, we’re finished. The Geert will have control of the Earth.”

“I think you’re being a little too xenophobic, Ms. Chiranov,” said Eugeny Ruzhan from the head of the table. Ruzhan was considered a war hero; he had designed the robot that won the Kasi War. He still wore his medal pinned to the front of his coat, though the Kasi War had been over long before Fawzia was born. “The Geert are shrewd businessmen, but they aren’t out to take over the world!”

The board laughed at this. Fawzia only scowled.

“That is where you are wrong, Mr. Ruzhan. The Geert are a conquering people. We forget what that means, these days. But they are. They have been buying up and sending out of business Earthan companies for the past few years. We’re one of the last ones, and if Aczel Interplanetary falls, the Geert will control the commerce and economy of the people of Earth.”

“How could they have done this?” Jit Shiew Han asked. She had recently had her face redone, and she looked younger than Fawzia, despite being twice her age. It made it difficult for Fawzia to take her seriously.

“By being single-minded on a cultural level. Despite the appearance of multiple Geert industries, they all have the same goal: overrun a planet, absorb its workforce as slaves, move on to the next. They’ve done this on a dozen worlds already.”

“What do you suppose we do?” Afifi asked. “We’re bidding as low as we can. How can we hope to compete?”

“We stop paying our workers,” Fawzia said. “We stop paying them, we work them day and night, and we provided them with only the most basic nutrition.”

“You’re talking slavery,” Afifi huffed.

“I’m talking of the only defense from slavery. We don’t do this, we lose this contract, there will not be another. Which means it will only be a matter of time before this board reports to Geert masters.”

“It can’t just be down to us,” Han said, her voice quavering. “What about Calaerts? Ghenadie Tech? Easwarau?”

“Calaerts is three months away from filing bankruptcy,” Fawzia said. “Ghenadie Tech is being forced into a plan which will downsize them considerably, and it’s only a matter of time before they are absorbed by a larger Geert corporation. And Easwarau—”

Ruzhan cut her off. “Easwarau was bought outright by the Geert. Saw it on the feed this morning.” Fawzia nodded. “Send out a memo to our employees. We’re following Ms. Chiranov’s suggestions to the letter.”

“They’ll never go for it,” Afifi said. “They’ll riot.”

“They’ll go along with the plan,” Fawzia said. “Just remind them their freedom is at stake.”

In the February, 2006 issue of Popular Science Magazine, on page 88, in the midst of the “FYI” section, you will find the question “What’s worth reading on the Web?” The answer is as follows:

Imagine a web site that posts a brand-new, original piece of fiction every day, a story short enough to read without hitting a “next” button. This all-sci-fi site launched last August and has been posting new prose daily. Read stories about humanoid robots, alien love affairs, and time travel back to the 20th century at 365tomorrows.com.

Every one of us here at 365 was floored that the leading periodical of the technology that builds the future we write about gave us their recomendation. Thank you, Popular Science. And welcome, folks from Popular Science. You’ll find a good home here among our intelligent and devoted readership.

The locksmith knelt down to examine the mangled keyhole in Exetor’s office door. He turned his head and raised a brow at the man seated behind the desk, who was typing with twelve fingers and paying little attention to the tradesman. “So uh, how did this happen?”

A grumble came from the broad-shouldered man at the desk, “I was in a hurry, all right? Haven’t you ever broken something while in a hurry?” Exetor said before reading the words ‘Bionic Locksmith’ on the back of the tradesman’s uniform. “Oh… I guess you haven’t.”

Exetor felt weird in his office, talking to thirteen people on the transmitter in his brain and watching his door being fixed. The scene was a bit awkward with silence, so he sat up and decided to be nice for once. “So, are you natural born or implanted?”

“Excuse me?” The locksmith turned his head with a look of surprise on his face and annoyance at being distracted from his job.

“I mean, are you born or implant? Not a hard question… wait, you’re not one of those liberal bionics, are ya?”

Even though Exetor was digging himself into a bigger hole, the man just toyed with the rim of his hat and went back to examining the lock. “Born with it.”

“Ah, that’s cool. I’m an implant myself. Yes, these babies cost me a pretty credit.” He held up his hands, wiggling all twelve fingers. The glint in Exetor’s eyes changed constantly with the numerous moods he was forced into due to the numerous conversations, but he kept a smile for the locksmith. “The transmitter and the language translator were both in-grown after the process.”

“Yeah, well, you do something long enough…” The locksmith started, as his eyes narrowed to better see inside the lock.

Exetor interrupted again, “That’s what they say, isn’t it? Do something long enough and it adjusts for you? I’m surprised the nano-people haven’t made it into an ad campaign.” He rubbed his chin, considering the money one would make from such an endeavor. His guest remained silent. The locksmith was beginning to regret working for the big wigs.

“You know, man… I hear that if a bionic nympho goes at it long enough, her thing starts to-“

“Whoa!” The tradesman had heard enough and set a solid glare with huge pupils towards Exetor as a look of disgust etched itself across his features. “Look, buddy. I’m here to see if I can fix the door and get you a new key. I don’t need to hear your theories about sex and bionics.”

The businessman frowned then shrugged and went back to rapid typing. His eyes already transfixed on the business going by at alarming speeds displayed on the screen.

With a sigh, the man at the door stood back up and started putting away his tools; he put on a pair of shades. “I’ll grow a key for you by tomorrow. It’ll be my ring finger so it’ll cost you a bit more.”

Tomasine Acero folded her hands on her desk, and then opened them in a manner that she hoped would suggest both an understanding on her part and an acceptance of the inevitability of fate. “You have to understand their point of view,” she said. “They are trying to sell a house. You are saying that you want to rent it before you buy, well, that makes them uncomfortable.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smar were not calmed by Acero’s hand motions, Mrs. Smar in particular. “Uncomfortable? We’ve been living in a damn Honvar ever since the Caern came! All our clothes are in plastic bags…there wasn’t any time to pack.”

“I understand,” Acero said.

“I don’t think you do,” Mr. Smar said, gripping his wife’s shoulders tightly. “We just want a house in our old colony. And we need it before our Ellroy starts school. We don’t want to uproot the poor guy, not after the raid.”

“He saw what happened to our neighbors,” Mrs. Smar said, her eyes on the floor. “He saw it before we did. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have made it out in time. But my poor boy, having to see…those pieces flying, and all that blood. We need this house, Ms. Acero.”

“And I understand that.” Acero had her fingertips down on the desk, supporting the palms. Hands like sheltering structures. “But you aren’t the only one from your colony looking for houses that survived the raid to come back to. And the seller, he wants proof that you aren’t going to rent for a year and be on your way.”

“You want proof?” Mr. Smar almost leapt out of his chair. “Go by my house. Go by the burned-out crater that used to be where my family lived. Go and see the charred and mutilated body parts that used to be old Mr. Fufferds and his wife. Maybe they can cut those bits down from the trees while they’re at it. We survived a raid, Ms. Acero. My own father couldn’t even say that. I think we’ve suffered enough.”

Acero found herself involuntarily self-hugging. She shook away the image of some kindly retired couple strung about a yard, and the alien mind that considered such a dismemberment amusing. She placed her palms together. It was time to project strength and resolve. “What the seller is asking for is some sort of deposit. Your Honvar, maybe?”

“Can’t do it,” Mr. Smar said. “Our ship’s our livelihood.”

“Well, in that case, how about your boy? You could give the seller him.”

“I’m not selling my son into slavery,” Mrs. Smar said.

“He wouldn’t be a slave,” Acero said. Hands open again, fingers apart, bent out at the wrist. Imply trust. “He would be an indentured servant. Only until the seller is convinced of your intent to buy. He’d still be able to attend his old school, see his old friends, only his time outside of school would belong to the seller.”

“Is there any other option?”

“Not unless you want a colony further out, Mrs. Smar. But I wouldn’t suggest it. The further out you go, the closer you are to Caern worlds…” Acero massaged her temple, looked to the left, and projected pure, unadulterated concern. “..,.I just wouldn’t want anything more to happen to you.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smar looked at each other and then simultaneously turned around in their chairs to watch their six year-old son play through the window to the lobby,

“Where do we sign?”

We know its flimsy façade, we know it’s a broken promise waiting.

They said that if we kept working, someday we could make enough to send our kids to college, never mind the dying, the slaughter in the world. Remember the holocaust, they said, but forget the horror of today. Love the planet, but buy a car that guzzles foul gas. Study hard, get a good job, spend your cash on trinkets and drugs. They want us to live with success and debt, hand in unlovable hand.

The thing that still gets me is that no one noticed. It was a hunch that no matter how obvious we were, the fact that we were middle class, well-dressed white people would keep us safe. It was racist, and oligarchic and it delighted and disgusted me that it worked. We looked like we were doing what we were supposed to. We studied hard, politics, chemistry, biology, psychology, physics, film, sociology, philosophy, and computer science. We studied hard. We learned how the world works, and now we plan to change it.

We can build a hundred different kinds of bombs. We can genetically engineer a bacterium that could give everyone colds for weeks. We can send you a virus in the mail. We could break your servers. You cannot find us by your profiles, we come from different faiths, we are poor and wealthy, we are students, union workers, and businessmen. We could kill billions.

You are lucky. We are not as brainwashed as you wanted us to be. We will use the power we have to recreate the system through the frequency of sound, through the meter of light. We will alter the status quo; we are moving slick and sweet over your mega-conglomerate. We will be the underground and the mass consumer appeal. In every dot of perceivable digital light, we will be sending our message right to the brains of your friends, your children and your pets. You can’t hide, we are the mainstream.

This is the Revolution of the Meek, stay tuned.

Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on Io, I thought I would sail about a little and see the most distant reaches of space.

Despite the limitations of technology, the endlessness that spread before our ship pulled me with a unique gravity. The bounty itself was naught. In retrospect, it was a meaningless and futile obsession, but the captain persisted. I followed, as I was wont to do given the limited quarters of the starship, and it never occurred to me that the quest was impossible. After all, I longed for nothing but the sight of stars through the viewscreen, so I was content to drift along in the wake of his unwavering determination.

TW was regarded as the most feared man in the seemingly endless reaches of the solar system, and despite the minimal reward I was compelled by the captain’s inexplicable, unwavering persistence to pursue the ghost of the pale ship through the asteroid belt, through the orbits of nine planets, and through the gentle and burning licks of solar flares.

“He’s out there,” the captain said. “He’s out there.”

TW had claimed innumerable victims, and even in my green and formless years the myths had flickered across television screens as the magnetic residue of a legend. I must admit that I was infatuated with the concept. When the captain himself raised the bounty my interest was piqued, and the lot of us were incited to impossible action.

“Have you sighted the ship?” he broadcast over all frequencies, but the replies were foreboding or outright prohibitive.

In my quarters, I dreamed of the solar system stretching out before me like an arm that never reached a hand. Doubtless, he dreamed of whiteness streaking the dark of space.

“He’s out there,” he said. “He’s still out there.”

Months passed like days, occupied by the dreariness of daily duty and the shadow of passion that the captain cast upon us. I kept a log of activities, though it was surely tedious by the standards of occupied worlds.

“He’s out there,” the captain said. “He’s still out there.” Despite the protests of the senior staff, he continued. Our transmissions were denied by ships which busied themselves with far more likely prospects.

Behind me, Io was a frozen world. I watched the great shroud of space roll on as it rolled five thousand years ago, and I followed orders and monitored the empty radio broadcasts. Space collapsed into distance and the blackness of the signal screen revealed no blips of existence.

“He’s out there,” the man said. “He’s still out there.”

Turnstyle aimed carefully, took into account the drift from the barely oscillating fan, and hit his brother Alphonse in the back of the head with a cigarette butt.

“Quit that,” Ingram said. Watching this is why she never liked being at Turnstyle’s place, but it beat staying at school.

“Why? He ain’t gonna notice. Fucking walltalker.” Turnstyle lit another cigarette and offered one to Ingram. She shook her head violently. “I think I still got some nanites left from the other night. I know for a fact there’s soy sauce in the kitchen.”

“Not on your life. My stomach still hasn’t recovered from the cooking oil wine you made last time.” Ingram started absent-mindedly picking at the exposed foam that blistered through a hole in the sofa.

“That was good shit,” Turnstyle said. “Good shit. You’re crazy. We could go see if we could find Al’s Roulette stash.”

“Oh, hell no!” Ingram said. “You do know why they call it ‘Roulette’ right? ‘Cause every time you take it there’s a chance your brain’s gonna explode! You wanna be a walltalker?”

“Maybe. Least Al’s never bored.” Turnstyle looked at his brother releasing a steady stream of words toward the wallpaper. Alphonse’s voice was barely above a whisper, and his face was blank. But he never stopped talking.

“I invented Roulette,” Turnstyle said, abruptly.

“Fuck off.”

“No, seriously. Somebody had to turn grandpa’s stroke medicine into a rec drug. Why couldn’t it have been me? You’re saying I don’t see the entertainment value of something that connects your neurons in new ways?”

“First off, you don’t even know what a neuron is–”

“Do too!”

“Secondly, if you had, you could afford some proper alcohol, and you wouldn’t have to reprogram the decontamination nanites.”

“Well, yeah…but…” Turnstyle scrunched down into the sofa. He took what was left of his cigarette and flicked it–still lit–at Alphonse. He missed by a good three feet.

“Was that lit? You’re going to burn the walls down, you are. What would your Pa say, you did that?”

“Same thing he always says: ‘Fuck! Why aren’t you in school?’ ” Tunrstyle stared at his 14-year-old older brother, who was staring at the wall. “Goddamn walltalker.”

“Ah, don’t be like that. Go get your soy sauce.”

“You sure?”

“Why not?” Ingram said. “Nothing else to do.”

“Space-faring monkies with a mirror fetish?”

“Yup. In The Day Ambrosia Paled by Kinstev Ramod, chapter six.”

“Damn. Okay, uhh… how about ice cream that turns your teeth green and carries a rare strand of the bubonic plague? Unleashed on a modern colony?”

“As a government experiment: Fire Warden by Jack Strapley. As a mad scientist’s coup de grace: On Being Trembleton by Emilia d’Oernga. With a time travel sub-plot: Terra Infirma by Marguerite Bloc. Sorry, Glenn. It’s all been done.”

Glenn groaned and leaned back in his chair, running his hand through the long part of his hair and pulling it out over his eyes, staring at the brown strands in frustration. “Damn it all! How am I supposed to write if there aren’t any original ideas?”

“Hey, come on, Glenn.” Neil grimaced at his friend in sympathy. “You’re just not thinking outside the box. Look, I know it’s tough, but there’s got to be something you can do that’s not already in here.” He gestured at the Central Database terminal he’d been using, the letters on the keyboard nearly worn off from the fruitless searches he’d made.

Neil’s words were encouraging, but his tone was not—it’d been months since Glenn had come up with his last viable story idea, and he still remembered the celebration they’d had. Now their fridge was bare, and there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in the house. Neil let out a long sigh. “Look… maybe you need a rest, yeah? Let’s go out for a while. We’ll go to the club, see Jeannie and the guys, and just relax. I bet it’d help. What do you say?”

Glenn made a noise of frustration and sat up straight again. “No. No! We’re almost out of cash. What good is going out going to do? That’ll just make things worse. I have to think of something, and fast!”

Neil sighed and turned back to the terminal. “Glenn, we’ve been at this for hours. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“No. No, I’ve got one.” Glenn turned sharply, his face lighting up as his eyes latched onto Neil. He paused dramatically. “How about… a guy with writer’s block trying to figure out what to put in a story?”

Neil groaned loudly and threw a stylus at Glenn. “Do I even have to answer? I think it’d break the database if I tried a search on that. Billions of billions of hits.”

Glenn chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Geez. I just wish that for once I could write something without caring that someone else already did it.”

“Wouldn’t sell.”

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

The two men stared in silence for a moment, Glenn at the ceiling, Neil at the screen that was nothing more than one massive search field.

“Neil?”

“Yeah?”

“How about a story about a writer who hacks into the Central Database and erases the old records so that editors will think his story is original?”

“You know,” Neil said with a slow grin, “I don’t think that one’s been done yet.”

After a while, you forget that it’s summer. Months and weeks become meaningless numbers on the monitor’s clock, and you don’t bother asking anyone what they are doing on the weekend. You know. They’re typing. You know.

You wait for the end of the shift and walk to the bar, seven blocks of August rain. “Beer,” you say, and the man obeys. Drops a pint on the table in front of you. You drum your fingers upon the wood, imagining text on the wall.

The beer is flat. The room is flat. They’ve left you hanging, like they always do.

Hours later, after you thought you’d fought it off, you surface in the lobby but the receptionist does not smirk. She’s used to this. You know she’s used to this.

“Overtime?” she says, and you nod. Overtime. Undertime. Time. They sit you down in the room lit only by the blue of a monitor, and you unfold into the refresh rate of the digital screen.

It seems like the document is typing itself, but in an accidental glance you see your hands floating over the keyboard. They seem to be plastic. You realize that it’s been days since you slept.

Your bell tolls eight hours and you push yourself up, forcing numb muscles to move to the door. You walk to the bar, seven blocks of August rain. “Beer,” you say, and the man obeys. Drops a pint on the table in front of you. You drum your fingers upon the wood, imagining text on the wall.

Here in the Quiet Dark, a raygun can be your dearest friend. It warms to your touch, responds to your requests, and clears your way. It is the best partner one can expect to have in the Quiet Dark.

I’ve had Lizzette here for longer than most of my friends. Certainly longer than my living friends. It is not a weapon, it is not a tool. It is a partner, a friend. A lover.

That’s not queer, or nothing. But Lizzette’s saved my life far too often to be anything but a lover. And here in the Quiet Dark, love is a rare and flowered thing. You best find it where you can. Some of us up here, some claim to love their crate. But that’s a parasitic relationship, and any crate knows that, from the little cargo rockets to those faster-than-light frigates. They know who runs ‘em to the scrap heap. No, me and Lizzette, here, we’re partners.

I tried giving her, up you know. Lizzette, the crate, the Quiet Dark, all of it. Settled down on a orb, found a woman who didn’t care when last I felt the sun and tried to live a life of noise and brightness.

I was warned. They all warned me, just like I’m warning you now. It never lasts. Not for us. Not after all the time in the Quiet Dark. I saw stars collide, you know? Watched a dark hole form and drag in the cosmos inside it. You think I could explain that to someone used to blue above? You think you’ll be able to?

The whole time, I wanted Lizzette there, at my hip. She’d been with me, she’d seen it all. But my girl didn’t want none of that. Proper men don’t carry guns, she said. But Lizzette wasn’t just a gun. She was my partner.

Don’t go thinking you’re any different. I can read a man’s scars as well as a veiwport. You’ve seen too much, same as me.

I suppose a fight between Lizzette and such a woman was destined to end only one way. I wish I had something to remember her by, like that necklace she always wore. But that went in the blast.

Probably just as well. I have Lizzette, after all. What more do I need, way out here?

“I’m sorry, will you repeat that?” Admiral Bunka was squinting to hear, even though his very nervous ensign was right beside him.

“We, uh, are at full stop sir. There’s nothing left.” The young man was sweating and the two continued to look out the viewfinder towards…well, nothing. The whole crew was there, staring out into what should have been space but where space stood it wasn’t black. It wasn’t white. It wasn’t molecules. It was nothing.

“Nothing?” The Admiral began to blubber off non-sense like an ancient car tries to shoot off its muffler when it starts. He pointed at the viewfinder and glared at his ensign with a twitch just above his left brow. “Ba…d… er… don’t give me that nonsense, ensign! Move us forward at once!”

The ensign nodded nervously and returned to his post. They’d been traveling for seven years now, at about five hundred times light speed, when they suddenly came to this rather impassable juncture. The ship just stopped, and the crew had been clueless for the past hour trying to decipher just what was in front of them.

Someone from across the room yelled out, “Ensign! Don’t! We… we can’t!”

Bunka rose up and cleared his throat, “And why not, Sergeant Gimble?”

Gimble was a stout man, but his eyes glowed with the seriousness of his words, “We… we can’t just go forward into nothing! Then it will cease to be nothing!”

“What fimble-tossle! Of course we can go forward. It’s…it’s just a cloud.” The whole crew heard the Admiral, but they knew that he was lying. It was like telling someone who just had their arm cut off that they still had use of that limb. The ensign glanced at his Sergeant.

“Well, if nothing is nothing, then maybe if we go into it we’ll change it into something.” In any moment other than this, those words that the ensign spoke would cause any man to bleed from the eyes, nose, and ears. As it was, the words unfolded a debate in the main cockpit.

Admiral Bunka was the first to try and add in his opinion, “Well, if we’re next to nothing, then nothing is next to something. Therefore, nothing would be something. It can’t be something if it’s nothing.”

“Aren’t we looking at nothing? Isn’t it something we’re looking at?” said the Sergeant as he stood up to get a better look at nothing.

“Uhm. No. We can’t describe what we’re looking at. We may not even be looking at it. It’s barely even an it. Nothing, people. We’re talking about nothing here.” Now that the ensign had everyone thoroughly confused everyone on the deck, the three took a moment to look at each other before turning back to the viewfinder. The definition of nothing had these men absolutely confused, and they were suffering from a mild case of brainpan rupture.

Admiral Bunka appeared understandably perplexed, and rather upset at the whole situation. He stood up straight and nodded in personal acceptance of the decision he had made. “Full reverse then! We’ll go back the other way.”

The Ensign returned to his seat and began typing the orders until he stopped and glanced back to Admiral Bunka, “Sir, wouldn’t that be going away from nothing?”

To the farmers the two monks looked like the comedy/ tragedy masks that adorned the theater in town. The older monk was bald, and smiled beatifically, as if every cold breeze was a kiss. The younger monk had a mop of black greasy hair and he frowned, looking again and again at his wet boots.

“Farmer Kerr!” said the older monk joyfully “Farmer Rae, thank you both for coming out here on this day.”

“Anything to catch a thief.” Muttered Farmer Kerr.

“Please! Please!” said the older monk. “No name calling! My apprentice and I have come from very far to resolve the disputes of your world, and it would be very difficult to reach a consensus on this when we start from a place of bitterness. Let us give thanks to the light in each thing, and the blessings of this day.”

“Master, can we just get this thing over with?” said the apprentice. The Master smiled.

“You have to excuse my apprentice, he is going through the stage of Philosophical Disillusionment. He’ll get through it soon enough and move on to Transcendence.”

“I don’t see how. Nothing actually means anything.”

“He is such a joy.”

The apprentice rolled his eyes. “What exactly is the problem you people have here?”

Farmer Kerr pointed at Farmer Rae. “Rae stole my sheep.”

“Please!” The older Monk waved his hands. “Stealing is so harsh a word. Can we say instead that the sheep seem to reside in his stable now, and you would like them to reside in your stable?”

“Master, if he took them, it’s stealing.”

The old monk pushed up the sleeves of his brown robe. “Young and delightful apprentice, please observe the rite of joyful silence, the breaking of which results in the most excellent slapping of my stick on your spine!”

The apprentice made a face and tried to scrape the mud off his boot on the bark of a nearby tree.

The monk turned to the farmers. “Who would like to tell me the tale of how the sheep moved from one field to another.”

“Well,” said Farmer Rae “Last winter was harsh, very harsh, and some people did not have enough grain saved from the summer and their sheep were left bleating and hungry in the field. I could not stand to see the creatures suffer, so I took them into my stables – with no complaint, I may add, from this man – and I fed them, and kept them warm under my heat lamps, and the sheep survived. Now, here, in the early spring, someone wants his sheep, the sheep that without me would have died, back in his stables. These sheep would have died without me, therefore, they live because of me. I should keep them.”

Farmer Kerr’s face had turned red. “He never asked me if he could take them! They are mine, he should give them back.”

“You do realize that you are arguing about sheep.” said the Apprentice. “That’s all you people do! You argue about sheep and land and fish. Don’t you ever want to see what else is out there in the galaxy? Don’t you realize that we live on the precipice of a black hole? Doesn’t it bother you that the universe circles an orifice of nothingness? Of death?”

The old monk shook his head, laughing. “My apprentice, he always makes me laugh. Farmer Kerr, by taking in your sheep for the winter, and feeding them, Farmer Rae did you a service. Farmer Rae, you did take these sheep in unsolicited, which was not wise of you. Farmer Kerr rightfully owes you payment of half his flock, but since you did not ask permission for your deeds, your payment is lessened. Unsolicited acts should be those of goodwill, my friend. You, Farmer Rae, shall divide the flock into three parts, and you, Farmer Kerr shall pick the two thirds you desire for your own, leaving one third with Farmer Rae in payment.”

They both grumbled.

“Consensus, my friends? Are you in peace with the settlement?”

“Friend speaks my mind.” They muttered, not exactly in unison, but somewhere close.

“Can we go now?” asked the apprentice

“Yes, my good and disillusioned apprentice. We shall go. Hold each other in the light, my friends!”

“Those people will be dead in fifty years.” Said the apprentice, as they trudged against the swamp towards their ship.

“Perhaps less.” Said the Master “This does not mean that we do not have this moment. Ah, look! The second sunrise!”

The land in the west glowed green as the second sun bloomed on the horizon.

“Can we say that on television?” Mool asked. He narrowed his eye at the monitor and raised a turquoise tentacle to his mouth as his other three appendages worked the digital controls.

“Mistep? Sure. It’s been clear for a decade.”

“But what about the Xedrin colony? We got an eight percent pull there last season.”

Nick pondered this for a second. He pushed his rolling chair away from the desk and slid over to the other tech. “If they’re going to bar us for mistep they’ll bar us for having a Relana, period. Leave it. It’s edgy.”

Mool sighed, a sound that hovered in the air for nearly thirty seconds due to his third lung. He dragged a tentacle over the trackpad and a scantily-clad blue female broke into pixels before reassembling at a different time signature.

“Molting season is just an excuse for her to turn down the environment,” the Relana complained as her overdue feathers bristled beneath the old ones. Her bare cheeks flushed to an irritated magenta. “’Oh, it’s so hot!’” she whined in a horrid approximation of a Terran accent. “Yeah, maybe on your ice planet, you frigid mistep.”

A tap to the panel, and her image froze. “Nice,” Nick said. “Do we have a retort clip?”

“We can skink one. Kelly was malko about the feathers in the sink last week.”

“Hmm.”

The cutting room filled with relative silence as the two techs pondered the next scene, Mool still sucking on his fourth tentacle and Nick gnawing on his thumbnail.

“Don’t we have a Penguinair ad?” he finally suggested. Mool’s skin tightened to inspired attention.

“A Texaco heating one, too!” he said, and his second tentacle yanked to the advert box. The clips were found almost immediately, and he slid the first cartridge into the control station. “We could run this pleb for centuries,” he said, as his mouth opened to a grin. “It’s like it never gets old.”

If you had asked Tyrone’s father why he kept horses, why he rode them with his three boys down Carnaby Street to South End and back, and why he never seemed to use a car, he would remove his Red Sox ballcap, run his hand over his coarse dreadlocks and proceeded to lecture you on the relative cost of equine upkeep versus the rising cost of gas per gallon. The crux of his argument was that expense is in the eye of the beholder, and a proper investment is worth a million shortcuts. Tyrone’s father was an economics professor; he lived for such questions.

Now that he was gone, Tyrone often wondered if his father knew something more than just relative costs and exact change. If those years of prospective financial reports had given him some sort of insight into the future. If he knew the Still would come. If he knew his boys would thread through the rusting hulks of abandoned cars and trucks, just as they had when there had been traffic.

“Is it ever gonna stop snowing?” Jamal, the youngest, asked.

“It’ll stop when you shut up for five minutes!” Curtis said, his horse and his body slouching behind.

Tyrone turned back to look at his younger brothers, unsure of what to tell them. He was enough of an adult to understand he should be grateful that the nuclear missile, detonating where it did, only spread the Still and the snow, and the worry of fallout had evaporated so quickly. That the electrics would work again one day, and the snow would stop. He was enough of an adult that he knew that.

But the parts of him that were still a child felt that three years was far too long a winter already, and Tyrone was afraid that he would live the rest of his life under snow and ice.

They were hauling this weeks supplies back from the Save-A-Lot down in South End. The store was shut down, but its immense parking lot had evolved into a type of barter market since the Still. Tyrone and his brothers were the only ones from Carnaby Street who could make it all the way down to South End, so they often loaded up their mounts with neighbors’ pots and knives and clocks with gears, to trade for canned vegetables and freshly caught pigeons.

“Catch up now, you morons,” Tyrone called back to his brothers. “Let’s not be out longer than we have to. Not good for the horses.” Not good for us, either, Tyrone thought. The weather was harsh that day and had forced them to take the Martin Luther King Highway. The MLK’s lack of surrounding buildings made them sitting ducks for any gang that wanted to pick them clean. The stunted trees that lined the MLK would not be enough cover for Tyrone’s brothers and horses–much less the haul–but an abandoned SUV could hide damn near a dozen highwaymen before they chose to strike.

“You spooked of the highwaymen, Ty?” Curtis called out, far too loud for caution. “You scared of the boogeyman, too?” He and Jamal laughed, an echoing bray that bounced off the icy metal and glass.

“P’raps hes gotta r’son to be skeered,” came a voice from behind a car. Tyrone cursed his luck and his brothers’ laughter, as a mess of ragged men and women slithered out from around the rusting vehicles. All carried the crude, haphazardly fashioned knives indicative of the highway-folk. Tyrone had heard that of some of the gangs uptown carried guns, but he doubted they used them much. Bullets were far too expensive to replace.

Keeping that notion in mind, Tyrone pulled out his own pistol and aimed it at the closest would-be robber. He tried very hard to keep it from shaking.

“Do you like my hat?” Tyrone asked the highwayman, staring down the barrel. “No? Not a Red Sox fan? I’m not much of one either, though my father was. Despite their losing streak. He was always so sure they would win the World Series one more time. Went to all their games, Dad did. As an investment, he called it. Though my mother always claimed it was more effort than they were worth.”

Tyrone had the entire gang’s attention now, if drawing the gun didn’t get it before. He cocked back the hammer with his thumb, surprised at how easy it was. “Some would argue that placing a bullet in your brainpan would be more effort than you’re worth. But I’m willing to look at it as an investment.”

“Y’gonna get’sall, horseman?,” the highwayman said through rotting teeth. His posture was strong, but his eyes weren’t. They worried back and forth.

“Curtis, how many are there?” Tyrone called out, not moving his eyes one bit.

“7…no, 2 more behind that truck.”

“Looks like I am,” Tyrone said. “Might even shoot you again when it’s all over. Unless you and yours decide to leave us alone, and then I get to save this clip for another day.”

“Can’t letcha guh. Not for free.”

“Fair enough,” Tyrone said, and shot the man right between the eyes.

Tyrone said his brothers’ names and reined his horse up, and the ragged gang scattered from beneath the powerful brown steed’s hooves. The three horsemen galloped back to Carnaby Street, full load in tow, aware that their “investment” would only last so long.

Tyrone’s father had always said that expense is in the eye of the beholder. When Tyrone caught the way his brothers now looked at him, he felt he understood. The adult in him figured that the expense was not too high, that their coldness would past, and the fear in Jamal’s eyes would one day leave. But he was still enough of a child to know it would be far too long before it did.

Tyrone wondered if it was enough to be able to walk down a path, even if the snow made it impossible to know where you were going.

It was two hundred miles to the temperate equator, across the frozen tundra of the planet Dera. At the start of the trip, in front of the mangled ship, the colonists had cursed the planet, cursed their dead pilot, cursed the persecution of the government that forced them from the center worlds and cursed the faulty engine that crashed them two hundred miles from the land where they could farm, worship their pantheon, and live free.

Ten cold nights had finished the cursing, and settled them into a slow march as their supplies dwindled, and the cold sunk deeper into their bones. Helen, the hearth keeper, and Apollo, the unofficial leader of the expedition, lead the colonists forward, following their doctors navigation towards the warmer climate, that thin warm belt around the belly of the world. So when Helen, usually serene, cursed, it stopped the seventy colonists cold.

“Holy shit! What is that?” screeched Helen, pointing.

A thing, with eyes, many eyes, glassy and yellow, ran across their path and froze, looking back at the colonists curiously.

“That’s a.. .” the doctor paged through his handheld record keeper “Actually, it’s not in the records for this planet.”

Helen grabbed the doctors arm. “How does it even live out here, it doesn’t have fur and it’s freezing!”

“I don’t know.” The doctor put his scanner back in his pocket. “It looks like it’s walking on little mouths.”

Apollo cocked his rifle. “I know what it is.” he said, aiming the rifle with both eyes open. “Lunch.”

“Simply put, I do not, under any circumstances, want your filthy fingers near me.” Alison was near hysteria by the time Timmy called her. Both had been having a relationship for three years now and it was always the man who made things awkward. Nothing killed a relationship more than wanting to meet the person you’re in love with.

Alison’s face scrunched up as Timmy went on with the video call, “How can you be so ignorant? I mean, this is how people before our time did things and I don’t consider it political. I just… want to see you and touch you.”

“My God, that’s fucking creepy. Tim, can you even hear yourself? I’m calling the police if you keep this up.”

“What? No, no. Listen! Sweetie, I’m just bored of this whole cyber thing and phone thing. I want to feel warmth I want to feel you. Can’t you understand what I’m going through?”

A sigh came from her lips. The girl was losing her interest already. “Timmy, that’s why the internet gives you porn: so that girls like me don’t get pregnant. No one has to move and lose their job, and when we get married we can set up for insemination. See? Simple.”

The signal ended with Timmy’s frowning face etched on the plasma reader. How could she do this? He was furious. Already, his computer screen had been buzzing with offers from girls in far, far away places. They knew better than to be located in the same time zone, let alone the same country. Sex became sterile and love was the plastic bag they held it in.

His fingers went to work, and not the way you would think. He typed and he typed until he found what he was looking for. Little clicks of fingertips tapping at a plastic board led him to an illegal escort service that did, indeed, promote “touching” and even “mouth to mouth playmates.” Myspace had been around for almost a hundred years.

Timmy worked his magic and made sure the ghost-bot was up and running. First offenders got minimum of five years for even thinking of doing a spit-transplant with another humanoid. Things were sketchy and Tim knew the risks when he dialed the supposedly free website.

Search upon search turned up old advertisements. Some were funny, and others had become obsolete like penis-enlargements and physical enhancers. Soon, however, he spotted a few girls still active, fishing their lines and listing the interests that piqued more than his curiosity. Timmy knew he was crossing the line, but something told him that living in a box was wrong. These girls wanted to get what he wanted to give: touch.

It was going to be a very, very slow night. Tuesdays usually were. Throw in the hellacious thunderstorm outside, and not even a desperate alcoholic would wander in. I had just decided to close the bar up early when the mother of all lightening bolts hit just outside the window, nearly blinding me. After I rubbed the white circles from my eyes, I was startled to discover a man standing three feet in front of me. He placed a copy of that fat New York telephone directory on the bar and asked me for a beer.

“Where the hell did you come from and why ain’t you wet?” I demanded as I placed a Budweiser draft in front of him, then added, “That’ll be $2.00.”

He smiled. “’When,’ you mean,” he replied, “and I don’t have any money from this area. But it doesn’t matter,“ he glanced down at one of them big city watches with all kinds of dials and buttons, “because in exactly 1 minute and nine seconds you’re going to say ‘It’s on the house.’”

Thunderstorms always bring out the crackpots. “Why would I say that?”

He chugged half the beer and glanced at his watch again. “Because, in exactly 58 seconds, I’m going to save your life.”

I inched closer to the baseball bat that I keep behind the bar. “You sure about that, mister?”

He walked to the back corner, where he was practically swallowed up by the shadows. “Because I’m a temporal police officer, and a criminal from the 24th century fled to this time. He needs money. Unfortunately for you, he doesn’t know how to use your century’s projectile weapons. He stole a hair-trigger pistol. You’ll see soon enough.”

Just then, a shirtless maniac came crashing through the door. He was soggy as hell and shaking like a leaf. After he did the drunk-dance up to the bar, he slurred, “Give me all your money, quick,” and yanked some pawnshop gun out of his pocket. He might have been more confused than I was.

“Take it easy…” I started, but my voice was lost in the sound and light from the muzzle of his pistol.

By the time I remembered where I was, I wasn’t there anymore. Instead, I was against the old-fashioned cash register my boss kept around for that “old-time feel.” My ears were ringing, my back hurt, but somehow, I wasn’t dead. Across the bar, the cop guy downed the last bit of his beer, and the would-be assassin was lying on the floor tied up with some kind of glowing neon rope. The New York phone book was against my shirt. A column of white smoke spun up from a big-ass hole in the front of it.

“Sorry I had to let him shoot,” he said as he plunked the bottle onto the bar. “The DA needed enough evidence to put him away for a long time. What do I owe you for the beer?”

From far away, I heard my voice say, “Uh, it’s…it’s on the house”

He smiled again, pressed a button on his fancy watch, and both of them disappeared in a flash of light. I stood there for ten minutes before making up my mind. I grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, walked over to the door, locked it, and sat down in a corner booth with every intention of emptying the thing before going home.

Amsterdam is still dry. The whole country is. It’s hard to believe, I know. But it’s true.

That’s how you can tell the tourists. Not a single Dutch person is amphibious. They don’t have to be. They’ve held back the waters, just like the little punk in the story.

Stories got to come from somewhere, I suppose.

This’ll knock you flat: I was at this coffee shop there, right? And I’m downstairs, with some pals, and we’re lit and we’re relaxed. The smoke is thick in there, but not bad thick, just enough that you can feel your eye-membranes slide on down. Good times.

And these kids, these obvious tourists—high-schoolers or some such, their skin was still bright green—they come on down the stairs and they look at us all laid out and we’re like “Right now, right now they are having their First Amsterdam Tourist Experience. And it’s just like the stories. We are a part of their First Amsterdam Tourist Experience.”

How amazing is that? I mean, I remember my First Amsterdam Tourist Experience, right? That was what? Years ago. The world was different then, you know? And I’ve made, like, fifty trips back since. And here are these kids, right? Probably can count how many times they’ve set foot on dry land on one webbed hand. But they’re giggling and all excited, just like I was.

It’s hard to come back to the water after that, you know? It’s like stepping on Atlantis, or Avalon or some such. It’s another world, one of fire and smoke and dreams.

I feel like I live there, sometimes. That this city, here beneath the waves, this is just visiting. That where I live is somewhere else. Where I live is in my head, and in Amsterdam.

Hand me that fishbowl you call a helmet, man. I feel the need to light up another trip home.

Commander Xylm of the Red Bastards jumped when he heard Knthens voice in his head.

“Commander, please meet me in the docking bay.” Despite his powers, Knthen usually used the intercom, and there was nervous emotion in his projected voice. The use of Xylms title, Commander, made him uneasy. The Red Bastards never stood on ceremony; rank was never mentioned when they were on their own. Something was up.

Knthen packed his things into the small storage unit of his fighter. He wasn’t wearing his flight suit; instead, he was dressed in the gold and bronze of the Sun Shields, his cape dull under the florescent lights. Xylm hadn’t seen Knthen in his Sun Shield uniform since the day he arrived, four rotations ago, as their old Sun Shield left to meditate on the side of a mountain.

Xylm crossed his arms, annoyed. “You’re leaving? Why wasn’t I notified?”

Knthen handed him a scroll, the mark of the War Council shimmering on the digital plastic. “I can’t stay. All Sun Shields have been ordered home.”

Xylm caught Knthens shoulder. “The Red Bastards have always had a Sun Shield, it’s a tradition. Why are the Sun Shields leaving us without our resident psychic?”

“The Sun Shields never promised a psychic to you.”

Xylm felt Knthens rage on the inside of his skull. “Don’t you dare put your fear on me.” He tossed the scroll on the floor. “I’m not your enemy. What in the filth is happening with the Sun Shields?”

Knthen touched the golden mark of the triple suns on his forehead, the mark that showed him to be a psychic. “Trust me Xlymn.” Knthen reached for his friend, his palms closing in on Xylms cheeks. Knthen touched Xlymns temples and closed eyes with the tips of his fingers. Xelm relaxed, and his head rested onto Knthens palms. Knthen closed his eyes.

When Knthen stepped back, Xylm shook his head, feeling fuzzy. “What was that for?”

Knthen bowed his head. “I needed to see you, I needed to know for sure.”

“By the holy dark, what is going on?”

Knthen looked away, focusing on his ship. “I think I’m going to be killed.”

“What? Who would kill you?”

“The War Council. Sun Shields have been judged dangerous to the human species, the genetic alterations have, they say, made us inhuman, dangerous. They say we have too much power. The debate is going on in the council right now, we don’t know what the outcome might be.”

“How could they do that?” Xlym shook his head. “They couldn’t. No, this will pass over.”

“Most people don’t feel like you do Xlym.”

“Don’t go then.” Xlym shook Knthens shoulders “Stay here. They will have to come through us to get to you, I know the Bastards would stand with me.”

“It wouldn’t matter.” Knthen tapped the side of his head.” “I’m rigged with a self destruct. All Sun Shields are, in case they go rogue. At least, if I go, I might be able to appeal to the council.” Xlym struggled for words. Knthen lowered his voice.

“Xylm, I need to trust you with something.”

“Anything.”

“If I am killed, the Red Bastards will still have a psychic.”

“What?”

“Xylm. I’ve suspected this for a while, the way you seem to know what someone will say before they say it, the way you calm the hotshots down when their egos get too big. I made myself believe that you were just a talented leader. I never let myself make sure, I never wanted to know. Now I have no choice. Xylm, you are a psychic.”

Xylm laughed, this had to be a joke. Knthens face was sad. Xylm felt his heart beat faster. “How is that possible? I’m not a Shield! Shields are grown sterile in a lab. My parents aren’t psychic. It’s not possible.”

“I don’t know how it happened. Maybe if two Rouge psychics conceived a child in the early days, before the sterility program.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Xylm, but you are psychic. The Sun Shields would have had you killed if they knew. You may be the last of us Xylm. There may come a time when humanity will need you, and the Sun Shields will be gone.”

Knthen climbed into his ship, and Xylm backed away, his mind still struggling with Knthens revelation. As Knthen locked the restraints in his cockpit, Xylm called out to him.

“You wait. The War Council will reverse their decision, you’ll be back in a standard round.”

“Keep safe, Xylm. Promise me, no matter what happens, you won’t hold my death against humanity. They will need you one day. Promise me.” The cockpit door descended, closing over Knthens head.

“I swear it.” said Xylm, as Knthens engines roared.

“I knew you would.” Knthens disembodied voice hung in Xylms mind, as the ship roared out into the silent black of space.

Skitz was running as fast as an alley rat could run in the back streets of Terris 4. Even with six legs, he was having a hard time keeping ahead of the bounty hunter. His three nostrils flared and he stopped for a moment to catch some carbon dioxide before taking a glance around.

When he heard footsteps behind him he darted up the wall, using suction-cupped fingers to tug his way onto the top of the building. Below him, in the alleyway, he heard, “Son of a bitch…”

The native of Terris was taking a moment to relax, slumping his multi-appendage body against a radiator core. He plucked a radio from his satchel and spoke into it with labored words between breaths. “Durag! Felakchy oootuhag defgty! Keep the girl safe… he’s coming for her.”

A noise came from the other end of the radio just in time for it to be smacked out of his hands as the butt of a plasma-bolted to be smashed into one of his faces. The Terrisal groaned and turned to see the bi-pedal shadow standing over him. A gruff voice intoned a threat with a vouch of seriousness in it: “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t climb walls, and I hate using the rocket-pack.”

He kneeled down next to Skitz, not bothering to aim his gun, but the human plucked him in the forehead to make sure he got his attention. “I’m looking for a human. Any human will do. Now, I know there’s at least one… So talk.”

The alien shuddered before his pair of eyes opened and glanced around for escape. The bounty hunter hit him in the head again. “Wrong answer. Look at me, freak.”

Skitz was definitely scared by now, and he was starting to wish he’d never even seen a human. “Der… vulag. Human… I see human long time ago.” The small lie caught a sigh from the hunter, and when the man stood he kicked the little guy in the side. Skitz cried out in agony, grabbing his body and whimpering.

“See, we humans have lived through ten millennia of bullshit. I’d appreciate it if we could not have us live through another.” This time, the gun was pointed at Skitz’s head. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“…It is a small girl,” the Terrian gasped

“Good. Progress. Where is she right now?”

“… She hide… below industry. Sector 9.”

The bounty hunter grumbled to himself. “Wechals? I fucking hate Wechals. I hated bugs on Earth and I really fucking hate Wechals.” He turned, and began to walk away. His direction was, of course, Sector 9.

Skitz cried out after him, “You no kill girl! You Felag!”

The hunter stopped and looked over his shoulder, glaring at the little shit. “Kill? Are you fucking stupid? We’re an endangered species. I’m just rounding us up.”

“Okay everyone, you know the drill.”

Alex’s partner didn’t break pace between the doorway and the register, and she swung her gun around with the precise grace of someone who had done this far too many times. Her features were hidden behind a fuzzmask, and the sharp tips of her black hair poked from the base of the thin helmet. Nis was a professional: professional thief, professional manipulator, professional drug courier, and professional counterfeiter. She was a professional at everything that skimmed beneath Federal radar. Alex was not a professional. Alex was a nineteen year old boy who’d never pulled the trigger of a pulse rifle.

Behind the counter, a teenage register kid went white.

“Alex,” Nis called without taking her eyes from the boy. “Damage control.”

Alex nodded. He continued into the back of the restaurant, rifle at chest level, listening through the hum of microwaves for hints of movement. Pulse rifles weren’t lethal, which is why they used them. Murder was a level one crime. Robbery was level three. There were two employees in the kitchen: an attractive blond girl no older than twenty five and a man no younger than fifty. At the sight of his weapon, the girl screeched something incomprehensible while the man stepped away from the burger assembly line and coolly lifted his hands to his head.

Quietly, almost calmly, he backed into the wall and listened to his partner’s voice fire orders like the guns he’d heard on television. “Into the back,” she finally said, and the kid appeared in the doorway with Nis’s pulse rifle motionless against his skull. He didn’t look so hot; eyes wide, skin pale, breath coming and going at a rate that couldn’t be maintained for long. His legs moved beneath him like the legs of someone who’d had too much gin, and he stumbled forward to hold his weight against the assembly line.

Despite her panic, the woman was breathing slowly, deeply. The man remained calm. Nis gestured with her head towards the cooler, then nudged the boy’s neck with her rifle. He closed his eyes. “On with it,” she said as she shoved him forward with her other hand, and he promptly dropped to his knees. Alex went to pick him up, and a second later, his world exploded into stars.

Somewhere, there was yelling and movement. His vision was dark and light at the same time, and a dizzy pain pushed its fingers forward from the back of his skull. It took him several seconds to understand that the floor was beneath him, and another second to feel the man’s weight on his chest. The man wasn’t moving. There were three still bodies on the tiled floor. Only Nis remained on her feet. “Get up!” she yelled. Alex tried, but the man’s body was heavy and his own was heavier, so Nis pulled the worker off of him and yanked him to his feet. Alex pressed his hands against the wall to maintain his upright position. “Pulses,” she said, and pushed him towards the register kid. He stumbled but somehow managed to fall only to his hands and knees, then he dug his fingers into the boy’s neck. A dull, rhythmic throbbing. “This one’s cool,” he said, but there was no reply.

“Christ,” Nis said quietly a second later. “Oh shit.”

Alex tried to get to his feet, but failed. “What?”

“She’s cold.”

“She can’t be cold.”

“Oh God. No. No fucking way.”

Alex crawled over to verify. Nis ripped away the girl’s shirt to reveal rubbery skin, perfectly formed breasts. Most importantly, a thin, black line tracing an indented rectangle across her torso.

“She’s an electric ant,” Nis said. There was a thick rope of panic drawn across her voice. “Registered. Let’s move. Right now.”

Alex looked into the girl’s open blue eyes. Polymer. Polymer and pigment. Nis’s hands dug into his shoulders and pulled him to his unsteady feet. Before him, the fleshy pile of shorted circuits lay as still as an unconscious human. Nis ran to the door, but outside, the street was already bathed in red and blue. “Christ,” she whispered.

“It’s been less than five minutes!”

Nis backed up to the register. “Get beside the door,” she ordered as she changed the battery of her pulse rifle. “And don’t let anything get through.”

Tomorrow, Vivek Pratap will stop smoking.

He will stop smoking because it is bad for his gills, the luster of his new skin, and his sharpened teeth. The shark genes he had combined with his own were expensive; he’d hate to ruin those spent thousands with a five-dollar pack of smokes.

So tomorrow, Vivek will quit. He’s a new man, now

He also got muscle enhancements, as well as some bone-lengthening treatments. The new Vivek would tower over the old one. He had to get a new wardrobe, made of shiny, expensive materials. He’s kept a flannel shirt, though, his favorite. Used to be his favorite. But he’s different, now.

Vivek had to move, to be closer to the ocean. This meant leaving a lot of friends behind, but Vivek was glad of that. He could tell when they looked at him, who they saw. And it just wasn’t who he was anymore.

The move meant an excuse to get rid of a lot of things. Vivek tossed out all the pictures of himself as he used to look, feeling he was better off without reminders. He did keep one picture, but it’s not on display in his new home. He keeps it in a drawer.

It’s the only picture he has of Czarina; she never did like seeing herself on film. She had broken up with him after his transition. She said she didn’t like the new Vivek. It was for the best, really. Czarina is a smoker.

Vivek likes the new him. which is why he’s going to take care of it. Starting tomorrow, he’s going to quit smoking.

Tonight, he is wrapped up in a a shirt that no longer fits, staring at picture of a version of himself that is wearing it. A version of himself whose soft, pink cheek is being kissed by a girl who has her arms around his small, hunched shoulders.

“Tomorrow,” Vivek promises himself. “I’ll change.”

The bottles should have lined her shelf, all shapes of the pastel rainbow, a tally of her pasts. Their numbers would be such that they overwhelmed the tiny space, and even by resorting to clever stacking methods and ingenious pyramids she would never quite be able to fit them all. The shelf was clear, of course.

The latest brand of moisturizer was not on Miko’s shelf, but in her purse. She slipped it out without thinking, squirting the oily mixture onto her hands, rubbing it in like a prayer. Away with the rough edges, the lines, the pockmarks of use. Smoothness was unity, and as she achieved it the clenched fist in her breast relaxed. She could breathe again.

Miko sat down before the perfectly neat desk on the perfectly placed chair and ran her finger over the perfectly smooth mahogany. So beautiful, the dark wood against the white walls, especially in the dim evening light. Her hand against the surface made it all the more beautiful, the perfect skin and perfect nails of perfect length. Her life fit together like an intricate puzzle forming a detailed, perfect picture.

When she was little, she never bit her nails. The girls who did, pudgy-faced and red-cheeked, were her inferiors; they knew nothing of grace, and were too stupid to think in the long-term. She despised them, and used to make snide comments behind their backs, just loud enough so that they could hear. She held nothing but contempt for them.

The desk was polished to a precise and even shine: not to the point of pure reflection, for that would detract from its own merits, but certainly enough to catch the scant light of the setting sun. Her fingers pressed against four invisible spots on the right-hand corner, impossible to find unless one knew where they were. In response, the center of the desk faded away, revealing the matte black of a computer console that emerged from within the structure. Her fingers danced over the keys, too fast to follow and dizzying in their grace.

“Wow, sixty-five words per minute. Impressive.”

“Nobody. I heard you, just now.”

When she was very, very young–no more than three years, though of course she couldn’t place her exact age, not knowing her birthdate–some old hag on the sidewalk had seen Miko sucking her thumb. “Stop that,” the creature had croaked, “You’ll get buck teeth.” The tiny, dark-haired child had cried all night long for fear she had irreparably damaged her perfect teeth.

Miko could feel an errant flake of skin, rough and offensive, on her knuckle. This would not do. Out came the bottle once again. The thick scent lifted her prayer to the god she didn’t believe in, to the ancestors she never knew. The half-empty bottles, scattered in forgotten dumpsters and office wastebaskets, were the beads on her rosary.

“Did you design the mechanism?”

“Yes there is. Right there, the four indentations, thirty-six centimeters from the right.”

Miko slammed the laptop shut, then breathed deeply and carefully smoothed her hair. Temper, temper. That wouldn’t do at all.

She’d hated his scar, and made no secret of it. It was vulgar, she’d told him, even lewd. How could he deface his body like that? Worse yet, how could he leave the evidence intact? She painted it as a crime against nature, and berated him for it whenever the opportunity arose. The day he’d removed the scar out of necessity had been a veritable triumph, and she’d known the instant he slunk in, meek and overthrown. She was right, of course, as always.

A clear plastic bag was arranged precisely in the sleek metal wastebasket. She had never changed the bag; there had never been a need.

“…Switch?”

“…Why do you ask?”

She took everything with her–every pen, every note, every disk. Hardly a mote of dust was left; if anything, the lack thereof was the only sign that the desk had ever been used. The last rays of the setting sun made the almost-full bottle, tossed in the wastebasket, seem to glow.

Emeeki dove off the cliff, spreading her silver wings wide to catch the current of air, flying over the Sacred ground. This would put her quite a distance from her earth locked predator, whose yellow mane she could see moving in the grass on the golden plains.

The Sacred ground was a beautiful preserve and Emeeki wished she could spend more time here. Her partner, Brekki, had always wanted to explore the preserve in depth, but their diplomatic work had kept them off world, and away from familiar comforts.

Today was their consummation; she would be one with Brekki at last. They had almost given in to temptation once, during a diplomatic conference held on the flagship of an alien Coalition. It was late and they were meeting in her room to iron out a few last details of the presentation they would give to the Coalition. They were defining zoning lines in space, and territory was one of Brekkis passions. They had been tired, but filled with enthusiasm, about to bring back a contract that would create peace and understanding between the alien omnivores and themselves. It was a landmark, and perhaps, after this, they might join the powerful Coalition. Emeeki, only in her second molt, a bustle of red feathers, had hopped from her perch and spread her wings in the small room.

“We’ve done it Brekki! Joy! Joy!” she chirped, and without thinking, bounced close to him, putting her delicate wings around his tawny, powerful shoulders. He growled, and moaned in a low tone. Emeeki squeaked, realizing her mistake, and tried to pull away, but it was too late, he had already put a paw on her wing. He bit her shoulder, breaking the skin, the rush of his intoxicants spreading into her blood through his saliva, his tongue lapping at her tiny shoulder, she was falling under, into the black tunnel and then suddenly, he was across the room, running for the sliding door, scratching the carpet as he left.

They spent a few days apart after that, trying to regain a sense of control. Emeeki was terrified that Brekki would leave her. He had been a choice partner, and they had accomplished so much together, for him to leave would be devastating, and yet she felt a hanging guilt for putting him in a terrible position. She did not know how to apologize, but as always, Brekki was there to help her. He came to her with his claws clipped, a sign of shame, and begged forgiveness, after which she pulled out fresh feathers, and presented them to him as a sign of her guilt. They were both awkward for season, but this passed and they moved on with their career.

Emeeki flapped her wings, feeling the air slide through her feathers, savoring the feeling of lift and fall, the glory of the burn in her wings. She should have made the time for this. The tips of her wings tingled. She was told that she wouldn’t feel the effects of the little vial her family gave her, but she had never felt her wings tingle like that before. Emeeki saw the grove of trees, a traditional spot for her family, and descended gently there. Brekki was far behind her, he did not run as fast as he used to.

She could leave right now and he would never catch her. She could take flight from here, or run to a different, more shaded grove. She examined her options, and imagined what her ancestors would have done. She may have a few seasons left in her, and she would very much like to see her daughter’s hatchlings. She pecked at her feathers, and dismissed those thoughts. She had been spending too long off world, and those alien ideas were starting to infect her. Her people were not obsessed to silly notions of infinite life; it was the seasons, to which all things were committed. Emeeki waited.

“You always arrive first.” Brekki pawed at the ground. “I believe the sacred script calls for something specific at this point. I did memorize it for you, if you would like to follow it.”

“I thought about the sacred script.” Chirped Emeeki. “But we’ve never followed any script in our lives, I don’t see why we should start now.” She hoped that the poison she had taken would not be painful for Brekki. Of course, even if he did suffer, she wouldn’t have to see it.

Brekki pawed the soft dirt. “Are you scared?”

“Not anymore.” She hopped down from the tree. “Now that you are here.”

“I was trained to do this while you were running away,”

“Ah, yes. Well, see that you keep up with me, Elder.” she teased; Emeeki was a full season younger than Brekki.

Brekki folded his front paws and touched his nose to the ground. “I want you to be inside me, before I surrender to the planet.” He was always the somber one.

Emeeki cocked her feathered head. “That’s from the sacred texts.”

“So it is.” Brekki stretched his paws and waited for her reply.

“Catch me Brekki. I am ready.” She opened her wings, and hopped between the trees. Brekki growled and followed. It was, like all life, very swift.

“’Scuse me, is this the sunbound dock?”

Harrison started and nearly dropped the bouquet he was holding. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. “Uh… yeah, it should be.”

“Thanks. Is this seat taken?”

He shook his head mutely in response. Vibrant. It was the first adjective that popped into his mind, and it stayed there as she sat down and pulled out a compact. Every movement was sure and determined, as if she knew precisely what action she planned to take and followed through every time. He watched in awe.

“Are you going to Prime?”

The unexpected question reminded him of his manners, and Harrison quickly averted his eyes. Prime was the first colonized planet in this system, and by this point it was entirely city, filled with excitement and flashing lights. “Ah, no. Not all the way.”

“That’s a shame. Nothing else interesting along this flightpath.”

Harrison was shocked at her casual attitude. He couldn’t imagine saying such things to a stranger. “I, uh… I guess not,” he agreed lamely. Serena—the intended recipient of the flowers—lived on one of the residential planets in the system, zoned to keep it from growing too congested but with regulations that prohibited any sort of bad neighbors.

“Can’t see the point of suburbs, personally.” The woman pulled out a red lipstick, applying it expertly, even while speaking. “If I want a city, I’ll go to the city. If I want the country, I’ll go to one of the outer farmworlds instead. Trying to compromise, trying to have everything—it doesn’t work. In the end you wind up with nothing at all. Not worth it, really.” The thick chemical smell of the lipstick pressed against his senses, and Harrison found it impossible not to notice how smoothly it went on as she rubbed her lips together, never taking her eyes off of the mirror.

What he said was: “That’s a very interesting point of view.” What he meant was: Serena never wears lipstick.

“I like to think that all of my points of view are interesting.” She capped the lipstick and rummaged in her purse for a moment, coming up with a light green compact that she offered to him. “Here you go.”

Harrison blinked. “Uh… what?”

“It’s makeup. For your black eye.” She turned and looked at him for the first time. The whoosh of air signaled the approach of the next ship on the outbound dock, and she raised her voice to speak over it. “Your skin’s about the same tone as mine, and this is the foundation I use to cover things like that. I figured you might appreciate it.” She inclined her chin, indicating the bedraggled roses. “And so will she.”

Two ship gongs sounded, one from the transport pulling into the station and one from the trnsport that would arrive momentarily to whisk this woman away. Harrison’s cheeks flared red. He hadn’t realized the bruise on his face was that obvious. “What do you mean, ‘she’?” he asked, quickly trying to change the subject.

“The woman you brought those flowers for.”

The station was filled with noise and clatter, filtered through the air systems. On the opposite dock, passengers were unloading, but Harrison didn’t pay attention. He picked up the roses. “Actually, I brought them for you.”

The road lay before me like the body of an overdosed hooker; all valleys and plains and nameless geography. My hand stroked the air from the window of the pickup as the wind smoked my cigarette and left me with ash. This could work, she’d said. We can make this work.

Behind us, the dome shrank and shimmered in the ozone-laced sunset. My overeducated freelance cab driver droned on about something forgettable, something like music he’d liked as a child. Claire was five miles behind me and counting. By this point, I knew that the feds would have noticed my absence. I pictured her in a white interrogation room, angles and pale skin and cocky syllables in the face of bodily decommission. This had been her idea, of course. Everything good was her idea.

“-totally captures the alienation of the human experience,” the driver said. The radio sputtered silence and noise. He’d gone to Yale. This was a rebellion, I’m sure. The type of rebellion that only the rich can afford. “So what’s your story?” he finally asked when his thoughts on Bob Dylan had become less than captivating.

“Don’t have one,” I said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. Most people don’t have stories worth telling. The problem is that they very rarely recognize it.

“You’re outside of the limits,” he said.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting paid for it.”

Seven miles, now. I pictured her blond hair traced with blood, her body curled up on the interrogation room floor. She wouldn’t tell them anything, of course. I wished that she would tell them something.

This isn’t how it should have been, I thought to her. Next time, I won’t let it won’t come down to this.

The cab driver flicked up his control panel, and I turned around to watch the last spark of the silver bowl disappear into the horizon. We were far enough away for the rockets. We were beneath their radar. Decades beneath their radar.

“All strapped in?” he asked as he entered a code into the ancient keypad. I nodded. I was more strapped in than I’d ever been before.

“But why don’t you want to be Prince Charming? I just don’t understand.” Beryl worried a handkerchief nearly to the point of tearing with her plump little hands. Saske could see she was almost to the point of tears, but he wasn’t going to relent. A man had to draw the line somewhere.

“I have no problem spending our honeymoon in Orlando, babycakes. And if it means that much to you we can get married in the Magic Kingdom. But does it have to be Cinderella themed?”

Beryl dabbed at the corners of her eyes and fanned the collection of brochures at Saske. “There’s Sleeping Beauty. We could do Sleeping Beauty. They have animatronic replicas of Flora, Fauna and Merryweather that float around on little gasbags and even a Maleficent that storms from the back when the priests asks if anyone has any objections.”

“Thats not what I meant…”

“You can have Maleficent turn into a holographic dragon if you want. You could fight her. They give you a sword.”

“I don’t want a sword…”

“My cousin Stacy had the Little Mermaid and she said the Ursela was just fantastic. I’d have to dye my hair red for that.” Beryl’s tears were lost, and she was now fingering her auburn curls in front of the hallway mirror.

“I don’t want you to dye your hair red!” Saske didn’t mean to shout, but now that he was started, he couldn’t keep it in. “I don’t want to marry Ariel, or Aurora, or Cinderella! I want to marry you!”

“And you don’t think I’m a princess?” The tears were starting to come back, and Beryl sunk down into the sofa. She looked at the handkerchief in her hands, “I think you’re Prince Charming.”

Saske sat down next to Beryl and put his hands on hers. “You’re a princess to me, sweetie. You’re my princess. Not Walt’s. What is it you want out of that type of wedding?”

Beryl looked him deep in the eyes. “The fairy tale, honey. I want to be Cinderella, if just for a night.”

“In rags, scrubbing the fireplace?”

“No, silly! Cinderella isn’t about rags!”

Saske looked at the brochures, the glossy, pastel gowns and the castle backdrops. “No, I guess not. You’d think Little Red Riding Hood would be in here. I loved that movie. I could be The Wolf for that.”

“The Wolf isn’t a romantic hero!”

Saske turned to his fiancé with a saucy gleam in his eye. “Au contraire, my little Forest Traveler,” he growled. “Allow me to show you how wrong that notion is!”

“Oh my!” Beryl said. “How big you are!”

Voices of Tomorrow, the 365 Tomorrows Podcast has gone live.

It is available for direct download here: http://voicesoftomorrow.libsyn.com/

If you have iTunes, you should be able to find it in your Podcast directory.

Thanks to everyone who submitted story suggestions for the Podcast; each one of them will be recorded and broadcast in Voices of Tomorrow.

This first Podcast is “Keeping Safe” a story written by Kathy Kachelries which first appeared on August 2nd, on the 365 Tomorrows site. It was the second story to go up on the site, and it was given first place on the Podcast in honor of the fact that it was Kathy who thought of the idea of giving out free tomorrows, and it is Kathy who still inspires us.

I plan to release a new Podcast each week for fifty two weeks. Barring technical difficulties, you should have a new piece of audio fiction waiting for you each Monday for a year.

An ambitious project, maybe, but we appear to be developing a reputation for doing big things.

I hope you enjoy Voices of Tomorrow.
-J.R.

The van comes for me at the usual time. I imagine myself as the driver must see me, a doll with matching parts, standing in front of buildings that are coated with red sand. I pull my coat around me but the cold wind climbs under and up my bare legs. I am wearing the dress that my mother saved for, the one I do not eat in, the one I keep laid out at the foot of my couch, the one that my grandmother presses formaldehyde in to keep it fresh.

Girls are crowded in, stinking of perfume. I see the usual faces and a few new ones, their nervous twitches betray them. With a years of experience, I have become old at this game. A few of the new girls chatter, hoping for handsome and rich. They lie to themselves; no one who is handsome or rich would come here for a woman. The driver jokes, and makes check marks on his pad. He tells the van where to go and it takes us to the Hotel.

Paint is curling off the plastic in the Hotel, breaking down, like all of Mars. They line us up in rows of chairs. We wait for the men. There is the clatter of breakfast dishes, the smell of baked goods. Our best reproduction of Earth food. The little oily man comes in. He’s not so bad, maybe he sleeps with a couple girls to give them front row seats, but that is their business, not mine. It doesn’t matter, he isn’t really bad, not as bad as what could be.

Most of the girls are smiling now, watching the middle aged men, the best dressed. I do not make eye contact. I will not act like a whore to meet a man. I do look, though, at the oldest men when they are not looking. I am watching the oldest. If he looks toward me, I will look away. Perhaps that will interest him. A few of the girls giggle and the men watch them. One girl touches her leg, another, her cheek. I hold my hands on my lap and practice stillness. On the other side of a small window I see there is sandstorm coming, red sand, whirling.

The men are looking at our profile on their data pads. I am a virgin. Some earth men like that. Some do not. I have seen the Earth women in the Interactives. Earth women are wild. Earth women will deny men. Their denied men come here.

I feel his eyes on me before I see him. He is not so old and has a soft face. He says something in his Earth tongue. I do not smile. He is too young, fat on Earth food. I look at my hands but he is staring. There are other women who are more attractive, who want him to look, but he is watching me.

I am at the edge. He mispronounces my name and the oil man, our translator, flashes a smile.

“Stand up.” He says “Turn around.”

I stand and turn, looking at my shoes. I am naked now, on display.

“Be a pretty cat.” Says the oil man.

The cats on Mars are starving.

I try to make eye contact with an old man, but he is looking at a young girl. I am looking out the window for signs of a red storm. Will my shoes get stained in the storm? The red can stain everything.

I try to sit but the young man grabs my arm. He points to me; his fingers are hard. The oil man motions to the other girls. I snubbed the oil man once, I did not want the front row as much as he wanted me and he has not forgotten. He is telling the young man that he has time to decide, that he should think it over.

The young man shakes his head. He has made up his mind. He will take me to Earth, to him home. He has paid his fee to the oil man, and my parents will get five percent. It is more than they make in a year.

The men break for lunch and the oil man leaves me in his office. They want me to sign papers. There are pictures of weddings here, each of them with the same background, the same fake cake and champagne, only the date changes on these photos. There are hundreds of pictures.

It is my eighth trip to the hotel and no one has chosen me.

The papers absorb my signature as I sign them and they carry the confirmation to the oil mans data pad.

Red sand beats the window in his office. The storm has arrived.

The engineer stumbled into the cargo hold and dropped his bags like they were made of lead. At the moment, he couldn’t think of any place in the galaxy where he’d rather be. Not that that was a surprise.

His pilot wandered into the hold wearing underwear, a bra, and a towel wrapped around her head. She blinked at him and frowned. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I just got in.” He flopped down on the floor next to his luggage.

“You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.” The engineer rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you put on some pants?”

“They’re in the wash.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be wandering around the ship in your underwear?”

“No.”

He sighed. They’d had this debate many times before.

“So why do you look like you got run over by a tank?” she asked.

“Is it really that bad? Maybe I should take a shower.”

“I used all the hot water. And you’re trying to change the subject.”

The engineer scowled. “I ran into that pirate again, okay?”

“The one who’s been tracking us over three sectors?” The pilot hopped onto a steel barrel, crossed her legs, and put her chin in her hand.

“Yes, that one,” he growled, “and please don’t remind me of it.”

“So what happened?”

“Do we really need to talk about this right now?”

“Yes. What if some doohickey broke on the ship and you were brooding over that pirate? I’d need to know how to—”

“I am not brooding over him!”

The pilot rolled her eyes. “I hate pirates,” she remarked to no one in particular. She was obviously refusing to move until he finished the story. Sighing, he gave in.

“Well, I was in a bar.”

“You? In a bar? I’m shocked.”

“Shove it. I was in the bar meeting a contact for a job. Do you want me to tell this story or not?”

The pilot absently cleaned her ear with a finger. She stayed quiet, though. Eventually, he continued.

“So there was some, uh, unrelated trouble, and the local cops closed off the street outside. Some explosion or something. I didn’t speak up to find out.”

“Aren’t you wanted on that planet?”

“That wasn’t my fault! And who’s telling the story here, you or me? Anyway, I was in the bar, and it looked like we were going to be there for a while. So I had a drink. Nothing else to do, right?”

“I sure would’ve if I’d been there.”

“Right. Yeah. So anyway, it turned out that Valentine was there, too.”

“I still can’t believe his name is Valentine. Fucking pirates shouldn’t be named after fucking holidays. It’s unethical.”

“He’s not named after the holiday. He’s named after the gun.”

“The Valentine .45 SXG? Are you serious?” There was a pause. “How do you know that?”

“He told me, okay?”

The pilot blinked, then blinked again. The engineer looked away and, not for the first time, was eternally grateful for his dark skin. It hid the flush. He hurried on.

“It’s not like I was talking to him on purpose. He was heckling me. You know how he does that.”

“Boy, do I ever. Fucking pirate.”

“Anyway, he was heckling me, and I got sick of it, so I slipped out the back. Of course the cops were all over me, chased me around, stuff like that. So that’s why I look like shit. Now let’s get out of orbit before they realize where I disappeared to. Oh, and add another “˜wanted’ label to the map for this sector.” He pushed himself upright and headed towards the cockpit. “I’ll get the engines fired up. And put on some pants first!”

The pilot watched him leave, then hopped off the cargo barrel. She rubbed the towel against her hair and casually tossed it into the corner of the hold. The engineer probably didn’t realize that the pirate wore lipstick. She smirked, making a mental note to be near the bathroom the next time her co-worker and employer went in. The look on his face would be priceless when he realized what the red stain was around the corners of his lips.

Seamus dipped the greasy piece of bread into the even greasier layer of oil in his plate. “Mm. It seems so much easier when you know your own sin, doesn’t it?”

Carol hadn’t touched her food; her lust for love blinded her, but only to a point. She watched the buffoon in front of her as he ate away his life. “I don’t think it was meant to be taken literally, Seamus,” she said. “People have just become… more goal-oriented.” The words were lost beneath the sound of her blind date’s incessant chewing. His blue eyes peered up ignorantly and a muffled confused phrase somehow made it out of the crevice.

“What I mean to say is, just because we have thirty-five years doesn’t mean we should debase ourselves to such trivial concepts of living.”

The glutton finished swallowing before bellowing an answer, “Well, you’re looking for love, right? That’s your purpose; love. I, as stated in the advertisement, am transfixed upon simple pleasures. Food is too good to let go to waste” Again, he stuffed his mouth full of various confections and salty doughy things.

Her words came after much thought and in-between the orificial cramming of her oh-so-temporary partner for the night. “It has come to my attention that you, Seamus, are gluttonous because you think you do not have anything else to live for but your own pleasure. I, on the other hand, believe in a world meant for one person to stand beside me. For children, I feel that we need to have similar goals.”

The man’s eyes went into thought and he gulped his food down with his mind working in overdrive. They both had at least fifteen years left, and the rush to procreate had crossed his mind. He sat up straight, cleaned off his chin and stared directly into her eyes.

“I love you”, he said without wavering.

“Good. Now let’s talk about a house and kids.” Her mood was changing from highly annoyed to mildly irritate.

A napkin he brought to his face rubbed away any remaining stains, and he looked up to the teenage waiter. He was sure that the kid couldn’t imagine how disturbing it would be to hold such a job when he was halfway done his life. “Waiter, take this away,” Seamus said. “Bring me a salad and filtered water.”