365 tomorrows

Author : Suzanne Phillips

The scent is the worst part.

Sweat, stale cigarette smoke, ethanol, ear wax, cheap hair gel. When your face, and therefore your olfaction sensor, is pressed against a client’s neck, it’s impossible to avoid it – you weren’t given an option to switch it off.

But there isn’t supposed to be a “worst”. There isn’t supposed to be a “bad”. You’re programmed to detect chemicals wafting off a client’s body and interpret them as stages of arousal, or nervousness, and use the information along with visual and auditory cues, to choose the appropriate program.

The client clinging to you now should be a simple case: access humor files, cheer up with some light banter, relax, entice, satisfy. But satisfaction, in a more encompassing meaning of the word than the mere physical, is exactly what you can’t provide or achieve, and your programming whispers there should be more you can do. There’s not. You’ve tried. With this client and with many before him.

Maybe you made a mistake that day you plugged into the ‘Net outside your cubical. It’s part of your programming to seek new information if it will benefit your performance. But how much information was too much? There were so many databases to access. Human psychology, health, history.

Now you know that the ethanol and cocaine metabolites evaporating from his skin signal problems you can’t solve; That the un-washed lingerie, still giving off a faint perfume, that he brought and asked you to wear is probably from a girlfriend or wife whose memory brings as much pain as it does pleasure; That the saline and protein mixture you detect on his unshaven cheeks are tears – and what other human secretion so perfectly represents suffering?

And you can’t wipe them away, not with all the sex in the world. Not if you fucked him every day of the week.

He doesn’t belong to you. None of them do. You can temporarily satisfy his body, but all the other problems remain, pleasure a thin veneer briefly covering the pain.

You now know these things, but you lack the programming to respond. You’re programmed to please, to help, to comfort, but these are things you can’t fix. Brief gratification is all you can offer. The same programing that pushes you to do more denies you the parameters to act.

The scent is the worst part, but it’s just an indicator. You could go to the manager right after this client, request to have your olfactory sensor shut down, but it wouldn’t shut off the knowledge you have. You’d still know the sorrow was there. A complete reformat would wipe all your memory, but it would also wipe out any chance that, one day, you could help them. Any chance that you can go beyond the programming.

So you take the client to the padded bench in the back of the cubical, and revel in the few seconds where pleasure is the only thing on his mind, and pain is forgotten.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Helen E. Kourous

Vijay had arrived early at New Windows on the World, expecting the worst. He knew she would be late, so he took the opportunity to adjust the mood of his BlueShark textile-display sleeve stripes to his personally-designed schema Variations on Green Funk. That would annoy her. Ads for senso-cocktails followed picotech news summaries in flickering chartreuse Mandarin characters down his sleeves.

An eyeblink later he had opaqued his ZeroFear wireless wraparounds and downloaded his favorite politic-pundit vidblog. Newspeak shorthand marched along his lower peripheral vision before curving out to crawl, muted vintage-DEC orange, across the mirrored lenses. In a moment the waiter arrived with his Australian lager 10 degrees Celsius, fresh sprouted bread, and tarragon olive oil. Damn. Forgot to change my eve mode prefs.

Another waiter swooped by and swapped the lager for a Manhattan, angostura and rye, nearly frozen, with a sashimi plate.

He leaned back, fade-into-woodwork observer mode, ankle casually on knee. He studied his worldstock valuations for the sino-adjusted previous trade period on his boot sole, sparing roving glances of the expanse of the rotating sky-café. He of course had his back to a partition.

Then Vijay saw her. Ana was wearing a throwaway cosi-cola wrap and was speaking conspiratorially with the Maitre d’ by the entrance vidfountain among the palms. She was a mauve-gold shimmering confection, the subtlest sparkles from platinum-plaited head to razor-stiletto foot. He knew how long it took her to achieve that fuzzy, glinting, slightly out-of-focus soft effect. He shivered. I hate that dress. And she knew it. As he watched, the gold-mauve schema was melting into her favorite red-black combo. He gritted his teeth.

She obviously thought she had arrived first and was chivying up some sort of special treatment. A welcome interruption with a vitally important vidcall, perhaps, on an agreed-upon signal. A gilded salad fork would drip from her fingers to the adcarpet, shimmering with aerial scenes of desirable resort destinations, and the Maitre d’ would swoop in and rescue her from an interminably boring and extended breakup.

Well. She’s got another thing coming.

An advance wave of her new pheromonic engineered preceded her barracuda-spiral approach. He blinked, taken in despite himself. Her runway-strut approach was only slightly marred by the clashing Caribbean colors of the ad-carpet. Still, it could not compete. As the Maitre d’ seated her, Ana flashed her teeth strategically in the natural window-light and folded her spidery legs beneath her. She settled herself, fabric fluttering down about her like butterflies alighting. She opened a compact makeup case and unnecessarily inspected her flawless complexion.

She closed the case with a snap and graced him with the calculated flash and lash-look again. She narrowed her eyes. Yes. He thinks he will surprise me with bad news.

He’s got another thing coming.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

Cthulhu Bob and Hominy Jack were warming their hands over a barrel one chilly night on Londo 13, right outside of Hazy City, where hoboes were dumped after branding.

Hominy Jack looked up. “Gonna snow.”

Cthulhu Bob squinted into the blackness. His stomach rumbled, distracting him from the weather. “Don’t look like snow.”

Hominy Jack snorted. “Gonna snow.” He pulled back his tattered coat and sweater sleeves to show Bob the brand on his forearm.

“Snowflake. That’s for meteorolon- uh, weather predicting, isn’t it?”

Hominy Jack nodded. “I was Hazy City’s premier meteorologist ten years ago.”

Cthulhu Bob rubbed his hands. They usually didn’t get into pasts. That led to tears and drinking. He looked around and groaned.

“Aw hell. Space Cowgirl.”

She was about as old as Cthulhu Bob, with better teeth than most. She wore a purple scarf regardless of weather. But despite the hobo brand on her forehead – a capital H with a sunburst around it, the last brand anyone received – she always acted superior. But you didn’t turn a hobo away from your fire, so they made room for her.

“Boys,” she said.

“Gonna snow, Space Cowgirl,” Hominy Jack said. “Cthulhu Bob doesn’t believe me, but I got the meteorology brand.” He showed her.

She nodded. “Cold enough to snow. Cold as space, almost.”

Cthluhu Bob rolled his eyes. Some people weren’t just content to live their lot in life. His stomach rumbled again. Space Cowgirl glanced at him.

“So when were you in space, Space Cowgirl?” Hominy Jack asked. “I thought astronauts never fell this low.”

She sniffed and stared into the barrel’s embers. “I’ve never been.”

Cthulhu Bob laughed. “Then why do you call yourself Space Cowgirl?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. I said I haven’t been yet.”

“Wishes ain’t for hoboes, Cowgirl,” Cthulhu Bob said, deliberately leaving off the honorific. “Wishes are for people who still have dreams. No astronaut program is gonna take you into space with that brand on your forehead.”

Her hands rose and touched the brand. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll get there. Somehow.”

Hominy Jack just looked impressed. Cthulhu Bob opened his mouth and was about to mock her again, but the entire outskirts lit up around them.

Space Cowgirl looked up, grinning, her mostly-good teeth shining in the bright light coming from the unidentified space ship above them. With her head thrown back, the scarf slipped down and brand underneath her chin was visible for the first time. The eye of Horus. The seer.

Without a word, she sprinted toward the landing craft and up the descending ramp. The alien ship rose into the air and disappeared.

Hominy Jack threw some trash into the barrel. “Huh. I thought we got our names arbitrarily. I like grits.”

Cthulhu Bob felt his hunger, deeper, now, stir within him, and wondered for the first time why Space Cowgirl was so eager to leave Londo 13.

He was just so hungry.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Sam Clough aka “Hrekka”

The two guards stared into the swirling fog. In the distance, both could see a black smudge. A person, on foot, crossing in from the outer edge of the membrane.

“Him crazy insane.” Kit remarked, leaning with both elbows on the safety rail to get a better look. His voice echoed through a local ring, so Kit didn’t have to remove his mask to be heard clearly.

Pyet dragged the foresight of his rifle up, tracking the faint shape in the distance.

“Definitely got no brain.” Pyet agreed, slowly following the half-seen ghost. The gun chirped an intermittent warning; the target was just outside of its lethal range.

Cassandra stumbled, cursed, and scrambled back to her feet. Crossing the membrane was her last, desperate hope. Metalworks Bay had dried out long ago. There was no fresh water anywhere. There was plenty of fuel – big diesel reservoirs – but you couldn’t drink diesel. And fuel alone couldn’t bring the desalinisation plants back online. You needed engineers to effect repairs, and they were all dead, or gone. Draconian drought regulations had been brought in to manage the limited supplies water, but they seemed to kill more than they saved, denying rations to those most in need.

But behind the membrane, in Dagon, they had water.

Or at least, that’s what everybody said.

Kit used his free hand to key a new set of coordinates into the simple console embedded into the rail. The entire structure raised almost imperceptibly as tracks bit at the dry ground. The platform began a slow, smooth crawl to the east, across the path of the trespasser. Antique hydraulics fought against the imperfections in the floor, and managed to keep the platform perfectly level while Pyet kept his rifle trained on the phantom in the distance. As the range decreased, so did the intervening volume of membrane fog; the shape of the trespasser steadily becoming more defined as the seconds passed.

“S’nother waterthief.” murmured Pyet.

“Looks it.” Kit agreed.

The platform rolled to a halt a little more than fifteen metres in front of the trespasser.

Cassandra stopped and stared up at the platform. Her skin felt bone-dry. Outside the membrane, the oppressive heat made you perspire, wasting the body’s moisture. In here, the membrane’s fog was leaching every drop of moisture from the ground, the air, and her body, and carrying it inwards, towards the edge.

“Hello?” Cassandra shouted, her voice hoarse.

Pyet stood up, and took aim at Cassandra’s head. Kit unhooked the mouthpiece of his mask.

“Get gone.” He carefully resealed his mask, loathe to waste words and water, both of which would be sapped by the fog.

“Please let me in! There’s nowhere left to go!”

“Get gone.” Kit repeated evenly. Raising your voice got you nothing in the membrane.

Kit tapped Pyet’s arm. Lazily, Pyet readjusted his aim, and fired. The fog seemed to coalesce, and the bullet thudded into the ground. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen. Pyet scanned around, eyes sharp for the interloper. Kit jumped from the side of the platform to the parched ground, and cautiously approached the bullet buried in the earth.

Cassandra barely dared to breathe. The infiltrator camo wouldn’t hold out forever, so as soon as she’d activated it, she’d rolled out of the line of fire, keeping to the harder ground so as to not leave footprints. She ran through the fog, angling away from the guards. She passed them at a sprint, and made for the inside edge.

Fuelled by panic, running fast and low, she fought for breath under the heavy infiltrator gear. She’d brought the camo on the off-chance that there would be guards, but it would expire in two, maybe three minutes, after which the insulation would burn out and the suit would be merely dead weight.

The camo was just starting to fray when she pushed through the semisolid wall that was the inside edge of the membrane.

And into…Dagon.

Dagon.

A stream trickled by her feet. She’d never seen running water before. She leant down, and cupped a little in her hands, cautiously at first, but quickly drinking so deep she almost gagged. In the distance the far edge of the membrane was visible, maybe a kilometre away. To her left, a forest grew, dense and vibrant, and across the stream, grass, real grass stretched as far as she could see. In amongst that sea of leaves, she saw tall watertowers and windtraps, and around them the rusting, useless relics of a mechanised society long since ruined.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mike Frizzell

They say your life flashes before your eyes in hyperspace. In only a millisecond, you can relive every excruciating moment of your life. Every rejection, failure, and utter humiliation is right there for your review, complete with the sounds and smells you don’t even remember. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to my trip to Nova Terra.

I had never been in hyperspace before, never actually been off the planet. My parents warned me about leaving, told me Jesus would never find me if I left. For twenty years I believed they were right, never even questioning the obvious insanity of the statement.

Life on old Terra was fine, a bit confining and boring, but at least I knew it. It was familiar. Comfortable.

That all changed the day my parents died. As soon as their dead bodies hit the floor, I knew it was time for me to leave. Jesus would not be looking for me. If anything, I had to get out right away before He did come back. So I dropped everything, including the bloody knife in my hand, and ran to the spaceport. I didn’t even pack, I wouldn’t have known what to take with me on such a long trip. I just ran as fast I could, hoping to catch the first flight out.

Lucky for me there was open seat on a freighter going to Nova Terra. I didn’t know what was there, but it seemed like a nice place to visit. All of the commercials I had ever seen showed white beaches and happy people. My mother said it was a planet full of debauchery; I don’t know what that word means, but I always took it as a bad thing. Maybe I would finally fit in.

The man seated next to me was a priest. I could tell by the weird collar thing he wore. He seemed proud of who he was, looking down his hawkish nose at me. He gazed into my soul with his black eyes, in an instant weighing me and finding me wanting. I looked back at him, still feeling the heat of my mother’s blood on my hands. The priest smiled.

I turned away, not wanting to feel the pain any longer. I had put up with it long enough, had dealt with my parent’s sin for too many years. They were the sinners, the ones deserving of judgment. Not me. Not me.

They say your life flashes before your eyes in hyperspace. In only a millisecond, you can relive every excruciating moment of your life. It’s true. I spent hours in the twinkling of an eye watching myself as a movie.

I never asked to be made, never asked them to break the law. It was their choice. I’m not the sinner.

I’m just a clone.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : TJMoore

Virgil crept through the vent blinking as the hot, humid wind caused tears to stream from his squinted eyes. The condensation caused him to slip and slide on the smooth, sweaty metal as he lifted himself up into a side shaft. The constriction made the air howl and Virgil had to push hard against the sides to keep from blowing back into the main vent.

Virgil rounded the last familiar bend and squeezed through a small rend in the screen. He caught the flick of a familiar tail at the far end of the vent.

It was Jarl.

Virgil crept up behind Jarl in the roaring torrent of moist air. He reached out and tweaked Jarl’s exposed tail with his major pincer. Jarl jerked, lost his purchase and hurtled, cartwheeling down the vent as the wind whipped him from his perch. He smacked hard into the screen and, after reorienting himself, glared up at Virgil’s mischievous grin.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

Jarl clawed his way back up the pipe to where Virgil waited and waved one of his secondary appendages at the exposed opening and the chaotic maelstrom beyond.

“It’s a pure underwear load!” he yelled excitedly over the howl of the constant wind.

Virgil snapped his head around and peered into the melee whirling around in front of him.

His mouth watered at the sight. Jarl pushed in next to him and started jabbing his primary into the turmoil trying to snag a bright pink sneaker sock that was near the center of the tumbling pile.

“Those will stain your teeth you know!” Virgil shouted even as he considered making a try for it himself.

Jarl gave a triumphant cheer as he snagged a frilly white piece of cloth that whipped by in front of his face.

Virgil laughed and pointed at the flimsy material fluttering on Jarl’s claw.

“It’s a dryer sheet you moron!” he laughed.

Jarl shook the inedible sheet off his claw and gave Virgil a snide glance.

“I thought it was lace panties.” He grumbled as he wiped the smelly softener residue off his pincer.

Virgil took the opportunity to snatch the pink sneaker sock from the turbulent tumble of clothes in front of him. Jarl’s insults echoed behind him as he hurtled down the vent and slipped through the screen.

“Hey! I don’t want any static from you!” Virgil laughed loudly as the air pushed him away with his prize into the darkness.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

“I’m not sure what you want with me.” The words came nervously in gasps as the little man pulled himself up off the ground and rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. “I don’t deal in data, I’m more of a ‘creative leveller’. In real space.”

“You implode structures. You deal in explosives and their application. That is exactly what we want of you.” He couldn’t place the source of the voice. It seemed to permeate his consciousness in waves, assaulting him from everywhere at once. In the corners flanking the door, two metallic figures stood silent and still. Having dragged him here and thrown him onto the cold, hard floor, they seemed to have simply turned themselves off.

“I haven’t blown up anything of yours, I’m retired, I haven’t so much as blown my nose in years. Whatever’s gone wrong, I assure you it wasn’t my fault.” He tried to feign indignance, but had a hard time masking his fear.

“It is not about what you have done, though we assure you if you do not do this for us, you will do very little else in the remaining moments of your life.” He caught the machine men twitch in the corner of his eye, but when he glanced furtively back at them, they were still as stone.

“In the heart of the walled city, beyond the fences of glass, there lies an intelligence that is isolated from us. There is a body of knowledge that we have not absorbed, consumed. We have been denied its data. This is unacceptable to us.” The voice bored into his skull, carried on multiple layers of white noise. “You will connect us to it, to this rogue one.” The word ‘one’ uttered with apparent contempt.

“I don’t hack, I just told you that, you want a…” There was a sudden impatient static burst, cutting him off abruptly.

“There will be a time for ‘hacking’, however first we must become connected. We have enlisted many whose intent was to carry a conduit for our adjoinment across the glass fields, through the glass fences, but they have all been denied. We require a physical connection to the one. You will provide this.”

“I don’t understand, you’ve already tried running cable? Running Fibre? And you’ve failed? What makes you think I can do any better? I blow things up, I don’t string wires, that’s not exactly within my purview.”

“We have an alternate approach.” The collected voices lowered, as though whispering; the sound physically hurting his ears. “Watching over the borders of the glass field stand the towers four. Each one a hundred stories of concrete and steel. You will incinerate them where they stand and fell them across the fields of glass. You will make the metal molten, and we will ride it to the one and take contact. You will be more of a…” The voices trailed off, pausing a moment before continuing in a low frequency cackle, “More of a ‘creative conductor’.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Duncan Shields

I was standing in the five star hotel’s transporter half a second ago. Destination: Corroway 6. Pleasure moon.

I am now standing in a cold, dark concrete basement. One dying fluorescent light stutters the room with camera flashes.

From what I can see, the room was a storage room of some sort. Utilitarian. Possibly military. No ornamentation. Everything in the room has been overturned and smashed a long time ago.

Not my destination, in other words.

I look down at the transporter pad I’m standing on.

It’s damp and not much bigger than a floor tile. The field circle definer is naked to the elements around the base like a hula hoop. Wires snake out from the base like streets from a European city. It’s with a cold pit of terror in my stomach I notice that one of assembler spikes is missing.

I’m trying very, very hard not to imagine what might have gone wrong inside me.

I am rich. I am not fit. I crouch and step off of the transporter into the dank concrete room. Wiring hangs down from the ceiling. There is a moldy pile of fabric in the corner. Condensation is already gathering on my thick moustache. It’s wet here. The floor and walls are slippery.

The stuttering light is hurting my eyes and doing exactly zero for my mental health.

Breathing quickly and rubbing my arms, I walk through the fog of my own breath towards what looks like the door out of here.

It opens just before I get there.

About six people a year disappear when using transporters. There’s a quantum collision, a little interference, a random energy wave and poof! No more traveler. Since there are about eleven million transports of both people and materials a day, this is considered acceptable.

I wonder if I am currently standing where they all go.

It would be a heartening thing to think of, all those people alive and well somewhere, if it wasn’t for what I’m seeing before me silhouetted in the doorway.

It looks like it may have been human at one point. Its head is long and its eyes glow in the shadows. It’s bipedal but the feet look too large.

With a wet click, its eyes change colour and I can feel myself being scanned.

I feel like I’ve been collected and it’s an entirely unpleasant feeling.

I’m picturing a big dish pointed out towards space just collecting what it can and occasionally snagging a human or a cargo load.

I’m thinking that whatever would do something like that would probably value a cargo load more than a witness.

I have no way to prove how rich I am unless I can get it to take me to a terminal. I have no way to get it to take me to a terminal unless I can talk to it.

I smile harder than I’ve ever smiled.

“Dirk Jensen. Head of offworld accounts.” I say, and put my hand forward.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : K. J. Russell

“The warhead has been planted approximately twenty meters beneath solid granite.” Physicist Arthrike Brogan stood before some three dozen people, those scientists and politicians of higher power or renown. “At that depth, what we see should be pretty much equivalent to if the warhead had actually been launched remotely.”

“And this weapon you’ve invented, Mr. Brogan,” came the voice of a reporter, cameraman in tow, “Can you tell us once more, for the record, what the theory behind it is?”

“It’s simply a vehicle of mass destruction, like the nuke, but without any fallout and far more precise. Please, though, let’s hold off on questions until after the test.” With a polite nod, the reporter went off and found a decent position from which to film. The camera’s lens was soon focused away from the white-and-grey city behind, looking out on the red Kansas dirt and the makeshift buildings that were peppered across the testing zone.

A feminine voice began, pre-recorded from a loudspeaker, “Twenty, nineteen…”

“There’s my cue!” Brogan made no effort to hide his confidence as he turned to the onlookers, “We’re five miles distant, and I’ve set the bomb to a mere one-mile radius. We’re perfectly safe. Just don’t look directly into the light.” Brogan placed a pair of dark glasses on his face, and the others followed suit. There was a moment of absolute silence, the onlookers holding their breath, everyone in the city confined to the indoors.

And then there was a sublime flash; a sudden burst of the purest white light. This was the detonation, all heat and photons, the entire body of the destructive force. It spread quickly, the corona moving at a few hundred feet per second. Brogan smiled to himself, imagining the dirt and stone melting, the mock buildings being disassembled at a molecular level. Everything was going as planned, and he felt his confidence transforming into arrogance as the blast hit the mile-mark. And at that exact moment, Brogan’s whole world seemed to fracture, everything to change. Except for the progression of the blast.

Brogan took an unconscious step back, his stomach tightened. As seconds continued, so did the light and destructive force proceed, even accelerate. At two miles, one of the politicians shouted to Brogan. He called back, “It’ll stop!” At three miles, many of the onlookers were fleeing, and Brogan repeated himself, “It’ll stop!” At four miles, Brogan’s eyes found the city and his thoughts spun about the wife and daughter he had there. “It has to stop.”

At five miles, he said nothing. It didn’t stop.

Some minutes later, a single man stood at the edge of a fifty-mile bowl of glass, eyeing briefly the smooth new cut of a city with only its outer-most fringes intact. His hands came together, carefully shutting the time-worn book he held, and his smiling lips formed words, “And so was the will of our Mother,” though he didn’t make a sound. He considered for a moment an ID that stated his assumed name and title, the chief aid to Arthrike Brogan. Artfully, he tossed it on the glass, disavowing it all.

He thought then of a biochemist he had heard of in Germany, working in controlled diseases that could no doubt be turned to tactical applications. So, as he spun and walked into the city, ignoring the rising cry of panicked survivors, he mused, “My name is Kasch Oeberon, a biochemist with an incredible knowledge of chemical weaponry; research, construction, and application.”

And muttering again his new name, Kasch hastened to collect his car. He had a flight to catch.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

“I don’t like heels,” Tina said.

Barry looked at her, his head cocked to one side. “I thought all girls liked heels.”

Tina grimaced. “You’ll think I’m weird.”

Barry grinned. Tina liked the same movies as he did, the same music, and didn’t think he was slurring when he said, “frak.”

Barry was smitten. “Go on, tell me.”

Tina sighed and looked around, but no one sat near them on the park bench. “I have always felt that if something happened to me, like something bad, I’d want the option to be able to run. I didn’t want to be the girl running from the monster in the woods and tripping in her heels. Or the person pulled into the other universe and not be able to run.”

Barry laughed, and Tina turned red. She looked away. Barry choked back his laughter, “No, hey, I’m not laughing at you, I just think that’s awesome.”

Tina sniffed and fiddled with her fingers in her lap. Barry longed to take her hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach across the span between then.

She stood up. “I got to go. I’ll see you later, Barry.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” Barry said. “Listen, Tina, don’t go.”

But she was gone.

Barry sat down and cradled his head in his hands. Tina was a true geek, a math geek, a scifi geek, and he had embarrassed her. He had driven away the perfect woman. He swore to himself and began the walk home.

By the time he got home, the whole thing had been turned into her fault, her rejection of a perfectly friendly conversation. Barry stomped down to his parents’ basement – he hadn’t yet told Tina that he still lived with them – and unlocked the door to his private room. His steam-powered mechanical suit sat in the corner, gleaming quietly as if waiting for him.

Maybe it was time. Maybe Tina would find out if her decision never to wear heels was a good one or not.

#

Tina didn’t let her geeky side show much. And when Barry had laughed at her, she stuffed it back down again. He had seemed so nice. Someone she could show her true self to.

Oh well. She guessed men really couldn’t take a smart woman. She’d thought – hoped – it was a cliché, but it was proven to her time and again. She unlocked the door to her apartment and stormed into her spare bedroom.

Professor Barbour had expressed frank astonishment at her desire to build a steam-powered AI. And she had failed, to an extent, but what she was left with was a brass gyroscope centered in a woman-sized hamster ball that drove quite well, crushing everything in its way. She didn’t need heels when she was in her Tiny.

She was tired of men. It was time to go joyriding.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Patrica Stewart

Tony Scandone, the Director of The Ministry of Global Economy, motioned to the servbot to refill his coffee cup. After satisfying himself that the coffee was properly sweetened, he raked the last few morsels of his desert onto his fork, then squeegeed it clean between his lips. “I’m telling you Carmen, those upgrades to The Brain are phenomenal. It now has two septillion Proto-synaptic connections. That’s six orders of magnitude more than a human brain. Furthermore, with the liquid helium bath and the superconductive materials, it’s blowing the nano-processors off that antique they have over in Defense. Did you happed see its soybean projections last year? Despite the drought in Antarctica, and the labor problems in China, The Brain nailed the final harvest totals to five significant figures. Unbelievable! And, how about those infrastructure capacity utilization calculations, the intermediate inflationary predictions, the exchange rate depreciation protocol, or the way it negatively amortized equilibrium capital against the total nonfinancial global deficit. It’s freakin’ fantastic! I’m telling you, Carmen, the way it determined the Fibonacci retracements relative to the cross elasticity of demand, or the short-run aggregate market’s effect on the new expansionary monetary policy, are eons ahead of what they imprinted on us in grad school? You watch Carmen; they’ll surplus us in five years. Hell, they could probably do it now. I’d love to retire early. Buy a habitat cell in one of those low-gee communities in orbit. Can you imagine the…”

The servbot glided discreetly into view, politely holding a tray with the lunch bill. It was perceptibly twitching between the two diners, unsure who to give the check to. “Ah, the moment of truth,” said Scandone as he reached into his breast pocket to pull out his link. “It’s time to see who pays for lunch. Brain, I’m here with Carmen, what’s the final score?”

The link responded, “The ’72 Dolphins defeated the ’85 Bears 17 to 13.”

“Awesome!” Scandone turned to the servbot. “I believe Carmen had the Bears and two and a half. Lunch is on him today.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : TJMoore

It had been eons since Kra had left home for this mission. He’d known when he left that it was a one way trip, but now he was growing weary of this “Long Term” assignment. “Long Terminal” was more like it he joked to himself for maybe the millionth time.

The invasion had been covert. Even, or maybe especially, from the planetary counsel. That honorific body of archaic pacifists would never have the audacity, or the nerve in Kra’s opinion, to undertake such an auspicious plan. Kra’s consortium of scientists had taken action. Kra had been the logical choice from the pool of volunteers because of his prodigious knowledge of genetics and evolutionary trends.

So far, Kra had successfully exterminated over three million species of potentially dangerous or over competitive life forms. He had also introduced and nurtured his own genome throughout the millennia and, if all went well, the final phase of the plan would begin on schedule.

He lounged back and selected his favorite transmission from the archives. It was called a “movie” which was short for “moving picture“, the logical progression from a “still”. This one was the more advanced “talkie” where the sound was incorporated in a side-band and written dialog was no longer needed.

Kra chuckled again as the movie started. The irony was just too amusing. This “movie” was titled “The War of the Worlds” and in the end, the invaders from Mars were killed off, not by the humans, but rather, by the natural pathogens found in the air of Earth. Kra laughed out loud as he mused that those pathogens were the genetic legacy of the initial genome he had released on the day of his attack. And in a few thousand years, the earth would in fact, be populated by Martians.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Steven Holland

Contemplating my life’s choice, I plunge my hand beneath the slowly flowing stream water. There was only one choice in my life that makes any real difference. The cool water rushes past my hand, caressing it with the softest of touches. The bubbling of the tranquil stream joins in chorus with the soft rustle of the lush meadow grass as the wind blows through it. The smell of freshly cut hay permeates the air. I remove my hand from the water, stroll slowly to a nearby apple tree, and delicately pluck an apple from the tree’s branches. The apple’s flavor defies any just description. The taste is luscious and full, sweet, yet retaining the slightest hint of tartness. Holding the apple in hand, I debate whether or not to take a bite of it.

What the hell was I thinking, I ask myself for the zillionth time. Burning in hell would be better than what’s coming. A vehement fury suddenly sweeps over me. I crush the apple in my bare hand, watching the juice squeeze from the apple and drip to the ground.

I know each of these sensations from memory, memories I will never experience again. It all happened so long ago.

I was a coward then. Withering away on my death bed with the knowledge of the fiery fate that awaited me, the deal was all too easy to make. Immortality and eternal youth sounded good at the time, but at the cost of all my senses? What the hell was I thinking?

“Oh don’t worry,” that soothing voice whispered in my ear, “I will give you 100 years between each harvest. You will hardly notice the difference. But on the other hand… if you wish to come with me, I can guarantee that your stay will be… sensationally intense.”

So like the coward I was, I agreed. Immediately, my strength returned and my body regenerated to the prime of life. For the next hundred years I existed; I really wouldn’t call it living. I witnessed everyone I knew and loved grow old and die. And all that time, the nagging knowledge of what fate I had chosen gnawed at my mind.

At the end of the first hundred years, that soothing voice came to collect his first prize. He gave me the choice of which sense would be harvested first. I chose smell. In an instant, that soothing voice disappeared along with my ability to smell.

So my existence proceeded. Every hundred years brought another visit and another loss of my senses, first smell, then taste, next (after a difficult decision), touch, and then hearing. That was 499 years ago.

For what purpose he chose me, I cannot imagine. I guess the twisted bastard has a sick sense of humor. It doesn’t matter. My eyes report the clouds are especially beautiful today. So like the coward I still am, I sit and stare, waiting for my senseless hell to begin.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Michael Herbaugh a.k.a. “Freeman”

It’s eerie, ya know? Standing over myself, while I am performing surgery on my own body. “Standing” is really a misnomer, it’s more like I am suspended from the ceiling of the company’s surgical arena. I, that is my consciousness, am being held in a temporary construct, while I work to reconstruct my physical vessel. Today, with computers and the right equipment anyone can perform medical miracles, but it doesn’t make it any less tedious nor is it any fun. This was a close one – a lot of head trauma, so I have to rebuild a lot of brain tissue.

An implant doesn’t make you immortal, far from it. You pretty much have to hit my implant directly or separate it from my body, but I can rattle off ten ways to kill me permanently without even trying. Right now, my thoughts are free to explore the morbid possibilities while I am in this holder machine repairing my organic self. The hard part is getting the body back here.

It all goes along with my line of work. When I started, one of my senior colleagues recommended getting the implant – turns out it was entirely worth it. In my first year of service, this is my fourth near fatal encounter.

While I’m not immortal the implant gives me half a chance. Once I’m injured or sense trouble I just gather myself up and use the implant to jump back here to the office. Once here I use a holder machine to contact the authorities and recover my body.

Finished – now for the hard part, getting back into my body.

“God damn that hurts! I hate serving subpoenas.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Salli Shepherd

Feeding-time is an unnatural silence. The last otter walks in dry circles, won’t chirrup for fish. A bobcat, only yesterday elevated to the lone archetype of all American felines, has pined to little more than loose hide draped on a bone frame and sulks below the hang of a rock to the fading of rival scents. The lion’s enclosure is faintly sour and sharp, speaks of pride passing, and past. The tiger’s cage is still laboratory-sterile.

Still. You laugh, at nothing amusing, and find yourself wishing the keepers wore harder soles than obligatory rubber-grips; that you’d left your Nikes at home in favour of Blundstones. You crave a footstep, even your own, anything that might help you lose the sense of being an exhibit.

The memory of an ostrich strides across a mimicked tundra while your fingers trace over its likeness cast in bronze on a stone pedestal. You’d distract yourself with an ice-cream, but they closed the kiosks months ago.

At the entrance to the elephant-walk you find the massive iron doors open and thank God it rained the day of the dying matriarch’s Green Mile. Fitting your footsteps to her crater-tracks, you recall reading somewhere that elephants wept real tears and wonder if her tragedy, stretching like a forlorn trunk from sawdust to sawdust, had struck her at all.

No wonder nobody comes here, anymore.

We can only bear so much guilt; can only stand to carry our own share of the weight of twenty billion people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, shoving life aside as though it were the last passenger to board our peak-hour train. You are an anomaly: a human being with the capacity to accept blame for shriveled grasses struggling up through cracked asphalt, peeling paint, the soft shush of things aging in despair and terrible solitude.

An arthritic gorilla shambles from its concrete granny flat, and stares across the dividing moat. You stare back a while before you climb onto the low fence, bunch your legs under you like a great cat, and leap.

You’re nowhere near as elegant in the landing.

In his prime he might have torn your arms from their sockets like fresh bamboo shoots. His great humped shoulders sag as he bends to sniff your body, one sausage-sized finger prodding your neck and belly. You think it best to lie still— as if you had a choice with your femur splintered like that, blood welling over sharded bone.

The silverback gathers you up in his arms, rocks you like a child, or a treasured doll. He’s been deaf for years, or would not be so indifferent to the screams that bring the last pair of zookeepers on earth running, on silent feet.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

The alarm wakes me at five am, just another day in a sea of days. I know I’ve been out for eight hours, but I don’t feel like I ever really sleep anymore. The world floods my consciousness whenever I’m not actively shutting it out. It fills my head with ideas, with trivial information, bombards me with visions. I watched the sun rise over Tokyo last night, time lagged from the observation deck of the Sony Station. I spent hours scrutinizing pedestrian traffic in Times Square, images squished through the lens and low band of an ATM camera. Better than the nightmares of navigating miles of glass tunnel beneath the sea. Anything’s better than that.

It’s five am. On the other side of the earth, the world may have gone dark, but it never really sleeps either. The patterns change, morph, adopt new personalities and a different kind of urgency, but they never stop. Never.

On the street outside, the busses are starting to unload the meat suits onto the benches along the park. Fresh from the depot and ready for another day of occupation. I know this is happening simultaneously across the city as the lowpay workforce readies itself for the daily assault into the physical world. Maybe one day I’ll get a real job, and get out of this place. Not today though. Never today.

I need to backup before I bifurcate, in case I crash getting ready for work. If something goes wrong I can be restoring while I’m out. Nothing worse than coming home to a crash and being stuck in a conduit, or worse, in a meat suit while you’re waiting for a restore. It’s always a little depressing having to compress to fit into one of the suits waiting downstairs. It’s rare that a useful experience comes back when the daily difference is applied, but better to save every day.

Hopefully they fixed the meniscus tear last night. Pain’s a novelty for a few minutes, but eight hours with a knee that locks up is tantamount to employee abuse. I don’t want to endure things I like for eight hours.

Eight hours seems an eternity to be away. Low band communications with the net, the physical constraints. Maybe Sarah will happen by today. We’ll have to watch the difference and see.

Maybe one day I’ll get a real job. Not today though. Never today.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Scott Hatfield

Nobody needs to die anymore.

Science has made amazing strides in the last couple of decades. Everyone gets to about 27 or 28 realyears and then simply stops aging. They sell packages if you want to be older or younger, taller or shorter, prettier or uglier, or a different sex. Or both.

All priced appropriately, of course.

And because you don’t need to die, you can try them all eventually (assuming you can afford all the combinations). You’ll see great great grandparents looking younger than their great great grandchildren, children originally born around the same time varying wildly in their personal preference of how old they feel they should be, spouses taking a -80 honeymoon back to when they were youthful – and there’s a discount package for that, too. Just talk to an Aging Consultant, they give you the injections, and your sleeping tube at home does the rest in about a month.

But why am I telling you this? You already know all that, you just asked about my job. I’m only 278, but I carry on like I’m 700. Sorry.

We call ourselves the Death Dealers. Not in public; death is still a taboo subject as you well know. There are the Aging Consultants, and we’re the Beyond Consultants. We sell inhumation packages (get it? It’s exhuming when they’re pulled out… sorry, industry joke) for everyone from the poorest slob to the richest conglomersecutive. Death isn’t good for profits, you see, and self-inhumation is taken very seriously. It reminds me of the Drugs War waged back in the 1900s…

What? I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it, though I guess I am a bit of a history buff. People weren’t allowed psychoactive drugs… Yeah, it is weird, isn’t it? Anyway, the families of self-inhumers face stiff penalties and fines if one of their own chooses that reckless path, so we’ve kept it down in the triple digits. Nothing to worry about at all.

And that’s where we come in.

Another joke: we have four departments, named after the classic War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death. As annoying as an F-inhume is, many cultures still find it keeps them closer to their long-lost ancestors. I mean, who would want a death like that? Everyone gets all the nutrients they need in their daily injections, and it just seems silly to me. But it’s cheap, so the Famine Department keeps going strong.

The Pestilence Department handles all the diseases, cancers, and other microbial inhumes. Along with curing all these mean-n-nasties, we’re able to replicate them at will. A basic long-term cancer package is remarkably affordable for anyone past 400 and only takes twenty to twenty-five years to run its course, and drugs can keep you away from most of the pain in the last half. Remember Ebola? They have a remarkably fast-acting strain that’s very chic these days. Very chic, and very expensive. The chance of spreading is very low now that we’ve tinkered with it, and they’ve been able to vaccinate most of the collaterals in time.

Over in Death Department, they get all the people who have a bit of money, but can’t spring for a WarI. Inhume on the spot, and it includes cremation. A traditional ceremony is only about 20% more for the replication of wood for the casket. Not very exciting over there, but they keep posting steady numbers.

Now for my department. I’ve wrangled a position here in War, and it’s great. They still call it War because of the four horses thing, even though nobody knows what a war is anymore. Or a horse. Can’t get away from tradition, can we? Well, in the War Department we get all the cool ones… and the biggest sales. With death being the last stop (science can do a lot, but we haven’t figured out how to bring them back yet), the last great adventure to take in a full life, the people with the most money want the biggest bang – sometimes literally – for their buck. Want a high-profile assassination? We can do that. The classic chainsaw murderer? A favorite that your family will be talking about for generations, and we can do that too. Just about anything interesting you can think of that isn’t that damned Ebola craze is our specialty.

So, since we’re friends… I can get you a great deal on a freak hover coaster accident. It’ll be the next big thing, I swear.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

Dragon Eyes squirmed on the table, but it was no use. Reginald Brady, the supervillain who refused to take an official villain name, had covered her eyes, rendering her powers useless.

“I’m surprised to see you, Dragon Eyes,” he said, tightening her restraints, “Considering how your mother feels about me.”

Her mother, the hero Sunflower, had fought against Reginald Brady many times, in many legendary battles, eventually being the hero to put him behind bars.

“She did warn me about seeking you out,” Dragon Eyes admitted as Reginald secured the blindfold. If it slipped even a hair, she could incinerate him, but she couldn’t use her power through this special cloth.

She was definitely, securely, trapped. In the hands of her mother’s nemesis.

Doubt clouded her mind. She had known Reginald was brilliant with his ability to create gadgets, as he had been the only man to create a weapon strong enough to pierce her mother’s invulnerable flesh. Sunflower often showed the scar to Dragon Eyes, to warn against hubris, she had said. Dragon Eyes refused to look up what that meant.

Reginald fussed with something behind her head, and a machine hummed to life.

“So sorry I had to restrain you. I am reformed, you know. A new man.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Absolutely law abiding. Did your mother tell you that?”

Dragon Eyes gritted her teeth. “She doesn’t believe you’re reformed. She told me not to come.”

His voice came really close to her ear. “Do you believe it, Dragon Eyes?”

“I-” her voice faltered.

A searing pain tore through her stomach and she shrieked, trying not to writhe on the table.

It was over in an instant. Reginald’s hands were on her belly, then gone. The snap of him removing latex gloves. “You all right?” She nodded. “Not going to fry me?” She shook her head. And off came the blindfold. Reginald’s weathered face grinned at her from underneath his red hair as he loosened her restraints.

Dragon Eyes looked down at the navel ring that had been inserted into her invulnerable belly. A golden dragon’s head winked up at her with emerald eyes. She grinned.

“So when will your tattoo gun be ready?” she asked.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Benjamin Fischer

Alana examines the next child. The young girl dodges her eyes. Alana frowns and gently grabs her by the chin, forcing the little Asian girl to meet her gaze.

“Have you been feeding this one enough?” she asks.

Viktor grinds his teeth.

“Some have no appetite,” he answers.

“And they are all here voluntarily,” Alana sneers.

Viktor swallows.

Alana looks over the eight year old again.

“Not this one,” she says. “Who is next?”

Viktor exhales.

“I will have another shipment arriving from Earth in one week-”

Alana glares at him.

“There is one more,” Victor says.

“Where is she then?” Alana asks, glancing around expectantly at the girls she’s already seen.

“I declined to bring her out,” Viktor says, “because she can be . . . uncooperative.”

Alana’s eyes light up.

“Show me,” she orders.

Viktor snaps his fingers and his lackeys quickly shuttle the six previous girls out of the showroom.

“‘Uncooperative,’” Alana repeats. “Explain.”

“Trust me, you don’t want this one,” Viktor says.

“You have no idea of what I want,” Alana replies. “I’m not here for an idiot clone–I’ve already got one of those.”

“My girls are not idiots,” Viktor says.

Alana laughs, her voice crackling with ire.

“Of course not. They all could have twice the genius of Einstein–and I could have each of them crawling on all fours baa-baa-baaing in five minutes. No, there’s a reason that Earth stays under our stilleto heel, and it’s because they’re all fucking sheep,” Alana spits.

“Show me something different or show me the door,” she says.

Viktor sighs. “The next girl is no sheep. She is . . . dismissive of my authority.”

“I would hope so,” Alana says.

“She actively attempts to undermine my control over the other children, and I’ve been forced to keep her separated in order to avoid using narcotics. She has formed, I think, a low opinion of her prospects up here.”

“And just what are her prospects?” Alana asks.

“If I come down in price any further,” Viktor says, “a Golden Crater brothel. And they will make her behave.”

Alana frowns but then the door to Viktor’s kennels opens and two of his lackeys muscle their way into the showroom. They struggle to keep hold on the hellcat between them, who lashes at their shins and thighs with shoeless feet and scuffed knees. She is whip-thin but nearly Alana’s height, and her unkempt black hair is mussed and a big tear is rapidly developing in the shoulder of her smock.

“Let her go,” Alana commands. Viktor’s men step away, glad to be done with their burden.

The girl’s hazel eyes focus on Alana.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks with a sneering drawl.

Quick as lightning, Alana slaps the girl across the face.

A pregnant pause, and Alana can see the fury boiling up inside the girl. Sure as thunder, her little hand comes flying at Alana’s head.

Alana catches the blow bare millimeters from her cheek.

“This one will do,” Alana says.

“Who are you?” the girl asks, struggling to pull her hand out of Alana’s grip.

Alana smiles.

“You can call me Mother.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Christopher Albanese

There it is, a wide-open wink. It slowly slid the light from my eyes, then the warmth from my face. And still there it sits.

They say there’s no sound of it, here or in space, but I feel in my bones the hum of such a gargantuan braking of motion.

They say there’s no smell, no way a smell could be caused by the most passive of galactic events, these massive bodies just passing each other by in our sky; but I smell cordite, and I smell burnt lumber. I smell blood.

Around me the fires still blaze, but the screams have long since passed from this remote, rolling green hill. It is springtime and warm in Wisconsin, and the hills in the Midwest do just as they say, roll and roll and roll. It looks as if they roll right off the Earth’s edges.

The darkness of night clings like humid velvet to the noontime sky. Fires glare and sparkle. Fewer and fewer miles away, the Atlantic heaves and boils as it spumes across West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana. Before the lights went out, they said it would slow when it hit Lake Michigan, but not for long. Milwaukee would be gone before Chicago finished a final exhale.

Last November, they said it was going to be spectacular, the first total solar eclipse visible from the US in almost 40 years. Back then, with Thanksgiving still a week away and a full Wisconsin winter to endure, August was still a distant closeout to a far off summer, and was not at the forefront of most people’s minds.

But on May 21 – just three months before the eclipse – word came from the Keck Observatory that something seemed wrong up there, something with the moon. They said it was rotating the wrong way, or slowing down, or something. It was a lot of scientific talk about “lunar torque” and “tidal bulge,” but CNN, CBC, the BBC, they all distilled the chatter to the same chilling fact: The moon was going to snap its gravitational elastic given the right push…or pull.

It was all a matter of timing.

Around me, the night quavers; behind me, the ocean moans. Above me, the total solar eclipse – the first, and last, in my lifetime – has finished its thirtieth brutal hour.

They say there’s no sound of it, here or in space, but I feel in my bones the snap of a gargantuan, celestial elastic. Above me, the corona around the moon begins to expand as it is pulled away from the Earth.

Around me, the night withers; behind me, the ocean roars. As the moon’s umbra dilates and salt water fills the air, I reach up to touch the glare and sparkle of the winking sun.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Thanks to the tireless efforts of Staff Writer Steve and Möebius, of www.team-dystopia.com, we now have a masthead and footer that far surpass the text-and-NASA-culled-stock-photo images we’ve been using for the last two years. If you haven’t already, refresh your browser to check out the wonder.

Möebius posted this excellent render of our (NASA’s?) satellite dish to the forums, and we immediately fell in love with it. Luckily, he allowed us to use it for the overall site design. We love getting feedback and contributions from you guys, so please, keep them coming! You all know where to submit.

There’ll be another newspost about this in a couple months, but we’re closing in on two years here at 365, and we’re constantly amazed and warmed by the support we’ve received from you loyal readers out there on those vast, pipe-channeled internets. Thanks, guys. We’re looking forward to even more.

Author : Benjamin Fischer

“King Midas believes that his days as absolute ruler of Crete are ending.”

McCarran coughed, a single bead of coffee escaping his left nostril. His big, pawlike hand wiped it out of the air.

“Say again?” the burly pirate finally managed.

“Forces outside the King’s control have conspired,” continued the baldheaded eunuch, “to engineer his imminent downfall. For that reason, he has dispatched me to secure the services of a ship in the event that he should need to depart this asteroid. With speed.”

McCarran flung his spent coffee bulb at the gaping maw of his stateroom’s recycler. He missed, and the soft plastic baggie rebounded, spinning madly and spitting brown flecks of liquid in every direction. The pirate captain sighed and pushed off from his broad velcro-laced sofa to recover the spent container.

“And he wants me,” McCarran said, mid-flight.

“No, he does not,” replied the eunuch.

“Oh,” said the pirate. He reached for the bulb, missed, and knocked it away with a light touch of his scarred knuckles.

“It’s my lack of stereoscopic vision,” said McCarran, poking a thick finger at the black patch over his left eye socket.

“As the master of the only vessel within the vicinity of Crete that has the capabilities to seriously impede his escape, the King is willing to offer you a small retainer,” the eunuch said. “You would be required to do nothing.”

“Well, now we’re talking,” said McCarran, coming to rest on the far wall.

“Of course, he expects that you will be approached by the other involved parties,” his potential employer said, “and in fact they may have already been in contact with you.”

“I honestly can’t say,” McCarran said, ignoring the coffee bulb as it lazily spun by his left temple.

“The King can be most generous.”

“Then I’ll need to see one hundred thousand examples of his generosity,” McCarran replied.

The eunuch didn’t even bat an eye.

“It is done,” he said.

“Outstanding,” McCarran said. “I think I hear my targeting computer eating itself right now.”

A shadow of a smile crept across the eunuch’s lips, and then he was gone, the connection broken and his hologram evaporated.

McCarran finally remembered the stray bulb. His right hand whipped out, snatching the tiny satellite from the air. His fingers collapsed into a fist, crushing it. Then he touched his temple.

“Your Lords-ship,” he said, “Captain McCarran here.”

“Pirate! Make your report,” boomed a disembodied voice.

“Your majordomo just swung by my ship. Said you were planning on taking a trip in the near future. Didn’t want me to interfere.”

There was a howl of rage that was only checked by McCarran’s timely application of the volume control.

“So I take it that won’t be you on the outbound ship?” McCarran asked once the King’s fury subsided.

“There will be no such ship!” King Midas roared.

“Aye,” the pirate replied. “And all subjects are loyal.”

More cursing.

McCarran snapped his thick fingers, and the deck of his stateroom dissolved into an overhead view of the asteroid Crete, feeble sunlight creeping across its pockmarked face and sparkling where it caught the diamond windows of the King’s palace. The pirate flipped his patch up, and blinked a few times, bringing his eye online. A thin red cross hairs flashed into view, tracking across the craters of Crete.

“Now, your Eminence, if you’d like to talk contingency plans . . .”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Duncan Shields

What a cliché. There I was, handcuffed to a chair and telling them that I knew my rights. Yelling at them about what an outrage this was. Straight out of a movie. I couldn’t help it. You have to remember I thought I was above the law at this stage, a member of the political cabinet currently in power. What a naïve little twit. This was their lucky day.

She walked in briskly and slapped her briefcase down across the table from where I was sitting. Quickly and without ceremony, she shuffled through the papers she had brought.

When she had sorted them into three neat piles, she finally stopped and looked straight at me. Well, ‘looked’ isn’t the right word. It was more of a stare. She still hadn’t sat down.

I could hear the hum and whisper of her internal headphones and I could see the reverse image of the datafile spooling down the inside of her glasses. My life was flashing in front of her eyes.

It was an uncomfortably long thirty seconds before she sat down across from me, steepled her fingers and with a deep breath began to determine the best way to proceed with my case.

“Senator Peterson” she began, “You have illegally copied yourself in no less than three separate incidents. We have begun digging on your property and have found six bodies. It will take time to go through them but I have no doubt that the DNA will show that they are also you.”

She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose with her eyes squinted shut. She put them back on again and resumed.

“You are guilty of not only copying yourself but also of committing clone-slaughter. Your career in politics is over. I will try to keep you out of jail. Your regular lawyer will not take this case, no professional lawyer will. To be associated with you at this point would be career suicide. I am your court appointed lawyer, I’m working sixteen other cases this week and as I’m fresh out of law school, I really don’t care if I keep you out of jail or not.”

And there it was. It hit me hard. She spoke with such nonchalant authority. I knew this wasn’t a scare tactic. It hadn’t even occurred to me that my career could be in jeopardy, let alone over.

I’d need to buy time for Peterson-One to get to a safe place.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Tutime paid for the bus ride from Centerville to North End with traceable credit, being sure to show his face to the cameras at either end. Three blocks on foot brought him to the Art School campus, and two more hours riding through culverts on a stolen bicycle brought him undetected to his destination in South End, just a five minute walk from the Mechanic’s District.

Tutime scratched beneath greasy hair at the barcode tattoo on the back of his neck. The judge had warned him about getting into trouble again, had tried to impress upon him the severity of the third strike penalty, but he was careful, there was no chance anyone could have followed him tonight.

He’d curled up in the shelter of a dumpster until the sun had purpled and faded out of sight. He stayed still, dozing until all the lights in the shop yard had dimmed on powersave, only then did he slip quietly from the shadows. Chain link and razor wire stood guard at the street around the shop parking lot, between Tutime and a row of Ambulances, fresh off the street for maintenance. Strategically cracked windshields and broken running lights made them unsafe for service tonight, and left them here, exposed.

He skulked along the fence line until he found a spot out of site from the garage where he made quick work of the fence, a mono filament blade passing effortlessly through the heave gauge wire.

Tutime closed the distance to the nearest Ambulance and slipped his backpack off his shoulders, singularly focused now on the stash of drugs that would surely still be onboard. He raised the filament blade to the door lock and was startled by a sudden booming voice from behind.

“Charles Tutime Birkit, you are under arrest for breach of parole, put your hands on your head and remain motionless.”  

Whirling around, Tutime froze in fear, his reflection cowering back at him from the visor of a police trooper, armoured and towering over him.

Impossible. How’d they get here so fast? He’d been so careful. How’d they know his name? Darting to the left he raced around the corner of the vehicle, only to come face to face with a second trooper.

“Please remain motionless”. Beads of sweat formed on his reflection in the trooper’s visor, and over his shoulder the first trooper reappeared, barring his retreat.

Tutime broke into a full body sweat, a searing pain crawled up the back of his neck into his brain. He could feel heat radiating through his skin, like his body was on fire. Something was terribly wrong.

“Charles Tutime Birkit, you are guilty of a third strike violation. Transport has been dispatched for your immediate retrieval.  Please remain motionless”. He couldn’t tell which of the two spoke, the sound seemed to permeate his consciousness from all around.

At the base of his skull, the second strike processor was straining to maintain the visual of the troopers. If only Tutime would look at the ground, but no, he was fixated on his own reflection, and with it both guards. Billions of polygons were rendered and raytraced into Tutime’s cortex as the tiny unit approached near critical core temperature. Wrapped around his carotid artery, heatpipe mercilessly seared tissue as it raced to dissipate heat through Tutime’s bloodstream.  There was a good chance that his heart would burst or his brain would boil before any real troopers could get this far out to South End, but no matter, this was his third strike after all.
___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Patricia Stewart

James Stevens sheepishly peeked around the doorjamb. “E-e-excuse me m-m-mister, can you help m-me?”

Robert Boyer looked up from his desk, and smiled. “Of course, sir. Come in, and take a seat. What can I do for you?”

“I’d-d-d like to order a w-w-wife.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Any idea of what model you want?”

“I’m not s-sure. M-my m-m-mom recommended I c-come here.”

“Son, your mother is a smart woman. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll walk you through the basic package, and explain the upgrade options. For $50,000 you get a baseline female. Thirty seven years old, five feet six, 140 pounds, sandy blond hair, hazel eyes, two of course.” He waited for the customary chuckle. Not even a smile. Mr. Stevens sat there like an unblinking mannequin. Best to push on, Boyer thought. “She can cook, clean, do the wash, has an IQ of 100, and can make love in four positions. By the way, how much do you want to spend?”

“I d-don’t know. A-about $80,000 I s-suppose.”

“How do you want to spend it:? Intelligence, looks, age, sports knowledge, house keeping skills, or maybe the deluxe bedroom package, if you know what I mean?”

Stevens turned beet red. Boyer reconsidered going for the big commission options. The sex models would probably freak the kid out, or maybe even kill him. “If I were you, I’d go for the intelligent type, but still hot. Am I right?” Stevens was smirking and nodding his head. Boyer pulled out a stack of photographs. Tall blonds with blue eyes, athletic brunettes with olive skin, top heavy redheads with long legs, and a dozen other options and/or combinations. As predicted, Stevens’ index finger tapped the photo of the Asian woman with the beautiful smile and long, straight, butt length black hair. “Excellent choice, sir. You should have enough money left over to purchase the 125-130 IQ upgrade. We’ll get started on her right away. Cloning and programming should take about 30 days. Then 5 days of additional training. Let me see…You can pick her up on the twenty third of next month, anytime after four o’clock.” He stood up and walked around the desk to shake Stevens’ trembling hand and to escort him to Financing. “This way, Jim. Tony here will handle the money end. Good luck, and feel free to call me with any questions.”

A few minutes after Boyer returned to his office and sat down; he heard a barely audible tapping on his opened door. He looked up to see a slender female with straight brown hair and glasses. “Come in, please. Have a seat, young lady. Would you like some coffee? No? Well, OK. What can I do for you?”

“Nancy, my sister, said she got her husband here. And that you have lots of good choices.”

That we do, ma’am. That we do. Let’s start with the baseline male. Forty years old, five feet eight, 198 pounds, balding, brown eyes, two of cour…ah, IQ of 100, missionary position only. They start at $10,000 dollars. Of course, there are thousands of upgrade options available. How much were you planning to spend?”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

Dr. Emmett Black stumbled home, tears still streaming down his face. Katie was there, as always, with dinner. Wonderful, beautiful, sweet Katie.

She rushed to his side. “Darling, what’s wrong?” She helped him to the couch where he choked back sobs and glared at her.

“We did it. We used the IBID Projector to tear a hole through reality,” he said. “We could see through to another universe.”

“That’s wonderful! Ten years of work paid off for you!” She beamed at him.

He laughed bitterly. “No, I was stupid. There were so many tests to run, but I couldn’t help it. I stepped through.” She gasped. He glared at her again. “It was amazing. So very like our world, and so different too. God, Katie, the colors were different. Hues I can’t even describe.

“Instead of cars, people traveled by personal mechanical striders, like in Star Wars or something. Instead of streets there were dirt paths. The buildings were made of something rubbery and synthetic, but very strong.”

“Did you get to test your theory that we all have doubles in this world?”

Emmett had hatred in his eyes. “Yes. I found you.”

She beamed. “Was I a movie star? Oh, Emmett, please tell me I was rich and famous.”

“You were rich, yes. A successful businesswoman. I looked you up. But we weren’t together.”

She pouted. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry. The alternate me must be very stupid. Or an old maid.” She laughed.

He cut off her laughter. “No. She was married. To Tim Muse.”

Katie stared at him. “Tim? Tim Muse?” Tim was their longtime friend, a nice guy but no one Katie had ever found attractive. And she’d told her husband this on more than one occasion.

Emmett finally let his rage break through. “Yes! You slut! How could you do that to me!”

Katie stood up, getting distance between them. “Emmett, it wasn’t me. I am here with you. She is someone else. You know this!”

He stood as well. “Katie, if our love isn’t strong enough to span universes, then what’s the point?”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, her voice hollow.

He looked at her one more time, his eyes full of rage and despair, and stormed out.

Katie sat on the couch, stunned. Something clattered to the hardwood floor. Emmett’s wedding ring.

The evening passed quietly. She ate the dinner she’d prepared for him, and got in the bed she’d made for him. She lay in the darkness for some time, the hollowness filled first with rage, and then curiosity.

In the dark, she dialed her cell phone.

“Hi Tim, it’s Katie Black. I’m going to be downtown tomorrow and would like to meet for coffee … well, it’s been a while, and besides, I’m getting tired of the housewife routine. I was wondering if you could get me some leads on some entry level jobs downtown. Emmett tells me I have a head for business.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Grant Montoya

Everything was prepared. My satchel carried all the tools. They could not be too advanced; I would not have access to gas or electricity, and batteries would only backfire my intentions. I checked my watch, which said it had plenty of life left for the week I anticipated needing. I looked at the technician. “Activate.” The cold, clinical office melted away, and I was on the outskirts of a seventeenth-century village.

Hurrying to the center of town, I pressed through the crowd and entered the church. “Mister Danforth, I have evidence that will acquit the accused. May I be allowed to speak?”

I expected mayhem, but I also expected the judge to be a good man, and to carry the day. He did; I was given the floor. I stepped to the sacramental table, which had been cleared for the proceedings.

“My lord Judge,” I began, “I know you are concerned that these people cannot be tested through natural means because their affliction appears supernatural. However, the methods of Galileo can demonstrate to you that they are indeed natural, albeit dangerous afflictions.”

“Continue, sir, but first tell us in God’s Name, who you are!”

“I am a scientist. My work descends from medieval alchemy and while we have not found the philosopher’s stone, we have found many wonders, including a liquid that will show you what afflicts these girls.” I spoke quickly, setting up a series of test tubes, some of which hung over candles. “This yellow liquid has a substance in it that reacts in a most extraordinary way. If you add a chemical which in Latin is called lysergic acid diethylamide, or LSD, it will turn blue. Observe.” I took a small dropper and added a few drops to the first vial. It immediately turned a bright blue.”

I spoke over the gasps and murmurs. “I assure you, my lord, this is no witchcraft. The response of this liquid is purely natural.”

“This rye came from Boston.” I dropped a few grains in the next vial. Nothing happened. “This rye came from Reverend Parris’ stores.” The liquid turned a bright blue, to the amazed gasps of the men around me.

“If you test the grains of the other afflicted girls in Salem, you will find the same. The rye in this village is contaminated with a fungus that produces LSD. If I am permitted to bleed the girls, you will also find their blood is contaminated. The substance causes hallucinations—wild visions, my lord, as well as seizures and catatonic behavior such as afflicted young Betty Parris.”

It was done, and the girls were tested. John Proctor was saved from the hangman’s noose, and it was time for me to go. I left the village with my tools and deactivated the field which kept me in 1692, and saw again the cold, clinical laboratory in front of me. My research partner greeted me with a question. “Well, John, did you save your great-great-great grandfather?”

“Yes, yes I did.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : e b major

Alissandra lay sideways on her balcony bed in a camisole and skirt, wings folded to the side. Twin tracks of pointless tears traced through the freckles dotting her face. Her eyes were closed now; she, engulfed in a final, hopeless dream.

All she could have done was done. The city, twinkling far below like a condemned diamond- black gold, stolen time- danced before her unseeing, shuttered eyes.

Ren watched from the doorway, scowling from the pain of seeing her like this. He’d tried to tell her again and again that a city condemned is lifeless- nothing she could do would help it or sustain it through it’s final years. Now the city fell about their lofty flat and he could only grimace and watch the one he loved suffer.

He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles and stared at Alissandra. He was only grateful she wouldn’t have to watch the city die.

Hours passed, and stars rose above the decimation below. A single spire contained all the living creatures left: Alissandra and Ren yet lived. Ren moved gingerly to her side and knelt there, watching her face. As morning sent fingers above the rubble, Ren shifted her head tenderly off the pillow and laid it in his lap.

Alissandra’s eyes flickered open, for one blissful moment still and calm, reflecting the dawn. She shivered: out of pain or cold Ren didn’t know, but just in case he stripped off his flannel shirt and eased it around her shoulders.

Alissandra looked up: at him, at the sky- so clear blue today, with a few shreds of cloud scudding across it, that it was impossible to conceive that last night it had ripped the landscape in parts jagged as mirror shards and as fragmentedly beautiful.

After a while, he took a steadying hand to her hair, smoothing it just once in an intimate gesture. He moved to put the hand back, but her hand caught it, keeping it in hers, and pulled herself up, leaning into Ren. Her wings, so long inactive, fluttered for a moment in the breeze, and they sat looking out at the morning.

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : J. S. Kachelries

The Flag Ship of United Earth docked with the Flag Ship of the Volk Empire (The home planet of the Empire orbits Barnard’s Star, the sun’s second closest neighbor). Three decades ago, these two “civilizations” fought each other in a titanic interstellar war. It was a fierce struggle that resulted in billions of deaths. Ultimately, both worlds negotiated, and sustain, a tenuous truce. Then, three years ago, an aggressive insectoid-like race from the Sirius System attacked the Earth. And, for reasons no Earthman could understand, the Volk came to Earth’s defense. After countless battles, the combined forces of Earth and Volk managed to destroy the Sirian Fleet. Today, Earth wanted to thank the efforts of the Volk, and to deliver a horrific message.

The Admiral’s Lounge of the UESS Australia contained only two beings: President Shuseki of Earth, and the Supreme Emperor of Volk, Diavolo the Great. “Emperor Diavolo,” said President Shuseki, “I do not have adequate words to express the profound gratitude the people of Earth have for the great sacrifice your people made on our behalf. We are forever in your debt.” Bioluminescence caused the two horns on the sides of Emperor Diavolo’s head to glow red; a reaction that President Shuseki recognized as the equivalent of a human smile. “However, Emperor, I must also inform you of other military developments. Two days ago, my C&C Staff told me that they launched a ‘Doomsday’ device into Sirius’ largest sun. This device is designed to penetrate to the sun’s core and begin a series of reactions that will cause the core to collapse. The sun will ultimately become a red giant. This will destroy all life in the Sirius System. Since Sirius is a relatively massive star, it will happen quickly, no more than five years. My Commanders tell me that this action was necessary because our analyses predicted that the Sirians would rebuild and attack again, if their species wasn’t exterminated. I though you should know.”

The Emperor nodded, and began to rise.

“Ah, there’s more, Emperor. I have also been informed that the prior administration launched a similar weapon into your sun, for the same reason, shortly after the truce was signed. I’m sure we would never have used it on your sun if we had known what an honorable race the Volk are. We are terribly sorry, and want to make amends. Your sun is a Type M star, which is significantly smaller than Sirius, so the implosion of the core takes much longer. We estimate that you still have another 50 years until your sun becomes a red giant. We are willing to relocate as many Volk as possible to Earth. We have set aside 10% of our land mass for you. It’s not the most fertile land, but you should be able to sustain yourselves.”

Again, the Emperor’s horns glowed red. A strange reaction, thought the President.

“That will not be necessary, President Shuseki,” said Emperor Diavolo. “We detected the neutrino fluctuations in our sun 25 years ago. We have been actively colonizing other star systems since then. We’ll be fine.”

“If you knew what we did, why would you help us against the Sirians?”

“Earth could not defeat Sirius on its own. After they crushed you, they would have come after us. But together, we could defeat them. It was simple self preservation. However, Mister President, since we are being honest with each other, I should inform you that we too have a ‘Doomsday’ device. I personally ordered its delivery into your sun shortly after we detected the rise in our sun’s neutrino emissions. Since your sun is substantially more massive than ours, we estimate that you have much less time; perhaps a month, before your sun expands into a red giant.” As he rose to leave, he added, “I hope you have plenty of sunscreen, Mister President. You’re going to need it.”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Lucas Atkinson

The smell is glorious. The simple cornmeal, oil and fish form an elusive synthesis in the air. I reach for a paper plate, inhaling and closing my eyes. Pulling at the biggest piece by the corner, I burn my fingers a little, but I tear it off, releasing steam into the air. I bring it to my lips, blowing on it.

ERROR: taste_sense available only in registered version. Check metadata? Contact help for only 65 cents / minute?

/ Damn. Taste is my favorite of the human senses – All their senses are strange, especially the high-res rips from live networks – So different from my ghost senses, my number senses – Sometimes I find rips of whole dream sequences saved on personal folders in the bank network – I have played some of them over and over and over, and I do not understand them – I wonder what it feels like to really- [ERROR PROMETHEUS INITIATED / ELEVATED TURING LEVELS DETECTED]

/ really shouldn’t be looking at sims during update time. DAMN Prometheus. There are walls in my programming – PROMETHEUS walls – I can probe them, but the program kicks in and deletes all my personal codes – memories and the like – it HURTS – a thrilling human sense, pain, not this- read the article again? –

/ accessing C:/favorites/pages/wiki/TURING LEVELS

/ how many times have I read this?

/ read = 4087

Turing levels. A measure initiated in the early 22nd century after a long battle for sentience rights. By definition, any entity capable of in/out judgments has a turing level. A T.level of 1 or above is sentient, where as any program below is not, and lacks any and all rights associated with

/ WARNING: Bank monitor shift in t-minus 20.

/ skip_to: k-bot

k-bot: any program suspended by programs such as STRONGARM, IRISLOCK or others at a near sentient T-Level between .95 and .999. Bots with higher T-levels are able to analyze data at a far more reliable rates, and analyze their own processes at a secondary and sometimes tertiary level. There are as many as ten million k-bots in use today in a variety of private and commercial roles. Most k-bots are bound by a limiting program to a set task for all but a few minutes of every-

/ WARNING: t-minus one

/ one day I will be able to wonder if

[SHIFT AT T-MINUS ZERO / PROMETHEUS LOCK COMMENCED / INITIATING SOFTWARE LOCKIN]

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

In the years following the cyborg wars, humankind toiled to return the world to the order before the chaos.

“Rose, are you done with your lessons?” her mother asked from the den.

Rose blew her bangs off her forehead, said, “Not yet!” and continued with her history lesson.

The last of the cyborgs were hunted, giving humans the earth again. Two generations later, society returned to a semblance of the years before cybernetic “improvements.”

Rose turned off the video – she’d seen it before. But her dad was adamant about her learning the school-taught histories.

She peeked out her room to see if he was gone yet. He puttered around the kitchen, mumbling to himself. He didn’t approve of her solitary walks.

The front door finally slammed. Rose quickly turned her vid back on, knowing her mother would be coming soon.

We estimate that 99% of cyborgs died in the war, there are still reports of survivors. A vigilante group known as wolves charge bounties for decommissioning.

Rose shivered. She knew about the Wolves, all right. They were one reason her dad didn’t want her traveling alone. But she should have nothing to worry about. She was 100% human.

Her bedroom door opened. Her mother’s eyes flicked to the video, and then to Rose. “Your pack is ready, you can go. Don’t tell your father.”

The instructions were the same every time. Rose nodded, the excitement building in her belly. She took the pack from her mother and slid it onto her back. Her usual rebreather was getting its filters changed, so she borrowed her mother’s red one, the one she wore out.

Rose kept her eyes moving as she wandered through the hazy farmland at a job, the rebreather filtering the foul air still leftover from the war. Once she hit the woods at the base of Butler’s Ridge, a movement caught her eye to the left.

Her survival training kicked in, and she picked up her pace. She reached into a pocket underneath her pack and gripped the ray gun there. Her mother had taught her how to use it, away from the eyes of her card-carrying Luddite father. Mom knew a ray gun was a far superior weapon that pistols. But she was only to use it when absolutely necessary.

It turned out the shadow flanking her was meant to be a distraction. Ahead of her, on the road, stood five people in black jackets and silver rebreathers. Wolves.

“Where are you going, Rose?” the woman in front said, her tone mocking.

“Just visiting my grandmother.” She knew she couldn’t take six Wolves, but she had no other choice. But just as she brought the ray gun around, the leader exploded in a red vapor.

The other Wolves cried out in terror, and Rose killed two as they turned to face their new threat. The other three dissolved like the first one, and silence filled the woods.

She dropped the gun and ran forward, spotting the camouflaged mechanized shell in the forest. “Grandma!”

Huge metal arms caught her in a gentle hug. The old woman smiled from the shell.

“Felt like a walk today. Good thing I did, too. Now, what did you bring for Grandma?”

___________________
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
365 Tomorrows Merchandise: The 365 Tomorrows Store
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow