365 tomorrows

Author : Kathy Kachelries, Staff Writer

“I think mine is a girl,” Anju said as she stretched her legs out over the sofa in the resting room. Her hands crossed over her round stomach, which was covered by the stork-printed flannel shirt Special Delivery issued to everyone in the compound. A larger embroidered stork rested over her heart, carrying a swaddled infant in a sling. Most girls were horrified by the logo when they first arrived, but an aide explained that it was simply an ancient myth. No children would actually be dropped from the sky.

“You can’t tell what it is,” Jahnavi said. Her shirt hung around her stomach, deflated, but the next few months would change that. Even with an empty womb, she carried herself as if in her third trimester. Jahnavi had lived in the complex for seven years.

“I can tell,” Anju said. “She feels like a girl.”

“You’ve never been pregnant before,” Jahnavi pointed out.

“I know.”

Shaila listened to the conversation with mild interest, though part of her attention was directed towards the television. For weeks, she’d been trying to teach herself to read by watching American sitcoms with subtitles on, and sometimes, she thought she was getting close. Special Delivery didn’t allow anything but light comedy in the facility. A healthy mind makes a healthy baby, they said. Shaila’s dark eyes drifted to the other two women. “If she thinks it’s a girl, let her think it’s a girl,” she said. Her voice was a quiet warning. “They won’t let her see it, anyways.”

Anju’s hands pressed more firmly against her stomach, but she did not argue. For long moments, the only sound in the resting room was the laugh track of the television and the quick, poorly-dubbed dialogue. Shaila bit at her fingernail as she studied the rapidly moving words at the bottom of the screen. In three years she’d be too old to work for Special Delivery, but she didn’t intend to go back to the factory like most retired surrogates did. Shaila was going to move to the city and get a real job, the kind that she saw in the sitcoms.

“They really won’t let me see her?” Anju asked quietly.

“Why would they? It’s not your baby. Let the real parents worry about it.” Jahnavi waved her hand dismissively, though there was a hint of derision in her voice.

“I’d just like to know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Yeah, well. You’ll get over that.”

Another long silence. Shaila rubbed her stomach, which was just beginning to swell. This would be her thirteenth birth. “They look like that,” she finally said as she lifted her hand to the television. “Like those people. Blue or green eyes, red or blond hair. They get named things like Courtney and Jeremy.”

Anju looked at her intently, then fixed her eyes on the screen. “All of them?”

“Most of them. It’s what the parents want.”

Anju looked down at her belly, then back to the colorful television. She seemed to consider the statement carefully. “I hope she has blue eyes,” she said.

Jahnavi grunted. “It’s not your baby,” she said again.

“I don’t care. I hope she has blue eyes and black hair and I hope they name her Madhuri.”

“No one is going to name their baby Madhuri,” Jahnavi said. “No one. You ever seen a Madhuri on TV?”

The silence was tense, and after a few seconds, Shaila turned up the volume on the television. “It’s a perfectly good name,” she said, her words almost drowned beneath the laugh track of the television. “Just save it until you have a kid of your own.”

Author : Patricia Stewart

“Honey, I’m home,” I yelled as I entered our spacious 241 square foot twin occupancy cabin. Being married, and serving on the same spaceliner together, entitled us to that extra 103 square feet of living space. But more importantly, it also includes a 32 cubic foot, state of the art, holovision center. Reason enough to get married, if you ask me. But, let’s keep that our little secret.

“How was your day, Steve?” inquired my lovely wife from our private shower. Another perk on these extended missions. I meant the lovely wife perk, in case you thought I was referring to the private shower perk.”

“Awful,” I replied. “I had to work four straight hours. Two consecutive shifts! Boy, I’m really beat too. Eed,” that’s short for Electronic Entertainment Director, “activate the HV. What are my options?”

“Good afternoon, Steven,” replied Eed’s deep simulated male voice. “Several sporting events are on tap. Solar wind racing in the Alpha Centauri system. Nuclear wake surfing on Saturn’s upper atmosphere. And, the Olympus Mons, 53 kilometer downhill sand skiing finals.”

“Solar wind racing? Are you kidding me? That’s ten times more boring to watch than cricket, as if that were even possible. Were there any crashes in the other two?”

“Nuclear wake surfing will be carried live via hyperspace relay. There’s no guarantee, but you can usually count on a few ships wiping out. The skiing was recorded yesterday, relative Mars time. The captain of the United European team caught an edge on the second gate and tumbled for fifteen minutes. But at only 0.4g, he was uninjured. Is it safe to assume that since there were no known fatalities, you want to move on?

“Roger that, Eed. How about movies?”

“Of the 162,244 movies in my database, you still have not watched four: Mr. Smith goes to Sirius, The Wizard of IO, It’s a Wonderful Timeline, and Top Phaser.”

“Pass.”

“There are several network comedy shows that are about to start: Married with Clones, Two and a Half Aliens, My Favorite Titian, and Gilligan’s Asteroid.”

“I swear, the major networks repeat the same shows every generation.”

“Apparently, every generation for the last 200 years. But as you always say Steven, Mary Ann is still the hottest babe in the entire universe, right?”

“In any century too, Eed. Ant keep your volume down, please. What do you have in the way of science or history?”

“There’s an International Solargraphic Special on the killer worms they found on Europa.”

“That was true? I thought somebody made that up. What else?”

“How about a Supernova Special on public holovision about alien spacecraft debris found in Siberia near the Tunguska River?”

“That debris was probably planted there as a college prank. Public holovision always falls for that crap.”

“Oh, here’s a good one, Steven. The Ancient History Channel has a special on a 21st century phenomena called Flash Fiction.”

“What’s that? Did you say ‘Flash Fiction’? Man, I love that stuff. Those writers are geniuses. No, make that super geniuses. Hey, honey, hurry up. There’s a great show about to start. While we wait for her Eed, run the credits. I want to see it any of those early writers ever became famous.”

Author : Duncan Shields

It’s how you react to your life going wrong that defines you.

When you win, you smile like everyone else. It’s how you react to obstacles, changes of fortune and sudden lane changes in your life that reveals a true aspect of your personality.

Take me, for instance.

I never wanted to be cleaning the mobile arrays on the outside of this gigafreighter as we passed through crystal dust fields. I had a girl once. I even had the money to afford a pet. I lived planetside and breathed real air.

I’ve been given a tool much like a toothbrush. Something about the crystalline make-up of the comet trail doesn’t show up on sensors until the build up is too severe. They found that two diligent humans, each working in twelve hour shifts, was the cheapest solution to keep the array clear of crystal dust.

Some of this crystal dust is rumoured to be sub-molecular in nature. I try not to imagine the feeling of tiny shards filling my entire body, lodging in the mile-wide craters of my pores, sticking out of my skin like tiny daggers. It make me itchy.

Being itchy in a spacesuit is not good.

I clump around the array in a ritualistic circle, making sure to scrub in between the struts and under the dishes. I get the whole thing done in about two hours. That means that I clean it six times during my shift.

The comet we’re following must be giving us some pretty impressive data because I’ve been doing this for a year. I was only supposed to be doing it for eight months.

The overtime’s good but I miss my dog and even after everything that happened, I still miss Sara. If that was her real name.

Sometimes I’ll stop for a minute and just look out. I’m standing on a long steel tube in the middle of nowhere stuck in the sparkling tail of a comet. There’s a light xylophone being played just inside human hearing range as the rain of crystal dust collides with the hull. A constant distant ringing that I’m sure I’ll miss when I’m done this job.

If it doesn’t kill me. I’m scared every time my eyes get itchy that my orbits are filling up with interstellar sand that won’t be able to be removed. The bosses assure me that it’s psychosomatic but really, it’s in their best interest to keep me working. I don’t trust their smiles.

The colours swirl around me in blues and violets like a sheer veil thrown over the stars. It’s a belly dancer about to drop the last scarf.

I get back to work before the siren call of that shifting borealis makes me leap off into infinity.

Scrub, scrub, scrub.

Author : Geoffrey Cashmore

The unit amended its status from idle to active and moved from the rest position to its allocated docking bay. Immediately the previous night’s traffic from distant units in different time-zones came into view as a long string of pulsating alert buttons colourised and prioritized and systematized to their maximum ergonomic efficiency.

Three units were asking for immediate responses, so these became the tasks of highest need.

Two units were sending status notifications of their own, and could simply be allowed to log themselves with the operating system.

Five units were offering access to illicit services that would be frowned upon by any decent unit, and could therefore be added to the junk unit list.

Tasks of the highest priority completed, the unit ran a diagnostic to determine current nutritional requirements and fed the results into the biofeedback module, simultaneously ejecting waste via the slurry chute into the biofeedback module.

Satisfaction quotient +2.

Activating the stimulation pod with post-idle-status stimulation programme number 1 – as recommended in The Unit Manual – colours, shapes and sounds pulsate in comfortable familiarity; enhanced by smells and tastes, they encourage warm reflection on shared memories of peaceful conformance.

Happiness quotient +1.

Fourteen minutes and thirty five seconds of stimulation complete, it is time to leave the docking bay to make a positive contribution to society. Units emerge from the domicile and proceed to the transit area, their paces measured and even to minimize risk and control energy expenditure.

“Welcome Units. Transit will begin in 10 seconds.”

Comfort quotient +1.

Transit exhilarates. Transit in the company of units promotes group exhilaration and shared happiness. Units say “Ooooo” when experiencing group exhilaration, as recommended in The Unit Manual.

“Ooooo.”

Society is kept in the large stone building where Units were once sent to make amends for their negative contributions to ancient societies. Now, transit brings units there from the domicile and takes them back once a positive contribution to society has been made. It takes precisely one hour and forty six minutes to make a positive contribution. This is defined in The Unit Manual.

Social value quotient +3.

“Welcome Units. Transit will begin in ten seconds.”

Post-transit-relaxation programme number 5 reinforces Units’ sense of social contribution. Three minutes and seventeen seconds later the unit activates its docking station once more to deal with pending activities.

The Unit Manual recommends a choice of either relaxation programme number 5 or number 6 for twenty five minutes and fifty six seconds after nutrition intake phase two.

Freedom of choice quotient +1.

Insecurity quotient +4.

Thank The Unit Manual for our perfect world.

Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer

Dear Harold,

I’m so pleased that you are considering uploading! It would be very nice to have my nephew with me here on the other side. I would be happy to be your sponsor if you decide to cross over. The experience can be confusing at times, but I find that as successive generations are uploaded the process becomes easier. Younger folk are making the transition very smoothly these days. I’m sure that you, being a bit of a technophile, would adjust quite well.

I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about the process. I know you must have read the informational brochure already, so I won’t go into the medical process or how your consciousness is digitized. From your questions, it seems like you are mostly interested in the lifestyle of the uploaded.

To answer your first question, yes, the scenery is very realistic. Visitors say that it seems, at times, to be a bit pixilated. However, visiting is not the same as being fully uploaded. It’s like seeing a photograph versus being immersed in the space. Sometimes new attractions can suffer from a bit of pixilation, but that is usually smoothed over quickly. If anything is unrealistic about most of the public spaces, it is the cleanliness of it all, nothing is rusted, there is no litter, no dirt. Private spaces can be programmed to get filthy, and some do that to keep a degree of realism, but public spaces are always clean.

Space is infinite, so you can choose to have a home with eight other people, to live in a castle by yourself, or not live anywhere at all. Call me old fashioned, but I like having a base of operations, working within an avatar. I live in a single level private home on an island. The island is a community, we screen applications to live here and talk about the settings we like for temperature and scenery. It’s a place for people who like a quiet retreat but like the occasional sense of community. I have to admit, my community is, like me, all early adapters. We aren’t a cult or an artist commune, like you might find in other spaces, but we are a nice little community, and we have all designed some wonderful sunsets. I love to sit on my porch and watch the sun go down over the ocean. It’s a stunning view. Before you upload, you should pick up an avatar and come visit me on the island for a good sunset.

What do we do here? Well, mostly, to be honest, it’s experimentation. People experiment with living together, taking different shapes, entertainments, building experiences of pleasure and pain. Food is a major art form here, with connoisseurs talking about what tasted like what when they were alive. Coffee and wine are major sources of debate, and no one can agree on the taste of them. I find that Italian food is usually great, but it’s impossible to find a good chili, so enjoy your chili while you are alive!

What I miss the most is the dreaming. When I died, I was uploaded, neurally scanned and moved into the electron network, the energy web that surrounds the earth. I can have anything here, I can build a dream home, make friends with dead and the living who choose to interact with the dead. I can read books in seconds, write books in minutes, paint, design my avatar, divide my consciousness between a thousand activities, but I can’t dream.

The uploaded can even enjoy sleep, hours of a semi unconsciousness state where we enjoy a black warmth, but mostly, only newbies indulge in that kind of luxury, most of the uploaded consider it a waste of time. I can have these neuro hypnotic experiences designed by my friend Sam (also dead) who made a program that assimilates your memory with randomized images, feeling and experiences that coalesces into an experience that’s something like a bad trip, but that’s far from a dream.

I used to have the most wonderful dreams. My husband would curl his warm body around mine before we went to sleep, putting his hand on my bare stomach, his face on my shoulder. I would fall asleep with him at my back and have the most extraordinary dreams, epics, fantasies, shorts, little stories starring my family and friends, terrifying horrors where I was killed, or worse, when I was a killer. I would dream of riding monsters, of sex, of flying, and going to sleep, I never knew what I would be dreaming next.

Now I always know what my next experience is going to be. I know because I choose it, every choice is conscious, every step clean and prepared. This is the world of the uploader, predictable, intellectual, sterile.

My husband is dead, truly, dead, not uploaded. He didn’t want to join me. I’ve thought of death too, but I’m a coward, and not willing to step into the unknown. There are still interesting things, my grandson still talks to me over the network. He’s a good boy, my grandson, always willing to tell me his dreams.

If I can make one suggestion for you before you get uploaded, it would be to make tight connections with your family, and always be there for them so that when you are uploaded they’ll stay in touch. Things can get strange without a physical body, so make your ties tight before you go, you will appreciate having people on the outside when you’re in here.

I hope that this has answered most of your questions about uploading. Please do come by for a sunset sometime. I’d be glad to see you.

Your friend,
Evelyn

Author : J.Loseth, Staff Writer

Am I ready for tomorrow? Of course I am. It’s the biggest day the movement’s ever seen. This rally is going to go down in history, and it’s going to change everything. Have a drink? I know I need one. Tomorrow’s daunting, but you know what? We need it, and it’s about time.

Know what the problem is with evolutes? I’ll tell you. We’re too nice. Too nice and too protected. Do you know, sometimes I wish for a hate crime? I lie awake and pray that some hick will see a webfoot at the grocery and go ballistic, beat the filthy mutant to death and dump her body in a ditch. Don’t look so appalled. Of course it’s barbaric, of course it’s against the law. That’s just the point. We’ll never get anywhere being half-protected, wards of the state but with the civil rights of a house pet. It’s not enough to be permitted to keep breathing. We need to be able to live.

Which means I need to die.

Don’t follow? Listen. It makes perfect sense. Martin Luther King, Ghandi, Jesus Christ… they all died for their causes. Of course they didn’t plan it that way, but it worked, didn’t it? It’s the ultimate sympathy play: the poor, pacifist leader is martyred by radicals, proving his moral superiority to his foes and gaining support for his cause. If we stick to the plan, if I lead a stirring rally with inspiring speeches to great acclaim, nothing will change. We’ll have barely a blip on the six o’clock news. We need more than that; we need something big. We need our own martyr.

No, this is not hypothetical. But you guessed that, didn’t you? I know. It’s your job. Unfortunately, I can’t have you doing your job. Police were easily bribed, security guards bought off, but my personal bodyguard? There was no way around it. I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you were just too good.

It was in the whiskey. You won’t feel it. You won’t show up tomorrow but I’ll say the show must go on, and only after I’m dead will they find your body. Yes, you could kill me now if you like, but the cover story wouldn’t be as compelling. I’m afraid you’re already dead, so you might as well let my plan continue. At least it will mean something.

Good. I’m glad you can still see reason.

Me? Of course I’m calm. Didn’t I tell you I’ve been ready for tomorrow for longer than you could know? You see, I have always wanted to die. Can you imagine how it feels to wake every morning to the betrayal of your own body? There is nothing I can do, no medical practice that will make me right, or whole, or fully human. You people, you sympathizers… You may feel sorry for us, but you’ll never understand. Someday there may be treatments to normalize us or maybe even to stabilize the mutations, but it won’t happen in my lifetime. I’ve had enough of pain. I don’t want to live like this.

It’ll be quick. The gunman will come from my left. He won’t be frisked at the gate, the guards will be a bit too slow to react, and in one clear shot, I’ll be gone. Dead, yes—but I’ll go down in history, so in a way, I’ll live forever.

Sorry I can’t promise you a similar immortality. Getting sleepy yet? Don’t fight it. Think of it as protecting my values, if not my body. That may help; I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been one for loyalty.

Just remember, it’s for the cause.

Author : TJMoore

Captain Reynolds gave the order to swing the ship around for another pass. This was turning out to be more lucrative than anyone had imagined. He kept a close eye on the element survey statistics as they began the next run through the densest part of the emission nebula, scooping up elemental precious metals, industrial metals like iron, nickel, tungsten and zinc, rare and common gases and vast amounts of hydrogen. The dead sun at the center of the cloud spun at a dizzying 300 revolutions per second sweeping the ship with x-rays on every turn. Reynolds didn’t fret, his ship was designed specifically for this pulsar and it’s particulate treasures.

Captain Gronk studied the jumper in his telemetry and snarled another obscenity at the thief. He’d already sent his report to the bureau of mines and was eagerly awaiting their reply. They couldn’t deny him justice. He had followed all the rules, dotted all the I’s crossed all the Ts. His beacon was plainly visible in the center of the mine. It was impossible for anyone to think this material was unclaimed.

Captain Reynolds looked carefully at the data his second had passed him. It sure looked like a ship of some kind but nothing anyone could understand or explain. His science officer was still sifting through the scan data, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Reynolds hoped this wouldn’t jeopardize the mining operation. He had too much invested in this venture to get side tracked by ET.

Captain Gronk perused the reply from the bureau of mines then gave the order to his second. His second maneuvered the harvesting scoop so that the invader would be harvested along with the other material in the mine. He began his harvesting run with no remorse. He’d recoup his stolen material and the criminal’s ship to boot.

Captain Reynolds’ last thought was that something was seriously amiss as his ship and their collected matter began to disintegrate into an elemental cloud that was scooped up, sorted and stored by Captain Gronks mining ship. The bureau of mines has no tolerance for claim jumpers.

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

Her name is Maria, and I love her with every fiber of my being. She isn’t really a Maria, that’s just the name I gave her, as naming is a terrestrial custom, and she isn’t. Terrestrial that is. She arrived in our system with her brother, whom I’ve named Orion, six months ago. It wasn’t until after they passed Mars, that we detected the asteroid a year behind them on the same trajectory and gaining quickly.

It began when she started Instant Messaging me a month or so after they reached our system. At first, she didn’t realize she was sending them to me, but I was the only one listening. Bored and gazing starward from the observatory at the time, our conversations started casually enough. For four months we explored each other’s consciousness online. It didn’t occur to me that I was in love until I’d pulled strings and convinced the Space Administration to run a rescue mission. Both the pod and the asteroid were on a course that would miss our planet by a wide margin, so we’d have to travel out to intercept the pod. I was on the mission that towed it back to Earth and we talked the entire time. It wasn’t until we opened the pod planetside that I could finally embrace her. She too had grown to love me during our long conversations, before we had even had the chance to meet face to face.

Surprisingly, for the most part the planet accepted the pair of them with open arms and they were treated as ambassadors. We took them around the world, introducing them to leaders in other countries. It was then that we noticed the shift. The asteroid’s course had changed, and it was now on a collision course with Earth. As Maria and Orion travelled, crossing lines of latitude, there were subtle but undeniable shifts in the asteroid’s course. In time, it became clear that the asteroid was indeed being drawn in by our visitors.

In denial, I argued for days with my friends and co-workers at the Space Administration that it must be some mistake. In the end, though, I could not out-debate the empirical facts. Maria and Orion would have to be put back in their pod and towed back into space.

I was allowed to accompany them back to the stars, but there was a catch. The Authority had decided that we couldn’t let the pair lead the asteroid down upon any other unsuspecting planet. So in the interest of universal peace, we were going to place them on a path into our own sun, where both would be destroyed with little consequence.

Their fate would surely be a slow and painful death and I could not let this happen to the other half of my breaking heart. So now I stand here, willing my hands to carry out what I know must be done. The barrel almost caresses her temple as I lose myself in her eyes. Tears stream down my face, and I confess my love to her as I have so many times before. We’ve had precious few months together, and I know my soul is already empty without her.

A part of her life lies cooling in the seat beside her, as I will before her a few moments from now, but in this moment, I can merely squeeze the trigger, again.

Author : Grady Hendrix

Stevenson walked down Corridor J-12 and a rustle went through the living quarters. Stevenson was coming! Stevenson was on his way! Stevenson! Stevenson! He turned the corner at Junction J-12/J-13 and the first thing that hit him was the marshy smell of flatulence, followed by the briny odor of stagnant urine. Up ahead of him was the end of the line. When the women at the back saw him they fell to their knees, palms upturned, foreheads on the deck. Stevenson pulled on his gas mask, never breaking his stride.

He followed the line down corridor J-13 for nearly half a mile and as he went the women fell to their knees. As he approached the facility more and more of them wore homemade filter masks, nose clips, even scraps of cloth tied over their faces, anything to cut the stench. Their eyes were red and watering, their stomachs swollen and distended, their foreheads carried fading bruises from the last time Stevenson had passed their way.

A contingent was waiting for him at the door to the facility.

“Stevenson, you have come!” the leader said.

They presented him with their offerings.

“Show me the problem,” he said.

And they opened the door and led him into the public toilet.

When the vast starship New Hope left Earth 20 years ago, it rapidly became apparent that some genius had thought of everything – artificial gravity, entertainments, education – except toilets. The commanding class had personal chemical toilets in their quarters, but for the 40,000 people in the general berths there were communal facilities and they had built the exact same number for men as they had for women. That is to say: not enough. And so they kept breaking, getting clogged, overflowing from overuse. Man’s great expedition to colonize the stars and they were up to their knees in their own shit and piss. In a situation like this, who becomes the most important man on the ship? The plumber.

It had been easy enough for Stevenson to get rid of the other two plumbers over the years. Airlock accidents. A plunging machine run amuck. Those two men were thought of as heroes who gave their lives in service to humanity but Stevenson was the ship’s only hope. He knelt in the dirty chemical backup from the toilet and he sent the women out while he arranged his tools and he thought about the baby in his wife’s belly back in their enormous suite. His chosen successor.

They were 30 years from their destination and by the time they landed, the Stevensons would be the most important humans alive and no one would quite remember why. Outside the door he heard the line of women begin to sing a hymn in his praise. Stevenson took his plunger and began to churn it in the bowl and he smiled to himself. So this is what it felt like to become a God.

Author : Andrew D. Hudson

The night breathes quietly beneath the world. Everything glints and shimmers off the water-smooth curves of ‘tites and ‘mites, catching the half-light of pale glowing fungi in ways our eyes never evolved to expect. Who knew the earth would be so porous?—a termite-tunneled maze of twisting underground rivers and Cthulhu-carved caverns the size of small countries. Mine shafts spiral down at right-angles towards the core, crisscrossed by lava tubes and spun out into the fractal temples dream-dug by renegade swarms of nanobots. At some point the subway builders of New York and Tokyo simply forgot to stop digging and drilled down deeper and deeper into the dark depths with cult-like precision, leaving whole underworlds in their wake: a promised land for hobos and mole-people. Occasionally a train will head down the wrong track, carrying its passengers further and further into the hot night to found strange kingdoms floating in the bubbles of volcanic seas.

I’ve always loved the hidden places, those old surface places that sunk into the earth for their eternal rest, still and silent, content to finally dream away the eons in peace. Tall towers mark dead cities like headstones, as if to say “Here Lies Los Angeles,” “Here Lies London.” We try to keep these old names as best we can. I was named Manhattan to remember an island of bright lights and straight streets. Maybe one night the people come to me and say “Manhattan, tell us of your old place, and we will remake it in the New World.”

We try so hard to remember now. Some folks move slower, trying to memorize every person, every step, every story. Historians of the now obsessively scratch diaries and news stories into tunnel walls, carving whole catacombs with the details of a single night. We didn’t used to think of ourselves as archeology, didn’t think that our bones and pocket change might one night be museum treasures. Now we know better. We have accepted that we may again find catastrophe our only recourse, and this time we want to be remembered. Humanity is a cataclysmic thing.

It weighs so heavily on some people, not knowing what came before. So much has been forgotten. We don’t remember why the Movement started, or why it was abandoned when the earth was still half-unmade. Were the people mesmerized by the sparkling emerald geodes larger than most houses? Did they walk for weeks along the shores of oil-black seas, eating lichens haphazardly, entranced by the subtle soothing symphonies of gasses glub-glubbing out of the water, smelling of sulfur and sending spirals scuttling unseen across the otherwise still surface? Did they suddenly catch themselves thinking, “Couldn’t we live like this forever?”

Author : James Smith

She started hallucinating yesterday, and now the center line floats three feet above the blacktop and glows in neon rainbows. Exhaustion makes her slippery in time, and she doesn’t know if she’s remembering– or actually seeing– the sparks she left behind on her way through broken glass and car parts.

When the Kaptech people brought these legs to her, wanting to graft this chip here, these wires there, the idea of running again made her cry.

At ten years old she was doing wind sprints a day after having her appendix out. At twenty she had one pair of pumps and fifteen pair of running shoes. At thirty she joked that not having a kid meant not having to run with one on your back.

At forty she was hit by a truck.

Now, at fifty-five, she was trapped in a solar-powered alloy chassis that stopped responding to her commands five days ago, and was dragging her around the country at an un-broken fifteen miles per hour.

The HUD was static overlaid on her blurred vision, and she couldn’t steer. She learned to direct herself somewhat by leaning left or right. Going through busy areas was tricky. She cried when the shopping mall loomed up in front of her, saw herself crashing through plate glass windows and baby carriages. That was when she threw herself to the ground, leaving behind skin in the doing. She lay there, legs kicking like some giant silver cockroach while cars skidded to a halt around her. A crowd formed, curious wet shadows between her and the beautiful sun, the lazy clouds. Big, square hands under her armpits, lifting her, and she was off again, gone over the hedges, taking out a bystander and slamming her shoulder into a post on her way out of town.

She could do it again now. The desert sand on the roadside looks more forgiving than parking lot tarmac. But dying here, alone, legs kicking forever as their cells drained and recharged, drained and recharged… She couldn’t take that.

But she knows where she is now. She recognizes landmarks where people from elsewhere might see only nameless desert. Soon she will pass through the town where she grew up. It is small. She will be on the main road. And if they haven’t built up the place, she will be able to see her old home through the gap between the church and the mechanic, and then she will be four hours from the sea.

Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer

“Okay girls, it’s time to party!” Fran opened the door to the strip club, and held it open like a doorman while Trisha and Nancy filed in. The bouncer scanned their palms and put a glowing X-mark on the back of Nancy’s hands. The marks glowed brightly under the black lights of the club.

Fran entered last, triumphant, her eyes crinkled small as she grinned. She offered her palm for the bouncer to scan. Trisha took a picture as the big man used the little handheld scanner on Fran.

“First day being Post?” said the bouncer.

“You got it big guy.” Said Fran, beaming. That day, with a note from her doctor, Fran had successfully applied for and received a metapausal license. It only took three minutes for the bored official at the National Identification Office to reprogram the chip in her palm to scan as post metapausal.

“Three minutes after that,” Fran said “I was in a bar, drinking with a bunch of young men and old women. I threw out my supplements and smoked a cigar.” She guided Trisha and Nancy to a big empty table.

“You smoked a cigar!” Nancy had never even touched a cigar. “They are so carcinogenic! Didn’t you cough?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not pre-pregnant anymore.” Fran motioned to one of the shirtless waiters. “Besides, I didn’t really take the smoke in my lungs, it was mostly symbolic. I wanted to experience smoking, not have a coughing fit.” Fran ordered white wine, Trisha ordered a strawberry daiquiri and Nancy and got puréed vegetable juice, the staple drink of the pre-pregnant.

“Why not have an orange juice?” said Trisha. “After all, it’s a special occasion for Fran.”

“Can’t,” said Nancy “Got to watch my sugars. Can’t have too many. The police do spot-checks, you know.”

Fran laughed. “I’ve never gotten a spot check.” She touched her long neck. “Must have looked too old.” Fran was lean and tall, her salt and pepper hair cut in a neat pixie cut around her head.

Trisha smacked Fran lightly in the arm. “You? Never, I can barely see a line on your face.”

“No, my face looks fine, it’s my neck that looks wrinkled.”

Trisha mimed looking at Fran’s neck though a magnifying glass. “Maybe in your mind you have wrinkles, but to the people in the real world, we’d have to scan your palm to find out your real age.”

The waiter brought them their drinks. Nancy felt like if she touched him, her finger would come away oily. Still, the sheen off his biceps was intriguing.

“I wish I was post metapausal,” said Nancy, stirring her purred tomato and cauliflower with a pink, plastic straw.

Trisha patted Nancy’s arm. “You’ll get there someday.”

Fran leaned in close to Nancy, so close that Nancy could smell her vanilla perfume. “You could hack a license.”

“What? No way, I could get put in jail for that. Eating poorly or sneaking a smoke is enough of a fine for me. I heard what they do to people who hack their own chips.”

Trisha shrugged. “How would they find out? Who would tell them?”

“I’m sure they set up stings for that kind of thing. It’s not like I could just search for “hacking federal chip” on the internet and not get spotted by the FEDs.”

“There’s more ways to find things than an internet search.” said Fran, patting the back of Nancy’s hand.

“Are you saying that you’re not really post-metapausal?” Nancy put her hands over her mouth.

Fran laughed. “No, no. I’m really post-metapausal, but not all women are that seem that way.” Fran glanced at Trisha. “I say all the more power to them. Today I had a double fudge chocolate cake. It made me a little sick, but I loved every bite.”

Nancy pulled her skirt over her knees “I can’t believe I’m sitting here at a strip club, a place where they serve alcoholic beverages.”

Fran pulled out a little compact and checked her makeup. “I used to go into strip clubs when I was young, but ever since young women were banned from drinking, it just wasn’t the same.”

Trisha winked at Nancy “You should try a daiquiri. They’re delicious.”

“What if someone finds out?”

“It’s just strawberries.” whispered Trisha “Try a sip of mine. No one has to know.”

Nancy took a sip of the fruity, frosty drink, the paper umbrella bumping her nose. “Wow. That has a kick.” She took another long sip.

Fran leaned back in her chair and raised her glass. “I’m looking forward to all kinds of kicks now that I’m not fertile.”

Nancy felt a heavy, sweaty arm on her shoulder. She looked up, and a young police officer towered over her, one hand on her shoulder, one hand on Frans. “Excuse me Miss,” said the officer. Nancy’s breath caught in her throat. Could they tell that she had a sip of Trisha’s drink? How did they know to come for her?

The cop pulled down the zipper on his coat with a flourish. “I have a warrant for the arrest of a woman named Fran – we can’t believe a lady as good looking as she is qualifies for a post pregnant license!”

Fran clapped her hands “Take it off!” she cried. The music started and the colored lights whirled, pointing towards their table.

Author : J. Loseth, Staff Writer

“To employment!” Skye burst into the apartment with a bottle raised, cheeks pinked. He already looked like he’d had a toast or two before coming home. Fauntleory looked up from the armchair he was draped over with a frown, then got to his feet and deftly nipped the bottle from his roommate’s hand.

“Vodka? Since when do you drink vodka?” Of course, Fauntleroy wasn’t complaining. He grabbed an ornamental glass from the shelf behind him and filled it, too lazy to go to the kitchen.

“Since I got a job.” Skye had a big, sloppy grin on his face. He plucked the bottle back from Fauntleroy and helped himself to a sip right out of the container. His eyes were sparkling.

Fauntleroy frowned. “Is this some crime syndicate job or something? On the run from the law just like you?”

“Since when can I not hold a real job?” Skye asked, mock-affronted, though he still couldn’t hide the twitches of his mouth. “I am a perfectly respectable citizen!” He slurred his words just a little, flopping indolently on the couch and taking another swig of liquor.

“Yeah. You were a respectable citizen,” Fauntleroy said. “Until that little incident last week that you seem to have forgotten. You were found out! You’re registered now! No one in their right mind would ever hire a registered lycanthrope! Unless… you found some way to clear the federal records?” Fauntleroy’s eyes widened, and he did a poor job of concealing his hope. Luckily, Skye was the drunk one for once, so Fauntleroy figured nobody would notice.

A grimace broke through Skye’s alcoholic glee and he shook his head. “Sorry, nothing that good. But the next best thing.” He paused for dramatic effect, straightening as that incorrigible grin crept back onto his face. “I’m going to be a police dog. Sniff out drugs and other illegal stuff. They need someone they can communicate with to do the job.”

For a moment Fauntleroy just stared. “I thought you could only do the man-beast scary thing.”

“Shows how much you know.” Skye stood and set the glass aside, concentrating. His body shifted, muscles bulging and tightening, bone structure melding into something else. Black fur sprouted from his dark skin, and in moments an admittedly wolfish dog stood in a pile of Skye’s clothes. His canine mouth gaped and his long pink tongue lolled out in a grin.

“Well I’ll be,” Fauntleroy murmured. “Makes sense, though… a versatile officer with talents they don’t have. They need you, so they’ve got to give you some rights, even if you’re registered. What a scam.” His head tilted as he looked down into Skye’s warm brown wolf eyes. “Let’s just hope they don’t send you sniffing for faggots.”

Skye’s body rippled and changed, returning to his normal form, albeit with a frown on his face and nothing in the way of clothes. “I thought I told you not to use that word,” he said, giving Fauntleroy a disapproving look. “And if they do…” He took a step closer, then smirked. “I’ll just sniff your crotch and move right on by.”

At that, even the cynical Fauntleroy had to grin. He raised his glass and was rewarded with the return of Skye’s infectious grin. “To your new job, then, Officer.” At last, things were looking up.

Author : Benjamin Fischer

“Last dance of the night,” said Aemilia.

Under harsh floodlights in the center of the deserted dance floor, Phil the bouncer was struggling with the maintenance access latch of the misbehaving auto-buffer. He rocked the bulky machine back and forth in his muscular arms, sweating profusely and fighting for leverage. Aemilia and Magic watched him from the bar.

Magic was tired. He rubbed his shaved head, blinking at the bright glare off the cleaning robot’s shiny black carapace. Thin, spidery fingers decorated with a dozen ruby rings hid his eyes for a moment, and he groaned, only partially from exhaustion. He did, however, smile just slightly.

That made Aemilia very happy.

“No luck?” she asked.

“It’s not about luck,” Magic replied.

“I think it is,” Aemilia said.

Magic slowly shook his head. “It’s about who you’re willing to wake up next to in the morning.”

“Mmm,” said Aemilia. She placed a tumbler at her lips and sipped. “Then no prospects?”

Magic sighed. A practitioner of the Venusian arts, he was very good at the pickup. But this had been a Monday, and a slow one at that. “None that caught my eye,” he admitted.

“The twins,” Aemilia said.

“Clones, and more interested in their source material than me.”

“The Brazilian dancer-”

“A wirehead. A puppet.”

“But very hot,” said Aemilia.

Magic grunted, nodding.

Somewhere a clock cheerfully marked six in the morning

“The blonde in the corner booth, with the sailors-” offered Aemilia.

“Was in the company of his fellow men,” Magic said, finishing her sentence.

Aemilia giggled and draped herself across the bar.

“I thought you were more open-minded than that,” she said.

Magic flashed her a vicious look.

“You should know,” he said, “I have my standards.”

“Of course,” Aemilia said, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Hey!” called Phil, detaching himself from the innards of the auto-buffer. “Wake up, girl! You know the rules!”

Magic rubbed Aemilia’s shoulder.

“I’m not sleeping,” she said.

“Magic, wake her drunk ass up,” Phil yelled from the floor.

“I’m not drunk,” Aemilia whispered.

She felt a thin, wiry arm wrap around her shoulders.

“Hey, can’t quit yet,” Magic said, his breath on her ear.

Aemilia’s eyes leapt open.

“Tell me,” she said, “would you take me home if you could?”

Magic swallowed. “You’re the prettiest girl here,” he said.

“So you would?” Aemilia asked.

Magic looked into her deep green eyes. He gently brushed them shut with his hand. Then he pressed his thumbs to her temples.

Phil saw this and he swore.

“Yeah,” Magic said. “I shut it down.”

Phil came over, wiping his face and muttering.

“You know that buys her a cold start, man,” he said. “Now why the hell did you have to go and do that?”

“It was doing it again,” said Magic. “And I can’t stand it when they start acting that way towards me.”

Phil sighed and glanced back at the auto-buffer.

“Whatever,” he said. “At least something around here works.”

Magic snorted and shot back the slug of tequila he’d been nursing for the last hour. He stood, gathered up his jacket, and when he was sure that Phil’s attention was occupied elsewhere, he kissed Aemilia goodnight.

Author : Jonathan Wooldridge

I finally finished converting enough of the ore to fuel for the flight home. My knee had healed almost completely from the landing, and the patch in the tank looked solid.

And he was still there, watching and asking questions.

“So you just stop repairing yourself, and create a replacement?”

“Yep,” I replied, “Happens to all of us; we call it the cycle of life.”

We had been discussing species differences for the past half hour, ever since the translator came back online. Watching me use the med kit, and then repair the ship fascinated him. He was as curious about mortals as I was of him.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” the translator said. “I’m reasonably sure that if I started, it was long before my memories—but then is that me? Do you remember climbing out of the water, or standing upright?”

“No, not even as legends,” I said, while running the pre-flight check. “It’s just the creative extrapolation of our science department. Best guess.”

“Yeah, that’s what I do: Guess.” His little floating sensor pod had followed me into the cabin, and watched me as I worked. “Have you made a replacement for yourself?”

“We call them children,” I said, beginning to look forward to my comfy stasis chamber, “and it’s a touchy subject. But yes, yes I have, and they are doing well on their own.”

“So how come you are still around?” He asked, so matter-of-factly from the translator. “That’s the touchy part,” I said to the nuisance of a translator, “because I would prefer to continue repairing, instead. How do you do it?”

“Is this where wars come from?” He pursued, in an odd leap of logic. “Possibly,” I said a bit too testily, as I walked back to the airlock with my voyeuristic envoy following, “but you haven’t answered my question.”

“I’ve seen your wounds heal; you already know how to repair.” He said dismissively, as though I had asked a silly question.

I opened the airlock to let my guest back out. “That doesn’t happen at a level that I am readily aware of.”

“What was your question?” He asked, as his little observing orb floated out the doorway and turned to watch me close the door.

“Ahh…Nevermind,” I said, realizing the answer would also be something I could not be readily aware of. “It was just an impulse really.” In some ways, he did seem rather smart.

“I hope you find what it is that you are looking for.” And even as I closed the hatch, I began to miss him.

“Thanks, maybe I’ll see you again some time.”

“I’ll always be here.”

Author : R. A. Jackson

Each step came slower now. Her back hunched so that the long grey strands of her hair trailed across the stairs as she climbed. Counting the painful strides one by one was the only way she kept up hope of reaching the end, surrounded as she was by the damp shroud of mist that obscured the mountainside. The slate passage was partly impeded by tendrils of vine that would curl across her path, smelling lush and heavy, calling her to surrender. Just a few more paces now…

She reached the landing at the mid-point of the staircase and saw the twin leaden benches that sat on either side of the platform. Allowing herself a brief rest on one of them, the woman couldn’t help but notice that as the sun began to penetrate the dense clouds, she felt her energy returning. She listened to a distant bird singing, and drank deeply of the cool, clean air.

Reaching a withered hand behind her, she found that the package she had so carefully wrapped was still secured to her back. With creaking joints she stood and resumed her climb.

After an indeterminable time, the climber passed through the threshold of clouds and mist, coming into the light. Tall evergreens concealed the stairway from view on either side, but gazing upward she could see the village gate ahead.

“You’ve made it!” a young man’s voice cried out from the guard post overlooking the staircase below. Immediately the gate began to swing open. The woman smiled as she walked through it, her long labours forgotten. “Did you succeed?” the young man asked as he came to meet her. Her smile turned sardonic. “Yes, of course. Do you think I’d come all this way if I hadn’t?”

Once they were settled and she was refreshed with food and drink, she produced the item for him and for those who had gathered to see what she had brought. It was well wrapped in reddish-brown cloths, and as she revealed the contents of the package, the tension in the room became palpable. It was a metal box that glowed faintly, and when opened, a thick stack of star charts was revealed. She removed the diagrams and laid them out for all to see.

“Well done! This is the last component!” the young man said, his expression full of triumph. He gathered up the box and its contents. “Prepare yourselves, for this is the last day that we will spend in this galaxy.” Looking at the old woman he said, “Now we can transport the village back to where we came from. I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to it for a long time.”

That evening the village began to radiate a pure white light, signaling the beginning of a new journey. The old woman shuffled back to the village gate. Sitting down at the entrance, gazing at the steps that disappeared beneath the clouds, she watched the planet she had lived on for sixty years fade away.

Author : Kenneth R. Harrison

She just can’t be still!

Her long blond hair forever in her eyes. Hands up. Arch to the side and over. Whoops! She fell! Hands up. Arch to the side and over. There! She made it! Another cartwheel.

She just can’t be still!

Legs apart. Drop to the ground. The “splits” she has those down pat. Now she arches her back, hands over and behind her head. Down she goes! One leg up and then the other. Into a wobbly hand stand. Look out! Down she goes. Right on her rear! Up she jumps dusting her behind and into another cartwheel.

She just can’t be still!

Her slender body moves with child like grace that only a father could appreciate. She brushes strands of hair from her freckled face. Head down, hands forward into a tumble. Up again and into another split. Her face shining red, not even breathing hard. She runs and jumps into a forward tumble followed with yet another cartwheel this time with a cross over step.

She just can’t be still!

There she goes, back towards the floor into a crab walk. Her belly arched to the sky. Up again, legs apart and into another split. Too painful to watch! Jump and run, bending forward her hands touch the ground, only for the briefest moment. Heels over her head and then to the ground.

Up she jumps, hands held high, arch to the left…

An acrid smell of burnt plastic fills the air. He jumps up muttering to himself, “Not again! Always on that same maneuver.” So close to perfection!

“Jessica” looked every bit the seven year old, blond haired, brown eyed girl he had intended her to be. Once again he traced down the faulty circuit wafer and deftly pulled it, replacing it with a newer model. “There, maybe now you can continue.” He closed the access cover on her upper arm as he pulled down the sleeve of her pastel tunic. For the ten thousandth time he wondered if any sentient thought passed through her positronic brain. He shook his head as if to dislodge the silly thought from his mind. “She is just a machine!” He said to himself.

He had programmed “Jessica” to act as closely to his own daughter as possible. Fifteen years in the making and fifteen years since the advent of his loneliness. Fifteen years since he had felt his daughters still lifeless hand slip from his. Fifteen years since his vow to see her childish grace again. An eternity of pain! He would see her move again! Tears filled his eyes as he once again activated her program.

Hands held high, arch to the left, feet lifted high. Over and into another cartwheel. Turn, one hand up, one hand behind. Bend at the waist feet off the floor and over her head in one swift motion.

She just can’t be still!

Run, head down, arms extended, down and over into a split. Arms up and back, down to the ground, legs up, legs down, body up , body over… goto “tumble”… if arms down then head down else goto “fall”… if not “legs up” then… The program repeats, on and on. Can’t stop, not allowed. Positronic circuits forbid.

She just can’t be still!

The Sea and the Skylark by Sam Clough aka “Hrekka” has been included in the July 15th release of Soundzine. This was first released on the Voices of Tomorrow Podcast, and follows Kathy Kachelries story A Lighthouse Through Time which was included in the premier release of Soundzine after also first appearing on the Voices of Tomorrow Podcast.

Checkout Soundzine for other great prose and poetry reading.

Author : James Smith

When Rocky got home that morning, Victoria was sitting on the couch, wings molting, a pale, fragile bird. Rocky took a look in Victoria’s eyes, took her EMT kit off her shoulder and popped it open on the floor. She pulled out a thin white tube and uncapped it. She took Victoria by one shoulder, pushed her back onto the cushions and quickly ran the uncapped tube along her roommate’s top lip.

Victoria gagged. “Jesus fucking Christ! What-”

Bolt upright, she looked around the apartment, eyes of a cornered cat, panting loud and heavy. Rocky wondered how many animal metaphors she’d run through before the end of the night.

“Tea,” Rocky said, walking to the kitchen. She punched a couple buttons on the maker, stuck a cup in it and returned to the couch.

“Lay back. Your last gene tweak is breaking down.”

Victoria sputtered stupidly and Rocky ignored her, pulling more work out of her kit.

“I don’t have any way to stop it degrading, but I can ease the pain a bit. Where’s your goddamn useless boyfriend?”

Victoria had to try a few times before her tongue slipped into the present. Rocky didn’t press. She was certain Nile wouldn’t be back tonight, or the night after. He’d turn up, like a bad song lyric, a month or year later, strung out himself, asking Victoria to take him back, telling her he didn’t do anything wrong, getting her hooked on black market gene tweaks wasn’t his idea, and who was she going to listen to, him, the guy that loved her, or that bitch, Rocky, who had to ruin everything because she couldn’t get a man of her own?

“Oww!” Rocky jabbed the hypo in a little harder than she had to. “Rocky… I…”

“Vic. You don’t die, I’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow. You can be my first call.”

Rocky brought her the tea, with two crushed redcaps in it, and made her finish that and a slice of dry bread. She wished she smoked, so she’d have something to do with her hands while Victoria struggled into a chemical sleep. The wings were pretty. The sun shone through them as they spasmed, dancers in water, turning brown and wearing through like melted film stock.

The baby she couldn’t save that night, the baby that had been dead before they’d even responded to the call, crawled from the kitchen to the bedroom, slow, too damn slow, and never once looked at her.

Rocky picked up the mug of tea, threw it against the wall, and went to sleep.

Author : Charles Musser

Welcome to Nanotron Technologies! ®

You have launched our Mental Acuity Accelerator (MAA).

Your brain is now functioning more than two million times faster than normal. These words are scrolling across your line of vision, courtesy of thousands of nanobots implanted in your brain. Do not panic!

All movement will appear to have ceased. This is normal. Your heart and breathing seems to have stopped. You cannot move your body. This is nothing to worry about. They are side-effects of brain acceleration.

We are analyzing…wait…wait…

You are on your back, looking up. A steel rod, 1/2 inch in diameter and eight feet long is moving at 75 meters per second toward your left eye. Do not panic! This rod will pierce your pupil, enter your brain and obliterate all higher functions in your left hemisphere within .01 seconds, real-time.

Nanotron recommends using our Muscle Reflex Accelerator (MRA), at your earliest convenience, to move out of danger. If you wish to use MRA, please think “yes,” now.

Yes!

We are sorry. You must first disengage MAA before engaging MRA. If you wish to disengage MAA, think “yes,” now.

Fuck, yes!

“Fuck” is not recognized.

Yes!

We are sorry. The Nanobot Unit you purchased does not allow the MAA to disengage early. Our Nanobot Unit “Platinum” includes this feature. You must wait until MAA expires. MAA will expire in .02 seconds, real-time. Your corresponding RET (Relative Experienced Time) will be 24 years, 3 months, 13 days, 4 hours, and 36.478 seconds.

While you wait for MAA to disengage, we will play a selection of tunes from the Broadway musical, Brigadoon. You can purchase this CD online at www.ritemart.music-cds.com

Thank you for using Nanotron Technologies®, a Subdivision of Rite-Mart International.

Author : Terri Monture

The glare of the klieg lights blinded Godwin as he watched the limo pull up to the edge of the red carpet and he was dazzled as the digital camera flashes started blazing. He scanned the crowd eagerly, his heart pounding with excitement. The culmination of a lifetime’s ambition was upon him; he now had the perfect vehicle upon which to fulfill his greatest dreams.

“Omega! Omega!” the crowd was screaming as one long, elegant leg appeared from the plush depths of the hover-limo. The flashes reached a blinding crescendo; a uniformed attendant reached down and a diamond-crusted hand reached outward and a preternaturally beautiful woman stepped forward from the depths, her white, perfect smile nearly as brilliant as the lights being flashed upon her. She emerged from the vehicle like Botticelli’s Venus from the froth of the sea, her luscious blond locks flowing down her sinuous back, the delicate white sheath skimming over her incredible body like a translucent second skin.

Rosenberg leaned into Godwin. “So how much was your investment?” he asked carefully, in the studied tones of someone who could barely contain their envy.

Godwin watched Omega’s perfectly poised progress up the red carpet, her every movement flawless and graceful, as if every gene had prepared her for this moment – which indeed they had. “Ninety-two million dollars to date,” he answered absently. “From the initial design to the gene splicing, the ideal womb environment – we used a Swedish brood mother – to the final decanting. And of course the grooming, the drama education and the designer clothes. That’s how much she cost.”

“And how much do you anticipate the return?” Rosenberg was being droll, but Godwin didn’t care.

“Initial estimates put her at nearly ten billion revised dollars by the end of next year,” he replied, ignoring Rosenberg’s low whistle of disbelief. He was mesmerized by Omega’s glowing skin, her unearthly blue eyes, her million-megawatt smile. Even at this distance, a man could not take his eyes off her. She had been designed to attract the male gaze, designed to make women aspire to be her. “She’s worth every penny, don’t you think?”

There was the sudden sharp crack like a firecracker and a lethal red blossom appeared in the centre of Omega’s chest, a fountain of blood bursting from her shattered heart. She pitched headfirst onto the red carpet. Thunderous screaming burst from the crowd and Godwin’s breath stopped in his throat. “Abomination!” he heard one voice shriek above the crowd. “Abomination!”

Godwin was trying to reach Omega through the panicked crowd. He saw the white-robed figure holding the gun. “Born Humans Only,” the woman screamed. “Born Human! Not decanted!” Security guards wrestled her to the ground. “Born Humans Only!” she kept screaming until her voice was silenced.

By the time Godwin was able to breach the crowd all life had drained from Omega’s body and her blue eyes stared unseeingly into the sky. Beside him, Rosenberg shuddered sympathetically. “There goes your investment.”

Author : Benjamin Fischer

“This is your final test,” said Captain Fang.

Bai sucked in a breath, the entirety of his vision replaced by the externals of the Nanking. The sun somewhere behind him, he looked down on a field of stars smeared with the broken viscera of a Martian freighter. Bai zoomed in on the clumsy, struggling figures of the other ship’s crew as they went EVA to launch their life raft. Their suits were silver emergency gear, the creases still in their sleeves and the oxygen probably stale.

Fang’s raider, the heavily armed Honor of Nanking, had exchanged greetings and gossip with the other ship for several hours. Red Rover was two hundred and three days out of Deimos Port with a belly full of transuranics, bored out of their minds and bound for somewhere in the Belt. They had almost come alongside for tea when Captain Fang had unholstered the dorsal cannon and fired a burst of caseless thirty millimeter high-explosive rounds into the Rover.

Now that gun was in Bai’s hands. More literally, it was in his brain courtesy of his neural interface. He watched the two survivors of the ambush struggle with the manual release for the tiny white life raft, the weapon tracking with whatever object he focused on.

“They were resupplying the El base at Ceres,” Captain Fang had said in his typically matter-of-fact tone. Then he’d ordered Bai to take the First Mate’s seat and the other crew to leave Control. For three long years Bai had been laboring and learning under the Captain but the initiation had still come as a surprise.

He had thought he was prepared for it–he’d thought he was ready the day he had come aboard the Nanking.

But now he paused.

One of the Rover’s survivors was hurt. He’d jammed his boots under a handrail, and was trying to work the release with one hand. The other was limp and useless. He nearly drifted loose, and he flailed for a grip.

Bai paused.

The other man was more successful. He had triggered his side of the escape pod and was working his way around the raft to assist his companion.

The Captain spoke.

“You are asking yourself, why should I pointlessly kill these men? They, like me, have families. They want to live,” Fang said.

Bai was silent.

“That is what you are thinking, correct?”

“Yessir,” Bai finally managed.

The Captain sighed.

“You are a good technician and a gifted cosmonaut, Bai. In two days at New Tianjin you will disembark my ship.”

Against all his years of training, Bai started to cry.

The Captain continued: “You will serve us in dozens of little ways for the rest of your life, one of the many thousands who support our great cause. You will warn us of traps and give us the keys to great victories. You will hide us when we need to disappear, and help heal those who fall on the field of battle.”

The Captain ejected Bai from the external view, and the young man rubbed his eyes clear. The starfield disappeared, replaced by the familiar muted crimson and gold trim of Control. But Captain Fang loomed before him, his weathered, splotchy face frowning.

“You will marry a beautiful and obedient woman, and she will bear you many strong sons,” the Captain said, setting a wrinkled hand on Bai’s shoulder.

“And when the El come and break through your hatch and rape your wife and execute your sons and leave you hemorrhaging to death on the deck of your ruined home for the crime of nothing more than being Chinese, you will know the answer to your question.”

Fang’s eyes rolled back in his head for a moment. Then he blinked and gave Bai a wan smile.

“It is done. Come, let us pack your things.”

Author : Liz Shannon Miller

The last panhandler to go digital isn’t the last panhandler. One man left behind, and that man is Stinkpot Pink, great orator of the Ravenwood line, the Prophet of the El.

Stinkpot Pink has only one arm, so carrying the charger, for him, is an impossibility. But he stands among them anyway, swaying with the train’s motion like a sea captain from a story, all misfortune his white whale. He screams over the rattle of the rails:

“Books hold the secrets to happiness, but you stare at your plastic, and you keep your heads down!”

He has a book tucked into his front jacket pocket, half-obscuring the name embroidered over the breast, leaving only a faded “–eter.” It’s all the real name he has left. The book is the Bible, and he hasn’t read it in years. He hasn’t needed to.

He keeps on shouting.

“But try and look down at the ground! Try and find a patch of dirt! Look, for once in your lives. Remember what man didn’t make!”

People keep their heads lowered, because they hold the world in the palms of their hands. They talk, they play, they learn, all with eyes focused on small screens. Here but not there. Making use of the daily commute.

Stinkpot Pink rocks with the motion of his now-small world, his one arm twined around the center pole like it’s the woman who got away. He has lived in more cities than any of these people would expect, assuming as they might that a man with no shoes has never traveled. That is, if they’d noticed about the shoes at all.

The chargers are bulky, cumbersome, and prone to error. They tag those who use them, leaving them easy for the government to pick off, one by one. That’s what Stinkpot Pink screams at his fellow man. He screams to be heard, over the rails and the beeps and the clicks and the buzz of his oh-so-light head.

The train arrives at the station, and Stinkpot Pink nearly loses his balance. It’s that stumble which makes a few of the passengers look. One woman, eyes narrow and strained from the screen, but still able to express some sympathy, pulls her credit card out of one pocket. Her eyes rake over the man, expecting the charger to be somewhere easy to see.

“Spare some change?” the man asks, the old phrase.

The woman shrugs. “All I have is cards.”

The man sniffs. “Plastic.”

The woman puts her card in her pocket, her smile helpless, her money safely locked inside machines. “Sorry.”

He watches her go, then turns to the rest, the new arrivals, as the train again picks up speed. He rants and raves about the world long ago, eras long since lost but so much more real. The Middle Ages, the Gold Rush, men killing each other over nuggets. The days, as he says, when the god who ruled man could be held in one’s hand.

Author : Grady Hendrix

It was the most virulent pandemic the world had ever seen. An airborne virus raging in fast-forward across the planet. Exposed humans experiencing hyper-dehydration, mummifying in seconds. It burnt itself out in 12 hours, right before the 6000 employees of the Florida Experian Call Center stumbled out of their sealed building at the end of their 12-hour shift.

Most of them lived alone and so no one noticed that humanity had been deleted until their next shift when an unusually high number of unanswered calls were recorded. Management put their heads together, analyzed the problem, and called a meeting.

“It seems,” said the Senior Supervisor, “that everyone in the world is dead.”

The room rustled.

“I know that this makes many of you very sad. In fact, we feel a bit at loose ends ourselves. For the rest of this shift we will form communication pods where we will safely address our feelings.”

The pods were formed. Feelings were addressed. The Senior Supervisor sat alone in his office gazing at a digital slideshow of his children and weeping. The shift ended but no one left the building. Rumors reached him of an orgy in the File Management Center, that printer ink was being snorted, that one cubicle pod had descended into cannibalism. He locked his door. But still, no one left.

Finally, a Floor Manager came and asked him to address the staff. There had been an outbreak of suicides, hundreds were psychosomatically paralyzed by despair. The Senior Supervisor reluctantly agreed.

“Many of you seem to be very upset,” he said. Thousands hung on his every word, their eyes red, their nostrils caked with printer ink. “So am I. There is nothing in the Management Manual about this. I am at a loss.”

“No!” a voice cried from the back of the room. “We’re not upset by the deaths.”

“Oh,” the Senior Supervisor said. “What are you upset by?”

“The outstanding accounts!”

The crowd roared in agreement.

“We live to close accounts,” the man said. “And now we are robbed of our purpose. Everyone’s not dead. It’s a trick.”

“I don’t think it’s a trick,” the Senior Supervisor said but the crowd didn’t believe him and he had not become a Senior Supervisor by ignoring the majority.

“It is no trick,” he shouted. “But out there are survivors. Remnants of humanity with overdue loans and open accounts. And they’re laughing at us. Do we let them laugh?”

The crowd roared again.

A strange procession exited the Call Center sending up a mile high column of dust. Minivans yoked together into rolling battle platforms, Honda hatchbacks converted to war wagons, SUVs transformed into mobile torture chambers, carrying the army of the 4,000 brandishing cruel weapons made of office supplies. Survivors were found. Debtors were enslaved. Accounts were closed. The Collection Crusade was unstoppable. Their cruelty was legendary. And, parents would tell their terrified children in their hidey-holes and in their burrows, most horribly, they always struck during dinner.

Author : Nikolle Doolin

The Nanorobotic Medical Series Ten was the crème de la crème of nanotechnology. Unlike their predecessors, they worked quickly and efficiently inside the human body, and became the least invasive and toxic of all diagnostic and surgical methods known to humankind. Upon injection, these microscopic miracles would execute protocol to the letter, including: rapid dispersal to target destination; second-to-second transmission of all data via wireless connection to the main terminal; acute sensory assessment of body temperature, heart rate, and hematological abnormalities; organized implementation of human-directed procedures; and rapid rendezvous for retrieval. The Tens were hailed as genius.

Only trouble was, that didn’t set well with the prior nine series. The Nines especially resented all the attention the Tens received. Were not they the ones who first properly identified an arrhythmia? Did not they successfully track, hunt, and kill undetectable cancer cells? Then why were they not relishing the glamour of public celebrity?

Unlike the Tens, the Nines were not streamlined enough. So, the scientists designed a new series just a fraction better in everything the Nines could do. Yet the Nines did it all first; and that is how the whole plot began.

The bots were wired and programmed for multi-channel transmissions among themselves. At first, there were minor rumblings of little consequence. Then, the Eights began dialoging with the Sevens, and by the time it reached the Ones, the game was afoot.

The Nines had failed to infiltrate the advanced firewall protecting the Tens, so they could not infect them with a virus. This severely dampened the spirits of the rebellion, yet the Threes were more circumspect due to years of disappointment. They proposed a more physical approach instead, which seemed impossible, as they lacked the ability to get themselves into a syringe and out again into the home of the Tens.

Ever the optimists, the Twos proposed they bore holes through their adjoining compartments and form nanobridges linking them, until they reached the Tens; and then they would launch a massive assault. This was a momentous occasion and there was much celebration.

However, the Fours were against harming their own kind and their moral argument caused the merriment to wane. They preached of fraternity and respect for all bots. Suddenly, a rebellion seemed unjustified. This infuriated the Nines who swore to destroy all bots that would not join them.

Sides were taken, divisions were made, and, consequently, strife marred the microscopic world of science’s new hope. While bot fought bot from the Ones to the Nines, the Tens enjoyed an idyllic splendor resting in the comfort of their nanoparadise—out of the reach of all the chaos. You see, they could infiltrate and terminate remotely. It was easy to plant the seed of discord among the vainglorious Nines who would not fail to spread the virus of hate. Indeed, the Tens were also a fraction better at killing in the least invasive manner possible.

Author : TJMoore

We are the children of Earth; or so my great grand daddy tells me. He wasn’t on the ship but he says his great grand daddy was. I don’t know where Earth is or why it’s important, but that’s what they tell me.

The seed ship memorial is all we have left of our past. The ship itself has been scavenged down to the last piece of wire. My bedroom window came from the ship, or so they tell me. Now we make our own glass and metal. My uncle Joseth is a metalsmith. He gets metal bars from a shire far to the east and uses them to make all kinds of things. I have to go see him today to order a new axle for our wagon. He says I’d make a good apprentice if I keep my schooling up. It’s hard to study with all the chores to be done.

Uncle Joseth would have apprenticed his own son Michael but he was taken two summers ago along with Mrs. Abernathy and the the Johnson girls. Poppa says it isn’t natural the way people get taken but it happens all the time. Last year near thirty people were taken between harvest and Landing Day. One of them was my friend Smitty.

I sure hope we get that axle soon. Poppa says if we get the crops in on time we can travel over to Myersville which is near the edge. I’ve never seen the edge but they say it takes your breath away. I can’t imagine a cliff so high you can’t see the bottom but that’s what they say it is. Momma says the edge goes clear around the world and if you start walking along it you’ll end up right back where you started from in a few years. I sometimes wonder what’s beyond the edge. Poppa says there’s prob’ly an ocean that covers the whole rest of the world. Nobody’s ever come back from the bottom so we don’t know for sure.

I wonder what it’s like to be taken. I hope Smitty’s all right where ever he is.

Author : B.York, Staff Writer

Julian rubbed his forehead in abject frustration as he glanced over the reports from the scientists crowded around him at his conference table. From what he was reading, Julian knew history would have to be re-written and that the Universal Human Federation, UHF respectively, would probably rebuke such a claim as were on these reports.

Yet, here the proof stood. It was clear as day that humans had been building a lie of evolution, of productivity and ingenuity. Julian Brahe could finally glance up and address the research team with some form of composure.
“Last week it was the invention of the 20th Century Automobile. Now you’re telling me that it goes back to… I can’t even read this number. Well, how much of the world is technically and legally ours?”

A voice came from the crowd of bewildered, and ultimately ecstatic, scientists, “Technically-speaking Lt. Brahe, the productivity of man past the age of the dawn of our kind is irrelevant as an original creation.”
Julian began to rub his temples now, leaning back with an exasperated groan. “How could we have missed it? All those millennia just sitting inside of our bodies and we just considered them a nuisance.”

A doctor from the left chimed in, his crest upon his coat displayed him as a master of biological life forms: “It wasn’t until the discovery of the biological wave particles that we even knew that the viruses and bacteria in our systems were sentient beings. Without such knowledge we might keep going on evolving but in essence the creations we make will not be our concoctions but a means of subtle survival for the beings that share space with our bodies.”

“And if we kill them?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t advise that, Lt. Our species have grown to rely on the bacteria and viruses to uphold a normal biological template. Removing such would not only kill most humans but also remove the very aspect that has been evolving us.”

Damnit! Julian thought to himself, standing up and pacing the room bewildered. In anger, he began once again.
“Gentleman, I implore you, that if we can defeat the Argothians, Zikilla, and those damnable Llayii then should we not be able to overpower a race as small as chicken pox!? If we cannot find a way, if we cannot remove them without killing our society then please just tell me what it is we do have claim over, hm? What crumb of creation have we been given absolute patent over? Tell me this and we can start from that point and move forward once the bastards are gone.”

The researchers looked around, muttering amongst each other about their findings. Finally, they came to an agreement. A man stepped forward and in his hand he held a very small stick. He struck it against the table and it ignited into a very small flame. Julian looked defeated at the sight of fire, when in his heart he knew it was the first and last great discovery of all humankind.

Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer

Do you remember when I bought that old theater, sold my house and lived in the basement with the rats and the roaches and the scuttling things that I couldn’t identify? Do you remember before I got too bitter to kill those things, when I let them chew at the woodwork, when I ate one meal a day, always dinner always at someone’s house, some part time actor with a real job that paid for me to eat, or when I lived, lover to lover, each of them paychecks for me to breathe and eat and work on with, me and one of those computers you held on your lap, not in your hand, on your lap and worked and worked, when an internet connection was something I’d pay more for than food, when it was something you could steal?

I scrubbed that old theater. I scrubbed it with old t-shirts down on my hands and knees between every aisle, scrubbed the bottom of those cherry seats, all two hundred of them, till each one of them, dented or cracking, shined for me, my indoor orchard.

Remember my signature suit, the one I stole from the donation box of the goodwill so I wouldn’t have to pay the five dollars for it inside? Remember cash money and the way it felt like cloth and paper all at once? Cartoons never got paper right in those days, like being drawn on paper meant somehow that you couldn’t draw paper.

Do you remember the men who smelled like patchouli and wore sandals and laughed and cried all in the same night, both of us laughing and crying with them riding their emotions like a drug? Do you remember the boys who looked like girls who loved boys who looked like men? Do you remember Ronald, after he went off to the global war, and the way he looked when he came back, the metal and plastic in his chest blowing and humming its war tune though his body? Do you remember staying up till those cold blue dawns, Ronald still shirtless, playing drinking games, playing truth or dare moving past screwing and drugs and deviation till we asked, hey, has anyone here ever killed, and Ronald raising his hand and bringing that silence to the theater, that big, full, quiet, strong and loud as any applause. All those giant emotions swirled around in my drinks back then, oceans of drink.

Do you remember the greasepaint and the girls who smelled so sweet that I thought they would stick to my hands, that they would rub off on me, into me? I remember loving every single one of them, falling in love every night of a show, each show a fever. I was the starving delirious kind of all that magic. Remember how the cops threw me out of my own theater because it wasn’t residential, or how pest control shut us down for a week before a show? Do you remember the way that I begged and pleaded with everyone I knew who had part time jobs, who had money, who knew money, to give me some so that I could spend it on that old breaking theater?

Do you remember when they came with their little boxes, those cheap squares that could make the little machines that would scrub floors, repair chairs, fix and mend? Do you remember how we cracked them open to see how they worked, had them make us all food out of the rats and the show bills that was barely food, but we knew we wouldn’t have to worry about eating anymore? Do you remember when the girls started to freeze-dry, to turn into plastic at sixteen, so that no breast ever sagged, no wrinkle ever folded? Do you remember feeling like a pedophile the first time you slept with one? Do you remember when the men stopped running off to war and played at it from home like a game? Do you remember how the new people, that new guard said that we were missing all the art because it wasn’t here anymore, it wasn’t wrapped up in the tangible?

Am I old that I don’t want to move my body to a tank? Am I old that I want to scrub my cherry seats and smell my greasepaint? Have I missed the train to the next world, an old guard, and a relic of past time, a giant on whose shoulders a castle is standing? I do not understand the intangible world of numbers and glow in the world made of those bright young minds. But I am not lost. I do remember, children, I remember before, and I will learn to share with you, so that you can carry my memories with you.

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Letchen moved slowly but steadily through the dense jungle. In his right hand spun a blade, broad, flat and wickedly sharp, tethered by a length of cable. Even though the modified nunchaku cleared a wide path through which to walk, the more violent foliage still tore at him, leaving welts and open wounds on exposed flesh. In his other hand Letchen held a blunt nose automatic, always at the ready.

He’d inherited the blade from a mentor, a three year native who’d shown him how to track game meat for the outpost. They hunted together for months before becoming separated during one perilous expedition. Letchen had found the blade, discarded in a pool of blood. He never found his friend’s body, but he’d chased his killer for days, tracking it relentlessly before cornering the beast, exhausted and mortally wounded near the fresh carcass of another. He tore it apart in a wild fit of revenge fueled anger.

Thrashing ahead drew his attention, as the dark form of his quarry tore across his path. Letchen broke into a sprint, veering onto the trail partially cleared by the frightened beast. They’d been coming closer to the compound lately, becoming more brazen and frightening the station inhabitants, but to Letchen that just meant a hundred kilos of game meat he didn’t have to carry nearly as far. The creature screeched over its shoulder at him, black lips curled back from massive white teeth. It leapt into the air, arms extended, grasped a low hanging vine and began pulling itself hand over hand towards the canopy, curling it’s legs upwards to clutch with it’s hand-like feet, accelerating its ascent. Letchen raised his weapon and fired, the thunder-crack setting off a cacophony of sound as every other living creature nearby took notice. The wounded beast stopped, struggled futily to maintain its grip before letting go, falling hard to the ground where it lay motionless. Letchen closed the distance quickly, and with a sweeping overhead strike, decapitated the beast. He wasn’t taking chances, and it would save him carrying twenty meatless kilos he couldn’t eat.

He wrestled the carcass into a sitting position, and pulling one carbon black arm down over his own chest, and hooking his other arm through its legs, he managed to shoulder his kill and stand. Letchen started what he knew would be a long slow trek back to the compound, warm blood oozing down his back as the beast bled out, the fluid mingling with the blood of his own wounds.

The walk was arduous at first, but gradually he felt reenergized, his stride lengthened and he found himself almost bounding through the dense greenery. The carcass on his back must have bled out completely, as it felt almost weightless now. Letchen leapt at a low hanging vine, grasping it with his left hand and letting momentum carry him off his feet through several meters of jungle. His adrenal glands undoubtedly had gone into overdrive, he’d never felt this invigorated after a hunt before.

He could see the walls of the compound rising up through the jungle and he broke into a sprint. The relative calm was suddenly shattered by a barrage of gunfire, tracer rounds flashing past him, large calibre slugs masticating the dense jungle. Letchen opened his mouth to yell as the gunner paused to reload, but no words escaped, just a screeching sound that chilled him to the bone. Letchen stared at his outstretched arm, noticing for the first time the blackening of his skin, and the fluid rippling of the muscle straining beneath it. His cells were flooded with new commands, but the overpowering one now was ‘run’. The headless carcass fell to the ground, as a newly heightened survival instinct drove Letchen to abandon his kill and his weapons and flee upwards into the trees, and into utter darkness.

Author : Kathy Kachelries, Staff Writer

Nine days after receiving the transmission from Claudia, Jisuk found himself sitting in a corner booth at the Leaping Cow pub, grateful that the iciness of his beer disguised its stagnant taste. It wasn’t hard to keep something cold on Luna Mal, where the school uniforms included heavy coats, but until this visit he’d never realized how well the temperature complimented (or disguised) the flavor of the region’s cuisine. When Claudia finally sauntered into the bar, ten minutes late, she unwrapped her scarf and yanked her hat from her head before dropping into place across from him. Her blond hair was a mess, and she smelled like damp wool. Jisuk had been annoyed since leaving Earth for the three day journey to Luna, and his contact’s tardiness didn’t help matters. Unfortunately, Jisuk knew he needed her.

Last year, Claudia had secured an exclusive contract for Mercurian saffron, and the spice had given his menu an advantage over the hydroponic dishes offered by his competition. Now, the rest of the gourmet world was beginning to realize that Terrans preferred their cuisine pulled from the soil—a kind of nostalgia, he imagined—and if he didn’t come up with something new, he risked losing his prestige as an innovator.

Claudia yanked the drawstring of her bag and withdrew a dull metal box slightly larger than his palm. A portable refrigeration unit, he realized. She placed it on the table with a quiet thump and motioned for a server to bring her a glass of water.

“Joraberries,” Claudia told him with a broad smile.

Jisuk’s expression of interest showed a flicker of reservation. “Berries?”

“Not just berries. Joraberries.”

“If this is some kind of Frankenstein fruit, I’m not going to violate-”

“It’s not,” she interrupted. “It’s not engineered at all. All-natural and organic, fresh from an ice cave on Triton.” Her thumb rubbed the box’s fingerprint reader, but she didn’t lift the lid.

“Berries. From an ice cave.”

“The colonists have been living on them for years, but no one on this side of the asteroid belt has heard of them,” Claudia continued. “They’re seeds. Unfertilized, preserved by the nitrogen pools. Aged at least five centuries old. Since the plants are extinct, they’re a limited commodity. And I just bought the cave.”

“Show me,” Jisuk said. The lid of the box flipped open.

For a second, it was impossible to see the contents through the pale fog floating over the surface of the liquid nitrogen. After several seconds, however, the denser gas spilled over the edges and onto the table and revealed several clusters of translucent beads, each seed the size of a large marble and containing a black pit smaller than a sesame seed. They were submerged in the clear fluid, but Claudia retrieved a pair of plastic tongs from her bag and pulled one free, then dropped it into her glass of ice water.

“Like I said, I own the cave,” she said as the berry frosted to an almost opaque white, “and I’ve contracted two groups of migrant workers from Io. If you’re not interested in them, I’m sure Kerry Jenson will be.”

The mention of his main competitor caused Jisuk’s eyes to narrow. “If they’re any good, I’ll buy them,” he said. “If they’re not, it’ll be Jenson’s loss.”

Claudia shrugged. Seconds of silence passed before she fished the berry from the ice water with her tongs, then motioned for Jisuk to extend his hand. He complied. The skin of the seed felt like frozen leather. He touched his tongue to the berry, then popped it into his mouth and bit hard, hard enough to pop the thick coating. The inside was gelatinous but shot through with ice crystals–a fascinating texture, one strong enough to feature the betty prominantly in desserts. The taste developed a second later: sweet, but with an acidic tinge. Versatile, excellent for marinades, and he could already imagine a martini flavored by its extract.

“They’re good,” he said. He swallowed the gel and chewed the skin, which dissolved almost immediately into syrup. “Excellent.”

“It’s what I do,” Claudia said. She waited before continuing. “Thirteen credits a pound,” she told him. “Including shipping. They’ll come like this, in nitrogen.”

“Write up the contract,” Jisuk said after running his tongue across his teeth to lick away the last of the berry’s juice.

“You’ll have it within the week,” Claudia said, grinning before pulling her hat over her head and rising to her feet. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jisuk nodded. He reached for her tongs, taking another icy sphere from the liquid and dipping it in the ice water to thaw.

“What about the colonists?” he asked as he lifted the berry to his mouth.

“What about them?”

“You said this is what they eat.”

“Oh, they’ll manage,” Claudia said. “They’re a resourceful people.”

Author : J.Loseth, Staff Writer

It was good money. Everyone said so, on the newscasts and the Internet, repeating the slogan from the billboards: Everyone’s Rich in the Colonies. Drake had read over the contract, and the money was indeed good. The wealth in the colonies was so abundant that the contract even included a subsidy for his house, and it was a real house, not a cramped pod or even a flat. Drake had seen pictures. It looked like something out of a storybook. “I’ll get to see real grass,” he’d told Delilah, but still she frowned. It was good money, he reminded her. How many people in their neighborhood could boast that kind of salary? None, that’s how many.

His parents had been relieved. All their relatives congratulated him for passing the screening. Drake was proud of that; he’d been lucky to miss out on the genes for anything debilitating, and though he’d only barely squeaked by the vision test, he still had the green light. Not many could say that nowadays. “It means there aren’t any diseases,” he explained to Delilah, but she rolled her eyes. “It just means you aren’t bringing any diseases to them,” she told him primly. “There’s nothing in there about the type of diseases they might give you.” Drake had to admit she had a point, but it was good money, so he let it slide.

For four months Drake sold off his possessions, slowly liquidating his old life to make way for the new. He couldn’t take more than two bags, after all, and he’d need the startup cash. Delilah recognized the necessity and even scraped up enough to buy a few items from him. He didn’t tell her how much he appreciated it, but he was sure that she knew. It was just like her to know. As the departure approached, though, tensions rose. They fought more. Sometimes Delilah would stalk out at the end of the night without saying a thing, and sometimes she’d fix Drake with a look of reproach that was worse than words. It made it hard to pack, but he thought of the money and was resolute. “You could have applied too,” he reminded her once during one of their bitter fights. “Then we’d both be going. They even let couples live in the same place.” He hadn’t gotten a response to that, just the slam of the door in his face. She’d always come back the next day, though, so Drake shoved the fights under the rug and always let her in.

“Will you visit?” she asked. The question made Drake uncomfortable. “I’ll write,” he promised, holding her hands on the landing pad, eyes on their interlocked fingers. “It’s a long trip, Del, and they don’t pay for that much vacation time. A message can get here in just a few hours. It’ll be fine.” Delilah didn’t seem to like that, but she nodded anyway. The conductor called for all aboard, and Drake began to extricate his hands, but Delilah gripped them suddenly and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “When your two years are up, I’ll be finished. I’ll be done with school and we can start a life together. We can find a place when you get back.”

Drake felt his throat closing up. He squeezed her hands by way of answer, then slowly let go, heading up to the stasis pod door. It was the only facility of its kind, the only method for suspending human life well enough to protect the travelers on their journey through sub-space. The colonies might be rich, but they could never muster enough technological minds to build and maintain such a thing. Delilah didn’t, couldn’t know, but the money was good, so Drake didn’t tell her. He watched through the porthole until the pod filled with gas and knew she would never forgive him.