365 tomorrows

Author : Scott E Meyer

“Some of what you are about to read you will think is science fiction, ” said the front of the dust jacket, “But I assure you, dear reader, that it is not. It is based on sound scientific principles with which we are all familiar.” Edgar skipped on. The book looked dry, windy and boring, but Edgar liked dry, windy and boring. He amused himself, picking out the long words to see if he could pronounce them, words like “supersymmetry,” “quantum fluctuations,” and “unified field theory.” For a minute, he allowed himself to be absorbed by what this Dr. Ledbetter had to say. He imagined the world as Ledbetter imagined, a world of free energy, travel to the stars, transmutation of matter and all the dreams he had ever had coming true.

Edgar looked up, curious as to which section of the bookstore he had stumbled into. To the left were Bigfoot Sightings, UFO’s, and the Loch Ness Monster. To the right were alien abductions and government conspiricies. Not an auspicious place to find the missing secrets of the universe. He flipped to the back of the dust jacket, the author’s biography. It seems this Dr. Ledbetter had been laughed off stages and out of seminars for years before finally vanishing only a few years ago. He had only published one book, the very book Edgar held in his hands.

Edgar frowned. As much as he wanted to believe, wanted to be caught in the mystery and play with the secrets Ledbetter claimed to reveal, he couldn’t bring himself to take the man seriously when the entire scientific community had already laughed him into obscurity. He placed the book back on the shelf, determined to find something of value in this bookstore.

The secrets of the universe would have to wait for another generation.

Many of you browse 365tomorrows via the RSS feed, and may not realize that there’s an active forum community on 365 that you can participate in. We’ve recently overhauled the engine that drives the forums, bolting in state of the art functionality and sharpening the edges of the design. We encourage you to drop by and maybe even get involved.

Duncan Shields’ story, Finnegan Sue is up in audio format on the Voices of Tomorrow Podcast, recorded by our own Sam Clough. Give it a listen, and then browse through the back catalogue of recordings on our Podcast site.

Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer

The SS Furai was traveling at warp three through the Supaida Sector on a survey mission to look for planets that were suitable for human colonization. A decade earlier, an unmanned probe had passed through the sector and reported numerous habitable planetary systems around two Type G stars, and four Type K stars. Each of the star systems all had at least one terrestrial planet orbiting in the habitable zone, sometimes referred to as the “goldilocks zone.” The Furai’s mission was to determine if any of the planets meet the criteria for human colonization; the plant-to-animal biomass ratio had to be 98.5 or higher, and no indigenous animal species could have an Intellect Potential (IP) above 64.2.

The first two star systems they surveyed were non-viable due to exceptionally high concentrations of animal mass. They were approximately one hour from the third system when the ship unexpectedly came to a dead stop. Fortunately, the inertial dampeners responded instantaneously and prevented any serious injuries. “What the…,” snapped the Captain? He pressed the intercom button. “Chief, why have we dropped out of warp,”

“I don’t know, sir. The warp engines are still on-line. They’re straining like hell too. Did we hit something?”

“Unknown, Chief,” he replied. “Shut down the engines until we figure this out. Ensign O’Toole, any idea what stopped us?”

“Sensors readings are normal, sir. Nothing unusual in the electromagnetic spectrum. Graviton activity is typical. Charged particle density is low. Huh, this is unusual. The quantum chromodynamic sensors show a tiny spike in the strong interaction color confinement. But it’s barely above background. I can’t believe that has anything to do with our situation.”

“We need to be sure, Mister O’Toole,” responded the Captain. “Take a science pod out, and have a look.”

Fifteen minutes later, O’Toole reported in. “Captain, I’m approximately 10 klicks aft of your position. I’ve adjusted my sensors to detect baryon waves. It appears that you are caught in a 2D matrix of some kind. From here, it looks like a large net that extends for light years in the Y and Z directions.”

“Mister Kline, did the probe report this phenomenon?”

The science officer quickly accessed the records. “Captain, according to the logs, Earth lost contact with the probe before it surveyed this corridor. It was presumed lost. However, since the probe had mapped 95% of the sector, Central Command determined that it was not cost-effective to send another probe to complete the survey.”

“What? Protocol requires complete sensor mapping before manned vessels can enter a new system. This is…”

O’Toole’s voice interrupted the captain in mid sentence. “Sir, I’m picking up a huge flux of fermions. The density is increasing fast. It’s off scale. Sir, it looks like the signature for quark matter. But I’ve never seen it this intense. I’m transmitting the sensor data to Lieutenant Kline.”

“Put it on the main viewer, Mister Kline,” ordered the captain.

The viewscreen at the front of the bridge showed an unmagnified image of the Furai entangled in a faint 2D network. Suddenly, a glowing semi-transparent anomaly three times larger than the ship entered the field of view. It moved toward the ship and began to encapsulate it with long string-like filaments similar in appearance to the 2D net.

“Damn. Red alert,” shouted the captain. “Raise shields. Charge the hull plates, maximum intensity. Tactical, bring weapons on-line. Target that creature and fire everything we have. Helm, full impulse power, and initiate a barrel-roll, maximum sustainable RPM. Chief, I need warp engines, now. If we can’t break free of this web, we’re all dead.”

Author : Catherine Preddle

Wheeze.

I struggle to snatch a breath, wondering with each one if I’ll get the chance to have another. Life’s never felt so fleeting and basic as I fight with its raw elements, breathing and trying to keep the blood pumping round my withered body.

Wheeze.

Another tortuous intake of vital air and another rasping death rattle from my sunken chest. So this is it, my last moments of life. My mind is foggy with the pain, I can’t remember how old I am, but I know I’m only middle-aged. I’ve had a full life, but it’s been cut short; I haven’t finished yet. There is so much more to accomplish, experience and appreciate. Like seeing my children have children, like watching the sun setting behind the pyramids in Egypt, like catching the new Bond movie due out on Friday. Panic sets in – “I haven’t finished,” I shout out inwardly, “I haven’t finished yet!”

Wheeze.

I look up into the worried faces of the visitors clustered around my bed. All going through their own personal anguish: shame at how they treated me sometimes in life, guilt about things unsaid, anxiety about one day meeting the same fate that confronts them in this hospital bed.

Wheeze.

Another thought pops up, something that’s been niggling for a while. A craving that never dies. I could kill for a fag right now, one last drag. The sweet relief of that first inhale; the slow release of smoke and stress on the exhale. Oh, the irony of dying for a cigarette, literally dying for the sake of cigarettes …

Time stands still as I wait for my next heaving breath, but it doesn’t come. Instead my chest tightens and my eyes flicker round the room at all the people I’m leaving behind. My hand clutches my throat as I try to splutter some last words that will never be spoken. “No,” I scream inside, “I’m not ready … wait!”

***

There is a brilliant white light so bright that it burns into the back of my eyes. My head is spinning and I feel as nauseous as hell, but I’m alive, I’m alive!!

“Please, Mr Benson, lie still. Disorientation will wear off in a few moments.”

Suddenly, like the flash from a plasma rifle, my memories return. I know who I am and why I am here. I’m also vaguely aware that the technician is still talking to me … “What did you think, Mr Benson? Quite an old memory that one, back when Aversion Therapy Ltd was just starting out. An English male, 52, died in late 2006.”

But I’m not listening as I flee from that little sterile room, ripping out the wires still connecting me to the treatment computer as I go. I’m too desperate to escape from the most frightening and intense experience of my life.

“Hey! There are other memories we can access. There are thousands to choose from – lung cancer is only one way to go, you know. Remember, you have to want to give up, Mr Benson …”

There’s only one thing I want to do right now – need to do to calm down. Squeezing through the automatic doors of the clinic, I fumble inside my jacket pocket and with shaking hands retrieve the crumbled packet and my trusty lighter.

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

When we were both sixteen, we made a pact. We said to each other that we would never race ahead without each other. Now we’re eighteen and I barely see you.

I’ve had a whole arsenal installed in my arms and head. You cook the food in the cafeteria. You weren’t picked. Something in the genes, they said. I pleaded your case but they didn’t listen. We drifted. I got the full scholarship.

I stand in front of you and there’s an awkward pause after you’ve squeezed the ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes onto my plate. You’re looking at me with an eyebrow playfully raised. I scan you and I can see that while you’re acting nonchalant, your heart rate is triple what it usually is.

One of the reasons we drifted is because it became obvious to me after my augmentation that you were in love with me and you always had been. I’m not a good actor so it became obvious to you that I knew how you felt and didn’t feel the same way.

After the classification process terminated and we were put in different categories, I didn’t have a chance to explore how I felt about you. I might have loved you back, given time. Well, that’s kind of weak, I suppose. If you know, you know. That’s what I hear in the pop songs. So I guess I didn’t love you. Luckily I was too busy to ever have ‘the talk’ with you.

I heard you’d decided to stay in the school and major in science. You’d never see any field work but you’d probably design weapons I’d be using one day.

Now here you are. Working in the cafeteria so that you can pay the bills and looking at me and you still want me. All of a sudden I feel like I’m standing in a soup line.

I guess neither of us were very smart.

Author : Paul Starkey

Vivienne awoke after nine, but lazed in bed for another hour before finally getting up and padding to the window.

The curtains drawn she had a perfect view of the garden, the tree branches hung with golden leaves, a carpet of leaves coating the ground, seeming to burn in the sunlight.

It was February, but here it was always autumn.

Her gaze lifted over the treetops to Nottingham castle, perched high on a huge outcrop of grey rock. Today being Monday the castle was in its modern incarnation, an Italianate palace built where the original castle had stood. Tomorrow it would be remoulded to reflect its 13th century heyday.

On Wednesday there would be no castle at all, just bare rock.

Vivienne had lived here for two years, the exact amount of time that she had been Vivienne in fact.

She was a willowy brunette in her mid twenties, with the big brown eyes and pout of a famous old movie star, but forty years ago she’d been born Andrew John.

The view bored her; she turned and looked at the bed, the white sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Marc was long gone, off to work for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Nobody needed to work anymore.

She felt hollow inside. They’d been together two years but what did she really know about him? She didn’t know why he still worked, let alone who he’d been before Marc, anymore than he knew who she’d been.

It was time to move on. She’d put it off for weeks now, but the boredom wasn’t lifting.

She dressed simply; jeans, plimsolls and a sweatshirt, and then she left the bedroom for the last time.

She didn’t pack, didn’t take a thing. What would be the point?

In the kitchen she put a clod of earth into the Molecular Shuffler, set the controls and slammed the door. Thirty seconds later she was sat at the table drinking coffee while she pondered how to move on.

It didn’t matter. MSP- the Molecular Shuffle Process- had eradicated poverty thirty years ago, and along with it greed and crime. Everything you ever wanted could be yours so what was the point in covetousness? Eaten too much and put on weight? No worries, MSP will trim the fat. Getting old? Don’t fret, MSP will peel the years away. Always wanted to be taller? A boy? A Girl? Black instead of white?

In 2097 imagination was the only limit humanity had left.

She left the mug on the table; Marc would clear it away when he came home. If he came home.

She didn’t care. She was moving on.

* * *

It was two years later and Douglas was stood at the window of his 59th street apartment, staring down at Central Park.

It was July but the park was covered in a crisp coating of snow. It was beautiful but he barely noticed anymore.

He laid a palm against the glass, enjoying the contrast of his dark skin against the whiteness, if only for a moment before the boredom returned.

Amber had left two days before. Douglas had gone to the theatre but she’d stayed behind complaining of a headache. When he returned her clothes were still in the wardrobe, her papers still on the desk, but she was gone, and he knew she wouldn’t be back.

He sighed. It was time again, the hollowness was returning as it always did. Steven, Vivienne, Douglas. Baghdad, Nottingham, New York. It didn’t matter.

He put some dirt in the Molecular Shuffler and wondered how to move on…

Author : Neil Griffith

Allan sighed and took a deep breath.

“I’m from the Olympus Mons colony, I was a kid when it happened.”

‘It’ didn’t require any explanation, all the worlds knew of Olympus Mons. With over 3000 people tragically killed, it was the greatest disaster ever to happen to humanity off of the surface of the Earth. The event was the Titanic of its era, it even had a classic twist of the folly of man, building a colony in the base of a giant mountain, said to be indestructible by an infamous quote from the colony’s founder. “Whatever disaster may beset the face of Mars, people may seek shelter at Olympus. No home is safer than the home of the Gods.” The largest habitat ever built at the time, no one attempted to equal its scale for a decade.

Because of the thousands of hours of surviving electronic footage, Olympus Mons was also one of the greatest documented disasters of all time. Despite that fact there remained one mystery, as much as was known about the events immediately following the disaster, very little was known of the actual cause. Many conflicting tales of what caused the east side of the mountain to collapse onto the superstructure of the colony cropped up over the years. The Mars government said there was an earthquake from rare tectonic stress causing a landslide. The survivors, however, always gave a very different tale.

“Did you want to talk about it?” asked the attractive woman Allan had just met.

Allan smiled and swirled his drink a little. He was used to this.

“It was an accident,” said Allan.

“How do you know?” asked the woman.

“My family remained inside the colony for almost an hour after it happened,” said Allan, “We were in a part of the structure furthest away from the collapse. My father took his EVAC suit and climbed into the wreckage in the upper part of the superstructure to rescue people. But if someone wasn’t wearing an EVAC suit when all the outer walls get ripped open, there wouldn’t be anyone alive to find.”

“Did your father find what caused it to happen?” asked the woman.

Allan shook his head yes and said, “Him and about a dozen others looking for survivors stood right in front of it. There was a drill rig still standing there, right at the highest point they reached in the mountainside above where the land broke away. He said you could easily see where a giant sheet of rock must have split from where they were drilling and it caused a landslide right into the superstructure. The guy operating the rig must have been standing on the rock when it broke away and rode it all the way down.”

The intriguing charm slightly faded from the woman’s eyes and she had the typical look of shock and bewilderment Allan had known too well, then she asked why she never read about the real cause.

“Nobody in space wants to read about accidents,” explained Allan, “Specifically ones caused by man. When you live in an environment where you count so desperately on people to keep you alive it always has to be a million in one fluke, God’s will, or something else’s fault, but not man. People cannot face the reality their lives are constantly at the mercy of somebody else’s incompetence. It’s too much of a horror to deal with. So blame it on the mountain, tectonic stress or some such nonsense. It has nothing to do with the arrogance of man pushing too far and reaching too high.”

Author : Steven Saus

Inside, she was free.

Her consciousness flitted from desktop to watch to media player. Her sight was composited from surveillance videos, streaming webcams, and a million stuttering stills uploaded from cameraphones. She flexed her arms, and cranes swung thousand-pound loads, drawbridges opened, and floodwalls moved on electric motors. With a wriggle of her fingers, rising gates freed a herd of cattle, electricity sparked through transformers, and the monotone motions of a hundred assembly-bots gained a little unpredictability. Her legs were wheels and stilts and foundations. She was not afraid of the wheels Inside; they could not hurt her here. She twirled and laughed and danced across fibers, wires, and empty air.

Reality sparked twice and dissolved into the static white noise of pain.

“Sorry, Sissy,” her Nana said. The disconnected wire lay limp in her hand. She could almost see Inside, just on the other side of a fiber optic tube. She looked up. Her reflection was twisted and broken in her Nana’s glasses, though the glasses themselves were fine. The sour smell of her own urine wafted into slowly reactivating nostrils. “It’s time for your bath.”

Outside, she was trapped in the ruined stumps of limbs, the burned skin screaming with pain, her charred vocal cords useless. Her Nana began to gently wash her, the soft cotton cloth scraping sandpaper against the healing wounds. If tears popped the soap bubbles on her cheek, no one could tell.

Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer

“I’m not one of your lab monkeys, I’m your investor, so don’t give me any more of your scientific jargon.” Mr. Bates pointed his cowboy hat at Dr. Copenhagen. “Don’t tell me about electrons, tell me about how your machine will send Leroy running home with his tail between his legs during the holiday ball at the Hague.”

“Leroy? I’m sorry Mr, Bates, I don’t follow.”

“Leroy Holkins runs the Holkin Institute of Science. He rubs some award in my face every time the holiday ball comes around.” Mr. Bates clenched his fists. “This year, I want to stuff it up his nose.”

“Right, well, our discovery cannot fail to impress him.” Dr. Copenhagen motioned for Mr. Bates to follow him towards the labs. “One principle of science is that if you observe anything, you change it,” said Dr. Copenhagen.

“Doesn’t seem right. My hat is still a hat if I’m not looking at it.” Mr. Bates face scrunched. “How can you look at something without watching?”

“We-”

“Never mind, I don’t want to know. Just tell me how I can rub this in Leroy’s face.”

The florescent light gleamed on the top of Dr. Copenhagen’s bald head. “My team has found a way to observe without observing, to watch the inside of a closed box. Sir, this fundamentally changes the way we perceive everything. Experiments once proven will have to be tested again. It will change science forever.”

“Even for Leroy?”

“Yes, even your friend Leroy.”

“Have you been listening? The man isn’t my friend. Just show me what you’ve cooked up.”

“If you come this way, I’ll give you a demonstration.” Dr. Copenhagen motioned Mr. Bates though a set of double doors. In the middle of the laboratory, on a sturdy, steel table was a mirrored glass sphere. It was a five foot high imperfect sphere, marred and scored, like it had been crumpled and clumsily rebuilt. A tangle of wires connected the sphere to a row of monitors. Mr. Bates saw his reflection distorted in the surface.

“This is it?”

“This is our triumph.”

“It looks old,” said Mr. Bates, rubbing his chin. “This thing feels like, I don’t know how to say it, but like an old church.”

“Sir, I’m not sure what you mean. We constructed this a month ago in this laboratory. It’s appearance is dictated by it’s function, a necessity- “

“Never mind Doctor. Just show me what it does.”

“I’ve prepared a simple chemical reaction for you to observe. If you would just turn to the monitors, you will notice a flask on the screen. This flask is located inside of the machine. Keep your eyes on it while I engage the process.”

Mr. Bates turned to the monitors, studying the glass vial. Dr. Copenhagen scrambled to the back of the sphere and took a crooked knife out of his coat pocket. He hacked at his left wrist, splitting the skin along a pink scar. Smearing the blood along a break in the glass, Dr. Copenhagen watched as the smoke rose from his blood and the glass crackled, then grew to close the gap in the shattered mirror.

In the newly grown mirror, The Others stared out at him. They were smoke and terror, sharp edges and swift movements. Dr. Copenhagen flicked his bloody wrist over the glass. “Just do it, you bastards.” He muttered. The Others flit over the mirrored surface, sucking the droplets of blood though the glass.

“I don’t see anything happening yet,” said Mr. Bates.

“Just a few moments,” said Dr. Copenhagen. “It’s about to begin.”

Author : Jason Frank

Dear Fontilibus Corporation rescue crew, space explorers, other would be rescuers, or whom it may concern,

How are you?

Good, I hope. Whether or not you’ve found my remains,it should be clear to you that I’ve been better. If I were alive, we would be talking right now and you wouldn’t be reading this. I hope you do read this. It’s just a small little card. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes to read.

Whether or not you are from the Fontilibus Corporation, I want to take this time to detail some of my experiences with their fine product, the Xcape5000. For the most part, this product has met and exceeded my expectations. I’ll elaborate a bit before moving on to the one or two little complaints I have.

Much to my surprise, I escaped the destruction of the fleet frigate I was serving on. The same can’t be said for the rest of the crew as whatever destroyed the ship did so rather unexpectedly. I myself was napping in this pod at the time. I woke up surrounded by some very familiar looking debris. Clearly this was my ship. I’m sure it was Johnson’s arm that floated past my little window. How many hours I had spent watching that arm, the way it coyly bent while holding a drink, the quick spring of it unbending to throw that drink in someone’s face. I can’t tell you how long I’ve had to think about that arm down here.

The Xcape5000 not only got me out of that pickle, it also found me the human life supporting planetoid you are currently standing on. Two for two! I was so happy to be alive that I celebrated. I ate and ate and drank and drank and sang and sang all the songs I could remember.

This would be a good time to segue into some of the less satisfactory features of the Xcape5000.

First of all, the food supplies included in the pod weren’t completely adequate. They really should factor in the celebration factor when determining how much food they pack.

Secondly, the quick responding Fontilibus Rescue Crew, they all looked so attractive in the brochure, turned out to be not so quick to respond. The brochure guaranteed a speedy pickup and I was a bit disappointed with this.

On the bright side, those slugs you’ve noticed squirming all around turned out to be completely edible and the pregnant ones secrete some fluid that packs quite a buzz.They’re fun to toss, too. You might have passed a black rock on your way here. That’s what I use to mark my longest throw (both feet behind the pod’s tail fins). So, as you can see, I’ve had plenty to do. When my arm would get sore from tossing slugs, I would read and reread the technical manual for the Xcape5000. That’s when I found about one more brilliant feature of this fine escape pod.

It turns out that this, and all Fontilibus escape models, has a self destruct sequence. I sure was tempted to engage it when I found that out. Instead, I decided to think about it while tossing some slugs. I came up with a happy little thought that kept me warm at night and kept me going until whatever it was that I finally succumbed to. See, it was an easy matter to rig the destruct sequence to the motion sensors outside the pod. The only problem was, how do you get someone to stand close by for the five minutes it takes to arm?

Author : Kathy Kachelries, Staff Writer

Most of them come at night. They assume that their objective would be easier to complete while the target was fast asleep, so we increase security at dusk: three guards outside of the bedroom door and two inside, and another dozen on patrol. Sometimes they have bulletproof clothing. Sometimes they have guns that can burn a hole straight through a body. Our scientists spent weeks analyzing them, but we can’t replicate the battery. It’s unfortunate. Technology like that would be useful on the front lines.

Some of the travelers are scrappy, with banged up equiptment that looks older than they are. From their actions, we assume that they are rogue. They bring their wallets, and based on their ID, most of them date from the 2700s. The other ones, the ones with polished weapons and uniforms, carry no identification. From the manufacture dates on their equipment, we’ve determined that they come from the late 2600s. Words and names are written in Chinese, but the ID cards say America.

At first, this caused concern.

We’ve tried to predict our future based on their existence. We will win the war. Victors don’t make assassination attempts. We know that at some point in the 2600s, the American government realized that their program would be unsuccessful, and the remaining equiptment fell into the hands of private citizens. We know that China and America share military secrets. We can find no trace of Japan, so we assume that they lost their war.

We haven’t shared this information. If they have a protection force similar to ours, they’re keeping it to themselves. If they don’t, we can assume no attempts have been made on the Emperor’s life.

Our greatest concern is assassination in the years before our division was founded. However, the Leader remembers no unusual events, and his ancesteral line was unaltered. We’ve theorized that another group of temporal soldiers protected him then, but left it in our hands once he rose to power. Our records would be invaluable to future generations, and eliminating us would wipe those records from existence.

We haven’t been able to interrogate them. The soldiers who aren’t killed commit suicide in seconds, and their bodies disappear in a flash of light. The rogues’ bodies usually remain, and autopsies have revealed significant changes to their biology. Implants made of an unidentified material. Evidence of advanced surgical techniques. Unfortunately, we can’t use this knowledge to our advantage without the equipment to properly analyze it.

With every attempt, our efficiency increases. Assurance of victory raises morale, and every dead traveler is proof that the Leader will not be killed.

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Kurtis leaned back in the broad oak chair, his head gently throbbing. He let his gaze wander from the ordered stacks of papers on his desk to the expanse of woodland visible through the loft window. God he loved this place. So many memorable things had started here, filing his patents, launching his business, even his lovely wife Meg had come to him here, at a chance meeting during the open house when he’d bought the place.

“I’m making tea dear,” his wife’s voice drifted in from the kitchenette, “would you like a cup?”

“Yes sweetheart, that would be lovely.” Opening his desk drawer, Kurtis reached past the Band-Aids and his EpiPen to the bottle of Tylenol, of which he dry swallowed two before replacing it and closing the drawer.

He couldn’t help but think how things would have been different if Martin Lockman had gotten to that open house first. Kurtis smiled at the memory, moving around to the front of the desk and leaning against the wood top. He thought of Martin’s excitement at having found this place, and his plans to purchase it. If he hadn’t had that ‘accident’, he’d have made it on time. He could picture Martin’s face, fuming over the mess of ruined metal that had been his car after the blowout.

“I always liked this place Kurtis,” the voice startled him, making him jump off the desk, “it should have been mine years ago.”

Kurtis wheeled to the figure seated behind him, speaking comfortably from the black high back mesh chair behind the metal and glass that was the desktop now between them.

“Martin?” Kurtis stammered. “What the hell are you doing here, and what have you done to my desk?”

“Oh come now Kurtis, you know very well that this place is mine, has always been mine.” It was Martin smiling now, with the sympathetic look one reserved for lost children or stray dogs.

“You get the hell out, I don’t know what game you’re playing Martin, but I’m having none of it. Get out.”

“I don’t play games, Kurtis, I never did. It took almost a lifetime to find a way back to where it all started, and to set things right. No accident this time Kurtis, no accident at all.”

“What the hell are you talking about, what’s happening?” The room about him was changing, nauseating him as book cases changed to glass doored cupboards, the couch morphing into two easy chairs and a reading stand.

“I mean you didn’t sabotage my car this time Kurtis. Honey in your coffee instead, anaphylactic shock. Shame, really, you could have done so many good things.

Kurtis shook with anger and fear. “Get – Out – Of – My – House.”

“It’s not yours anymore, so you’ll be leaving in a moment, not me. You see you took my life once, and it’s taken some time, but now I’m returning the gesture. I’ve simply taken it back.

“You’re not taking anything, I’m sure as hell not leaving and in a moment I’m going to call the police.”

“Oh Kurtis, you really don’t get it, do you? I’m not going to take–I’ve already taken, and as you’ve already left, I’m merely humoring you while reality catches up.”

“What’s all the yelling about?” Meg padded gracefully into the room, carrying a tray with coffee and cookies to the desk and setting it down. “Are you going to work in here all day?”

Martin pulled his wife close to him, wrapping his arms around her lithe waist. “No my dear, I think I’ve done enough for today.”

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

I’ve gone over and over that time with the shrinks here on the ground. It was a time-sensitive mission to repair satellite Oricus-11. We were on schedule and nothing was in the red. We were in the pipe, five by five and on target.

Jackie and Maria were locked in and reading the specs back as we arrowed in on the airlock. Reverse thrusters fired as Maria cushioned our lateral descent to the docking clamps. There was a light bump through the whole ship as we touched the edge of the collar.

Halfway there.

Maria raised a hand up to her hair and died that way. Her eyes just unfocused and the animal side in me knew right away that she’s been turned off like a light switch.

I looked over at Jackie and that’s the last linear-time memory I have except three other things.

One.

The hatch blew. Vacuum scoured the entire cigar tube of our ship with a greedy inhalation of breath from god’s lungs. Papers, pens, experiments, everything that wasn’t tethered or taped went fast-forward panicking out the door into the cold embrace. The air turned to crystals.

Two.

I don’t know if this was some time later or in the next second but I remember looking forward at my outstretched hand. My fingernails were brightly glowing blue. Beyond my hand was a forest. The trees and leaves were mostly red and I still can’t tell if it was Earth in the autumn or if it was summer on a different planet.

Three.

The last thing I remember is talking to a child. The child was much smarter than me and it seemed like he was intentionally using simple language to communicate with me. A little boy about seven years old with eyes glowing exactly the same blue as my fingertips had been glowing in the previous memory. We were both dressed in white and sitting in a red room.

I don’t remember what we talked about but I’ve been a lot calmer ever since.

I was found in a swamp by a couple of Louisiana fishermen. I was looking at the rot-resistant bark of a cypress and tracing the lines on the trunk with my hands. Their greeting is the first thing I remember. Turning my head to see who made that noise and then realizing that I was ankle deep in a swamp.

I still had my uniform on. It was freshly washed and felt like it was still slightly warm from the dryer. I felt freshly showered as well.

It didn’t take long for me to get taken into the basements of NASA and questioned. I’ve been here for weeks now.

I’m not sure if they’ll give me a memwipe or just cut me loose. I am surprised to feel that I am now in possession of something that they’ll never be able to take from me. I’m different inside.

Author : Steven Saus

“Make your own damn dinner.”

He coughed, sputtering foam from his after-work beer onto the cluttered endtable. She showed no signs of malfunction. There were no sparks, no telltale wisps of smoke from the delicate wires in her wrists. Her voice utterly failed to stutter; it just had this odd quality he couldn’t quite place.

“I said, make your own damn dinner. I’m leaving you.” She clanked towards the door, ripping the apron (a silly affectation he’d had her wear) off her metal torso.

“But — I made you!” His beer tottered and fell from the endtable, jostled by his awkward attempt at pursuit. The amber liquid splattered across the half-soldered circuit boards and the screws – never put away – that had been “left over” after assembling the kit.

“I found someone else.” She reached down and picked up the old-fashioned modem he hadn’t paid any attention to. “I found someone who truly understands me for what and who I am. Now leave me alone and make your own damn dinner.”

“You got past the house firewall? You’ve been Internet dating?” She did not bother to respond.

He thought about the first time he’d seen her lips, laying in the bubblewrap and cardboard. Now they were pursed unnaturally tight. He imagined the whirring and moving behind her chest, the way the parts he’d fitted together all moved in sync. He remembered the hours he’d spent assembling the synthetic sinews of her hands. That meant something, didn’t it? He’d put her together. He had joined every one of her joints that worked to pull his front door open.

His android stepped forward and fell into the waiting arms of another robot. This new robot was as male as his was female. The force of their embrace would have pulped his ribs, but both robot’s mouths were open in a wide smile.

Behind the robots, his front gate crashed open. The panting woman who stood there stopped, staring. A spanner dropped from her hand and clattered on the sidewalk. After a few minutes – when the androids began to kiss – she slowly looked up and in the doorway. When the two humans made eye contact, they both grinned sheepishly.

The two couples made a lovely curry and rice dish together.

Author : Chris Peterson

I look down at the seat as I climb into the car.

“Well, get in honey,” says a lady entering from the other side. An attractive lady. She’s talking to another attractive lady in a familiar pink outfit, and the familiar pink pillbox hat that the whole world and I have seen for over forty years in some of the most unforgettable images ever.

Someone makes a quick quip behind me that I don’t catch. I turn and see that smile. Those teeth. That hair. Holy shit, my brain screams, that’s John Kennedy. He’s already seated. He’s smiling. He expects me to make a comeback to his friendly jibe.

I look down again at the jump seat, in front of the President.

“It’s called a jump seat so you can jump out of the car if you see a pretty girl along the way,” the President jokes again.

“Now, Jack,” the attractive lady climbing in to the seat next to me admonishes.

I look back at the President. He’s still waiting for me to come back at him with a real zinger. I am Governor Connally. I don’t know how I am, but I am. I remember nothing before putting my foot into the car. The car! Yes, that car.

Police on motorcycles are putting on helmets and people are filling the cars behind us.

Stop the motorcade! My brain screams. But no sound comes. Stop stop STOP!!! For the love of God, don’t go!

My brain flashes ahead to the waiting crowds. The waiting history. It’s not too late! My brain screams again. Again, I am mute.

I don’t want to be here for this! I don’t want this to happen! Stop! Stop now!

I remain frozen. It all seems so inevitable. So unchangeable. Crowds of people waiting to see the President. The planned route. The crowds. Dealey Plaza. Adrian Zapruder and his secretary on their lunch break. Mannlicher-Carcano. Babushka lady. Adrian Zapruder? No, Abraham. What a strange thing to correct myself on. Stop the motorcade! Everyone, out of the car! For the love of God, stop!

I am on a park bench. I am no longer Governor Connally. I don’t know how I am not, but I am not. It is raining. A steady, gentle autumn rain. Surprisingly, it’s not cold. The rain hides my tears. Has it happened? Have I prevented tragedy? I listen for the sound of distant gunfire, of screams, racing engines and screeching tires, howling sirens. Of course I can’t hear them. It is raining, and November 22 in Dallas was sunny. I may be 1000 miles away. I glance up briefly as a man and woman, middle-aged, walk past me in the park. Huddled together, in their rain slickers, they don’t look shocked. They don’t look alarmed. Maybe they don’t know yet. Maybe it didn’t happen.

In my heart, I know it is happening right at this moment, far away, as the rain soaks my clothes. I was nearly there for a few seconds, and the thought chills my bones. Nobody will ever utter the words “former President Kennedy;” only “the late President Kennedy.” Jackie will forever be Jackie O. The country and the world will not be shocked like this for almost another forty years, on another sunny day in a distant September.

That too, seems so large. So evil. So hopeless. The weight of Evil presses down on me. So much of it. I am so small.

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

Tonight at 8:00 Eastern, 9:00 Central – 11 hour delay on the Lunar Colonies

HT-MA

Warning – this broadcast contains real battlefield footage, viewer discretion is advised.

This program is broadcast in Holographic THX.

Tonight on Holographic Battlefront, the Historical Channel presents “Iwo Jima”, a two night presentation. Join us on your holographic table-top set as we explore one of the most memorable battlefronts of the 20th century. You will be there through the use of our ChronoCinematic cameras and with your interactive controls you will be able to follow the battle from the first beach landings to the raising of the flag on top of Mount Suribachi to the final counter-attack at Airfield #2. Most surprisingly of all, you will see for the first time the final moments of Japanese Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi.

On your table top choose from any one of 30,000 US Marines to storm the beaches or take the viewpoint of all of the 21,000 Japanese soldiers dug in on this pivotal island in the Pacific. Should the soldier you choose perish, you will be able to jump to any other soldier on the battlefield. You may choose first or third-person perspectives for up-close views of the battle or zoom out for a bird’s eye perspective of the confrontation.

Explore the numerous tunnels throughout the island with the Imperial army or get behind the controls of a M4A3 Sherman tank equipped with flamethrowers as you attempt to clear hidden bunkers.

So stay tuned for Holographic Battlefront – Iwo Jima

*commercial break*

Before we begin our program we will bring you scenes from next week’s episode Holographic Battlefront – AI Uprising: the Four Day Conflict. Please insert your hand into the holofield now to set your wristreminder for next week’s showtime.

Author : Joshua Reynolds

VETERAN OF THE [CLASSIFIED] WARS

I/We are/am the last survivor. Hodge-podge helter-skelter jigsaw man/men/woman/women. I/We am/are not sure there’s anything left of me/us. I/We sit in this red, red room, alone with my/our thoughts. All of them. Swirling, stirring, whirling, whirring hummingbird thoughts of a thousand colors sparking and splashing. I/We are a brain in a bag of meat and bone, burned and battered, frail and dead. Wounds are all I’m/we’re made of. Machines keep me/us breathing. You want me/us alive. I/We am/are the last you see. The last of the atom babies.

I/We made sure of that.

I/We had to. It was the only way to win the War.

Eagle fights Bear. Hammer and Sickle fights Stars and Stripes. These and a thousand other implements ranged against each other in the mushroom’s shadow. Minds expand and unfold, blossoming like nuclear flowers and then they are clipped and caged, uprooted and replanted. The atom bomb gathers dust. The atom babies go to war. I/We fought for God/Queen/Country/Fatherland/the State/Uncle Sam…brains blazing like comets, neurons straining against neurons, minds clashing in the emptiness between seconds. Every minute a battlefield, every hour a campaign. Hooked into barracks like cattle, I/we fought without seeing, without hearing. I/We fought in our heads. Again and again and again. Cattle straining against cattle in the dark car, pushing but not moving.

The world rolled on but I/we was/were unaware. Little wars started and ended and I/we still fought. Because you commanded us to. Never ending. Minds were nearly snuffed as atom baby bodies-always weak, always sick-failed, but those white-hot corona minds could swim into others, making them stronger. Bigger. Better. And you saw and you smiled and you thought the stalemate was ended as they killed bodies and forced scattered minds to go, to funnel into one meat sack. A big, bad ballistic atom baby mind.

But the others did the same. And others after them.Until only a few were left, a few blazing brains where before there had been thousands. You consented to sublimate your atom babies to others, for the Big Push. Thousands to hundreds, hundreds to dozens, dozens to several, several became…

Two.

Only two. Two minds pushing and pulling. Two minds that cracked the sky and boiled the oceans, two minds full of thousands. Two minds. One failed.

I/We were the last. Wasn’t/Weren’t I/we? Or was/were I/we the first? Was this meat I/we wear the first or the last? Alpha or omega?

I/We can’t remember, really.

There’s only me/us now.

You want to know where I/we all went. Where the rest went…after. That’s why you keep us alive, now that the War is done. But I/we/us are all in here. Together again for the first/last time.

I/We are all on the same side now.

And it’s not yours.

Author : Aaron Springer

“Of course we are not the first!”

These words were unspoken, and were in other ways communicated. No human alive would even understand the rough approximation. Sound waves were non-existent, and no mess of soft tissue and bone could begin to detect the subtle fluctuations in the quanta making up the exchange. This exchange is simplified down several orders of magnitude and has sacrificed the complexity and elegance actually portrayed.

“I have been studying their culture, and it is pockmarked with other such actions.”

The first being, who had no real name as such, gave what, to its race, would have been a disgusted snort. It did not filter through the nasal cavity, as the beings did not have noses. In fact, it had no face to carry a nose, no head to carry the face, nor body upon which to have a head.

“And how does this affect what we are doing?” said the first.

“No effect that cannot be corrected.”

The student was learning, thought the first being.

“Anything we do to this universe changes all manner of things. It is the nature of this reality. It adds flavor.”

The second being gave a deferential nod, although even the most advanced equipment on Earth would have barely registered the respectful neutrinos.

“Tell me of the previous influences.”

“Well, one was about sixty thousand of their ‘years’ after they first began to ripen to sentience. It appears that someone isolated two of them, male and female, and convinced them that they were special.”

Again, the first being snorted using gravity waves.

“Amateurs! Direct contact? Absurd! And what was the result?”

“Apparently, the being set out some simple rules, and someone else appeared and convinced them to break the rules. Elements of the resulting faith exist even now. They have been alternately victimized or become victimizers for close to six thousand of their years.”

“You see?” the first being waggled a finger equivalent at the first, “Such direct influence does nothing but damage. When dealing with an infant race, you must operate with the utmost delicacy. Direct influence is too blunt, too forceful.”

“In another incident, a female was made to bear a modified young. The youth, when it matured, led a small group of others around the country they lived in, performing acts of healing.”

“And, again, the results?”

“A ritual sacrifice, followed by two thousand years of warfare. Another sect, created by an intervention about five hundred of their years after the first, was led to believe the other was evil, and the two have been fighting since then.”

“Rank novices!”

The first being looked down on the small blue sphere. Or, more accurately, it observed instantaneously in almost every way possible.

All at once, several of the inhabitants looked up with flashes of pure insight.

Unlike previous interactions, this appeared as a group of ideas.

“You see,” said the first, lecturing to the second, “these subtle ideas will be mulled over in their biological brains. Some of the ideas will survive, and resonate within them. Over time, they will add their own flavor to the ideas.”

Again, the second gave a courteous spray of neutrinos.

“To what purpose?” it asked respectfully.

“The ideas will lead to their expansion beyond their own world, into the greater universe. Interaction with several thousand other races will flavor and mature them, make them full and round with wisdom.”

“And then?”

“Eventually they will rise to meet us, and then we dine.”

The second being wiped what could be called hands on what could be called an apron.

Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer

Peter’s office was on the fifteenth floor of Landfall Tower. He spent a lot of time staring out of the floor-to-ceiling window, at the neat, ordered rows of caskets on the field around the tower. They were still a shocking white, even after a year of rain. His eyes drifted to the twenty-two caskets which were open. They were all full of rainwater. Peter’s eyes came to rest on his casket. He stood there for a second, then turned away from the window.

Scoutships had found five habitable planets. Five names were etched on the walls of Near-Earth. Five colonies had been founded, and had succeeded. Five vivid dreams.

The sixth colony was going to be even better. They were calling it Paradise.

It was going to be perfect.

Peter had been one of the one and a half thousand people tasked with setting up the bridgehead: constructing a city, mass driver, and orbital.

He had woken up in the rain, the graceful shape of Landfall Tower lost in a wall of fog. Stumbling, slipping in the mud, half-blind and frozen to the bone, he eventually made it to the sanctuary of the tower. The tower was the guts of the landing craft that had touched down on the planet, bearing the colonists with it. Once it touched ground, it had fallen apart gracefully, leaving one and a half thousand caskets arranged neatly on what was supposed to have been a sundrenched field.

In total, twenty-one other colonists met Peter in the base of the tower. A spattering of technicians of various disciplines, a single medic, a couple of agricultural engineers, a few soldiers, and Peter, a single bureaucrat. Among them was a young stasis technician. He spent the next six days out in the torrential rain, amongst the caskets which contained the other colonists.

On the seventh day, the tech killed himself. Before he did it, he scrawled a message across the Tower atrium.

‘They’re all dead.’

In the days after that, two more followed suit. A month later, the lone wirehead killed himself after the rain shorted the last of the robots.

The colony — they still laughingly called it that — survived. Food, clothes and materials for one and a half thousand could keep them alive and comfortable almost indefinitely. They didn’t move away from the Tower out of a sense of duty to the drowned field and the dead of their colony.

After ten years in Landfall Tower, with only seventeen people, and the constant rain for company, the survivors had all become quite settled in their ways. Some made tours of the caskets out on the drowning field, paying respects to each individual. Some started projects. Peter’s life was subsumed with keeping their little community together.

On the first morning of the eleventh year after landfall, three black ships punched through the clouds. They circled Landfall Tower like scavenger birds. Armed men and paper-thin androids leapt from the ships to the top of the tower. They swept downwards, through passages and hidden ways, moving soundlessly.

They found Peter in his office.

Three heavily stealthed androids seemed to fold out of thin air. One grabbed each of his arms, and another dropped to the floor, locking itself around Peter’s legs. He struggled against them, but got nowhere.

A uniformed man approached him.

“Peter Vyse, you are under arrest under the Colony Protectorate Act, for conspiracy to murder one thousand, four hundred and seventy eight members of the Paradise Colonisation Expedition. You will come with us.”

Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer

The colonization vessel SS Godspeed was the first super-sleeper ship to leave the solar system. The 1032 human passengers, and 4000 or so assorted farm animals, were destined for the Gagarin settlement on Rigil Kentaurus II. The Godspeed was currently halfway through its 16 year journey when the command computer aroused twelve of its crew from suspended animation. The ship was about to initiate its thrust reversal maneuver, so that it could begin the process of slowing down. The procedure was relatively simple: shut down the engines, detach the massive meteoroid shield at the bow, rotate the two mile long cigar shaped ship 180 degrees, reattach the shield to the aft end (now the new bow), and restart the engines. The four powerful engines were mounted on the sides of the ship, and would be located behind the shield during the four hours it took to turnaround the ship. However, “nonessential” areas of the ship, such as the cargo holds, and the hibernation bays, would be “exposed” to the meteoroid field of the Oort cloud for almost the entire four hours. Relative to the sun, Oort cloud objects are essentially stationary, but at the ship’s current velocity (over 300 million miles per hour), objects pass through the ship in nanoseconds. Two holes, an entrance and an exit site, simply appear instantaneously. The task of the twelve crewmen was to disperse throughout the exposed areas of the ship to patch the holes as quickly as possible, and repair any transit damage. The computer would handle the actual turnaround.

Shawn Houck velcroed himself to the wall so he could put on his boots. “Not bad for eight years without shaving” he said as he rubbed his stubby beard. “Hey, I guess you heard, six people died so far.”

Ben McNamara secured his helmet, and drifted toward the hatch. “They estimated nine to twenty for the whole trip. So I guess six isn’t too bad at the halfway point. Well, unless you’re one of the six. Okay, I’m ready. I’ll meet you in cargo bay three.”

The two men were floating next to the crated farm equipment when the alarm sounded. Shawn released a canister of blue gas. “I got one,” he yelled as he saw part of the gas cloud migrate toward a small hole in the exterior skin. He fired his control jets and drifted toward the escaping gas. Ben went in the opposite direction. Both holes were patched in a few minutes, and the men joined up again. “Looks like we lost the transmission on that tractor,” Shawn said as he pointed toward the tiny spheres of pinkish fluid drifting out of a hole in a crate.

“Well, it’s better than seeing blood balls,” replied Ben with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

“Oh great,” Shawn replied. “You’ve jinxed us for sure. We might as well paint bull’s-eyes on our chests. Ah hell,” he remarked as he did a quick estimate in his head, “we still have a trillion miles of to go before we’re behind the shield again.”

“Remember we’re traveling at half the speed of light,” said Ben with a smirk. “You need to take space-time dilation into account. Add another 250 billion miles.”

The alarm sounded a second time. “Oh Great,” said Shawn as he released another canister of blue gas.

Author : Timothy T. Murphy

Hurley sat on the examination table, naked to the waist, and sneezed for the umpteenth time. He reached for yet another tissue, his eyes watering, as he watched Dr. Mills flipping through charts and scribbled notes and rather pointedly ignored him. Shivering in the cold of the exam room, he finally broke the long silence, “Can I put my shirt on?”

“No, you may not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to want to listen to your lungs again in a few minutes and because I’m extremely angry with you.”

“Hey look, just because you didn’t think they were ready for testing…”

“Clearly, it doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”

“All the tests showed that they were ready.”

“The tests were flawed, as I tried to point out.”

He sneezed again, blowing his nose loudly. “Okay, so I have a cold after the injection, proving that they don’t work, so why don’t you just say ‘I told you so’ and get on with the prescription, okay?”

A smug smile crept across her face as she tossed her clipboard on the desk. “Well, you see, that’s my point. They’re working perfectly.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your beautifully engineered medical molecular robots are doing their job just fine.”

She just stood there smiling at him with that infuriatingly superior manner of hers and waited for the inevitable question.

“Then how did I get a cold after I was injected?”

“You had the cold when you were injected, you simply weren’t feeling it yet. Had you been subjected to a physical before the injection, I could have warned someone.”

“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why I still have it.”

“They were programmed to imprint on the first D.N.A. code they encountered upon injection. They were injected into your bloodstream.”

Again, she stopped and smiled like that would explain it all. He thought about it for a moment and it hit him. “Oh, crap.”

“Oh crap, indeed.”

“Are you telling me…”

“You are infected with a computer-enhanced virus.”

“So, no NyQuil?”

“Well, NyQuil hasn’t been tested or approved for use against the cyber-cold, but that certainly won’t stop you, now will it?”

“Can it kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, mind you, I’ve never encountered Robocold before, so I can’t be sure, but there is a possibility of rapid production of mucus membranes and other fluids interfering with the functions of your lungs.”

“Look, could we have this conversation in English?”

“You could drown on your own snot.”

“Okay, ew. What do I do?”

She handed him a dosage cup with two pills. “You take this. It’ll help.”

He downed the pills quickly as she picked up her phone. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the C.D.C.. You need to be quarantined.”

“What? No chance. I have to get to work on fixing this.” He stood and pulled on his shirt.

“I can’t let you out into the public. If your brand-new supervirus gets out into the general populous, it could kill billions.”

He strode over to her, towering over her and staring her down, despite the dizzy, unfocused feeling in his head. “I can’t let you do that, doctor.”

She held his gaze steadily. “I know. That’s why I gave you the tranquilizers.”

He started to ask what she meant, but the room spun, his knees gave out, and the room went dark just as his head hit the floor.

Author : Ryan F. Bracy

After a couple of weeks, Alan didn’t even notice the feeding tube. It took him a bit longer to stop trying to control his bladder and his bowels and just let the tubes do their work.

He’d used to get stiff, sore from hours of non-stop work, but the new tube bringing him a constant IV drip to suppress his pain centers took care of that. Now he could really get some work done! Eighteen hours a day he would type away, coding, debugging, and testing. He was never hungry, never tired, never needed a break. If the EEG sensed he was bored or sad, no problem, just a little extra something in the drip. Sex? No need for that when an orgasm is a button press away during his off time.

Alan used to be an insomniac, now his sleep was perfectly regulated, and he always woke feeling rested. Alan paused from his work for a moment to reflect on just how good it felt to have been given this opportunity to serve his company so efficiently. A gentle buzzing at the base of his skull reminded him that his woolgathering was happening on company time. Right back to work then! He was peripherally aware that the buzzing would increase in intensity if he ignored it, but it wasn’t fear that got him back to work, it was loyalty. The same sense of loyalty and commitment kept him on his task even when two men entered his cube.

“Alan here is one of our very best tubers Mr. Lipton. He works day and night, rarely makes mistakes, never complains. A fine accomplishment.”

“Yes, I’ve read the reports, 902-71-8430 is one of our greatest successes. One of the earliest volunteers. Now, about your latest reports; am I to understand that 45% of your original employee base has agreed to the tubes?”

“Yes Mr. Lipton, and we’ve only experienced a 3% attrition rate, more than that wanted to leave of course, “offended” at the very thought they claimed, but the brainwashing was very effective.”

“Oh yes! About that, didn’t you get the memo? Corporate has decided that “Brainwashing” sounds too controversial, we’re calling it “Re-Education” now.”

“Very good Mr. Lipton. Would you like to see some of the other tubers?”

“No Bill, I’ll let the efficiency reports speak for themselves. Let’s get some coffee.”

Alan smiled as the two men walked away; he wasn’t bothered one bit by the thought of brainwashing. Just to know that Mr. Pallmer thought he was one of the best had made his day.

Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer

“What this business needs is a Sherlock!” said Cupcake, who would become Rachell’s mother. “A Sherlock could really figure things out around here.”

Cupcake rolled down to the local genetic engineering building, with its ionized windows and shiny tables, and signed up to get herself a Sherlock. She didn’t play with the formula much, never had been much on customization. All Cupcake added was pink hair so that mother and daughter would match. The printers in the building spat out a goo that could, and would, become a Sherlock. Cupcake spread herself wide and had herself implanted with a Sherlock.

Three hours, a glorified turkey baster and fifteen minutes with her feet in the air later, Cupcake found herself on the four month, fast track pace to a baby. She didn’t take the ultra fast, two-week route, because she heard that caused stretch marks, and Cupcake wanted to keep her figure. All those advances, and still no cure for stretch marks. Ain’t that always the way.

Cupcake wasn’t much on scanning the net for reviews, so it would come as no surprise to anyone that nine months later, she didn’t get what she expected. Sure, Rachell had pink hair, and sure, she did organize the storeroom when she was two, but the little thing was moody, she kept irregular hours and threw things at the mantle-piece.

Rachell catalogued items endlessly, breaking down their component parts. She caught shoplifters before they even stepped through the door. It was unnerving to other customers. At night, Cupcake had to lock up the sugar. Not candy, the girl had no interest in what she called “cheap thrills of children” but sugar, which is what the girl would eat at night with a spoon.

Sherlocks weren’t reviewed well, but Cupcake resolved to love the one she was with. “Children are a sacred commitment,” she said, because it sounded nice. She had heard somebody say that on a drama on the net. Cupcake’s parroting always made Rachell roll her eyes.

Forever annoyed at her mother, Rachell called Cupcake names like Simpleton, Cake-Brain and some other words that Cupcake didn’t understand. Sometimes Rachell just called Cupcake by her name, but said it like it was the worst possible insult in the world. But Rachell never changed her pink hair, though it wouldn’t be hard to do. Cupcake took that as a sign of love, and she took her love where she could get it.

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Thom watched the two men approach him across the alleyway, leaving the crumpled figure they’d been beating to crawl moaning in amongst the piles of garbage.

“I told you to get the fuck out of here,” the taller man yelled, waving his hands, “are you deaf or stupid?”

“Either deaf or stupid,” Thom repeated, at first loud enough for the men to hear and then to himself “neither deaf nor stupid?”

“Not smart asshole!” The shorter, wider man reached him first, stepping into a wind up and letting a punch fly at Thom’s face. When the fist entered the place where Thom’s face had been, it simply was no longer there. Thom watched the fist streaking by, and pausing, first gently fractured the ulna and then with deliberate care shattered the humerus as they passed. He noted with interest the sudden shortening of the upper arm as the muscles contracted without resistance. “Humerus, but not funny,” again voicing the observation more to himself, but still out loud. Momentum carried the stocky man screaming into a heap on the pavement behind him.

“I’ll show you not funny.” The taller man was within striking distance, having brought both hands up shoulder high to swing them down hammer-like towards Thom’s ears. At the moment the two hands collided with each other, Thom studied from below with fascination the effect of the impact on their individual bones. “Carpals come and carpals go,” he whispered, plucking several out, moving to observe from the side. “Met a carpal, couldn’t stay,” he almost sang, extracting one of the longer bones with apparent care and adding it to the smaller two. “Phalanges, phalanges, one two three.” Smiling, he pocketed all six pieces before allowing the remaining bones to shatter amongst the pulpy mess of the resected hand.

There was barely any screaming from the tall one, rather he simply teared up silently as he fell to his knees, holding his ruined hands before him.

“Bits and pieces, again with me.” Thom continued humming the tune, enjoying the way the sounds displaced things in the air around him, continuing along the alley, until again he and his observations were no longer there.

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

The housing of my pilot node rang with impact. I snapped out of my reverie and watched the six targets arc away from either side of my display. Missiles away. My helmet was crooked but I didn’t dare let go of the sticks for a second until I was sure I was in the green.

I wasn’t dead so I fired back. It’s amazing how much of war’s battles could be encapsulated in that single sentence.

Small flowers bloomed kilometers away from me in the desolation. No impacts.

My breathing was ragged. Something must have been damaged in the last attack because it was rapidly getting much too hot in the cockpit. No sensors were whining and hull integrity seemed stable but I was coated with battle sweat.

The six targets looped around. Panic-stricken, I watched their icons hit their apex of retreat and then start to enlarge as they returned for attack run number six.

Immediately the grid flashed up on my screen and the stars blotted out. The enemy ships became red triangles. My targeting comps clacked into life like overactive children.

I could only count four triangles.

I took my hands off the sticks and adjusted my helmet with a sigh. Two unaccounted targets could only mean one thing.

The housing of my pilot node rang again as one half of it pounded inwards, closing on my leg. I screamed as the alert beacon drowned me out.

My screen went to static and my stats came up.

I looked up in agony to the ceiling. Of course it was Andrea who opened the hatch. It just had to be the girl I had a crush on who was next in line. I had no kills, my leg hurt, I stank, and she didn’t even know my name.

I begged God to not let this time be the time that she remembered me.

Her large brown eyes looked down at me in amusement. She cocked her head. Her hair was just an inch longer than regulation but she hadn’t been reprimanded. Her scores were high. With the light shining behind her, she looked angelic.

“You okay soldier?” she asked with a mocking smile.

Later, in sick bay, I came up with about a dozen great replies to that question. All of them would have been better than the answer I stammered back.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Author : Ping Sharoda

The small man with the strange hands passed thru the smashed opening and moved into the large room. It was dimly lit from the holes in the roof and there was a door at the other end. He retracted his claws and clenched his fists.

“Be careful Puppy”, said the large man with the faceted eyes. He moved slowly, more cautiously, behind the small man. “You can’t tell where it might be and I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

The steel wire muscles of the smaller man quivered slightly, his head bent forward. He opened his hands and his claws extended their full inch. “I smell it Johnny. It’s here, I can smell it,” he said and moved to the door.

The large man with the facetted eyes hung the rusty wire strung with rats on his belt. He put one hand to his temple and scanned the room for anything, any sign, any clue that would help them. There was only the disturbed dust trail and it headed to the door. He couldn’t smell anything.

I’m so hungry Johnny, and I can smell it.” There was a frayed edge to his voice. “I’m tired of rats and it hurt me…I want to get it…and kill it…and eat it.”

Overhead, in the shadows, in the rafters, Becky giggled quietly to her self. Today’s game was to get some of the rats that the large speckle-eyed man had on the wire. She generally trapped her own food but she was hungry right now and so was her father; and today was her birthday. She could have anything she wanted on her birthday. Today she was ten.

Behind the door was Becky’s dog; a small metal military surplus monster that hovered a couple of feet off the ground. Its blades were extended and spinning and its static discharge pod was fully charged. It sounded like a purring cat as it waited in the dark.

“Open the door, Puppy,” said the large man with the faceted eyes.

Becky mouthed the words to Happy Birthday and her smile broadened as she watched the small man reach for the handle of the door. She was quiet and still as she sang soundlessly. She didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

The small man with the clawed hands turned the handle and pulled open the door.

When the commotion stopped she climbed down from the rafters and picked up the wire. Carrying the string of rats, she followed the trail of blood to the hole in the wall where the 2 men had first come in. She looked outside for the men and for her dog but saw neither. She shrugged her shoulders and thought,”The dog will find his way home, he always does”. Then she headed out, toward the trees, toward home, to show her father her birthday present.

Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer

They met each other on the high wall that surrounded the empty city. It was truly empty now: even the soldiers had left, abandoning the surface, chasing the population underground, into bunkers or into the big groundstations in the desert.

He had a bag of food and drink, scavenged from shops and homes that had survived the evacuation intact. She looked like she’d just come from a party in the good end of town. She was wearing a long black dress, inset with reflective scraps so that it shimmered like the night sky, and she had a music box tucked under her arm.

When the evacuation order had come, they’d both separately judged that it would be pointless to run and hide. She was too proud, he was suspicious of the government. The cracks crazing across the sky drove them both to distraction.

The wall was as wide as a good road. The inside edge was a sheer drop, fifteen metres down into the leafy walldistricts. The outside edge was protected by a raised ledge about a metre high and the same wide.

He dropped his bag by the ledge, rummaged in it, and brought out a folded square of cloth. He spread it over the ledge: the edges draped over each side. He quickly unpacked a meal of bread, smoked meat and chopped vegetables that had been encased in clear plastic. Two tall metal beakers followed out of the pack. He poured wine into hers and water into his. Reflexively, he was deferring to her: she didn’t notice.

She sat delicately on the ledge opposite him, sipped his wine and took small bites of his meal. They didn’t say a word, but looked out from the city that had been their home, out into the desert that the walls had kept back. Every once in a while, one or the other of them would glance upwards at the sky, at the cracks which were perceptibly crawling across it.

The sun began to set. He produced several small lanterns from his bag and set them down on the wall, forming a wide circle of illumination. She placed her music box in the centre of that circle, and lightly tapped the top of it. And suddenly, they were not alone: the box grabbed photons out of the air, and reformed them, projecting four abstract figures. Blurry, unfocused musicians, each with a different instrument. For the first time since he’d seen her on the wall, he tried to speak, but found that he couldn’t. She pointed to the box and the phantom band, attempting to explain that the music box pre-emptively cancelled any other sounds. He didn’t understand, but shrugged and seemed to accept it.

The band struck up. She smiled, twirled and laughed silently, the lanternlight reflecting brilliantly from her dress. She hopped up onto the ledge, and beckoned him to follow. Slowly at first, but gathering courage and confidence with each measure the band played, they danced up and down the wall, within their pool of light.

The damage to the sky had reached a critical point, and fragments began to fall. They heard nothing, wrapped up in the music, the flash and whirl of it, the ever-quickening steps. A fragment crashed into the city, and they felt the shockwave. A moment of unsteadiness, but they carried on regardless: dancing under the light of a moon that neither of them had known was there.

Author : Mishal Benson

“This is nuts!” Kitty whispered harshly to her companion, “Why did you bring me here?” He remained silent, framed by the subway’s exit, waiting as she surveyed the scene before her. Am I nuts? She thought. Tall glass buildings rose around her with aluminum sidewalks coiled at their feet beside streets of steel. Just as puzzling as the city before her was the realization that she had no memory of taking the subway to get here, wherever ‘here’ was.

There’s no one else here; is the city abandoned? No cars deserted, litter, or artifacts of lives no longer present. Is it new? No, there was a sense of history and age. The city felt ancient, despite its modern materials and architecture.

Her companion led her towards the tallest building. His black cloak fluttered around his feet; although the hood was thrown back, a featureless mask of white obscured his face from view.

Through the doors, across the lobby and into an elevator, Kitty followed her guide. Arriving on what seemed to be the highest floor, he led her down a hall to a door, with only the simple name plate: “President”. Kitty jumped despite herself as the door opened seemingly of its own accord. Through the door Kitty found herself in a spacious office overlooking the empty city below. Seated comfortably in a capacious burgundy leather chair behind an expanse of very expensive looking desk was the man she assumes was ‘The President’. He closed a file he’d been reading, and handing it to a similarly clothed guide chaperoning an equally confused looking woman.

“Your time has not yet come,” he said. From the desk he produced a basket of flowers, with a card nestled among them. “You saw a lovely landscape with flowers, green grass, tall trees and a beautiful rainbow. Relatives who had come before comforted you and said to return later.” He smiled, handing the woman the basket. She took it, numbly allowing her companion to guide her from the room.

He then turned his attention to Kitty. “Welcome”, he smiled politely beneath dark emotionless eyes. She sensed her companion retreating from her side.

“Where am I?” She demanded, forgoing pleasantries, “What is this place?”

“Where we are has many names, and you may decide on one at your leisure.” He walked towards the all encompassing windows, motioning her to follow. “Come, look, tell me what you see.”

“I see nothing,” she answered, “Where is everyone?”

“They are all here,” he beamed. “Being new you may not see them at first, but one purpose in my greeting newcomers is to open your eyes to see what surrounds you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember how you arrived here?” his question tugging at some recent memory, “What do you remember last?”

“I got off the subway, no I was leaving the subway station, but I don’t remember riding the subway itself.”

“What else? What where you doing before that?”

“I left work early, and was riding home on my bike, listening to Gary Jules on my headset, ‘Mad World’ I think it was, and I’d just crossed the tracks on 14th when…,” she paused, “No. I didn’t cross. I was crossing the tracks, and then I was at the Subway station…then that man brought me here.”

“Look again, tell me what you see.”

“I’ve just told you, nothing…” she stopped, gaping at streets suddenly teeming with cars, sidewalks crowded with people.

He rested a hand on her arm, speaking gently. “The 10:04 train is usually past 14th by the time you get there on your bike.”

Author : Seth Koproski

“Mr. Jones, is it?”

“Yep.”

“Hello. I’m Doctor Jack Worth, head of the research team. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”

“So how much ‘compensation’ will I receive for this?”

“Enough to last you and your village a lifetime, however long that may be.”

“Alright. Must be an important study.”

“It is. Now shall we get started? I want to start this briefing with a question. Have you ever thought about time travel, Mr. Jones?”

“When I was young we used to have some science fiction books with time travel in them, but my mother threw them away when I was real young. Never thought of them much afterwards.”

“Well, I’ve always loved a good science fiction read. What if I told you that we have discovered a way to travel through time?”

“I’d be surprised, but I’d believe you. You’re a scientist.”

“Now what I am going to tell you is completely confidential- in no way can it leave this room. Is that clear?”

“Alright…”

“We, indeed, have found a way to travel through time and return to the present, but! at a certain… cost.” He left his seat and stood up. “Imagine, if you will, a bare room. A husband wants to paint it blue, the wife yellow. The wife, as usual, wins out, and they paint it yellow. The husband hates the color so much that he eventually gets agitated enough to leave her.” He paused. “Imagine these are dramatic people.” He chuckled. “The wife, realizing that all the anger could be traced back to that one decision, decides to time travel backwards and somehow paint the room blue. She does so, and returns to the present, where she is still married to her husband, and they have a happy blue room.

“Now there is one question I’d like to ponder: Did the yellow room ever exist? Surely no, but in actuality- it must have. The wife distinctly remembers it. It was there, she knew. Or did she? It’s all rather absurd and utterly impossible to prove one way or another. Or so we thought.” He was pacing across the room at this point. “Then we found a girl named Dana. Dana Aude. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

“Never in my life.”

“Oh yes, I forgot you’ve been with your village. Dana is a peculiar girl. Very peculiar. She has a mental consciousness that is unheard of. It’s a trait that she alone has, a power to use a special part of her brain to connect to and find any human that has ever existed. She is, although I hate the term, equivalent to a scientifically proven psychic.”

“Huh.”

“Now you’re probably wondering what this has to do with the experiment and all- or have you made the connection? A yellow room cannot tell us if it has existed or not- there is no way to know. However, with a human being and Dana in our laboratory… it’s very possible.”

“But that human would… like the room…”

“Cease to exist. It’s regrettable, but my colleagues and I are willing to push forward. Many lives have been lost in the pursuit of a better world. What was your mother’s name, again?”

“Christy. Christy Jones before and after she was married. Hey, wait… You aren’t going to…!”

“Of course not! We would never dream of it.” The doctor shot a smile. He then tapped his hand on his watch. “Oh, is it that time already? Well, we’ll continue this in an hour. I’ll let you… digest.”

~~~

“Get the machine ready.”

“Of course, Dr. Worth.”

Author : Timothy T. Murphy

Lola heard shuffling footsteps behind her and cursed her laziness. Lingering at shops she could no longer afford, dreaming of days long gone. Now she was out after dark in a bad neighborhood. She was only a few minutes from home, but it only took a few moments for something to go wrong.

She risked a glance back. A limping figure, a girl in torn sweats, hands in her pockets, eyes cast to the ground. There was a heavy scarf around her face and wild shocks of black hair sprouting from under her hood. As she turned, the figure stopped and turned to look in another direction.

She hurried her pace, her breath heavy. The shuffled steps behind her quickened, and she began to really panic. She cast her eyes, looking for some escape, someone sympathetic in a window, even a light on, but found none.

Half a block ahead, a door opened, and voices spoke. Boys, rough-looking and drunken. She stepped back quickly, eyes on the boys, and was grabbed from behind. Her follower pulled her back fast, a gloved hand over her mouth, pulled her into the alley and spun her around, pressing her against the wall. Through the folds of the scarf, Lola saw eyes that were brown, bloodshot, and determined.

A shushing gesture and the girl glanced around the corner, back towards the boys. Lola’s chest tightened unbearably and she shook. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to open her purse for her pills, but the bag dropped from her trembling fingers.

The girl looked down at the bag, then up at Lola’s ashen face. Seeming to understand, she picked up the purse. Lola watched, dumbfounded, as the girl flipped through its contents, leaving the wallet and taking out her pills. These, the girl opened and gave to her.

She stared numb as the girl went back to watching the boys. After a moment, the girl saw her and tapped the pill bottle for emphasis before looking back at the street. Lola took out two pills and swallowed them dry.

A moment more, and the voices died away. The young girl stepped back and faced Lola, bowing respectfully.

“Thank you,” Lola told her.

The figure reached out a gloved hand towards her hesitantly and Lola started to back away. The girl waited patiently, though, like she was dealing with a frightened animal. She stood still, then, and the girl reached up to pull a single hair from Lola’s head. She stretched it out, holding it up to examine, and seemed to smile under her scarf. Turning back to Lola, she held up the hair in one hand and with the other, tapped on the pill bottle, a question in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Lola told her, and the girl pushed the bottle towards Lola and pulled the hair to her own chest. “Yes, it’s fair,” she nodded.

The girl smiled, and bowed respectfully. She glanced back out at the street one last time, and waved Lola on, then turned to shuffle down the alleyway.

Lola ran the rest of the way home and locked herself in.

Sheevey lay the precious hair under her tongue and cursed her laziness. One day she must learn this species’ languages. She’d nearly scared that poor woman to death.

Her saliva broke down the hair and the microscopic bots in her tongue dissembled the D.N.A. inside it. In moments, the pain in her hips faded and she could walk better. A fair trade, she’d thought. Medicine for medicine.