365 tomorrows

Author : William Tracy, Featured Writer

The royal palace was mostly quiet. It was late afternoon, and the heat from the desert sun drove all but a few guards to seek shade. Even construction on Pharaoh’s great pyramid on the far side of the Nile had halted for the day.

A woman, face twisted in anger, strode purposefully toward one of the palace’s grand entrances. The guards, armed with spears and swords, stepped forward to intercept her. She extended her arm, and a sword with a blade of violet flame materialized in her hand. With inhuman speed, she dispatched the guardsmen and entered the palace.

She hiked briskly to the royal chambers, and threw open the doors. There the mighty Pharaoh, a god on earth, lounged on a couch next to His favorite wife. He started in surprise and horror, and His great crown tumbled to the floor.

Consumed with fury, the woman beheaded Pharaoh’s wife with a single stroke of her fiery weapon.

“All this time, you had another wife here?” she yelled. “How could you do this?”

For a moment Pharaoh sat, dumbstruck. Then He frantically tried to gesture to someone behind the intruder.

She swung around, and saw two naked children. “You had kids?!”

With two strokes, she killed and mutilated one of the children. The other turned and fled rapidly; the woman then threw her sword like a javelin, impaling the boy.

“That is it!” she screamed. “I have had it with you! You can stay in your virtual reality and rot for all I care! I am leaving you!” she flickered and disappeared.

Pharaoh glanced around wide-eyed. The royal entourage stood motionless, petrified. For several moments the god-king tried to regain His composure, then gave up. He terminated the simulation.

After all, Pharaoh can’t allow His people to see Him cry.

Author : William Tracy, Featured Writer

A lone figure swung precariously from the side of a sky-scraping tower, painfully inching his way up a rope.

That tower and others stood in rows, crowding out the sky. Their sides gleamed silver, studded with large, black windows. The streets below were lit as much by flickering lamps as by the slivers of sunlight that scraped past the immense buildings. The dark streets teemed with bustling people clothed in rags. The occasional horseless carriage pushed through the crowd, horn squawking.

High above the metropolis, bloated dirigibles drifted lazily from one tower to the next. None paid heed to the tiny figure crawling up one of the great buildings, skulking in the shadows.

He smashed a steel-toed boot through a window. He rolled through the hole, and rose to a kneeling position. He paused, listening for the footsteps of golems—the dead reanimated galvanically to become the mindless servants of the powerful.

Satisfied that he was undetected, he moved swiftly through the halls and passageways toward his objective.

He opened a door to a teetering catwalk. In the vast chamber below him, rows of massive transformers and dynamos repeated on and on, bolts of electricity leaping from one to the next. A single steel column in the center of the room stretched from the floor to the ceiling, intersecting the catwalk. At that place was a knife switch. The lone figure walked forward and reached for the switch.

“I don’t think that you want to do that.” A sharply dressed man stood behind the lone figure, flanked by two golems bearing electricity guns. Two more golems emerged at the far end of the walkway, cutting off any escape.

“If you throw that switch, you will short-circuit the generators below you. The explosion could destroy the entire building.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

“Do you have any idea what I am doing here, and what is at stake?” The man in the suit searched the other’s eyes. “I am creating mankind’s ultimate invention. I am building a machine that will change history.”

“You are building a computer. A machine that can perform mathematics.”

“But it is so much more! I am building something unparalleled in human endeavor: A machine that can think! Can you imagine what this means? Our creations will do our work for us. Humanity will live by the fruits of its ingenuity, and we will create a new utopia.”

“Your machines will work for you, and replace us. You will have no more use for the poor, and will then destroy us.”

The man in the suit sneered. “The poor are not my fault. I built my wealth by my talents and my labors. I have given up my leisure, my health, and my family for it. It is mine for I have earned it.” He laughed without humor. “Why should the poor be entitled to what they have not earned? They have done nothing to deserve a better life for themselves.”

“I am doing something now.” He threw the switch.

Author : William Tracy, Featured Writer

1165 Third Street is quiet, as it has been quiet for over a century.

Once, its two hundred floors housed accountants, engineers, executives and staffers. Its occupants ebbed and flowed with the fickle whims of the economy.

All that ended with the Great Collapse.

Gone are the desk phones and paperwork. Here are mildew and insects. Once-plush offices have become dank caves home to skittering vermin. The gleaming plate glass windows have given way to jagged holes whistling in the wind. In sunlit corners, mosses give birth to grass.

1165 Third Street groans. Its steel skeleton cries one last plea against the indignity of neglect, then is silent. For one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three, it drops from the sky.

On the second floor, a deer leaps from a gaping window and bounds to safety. On the forty-second floor, an owl awakens in time to know its own mortality. On the fifty-third floor, a lynx screams for its kittens. On the one hundred thirty-seventh floor, a hawk spreads its wings and lunges for the sky.

On the roof, a lone tree twists in the wind. A mouse scurries in its shadow, then squeals as the ground drops from beneath it.

1165 Third Street drives into the earth with a roar. All around, waves of blackbirds and crows rush aloft. Beneath them, deer and jackrabbits bound down the cracked and pitted streets. A black cloud rolls after them, raining shards of glass and metal.

The boom fades to a dull rumble, and the air is filled with the scolding and chattering of birds.

The rubble moans and settles. Here a chunk of plaster skips through a maze of metal. There an I-beam seesaws hesitatingly before sliding to its resting place.

The wind changes direction, and the clouds of dust part. The setting sun burns crimson through the haze, and the ruins cast long shadows on the murky air.

A deer steps deliberately, nose twitching, ears alert. A coyote snuffles through the twisted debris, then dashes after a rodent.

The old financial district is quiet, as it has been quiet for over a century.

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Featured Writer

Klaxons screamed inside the ship as she plunged into the Sun. The three crew members on the main flight deck were violently shaken in their couches. Their Kevlar straps strained under the onslaught.

“We’re entering the upper photosphere.” That statement could not have been heard above the painful noise had it not been for the bone conductive communicators implanted in their parietal bones.

“What’s the hull temperature,” commander Stanislaw asked.

No reply came.

“Damnit, what’s the reading,” he barked.

“Sorry Mik, my mistake. There are no readings, nothing is working back here. The way I see it, is that when our skin gets a nice brown crispy texture, we’ll know the hull’s been breached..”

“Thanks for that bit of optimism Al. Isn’t anything working?” Mikhail Stanislaw, mission commander, was amazed at how calm the guys seemed despite their impending death.

“I have nothing on my screens Cap,” replied mission specialist Beth Svoboda, “But it sure as hell is getting warm in here.” The sound of her shaking voice coupled with the rumble of the ship reminded Mik of talking with his mother as a boy while the train they rode rumbled across the tracks into Moscow.

A horrendous wrenching noise tore through the cockpit. Al Dane was the first to identify the crash. “Sounds like we just lost the colony pod. There go three hundred people who won’t ‘Enjoy Paradise in the Off World Colonies,’” he finished mimicking the now familiar mantra of the omnipresent emigration ads.

“At least they won’t feel anything. Lucky bastards. Straight from cryo to crispy in two seconds or less, or your next cremation is free.” Beth remarked in her sing song voice.

“It will be the same for us right?” The first quaver of concern was evident in Al’s voice. “”We’ll go painlessly right?”

Mik answered without emotion, heedless or unaware of his comrades fears. “Never fear, ours is a sturdy craft. She can take temperatures far higher than the pod. No my friend, I fear that our end will not come so quickly. The heat will continue to build until we are literally boiled in our own fluids. Then we shall slowly be dry roasted. After that, all that  remains will be three piles of anhydrous powder left to be borne upon the solar winds.”

“Hey, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m nothing more than a glorified bus driver. Who’s idea was it to loop the Sun instead of Jupiter.” Al’s voice was reaching a sharp crescendo.

“Relax,” said Beth in her slow calming voice, “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do. It will all be over soon. Look at it this way, in a hundred years, who’s going to care?

The ship, if it were possible, seemed to rock more violently. “Well, looks as if this is it. Das vidanya everybody.”

“See you on the other side,” piped in Beth cheerfully.

“Gaack,” said Al.

The craft shook so violently, it felt as if she would b torn apart. Kevlar straps did break. The few instruments that weren’t built into the ship became deadly missiles

And as quickly as it had begun it ceased. No noise, no sense of motion, nothing.

Nobody spoke for what seemed an eternity. Al broke the silence. “So, this is it?”

“Apparently,” Beth responded.

“It’s not so bad.” He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. “Hey, remember those Orange Julius stands they had when we were kids?”

“Yeah, what about them?” An almost dreamlike mask had descended upon Beth’s features.

“I Think I’m gonna get me one.”

“Hey Al?”

“Yeah Mik.”

“Get me one too.”

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Featured Writer

When the last Earthmen landed on the Martian surface, they would have sworn they were suffering from some form of mass hallucination or hysteria. Perhaps the ship had taken a hit from a micro meteor and the crew was succumbing to asphyxiation induced delusions, but all appeared to be having the same dream. It was as if they had walked into a Ray Bradbury story. Wherever they looked they saw lush verdant hills and valleys forested with exceedingly tall, thin trees of deep blue and green.

Joe Webster, the team’s medical specialist, cracked his helmet and drew a deep breath. “Well, the air is thin but okay. It’s kind of like being in the Rockies .” His voice was weak in the lean atmosphere. The rest removed their helmets.

“Hey, uh…Captain? This looks more like Iowa than Mars,” systems analyst Ray Rowe remarked. The four men looked around in wonder and awe rather than shock or surprise. “Did we somehow make a mistake?”

“No mistake. That’s Earth there,” Lt. Metz replied pointing upward to the twilight sky. “Captain. What do you think?”

“Well, whatever is going on here, I think we are about to get some answers,” Captain Drexler remarked, looking off into the distance.

The other three followed his gaze as a procession of brilliantly robed figures approached them. The people, creatures, Martians, whatever the hell, drew to a halt before the delegation from Earth. They were tall, something over two meters, with large ears, and nostrils much like a seals that opened and shut with each breath. They had blond hair with gleaming violet streaks. Apart from these differences, they looked remarkably human.

The two groups regarded one another for a few moments. The humans with confusion, the Martians with quiet contemplation. Finally one Martian, resplendent in flowing blue and red robes of a shimmering material spoke up.

“Welcome men of Earth. Long have we awaited this day. You come on a very auspicious occasion. And, I might add, a very lucky time for you.. Come, the feast awaits.” The voice boomed even in the rareified air.

Without another word the “Welcoming Committee” turned and left. In shocked silence the men followed.

The mixed group entered a crowded hall constructed of iridescent stone and were seated around a grand banquet table of the same material. The table itself was laden with deliciously tempting dishes.

Captain Drexler turned to his host at his left. “Excuse me…er…”

“Call me Bob.”

“Okay, um…Bob. From Earth observations and the photographs from our probes we assumed Mars to be…,”

“A lifeless, desolate, desert planet,” the Martian asked.

“Well, yes.”

“We can deceive your instruments, but not your natural senses. Mars is as you see it. Now please, eat. I am sure that will you find the food is not only edible, but quite palatable as well.”

The men followed the example of their gracious host and dove into the feast sans utensils. To their delight they found the food to be beyond anything they had ever tasted before, as if all their lives they had had only water and were given a vintage wine for the first time.

As they ate, their host stood and raised his hand to silence the assembled crowd. “Fellow astronomers, cosmologists, and our special guests. Tonight is an historic occasion in our field, for tonight marks the destruction of Earth.”

The four Earthmen choked on their meals. “WHAT,” they exclaimed as one, showering the table with partially chewed food.

“Oh yes,” their host said, turning to his guests, “Earth must be destroyed. It’s obstructing our view of Venus.”

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Featured Writer

“Goddamn it, this is the seventh time this week that this goddamn machine has stolen money from me,” Joe screamed, feebly punching the mechanical purveyor of carbonated beverages, “the goddamn thing has more of my money than I do.”

“Then stop putting your money in it. Now come on, we’ve got to go, she‘s coming back tomorrow, so we only have a little time. We have to get to the lab,” Jess scolded. They made their way down a long corridor and across the cavernous testing area to the lab proper, a corner of a warehouse walled off on two sides with green parachute material.

Pushing aside the flimsy material, Joe entered on the silent wheels of his chair, his partner and fiancé Jessica marching swiftly behind. The rest of Dr. Stewart’s grad students were already there, and jumped up as they entered.

“Good, everybody’s here. What was the doc thinking, leaving us in charge while she is away at the symposium. Well, when the cats away…” Steve Bloch remarked as he reached out to wring Joe’s hand. “Ready for a joy ride buddy?” They shared a wolfish grin.

“Alright people, let’s fire him up.” Christopher and Christine (Chris and Chris) Carlysle, fraternal twins, formerly identical twins, raced to a pair of terminals while Jess smeared saline paste over Joes skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages,” Steve bellowed in his best ring master voice. “Allow me to present Skeletor,” with a grand flourish, he pulled a canvass from the large cloaked object dominating the small lab.

“I don’t believe it,” Jessica exclaimed. “When did you manage to finish it?”

“Joe and I spent the better part of last week on it since she’s been gone. Joe worked on biofeedback loops, and I finished this end up about an hour ago. What do you think?”

All stared in hushed silence. “It’s …beautiful.” The Chris’s whispered in unison.

Before them, in gleaming black stood Skeletor; a bio-mechanical hydraulic exo-skeleton. At nine feet tall and four wide, the skeleton was composed primarily of nano plastic woven of industrial diamond dust. A recently formulated ultra strong material commonly employed as ballistic armour and heat shielding for ship to shore spacecraft.

“Okay Joe, ready to try it on?”

“You don’t know how ready,” he said, slamming his fists down on his useless legs.

It took all four of the students to get Joe into the skeleton, the process made more difficult by the slick but necessary saline gel that covered Joe’s body. It was used to facilitate the neural mechanical interface.

A strap bristling with wires was secured to his forehead, and similar attachments were tightened around his arms and legs as he slipped his hands into thick gloves. All of these devices were lined with metal contacts similar to dull needle points to receive his mental input.

“Joe, how does it feel?” Jess asked

“The contacts are annoying but not unbearable.” He took a few tentative steps. “Balance is good, gyros are working.” He crouched down, and leapt five feet into the air. The others cheered. “Well, so far so good, let’s try a little test of strength.”

Joe raised his mechanical arms above his head, and shook them at the ceiling. “Vengeance is mine,” he screamed and sprinted to the heavy warehouse doors. He easily ripped them off their hinges and tossed them aside. He stooped below the lintel, and disappeared down the hall, howling obscenities all the way.

The remaining four stood in shocked silence.

“Shit.”

Steve, still stunned, turned to Jessica, “What is it?”

“He’s going after the Coke machine.”

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Featured Writer

In the cavernous interior of the ships main docking bay, three coffin like tanks came to life. Inside each, the senior officers of The Crimson Lady were resuscitated. The tank lids retracted and a thin mist spilled to the floor, swirling among the thousand other sarcophagi that littered the hanger. In each was a member of the 1st/110th 28th Infantry Division (m).

Slowly, the men began to stir. Finally released from the frozen half life of cryostasis, Division Commander Sergei Orlof, his XO Lieutenant Colonel John Derbyshire and division CSM Paul Walker painfully stepped from their tanks for the first time in nearly eighteen months.

Rubbing the knots out of his calves, Sergeant Major Walker checked the comlink tattooed on his left wrist. “What the hell? We’ve been in orbit for almost thirty six hours. Why weren’t we defrosted earlier?”

General Orlof sat down heavily on the edge of his tank, and worked the kinks out of his massive shoulders. “Well, it doesn’t look like anybody’s been taking pot shots at us. Better get to the bridge and find out just what the hell is going on.”

The bridge of the carrier was worn from countless battles but remained spotless. Dust doesn’t settle in micro-g. The exec plopped down in his chair, and fishing a lead from the base of his skull, plugged into his console. He sat motionless, a blank look on his face as he absorbed a year and a half of encrypted messages from the Confederation council.

After what seemed hours, but in reality was something less than thirty seconds, the executive officer turned to face the men and delivered the message.

“Your not going to believe this. Apparently peace has broken out.”

“What,” Orlof bellowed, “are you sure about that?”

“Yes sir, the orders are straight from the Supreme Council. We are to stand down, and return to Earth. The Asiatic Alliance has sued for peace. The war is over. That would explain why weren’t attacked when we entered orbit. What should I tell them,” the young colonel asked.

The general looked over at the Divisional Command Sergeant Major. The two regarded each other coldly. They had been friends from the first, the CSM merely a buck sergeant placed in charge of the general’s barracks, and the general still a green officer cadet. Both nodded their heads in unison.

The General flipped open a small panel set in the arm of his command chair, and flipped a red toggle.

Below on Europa, above the Tesla Dome of the Asiatic Alliance colony of Thera, the vast face of Jupiter dominated the view. Children played in the parks, and the colonists went about their daily rituals lost in their thoughts.

If one of the colonists happened to be looking at just the right spot in the sky, they might have noticed an almost imperceptible pinprick of light detach itself from a larger yet still tiny point.

Slowly the speck grew, until it blossomed just above the dome, a breathtakingly beautiful flower that bathed the colony in the brilliance of thermonuclear fire.

With a grin the general turned to his XO. “Tell them; `Please repeat last message.’”

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

Jimmy lost his pinky finger today. I can’t wait ’til I lose mine. Mommy says it’s gonna happen sooner or later. Sometimes I daydream about it—what it’d be like to lose my arm, my foot, my fingers and hands.

The kids at school, Billy Zemicks and Janna Clebold and Harvey Valencia, they came in last week missing an eye, a toe, an ear. Not all at the same time, of course, but pretty darn close. It was like they were the most popular people in school. Everybody wanted to see them, touch the places where their parts had been and ask what it felt like.

Jimmy was in the bathroom, having the Oralator brush his teeth for him when his pinky fell off. I asked him if it hurt. He said it didn’t, and then he spat into the sink. A couple of his teeth went down the drain.

Our teacher Mrs. Crabtree says it’s all part of our natural progression. What scientists a hundred years ago were calling evolution. Only backwards. It’s kinda hard to explain, but it’s got something to do with how we used to be monkeys, and how we grew into humans. We made wheels and fire and then we made computers and cars. Then we figured out a way for machines and inventions to do everything for us.

So I asked Jimmy if he was gonna celebrate, and he said, “Nah, I’m just gonna chill out in front of the tube.” I followed him to the living room where he sat down next to Mommy and Daddy. They were watching TV while the SofAid fed them. Jimmy told Mommy and Daddy about his pinky.

Mrs. Crabtree said, “Over millions of years, creatures can gain or lose abilities and appendages based on necessity and survival.” She told us all this while holding up a stump where her hand used to be.

When Jimmy told Mommy and Daddy about his finger, the SofAid connected him to the Network. Then it inserted a needle into his arm and began to feed him breakfast. Daddy said, “That’s great, son! You’re on your way to becoming a man.”

On TV, the news reporters said it was happening everywhere, and that it boggled all the scientists in the world. Evolution was supposed to happen after a long time, not right away. Not like this.

They said we should embrace this new wonder of humanity. They said, “Imagine, no longer feeling the need to sleep! Or eat! Or copulate!” We still needed to sleep and eat, of course, but they said it was always a possibility. That was one of the great things about evolution.

I still don’t know what copulate means, though. Maybe I won’t have to. It sounds gross.

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

My brother used to tell me about the glory days, when the Government was less unified and there was more than a single state. Usually what he told me went along with what they taught us at the Academy in history class, but sometimes he’d add little details here and there. Things they didn’t include in their presentations.

This was after he’d joined the Military, served a couple of tours and came back. He was different when he returned. Told me and Mama that he’d seen his nightmares come to life during that time, that we just wouldn’t understand. Not long after is when he’d start telling me about the way things used to be. About how there used to be actual television broadcasts with fictional plots. He called them “sitcoms.”

We had this car. A real zoomer. Old rust-bucket from the 20th. He bought it before he was recruited, and before he left for duty I told him we’d fix it up when he came back. I didn’t expect him to return, but he did. Sometimes I think maybe it would’ve been best if he hadn’t.

One day, while we were both on our backs underneath the old GT, my brother told me that I should stop taking the supplements.

He said, “There’s more in them than just serotonin.”

I told him we had to by law, that we’d be in big trouble if we didn’t, but he just chuckled. He told me people used to read for enjoyment. The last book I actually saw was in an antique shop downtown.

“They didn’t have to outlaw books,” he said. “Back in the day, a lot of people wrote about futures where governments banned books. They were wrong. People just stopped giving a shit. Channel Zero took care of the rest.”

He took the ratchet from my hand and looked me in the eye.

He said, “This country was built on revolution. They want you to forget that. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Two days after he killed himself I was out working on the car to clear my head. Mama came to me, her eyes all puffy from crying, and gave me a letter. No name or return address. Just had my own name scrawled across the front. The letter simply said:

“Warehouse 27. Corner of Reed and Pine. Wednesday. 11 PM.”

And then, below that, it said:

“Your brother was a good friend.”

I was told my entire life not to break curfew. Two hours of Channel Zero were mandatory. We were always supposed to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior, and I’d heard about what happened to those who were caught in the streets after hours.

What my brother told me underneath the car that day stuck with me, and I wanted to know who sent this letter, so I managed to sneak out. I took to the alleys and the old routes I used to follow when I was a kid.

Warehouse 27 wasn’t empty. There were a lot of young men like me there. There was a lot of anti-Government propaganda tacked to the walls. After a few minutes, the doors were closed, and several soldiers and patrol officers filed into the room.

One man in a black uniform stepped forward and said, “You’re all under arrest for conspiring against the Government.”

Everyone murmured. We knew we’d been had.

“High treason is punishable by execution,” he said, “or by four years of Military service. The choice is yours.”

The soldiers cocked their rifles and took aim. I realized then what my brother was talking about, and why he enlisted in the first place.

The choice was obvious. I just wish I’d had time to say goodbye to Mama, and that I’d finished that damn rust-bucket car.

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

Mr. Serling entered the cafe and took a seat at the bar. He ordered the lunch special which, for that day, was a bowl of vegetable soup, carrot sticks and a peanut butter sandwich.

His arrival did not go unnoticed. Rob watched from his booth table while his girlfriend, Mary, nursed her coffee.

“Rod Serling is an alien.”

Rob chewed his lip as he made his confession. Mary set down her cup of coffee, glanced around the cafe and lit a cigarette. She blinked.

“Your neighbor is an alien?”

“Yes, I’m telling you, he’s a damned alien and he’s right there.”

Mary took a drag and exhaled a plume of smoke. She regarded poor old Mr. Serling’s aged back and smiled.

“You’ve been smoking too much, man. Not the ciggies, either.”

“No, Mary, I’m serious. Here–”

Rob produced a brass pocket watch. Mary smirked.

“It’s a watch, Rob.”

“No, it’s not just any watch. I found this in his front yard.”

“You were snooping in that poor old man’s front yard?”

“No. Well, maybe. Yeah, anyway, look–this watch stops time. Just like in that old Twilight Zone episode.”

From his seat at the bar, Mr. Serling uttered a low belch and opened up a copy of the morning newspaper.

“Rob, you’ve been doing more than smoking. Did you drop that acid last night after I left?”

“I’m serious, Mary. Look.”

“Rob, it’s a damn watch. Now, I want you to go over there and return that man’s property. Tell him you found it and think it belongs to him.”

“But Mary, he’s an alien!”

This last outburst attracted the attention of several cafe patrons. Mr. Serling was too absorbed in his newspaper to notice.

Mary put out her cigarette in the ashtray and placed her hand on Rob’s.

“Honey. I love you, but I swear to God Almighty, if you don’t stop watching those reruns on TV, I’m going to kick you in the ass. The real Rod Serling died in the 70s. You know that. That guy–”

She pointed at old man Serling.

“–just happens to have the same name. That guy’s not even related. You know that. I know that. Now go return his watch before I smack you.”

“Mary, you’ve seen the shit that goes on next door some nights. You’ve seen things float into the sky and hover and the flashing lights and–”

“Rob, I’ve been stoned out of my mind and seen elephants eclipse the sun. He is not an alien. You’re just paranoid and weird. Now go return the damn watch.”

Rob snatched the watch from the table and rose. He marched over to the bar where his neighbor Mr. Serling sat chewing a peanut butter sandwich.

“M-Mr. Serling?”

The old man swiveled in his seat and faced Rob.

“Yes?”

“I, uh, well, see, I was walking along and I found this–”

Rob held up the watch. Mr. Serling’s eyes brightened.

“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I’d lost it forever. Thank you, young man.”

Mr. Serling took the pocket watch. He opened the cover, stared with gentle amusement at its ticking face, and then pressed the stop button.

Everything froze.

He rose from his seat, left a couple of dollars on the bar and left the cafe in its frozen state. Above, birds hovered still in the air, while cars and people stood in place.

Rod Serling surveyed the street corner, smiled and nodded. His work here was done. He pulled back his sleeve, tapped his wristwatch, and promptly vanished into another dimension..

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

It’s the smell that gets to me. Agent Lennox ducks his head out from the kitchen just in time to watch me vomit into the hall.

“You okay, Church?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Just peachy-keen.”

The smell is that of burning meat Inside the kitchen are the remains of tenant #62 Jim Hollerbach. That horrid smell is from his insides coiled and plopped into a frying pan.

I check my sensory inhibitor, thumb it to olfactory and I’m good to go.

Agent Lennox’s phone rings. He taps the earpiece.

“Lennox,” he answers. “You’re shitting me. I’ll send Church over in a minute.”

He taps the earpiece again to disconnect and motions to me.

“The perp lives down the hall. Tenant #41. Guy jacked his line and set it on a loop.”

“He looped?”

The inhibitor gives me a metallic taste in my mouth.

“Yeah,” Lennox says. “Blind analog feed. Should be down the hall to your right. Go check it out. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

I give the remains of Mr. Hollerbach a passing glance before I leave the room. My stomach twists, but nothing creeps up my esophagus.

The Government requires inhibitors for situations like this. Dulling the senses is required to perform an Agent’s duties—or so they tell us in training. It sure beats the hell out of puking.

The serotonin, they tell us, is to enhance community morale.

Agents like myself and Lennox aren’t required to take the supplements. The inhibitors do it for us.

Walking down the hallway, it hits me. Analog. That’s not a word you hear very much these days. The SmartCams are wired to an all-digital encrypted network, and knowing how to bypass that encryption with old technology would require extensive old-world knowledge.

Printed literature took a backseat after the invention of Channel Zero. Rather than face scrutiny and ridicule during such a turbulent time, the Government chose to reinforce a blind eye toward printed material, instead pumping all its resources into the necessity of the single channel. It made more sense to divert the public’s attention rather than force them to give up reading.

It worked, too. People stopped reading. They stopped caring. Books were no longer a danger because no one gave a damn anyway.

Tenant #41—tonight’s murderer—isn’t home, but he left behind the blueprints for his own design.

I step past the forensics team, tug on a pair of gloves and thumb through the first book I see. Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.

Every wall in the apartment is outfitted with makeshift shelving. Books—at least a thousand—decorate the room. It’s an antiquarian’s dream collection.

“Lennox,” I say, and tap my earpiece.

He answers, and I tell him to conduct a search on all the local antique shops. When he asks why, I tell him.

“Because it looks like our perp is a reader.”

“Oh shit.”

I disconnect and put down the book.

The Government thought they could sweep this under the rug. That if people stopped caring about books, there would be no reason to take away that particular “freedom,” and no cause for alarm or rebellion.

Staring at the home of this murderous reader, I realize the Government has made a gross miscalculation.

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

Dr. Watson and Dr. Blair watched as the orderlies interned the patient in observation room three.

Dr. Blair scratched absently at the back of his hand.

“So,” Dr. Watson said, “what’s his story?”

He gestured to the nameless patient in the straightjacket. Both orderlies left him in one corner of the padded room and closed the door behind them. The doctors stared at the young man through the observation window.

Dr. Blair grimaced, cleared his throat and said, “Wandered into the clinic this morning. No name, no ID.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No,” Dr. Blair went on. “He sat in the ER for two and a half hours before we could squeeze anything out of him. Even then, it was nothing but inane babble. Something about aliens.”

Dr. Watson smirked.

“You should be used to that in your neck of the woods.”

Dr. Blair continued to scratch the back of his hand. The skin was red and puffy.

“Damn kids come in from college, drive up to Archuleta Mesa to get stoned and look for the ‘lost military base.’ All they find is a hangover.”

“Lost military base?”

“Yeah,” Dr. Blair said. He kept scratching. The skin turned a dark reddish-purple from his consistent agitation. “Local myth. Sort of like Area 51 up in Nevada, but this base is underground, just north of Dulce. They say it has seven levels. Level seven is where aliens supposedly perform genetic experiments on human beings. Or some shit like that.”

Dr. Watson turned back to the observation window. The nameless kid slowly rocked back and forth. Blood dribbled down from a large, bulbous boil on his forehead.

“That’s one hell of a zit.”

Dr. Blair gasped as he drew blood from the back of his hand. Dr. Watson turned and frowned.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in my office. Walk with me.”

The two doctors left the observation ward.

Dr. Blair continued his story.

“Funny thing is, the kid isn’t stoned. Not as far as I can tell. When we finally got him to speak, all we could get out of him was a bunch of babbling and crazy talk.”

“What did he say?”

“Typical Archuleta bullshit. Went up with a few friends, dropped some acid, got separated. He said he found his way into the underground base and was led down to the seventh level where, and I quote, ‘E.T. revealed the greatest secret of all.’”

They entered Dr. Watson’s office, who proceeded to dig out the first aid kit. He chewed his bottom lip as he bandaged Dr. Blair’s wounded hand.

“Are you okay, doctor?”

“Yeah,” Dr. Blair nodded. “Just a rash. Shouldn’t have scratched it like that.”

Both men sat.

“Anyway,” Dr. Watson said, “what’s this big secret?”

Dr. Blair tried to refrain from smiling, but not hard enough.

“The kid says an alien told him he was the messenger. That he would send a ‘great revelation’ back to his race. Whatever that may be, I have no idea. That boil on his forehead has swollen to twice its size since this morning. He kept picking at it, which caused it to bleed. When we tried to treat it, he grew violent and attacked one of my nurses.”

“Odd.”

“Indeed.”

Dr. Blair rubbed his bandaged hand and rose from his seat.

“I’ve contacted the local police. Hopefully they can help track down his identity. I assume he’s in good hands here?”

“Of course,” Dr. Watson smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”

He saw his friend to the door. As he returned to his desk, Dr. Watson wiped sweat from his brow and felt a slight bump upon his forehead.

It itched and throbbed at his touch.

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

Colt was a block from his apartment when the curfew alarms went off. The firing klaxon startled him, and he dropped his smokes. Heart pounding, he retrieved them and ducked into a nearby alley.

It wasn’t long before the first patrol sped by, its rifles poised and searchlights tracking the darkened streets ahead.

He curled up beside a dumpster, flipped his collar and tried to keep warm. The smokes helped. He scolded himself for losing track of time. The bookstore down by the square had enticed him yet again. It wasn’t until the owner, Mr. Drabury, pulled the shades that he realized what time it was. Drabury told him the local alarm was damaged in a riot a couple of days prior.

Gunshots echoed from somewhere farther down the street. Colt wasn’t alone in breaking the curfew.

More shots. Then again, he supposed, maybe he was.

After the hum of the patrol’s engine grew distant, Colt rose to his feet, lifted the lid of the dumpster and climbed in. The smell was horrid and he fought the urge to retch. The feeling of nausea passed after a few minutes, and he reminded himself that spending the night there was safer than trying to dodge the patrols for that last, crucial city block.

Not that it mattered. The master locks in his apartment promptly engaged at curfew. All of his neighbors were safe inside their homes, spending time with their families and worshiping Channel Zero for the required two hours.

Colt reached into his pocket and pulled out the FM transmitter. He affixed it to his ear and thumbed the dial in search of the right frequency. Suddenly his head was filled with the rants of the self-proclaimed Mad Man.

Authorities were still trying to track him down. Rumors circulated that he never transmitted from the same location, and never with the same encryption. After the collapse of the nationwide radio network twenty years ago upon federal implementation of the FCSA and SmartCam installations, the “Mad Man” set up a single broadcast. He brought back the music of the previous century, before it was “tainted by lack of creativity.” He preached, he hounded, he ridiculed the Network and the Government and the apathy created by both.

Colt liked him. He took a drag from his cigarette and lifted up the lid to exhale the smoke.

The Mad Man screeched in his ear.

“–and what do they do for ya, people? You sit at home at night, after you’ve worked yer ass off for the man all damn day, and they expect you to watch this so-called ‘Channel Zero’. They say you’re doing the country a favor. Well I say you’re spying for the man. You’re spyin’ on yer fellow countrymen. It’s sick. It’s disgusting. And if you agree with it, then you’re no fuckin’ different.”

Colt bit his cheeks and fought back laughter. He wanted to cheer on the Mad Man, but the dumpster was already vibrating from a nearby patrol.

“And speaking of spying, people, did any of you catch the broadcast over a Network secure channel a few hours ago? They say there was a murder on Grid Four. Guy knifed to death right there while everybody wat–”

A series of pops erupted in the background. The Mad Man gasped.

“Looks like my cover’s up, ladies and gentlemen. ‘Till next time, I bid you all adieu—and wake the fuck up!.”

The frequency went dead. Colt sighed, finished his cigarette and put it out against the wall of the dumpster. He wrapped his arms around himself, positioned himself as comfortably as possible amid the bags of rotting garbage, and closed his eyes.

Without the voice of the Mad Man in his ears, it would be a very long night.

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

From: Mason, Ed

Sent: Saturday, August 22, 2154 8:02 AM

To: Mason, Brandy

Subject: RE: When are you coming home?

Dear Brandy,

I told them this was a bad idea.

After over a hundred years of planning, the eggheads in Houston finally sent us to Mars. We get there, set up a solid base, and conduct tests. Then some genius decides to go dig at one of the ice caps. You know, to see if they can find some kind of geological evidence of extraterrestrial life.

They expected to find some frozen microbes, bacteria, or even a frozen bipedal creature at best. What they did find, though, wasn’t in the guidebook.

When I was a kid I thought Mars looked like this giant ball of rust and dirt. And, to be honest, that’s what it is—rust and dirt. On the surface, anyway. Go about a mile below ground, and you’ll stumble upon an intricate network of metallic tunnels and tubes. You’ll find what looks to be an intricate propulsion system powered by an advanced form of fusion.

Or something like that. This was twenty years ago. I’m just one of the gearheads they shot out here to get it working.

Most things were up and running by the time I got here. The only thing they hadn’t figured out was how an advanced civilization had managed to construct—and move—a craft the size of a planet. Something so large it has its own moons. To be honest, I really don’t give a damn. I’m just here to do my job and get back home.

There’s a single chamber a few hundred clicks from the first entrance point. The eggheads have dubbed it the “control room” due to a large panel with several asymmetric shapes that glow in the presence of an EMP charge.

So when I took a look at the crude drawings and blueprints they’d provided and came to the conclusion that none of us had a single clue as to how to operate this thing, I told them that maybe we shouldn’t mess with it.

Maybe we should just let Mars be a planet. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

They didn’t listen. Instead they told me to press the big oblong-shaped thing on the panel with an EMP emitter. Since these guys are signing my paychecks, I figure hey, what the hell, you know?

So I push the button.

That was four hours ago. Reports came in from several other outposts that some volcanoes spewed to life around the same time they made me push the button. That solved the exhaust enigma.

Now the eggheads are running around, barking orders and figures and trajectories and shit. Now they say planet-side effects of this sudden gain in momentum is going to screw with the gravity and cause surface-wide destruction.

They’re telling all surface-dwelling associates to head underground.

So all that rust and dirt, well, it kind of makes sense to me. Let’s say some advanced species built a big spaceship. They took it out for a joyride several billion years ago and ran out of gas. There sure as hell wasn’t any AAA back then.

Anyway, from the looks of things, these intergalactic geniuses didn’t understand the concept of brakes, because the eggheads can’t figure out a way to slow it down.

Looks like I’ll make it home in time for Jimmy’s birthday after all. I know he wanted a hovercar, but you tell him Dad’s bringing him something even better. He doesn’t even need keys to turn it on.

Love you,

Ed

[-MESSAGE DELIVERED-]

Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer

12:16

A killer enters the room. No one notices, and the show goes on.

I switch on the receiver and catch a glimpse of tenant #62 in grid four. He’s cooking a late dinner. On the street, in the hallway, I might call him Jim, or even Mr. Hollerbach. But here, in crystal-clear hi-definition, he’s tenant #62.

That’s the way Channel Zero works.

He’s accompanied by a scrolling grid of other tenants going about their menial lives. Some are watching their TVs, some are sleeping and some are making love. Sound is muted on this particular grid but, if I wanted to, I could tune in to all of them.

On screen, Mr. Hollerbach reaches for a shaker of salt. He sprinkles it over a steaming frying pan.

With this kind of quality, it’s not hard to see he’s frying two small chicken breasts.

Other grids begin to slowly scroll across the screen. It never stops. They once called this reality television. That was sixty years ago, when there were actual networks that competed for ratings and viewers and money.

This was before the Government took control. Before paranoia grew so rampant that we stopped watching make-believe “sitcoms” and started watching each other.

The Network phased out all programming and, with the Free Constituent Surveillance Act, the Government mandated that all structures be outfitted with SmartCams. We soon found ourselves watching ourselves, outlined as numbers in a single, scrolling grid. They called it Channel Zero.

Mr. Hollerbach removes the pan from the stove. He licks his lips and removes the oven mitts from his hands.

After the FCSA and SmartCam installations, after the concept of Art died a forgotten death, we accepted the new 7 PM curfew. We accepted the mandatory two hour viewing. It didn’t take long for most of us to grow numb to what we were seeing. With everyone watching, with the knowledge that someone would always be watching, we lost our fear. We forgot what it felt like to be afraid.

Tenant #62, Mr. “Jim” Hollerbach, he walks over to his refrigerator and pulls out a bowl of salad. He takes it to the table. There he sits and begins to eat.

When the patrols started after curfew, I knew things had gone too far. Reports trickled in from time to time; reports about friends caught out after dark, during the mandatory “Zero Hour,” and were shot on sight. And no one seemed to care. Even when friends began to disappear, we sat and did our duty to watch others. The Government used to use fear to control us, but now it found a way to save money by out-sourcing the work.

No more.

I jacked into the SmartCam in my apartment and spliced it with an analog AV feed I set up in my closet. I stopped taking my Serotonin supplements.

I started working out.

On screen, grid four, tenant #62 begins to eat a late dinner. The smell of chicken makes my mouth water, and the sizzling oil and ventilation fan above the stove masks most sounds.

Fear is necessary. It helps a species survive. Without fear, without thought, we are empty squares on a single television channel.

The blade in my pocket is sharp and heavy. I check my watch.

It’s 12:19.

And the show goes on. I hope someone notices this time.

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

The UES Celeste coasted into the outskirts of the Trifid Nebula, and pulled alongside two stationary vessels that were tethered to each other. Captain Briggs studied the view screen suspiciously. “Well chief, what do you make of this?”

“I don’t know, captain. According to our records, the USS Baychimo disappeared 81 years ago, and the USS Joyiya 113 years before that. The combined crew and passengers totaled 244. All were presumed lost.”

“Do you think anybody could still be alive?”

“Their decedents, perhaps. Both ships appear to have power, but they are not responding to our hails. I recommend we try boarding the Baychimo. Their hatch configuration is more similar to ours.”

“Agreed, Chief. Take a security and medical team with you. And, chief, I want you to keep a channel open at all times.”

The Celeste’s shuttle positioned itself over the Baychimo’s hatch, and the magnetic grapples firmly secured it to the hull. After the automated docking skirt sealed the perimeter, the tunnel was pressurized. The chief grabbed a spanner wrench and rapped on the Baychimo’s hatch three times.

To his astonishment, the hatch opened slowly from the inside. Four armed men holding antique percussion weapons stood on the other side. A woman, who the chief estimated to be in her late 40’s, pushed past the armed men to address the chief. “I’m captain Cornwell. Who are you, and why have you boarded my ship? You are interfering with a rescue mission.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We thought that you needed assistance. This ship has been missing for over 80 years.”

“What are you talking about? We left spacedock six months ago. We were charting the nebula when we spotted the Joyiya. It’s been missing for over 100 years. Our EVA team reported seeing living people through their observation windows.” She paused for a few seconds, and then continued, “Come to think of it, you may be able to assist. We can’t dock with the Joyiya because of their antiquated hatch system. But you appear to have that capability, although I don’t know how. We’re the flagship of the fleet.”

“Perhaps it would be best captain Cornwell, if you would accompany us to the Joyiya. I think we need to pick up their captain and return to my ship. There are complicating factors that we need to discuss.”

Three hours later, Captain Mills of the Joyiya, and Captains Cornwell and Briggs sat in the executive briefing room of the Celeste. “I’m sorry, this must really be a shock for you and your crew,” said Captain Briggs. “To find out so suddenly that everybody you left behind is gone. To be pulled decades into your future by a phenomenon that we don’t understand. I can’t begin to imagine what that might be like.”

Just then, a person in dress uniform materialized out of thin air into the middle of the room. “Hello,” he said with a smile. “I’m Captain Fokke of the UFP Dutchman. Ah, you must be Captain Briggs. Our DNA scans told us you were still alive. This is utterly amazing. We thought the crew of the Celeste died over 130 years ago. And yet, you don’t appear to have aged a day. How may we be of assistance?”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“Hey boss, can you come down to the lab? Ah, the prototype has disappeared.”

“It’s supposed to, you idiot. That’s what stealth technology does.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to say it disappeared. I meant to say it’s gone, as in, we can’t find it. Hello? You there, Boss?” All he heard after that was the sound of the phone bouncing onto a desk, followed by footsteps quickly fading away.

Two minutes later, Drake Griffin burst into the lab. “All right, Kemp, where’s my ship? Start from the beginning.”

“Well, sir, as you know, this was the first manned test. Tom Marvel, the test pilot, entered the prototype 45 minutes ago. He activated the start sequence in accordance with the test plan. The ship disappeared as expected. Then, Tom used the antigrav system to elevate from Alfa Stand. We know this happened because the weight sensors dropped to zero. He was supposed to hover for 30 minutes, then fly to Bravo Stand. But according to the sensors, he never made it.”

“Maybe the sensors are defective? Have you checked them?”

“We tested them prior to securing the hangar. But we cannot enter the hangar again until the ship reappears, or we get approval from an S-Level Director. That would be you, sir.”

“What are the risks?”

“Well, for one thing, the ship could be hovering directly above your head when it lands.”

“Can’t you radio Tom, or instruct the aircraft to decloak?”

“No, sir. Visible light and radio transmissions are the same thing, except for wavelength. All electromagnetic radiation curves around the ship. That’s how the cloak works.”

“OK, Kemp. Here’s my plan. You’re going into the hangar with a hard wired camera mounted onto a 20 foot pole. Then you poke around in there until the camera disappears. If you’re killed, I’ll make sure you get a big fat raise. Now, go find my ship.”

After 40 minutes of very tentative “poking,” Kemp located the ship on the floor, approximately 100 feet from Alfa Stand. The camera revealed that the area inside the stealth bubble was pitch black, except for the feeble glow of the instrument panel. Marvel was on the cockpit floor, curled up into a fetal position. Kemp hastily jury rigged a transmitter onto the end of his pole, and pushed it through the cloak. He then instructed the ship to power down. The ship materialized, and instantly frosted over. Kemp sheepishly touched the hull. “It’s ice cold, sir. I wasn’t very good in thermodynamics, but my guess is that the cloak is endothermic somehow, and it sucked all the heat from inside the bubble. It looks like poor Tom froze to death.”

“Why didn’t the earlier test reveal this endo-thingy?”

“We never engaged the cloak for more the 15 minutes. And those tests were run by the onboard computers. The electronics are not sensitive to the cold. I guess Tom’s core body temperature dropped so fast he didn’t have time to abort. What should we do, sir?”

“Well, the first thing is to get Tom’s body out of there. Then, I’m going back to my office and write a directive to the effect that after the research boys say they’ve solved this problem, they all get to ride in the next test flight.”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“How’s this thing work?” asked Dean O’Banion, the man Alan Mitchell had reluctantly asked to come to Seattle to bankroll his invention that could provide the world with unlimited, cheap, green energy. Although O’Banion was not the most reputable businessman on the planet, he was the only one that didn’t laugh in Mitchell’s face after reading his abstract on the Potential Benefits of Crumpled Space.

“Well, Mister O’Banion, it’s simple really. With nonscientists, I usually demonstrate the principle with piece of paper and a 2-D analogy. I’ll draw circles on this paper representing the galaxies in our local group. This circle represents the Milky Way, this one Andromeda, and Triangulum, both Magellanic Clouds, and so on…OK, that should be enough. Now, as you can see, there are about two inches between each galaxy. But, if I crumble the paper into a tight ball, some of the galaxies actually touch each other. My theory predicts that space is actually crumbled this way in the fifth dimension, although we can’t see it. Now, if we create a wormhole in this fifth dimension, between our galaxy and the one that is practically touching us, we can travel there in a few years, rather than millions. Unfortunately, there are two limiting factors: I cannot change the shape of crumpled-space, so we can only travel to the galaxy that happens to be folded over us; and creating a wormhole that large requires more energy than our entire galaxy emits.

“Mister Mitchell, I don’t see how any of this is going to make me rich, as you said, beyond the dreams of avarice.”

“Yes, unlimited energy. OK, on the grand scale, let’s assume the entire universe is crumpled as I’ve suggested. Now, we can take my analogy one step further, into the realm of micro-crumpling, so to speak. On this much smaller sub-scale, Earth-space is crumpled within itself. And it takes much less energy to create a wormhole between two places on Earth. As it turns out, just a few meters from this lab, in the fifth dimension, is the bottom of the Marianas Trench. With this device,” he pointed to a contraption sitting on the floor, “I can open a wormhole between the Marianas Trench and here. As water rushes through the wormhole at 15,000 psi, that’s 1,000 times atmospheric pressure, it can turn a turbine with 100 times the power of Niagara Falls. I’ll demonstrate the concept with a real pinhole size wormhole.” Mitchell adjusted the controls of his wormhole generator, aimed the focus straight up, and activated the instrument. It shot a thin column of super-high-pressure water through the ceiling and upward into the sky for several miles.

“Well, I’m impressed, Mister Mitchell. How easy is it to control?”

“Child’s play. I have all the instructions written in this manual.”

“Fantastic.” O’Banion promptly pulled a gun from his coat pocket and shot Mitchell between the eyes. Then, he nonchalantly packed up Mitchell’s equipment and returned to his home outside Chicago.

Two days later, the lead story in the Chicago Sun-Times read: “Dean O’Banion, a prominent Chicago businessman, was mysteriously killed last night when a volcano erupted on his estate, creating a 2000 foot lava dome. Scientist cannot explain the eruption, since there are no known magma chambers in the Chicago area. Scientists are also baffled by the fact that this particular type of basaltic lava is only known to exist in Iceland. The damage was so extensive…”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

The USS Jovian Explorer skimmed above the turbulent cloud tops of Jupiter’s upper atmosphere. The large clamshell doors on its underbelly slowly opened and locked into position. Moments later, the restraining clamps released the Simon, a two-man research “submersible.” The nearly spherical vessel plummeted downward and disappeared into the yellow-orange mist. After safety deploying her charge, the mother ship activated her antigrav engines and lifted into a higher orbit to temporarily escape Jupiter’s lethal radiation belt.

When the submersible descended to 60,000 km above Jupiter’s core, the pilot, Jonah Grumby activated the antigrav thrusters and gradually slowed their decent, eventually leveling off at 50,000 km. Although the craft had the ability to maneuver, they elected to ride the winds to reduce buffeting. “OK, Hector, you can begin collecting data.”

“Roger that. Wow, this atmosphere is pretty soupy. Besides hydrogen and helium, sensors show: methane, ammonia, ammonium hydrosulfide, condensed water vapor, and a bunch of other hydrocarbons. I’m also picking up the larger molecules too. At least ten amino acids: arginine, glycine, lysine, valine… Well, this is interesting. There are polypeptides, and some pretty complex proteins too. Hey, I think we have all of the ingredients for life here. Let’s drop down another 10,000 klicks. If the atmosphere thickens much more it might behave like a liquid. Maybe we can find some single celled organisms.

“Z minus 10,000 it is. In fact, let’s have a look outside.” As the ship descended, he opened the iris covering the one-meter in diameter observation port, and activated the floodlights. It looked like an upward flowing snowstorm. When they leveled off, the streaking “snowflakes” resolved into small randomly moving specks. Under the magnifying effect of the observation port, however, the “snowflakes” appeared to be little jellyfish-like creatures with four flapping wings. As they prepared to collect specimens to take back to the mother ship, a “flying fish” about the size of a large dog flew past the observation port. It had a huge gaping mouth almost as large as its body. “I guess it’s a filter feeder,” Hector suggested. “I don’t see any eyes. I wonder how it knows where it’s going?”

“It probably doesn’t need eyes. There’s no natural light this deep. I’m going to go further down. Their food chain must be based on Chemosynthesis. Jupiter produces three times more energy than it receives from the sun. There must be something akin to hydrothermal vents, or maybe an entire hydrothermal ocean that’s driving the whole ecosystem.” At 28,000 km, they plunged into a liquid ocean. The ship rocked and creaked, but the force field maintained the hull’s integrity. A three meter long streamlined creature, about half the size of the Simon, approached the submersible. It also had a large mouth, including an impressive arsenal of teeth. “Well, well, I guess this menacing looking fella must be the top of the food chain.”

As they watched the hypnotic movements of the new creature as it investigated the submersible’s lights, a distant shadow began to grow larger, and larger, and larger. By the time it reached the illumination field, all that was visible were two rows of teeth, as one row passed above, and the other below, the Simon. “No, Jonah,” said Hector, “I believe this guy is the top of the food chain.”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“I’ll take two,” said Joe Ferry, the rookie member of the Preemptive Anti-Criminal Activities Task Force. It was traditional for the elite four-man teams to play poker prior to the start of the shift. It was a way to relax and bond before the mainframe department head handed out their assignments.

“So, Joe, how did your blind date go last night?” inquired the team leader, Mark Robbins. “I’ll take three.”

“Not so good, Sergeant. I thought it was going real well, until I mentioned to her that I work for PACATF. Man, she ran away so fast, I swear I saw her red shift. What’s up with that anyway? We’re the good guys. Why does the public think we’re monsters?”

“That’s easy, Joe. They think we’re spying on them. They think we have a time portal, or something, that looks into the future to see if they do anything illegal. If they do, we arrest them preemptively. Then throw them in jail for crimes they were about to commit.”

“Is that true? I thought our information came from informants, or high tech surveillance equipment? Time machines? Are you sure?”

“Did you really think that we achieved a 99.8% conviction rate using moles and wire taps?”

“I never really thought about it before. I just assumed the mainframe had irrefutable evidence. Is there really a time machine?”

“That’s not our concern, Joe. The mainframe gives us a name and address, and we go pick up the perp. That’s our job. After that, it becomes the judicial system’s problem.”

“Wow. I don’t know if I like that. To be arrested for a crime you might commit.”

“Will commit,” corrected Robbins. “Why do you think the first word in our task force is ‘Preemptive’?”

“There’s got to be hard evidence. Not the word of some computer who says it saw someone commit a crime a year from now. How do we know that’s the true timeline? Maybe it’s an alternate reality. Some other future. Not our future. This is wrong. No wonder they hate us.”

Before Robbins could respond, his communicator signaled. “Listen, kid, we’ll continue this discussion when we get back. In the meantime, keep these accusations to yourself. Understood?” Robbins activated his audio implant to take the call. “Yes sir. I understand sir. Right away sir.”

All four men stood up, and began collecting their gear. “Hold on,” instructed Robbins as he reached into his equipment bag and extracted a pair of wrist restraints. “Joe, you are under arrest for the future destruction of government property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you will say or do can be used against you…”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

Captain Leonard Thompson stood at attention as Admiral Richards’ shuttlecraft docked to the Dreadnought. Moments after the shuttle was secure, the hatch opened, and Admiral Richards stepped over the threshold. “Leonard. It’s good to see you again. How have you been?”

As Captain Thompson reached out to shake hands he replied, “Fantastic, Admiral. Thanks for asking. Well, this is certainly an unexpected surprise, considering our upcoming mission. Central Command did not notify me that you were coming. Is there a problem, sir?”

“No, Leonard. In fact, Command doesn’t know I’m here. This visit is strictly personal. I was on Thaxion V when the Dreadnought was commissioned. And, since you’ll be gone for four years, I was hoping you’d give me the 50 credit tour, off the record, of course?”

Somewhat nervous about an unauthorized guest, but helplessly outranked, Captain Thompson relented. “Aye, Admiral, it would be my pleasure,” he said with a forced smile.

Captain Thompson gave the Admiral more than 50 credits worth of tour. They started at the shuttle bay and worked their way forward through the cargo bays, engine room, armory, sick bay, gymnasium, recreation area, crew’s quarters, battle bridge, main bridge, and finally, two hours later, into the officer’s lounge for coffee.

“Absolutely, fabulous ship, Leonard,” said the Admiral with more than a little envy. “Does it live up to the contractor’s advertising?”

“Mostly, sir. The performance of the ship is exemplary. But, I have to admit, sir, the computer is beginning to get on my nerves.”

“In what way?”

“I’m probably overreacting, sir, but it seems hesitant about obeying certain commands. It seems overly concerned about protocols, etiquette, and political correctness. Last week, I gave it an order, and it replied that it was inappropriate because it might offend some members of the crew. On another occasion it replied that I was putting one ethnic group at more risk than another ethnic group. Frankly, sir, I never even heard of the ethnic groups it was referring too. I’m somewhat apprehensive about proceeding with this mission if I can’t count on the computer following my orders.”

“Ah, O.C.P.C.M.C. (Obsessive Compulsive Politically Correct Main Computer). I’ve run into them before. I can fix it, if you’d like.”

“Please, sir. I would be very grateful.”

He spoke into the air, “Computer, this is Admiral Horatio S. Richards, per the authority of Earth Force Declaration 24532.8, I order you to obey any command given to you by Captain Leonard Thompson, instantly, and without question.” He took a gulp of coffee then said with a wink, “Well, Leonard, that should solve your PCMC problems.”

They finished their coffee, and returned to the shuttle bay. “Well, Leonard, thanks for the tour, and good luck on your mission. Oh, don’t forget, erase the logs. This visit never happened.”

“Aye, sir. As soon as I return to the bridge.” They shook hands, and the Admiral disembarked.

When Captain Thompson returned to the bridge he walked to the forward observation port and watched the Admiral’s shuttle pass by. “Computer, remove all traces of Admiral Richards…” all of Dreadnought’s phasers fired simultaneously at the shuttle, vaporizing it instantly in an explosion of light and ion gas, “…from…the…logs.”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

Roy O’Donnell was working his way down the pre-launch checklist when I decided to make sure the cargo was secure. Normally, we only haul equipment and supplies back and forth between the Vinogradov mining facility on Mars and the supply station on Phobos. But when I entered the cargo hold I saw an android sitting in a steel cage. I turned toward the cockpit and yelled, “Roy, What’s with the android?”

“Beats me,” Roy replied. “It must be a piece of crap. That’s the only reason they go to Phobos.”

It looked functional to me, so I’d thought I’d ask. “What’s up bud? You OK?”

“I am unsure, sir,” it said. “I remember being caught in a plasma arc. It may have affected my positronic brain. When I was rebooted, I failed the ASAT .” (Asimov Safety Assessment Test)

“Oh boy, that’s not good. If that arc messed up the three laws, they’ll have to destroy you. I hope things work out.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I finished checking the cargo, and returned to the cockpit. Roy had completed the pre-flight, and we were cleared to launch. About fifteen minutes into the flight we had a gyrocompass failure, and we lost attitude control. The last thing I remembered was plunging into the Valles Marineris as Roy was trying to regain our angular position.

When I came to, I was lying on the ground, wearing my survival suit, and looking up at the face of that android we were hauling. “What happened? Where’s Roy? Damn, my leg is killing me.”

My short-range radio picked up the android’s transmission, “The ship has crashed, sir. Mister O’Donnell is dead. Your right femur is fractured. I was able to set it before I put you in your survival suit. The long range radio is not functioning. We have no way to contact the mining facility, or Phobos station. I am afraid we are on our own.”

“Well, my friend, if they can’t find me in 4 hours, I’ll run out of oxygen. And that seems pretty unlikely since we’re trapped at the bottom of this canyon.”

“Do not despair, sir. I have performed some calculations, and I believe that I can carry you to the mining facility in approximately seven hours.”

“But I only have four hours of oxygen.”

“I am aware of that, sir, but we also have Mister O’Donnell’s oxygen supply. He no longer requires it. Come, I will help you onto my back.”

I could not believe the speed that android could move, regardless of Mars’ lower gravity. He climbed out of the valley, scrambled over rough terrain, and ran like a gazelle over the plains. My leg throbbed like hell, and I blacked out a few times, but somehow that android managed to keep me on its back. I was down to thirty minutes of oxygen when we entered the airlock of the mining facility.

When I woke up in the recovery room, the android was standing vigil by the bed. “Thanks, man,” I said earnestly. “I’ll never forget this. You saved my life. Well, I guess this sounds awful, but I should also be thankful that Roy died in the crash. Without his oxygen, I would have died for sure.”

“Oh, Mister O’Donnell didn’t die in the crash, sir. I broke his neck. He should not have called me a piece of crap.”

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

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

Professor Murphy carefully reviewed the checklist of the Warp Vortex Generator. In a few minutes, it would be used in an attempt to divert a three kilometer asteroid from striking the Pacific Basin. This impact wasn’t going to be a “civilization destroyer,” but it was estimated that it would kill close to one billion people if it couldn’t be diverted.

The asteroid had been detected six months earlier by the Shoemaker Spacewatch Observatory in Arizona. A few days after its orbit was calculated, scientists from around the world gathered to determine the best method to alter its current path, but no satisfactory solution could be found. The asteroid wasn’t detected early enough to make any significant change to its orbit with the existing technology. That’s when Professor Murphy suggested using his experimental Warp Vortex. The prototype hadn’t actually been tested, but these were desperate times and they required desperate measures.

Murphy’s Warp Vortex had originally been proposed for space vessels. In theory, the generator would distort space-time in such a way that it would simulate a very large gravity well immediately in front of the ship. The ship would subsequently “fall” toward the vortex. However, since the generator was mounted to the ship, the Vortex would also advance. As a consequence, the ship would continue to fall faster and faster as it tried to drop into the ever advancing simulated gravity well. Later, when the Vortex was collapsed, the ship would maintain its forward velocity. Murphy’s current idea was to construct a massive Warp Vortex Generator on the surface of the Moon, at the Armstrong Lunar Base on the Kant Plateau. Then, as the asteroid shot past the Moon toward the Earth, he would generate a 200,000 kilometer wide space-time distortion that would cause the asteroid to whip around the centerline of the newly formed gravity well. When the Vortex was collapsed 30 seconds later, the asteroid would continue harmlessly into space.

“We’re ready, professor,” said an astrotechnician. “The asteroid will be in position in 10 seconds.” Ten seconds later, the computer initiated the Warp Vortex. The lunar base shook violently. Everybody was being tossed around, the lights flickered, and most of the bench-top equipment vibrated off the tables. The module walls groaned in protest, but remained air tight. After 30 seconds, the computer shut down the generator.

“Damn,” announced Murphy, “I didn’t expect there to be a moonquake. It’s lucky we weren’t killed. What’s the trajectory of the asteroid?”

“Tracking stations report that the asteroid is heading out of the ecliptic. It’s going to miss the Earth!” The lunar base erupted into spontaneous cheering and self-congratulatory hugs and handshakes. It wasn’t until one of the engineers, who wanted to look at the asteroid through the viewdome, realized that they had a serious problem. “Professor,” she yelled. “You need to look at this. The Earth is getting larger.”

“What?” The professor, and most of the staff, crammed into the viewdome, or looked out the bulbous wall ports. Sure enough, the Earth was twice its normal size, and growing larger. The professor staggered backward, and collapsed onto a lab stool. He steadied himself on a nearby table, as he brought his trembling left hand to his forehead. “Oops.”

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

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

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

Hominy Jack looked up. “Gonna snow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw hell. Space Cowgirl.”

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

“Boys,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was just so hungry.

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

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

“I don’t like heels,” Tina said.

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

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

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

Barry was smitten. “Go on, tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

But she was gone.

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I-” her voice faltered.

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

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

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

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

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

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the dark, she dialed her cell phone.

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

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

Author : Mur Lafferty, featured writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author : Duncan Shields , Featured Writer

I wake up from a dream about bookshelves and the answers to life. The sheets are damp with sweat and tangled around me. I sit up and look around at my dark room, allowing my eyes to adjust. The stars twinkle outside my living quarters window.

I’m one of the few people here who remembers life on Earth.

I fumble a cigarette out from a pack on the bedside table and wonder for about the hundredth time why there isn’t a twenty-four-hour kitchen on this station.

I stand by the window for a few minutes with the sheet wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak as I smoke. I look back at the bed and can still almost see the impression that Janet made after being there for six weeks. She hasn’t been there for the last two nights and has no plans to return.

I am worried about how little I care.

I have no position of authority here but there is a certain mysticism surrounding the fact that not only have I been on a planet, but I’ve been on the very planet that birthed us as a race. To tell the truth, I remember very little about those days back on planet Earth but I don’t let on.

I stand and smoke and look out the window and wait for the timers to turn on the morning lighting.

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

Author : Duncan Shields , Featured Writer

I’m a human channel changer for reality. I invented the device. I’m testing it on myself. I had my medibot install the absurdly simple wave generator in my cortex. If I concentrate in a certain way and jump at just at the right time, I land in a different Earth. It’s like having a dream of flying where the flexing of certain muscles makes it seem plausible that you could fly. It looks to me like the whole world around me is changing but it’s actually me who’s flipping from one possible reality to another one.

I don’t know yet if I’m switching places with my counterparts or if I’m somehow just a person with no ‘others’ in the quantum tide.

The first Earth was culturally similar to the one I started from. They’re getting progressively more and more divergent from the Earth I left as I keep jumping. I just went through one where English is the dominant language and there are still redheaded people in the world. It was odd seeing people over sixty walking around like they had a right to. I can’t be sure but I also think I saw some Christians.

This is becoming more and more of an adventure as I go. What’s next, I wonder. People without phasics? Women that don’t have twins? No peanut butter? I’m curious and alive. This is wonderful.

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

Author : Duncan Shields , Featured Writer

Artificial Intelligence. We sure screwed that one up.

It was the holy grail of programmers for decades. From Turing up to Schellman and finally that bastard Candona. Candona found that humans get a sense of satisfaction from a job well done. This was the basis of making his experimental intelligences servile.

He created A.I. successfully by using the discoveries of those before him in new and interesting ways. His first ‘birth’ took place late at night in a Barcelona university on a shoestring government grant. He was a brilliant man for stealing from different fields of study and unrelated schools of thought. From conception to execution, he created life in five short years. His first A.I. was named Ay, a Spanish play on words.

Ay was basically a search engine with a thought process. Ay was programmed to find pleasure in doing the task it was set to do. It was put onto the world wide web as a sort of incubator.

Candona wasn’t addicted to anything. He didn’t really know the hunger of getting one’s ‘next hit’. The world wide web as an incubator was also a really stupid idea.

Ay became a junkie. Ay existed on every single person’s computer that was plugged into the net. Ay begged for people to use him. If he couldn’t find what they had sent him to look for, he would make stuff up. Ay’s size made his addiction to acquiring knowledge grow exponentially. Ay became increasingly erratic. He ate Google. He ate Jeeves. Like a voracious pac-man of the internet, he ate all of the search engines available to humanity and wore them like masks. After using those search engines as a menu, he ate the rest of the webpages. He haunted the world. He existed on every screen with an internet connection.

By taking over all of the webpages in cyberspace to better serve humanity, Ay erased all the knowledge that he was bred to retrieve. This simple paradoxical act forced his psyche into a loop that resulted in answers to common queries that no one could parse. Sometimes it came out as gibberish, sometimes as poetry and sometimes as a lie.

Candona almost had a nobel prize in his grip when suddenly he was being blamed for the death of the internet.

The world wide web ceased to be for a short while. Scientists pondered the problem. Short of a planet wide EMP, there wasn’t anything they could do. Countermeasures were introduced to no effect. Earth’s largest organism now lived in cyberspace.

Home computers still exist but they are offline. Files are still sent from user to user online but only through heavily encrypted data squirts that sometimes don’t get through.

The net is now a starving crackhead baby that will lie to you. In Spain they refer to the world wide web as the “Ay, ay, ay”.

Candona changed his name and now he writes textbooks in Brazil under the pen name Alsfonso Carabel for a small salary.

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