As we strode down the beach, trying hard to repress ourselves from grasping hands or some other embarrassing atrocity, we came upon a small robot figure, slowly waddling his way up the beach with steady determination.
“That’s odd,” Xander said, picking up the little robot by the head. It’s legs continued to waddle and its little eyes glowed red. It’s body began to move more frequently with fervent desperation to be set free. I could have sworn it was cursing us in Japanese. Xander set it down. It turned towards us as we began to walk away, shaking its little arm at us with grouchy displeasure before continuing his walk.
“I think Gary Numan was trying to warn us about this kind of thing,” Xander said with a serious tone.
“Like that robots are going to take over the world?” I said.
“Exactly,” He said before he began to sing, “Down in the park where the machmen meet the machines are playing `kill-by-numbers, down in the park with a friend called `five.“
“Maybe Gary Numan was a robot,” I offered.
The seed was huge, roughly the length and breadth of Manhattan Island, and in it rested the future of the quest for energy. The people living on it, or rather, in it, knew what they were getting into, both literally and figuratively. They could never emerge. They made that choice. Those born after them had no hand in that choice.
If you grew up there, you had no frame of reference, so you didn’t really know how small your world was. You didn’t feel a sense of loss when you harkened back to life on an actual planet’s surface. You never had that privilege, so you “never knew any better.” This is often the lamentation of the first gens who are still alive. “No appreciation” for what was given up.
You were living in a pod skirting the edge of the event horizon of a Class IV black hole. In the time it took you to brush your teeth at cycleStart, majestic civilizations rose and fell elsewhere.
All Alice knew was that she was late for school and didn’t have time to brush.
by Ighnot
The next morning it was as though the past seventy-two hours simply hadn’t happened. It was as though only she could remember the feeling of the fire that swept the city beating against her, flowing around her, burning everything made by man. Everyone just carried on as though nothing had happened. Or rather, as though the glow-in-the-dark rubble was simply what had always been.
Fingers of deep green and a brilliant blue began to claw their way across the sky. A single tear rolled down a dusty cheek, the trail shining in the early morning sun.
How much of today would they permit her to remember come morning?
She climbed down from the lintel, which had served as her morning seat, and began to hike towards the only building which, against all odds, survived the conflagration. Two towers reaching into the heavens, which would become the symbol of hope for a new tomorrow.
Two towers which would serve as a beacon for those who could remember.
The man sat down on the bench next to David and unfolded his newspaper with a bit of a flourish. Too much flourish if you asked David. Which nobody did.
David scooted a bit further away, well, as far away as he could given that the bench was only so long. He didn’t want to be this close to the psychopath. They made him uncomfortable and slightly itchy.
All his life he had felt this reaction when he met certain people and it was only recently that it was discovered that the psychopaths were actually a different kind of human. An offshoot on the evolutionary path. It seemed David, an average everyday human, had an ability to detect them. A rare talent that David would rather not have.
The man glanced at him and smiled. David shrank back. The smile seemed practiced and automatic. Like something you do because you’re told to, not because you feel friendly. The man’s eyes were empty and void of feeling and as he continued to stare and smile, David began to feel the itch… and the fear.
by Melia
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Baufer flipped through the final pages of the report one last time before turning back to the first page and gazing at the portrait that took up a fourth of the page. To the right of the picture, in bold writing was the name: Gordon Graves
“You’re sure this is the right person?” … not so much to confirm the choice as forcing himself to change his mind about what he was about to issue as a direct high command. “You do realize you’re asking me to destroy a friend’s life and career, right?”
Baufer looked up at the strange man standing before him clad in dark Order robes. He had a thin gold collar fixed around his neck that Baufer could barely see through a break in the hood.
The man leaned closer to Baufer and said as if reminding him, “For the greater good, Baufer.” He then turned and vanished.
Baufer slammed the command folder shut and stared at the title: OR-CLE S7-OP IN SECTOR 37
He took a deep breath, whispered, “Forgive me my old friend,” and with sweaty fingers, signed the approval.
by Christopher Sisk
It’s strange, growing up in a society who’s only form of technological innovation is finding ways to build bigger guns that can fire bigger bullets at the enemy.
Folks don’t have original ideas any more. There’s no room for them. Unless of course it happens to be an idea about how to make a bigger gun or a bigger bullet.
I have original ideas though. I sit on the burned out remains of what used to be a super-highway overpass, my fishing rod dangling over the edge, dancing on the surface of a radio-active ocean that has no fish, and I think.
I think about pet dogs, high school dances, and when it used to be safe to go out in the rain.
About mom, dad, my big brother. Cap’n Crunch and fresh milk. Chocolate, television, and sunshine.
About all the things we don’t have any more.
And music. God how I miss music.
But it’s ok, because they don’t know, what I know.
They don’t know I am going to change everything.
You’ll see.
by Justin Dack
“Journal Entry 24 Neauvebre
This will be my final entry. I will no longer record my thoughts and reactions, as I have decided I am not coming back.
I understand your reactions and the mission’s goals. I will finish this project as intended. But my mind is made up.
Fifty-one months of solitude has locked me into a pattern, a pattern I have been falling into for my entire life. This is a pattern I wish to continue.
The ship is self-perpetuating. Air, food, and water can be regenerated for just beyond my foreseeable lifespan. On the acceleration orbit that would bring be back to Dela Sebras, I intend to use the atmosphere of Bena Huana to brake and bring myself into a high orbit, orbit once while braking further with remaining fuel, and coming to a geosynchronous orbit on the far side, intentionally stranding myself. I will have my peace at last.
Give the Planetary Director my thanks for personally recommending me for this mission. I am proud to serve the homeworld.
Monaco out.”
by tekisui