A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 35

The Numbers Game (short fiction)

No one had been watching.

The recorder hovered over her shoulder, transmitting her every moment to the network. The network computed how interesting she was, and it directed any viewers who might be interested her way.

She’d had zero viewers this morning.

Now she had 4,000. It was insignificant when considering the millions of potential viewers out there. But most of those viewers were watching other people. More interesting people. The most interesting thing she’d ever done was linger at the edge of a very, very long fall.

It was enough to catch the network’s attention, but it would only work once. People who didn’t go through with it were filtered out in the future. She only had one shot at this. She wanted at least 5,000 before she’d go through with it.

In the streets below, people wandered. Everybody was too busy watching someone else, too busy hoping to be watched, to really give a damn about her. Except for the 4,254 viewers, a number slowly rising in her ocular implant.

They offered words of encouragement. Do it already. Aim for that car. You’ve got a minute before I get bored. The endless texts from strangers streamed across her vision, and she hated them. But at least they were watching.

4,444

Don’t.

She almost missed the text, buried in the stream. She scrolled back up until she found it, targeted the sender.

You don’t need to do this.

“Why not?” she asked the recorder. “What else is there?”

You need to find that out for yourself.

She laughed, even as she cried. The emotional drama would buy her a few more moments of network attention. But she’d have to jump eventually. And soon.

4,790

“Nobody cares,” she said. “Not even me.”

I care.

“Mom? Dad? Is that you?”

No. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But you don’t know those numbers either.

“Who are you then?”

Just a person. Watching the network. Watching for people like you. Trying to talk them out of throwing away their lives for the numbers on a counter.

4,921

“How many have you saved?” she asked.

None.

She laughed. “You’re not very good at this then.”

I think it’s because once they reach the ledge, it’s too late. If I could find them a little earlier, even an hour, I think I could save them.

“So you think I’m going to jump?”

Yes. Probably. But I’m hoping you won’t.

“Then why try?”

Because you’re worth trying for. I don’t know you, but I know that.

She teetered on the edge.

5,002

Bones (short fiction)

Bones Mason

Death and I stood over my corpse. I’d killed plenty of people while still alive. I hadn’t been a nice person. I knew that because I didn’t regret many of those kills. I’d never thought much about it. It was my job, and I’d made the usual excuses. People died every day. Who cared if I did it or something else? My way was quicker. Somebody was going to do it, and it might as well be me.

Now I was dead, and I still didn’t think different.

I’d never been a religious man, never considered what might be waiting for me on the other side. Never considered the other side. There wasn’t a point in asking unanswerable questions, I’d always figured. Now I had the answers. Some of them anyway.

The worst thing was that I hadn’t seen it coming. You’d think a guy in my line of work wouldn’t be surprised when it came to bite him on the ass.

You’d be wrong.

Death was a tall, gaunt shadow wrapped in billowing emptiness. Not darkness, but the indescribable color of oblivion itself.

“That’s it?” I said. It seemed so final.

“Yes.” Death’s voice was sweeter than I expected. Almost feminine, but not quite. Or perhaps almost masculine, but not quite. “And no.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Hell. It’s real, right?”

“That’s not for me to say,” Death replied. “I’m only anthropomorphic personification of the projected primal fears of the living, the cosmic manifestation of the inescapable truth you seek to hide from. Even once a soul sheds their physical body, they cannot usually see me.”

“Hmm. Then this has to be pretty weird for you too, I imagine.”

Death chuckled dryly. “Indeed.”

I turned away from my body. Two in the chest. One in the head. I was very clearly dead, but I was still hoping this was all a hallucination and that the pile of meat would get up and drag itself to the nearest hospital.

“You can live again,” said Death.

“Reincarnation?” I asked. “Can I come back as a dog?”

“You can come back as yourself. More or less.”

The second part should’ve given me pause, but dead men don’t overanalyze.

“I can restore you to a semblance of life. It won’t be the same life you had, but close enough.”

“What’s the catch?”

“You will be reborn as my physical avatar on the material plane. I need you to kill some people for me.”

“What sort of people?”

Death smiled. Death’s teeth (and only Death’s teeth) were white and shiny. “They aren’t people. Not exactly.”

“Is that all?” Killing people was what I did. Killing not exactly people didn’t strike me as a high cost to pay.

Death’s shadowy form wrapped around my spirit and pain hit me. Not the pain of dying, but the pain of being remade, of having mortal flesh knit together and the laws of nature violated.

I sat up. In my body. Whole again. My hands were bone white in the darkened alley. My hands were bone. Period. So were my arms. And when I felt my face, it was only a skull. A walking skeleton, I stood. My pants, with nothing but my pelvis to hold onto, fell down to my ankles.

“Well, shit.”

I pulled them up and awkwardly waddled out into the world.

The Robot Who Scanned Too Much (short fiction)

The Automatic Detective

“You killed your wife, Mr. Garrison,” I said. “Then you scrapped your butler auto as a precaution. I assume because it had recorded the crime, and you didn’t want to take a chance.”

Garrison balked. The guy was really good at balking. Like he practiced it in the mirror. Practice or not, it didn’t register as sincere. It didn’t mean he was lying. He might have been an insincere person. Expressions were tricky. It was why I was glad I didn’t have a face. Most people didn’t know what the hell I was thinking unless I told them.

But this guy’s face, it said a lot of things. Either he’d killed his wife and was feigning shock or he hadn’t killed her but he wasn’t greatly bothered by it. I computed the odds at the first possibility.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “The lady was old. All you had to do was wait her out if you wanted her money. But I guess that’s the difference between biologicals and bots. We bots have a patience you organic beings don’t often possess.”

Garrison’s face went blank. No point in trying to bluff a bot.

“You can’t talk to me like this. You’re just a goddamn robot.”

“Robots can be a real inconvenience,” I said, “but you didn’t have to scrap the auto. Legally, his memory couldn’t be used against you. But then again, I suppose you couldn’t take that chance, could you? Even if the files couldn’t be used legally, they might show the cops a mistake you made. And if you still got away with it, everyone would know. Word gets around. Enough money can get you out of a jam in this town, but those rich folks you want to be a part of so much, they’d probably look down on having a member who killed one of their own.”

It was those rich folk’s turn to balk. A whole room full of Empire City’s upper crust balking was something to record. I could’ve had this conversation with Garrison an hour earlier without any witnesses. But I wanted them to see. I wanted tongues to wag.

“I can’t prove this yet, Garrison. But I will. You know us robots. Once we set a directive, we don’t stop. You’re a biological. You make mistakes. And I’ll find it. I just wanted to tell you that.”

Garrison poked me in the chest with his finger. “I said get the hell—”

I picked him up and tossed him into his swan ice sculpture. The crowd gasped.

“Self-defense.” I tipped my hat to the crowd. “Have a nice night, folks.”

Garrison moaned in a heap on the floor. Not one of his biological guests moved to help him, but a waiter auto moved to his aid.

“My patience index is about as high as they come, Garrison. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He didn’t say a word, but he had an indestructible robot nipping at his heels. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it but wait for the day I caught up with him.

Ants (short fiction)

Becka had been chosen as his official liaison because she had experience with diplomacy and an entomology degree. It was typical human reasoning. The Ants looked like bugs. Therefore, a bug expert was called for.

This wasn’t far from the truth. The Ants were very much social insects on an intergalactic scale. They had the technology to enslave or destroy the Earth, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop them.

This made a great many important people nervous.

Being liaison to the Ambassador mostly involved conversing with him at great length about human civilization. He wasn’t interested in art. The Ants, as far as could be determined, had no art.

They cared little for history. Not even their own.

“Who invented your space travel technology?” she’d asked once.

“We did,” the Ambassador replied.

The Ants understood the concept of individuality, but the idea of individual achievement was beyond them.

“Who created your clothing?” he’d once asked her.

When she didn’t have an answer, he chirped, “So you see, we do not disagree on this point.”

“Clothes are different,” she said.

“How so? They are still the product of many humans labor, of designers, manufacturers, transportation experts, distribution centers. You look at your clothes, and yet, you do not appear to see them.”

“I’m talking about important things.”

“Are clothes not important? Your species seems to place a great deal of its energy concerning them for something so inconsequential then.”

It was like talking to a . . . well, an alien.

“Who made this building we stand in?” asked the Ambassador. “Can you tell me the names of the human who designed it? Can you list to me the workers whose labor built it? Can you tell me the history of its furniture, the engineers who designed and refined every system that keeps it standing and comfortable?”

She didn’t have an answer.

“Nothing your species has ever accomplished has been because of great individuals. That you continue to believe otherwise confuses my species to a troubling extent.”

“If you think that’s so, why did you come here then?” she asked. “There are countries on this planet that don’t elevate the individual nearly as much. I bet China would love you guys.”

“Yes, China. It is a more enlightened place, but it is not enough. There is still bickering and battles for prestige and human ego. Even when you cooperate, you do so only to serve your own interests. Still, you can accomplish much, despite yourselves.”

Becka was beginning to loathe these conversations. The Ambassador refused to see things from her perspective, and it was tiring.

“We aren’t like you,” she said. “We have to believe our individual achievements matter.”

“Yet you ignore the efforts of nearly all of your species in favor of worshipping a handful of, as you say, Great People. You claim to believe in the value of the individual, yet you discard and dismiss without troubled conscience.”

“We can’t celebrate everyone.”

“So you instead choose glorify a fortunate few. Does this not seem like a flawed philosophy?”

“It’s not fair to judge us by your standards.”

“On this, we agree,” said the Ambassador. “We had hoped you would join us among the stars, but this isn’t meant to be. This will be our last meeting. I have forwarded my recommendation to the Hive. We shall leave you to yourselves.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

The Ambassador’s antennae twitched. “Is that not enough?”

“But what if we ever make it out there?”

“You won’t. We have seen a thousand worlds such as this. Eventually, you will destroy yourselves.”

He vanished in a flash of light.

Within an hour, their ships were gone. The world heaved a collective sigh of relief.

Becka stood on a contentious anthill of confused, stumbling insects trying like hell to find their place in this universe.

She’d never felt quite so alone.

Untitled (short fiction)

Jack had already lost too much. He wouldn’t lose her, too.

Lisa closed the box and tried to give him back the ring. He wouldn’t take it.

“I can’t,” she said. “Don’t ask me. Please.”

“I love you.”

Her reply was silence. She had never said it. He knew why. He didn’t care. She didn’t have to.

“It wouldn’t be fair. Not to either of us.”

It was because of his soul. The damn thing was often more trouble than it was worth, but, despite it all, he was glad he had it implanted. Even the pain. Without it, he would never have tried to have his removed. Without it, he would have never met her outside that extraction center.

He hadn’t gone through with it, but there were times he wished he had. His soul had always been an obstacle between them.

“I’ll get it removed,” Jack said.

“Don’t. I couldn’t live with that.”

He took her hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not?” she asked.

He kissed her in the forehead and wiped a tear from her cheek.

She took the ring out of the box. She didn’t put it on. But she would. When she was ready. He could wait.

“I love you,” she said, softly. full of fear and hope.

She was wrong. She had a soul.

She had his.

Extraction (short fiction)

The place wasn’t what Jack expected. It was just an old house in an unassuming neighborhood. There wasn’t a sign, but the address matched the card in his pocket.

A tall guy in a sweater answered when Jack knocked.

“Something I can do for you, pal?” the guy asked.

“I’m here for an extraction,” replied Jack, softly. Just in case this wasn’t the right place.

The guy threw the door wide and walked inside. “Have a seat. I’m Bob. I’ll be with you once I warm up the machine.”

His brusque manner surprised Jack, but then, why should it? Soul extraction was a shady, unregulated business. Maybe even illegal, though that was a gray area at the moment.

Jack sat on a sofa in a plainly decorated living room. A soap opera played on the TV. A woman, pale and shivering, sat on the other end of the sofa. She stared straight ahead, sucking in each breath noisily through clenched teeth.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She looked at him with empty green eyes and nodded.

“You had it done already?”

She rubbed her arms and grunted.

“Did it hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“None of your goddamn business.” She left the room.

Bob called Jack into the kitchen a few minutes later.

“Says here that you had your soul implanted,” Bob said.
“Is that a problem?”

“No but it does require an adjustment for the procedure. Now, you are aware extraction isn’t without risk? Or that once your soul is removed, there’s no way to get one back. The process damages the metaphysical connective tissue, in layman’s terms.”

“Will it take away the memories?” asked Jack.

Bob didn’t inquire about which memories. Everyone had something they were trying to hide from.

“No, but it will make them easier to live with.”

That was enough. It would have to be. Jack signed a few forms, and was shown to a bedroom retrofitted into an extraction chamber. A rolling office chamber sat beneath a machine hanging from the ceiling. It didn’t look very different from the implantation device.

“What happens to the soul itself?” asked Jack.

Bob shrugged. “Who knows?”

Jack considered his soul, drifting unmoored throughout space and time, without him. Or maybe it simply evaporated, gone to the cosmic ether. Science had found the soul, but still didn’t have much of an idea what to do with it.

“Time is money, pal,” said Bob.

The thing about a soul was that it wasn’t a good or bad thing. It was just a thing. It was only good or bad depending on what you did with it. And Jack had filled his with ache and disappointment. He still missed her.

He’d always miss her.

Maybe that was the point.

He paid Bob for his trouble, but Jack didn’t get the extraction. He could always change his mind later.

The woman sat on the front steps, hugging herself tightly. Jack wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. She’d given up a part of herself, and he wasn’t there to judge her for it. Everybody had their reasons.

She looked up at him. Her face were full of unknown pain. The why of it wasn’t important.

She said, “It’s colder than I remembered.”

He wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be okay.

So he did.

Hole (short fiction)

“I need it out,” Jack said.

“Are you dissatisfied?” asked the consultant. Like everyone at the company, she wasn’t quite human. Her grooming was too precise. Her features, too perfect.

“Yes. No. Yes.” Jack closed his eyes. “At first it was great. I felt more alive than I had since . . . well . . . maybe ever. Food tasted better. The world was sharper. It was like all my life I’d been experiencing things under a heavy blanket.”

“Euphoria is the most common side effect of soul implantation, but it usually goes away within a month as the subject adjusts. It says here you’ve had your soul for two years. Are you continuing to experience amplification.”

“No, it’s not that. I had the euphoria. Just like they warned me I would. And it settled down, just like they said it would. I got used to it. I kind of even forgot it was there until something came along to remind me of it. A great piece of music. A good book. A conversation with friends. Some cruelty I would’ve walked by without noticing before.”

“You did sign a waiver saying you understood the nature of the procedure, sir.”

Jack chuckled. “How the hell do you understand something like that? You can’t describe it. You can only experience it. It’s like poetry. It used to bore me.”

“And now you enjoy it,” said the consultant. “Quite common.”

“No, I don’t enjoy it. Not all of it anyway. Not most of it. I used to not give a shit about poetry. Now I have opinions about it.”

“And this upsets you?”

“Of course it upsets me. I don’t need to have opinions on poetry. It’s useless stuff clogging up my brain. All because my soul cares enough to force me to think about it.”

“In our experience,” said the consultant, “when someone is upset about something inconsequential, it is usually a byproduct of other issues. You’ve only had your soul for two years. It can take as long as five for some people to adjust.”

“I don’t want to adjust!” He stood, kicked the desk. “I want it out. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I don’t want to think about her anymore.”

The consultant raised an eyebrow. “Is this a romantic difficulty, sir?”

He sat. He didn’t want to talk about this. She wasn’t the first person to leave him. She was just the first he couldn’t stop thinking about. Before his soul, he had memories, but they were distant, almost clinical things.
He could drown them in beer and sorrow, and while they were never gone, they were easy to ignore. Easier.

Now, he didn’t just remember. He felt. An ache in his gut. A pain. A fucking hole, worse than the absence of his soul.

He willed himself not to cry, forced himself not to think of the stupid poems she’d read to him that he’d never understood, even with his soul, but loved anyway because she loved them.

“I just need it out.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she said. “Implantation is a permanent process.”

“How long does a soul last?” he asked, already knowing her answer.

“Why, forever, sir.”

Souls for Sale (short fiction)

SOULS FOR SELL

Science had discovered the existence of the soul. Unfortunately, it had also discovered most people didn’t have one.

Jack was only here for a consultation. “How much will this cost?”

“It depends on what you’re looking for,” said the salesman, a tall, good-looking man in a neatly pressed suit. Almost not-quite-human. Like a stock photo of a salesman stepped from the pages of a magazine.

“It won’t hurt, will it?” asked Jack.

“No, that’s a simple procedure. Don’t want to bore you with the details, but we put you under, you wake up twenty minutes later, soul installed. Couldn’t be easier.”

Jack hesitated.

“Perhaps if you told me why you wanted one, I could explain the value of having it.”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t I have one? Aren’t people supposed to have one?”

“That’s not for me to say, sir. I will say, in all honesty, that not everyone is happy when they get one. Souls don’t fix everything. They aren’t innately good things either. Research reveals that history’s greatest heroes and worst villains all had souls. It makes things brighter and darker, and opens entirely new vistas. But it doesn’t always reveal things a user is comfortable with. It doesn’t always improve quality of life.”

“You’re not a very good salesman,” said Jack.

“No, but I am an honest one.”

“I’ve always had trouble with people.” Jack sighed. “There is always this absence. Like I never can relate to them in a way that really mattered. Like it was all insubstantial. I’ve been married twice, and both times, it just fell apart. No fighting. No awkwardness. Just a slow drift in different directions.”

“We can help with that.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

“I’m afraid the process is irreversible,” said the salesman. “But the worst that usually happens is you learn to ignore it. People born with one do that all the time.”

Battle Scars (short fiction)

(Cindy and Cragg)

On Wednesdays, Laura had science club and needed a ride after school. Her mom was usually working then, so it fell to Cragg to pick her up. She didn’t call Cragg her mom’s boyfriend. The word seemed to silly to use for adults. Maybe if Mom had used it, but Mom had danced around the word for a couple of months now.

She’d once said her and Cragg were “going steady”, whatever the hell that meant. When Laura pointed out that sounded serious too, Mom had retracted the statement.

“Can we talk to him?” asked Pepper. She always asked.

Laura had explained many times that Saturnites were boring. They were quiet and stoic. They looked like living hunks of rock, and they had about as much personality. Perhaps other Saturnites were more lively. Perhaps Mom had simply found the most dull Saturnite on the planet.

Laura made an excuse and climbed into the rig. Cragg nodded and grunted at her as he pulled away from the curb. He was hard to read. Having a slab of granite for a face wasn’t his fault, she supposed.

“How was your day at the enforced learning center?” he asked, out of the blue.

She shrugged. “Okay. Y’know. The usual.”

He grunted again. He grunted a lot.

“How was your day at the mandatory wage dispensary facility?” she asked.

“Satisfactory.”

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes. She wished the radio worked, but it’d broken three weeks ago. He saw no reason to get it fixed. Now the rides were full of silence. Not that it bothered him. Nothing bothered him. Nothing got to him. It was what Mom liked about him. He was steady, a mountain on legs.

She sat back in the chair and sighed.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked.

“What?”

“It. Y’know. Stuff and shit.”

His brow furrowed. He grunted noncommittally.

“It’s just teenage drama,” she said. “I hate it. I hate it because it’s stupid bullshit that doesn’t matter. But it kind of matters to me still. Like at lunch, Janine made a joke about my boobs being big. Everyone laughed. I laughed. But then I felt self-conscious about it all day.”

She sighed again. “Stupid, right?”

“When I fought on the battlefields of Gargnor, the soldier’s rage took me. I don’t remember much of what happened that day but I remember waking beneath the broken rubble of my fellow warrior’s remains.”

“Okay. I get it,” Laura said. “There are more important things than teenage problems.”

“This isn’t what I meant.” Cragg frowned. “I witnessed the horror and glory of battle that day. But it was not my glory. It was not my horror. It was in the faces of my platoon. It was in the strength of my enemy. A thousand wars were fought that day. Mine was just one of them.

“The truth I learned that day was that there are no small battles. There are only the struggles that define us, that seek to conquer us, and that we fight every day. Sometimes, it is a battle against the unstoppable conqueror worms of Gragnor. Sometimes, it’s our own doubts and fears. We are always at war. But wars must be fought. We gather our scars, and we fight on.”

“Is that how you got that chip on your face?” she asked.

Cragg smiled. “No. That was another time.”

Laura leaned back in her seat. “Y’know something, Cragg. You’re all right.”

“I find you unobjectionable as well.”

She laughed, and it felt damned good.

Battle Scars

(Cindy and Cragg)

On Wednesdays, Laura had science club and needed a ride after school. Her mom was usually working then, so it fell to Cragg to pick her up. She didn’t call Cragg her mom’s boyfriend. The word seemed to silly to use for adults. Maybe if Mom had used it, but Mom had danced around the word for a couple of months now.

She’d once said her and Cragg were “going steady”, whatever the hell that meant. When Laura pointed out that sounded serious too, Mom had retracted the statement.

“Can we talk to him?” asked Pepper. She always asked.

Laura had explained many times that Saturnites were boring. They were quiet and stoic. They looked like living hunks of rock, and they had about as much personality. Perhaps other Saturnites were more lively. Perhaps Mom had simply found the most dull Saturnite on the planet.

Laura made an excuse and climbed into the rig. Cragg nodded and grunted at her as he pulled away from the curb. He was hard to read. Having a slab of granite for a face wasn’t his fault, she supposed.

“How was your day at the enforced learning center?” he asked, out of the blue.

She shrugged. “Okay. Y’know. The usual.”

He grunted again. He grunted a lot.

“How was your day at the mandatory wage dispensary facility?” she asked.

“Satisfactory.”

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes. She wished the radio worked, but it’d broken three weeks ago. He saw no reason to get it fixed. Now the rides were full of silence. Not that it bothered him. Nothing bothered him. Nothing got to him. It was what Mom liked about him. He was steady, a mountain on legs.

She sat back in the chair and sighed.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked.

“What?”

“It. Y’know. Stuff and shit.”

His brow furrowed. He grunted noncommittally.

“It’s just teenage drama,” she said. “I hate it. I hate it because it’s stupid bullshit that doesn’t matter. But it kind of matters to me still. Like at lunch, Janine made a joke about my boobs being big. Everyone laughed. I laughed. But then I felt self-conscious about it all day.”

She sighed again. “Stupid, right?”

“When I fought on the battlefields of Gargnor, the soldier’s rage took me. I don’t remember much of what happened that day but I remember waking beneath the broken rubble of my fellow warrior’s remains.”

“Okay. I get it,” Laura said. “There are more important things than teenage problems.”

“This isn’t what I meant.” Cragg frowned. “I witnessed the horror and glory of battle that day. But it was not my glory. It was not my horror. It was in the faces of my platoon. It was in the strength of my enemy. A thousand wars were fought that day. Mine was just one of them.

“The truth I learned that day was that there are no small battles. There are only the struggles that define us, that seek to conquer us, and that we fight every day. Sometimes, it is a battle against the unstoppable conqueror worms of Gragnor. Sometimes, it’s our own doubts and fears. We are always at war. But wars must be fought. We gather our scars, and we fight on.”

“Is that how you got that chip on your face?” she asked.

Cragg smiled. “No. That was another time.”

Laura leaned back in her seat. “Y’know something, Cragg. You’re all right.”

“I find you unobjectionable as well.”

She laughed, and it felt damned good.