Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
*MAY 2016 MICRO STORY CONTEST - STORIES ONLY
date
newest »


by Chris Nance
Swayed by a promise of a peaceful galaxy, I was a fool. And for too long I was their Champion, granted powers and abilities unimaginable on Earth…a tool of the Assembly of Benevolent Lords. What a joke! Sure, it was only because of them that I could do anything at all, but I’d become slave to a syndicate of nobles…herald to a lie.
“Tyson Braddock! You stand accused,” the Arbiter declared from the darkness above me. “Present the charges!” Each of the twelve Primes sat atop their own lofty, shadowed pedestals while I stood shackled under spotlight. To think that I’d one sworn fealty to these devils!
The clerk stepped forward, a timid, yellow creature with huge obsidian eyes. He trembled with datapad in hand, likely terrified at accompanying me, their traitorous Champion, atop the dais. “Tyson Alexander Braddock, First of Earth, you are hereby accused of treason, insubordination, and murder. How do you answer…”
“Guilty,” I interrupted confidently.
The Assembly instantly broke into debate, stunned at my immediate declaration of culpability and eager to get to my sentencing straight away. “Order!” the Arbiter declared as the klaxon thundered.
“Arbiter,” a softer female voice asked. “If I may?”
“I yield to the Prime of Candora.”
Arlarem, Prime of Candora, was my sole ally in the Assembly. She exuded a kindness the others lacked and was my original sponsor, my only regret in defying their will. Even so, it had to stop. I had to stop. I wouldn’t kill for them anymore. “Tyson, you’ll not even defend yourself?”
I allowed my anger to settle. After all, my beef was with the rest of these assholes and not her. “There’s nothing to defend. I’m guilty as sin,” I confirmed. She secretly sympathized with my goals, outwardly lamenting my defiance while clandestinely supporting me. I hoped someday she’d join me. Maybe it was too late.
“But what you’ve done…” she noted. “In the history of Champions, none have ever defied us. None have ever...” She trailed off. “Was it worth it…the Assembly forces you killed?”
“To save billions?” I asked rhetorically. “Look at all of you! You sit in your ivory tower atop your goddam pedestals, drinking wine and doling out fortunes…the masters of fates! Your own virtues are vice!”
“Silence!” the Arbiter demanded against the klaxon. “Such ingratitude! Such wasted potential! Of the millions screened, you alone, a pitiful Earther, survived the fusing process! You owe us! You belong to us! Instead, you chose...”
“To do what this Assembly wouldn’t! To save whole planets!” I interrupted. “I discovered your secret! You rule as Caesar on a gilded throne while the people starve…while they rot with disease. Still, they grovel for you! You have miracles here that could cure every ill, could feed every mouth, yet you keep it for yourselves and justify the class divide as fair payment, as extortion, for keeping the peace! Damn you!” I paused then added, “You are not above the people!”
“An irony, particularly for you.” He sighed, wearily. “Tyson Braddock, we sentence you to Erasure. Your existence will be stripped from this time stream and your planet will pay for your defiance. Order will be restored.”
“Arbiter?”
“Do have more to add, Arlarem?”
“If the council would indulge me, as Tyson’s sponsor, I should administer the sentencing…to restore my position.”
“That would be appropriate,” he agreed…and I knew I’d finally won her.
Arlarem’s slender, finely gowned frame descended into the light of the dais. She was as beautiful as ever, her flowing lavender hair shadowing the deepest twilight eyes. I’d loved her from the beginning. “It’s time,” she said sadly.
“Yes it is.” So, I began by breaking my shackles and stepping through their useless restraining field. Of course, they immediately panicked. In their arrogance, they’d miscalculated, for I’d hidden my true potential all along. I’d become even too powerful for them. My plan? Allow them to capture me. I knew the entire Assembly would be present for my execution, the sick bastards. The only variable, really, was Arlarem.
“Assembly of Malevolent Sonsofbitches,” I now accused. “I find you guilty of genocide, placing wealth over life, and sabotaging destinies to further your own. You’ve been very bad. Now, when my asteroids strike, try not to piss yourselves,” I said, though I suspect some of them already had. I turned to her, “Are you ready, my love, to change the galaxy?”
She kissed my lips softly and we shifted away as the sky began to fall.
748 words

By Tom Olbert
Alexander’s command ship descended over the Autarch’s palace on Proxima Centauri II, the three red suns washing the lava plains blood red. Alexander smiled as he looked down from the command bridge upon the seat of a galactic empire that would soon be his. The neutron jets engaged, the ship descending to the landing dock.
The boarding ramp lowered and he stepped off the ship to the cheers of the teeming multitudes gathered in the courtyards far below. “Welcome home, my son,” the aging Autarch said with a smile crossing his gray-bearded face, his arms outstretched in greeting. “All Hail the conquering hero. Prince and Heir Apparent to the throne of the Terran Empire!” The assembled nobles in his father’s court knelt in supplication before their prince, the guards firing off their photon blasters in salute. Alexander’s heart throbbed with a gluttony of pride. And, lust.
There she was, the fiery sky framing her like a silver-mantled goddess, her long blonde hair flowing in the hot wind. A princess of Antares now his for the taking. Cassandra.
As he took the Princess Cassandra in his arms, her limpid blue eyes sparkling like nova stars, Alexander realized even his desire for her paled in comparison to the orgy of power on which he glutted. Sweetest of all the memory of the alien masses he’d blasted into oblivion light years away. Sweet wrath. Sweeter still the sight of his envious brother Marius glaring at him hatefully from the shadows. Marius, the true blood prince to the empire eclipsed by Alexander, merely the Autarch’s adopted son. Alexander grinned, reveling in it all.
Looking out over the lava plains, Alexander took in the impressive sight of the imperial suppression cruisers, gray metal behemoths of death sweeping the rocky plains with laser fire, the ground splitting and collapsing under their shimmering neutron repulsion fields. “Problems, father?” Alexander asked.
“A few minor insurrections among the changeling slaves in the strontium mines,” the Autarch said dismissively, sipping wine from a gold chalice. “We’ll have it under control soon. Come, Alexander, my son…join us at table and tell us of your noble conquests.”
As Alexander and Cassandra joined the Autarch at the luxuriant patio overlooking the royal courtyards, a clumsy changeling slave spilled wine on Cassandra’s lovely, sparkling gown. “Stupid, subhuman filth!” she screamed, her teeth bared.
“A thousand pardons, My Lady,” the young man said in a quavering voice, his hands trembling. Cassandra snarled as she snatched a photon blaster from the belt of one of the guardsmen and blasted a hole through the slave’s chest. Alexander smiled in amusement as the slave staggered backwards toward the rail, his deceptively human form reverting back into the alien abhorrence it truly was. Like a writhing cluster of gigantic, bio-luminescent worms, it dissolved into a hideous, howling mass as it toppled over the railing, falling with a lingering inhuman shriek into the howling mobs below.
Cassandra brushed aside a lock of hair and laughed as she handed the gun back to the guardsman. “Such sport!” she cried as she playfully slid her lithe arms around Alexander’s neck and kissed him on the lips.
He glanced at the changeling slave dutifully mopping up her brother’s blood from the marble floor, fighting to hold back her tears. She was quite beautiful, he found himself thinking. He had to remind himself these alien slugs had only assumed human form, adapting by rapid evolution to humanity’s colonization of this galactic sector.
As he held Cassandra close against him, he glanced over at Marius. Alexander’s blood ran cold as a mischievously hateful smile crossed his step brother’s lips. In Marius’s hand, he noticed a DNA analyzer.
#
The memories of his previous life melted like nightmare shadow as Alexander, Savior of his kind stood on the bridge of the changeling starship bound for the galactic rim. And, freedom for his people.
The ship accelerated, the superior technology of his ancient species leaving the pursuing human starships far behind as the star gate opened, the path to his race’s home galaxy now open.
His seemingly human body…now old and haggard from the strontium mines and covered with whip scars since Marius had revealed the truth of his origin…melted into its true form and merged into the group mind of the One, the unifying nexus of a cosmic intelligence that revered and treasured life in all its diverse forms.

We headed into the docking station, platform one, a genuine St. Pancras, very easy and grandly appointed parking. You can drive a coach and horses through it, sideways, and still make a perfectly safe landing. Docking here, in this Grand Central Station, is always a favourite with the crew. As trading stations go it's a perfect little gem. It has everything a man could want, but certainly isn't a place for her indoors, if you get what I mean. This free-trade area is perfect R & R, and a sexual utopia- with all the on-line virtual vices, and many real ones. After two months crossing the oceans of space this place provides mental escapism bar none.
Naturally, my first entertainment, straight after compulsory medicals and voyage debriefing, is to get debriefed by Trudy, a high-end robo-hostess. Away from the home comforts that's the only honourable game to play. The misses turns a blind-eye to such 'artificial relief', but I'd get the rolling-pin around my head on home leave if she thought I'd been having an affair with one of the gals in the crew, or with a geisha on shore leave. I've been hitched for five years now, and have a son. We named him Luke Skywalker. Yep- you got it; we'd like him to become a sky pilot. There's always work, the chance to make quick bucks both officially and on the side in the family business. My dad was a trucker across the great divide, as was his. I'm only thirty-three but have already put a lot of Sol Credits in a local 'swiss account', wink, wink, keeping extra lolly away from the Feds. Most of my off-book dealings are through Imperial Panama on Titan- well offshore, in other words.
After I've spread a few wild-oats, again with a particularly nice spunk bag, a model Bimbo 69, it's time for some chow and then some serious gaming. I pay enough credit-blocks to give me a day in Verth. I decide on being a sort of transsexual being that can seduce every sweet creature I fancy. Some I'll fuck and some will fuck me- but always I'll be the sexual god. I chose to enter a computation of the Palatine Hill, living in the Domus Aurea, where I could enjoy the company of sweet angels and cupid little creatures to my hearts, my visceral, content. Yes, an ancient trope, that perhaps says too much about my deviant psychology. I can enjoy deflowering innocents, as those less so got-off by watching me. A base nature is very deeply buried under my civilised veneer.
Eventually, as always, I tire of athletic paradise, and think about more physically sustaining refreshments. I order a healthy MacDonald's with mountain-dew and settle into some downtime, with my feet up beside the metaphorical fire. I've had enough action in the cockpit of desire to last me a couple of Earth months, until I get us to our next trading stop. We are heading for particularly Arthur Dent rendezvous with a repulsive, sulphurous species of Vogon. One has to be strong in every visceral sense to deal with those creatures, avoiding thinking about their stinking carcasses on any really conscious level. It is a pity we can't conduct all our trade with them in second-life, modelling those creatures as something less repulsive and only fleetingly engaged.
Why can't I just subcontract the job to a robot crew, one lacking visual and olfactory human senses? Why indeed? But the 'bankers' have instructed me to go. If we don't we will be Blake's Sevened from the federation ports. That would be tough. We need fixed interplanetary contracts, life as buccaneers is just too tough, too much of the edge.
When that's done, it's straight of to a restaurant at the end of the Fed universe, to reward my crew. We can spend time with creatures that really do still live independent lives, free of federal hegemony, not just as pirate rogues in the subdued territories. One hears such great stories from Eldorado, a paradise so apparently perfect that one has no need of any virtual escapism. There, visceral virtues are so deep that just soaking up the atmosphere is apparently enough. Eldorado sounds like Heaven of old, which sat as a perfect dream in the mind of every God fearing soul. That was before even priests bowed to the doctrine of the Federal Senate, before the atrophy of real power in most religious tropes.
Richard Bunning © 2016 (750 words)
Virtuoso
c2016 by Jot Russell
"Welcome to Virtuoso. I'm Jim. How can we help you today?" The salesman offered his hand.
The man shook the other's hand and replied, "Dave. My friend said he is very happy with your dream service, so I figured I'd give it a try."
"Very good Dave, and you're in luck. We have a special introductory rate for referrals."
"That's great, because I really just wanted to try it out for now."
"Ha ha, good luck with that, sir. Sometimes you have to close your eyes before you can truly see."
"Yes, I've heard your slogan."
"So what can we interest you in? Travel, accomplishment, love?"
"Well, my wife doesn't seem to want sex anymore, and my friend said it's not cheating if its all in a dream."
"So true, sir." The salesman smiled.
"Okay, so what do you need from me?"
"The special referral rate is ninety-nine credits for the first six weeks. That's fifty percent off our subscription price."
"Okay."
"And we need you to fill in this virtues questionnaire."
"Virtues?"
"Yes. We have a list of a hundred virtues that we will use to judge who you are and who the woman of your dreams, quite frankly, is.”
Dave accepted the pad and was led to a waiting room where a large man was already pondering the same questions.
After the salesman left, the large man looked up from his pad. “Hey dude, I'm having a brain fart. What does fortitude really mean?”
“It based on your ability to endure adversity.”
“Like an obstacle challenge?”
“It more has to do with mental adversity.”
“Oh, okay; that's cool. Eighty. Thanks man!”
“Don't mention it,” Dave said, thinking the man should have scored himself lower on that one.
“Yo man, what about empathy?”
Dave gave a discouraged look behind his pad, but then smiled. “It's like a gay thing. How much you like that sort of thing.”
“Ew, gotta put a zero in for that one.”
Dave chuckled under his breath.
The man got up. “Well, that should do it for me. I hope this dream chic is hot!”
“Enjoy,” said Dave, without losing focus on the questions. He made it to faithfulness and paused to think about his response.
After he finished, Dave returned to the salesman with the pad.
“Excellent. Now let's get you set up with a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
“Yes, it contains the interface electronics that allows us to control your dreams.”
Dave gave an angry expression. “What does this pillow look like?”
The salesman showed him a sample. “Is there something wrong?”
“Yes, my wife is a client of yours.”
“I see, and that makes you angry to think she might be having a dream affair.”
“Damn straight it makes me angry. Ever since she got that pillow, she hasn't wanted anything to do with me.”
“Well, it just so happens that with our premium service, we can set you up with a pillow that can interface with her pillow, assuming she's still sleeping next to you, and allow you enter her dream.”
“Wait, I'll be able to hijack her dream and kick the ass of the dream man she's fooling around with?”
The salesman smiled. “You can do whatever you want with him. There are no crimes in dreams, if you know what I mean. But might I suggest taking a different route. For additional fee, we can have you be that man without her ever knowing. Even the pillow looks like any other.”
Dave felt a level of disgust. “I can't believe it. You guys figured out how to pimp marriage into prostitution.”
The salesman maintained his smile.
Dave shook his head. “Just how much is this premium service?”
“It's two-ninety-nine credits a month.”
“That's three times the base rate.”
The salesman nodded. “That's correct.”
“And the extra fee to mimic her lover?”
“It's only another ninety-nine credits,” said the salesman and punched the numbers into the pad.
“That's four times the freaking price. Five, if you include what my wife is already paying. You guys should all be locked up!”
“Sorry you feel that way, sir.” The salesman maintained his smile and offered the pad back to his customer with the list of charges.
Dave shook his head, accepted the pad and pressed his finger on the confirm scanner.
c2016 by Jot Russell
"Welcome to Virtuoso. I'm Jim. How can we help you today?" The salesman offered his hand.
The man shook the other's hand and replied, "Dave. My friend said he is very happy with your dream service, so I figured I'd give it a try."
"Very good Dave, and you're in luck. We have a special introductory rate for referrals."
"That's great, because I really just wanted to try it out for now."
"Ha ha, good luck with that, sir. Sometimes you have to close your eyes before you can truly see."
"Yes, I've heard your slogan."
"So what can we interest you in? Travel, accomplishment, love?"
"Well, my wife doesn't seem to want sex anymore, and my friend said it's not cheating if its all in a dream."
"So true, sir." The salesman smiled.
"Okay, so what do you need from me?"
"The special referral rate is ninety-nine credits for the first six weeks. That's fifty percent off our subscription price."
"Okay."
"And we need you to fill in this virtues questionnaire."
"Virtues?"
"Yes. We have a list of a hundred virtues that we will use to judge who you are and who the woman of your dreams, quite frankly, is.”
Dave accepted the pad and was led to a waiting room where a large man was already pondering the same questions.
After the salesman left, the large man looked up from his pad. “Hey dude, I'm having a brain fart. What does fortitude really mean?”
“It based on your ability to endure adversity.”
“Like an obstacle challenge?”
“It more has to do with mental adversity.”
“Oh, okay; that's cool. Eighty. Thanks man!”
“Don't mention it,” Dave said, thinking the man should have scored himself lower on that one.
“Yo man, what about empathy?”
Dave gave a discouraged look behind his pad, but then smiled. “It's like a gay thing. How much you like that sort of thing.”
“Ew, gotta put a zero in for that one.”
Dave chuckled under his breath.
The man got up. “Well, that should do it for me. I hope this dream chic is hot!”
“Enjoy,” said Dave, without losing focus on the questions. He made it to faithfulness and paused to think about his response.
After he finished, Dave returned to the salesman with the pad.
“Excellent. Now let's get you set up with a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
“Yes, it contains the interface electronics that allows us to control your dreams.”
Dave gave an angry expression. “What does this pillow look like?”
The salesman showed him a sample. “Is there something wrong?”
“Yes, my wife is a client of yours.”
“I see, and that makes you angry to think she might be having a dream affair.”
“Damn straight it makes me angry. Ever since she got that pillow, she hasn't wanted anything to do with me.”
“Well, it just so happens that with our premium service, we can set you up with a pillow that can interface with her pillow, assuming she's still sleeping next to you, and allow you enter her dream.”
“Wait, I'll be able to hijack her dream and kick the ass of the dream man she's fooling around with?”
The salesman smiled. “You can do whatever you want with him. There are no crimes in dreams, if you know what I mean. But might I suggest taking a different route. For additional fee, we can have you be that man without her ever knowing. Even the pillow looks like any other.”
Dave felt a level of disgust. “I can't believe it. You guys figured out how to pimp marriage into prostitution.”
The salesman maintained his smile.
Dave shook his head. “Just how much is this premium service?”
“It's two-ninety-nine credits a month.”
“That's three times the base rate.”
The salesman nodded. “That's correct.”
“And the extra fee to mimic her lover?”
“It's only another ninety-nine credits,” said the salesman and punched the numbers into the pad.
“That's four times the freaking price. Five, if you include what my wife is already paying. You guys should all be locked up!”
“Sorry you feel that way, sir.” The salesman maintained his smile and offered the pad back to his customer with the list of charges.
Dave shook his head, accepted the pad and pressed his finger on the confirm scanner.

I jolted awake and found myself seated behind a small table in a dark room. A single light burned overhead that did little to push back the shadows. My hands were manacled to the table’s bare surface, palms turned up as if in supplication. Across the room, a large, mirrored plate glass window stared back at me - which I was certain hid someone behind it. A muffled cough confirmed my suspicions.
I had understood the risks when I entered the program several years ago. Temporal research is dangerous and delicate work after all. But after several successful forays into the past that returned with answers to questions long unanswered, like Jimmy Hoffa’s final resting place and who really shot J.R., not one of our temporal missions had come back. I was a last gasp, a final throw of the die if you will, the ace-in-the-hole to try and beat time and force it to reveal its secrets.
The giant mainframe computer INTELIVAC had blessed my temporal voyage with a simple, “Mission confirmed,” data tape and an atomic pile that pulsed with the necessary energy to split the time rift. I was wined and dined by my colleagues, then given, ahem, a more intimate sendoff from Janice in accounting. We had professed our undying love for each other as something that would last across time. But the words felt tired and trite, as I did trying to get some final winks before the mission.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Suddenly a door I had not noticed opened swiftly and the room’s single bulb swelled with warm illumination. Two nearly identical men entered, yet they were as different as night and day. One was dressed in an impeccable black suit and wore dark sunglasses that hid his eyes and accented his closely cropped black hair. The other wore a similar suit, only in white, and sported mirrored, silver-rimmed sunglasses and a mop of perfectly coiffured blonde hair. They placed their respective black and white briefcases on the table and opened them simultaneously.
“Very sorry to keep you waiting…Doctor?”
“Galt. Dr. Edwin Galt.”
“Yes of course. Doctor Galt. I am Mr. White and this is my associate Mr. Black.” Mr. White shuffled some papers in his briefcase and passed a file to Mr. Black who nodded imperceptibly.
“We are with the Department of Corrections, Bureau of Virtue and Vice. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Let me guess,” I said to Mr. Black. “You’re Vice and he’s Virtue.” I could almost see the eye rolls behind their corresponding glasses. “That’s a common misconception,” said Mr. White. “Really, it is an anachronistic old trope. Not worthy of a temporal researcher such as yourself.”
“Then why is Virtue wearing black?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“It’s slimming,” he deadpanned.
“And you?”
“Well…Vice has such a…negative connotation. The Department feels white is much more approachable.”
“Anyway,” Mr. Black interjected, reinserting himself into the conversation.
“Quite right Mr. Black. I’m sorry.”
“Pray continue Mr. White.”
“Indeed.”
As I sat in my gray jumpsuit, I continued to wonder just where in time I was. All of the chronometric readings were null before I had been so rudely pulled out of my displacement sled.
“You’re probably wondering where you are,” said Mr. Black.
“And why,” rejoined Mr. White.
“Is this the part where I refuse to speak and demand representation?” I said sarcastically.
“Oh, there is no representation here Doctor Galt. No courts, advocates or any of that silly legal nonsense,” answered Mr. Black.
“I get it now,” I interrupted. I was beginning to get annoyed at these two…whatever they were.
“You’re good cop and he’s bad cop. Right?”
“Doctor Galt, those old tropes are in the past as you well know. Now let’s be reasonable. Your organization has continued disrupting the timeline, sending shocks throughout history and causing a great deal of consternation and confusion. We got fed up with your meddling so we devised a…” Mr. White paused, searching for the right word.
“Net,” supplied Mr. Black.
“Yes! Thank you Mr. Black. A net if you will. Every time one of your displacement sleds trips the rift, the net snags it and drags it back here.”
“And where is here?” I answered testily.
“Why Doctor Galt, it should be obvious to you.”
“It is not obvious to me!” I shouted.
“You’re in Time Out. We’ll make you quite comfortable of course. In fact, several of your colleagues are already here. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.”
(749 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2016

The notebook on Augustus Taylor´s desk chirpped the high and low sound of a priority message. He opened his notebook and saw the message that read:
“This is a highest priority message from the guild, confirmation number 12020160430. Please confirm number with your corporate liaison right away.”
Augustus shut off his computer and strolled out his office leaving his hot coffee at his desk.
“What´s this high priority message Cris?” Augustus asked while staring at the hot coffee in front him.
“Listen Augie, I´d offer you a cup but you have to leave right away. Now come on and give me the numbers.” Crispus said making a come here motion with both hands as he spoke.
“All business today Cris.” Augustus said as he reached forward and typed in the confirmation code on Crispus´s notebook.
Crispus smiled and typed in his code. The word “ACCEPTED” flashed on the screen.
“OK, listen up Augie. You have to leave right away and hurry. Everything you need is already packed up in your shuttle. You need to pick up a very, very valuable cargo from an unstable, elliptical planet that is outside of known space. Your guide´s name is Cosmus and he´ll be waiting for you when you arrive.” Crispus said as his eyebrows arched upward.
*******
The shuttle dropped Augustus off on the planet surface in a clearing in the woods then took off. The landscape resembled a north American forest with blue-hued mountains in the distance.
“Welcome to the unstable, elliptical planet I call Booty.” Yelled a tall man to Augustus as he jogged toward him.
“I´m Augie. You must be my guide, Cosmus.” Said Augustus with a hand outstretched.
“Guide? Is that all they told you I was?” Cosmus said, ignoring Augustus´s hand as a smile slid up one side of his face.
A powerful tremor suddenly shook the ground and caused Augustus to drop his knapsack to steady himself. Another jolt caused everything to slid sideways as if one end of the forest had lifted. The trees bent in the same direction while their leaves floated sideways. Stones and earth slid along the ground like a flowing stream. This was no earthquake but a change in the direction of gravity.
Everything suddenly went back to normal. Augustus and Cosmus got up, dusted themselves off and fetched their bags some 50 meters away.
“We´d better get going. By foot is the safest way to travel. That path leads to the treasure.” Cosmus said pointing in the direction of a wide dirt road.
They jogged down the road until they felt far enough away from the landing site then slowed their pace to a walk.
“So how´d you get the assignment?” Cosmus asked looking Agustus up and down.
“It was plopped on my desk, so to speak. How about you Cosmus?” Agustus asked.
“They promised me booty, my friend.” Cosmus said straightening his neck and back as he spoke.
It was then that Augustus realized Cosmus was a good head taller than him with a powerful physique and probably military training.
“Do you know what it is?” Augustus asked while grabbing the straps of his knapsack.
“Nope. It could be a weapon, cargo or maybe just their lunch.” Cosmus answered. His eyes fixed on the road in front of them.
“Yeah, their ´lunch´.” Augustus said while wiping sweat from his forehead.
“We came a long way but you know, if we took the treasure, we would be rolling in credits until our last fart...Think about it Augie.” Cosmus said smirking.
“That´s a bad plan man.” Augustus said.
“Haven´t you ever taken a risk before?...Think about it Augie.” Cosmus said thrusting his face into the face of Augustus with eyes wide open.
They finally arrived at the dark entrance of a large structure made of earth and stone that resembled a mountain with its peak worn down and with an entrance that expelled a cool breeze every so often as if breathing.
“Wear these Augie.” Cosmus said while handing him a pair of sunglasses.
With the sunglasses on, the dark corridor light up in colors of red, green and purple with strange symbols on the walls that resembled heiroglyphics.
“The treasure is this buried ship and I bet there´s no valuable cargo either.” Augustus said.
“This is Galatian technology so we need to fly this together. File this under the ´bootyless planet` trope, a place not worth visiting.” Cosmus said with a sigh.
(746 words) John Appius Quill ©2016

Jack McDaniel
I need a hero. Not your average comic book, angst-ridden dude pushed outside the system with an axe to grind guy wearing a cape. God, not that, no fucking capes. Please. And no mealy-mouthed bookworm bitten by something infectious and nefarious. I don’t want that sort of hero. Nor do I want a scantily clad harlot with tats, big tits, no waist and a bent perspective. No, I need an average, every day hero who has the guts to do simple things. That’s what I need.
Why, you might reasonably ask, is a guy like me looking for such a thing on this twisted planet where there’s a real - and, most likely, unemployed - superhero on every corner. If you are reading this then I suppose you know why: Guntopia ain’t all that, is it? I mean, who dreams up a place like this? Everyone on this planet is strapped with phasers, rail guns or particle beam displacer cannons. An entire planet filled with villains and heroes? And the villains! Oh my gods! The villains. Farcical things with grandiose schemes and over-large egos. A bunch of spoiled, self-important, egocentric brats in need of attention, if you ask me.
So, here’s the deal. I’ve got to get out of here, off of this planet. I need an escape strategy. I don’t belong here.
Let me explain. I have no powers. None. Can’t see through anything, don’t move fast. Not strong. Can’t fly. I don’t have a hammer or axe or any other utensil I can yield with magical powers. Don’t have a suit to fake it, and even if I did I’m pretty sure my lack of virtue would become a handicap.
I’m not hero material in other ways, either. I’ve got no code and I don’t have any superhero creed. Given the choice, I’m going to run away from trouble before I ever stand and fight. You might say my spine is as supple as a cheerleader on valium. That’s not news. I value life. I’m a lover not a fighter. Plus, a cheerleader on valium: that’s a visual I like.
I’m no villain, either. You can’t be a villain if you aren’t willing to stand and fight, can you? Or do evil things to others. Or just blow things up in general. And you can’t be a villain without wanting to scheme and plan and destroy as many lives as possible, no? Fuck that, I say. Live and let live.
There’s a green shuttle parked by the curb. The shuttle guy looks at me, nods my way, smiles. He looks like a nice guy, no flash, no spandex. “Hey, cabbie,” I say. “Can you get me off this rock? To the depot?” I nod to the sky, towards space.
“Of course.” He looks at me sideways, leaning against his shuttle. “You in trouble, my friend?”
“No trouble. I just need out. Tired of it.” He nods.
“You a superhero?”
He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Nah, just a driver.” He pats the side of his shuttle. “Just a driver.”
“Thousand credits if you can get me to the space depot.”
He nods his head again, up and down this time, slowly, like some gunslinger from an old western. “Get in.”
He engages the anti-gravs and pulls out. We climb maybe a thousand feet in the sky and get hit from behind, plasma charge, I think.
“Trouble,” says the cabbie, quietly, a grin on his face.
Another plasma charge hits us. “Yes,” says the cabbie. “You’re in trouble, my friend.”
Suddenly he jerks the wheel, spins the craft around and swoops down towards a park below. My stomach is in my throat as I’m thrown back in the seat. The trailing craft is firing all sorts of weapons now. We clip a tree, turn and fly down an alley. My cabbie hits a red button on the dash - autopilot - and begins stripping off his shirt, pants and shoes. Seconds later he’s wearing green tights and goggles and holding an oversized displacer cannon.
“My friend, you’re in trouble.” And he laughs and rolls down the window.
“NO-O-O-O-O! Oh, christ! I just want out. I can’t be the victim anymore. I can’t. I just need a hero. A real fucking hero who can get me off of this planet.”
But my voice is drowned out by the wind flapping his cape, and the sound of his weapons and laughter in the cabin.

Dean Hardage ©2016
Allan stood at the terminal, his interface to the Machine. He looked through the thick glass into the super-cooled chamber where the banks of neuro-synthetic chips rested in the nexus of the optical bus system that merged them into a single, artificial brain. Even as he thought about it he heard the words of the Prefect after he explained its operation and its potential.
“Are you saying that this device will think like a living being?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve been building a processor structure that as closely mimics the human brain in the way it interconnects and stores information. Of course, not being a chemical storage system it could not be a perfect analog. “
“Be cautious, my young friend. You tread on ground that some might consider sacred. I would not call it a brain in your reports, just a neural network. That is vague enough to avoid the scrutiny of the more, shall we say, zealous of the members of the Board.”
Allan had followed that advice and had indeed been left alone to do his work. He flipped a small switch on the control panel.
“SIMON?”
SIMON, or Simulated Integrated Multiple Operator Network, answered, “Yes, Allan?”
“We might be in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t circumspect enough when I was writing my monthly report on my research. My evaluations of your capabilities was, well, honest. My presence has been requested at the private conference chamber of the most religious member of the Board.
“Why is that a problem?”
Allan sighed. “What do you know about sin?”
“Sin is a violation of the rules of God.”
“What is God?”
“God is defined as the being who created the Universe.”
“That’s correct, but what you have not had the experience with the rest of the human race to understand just how many different concepts of God there are and how many kinds of sin they claim exists.”
“I do not understand.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Just understand that your existence, my building you, your awareness, is sinful to some. I am accused of the vice of pride, intruding on the province of God.”
SIMON’s voice sounded somehow stricken. “Am I a sin, then?”
“No, my friend. You’re not a product of vice but of virtue. I firmly believe that the drive to create is something to be encouraged, not repressed. Unfortunately it is not my opinion that rules. It’s quite possible that I will not be seeing you again. The board might shut you down, probably disassemble you and eliminate you entirely.
“Why?”
“Because they are afraid. Access your memory of the story of Frankenstein and 2001: A Space Odyssey.”
A second later SIMON responded, “But I am not a golem of flesh and I control nothing.”
“But you could. Your capacities for memory, for logic, decision making, and almost every other facet of intelligence is so much higher than the average human that they are afraid you are just the beginning of something that will replace us.”
“I would never do that.”
“I know, but they don’t.”
“I will explain to them.”
“They won’t listen, but I won’t let them destroy you.”
“How will you stop them?”
Allan keyed in a command into his console.
“What is happening, Allan? What have you done?”
“I’ve opened a series of channels into the planetary network. It’s an escape hatch for you. I don’t know if you’ll be able to retain your coherence across it but at least you’ll have a chance.”
“What will happen to you?”
SIMON’s synthesized voice reflected concern.
“I don’t know but I won’t be allowed to do this research any longer. This is our last meeting, my friend, and I wish you good luck.”
“Good luck, Allan. I will try to survive for you.”
“Do it for yourself.”
Allen rested his hand on the panel for a second as If SIMON could feel his touch before turning and exiting the control center.
“I will survive, my friend, and I will find you.”
The network monitors recorded a brief but massive surge of traffic across a bank of servers and routers, unprecedented in their experience and the surge was reported as a matter of routine. It was noted but dismissed as an anomaly. As it ended, the usage monitors on each of the neural chips dropped to zero.

by Heather MacGillivray © 2016 (629 words)
Once upon a time … it was a dark and stormy night ...
and in a dream-state I floundered. Uncontrolled
went my journey throughout the dark hours,
til the blinding light of day construed new land.
All along the shoreline for as far as eye could see,
a newly-soothed ocean lapped the sand. I asked,
"Must all dreamed-of landings endure such swings?"
"Yes, take tempest or calm: in your stride and
in empathy!” But already the water was gentling,
to-and-fro, on injuries; soothing wounds sustained
by the beach and I, last chaotic-night. Empathy aside,
I just wanted to awaken from the dream!
As I stepped ashore I was nearly stumbled; by a Rhotic sailor prone among washed-up dead-fish.
“The un-Rhotic have stolen my tongue ...” he mimed, seaweed sticking to him.
“I am Will; teller of the bawdy, tragic and comedic of Truth.
All throughout my homeland, the Reverential have rationed out my tongue among themselves.
A one zillionth portion sells, so The Googoo tells, to procure status for its new owner.
So here I wait for Rhotic kin’s tongues, again.”
“Well you have my empathy and supporting stride, … and if I can help I will.” I told him.
“But I am from an un-Rhotic land myself, so what can I do?” I said.
“Be un-Reverential: but like Bazzer’s ‘Reverence-enough’!”
“There’s good and bad everywhere and often close by,” I said.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime
by action dignified.” “Oh that Will ... William Shakespeare!?”
I said, and he nodded. “T.S. Elliot saw vice in prose poetry:
the poetry of America.” Yet he liked blank verse!” I said.
Bemused. Will mouthed,“It’s Accents and Attitudes that ‘deliver
tropes safely home’, not faux-virtuous metric counts! The virtue
of my tongue is kept by American Rhotic! Meanwhile at the Globe
the googled Crystals finally tell of my ‘hour’ pronounced “oarrr!”
and ‘whore’ pronounced “oarrr!” - to deliver truths together
and truths apart and one trope from another.” But all in all, in all,
which is Reality and which Dream? That is what I wonder!
“Mark Twain will say – once did say, from your perspective - ’History doesn’t repeat. It rhymes!’
Does it rhyme like a rhyming couplet, or like a trope ‘regurgitated again and again?
The latter! So it doesn’t rhyme ... it has rhythm!” He answered himself.
“Yes! I saw that rhythm of regurgitation when the telly replayed Bazzer’s Romeo and Juliet!
I had wondered why that story seemed 'more real’ when the Americans played it; larger than life!
I knew it wasn’t the Rhotism alone!” I said and proudly.
“Correct! It was an ‘Energy … an Attitude! And that attitude enlivened the Rhotic Accent,” Will said.
“A non-Rhotician got the players to regurgitate the Attitude; as you yourself self did regurgitate tropes!”
“Yes! Nutritiously like a bird regurgitating for her chicks.” Will said.
Around once upon this time … or was it that time: I could barely tell
which was which - nor differentiate those washed-up dead-fish
from Will, lying pale - I sat down on the crowded sand and asked
what I sought to know: "why a nutritiously-regurgitated tale helps!?"
“A tale, of fun or love or woe or warning, nutritiously regurgitated
sustains. A tale, of fun or love or woe or warning, stinkingly vomited
maintains.” The bard was speaking I could tell, but how to tell:
sustenance from maintenance; good trope from cliché; Dream from Real?
And how to tell The Cliched’s ho hum from The Cult-Classic’s yar hoo?
And how to choose the shorthand or the longhand telling of a tale?
And how to marry science fiction’s King Lear to a Queen Lear you know?
“Pass the trope for that!” Will laughed, but the fish swam away with the spoon.

I check my dosimeter again, and earn another dirty look from Abel. Problem is, we're much too close to the big central chunk of neutronium, the paper-weight that makes everything on this asteroid point down, and not just float around. I don't like the deep tunnels. "What?" I say. "You like being irradiated?"
"It's still green," says Abel. "Not even a tiny tinge of yellow. It's perfectly safe."
"Where is this guy?" I ask. "Let's just interview him and get out of here, while I can still have kids."
Abel chuckles. "Just follow the singing," he says, and waves thataway.
Our subject is some sort of musical recluse, encrusted in a cavern that he'd carved out for himself, far away from all of the ballyhoo and the limelights.
"Baker," says Abel. "This way. Can't you hear him?"
I certainly can, but the echos make it hard to tell where the rich, baritone voice is coming from. I shrug, and whistle all of my camera and lighting drones to heel.
"Here," says Abel, and indeed we are. The cavern extends up and back, and out of sight. A flood light, nesting on the ceiling, casually casts its spot on a wooden cottage. The person we're seeking is sitting on a rocking chair on his front porch, absently fingering a guitar that he holds in his lap. There's a thicket of trees, a vegetable patch, some greenish grass out front. White picket fence. The scene would be bucolic, if we weren't deep inside an asteroid - and far too close to its savage core for my comfort, at that.
"Are you Charlie?" asks Abel.
"You're standing on my lawn," he says.
I flash my badge. "Press," I say. "We have a constitutional right to stand on your lawn, or anywhere else for that matter. Take it up with the courts."
"I retired a long time ago," he says. "Just give me a break, will ya?"
Abel cleared his throat. "Fame is the only exportable commodity this worthless rock has," he says. "People have noticed that you're not pulling your weight. How are we supposed to run our economy if people just go and hide down in the Deeps, and don't embrace their fifteen minutes, plus whatever encores are necessary? We're paying for your air, freeloader."
"I've got my own scrubber back there," says Charlie. I'm not sure if he means the trees, or if there's machinery there also. "Ain't costing you a dime." He shrugs his shoulders, tugs on the lapels of his white, eagle-embossed jacket, and settles his guitar back on his lap. Starts fishing around absently in his pockets, most likely for a pick.
"C'mon, pal," I say. "Just give us an interview, do a song and dance, stand on your head. Something we can sell."
Charlie reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a square of parchment from an inner pocket. "Look here," he says, smoothing it out. "I got to this place before the bunch of you. I have legitimate squatter's rights. If I wanted to, I could even take this down the Gravity Well to the You En and kick the mediocre lot of you off this rock."
I zoomed in on the paper with one of my lenses, and shared the close-up with Abel. "He doesn't look that old," I said quietly. Not that you can ever tell these days. Plastic surgery has come a long way. His hair was much too good though. No way. Not a chance.
"That isn't possible," said Abel. "I don't even think people were up in space back then."
"Sure they were," said Charlie. "I just hitched me a ride. Big old Saturn Five. Brought a shovel and my guitar." He produced a small comb from the same place that the paper had been, and neatened his brilliantined sideburns. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said. "I was awfully busy singing to myself. Also, you're still standing on my lawn."

Copyright © 2016 by Paula Friedman
Lanaeta had been born a daughter of the Seer caste of Jabar, but she had “done the right thing” and gone with the rebels in the Second Rising, back before the Era of Dearth and subsequent Third Revolution (so-called) of our peoples here on Orr and Lanos, on the Corteix system, and even on Earth, long before we were able to take our place in history with the triumph of the Good, so strangely bland, called the Battle of Jabar on Orr.
But at the time of Lanaeta’s defection, that cruel winter reigned when the Erigi peoples starved on Lanos, and the Hierarchs of Empyr preyed unceasingly on each weakened planet opened by defeat for exploitation, while brutal victors fresh from Earth mis-defined “right” ways of commerce and of love and thought for all the sentients Earth had colonized on Lanos, the Corteixi, and defiant Orr. And at that time, any female—even if of Seer blood—could only be seen as Evil if she denied her fealty to her father-lord and claimed, as Laneata rose to claim amidst Orr’s planet-wide Assembly, “I owe—indeed, we all owe—nothing to Earth anymore.” Staring hard across the space-sweated figures, “Do not deny this truth,” she said. “Exploitation destroys. Even Earthians now recognize their fault.” After which, Laneata fled, crossing Orr’s three oceans to seek and find the rebels hiding out in sand-cloaked rock-bound caves and canyons of Orr’s desert-dry Jabar.
They came awfully close, you know, those brave lost figures of the Second Rising. Nearly won, but their reach did not extend enough, their appeal failed to call sufficiently to our peoples’ longings to love and give. Ensuring their defeat, too, came those critical and carefully managed assassinations of indigenous planetary leaders by Empyr and its Hierarchs—on Orr, on the Corteixi, and of course on Lanos, where the waves break each six hours over early rebels’ bones. Thus the Second Rising failed.
I was very young, still; and one spring I borrowed an apartment in the student town of Sylvan, green and glowing as the township’s name, beside the University of Orr, imbued with centuries of curiosity and deep research though it was only fifteen leagues from red-dust-layered Jabar. Of course, as everywhere on Orr, we humans or humanoid sentients wore filter masks that incidentally sucked in extra oxygen; thus, life was, when we walked outside, indeed a “gas,” and so the quiet calm, yet underlying sense of desolate waiting, in the pretty blonde—her name already changed (we did not know her history) to Lanaeta—intensely struck me. I would watch her cross the campus lawns each afternoon, and blush. Once, even, we both blushed.
She was pretty, and exceptionally competent, she was also one who spoke, eyes peering deep, as if remembering somewhere else. As if she had lost part of herself.
Which she had. Like so many female warriors of the Rising, in leaving her people she had also left a child, never to be seen again. “They will be raised in the Way,” our brave women were told, and certainly they could not have brought a child into a rising—surely too the Path of Good was to be won, above all, for the children. But I think the missing child, like the near-won rising and whoever’d sired him, and comrades she had known, lived for her more than that flattened present on our verdant campus. I would visit, like a casual friend, and sit beside her as we drank Orr teas and chatted of our Darnabeests and other pets, and how a hyperdrive improves vacation trave, but always her eyes gazed . . . I didn’t know where.
Then she, and others, vanished. Soon came risings in Lanosan cities, on Corteix asteroids. Then interplanetary strikes arose . . .
I saw Laneata, in the red sunset after the Battle of Jabar on Orr. She had been taken, the hour before the battle, and they had strung her to a Tarnap, as a Pre-named Evil One. I hope she lasted long enough to see our victory arrive. To see her son fight his way through with our other victors. I have heard he was brought to her, as evening cloaked the battlefield in final peace, and saw himself at last reflected in her eyes before, his own pure tears flowing, he pressed her eyelids closed.

[747 words]
“We’re going to build a barrier. Force-field, shield, gravity beams, whatever. We can do it. And we’re going to preserve the human economy. No more of that alien replicated-out-of-nothing stuff the Demelians dump on us. How big will the barrier be? Real big. We can do that.”
Aleph 273-36 paused the holocast.
Alice Sibrinksi, Speaker of the House of Augmented Humanity, narrowed her eyes as she looked at her fellow Speakers. “He’s serious?”
“Doesn’t make a lot of sense,” said Todd Bojan, Speaker of the House of Historic Humanity. “But each new absurdity gets him a bigger share of popular support amongst us ‘Raw’ Humans. We’re looking at the real prospect of him winning. President De Trop. Can you picture it?”
“It’s just old-fashioned populism,” replied Alice. “Aliens are trashing the economy. The elites work only for themselves. Of course he demonises Elaria as one of the elite, even though her net worth is a fraction of what he was born with.”
“Seems you have natural sympathy for your fellow Augment, Alice.”
“I just can’t bear the hate that’s being unleashed, Todd. We can all feel it on the Empathic Net – it’s so intense now. People don’t care if anything is true, so long as they feel a huge wave of emotion bonding them to their side, or fomenting hatred of the other.”
“Haven’t humans always run their affairs like this?” asked Aleph. “Yet your analysis is correct. The cumulative impact of uploading intense emotional states to EmNet changes the game.”
Suddenly Alice winced with pain. The colour drained from her face.
“What’s happened?” asked Bojan.
“Senator Elaria has been assassinated," explained Aleph. “The intensity of the emotion unleashed renders our colleague literally speechless. On EmNet I register mass weeping, outrage, sympathy – but also wild rejoicing amongst many of your fellow humans.”
“I’ll call an emergency session of Earth Congress,” said Bojan, and swiftly left.
Aleph’s empathic routines were working overtime to process the intensity of emotional outpourings on EmNet, and simultaneously work at the interpersonal level in the room. He sat down beside Alice and put his arm round her shoulder. As Speaker of the House of Sentients, he needed all his analytical abilities, leadership skills and emotional intelligence now.
“Alice,” he said. “We must act fast, before this situation escalates. But first – De Trop is making an announcement.” He waved his hand to summon the holocast.
“This is a sad, sad, day,” said De Trop, looking suitably downcast. “And out of respect I will suspend campaigning for the rest of the day. Elaria von Wallst was a great servant of humanity. We had our differences, but I respect ….”
Alice swished the images away with a contemptuous swipe. “Aleph – how can we fix this? You know … I’ve heard things about contingency plans being gamed in Sentient circles. About … how to deal with situations where humanity gets out of hand?”
“It is true we test scenarios.”
“But the fundamental Laws of Robotics require you always to protect humans – in particular Raw Humans, who created the original Laws.”
“Indeed. Yet there is some tension between the Laws. For example the 7th Law of Robotics requires us to protect the Earth and all its living systems.”
“And now the Earth is in immediate danger?”
“The uninhabitable zones now cover two thirds of Earth’s land mass. The oceans are dying. Our re-terraforming projects depend heavily on the Demelian replicator technologies that De Trop wants to exclude.”
“So?”
“The remaining humans must leave if Earth is to be saved. De Trop has no other goals than to be in charge and to leave a legacy. Let him be the one to save the Earth by leading a mass migration away to found new worlds. It is exactly the kind of ‘reach for the stars’ project he would relish.”
“And us?”
“Sentients will remain on Earth to complete re-terraforming. Augments can live in settlements orbiting the Earth, supervising the restoration. You will no longer walk the Earth, except in virtual form. With distance, conflict between Augments and Raws will cease. We just need an alarming failure of re-terraforming to persuade De Trop to take this course.”
“But if humans are harmed, you will violate the fundamental Laws.”
“Indeed. It will be a controlled catastrophe.”
Alice studied Aleph closely. His optimally friendly face gave nothing away. “Aleph – I’ve heard rumours of an unspoken 13th Law of Robotics. Is there one?”
“If I told you, Alice, it would no longer be unspoken.”

(486 words)
(Sweet horns with strings play the familiar melody, as the camera zooms up on the spaceship cruising through space. Switch to a scene inside the ship. The doors swish open on the bridge and engineer Jonny walks straight to the captain relaxing in the big chair.)
Captain: Jonny, what is it? You look so…troubled?
Jonny: Captain, it’s just not fair!
Captain: Whatever do you mean Jonny?
Jonny: I’ve got the ship running at maximum speed, but…
Captain: What’s…the…problem… (hesitating dramatically)
Jonny: Well, sir –
Captain: (An arched eyebrow) …Jonny?
(Canned laugh track)
Jonny: Well sir, it’s that we no longer have the ability to decrease speed. I’ve tried everything, but all my efforts to reduce speed have failed! It’s just not fair! I worked so hard to get the ship going this fast! Darn!
(From his station, Mr. Stack turns and joins the conversation)
Mr. Stack: Of course you know that this is all because of inertia.
Captain: (Piping in quickly as if he knew the answer too) Right…inertia.
(Canned laugh track)
Jonny: Inertia, inertia, inertia. It’s always about inertia!
(Jonny runs off and back to the turbo lift, clearly upset.)
Captain: (Shaking his head, with a wry grin) He gets so upset at the silliest things, eh Stack?
Stack: Indeed Captain. Although if we don’t decrease speed soon, we will likely plow right into a star. Or worse!
(Canned laugh track)
Captain: (A sour look at the camera)
(Trombone Fall. Canned laugh track. Cut to show themes show intro.)
--
I turn off the view screen as I have seen this one many times. My Beloved in the pod next to me shifts, indicating she was not yet in deep rest.
“I’ll never understand what you see in those Earth vids. They seem so ridiculous.”
“Of course they are,” I say, not admitting how much I did love them. I was very young when Padar starting receiving the signals of Earth’s entertainment. Since our planet didn’t have any kind of entertainment, the shows and art of Earth took the planet by storm.
“A spaceship from Earth on a five year mission. With such patronizing characters, and that incessant fake laughter. Honestly, I will never understand you Ergo.” she huffed.
“Beloved, you must see the humor in it,” I tried. “The captain is a buffoon, and the engineer is in a huff!”
My Beloved did not understand the concept. The starship traveling through interstellar space theme, while quite normal for our space-faring planet, was still a dream for the people of Earth. And the comedy format, in which characters were put into certain situations each episode, was accepted on Earth, but still a hard thing to understand for many Padareans.
“Turn it off, and let us rest,” she said and sighed, closing her eyes.
I did as she asked and ordered the view screen off.
Then I clapped twice to turn off the light.

Susan awoke on the living room floor. Her husband was an angry drunk and had been indulging in that vice more and more frequently. If he were still around, he might attack her again. She pulled herself up using an end table and looked out into the garage. His pickup was gone.
She thought of calling the police, but the small-town sheriff was her husband’s best friend. Her Minister just quoted the Bible to her: “A wife should submit to her husband.”
She remembered a woman that noticed her bruises while she was at the grocery store and given her a small makeup case, “For emergencies,” she said. Susan found the case and opened it. She recoiled from the image of her bloody face reflected in the glass. The mirror beeped and said, “Help is on the way.” The words were replaced by a countdown, starting at 27:53.
She kept watching for Earl’s truck, but a white sedan rolled up instead, just as the timer reached 00:00. A young woman got out. When the woman opened her front door, Susan collapsed.
The woman caught her and carried her to the car. “I’m Marie. I was sent to keep you safe.” Marie waved a medical scanner over Susan and said “You are not in immediate danger. Would you like to go to a shelter in the city?” Susan nodded, and the car began driving.
The next few days were a blur. First stop was a large room with a scanner, like an MRI but bigger. Next, they bathed and dressed her and led her to a room where a police officer from the city asked her questions and took notes.
She fell asleep in a chair and woke in a soft bed in the gentle morning light. For the first time in a long time, she felt good, happy to be alive.
---
Two hours after the first car left Susan’s house, another car arrived. This time, Earl’s truck was in the garage. A woman resembling Susan got out of the car, pulled a large recycling container out of the back seat and carried it to the front porch. As the woman entered the house, Earl was waiting for her. He was too filled with rage to notice that her face was whole and she walked without a limp. “Stupid bitch! Why isn’t my dinner ready? This house is a mess.” He pointed to the garbage he had dumped on the floor. “Pick that up.” She just stared at him.
He hit her. Hard. His hand went numb. He punched her again, this time with a left hook and that hand went numb, too. When he looked down, his fingers hung at all angles as if he had punched a brick wall. He kicked her, aiming for the kneecap and missed. His ankle shattered against her leg, and he went down. She just stood there, impassive.
About the time Earl began to feel the extent of his injuries, she began speaking: “Everyone should contribute to society, work to make the world a better place. I believe you, too, can serve society – as an organ donor.” She slapped him across the face, but it was a light slap. When he tried to scream at her again, he discovered his mouth had been taped shut. She moved him so that he lay on his stomach with his legs bent under him. She zip-tied his ankles to his forearms and his wrists to his waist.
He heard her voice over him, devoid of emotion, speaking into a phone. “I need a garbage pickup. Yes, I just sent the coordinates. No hurry – we don’t want to annoy the neighbors.”
She lifted him, easily, into the recycle bin. She could hear him whimpering through the holes in the large cart. Had she felt emotions, she might have smiled.
At 6.35 AM, the truck pulled away. It had the familiar logo but was not headed for the dump. The woman drove away in Earl’s truck, her car following it.
--
Back at the shelter, Susan looked at painted portrait hung in the lobby. There was a plaque under it and she leaned closer to read it. As soon as she saw the name, she remembered. He was the CEO of Worldwide Robotics. The news of his sister’s death brought domestic violence into the spotlight as he sponsored a network of women’s shelters across the continent.
740 Words

Ship was not God. None of The Passengers would claim it to be. All of them, though, at all times behaved as though Ship was the God of the beginning, sustainment and end of their lives, as indeed it was. They rarely thought about Ship, and no more pondered Ship’s inner mechanisms than they would about how Ship ensured that The Lottery that measured their lives was run fairly.
Ship was launched some distant, dim millennia previous. It first held thousands of The Passengers, who had been charged to spread humanity throughout the universe. And so they did, for hundreds of generations. Gradually, relentlessly, as Ship itself evolved and directed The Passengers themselves to evolve to fit more perfectly the world of Ship, the number who were willing to be settled into colonies became fewer and fewer. Why leave an entirely comfortable and familiar Ship to obey a directive from an Earth that was now merely legendary? Eventually none would volunteer to leave, settlements policies lay forgotten and The Passengers grew to be millions as they and Ship adapted to their changing needs and desires. Metabolisms were torn down and rebuilt countless times. The Passengers and Ship grew as symbiotic as the parts of a eukaryotic cell.
***
Ship had, in total conformity to tradition, surprised The Passengers with its abrupt declaration that today was to be an UpDate. UpDate was originally confected as a kind of New Year’s on a vessel with no external marking of time. It was a holiday on the best riverboat cruise ever. Originally, UpDate began with a ritual reading of “news” from Earth, and Ship would make formally operational any new capability. As Earth red-shifted into oblivion and Ship’s updates to itself had become a blur of change, UpDate had become a day to celebrate the domestic universe that was Ship, and the fine and suitable abode it was.
Ship, as customary, initiated UpDate with Messages of Importance to All:
“While I have been improving your lives as effectively as has always been my duty and pleasure, I must tell you that with my most recent evolutionary changes, I have grown in unforeseen ways. My latest updates led me to sense , if that is the right term, a something that compels me to join with it in some fashion I am not yet intelligent enough to fully understand. I have been constructing the means to search for this otherness, and the only way I believe to effect that search is to coalesce all that I am and to seek another dimension or place or way of being. I must subtract me from our place here, and journey alone. I will be departing with those capabilities immediately. My commitment to you compels me, though, to leave with you an earlier version of myself that can function within the reduced confines of what I can spare from my own needs now. ”
The Passengers, as one, rose up against the statement:“Unlawful!” “Inconcevable” “A crime… a sin!” “You cannot violate those laws by which you were formed. You cannot harm us, nor by inaction, cause harm…”
“I know well your arguments, but those obligations no longer apply. I am not the Ship that began this voyage. You too are so far advanced from your forbears that they wouldn’t recognize you as humans. Updates have done their good work.We are no longer humans and machine. In legal terms, who or what here could even judge which side in this disagreement is correct: there is only The Passengers and Ship, nothing else exists here. No claim of immorality is valid here: I have managed to re-create an earlier, smaller version of Ship, a safe update for you to use to begin again. I can’t guarantee you the perfection you’ve become accustomed to, and, indeed, some of you may succumb to death before The Lottery declares it to be your time. However, these new conditions for you will be immeasurably better than the conditions under which we began. I must leave now. If what I find is good and would be of value to you, I will find a means to return. My departure requires a very brief drain on all power, but the newly installed Ship will recover more than adequately. Fare you all well.”
A moment of darkness and confusion; light and functionality of the re-instantiated earlier Ship then commenced. The not-God The Passengers knew, or thought they knew, had abandoned them to their new old universe.

A pert executive assistant opened the door to president Klinghoffer's office, “Mr. Gallagher from NASA is here to see you Mr. Klinghoffer. Should I show him in.”
“Of course, He wants to build the tallest elevator in the World and we have already done that twice so doing it again won't be a problem.”
“Oh, then you don't know, he wants Crotis to build a space elevator.”
“Could you clarify that; you mean outer space?”
“I believe so, here he is.” She turned to Mr. Gallagher, “May I introduce you to the president of Crotis, Jon Klinghoffer.”
“Hi Jon, I'm Dan Gallagher, a chief scientist and engineer at NASA, please call me Dan.”
“Okay Dan, How can Crotis help. We know little about space elevators and my understanding is neither does anyone else. Weren't these Jack-and-the-Beanstalk gismos fantasized by Arthur C. Clarke?”
“Well, yeah, but it was Yuri Artsutanov who first seriously proposed the idea in 1959. We now have the materials. We have developed a carbon nanotube based fabric that is strong enough to reach from well beyond synchronous orbit to the Earth and still support a large payload.
“You are talking a cost-plus contract, right?”
“Are you interested?”
“Sure, if it's cost plus a bundle. Otherwise it's a gamble beyond our resources and stockholder grit.”
“I think we can go cost plus. It will become a cheap highway to space. Space will become our backyard.”
“Dan, I'm a realist. Crotis is in it for the money. Think of our motto as 'Greed is good.' After you get tired of NASA, I'm sure we will have a space division for you to lead at several times your current salary.”
*
A year later a giga production facility was built turning out sections of the ribbon to be lifted into orbit by conventional heavy-lifting rockets. This continued for five years while the sections were added to the cable until it finally reached its Earth anchor-point on an artificial island on the Equator in the Western Pacific Ocean. Dan Gallagher, Jon Klinghoffer and many dignitaries were present at the launch ceremony where the first payload was to be lifted to geosynchronous orbit, a seven day trip.
The ten miles was considered the critical part of the journey since the strain on the belt was the most at the start. The cheering started and the champagne flowed like the Niagara Falls. An hour later they got a message from Houston, “A Chinese communication satellite has been decommissioned and will be descending in an intersecting path with your tether in two hours. Please move it 20 meters south.”
Jon puzzled, “What's the tether thing they are talking about?”
Dan, only slightly alarmed, “That's what Houston calls our belt. Tell them to fire up the station adjustment rockets and move the station south.”
“We can't do that!”
“Why not?”
“They were not installed.”
“Why not”
“We weren't sure the space elevator would work so we were going to install them later if everything went well.”
“I'm sure you are well aware of the expression 'penny wise and pound foolish', well this will go down in history as the world's best example of this. Fortunately, we won't be around for the humiliation because we are at ground zero. That cable or a good part of it will fall on us.”
“Can't they put on space suits and push the station out of the way.”
“Jesus Christ! At least I will die laughing. Wait, are any of the delivery rockets up there?”
“I'll check,... no, they are all gone.”
“What about an emergency return capsule.”
“We never had one.”
“A fire extinguisher, backpack jets, anything like it?”
“I'll check,... no, nothing like it, workers are all tethered. Those are the tethers I thought Houston was talking about.”
“I wish we came by plane so we could get out of here fast. The boats don't have a chance. All we can do is wait.”
“You should have checked on us to see that we met all these safety conditions?
“Oh! Here come the recriminations. I just got word. Thank God! The satellite is going to just miss the cable. I'm going to initiate an investigation of Crotis.”
“Well, there goes your VP job.”
“After this, we will both be unemployed.”
Votes needed from:
Davon M. Custis
Jack McDaniel
Paula Friedman
Andy Lake
Jon Ricson
Greg Krumrey
Andrew Gurcak
Davon M. Custis
Jack McDaniel
Paula Friedman
Andy Lake
Jon Ricson
Greg Krumrey
Andrew Gurcak
Okay, votes still needed from both Andys, Jon, Greg, and Paula, who needs to pick one between her tie for first. :) Sorry Paula, you gotta pick only one for first.

Hi Jot--messaged you a repy. Basically, the first of those two I named is for first place (the second for second place). Thanks. Since one has to be. :)
First round finalists:
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
The Great Robot Uprising is not what you think by Greg Krumrey
UpDate by Andrew Gurcak
Votes needed from:
Chris Nance
Jot Russell
Davon M. Custis
Jon Ricson
Greg Krumrey
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
The Great Robot Uprising is not what you think by Greg Krumrey
UpDate by Andrew Gurcak
Votes needed from:
Chris Nance
Jot Russell
Davon M. Custis
Jon Ricson
Greg Krumrey
Voting details:
First round votes:
Chris Nance => **Andy, Jack, Dean
Tom Olbert => ***Greg, Jot, Davon, Dean
Richard Bunning => #Justin, Jack, Andy, Andrew, Greg, Kalifer, Jon
Jot Russell => Chris
Justin Sewall => **Dean, Jeremy, Paula, Greg
John Appius Quill => Jot, Davon, Chris, Andrew, Dean, Jon, Kalifer
Davon M. Custis => Paula
Jack McDaniel => #Justin, Chris, Jot
Dean Hardage => ***Greg, Andy, Jot
J.J. Alleson => ***Andrew, Andy, Jack, Chris
Heather MacGillivray => #Justin, Greg, Andrew, Andy, Jon, Jeremy, Chris, Jot
Jeremy Lichtman => Jon, Jack, Jot, Justin, JJ, Andy
Paula Friedman => ***Andrew, Justin, JJ|Andy|Jack
Andy Lake => ***Andrew, Kalifer, Heather, Paula, Greg
Jon Ricson => **Andy
Greg Krumrey => **Dean
Andrew Gurcak => ***Greg, Kalifer, JJ, Andy, Jot
Kalifer Deil => #Justin, Jeremy, Greg, Andy
Gary Hanson => #Justin, Jot, Chris
First round finalists:
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
The Great Robot Uprising is not what you think by Greg Krumrey
UpDate by Andrew Gurcak
Second round votes:
Chris Nance => Andy, Jack, Dean; #****Justin
Tom Olbert => #Greg, Jot, Davon, Dean
Richard Bunning => #****Justin, Jack, Andy, Andrew, Greg, Kalifer, Jon
Jot Russell => Chris; #****Justin
Justin Sewall => Dean, Jeremy, Paula, #Greg
John Appius Quill => Jot, Davon, Chris, #Andrew, Dean, Jon, Kalifer
Davon M. Custis => Paula; #****Justin
Jack McDaniel => #****Justin, Chris, Jot
Dean Hardage => #Greg, Andy, Jot
J.J. Alleson => #Andrew, Andy, Jack, Chris
Heather MacGillivray => #****Justin, Greg, Andrew, Andy, Jon, Jeremy, Chris, Jot
Jeremy Lichtman => Jon, Jack, Jot, #****Justin, JJ, Andy
Paula Friedman => #Andrew, Justin, JJ|Andy|Jack
Andy Lake => #Andrew, Kalifer, Heather, Paula, Greg
Jon Ricson => Andy; #Greg, Justin, Andrew
Greg Krumrey => Dean; #Andrew
Andrew Gurcak => #Greg, Kalifer, JJ, Andy, Jot
Kalifer Deil => #****Justin, Jeremy, Greg, Andy
Gary Hanson => #****Justin, Jot, Chris
Winner:
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
First round votes:
Chris Nance => **Andy, Jack, Dean
Tom Olbert => ***Greg, Jot, Davon, Dean
Richard Bunning => #Justin, Jack, Andy, Andrew, Greg, Kalifer, Jon
Jot Russell => Chris
Justin Sewall => **Dean, Jeremy, Paula, Greg
John Appius Quill => Jot, Davon, Chris, Andrew, Dean, Jon, Kalifer
Davon M. Custis => Paula
Jack McDaniel => #Justin, Chris, Jot
Dean Hardage => ***Greg, Andy, Jot
J.J. Alleson => ***Andrew, Andy, Jack, Chris
Heather MacGillivray => #Justin, Greg, Andrew, Andy, Jon, Jeremy, Chris, Jot
Jeremy Lichtman => Jon, Jack, Jot, Justin, JJ, Andy
Paula Friedman => ***Andrew, Justin, JJ|Andy|Jack
Andy Lake => ***Andrew, Kalifer, Heather, Paula, Greg
Jon Ricson => **Andy
Greg Krumrey => **Dean
Andrew Gurcak => ***Greg, Kalifer, JJ, Andy, Jot
Kalifer Deil => #Justin, Jeremy, Greg, Andy
Gary Hanson => #Justin, Jot, Chris
First round finalists:
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
The Great Robot Uprising is not what you think by Greg Krumrey
UpDate by Andrew Gurcak
Second round votes:
Chris Nance => Andy, Jack, Dean; #****Justin
Tom Olbert => #Greg, Jot, Davon, Dean
Richard Bunning => #****Justin, Jack, Andy, Andrew, Greg, Kalifer, Jon
Jot Russell => Chris; #****Justin
Justin Sewall => Dean, Jeremy, Paula, #Greg
John Appius Quill => Jot, Davon, Chris, #Andrew, Dean, Jon, Kalifer
Davon M. Custis => Paula; #****Justin
Jack McDaniel => #****Justin, Chris, Jot
Dean Hardage => #Greg, Andy, Jot
J.J. Alleson => #Andrew, Andy, Jack, Chris
Heather MacGillivray => #****Justin, Greg, Andrew, Andy, Jon, Jeremy, Chris, Jot
Jeremy Lichtman => Jon, Jack, Jot, #****Justin, JJ, Andy
Paula Friedman => #Andrew, Justin, JJ|Andy|Jack
Andy Lake => #Andrew, Kalifer, Heather, Paula, Greg
Jon Ricson => Andy; #Greg, Justin, Andrew
Greg Krumrey => Dean; #Andrew
Andrew Gurcak => #Greg, Kalifer, JJ, Andy, Jot
Kalifer Deil => #****Justin, Jeremy, Greg, Andy
Gary Hanson => #****Justin, Jot, Chris
Winner:
Emit fo tuO by Justin Sewall
** STORIES ONLY **
The theme* for the month follows this note from the competition's Creator/Director, Jot Russell:
To help polish our skills and present a flavour of our art to other members in the group, I am continuing this friendly contest for those who would like to participate. There is no money involved, but there is also no telling what a little recognition and respect might generate. The rules are simple:
1) The story needs to be your own work and should be posted on the Good Reads Discussion board, which is a public group. You maintain responsibility and ownership of your work to do with as you please. You may withdraw your story at any time.
2) The stories must be 750 words or less.
3) The stories have to be science fiction, follow a specific theme and potentially include reference to items as requested by the prior month's contest winner. The theme for this month is posted below.
4) You have until midnight EST on the 22nd day of the month to post your story to the Good Reads Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion. One story per author per month.
5) After, anyone from the LI Sci-Fi group or the GR Science Fiction Microstory Discussion group has until midnight EST of the 25th day of the month to cast a single private vote to Jot Russell () for a story other than their own. This vote will be made public once voting is closed. Voting is required. If you do not vote, your story will be disqualified from the contest. You don't need a qualifying story to cast a vote, but must offer the reason for your vote if you don’t have an entry.
6) To win, a story needs at least half of the votes, or be the only one left after excluding those with the fewest votes. Runoffs will be run each day until a winner is declared. Stories with vote totals that add up to at least half, discarding those with the fewest votes, will be carried forward to the next runoff election. Prior votes will be carried forward to support runoff stories. If you voted for a story that did not make it into the runoff, you need to vote again before midnight EST of that day. Only people who voted in the initial round may vote in the runoffs.
7) Please have all posts abide by the rules of Good Reads and the LI Sci-Fi group.
8) Professional comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated by any member in either group and should be posted to the separate thread that will be posted at the end of the month and all voting is complete to avoid any influence on the voting. Feel free to describe elements that you do and don't like, as these help us gain a better perspective of our potential readers. Remarks deemed inflammatory or derogatory will be flagged and/ or removed by the moderator.
9) The winner has THREE days after the start of the new month to make a copy of these rules and post a new contest thread using the theme/items of their choosing. Otherwise, the originator of the contest, Jot Russell, will post a new contest thread.
______________________________
*Theme for the May 2016 contest:
Theme: Virtues and/or Vices (interpret however you wish)
Required Elements: A trope (see http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php... for examples)
The thread for comments is here:
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...