Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
AUGUST 2024 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories Only)
date
newest »
newest »
SERVICE INTERRUPTION“Dammit, it’s trying to kill me!” Kayla screamed into the space station contact link.
“Sorry…I didn’t quite get that,” the A.I. voice at the other end said. “Please type or say what you want.”
Kayla’s heart was pounding, sweat pouring down her face, her ears splitting as the cutting saw ground in a deafening metallic screech against the blast door, sparks flying. She forced herself to focus. “Tech service,” she said, her eyes fixed on the radial saw cutting through the door.
“All right…for password reset, press 1. For hardware failure, press 2. For any system-wide application failure, press 3.” She pressed three, trembling in fear as the radial saw turned in a 90 degree angle. “All right. Please type or say the nature of the problem.”
She fought to keep her breathing under control. “The servobots have gone crazy…malfunctioned. They’re not dissecting the clones in the lab anymore…they’re dissecting us! Shut down the whole mainframe, now!”
“Sorry…I didn’t quite get that. For account access, press 1. For general maintenance issues, press 2. Or, hold for a live operator.”
She screamed, slamming the com with her fist as the door started to give way. She forced herself to move, wedging herself through the service vent into the maintenance crawl space. Her nerves shattered as the metal hatch fell to the deck with a sickening metallic clang. She cringed as she heard the servobot grinding across the floor, its metallic limbs humming and shifting, its claw-like extensors scraping the deck plates.
She clenched her teeth to keep from vomiting as she entered the lab. What was left of her co-workers…Bryce, Collins, Trask…being dissected by the automatic organ harvesting system. Their icy eyes stared at her as their organs were packed in refrigerated containers and loaded into the now inoperative shuttle pods by the humming, clicking robot arms. That was it. She hurled. She gasped, her head spinning…she could hear it…the servobot…making its way down via the service lift. Her heart stopped as she realized the lab door was open. She was babbling hysterically as she closed it, ripping out the circuit board, sparks flying.
She tried the nearest com panel, accessing emergency services. “Please enter your password,” the A.I. voice said. She cursed, forcing her hands to keep steady as she entered her password. Three errors, and she’d be locked out. She could hear the servobot coming closer.
“We’re sorry…all our earthside operators are busy assisting other callers. Your call is important to us. Please remain on the line.” She bowed her head and cried as the cheesy elevator music began. She could hear the servobot clawing at the door, the cutting saw engaging.
Forcing herself to think, she accessed the nearest web console, scrolling through customer service numbers. She tried the first one. “Congratulations,” a female voice said. “You are eligible for our new insurance plan. Enter your age and place of residence.”
“Hello…is this a live operator?”
“Please enter your marital status.”
“Is this a live operator??!”
A life-size 3D hologram of a man appeared, holographic ghosts of families and kids fading in and out around him. The door crumpled as the metallic arms of the servobot forced their way in. She gasped as her photo appeared on the com screen, her vital stats represented. “Commence dissection,” an A.I. voice said.
Her life flashed before her. The smiling holo salesman droned on. She cried hysterically. Then, it hit her. She accessed the manual override on the holo-imaging control and transposed her own image over that of the salesman. A 3D holo-image of herself appeared in his place just as the servobot crashed through the door.
Ducking behind a server module, she manipulated the holo control via a hand remote, moving her holo double across the lab. She prayed the servobot was still running on vid scan. She exhaled. As she’d hoped, the robot took the bait, following the hologram. The robot charged, straight at the holo-image where she’d positioned it, directly in front of the main power conduit. She turned away as the electrical explosion shook the lab, the robot’s circuitry exploding as its extensors contacted the electrified power relays. She slumped to the floor, crying as the steaming, stinking bulk of the robot lay still.
“Thank you for dealing with Offworld Organ Banks,” an A.I. voice said though the station com system. “Please take the customer survey. To rate your experience as Satisfied, press 1. Somewhat satisfied, press 2…”
She lay back, laughing hysterically.
Mod
©2024 by Jot Russell
The mountain was massive; largest in the solar system. How best to sell my latest design than to take it down the slope myself. The bike's front suspension connected to three wheels, with a center that could extend out on demand to support the impact of mountain ledges. Needless to say, I'd be extending it for the duration of my lengthy ride. The rear suspension had a full meter of travel, and the control surfaces provided stability when airborne. With an expert behind the bars, the bike could handle a sixty degree, rocky slope on Earth. With a third the gravity, I figured, this would be a walk in the park.
Most freelance spelunkers would choose a powered vehicle, but we're naturalists only. And thank god, because I'm not alone. If you want to experience mother's true force of wind, water or slope, you gotta unplug. Not that we don't get regular calls from spoiled kids or their dad to ask about a fusion powered bike.
"Try your local BigMart, girly man." or "Sure, we got the best in the industry, but I don't think the seat would hold up your son's fat ass." My sales staff joined the fun, given us free advertisement of being the Wheel Nazis.
But the brave and talented knew our name, loved our rides, and that was fine with me.
**
The view from the top of Olympus Mons was stellar. I could see why North Resort here was such a hit. A stretch of rusty sand extended in every direction. Far below, I could make out the new Sea of Mars, but not quite South Resort at its shore. I was convinced that after a few hour ride there, I'd be enjoying drinks and signing contracts for a new supply of extreme mountain bikes. That is, until I dropped in.
The initial cliff was nearly vertical. I had wanted to trim off as much of the elevation as early as possible, but it quickly became clear that I miscalculated one thing. Granted, the gravity was weak, but the atmospheric friction felt non-existent. Without air, the control surfaces were useless. I bounced, twisted and torqued my body to keep the center-of-gravity over the wheels that took the brunt of Mars' wrath. Within a minute, my speed extended past the design limits of the bike, and I prayed that the prototype would hold together.
Each rock made me cringe and each free-flight that followed had me reliving aspects of my life, in case it was about to end. Up ahead, the slope that I was riding down met, what looked like, a plateau, and at this speed, the outcome was certain. I pushed the bike sideways, trying to take the slope at an angle. The five wheels bounced and skid, but at least slowed my descent and cut down on the ledge's onslaught to something that I thought I could handle. I was wrong.
The front wheel hit at about 100kph, as did the second pair. It bore the impact, but threw me twenty meters into the thin air. As the bike and I flew in separation, I could see the plateau's edge leading down to the next cliff, and I was heading for it. When I hit, the red world around me turned to black.
***
"Good morning. Can you please tell me your name?"
"Ah, Jack Bellman."
"Very good, you still have a brain within that broken skull of yours! I'm Dr. Anton. You've been out for a few days, but the swelling is down, so I felt it was time to revive you."
"A few days? Shit, I blew it!"
"Well, if you mean suicide, then yes, you failed in killing yourself."
"I'm not suicidal, Doc. I just wanted to prove the design."
"Well, beyond the cracked skull, two broken legs, wrist and three vertebrae, I'd say the bike fared much better than you; in fact, the news can't seem to stop remarking about how it made it to the bottom without you." The doctor touched the screen which displayed the video of the crash.
"Holy crap! The autopilot is suppose to stop the bike, not leave you stranded. Like I said, I blew it!"
"Then how come every body wants one?" the doctor asked.
"Huh? What do mean?"
"Your associates told the news agencies that orders are through the roof."
I raised my arms in celebration, but the sharp pain in my back turned my cheer into a groan.
Pushing the Ragged EdgeConsortium Aerospace’s orbital passenger liner sat in Pan Am’s infamous Hangar Number One. Looking like the offspring of a Saturn V rocket and the defunct XB-70 Valkyrie Mach three bomber, it glistened in its pristine white and blue livery. Coolant vented along the fuselage from overflow valves while cables from diagnostic equipment hung from strategic hardpoints and covered the hangar floor like so many snakes. It was 1970, and an air of giddy anticipation hung thickly over Pan Am’s newly christened “space port,” located conveniently near Florida’s Kennedy Space Center. First flight was scheduled for Monday in front of God and everybody, and Chief Flight Test Engineer John “Roscoe” Talbot could feel his ulcer growing as he reviewed the current glitch list. On paper NASA was in charge of first flight, but everyone knew it was really Pan Am’s program – and the airline – soon to be spaceline – executives, were not brooking any delays. They had paying customers waiting for their first flight into space who were practically frothing at the mouth to do so.
Talbot stubbed out his third cigarette in an overflowing ash tray and ran his hand through a bristle-brush flattop of iron gray. It made him long for the days of the Mercury program and the simplicity of a capsule designed for just one astronaut. Now this new behemoth could carry over two hundred passengers to the Skyhub Orbital Platform and then beyond to the growing lunar outpost. That meant life support systems strong enough to scrub carbon dioxide for that many people, room for sufficient food and water, not to mention enough zero-gee toilets. Most passengers could barely manage the lavatory on Boeing’s 707’s, so how could they possibly handle doing one of Nature’s most basic functions without gravity?
Talbot’s push button desk phone rang and it jolted him out of his negative spiral.
“Talbot,” he answered brusquely.
“Roscoe, I’ve got some bad news.”
“Bouncer,” said Talbot, using his friend’s old Navy call sign. “Why do you only call me when you have bad news?”
“Sorry man. We just had a Notice of Escapement come down from Rockwell-Aerodyne. Something to do with the injector regulators. They strongly recommend scrubbing first flight until they can do an analysis and inspection.”
“They want to start pulling apart Pan Am’s bird two days before it’s supposed to fly?”
“That’s what they’re telling me. Mathematical modelling says it’s if-y.”
“They still using slide rules over there?”
“So what if they are?”
“I’d rather have numbers from an IBM box Bouncer and you know it.”
“Well they don’t have a computer yet, so we’ve got their best figures from their best eggheads.”
Talbot contemplated lighting another cigarette but refrained and blew out his breath instead.
Bouncer continued, “I know man, I really want to fly too, but we’re talking catastrophic failure when they light the rocket on the back of that bird. They think first stage is safe, but the injectors in the second and third stages are suspect.”
Talbot hesitated, then answered, “Okay Bouncer, I’ll take the bad news upstairs but it’s not going to go well. Get the inspectors out there, but no one takes anything off the plane until I get Pan Am’s approval. Got it?”
“Sure thing Roscoe, we’re on it.” The line went dead and Talbot’s sense of dread began growing with every step towards the Pan Am executive suite.
***
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first flight of Pan Am’s new spaceliner Orbiter One!” The announcer’s voice echoed between the hangars and flight line, sounding like competing hosts among the cacophony of the crowd – who were out in force along the runway, but safely back in cordoned off areas. The countdown clock spiraled rapidly down as Orbiter One taxied into position on its massive conventional jet engines. Everything from the weather to spacecraft telemetry was perfect, but in Launch Control, John Talbot was conspicuously absent. Orbiter One’s engines howled at full power as the gigantic space plane lumbered down the runway, quickly picking up speed. At the halfway point it pulled its nose into a forty-five-degree angle and began a tearing climb into Earth’s upper atmosphere.
“And there she goes!” exclaimed the announcer.
Cameras tracked its progress, beaming the successful launch into living rooms everywhere. The first stage successfully ignited with a boom, delighting the crowd. But their excitement soon failed as the second stage quickly exploded, raining debris across Florida and dashing hopes that spaceflight for the masses would soon become a reality.
(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2024
Reviews/critiques welcome
"The Gorge"by J.F. Williams
As Whitfield sauntered down the wide tunnel, the concrete walls, the quiet, the cooler temps, and the lighting, which was much gloomier than his hydroponic caves, allowed his mind to wander. He stopped to study an old map, spread out on a wall. It showed the twelve levels of the Grove, divided into East and West Banks. At the bottom were the connecting tunnels under the riverbed; the South Tunnel bore a sticker that read, "You are Here." His finger traced a path from the sticker to Anton Mezerich's office on Level Five. Scowling, he traced it again to Research Chamber Three, on Level One, just one level above him. Why were they not meeting in Mezerich's office?
Whitfield's brother Carl was just a plain old rotten egg. Always in a fight—just a lying, cheating no-good. Dad too. And they both feared Mom. He managed to get away: college, then research, then corporate work that paid pretty good. Having escaped his family, Mezerich promised him he could also escape their genes. Whitfield could afford the treatment, just barely. That was twenty-three years ago. Money didn't matter now, so he wondered what settlement they could offer.
Originally marketed to self-absorbed billionaires, the treatment modified the DNA during sperm production, ensuring the client's progeny would be smart, honest, and healthy. Eventually millions of men across the globe were treated. Owing to something Mezerich called "genetic plasticity," the problematic genes, the ones that caused various moral or psychological frailties, were sequestered during gestation, separating from the foetus and growing into a dark brown, leathery bag the size of a coin purse, which was destroyed after delivery. The "black pouch," as it was called, actually contained an ugly and foul-smelling but tiny version of the offspring, called a "takwin".
As he climbed the stairs to Level One, Whitfield began thinking of Josh—his and Anna's own "Mezerich baby." He was a loving, polite child who studied hard, obeyed his parents, and shared with others—the vanguard of a new society in which humanity's worst impulses had been tamed. He recalled the day his son first exhibited symptoms. Josh had never suffered so much as a cold or an earache, even his baby teeth remained though his thirteenth year, when his skin began to thicken, turning yellow with white splotches. A few days later, other neighborhood kids his age gathered naked in the street. Josh tore off his clothes and ran out to join them. Eight of them formed a circle, shoulder to shoulder, and arms raised above their heads, stepping back in unison until they pressed hard against each other. Then something unimaginable occurred: their skins stretched out and merged all eight into a tube-like creature, which slumped to the ground and attacked another teen, a non-Mezerich, swallowing him in its finger-fringed maw, after which a black tail grew from its sixteen fused feet, and the thing, called a "wyrm," slithered away. Thankfully, the Mezerichs had seen this behavior in earlier cohorts and had already begun construction of the Gorge well before the global devastation wrought by the last wave.
"Mr. Whitfield? I'm Borgers," said the friendly man in a lab coat who greeted him at the entrance to Research Chamber Three. "We finally have a response to the complaint you filed. Come with me."
The two entered a vaulted room at the center of which lay a great water tank. Floating in it was a large chunk of wyrm. Whitfield recoiled at the sight of it. "How…?"
"That wyrm died in the river" said Borgers. "They can't handle water, hence the Gorge. It floated past the dock and we grabbed it. We had never caught one before."
"And why me?"
"You filed a complaint a ten years ago. The details you provided allowed us to match you with the part of this wyrm that didn't die."
They moved closer to the tank and Whitfield shuddered at the sight of young boy whose body was covered in wyrm skin, but still recognizable as his son Josh.
"We've kept a number of takwins for research so Mezerich decided to introduced one to this specimen. It hopped onto the boy's neck and drove its body into his. It was quite a sight. Since then, his wyrm skin has been fading, and he can speak."
"Josh!" Whitfield finally blurted.
"Oh, hi, old man," said the boy, sneering. "What the fuck is your problem?"
Whitfield fell to his knees and cried. He had never known such joy.
(750 words)
On HolidayTheir vacation was going badly. Very badly. The landing craft that was supposed to retrieve them at the end of their stay was blown out of the sky shortly after they disembarked. It takes a special kind of stupid to drop off a group of tourists on a planet in the throes of a civil war.
Things did not look good…
--
They stared up at the star-filled sky. Somewhere up there, a communication satellite still functioned. The transmission would have to be sent as a microburst of data to avoid detection. It would be passed onto a subspace relay and then on to the destination. In the distance, the sound of shelling was reduced to faint thunder.
Frank, the lawyer in the bunch, finished his message and waited.
Several days later, they were still waiting.
Things were bad, but they could have been much worse. Among the hundred odd tourists were a handful of soldiers. They were an odd bunch and seemed to be the only ones at home in this situation.
“This reminds of XJ4592. I’m getting a really strong sense of déjà vu,” said the biggest one of the group, who the rest took to calling Sarge.
“Didn’t your battalion almost get wiped out there?” said another that they nicknamed XO.
“Almost is the key word. We all got out alive. We had to blow a lot of stuff up and left a lot of valuable gear behind but we got out.”
A third chimed in, “I like blowing stuff up. Even better if it gets us out of here. I’m not reading any life signs beyond this cave. Anyone else want to go looking around?”
Several hours Grenade returned in a gleeful mood.
“You won’t believe how much ordinance is just laying around!” A dozen landmines fell out of his sack onto the table and everyone took several steps back. “Don’t worry. None of them are armed. That’s what happens when they don’t read the fucking manuals.” He opened a case, then another. Shoulder-launched cruise missiles and 16 assault rifles with ammunition.
“They never got a chance to use them. Some kind of chemical weapon wiped them out.” He sniffed his vest. “Really noxious smelling stuff but completely ineffective against carbon-based life forms. The scans were correct -we got this island to ourselves. We also have a ticket off the planet. I saw several heavy cruisers.” He looked around as if counting the group. “One would be big enough for everyone. Only one appears to be damaged, the others are mostly intact. Lots of fuel between them.”
“Think you could hot-wire one?”
He pulled a small object out of his pocket. “No need. Access card was still in the dead pilot’s hand.”
--
Once they cleared the atmosphere and a jamming field, they retrieved a reply:
“We are currently out of the office; all questions and communications are being recorded and will be processed upon our return. Have a happy vacation.”
The lawyer started laughing and it spread through the group. Grenade walked over to the comms console and replied, speaking aloud as he typed.
“No need to call us back. We’ll be arriving in person to collect our refunds and negotiate compensation of unexpected expenses.” He hit send with a smile on his face.
Sarge recognized that expression and the way Grenade was eying the weapons console on the cruiser. “How are all these people going to get refunds if you reduce the headquarters building to rubble?” he asked.
Grenade, disappointed, replied, “Ok. Ok. I get it. I’ll wait until the checks clear.”
Mod
First round votes:
Tom Olbert => JF
Jot Russell => ***Tom
Justin Sewall => Greg, JF, Jot
J.F. Williams => ***Tom, Jot, Justin, Greg
Greg Krumrey => ***Tom
Winner:
Service Interruption by Tom Olbert
Required element: Bad customer service