Tag: science fiction

After The War

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The Review Board wants to interview me today.
I go down to the new Town Hall, passing the rubble of the old one.
“Were you in the war?” they ask.
The scars and my withered hand say yes.
“I don’t remember,” I say, just as the Veteran Release Center told me to say.
A doctor scans my brain with a wand.
“He’s clean,” he says. “All memories gone.”
“Innocent,” the Board declares, and my ID is stamped with a black V.
Outside, a woman points at me and screams.
“BUTCHER!”
She is arrested.
Don’t resist. Reprogramming is painless.
(I think.)

Password Protected

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My memories are valuable and corporate hypno-spies are everywhere.
All it takes is a dazzlestick to stop someone on the street and open them up for a psychic fileclerk to rifle through.
So, I decided to protect them.
The process isn’t easy, and it takes weeks of sessions to catalog secrets for storage in secure areas of the brain.
I woke up one morning, tried to think of those things, and realized… I didn’t remember any of them.
Protected. Secure.
Perfect.
Time to go to work… Wait. Where do I work?
Hold on… thinking… Oh crap!
I forgot the password!

Child Actors

822505

The problem with child actors is that they eventually group up.
But if a series is popular, you want it to go on forever.
Recasting the parts is risky. Even with surgery, no two kids are alike.
We’ve tried cloning, but DNA only goes so far. The clones can be just as different as a surgically-altered double.
Computer-generated actors provide a consistent look and sound, but they’re horribly expensive to create and maintain. And they’re not as expressive as real humans.
Growth-suppression hormones are the answer. Freeze them at the age you want.
Kids love candy, you know.
Drugged candy.

Immortal

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I am immortal. And I am serving a life sentence in prison.
Sounds like a bad Twilight Zone episode, right?
It’s not. It’s my life.
And I am in prison for the rest of it.
Forever.
Maybe they’ll figure it out after a few decades,
Or, after “the organization” sends a few more guys after me.
Those knives hurt. But they can’t kill me.
Will I survive having my head cut off? Or being tossed in the furnace?
I don’t know. But they’re welcome to try.
Guilty? No. I didn’t kill her.
And I don’t want to live without her.

Heartache

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After the funeral, I fired up Johnny’s brainscan on the simulator.
Johnny eventually calmed down, and I was able to understand him.
He wanted to know what was said at his funeral, who was there, and who wasn’t.
He also wanted to know how his donated organs were holding up.
(I guess when you don’t have kids or pets or someone else in your life, that’s the next best thing, right?)
I asked him what his password was.
When he finally told me, I logged on to the banking system, transferred the money, and deleted his will and brainscan files.

The Minister

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We are a small town on the prairie.
Not many people come here from the rest of the world.
And we really like it here, there’s not much reason to leave.
We don’t bother with televisions, the one radio station’s fine enough.
It plays the same music it has always played, over and over.
Because we grew up with it, and like it.
There’s one church we all go to every Sunday.
The minister starts at the pulpit, gives the same sermon every week.
Then we go home, step on to our recharger pads, and all shut down.
Good night.

Creative Juices

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We let the children play with their toys and draw with crayons for an hour.
Then, the valves open and knockout gas puts them to sleep.
Nap time.
When they wake up, they have no memory of our hooking up the spinal shunts and draining them of their creative juices.
Looking around the room, they pick up the crayons and stick them in their mouths or put them up their noses.
The toys are used to smash other toys or hit other kids.
Eventually, they learn to play and draw again.
And we are ready to harvest more creative juices.

Where do babies come from?

800994

Where do babies come from?
After the Cobalt War, they come from The Baby Factory.
Deep underground, shielded from the radiation and toxins in the air and soil, geneticists assemble the next generation.
Or, if we can’t remove enough of the contaminants, the last generation.
This time, the scientists are working on adding thick hides, culled from rhinoceros genes.
The babysitters have a high suicide rate, watching wave after wave of monsters come from the labs, dying from horrifying diseases and tissue rejections.
The ants crawl over their tiny, broken corpses.
“Looks like it’s your turn now,” I tell them.

The Gliders

800994

Observer gliders soar through the clouds, spreading the latest batch of chemicals cooked up by the Weather Division.
“Rain will be purple today,” they said.
The chemicals are meant to turn the rain purple, but the rain is more pink than purple.
And when we catch it on our tongues, it burns.
Everybody runs for cover, and we watch the streets sizzle with acidic fury.
Then, the storm passes, and we wander the pock-marked streets stained with the melted-off paint from cars.
The Weather Division promises orange rain tomorrow morning.
We put on our gas masks and go to sleep.

the Needle

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I prefer analog to digital displays.
There’s just something about watching a needle pulse inside a dial, crawling slowly up the scale into the red.
You don’t get the same sense of urgency when you see a bunch of numbers laid out on a console. Or a set of colored LEDs, lighting up in series.
The needle throbs and twitches, like it’s alive.
You forget it’s just a measuring device, wired through miles of circuitry.
That’s what happened to me and the temperature indicator in my capsule.
Down…
Down…
Down…
How could you betray me, needle?
You were my friend.