Tag: science fiction

Blue Skies

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Cindy looks up at the sky and scowls at the hideous shade of green.
“Blue skies, please,” she says, and the scene vanishes for a moment before rendering again, this time with blue skies.
She brings up a catalog of clouds, cycles through her favorites, and tosses them into the sky.
“Drift,” she says, and the clouds begin to slowly roll eastward.
She got halfway through the forest before the power spike wiped out her simulation.
She checked her settings.
No auto-save.
The skies boiled red for an hour before she regained her composure.
And started again: “Blue skies, please.”

Yuri

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Yuri comes home tonight.
He is a cosmonaut. He is a hero.
He will be coming home from a mission tonight.
We wait at the Cosmodrome, listening to the controllers talk Yuri and his capsule down, making calculations and adjustments.
A bottle of vodka is waiting for him. Many bottles of vodka will be opened tonight in his honor.
Then, the radio goes silent. And we all watch the main screen, waiting.
A fireball, streaking across the sky, exploding into the mountain.
Some controllers stay at their consoles, working.
Others reach for the vodka.
We watch, still waiting for Yuri.

Lawnmower

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I don’t like mowing the lawn.
So, I bought a robotic lawnmower.
It’s eco-friendly, running on batteries charged by solar cells. And the motor is very quiet, almost a whisper.
This way, it can run during the day or at night.
It knows where to mow using a set of guide wires I’ve buried along the property line.
Just charge, set, and release inside the invisible fence.
The next morning: a beautifully-cut lawn.
And three dead hookers on the grass.
The first time I ran it, there was only one.
I’ll bury these three next to her.
Under the grass.

Crimson

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Crimson waves, the blood tide is rising.
This is no moon. We have landed on a living thing.
Are the natives a roaming immune system? Parasites?
No idea. We will samples so researchers back on base can make the call.
We can’t stay much longer. The landing gear cut up the creature something fierce, and it’s wanting to scab over.
The more we dig out the struts, the more patch-cells it sends.
As we lift off, I figure next time, maybe we’ll use a bubble-craft, something soft.
That’s when the tentacles hit the hull.
Brace yourselves, we’re going back down!

Make me pretty and dead

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“Make me pretty and dead,” said the model to the robotic plastic surgeon.
At least, that’s what the translation engine thought she said.
She stripped naked and stepped into the surgical chamber, watching the various lasers and scalpels warm up.
Behind her, a defibrillator prepared to administer a lethal jolt of electricity.
A technician ran into the room and shouted “STOP!”
The lights on the robotic surgeon all turned off, and the model covered herself with her hands.
The technician handed her a robe.
“Sorry, mistranslation in the software,” he said. “And, come on, aren’t you already drop-dead gorgeous enough?”

Molt

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Looking down at the stumps of my thighs, I knew it would be a rough morning.
I dragged myself into the kitchen and ate my way through the food inside.
The horrendous pain came next.
Biting down on a dishrag helps a little.
Close your eyes. Try not to scream.
When the burning sensation dulled to a warm ache, I flexed my new toes and stood up, wobbling slightly and steadying myself with a chair.
The old ones are rotting in the hallway.
I hope these feet are a size I’ve already got. Buying new shoes is such a hassle.

Caretakers

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The war is over, declared the machines.
Sensors watched the radiation levels drop.
When they were low enough, probes went out to scan the planet for signs of life.
Not much, but some.
The machines gathered up what they could.
As cleanup systems went to work on the ruins, genetic templates kept in storage were imposed onto the surviving organics to undo the ravages of mutation and gamma-ray damage.
Some genetic lines died. Some survived.
As each landmass was declared safe, replanting and restocking routines seeded the planet with life again.
The machines sank under the oceans and shut down.

Mentat

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In the novel “Dune” Frank Herbert described a post-computer world where “mentats” performed rapid and complex calculations for the noble houses of humanity.
These specialists were not just raw computational experts, but they were valued for their ability to sift through mountains of data to provide vital analysis.
When noble houses warred, assassinating the enemy’s mentat was a priority.
That is why the messenger was killed and searched thoroughly. Then analyzed for poison.
“It’s safe,” I say. “Just plain paper.”
I hand the mentat the message, and he has a stroke and dies!
What? How?
“Divide by zero,” it says.

Home

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Lincoln said that it is not the years in your life, but the life in your years.
Drifting between the stars for centuries, solar sails and cargo pods.
In the control center, two brains wrapped and connected with millions of miles of nanocircuitry.
Ours. Together.
So many years ago, frail and weak from disease, we volunteered.
We had nothing to lose but each other, and this way, we could have more time.
It has been over eight years since she last told me that she loves me.
She is gone.
I change course, and we sail into a star.
Home.

You only die twice. Or three times. (How about four?)

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Resurrection procedures have never been entirely reliable, but over time they’ve become more reliable than longshot treatments such as chemotherapy for advanced pancreatic cancer.
The insurance companies won’t cover the procedure.
And they’ll drop coverage for the revived patient, too.
“Our responsibility ends at death,” they say.
But they won’t pay off on life insurance claims, either.
Congress subpoenaed the heads of the insurance companies for a hearing, grilled them for several days, and passed a set of toothless legislation concerning the matter.
Since then, have you heard of a Senator or Representative dying in office?
Me either.
Strange, that.