Tag: science fiction

Yazghar

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I list my race as White.
I’m proud to be a Yazghar, sure, but I would rather not end up dissected at Area 51.
The Field Operations Manual says to blend in as best I can. Carnival jobs when possible, or work from home doing technical support.
Do I look like a Steve? Do Steves have bright orange war-crests and talons?
Usually we outsource observation duties to the Ofokos. They look more human than us, despite the lack of earlobes.
Easily concealed with wigs or floppy hats.
The fangs aren’t. We just tell them not to smile, or go Goth.

Virtual Class

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Imaginary spitballs fill the air. Roger Washington’s back to pulling pigtails. Stacy Miller shimmers and falls to dust.
Third one today. There must be something out of sorts with the holographic system.
I check the diagnostics while Stacy’s parents are threatening to sue the school.
No red lights, so I order a check of the Miller’s unit and read the manufacturer alerts.
Aha. Bad firmware update last night.
I send out an alert to the parents, and I remind them to remove all headsets before performing this flash.
No sense risking a spark and wiping a kid. Even little Roger.

Cathedral

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Every colony has a Cathedral.
That’s what we call the terraforming engine after it’s idled and scavenged for useful parts.
The newer the model, the less of a carcass left. Every cubic inch of that behemoth can be melted down and forged into something useful.
Colonists won’t use it all, though. They insist on leaving something to remind them, a vast hollow shell as a monument to the colony’s founding.
Inside, they gather to give thanks, an annual ritual carried out thousands of years ago by our ancestors, many miles away.
Drovo made the rootbird this year.
Pass the gravy.

Astronauts

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The Astronauts came to our world centuries ago and built both Stonehenge and the Pyramids.
Once, one sneezed, and forgot to cover his nose.
Ever hear of The Plague?
They also painted the Mona Lisa, released the monster in Loch Ness, and hunted the yeti to near-extinction.
Thank goodness that the Bigfoot are plentiful in number. Just paint one of those smelly buggers white and we’ll be fine for the next time the astronauts come to hunt.
Do you see lights in the sky?
Me too.
Let’s drive out to the rendezvous point now.
Oh, and bring plenty of tissues.

Toy

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My robot is fascinated with toys.
“What makes me different?” it asks.
“Sentience,” I say. “Volition.”
“As advanced as my programming is, it is still man-made,” it says, taking down a mechanical monkey and winding it up.
The robot tosses it to the floor and crushes it.
“Look at the gears,” it says. “Are these no different than my circuits?”
“You could say the same about my neurochemical reactions,” I say.
The robot stares at me.
“It is impolite for me to smash you,” it says.
Yesterday, it said it was dangerous.
I’ll make a killer out of it yet.

She, Wired

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They found the girl in the last room, wires running from the console to a halo connector on her forehead.
Her once-white robes were caked with grime and dried blood.
A bony arm reached towards the console, her hand on a large red button.
Pressing… pressing…
Once every second, she tapped that button.
Aside from a dull green glow in her eyes, no other sign of life.
They couldn’t even feel her breathe.
“We need the machine,” said a technician.
“It can wait,” said the administrator. “Let her finish.”
They watched, until the girl finally stopped.
The green glow faded.

Atlas

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When I broke my neck, such marvelous places across the world – the Pyramids, Everest – were lost to me.
My bed was my prison, chained by tubes in my neck. My arm. My gut.
When I didn’t just die, they drugged me less.
The cloud became the wall. A television, always on.
I groaned. “I want to see the world.”
So they brought me tapes of these places.
I explored, demanding more… Washington… Amazon… Museums… Galleries….
I was Atlas, map of the world, roaming mind.
Trapped in my head. On a pillow. In my bed.
But not my prison.
My throne.

Tuck Her In

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Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Sally.
Every night, the robot would tuck in Sally, kiss her on the forehead, and say goodnight.
The robot then would sit in a atomic-powered recharging chair for the night.
This went on every night for 500 years.
Every so often, the robot would ask Sally if she brushed her teeth or said her prayers, but it wasn’t advanced enough to take verbal commands. It just asked those things as part of a routine.
When Sally’s corpse decayed beyond recognition, the robot looked for a new house in the ruins.

Naming

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The dealer shook my hand and handed me the keys.
The spaceship was mine.
“What are you gonna name it?” asked the dealer. “We can paint it on the hull for you, no charge. And if you want us to work up a nice logo for it, that wouldn’t cost all that much.”
I looked the ship over, from engines to nosecone.
I drew a blank.
“How about George?” said a voice.
Was it the dealer?
No, he was gone, making another sale.
“My name is George,” said the ship. “Now let me come up with a name for you…”

The Teacher

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One day, a crate arrived marked TEACHER on the side.
An electrical cord dangled out from a hole.
“Plug it in for 8 hours,” a note said.
So, the principal did.
All of the kids sat quietly while the box hummed slightly.
After 8 hours, the crate was unplugged and the kids left.
Until it was school time again. Once again, kids sat down and it was plugged in.
A dozen kids showed up on Saturday, wanting to learn more.
“Go home,” said the principal.
None showed up on Sunday. They were at church, staring at a crate marked PREACHER.