Tag: science fiction

Edison’s Orphans

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The most dangerous place on the planet is not Iraq or Gaza or some war-torn hellhole, but the sidewalk around the Patent Office.
It used to be easy to get from the street to the front door, but these days every scatterbrained crackpot in the country has been drawn like a magnet to this place.
Edison once said that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, but these folks ain’t geniuses, so that other one percent is probably booze.
Try to resist the temptation to use up your Bumblaster (patent pending) batteries, hold your nose, and follow me.

Double A Meets Four F

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Planetary Defense Command doesn’t want you to save the last bullet for yourself.
We’re supposed to fire it at the enemy and charge with fixed bayonets, but nobody’s had bayonets for centuries.
As for bullets, I look at my rifle. One last bar on the battery indicator.
Then it flashes… flashes… flashes…
I should have brought a spare.
Not enough for a last shot, but enough for a spark.
The rifle battery hooks on the oxygen tank perfectly.
They designed it to do this. When we’re out of batteries, we’re nothing but bombs to PDC.
I hunker down and wait.

Horseman 3000

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The company spent half a billion dollars developing the cure. Heck, we spent millions coming up with the brand name:
Revivalyfe.
Pretty, isn’t it? And a lovely shade of sky blue.
All we need is a disease for it.
Relax – manufacturing diseases is child’s play, thanks to the old Horseman 3000. Just tap in the symptoms, decide on a vector, sync up Revivalyfe’s cure profile, and turn the key.
Five hours later, you’ve got your disease.
What? The DEATH button is still sticking?
I’ll call Maintenance… just hold on…
Strange. No answer.
Okay, just hit CANCEL for now…
Cancel! CAN-

Me And My HALO

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Before, there were gangs and shootings. You wouldn’t last a block without getting roughed up.
But now, it’s quiet and peaceful. Lot of folks out walking, saying hello to each other.
And smiling. That’s one thing I missed before the old days – I missed all the smiling.
Everybody’s an angel with a HALO over their heads.
In addition to suppressing violent tendencies, they’re great as portable light sources.
I’m walking to the corner store for a gallon of milk. Maybe some gum.
Have you fixed my HALO? I’d hate for it to glitch.
Those Sentries can be rough on Heathens.

Poking Parker

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Parker screwed up. Nearly got me killed.
“Poke him, Chief” said Vasquez.
Everybody agreed.
So, before my shift, I went to the Suit Room and poked a hole in Parker’s moonsuit.
Relax – the airlock cycles quickly. Long before he blows out. One tiny hole will just whistle a bit at Zero A.
I laughed as he cycled… and he blew out fast.
Blowout? I must have poked the moonsuit too deep.
Crap.
As Crew Chief, Parker died on my watch, so it was on me.
I confessed about poking Parker.
Vasquez also confessed. And Petersen. And Goldberg. And Sanders. And…

In Russia, The Hundred Breaks You!

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Night. Fog. Cold.
Where am I?
Wherever it is, I’m not in the best part of it.
Hungry, confused. Cell phone’s dead.
Ugly, dirty faces pass by. Almost feral.
Markings in… some strange language?
Is it language?
I feel in my back pocket, take out my wallet.
It is overflowing with one hundred dollar bills.
Hungry.
No restaurants around. Just shabby vending machines.
“Where can I get food?”
They grunt in… what language is that?
I walk up to a machine. I…
It only takes coins.
“Can you break-”
I stop. I see the knife.
This is when you run.

And then there were seven

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I looked up from the battered, scratched pass to look again at her garishly made-up face.
“National Spiritual Advisor?” I asked.
After several checks, National Spiritual Advisor Melinda Gauche’s security pass was stamped VALID.
She smiled. “Ronnie was so nice to indulge his Nancy,” said Gauche, adjusting her veils.
“Follow me,” I said, leading the jangling mysticist down the hall.
When she entered the room and laid her charts on the table, the discussions stopped.
“What’s wrong, Spooky?” asked the President.
“I can’t chart it,” said Gauche. “Uranus is missing.”
I swear, the president turned to the Surgeon General first.

From the future’s footlights a dim bulb sputters

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I went into the archives, pulled the tapes, and threw them in my satchel.
With the originals gone, people would have to rely on the edited copies that had spread throughout the world over the years.
Then, I went into the labs, stepped into the Epimetheus Booth, and removed the handset.
“Number, please?” said a voice.
“July 20,” I said. “1969.”
“Thank you,” said the voice, and I heard the connection tones.
I pulled the slip of paper in my pocket, but I’d stuck my gum in it earlier.
It covered the “a” in “One small step for a man.”

Sequel

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When Lisa woke up, Ethan wasn’t in bed.
She walked to the den and saw Ethan playing his new game.
“Morning,” she said. “When did you wake up?”
“Never slept,” said Ethan, watching the two titanic figures on the monitor beat each other senseless.
“You’ve been playing that since last night?” asked Lisa.
“Yup,” said Ethan. “It’s a really tough game. I get really, really close, but in the end just can’t beat it.”
“What’s it called?” asked Lisa.
“Immortal Kombat 2,” said Ethan.
Lisa thought for a moment. “How did you solve the first Immortal Kombat?”
Ethan didn’t answer.

Weaponized

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After years of research and experimentation, Dr. Odd managed to isolate the chemical compound which was responsible for luck.
He tried to bottle the stuff and sell it over the counter, but he kept running into all sorts of problems in production and distribution.
The Food and Drug Administration sprung a surprise inspection of his facilities and ultimately shut his labs down for a wide variety of violations.
“This is concentrated Bad Luck!” moaned Dr. Odd.
The Pentagon was very interested in a weaponized form of Bad Luck, so Dr. Odd shipped them a sample…
Back on September 10, 2001.