Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  Evan felt a lick of flame rising within Davey. It grew slowly, until it was burning on its own, filling up the boy and bringing him back from the dark.

  Davey hacked and coughed and spewed out the rest of the water that had filled him. He cried along with his father. Tom rubbed his hands over Davey’s arms and chest, chasing away the cold.

  “Thank you, Lord, thank you. We’ll get you to a fire, Davey, don’t worry. We’ve got you now, we’ve got you.” The gap in Tom’s teeth whistled.

  A life saved didn’t begin clear the balance, but it helped. Evan stood and carefully wiped his hands clean on his wet shirt.

  Evan coughed. His whole body felt wrung-out like an old cloth. He wouldn’t be able to travel far for at least a day, maybe two, though it no longer mattered. He was where he belonged. Home.

  Evan stood and carefully wiped his hands clean on his wet shirt.

  Chris Ovenden

  http://chrovenden.wordpress.com

  Upgrade(Short story)

  by Chris Ovenden

  Originally published by Penny Shorts, Jan 2015

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” the consultant said, pushing her chair over to her desk as I sat up in my new body.

  I swung my legs off of the bed and flexed my fingers. They felt the same. Looked the same too, far as I could tell. My new eyes were still getting used to the light.

  “I didn’t expect it to be so quick.”

  “It can seem that way,” she rolled back over, holding a small torch. “We don’t engage your consciousness until you’re fully formed. We used to wake you a lot sooner, but it caused too many misprints. Look up.”

  She flashed the torch in my eyes.

  “People panicked, flailed around and messed up the print. Lots of mental trauma. Had to reprint the first few thousand.”

  She turned the torch off and dropped it into her pocket.

  “OK, looking good. Computer shows no major artefacts, module’s nicely integrated. Looks like an excellent print. Any discomfort anywhere? Headache?”

  “Uh. No. No headache. Bit Disoriented.”

  “That’s normal, just the synapses warming up. The module should power up overnight. Give us a call if you experience any pain or queasiness.”

  I nodded and stood up.

  “Just one thing before you go.”

  She pulled open a blind to reveal a white walled room behind a thick sheet of glass. Someone was in there: up against the window.

  I felt my new heart jump into my throat.

  It was my body. My old body. Only it was still alive, still conscious: peering through at us.

  “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t it be dead? I thought you transferred me into this body.”

  “Transferred? No. We take a scan of your old body, then print you with the requested augmentations. It’s all in our booklet.”

  It was knocking on the window. It looked confused.

  “So, that’s me. The real me. I mean, I never left the scanner.”

  “Of course you did. Here you are!”

  “But…we can’t both be me.”

  The consultant gestured to a button on the wall. “Hit that and you’ll be the only one. Fills the room with nerve-gas. Very quick.”

  “What? I can’t! I mean it’s…me.”

  “Who’s you? You remember signing the policy. You’re here now. Who else are you, but you?”

  “…can’t you do it?”

  She shook her head. “Company Policy. If I do it, it’s murder. You do it, it’s just self-improvement.”

  My old body had realised what was going on. It started yelling, throwing itself against the window: fists and knees bouncing off the reinforced glass.

  Could I really do this?

  “You didn’t read the fine print.” The consultant shrugged. “That’s not your problem now.”

  My body was begging. I couldn’t hear what it was saying, but I could tell it was begging. Pleading for its life. Pleading for my life.

  “He made his choice. Like you said, you can’t both be you.”

  I felt like the real me. But how would I know?

  I looked my old body in the eye.

  What would he do?

  END

  Peace for our Times(Short story)

  by Chris Ovenden

  Originally published by Every Day Fiction, June 2015

  “One hundred days,” I say as the prime minister leafs through the contract I’d given him. He scans the pages through a pair of black rimmed spectacles held in front of his nose with a chubby white fist.

  He looked much as I had expected him to: black suit and bowtie, slouched in his chair with a cigar wedged between his fingers. The office we were in seemed rather humble for his station, though. A cramped little dungeon, dotted with wooden posts to hold up the floor above. The walls were mostly bare, save for a bookshelf and a few photographs and newspaper clippings, soon to be replaced by sprawling maps of a world at war, no doubt.

  “One hundred days,” I say again, “split into no less than three hundred nights, spread out over the next ten years. We’d work out a schedule for you, arrange your transport.”

  The prime minister lays the contract down on the desk and tucks his glasses away into his jacket. “And what would I be doing on these nights, exactly?” One got the impression that there was a little too much flesh in his mouth when he spoke.

  “Dinner parties, public speaking.” I shrug. “Who’s to say, it’s all down to the client’s personal tastes.”

  It was usually best not to think about what clients might want to do with the escorts.

  “You’re a celebrity, or at least you will be. People in the future want your time. They want to show you off to their friends, spend their evenings talking to you over a glass of whisky. We just facilitate that demand. We take you to the people who want to meet you most.”

  He goes back to looking at the contract, straightening it up with his fingertips so that its bottom edge runs parallel to the desk.

  “Suppose I sign. What’s in it for me?”

  “Everything.” I say with a grin.

  “You’re talking about the war.”

  I nod. “And more. We ensure that things go as they’re supposed to, that all your efforts are successful. We make sure that you become the man that our clients want to meet."

  He pops his cigar into his mouth and strikes a match to light it.

  “So I sign this, and the war ends before it even starts.”

  “Ha! That wouldn’t be very theatrical now, would it? No, there most certainly will be a war, I’m afraid, and there will be casualties. But we’ll be there to make sure the right side wins.”

  “And if I refuse this…generous offer of yours? What then? I mean, who’s to say we need your help?”

  I flash the prime minister another grin, then stand up and step over to my right to inspect the pictures on the wall.

  “Wonderful shot, this,” I say, pointing to a framed newspaper clipping. Its headline piece shows a skeletal man in an old suit triumphantly waving a sheet of paper above his head like a tiny white flag.

  “Fascinating man, your predecessor,” I say, leaning in a little closer so that I can see the white streaks in the old premier’s hair. “He turned us down. We made him a similar offer, not long before this was taken actually. Hundred days, win the war.”

  I take the frame off the wall and hold it in my hands, running a thumb over the old man’s face. “Such a shame.”

  We really had made the old PM an offer, and he really had turned us down. Of course, we always knew that he would. Did he even have a choice?

  “Peace for our time,” I say, holding the picture up to the prime minister. “We all know how that turned out, don’t we.”

  I set the picture back on the wall and return to my chair. The prime minister glowers at me from across the desk, chewing on his cigar like he’s trying to eat it.

  “We could always talk to your friend on the
continent,” I say. “I hear he’s keen on this sort of thing. Not our first choice, of course, but we can make do. Time has a strong current prime minister, but even the greatest rivers can be diverted.”

  He scowls and takes out his pen.

  END

  Behind Grey Eyes(Short story)

  by Chris Ovenden

  Originally published by Daily Science Fiction, Sept 2015

  “I don’t know that I’m comfortable with the whole zombie thing, you know.”

  Sara laughs. “What, you scared they’re going to eat you?” She’s too busy counting out exact the change for her coffee to look at me.

  “Very funny.” I scratch at the ‘Jen’ written on the side of my cup. He does his Js like I do, a curly tail with no bar on top.

  “It’s just…I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right sometimes.”

  “Four…thirty-five. There you go.” Sara puts the coins into the zombie’s hand and joins me at the end of the counter. “What doesn’t?”

  “Using them like we do.”

  The zombie drops Sara’s coins into the till and sets about making her coffee. He looks about twenty-five, quite handsome for a zombie: thick black hair shaved at the sides, light stubble on his chin, striking grey eyes. You’d never guess what he was, if it weren’t for the Z scorched neatly into his cheek. I actually kind of liked it on him.

  “Why? They don’t feel anything. They aren’t…whatcha call it…conscious, or whatever.”

  “I guess I never really understood how that’s supposed to work.”

  Sara shrugs. “They shut off a part in their brain. Prevent awareness loops. We did it in neuro last semester. Did you get an invite to Maddie’s next week?”

  “Hmm?” It takes me a second to realise we’ve changed topics.

  “She’s invited Tom and Charlie but not me. I mean, as if they weren’t going to tell me.”

  Tom and Charlie lived across from us in first year. Sara was seeing one of them for a bit, I forget which one. They sort of blended into each other to be honest. I sometimes wondered if Sara even knew who was who. And now she was ignoring me.

  “You might be a zombie for all I know.”

  Sara laughs, loud enough to draw the zombie’s attention away from the coffee he’s making her. “You think I’m a zombie?”

  “No, but it’s not like I can look inside your head, is it.”

  I go back to watching the zombie. He’s looking at me now, smiling, his big grey eyes flirting with me across the counter. I almost look away. I would have if it was anyone else.

  “Don’t you ever wonder what it’s like, being a zombie?”

  “It’s not like anything,” Sara says, “that’s the point, that’s why they’re behind the counters and we’re drinking the coffee. Or at least we would be if it ever hurries up.”

  The zombie’s eyes snap back onto the machine. He acts like he’s embarrassed, though, of course, he can’t be.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “sometimes I think, maybe we should make our own coffee, drive our own cars. Maybe that’s all just important, you know.”

  “You want to work in a coffee shop?”

  “No, I just…Forget it.”

  I unlock my phone and flick though the dozen or so new messages. Half of them from Sara.

  “Sorry about the wait.” The zombie says as it slides the coffee over the counter. Sara takes it and heads for the door without a word.

  “Have a nice day,” he says.

  “Thanks, you too,” I say for both of us, then, “sorry,” a little quieter. The zombie grins and sinks his hands into his pockets.

  “Beautiful day out.”

  “huh?”

  The zombie leans over slightly to look out the shop front. “Beautiful day.”

  “Oh, is it?” I manage. I hadn’t noticed.

  The zombie flashes me another grin then goes back to work. I watch him a moment longer, then hurry out after Sara.

  “Thanks, Mr Zombie, have nice day, Mr Zombie” she chimes as I fall into step.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Did you get his number?” She laughs. “I don’t know why you bother, it can’t hear you. Not really.”

  We walk off towards her car. Sara’s zombie has already seen us coming and started the engine. We’re a few paces away when someone shouts behind us.

  “Miss!” I turn to see the grey eyed zombie running after us, and for a moment I think he really might be coming to eat me. I let out a tiny shriek and step backwards off the curb, tumbling over and landing squarely on my bum.

  I open my eyes.

  I’m looking up at the zombie: his silhouette against the clear autumn sky, the late afternoon sun brushing through his hair. Along the street, the trees lining the road are just starting to turn, painting the red brick buildings behind them with splashes of green and orange and gold.

  “Are you ok?” the zombie says as I take his outstretched hand. “I think you forgot this.” He pulls me to me feet. He’s got my purse in his other hand.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Sara screams, “You scared her half to death!” She starts fumbling with her phone. “What street is this? I’m reporting this.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he tries, “I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

  “No no,” I say, brushing myself off, “it was my fault. I wasn’t really looking. Thank you.”

  The zombie nods and hands me my purse.

  Sara is still screeching beside us. Acting outraged, though of course she isn’t. Her zombie has jumped out of the car by now and wandered over to see if I’m alright. I wave him away.

  “I’ve got to get back,” my grey eyed zombie says, “sorry again.” I give him a little wave as he jogs back to the shop, apron flapping beside him. There was a lot going on behind those grey eyes of his, even if he couldn’t see it.

  “You know,” I say, as he disappears through the door, “it’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll walk home. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

  Sara doesn’t answer, she’s still trying to work out where we are. I’m halfway across the road before she calls after me.

  “Jen? Hey, where are you going?”

  I don’t respond. She’s not listening, not really.

  END

  Steve Pantazis

  http://www.StevePantazis.com

  Switch(Novelette)

  by Steve Pantazis

  Writers of the Future Volume 31

  The teenager is sprawled by pump number five, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, the word “deceased” hovering over his body through the projection in my retinal overlay. We’re in the middle of a crime scene at a gas station in Jackson Heights, Queens just after sunset, where the decedent expired during a shootout with police. One officer was hit in the face, pronounced dead on site, the other two in the neck by return fire, now at a nearby hospital. I pray they make it.

  The June humidity makes me want to tear off my clothes. Instead, I let my blazer bunch up around the elbows as I squat by the body. We have the station taped off and the street blocked on either end with a couple of cruisers.

  Lieutenant Briggs is on his way, and at some point we’ll talk to the media. There’s a crowd of hungry spectators beyond the barricade, along with several news vans. I’m not going anywhere for the next few hours.

  My partner, Detective Ed Mullins, holds up an evidence bag. He’s sweating worse than me. “Three casings, nine mil.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What, he got lucky or something?”

  Mullins shoves a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. “That’s what I’m saying. I checked the mag on his Glock. You can count the bullets yourself, if you want.”

  I peer at the teenager with fresh eyes while Mullins chomps his gum. The suspect is a good-looking kid, Puerto Rican with an athletic build, ocean wave-style trendy haircut and gelled sideburns. He’s wearing a plain, bloodied white t-shirt and expensive jeans and sneake
rs. Doesn’t fit the profile of a sharpshooter.

  “How many shells from our side?”

  “Eleven.” Mullins pops a bubble. “Our ME says this one took four to the chest. He must have been on something, ’cause he didn’t drop until after our guys went down.”

  I didn’t take the kid for a user, but then again, you can’t assume anything these days. We ID’d him as Kurt Rodriguez, seventeen, address from the nice part of Forest Hills. His head is cocked to the left. I part the hair above his ear, exposing the port of his temporal lobe implant. There’s a designer enamel grommet clamped on, Chinese characters around the ivory-colored rim. Kids love to mod their TLI ports with all kinds of stuff. This is pretty conservative considering what I’ve seen.

  Twelve feet away is a splotch of blood soaked into the grime from where Officer Nolan Yee bled out, numbered markers left in place of his body. Part of me wants to plant the heel of my shoe over Rodriguez’s skull and cave it in.

  Yee and my younger brother Tommy graduated from the academy together. I remember Yee and his girlfriend coming over to the house at our big Super Bowl party where we shared beers while barbecuing out in the cold. Yee was a smart kid, with aspirations of making detective. His girlfriend was pretty, and I could tell he was crazy about her, from the way he kept his hand on the small of her back to the goofy I’m-in-love smile tattooed on his face. Such a freaking shame. He wasn’t a close friend of Tommy’s, but they were rookies together, paying their dues on patrol. I can’t imagine how Tommy will take the news, but it pisses me off just thinking about it. Rodriguez won’t even get a chance to stand trial for what he’s done. Son of a bitch!

  The stench of gasoline is heavy. Mullins steps closer, blocking the bright gas station canopy lighting with his two-hundred-twenty-pound frame, belt swooping below his enlarged gut as if holding back a storm. He points at the body. “I’m still picking up a TLI broadcast.”

  “Me too. Should have quit with brain death, but something must still be firing.”