by Anthology
“Ah!” he said. “Here it is. ‘The crushing despair of eternal return’.”
“The silt of experience began settling on me even as I watched a sun three thousand years younger than myself sparkling on the wine-dark seas. I was dusted with ash even as I marveled at waves of white fire sweeping away nations not yet born.”
“I understand you are experiencing a touch of chronological confusion here, Mr. Taylor. Part of the job, I’m afraid, but for insurance purposes the Company needs us to try and pinpoint as best we can on which mission you first began to feel significant emotional wear-and-tear.”
Taylor stared at him. They were approaching what Mike used to call “ground zero,” the moment when the veteran realized he had fallen out of eternity and back into time, and that he was stuck here. The trick was to shepherd them through that realization without getting them angry or upset, to make them think they reached the necessary conclusions on their own.
“You complained of headaches after both Venezuela in 2010 and Tenochtitlan in 1495, but it was only after the long mission to the Scythians in the third century that anyone recorded concerns about your psychological well-being.
“And it was much later, after Lisbon in 1976, I believe, that you started writing your poetry. I was wondering if you might comment on what you personally, as it were, see as the origins of your…”—Jimmy cleared his throat and scratched behind his ear again—“current xenophobic preoccupations.”
“I was conceived in the trenches of the Great War,” said Taylor. “And born in a riot on the streets of Munich.”
“Mr. Taylor,” said Jimmy, perhaps a little sharply. “You have mentioned Munich twice, but according to your file you’ve never been there. Could you please try a little harder to concentrate on what actually happened rather than on what you wish had happened?”
“Who are you?” asked Taylor abruptly. “Who are you to talk to me like that?”
“I’m your retirement counselor, Mr. Taylor,” said Jimmy calmly. They had reached ground zero. The key was to stay matter-of-fact, a little weary, disengaged. “I’m here to help you make the transition to civilian life.”
“Civilian life?”
“Yes, Mr. Taylor, civilian life. It happens to everyone eventually: death and taxes and returning to the land of the living, and so on and so forth. Now could you please start concentrating again? When did you first notice yourself indulging in violent and anti-social fantasies?”
“Fantasies?”
“Yes, Mr. Taylor: fantasies. When precisely did you begin to feel dissatisfied with your career path here at Ultimate Outcomes?”
Taylor frowned. “It is true that we were raging angels once,” he began. “That we had ripped down the curtains of the mundane and stood illuminated in the blinding intensity of being.”
Taylor paused, looking meditative, and Jimmy waited with his pen poised.
“It is true. But repetition is death,” Taylor continued and at once Jimmy began scribbling away. “Repetition is death. Somehow that blinding intensity dimmed. Where there were once dizzying heights and demonic depths, glorious contradictions resolved in ecstasy, there was eventually nothing but a flat horizon and featureless ground.
“I still fought the Revolution in the streets of the city of time, I still fought the anarchists and the communists and the degenerates. I still fought, but the raging hammer of my heart no longer threatened to blow my ribs apart.”
“Yes. Exactly, Mr. Taylor, that sort of thing exactly,” Jimmy looked up encouragingly from his doodles. “You became bored with your work and distracted. You started to daydream. You started to have these inappropriate ideas about destiny and soil and blood. The ideas your liaison officer reported to us.”
“Bored?” asked Taylor.
“Yes,” Jimmy reminded himself to control his exasperation, to feel pity for his client rather than irritation. “Bored.”
“It’s true,” said Taylor. “It’s true. I am so bored.”
And Jimmy knew that Taylor understood. Taylor knew his beautiful blue eyes no longer shone like twin lightning strikes.
“I’m so bored,” he repeated, and they both knew his shadow no longer leapt so far ahead of him that it fell across the icy moons of Jupiter.
“I’m so bored.” And no longer would the limbs of shattered men and women and children be swept up into the hurricane of his will.
“It’s all been done to death,” he groaned and threw himself back into his chair. “The car bombs, the knifings, the light bulbs filled with acid.”
Jimmy cringed. He did hate it when they mentioned operational details. Mike had loved that stuff of course, lived for it.
“It’s not murder if they’re already dead.” Mike had laughed at Jimmy’s qualms. “You can’t kill someone who’s never been born.”
But that was Mike. He had two flags on his desk: the stars-and-stripes and Ultimate Outcome’s yellow-and-black. And his office walls were plastered with campy old posters: “Epic Solutions for Epic Problems,” “Have you ever chanced to dream a dream?” “Make some history to make some profits!”
Every year at the Christmas party, Mike had tried to convince that public relations guy Meyers to talk to the men upstairs about commissioning him to write a book about the company. But Jimmy wasn’t so gung-ho as Mike; he liked his job fine: good pay and good benefits. But when he thought about what actually happened out there, in what the men who had been in it called “the fog,” he felt a touch of squeamishness.
“It’s all been done to death, and I’m so bored,” said Taylor. “I have become what I hate; I am tiresome; I am banal; I am dull. I am repetition.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” said Jimmy brightly, and he gathered himself together to start closing the deal. “But on the other hand you might think of this as a chance to start afresh. You’ve fought for freedom for so long, now you can finally start to enjoy it.
“Ultimate Outcomes has some wonderful retirement packages. Your friend Ed Heines for instance, has a condominium in Palm Springs and, from what I hear, he has become an excellent tennis player and golfer. Apparently, he’s even started dating.
“But if we could get back to determining when you first began to feel bored, Mr. Taylor. For the insurance company, you see. It helps us determine appropriate numbers. To decide what’s best for your future.” Jimmy cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “To decide what is your best ultimate outcome.”
Jimmy was trying to be reassuring and calm. He looked earnestly into Taylor’s eyes, but there was no need; there was nothing there, the light had gone out of them.
Another day, another victim, Jimmy thought, and his mood began to lift. Poor, pathetic bastard.
“Ride of the Valkyries” began to run through his head and it was everything he could do not to start whistling along. He started to think about lunch. He thought maybe he would call up Mike, maybe go to the buffet at the Montcalm Hotel and watch the strippers, maybe even risk the sleepiness and have a beer. Maybe.
He opened the drawer to get out the immediate voluntary retirement and disability insurance paperwork. Taylor sat across the table from him, slightly slumped, hands on his lap, staring at the desk. It was as if, Jimmy thought, someone had switched him off, or a puppeteer had dropped the strings.
I am Problem Solving Astronaut: How to Write Hard SF(Short story)
by William Squirrell
Originally published by Blue Monday Review
1. Include Obstacles for Removal:
Problem Solving Astronaut lives in the future and enjoys finding square roots, engaging in free enterprise, and coitus with Hot Chick.
In the future Hot Chick always has Cool Job. Cool Job could be CEO, Xenobiologist, or even Problem Solving Astronaut. Whatever her Cool Job, Hot Chick is sortable by hair color and temperament: Fiery Redhead (dresses in green), Icy Blonde (blue), Loyal Brunette (who cares). For Problem Solving Astronaut coitus with Hot Chick is never just coitus: it is also
always overcoming an obstacle, always a victory.
An example: Hot Chick is Loyal Brunette and wears something form-fitting but of an indifferent color. Hot Chick is attracted to Problem Solving Astronaut, but she is also Head of Government Department. Government Department is an obstacle that prevents Problem Solving Astronaut from solving problems.
Coitus takes place and the obstacle is removed.
***
2. Include Imminent Danger:
There is always Imminent Danger in the future:
Asteroids and Comets
Spaceships that run out of air/heat/food/fuel
Clones
Nanotechnology that goes crazy
Super Computer that goes crazy
Problem Solving Astronaut who goes crazy
Aliens/Robots/Modified Humans
Pandemics
Strange objects appearing
Environmental Catastrophe
Fiscal Responsibility
Once identified Problem Solving Astronaut can remove all these Imminent Dangers—and more—with the correct reorganization of capital and technology.
An example: Problem Solving Astronaut meets Fiery Redhead to address Imminent Danger. Coitus is inevitable, but there must be tension in order for flirtatious banter and obstacle removal to occur. Fiery Red Head is the CEO of Tech Firm, and Problem Solving Astronaut needs money from Tech Firm so he can build Big Engine to Save-The-Day. But Fiery Redhead does not like Problem Solving Astronaut’s fiscally irresponsible approach to problem solving. Their conversation must perforce, go something like this:
Fiery Redhead: You, Problem Solving Astronaut, are morally reprehensible and not sexually desirable, so I shall not give you the money you request.
Problem Solving Astronaut: Well, diminutive female, only one of your three assertions is correct: I am morally reprehensible.
Coitus takes place and money is exchanged.
***
3. Include Δv=veln(m0/m1):
Problem Solving Astronaut comes in all manner of forms: Brush Cut, Dreadlock, Zen Master, Alien Dude, even Hot Chick. What matters more than form is Problem Solving Astronaut’s ability to apply the Tsiolkovsky rocket equation appropriately, maximize personal profit, and make jokes about Schrödinger’s Cat. The future is a perfect meritocracy in which everyone is measured against the same standard: Problem Solving Astronaut.
An example: Dreadlock Problem Solving Astronaut and Icy Blonde Problem Solving Astronaut have been mining an asteroid to acquire personal wealth and to forward the technological advancement of humanity. Super Computer has gone mad and sabotaged their mission by lying about fuel reserves. Their conversation must perforce, go something like this:
Icy Blonde Problem Solving Astronaut: If Δv=veln(m0/m1) then there is not enough fuel for us both to escape.
Dreadlock Problem Solving Astronaut: Thinking about this Imminent Danger makes me feel like Schrödinger’s Cat: both still alive and already dead. To solve this particular problem we must think outside of the box.
Icy Blonde Problem Solving Astronaut: I do not understand your Schrödinger’s Cat joke/s. I am not actually Icy Blonde Problem Solving Astronaut, but merely Humorless Icy Blonde Hot Chick Robot. I will therefor stay behind on this airless rock so you, Problem Solving Astronaut, can continue to increase your personal wealth and contribute to the technological advancement of humanity.
Dreadlock Problem Solving Astronaut: You are Hot Chick Robot?
Coitus takes place.
Dan Stout
http://www.DanStout.com
Outpatient(Short story)
by Dan Stout
Originally published by Nature Magazine
It was definitely a migraine.
The agony clamped down on both temples, and the light from behind the curtain shot daggers through my eyelids. I twisted over to cover my head with a pillow and felt a sudden breeze up my backside.
I sat up, squinting, a hospital gown tugging at my throat. I had no idea what had happened to me. My last memory was of being in my lab, slipping on my sensor headdress and wiring it to the neural monitors.
Pushing the assistance buzzer, I rocked back and forth, trying to keep the migraine at bay. No nurse answered, and eventually I gave up. When I stood, I staggered, a stranger in my own body.
I stumbled out into the hall, relieved to see a familiar logo on the directional signs. I was still in St Anne's, the hub of my work, where Kim Stanley and I were pioneering Spatial Resonance Neurology—the expansion of the brain's network into the space around it, building awareness beyond our bodies.
The halls were jammed with patients looking just as confused as me. Apparently some were dealing with even worse headaches than I was, as they leaned against walls, gripping their temples or succumbing to the nausea and vomiting on the floor. The overwhelmed staff ran back and forth. No one paid me any attention.
I picked up a white technician's coat from a chair at the nurse's station. I'd had enough of my rear end being exposed. As I put it on, the collar flipped up. Even with a decade of practice I'd never quite figured out how to keep those things flat. I glanced around, one eye shut against the pain of my headache, and tried to figure out what was going on. So many people with signs of headache and nausea. Gas leak? There was no odor of natural gas. Carbon monoxide? The hospital had CO detectors in every hall, but no alarms were sounding. My cell phone would be in my office. I could call 911 and get outside.
Down one floor, having taken the stairs so I could bypass the yelling crowd at the elevator lobby, I reached my office. It had been such a personal victory when I first saw my nameplate mounted on the door. 'Dr. Ellen Wojicki' engraved in imitation brass. Little good it did me now—the door was locked, of course.
A little farther down the hall was the entry to our lab. It was locked as well, but it was controlled by a security keypad. I punched in the access code and entered. There were three figures across the room. I recognized one of them immediately.
“Kim,” I said. Or at least I tried. The word came out like a croak through dried lips and throat. How long had I been unconscious? “Kim,” I said, louder. The figures turned towards me.
Standing beside my partner Kim was a woman who looked disorientingly familiar. She must have just been in the neural expansion chamber: she still wore a sensor headdress across her scalp, the leads drooping across the up-turned collar of her lab coat. Something about her was very wrong. A deep sense of unease and nausea overcame me, and I doubled over. Gasping, I made myself look back up at them.
Behind Kim and the woman, a teenage girl sat perched on a stool. She wore a hospital gown and squinted as if pained by the light. As I watched, she reached out and grabbed Kim's arm.
“It's me.” The pleading note in her voice was heart-breaking. “It's Ellen.”
There was a crash, and an obese man in a hospital gown stumbled through the doors. He showed clear signs of recent surgery.
“Kim,” he said. “Something went wrong. I woke up in someone else's…” He trailed off as he stared at the woman next to Kim. “Oh, God,” he said.
There was a spike of pain as my migraine raged back into full force. I raised a hand to massage my temple and saw the ID bracelet on my wrist, name and room number printed on treated plastic. My name was apparently Carol Jones.
Over my shoulder I could hear shuffling feet, a growing chorus of “Kim…please, Kim,” as more and more patients pressed into the lab. I did my best to ignore the occasional cry of “It's Ellen,” as they made my stomach knot and the wave of nausea rise again.
To distract myself I tried to do some math, remembering the range of our devices. I guessed at the population density of San Diego and tried to calculate just how many people would now flip up their collars and prefer their coffee with cream, just the way I liked it. I finally gave up, not really knowing if it mattered anymore. I covered my eyes, both from the harsh fluorescent glare of the lights and because I didn't want to look again at the too familiar woman sta
nding next to Kim. Eyes shielded I rocked back and forth, trying futilely to hide from the migraine that I knew would only get worse.
The Curious Case of Alpha-7 DE11(Short story)
by Dan Stout
Originally published by Mad Scientist Journal : Winter 2015
Hello, Joachim. This is Dr. Manderagon. Vincent Manderagon.
I'm calling because I'm having trouble with one of our Golems. Specifically…ah…I just had it in front of me…
Here it is: Serial number Alpha-7 DE11. He's behaving oddly, and I'm worried that it may be starting to spread to the rest of the brood.
I called tech support, but they're just bouncing me back and forth. I know it's the weekend, but you're my sales rep, and I need to get a call back today. Let me give you the situation quickly.
This Golem came with the brood I purchased two months ago—still well within the warranty period. I had them uncrated and left them to acclimate to the island's humidity so that their clay wouldn't crack once they were animated, blah-blah, you know the drill.
Regardless, after 48 hours I animated them with holy words and dead man's blood, and before you know it, they're stomping up and down the corridors, carrying equipment, cleaning up after surgeries, performing just like they should. I was all ready to give you guys a great write-up on Yelp, when I started to notice odd behavior.
I was checking on the progress of my current crop of subjects when I noticed that there was a Golem stooped over a cage. At first I thought he was cleaning, but he actually seemed to be looking at the hybrid inside. I came closer and saw the Golem and the hybrid were making eye contact. At the time, I chalked it up to the markedly human appearance of the hybrid's face-admittedly quite an achievement, which took a number of tries for me to accomplish. I caught the Golem's attention and got it moving, mostly using hand commands as the hybrid started a mewling scream/howl that made quite a racket. The vocal cords on that one were also tricky, but I've been making good progress in that area as well. Promising test subject, but it didn't work out.