The Future Is Short (16 page)
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3
5.
The Bold and Parenthetic—Dr. Emma Dash
Gene Hilgreen
The smells of wasteland, from long abandoned and burnt-out buildings—foul miasma of the Anacostia River—excited her soul. From the upper perch of her building, a swarm of mosquitoes circled Emma Dash as she stared at the dome of the White House—from the upper perch of her building. Each mosquito that entered her Kwan—an eighteen-inch invisible shield—dropped dead to the ground.
From the outside, it looked like every other disheveled building in the area. On the inside, it was a state-of-the-art Quantum Nanophysics Laboratory, and Em Dash, her preferred address to close friends and family—and long thought dead by the current administration, was exacting her revenge. Emma defended the Constitution—well, what once was the Constitution, but now was only a piece of art from the past with no meaning. The man who ruined her life went by many names (Barry, Obie, Barack, Soetoro, Soebarkah), and Emma knew them all. She knew his past and could prove it. The man she loathed more than anyone on Earth now went by—Harrison J. Bounel.
“How dare you challenge me—the Lord and Savior of America,” he said.
“Yeah Barry—you may have the Fourth Estate, the far left, and Hollywood fooled, but—you don’t fool me.”
“Well, Dr. Dash—you’re fired.” He turned to walk away, stopped and nodded to his Secret Service detail. “In fact—arrest her. Dr. Emma Dash—you are done!”
Three months later, with mounting support from the right, her bail was set at twenty-five million dollars. An anonymous admirer paid it and she was free.
Em Dash faked her own death—
She watched as the full moon shone blue-white over the White House dome. But enough with her sightseeing—she had work to do. That same moon shone over her neighborhood, thronged with gangs at war, the drunk and dissipated, adventurous students of debauchery, as well as the lonely, desperate and deformed—all there for her picking. Her robots extracted them from the grim and foul-smelling lodgings that they called home.
Dr. Emma Dash had perfected her own drone, a programmable biomechanical mosquito that would attack its designated target, and she was fully prepared to target American citizens with drones. One of the many flat screen monitors arrayed on her desk displayed the late edition of the Washington Post headline—Extra, Extra Twenty-Second Amendment Abolished—President Bounel Declares Marshal Law.
She looked to her army of human-like robots and said, “Get me three more subjects.”
There were many reasons she choose this site for her lab. The proximity to the White House was important, but the plethora of homeless subjects, and access to the river—for disposal—were the most important. She was never concerned with her own welfare; her army of androids protected her from any person who dared to encroach on the programmed boundary, which defined her sphere.
She turned her attention to the story in the news that followed the headline. From the White House lawn at 0900 hours on August 13—tomorrow morning—in celebration of International Lefties Day, President Harrison J. Bounel would declare to the world his new self-appointed title—Supreme Lord and Ruler of the United States of America.
Em Dash smiled and yelled out loud, “Never going to happen!”
At nine a.m. on August 13, three unwitting spectators awaiting the president’s speech unknowingly released a swarm of deadly mosquito drones. Within seconds, Harrison J. Bounel was dead.
Dr. Emma Dash—her boldness apparent—smiled.
Gene Hilgreen spent thirty-five years in information technology and ITGC audit. Now retired, he authored Dragon at 1600, the first of a series in which he lives through his protagonist Buckner Axele Davidssen, a protector of the Constitution … who reports only to God and Old Glory.
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36.
Kalifer Deil
Mason Dodd, a salmon fisherman out of Scanlon Bay, had the Bering Sea as his mistress. It challenged him with its tree-tall waves and screaming winds, making him feel alive. He caressed it when it was glass-calm and the Chinook salmon seemed to jump onto his hooks. When he was on shore he felt uneasy, in a foreign land with people he didn't like. His boat, The Big Chinook, was his home, his refuge, his country.
He set out Tuesday morning on The Big Chinook, a custom Blasedale Sportfisher, constructed of heavy carbon fiber, unsinkable, self-righting, and providing the comforts of home. He set a course to his favorite spot, 70 miles east of Nunivak Island, and went below to sleep off a hangover. He never drank at sea but always in port to shut out the people. The only person he tolerated was Mike, a buyer who knew salmon.
When he awakened Wednesday to a sea of blue-green glass and air minus 6 Celsius, a thin sliver of sun could be seen that spread on the horizon. He walked out on the icy deck, holding onto the rail with his gloved hands. Realizing he would be at the area soon with 12 lines to set he went back to the cabin, filled his pockets with trolling sinkers, wrapped his right arm around a set of poles, and grabbed a can of live bait with the other. He set all the poles into their sockets, circled back to bait the hooks, and attached a sinker.
While he was baiting the third pole, the boat heaved and the bait can took off toward the opposite gunnel. He dove after the bait, so the trip would not be a loss. The ice on the deck made no attempt to slow either Mason or pail, so both hit the gunnel together. The round can, now on its side, became a wheel, flipping Mason over the side under the railing. No life jacket, a pocket full of sinkers, going down, and before losing consciousness he was enveloped in a blue-green glow, "Bioluminescence?" he thought.
Mason awoke in a room with an indiscernible light source. Puzzled, he yelled out, "Am I dead?"
A familiar voice answered, "No." It was Mike, now walking toward him.
Mason, still confused: "Mike, where the hell am I?"
"Your mind's been resurrected. We were inspecting an ancient crash site; then we surfaced under your craft, causing you to drown. Your body is dead."
Mason looked down. "I have a body."
"A virtual body, and all else can be what you think it to be."
Suddenly Mason found himself on his boat. "I did that?"
Mike was standing on the deck in front of him. "Yes, I'm your memory of Mike, with alien help."
"You mean space alien? You saved me?"
Mike faded, saying, "We fix what we cause."
He wished for things as they were, and he was on the deck baiting hooks. The boat slowed to troll, dropping all lines. Mason was beginning to think all that happened was a dream.
A little impatient, he thought, "What if they all bit at once?" Then, all the lines flexed. He jumped from pole to pole reeling in the salmon, 12 beautiful specimens, and 40 pounds each. He repeated this twice and returned to Scanlon Bay.
Mike was there, since Mason radioed him. Mike yelled as he docked, "So, you had a bit of luck today." Mike, amazed at the catch: "These are perfect."
It all felt real. He thought himself younger; he was. He thought huge Chinook salmon; he pulled in a 120-pounder. He thought the best-looking whore in Anchorage, Trixie Card; he had sex with her. He thought Joe Grundy, a fisherman he hated, fall overboard and
die; he heard the commotion by radio: when pulled from the water, Joe was dead. Mason smiled.
He couldn't die. He could wish anything.
Mason thought, What if I think something impossible like this boat flipping over and not righting? He noticed a rogue wave on his starboard side but failed to notice another on the port side. The starboard wave crashed into the boat, flipping it; then the port wave hit, an instant later, crushing the boat between them. The remains quickly sank. In the darkness of his dimming mind, he heard Mike's voice, "We can rescue you from our mistakes but not from your own folly."
Kalifer Deil is the writer pseudonym for Gary Feierbach, a Silicon Valley engineer. He writes mostly hard science fiction but occasionally branches off into occult, fantasy. He also writes science articles and has a website,
http://www.kaliferdeil.com
, with curiously interesting science articles and some short stories.
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3
7.
Jon Ricson
Ergo sat on a large pipe near the airlock. Through the portal window, he saw the Jure, his beautiful second home. He’d be aboard her for quite some time, so it was a good thing he thought of the ship so fondly.
Looking back into the busy port, he saw his To-Be-Beloved approach. Not until she neared did he notice that she had done him yet another injustice.
They had been Predestined for several seasons, but it had not been easy. They were not well-paired. She was from one of the most traditional families on Padar, who did not appreciate his more progressive proclivities. His decision to undergo a transform was especially troubling for them, even though Solian transforms had become very popular across the entire planet.
Onni was also disgruntled that her To-Be-Beloved was about to take off on yet another monitoring mission near the Sol system. Traditionalists had been quite vocal against the Padarean obsession with the Sol system since the first transmissions had reached Padar many seasons ago.
“Ergo, you look … well.” The voice was cold, but that was not uncommon for even the most advanced of the robotic Duplicates. The fact that she had sent her Dupe was yet another slap in his face, a face she had more than once seemed to regret looked more Solian than Padarean. The “nose” and “ears” were the hardest for most Padareans to look past, as Padareans had only slits in those areas. The eyes, too, were different, rounder and more colorful than those of Padareans, and had he seen her actually shudder the last time they were together?
“Were you precluded from coming in person, my Predestined?”
Ergo looked into the cold screen that held the visage of Onni’s face. Her narrow gray eyes showed no reaction to this.
“I was not feeling well, and did not wish you to take any ill effects to share with your shipmates.”
He pursed his lips, something a Padarean couldn’t do since they had none. “We will be away from each other for some time; I would think this a reason to be here in person.”
“May we speak in Pad, please?” Onni said, tilting her head in frustration. Solian English had become quite popular, first
as a cultural phenomena, spoken only by the more affectionate of the first Solian broadcasts that had reached Padar, including and especially the one about Solians trekking through the stars. But, over time, it had become a popular if not dominant language, spoken all over the planet. Traditionalists detested English too, of course.
“Is this better?”
Ergo responded in the dominant Padarean tongue, clicks and all.
“Yes.” Onni looked away, distracted from the viewer, but the Dupe did not turn. She was looking off-screen, something considered rude in Dupe relations. She quickly faced forward again.
