The Future Is Short Read online

  She gripped his hands tightly. “It is certain. No more resources in Charinot—this battle is won. You must regroup your talent and ships for the next conflict, which will occur much closer to home.”

  As soon as she had uttered the word “home”, tears filled her eyes.

  “What is it Lu?”

  She paused. “It is your legacy, Ottavio. The citizens sing your praises all over the galaxy for what you have accomplished. My own godson! So much good has manifested, directly because of your efforts.”

  Ottavio smiled. “I’ve devoted my entire career to bringing compassion, justice, and accountability back to the galaxy. Thank you for your validation, my dear Lu.”

  ***

  After Ottavio had departed the compound, Lucy retired to her chamber. She knelt at the window, and her tears began anew.

  “Oro creator spiritus. You have blessed me with the gift of tuning. I have always resolved to use this gift in a spirit of honesty and integrity. Today, however, I failed you. I beg your forgiveness for not revealing my godson’s fate to him. I pray you make him as brave in martyrdom as he was in his life of service. Amen.”

  An information technology professional residing in Crafton, Pennsylvania, Helmuth Kump has had two short stories published and is presently germinating a science fiction novel. When not working or writing, the native of Queens, New York, enjoys running, playing drums, chess, opera, amateur radio, casino blackjack, books on metaphysics, and spending time with his two adult sons.

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  12.

  The Life of Joi-ne

  J.R. O’Neill

  Light penetrated the vast expanse of green that was Joi-ne’s home. It was all he knew; the towering blades were tightly packed. He knew from their height that the gods would soon come again. Their coming announced by the noise, then the wind. So many of his kind met their deaths at the hands of the gods. He had been lucky; this was the sixtieth time that he had seen the light come over his home. Old, he realized, and tired. He made his way back to his lair; the young ones would soon bring his food. For this, he was thankful, as he did not have the energy, nor the desire, to forage for his own.

  The arrival of Cok-nar brought him back to the present. “Queen Ak-ne requires your presence, Elder.” Cok-nar said, setting his offering of food in front of Joi-ne.

  “May I eat first?” Joi-ne’s frustration at being summoned tainted his tone.

  “I was told to bring you now, Elder,” Cok-nar said, clearly hoping for cooperation.

  “Let’s go, then,” Joi-ne said, much to his great-great-grandson’s relief.

  Together they left Joi-ne’s niche and headed deep into the myriad of tunnels that made up the queendom of Ak-ne. They passed hundreds of soldier-workers on their way towards the center. All bowed low to Joi-ne, as they parted to let him through. Joi-ne felt empowered by their display of fealty; for a short time all was well with him as he straightened his many legs and again walked with the pride of his youth.

  “How may I serve, my Queen?” he asked, marching into the presence of the great Queen Ak-ne.

  “Joi-ne, my trusted one.” The queen lightly touched antennae with him. “These are troubling times. As you know, our daughter Sek-ne’s queendom has struggled. Now messengers tell of a new threat there: the gods have destroyed the countryside. Where once there was unending green, now there is a great plane of black rock. To make matters worse, her soldiers are under continuous assault from neighboring queendoms; they will soon be overwhelmed. I need you to save her.

  Leaving the queen’s presence, Joi-ne ordered the soldiers to assemble on the surface. He charged Cok-nar to guard the queen and the queendom until his return. By the time the light started to fade, Joi-ne and his army were already making the approach to Sek-ne’s territory. Messengers were sent ahead to scout out the situation and announce their arrival.

  Halfway through the dark, the messengers returned, announcing that Sek-ne was no more. All was laid to waste; the green was gone.

  Joi-ne ordered the troops to follow him, as he started forward at a pace that brought looks of shock from the far younger troops at his command. Onward they marched, Joi-ne never slowing.

  By the beginning of his sixty-first light, Joi-ne came to the ruins of Sek-ne’s queendom. Nothing was as it had been; instead of flat ground covered with the great green blades, there were now mountains of raw earth, with great peaks and valleys, and not a green blade left standing. What forces of the gods could have done this? It was total devastation. Out of grief, Joi-ne’s six legs buckled. He knew in his heart that never again would he see his beloved Sek-ne. Despair overwhelmed him as the realization that he had failed both his queen and their daughter settled on his soul.

  Better to die here than face Ak-ne, he thought.

  It was then, in the depths of his despair, that he felt the ground around him begin to move. Suddenly out from the torn and devastated ground came Sek-ne, exhausted and weak from the exertion of tunneling. She beheld the last thing she expected—Joi-ne her hero, her father, was here.

  Joi-ne’s joy was immediate, and he scrambled to touch antennae with his daughter.

  Together with only a few hundred survivors from Sek-ne’s queendom, the troops marched for home. It was late in the light when, close to home, Joi-ne stopped and climbed one of the great green shafts that made up his world. At the top, his gaze took in the blue of the heavens. It was then that he heard the noise, and the great wind of the gods, his last perception as he was sucked him from the top of the lawn, was the … whirring of the blade.

  J.R. O’Neill—born in Boston, MA, the only son of a self-employed oilman. He credits his mom with instilling in him his love of books and adventures! Web sites: http://www.jroneillwrites.com; https://www.facebook.com/pages/JR-ONeill/441408465936634.

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  CONNECTING

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  13.

  The End of the Story

  Andy Lake

  Hector sighed. He set the intruder alarms one last time and went out into the cool, dark night. Taking a final look at the building, he set the locks and began to walk home. So this is how his life’s work ended. Not with a bang or a whimper, but with gritted teeth and much evasive action. But there’s only so much dodging you can do. The inevitable is just that—inevitable.

  He had kept the presses rolling and the fabrication facilities going full tilt for more than a month, to leave as little as possible for the bailiffs when they moved in. And he’d been shipping everything movable out to obscure places, for retrieval later. Now he carried in his satchel three prized possessions. The last print-on-demand book to be commercially printed. The last e-reader to roll off a production line anywhere in the world. And his first edition of Little Dorrit, from the display case in the lobby.

  As he walked home, Hector reflected on how the world had been so different forty-something years ago when he’d first sunk his and Miriam’s savings into the business. They hit those first waves of electronic books and print-on-demand at the prescient moment. They worked with the giants of the industry, and fought with them too. They did well out of it.

  But the world moves on. New hydrid animated books, film/books or ‘drooks’–dramatized books–changed the market. They were survivable. Sadly, the last decade was not. New brain interface technologies were the game-changer. People could just download a book straight into their head. Writers and writer-animateurs could devise and upload everything online. The big two cyberpublishers had the market sewn up. And Hector’s company had always produced the physical things that supported reading and the book trade. Books-as-a-cerebroservice was an area where he knew he couldn’t compete.

  Now his market for ‘knowledge accessories’ was gone forever. Sure, there’d be some diehards and hobbyists. But a market from which to make a living?

  Miriam hugged him extra close as he came in and dropped his satchel. She gently stroked back into position the lock of grey h
air that flopped over his weary forehead. With a last affectionate clasp of his shoulders, she said, ‘I’ve cooked us something extra special.’

  ‘The books, I hope,’ said Hector in a world-weary tone.

  ‘Oh, no one cooks those better than I do.’

  Hector knew that was true. Without Miriam’s creative accounting, the business would have gone down years before.

  ‘Crooks, creditors, and Philistines,’ she continued, ‘I’ve been swatting the blood-sucking parasites away right up to the last moment. Bought us the time we need, and kept as much out of their hands as I can. Spun a web of financial obfuscation that will keep us out of the debtors’ prison. But are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, I’m no spring chicken. Too long in the tooth by far to start anything new.’

  Hector looked at her, and the twinkle returned to his eye. ‘Oh, not true. For “thy eternal summer shall not fade / Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st …”’

  ‘You old fraud,’ said Miriam, as she took out a large dish from the oven. He’d been charming her with poetry for more than four decades–and it still worked. He’s a romantic old fool, she would think, but he’s my romantic old fool. Well, apart from sharing him with the entire literary history of the world, that is.

  ‘I’ve wound up the company and set up the Trust,’ she said, as they sat down to eat. ‘And our apartment on the top floor of the Book Museum is furnished now. Did you get all the books you want for the Museum? And the reading devices?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Hector. Then began singing, almost in tune, ‘We took all the books, put ’em in a Book Museum. And we’ll charge the people a hundred bucks just to see ’em ….’

  ‘You never stop dreaming, do you Hector!’

  He smiled. ‘Even when dreams fail, sometimes you can carry on living in them. And from tomorrow when we’re in the Museum, that’s just what we’ll be doing. Literally, I think you could say.’

  Andy Lake’s day job is researching, writing, and advising companies and governments about the future of work. When he takes his suit off, he writes about the future of anything. His futures are full of many opportunities which we subvert through our ignorance, recklessness, and idiosyncrasies. In short, “the future is something other than what is intended.” www.andylake.co.uk

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  14.

  Apsis in Ephis with Samir

  Jeremy Lichtman

  It is nearly apsis in Ephis, The City on a Rock, the City that Almost Never Entirely Sleeps. We have traveled as far as we ever get from our little sun.

  The Bright Side is on mood lighting now, and soon the light-siders will be flitting on over to the Night Side to play.

  “You sure you can fix her in time?” Samir asks me. He plays gently with the keys of his piano, not pressing hard enough even to make a tone.

  I’m standing in front of him, fedora tucked under one arm, my small toolkit under the other. Most of my tools live in my head, but at times one must get physical in this trade.

  I shrug. “I’ll do what can be done.”

  “I swear that she’s star-struck or something. This happens every Apsis. Tuning just goes off for no reason.”

  Samir looks tense. There’s already a few folks grabbing hors d’eouvres, including a pretty Cy in the front row making digital moon-calf eyes at him.

  “You folks had to do something stupid and make them smart,” he says. “You’re putting aye-eye in every darn thing these days.”

  I’m pretty sure he means The Elegant Piano Company, and not me personally. I don’t make ’em. I fix ’em. These pianos are smart, though. That, indeed, they are.

  I reach out, touch the piano with my mind, make contact.

  Aha! So this, this is how the wind blows.

  “I think that I know what the problem is,” I tell him.

  “Do tell me, my friend,” he says.

  “She’s jealous. You keep staring at that Cy over there. I would bet you a hundred satoshis that she has been here often, of late.”

  He throws his hands up in the air, and exclaims, “They're one and the same, my friend! One mind, two bodies. Two bodies, one solitary mind.”

  “You bought her a cybernetic body?”

  “Indeed, indeed. We've been married ten years now.”

  “I never knew that you two were married. Felicitations, a marvel!” I reply. “However, I think perhaps there is, hrrmmm, how should I put it, a disphoria? She is jealous of herself! I can do no more. A doctor of the mind, not a humble fixer of musical instruments, is called for here.”

  “I see,” he says. “Pianos. Can't live with them . . .”

  “Can’t play ‘As Time Goes By’ without them,” I finish for him.

  Jeremy Lichtman is a software developer, based in Toronto, Canada. He writes in his spare time, in moments intended not to incur the wrath of his family. http://jeremylichtman.com

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  15.

  Unwanted Gift

  Ami L. Hart

  Kes glared at HanNam, offended that the Thickskin dare approach him.

  He was exorbitantly ugly, his skin all hard and … crusty on the outside; Kes imagined the texture was similar to the baked clay on the undomed lands. Not everyone was as privileged as you were, growing up here, under the dome, Kes’s Pa-Ma would say with that fake ‘I tolerate all peoples’ tone, always the politician. The ruling Hermaphrodites were great pretenders, but Kes had little patience with such pretence, it took too much effort and he wasn’t a hypocrite.

  Kes looked down at the object HanNam was holding up. A gift? Kes wasn’t going to take a gift from a Thickskin. Gifts bind you to the giver. What was the creature trying to do? Instinctively suspicious, Kes wanted to slap HanNam’s clawed digits away, but that would mean touching. Curse the code.

  Kes shifted uncomfortably. “What is it?” Curiosity overrode bigotry for a brief moment.

  HanNam turned the object over in clumsy toughened hands. It was small, with a fine metal string. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “It’s a strange shape,” Kes mused, fascinated by the exotic object.

  “Sensei Caspin thought you might know what it is.”

  “Why?”

  “You have access to the knowledge ports.”

  So that was why the Thickskin had sought him out. Being the spawn of the Hermaphroditic ruling powers was both a blessing and a curse; one was expected to know everything. Kes loathed to study.

  “You think this … thing is a relic? Where did you find it?” Kes demanded.

  HanNam shrugged, suddenly vague, his words not forming properly as he stuttered about, talking in mumbling circles.

  Lying. Thickskins did not have the mind for it. The hard sun clearly baked their brains as well as their exterior epidermis.

  “There's a hinge, but … I can’t open it.”

  Kes stood there as HanNam went through the painful process of trying to prise open the trinket, brown stubby claws sliding uselessly over the smooth metal surface.

  Gratefully, Kes saw a solution, and truth be told, anything would be better than watching the awkward creature attempt something that was clearly physically impossible. “Come with me, and bring that.” Kes led him through the bazaar, ignoring surprised glances from rubbernecked onlookers and trying to take the route less travelled, leading him to Kes’s private suite through the twists and turns. Once inside, Kes pointed to the analysis pad. HanNam placed the object down with gentle reverence.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this,” Kes hissed, running a smooth hand over the display and beginning the diagnostic. Last thing he needed was someone reading meaning into his actions, especially now that the code had changed. He shivered, not wanting to think about the fate of a sibling who no longer held a lofty place in dome society. She chose the low way, spurning self-fertilisation for a messy interspecies exchange.

  Kes looked down at the display, impatiently tapping manicured fingernails against metal.
“You know that this doesn’t mean I like you. I’m just curious to see what it is, that’s all. Don’t take this as an invitation to lance me.”

  “Is that all you softies think about?” HanNam had the good sense to look offended.

  Kes resisted smirking, a difficult thing to do; a violent cheek twitch betrayed him. The codes of behaviour—he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Being alone with the revolting hominid was risky enough.

  The display suddenly burst into life. The romantic images disturbed Kes. “It’s called a locket,” he said sourly, picking it up. There were meant to be pictures inside such trinkets. He opened it, but settled into disappointment at the sight of mere sand. Without thinking, he shoved it back into HanNam’s hands.

  “What did you just do?”

  Kes turned swiftly to face the speaker. Pa-Ma looked from the display, then back to the locket lying in HanNam’s hardened palm.

  “Kes, a love gift, to one of them? Not you too!”

  Kes spluttered in protest, but his Pa-Ma’s eyes hardened. “You know the code. You’ve made your bed; now you have to lie in it.” Kes released a shaky breath; strangely, he was heartened by the fact that HanNam looked as horrified as he felt.

  Ami Hart (pseudonym for Jesse Colvin) is a writer, painter, thinker, gamer from “Quaky- town”—Christchurch, New Zealand. She dabbles in a multitude of genres, frequently complaining that she suffers MWD (multiple worlds disorder). She is currently writing her first science fiction novel. Ami blogs at http://www.amilibertyhartwriter.com and at http://liberty-jessie.blogspot.co.nz.

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  16.

  Sentience

  Paula Friedman

  All this happened before the Interstellar Manifest in Recognition of each world-born sentience.