Thirty Days of Text – Day 10 – Timing
September 14, 2009 at 1:10 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (dystopia, dystopic, oppression, sci-fi, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, timing, torture, workplace training)
I’m going to use a “get out of jail free” card for the 9th as I was writing other non-thirty-days-of-text things, but here’s a nice little nibblet for the tenth.
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The Trainee
“It’s all about timing,” my instructor said as we watched the simulation screen. The simply rendered figure paced around in circles in its cell, its movements becoming more agitated and erratic. I went to activate another hallucination, but my trainer held me back. “Just wait,” he said. “Watch.”
The simulation dropped to its knees, screaming and thumping its fists on the floor. Its face – unremarkable, with the minimum amount of features required to display sufficient emotion for instructional purposes – contorted in anguish. I looked over at my instructor, wondering why it wasn’t time to send another barrage of mental imagery at the simulacrum – as far as I could see, it was at breaking point and it was time to make a decisive move.
“Not yet,” he said. The figure on the screen exhausted itself and stopped screaming. Curled on the floor, it appeared to be crying itself to sleep When its sobs had calmed down and its breathing had returned to normal, my trainer patted me on the shoulder. “Right, send another lot and watch what happens. We’ve had some new dissidents brought in overnight, so this afternoon you can watch the real thing . . . “
Thirty Days of Text – Day 1 – Warranty
September 2, 2009 at 0:57 am (Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (genetic engineering, manipulation, perfection, sci-fi, Short Stories, speculative fiction, Thirty Days of Text, warranty, Writing)
Ok, I know this blog’s been *incredibly* neglected lately. I guess there’s been too much to say and none of the confidence or time or energy to say it. But I’ll catch up with all the news later – it’s Thirty Days of Text time again (yay!). Basically for the month of September I’ll be writing a short story every day, be it a complete piece, a character or scene sketch, a vignette, something more out there . . . basically anything goes. Anyway, since I’ve been out of the house for thirteen hours and can barely keep my eyes open, it’s just a sketch today. I had a great idea for this one, but I’m struggling to stay awake right now.
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Warranty
The doctor leaned back in his leather chair and smiled at the young couple seated on the other side of his desk. Between them on a screen embedded into the desktop was a copy of the contract they were in the process of completing.
“So,” the doctor continued, “we’ve got you signed up for a complete cover package with special attention to kidney health considering the past history on the maternal side and you’ve signed up for our life insurance package, which includes a ten percent discount for the first fifty years of your baby’s life. Now,” he paused, looking over his fingertips, “have we discussed extended life-time warranty?”
The young man opposite him raised his eyebrows. “Extended warranty? Why would we need a warranty if we’ve got the insurance?” He reached over and took his wife’s hand.
“Well, the insurance is for things the procedure can’t cover, like accidental death, homicide, technology-resistant cancers and diseases and in certain cases, suicide. The extended warranty covers you in case your child’s body rejects the genetic cleansing after the first five years . . .”
“But I still don’t understand why the insurance doesn’t cover that,” the young woman said, fidgeting in her seat.
“Ok, maybe if I put it another way, it’s a bit like the difference between insurance and the warranty on your car. The insurance is to cover you in case another car runs into the back of you or if someone steals it, but that’s not what the warranty does. The warranty covers you from mechanical faults with the car, say, a problem with a fuel cell . . .”
“Hang on, are you saying there’s a chance your clinic could botch the procedure?” the husband asked. “I thought it was completely foolproof . . . “
“While it’s true we have an impeccable record, with any of these sorts of interventions there is the possibility of error.” The doctor flashed up some graphs and figures on the desktop screen. “As you can see here, there’s a 0.0045% chance of any serious complication causing death or impairment, however the main concern is the child’s body rejecting the cleansing at or around puberty. Again, this is rare – about one in every twenty-thousand – and it’s usually a simple case of the child being hospitalised for a few days to correct and rebalance the original work. There’s a five year warranty included in your package, however if you really value your child’s health and wellbeing the extended warranty is priceless . . . “
Thirty Days of Text – Vacuity
September 3, 2008 at 23:31 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (astronauts, creepy, sci-fi, Short Stories, space station, Thirty Days of Text, vacuity, worth1000, Writing)
From the moment he woke up, Maj. Hassan-Smith knew something was wrong. His oxygen levels seemed normal and he hadn’t heard any alarms throughout his sleep, but there was a disturbing sense of absence that chewed on his nerves. Releasing himself from his sleeping harness and floating to the ceiling of the sleeping chamber, he bounced himself lightly with the fingers of his left hand, trying to work out what was bothering him. Col. Davinson’s sleeping harness was empty, but that wasn’t unusual: by this time in their schedule, he would be checking the instruments and recording the latest string of data in their now-defunct 24-hour cycle.
Swimming through the air, Hassan-Smith made his way to the intercom on the sleeping chamber wall. If something was wrong, Davinson would know about it. Hassan-Smith paged once, waited, paged twice, but there was no response. Something was wrong. Pushing his way through the chambers of the craft, he made his way through to the equipment room; the view through the porthole showing the black vastness of space, lit with the crystal glistening of stars and the red orb of Mars.
The equipment room showed nothing wrong: atmospheric levels, cabin pressure, food and water levels, waste disposal, everything was in order. From what he could see on the displays in front of him, there had been no breech to the hull and no opening of any of the hatches – wherever Davinson was, he had to be within the ship.
Hassan-Smith searched every chamber and corridor of the spacecraft; in his rational mind he believed it logical that Davinson had perhaps collapsed somewhere, victim to a previously unforeseen medical condition. But a greater sense of unease occupied him, and the longer he looked without finding Davinson, the more unsettled he became and the more convinced he was that he was entirely alone.
Making his way back to the equipment room, Hassan-Smith loaded the monitor screen for Davinson. Lines snaked across the screen, showing his heart beat, blood pressure and analysis, respiratory rate, level of brain activity. Wherever Davinson was, he was still alive and conscious. Swimming over to the communications centre, Hassan-Smith grabbed the microphone:
“Control, can you read me? Over.”
Static filled the line as he waited with a racing pulse for the response; his heart sinking, he counted off the seconds before relief finally came: “This is Control, go ahead Hassan-Smith. Over.”
“Control, I’ve got a problem. Col. Davinson is missing. Did anything happen in the past seven hours while I was asleep? Over.”
“Nothing unusual to report.” There was another pause before the static broke again. “What do you mean Davinson’s missing? Over.”
“He’s not here. I’ve searched the craft but I cannot find him. How are his readouts? Over.”
“All normal at this end. He can’t be missing, there’s no anomaly in our data and everything is fine. He’s got to be there. Over”
“What location do you currently have him in? Over.”
“He’s in the equipment room with you. Over.” Despite the white-sterile coldness in the craft, Hassan-Smith could feel the sweat dripping within his suit.
“Copy that. Can you see him on the cameras? Over.” A high pitched whine pierced through the static as the cameras mounted in the room swivelled to catch every aspect, giving the Control Room back on Earth a full view.
Hassan-Smith could barely breathe as he waited for the voice to reply through the white noise on the speakers; he knew there could be only two answers to his question, and he dreaded the implication hidden in both.
