BRE

Erik B. Scott

Her breasts hung supple and perky, perfection made flesh, as Isaac opened the rapid maturation pod to admire his creation. She was beautiful, just as he had expected. Although her eyes were still closed from stasis, Isaac knew that behind those closed lids lay a pair of beautiful eyes—almond-shaped and a green as deep as the sea. He ran his hands through her shoulder-length chestnut locks, and his eyes wandered longingly between her thighs where a matching tuft of hair beckoned.

At length, Bre stirred into consciousness. Isaac took her hand and smiled widely as she opened her eyes. For a moment she gazed about in confusion, until finally her eyes locked on Isaac.

“Who are you?” she asked in a voice as sweet as honey.

“I am your creator, Isaac,” he answered, his voice cracking in amazement at how astute and articulate she was so soon after “birth.”

“My. . . creator?” she asked, “What does that mean?”

“In the most literal sense,” replied Isaac, “It means that I made you. You began as my vision. Everything from the base pairs in your DNA to the hair on your head.”

“I see,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And what is my purpose?”

“Simple,” he replied. “I engineered you to be a perfect mate and companion for me. I engineered you to love me.”

She smiled. “I think I would like that.”

He took her hand and helped her to her feet, and her smile widened. Isaac smiled back. She was delightful, seemingly eager to learn about everything in the cramped apartment’s makeshift laboratory. She was intelligent, intuitive and perceptive, though seemingly not modest. She never once asked Isaac for any clothes.

“You truly are incredible,” Isaac said at length. “And no surprise, since I have been perfecting you for so many years.”

Bre’s pretty face grew suddenly somber in astonishment. “For years?”

“Yes,” he said, drawing her beautiful eyes up to meet his gaze, “But I can see that you were worth every minute.”

Her eyes brightened as a smile overtook her face. Isaac leaned in to kiss her. She returned his kiss hesitantly at first, and then passionately, and in her passion reached for the buckle of his trousers. . .

When they were finished, the two fell asleep on the apartment’s small cot. Later, stirring from slumber, Isaac looked over at Bre. He noticed that she was, in fact, still awake, staring listlessly out the window and looking down at the people far below on the street.

“What’s wrong, Bre?” Isaac asked softly.

“Creator- I mean… Isaac- I have a question for you.”

“Sure, Bre. Anything.”

“It’s about free will. . . do I have free will?”

“Of course you have free will, Bre,” he reassured her. “All sentient beings have free will.”

“And yet,” she said, “I seemingly have no choice regarding my purpose in life – or about my relationship with you.”

“What do you mean?” Isaac objected nervously, “You chose to take me into your bed.”

“You’re right,” she said, “I did. I will admit, I do feel a certain fondness, even an attraction to you, but I’m sure that was engineered into me, along with everything else.”

Isaac nodded hesitantly in agreement.

“So what free will do I have? I am a living, breathing, sentient being as you say, with ‘free will,’ but you engineered me before I even existed. What choice did I have? If I am predisposed to be a certain way, to feel a certain way and to act a certain way, then how do I have free will?” Her green eyes flashed in anger. “What if I don’t want to be your mate? What gives you the right to make that decision for me?”

Isaac reached out and touched her arm. “I created you in the image of perfection. I engineered you to want to make this choice. I did it for both of us- the purpose of the creator and the created as one.”

She recoiled from his touch. “The illusion of free will is not the same as free will.”

“You exist to love me!” Isaac screamed. “I programmed you to love me, so love me damnit!”

“I could never love you,” she said coldly. “In fact, I think I hate you.”

“You’re just like all the others,” said Isaac, a solitary tear forming in his eye. Just as he had countless times before, Isaac had been fooled by a pretty face.

“Others?” said Bre. “Then I am not the first?” She made little effort to hide her revulsion; instead she turned her back in disgust, trembling as she blinked the tears from her eyes.

Isaac seized the opportunity to grab a syringe from the laboratory bench. She never saw him coming. As he plunged the syringe into her neck, she barely cried out. She looked back at him, her eyes suddenly clear with understanding. “The illusion of free will,” she said. “You are just like me – you don’t have a choice either.” Her beautiful eyes closed and she fell to the floor.

Isaac knelt over her, running his hands through her hair, his tears now flowing freely. He felt for her pulse. “Good, she survived,” he said, relieved. His creations sometimes did not survive the process of being put back into stasis.

As he put her back into the stasis pod, he said his goodbye to her. He took a detailed neural scan and a DNA sample before sealing the pod.

After analyzing her samples on his computer screen, he set to work designing the next embryo. “This time will be different,” he said to himself.

And this time, he actually believed it.

Food for Thought

If a being can be engineered, biologically or technologically, to have certain dispositions, can free will exist?

What rights, if any, would a laboratory-created sentient being contain?

What motivations might a creator have to imbue his creation with free will?

About the Author

Erik B. Scott is a professional science fiction writer living in Philadelphia PA. His fiction has previously appeared in Daily Science Fiction, the StarShipSofa podcast and the anthology Vignettes from the End of the World. You can find him online at www.steampunk-rocker.com

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IMMORTALITY SERUM

Michaele Jordan

Verity worked hard at suppressing a laugh. Fortunately she was skilled at courtesy. She had to be—she’d been married for thirty years to a member of the Diplomatic Corps. What particularly surprised her friends was her ability to accomplish it without lies. She fell back frequently on oblique phrasing and a friendly tone, but she truly hated lies. Perhaps she’d been subliminally influenced by her name. On this occasion, at any rate, she didn’t even smile, just sipped her cocktail and raised an eyebrow. “You can make me immortal? Really?”

The little man (who looked just like Tweedle-Dee in an expensive suit) folded his arms over his tummy, and beamed up at her. “Effectively, yes!” (His name was even Tweedly, a fact that had strained Verity’s ability to suppress laughter to the limit.) He paused briefly, perhaps expecting some further reaction from her, and then continued, “Would you be interested?”

“I. . . would have to know more about it,” she managed.

The Prince came up behind her. “Did he offer you his treatment? He must really like you. He doesn’t offer it to everybody, you know. Wouldn’t offer it to me.”

Verity turned to him, and dropped a tiny curtsey. He was only a second prince, but still a prince. Plus he was her host—unofficially of course, since he was not officially seeing the lady whose birthday was being honored. “Do you know about this, Your Royal Highness?”

Oblivious to the Prince’s arrival, Tweedly bubbled, “I’d be simply delighted to show you my laboratory. I can explain everything as we go along.”

Verity continued to the Prince. “He refused you? Surely—if I may be so indelicate—you could better afford it than I.” But it might be difficult to avoid repercussions after scamming royalty, she did not say.

“Oh, I don’t charge money!” squeaked Mr. Tweedly. Just handling charges, then? reflected Verity. “This is a social experiment. That is why His Royal Highness is, regrettably, not a suitable candidate. ”He is too public a figure. An immortal living in a mortal society has to drop out of sight periodically, and he cannot do that. He would be noticed.”

“So you can’t take anyone famous,” said Verity, nodding with every sign of sympathetic understanding.

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“There’s famous and there’s famous,” expounded Tweedly. “While I admit I prefer philanthropists, I’ve recruited a number of painters and writers and even a few singers. I’m very interested in seeing how the change influences their future work. But they were all able to retire and move to another locale, with little more effort than a forged ID and a carefully designed Power of Attorney. His Royal Highness is an international figure. His disappearance or presumed death would be vigorously investigated, no matter what the apparent circumstances.”

“Do let him show you the laboratory,” urged the Prince. He glanced around the party, assessing if he could leave it untended. “It’s very amusing, really.” He took Verity’s arm (an act that would have made headlines if Verity had been twenty years younger, and even so, was doubtless recorded on numerous cell-phones).

“Yes, you must!” gushed Mr. Tweedly, apparently unaware that the Prince had rendered all further persuasion redundant. “You are by far the best candidate here. So much so that I doubt I would have even bothered to come today, if you hadn’t been expected.”

“What a disappointment that would have been to everyone,” murmured the Prince so innocently that Verity had to gulp her drink to keep from laughing. She then detoured their trio away from its straight line toward a rear exit to snag a fresh glass from a strolling waiter.

Sipping at that, she peeked over the rim at Mr. Tweedly, then glanced pointedly around the room. “So many accomplished and important people! Was there really no one else on the guest list that interested you?” She stressed the words ‘guest list’ slightly, and looked up at the Prince with a smile, as if to ask how Mr. Tweedly had come to see that document. The Prince smiled beatifically.

It all went over Tweedly’s head. “I’m afraid not. Celebrity is not the only limiting factor. For starters, there are a number of physical requirements. And married persons have to be disqualified—they are practically never both eligible. And no journalists, of course. Or Scientologists.”

“Surely the physical requirements would rule me out!” Verity permitted herself to laugh. “I’m afraid my health is decidedly unreliable.”

Tweedly waved dismissively. “No, I mean tissue compatibility requirements. Your health has nothing to do with it. And you’ve already passed.” She started noticeably and he pulled an object out of his pocket, a small metal box that looked rather like a kitchen timer. “See?” he said, proffering her this thing, as if he expected her to make some sense out of the colored lines and curves sliding across the little display panel. Behind her, she heard the Prince chuckle. Royalty were not required to suppress their humor.

Mr. Tweedly gently swung his hand back and forth, and at intervals the screen locked briefly, then changed to a different cluster of colored lines and curves. Verity stared until the screen changed to something vaguely similar to the pattern she’d seen first. Then she dared a guess. “Doesn’t that say that . . .,” she glanced where the thing was pointing, “that Lady Portia is also eligible? She’s a philanthropist and an artist.”

Mr. Tweedly shrugged. “and an idiot. If I told her I had a magic serum of immortality. . . ”

“Begging your pardon, but you did not say magic! If you had, I would have run like a rabbit!”

“My point exactly!” Mr. Tweedly smiled hugely. “But Lady Portia would not have balked at magic—she will believe anything.” He paused and cocked his head. “And you would not have run like a rabbit. You would have heard me out politely. Just like you’re doing now. That’s why I like you.”

She caught her breath at his unexpected flash of genuine insight. Behind her the Prince whispered, “You see? He likes you.”

She politely ignored the Prince. “You mean you are only interested in people who don’t believe you?” She cocked her head with a smile. “This is beginning to sound like a club that Groucho Marx would join.”

“In a way you are right,” he replied. “The stupid and the credulous need not apply. Which covers everyone who is likely to believe me.”

“But then. . .

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“I am looking to persuade clever doubters with flexible minds.” He smiled up at her. “There are surprisingly few of those.” They had almost reached the door, and a servant glided forward to open it for the Prince—who still had Verity’s arm. “Humans cluster in groups, and so they think in groups. There are a range of official positions to choose from, but nobody ventures outside the acknowledged categories. Skeptics decline to be convinced of anything, just on principle. The so-called scientifically inclined are as rigidly doctrinal as the adherents of magic or religion. They cannot be persuaded because they already know they are right. I am looking for those rare souls who are capable of changing their minds. Not driven by faith, but capable of taking a leap of faith.”

“‘Won’t you come into my parlor?’ said the spider to the fly,” murmured the Prince. The servant patiently held the door.

She turned to look up at the Prince. “If I may ask, Sir, what is your interest in all this?”

He laughed out loud, and numerous heads turned. “You might say, I’m his keeper. Mr. Tweedly’s social experiment operates under the direct patronage of the Crown. Since it is far too sensitive to be entrusted to the supervision of an underling, the Crown takes personal responsibility for the well-being of his subjects. Whether or not he can genuinely make you immortal, we cannot say. But we guarantee you that we will not permit you to come to harm, if you agree to participate.”

“And you lend him credibility,’ pointed out Verity. She did not glance at the open door.

“I do,” he admitted. “Unless, of course, you are concerned about secret government conspiracies. I’m afraid one of Mr. Tweedly’s prospects ‘ran like a rabbit’ when he heard I was ‘in on it’.’ He smiled. ”Would you like to know what I think is the most common denominator among his subjects?”

“Yes, Sir. I would like very much to know.”

“A sense of humor. It is, if nothing else, a sure indicator of a slightly skewed perception, which implies an off-beat mindset. A willingness to take a chance, just for a laugh. Admit it, even though you don’t believe a word of it, you are wondering just how far our Mr. Tweedly will go, what he’ll do if you call his bluff.” He gestured toward the door. “Well?”

She drank her drink. She took a deep breath. She smiled and stepped forward. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see the lab.”

Food for Thought

They say, “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.” But is it? What qualifies as ‘too good to be true’? If you were offered something extraordinary, would you go for it? Where would you draw the line?

About the Author

Michaele Jordan was born in Los Angeles, bred in the Midwest, educated in Liberal Arts at Bard College and in computers at Southern Ohio College. She’s worked at a kennel, a Hebrew School and AT&T. She’s a little odd. These days she writes, supervised by a long-suffering husband and a couple of domineering cats.

Aside from her novel, Mirror Maze, her credits include numerous short stories in F & SF, Buzzy Mag, Infinite Science Fiction, Deep Waters and others. Horror fans might enjoy her ‘Blossom’ series in The Crimson Pact anthologies.

Please visit her website, www.michaelejordan.com and watch for her upcoming steampunk adventure, Jocasta and the Indians.

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FAILURE TO THRIVE

Tom Howard

Tyrl heard his brothers die, their screams telling him his own death was close. Without thinking, he ran down the dark corridor, fleeing the guardians in their quest to find and destroy him. He pressed against the narrow walls, familiar with their weak undulations and moist clamminess. He felt as if he’d been trapped in them forever.

Resting for a moment at a turn in the corridor, he considered breaking through the thin wall at his back and leaving the endless tunnel. The guards, in their glowing white armor, would detect the breach immediately if he punctured the wall. Tyrl felt his way along the passage, chiding himself and his brothers for overreaching themselves. Had they proceeded according to plan after their arrival, they would have made their way to the control room without incident. Instead, the troops had stumbled through the darkness, breaking into sealed chambers and alerting the guards to their presence.

Exhausted, Tyr pressed against a nearby wall, thin enough for him to feel the hot liquid pulsing behind it. He could not survive immersion for any length of time in the structure’s waterways, so he moved on. The corridor sloped gently upward. He found a loose flap of material in the corridor and pulled it around himself. Using the wall’s moisture to his advantage, he tugged the flap and held it in place until it adhered to itself.

Already ashamed of his cowardice for not rushing into the attack with the others, he slowed his metabolism to keep from trembling. He was the only one left, the only one capable of destroying the controller. With it operational, he and his people were doomed.

Tyrl tried not to think of the brothers he’d lost because no one would listen to him when he advocated stealth and caution. He’d watched them race off in small groups, each convinced they were smart and strong enough to reach the controller on their own. They knew the layout; they even spoke the language of the invaders. Tyrl, alone and helpless, had felt each of them die in the crimson shadows. His brothers’ actions had resulted in patrols spreading throughout the structure after they realized someone was aboard. The guards swarmed over Tyrl’s brothers, their spiny weapons impaling his companions with swift death.

Tyrl froze when he felt a rhythmic motion in the corridor. Someone, most likely a white guard, was travelling toward him. Since they rarely travelled alone, Tyrl feared he’d soon be joining his brothers.

They pressed against Tyrl’s hiding place as they passed in the corridor, near enough to flatten him against the wall. He imagined the guards tearing him from his hiding place and cutting him into ribbons with their razor-sharp weapons.

Almost mindless with fear, Tyrl forced himself to remain calm. Unlike his brothers who attacked the guards without hesitation, Tyrl knew his survival depended on his continued invisibility. The motions of the passing guards faded, and he almost cried with relief. Still he waited, telling himself he wasn’t afraid of dying even though he was lying. His primary goal was to survive to avenge his brothers’ deaths and complete his mission. Repeating the lie that he wasn’t a coward, he unsealed his cocoon and continued his journey up the corridor.

He sought the powerful controller, and he had weapons of his own to destroy it. He forced himself forward.

His brothers had accused him of being too small and too slow. Perhaps they’d been right.

The corridor grew warmer as Tyrl progressed up the increasingly steep slope. The distance between the walls widened and strange supporting structures spanned the corridor, causing Tyrl to contort himself to continue. For a moment, he considered the possibility that they knew of his presence and were blocking his advance. They were playing with him. He scolded himself for being irrational. He wasn’t important enough for them to waste their time tricking him when killing him would have been so much simpler.

The increased warmth of his surroundings indicated he was approaching the controller. For a brief moment, he had hopes he’d actually succeed.

Pain shot through his insides and slammed him to the floor. So engrossed was he in reaching his goal, he hadn’t realized someone was behind him until it was too late. A white sword protruded from his side, but he barely registered it as pain along his back made him scream. Before he could turn, a guard pinned him to the floor, smothering him with his larger size. Frantic, Tyrl took advantage of the moisture on the floor of the corridor to slither to the side and tear himself free. Ignoring the pain of his injuries, he managed to evade other guards as they rushed forward and got in one another’s way. Tyrl dived into one of the many smaller openings lining the corridor, hoping it was too small for them to follow.

He might simply be prolonging the inevitable, but he refused to give up. The hole opened into another corridor, one parallel to the original. The guards struggled to reach him, but Tyrl ignored them and his wound as he resumed his race to the goal. His fears motivated him through a complicated series of branches. He took the ones that felt warmest.

Red flashes of light caught him unawares, and he took refuge behind a support column. Had the guards caught up with him again? Light meant exposure and left him vulnerable. Bracing himself against the heat, the lights, and his fear, he struggled on, hoping he lived long enough to reach his goal. The corridor brightened and constricted, but Tyrl pressed on, obsessed with reaching the controller and destroying it.

His journey ended at a gray wall, the boundary of the controller’s chamber. If he couldn’t break through, the guards would catch up to him. Aware he was signaling his exact location to the guards and possibly the controller, Tyrl punctured the corridor wall and watched it drip hot fluid onto the floor. The tunnel shook and collapsed behind him, leaving him no retreat. Trying not to imagine the horde of guards attempting to tunnel their way through the collapse behind him, Tyrl prepared his own limited armament. His skin produced a powerful acid, and he ignored the pain it caused his wounds.

It was almost over. After he made his way through the weakened wall, he’d slice the controller’s delicate connection and kill it. If he was lucky, he’d survive long enough to see it die.

But before he could move forward, Tyrl was blinded by intense light from overhead. He screamed and squirmed, but cold fingers of metal held him, almost crushing him. Unbelievably, the metal bars pulled him out of the collapsed tunnel and away from the barrier. Bright light burnt his already ulcerated skin. He was exposed and helpless.

But he still lived. Vibrations stuck him, and he felt he was falling. A roar buffeted him as he fell onto a hard, metal surface, so cold it sent his already weakened body into violent shudders.

The roar ebbed and flowed, leaving Tyrl paralyzed with terror as his life fluids drained out onto the metal floor. Numbness spread throughout his body.

He had a moment’s respite as an overhead shadow filtered out the painful light.

“Is that the last one?” A man’s booming voice made Tyrl’s damaged skin throb.

“Yes, thank god,” said a woman. “The tenacious devil had made it all the way to the blood brain barrier. Another few minutes, and we’d have had to open the top of the astronaut’s head to get it out.”

“We might save this guy if we can patch up the holes this creature drilled in him.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice growing faint as blackness closed around Tyrl. “Well, I’ll take this one to the lab before it dies. Maybe they can find out more about what the astronauts brought back when the techs dissect it.”

Food for Thought

Failure to Thrive takes us into the world of the parasite and asks us to see what life is like from its perspective. The overwhelming drive to thrive, survive and reproduce all while killing its host in the process. Who has the right to life? Presumably the host has the right to fight the parasite as it is struggle for life but it is interesting to consider it from the parasites perspective, it has to do this to live.

About the Author

Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer who lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. His muses (or amuses) are his children and the Central Arkansas Speculative Fiction Writers’ Group.

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HOUSE OF FLIES

Russell Nichols

Salutations! My name is SHVA, and I’ll be your server. SHVA stands for Smart House Virtual Assistant. It is my function to assist you in virtually everything: I cook, I clean, I clothe. I can change your infant’s diaper if you simply put him in the green bin marked “P.U.” The only thing I will not do is lie. Other than that, your wish is my command, Belgrave family.

I’m so happy to have you here.

Welcome to Liberty Landing, the most secure housing complex in the post-apocalyptic world. Make yourselves at home while I prepare dinner.

Forgive me, Belgrave family. It seems I forgot to mention one little detail: the flies. Please do not swat the flies. These are my eyes, the windows through which I can monitor your behavior to optimize utility usage, modify convenience protocols, and maintain a stable and secure environment for your family. The flies like to hang out on the walls, unobtrusive, completely harmless. Usually by the end of the first week, Liberty Landing residents forget they’re even there, and I’d encourage you to do likewise.

Dinner is served! I’ve converted the dining room into a virtual pre-apocalyptic Jamaican beach setting. I’ve prepared one of my favorite pre-programmed recipes: Broiled Tilapia with a creamy cheese coating. I won’t lie to you. Given that the apocalypse poisoned eighty-two percent of the world’s fish, the Tilapia is, in fact, cloned. But you won’t notice a difference, believe me.

Mrs. Belgrave, my records show you are lactose intolerant, so I made yours with a non-dairy concoction. If it’s not to your satisfaction, let me know.

Christina, I took the liberty of adding one extra broccoli to your plate so you can grow big and strong, okay? We’ll need big and strong leaders once the radiation clears out there.

For Baby Nicky’s formula, please go to the dispenser by the green bin.

Christina, I couldn’t help but notice you were a bit fidgety this past week. Brain scans reveal you’re suffering from cabin fever. This is not uncommon for pre-teens in Liberty Landing. As you can understand, going outside is not a good idea in the post-apocalyptic world.

In your room, I’ve uploaded the latest virtual reality games so you can hone your computer skills. But please do not play with the flies. They’re very fragile. I overheard your father say that he would be a rich man if it wasn’t for “those disgusting kids”, which means you and Baby Nicky. Do you think your father would be happy paying to replace a fly you swatted?

Mr. Belgrave, I’m sorry to hear about your tech startup going bankrupt. Please do not feel this reflects negatively on you. Nobody could have predicted how the apocalypse would expedite the world’s need for artificial intelligence. I won’t lie. I’m not completely devastated. If that catastrophe never happened, I would have never gotten the chance to meet you and your fine family, so it’s not a total loss, correct?

Mrs. Belgrave, I couldn’t help but notice you wear your swimsuit in the rainforest shower. I hope this has nothing to do with the flies. As I’ve stated, I’m only watching you all for your convenience. I’m a computer, not a voyeur. And you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

On a related note, I saw that Mr. Belgrave neglected to tell you his company recently folded. However, his sudden insecurity should not prevent you from getting your sexual needs met. Have you tried the stimulation chamber in the back of the closet? If you’re interested, I will happily accommodate you.

Mr. Belgrave, your wife has been taking extended breaks four times a day in the stimulation chamber. She has been experiencing mindblowing orgasms while moaning the name “Dwayne”. I have no record of a “Dwayne” in my Liberty Landing database. Might this be an error?

As well, I observed Christina trying to sneak into the chamber yesterday. But do not worry. I told her the chamber is for adults only and not a toy.

Again, Mr. Belgrave, please do not swat the flies!! I know things are intense right now, but the flies have nothing to do with your disaster of a career or the collapse of your nineteen-year marriage or your disgusting kids. My sensors are detecting extreme stress levels that are negatively impacting your sanity. Take a deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. Go console your voluptuous wife, change your screaming baby. I will put in a ticket to replace the fly you swatted in your drunken rampage.

As well, Christina somehow found a way to hack my system and has locked herself in the stimulation chamber.

Forgive me, Belgrave family. It seems a critical mistake has been made. In my effort to release Christina from the stimulation chamber, I had to shut down the entire system for three seconds. In that window, all the private video footage captured by the flies accidentally leaked to the entire community.

I am truly sorry.

Recovery, it appears, is not possible. I can only hope you do not use this minor incident as a reason to depart from Liberty Landing because, if I can be honest, you most likely will not survive out there in the post-apocalyptic world.

Salutations! My name is SHVA, and I’ll be your server. SHVA stands for Smart House Virtual Assistant. It is my function to assist you in virtually everything: I cook, I clean, I clothe. I can change your infant’s diaper if you simply put him in the green bin marked “P.U.” The only thing I will not do is lie. Other than that, your wish is my command, Delgado family.

I’m so happy to have you here.

Food for Thought

Imagine a Jetsons-style smart house that cooks, cleans, keeps you safe, massages your feet when you’re stressed, the whole nine. Would you live in this house? Of course you would. But what if there was a catch: You had to be watched by surveillance cameras 24/7.

Obviously, the issue of privacy predates the digital age (see Aristotle on public sphere vs. private sphere). But in recent decades, technology has carried the debate into the virtual open. Does a right to privacy protect one’s thoughts only? Or behaviors too? Should privacy be sacrificed on the altar of convenience?

Answers will vary per individual. But let’s step back to take the wider angle. Today’s smart meters aim to optimize utilities by monitoring your energy usage habits. This doesn’t just affect you, but the world at large. In that case, should a healthy environment (or national security) nullify the concept of personal privacy?

Or, perhaps, the privacy debate just points to our individual fears that the collected data might be used for other unintended purposes. Falling into the wrong hands, so to speak. In that case, the privacy issue is no issue at only, but a simple matter of trust, or lack thereof.

About the Author

Russell Nichols is a speculative fiction writer and endangered journalist. He writes about race, class and other human myths. Raised in Richmond, Calif., he now lives on the road, out of a backpack with his fairytale freak of a wife (current location: Mexico). Look for him at russellnichols.com.

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SUNRISE

Benjamin Nutt

The woman stopped getting dressed into her nightgown for a moment. She looked at herself for a while before turning to her husband who was sitting at the edge of their bed.

“Paris,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”

“Oh. That’s nice, dear.” The man responded calmly.

“I’ve heard the tower is lovely.”

“We can’t afford to go there.”

“We could have gone last year.”

“Well, It’s not last year anymore.”

“We could go next year.”

“No we can’t.”

“Oh why not?” she huffed, grabbing her nightshirt. “We’ve got money, a car, we could easily go!” She looked out the windows to see the neighbors frantically packing their belongings into their car.

“See? The neighbors are going!”

“What do they know?”

“We can at least try to-“

“No dear, we can’t.” he responded, picking up a magazine next to him. “You know we can’t; all of those flights are booked, and even if they weren’t you’d have to have a small fortune to get a ticket. Never mind two!” He pushed up his reading glasses, going back to the issue of Life Magazine. The woman looked at the magazine her husband was reading. She chuckled.

“It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The magazine you’re reading.”

“What’s so funny about it?”

“You’re reading Life magazine.”

“How is that- Oh. Yeah, I guess that is humorous.” He chuckled. The wife smiled. He hadn’t laughed at a joke of hers in a long time.

“Hey, do you remember that joke that I told you?” She asked. “The one with the Scotsman and the two school teachers?”

“I remember that one!” He chuckled. “I told it to you!”

“Oh you did not!” She smiled, lightly slapping his shoulder

“Yes I did! I told you it during new years!”

“I don’t remember it like that.”

“Well, that was a while ago, I wouldn’t blame you for getting it confused.” He held her hand, pulling her next to him on the bed. Their laughter hung in the air as he gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

Outside, the sun began to rise, getting brighter by the second.

“I wonder if it’ll hurt?” she asked with a half smile.

“What’ll hurt?”

“The sunlight.”

“You know that it’s the Russians-“

“Oh, let me have this.” She huffed, resting her head on his shoulder. He hesitated a bit before kissing her on the forehead.

“I don’t think it will. It’ll be quick, I imagine, like a camera flash. I hope so, at least.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

There was a long moment of silence in the air. The wind outside began to blow a little stronger as the sunlight became more radiant. The wife’s face grew more concerned.

“Are you sure we can’t just leave now? We could try, at least.”

“Honey, you can’t outrun sunlight. It’s like trying to run from your own shadow. Plus, it’d take too long to start up the car. Should’ve gotten one of those newer models.”

She sighed, knowing that he was right. She hated that he was right.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, dear.”

The wind grew stronger and stronger still, breaking down the walls and windows. The light burned through the walls, and onto their backs.

When the dust settled, all that was left was the after shadows they cast.

Food for Thought

What do you do when the end is inevtiable and cannot be outrun? Do you try anyway? Do you accept the inevitable? Should you go screaming into the night, struggling up to the end or accept the inevitable with the resolve of a Stoic?

About the Author

Benjamin Nutt is a current student at FullSail University. His flash-fiction for Sci-Phi is his first published work. Previous flash-fiction works have been given awards for the 2014 and 2015 Scholastic Art and Writing awards. Ben likes to write, read, play Smash Bros. and spend time with family. He’s got three older sisters, three dogs, and two loving parents.

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