The synaptic probe slides into my brain, battering down the doors to my treasured memories. There is no time to prepare for the pain. Instead, I focus on the memory of a kindly old face.
Would my creator be proud of me?
“Are you smiling, RS-47? Such emotional mimicry will not hold sway here.”
By Meaghan E. Ward I lean harder against the apartment wall and press a mask to a little girl’s face. Outside, ash rains on the desolate streets of Mid-level, Sector 4. The staticky hiss of the blast cannon’s recharge and the click of heavy boots echo from everywhere and nowhere. “Did I not warn you?”
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It’s a girl.”
The phrase buzzes into my ears like a swarm of mosquitoes. Unwelcome. Unbearable.
A paper towel appears in the doctor’s hand and rubs at the clear gel slabbed over my stretched skin. Indifferently, though; a cold glob remains in my belly button.
A girl.
“Any questions?” the doctor recites.
The drop freighter loses its savage grapple with gravity for a moment. Everything inside the vessel rises and falls from the interruption. Like those old music machines with the plastic wheels. Discs. Records. They’d collect dust, and songs would skip.
“Ya know…” starts Sergeant Cava, battle rifle resting against his chest. “
The house sits in darkness except for the faintest orange glow seeping between the downstairs window blinds. Probably the boys watching TV, bundled in blankets, hoping their dad won’t come home tonight.
You have no right to those kids. By human law, they belong to Earth. So says the human government.
I’m stuck between two dimensions and surrounded by darkness. I press my palm against the transparent panel of my floating prison. The gentle warmth emanating from the force field provides a sense of physical reality in this space. The walls—if you can call them that—are made of energy but firm to the touch,
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It was a typical night in Doomslyvania, where the weather was frequently dark and stormy. Dr. Detestable had ranked the persistent dreary turbulence high in selling points when he’d chosen to build his castle laboratory on these steep, black cliffs. Top three, at least. Ominous circling vultures and a pathetic village to terrorize
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The monarchs fluttered about the bright orange milkweed blossoms. The color of their wings matched it perfectly, like a sunset shining from the bushes.
“This is going to be the perfect centerpiece for our presentation.” Penelope held the camera steady as she crouched forward. She scanned the ground, careful not to snap any
You receive notice of your next evaluation at Culebra Research Institute one hour before the top boss arrives. You are today-years-old when you discover Dr. M. Roswell is a cat.
She pounces atop the papers on your desk. “Dr. Jonas, your most important project is behind schedule.”
The cat can talk! You leap to
I opened my locker door, eyes still smarting from the storm of tears. I couldn’t take another day of this. Even if it was the best opportunity I’d ever had.
I’m done with this place. I seized my bag and scrubbed my eyes—the source of most of my trouble—with my sleeve.
Purple rings lined Human’s eyes, darker than usual. Yyinx clicked his tongue as the boy walked into the main deck. “New look?” he asked.
Human stared at him, then slowly twisted his face into something he called a smile. “Yeah, man. Doesn’t it do great for my lovely complexion?”
Yyinx studied him.
Gaela clacked down the street, heavy on her four legs after a long workday. Even her prickles ached. Her tabular dinged and a message floated up. She scanned the holographic text hoping her 338—er, 335—kids hadn’t eaten one another again. Because that’s what happened when there wasn’t enough money.
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