Future Chronicles Special Edition

by Samuel Peralta

  Lisa swallows the lump in her throat.

  “Hell no,” X continues. “And do you know why? Because all they see is this wafer-thin sheet of skin. They see the color. Damn, I wish they were telepaths. I wish they could see beyond these dark eyes. But no. If you’ve got blue eyes, blonde hair, a pretty smile, and nice makeup, you get a helping hand in society. If you’ve got torn jeans and a grease-stained shirt, you get a punch in the guts.”

  Lisa squirms in her seat, feeling uncomfortable at having been drawn into his narrative with the comment about her appearance.

  “But that’s Norms for you. And I have to understand your concerns? Fuck off! Your concerns are nothing more than blind prejudice.”

  Although she can’t see his face, Lisa can see X leaning forward with his head in his hands. He’s crying. The variety of emotions coming through in the interview surprises her. Anger, anguish, fear, frustration, defensiveness, despair—X moves so quickly from one to the next.

  “We’re scared,” she says, and by we, she means her, and the camera crew supporting her, and beyond them, the general population of America watching in the comfort of their homes.

  X sits upright, facing her. His voice is deep. The pacing of his speech slows. He sniffs, and she can see him wiping tears from his eyes as he speaks.

  “So Doc. He’s nice. He’s still got a bandage around his throat and he talks with a voice like Barry White when he springs me from jail. He tells me I did a good job saving his life, but that he’s on antibiotics for a mild chest infection. I laugh and tell him it’s the only time anyone’s thanked me for knifing them. And suddenly he looks worried, and I smile, saying, just kidding—I’ve never stabbed anyone before. I shouldn’t have to say that, but Norms, right? They never see beyond the skin, even after they’ve had a glimpse behind the veil.

  “Anyway, Doc takes me home for dinner to his apartment overlooking Central Park. Place is stunning. Marble floors. Baby grand piano in the dining room. I ask who plays. Damn thing plays itself. I say, no way. Doc shows me. He controls it from his iPad and sets it to play something by Beethoven—something about a moonlight song. The keys go down as each note plays. It’s a haunting piece, played by a ghost.

  “His wife is nice, but the kids, they look like they’ve seen a zombie or something. I guess the doc doesn’t bring too many homies around.

  “Dinner is delicious. We have a glass of wine. It don’t taste much different from what Jules likes, but I bet the price tag says different. Afterwards, he and I stand on the balcony looking out over Central Park and he asks, are you reading my mind? No, it doesn’t work like that, I tell him. It’s not a light switch you can turn on or off.

  “He tells me it must be pretty cool, as no one can lie to me, but he doesn’t know. People lie to themselves all the time. I knew this one guy, popped a clerk in a 7-11. Guilty as Lucifer himself. But in his mind, he’s innocent. In his mind, he’s the victim. He was provoked. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to kill the clerk. He was just trying to scare him. If only the clerk had handed over the money. It’s all bullshit, of course, but he believes it. That’s the thing about the mind. It’s not like a library. It’s like an art gallery, and there’s some pretty weird Picasso shit going on in there.”

  Lisa can’t help but smile.

  “So what about you?” X asks. “What do you think?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Ah,” Lisa begins. “Reporting is about gathering facts. My opinions don’t count.”

  “Sure they do,” X replies. “All the people in their homes, they look up to you, they want to know what you think. That’s why we called you here. Not just to hear from me. To hear from you.”

  Lisa takes a deep breath, saying, “I think you’re fascinating. I came here expecting to meet a criminal, but I’ve found a hero.”

  “Ha,” X cries. “Now you’re making me blush.”

  Lisa can’t help herself. She has to ask. “If the act is passed, will you register?”

  “No.”

  “And when they come for you?”

  “They’ll never find me,” X replies.

  “How can you be so sure?” Lisa asks. Through the high-set basement windows, she can see the flicker of distant police lights competing with the coming dawn. Flashes of light paint the dark alley behind the hotel in flickers of blue and red. There are voices yelling. Boots pound down the stairs leading to the door behind X.

  Subject X is calm.

  He says, “Turn on the lights.”

  Several police officers begin pounding on the steel door behind him.

  Lisa turns and looks at her cameraman. For a moment, he lowers the camera and stares back at her, bewildered as the wheels of another police squad car crunch on the loose gravel outside the basement window. The officers continue pounding on the door, demanding to be let in.

  “Go on,” X says. “Do it! I’m not afraid of nothing.”

  Lisa stands up and reaches for the light switch. Her finger rests on the aging plastic, and she feels as though she’s betraying X, selling him out like Judas, but she has to know. She has to see his face.

  The banging on the door takes on a distinct change of tone. Someone is using a battering ram, striking methodically at the hinges. The base of the door pops off the frame.

  Lisa flicks the switch. Neon lights flicker, stuttering as they push back the darkness.

  There, sitting opposite her, is an elderly white man dressed in an expensive business suit. His blood red tie has been immaculately set in place high against his starched white collar. His thin, grey hair is neatly combed. Wrinkles line his face. Tears run down his cheeks.

  “Congressman Withers,” Lisa whispers, recognizing the Speaker of the House. Taped to his chest is a message written in black felt marker.

  Reject the Telepathy Act

  #DontTell

  A Word from Peter Cawdron

  I hope you’ve enjoyed“#DontTell”

  This story was developed as part of The Telepathy Chronicles, an anthology of independent science fiction writers from around the world.

  Telepathy has been given considerable focus over the years, with everything from comics/movies like X-Men to comedies such as What Women Want, making it challenging to come up with a unique angle. I enjoyed exploring the possibility that telepathy could be more about pathos and empathy, and wondered if it could usher in a new class within society with some of the same fears and concerns faced by minorities today.

  You can find more of Peter Cawdron’s writing on Amazon. Feel free to drop by and say hi on Facebook or Twitter, and be sure to leave a review online.

  Thank you for supporting independent science fiction.

  Defiance

  by Susan Kaye Quinn

  WHAT GOOD IS WORKING in a black market cybernetics shop, if you can’t use it to impress girls?

  Anna’s slender fingers press against the glass countertop as she peers inside the case. My boss, Riley, has it stocked with the latest gadgets. It’s mostly mechanical stuff, like the subdermal implants and ocular films the virtual reality freaks like—but Anna’s scrunched up face is all about the simulated organics. The slimy purplish lump in the center will be someone’s liver soon, and the reddish heart floating in the bio-gel container is still auto-pumping to keep it fresh. Those replacement parts aren’t genetic mods—that’s too dangerously illegal for even Riley to handle—they’re just straight-up human flesh simulations. The kind the ascenders, with their self-righteous superiority and immortal cybertech bodies, have decided to ban legacy humans like us from acquiring. At least, by legal means.

  Anna looks both impressed and slightly disgusted.

  I can work with that.

  “Cyrus?” She eases back a little. “Tell me that’s not really a heart.”

  I edge up next to her, give the pumping organ a casual glance, then lean against the case. “It’s definitely a heart. We don’t get that many through the shop, but when we do, the idea
of it kind of reaches inside me and twists things around, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” She looks at me with those deep brown eyes. Man, she’s pretty. Curvy in all the right places, but it’s the high-arched cheekbones and impossibly-full lips that are making my heart rate step up a notch. I think her pre-Singularity lineage map must include some Native American, but I’ve never asked. She’s definitely the hottest girl I’ve had alone since Nancy Forrester—and that was two years ago, when I was only sixteen, and just figuring out what girls liked. And it wasn’t my bumbling first attempt to plant a kiss on Nancy.

  Since then, I’ve figured out a few things. Like how girls want you to show all your deepest, heartfelt emotions… but only to them. As if it’s a secret, just between the two of you.

  I drop my voice. “I don’t know,” I say, wondering if I’m blowing this by laying it on too thick. “I mean, this is just a business transaction for Riley.” I splay my fingers on the case and peer through them at the beating heart. “But we’re saving someone’s life with this. Someone with parents and maybe kids. People who love them.” I give her a sideways look, like I’m embarrassed to be admitting this. “It’s like we’re saving their whole world.”

  She bites her lip, eyes glassing a little. I think she’s holding her breath.

  I shrug a tiny amount, careful not to breach the space between us with my overly-broad shoulders. She’s tiny next to me, slender and short, and I’ve bulked up a lot in last two years. Just holding your own in the rough ascender-sponsored projects will do that. As it is, I take up a lot of space—sometimes that’s intimidating to girls like Anna.

  Sometimes they like it.

  But if I move into her space, it’s got to be the right time… or everything goes sideways.

  “I thought you were just a common criminal.” Her lip-biting turns into a flirty kind of smile. And… she’s blushing.

  Yes.

  I straighten, and in the process, ease toward her—still not touching, but close enough that we could. I stare down into her eyes, which are getting wider, the closer I get.

  “Just trying to do what’s right,” I whisper.

  She smiles, just a little. Encouraging. I lean in for the kiss. Her lips are so freaking soft, it’s making me melt inside from the heat. I brush my fingertips along her cheek, moving to deepen the kiss—

  The front door clicks. The hinges screech as it opens, jolting Anna and I apart.

  Dammit.

  I whip my head toward the door. My best friend, kind-of brother, and completely unwanted visitor at the moment strides into the shop. I am really regretting giving him the passcode. Or protecting his scrawny butt from everyone in the projects. In fact, I’m considering pounding on him myself, for a change.

  “Kind of in the middle of something here, Eli.” The annoyance in my voice would be about ten decibels higher, but I don’t want to drive Anna off any more than she already is. Eli charges across the short expanse of broken-tiled flooring like a raging bull.

  “Where have you been?” His chest is heaving like he’s run all the way from downtown Seattle instead of taking the tram like a sane person. He staggers up to me, like his legs aren’t working right. The guy’s an artist, and normally somewhat of a brooding mess, but today he’s a complete wreck—wild eyes, clenched fists, red splotches on his face. Like he’s been… crying…

  “Dude, what—”

  “Your phone,” he gasps out, still recovering his breath.

  “I turned it off—”

  “My mom,” he interrupts me. “She’s sick. In the hospital.”

  “What?” My alarm rockets up five levels. Eli and his mom are the closest thing I’ve got to family. My parents are long gone, mowed down for their chit allowance by some dreg of humanity. Ever since, I’ve been living with my grandpa, but he passed a few months ago. Now it’s just me, rattling around in my grandpa’s apartment, across the hall from Eli and his mom.

  I grab one of Eli’s skinny shoulders with my much beefier hand—the kid’s only sixteen and hasn’t filled out yet. “What do you mean, your mom’s in the hospital? I just saw her a couple days ago. She was fine—”

  He cringes a little under my grip, so I ease up and wait for him to speak. Eli’s mom… the hospital… my stomach is chewing holes in itself.

  “She just… she just started throwing up… and… and…” Dear God, he’s falling apart.

  My brain is exploding with the possibilities—all of them bad. I put both hands on his shoulders, more gently this time. “So she’s got the flu or whatever. The med bots will dispense something, and she’ll be better in no time.”

  His face scrunches up, like he’s going to cry, and he shakes his head. “They took her away. For evaluation, the med bot said. I didn’t know what to do, Cy.”

  Oh crap. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, even though my insides are binding up. “It’s all going to be okay. We’ll figure this out. Together. Let’s go.”

  I’m halfway to the door, dragging Eli with me, before I remember Anna. “I have to go,” I say, barely slowing to glance back at her. By her stricken look, I don’t need to explain. But I can’t leave her here. We’re on the outskirts of Seattle, in the middle of the black market zone, with businesses even more shady than Riley’s all around us.

  I wave for her to follow us. “I’ll get you back to the city. Come on.”

  She scurries after us, her beautiful face marred by the distress. I can’t quite get a breath, and Eli looks even worse. Once I’ve got the door shut and code reset, I put a hand on each of them and hurry us all toward the tram.

  Please God, don’t let this be what I think it is.

  * * *

  The ascenders provide everything a legacy human needs to survive… survive being the operative word. Just enough food to not starve. Community housing that isn’t actually falling down around our ears. And enough medical care to keep us alive… unless we happen to need a new heart or liver or, God forbid, some genetically-based therapy that might alter some tiny fragment of our DNA. Because that DNA is the whole reason we exist, still preserved long after most of humanity ascended into super-intelligent human-robot hybrids. Humans are just the legacy of that pre-Singularity time—the living museums that preserve the genetic diversity of what used to be the human race.

  In reality, we’re just a bunch of pathetic apes that evolution passed by.

  All of which means a trip to the hospital is often the beginning of very bad news. Either you get the instant cure—all that hyper intelligence means ascender medicine is radically effective—or you get the evaluation. Which means whatever you’ve got falls into the category of things the ascenders won’t do jack about. Not because they can’t cure virtually any human disease—because they don’t want to alter their precious DNA museum.

  Just one of the many reasons I loathe very fiber of their cybernetic beings.

  Eli’s a little calmer, now that we’re in the hospital room with his mom. She’s back from the eval, but she’s out—I guess whatever test they ran put her under. She looks bad. Pale. A sheen of sweat on her forehead. Mrs. Brighton’s always been pretty in an elegant kind of way—but that’s gone now, stolen by whatever disease is suddenly ravaging her body.

  I’m leaning against the wall near the head of her bed, while Eli paces in front of the window. Tension is stringing my body tight as we wait for the report.

  The last time I was here, my grandpa got his death sentence handed to him. He came in for simple gall bladder surgery, but the bots found something else—a rapid-progress form of Alzheimer’s. I’d noticed he’d been more forgetful, but I thought he was just getting on in years. I didn’t understand what the report meant at first, but the old man did. He knew the ascenders were officially done with him. After we came home, he transferred his small amount of savings to me and made me the controlling resident of his apartment. I thought he was just concerned about the Alzheimer’s, but then he showed me his stash of religious relics, the one
s he kept hidden from the ascenders and their police bots, and I knew something was up. Not long after, a man I’d never seen before came to visit—I thought he was a priest. And maybe he was, the way he snuck in, looking over his shoulder. All I know is that the next morning, my grandpa had passed away from a drug-induced seizure. The old man was stubborn that way. The ascenders wouldn’t give him what he needed to live—so he was determined to choose when to die.

  It’s still raw, still a fresh hole inside me… and now Eli’s mom…

  I try to physically shake off the dread by pushing myself away from the wall. The ascender-clean flooring and vague scent of antiseptic are just mocking us—as if the shiny pants can fool us with the cleanliness. Like they’re actually trying to keep us alive. But I know the truth. They’ve never done a thing for humans that didn’t serve ascenders first.

  Eli pauses, a fist pressed against the window. “What’s taking so long?” he grumbles for the tenth time.

  “The med bot will bring the report soon.” I think we’re just repeating ourselves because neither of us want to speak the possibilities.

  Eli keeps shining up the flooring with his ragged canvas shoes. I shift from one foot to the other.

  We wait.

  Eli’s about to say something again, but he’s interrupted by a med bot strolling into the room with its humanoid bodyform. Med bots come in a range of types and forms. Some are little more than rolling pharmacies. Some have low-level sentience—not human-level, but smart enough to diagnose complex diseases, plus they’ve got some kind of built-in compassion subroutines. Only a few humans, the favored pets of the ascenders, get access to those kind of low-sentience med bots. Eli’s mom isn’t a pampered domestic, so the med bot standing next to her has silver skin—which means it has no more intelligence than a police bot or a household bot. It’s just carrying out whatever standard med care is indicated for our situation.