Scott A. Rolsen
Science Fiction Writer
Story Snippets:
Confessional
Bright chunks of vomit glistened in the moonlight as they clung to Javier Abrego’s goatee. Surely the vision was false? The blood, the agony, the heart-wrenching loss and despair? Javier knew better. Those images were memories, not a vision.
Reality began to sink in. There had once been an Abrego family. His family. The same Confessional that had just revealed the truth to him had also once covered it up.
Javier heaved again. His piercing wail echoed through the alley as he pitched forward and pressed his head against the asphalt. Rubble dug into his nose and cheek as spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth, drop by drop.
“You are in violation of City Decency Ordinance 4.17.8.”
A small Morality Drone hovered in the air above Javier, its hummingbird-like wings beating at a furious, yet precise pace. Javier’s heartbeat throbbed within his ears. He struggled to bring his labored breathing under control.
“Beat it bug,” he rasped.
The pavement lit up as a small camera flash went off.
“Your non-compliance has been recorded. Proper authorities will be notified.”
Justice was nothing if not swift in the city. Javier peered up at the glowing drone, now angling away down the alley.
“Wait. I misspoke.”
The drone continued on its way.
“Halt,” he commanded, “I’m Father Javier Abrego. Director of the Second District Parish, Confessional Enforcement Division.”
The drone stopped and spun around.
“Identification Number?”
“Identification Number 47478569314.”
“Processing.”
Javier bit his lip. He’d never heard of a priest being charged with a decency violation.
“Identity confirmed.”
The drone tipped forward as if to genuflect.
“Violation expunged.”
As quickly as it had come, the morality drone was gone. Evidently, priesthood had untold advantages. Javier sighed in relief, leaned against the coarse brick building wall, and dropped his head into his hands.
“Are you okay buddy?”
A hooded figure stood hidden in shadow beneath a nearby street lamp.
“You don’t look so hot.”
Javier wiped his mouth on his ceremonial robe.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
Undaunted, the figure loped forward.
“A little too much of the old temple wine, eh Padre?”
Javier tried to gain focus, but like a dam breaking, his Confessional visit only an hour before had unleashed a torrent of memories upon him. Crumpled metal and burning flesh flashed into his mind.
His eyes stung and watered. They could just as easily have been tears. At this point, even reality seemed to blur and twist before him.
“I said, I’m fine.”
Javier lugged himself upward and stood to face the man before him.
Wearing a dark unremarkable cloak, only the faintest of shadows revealed the outline of the stranger’s long angular face. Matched with the pale moonlight filtering between the buildings, he looked like an ancient fuzzy black and white photograph.
“Maybe you are,” the stranger whispered. “Then again, maybe you’re not.”
He tossed Javier a small crystal encoder chip.
“What’s this?”
“Plug it in and see.”
Javier ran a finger over the slender module.
“Why should I?”
The stranger began to retreat toward the open street just a few meters away.
“Your family would have known why.”
Javier froze.
“My what?”
What family? The dream family? The one from the Confessional?
“Good luck Padre.”
Javier whipped around. The stranger was gone. Only the chilly spring September air bit at his cold red nose.
The Last Wise Guy
“So, you’re a professional murderer, is that right?” Dr. James asked.
Anton Boggio shifted in the frigid leather chair, and gazed around the stale office. The illumination was low and soft, cascading warm, tranquil light to every corner of the room. If they could be called corners, that is. He tried to soak in the grand holographic landscapes morphing on the walls, an eagle soaring above a snow-capped mountain, an ocean lapping a moonlit shore, but the previous day’s event was all he could really see. Anton shook his head and closed his eyes.
Blood from the wounds trickles now. A puddle around the mangled body bakes in the hot afternoon sun. A stench rises from the soon-to-be corpse. The gathered crowd whispers, replete with sobs and tears. The spectacle is vivid, unusual for them. The last wisps of haggard breath have passed. The man is dead.
“Mr. Boggio, did you hear me?”
Anton lowered his head, maintaining steady eye contact. He looked up through tight, narrow eyes. The psychiatrist sat cross-legged on the adjacent sofa, halo tablet and stylus poised at standby.
“Yes, I’m a contract assassin,” Anton clenched his jaw, “I kill for money if that’s what you mean.”
Dr. James made a swift notation on his tablet, then raised an eyebrow, “And just how is that possible? Protocols have prohibited killing inside the virtual world for decades. Conventional logic dictates that no one jacked-in can be killed.”
Anton ground his teeth.
“No one?” He mocked, “Laws once prohibited killing and murder in the pre-jack centuries too. But gangsters got around that nonsense easy enough.”
The wall-bound holo-landscapes changed again. Anton rubbed his nose. The air was stale.
“And you believe yourself to be a gangster? You believe you’ve gotten around the jack protocols?” Dr. James smirked. “There hasn’t been a non-natural death in over fifty years.”
“Well,” Anton replied, “I guess that depends on what you mean by non-natural.”
The victim heaves and struggles for air. Smoke plumes rise listfully from the bullet wounds in his chest. He squints against the sun, too weak to raise a hand against its ferocious glare. Passerby’s rush to his side. They try to calm him, offering support in hushed, comforting tones. He heaves and contorts, his lungs begging for air. Time trickles past.
“Anton, are you listening to me?” the psychiatrist leaned forward. Wrinkles of genuine concern had spread across the doctor’s shiny, nearly hairless forehead.
“Uh, yes. Sorry Doc.”
The psychiatrist slid back into the sofa.
“Good. Let’s proceed. Tell me more about how you succeed in your line of work.”
Anton bit his lip.
“Well, ever hear of someone jacked-in having a seizure?”
“Yes,” the doctor replied, “In very rare cases, the interface overloads, or the victim has a negative response.”
“Negative response my ass doc. That’s a hit.”
“A hit?” the doctor frowned.
“Yeah, you know. One of my kind taking care of business…taking someone out.”
“Ah,” Dr. James scribbled on his tablet, “and just how does that work?”
Anton fingered the cold, slick leather arm of his chair.
“It’s simple enough really. Once connected to the system, pulsed light wavelengths are directed to the ocular nerves. Such events used to cause seizures in the old days ya know. In the virtual world, I can use any creative manner of murder I choose once plugged in; gunshots, explosives, knife fights, poison. But in the real world, it’s always an ocular-induced seizure.”
“Interesting,” the doctor said, scratching the stylus against his graying bearded chin, “and of course your story conveniently requires no evidence or proof.”
Anton shrugged.
“Are you afraid of being, what did you call it? Taken out?” the doctor asked.
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet,” Anton replied, shifting in his seat...
The Phobos Find
“What is it?”
“How should I know?”
Steve circled the large glass-topped desk like a predator, eyes locked on the mysterious metallic object resting at its center. Baxter Williams III sat cross-legged on a nearby sofa, brandy in hand. His level gaze, hardened by years of corporate politicking and heavy-handed domination, held the faintest glimmer of respect that only his young protégé might recognize.
“What do you think it is?” Steve asked.
Baxter frowned and took a sip of his brandy. Sunlight poured through the hundred story high window, casting a long, deep shadow behind the small mystery object. Obviously once perfectly circular, the object before Steve was now a dented shell replete with a variety of pockmarks--as if having been carelessly discarded into a treacherous cavern. The only clues to its origin were two parallel grooves running along the equator, and two small matching circles at each pole.
“Well Kitner, what do you make of it man?” Baxter demanded.
“Like I said boss, I don’t know. Should I?”
Baxter pushed himself from the sofa with a sigh, and strode over to the desk.
“Well, you’d better come up with something quick or you can kiss your right-hand-man status down the old proverbial drain.”
Steve knew better than to ignore a comment like that. Especially from a third-generation PrimeCorp President. But Steve hadn’t come this far, this young, to fail a test from the old man now.
“I’d say it was some sort of casing, or housing, for a device,” he looked up for affirmation, finding only Baxter’s cold gray eyes bearing intently down on him. “And it’s not one of your corporate espionage jobs,” he stammered, “It’s too beat up for that. My guess is, this is some sort of archeological find—”
“—Bingo Kitner!” Baxter grinned, now almost boyish in his excitement. “Finally you’re earning your keep!” Steve had never seen his boss smile before, and the sudden change unnerved him. He choked down the urge to back away from the old man’s gleaming pearly whites. Baxter rounded the desk, took a seat, and motioned Steve to do the same.
“So, now are you going to tell me what it is?” Steve asked, settling into a cellophane chair.
“I’ll tell you what I know, and then I want you to work with Sheila Reynolds from Research and Development. Stay out of her way, understand, but make sure every available resource is at her disposal. This is a top priority project.”
Steve rolled his eyes and sighed. Sheila had all the personality of a turnip, and just about as much emotion. Unlike the old man who never smiled because he was ever watchful for a lurking Brutus, Sheila never smiled because the thought had simply never occurred to her.
“I see that look,” Baxter snorted, “get over it. She’s the best, and that’s final.”
Steve grinned. This was the unflinching man he had come to work for, and the reason he had trampled so many in his climb to get by his side.
“Now,” Baxter continued, settling his gaze upon the strange object, “One of our Mars mining crews found this little baby on Phobos. Or rather, buried about a hundred meters below the surface.”
Steve’s jaw dropped.
“What’s the joke?” Steve laughed nervously.
“No joke. This is the real deal.”
“Is it,” he gulped, “an…Alien artifact?”
This time Baxter laughed. “Relax kid. I wouldn’t go that far if I were you. My actuaries insist your guess has the highest probability though. But my gut just doesn’t buy it. That’s where you and Sheila come in.”
Baxter pressed the intercom button, “Doc, we’re ready for you.”
Seconds later, the polished office door slid open, and Sheila sauntered through, stiff and refined.
“Thanks for joining us Doc,” Baxter gestured, “I believe you know our Chief Executive Officer, Steve Kitner?”
Sheila nodded without a word, first to Baxter, then to Steve.
“Good,” he continued, handing her a halo-tablet, “here’s the project to-date. Don’t disappoint me.”
Ervin's Watch
Ervin fidgeted beneath his flowing ceremonial robe and cursed the cold morning air. He glared at the metallic ward before him. A useless slender spire stood motionless, rising from the mounded earth, stretching endlessly into the sky. His eyes slid upward along its length, searching in vain for its end. Ervin shook his head and stretched his arms. Perhaps the magic was in the mystery.
"Don't move," snapped a low voice from behind Ervin. He lowered his arms and turned around.
"I said, don't move, or I'll shoot," A man in jungle fatigues approached weapon-in-hand only a few meters away. His eyes narrowed and he grinned, cocking the device with a menacing click.
"Stop." Boomed a voice. A young woman dressed in matching fatigues strode up. "Stand down sergeant."
The man stood, saluted, and marched away. The woman eyed Ervin for a long moment, then turned with a snap and began barking orders.
"First squad, let's pop this can open. Second squad, secure the supplies."
A flurry of activity ensued. Trucks that had been backed into the temple clearing were emptied in a matter of minutes. A team of soldiers with chainsaws ripped through the branches at the temple base, revealing a wide pair of doors that Ervin had never known existed. Seconds later, the doors were slammed open.
"Everybody in on the double," the leader snapped. On queue, soldiers began pouring inside lugging their gear behind them.
"You," she pointed to Ervin, "inside now."
Ervin took a step backward.
"Who are you people?" he squeaked.
"I'm Shalandra. These are my associates. Now get in."
"You've defiled the temple of the gods," Ervin yelped.
She smirked, "This is no temple Monk. This is an elevator to space."
"An elevator? You wish to climb the spire into the heavens? No one can rise to the level of the gods." Ervin squirmed beneath his robe.
The ground shook beneath Ervin's feet, raising a rolling cloud of dust that pinched at his nose. Surely the soldiers were bringing the wrath of the gods! Ervin dropped to his knees and began to hum in prayer.
"Get up you fool." Shalandra stepped toward Ervin, grabbing him by the collar, and yanked him to his feet.
Like a string of fireworks explosions, hundreds of branches snapped and popped along the base of the spire. Ervin covered his ears and stared dumbfounded as the fifty-meter wide temple mound split into four rising sections. The earth that had been its cover slid away as the sections peaked at a near vertical angle, and then retreated downward disappearing into the ground. Only a massive undulating plume of dust remained.
Ervin squinted through the quickly dissipating fog and for the first time looked upon the innards of the temple that had been his life�s delusion.
"Oh, by the gods," he muttered...
The Room Went Blinding White
Alan drew a slow pull from his cigarette and rocked back into his waiting chair. All was quiet. Another long day finished. A wan smile crept across his face as he exhaled satisfying smoke rings toward the dark recesses of his home office.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," whispered a voice.
Alan stiffened. Did someone just speak to him? He leaned forward. Silence. Only the creak of his chair beneath him met his ears. His eyes narrowed, transfixed on the haze of smoke swirling beneath the lone lamp stationed atop his desk. It must be too late, he thought.
He scanned the distant bookshelves. Nothing. He blinked at the smoke trail trickling into the darkness beyond. Alan shook his head and settled back into the comfortable leather chair.
"I said, I wouldn't do that if I were you," a figure loped forward from the far corner.
Alan squinted. Someone was in the room. But who? Who could invade his secure sanctuary from the world? A shadowed form shifted in the far-left corner.
"Who said that?" Alan asked.
The figure took a step forward, still protected by darkness.
"Alan Hinkle, don�t you recognize your own voice?"
Alan craned forward, resting his elbows on the cold edge of the desk.
"Who's there?"
"Me--," came the rhaspy voice, "or rather. You."
Alan fixed his eyes on the intruder.
"Ah, I see you now."
Alan reached into his desk drawer, slipping his fingers into a waiting revolver and pulling it out to face the shadowed intruder.
"Come forward and show yourself friend, so I can see your face before I shoot you."
His weapon gleaned in the murky light.
"I'm not afraid to use this."
"I know you aren't," came the fractured voice, "in fact, you have used it before, haven't you?"
Alan paused, leveling the gun.
"What do you mean?"
"Remember Mary Katherine?"
Alan tipped forward, and closed his eyes.
"I'm calling the police." He reached for the phone.
"Remember how you shot her and slipped away. Never charged? Remember how she died slowly before you left? The crime covered by all the networks? And how you watched on television as they convicted another for your crime?"
Alan lowered the pistol.
"Is this some sort of blackmail--" he pulled the cigarette toward his lips.
�No--� The figure stepped into the dim light.
Alan dropped his cigarette into an ash tray and gaped at the intruder. It couldn't be! The pistol slipped from his damp fingers with a clank to the desktop.
"Yes. It's me. Or you," the intruder mused aloud staring at the smoldering butt, �20 years from now."
The blood drained from Alan's face....
The Next Goodbye
"Mr. Baker, are your ready for your treatment?" squeaked a digitized voice from John's monitorwatch.
He gazed at the device attached to his wrist feeling as though he was awakening from a bad dream, wishing that it were only that, --a bad dream. The digital timer pulsed at him in luminous silence. He wondered why he had for so long succumbed to a need for technology? Why such a love of the machine? Why such a need for convenience? A convenience Hannah had used against him.
"Mr. Baker, do you hear me?"
John pursed his lips as if to reply, but whistled instead. He removed his monitor watch, dropped it with a clank to the floor, and crushed it beneath his heel. He rubbed the grissle on his chin in eager satisfaction. John knew he was now in contempt of court. A wry smile stretched across his face. So why not really be in contempt?
He strode over to the door-control unit by the far wall and slammed his elbow into the panel. Several bright sparks shot out accompanied by a loud hiss. Smoke rose from the panel and the pungent smell of burnt rubber teased his nose. Satisfied that the panel was dead and the door locked, John returned to the sterile cot on the far side of the room.
His thoughts returned to Hannah. Thoughts he knew would not be his for much longer...
John could still feel the tremendous love that they had shared. His heart trembled and his breath grew short as his memories unfolded. He found himself recalling each new delicate thing that they discovered about each other. He remembered their fist date, their fist kiss, their first and second and third anniversaries, even the first time that he had laid eyes upon her.
John took a hard breath and rubbed his tired eyes. The memory of their meeting was the one that he held closest to his heart.
A loud pounding on the door stirred John from his thoughts.
"Mr. Baker--" an authoritative voice yelled from outside the room. "Unlock this door right now!"
John looked at the smashed rubble on the floor and crinkled his brow.
"Fat chance buddy," he laughed back.
"Open this door or face contempt charges mister."
"You don't scare me asshole," John snickered, "So fuck off." He rubbed his fists together, "besides, you know I'll never remember the charges anyway!"
The pounding ceased. John craned his neck for a response. Empty silence met his ears.
Satisfied by his temporary reprieve, John turned to more recent memories of Hannah...