I loaded the truck with food and supplies, and headed up into the mountains. When I finally parked, I found myself surrounded by masked thugs. Their leader nodded to the others, and they unloaded all my stuff. Afterwards, they let me go with a warning that they’d kill me if I told anyone about them. As I headed back to the highway, I received a text that the deposit had reached my bank account as agreed. Supervillains always have problems keeping their bases supplied, and most of them couldn’t guess what a loaf of bread costs. It’s the perfect opportunity.
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“Pride is a sin!” The protester yelled. The demon paused at the entrance of the bar and looked back. They’d been coming there, in one form or another, for centuries. It had always been a second home, a place of love amongst hate. They’d be damned again before they allowed anyone to destroy it. They examined the protester, secure in his sense of righteousness. But there was no light inside him, no spark of the divine. They adjusted their ace and agender pride pins and looked him in the eyes. “It is, sweetie. But not nearly so deadly as envy.”
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Peter walked through a glowing portal and joined a crowd of versions of himself from alternate dimensions. He never regretted his life choices, but finding himself surrounded by heroes with his face made him feel small and insignificant. Nobody ever forced him to make a choice that saved the world. And he didn’t have amazing powers or great responsibilities. Feeling overwhelmed, he found a quiet office to hide in for a few minutes. Inside, he stumbled upon their mysterious host’s computer, and the real reason their host had brought them there. That was how Peter Spiderman, CPA saved the multiverse.
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The coaster is the last of its kind still in operation. Enthusiasts like myself come from all over the world to ride it. I’d driven an entire day to reach the whitewashed behemoth.
As I wait in line, I read the plaques boasting of the many times the ride was torn down and rebuilt, accompanied by sepia-toned photographs of boardwalks long since lost to condo developers.
Finally, I board the train. As the safety bar comes down and the ride jitters to life, I feel a thrill of excitement.
They just don’t make them like The Ship of Theseus anymore.
When I spot the quadruped circling my campsite, I almost mistake it for a sheep in the gloom. It doesn’t have the distinct hopping gait of a hunting drone, and the wide wooly frame and pointed face are certainly evocative. But there can’t be any livestock left, and the AI Overlords wouldn’t create anything so whimsical, would they? As it trots closer, I see that the head is an antique white bakelite telephone with a rotary dial. A mass of curly plastic-coated beige wire wrapping the body like wool compounds the effect When it sees me, the phone starts ringing.
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The airship kept a pair of cats as rat catchers. They did a passable job but spent most of their time lounging in the sun on the top deck or begging passengers for scraps. Fed up, the captain hired an artificer to build him an automaton to do the job. The gleaming steel machine was three feet tall and bipedal with cat-like embellishments. It whirred through the ship with maximum efficiency. The cats hated it. The captain was satisfied that he’d replaced them until he won a transport contract from the Mousefolk empire. It turned out the AI had limitations.
When Knighthawk finally captured his criminal nemesis Doctor Anarchy, he was awarded the key to the city by a grateful mayor. The next day, Doctor Anarchy struck again, even as he sat in his cell. Knighthawk arrested the ‘copycat’ too. But a week later, a third Doctor Anarchy appeared. They kept coming. Knighthawk missed me in his raid on the villain’s lair. Who was I? I was just a flunky. But the costume is cheap to assemble and easy to ship. What I wanted him to understand is that anyone can wear a mask. Making a real difference takes effort.
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“We’re close to an agreement,” the alien ambassador said telepathically. “I can almost, oh, what’s that gross thing you humans do?” The aliens were generally friendly, but their communication methods lacked tact, which had caused friction with human explorers since first contact. “You’ll have to be more specific,” I said icily. “The thing where you touch things with your slimy face hole.” I sighed. “Taste,” I said. “The world you’re looking for is ‘taste.'” “Of course. I can almost taste it.” The ambassador giggled, pleased with themself. I reminded myself that intergalactic peace was on the line and smiled politely.
When the creators announced their technology to record and playback dreams, it was called a hoax, but they proved it worked and went into business. The recording machine itself was simple, although franchises had a tendency to dress it up with LED lights. It scanned your brain activity and generated a recording in high-definition video. Hardly anyone noticed the clause at the end of the consent form granting the company commercial rights to all dreams. Most people assumed that it meant reusing the recordings for advertising. Until they hit their install base target, and the company turned on the paywall.
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She was a collector of retro tech, and her latest acquisition was too good a deal to pass up. The CRT monitor was dirt cheap, but that didn’t surprise her. Most folks wanted bulky items out of their storage spaces and never stopped to consider their value. She didn’t expect the face staring back at her when she plugged it in. The pale girl reached out from behind the screen. She put her own hand against the glass reflexively. The ghost could not remember how long she had been trapped in the dark. Perhaps this girl could break the spell.
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Hugh J. O'Donnell 