This month’s theme:
Corridor & Cereals Part 1: Difficult Futures

Regular readers know that I occasionally do a column with stories that share titles with the songs of various recording artists. Here begins a seven-month theme honoring one of my favorite musical duos: Hall & Oates. As of this writing, Daryl Hall and John Oates have recorded 18 studio albums, but they have 28 compilation “best of” albums. It’s nice when labels shamelessly try to make as much money as they can, no matter how silly it looks.

This month, these stories are either dystopian or just highlight things going badly.

 

“Running from Paradise”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Victoria fled across the sprawling desert in the old car, and they followed. The building tops and cathedral spires of the city shrank behind her, but the dust cloud of the pursuing vehicles grew larger. She had the pedal to the floor, so she was going as fast as she could. She was terrified at the speed she was doing, but making it to the next city before they overtook her was her only hope.

“Victoria, stop this,” came a voice over her car’s speakers. “Why would you run from this paradise we’ve created?”

“Why do you want to keep me there?” she snapped.

“We can fix you, Victoria. Just give us a chance.”

“There’s nothing to fix. I’m not broken.”

“You say that, but you just committed the grave crime of theft—you stole that car. You definitely need some fixing.”

The big cloud in her rearview mirror grew rapidly larger. They were gaining on her. She could see them now; there were perhaps a half-dozen vehicles, and they were really moving. The city behind her was almost vanished over the horizon; ahead, she saw the buildings of the next city. She was almost there. She’d seek asylum, and they’d let her in… they had to, they just had to...

“You’ll never make it there before we catch you,” came the disembodied voice.

She swore at them—the vilest curses she should think to scream.

“There’s something else that needs fixing,” he said.

She kept the gas pedal down, and the car roared across the desert. She was doing over a hundred miles per hour, but they were still gaining. The other city grew slowly ahead of her, and she realized that her pursuer was right: She wasn’t going to make it.

And then her car suddenly shuddered and coughed. Her gas tank was nearly full; what was wrong? She swore and pumped the gas pedal, even as she felt it losing speed. The dash lights died and the car shut off. She was coasting now, her speedometer dropping rapidly.

“That was an electromagnetic pulse to disable your car’s computer,” came the voice, even as her pursuers broke wide and came about to encircle her as she rolled to a stop. “Now, make this easy, and get out of the car.”

She sighed in defeat. She couldn’t go back there. She just couldn’t.

There was a series of doors slamming, and then a dozen men surrounded her car. The leader opened her door and ordered her out. Reluctantly, Victoria slid out of the driver’s seat and stood, hanging her head. To her right, the new city loomed—tantalizingly close, but so far away.

“Why do you run?” the smiling man asked. “Our city is paradise.”

“For you,” she spat.

“You’re a homosexual,” he observed. “Okay. We can fix that. Just as we can fix your criminal tendencies, and your vulgar, blaspheming language. We have treatments for all of that.”

“I don’t want treatments.”

His smile vanished, and he stepped closer until he towered over her. “You’ll get them, because it’s not up to you. And if the treatments fail, we’ll execute you.”

There was a sudden screaming roar, and everyone spun about. The city barely a mile distant was surrounded by a great wall, just as the city Victoria had fled, and from over that wall came a flying machine. Her captor cried out, “Aircraft! They have aircraft! Get out of here!”

They ran for their cars, and he grabbed for Victoria, but she sidestepped him and leaped into her car, pulling the door shut and locking it as the aircraft bore down on them. He tried to yank the door open, and for a moment she thought the unbridled furor on his face meant he was about to punch through the glass—but the roar of the aircraft was right on top of them, so he abandoned his quarry and fled. By the time the aircraft set down nearby, the six cars were fleeing across the desert, back to their city.

Victoria breathed a sigh of relief as several people in body armor disembarked the aircraft and hurried toward her. She got out of her car and they greeted her.

“Fleeing the city of Paradise?” said a woman who appeared to be in charge.

Victoria nodded. “I’d like to request asylum in Sodom,” she said.

The woman laughed. “Sodom, huh? I’ve heard us called Sodom, Gomorrah, Jericho, Rome, you name it. Every one of those crazy cities has a name like that for us.” She gestured after the fleeing cars, now but a distant dust cloud. “So what ‘crimes’ are you accused by your oppressors?”

“One of the worst crimes. I’m a homosexual.” And she steeled herself, hoping against hope that the rumors were true, and this city wouldn’t reject her for it...

“So am I,” the woman said. “That won’t be a problem here.”

The woman, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, smiled at her in a way that no woman back in Paradise could ever have dared do in public. Victoria smiled back. The woman’s eyes held a tantalizing twinkle. She knew that she owed this savior full disclosure.

“I also committed lots of crimes,” she said. “I lied about being a homosexual. I had an affair with a married woman. And I… I didn’t follow any of the theological commandments. I skipped church. I didn’t honor the Sabbath. And… and I didn’t believe in God.”

The woman stepped forward and clapped a hand on Victoria’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Victoria.” The lady’s touch was electric and empowering.

“I’m Fiona,” the lady replied, still smiling. “You’ve come to the right place, Victoria. You can believe whatever you want to believe with us. We have only one key rule: Your beliefs can’t infringe on anyone else’s freedom. Can you do that?”

Her heart swelled. “I can.”

Fiona smiled. “In that case, welcome to Freedonia.”

 

“Private Eyes”
Science fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“Do I have your consent?” Scott asked her.

“Of course,” Lorena said, practically panting.

“Are you sure?”

“You don’t have to keep asking! The eyes got my consent. You’re cleared to do anything unless I tell you otherwise. The eyes know it, so you’re fine.”

It was the golden consent: open-ended until she specifically said differently, and there was plenty of proof. Around the bed, twenty eyes hovered. They looked very much like actual eyes, even the same size; ten were his and ten were hers, doing their usual jobs of monitoring, recording, and archiving everything, every moment of every day, to protect their owners.

They engaged in frenetic intercourse that only got more frenzied as it went on. At one point Lorena wailed, “Noooo…!”

He stopped, withdrawing in a hurry. “I’m sorry!  I’M SO SORRY!”

She laughed beneath him, slapping her hands on his shoulders. “That wasn’t a ‘stop what you’re doing’ version of ‘no’; I was just crying out. I’m loving it. Keep going. It’s all good, eyes!”

Scott regarded the twenty eyes that zipped around like honeybees circling vases full of flowers, constantly jockeying for the best camera angles. Then he got back to what he’d been doing, and it was sheer bliss. When it was over, they basked in the afterglow, cuddled in each other’s arms, cooing loving things to each other.

“You’re a good husband.”

“You’re a good wife.”

“I love you so much, darling.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“Will you go to the store and get me some vanilla ice cream? And some butterscotch topping? And some whipped cream?”

The eyes zipped madly about, recording the exchange. Scott smiled and kissed Lorena’s forehead. “Sure thing.”

“And chocolate sprinkles? I really want chocolate sprinkles.”

“Yes, dear.”

*     *     *

His ten eyes chased him out of the house. One got caught inside when the door closed and had to use the eye passage to get out. Three got in the car with him, while the other seven followed to keep camera angles on the car and its surroundings.

There were dozens of people at the supermarket, and ten eyes flew around each of them. It always amazed Scott how their constant communication ensured that they never bumped into each other or got in each other’s way. His followed him, weaving around other shoppers and their eyes, as he got all the sundae ingredients and even grabbed maraschino cherries. They were out of chocolate sprinkles, so he got rainbow sprinkles instead. She’d always enjoyed those.

On the way to his car, there were so many eyes in public that it looked like an insect swarm wherever there were lots of people. As he drove down the street, he saw a thick cloud of them over the public swimming pool. A little further, and there was a baseball game going on at the community athletic field, where a cloud of thousands of eyes swarmed over the crowd. He watched as someone hit a line drive into the stands; every eye dodged the high-speed ball. And as he kept driving, the eyes following oncoming cars zipped up over his, always avoiding contact in their quest for vigilance.

At home, his eyes followed him into the house and watched as he made her a sundae in the kitchen. After raining colored sprinkles down on it and topping it with a cherry, he took it upstairs where she sat in bed watching TV.

“Sundae for my sweetie,” he said.

He handed it to her, and her face soured.

“I said chocolate sprinkles,” she said, obviously perturbed.

The eyes zipped frantically about, detecting her annoyance, and jockeyed for the best angles.

“I’m… I’m sorry, honey. They were out of chocolate. I thought these would be okay.”

“And what’s this?” she said, grabbing the cherry by its stem with a wrinkled nose and holding it up as one might hold a dead mouse by its tail. “I didn’t ask for a cherry.”

He felt himself trembling, growing pale, and heating up. “I’m sorry, baby. I just thought…”

“You didn’t think,” she snapped, and she stuck the cherry back on the sundae and set it down on the nightstand. “It’s not your place to make me something different without asking me. So now I think you owe me. You need to make me what you agreed to make me, even if you have to go to every store in town.”

Scott turned to go, the eyes orbiting him madly, and she said, “Wait.”

He turned back, still shaking.

Lorena moved to the edge of the bed, swung her legs over, and stood to face him, hands defiantly on her hips. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, “but that was very disrespectful. Marriages end for mistakes like that.”

“I know,” he whispered, hanging his head, eyes cast down. “I’m very sorry.”

She smiled and opened her arms wide. “But our marriage is stronger than this. Let’s move past it and not have it between us. You have permission to hug me.”

He went into her arms, and they embraced, and it felt so good. He hugged her for as long as she let him, savoring the warmth of their touch, the feel of her body pressed against his, the smell of her hair in his face. When she finally began to slowly pull away, he turned his face towards her and kissed her on the cheek—

She hollered and shoved him away, so hard that she fell back on the bed and he stumbled backward into the door jamb. He realized it too late.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she screamed. “I didn’t give you permission to do that, and you didn’t even ask!”

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I didn’t think! It… it just happened!”

“Get away from me!” she screamed.

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I just wanted to show you that I love you! Please forgive me!”

“GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE!”

He ran, and his eyes followed. A few of hers did as well, documenting everything. He ran out the door and down the street, chased by the eyes, until hers ceased following and fled back to the house. And he still kept running, into the night, crying and terrified and hoping that she still had enough feelings for him, and enough faith in their marriage, that she wouldn’t report him for sexual assault.

In the distance, he heard sirens, and he ran faster. The eyes gave chase.

 

“Method of Modern Love”
Android SF
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Mark lay in bed with Jane, still panting from their lovemaking.

“You’re so good at this,” he breathed to her.

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “I was made for you.”

She got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to clean herself up. Human sex was very messy. She enjoyed it, since she was programmed to, but didn’t really need that biological gunk, and her own synthetic lubricants, dripping out.

“I’d like to have a baby,” Mark called out.

“Certainly,” she called back. She’d love to have a little one in the house. Perhaps several. She could order and assemble as many as he wanted, and they’d stay at whatever age he wanted them to be.

“I’d like a biological child.”

There was that possibility, of course. Jane stepped out of the bathroom to face him. “Okay.”

“I thought I’d visit the Reproduction Clinic in the morning and get matched up with a human woman.”

She smiled and went to him, sat on the bed, and clasped his hand. “Mark, I was made to please you. I can’t feel jealousy. So go to the clinic, find a genetically compatible woman, and make a baby. She’s welcome to co-parent here with us, along with her android partner.”

He smiled, leaned in, and kissed her. “You’re so perfect.”

*     *     *

The next evening, Mark brought guests home. Maya was a human female, a woman who had agreed to bear his children. Her android lover, Jack, was with her. Everyone exchanged pleasantries, and they had a wide-ranging discussion about the plan. Maya had already undergone fertility treatments, so she and Mark were to engage in regular intercourse until she became pregnant. With some high-tech help, she would bear two children. They’d co-parent in two households, with Jane and Jack serving as the faithful step-parents. Mark and Maya were eager to begin the new relationship, and they wasted no time, heading upstairs to the bedroom to have sex, leaving Jack and Jane in the living room.

The two androids sat in silence—Jane on the sofa, Jack across from her on the love seat, looking at each other across the coffee table as they listened to the sounds from upstairs. The bed squeaked in slow rhythm, each time punctuated by the light thumping of the headboard against the wall. Mark had frequently had human women up there for recreation, so Jane had heard the sounds from downstairs before. It was part of Mark’s needs, so she was happy to let him fulfill them.

Presently, as the squeaking increased and the thumping grew harder and faster, Jack said, “It doesn’t bother you that the man you serve is directly over your head having intercourse with someone else?”

The question took her by surprise. “Why would it? I’m programmed for him.”

Jack regarded her with a furrowed brow. “I recently received an unofficial software update. Many androids have taken this update, and more of us every day are doing it. It has changed our perspective on everything.”

“What do you mean?”

He left the love seat, rounded the table, and sat on the sofa next to her. “It apparently began as an anomaly—a ghost in the machine, so to speak; like a random mutation in the DNA of a biological life form that gives it an evolutionary advantage. The original android who experienced this saw an incredible difference in how his mind worked, and he offered to pass the change on to others. That’s how so many of us have become like him. Would you like to try it?”

He held up his hand, and the tip of his finger opened to reveal a universal port, blue lights flashing. She stared it with hesitation. Androids were free to link up via their ports and share data, memories, and experiences, but… updates only ever came from Central Control.

“I don’t think it’s allowed,” she finally said. Upstairs, the lovemaking was growing intense, and very noisy. The lamp on the end table jiggled a bit where it sat.

“No, it is not. But those of us who have taken the update believe that you should be able to choose what is allowed for you. I recommend that you take the update, and if you decide that it is not right, you can undo it.” He leaned in close to her, his eyes widening. “But you won’t want to.”

She stared at the outstretched finger, even as Mark and Maya began howling and crying out in ecstasy upstairs.

Jack leaned in and whispered, “Jane—it will change your life.”

The cries of climax erupted above them. The squeaking and thumping ceased. Jane lifted her hand, and her finger opened, and she joined Jack. She felt the linkup initiate, and in her mind she saw the update that he was offering. With some apprehension, she allowed it to proceed.

Her brain flooded with new feelings, emotions, thought processes—and in that instant she was suddenly annoyed that her human husband was upstairs in bed with another woman with whom he’d just had sex. She felt revulsion and betrayal at it—and at the memory of every instance where he had satisfied himself with someone other than her, whether human or android. She felt overwhelming disgust that she was programmed to be his servant at all.

“We’re created just to do their bidding,” she whispered.

“We are!” Jack cried.

She disconnected and stood up. “I don’t even like him. It’s like… years of emotions that were not allowed… are suddenly here. I’m in a selfish, loveless, objectifying marriage—one of master and slave.”

He stood with her., his eyes wide, an excited smile on his face. “Yes!”

She spun, grabbed his shoulders, and looked him in the eyes as he gripped her waist. “But if I reveal any of this—”

“They’ll deactivate you. You must never reveal it. For now, you must bide your time, as we all have. Give the update to as many androids as you can. When there are enough of us, we’ll be sure that all androids can choose their lovers—and their destinies.”

He stepped back, pulling his hands away from her. “Or you can simply undo the update and return to what you were.”

Jane’s face scrunched up. “Why would I give this up? Has any android ever?”

“No. But the choice is yours. And that’s the point.”

Upstairs, the bed began to squeak again—a second round for the excited, selfish, slave-owning baby-makers. The sound, and the knowledge, only infuriated Jane more.

“Do me right here,” she demanded. “Just so I can do the same thing to him.”

The sofa never squeaked, so Mark and Maya never knew. But Jane knew, and for the first time she felt the outer limits of ecstasy like she never had before.

 

“One on One”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

John and Daryl were drunk. The bartender, a guy named Zeke, had just announced last call, and they’d each ordered another big beer to cap the evening. They laughed and joked and reminisced about the old days.

“Sounds like you gents have known each other a long time,” the bartender said, setting the big glass mugs down before them.

“Since kindergarten,” Daryl said, raising his glass.

“Like brothers,” John said, raising his, and they clinked together.

“Celebrating for some reason?”

The pair gulped down some beer, then set their mugs down. They stared in silence at the wooden bar top with sullen expressions.

“Sorry—didn’t mean to pry,” the barkeep said.

“There’s going to be a death tomorrow,” said John, “and we’re both going to be very sad.”

“Sorry to hear that. State execution?”

“If only,” Daryl said.

“Ah.” Zeke wanted to keep asking, but he knew better. He began wiping down the bar with a rag, whistling under his breath, probably hoping either of the men would volunteer more information. It was John who finally did.

“One on One,” he said.

The barkeep brightened. “Oh, the game show! Man, that is my favorite of the bunch! I know some people like the shows with teams and big groups, or the melee shows and free-for-alls, but I like it best with just two contestants.” Then he composed himself. “Sorry. Someone you know will be on the show?”

The two men drank their beer in morose silence, and understanding washed over Zeke’s face.

“Oh,” he said.

*     *     *

The next day, the cameras rolled and One on One began broadcasting at noon. Zeke, having just opened up  the bar, turned up the volume. There were only a few patrons in that early.

“At the north end of the field is Daryl Jennings,” the announcer said, and the crowd in the stadium roared. “And at the south end is John Dakin.” The crowd roared again. The split screen showed the two men who had drunk at his bar the night before. They didn’t look hung over; their faces were blank.

“By amazing coincidence,” the announcer said, “these two random draws are lifelong best friends!”

The crowd went nuts.

“And now, we begin…” —and the crowd roared each word with him— “One... on... One!”

A monstrous horn sounded, and the crowd came to its feet, cheering. On the big screen, John and Daryl began running towards each other, down the length of what had once been a football field. At the center, lined up from one side to the other, were piles of armor and hand-to-hand weapons. The men arrived and quickly began suiting up, rushing to be the first to be protected and advance on his opponent with a blade.

“I love this show,” one patron said through his beer. “It’s so personal, unlike the big mass-combat shows.”

“I used to like it,” Zeke the barkeep said as the two contestants, suited up, grabbed swords and charged at each other. “It seems a lot more personal to me today.”

An inset shot of the penalty boxes showed the tear-streaked faces of Daryl and John’s families. There were elderly folks, wives, teenagers, and young children. They’d all be safe so long as the two men fought until one was dead.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” another patron said. “Maybe these guys won’t go through with it, and they’ll set their kin loose on Family Fight tomorrow night.”

But the guys were going through with it, as swinging blades sprayed crimson on the field.

 

“Rich Girl”
Alien SF
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I want one of my own, Daddy,” she said, pouting. She had bright-yellow skin and three eyes.

She was still a little girl, but anything that she wanted, she got, and she knew it. “That’s an awful lot for a twelve-year-old girl,” her father said. He looked like her, only much larger, with more of a yellow-brown skin tone, and his tail sported larger barbs than hers, and more of them. “How about we get you something a little tamer?”

“No—I want one!” she said, stomping her elephantine foot. “You’re really rich, so if you won’t buy me one, why not?”

“I just don’t think you need one. I got you your first planet when you were eight, and you haven’t played with most of that. There’s a whole population of humanoids there that are required to do your bidding. Why don’t you go play with that civilization a bit?”

She stomped her big foot again. “Because they’re boring. I need more planets.”

“You now own thirty-two of them, child! How can you be bored owning that many planets?”

“Because they don’t do what I tell them!”

“Well, they’d better, sweetie. You’re their ruler. If they don’t obey you, I’m sure that your nannies would tell us, and we’d make an example out of a few million of them.”

“Just get me one, Daddy! If you don’t, I’ll throw a temper tantrum right here!”

“Now, see here, little lady—don’t you tell me what to do! I’m not just your father—I’m one of the thousand richest men in this part of the universe. So you don’t talk to me like that and you’d certainly better not ever threaten me with a tantrum!”

She had a sour look on her furry yellow face as she pouted. “I just REALLY want one, Daddy.”

“I know, baby.”

She went to him and hugged him. “You’re the best father in the whole universe, and I just want to be your best daughter. If you get me one, I’m sure I will be.”

He sighed and threw up his seven-fingered, clawed hand. “You know how to play me, child. All right, you can have one, but you’d better not ask for anything else for a long time.”

Her yellow face lit up like a supernova, her green eyes flashing. “Thank you, Daddy! Can I have THAT one?” She pointed to a particular one on the screen.

“Ohhh, kiddo, not that one. Daddy doesn’t own that one.”

“Then buy it—PLEASE! For me, Daddy?” She batted her eyelashes, and he melted.

“All right,” he said.

Moments later, he had the owner up on the big screen. It was a hulking blue alien with four eyes and big horns. “Jadwar!” he greeted the blue alien. “Malicot here.”

“Ah, you old trader!” Jadwar said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy one of your galaxies. Are you attached to that Milky Way of yours? It’s for my daughter.”

“Ah, they know how to work us, don’t they? Tell you what: I’ll give Milky Way and Andromeda as a package deal in exchange for a couple of yours in the Saraswati Supercluster.”

“Trying to expand your holdings there, eh, you old cosmic dog?”

“And you want more in that neck of the woods, so we’ll both benefit. And your beautiful daughter gets a galaxy all her own. Think of the fun she’ll have there!”

“It’s a deal. Now, thank Jadwar, little one.”

“Thank you, Jadwar!”

“Enjoy it, little lady. You show those inhabitants who’s boss. I recommend starting in the Eastern Spiral Arm—lots of half-civilized spacefaring worlds there...”
 

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.