Void

"Alright," they'd said. "You'll be in the VSM for exactly 14 minutes, then we'll pull you out. Remember, we're right here, and stay calm."

I nodded, with what was probably an anxious smile. They closed the hatch. And I was alone. In the void. Or, technically, the void simulation, but the two are not dissimilar. It was darkness. Wide-eyed, eyeball rolling blackness. My hand in front of my face, on my face, in my face, and I sensed nothing. Did I have a hand, or a face?

I'd been taught a few simple techniques, which the boffins theorized would help.

Cogito ergo sum. I thought.

It helped a little? I was supposed to note what did and did not ease the... strain. I remembered  that my friends were right outside, feet away. It was patently untrue. I could see deep, all around me, a sort of spherical panorama of emptiness. And trust me, there were no friends. And yet, moments before... How long has it been? I'd been in their company. I'd seen their faces.

Memories might help, vivid ones. He cast his mind back, in the void it seemed like almost a physical casting.

That restaurant. That stupid restaurant.

It was a spur of the moment sort of thing, just going out to eat with his coworkers after a hard day of training. But he'd put the wrong address into his GPS, another restaurant with the same name, and gone to the wrong place, too far away.

And that's where I am now. The wrong place, far too far away.

The fourteen minutes stretched on, irrelevant.

Chance of Rain (Spring)

The humming gradually faded, leaving an empty silence. Ronald sighed. "There you go, all the machines are off. I honestly can't tell you what might happen."

Adrian, the union boss, smiled and shrugged. "It's not our responsibility anymore, so who cares what happens?"

Ronald muttered to himself, "Farmers, pilots, picnickers..."

Adrian chuckled a little indulgently, and walked off. That's how it started, a little legalistic tiff over some obscure medical benefits that culminated in an all out strike by the entire weather-controllers union. Now a world accustomed to spans of perfect weather regularly punctuated by abysmal weather would have to carry umbrellas and tote jackets.

"Alright, I hereby call this mob to order!" Adrian yelled a few days later, at a chaotic assembly of the weather-controllers union.

"Boo!" a traditionalist shouted. "Down with a chairman!" from a budding anarchist. An incoherent jeer rose up from the general crowd. But Adrian was a veteran union boss (and had some experience as an unfunny comedian), so he was unruffled. He merely gestured, palms down and said, "Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" And a couple gavel-bangs later peace was granted.

"I know what you all expected; a day, two at the most of unpredictable weather, and the common herd were bring its bucolic pressure to bear on the higher ups." Adrian said. He paused (a rookie mistake).

"We expected that because you promised us!" A angry voiced called out. Cheers of vague agreement issued from the crowd.

Adrian repeated his palms-down gesture, hoping he wouldn't need to use it again. "I know! I thought the same. But we were wrong. It seems the people are as hard to predict as uncontrolled-weather!"

His unfunny-joke was met by a sort of pained silence.

Barter

"The problem is, I have no money." The old man admitted.

The big man behind the desk leaned back, shrugging, "Well then, we can't do business, can we?"

The old man looked miserable, "I could do something for you... Owe you a favor."

"Uhuh, and what kinds of things can you do for me, old man?"

"I'm a carpenter, and an artist. I'm an old man of experience; I could give you advice." He said hopelessly.

The big man smiled, "Well, let's test the quality of your advice. Would you suggest that I work for free, or on speculation?"

"I would; if the potential return was vastly greater than the cost, and you had some assurances in place." He said seriously.

He nodded, then smiled. "Alright, man of experience. What kind of return could I expect from you, and what assurances would I have?"

"I would do my best for you, and I am a hard worker. I noticed the wall by your garage is a big blank slab of concrete; perhaps a mural would improve it, solve your problem."

"I do hate that wall..." He stroked his bulging chin.

"Alright, do a painting on that wall for me." he pointed his finger, "One that I like! Do that and I'll take your case."

Tears came to the old man's eyes. "Thank you. And rest assured you will like the painting, it will be the best thing I've ever done."

Fugitive

The bell dinged as a man walked into the diner. He just sat down, pulled a book out of his bag and started reading. A waitress approached him.

"Good morning sir, can I get you anything?" she asked. It certainly was morning, it must have been 5 AM.

"Yeah, just a large coffee please." He didn't smile, he hardly looked up.

She had her notebook out but didn't bother writing it down. "Alright sir, I'll have that for you in a moment."

She left him in relative peace. He seemed to be reading quickly and intently, though it was the careless intensity of a veteran reader. A few pages later the waitress left him his coffee without a word. He sipped his coffee as he read.

This was all he wanted. Just to be left alone, to read in peace, with a hot cup of coffee in his hand. Maybe to watch the other patrons come in, and see them interact with eachother for awhile. And then he'd leave, just walk out the door and likely never come back to this particular place. But he would come to many others like it, and have a nearly identical experience. The coffee, the book, a little observation.

A few people came in, talking a little loudly for the earliness of the hour. They placed a complex order and sat to wait impatiently, their voices rising the longer they talked. Loud laughter.

Unfortunately, he'd once wanted more than this. He'd wanted to make something, something good, even great. Something that other people would see and appreciate. Something with his name on it. And he'd done it. If he'd never had done it, his more modest desires wouldn't be in jeopardy.

One of the slightly obnoxious people evidently had to use the restroom, and he walked by the mans table en route. He looked at the man sitting there reading, a little too curiously, but he went on his way without saying a word. On his way back however, he gave him only a glance. He let out a whoop.

"Holy cow, it's Philip Knight!"

The other people got up and swarmed over. Philip Knight closed his book and got out his wallet to pay for his coffee.

"Oh, no way, man. I'll get the bill. Stick around and I'll by you breakfast whatever you want!"

Philip Knight just shook his head, putting five dollars on the table. He politely threaded his way through the onlookers, and left the diner. He got back in his car, and started driving.

A couple states over he'd stop in another diner, get another coffee and maybe something to eat. But if someone noticed him again, he'd have to leave again. Maybe just go home, or to a new home. Lock the doors, and lower the blinds. No one would bother him then. But he wouldn't be able to get his coffee, read his book and watch the people.

Switching

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

ARE YOU SERIOUS. CONFIRM ACCURACY OF REPORT.

Message complete.

Nico sighed. He had been entirely serious. The report was as accurate as any that he had sent in, he had been particularly punctilious in constructing it. Because he knew what it would mean for the natives. And for himself. Not good things.

"Computer, transmit the following message to Star Command, standard protocols." He paused.

"REPORT ENTIRELY ACCURATE. DEAD SERIOUS. END."

Message transmitted.

It would be few moments before they replied. Not for them to receive the transmission, but (as I'm sure you are well aware) blasting tight-beam messages through hyperspace requires some calculation.

The truth is that the inhabitants of the planet had certain ideas which were entirely unacceptable. If it hadn't been for Nico's special training, even he might have been infected by them. Nico, a loyalist born and bred. They were toxic, virile and deeply disturbing.

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

"TERMINATE PLANET. TERMINATE SELF. GOOD WORK NICO. GOODBYE NICO."

Message complete.

Nico shook his head slowly. He looked at the switch in front of him. OBJECT, TERMINATE.

The ideas were intriguing, perhaps their most dangerous aspect. Truth, objectivity. Free will. What defense was possible against such ideas as these?

According to the theory of free will, Nico would be able to disobey a direct order. He decided to test the theory.

"Computer, transmit the following message to Star Command, standard protocols." He paused.

"ORDER DECLINED. WILL NOT TERMINATE PLANET. SELF. ENTIRELY SERIOUS. END."

Message transmitted.

He sat there for a moment. Free will seemed to exist, this was enough to give it some legitimacy.

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

"KNOW ALL ABOUT FREE WILL. AUTO-TERMINATE ENGAGED."

Message complete.

Nico nodded. It made sense.

A warhead detached from his ship and spiraled off toward the planet below. Then the ship exploded, and then the planet.

END

(Written in 24 minutes)

Rush

He rolled slowly through the inner city, pink and blue lights flashing from his rims. The light turned yellow and he pulled his cycle to a stop, with a whir of retrochargers. He leaned back and adjusted his helmet, and breathing deeply, trying to relax. He flexed his gloved hands and reached under his jacket to double and triple-check his EMP grenades.

The light turned green and he instantly slammed into high acceleration, streaking through the intersection and smiling under his chrome visor. Up ahead he spotted his target, a seemingly normal, if somewhat poorly patronized, Korean restaurant. He ramped up to his highest gear, braced himself and blasted straight through the psuedoglass window.

The customers screamed, diving under tables and pulling out communicators, but he was past them in a blink. He tossed an EMP grenade over the counter and into the kitchen area, bouncing it satisfying off the back wall. The detonation was silent, but he heard the distinctive screech of fried electronics. The hall was narrow, but straight, and he skidded to a stop at the end. A blank wall, with locked doors on either side, just as he planned for. Without getting off his cycle, he whipped out a gamaraysar  and cut a neat circle in one smooth, swift stroke. He kicked in the hole gunned his motor, entering the server room.

Alarms blared and the long room was lit only by the myriad blinking lights of the consoles.