Technicolour Sandbox

By T.K. Toppin

Technicolour Sandbox is a quirky melange of off-beat, might-just-happen, speculative science fiction stories, held together by an underlying adhesive from the virtual and digital universe—an inevitable epoch the world is approaching in leaps and bounds. These six short stories carry the basic theme, whether it's a mere mention or a full-on metaverse experience.
* * *
From Mars, with (Love) Terror: Could a habitat simulation be, in fact, a virtual minefield to navigate? It's worth a thought when reality becomes so skewed as to make one wonder.
Puff of Smoke & Quantum Qubits: Entities created from the energies of real life and the virtual world. Is that even possible? It appears so, since a would-be empress enters Real Life to find the emperor she must free.
Trans-galactic Dreaming: Can astral travel really be as simple as falling asleep? And can one return from such travels?
Cabin Cruising: Will our elderly end up going on virtual cruises? What's to stop its abuse – and meddling offspring who only want their inheritance and the old out of the way?
Adnile: Drenched in a world inhabited by everything fantasy, from dragons to faeries—but is it real? And why does the queen remember her mortal self?
The Robot and the Goldfish: Can a robot evolve to have emotions so he can watch sunsets with his fish? And can a robot suffer grief and loss, then make things right for his well-being?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.K. Toppin
• Release date: Nov 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223415763

T.K. Toppin

T.K. Toppin writes character-driven tales, loaded with mystery, intrigue and adventure, navigating the realms of Science Fiction, Speculative Fiction and Space Opera. Previously contracted by small press publishers, she is currently wading the waters of indie publishing and discovering its many challenges and delights. T.K. was born, raised and lives in Barbados. When she's not writing, she can be found studiously working on her doctorate in Procrastination by binge-watching shows on streaming networks, doing absolutely nothing, and juggling the baffling realm of social media marketing. Follow on: Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/written.by.tktoppin/ Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@tktoppin Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/WrittenByTKToppin/ Twitter: http://twitter.com/TKToppin Blogsite: http://www.tktoppin.blogspot.com Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

TECHNICOLOUR

SANDBOX

— SIX OFFBEAT SPECULATIVE &

SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORIES —

T.K. TOPPIN

2023

Technicolour Sandbox

©2023 by T.K. Toppin

Digital Cover Art by Jason H. Abbott

Edited by Kriegler Editing Services

Formatted by WriteIntoPrint.com

All rights reserved.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material contained herein, or the cover art, is prohibited without express written permission of the Author, and of the Artist.

This work of fiction is created by the Author and her 100% human imagination.

Contents

FROM MARS, WITH LOVE TERROR

PUFF OF SMOKE & QUANTUM QUBITS

TRANS-GALACTIC DREAMING

CABIN CRUISING

ADNILE

THE ROBOT AND THE GOLDFISH

Other books by T.K. Toppin

About the collection, and my thanks

About the Author

FROM MARS, WITH LOVE TERROR

PUFF OF SMOKE & QUANTUM QUBITS

TRANS-GALACTIC DREAMING

CABIN CRUISING

ADNILE

THE ROBOT AND THE GOLDFISH

The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.

— Jean-Jacques Rousseau —

Technicolour Sandbox is a quirky melange of off-beat, might-just-happen, speculative science fiction stories, held together by an underlying adhesive from the virtual and digital universe—an inevitable epoch the world is approaching in leaps and bounds. These six short stories carry the basic theme, whether it’s a mere mention or a full-on metaverse experience.

From Mars, with Love Terror: Could a habitat simulation be, in fact, a virtual minefield to navigate? It’s worth a thought when reality becomes so skewed as to make one wonder.

Puff of Smoke & Quantum Qubits: Entities created from the energies of real life and the virtual world. Is that even possible? It appears so, since a would-be empress enters Real Life to find the emperor she must free.

Trans-galactic Dreaming: Can astral travel really be as simple as falling asleep? And can one return from such travels?

Cabin Cruising: Will our elderly end up going on virtual cruises? What’s to stop its abuse – and meddling offspring who only want their inheritance and the old out of the way?

Adnile: Drenched in a world inhabited by everything fantasy, from dragons to faeries—but is it real? And why does the queen remember her mortal self?

The Robot and the Goldfish: Can a robot evolve to have emotions so he can watch sunsets with his fish? And can a robot suffer grief and loss, then make things right for his well-being?

FROM MARS, WITH LOVE TERROR

Technicolour.

That’s the first concept that came to mind when I saw the body. My brain was misfiring. If not, I’d have been sitting in a corner, rocking.

Okay. I’m jumping ahead. Let me start again.

Technicolour: a throwback to bright, bold colours and images, crisp and clear—flat and unrealistic. A place where dreams are predestined to become real, somewhere in Perfect Little Town, where people live in cookie-cutter houses painted in bright happy colours to match their immaculate lawns and flawless hedges—which, in turn, reflect their ideal jobs.

However, that’s not where we were—I grew up watching too much foreign television, old shows from two centuries ago. Classics. My imagination gets carried away sometimes—a coping method I use when under stress, digressing to other realms and realisms until my brain settles and organises itself. But the analogy remains the same.

We were in Barbados, the little island in the Caribbean chain that sticks out like an outie rather than falling in line like an innie. Most of us were locals, or from the neighbouring islands—the First Relief Team, IME203A. That translates to the two hundred and third group of the International Mars Expedition, with A meaning we’re first up. And we were about to step into a simulation. As if there hadn’t been enough experiments and simulations before this, and since the dawn of the space age! But repetition is the mother of learning, according to the ancient Roman proverb. So there we were, to see how prolonged living in prefabricated units—under predetermined conditions with activities, and nutritionally specific and adequately packaged meals—would affect us. We had to learn about and adapt to these conditions, cohabitate harmoniously, and manage others, and ourselves, for the duration. See what I mean? Like a little cookie-cutter neighbourhood, where everyone stands on equal ground and has specific jobs and responsibilities—including a clinic and a security team. We would even have an adopted pet cat—our mascot, named Martian—according to the orientation literature I’d glanced over.

We were the replacement crew for when the current team returned from Mars. Of course, we had to acclimate first. It didn’t matter how much we’d trained, or were brimmed to the max with knowledge and drills about how to live and survive inside a habitat bubble. Nor did it matter that most of us were specialists in our respective fields and had done similar short-term stints—not on Mars, but on the Moon or space stations. This simulation would focus on our psychological make-up and emergency-response behaviour. Had something happened on Mars that the higher-ups weren’t telling us? Maybe someone had had a meltdown. Who knows. As if they’d tell us guinea pigs anything, so long as we comported ourselves like the model scientists we were.

So. Back to our simulation. If we failed, the next team—with the same group assignation but with a B at the end, and training elsewhere in the world—would take our place. Since we’re all over-achievers, none wanted to fail. It was okay for others to fail, but for us? The shame alone would have killed us.

Of course, being an over-achiever is like being in a competition, and I hate competitions. For an over-achiever, that’s not a good thing. Maybe this is why I’m a geologist and, regardless of everyone supposedly being on equal ground, considered at the bottom of the pecking order. Suited me fine, as most ignored me—even better.

But there I was, standing over a dead body and wondering how to get out of the situation. At the same time, I ran multiple scenarios to establish how I’d reached that point, why such absolute shit had happened. Looming in the forefront of my mind was the big, fat realisation that this would definitely be considered a fail. The entire team would have to give way to the B team. Unacceptable! I hadn’t dedicated the last six years of my life—twenty if you count the time since I first dreamed of this mission—in intense training and study to…

I’m digressing again. Jumping ahead. Let me restart, from the beginning this time.

We were standing in the receiving auditorium (more like a large office space, but the big-ups like to use special, important-sounding names), listening to the director of operations’ welcome speech. I dripped sweat like a pig in the sweltering heat on the back of a flatbed truck on the way to the slaughterhouse. The last time I dripped that much perspiration had been when, against my better judgement, I’d gone to the beach for a work picnic.

I’m no outdoorsy person despite my chosen field of study, but I usually go to digs prepared. You can’t go to the beach wearing protective UV suits, and take portable tents and fans. I mean, you could, but people would start to wonder about you.

Anyway… Had no one thought to turn on the air conditioning—or even open a window or door? I resisted the urge to tuck my mission-approved T-shirt under my boobs to staunch the sweat. The sports bra, a bit tight, pressed my ladies firmly against my chest, making them uncomfortable in the cloying mugginess, the fabric unable to absorb the copious liquid trailing down my cleavage fast enough. I may have stress-eaten my way through several coconut breads and cassava pone leading up to the simulation. The weight gain was noticeable. I longed to strip free of the restraints and let the girls hang free. Others, scowling in discomfort, fanned themselves with their hands or tablets, the screens showing the welcome literature we’d received on arrival. Someone a few bodies in front fanned their body odour my way. Their scent chip needed upgrading. Honestly, who doesn’t opt to renew their odour chip right before going into a six-month-long simulation? It’s called common decency to your fellow human beings. It’s like forgetting to pack your toothbrush—on purpose—and opening your mouth to speak to people with your offensive breath.

Rasshole, man! I pinched my nose between my fingers and breathed through my mouth, hoping my tongue wouldn’t get contaminated from the stink fumes. The medical facilities better have scent chips available. I considered having a chat with the person to offer my suggestion to check. Shirley, my friend and colleague, stood next to me and steupsed, the squeaky suck of air through her teeth loud enough to reach the front of the auditorium.

Unable to bear it any longer, she reached over and tapped the man on his shoulder. Mr Man—I mean, Clarkie, Shirley said. She changed her tone, and inflated his head with sweet talk. She even gave him a little wink and smile. You could move, just so, fuh me, please? She waved her hand to the right. Cuz I can’t see the people on stage.

The man, with a thoroughly beguiled grin, shifted a little—and took his stink with him. He was Specialist Clarke, another Barbadian, and one of the habitat engineers in charge of keeping all the working parts maintained. Shirley glanced at me with an eye roll. Suppressing a smile, I nodded with a wink and tried again to listen to the speaker on stage.

The director of operations, Dr Millicent Cadogan, raised her open palm once more as she addressed the assembled scientists and technicians, behaving more like a pastor from the village church than an engineer-turned-bureaucrat. But she’d always been known to pontificate, and was a stickler for rules and regulations—we went to the same secondary school in our youth, so I know what I’m talking about. The position she held now suited her. I groaned, perhaps not low enough, since Shirley snorted a chuckle, showing off the jewel-encrusted front tooth she’d had done specially to brighten up her stay. The little gems were arranged into a blue and yellow flower to match her gold eyelash tips—a homage to the colours of the Barbadian flag.

And so, Dr Cadogan trilled on, it is imperative— She fisted her open palm and shook it. "—imperative we stick to, and adhere to, these guidelines at all times. Do not think of this as a simulation. Think of this as real life. Real life on Mars. We must acclimate—acclimate—to the harsh realities of the conditions there. To the extremes our frail human bodies will have to endure. We must stay focused and strong—united. Together we are stronger. One misstep and the entire team could be in jeopardy. So we must all help each other; support each other, boost each other’s spirits. She punched that fist into the air. There must be a common goal of cooperation and teamwork. We must motivate each other, come together, and do so with one purpose. Now she clasped her hands together at her chest and shook them. We must see each other as family—vital and irreplaceable to the family unit. We must…"

"What’s with the we she’s on about? I muttered. She won’t even be in the sim."

For real, Shirley grumbled, twirling her short dreads with a surly pout and sucking some air through her teeth. She needs to shut up and go back to kissing she own ass. I put in three years’ time on the Moon hab. She think we still in kindergarten? Why they couldn’t pick someone else to run this shite?

Because nobody wanted to kiss ass.

I snorted a low laugh as Shirley shut her eyes and pressed a hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook in silent laughter.

After several long minutes, Cadogan finally shut up, and handed the proceedings to her immediate underling, a young British man who looked like he’d just returned from a lifetime spent in the Arctic. He had a sweaty sheen to his cottage cheese complexion, and I imagined his skin to be sticky and clammy. His thin, dark-blond hair stuck to his scalp, greasy and wet, and lines of sweat ran down his temples. I’d hate to imagine what the rest of his body was doing, since his clothes had a wilted look.

Yuck, I muttered, and Shirley snorted a giggle. I bet he smells like month-old socks.

Behave. Shirley nudged me. More like month-old underwear with skid marks.

Uh-unn. I curled my nose at the thought. My turn to suppress a laugh, only to realise I’d missed the underling’s speech.

We were all dismissed to hop onto the shuttle that would ferry us to the habitat bubble, our home for the next six months. Loaded up on my tablet were several data files of books, audiobooks, movies and games, as well as the detailed day-to-day proceedings and protocols for living in the sim, the rationing and requisitioning requirements for food and health, and the clothing and equipment needed to conduct the various experiments and assignments. There were also work schedule details (based on the actual reports from the Mars habitat) we’d be required to do. The way it prattled on to the last detail, I’m certain Director Cadogan wrote it.

But nowhere in the directives did it state what to do in case of murder. I’m pretty sure she didn’t expect it either—judging by her expression.

Dr Millicent Cadogan lay sprawled, partially face down, in the middle of the green zone, the area of the habitat bubble designated for relaxation activities, complete with benches, cosy nooks, neatly trimmed grass, and indoor trees that reached the canopy of the habitat bubble. Since Cadogan didn’t strike me as the type to take a leisurely stroll and imbibe in the restorative features of the green zone, I wondered what had brought her there. Had she come to make a last-minute check before all systems were a go?

Whatever had brought her inside, she’d moved quickly. Her pasty-faced assistant had only spoken briefly