Venus Rising: A Collection of Short Sci-fi Tales

By JJ Alleson

We're all created makers of worlds.

 

Our imagination births concepts that can only exist through us. This book is a small part of that, presented in flash fiction and short stories. It ignores most of those labels we stick on ourselves, or which others stick on us. So, whether you enjoy tropes, quirky humour, a frisson of ice across your skin, or like a mental challenge, read and enjoy. The future's going to be a lot more interesting than any of us would like it to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JJ Alleson
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224957774

JJ Alleson

Born in beautiful Barbados, and living in the incredible city of London, UK, J. J. Alleson stays in no lane, but traverses merrily into science fiction, mystery, romance, horror, and maverick poetry. She started writing around 2005 after realising the voices in her head were stories and not an invitataion to the funny farm. Her stories have appeared in various small press publications, including: "Shoe Foot Other." Beneath the Twin Suns, ed. Renee Gendron, (Ontario, 2020)  "The One-Eyed Man." The Eight: City University, (London, 2019) "Leaving Earth." Vintage Voices, Talma Theatre Press, (London, 2019)  "Between a Rock and a Soft Place." The Future Is Short: Science Fiction in A Flash, Volume 3, Lillicat Publishers, (California, 2017) When not writing, she's busy finding a happy work-life balance and enjoying all the sights available. She is currently finishing a full-length mystery, a science fiction novel, and a collection of non-fiction essays on life.

Book preview

All Man

A teenager’s solitary existence on Earth

is about to change

WHEN ZEPHANIAH KOFI WOKE up, he was lying in a field with daisies and foxgloves wrapping him like a burrito. Thousands of other similarly wrapped shapes littered the ground. Looking up at blue sky, he wondered vaguely if this had been another one of his suicides.

Were these all his other bodies? Had the Scientitians finally ceased their experiments and dumped him in his personal graveyard? He knew he hadn’t fallen and knocked himself out running from danger. Running was exercise—something of which he had little need.

He recalled being a 240 lbs 17-year-old from Pimlico with a life that revolved around pizza and Pepsi. Then one day, he’d fallen asleep on his mum’s sofa watching Match of the Day. When he woke up, he was thin and alone.

Zeph blamed Earth’s visitors, the Scientitians. They just flew in, stuck their business card in his neck and announced in a language he now understood perfectly, "Experiment: Planet Earth Human. Major genetic functions: Conflict and Procreation. Stage One: Conflict. Let the species continue living safely as one. The experiment may do as it pleases. We observe."

Actually, Zeph had never seen the invisible Scientitians observing anything. He’d given them that name and assumed his neck tag/cipher/chip thing to be some sort of mind or population control device. But after 200 years of thinking about it, he figured his theory was right on the money. Because they’d zapped everyone else off the planet, leaving him as the last man on Earth. All ten billion of him. They’d really meant it when they said let the species continue as one.

The first thing he did on seeing himself everywhere was to give a little sigh, then faint. Later on, with his medical degree from Cambridge University, he understood that his gentle swoon had been, in fact, a massive, fatal coronary infarction.

After that, while studying psychology at Oxford, Zeph discovered the one thing the visitors couldn’t alter. Conflict with the self. He was lonely. He wanted to die. But whenever he jumped off a cliff or hung himself, the Scientitians repaired him, tweaking his personality anew each time but keeping some things constant. Namely his weight (135 lbs), his supreme fitness, and sadly, his inability to stay dead. In 200 years, Earth’s population hadn’t budged an inch.

It was tough too, being a frustrated 217-year-old adolescent. As the world’s best psychiatrist, he’d nursed himself back from insanity countless times. His sexual relationships were too weird to enjoy, and even if he’d been an animal lover, the only cows, and sheep he ever saw arrived as pre-cooked meats on his table or in the pizza takeouts he ordered from his own global Pizza Cake franchise.

Still, he enjoyed his careers, from President to Pope to Popcorn Taster. And for what it was worth, he spoke every language in the world. He’d walked through the Amazon naked, trekked the Sahara very slowly on foot, and finished off a bottle of bourbon from the front pew, smack in the middle of a Seventh Day Adventist sermon. But he supposed life was better than when humans used to decimate each other. At least he’d never had to witness his loved ones dying. Instead, he could—

Beside him, something rustled, breaking his contemplation. Turning his head, he realised the other burrito petals were beginning to open. He sat up abruptly, then froze. Thoughts skittered around his brain like ants on a food hunt. Were the Scientitians finally going to reveal themselves?

The burritos opened completely. And as he looked at their features, Zeph’s pulse ricocheted all around his chest. Because these weren’t Scientitians at all. They weren’t little bald aliens with green skin. They weren’t obsidian-eyed elongated visitors that looked like the discarded appendage of an octopus. No, these slowly unwrapping petals contained women. Human women. Women of infinite shapes, colours, and variety.

All women.

And he was still the only man.

Zeph threw his head back and laughed like a maniac. He would probably end up certifiable again and end himself a few times over, mainly from exhaustion. But he didn’t care. Because the Scientitians were speaking again. And even though he was once clueless about their language, two centuries of Me-time had honed his linguistic abilities into something quite exceptional. Still laughing, he translated for his own delight the rapid clicks and beeps he could hear. "Experiment Planet Earth: Human. Stage Two: Procreation."

Large Amounts

A Charles Dickens tale retold

THE WOMAN CROSSING THE polished mezzanine of Versis Unlimited walked in beauty, like the night. Kidsman noted the cool lime djellaba, the emerald star emblazoned perfectly between arched brows, the giant-sized twin bodyguards flanking her. And O, trailing behind listlessly.

He smiled. They’d literally hit gold. The woman gestured the guards to hang back at a discreet distance as she continued with O to Kid’s booth. There, she tilted her nose several degrees higher and exhaled arctic frost. "Mr Kidsman, last night, during an ancestral soiree for several Incan friends, I downloaded some binary harmonics into this thing. She waved a hand towards O. Instead of opening up our genetic Chakras as programmed, it spouted outlawed obscenities, then refused to deactivate."

Kid looked anxious. Ma’am, our aftercare warranty covers all additional services needed. We specifically advise against tinkering with our O models. They’re delicate.

On cue, O began to sniffle. Sir, that was no ancestral soiree. He slid a hurt look at the Gold. That—that love shack was full of fat-bottomed girls, asking if I did it Gangnam style.

"That’s a vile allegation!"

I swear! This girl is on fire! When I said that was bad romance, they replied they were all single ladies, and could I do an ode to their g-spot? Then uptown girl here asked for some uptown funk and announced to everyone t-that my ding-a-ling was automatic. Said it would be like boom-boom pow, sex on fire all night long. Please believe me, Sir—the lady is a t-tramp!

It’s lying! I am a Mandinka royal!

O rubbed teary eyes. They called me Mr Roboto! Said that now I was in da club, I had to pump it!

A.I’s can’t lie, ma’am. One moment, please.

Kid tried not to grin as he ‘ran’ diagnostics. The hit was apt. Most Golds were lost in the past, with ancestral fantasies linking them to Aesopians, Amazons, Aryans, Hans, and Atlantans. At 6 10 and browner, he was probably more Mandinka royal than the Gold. His nose looked down at hers by at least three inches.

Kidsman was fully aware of all his roots. Most could be found in the Deenay EggMart opposite Legs Akimbo in Soho, down by the Pic’n’mix section. He knew his family too. They were all those faulty droids the Golds threw away like discarded oyster shells. And he knew his kids like the back of his hand. Not one of them would have enjoyed humming binary harmonics.

O slumped slightly, and that was the cue. Kid stopped scanning and stepped abruptly away from O as if defiled. This unit is corrupted!

The Gold seemed more irritated than concerned. Her mistake. "What? How?"

You’ve accessed musical data from a very narrow socio-spatial timeframe. One that’s banned. Kidsman said heavily. And in the process, downloaded a virus.

Is that all? Her laughter carried generations of Gold privilege. "Well, you’re a top cyberneticist, man. Fix it!"

O’s cackle startled them both. Maybe in the year 2525, lady! But here in 2196, I’m broken. You’ve got to go down on your knees and—

"Oh, make it stop!"

Cry me a river.

Kid tsked and tutted. "Somehow, my dear, you’ve managed to infect a high spec droid with deeply embedded, archaic, musical pornware. Droid hacking and obscenity carry a heavy public charge."

He tried to look compromised and regretful. O’s soft snicker told him he’d failed. Our license compels us to report this in full detail to the Board of Ethics, then from there onto the national network for consideration and penalty. We’ll need the details of every guest at your soiree. We’ll have to check their connections too. Our professional reputation is at stake here.

Everyone knew the Board was a puritanical backstop of wound-up humans. They considered the old Lord’s Prayer too frivolous, declaring that suggestions of someone’s cup running over might excite a spiralling population. Nothing that might incite the loins could be permitted without certification.

"My god! My neighbours! My friends! The Board!" The Mandinka’s mortified moans were giving him more pleasure than anything on the list of Forbidden Activities. And he’d tried plenty.

What can I do? she wailed.

Umm, let’s see. We do have some limited private resolution protocols. We may be able to clean this unit up in time for the next client. You’d have to indemnify Versis against all claims of theft, copyright, etc. Then there’s the repair charges for this unit: 25,000 ingots. I can replace it today, but I’m afraid the new premiums will be . . . Kid’s brows peaked.

Yes, yes, of course. Without demur, she slid over a skin-insert chip. I’m—very sorry.

O was on a roll. It’s too late to apologise! It was me myself and I trapped in that love shack!

"Stop it, please!"

O cackled wildly. "Don’t stop me now. Not when time after time I pleaded, ‘Don’t mess with my toot toot!’"

THAT EVENING, AS 0.025 per cent of golden shares began their encrypted trickle into a classified account for Deenay Orphans, Kidsman mused quietly over his gin twist. All I do is win. Take a bow, O. And you can stop crying.

O gave a last sniffle. We are indeed unstoppable. These tears are because I’m happy.

Kid gave O a consoling pat. It’s very sad the Gold’s fears of stigma included everyone but family. Still, her wealth will help educate ours. Meanwhile, Mr Roboto, how about a song to celebrate the day’s pickings?

Certainly, sir. After all we are the champions at this. And I gotta feeling there ain’t no stopping us now!

Even Artificial Things

What happens when humanity creates robots that care?

A ROBOT MUST PROTECT its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Third Law of Robotics

HE WOKE UP TO DATA scrolling across his pupil. Remember to forget. Live long and fail to prosper. It all meant nothing. Blinking away the static, he realised someone was sitting quietly in the room with him. Who?

Wait, wait, he knew this. Lauren? Lo and behold? No. Was it Lorelei, the pine-skinned mermaid siren? She wore a short emerald robe and a clasp of white silk flowers in her cornrowed red hair. He wore a transparent sheet and nothing more.

His optiscreen confirmed his companion’s identity. Lorie. A HOAP-401 model, sex assignation: female, designed with LATi5, Living Advanced Tissue. She had no sweat, blood, or tears. No downtime was required. She was self-generating, impervious to necrosis. A force-field of nanonium casing undetectable to the human eye. And her resources included a databank ranging from the Mesozoic Era to the present day.

Lorie could remember everything. Or was that him? She greeted him in warm, modulated tones. "As-salamu alaykum, Dilir, time for breakfast. I’ve given you another upgrade so you can eat. You have falafel, fool, olives, pitta bread, kaek, tea."

She said each word carefully, like a prompt.

They meant nothing.

There was a screen in front of him, a holographic one. He remembered that, at least. It showed a face which possibly resembled his own. He couldn’t remember what he looked like and there were no mirrors. That face on the holographic screen reflected his own breakfast serving, the image there indicating what he supposed he should follow.

Watching the on-screen prompts, he lifted the croissant and bit into it, replicating step-by-step the facial movements showing him what to do. The entire process created a warm mush inside his mouth as he mumbled, "Thank you, Larry, this is (delicate?) delicious."

Lulu was detaching her left leg as she spoke. Take care of the flowers and they’ll last a long time.

In the middle of processing the optiscreen data on the care of silk flowers, he felt something sliding softly around his cornea. His optic muscles instantly went to alert. SCAN and IDENTIFY. Evidence of decomposition and presence of first instar larva detected. Maggot. He needed clarification. Lola, what’s my current biological status?

Your current biological status is Alive. Although parts of you are still regenerating.

Parts? He must be faulty. I remember going.

Dying? Yes.

That was all she said. He needed more data. What happened?

The worst that could happen, for synthetics.

Synthetics. He was organic. Which meant that she was talking about herself now, not him. Her eyes looked sad and withered. No, watered. No, not watered. Wet?

She began to fill in the missing parts of history for him. "In 2210 a group of medical intern insurgents called the MegaBites hacked into BioElite, a surgical clinic reserved for Earth’s wealthiest citizens. They altered anti-aging formulas,