The Clockwork Snail by Angela R Hunt

Clockwork Snail

By Angela R. Hunt

She told herself it was not real. 

The idea had been dismissed as impractical and mad, too destructive to benefit mankind. She listened to the gradual whirring sound as the tiny irridescent clockwork snail approached leaving a glowing wet trail behind it. It moved with blind certainty in her direction. She stepped to the side and watched as it adjusted course automatically. She wondered if she had time to run or if she was already lost to dreams.

She saw her laboratory in front of her. She saw a thief slip in and steal away. She saw a shadow approach her door only to hesitate and hunch down. The shadow grew and slid away, leaving a small object. 

She looked at it and it seemed to grow until it was the size of a castle, looming up in front of her. It was the snail with its clockwork steadily turning and whirring. It waited as she made her way to the base of the snail. She found a door with a golden handle shaped like a spiral. She felt compelled to enter the door. 

She had forgotten the world left behind.

Dreams formed around her from her greatest hopes and darkest fears.

Outside the shadow returned, he stepped into the lab. He took his cloak off. He wore giant tinted goggles that he did not remove. He used tweezers and carefully picked up the snail. He put it in a briefcase in a fitted pocket, lined up perfectly with forty other snails. They glowed brightly in various colors.

The woman laid on the floor unmoving, eyes closed. She would never wake again. Her mind, her dreams were gone. They could now be sold to someone who collected and enjoyed wandering through other minds. They assumed the minds they bought were artificially created like the snail, but how many would really care if they learned the minds were taken from the world's finest dreamers?

Priceless Commodity

Priceless Commodity

By Angela R. Hunt

What is a memory worth? I am not talking in nostalgia. I mean memories stolen from the newly dead.  Memories extracted directly from a dying mind, distilled from breath and cerebral fluids, perhaps even unaware of their transition into death floating gently on a cushion of opium dreams. You could feel their soul within your skin, you could see and feel as they did. You may wander their memories and thoughts, dreams and desires. 

About twenty years ago there was an accident in a lab. A means of pushing the essence out of a body and into radio waves was discovered, at the cost of a scientist’s life. He was never recovered. Most in the scientific community protested further research into transforming a person’s essence into radio waves. A few quietly discussed the ramifications for science. If an individual could be extracted, kept stable as a radio wave, transmitted into different bodies- think of the possibilities! Doctors could become their patients long enough to experience symptoms for themselves! Husbands and wives could end arguments by trading bodies for an hour or two. Prejudice could be ended! Justice would be easier as real memories could be used in a courtroom. Memories rather than verbal testimonies! With bright starry eyes the scientists began to quietly study radio waves and lightening. They worked to mimic the effect in a controlled setting, with equipment set to monitor and record any radio waves emitted  within a target area. 

At first everyone was impressed with the announcement of a successful transfer from body to recording and back. Initially everything seemed to have gone well. Sadly, radio waves were limited and only so much of the man came back. He seemed himself until he was asked several questions. His answers made no sense, suddenly he was furious and shouting! The man never recovered his full wits. Part of who and what he was had been lost. He did not live long after that. It seemed the stress of the transfer put severe stress on his health.

More research was done. Human subjects were not considered safe to use until someone could discern a way to reliably record and transfer the entire essence of an animal without stressing the creature’s physical or mental health. Years passed with quiet research and failed attempts. Clockwork men were made. Machines that could think and dream and build more effective machines. They could create better than we could. We gave them the problem. 

They created a means to record the essence, to access it through computer simulation, to transmit it into a robotic body- where it could have a sort of life after death, for the right price. 

The prices went through the roof on the equipment and hundreds, then thousands opted to get recorded. They picked perfect godlike bodies to transmit into. Bodies that would not age, would easily be repaired, tailored to the buyer’s tastes and monetary investment. 

A black market arose. Some people really want to know what is in someone else’s head. Some people are willing to pay a lot of money to find out personally. Kidnapping, murdering someone and stealing their essence is a capital offense, so it is important to erase the essence when the contract is completed. I never intended to be a Soul Thief. I had been dealing drugs since I was old enough to walk. I had run hustles since I was fifteen. I had been in more than my fair share of fights. I had even killed a few people, admittedly in self defense. 

Even when I made my first harvest and was paid my first fee, I would have sworn it would be my last. I was no monster roaming the night and killing an innocent. I had been playing cards at a local pub. A fight broke out between two men at a table behind me. One of the guys bumped me and spilled my drink. He didn’t apologize, just elbowed me as he squirmed to face his opponent. I was hurting and furious. I hit him over the head with a bottle. Broke the bottle and knocked him out in a bath of foaming amber bubbles. The other guy gestured to me to help carry him out. No one seemed to notice or care about what we were up to. That did seem odd but I was relieved at the lack of scrutiny. We took him out a side door, into a dismal alleyway. We set the unconscious guy down. It started to rain. 

“What do we do now?” I asked, watching the other man pull a small machine from his coat pocket. 

“You hold him while I extract his essence.” He must have noticed my look of denial and shock, as he continued to explain the situation. 

“This guy is the main suspect in a series of murders. There are no living witnesses. No evidence except perhaps his memories. His memories could convict him or set him free with a new, robotic body of his choice at no cost to him. 

I thought that sounded reasonable, but what would I get for helping? I asked. The man said a number. I had to ask him to repeat it before it registered that he was talking billions of dollars. Apparently, there is a subculture that loves to buy and keep libraries of novel souls. Consider them Ghouls or perhaps, modern Grim Reapers. Paying thieves and murderers to capture souls for them to keep and use however they might choose. The more souls I captured, the more rumors I heard. I heard of parties where murderers were transmitted into robotic bodies and slaughtered their hosts rather than behaving like the pampered poisonous pet they were supposed to be. Other stories told of brilliant inventors, talented porn stars, and expert physicians being captured, killed, and kept as servants by the owners of major Corporations. Instead of buying foreign brides, there were now black market robotic wives whose very transmission could be threatened if they did not fulfill their obligations. 

I wrestled with the work. I enjoyed the hunt and challenge of catching and recording human prey. I was spoiled with an income that allowed me to live in luxury and excess. I was troubled by the stories. I was haunted by some of the interactions I saw between the living and the transmitted dead. I tried to drink and drug away the guilt but instead I found myself facing the worst offenses without any masks or deceptions. All the rumors were true. A new client I had never met stopped me from doing the recordings on his unconscious targets. He paid me to leave and set up equipment to do it himself. I gathered my tools and hurried out into the night. When I got to the street I realized I was missing my keys. I went back in. I was in a rush. I didn’t want to be there, something about the guy bothered me. 

I came back in as he was finishing torturing the first person to death. He had recorded the whole experience so he could experience the death from the victim’s side as often as he liked or perhaps to sell it. He was a ghoul, an abomination. He did not hear me come in. He was too focused on his gory task. I slipped out my syringe. He might have felt the pinch as it slipped home. I like to think so. I did not record him. I destroyed the recording he had made. I untied the other two people. I woke them up. Their memories were jumbled. My role in their kidnap was lost in a haze of drugs. 

Ever since then I have been working to take down the black market soul thieves. I’ve been getting by taking bounties on what used to be my peers, working with the Police instead of creating work for them. In my spare time I track down old contracts, I quietly watch to see how the souls I recorded are being treated. If they are treated poorly, I set things as close to right as I can. It is the only way I can stay sane and not drink myself to death with the knowledge of the crimes that I have aided and abetted. I’ve got a lot of work to do before I will be able to sleep peacefully again. 

Frequency by Angela R. Hunt

Frequency

By Angela R. Hunt

It started as an ordinary afternoon in the laboratory. We were experimenting with using steam to enhance radio waves. We were monitoring the changes in frequency and whether or not the waves were more evenly carried; our theory was that the water in the steam would enhance the transmission of the waves. If we were right, we could change the world of communication overnight! We were frustrated, our results seemed inconclusive. 

Joe was working on the wires on the back of the radio transmitter when lightening struck the wire outside. The thunder sounded seconds later, too late to be a warning. I did not hear the torrential pounding of the rain on the windows or the roof as I ran to check on Joe. He had been thrown back with a terrible cry that I never want to hear another human make. It sounded primal and pained, perhaps the sound of death slipping swiftly into living cells. 

“Joe!” I called out repeatedly as I raced around and through the maze of wires, tables and random piles of equipment that filled the small laboratory. The only thing missing was a stuffed alligator or a twisted refuge from an unethical human experiment gone wrong. We joked about it often. We kept a small stuffed sock monkey in a cage as a joke. 

I registered knocking it to the floor as I finally reached Joe. His body was still twitching, his face was contorted with pain, but he was breathing! I helped him sit up, got him a glass of water and waited to see if I would need to call for a Physician. It was not our first accident. He seemed unaware, eyes searching, face pinched in pain. I had an urge to calm him. I turned the radio on. The sound of a broken heart, a smoky voiced blues singer crooned invisibly to us. Joe straightened and sat up. His mannerisms changed. His facial expression became melancholy. He gestured as if he were holding a cigarette. He began singing. His voice was the same as the woman on the radio! How? The song ended, I turned the volume low. 

“Joe, how are you?” I asked, watching the alien movements and expressions. It was as if someone else had stepped into his skin. He looked at me. 

“Who are you talking to?” He looked around. He still had the woman’s voice! “My name is Bessie. What am I doing here? I was just closing my eyes, singing my newest song when something felt like it was draining me. I felt like I was drowning. I thought I was dying, but here I am. This sure ain’t heaven.” He looked at me and gestured for a cigarette. 

I shook my head. Neither of us smoked. He-She looked sad. 

I looked at the radio. I went over and turned the volume up. Static rolled across the room carried in waves around us. How could the station be gone? It had been clear! 

I played with the dial. I was looking for a station. 

Joe collapsed. 

I was anxious, confused, and terrified. I was also curious. I kept turning the dial slowly. 

Another station came in. 

An announcer was giving a plucky plug to one of the station’s advertisers. 

Joe sat up. The station became static. Joe stretched and stood up. His movement was almost electric. He grinned and I thought he was back. Then he started dancing around the room, practicing jingles and playing with the words he’d used in the advertisement. I watched in amazement for several minutes. His voice was a deep baritone instead of his usual light tenor. His grin was huge and relaxed. I wish I could say he smiled like that often. The real Joe had a small, tight lipped smile. Joe smiled like he feared someone would steal it. Perhaps they had! 

I decided not to bother trying to explain anything to this presence although it was a good one. I turned the dial slowly again. When the static cleared I heard an angry minister spouting about the end of days and encouraging prejudice and hate through rhetoric. I kept turning. Joe seemed to catch the signal but lost it as I kept the dial turning. 

What would I do when I ran out of stations? Where was Joe? Would I ever find him? Was his body working as a receiver? Were the people he was projecting alright or was my callous curiosity destroying more than one mind? Was I loosing spirits into the ether, pulling them out with a twist of the dial? 

I stopped and let static surround me. I let it fill the room. I shook my head. I had to think. I had to figure this out, what if time was slipping past the point where I could bring Joe back? Joe would not give up on me. What would Joe do? I paced. 

I ran downstairs, looked for a street kid. We pay them to gather information and carry messages. I found several easily. They tend to stick around when you treat them well and pay them well in coin and food. The two boys listened eagerly. They repeated their instructions back. They raced the shadows in two different directions, masters of slipping through clogged crowds. 

I knocked on my neighbor’s door. She answered. I asked her politely if I could check her radio for stations as mine was having trouble with reception. She smiled indulgently and allowed me to come in. She was listening to a radio play, but it was on commercial. I turned the dial. The preacher was still shouting, but now was shouting about having his soul stolen and returned by devils in a laboratory! 

So the people were alright but while the radio had been tuned to the frequency they were transmitting on; they had been transported into Joe! Where was Joe? Could we reverse this? Could we repeat this? The ramifications were incredible! 

What would Joe retain, if anything from the different frequencies transmitting other spirits through his body? 

The boys came back. One confirmed my theory. He’d run to the nearest station, and he’d found the announcer resting after claiming to have a “weird out of body moment where he daydreamed he was in a Musical set in a laboratory suitable for a mad scientist”. He mentioned the odd little teddy bear as he joked about it on air. The boy heard the whole segment and recited it to me. I nodded and paid him extra. The other boy said I was welcome to use the radio tower tonight, that no other research was being done there tonight. 

I gathered supplies. I paid a coach driver to help me load Joe and we went to the radio tower. I felt a twinge of guilt with the obsessive drive for further knowledge. 

I hooked our little radio into the wires of the greatest receiver in the city. The metal tower jutted out beyond the smoke and smog. I looked at Joe. Perhaps I could find him using the tower, perhaps I could reach beyond our world and catch something else! 

Before I turned the radio on I spun the dial all the way to the left. I would start at the lowest frequency and work my way up. I hoped this worked. 

I began turning the dial. Static seemed endless until Joe’s eyes focused and a man’s voice sang a love song. Joe sat up and sang. It was the voice on the radio. Joe still was not himself. I kept turning the dial slowly. Other personas came and went. Joe’s posture and expressions sharpened and softened as stations came and went. 

In the midst of the static as I was working my way through higher frequencies Joe sat up straight. His arm shot out and grabbed my shoulder. He looked at me. The look was alien and cold. He moved like he was having trouble with his body, like it was hard for him to use. When he spoke it was in no language I recognized. He snarled and leapt at me! 

I fell back, knocking the radio to the ground. The radio broke. Joe collapsed. 

Whatever it was had gone. 

Joe is still out there somewhere. When you turn the dial, you may find him and hear him. You will think it is an old recording. I keep trying to catch his frequency. If only I can transmit him back to himself!