Sci-Fi Saturday: High Fashion

"These coveralls we wear, they have no style!
No sex appeal, no shape, no cool details.
I hate them!" Tammy's grandmother's sad smile
In silence let the girl rage on. "It fails
On ev'ry level!" "Well, what shall you do
To fix things?" "I've been studying design,"
Quoth Tammy. "Y'all are sad. Not one of you
Has seen the opportunity!" "They’re fine,
And functional in zero gravity."
"Oh, there you go again. Who really cares
'Bout that? Most people've never felt it. We
Should make cool clothes that float like us, with flair!"
Months later, the first fashion show in space
Created a newshipboard marketplace!

Sci-Fi Saturday: The Hardest Sell

Subsidence made a sinkhole near the edge
Of this small town, just where folks go to see
Our  finest mountain vista. Now, I pledge,
What happened's no one's fault, and it's now free
Of all remains, but I'm afraid it's true:
The site was not updated, not online.
So tourists, on those smoggy days, those who
Had VR sets that always showed a fine,
Clear view, and used them... Yes, they fell
In frightening numbers, down the slope, and yes,
Some died. It took a while for us to tell
Where lay the problem, but I do not guess
You care 'bout that. Best buy my software patch.
I saw the problem, and fixed it from scratch.

Sci Fi Saturday: Beggars Can't be Choosers

"I can't afford that one," she said, and sighed.
"It's from our budget line; we haven't got
A lower price point." That shop girl, all pride
And condescension, obviously thought
Their interaction ended. Rosie, though,
Her stump still itching, wouldn't pass one day
Without an arm! "Come on. If you'd just go
Check out the stock room --" she began to say.
"I did already. All we have back there
Are custom jobs." "Did any get returned
Or not picked up?" The shop girl smirked. "You care
If it's got limitations? We got burned --"
"I'll take it. Graft it on this instant, please."
And that's why Maddy's hand can just slice cheese.

Sci-Fi Saturday: Nothing New Under the Sun

Re-Dinos proved the brain is just a part
Of what intelligence these meatsacks hold.
The brontosaur that first was cloned, her heart
Was that of ninety poets, new and old:
We learned the language that she came to speak
And found her versifying, near non-stop!
One epic she composed took o'er a week
Just to declaim. Reciters oft did drop
Before they could complete it, but agreed
Its beauty worth the effort! 'Tis that gut,
Four hundred feet of neural tissue. Speed?
Well, no, but for complexity, the cut?
It's made. Re-Dino-verse, is lit'rature
At its most lovely, finest, and most pure!

Sci Fi Saturday: A Frustrating Interview

It wasn't ever known what caused the end
Of that good ship, Obama, forty souls
And unknown cargo. Zadok, my old friend,
The salvager, claims to know the whole
Sad story, but he'll only tell his tale
When fabulously drunk, on planet-leave,
And at his fav'rite dive. O'er bad synth-ale,
That blots his mind, that soaks into his sleeve,
He darkly hints of solar flares and worse.
"I found 'er," he will say. "What are the odds
That she should wind up on Hygiea? Curse
That barmaid, I am dry! What's that? Ye gods!
It's true. Nobody lived except one man,
And he seems plumb immortal! Bring that can!"

Sci Fi Saturday: The Cryptoterrestrials

'Most ev'rybody's been there, but most don't
Remember it. A garden, lush and green
And deathly quiet stands where people won't
Suspect it. There they live. The air is clean,
The water pure. They have no dwellings. We
Who know them, know we'll never understand
Their presence. One brave soul, long since set free
From this existence, once brought back a strand
Of something like a hair. Its DNA
Is earthly; they are close to us, more kin
Than even chimpanzees, but there's no way
They're just some hiding humans. Take their skin,
Pale green, as though they sport some chlorophyll.
I think they're of the future, if you will.

Sci Fi Saturday: Wilbur Mugambe's Fall to Grace

A lot of people claim that they were there
When he became a sporting legend in
One leap. A sport for only those who dare
Is Airship Polo. Many was the win
With no goals scored, as such; a tie-break takes
A final count of injuries and deaths,
As men are tossed from craft to craft, mistakes
Are not uncommon, after all! Our breaths
Were taken, though, when this young, brash unknown
Was flung from Dr. Okafor's machine.
His flips and somersaults in mid-air shone
Like beacons of excitement, and his clean
And splashless entry to the goal-pond? Not
A single ship could catch him ere that shot!

Sci Fi Saturday: The Wrong Side of the Wrong Side of the Law

The PlastiHax had holed up in their lair,
And trusted in their gadgets and their traps
To keep the cops at bay, but the affair
Did not end as they'd planned. Their foes found gaps
And flaws in their defenses, and before
Too long just one door separated them.
"Come out, you punks. Come on, you know the score!"
The leader bellowed. No one answered. "Been
A-breaking yet more copyrights?" He called.
"We make things that folks need, man, we save lives!"
"I've heard that crap before --" but then, appalled
The sergeant checked his warrants once more. "Stives!
Your kid who got the beesting? How'd that go?"
"We used a knock-off Epi-Pen." "Oh, no!"

Sci Fi Saturday: The Frustration of the Fanbeings

The shooting star that fiery streaked the sky
Went unremarked by any that would know
It was no star. And not one sentient eye
Beheld what crawled up from the crater's glow.
"Looks like we're way too late," a being said
While hoisting out a fellow. "Not again!"
The other cried. "Now, now, don't lose your head..."
(We're taking liberties; their language then
Was unlike any human speech). "We might
Find in the rubble something that will tell
Us what we need to hear!" For many nights
And days they searched through all the burnt-out hell
That was our Planet Earth, then gave up. "How
Will we learn who killed Laura Palmer now?'

Sci Fi Saturday: Poor Replacements

Since Limbco stopped supporting its well-famed
Dependable prosthetics, Shan'd been forced
Into programming them himself. He'd gained
In skill but lost efficiency. The course
They'd offered when the change was first announced
Had covered basics, but he soon grew tired
Of voice commands on each step, so he pounced
The day he found the Limbrary! Required
To register, he did, but would regret
That soon. Tooth brushing packages were great;
Shoe-tying, too, and hair-coming, but let
Us speak not of, er, wiping. Shan, of late,
Is back to step by step commands there, for
He'd rather not graffito anymore.

Sci Fi Saturday: The Scrap Drive

The station was the oldest, and the last
Left orbiting the ruined planet, and
No population policies had passed
In generations. As numbers did expand
So did the station. Now it was a mess
Of modules built in haste, each one less strong
And sturdy than the last. The last address
The council'd given said that they'd been wrong
Last time, and so a panic run on steel
And other metal swept the place. They took
It all, the cooking tools, the weapons, and
Poor Sanger's long life's work. One final look
Was all he was allowed. His sculptor's hand
Runs now along the shoddy wall they made
Of all his art, lest memory now fade.

Sci Fi Saturday: The Secret Weapon

There's only ever one way to defeat
The Great Regression Field, that pulls us down
Below our sentience. We cannot cheat
Or trick a way on through. The Chosen, brown
Of hair and eye, was born for sacrifice.
From birth he was prepared for this one task,
Trained only to destroy the fell device.
No language did he learn, or skills. We asked
One thing alone of him, our brute, our dumb
But vital boy. He set off yesterday.
When all else hit the field, their minds go numb
And ne'er recover, witless beasts of clay.
Thus we are governed. But, should he succeed,
This planet can be ours again, indeed!

Dog Week: Sci-Fi Saturday: Discontinued Models

Suzanne and Rick had full lives, but as age
Crept up on them, they did admit some need.
Rick hated carebots, though. Then, on a page
In Cyber Fancy, their son chanced to read
An ad for a new breed of home-care tech:
NurseDogz! Thus came to their old house a pair
Of fuzzy poodles, programmed well to check
Blood pressure and such other stats as their
Physicians liked to know. And they were cute!
But soon Rick had subverted Willow, who
Reverted to her yappy, happy roots
And lied on her reports. Then Gracie, too
Developed glitches. Suzanne's crafty hack
Let her shop Amazon behind Rick's back!

Sci Fi Saturday: It's Always Midnight, Part I

The asteroid was not on many charts,
And bore no ore to make it worth the while
Of any who'd exploit it 'round those parts.
So it was perfect for a man of guile
Like Kwame Mikkelsen to build a place
Where secrets were exchanged, where shady deals
Were made and kept, where those of any race
Might go to mingle over hasty meals.
So he'd imagined, but reality
Made it more sordid yet. As tumbling rock
Did turn, more wedding vows were broken than
At any other dive. No ticking clock
Or tug of gravity stopped dame or man
From doing as they pleased. Then Suki Page
Hijacked a freighter, crashed it there in rage!

Sci Fi Saturday: Maintenance Records

The small glass lens near fell out of her hand
When came a faint recording that did play.
Her time with this small robot, she found, spanned
A decade as the hologram's display
Recalled their years together, and each part
On Go-Go she'd replaced. She thought at first
That she'd just hit some circuit at the start,
But after the short program came the worst:
More than one-half of Go-Go, now, was not
Original, which meant that Go-Go had
Become a whole new construct, and was caught
In mandatory reset mode. 'Twas bad:
Upgraded software might be really great,
But her old friend was gone, and that she'd hate.

Sci Fi Saturday: The Pilgrims

The aliens' religion made no sense
Until Wade Poppy stole the new device
That Doctor Grimes invented (at expense
Beyond belief) that, when activated twice
Sent pulses to observers' brains that made
Beholders see themselves when looking at
A stranger of another species. Wade
Gained entry to their Temple Ararat
(It's not known why they built there). What he saw
Explained it all. Their ancient god, a twin
To Ronald Reagan without e'en one flaw,
Was why they showed such ecstasy when they
Met humans. They had come to earth to pray!

Sci Fi Saturday: Deersaster!

A prion malady affecting deer
Was Deirdre's research topic: not to cure
But to control it. Ever there's the fear
That populations will exceed the sure
Capacity of habitats. To hunt
Or eat the animals was not the way
On Deirdre's planet. One day, with a grunt
Of triumph, an assistant, Donnie Ray,
Showed off results with promise, and the news
Did reach the money men too quickly. Thus
Field testing in the wild, that would yield clues
Concerning flaws, was skipped. Therefore the fuss
Is justified. Now ev'ry town's beset
By telepathic ungulates, O vet!

Sci Fi Saturday: The Beltane Boom

The first year on the generation ship,
Made natural-ish, at least on the inside
Almost became the last, long ere its trip
Was past the asteroids. A bona fide
And serious tribe of neo-pagans had
Formed up, perhaps from homesickness, and they
Determined that traditions, good and bad,
Must be preserved; yes, they should find a way
To keep all holidays, and be as like
The celebrations held in days of yore.
The gardens' yellow flowers saw a spike
In harvesting, but what near caused the war
Began with rubbing table legs real fast
To light a need fire in the hold. Avast!

Sci Fi Saturday: An Awkward Evening in Airy-0

The party was in full swing, canapés
In ev'ry hand, for ev'ry lip a drink.
The host looked on with satisfaction; days
Of preparation paid off. "Do you think
That Ross will be here? Carrie, too? I hope!"
He said to his young husband as the dome
Dimmed down to ev'ning mode. "Don't be a dope,
They're over there." He glided 'cross his home
And waited with politeness as his guests
Conversed. "Oh, so you guys are some of THOSE,"
Young Ross was saying. "Oh man, that's the best!
Hey Carrie, these folks think we all arose
On Earth! I bet they think that Mars is flat
As well!" Their host blushed. "Sorry about that..."

Sci Fi Saturday: The Rescuers

"You're all that's left, I think," the being said,
Surveying that small band, that helpless lot
Of wordless humans. One just scratched his head.
The rest just stared. "Oh, that's right, I forgot --
You don't use language anymore, poor dears!"
It held out some bananas and a hunk
Of juicy pork, to overcome their fears
But they persisted rooting through the junk
Left by their ancestors, the ones who'd made
A trash heap of their planet. "Very well,"
The being said. "The sleeping gas, then. Trade
Won't work. Go on, my partners, and please tell
Command we'll have to run another class
Through re-civlization. Hope they pass!"