Science-fiction short stories, mostly from the less-serious end of the spectrum. You'll find zombie presidents, talking sharks, world-endangering sub-woofers, coffee-toting terrorists, an unhealthy number of 80s references and a whole lot more. Th...
A/N: The prompt for this story was to use 4 images from a provided list (I've inserted them into the story). 3000 words.
You cannot be serious. Zoe closed her eyes, willing it not to be true. But when she opened them again the supermarket shelf was just as bare. No coffee. Not even so much as a lowly jar of instant. "Excuse me," she asked a passing staff-member. "Can you please tell me when you'll be getting more coffee in?"
The spotty youth shook his head. "No more coffee, love. Ain't you 'eard? Been classified as an illegal stimulant, it 'as. Plus, they reckon it's a waste of resources. Banned, innit?"
No more coffee. A few years ago, Zoe couldn't have imagined a more horrifying phrase. Now her brain simply absorbed the information despondently and filed it away with the long list of other items the Directorate had banned or deemed as wasteful.
It's for our own good, she told herself as she joined the queue for the checkout. Without the Directorate, there would be chaos. It's worth a few sacrifices to have order. To have the chance to build a better life, one day.
She told herself the same thing, every day. Some days she even believed it.
****
He will walk upon these very steps, though Forster, reverentially. These very steps that I stand upon. We are close now, so close.
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With intense satisfaction, he surveyed the humming arches suspended above him, the tachyon generators flanking the steps, and the technicians working with quiet efficiency at their posts around the room. His chest swelled with pride as he gazed up at the swastika-emblazoned banner that dominated the room. It was positioned so as to be the first thing the fuhrer would see, when he was returned to them.
Plucked from his bunker in 1945 Berlin, moments before his suicide, he would no doubt be disoriented by the sudden leap across a century of years, by the abrupt transition from defeat and death to life and hope. Even an intellect as magnificent as the fuhrer's would struggle with such a quantum shift. It was only fitting that his first sight should be the comforting and familiar symbol that had signified the glory of the Third Reich. The symbol that would now herald the rise of the Fourth Reich.
With an effort, Forster dragged his attention away. Checking his tablet, he found only further cause for satisfaction. None of the regional directors' reports listed any protests or civil unrest. The latest round of restrictions had been accepted without a murmur by the general population. Forster grinned. It had taken years, but the people had been thoroughly broken.
When the unprecedented wave of terrorist attacks had erupted in the late '20s, taking out parliament-house, police headquarters and so many other government agencies, chaos had ensued. Bereft of leadership and and with no clear target to attack, the nation had dissolved into riots, civil war and internecine conflict. When the firm hand of the Directorate had emerged to take control, the population had willingly acquiesced, desperate for the madness to cease, and willing to cede much of their liberty in exchange for a modicum of peace and the certainty of food on the table.
