'Soul Mates' by Victor Aquista one of the sixteen amazing short stories in the Scifi Roundtable's new anthology The Quantum Soul.

First step required that the chamber be cooled. Mike watched as the temperature within the box chilled to 7 0 Celsius. The cricket had slowed and now remained still except for a twitch of antennae. A puff of ether gas erupted as Mike injected the anesthetic. He included this step in the protocol for humane reasons. It probably didn’t influence whether or not the insect suffered, but as experiments advanced to lizards, chicks, mice…all the way up to dogs and cats, he would feel guilty if they needlessly felt pain. The ether likely minimized any animal suffering.

While writings from the ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Hindus, and Chinese all
demonstrated a basic understanding of life energy, Mike realized it was only a qualitative understanding. In 1907, the French philosopher Henri Bergson published his essay, The Elan Vital and Self-Evolution. Bergson’s exploration and philosophical analysis still informed much of Mike’s understanding. That same year, and Mike hardly thought this a coincidence, Dr. Duncan MacDougal published, The Soul: Hypothesis Concerning Soul Substance Together with Experimental Evidence of the Existence of Such Substance. MacDougal remained convinced that the soul had physical mass and he measured the difference in body weight pre and immediately post-mortem. His conclusion: the average weight of the human soul calculated to 21 grams.

Chilled carbon dioxide filled the container next. This food preservation technology, borrowed from cold storage of fruit—how else do you think you can have a crisp apple off-season—served a dual purpose. The odorless, colorless CO 2 suffocated the animal within the box, while the temperature and lack of oxygen within diminished cellular degradation. While Mike observed the cricket through the view panel on top of the chamber, his eyes remained focused on the pair of gauges measuring élan vital. One measured the force within the container, the other calibrated the life energy within the adjacent collector.

MacDougal had the right idea in so far as measuring the soul, just another name for this life energy. But it wasn’t physical mass, it was energetic and not electromagnetism. Whatever the energetic “substance” happened to be, Mike still could not say for sure. In his mind, he imagined it as quanta of consciousness. The theoretical physics and mathematical formulae explaining this life force led straight to quantum mechanics. Mike had a decent IQ, but the theoretical basis didn’t matter to him. Measurement. That was the key.

The two gauges measured identical changes, the box down by a fraction, the accumulator up by the same fraction. Although Mike had no electrodes or way to monitor whether or not the cricket was truly dead, he felt certain the insect within had passed and its spark of life energy no longer animated its insect body. He reversed the polarity, vented the CO 2 and began to raise the
temperature. Heart racing, Mike saw the gauges flip back to their previous baselines. The cricket twitched a couple of times then resumed exploration of the chamber. Success!

“Honey, I think it worked.” He crawled into bed next to Julie. Her boss asked that she put in extra hours as the firm had taken on a big case. It seemed the paralegals bore the brunt of that extra work.

“That’s nice, sweetheart.” Her sleepy voice told him a love-making all-nighter would have to wait. “When do you get the Nobel prize?”

As his wife’s gentle snores lapped his consciousness like waves upon a glorious beach, Mike lay wide awake beside her. Abruptly, he shot up and went down to the basement. As the light flipped on, the cricket ran to the corner of the terrarium where he had moved it. It’s still alive!

The Quantum Soul is available now and you can find more books by Dr. Victor Acquista on Amazon.

1. What is the best part of being involved in The Quantum Soul anthology?

Great question! First off, I would like to thank you for interviewing me on your blog and for giving me the opportunity to tell your readers a little about myself and my work. Many writers are a solitary lot. Having a group of colleagues to discuss common interests, offer help, guidance, feedback, etc. represents one of the many great benefits of participating in the Knights of the Sci Fi Roundtable. The core group and greater collective community provide a wonderful forum to share, learn, and contribute. The Roundtable fellowship helps to counteract some of the isolation that many writers often contend with. Having the opportunity to not only submit to the inaugural anthology, but to be selected and represented as one of the featured authors is an honor. Furthermore, the topic binding this group of stories—The Quantum Soul, represents an area I am particularly interested in. This is fertile ground where elements of science and metaphysics intersect. Finally, I get to work with outstanding folks such as yourself, Captain Ducky, and Sir Eric (to name just a few)—a fun, quirky, and thoroughly delightful group of sci-fi/fantasy junkies and talented miscreants individuals.

2. Star Trek or Star Wars?

Yes, this seems to be a question that percolates throughout the sci-fi universe. Short answer is both, but for different reasons. In some respects, I think the question sets up a false dichotomy. I view Star Wars primarily as a film series. I have not read the many books that develop the Star Wars universe. I find the films appealing in how classic myths, themes, and archetypes are developed. I love the notion of “The Force” and the need for balance between light and dark, good and evil. The hero’s journey, redemption, destiny—these classic elements are all present in the films in such a wonderful and entertaining way. Compare these films to the Star Trek films and there really is no comparison.
Collectively, the Star Trek films, in my opinion, have been marginal at best. Although, I did really enjoy The Wrath of Khan. The Star Trek TV series and the various spin offs such as Next Gen, Deep Space 9, etc. are a very different entertainment medium, especially when it comes to exploring and developing social themes. There are so many more episodes available for writers and producers to develop characters, themes, interactions, enemies (Klingons, Borg, Sulibon, etc.). Gene Rodenberry, the creative force behind the original show, specifically wanted to call attention to social issues of the time.
In total, I don’t think Star Wars can hold a candle to the exploration of these issues we’ve seen developed through the Star Trek franchise. While Rodenberry was groundbreaking in the sense of using the series to raise social consciousness, George Lucas was groundbreaking in a different way. What LucasFilms and Industrial Light and Magic achieved amounted to something revolutionary. We get to enjoy the creative efforts of both of these revolutionaries.

3. If you were to write under a pen name, what would it be?

In general, I prefer writing under my own name. At least, that is where I feel most comfortable. If I author a piece of original work it is a reflection of some aspect of myself. To use a pen name suggests to me that I don’t want readers to truly know that I am the author. However, I am currently writing a satire and plan to publish it under a pseudonym, a sobriquet, a nom de plume. Pen name sounds too banal to me. The work is so outlandish that I can’t even take myself seriously and will instead attribute the work to a devious alter ego, Tungyn Cheque. That name, of course is just an expression of yours truly.

Dr. Victor Acquista has become a successful international author and speaker following careers as a primary-care physician and medical executive. His non-fiction and his workshops focus on personal growth and transformation, especially as pertains to health and wellness, more can be fond about that on this website. His fiction includes social messaging intended to get the reader engaged in thought provoking themes. Dr. Acquista has a longstanding interest in consciousness studies, is a student of Integral Theory, and strives to do his part to make our planet a wee bit better. He lives with his wife in Florida. He is a member of the Authors Guild, Writers Co-op, and is a Knight of the Sci-Fi Roundtable. You can catch up with him on his website, on Twitter and on Facebook.

From 'Wondrous Strange' by E.M. Swift-Hook a story from the Scifi Roundtable's The Quantum Soul anthology which is out today!

Something was amiss with the resonance here. Not just this Work, but through all the Symmetry. A memory bubbled within [^], recalling the content of the last harmonization one had shared with [=].

>>we are becoming infected by Entropy, my bond{0ne}<< insisted [=], with a welded mix of sadness and anger. >>as an Explorer I see it more than you Weavers. I experience the tiers and return to Symmetry and each return confirms again my perception. the greed of the 0nes to encompass and draw in ever more of energy into the Symmetry is having the opposite effect. each new fissure in the tiers, supposed to bring in more energy, is opening us to parasitic reflux. I have perceived it, I have recorded it, but the Influencers will not receive my concepts<<

Swirls of antipathy and frustration curled between them. In empathy, [^] harmonized and soothed, but one’s own equilibrium was not easy to maintain. If what [=] perceived was as it seemed, then all 0nes stood in danger of ultimate dispersal – of becoming eventual victims of Entropy.

>>why don’t they consider your findings? I can’t understand what they think they gain by ignoring them<<

>>they don’t ignore them [^]. they observe the entirety of infinity as if it were the Symmetry and hold that therefore, where we dwell, the equilibration of any energy excess will harmonize back into that Symmetry. they forget Infinity is symmetrical only through the process of equilibrium. so when excess causes instability, balance is restored through that process. but our Influencers do not face up to that. they prefer to give the mark of truth to those who hold we can obtain sufficient energy to replace the losses<<

Aghast.

>>how can we draw sufficient for stability from other entropic tiers? surely all we do by opening ever further Nexūs, is to allow more Entropy to inveigle us<<

>>wisdom from you my bond{0ne}, but not from other 0nes and certainly not from the Influencers<<

They shared a concurrence of harmony and [^] experienced the perceptions that had caused [=] such concern. It was not even slightly reassuring.

>>the very best we can do is avoid opening any more points of entropic access. those we have wrought might be resealed by using what energy we have gleaned from the tiers through the ways exploited by 0nes from The First Budding. if we do so, we are inevitably diminished, our Symmetry less glorious and far-reaching, but at least we are spared from Entropy<<

'Wondrous Strange' is a Fortune's Fools origins story - for Durban Chola. Read the whole story in The Quantum Soul anthology which is out today!

What is a soul? The child asked the wind
But the wind neither answered nor cared
What is a soul? Cried the soldier blue
And his tortured young voice rent the air
What is a soul? The young mother mused
As she tenderly rocked the cradle
Who has a soul? Was the old man’s cry
Someone tell me if anyone’s able
What is a soul? And who has such a thing?
Are the questions that torment the mind
The answers are tender as thistledown
As hard for to hold and to find
What is a soul? Is a cry from the heart
From the child, from the mother the son
It’s the question that burns in the depths of the breast
From the day that the thread is first spun
What is a soul? The spectre sings
As it blindly flies into the night
There’s never an answer from gods nor kings
And there isn’t a wrong. Or a right

© jane jago 2017

An excerpt from 'When Words are Not Enough' by Cindy Tomamichel one of the sixteen amazing short stories in the Scifi Roundtable's new anthology The Quantum Soul.

“We got another big day of writing ahead of us, I know you have it in you. Dig deep.” I wiped Captain Smith‘s spittle off my face and nodded. I had heard it before. Hell, we all had. We had been on the Shakespeare for so long we had forgotten where we had come from, let alone where we were going. Sure, there were legends, but like all the stories on the ship, they got twisted to make them more entertaining, anything for a laugh, to amuse the cargo.

The Captain’s magneto neck coils glowed red, and I refocused. She wasn’t a happy Captain being ignored. “Now, I need a volunteer,” she growled. “Which one of you hacks has hit the wall?” I held my face straight as she clumped past the rows of writers, her one good eye flickering red. The diodes must need replacing.

Inside I trembled. The table behind her had a pile of red shirts on it, and we all knew that meant a suicide mission. “Please pick me,” I heard someone whisper, then realized it was myself. I bit my lip, and stepped forward.

Behind me the room rustled as others also stepped forward. Captain Smith flicked a glance at them and they retreated. I held firm, this might be my only chance. She was so close I could feel the heat from the coils on my face. “You ready for the red shirt, hack? You think you’re burnt out enough for this job?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

“This your second or third millennia?”

“Forth, ma’am. I was in the original intake, I wrote my first story and got transferred from the science section.”

I heard the others gasp. With all the rejuvenations we took, most of us looked different year to year. Hell, I couldn’t remember if I had been male or female when I came on board. I was pretty sure I had been human, unlike the evolved cats who still retained a certain tendency to whiskers.

But I still remembered signing up. A five year tour they told us, to get to the nearest system with planets. The ship was a longevity one, with a pile of rich bastards that lay like logs in cold storage, while we kept on rejuvenating. And writing. To keep the cold storage passengers mentally alive, stories were channelled directly into their brains. But they always wanted more.

Their reviews got fed into the computer and controlled our lives. The computer ran the ship, we were nothing more than rats in the tunnels, tapping buttons to get review stars. The more stars, the more rations. But we went through a meteorite storm that first year, and something happened to the computer. It announced we were to refer to it as “Zon” and then it never spoke to us again, although it did monitor us and our reviews.

“Right, you, come to my office,” Captain Smith barked. “The rest of you hacks, go pound out some words.” She paused. “I know you still have some left. Dismissed.”

I glanced at the others as I followed Captain Smith out, the red shirt clutched in my hands already damp with sweat. Their haggard faces gave me courage. They had run out of stories, we all had. But the audience was insatiable.

The Quantum Soul is available for pre-order and releases tomorrow.

Find out more about Cindy on her website or check out her books on Amazon.

Cindy has a story in The Quantum Soul anthology which is out tomorrow!

Q1: What do you think is the best thing about writing a short story rather than a novel?

Q2: Do you enjoy reading anthologies?

Q3: What gave you the idea for your story in The Quantum Soul?

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – ”
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -”
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -”
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”

‘The Interview’ concludes next week…

From Trust A Few - Part One of Fortune's Fools 'Haruspex' trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

If Benny hadn’t been quick on his feet, the Mercedes would have run him down as it slewed violently sideways to stop half on and half off the pavement in a residents only parking zone. The driver took only seconds to slide off the leather seat and slam the door behind her. She strode off in the direction of one of the many over-priced eateries that populated the commercial side of the street. He gave her the stink-eye for a moment, taking in every detail of the rich bitch furs and fuck me shoes. Oh yeah, this one represented just about everything he despised in a human being. It was with some relief that he turned his attention back to the car. It was sleek, and black, and he had even caught a whiff if the smell of excellence when the door was open. He wanted that car so much it hurt, but he had promised his momma so all he could do was look.

On an evening of what ifs it’s also true to say that if he hadn’t been fucking the car with his eyes he would never have seen the keys its driver stabbed at her handbag fall into the gutter instead of the bag. He couldn’t believe his luck, and as soon as her expensively maintained ass disappeared behind the darkened glass of the trattoria he was on his knees scrabbling. Within seconds he had them in his hand. But what to do with them? He knew what his heart was telling him, and he also knew what a stupid idea that was. Even with the keys it’d still be theft, and the gates of the detention centre were always open for juvenile car thieves.

While he was thinking he heard the measured tread that indicated the imminent arrival of a beat cop. That sort of made his mind up for him. He trotted to the middle of the pavement and waited. When the cop turned the corner it was a face he knew and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Officer. Sir. I got problem. Rich bitch drops car keys. She gone in that place. Can’t follow.”
“Indeed you can’t.”
The burly cop held out a large red hand and Benny dropped the keys in it. As if pulled by an invisible string, both officer of the law and street kid turned to look at the Mercedes with identical expressions of longing on their faces.
“Some car, boy. Some car.”
Benny ducked his head.
“Sure is, sir.”
“Where you sleeping these days Benny?”
“Ma’s”
“Okay. Now you just stop here and let me see if I can’t get you a decent meal at least.”
The cop took out his personal mobile and had a long conversation in Italian. Benny started to fidget, and the man held up a thick finger.
“How many in your old lady’s flop these days?”
Benny did a count up in his head.
“Seven. Ma. Me. Little ones.”
“Sette. Bene.”

It was very quiet in the street now and Benny could quite clearly hear footsteps coming along the alleyway between two restaurants. A brilliantined head shone in the streetlamp as the white-aproned figure of a gold-toothed waiter slipped quietly out onto the street. The cop went over to him and they held a brief low-voiced conversation.

The cop came back with a big takeaway food bucket in one hand and some folding money in the other. He handed Benny the bucket.
“You think you can get that home safely?”
Benny nodded emphatically. The cop slipped two tens off the roll of bills and slipped them into Benny’s top pocket.
“Better scat then. You’ll be wanting to eat that before it gets cold.”

Benny dipped his head and went, covering the ground like lightning.

Later that night he lay on his bed with his belly full of pasta. Life was funny he mused, he sure as hell wanted that car but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t wanted pasta more….

© jane jago 2017

You are old, so you should never roam

Should be timid, and always at home

Wearing slippers and robe

Not trotting the globe

With only a toothbrush and comb

© jane jago 2017

Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow is out today!

Brandon Murphy flagged down a taxi, his movements frantic. Despite the cold that infiltrated the air that November afternoon, he was sweating profusely. Fear like he had never known clutched him, and there was nothing he could do to fix the situation. Why had he involved himself in the first place? If he was honest with himself, it was because he had truly thought he was doing the right thing. But it was clear now that he’d been deceived. None of his original ambitions seemed to be of consequence, and what was worse, none of the promises that had been made to him were being kept.

In fact, it appeared he had become nothing more than a pawn in a much more elaborate game, which was becoming increasingly dark. Breaking and entering was not what he had signed up for, and if it absolutely had to be done, a confrontation definitely wasn’t on his agenda. He’d made that clear and had been assured that no one would be home, so who was that man that showed up? He’d actually fired a shot at the man. What was happening to his life?

His taxi pulled up to the curb. He got in and said, “Brantford Road, N17. I’m in a hurry.”

The cabbie nodded, put the car in gear and stepped on it.

Murphy checked the time on his phone persistently as they made their way across North London. He had been instructed to arrive at their meeting place no later than 4:00 p.m. Apparently, his employer had some important event to attend that evening at the British Academy building, and it was imperative that they left in time to be there for 5:00 p.m.

“Step on it, mate!” Murphy demanded as he watched the time switch over from 3:50 to 3:51. “I would have to get stuck with the slowest bloody cabbie in London!”

“Oi! I’m already over the bleedin’ speed limit. Bloody ‘ell! I reckon yer a bleedin’ fare dodger an’ all!”

“Excuse me?” Murphy snapped. “I always pay me way, mate! Just get us round to Brantford Road as quickly as possible, alright?” He wiped the sweat from his brow and checked the time again.

3:55.

His heart started to pound. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He’d been explicitly warned about being punctual. It wasn’t just his life at stake if he failed to be there, it was his family’s as well.

“Here you are, mate,” said the cabbie as he came to a screeching halt. “Brantford Road, N17. That’ll be thirty-five quid.”

Murphy pulled an uncounted wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it in the cabbie’s lap before jumping out of the car and sprinting toward a warehouse building several yards from the road. He reached the entrance within moments and let himself in. The space inside was nearly pitch-black. He pulled out his phone, lit the screen and began navigating through the maze of pallets that occupied a vast majority of the area.

“Hello?” he called out, making his way toward the opposite side of the warehouse. “Is there anybody here? I made it on time,” he said glancing at his phone to confirm that his statement was accurate. The time read 3:59.

He turned a corner and fear stole over him. Glowing yellow eyes met his own. A beast was upon him before he could react. He felt long claws sliding easily through his stomach. Once. Twice. Three times.

Horrified, he put his hands over as many of the lacerations as he could, but it was a pointless move. His vision started to blur as fatal amounts of blood drained from his body. He fell to the ground, still clutching hopelessly at his wounds. He could almost make out his attacker in the light cast by the phone that had fallen from his hand, but his vision was fading fast.

Vision fading…

Darkness.

Pick up your copy of Hunting Darkness!