From the Indie Side by Indie Side Publishing Page B

own tube.
    Cort looked around and saw the kids coming
back from intermission. He put his tube back in and turned to
compose something for Riley, concentrating on the words as hard as
he could.
    “Like our talking,” it came out, the computer
voice stilted and awkward.
    The corners of her mouth tightened again; she
spun out of the chair with a wave of golden locks, then went
running around the balcony, back to the stairs.
    Cort looked sheepishly down at his controls,
which were counting down to the resumption of the games.
    Time being the only numbers the system kept
track of.
     
    * *
*
     
    “How was school?” Melanie asked.
    Cort jumped in the passenger seat, spitting
out his tube and trying to get comfortable with his pack pressing
into the seat.
    “Don’t you know?” he asked.
    “I didn’t look at any of the reports.” She
put the car into gear and merged with the flow of heavy traffic
moving past the school. “I wanted to wait and hear it from
you.”
    Cort thought about telling her all about
Riley, and that first intermission, and how he was going to use the
same pod tomorrow, and hoped she’d do the same, except he’d try and
walk with her to recess next time, and maybe they’d be on the same
team, and she could talk about what it was like to breathe amniotic
fluids, and he could blow air through her hair, and let her see
what that was like—
    “It was okay,” he said, his mind reeling. “I
got busted down to fourth grade,” he added, figuring she might as
well hear it from him.
    His mom reached over and tousled his hair.
“I’m sure you’ll be back before you know it,” she said. “Did you
practice your talking?”
    Cort nodded. “Yeah. A little.”
    And he vowed to practice some more that
night. Really, this time.

A Word From Hugh Howey
     
    “Mouth Breathers” is the second in a
trilogy of short stories about Melanie and Daniel, a woman and an
android who dare to be in love. In “Mouth Breathers,” the focus is
on their child. Each of the stories is inspired by the challenges
of everyday life, which science fiction illuminates so well.
     
    I fell in love with science fiction in middle
school. When I set out to complete my first novel, I chose the
genre for that nostalgic love. And what I found was that I could
write about my deepest thoughts, fears, and desires while
disguising them as plot. A planet’s destruction allowed me to write
about the fall of the Twin Towers. Unrequited love was an
exploration of failed relationships. Journeys through lonely space
took me back to sailing my small boat through the Bahamas. I wrote
the fantastical. I wrote what I knew.
     
    The first short story I ever wrote and
published was “The Automated Ones,” in which Melanie and Daniel go
out to dinner. The whispers and accusatory glares from other tables
would be familiar to my uncle, who was ostracized for being gay.
This is the power of science fiction. It isn’t merely a warning
about the strange future; it can be a sad look at how little we
change.
     
    It is a huge honor to have a story in this
collection. One thing that is changing quite rapidly is the number
of opportunities for writers to reach an audience. There is no
guarantee that anyone will listen, nor should there be, but the
walls that once blocked our voices are coming down. I’m fortunate
to have been writing when I was. I write some dismal stories, but I
remain an optimist. The future is bright. Hope to see you
there.

 
     
     
    Cray stood on a
northern hillside, facing the city of Tritan far below, the
wretched place he used to call home.
    Used to. Back when. Twenty years? Thirty? Had
it really been that long? He hefted his rucksack higher up onto his
shoulders, feeling the weight of the small bomb inside. Small, but
powerful enough to reduce the Consulate into a fine, white mist.
There would be nothing left of the wickedness contained within the
tall, pyramid-shaped building where evil men ordered evil
things.
    To Cray’s