Justin’s Comments (group member since Mar 13, 2016)

Justin’s comments from the Science Fiction Microstory Contest group.

Jack! The One-Eyed Money God returns! And Purple isn't even here to stop him. Great story!

Great story Tom! I liked it a lot!

Yes, great story Chris! Very creative and really drew you in.

Tom wrote: "Justin wrote: "It is so interesting to me where my own stories meander. Sometimes I have a definite idea in mind, where I want to go and what I want to do. With other stories, like the one I just p..."

Thank you Tom!

It is so interesting to me where my own stories meander. Sometimes I have a definite idea in mind, where I want to go and what I want to do. With other stories, like the one I just posted, it just kind of unspools as I type. I had no idea where this story was going. At first I thought I'd kill off all the human hotel guests with a virus where only the hero was immune so the assassin robot could find him more easily. Then I thought about the protagonist touring a graveyard of dead robots, left to rust and rot on a massive plain as a memorial to the last war against the machines, only one was not quite as dead as everyone thought. And then I get this story out of left field, or maybe my left brain! LOL!

Retirement at the Hotel Assurion

Major Collin Defalco, Colonial Defense Forces – retired (but only just), stepped off the trans-mat directly into the hotel’s lobby. A cheerful concierge immediately greeted him with a pair of aviator-style smart glasses to protect his eyes from the overwhelming brightness pouring through the skylights above him, a temporary effect from disassembling and reassembling his eyes at the molecular level.
“Welcome to the Hotel Assurion Major Defalco, we are honored by your presence. Your exploits in the last Robot War are legendary.”
“Thank you, but it’s just Mister Defalco now.”
“Yes of course,” the concierge agreed obsequiously. “Your suite is all prepared per your instructions, down to the last detail.”
“That will be a pleasant surprise,” Defalco replied in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
He just wanted some peace and quiet and to experience the beauty of planet Cassiopia without a bunch of fuss and bother about his prior life in the Service.
Perhaps it was a wish too far.
The concierge – Thomas his digital nametag brightly declared through the smart glasses – dutifully ensured the luggage automates brought Defalco’s bags up promptly, then shooed them out the door to scurry back down the hall from whence they came.
“Temperature controls are here,” he pointed out. “Food is served through this station here,” he noted a chromed sliding panel on the wall near the bed and continued without taking a breath, “Or you can order anything from the kitchen twenty-eight hours a day.”
That made Defalco chuckle under his breath.
“The repulsor field is already active on the balcony, but if you find any insects getting through you can increase the field strength and opacity here. Mid-range will keep out any precipitation, though we’re not expecting any.”
“And at maximum?” asked Defalco.
“Maximum field strength will repel any object, projectile or energy weapon.”
“Any?”
“Not to worry Major – er – Mister Defalco. You are completely safe here. This is a state-of-the-art resort hotel on a long-pacified world. Now, will you be wanting any companionship?”
The question caught him off-guard.
“We have everything from platonic to erotic, conversation to Kamasutra, talking to Tantric…”
“Thanks, I get the idea. I’ll have some platonic company for conversation with my dinner please at 1900 hours…I mean, at seven.” You could take the man out of the military, but…
“Very good Mister Defalco. We’ll see you in the Grand Dining Room at seven sharp.”
With a tip of his head Thomas executed a crisp about-face that caught Defalco’s attention, then exited the room.
“Interesting,” Defalco mused, then began to quickly unpack his gear. In one bag was another bag, surrounded by clothes and completely undetectable to military-grade scanners. He pulled it out and rapidly assembled his hand-held detector. It powered on with a reassuring hum and extended two short antennas. It only took a moment to confirm Defalco’s suspicions: The hotel was swarming with ‘Bots – including Thomas. Somehow, at some point, the ‘Bots had infiltrated this place of supposed rest and relaxation, and now he was stuck here. He was certain the ‘Bots would never let him leave here alive if their primary programing directive was still in effect. Him, the Butcher of ‘Bots, Massacrer of the Mechanical, Terror of the Terabytes.
Defalco finished unpacking the stealth bag and prepared himself for dinner.
***
The rest of the afternoon passed with an excruciating slowness that finally gave way to the appointed dinner hour. Despite being in the belly of the beast, Defalco felt calm and poised. He had to be if he was going to survive the evening and beyond. Upon entering the Grand Dining Room, he could almost feel himself being analyzed, scanned, and electronically dissected. No matter. He proceeded to his reserved table and was pleasantly surprised to discover his conversation companion was an attractive, age-appropriate woman who read as biological. She was clearly nervous but trying hard not to show it. She stood as he approached and he moved to take her proffered hand.
“Mister Defalco, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said graciously. “I’m Jennifer. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering some hors’d’oeuvres – I’m completely famished.”
Defalco stepped closer, still holding her hand, and whispered, “Are they not feeding you?”
Jennifer inhaled sharply but caught herself. “Not that much, no. Here he comes.”
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Stay close to me.”
Defalco turned to see Thomas pushing a food trolley towards them, eyes fixed on target: them.
Reaching into his pocket, he activated the EMP device.

(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2025
Reviews/critiques welcome

Now that is a Power Vacuum Greg!

Chris, it was a very clever story! Great idea!

Jack, great story. Loved it.

All very interesting and the alien worlds felt very unique and fantastic.

Nicely done!

Tom wrote: "Thank you, Justin (But, I'm not a Halo fan - I had to look that one up just now. Purely coincidental.)"

Copy that. I've been playing HALO since the first game came out. :)

Fun story Tom! Very nice! 117 - wink - cough - Master Chief - :)

Is there an October prompt yet?

Yes, great writing Jack!

Voted!

Tom wrote: "Excellent story, Justin. Marvelous imagery and period feel."

Thank you Tom!

Chris wrote: "Justin wrote: "Hi Chris,

Sorry to be late to the conversation. Work and life just keep dragging me along. I've only used Amazon and found it to be very easy. Just look at how long they get exclusi..."

Yes, they do let you, which is nice if you find errors. :) Let me know if you'd like to do an audio book version. :)

Turing’s Test

Alan Turing sat on one of Hut Eight’s wooden folding chairs and reviewed the day’s work with a furrowed brow. A light rain fell outside in the deepening October dusk, while the bombes whirred and clicked in an effort to break Enigma’s encryption.
Building on Polish decryption methods, Turing’s team at Bletchley Park had developed a good working system for deciphering Enigma signals, but their limited staff and bombes meant they were perpetually behind. Valuable military intelligence was being wasted while men died and those in charge dithered – at least until the Prime Minister himself had intervened on their behalf.
An “ACTION THIS DAY” memo from Winston had spurred everyone into action and now, finally, the team had the help it needed in staff and equipment. Yet Turing felt there was so much more they could do. What if the bombes could not only decrypt Enigma signals, but begin to find patterns that predicted future German military actions? The math would be horribly complex, possibly beyond the electromechanical capabilities the bombes provided.
“What you’re proposing is impossible!” his fellow cryptanalysts Gordon Welchman, Hugh Alexander and Stuart Milner-Barry declared. “The variables are too complex, even for multiple bombes working the problem!” They collectively shook their heads, despite Turing’s brilliance and compelling mathematical theories.
As Turing stuffed the papers into his satchel, he noticed the bombes had suddenly gone quiet – which he found rather odd.
“Hello?” Maybe one of the WRENs had accidentally turned them off mid-cypher. It had happened once before, costing them a day’s intelligence. He hoped that was not the case now.
Stepping into the room, Turing was startled as the bombes resumed their work, rotors clicking in a never-ending sequence of logical deductions. He noticed the small tape spool advancing, one slow character at a time. Slowly but surely, the short message emerged.
Turing grabbed the snippet of paper and looked at it incredulously. It read: BUILD MAN BODY.
He ran a hand through his hair in amazement, nearly dropping the bombe’s note. Was it possible? Could a machine be built that thought like a man? That... fought, in place of a man?
Turing ran for the phone. Frantic, he spun it up and got the Park’s switchboard.
“Downing Street!” He gasped. “This is Turing. I must speak to the Prime Minister!”
***
Winston Churchill leaned back in his seat, customary cigar in one hand and a scotch whiskey in the other, and waited impatiently for Turing’s arrival. As First Lord of the Admiralty during the First World War, he had pushed for “land battleships” and the first tanks were born. They had struck fear into the heart of the enemy and helped finally cross the hellscape of No Man’s Land. Now, as Prime Minister and Minister of Defense, he had whole-heartedly put his support behind The Battle Bombe – a walking, fighting, thinking machine that would save British lives.
A short knock wrapped on the door to his office. An aide popped his head in. “Mr. Turing for you sir…and it.”
“Pray send them in,” Churchill lisped.
Turing pushed his way past the aide into the Prime Minister’s office.
“We’ve done it sir!” he exclaimed nervously.
“Yes, so you’ve said Mister Turing. Well, where is it?”
After a brief pause, distinctly mechanical footfalls grew until The Battle Bombe filled the Prime Minister’s doorway. Painted in British khaki, it strode into Churchill’s office on jointed cylindrical legs and a bayonet-fitted Lee-Enfield rifle slung over its right shoulder. Photosensitive cells glowed dully where its eyes should have been and a mesh grille formed a stern-looking mouth. Its Mark Three Brodie helmet sat on its cylindric head at a slight angle, giving it a jaunty look that belied the Battle Bombe’s deadly purpose.
“Good Lord Turing, what a monster!” exclaimed Churchill.
“That’s exactly how we expect the Germans to feel Prime Minister,” said Turing.
“Preferably worse,” Churchill rejoined. “Does it uh…”
“Oh it works sir. Its predictive algorithms make it a crack shot. It will hit its target nine times out of ten and obey orders without question for King and Country”
“Yes, quite right. How many have you built Turing?”
“So far, only one hundred.”
“Send them. Send them all…”
***
Hauptmann Richtor stared through his field glasses, but he did not understand what he saw. Khaki-colored walking cylinders with rifles held forward made their way steadily towards his position. He pointed and his men opened fire. Shedding bullets, the Battle Bombes returned fire with deadly, unstoppable precision.

(748 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2025
Reviews/critiques welcome

Hi Chris,

Sorry to be late to the conversation. Work and life just keep dragging me along. I've only used Amazon and found it to be very easy. Just look at how long they get exclusivity for (I think 7 years but it may have changed) so that doesn't bite you. Please let me know when you've published so I can get a copy and write a review! And definitely have someone read your draft to look for basic editing issues. Good luck!

Good story Tom!

Way to go Jack!

Hey friends, work has me burning the entire candle this week as I approach my biggest event of the year (the annual Boeing Everett site car show). So I will not be getting a story in this month. Sorry to be so hit-or-miss these days. I will cast a vote though. Jot, I'm sorry to hear about your eye. I hope it heals up and you get back to 110%.

My best to you all as summer winds slowly into autumn...