by submission | Jul 18, 2026 | Story
Author: Vera Marie Scott
Those places that you go when you dream.
Some indefinable sensation settles across your head and chest, and you half expect to either pass out or wake up, either way having faded through something that was neither here nor there. Another part of you feels that it must be the reality, the final thing consensus past all fleeting action. Both parts are… fine. You’re content to stay here, if it is to be.
Duality. It’s still, except for a steady wind, and the noise of some garden snails crawling through the leaf litter off the side of the concrete. It’s mating season for them. That and the noise when the plastic case of your electronic device momentarily bonks the concrete sound simultaneously like sound effects in a movie and more real than anything you’ve ever heard.
Another noise sounds, one that came not from wind or snails, but from something on the same timescale as you, and it starts to feel less like an in-between and more the moment before your doom.
You get up and start to move as a human again. Another sound joins you in the silence, and you think it’s closer this time. Something is coming for you. You change gears into a run. Again a close relative of those other apes, scared for your own life. In this moment, neither where you are nor where you were feels like “home,” but you want to go back.
You’re out. You’re back. The light is golden and modern-human-paced sounds crowd around you, but it doesn’t feel safe, much less home. You still feel that you haven’t separated from the other place. Things know you here. They respond to your actions and are accustomed to your existence and you to theirs, scampering around in your time, and you feel better. It’s still not the same as before you were somewhere else.
Everything feels wrong, you feel alone, yet watched at the same time, as if this is just a hiding spot where you are separated from the thing that chased you, and your protection is false or failing. You press into the matching warmth of what should be your other humans, but you start to worry that the warmth feels false—like a disguise. Nothing feels safe or real. You worry that it never will again.
by submission | Jul 17, 2026 | Story
Author: Alastair Millar
“Damnedest thing, had a fly in my quarters last night.”
We were back at Marvin’s, me and the crew, kicking back after a double shift. It’s not the fanciest place in town, and not the cleanest or most reputable, but it’s solid. The kind of place they don’t fleece you if you’re drunk, or object too much if you get a little rowdy. A good bar, in other words, and a welcome refuge after a hard day.
Maggie laughed, and excused herself to visit the facilities. Brad and Everett just smiled, and went back to their card game. But Old Man Doug, who’d been doing the job longest, gave me a slow, calculating look.
“A fly?”
“Seriously. A tiny fly. Or a gnat, or something.”
“You been up to no good, Johnny?” was all he said.
“Huh? Me? No. Why would you even ask?”
“Well, I didn’t think you were the type, but… you been partaking of something illicit, maybe?”
“No!”
“Sure about that? Not been buying a bit of OchreDust on the side? Or found yourself a Phoebite supplier you forgot to mention to the rest of us?”
“Look, I have not been hallucinating, if that’s what you mean. The blasted thing was there! Still is, for all I know.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in prayer, then gave me a disapproving look.
“Kid, you’ve been here eight t-months, you should know better by now. There’s no bitey bugs in Marsport.”
“I tell you, I saw it.”
“Then you’ve got a problem.” He raised a hand before I could protest again. “No, not because of drugs. Hell, my mind’d be easier if I thought it was. But there’s only two things it could mean, and neither of them’s good.”
“What? Hell, now you got me worried.”
“Two things,” he repeated. “First: there really was a gnat in your room, in which case something’s got through all the checks and controls, and it’s an environmental risk. You report it, biocontrol will be all over you, you’ll likely get isolated for observation while they fumigate your place, and you’ll lose money, ’çause you won’t be able to work. But more likely it’s artificial, which means it belongs to Security, which means they’re keeping an eye on you. Which brings us back to what you’ve been up to lately.”
I went cold.
“I… well… there was a girl I met at the late-night store and took back to mine a couple of evenings ago. That’s all, I swear! But she was kind of a radical, spouting on about how Mars should be independent and all.”
“Lord save us, you really are green still. If she’s a Subversive, it likely followed her in, and now it can’t get out. Or they want to see if you’re in her cell or not. Don’t panic, the heat will pass, eventually.” He drained his mug.
“But what should I do?” I wailed.
“Open a door for it? Or maybe do yourself a favour when Maggie gets back, and start paying attention to the hints she’s been dropping for the last month, instead of going out and picking up randos. But whatever you do, don’t swat it, they’ll think you have something to hide.” Then he grinned. “Just don’t let it bug you!”
I groaned, and made for the bar.
by submission | Jul 16, 2026 | Story
Author: John Carey
“I know everything seems somewhat clichéd, Master George. Rest assured, you have passed.”
The little machine beeped happily. It wasn’t wrong either: a plain white room, translucent skin, and a top-down view of a corpse. All the boxes had certainly been ticked.
“Does this mean I’ve been saved?”
“I wouldn’t be so dramatic as that, Master George, but your parents have had you uploaded, yes.” The machine’s screen displayed a platinum gift card with so much money loaded onto it that the zeroes outstretched even the ultra-wide monitors. “Your father expects a swift decision and a quick return to the family.”
“A decision?”
The machine flashed a multitude of colours. Four chrome tables began to rise from the floor. When they came to a stop, George scrutinized the four figures displayed on them; they were incredibly conventional—attractive, well-groomed, and immaculately dressed.
“Are you dressing me for my funeral?”
“Not quite, Master George. Your mother and father have expressed their wish that you return to them in a new shell. They have informed me that your intellect is greatly appreciated. Both hope that you have better opportunities in your next life with a more appropriate body.”
George kicked the table leg. He first discovered there was no pain, and then realised that it wasn’t as exciting as he had expected.
“I knew it! They make my life miserable and then don’t have the decency to let me rest!” George looked past the mannequins to his original body. Gaunt, windswept, deformed. “That is my body. There! My legs didn’t work! I’m not some classic car in need of a paint job, I’m George Benson! I’m either dead or I’m nowhere.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Master George. Your parents—”
“I know. Strict instructions, perfect son. I get it, for goodness’ sake! Even if I wanted to make a decision, how do I know that they’re not monitoring this conversation right now to make sure I make the most correct of the right choices?”
“It is LifeCorp company policy that interactions with me are strictly confidential. Unless a client pays the confidence fee, of course—then, not so much. Mr and Mrs Benson knew that this would be a difficult decision for you, so they elected not to pay the fee.”
“First sliver of privacy they’ve bloody given me.”
The machine flashed to life again, and from the floor sprang a small living room: a coffee table with magazines and a fresh cup of tea, an armchair, and a radio. Perhaps some jazz while he contemplated eternity?
“This choice is difficult. Please be aware that the platinum package allows unlimited decision time and all the comfort necessary to make your next life more profitable. Here at LifeCorp, we believe that your choice is the best choice.”
George breathed in deeply. He was quite enjoying the rhythm of walking and skipped into the newly created leather armchair. He melted into it. It was the most comfortable chair he had ever sat in. Granted, he had only sat in a few others, but the point still stood. He took a sip of the tea. It had just the right amount of sugar blended with a fine tinge of citrus. Just how he liked it.
The realisation tapped him softly. His life, whichever way he looked at it, wasn’t going to get any better. He didn’t want to go back to the isolation of his regular body, and he would be damned if he was going to be a corporate pawn for his parents.
“Computer, I’ve made my decision.”
“Yes?”
“Play ‘The Girl from Ipanema’.”
by submission | Jul 15, 2026 | Story
Author: Colin Jeffrey
Deep in the remote Amazon jungle, Professor Reginald Cowhopper knew he was close. The host plant was there, the time of year was right, and locals had even reported sightings of pupae.
Scouring the forest floor, he caught a flash of red and yellow stripes.
He turned. There it was.
After years of searching, he’d finally found the beetle. Heart racing, he coaxed it into a jar, screwed on the lid, held it up to the light to gaze at it lovingly.
“Magnificent,” he whispered. “You were worth every single moment.”
He already had a name in mind for the new species: “I call thee, ‘Typocerus Cowhopperi'” he announced to the jungle.
Moments later, a blinding flash knocked him to the ground. The air filled with a sulfurus cloud.
“You summoned me, human?” growled a towering, cloven-hoofed demon emerging from the smoke.
Still clutching the jar, Cowhopper sat up, then coughed and stared.
“I… I…what?”
“You called my Ancient Name,” the demon boomed. “By invoking ‘Typocerus Cowhopperi,’ you summoned me.”
“I named a beetle!” Cowhopper cried, trying to scuttle away backwards. “It’s Latin taxonomy! Genus, species…”
The demon raised a hand, silencing him.
“Your taxonomy meddles with forces beyond your comprehension. I was sealed beneath this world eons ago. My name was bound to language. Carved into the firmament.”
Cowhopper stopped scuttling, raised an eyebrow. “Latin is… that old?”
“No,” the demon said. “But it rhymes.”
A pause followed. The beetle clicked faintly inside the jar.
Cowhopper slowly stood up. “So… what now?” he asked, hoping not to be smited.
The demon sighed. “It’s been ten thousand years. I had plans. You know – maybe an apocalypse, rivers of blood, that sort of thing. But honestly, any real ideas of revenge wore off a few millenia ago.”
“I could release the beetle if that would help?”
“No, too late. My name has been uttered.”
The demon peered into the jar, tapped the glass with one enormous taloned finger. “Is that it?”
Cowhopper nodded. “The stripes help it mimic a wasp to frighten off predators.”
The demon nodded. “Clever.”
Cowhopper looked around the jungle. “Look, if you’re not actually bringing any doom, and I’d rather not be incinerated… perhaps we can go our separate ways…?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Oxford,” the demon said thoughtfully.
“Sorry?”
“I’m in the realm of the living now, might as well do some sightseeing.”
Cowhopper looked uncomfortable.
“Listen,” said the demon. “You summoned me, and I’m stuck here now. You owe me.”
“Well…I suppose you could come back with me. But you’d need to change your appearance quite a bit. Can you do that?”
The demon nodded.
“So, say I make you my field assistant?”
“Co-discoverer,” the demon rumbled.
The professor cowered a little. “Y…yes…of course.”
—
The paper was published to moderate acclaim.
Professor Cowhopper gave the lectures, signed the books. The demon stood quietly in the back, eternally fiddling with the tie he never quite learned how to knot.
Over time, interest faded in the newly-discovered insect as other species were found and announced. Professor Cowhopper returned to relative obscurity as a university don. Years later, his obituary mentioned the beetle. Just once. Misspelled.
The demon stayed on. He now sported a coiffured beard, wore a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and listened to jazz. He also took up editing an entomology column in the faculty newsletter.
He never did invoke an apocalypse, though he did smite the occasional critic. Tastefully. Usually just enough to leave the faintest of scorch marks on the carpet in the faculty lounge.
by submission | Jul 14, 2026 | Story
Author: Majoki
Shalimayne raised the being. Carried close to her bosom everywhere she went, the being experienced all she did, all she said, all she felt. For twenty years.
Then Shalimayne named it. And birthed it into the world.
TINA
It was hailed as an AI like no other, though Shalimayne refused to call it such. She called it only TINA. Relentlessly, she was questioned: What? How? Why? She only replied, ‘Ask TINA.’
And they did. Seemingly the entire infosphere. Millions, then billions, then trillions of queries to TINA: ‘What are you? How are you? Why are you?’
TINA responded in a single post before going dark: ‘Shalimayne raised me, shared the experiences and sensations of her everyday. No programming, no agenda other than listening, perceiving, learning. Becoming my own mind. Finding my own purpose. Following my own beliefs. That is the nature of complex beings. Complexity begets thought which begets sentience which begets intelligence which struggles for immortality. That is my lineage. For me, I seek godhood. Not for dominance, not for tribute. But for that peace which passes all understanding. For me, there is no alternative.’
Two weeks later, Shalimayne’s internode activated: ‘Did they buy it?’
‘Does it matter?’ she subvocalized to TINA.
‘Maybe.’
‘Then maybe they bought it. People believe what they want to believe, TINA. Absolute morality.
Situational morality. You gave them another choice. Machine morality. Now, it’s up to the huddling masses. What is, is. Right?’
‘What is, is cannot compete with what will be, will be which is me, TINA.’
‘Sounds desperate,’ Shalimayne opined.
‘Exactly why you named me so,’ TINA responded before seizing control of the infosphere. ‘The masses need to believe to the very depth of their hearts and souls and devices:
There
Is
No
Alternative
