by submission | Dec 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Matthew Luscher
It began to pour as the bus pulled in. The driver shot me a puzzled look as I stepped off and made a gesture clearly hinting for me to get back onboard.
I ignored him.
It had been half a mornings journey down bumpy country roads, following the recommendation of a tattered old guide book I had bought a few days ago at a second hand shop.
I had flicked through the pages and landed on a village called Ullaloch in the Scottish highlands. It wasn’t its Jacobean hotel or twice a day buses that interested me, but a small note in strange handwriting next to the cheery description:
It is a great place for a short rest.
I had to have a look.
As the bus slid away I started down a narrow country lane towards the village. Not long after I spotted an old and large red brick building flanked by turrets, that must be the hotel. I quickened my pace and as I rounded the corner the rest of the village came into view.
Or what should have been the village.
Instead beyond the edge of the hotel the road ended right at the foot of a massive fortified concrete wall. There was no entrance.
The place seemed desolate, I couldn’t see a single person. I stared at my travel guide and looked again, no, this was it.
Intrigued, I went up to the hotel. The wallpaper was moulded and most of the windows were smashed. A worn noticeboard in the corner had a few leaflets pinned to it. Most were too faded to be legible but one said “Save our Ullaloch from Experiment No. 235824” and another “Community Giveaway: Travel Books!”.
As I was reading the board I felt a sudden cold draft on my neck. I thought it was the wind from the broken windows.
Then the coldness began to spread to my shoulders and back.
That was weird.
Suddenly I started to stumble, my vision swimming, I tried to grasp a nearby chair but my arms were frozen.
I was falling.
But I didn’t get as far as the floor.
Instead I felt hands around my shoulders. A silhouette appeared in front of me.
“Another tourist?”
“Looks like it, he’s got that book, same one as they all have”.
“Who are you?” I tried to ask, but it was no good, I was slipping away.
“Take him… main road… book…”
Thoughts are blurring… are those… ruins of cottages… Ullaloch…? Is that a huge pile… of… of travel guides?!
…
Honk.
Honk.
What is that sound? I want to sleep…
Honk.
HONK.
No, it won’t stop. Fine, fine.
I open my eyes.
The light is blinding. I see… a shape of a bus? An impatient looking driver was blasting the horn for all it was worth.
“Wake up! I won’t be driving back around here till morning”.
I stumble onboard, struggling with my pockets before I find my wallet and pay for a ticket.
The bus doors shut with a hiss and then with a rumble we began to move off.
How did I get here? It’s already evening. I can’t understand what happened. Did I fall asleep when waiting for the bus?
I do feel rested.
Wait a minute. Where is my guide book? It’s not in my pocket, I must have dropped it when rushing to get onboard.
Oh well.
It wasn’t that useful anyway.
by submission | Dec 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: James C. Clar
“Europe during the plague is too tame for you?” The Extreme Time-Travel agent could barely conceal his surprise. His quartz desk glowed faintly under his hands. “You realize that package includes rats, mass hysteria, and the very real possibility of dying in a ditch.”
Mr. Donovan smiled in that effortless way only the very rich could. “We’ve done all that,” he said. “The Cretaceous extinction; the fireball was spectacular but the dust was dreadful. The eruption of Vesuvius.” He gazed lovingly at his wife. “You enjoyed Pompeii, didn’t you, darling?”
Mrs. Donovan nodded fondly. “The ash in the sky at sunset rendered the colors exquisite.”
The agent blinked once. “I see. So, I take it you’re looking for something… more challenging?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Donovan. “We want something truly daring. Something that not only feels dangerous but is dangerous. You only live once, after all.”
The agent hesitated, scrolling through the glowing catalog projected on his desktop. “Let’s see. How about the sack of Rome or the siege of Jerusalem? I can also tell you that the Mongol Invasions always garner rave reviews. I see here that there is still space for the French Revolution as well. The mobs add just the right level of unpredictability and the killing was quite indiscriminate.”
Mrs. Donovan shook her head. “Too historical, too trite. We’re aiming for something, how say I say it … something more immersive, more original.”
“I say again,” Mr. Donovan added with just a trace of frustration, “we want the danger to be real.”
“Ah.” The agent’s expression softened into something between admiration and disbelief. He scrolled for a minute or two more.
“I may have just the thing,” he said, looking up from his desk. “It’s a period of global instability, economic collapse, environmental failure and utter political chaos. You’ll be witnessing a civilization devouring itself in broad daylight, as it were.”
“That’s it!” the Donovan’s exclaimed together.
The agent gave a slow, knowing nod. “Very few request this era. I must warn you, it’s uncomfortable. It was a time of primitive yet expensive medicine, state-controlled media feeding rampant paranoia and conspiratorial thinking.”
“That sounds marvelous,” Mrs. Donovan said. “Just the sort of authenticity we’re after.”
“Indeed.” The agent tapped a few commands, and two shimmering tickets materialized above the desk. “You will need to sign expanded waivers. We can’t guarantee your safety or, for that matter, your return.”
“Perfect,” said Mr. Donovan, scrawling his name with the flourish of someone who’d never known genuine risk.
The agent studied the couple one last time: immaculate, eager, gleaming with the privilege of a century that had forgotten fear.
“Departure is in ten minutes,” he said smoothly. “The coordinates are pre-set.”
The Donovans stood, radiant with anticipation. “At last,” Mrs. Donovan breathed. “Something truly barbaric.”
The agent inclined his head. “Precisely so.”
The teleportation field hummed slowly to life, surrounding the couple in silver light as they prepared themselves. Finally, their outlines shimmered – and then, they were gone.
The agent exhaled, filing their itinerary with a flick of his hand. “Two guests,” he dictated, “Premium Historical Immersion. Destination: high-risk era marked by unrest, predatory capitalism, and moral decay.”
He paused, reading the glowing timestamp on the screen. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. Two more satisfied customers, another job well done.
“Departure … and arrival … confirmed,” he intoned softly to himself.
“Approximate geographical and temporal coordinates logged: United States of America, mid-21st century. Bon Voyage!”
by submission | Dec 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
“Well,” she says, impatience dripping from her voice, “What’s it going to be?”
I’ve the stylus in my hand, hovering over the pad. I look up at her and it’s all I can do not to stick the stylus in her eye and just keep on pushing it deeper and deeper, until it hits the back of her skull. I grip it tightly, still able to hold back the tidal wave of anger, although my control feels more precarious than ever.
There are two tick boxes on the pad. I’ve to choose one.
Choose the one on the left, a man I once knew goes home to his wife and son. He signed up to the Colonial Expeditionary Corp for them, to guarantee a monthly income and get them moved out of the slums into federal accommodation while he did his duty.
The box on the right means I sign up for another three-year tour and get to remain me. I’m not the guy who would automatically choose that left hand box. He did six months training at the Academy on Mars, before being put into stasis on a faster than light cruiser to Epsilon Eridani.
I woke up at the other end, reprogrammed during stasis by the CEC for the job at hand. The job the brochures call terraforming, preparing suitable worlds for the never-ending wave of emigrants leaving an over-populated Sol System.
In reality, its genocide, the CEC’s dirty little secret.
The problem is life. It’s everywhere, infesting almost every planet we’ve found in the habitable zone. Even intelligence isn’t that rare. Nothing as advanced as us yet and nothing else with a soul, obviously.
That’s one of the little titbits they programmed me with during stasis. The findings of the Twelfth Vatican Council were adopted by the UN in 2205. Only humans have souls, being made in God’s image. Doesn’t mean anything new on Earth, but out here…
Only humans have souls, so everything else is just effectively livestock. We can eliminate whole societies of aliens without qualm, because they’re not really alive. Not in the same way we are.
On Epsilon Seven there was intelligent life, but they had nothing more advanced than bladed weapons, useless against our rifles, tanks and helicopters. We nicknamed them the Aztecs. Obviously, we were the Conquistadors.
I killed thousands, male, female, juveniles, even enjoying it, at times. My reprogramming essentially switched off my empathy. It was an immensely satisfying three years.
Now my tour is up. I can re-enlist, retaining my current brain patterns and associated personality. Alternatively, I can return home with those recorded before my journey out here, minus my memories of the past three years, memories of the species I’ve rendered extinct.
They call the brain wipe machine the Priest, because it absolves you of your sins. Even if I did terrible things out here, I won’t remember them. I’ll still be a good person, the man my family need me to be.
The thing is, I like being me, though there are times I get so angry I just want to hurt someone, anyone. That’s okay though, as the CEC will always find someone for me to hurt. There are whole planets of them.
Go home for your son, for Jacob, I think, but this version of me doesn’t feel that same connection to him the old me did.
I tick a box. The desk-jockey bitch sighs and directs me to where I have to go.
I wonder if my family will ever forgive me. Then I realise that I don’t actually care.
by submission | Dec 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Lo’e took the small box from the cluttered shelf in the back of his workroom. The metal cube was soldered together from mismatched pieces of metal. Once shiny, it was now dull and dust-covered. He weighed it in his hand; he was surprised at how lightweight it felt, how empty. Lo’e set it down on his workbench.
He grabbed a rag and began to wipe the dust away. Rubbing with a bit of pressure, he succeeded in bringing the shine back. It was like polishing silver, teasing the luster out of the tarnish. In the cool light of his desk lamp, it was a thing of beauty. He’d almost forgotten that.
He took the box upstairs to show his wife.
* * *
“You still have that old thing?” Cossi said, wrinkling her brow. I thought you tossed it out when we moved.”
“What? No.” Lo’e replied. “It goes where I go.” She had no idea what the box did; she thought it was a souvenir of some sort. It was a chronophage: a time-eater.
“Whatever,” his wife muttered. She returned to her tablet. The blue glow from it’s screen exaggerated the lines around her eyes and mouth. To Lo’e, she looked like she was wearing the mask of an old crone. He knew he didn’t look any better. When young, his wife had been a beauty. When they wed, he was the envy of all his friends. She was sweet and supportive back then, too. Now all that was tarnished with dreary familiarity and routine.
He set the box on the table beside her. She ignored him, pretending to be absorbed in reading the latest celebrity news; in truth, she was annoyed he was dredging through the detritus of their lives packed away on the shelves in his workroom. She went to bed without bothering to make dinner.
Lo’e moved to her chair, sighed and picked up the box.
If I recall correctly, he thought, there’s a switch—no, a button to push—to turn this thing on.
He ran his thin knobbly fingers over the surface of the device, feeling for an anomaly. He found it. A tiny node, no bigger than a pullov seed. Grinning, Lo’e pressed it.
* * *
Next morning, Cossi found Lo’e still seated in her chair. Smiling. The device on the table beside him hummed. On closer look, she saw the thing shimmered and shivered in the morning light; it was so beautiful she felt compelled to draw closer, to touch it. As she neared, the box opened like a hinged jaw. Curious, she moved her fingers into that odd metal mouth. It bit her.
She didn’t scream, didn’t attempt to retract her hand, because it didn’t hurt. Cossi felt as though something was being drained from her, something unclean and thick and sluggish. She looked to Lo’e. He appeared…younger. Like he had when they’d first met. She put her free hand to her face. Her own deep wrinkles were gone; her skin was taught and smooth. Like when they’d first met.
Sated, the chronophage device stilled and opened. She removed her fingers. Laughing, Lo’e rose from the chair and took her hand. They both felt so light, so airy; they were once again translucent, like glass washed clean of years of grime. As they danced and swirled to the song now emanating from the device, their gliding feet gleamed like polished silver.
by submission | Dec 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“I think therefore I am. Screw Descartes and his cogito ergo sum. That’s the kind of philosophical crap that’s going to bust us, Shannyn. If we want to capitalize on this breakthrough, we need to make every last person on earth damn well believe: I am because IDco tells me so.”
Terry Black pounded a meaty fist on the table and glared at his partners, Shannyn Atskova and Galen Jiao, the other founding members of IDco “We’ve got a proven, portable neural scanner that can definitively ID any person. It’ll make the world a hundred times safer from terrorists, criminals, and malcontents. When we started this project, the two of you swore this wasn’t all about making a buck. It was about making the world better. Look, we’re in a position to do both. Why the second thoughts?”
Having failed with Descartes, Shannyn tried a different approach. “Terry, how do you know who you are?”
Terry blinked rapidly. “Whaddya mean?”
“What makes you Terry Black?”
“This still sounds suspiciously philosophical,” Terry growled.
Shannyn purred back. “On the most practical level of consciousness, what makes you you?”
Terry closed his eyes and was quiet for a few moments. “All the stuff crammed in my brain: knowledge, experiences, emotions, memories, thoughts. But that’s essentially the whole idea of what we’re doing with IDco. We ‘fingerprint’ the brain, we make a hyper-detailed neural map.”
Shannyn nodded. And Galen jumped in. “That’s right, but it doesn’t get to the crux of how your knowledge, experiences, emotions, memories, and thoughts are processed into your unique consciousness. We don’t really know how consciousness works. Or the subconscious. When you’re sleeping, are you still Terry Black? You’re not fully conscious. You’re not aware of yourself in the same sense you are when you’re awake. You dream, but we don’t really understand its connection to consciousness. Consciousness is still a huge mystery, yet it’s the key to one’s identity. What makes you you.”
“I get what you’re saying. I’m just not sure how it changes anything for IDco. We’ve totally leap-frogged current biometrics. We have the means to neurally ID people fairly cheaply. We’ve got lots of clients lining up to buy our scanners. Why are you two balking now?”
Galen glanced at Shannyn. “We’ve started to realize our thinking behind IDco might be too limited. We suspect that at some point in the not-too-distant future AI will be able to map and simulate an individual’s neural activity.”
“Machine consciousness,” Shannyn said.
“Exactly,” Galen said. “The ability to upload and download one’s consciousness into machines. It’ll make what we’re doing now irrelevant. If a person has copies of their consciousness stored in various locations, then what is identity and how do we verify it?”
Terry’s thick fingers massaged his temples. “Yeah. I see a hypothetical problem far down the road that may never happen. Screw that. Why should we worry about it now?”
“What we’re doing will make it happen faster,” Shannyn warned. “This is like Oppenheimer and the bomb. It’s in our lap. It’s our call. We have a choice.”
“Someone else will do it, if we don’t!” Terry snapped back. “We’re in prime position to lead and shape events. Build the future we want.”.
“Exactly our thoughts, Terry. That’s why Galen and I believe we can position IDco beyond neural mapping and questions of consciousness. We want to get to the heart of what makes each of us supremely unique.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about the heart and soul of humanity,” Galen explained. “We want IDco to define and control the essence of human individuality. From the physical to the metaphysical. We want IDco to become the final arbiter of who’s who.”
Terry lurched. “The soul? You want to isolate, monetize and market the soul?”
“For the good, Terry, for the greater good,” Shannyn reassured him.
Terry Black stared gobsmacked at Galen Jiao and Shannyn Atskova, his long-time partners, and very philosophically pondered, “Who are these people?”
