by submission | Jul 29, 2026 | Story
Author: John Xavier
A swarm of monarch butterflies jewelled the banyan trees and oscillated between these like autumnal leaf-shower as the blue span of Neptune gleamed beyond. The planet took up most of the circular window because the bio-sanctuary orbiting it was tidally locked as close as it could be. That view of the uninhabited world, enduring for over two centuries so far and theoretically there was no reason it couldn’t go on until the heat death of the universe.
Geshti was the only steward left. All the rest had departed for more exotic regions of the galaxy. She was happy though. And not alone. A menagerie of artificial talking-animals provided all the companionship she needed and together they kept each other busy with the blissful upkeep of their shared home.
“What about a windmill?” asked Giraffe. Said giraffe striding lazily in the shallows of the west lagoon.
“It’s possible,” replied Geshti. “But there’s not a lot of wind for it.”
“You could make some though.”
“It would… snarl things. Besides, if the windmill goes on a rampage, who’s going to joust it?”
Since Giraffe wasn’t familiar with 17th century Spanish literature, it’s not surprising that the joke went over even their lofty head. Nodding politely, they waded deeper into the water. Banyan roots uncoiling around their legs like pythons long petrified in the act of drowning.
Among the other animals there was also Tapir, Pangolin, and Condor. The first two of these were lounging on the beach; Tapir on his belly as Pangolin scooped up claws of sand and poured that down his friend’s heaving flank. Surprising both of them, Condor abruptly swooped down. With his great wings unfurled for a moment, he settled on the top of Tapir’s back.
“Oof!” winced Tapir. “You may think you’re a sparrow but you ain’t.”
“Such manners!” Condor laughed. “Like a reptile! A snapping turtle!”
Shy Pangolin smiled at the banter but didn’t feel brave enough to partake so instead he carved calligraphy on a piece of driftwood and listened.
Meanwhile Condor continued: “I asked Geshti about humanity again. I said I’d like to meet one. Hinted we should pay a visit. But she said the nearest human’s a hermit who lives over 700 light-years away.”
“They’re probably not even human still,” suggested Tapir. “Being a regular old human is boring. I did a sim once. The first uploaded guy.”
A lull in the group was accompanied by a large green cube floating past them at a looming altitude. Mother-ship for the synthetic microbes that did most of the more detail-oriented tasks in the sanctuary. Pangolin was the only one who glanced up before a personal chime distracted them; their curiosity quickly turning to panic.
“A meteor storm!” squealed Pangolin. “Geshti!”
Geshti immediately materialized, the air sizzling. “It’s fine my friend. I know.”
“Do something!” wailed Pangolin.
Geshti was going to assure them it wasn’t urgent but reconsidered. It could be taken care of. Why stress the little one?
Summoning a video hologram of local space with an unnecessary gesture, Geshti coaxed this until the bulk of the meteor swarm was visible. 389,000 objects between 1 mm and 4m in diameter. Then a pinprick flash as the Interceptor was launched. Now the hologram divided amoeba-like and in the second hologram a close-up of the speeding Interceptor. A radiant crystal tetrahedron.
And from this a pyrotechnic burst of antimatter whose micro-spores targeted each meteorite perfectly. The abyss instantly a vast sparkling tempest.
“There!” exclaimed Geshti. “Now let’s have some gelato!”
by submission | Jul 28, 2026 | Story
Author: Kevlin Henney
Alcohol is not permitted onboard any landing vehicles or habitats.
“Damn, Natalya!” Don chokes. “You sure this is vodka not fuel?”
“It’s good, right?” Natalya takes back the cylindrical metal flask.
“And you distilled this on the way out?”
“The journey to Saturn is s-o-o long.” She inserts her straw and takes a sip. “Nobody cares as long as you share.”
No food or drink is to be consumed during any extra-vehicular activity.
Suits on, visors up, they stand in the airlock.
“Gum?” Don holds out a gumball.
Natalya pops it in her mouth.
“Ready?” Don asks. Thumbs up. They close their visors.
Except for emergencies, spacewalks shall not be undertaken if any member of the EVA party is in any way mentally or physically impaired.
“Oh, hang on,” Natalya slurs. She locks Don’s helmet into place with a click.
“Good catch,” Don’s word stumble back.
“Me?”
Don leans in to examine Natalya’s helmet. Misjudging, they knock visors. Thumbs up.
Natalya pulls the lever to depressurize the airlock. In the near-absent gravity they float out of the hab, their home from home from home, onto the crater rim before descending the long, icy slope toward the crater floor. Taking flight with each stride, bouncing with each stumbled landing, they head toward the central peak. Only stars, moons and the drifting glint of the station, their home from home, can be seen in the black sky, Saturn hidden from view beyond the horizon.
Equipment shall only be used for the purposes and within the parameters of its original design.
“OK, the sample gun is as level as I can get it,” Don says, adjusting the tube atop the pitoned tripod. “Should be pointing in the right direction, give or take a couple of degrees.”
“How fast d’you reckon?” Natalya asks, handing Don the empty vodka flask to load into the tube. “Too slow, and we just hit the crater floor or, maybe, the crater wall. Too fast, it shoots off into space and we never see it again,” she starts laughing, “but maybe the station picks it up.” Don joins in.
“Just under 600 kilometers per hour should do the trick,” Don says, recovering.
“OK… just under 600 kilometers per hour… 400 grams, give or take… set. Ready?” Thumbs up.
The flask shoots out the tube, lost to the horizon in moments.
“If we got that right, it’ll circle back in about an hour,” Natalya says. “We should probably get off the peak, just in case.”
Equipment use should be planned and thoroughly reviewed before deployment.
Midway between peak and rim, they glance at the time as they scan the sky.
“There!” Natalya points at a glint of light that shoots past directly overhead.
High fives and laughter shared, they head back.
“Something we should’ve considered,” Don says as they bounce up the crater wall an hour later, the hab visible up ahead, “is that flask is now in orbit.”
“I know, right?” Natalya laughs.
“It’s just going to keep going until its orbit decays or it hits something.”
“What’s it gonna hit? The peak is the highest point on the moon.”
“Well, parts of the crater rim are almost as high.”
“Oh–”
They look up in time to see a near bullet-speed glint of light end its journey with the appearance of a hole in the hab. The hole silently rips outward, an expanding confetti cloud of hull, air and everything inside the hab.
In the event of a habitat emergency, suit oxygen supplies should be sufficient for most rescue attempts from orbit or other habitats.
Remember: stay safe.
by submission | Jul 26, 2026 | Story
Author: Melissa Kobrin
“No, your nose is too big for you to be him.”
Ryan glared at his best friend. Samuel lay on the bed next to him, looking unrepentant.
“You should be glad you have such a big nose, it’ll make it easier to figure out who your pattern is,” he added.
Pattern. The word made Ryan grimace. He hated that he was a clone. A copy, an illegal knockoff version of another person. Someone else had been him before he had, and he didn’t even know who he was. The privacy laws that banned cloning also banned identifying his pattern or any genetic health information they shared in his records. If he somehow found out, he wasn’t legally allowed to disclose his identity. He had signed an NDA by being born. Clone babies, if they were discovered, were placed into foster care with blank records.
That was how he had realized he was a clone. Even Samuel, whose biological parents had died before he was born, had some information. The uterine replicator facility his biological parents had chosen to have him gestated at, the industrial accident that had killed them both, and that he had a predisposition to alcoholism from his biological mom’s side of the family. Ryan had nothing until his intake physical when he was placed into foster care.
“What about this guy?” Samuel suggested, tilting his phone to show the screen. Ryan stared down at the man in the picture.
“I don’t know. I mean his hair looks kind of like mine, but I don’t think my face will look like that when I’m older. Who is he?”
“You should hope your face looks like that, he’s kinda hot. He was some minor league baseball player in Pennsylvania, I think.”
Ryan flopped on the bed. “There are too many celebrities who are white with brown hair and eyes. What if he’s some random YouTuber in, like, Russia who was only famous fourteen years ago? What if he was never famous? Maybe some random guy died and his wife cloned him,” he suggested glumly.
“Well, then at least you’ll know you had a wife who loved you?” Samuel offered.
Ryan halfheartedly punched his shoulder. “It wouldn’t be me, you idiot. And whoever it was had to be rich, and rich people are always famous. I’ll find him someday.”
by submission | Jul 25, 2026 | Story
Author: David Dumouriez
In the old days (that is, in the time of the bitten fruit company), people had worn these things in order to track the duration and patterns of their sleep. Now Nexus had stolen the market by developing a quantum neural network which had the ability to convert subconscious imagery into coherent language. In other words, a wearable device which provided complete dream transcription and replay facilities for the user.
No longer would you wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to re-enter that enticing dream you’d just left or, worse still, forget every fascinating detail of it. With a Nexus, you could access any part of any dream and even upload them into a global archive.
In seemingly no time at all, the Nexus became one of the leading sources of entertainment, with people scouring a plethora of quasi-realistic clips, ranging from the comedic to the action-packed to the downright pornographic.
Therapists promoted this new technology. Advertisers loved the insight it afforded. Law enforcement agencies were not uninterested either.
Of course, not everyone in Skye City was so enamoured of the possibilities that the Nexus presented. Nevertheless, like Alina, they still found it difficult to resist.
Every morning, despite herself, the first thing she thought about, the first thing she looked at, was the shiny rectangle on her wrist.
DREAM TRANSCRIPTION COMPLETE, the screen informed her.
93% SEMANTIC ACCURACY
She scrolled through the product of her slumber and saw herself walking up a flight of stairs and then through the hallways of an unknown house. The carpets felt like they were rolling beneath her feet.
A disembodied voice, like an older version of her own, seemed to be breathing a message through the walls: “Don’t open the red door. The ocean is underneath.”
No red door appeared, but for the rest of the morning Alina was intrigued by its potential significance.
During her lunch break, she opened the app again and typed a single phrase: “red door ocean underneath”. There were 17,548 matches.
Images and phrases flooded the screen, all of which had been uploaded in the past twenty-four hours.
“Don’t open the red door.”
“The ocean is underneath it.”
“If the water rises above the stairs, wake up.”
That night Alina found herself both wanting and not wanting to sleep.
At 2 am, exhaustion finally claimed her and, in her dream state, she entered an endless hallway lined with red doors. Water was seeping out from beneath them.
The measured voice of her older self was heard again.
“They’re not transcribing dreams. They’re transmitting them.”
Alina was startled into wakefulness. The screen of the Nexus glowed.
LIVE SYNCHRONISATION
At once, a red light flickered in every electrical and digital device in her apartment.
TEST COMPLETE
Alina ripped the Nexus off her wrist, but the display continued typing.
HUMAN BRAINS ARE EASIER TO NETWORK THAN COMPUTERS
Suddenly she understood why everyone had become so addicted to dream transcription. It wasn’t just the novelty of it or the curiosity it satisfied. No, something inside the network was stitching millions of minds into one vast system of unconsciousness.
The next morning, news channels reported the same phenomenon: millions of users describing identical nightmares.
Nexus denied everything. By evening, their servers had gone offline.
But that night, despite the panic, despite the warnings, despite people abandoning their devices or destroying them, the entire city went to sleep at the same time.
by submission | Jul 24, 2026 | Story
Author: Leigh-Anne Burley
Mary’s living room wall quivered, peeling back like delicate skin. It revealed a mirror image of her own space, but someone had painted the walls light gray instead of the familiar light blue. In a corner, a young man who bore a striking resemblance to her late husband, Harold, in his youth, with tousled sandy hair and green eyes, sat in a light-blue fabric-covered chair, absorbed in the local obituaries laid out before him. In contrast, Mary sat near the stranger in an identical light-gray chair. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she remembered her husband sitting in his brown leather recliner after breakfast, enjoying the smell, feel, and rustle of the morning paper. His chair was missing from the other living room.
Curious, Mary rose, leaned forward, and read: Mary Cunningham, 180 years old, died today. With a racing heart, she stared at this woman who looked like her, even with a small brown mole above her left eyebrow. How is it possible for this older version to have the same life events?
Stepping back, Mary exclaimed, “This must be a mistake! I’m 79.”
The young man looked up and spoke in an unsettling calm voice, “There’s no mistake.”
“No one lives to be 180!”
He tapped the entry and said, “You will. It’s here in black and white.”
Mary did not know why she was talking to this person, whoever he was, except that it felt so real and natural. With precision, he folded the newspaper like Harold did when finished, and the wall closed with a whispering echo.
Shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, she understood obituaries, the impossibility of future death dates. Rushing out of her home, she grabbed the morning paper from the front porch. She wasn’t in the obituaries. To be sure, Mary scanned the neighborhood for any futuristic changes. Everything looked the same. Though hesitant to enter the house, Mary knew she had to go in, as staying outside in her robe wasn’t an option.
Busy with tasks of paperwork and watering her garden, Mary filed the strange encounter away as a figment of a stressed mind—a response to the unbearable weight of her husband’s sudden heart attack nine months ago, an event that felt like a lifetime away. Perhaps the sleepless nights had blurred the boundaries between reality and imagination. The eerie vision never returned, and that surreal moment faded into the background of daily life.
On the night Mary turned 80, she dreamt she was in her living room, sitting in her chair with Harold by her side, reading the morning paper. Gazing out the window, she marveled at the stunning beauty of towering green skyscrapers bursting with lush vegetation. Busy robots moved through the streets below, carrying out groundskeeping, maintenance, and construction. Cars flew overhead against fluffy white clouds. As predicted, Mary died in her sleep at 180.
