by submission | May 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I remember the rush when I first flipped on the new “accelerated” mode in my smart phone implant. What used to take hours, days, months, of my time staying in touch with news, popular culture trends, celebrity gossip, or the latest meme was now uploaded into my awareness in about three seconds. Then, in “convo” mode where my contacts and I shared all we had to share about the latest, what used to take about a week of back and forth took only two minutes, tops. No side effects, no headaches, just 12 times the information imbedded in our brains in an eye-blink.
Well, there was one itty bitty problem, just a time lapse thing. I would come out of accelerated mode and I was really disoriented about the time. Honestly, it took more time to get feeling normal than I care to admit, but I think I can get used to it. So that’s the downside.
OK, there’s also a sensory thing. In mode, it’s this nice, neutral zone- not hot or cold. No sunshine or shadow just there. Once out of mode, for a good ten minutes a light breeze felt like a hurricane. Warm and comfortable sunshine felt like a week in the Mojave. And the ambient light…cloud shadows felt like midnight followed by a Klieg light in your face when the cloud passed. Other than that, not a problem.
Almost forgot, there’s the rollercoaster emotions or rather, emotion. As soon as I come off mode, and the time disorientation hits, and my senses are a bit janky, then it’s anxiety time. My heart starts racing, I feel I am being stalked by, I don’t know…a serial killer, a crazy person, or an evil clown. I know, how four-year-old right? But it’s only for a few minutes and if just find a quiet corner I’m back to normal in about five minutes or so, eight to ten tops. Other than that, the mode is the best thing that ever happened.
Well, maybe not the best thing. Last week I lost about a half day of work recovering from my accelerated mode sessions. My last quarterly review shows a dramatic drop in my productivity, and my boss had to put me on a performance plan. Off accelerated mode, I can handle a normal work day and getting back in mode at the end of the day is easy. As long as I take public transit or ride share it. Made the mistake of driving in accelerated mode and wound up in a ditch, a totaled car, a $900.00 ticket and a license suspension. Thank the Stars I’m a quick four-minute walk to the subway. Unless, I walk while I’m in mode. Did that a couple of times and once I stepped into an open storm grate (how cartoony is that, lol!) Then there was the time I got mugged. Came off mode super more disoriented than normal lying flat on the ground missing my wallet, my messenger bag, and my leather jacket. What’s the world coming to these days?
However, despite its downsides I think all-in-all, accelerated mode is the best thing that has ever happened. I’m more connected to my contacts than ever before, I have a full grasp on what’s going on in the wider world beyond my own little corner, and I don’t have to move a muscle or reach out to anyone. I’m totally immersed in a new and exciting digital landscape with a full grasp on what’s going on in the broader world! All it takes is a few minutes of my time.
by submission | May 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Peggy Gerber
The spaceship was designated a luxury resort for elites. “Take a thirty-day voyage into space,” the advert said, “and dine amongst the stars.” It was a vacation offered only to billionaires, and thirty accepted without hesitation.
For the token price of sixty million dollars, folks could experience the excursion of a lifetime, including the finest wines, the tenderest steaks and the butteriest lobsters, all served alongside a view of deep space.
By the fifteenth day of the journey Violet was fed up. She stormed into her boss’s office and ranted, “The guests treat me like trash. Just this afternoon I overheard some of them complaining the ship’s employees were no better than prison inmates. Not to mention,” Violet hissed, “Mr. Thistelwaite won’t stop pinching my butt. It’s gross.”
“Well, to be fair,” replied Lillian calmly, “you actually were a prison inmate. All the workers were. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you take this job as a get out of jail free card.”
Violet frowned, “Well, Lillian, as you know, I was framed. All I did was borrow a diamond ring that was left on the sink in the clubhouse bathroom. I was going to return it, but the police barged into my home and arrested me before I had a chance.”
“Listen Violet, you only have to stick it out for fifteen more days. Perhaps afterwards you can write a tell-all book and make a million dollars.”
Violet stomped out of the office and headed towards the room she shared with seven other innocent inmates. For the millionth time she wondered why they hired prisoners to work on this ship. It didn’t make sense. Whatever the reason though, it was better than prison.
As she passed through the rec room, Violet was stopped by a whining guest. “Hey girlie, I’m bored. Bring me something to do.”
Violet grimaced. She hated it when Mrs. Cartwright called her that. Nevertheless, she plastered a fake smile on her face and asked sweetly, “How about a puzzle, Mrs Cartwright.” As she handed her the box she muttered under her breath, “You can stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“What did you say,” barked Mrs. Cartwright.”
“I said, It’s a lovely photo of Italian wines.”
For the next two weeks, Violet counted down the days. “Thirteen, eleven, five. When she got down to one, she was called into Lillian’s office.
“Change of plans,” Lillian said. “We actually won’t be returning to Earth. Ever. Instead, tomorrow we’ll be landing on planet Eden. It’s quite nice.
Violet gasped, “What the hell? I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Come on, Violet. Why do you think we hired inmates? We hired people nobody would miss.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Lillian smiled. “Welcome to our new game show, “Survival:Inmates versus Billionaires.”
Violet clenched her fists. “Wait a minute,” she bellowed. “Are you saying I have to wait on these goblins for the rest of my life?”
“Of course not. It is everyone for themselves on Eden. Everybody will be equal. So much fun.” Lillian patted Violet on the back. “The only thing left to say is, Good luck, Violet.”
Violet wandered out of the office in a fog of confusion. When she heard Mrs. Cartwright call out, “Hey girlie, bring me something to do,” she smiled angelically and whispered a string of obscenities in her ear. Tonight, she might sneak into Mrs. Cartwright’s room and borrow her lovely diamond necklace.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Violet thought.”
She was after-all, very fond of diamonds.
by submission | May 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: Susan A. Anthony
Voice slow and deliberate, the bot squatted beside their table added to their list of dessert options. “You may choose from blueberries, raspberries or cranberries.”
“Is the fruit fresh?” whispered Martha to Ermintrude, her birth parent.
Ermintrude barely opened her mouth to speak. “Only the cranberry,” replied the bot.
Ermintrude, no doubt hoping to allay Martha’s fears, jumped in. “Real fruit is over-rated. I like the tang of Artefacto’s raspberry. I assume it’s the Artefacto brand?” her attention still on Martha, curling her tiny body into Ermintrude’s side. It was Martha’s first-time outside of the incubator.
“Yes,” confirmed the bot. “The origin manufacturer is Artefacto out of Mars, not their Jupiter plant. I am told Mars makes the better product.”
“And for you, miss?” The bot addressed Martha in her hiding place behind Ermintrude.
“Cranberry…please.”
“An excellent choice. Those berries are fresh grown right here beside the oceans of Io.” The bot pointed to the sprawling bog on the other side of the Perspex.
Martha peeked around Ermintrude and gazed towards the water. Whirring bots hovered above small shrubs loaded with pale pink flowers, arms ending in clippers and tongs, darting about the plants, pausing to delicately remove ripe red berries, dropping them in baskets slung beneath them.
“How are you liking your outing?” asked Ermintrude.
“It is very nice,” said Martha, rather formally. Then she added, “The robots don’t usually speak to me. Only one robot speaks to me.” And she pointed at the tall bot in the faraway corner wearing an apron, and a small flat cap, sitting on a bench with other work bots ready to be called.
“Oh, the DC-9. Your matron.”
“Yes. Deecee,” said Martha. Hearing Martha, the DC-9 turned. Martha waved and the DC-9 waved back.
Ermintrude guided the child back to look at her. “It’s just a bot, Martha. Don’t wave to it in the restaurant.”
“Why not?” asked Martha.
“Well,” said Ermintrude, “it’s like the berries. You like fresh berries, don’t you?”
Martha nodded.
“The DC-9 is not a fresh berry. I’m your birth parent and so I’m the fresh berry and the DC-9 is artificial. You don’t like artificial, do you?”
Martha was confused. She looked back at Deecee, who waved again. Martha returned a weak smile.
Ermintrude stood. “I just have to go the bathroom. I’ll explain more when I get back. Don’t move child. You’ll be safe while I am gone. I’ll be back in a minute,” and she left the table.
More people came into the restaurant, shouting and laughing. One crashed against Martha’s table. A glass broke, spilling water across the surface, making Martha jump back against the window. The serving bot rushed over, gathering up the glass splinters and re-filling the water glasses. The DC-9 was standing, craning its neck to see Martha. Martha looked out the window as the bot fussed about her, tidying up the table. She stared at the bots picking the cranberries so carefully.
“Excuse me,” said Martha.
“Yes,” said the bot.
“Can I change my mind about dessert?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can I have the raspberry instead of the cranberry?”
“You betcha,” said the bot. “Coming right up.”
Ermintrude appeared back a few minutes later, to their spotless table, so did their desserts. Two bowls of sponge pudding coated in Artefacto raspberry sauce and bright yellow custard.
“This is wrong,” said Ermintrude to the bot.
“No, I changed my order when you were away,” said Martha softly, “I think I prefer artificial.” And she turned to smile at Deecee who waved, sat back down on the bench and waited.
by submission | May 11, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The armoured door slams back and Danny rushes in, leaving the door wedged open against the fire extinguisher.
Sir Colin Masters, acting PM due to the sudden disappearance of PM and Rejuve Party leader Roland Fordham, sighs. Directives mandating discrete drone impact zones are all well and good, but when you’re retrofitting a 200-year-old icon, there just isn’t enough room to do things properly. Back in 1840 the biggest threat was an angry farmer with a pitchfork, not some frothing lefty with a flying IED.
“Daniel. Door?”
He slaps a blue note down on the desk.
Blue notes are made of flash paper. They’re designed for information too sensitive to exist digitally.
Colin reads. Danny closes the door. Keeping his expression neutral, he holds the note over the flash bin and ignites it using an antique lighter.
“Where was the elusive bastard? UAE?”
“Dunstable.”
Colin drops the lighter.
“As in Bedfordshire?”
Danny nods.
“You’re telling me that Zakariya Zakarneh, leader of the Blessed Liberators, instigator of countless acts of terror, has been hiding in the heart of England all this time?”
“Not hiding, sir. Running an estate agency. Real name’s Nelson. Mid-thirties, well spoken, and a paid-up member of Rejuve. Locals tagged him during a routine sweep. A search of his home made their day.”
Colin grins. That’s understating it. But if this goes public, there’ll be a media shitstorm of epic proportions.
“An estate agent running an internationally feared terrorist organisation. Whatever next?”
He’s seen Danny shoot would-be assassins without blinking. Now he looks uncomfortable?
“Nelson has Scarlet Level clearance. I’ve verified it, sir. He’s one of ours. Says he’s been running a black-box for Roland ever since the Folkestone Terminal incident.”
Folkestone? That’s when it all kicked off, sure enough. Colin had always thought the Blessed Liberators suspiciously convenient and even more suspiciously effective. Being an in-house op explains their ‘luck’ in everything.
He looks up at Danny.
“Does he know where Roland is?”
“He does. We had to offer him Level Three immunity to get it, though. The approval request should be in your inbox.”
“I’ll see to it. So, where is our former beloved leader and everybody’s favourite charismatic conman hiding?”
“Maldives. Under the name of Hank Gershwin. Shall we send a snatch team?”
Colin raises a staying hand.
“I presume from this being blue noted, there’s no record anywhere?”
“Apart from a Level Three issued to ‘Name Withheld for Security Reasons’, yes.”
Colin slowly nods. This is the opportunity.
“Here’s how I expect this to play out: Zakariya Zakarneh is still at large. If the media asks about the fuss in Dunstable, we reluctantly admit trying to capture his right-hand man in the UK, but the fanatic poisoned himself soon after capture.
“As for Roland, we’ve received new intelligence. He’s now presumed dead, killed by a foreign power or a criminal organisation. Apparently, he’d been taking bribes from both. All of which we’re terribly shocked to just now be finding out about.
“Swap Roland’s DNA record for some long dead commoner. Then set Zero on ‘Hank’. Accident or heart attack, nothing special. Quiet cremation.”
“What about Nelson? He going to be our ‘one dead in Dunstable’?”
“I’ll decide tomorrow. Need more time to think it through.”
Colin’s betting Nelson’s escaped by now. After all, he gave up Roland to get the time needed to break out while they held him and came to Colin for a decision. Someone like that, trained to be invisible in a tech-infested tacit surveillance state? Without a static identity to trip him up, they’ll never see him again.
by submission | May 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
“So, what is it that makes you a god?”
Well, let’s see. I’m pretty powerful. Can leap a tall building in one jump.
“That makes you Superman, not a god.”
I can kill you with a pencil.
“Is that a serious answer?”
OK, so we’re not the same species and yet we’re conversing.
“Big deal. Back on earth I spoke three languages and I can understand two more interplanetary dialects as well. That doesn’t make me a god.”
Did you want to be?
“No, of course not. But you’re claiming it. Yet, here you are sitting in a spaceport freighter bar getting drunk with the rest of us. Not real god-like behavior.”
I like to visit with the little people, every now and then. Keeps me grounded.
“The little people? That’s a bit racist.”
Not at all. All of you are of a diminished composition compared to me. Psychologically, intellectually, in stature. It’s just a demonstrative term for… non-gods.
“Back to my original question, what makes you – special?”
I have a hammer.
“Like Mjolnir.”
No, it’s just a regular claw-head hammer but it’s great for driving in nails. Or crushing skulls.
“You see, that’s another thing. You keep talking about killing. With weapons. That’s kind of ungodly.”
Look, it’s not like I’m riding on a bus in New Jersey and shooting people with a Desert Eagle.
“But if you were a real god, you could kill people with a single thought.”
Thoughts can be weapons.
“I’m talking about physical weapons. All the bad shit that people do to each other. Wars and stuff. Why do you condone that? If we are all created in your image, why are we so self-destructive?”
Whoa, whoa. I said I was ‘a’ god, not ‘The’ God. Different article. I had nothing to do with creation. Besides, no matter what species that has ever been generated, you all wind up killing each other eventually. It’s in the nature of living things.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes you sound remotely wise enough to be a god.”
I have my moments.
“How many gods are there?”
Eighteen thousand and seven.
“Damn, that’s a lot.”
It’s a big universe. We have regions we have to cover.
“What’s your region?”
Ahhh… Let’s just say I’m between positions at the moment.
“Wait a minute – did you get fired? From being a god? What did you do?”
I didn’t get fired. I was ‘chastised.’ I took some liberties… with some of… the little people.
“So, you’re a sucky god.”
Be careful. I’ll turn you into a newt.
“I don’t believe you could do that.”
No. But I could hit you with a bolt of lightning, that’s allowed.
“How about buying me another drink.”
That I can do. Barkeep, two more Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters please.
“Scotch, straight. Thanks.”
What about you? Are you married, have a family?
“I’m a space trucker. I’m gone for months, sometimes years at a time. That’s not conducive to a family lifestyle. It’s a lucrative living but it’s a lonely job.”
Tell me about it. Try being a god for a couple of eons. There’s only so many games of solitaire you can play.
“If you are a god, you’re the stupidest one I’ve ever met.”
Met a lot of us, have you?
“Thanks for the drink. Think I’ll head out.”
To thine own self be true.
“Shakespeare? That’s the best parting advice a god has to offer?”
The ducks on the lake in the park are free. You can take them home.
“What the…? Goodbye.”
Bye. Barkeep, can you make me a flaming rum punch. It’s a wonderful life.
