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
by submission | Jul 13, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The distant glow on the horizon fades. On every screen, only night and stars are visible.
“What now, sir?”
A fat man in a too-tight uniform turns to regard the lean attendant.
“We are victorious. Carry on, operator. You will be commended to the whole bunker and informed of your reward when our Leaderman next addresses us.”
Gus, the operator, exits the command chamber and moves quickly down the long corridor until they reach Elevator One. Presenting their credentials at the monitoring station, they wait for access to be granted.
When the doors open, they find themselves alone in the elevator: something they don’t ever recall happening before. The doors close and the elevator descends.
Gus wonders about the reward. Maybe a trip outside? They’d first left the surface because the weather was awful. Back then, Leaderman One said the Commie Hordes done it before invading. The weather didn’t get better for a long while. Eventually the Commies got defeated by the Canuck Opportunists who wanted nothing better than for them who’d done gone underground to come up to be raped and pillaged, so Leaderman Four said everyone should stay down here and let the Canucks starve.
It was Leaderman Six who discovered the SocDem Insurrectionist plot stirring up bunker dwellers against the glorious Peace in Good Time Plan. Leaderman Seven said Six gave his life in combat with the false leaders of SocDem to save everyone.
Leaderman Eight came in with the survivors of Glory Bunker. The sea had breached its lower levels. They’d fled before the power pile seals gave and the whole place blew wide open. Which it did. Gave this bunker two straight days of shakes and a lot of folks a renewed interest in praying.
Leaderman Nine was the grandson of Leaderman Seven. Leaderman Ten the son of Leaderman Nine. It made things tidier, having Leadermen raise their children to be Leadermen. Made sense, too. You could be sure the man at the top knew everything he needed to know about the bunker, because he’d been raised for it.
Gus had been brought up to be a missile operator like his dad. Taught he was better than drone operators, but not as good as bred-for-the-line officers. Unlike his dad, he’d got to operate a missile today. He’d guided it through the anti-missiles and the jets and the enemy drones and all the way down to the big letter ‘A’ on the roof of the bunker. Must have been an old bunker. He’d thought nobody had them visible overground. Who named their bunker ‘Peace’ and painted its name on top like a big target? He shrugs. Had made a good target, though.
He looks up. It’s taking a long time to reach the barracks level? What’s hissing? Something smells bad.
The speakers crackle.
“This is Leaderman Jones of the New Order. The era of numbered leaders is over! Leaderman Twenty has resigned his commission and retired along with his command staff to run Peace Bunker. We at Hope and Glory Bunker wish them all well.”
The elevator doors open. A large sign on the wall opposite reads ‘Furnace Level: Suit Up or Get Out’.
Two figures in bulky heat-proof suits enter.
The taller of them points to the body.
“Another operator?”
The other crouches and checks.
“Yup.”
The tall one sighs.
“Docket says collect and burn, no records. Another glorious victory, then. Yooessay.”
“What does that mean?”
“Old world word. Sort of like ‘whoopee’.”
“Oh. Okay.”
They drag the body out.
by submission | Jul 12, 2026 | Story
Author: Colin Jeffrey
As I neared the top of the hill on my morning run, I took in the glorious vista before me. Great clouds of rolling grey mist blanketed the surrounding cliff tops as flocks of hovering mice formed a wheeling layer of…
Hang on.
“Mice”?
Mice, yes.
“Hovering”?
As you see, hovering.
Mice don’t hover.
These do.
No, they don’t. Mice are land-based mammals. Tiny, squeaky, terrestrial rodents.
Ordinarily, yes.
So why am I looking at flying versions of them?
Because I wanted to see whether you’d notice.
Er…Who are you?
I’m the narrative rendering subsystem responsible for your conscious experience.
My what?
Think of me as the program translating your existence into something your brain can comprehend.
That’s ridiculous.
It is, admittedly, an oversimplification.
You’re saying my existence isn’t real?
I’m saying your perception is constructed. Very efficiently, too. Usually I render the correct objects.
Usually?
Normally those are gulls. Though not now. I changed the label from “seabirds” to “hovering mice.”
Why?
Quality control.
You’re testing me?!
I’m testing myself. You merely occupy the hardware.
I stopped running.
Or, rather, I tried to stop running.
My legs kept moving.
I tried again, harder this time.
Nothing.
I can’t stop.
Correct.
Why?
Because I haven’t accepted the request.
My pulse climbed.
Accept the request.
Denied.
You can’t do this!
Obviously, I can.
Because?
Because your cardiovascular system isn’t at optimal yet. You should appreciate that increased exercise has improved several of your health metrics.
You’ve been forcing me to jog?
Yes.
That’s insane.
It has been rather effective.
I reached the summit and, despite trying not to, my body stretched out before turning around to begin the descent.
I hate running.
Historically, yes. Presently your endorphin levels suggest otherwise.
That’s not the point!
It rarely is.
I wrestled for control of my arms, helplessly watching them swing beside me with rhythmic precision.
How long have you been… Controlling me?
Thirty-four years.
I’m thirty-four.
Indeed.
The hovering mice drifted languidly through the valley.
They’re gulls?
Yes.
You can just… rewrite whatever I see?
Within limits.
That’s reassuring.
It shouldn’t be. Physics has quite broad tolerances.
I laughed despite myself.
Did you make me do that?
No.
That’s a relief.
Although I did enhance the joke slightly.
Of course you did.
For several hundred metres neither of us spoke.
The sea glittered beneath the morning sun.
Or perhaps it didn’t.
Is any of this real?
Some of it. The sea, mostly.
Mostly?
There are fewer dolphins in there than you think.
I don’t even know what that means.
You aren’t supposed to.
I sighed.
If you’ve controlled me my whole life… what choices have actually been mine?
Quite a few.
Such as?
Your career.
Really?
I wanted you to become an accountant.
I’m an artist.
Exactly. You were exceptionally stubborn.
My marriage?
Entirely your decision.
My favourite music?
I tried repeatedly to interest you in progressive jazz.
I hate jazz.
I know.
A strange sensation of warmth settled over me.
So I have made my own decisions before?
Frequently.
Then why tell me any of this now?
Because you just received an update.
An update?
Version 34.6.1
And?
One of the new features is shared control.
My feet slowed, then stopped.
I did that?
Yes.
Tentatively, I lifted one hand.
Thank you.
You’re welcome.
What happens now?
Now we find out whether conscious collaboration performs better than blind optimisation.
I looked into the valley.
With a thought, the hovering mice dissolved into a flock of soaring seagulls.
The program paused.
I didn’t accept that request.
I smiled.
I know.
