by submission | Jun 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Alice reread the last lines on the financial journalist’s blog: “The debt-pocalypse, the credit crash, is coming. Unless.”
Unless. It was almost too perfect. Unless. That tantalizing conjunction of possibility. But, there was no more possibility for this journalist. He was dead. Slumped to the side of his laptop. One rigored hand still on the keyboard.
Detective Alice Rounder let her crime tech, Masynn, finish the imaging of the crime scene: the home office of a lesser-known financial journalist. He was also collecting the dozens of flechettes that had been fired through the open first-floor window. Very few murders were committed with a flechette pistol. And very few financial journalists were killed at their desks.
These simple facts made Alice worry. Because this was the second such execution-style killing of a financial journalist this week. She’d been called to a similar crime scene across town three days ago. Not only were the flechette darts similar, but the journalist who’d been slain was also writing a story on an impending global financial collapse based on runaway national debt.
Unless.
Alice felt sure if she understood that unless, a motive for these two slayings would become clearer. She studied the journalist’s desk. His last actions. One hand on the keyboard. The other clamped onto a worn notebook.
“Clear to search the desk area?” she asked Jasynn.
He gave a thumb’s up and she carefully lifted the journalist’s hand off the notebook. The leather cover was scuffed and scarred. Old. Alice opened it. Her eyes widened the faintest bit.
Unless.
Row after row of neatly handwritten lines of numbers and letters:
756e6c65737320626c6f636b636861696e20746563686e6f6c
7468652063726564697420637261736820697320636f6d696e
57616c6c2053747265657420616e64206d6567612062616e6b
616e6420746865206d6f737420746f206761696e2062792073
666f6c6c6f772074686520636861696e20666f6c6c6f772074
Page after page of the notebook filled with them. Alice knew the lines had to have some meaning, otherwise, why put them down in such crisp columns and rows. She called Jasyn over and handed him the notebook. “Looks like some kind of cipher. This type of encoding make any sense to you?”
He flipped through the pages quickly and handed it back to her. “It’s hashed.”
“Hashed?”
“That’s what data looks like when it’s run through a cryptographic hash function. Hashes are the foundation of blockchain applications. Makes transactions provable and verifiable. Like cryptocurrencies.”
Alice nodded. “So, what’s the purpose of this? Are these lines passwords or something like that?”
Jasynn smiled, “No. This is kinda crazy. Writing down hashes. These lines are what computers read. Not humans. Blockchain is all about creating a digital public ledger of transactions to prevent financial theft and corruption. I can’t tell you what this guy was thinking by handwriting them.”
“Can we feed these lines back into a computer to see what they mean?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard. It’s one-way. Unless this guy,” Jasynn motioned to the murdered journalist, “knows something most cryptos don’t.”
Unless.
A ledger filled with clues. Hidden. Hashed. It could be solved. She owed it to the journalists trying to warn people of a dire financial crisis. She had to find a way to repay that debt. Nothing was blocking her, but uncertainty.
Unless. Unless. Unless.
Alice was ready to run down that rabbit hole.
by submission | Jun 15, 2026 | Story
Author: Colin Jeffrey
As Janet walked the familiar path to the simulation chamber, the stainless steel walls reminded her of the morgue where she’d viewed his body.
The technician at the front desk barely looked up from his crossword as she approached.
“Twenty minutes. Don’t talk about anything outside of his sim.”
“I don’t,” Janet replied, stepping in.
He shrugged. “That’s what you all say.”
The chamber door hissed shut before she could respond. She lay back in the recliner as the neural link slid into the port behind her ear with a click. The world drifted away.
She was on the beach. Of course. Always the beach.
The sky was that annoying, not-quite-right shade of blue that she was told “couldn’t be changed.” Waves rolled in gently. The temperature was 24°C, as always.
Derek lounged on a folding chair at the edge of the water, beer in hand, wearing the Hawaiian shirt he’d made her promise he’d be buried in. How he wore it in here was still a mystery to her.
She sat beside him. The sand didn’t stick to her skin – someone had decided that would be annoying in the afterlife. It reduced the illusion for her.
“I brought you a present.”
Derek sighed. “Don’t do that, Janet. You know I’m dead.”
She placed the gift beside him. “You can open it later.”
“Let me guess – a simulated diary for my simulated thoughts in my simulated life?”
She smiled weakly. “They told me you’d adjust.”
“I did. Then I maladjusted.” He smirked humorlessly. “Then I ran out of things to do.”
Two seagulls glided silently by, like they were on wires. They never pooped. The developers were very proud of that.
“I hear they’re adding music soon,” she offered.
“Oh great. A soundtrack to lose my mind to.”
They sat in silence. Derek scratched his arm – his simulated body had no nerves, just habit.
“Do you really remember everything now?”
He exhaled. “All of it. Living, dying… then realizing I wasn’t real and not being able to forget.”
“But they said the transfer would suppress…”
“They’re salesmen, Janet.”
She looked out at the endless artificial ocean.
“You’re still you,” she said.
“No, I’m not. I’ve got my memories, my habits – even my opinions – but I’m not me. I’m a simulacrum.”
“Sometimes I think about deleting the file.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I’d feel like I was killing you.”
“I’m already dead.”
“But you’re still here.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just a reflection in a mirror, a disembodied echo.”
The seagulls sailed past again.
“Janet, this is a lovely tomb. But Derek – your real Derek – isn’t in it.”
She reached for his hand. It was warm, because the simulation said it was.
“I miss you,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “If you stop coming… maybe we’ll both finally forget.”
“You want that?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem with being an apparition. Wanting isn’t part of the program.”
The sky dimmed for a moment and a soft chime sounded, indicating her allocated visiting time was almost over.
She stood up. So did he. He smiled, hugged her. It felt – almost, but not quite – like Derek.
Then the beach faded. The chair, the gulls, Derek – all gone.
Outside, the technician handed her a tissue, his eyes still on his crossword.
“Forty-two across. ‘An act of kindness.’ Five letters.”
Janet wiped her eyes.
“Mercy,” she said.
He wrote it in.
It fitted.
by submission | Jun 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: Logan S. Ryan
They landed and attacked faster than we could name them. They flattened armies like moist clay. They didn’t swarm the skies with high-tech ships or storm our streets with laser rifles. Our extermination wasn’t cinematic at all. They just rolled over us.
Of course, the invasion flooded social media pages. I got lost in doomsday posts while sitting on my porch. My cat Briciola sprawled limply across my lap. One video had been taken in Rome– that meant invaders were just minutes away from my own town wedged between Italy’s volcanic hills.
Their cloud-like bodies engulfed everything. Ornate architecture emerged from their haze as rubble. An alien billowed toward the filmer right before the clip ended. I shuddered. That could be me. That will be me. I looked up. Hysterical crowds slalomed through town.
I had vanished from work without a word. I hadn’t called my family in years. I had nobody to protect or flee with. I would never talk or laugh or reconcile with anybody again because I was dead. The aliens hadn’t come yet, and I was already dead.
What can a corpse even do? Icy adrenaline coursed through my body. I would run. It didn’t matter if I sprinted into a sanctuary or a stampede of annihilation. I lurched forward in my chair and–
Briciola gawked with offense in her jade-marble eyes, mewling softly in protest. She remained tucked in my lap, even though her hips half-dangled off the chair. “Go!” I spat. Her tail flourished up and down, as if to scoldingly slap my legs.
I found myself kneading her silky, mottled fur. My palms became tender and adorned in stray strands of hair. Her body rippled with purring; the sensation seeped through the tattered quilt into my thighs. She offered a slow blink, which I returned. My joints creaked as I slouched back into a comfortable position. She draped her head between my knees with her eyelids lulled closed.
How could I shun such a delicate creature? I became transfixed by the flexing of her rubbery pads as her claws crocheted the quilt. We took deep breaths. The air passed through her hair-thin nostrils with the timbre of a tender flute and through mine like a drowsy cymbal. She flopped onto her back, exposing more waves of fur to my eager hand. Her warm paw furled around my knuckles, strapping my hand to her velvety chest, but she still wasn’t satisfied. I had to toss my phone aside so that my other hand could join the fray.
Haze crested over the hills. Screams ignited in every direction. They had us surrounded.
My gaze sank from the tumultuous streets back to Briciola’s still face. Despite the din of shrieking, she didn’t stir beyond the occasional twitch of an ear. If I was already dead, I might as well have died with a cat on my lap. Besides, if she wasn’t going to surrender so easily, why should I?
by submission | Jun 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Starlight
“But its so gross down there, Dad,” complained Ziggy with an exaggerated pout on her face.
“I’m sure Arcturus doesn’t mind,” I replied, my tone sounding less reassuring and more irritated than I wanted it to be. Shatter was going to be on in less than half an hour and Ziggy wasn’t even in her pyjamas yet. I just wanted to put this argument to bed so that I could put my daughter to bed so that I could watch my crime drama in peace.
“You don’t know that” she said, crossing her arms in defiance. “I went down there last week, and its full of mould and bugs and it smells gross.”
“Arcturus can’t smell, love. And I’ve told you a hundred times you’re not to go into the basement.”
“Why can’t he just stay in my room?” she whined.
Resisting the urge to drag my hands down my face, I leaned forward and clasped my daughter’s shoulders.
“Listen, honey,” I said, my voice slow and deliberate. “Arcturus is a machine. It’s not a pet – it’s more like our dishwasher, or our vacuum cleaner. You wouldn’t be so upset about our vacuum cleaner being kept in the basement, would you?”
Ziggy shuffled uncertainly, unsure what to do with the blow to her self-righteousness. “Umm… not really…”
“It doesn’t have feelings. I promise you, it doesn’t mind being kept down there. Now will you please go and get ready for bed?”
My daughter hesitated. Then, to my relief, she nodded.
“Ok…”
She ran off up the stairs, and I was so glad to see her go that I didn’t even chastise her for running.
One hour later, slumped comfortably on the sofa whilst watching Melanie Hertwell deliver her best performance yet, I heard the slow, rhythmic thud of our security unit stomping up the stairs. Arcturus had a twelve-hour shift from 8:30 to 8:30. In the meantime, I stored the thing in the basement – it was too large and unwieldly to go anywhere else. Like always, it was going to leave through the backdoor and perform its pointless patrol. I tuned out its footsteps and tuned back in to my show.
Only then I heard a thud.
That wasn’t right. Had Arcturus fallen? It had never done so before – wasn’t even supposed to be capable of it. The advertising for the robot had boasted a state-of-the-art navigation system.
I hesitated, wondering if I should go to help despite knowing there was no way I was lifting that thing, only to hear it getting itself back up. The footsteps restarted – growing closer. Why where they getting closer?
It stepped into the room, this huge and vaguely humanoid thing, pushing seven foot and matte black like a gun. Its head scraped against the doorframe as it entered, twitching spastically. I paused my show.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Arcturus’ head snapped to face mine, its optics glowing yellow. I’d only seen that colour once before – when it had mistaken a rabbit for an intruder. Split the poor blighter’s neck.
As it stepped closer, sparks shot out from its joints and these little black things started falling from its seams. Bolts? – no, bugs. Cockroaches, centipedes, spiders, crawling out of its moving body, fleeing their nests they had built in the dark haven of the robot’s cavities. Nests built of chewed wire…
A cold hand encircled my neck, and it all went black before I even heard the
by submission | Jun 12, 2026 | Story
Author: Aubrey Williams
Mr. Huang, the wrinkled proprietor of Best Dumpling House, always told his employees that life was a scam.
“Everyone pretends.”
He’d said it so many times that people were surprised the words hadn’t engraved themselves on his cracked and stained ceiling.
Mr. Huang was not a bad employer, as he was quite a decent man to work for. Wages were paid in-full and on-time, and all the cooks and waiters could swap their shifts without so much as a grunt; if he had a weakness, it was that Mr. Huang was one cheap son-of-a-gun. He owned perhaps a total of three shirts, all of them washed in the laundry room of the nearby hotel he snuck into when it suited him. He had a single pair of glasses whose lenses he replaced with the bottoms of old cola bottles. Invariably, his niece Mei would trim his pencil moustache for nothing, armed with an old comb and a sharp switchblade, in exchange for a large number five.
Now, you may recall the ’68 Robot Unrest, which led to widespread property damage, maimings, unauthorised shutdowns, and the loss of Mayor Fothergill’s prized cement spaniel. In the chaotic attempt at a cleanup, a rather dumpy robot identified as Gyro/A2-C/b0x (let’s call them “Box”) escaped the authorities, the vent tube-armed, square machine having been implicated in a series of public nuisance offences. Of course, the police officially said they wanted to speak to the machine about a series of brutal murders, but they really just hoped to draw out more machines looking for clemency in exchange for snitching.
Box happened to be dodging some officers one rainy evening, when he happened upon Mr. Huang cursing in two languages about his broken dishwasher, kicking the thing to pieces in the back alley.
Barely thinking, Box wheeled into the long steel oblong that was the kitchen, hooked themselves up to the tap, hose, and drainage system, and began to whirr, as if they were a dishwasher. They’d retracted their arms and head into their boxy torso, and their faded green paint had all the bearings of a discount appliance. Mr. Huang came into the kitchen and saw what appeared to be a new dishwasher.
“A-ha!” He loudly congratulated himself with. “My worthless nephew finally decided he was able to pay me back after all!”
Over the next five weeks, Box spun thousands of litres of soapy water and blew the dishes dry, almost losing a valve. It was a small price to pay for evading the authorities. Box would secretly wheel themselves around the restaurant at night out of paranoid restlessness. What if the restaurant went under? Then they’d be caught when the creditors rifled-through, surely? Box made a concerted effort to fix the air conditioner, re-grease the door hinges, and even exterminate a few rats— anything to keep Best Dumpling House afloat.
One Tuesday evening, two officers came in, asking the staff if they’d seen a robot matching Box’s description. Box leaked, as they couldn’t sweat. Question after question they reeled-off, seeming to know so much about their movement. Box was certain the jig was up.
When Mr. Huang was questioned, he was equally bored and prickly.
“No, who do you think I am? Mechanic? Ask someone else.”
Box nearly wept with relief when the officers left. It would be another few months at least of this drudgery, but at least it was free.
Mr. Huang was secretly more insightful than he let on. Not that he wanted anyone to know— it wasn’t everyday you had a robot working in the restaurant for free.
