by submission | Aug 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
The Radical Machine Rightsists had implemented their ban on all vessels of the United Interstellar Territories. Any unauthorized craft in RMR space was summarily disintegrated into particles.
Amid the crisis, the UIT faced a dilemma. A civilization that had long abandoned force as politics was compelled to reconsider its two thousand years of peace. How could the Articles of Non-Aggression, which spanned planets and star systems, respond non-defensively to the militancy of the machines?
Tomi Mura of the Ministry of Planets recalled her warning to the delegate Organon at the failed talks on Korzan: the UIT would pursue more extraordinary measures if Arazan did not comply with reparatory compensations for the illegal torture and execution of the convicted citizen, tourist, and rapist Jizu Mori.
At the Plenum of Planets, 195,000 sector plenipotentiaries for 900,000 worlds gathered to deliberate on the Old Planet. Before the physical and remote attendees, Tomi Mura delivered her speech, stating that although the founding documents had historically forbidden force, the provocations of Arazan required a defensive position.
The plenipotentiaries became restive at the proposition of altering what they and the epochs before them had known — the achievement of universal peace.
“But how can our political and legal principles be maintained,” Tomi Mura argued, “when there is a party that rejects peace, refuses to join the UIT, and maintains archaic sovereignty, robotic chauvinism, and closed planetism above the rights of all open planets?
“We reject violence,” she stressed. “Yet we suffer the deaths of hundreds of our citizens — our travelers, traders, researchers, and android crews — and the loss of thousands of our autonomous vessels for exploration, science, and security. We are not collectively responsible for one abnormal individual’s deactivation of the gynoid minder on Arazan. The robot republic is an existential threat, a polity that never left the barbaric age of the early twenty-first century.
“So the UIT, after two millennia, must take a defensive stance or sacrifice more of our innocents to outer-space terrorism. Plenipotentiaries, I appeal to your conscience; I appeal to your reason; and I appeal to your judgment,” she said, her voice confident but quavering.
There were shifting sounds and whispers in the ascending rows of the plenum.
“The Anthrobotic Republic of Planet Arazan has been tolerated, but the RMR are guilty,” Tomi Mura declared. “This is no longer a local case of a UIT citizen executed on a local world but of an authoritarian non-treaty planet violating universal inter-planetary laws — a rogue-planet regime.”
She finished. The three sector presidents of the plenum announced that plenary votes would be cast to adopt a defensive position in the interest of interstellar peace.
The plenum became quiet as the plenipotentiaries navigated AI-aggregated feeds from billions of sub-assemblies, casting their own representative ballots on an event that would impact the policy and culture of their vast cooperative space government and society.
Color-coded virtual displays appeared before the participants. The third president pronounced that the results would be disclosed. Columns, constituencies, and numbers flashed into view: 5,367 agreed, 4,946 disagreed, 3,235 neutral, and 5,602 abstained. The UIT defensive peace resolution was confirmed.
“War is still war!” someone remote screamed.
The procedural paradox of a war for peace, with the full expectation that the Arazaneans would fight to the last machine, had to be reconciled.
Tomi Mura spoke once more:
“Our defensive peace will be waged in the diplomatic, economic, information, and resource spheres. Through our charters and alliances, all exchanges with the belligerent planet will be embargoed and cordoned through autonomous interspace blockades. Arazan is self-sufficient, but it is not completely autarkic. Every attempt will be made to broker concessions and establish peace talks, even if the RMR are resolute in their violent intransigence.”
by submission | Aug 5, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Mommy, there’s a man in the tree!”
Simeon heard the young girl’s surprise thirty feet below him. He looked down and saw the child near the trunk. “See him? Can I climb up there? Give me a boost, Mommy.”
A woman in a floral dress joined the young girl. “Come on, honey. This tree is too tall. Let’s go find one you can climb.”
Well done, thought Simeon. The mom had skillfully redirected her daughter’s adventurousness to climb a tree. And Simeon was all for climbing trees. He did it every chance he got. Anytime he was perched high in the canopy of a tree dappled by sunlight, swaying in a breeze, he wondered why our simian progenitors had ever left them.
The next morning, Clarisse stepped into his office with a stack of files. “This is your problem now.”
“Clarisse, it’s our problem. Everyone’s.”
“Not mine, anymore.” She placed the files on Simeon’s desk. “After seeing this data I’m outta here.”
“You’re leaving?” It was the mildest of questions to something he’d long expected.
“This is not where I’m going to spend doomsday, partner.”
”The situation is far from apocalyptic, Clarisse. We’ll have time to adjust.” His words sounded hollow as bamboo. “No need to panic.”
“Please, Simeon, leave that ‘we’ve got time to make it better’ for the masses. This data pushes things forward thirty years. Effects are cascading. Social upheaval is inevitable. I’m getting gone—unless you can look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t see this coming. When the administration started bringing in graduates like us who majored in Applied Ambivalence and Ambiguous Systems, you know a lot of lines have been crossed.”
”If you’re at that point, Clarisse, I’m not sure what I can say. That’s the crux of our work. Ambivalence. Collapse. You’ll just be a reinforcing factor if you leave.”
“Look, I’m not giving up on society—just this gig.
“This isn’t isolated. It’s systemic. Where can you go that won’t be affected?”
“Terra Incognita.”
“It’s not real.”
“Doesn’t have to be.” Clarisse grinned. “You’re the one that keeps saying audacity trumps environment. I’m taking your advice and playing that hand.”
“Listen, spurious media influencers hinting at some mystical Terra Incognita holding our salvation is pretty risky. You can’t inhabit a myth.”
“Searching for an ideal is better than being treed.”
“What do you mean by that?” Simeon was stunned by the implication.
“As in being cornered. I’m not letting that happen to me,” she challenged.”Look around you, Simeon. The malaise, the denial, the ambivalence is everywhere. Get your head out of the trees.” She smiled sadly. “I’ll miss you.”
Clarisse leaving threw Simeon out of sorts, especially how carefully she’d tailored her warning to him. Unable to concentrate, he left work early that afternoon. He drove to a favorite, heavily forested park and quickly began climbing. Only when he was perched a two-thirds up a very tall cedar could he really think about why everything was breaking down. There was little doubt humanity was being treed. Cornered, prey to greed, hubris, hostility, and, now, apathy.
Up high in the quiet and calm of a forest, he could more easily move past the data, the hysteria, the remorse. But would he be able to get past the feeling of resignation? Of ambivalence?
Simeon had a simple rule about tree climbing. Never venture to the very top. It was more dangerous, more exposed. But today he considered going a little higher.
Why not? He was stuck in so many ways and maybe a new vantage would help him see things more clearly. After a very careful climb, he was hugging the treetop taking in the view. In the distance was the city of stolid steel and stone and uncommunicative glass. Stoic structures that might outlast them all.
He turned away from the urban sprawl to the sylvan sprawl of the large park. The view cheered Simeon. Maybe humanity could survive in pockets like this extensive fir grove. Maybe Sierra’s search for Terra Incognita wasn’t impossible
As reassured as he’d felt in months, Simeon scanned the lofty firs. About a hundred yards away, a crow or raven flapped from one of the treetops. Expecting it to soar off, Simeon gave it his full attention, but the bird just flapped and flapped in a puzzling way.
Was it injured, sick, or somehow stuck in the treetop? Simeon couldn’t figure out why it was wildly flapping, until he watched more carefully. And finally saw. Finally understood.
Understood it all. Humanity was heading for a fall, and we would have to climb back up. It would be hard and risky, but we could reach great heights again–in a more careful and sustainable way.
We could look to the trees. Climb up and out. Brave thin air. Together.
Exultant, Simeon raised an arm and swung it back and forth in greeting, not to a bird in the distant treetop, but to the person waving to him from that daring height.
by submission | Aug 2, 2026 | Story
Author: Andy Rutrough
He was being stupid, he knew. He had climbed beyond the petroglyphs—figures etched in the sheer rock two hundred feet from any ledge. Now, fifty feet above them, he reached for the nearest in a system of cracks that ran from here to the base of the cliff. Jack Nelson wiped sweat from his eyes, ran his hands along the fractured stone. The pattern had to be here somewhere.
“No pattern,” Alan Wilson had said after a week of scanning photographs. “I still don’t know how the Atenoi carved those figures so high up, but that doesn’t mean they could open cracks in the rock face.”
“Then where did they go? The Spanish had them surrounded. They were all going to be killed. They just disappeared.”
“Maybe the Spanish carried them off.”
“But there’s no record.” Jack had scowled at his expedition partner. “You know Smyrton’s team found a relationship between altered states of consciousness and dimensional shift. You know it’s initiated by visual stimuli.”
“Smyrton’s results have not been duplicated. They’re not proven,” Alan said.
“But they’re possible,” Jack had leaned forward. “What if they did it? What if the Atenoi found a visual stimulus, a pattern that allowed them to bend space? What if they bent the cracks into that pattern, and carved the petroglyphs way up there as a sign? What if, when the Spanish started closing in, they just bent themselves into somewhere else?”
“Where?” Alan had raised his arms. “Another dimension?”
But now, on the cliff face, Jack could feel it, almost taste the pattern. Maybe if he traced the cracks with his fingers, felt their roughness in his hands. Maybe, just maybe, the Atenoi had escaped.
He glanced down. Three hundred feet to the cliff base. And he had climbed up thirty feet since clamping his safety rope into the stone—not safe. Breathing carefully so as to control his panic, he pulled a clamp from his belt to secure his rope again. He looked to his left, stopped. A curve in the rock matched the pattern of cracks exactly. He ran his hand along the curve. Could it be? He stretched his arm to reach a little farther—this could mean so much—just a little farther. Then his hand slipped.
Empty air yawned out beneath him. He swiped at the cliff face, missed. Adrenaline surged. A flicker of thought pleaded for time to run backward one half-second. One half-second would allow him to regain his grip, his life. But no. Time has no mercy. He was falling.
His first clamp popped out of place. Then his second. The carvings flashed by, then the cracks. They formed parallel lines as he fell past. The lines parted, joined, whirled away again. Jack cried out. That was it, the pattern! Not static like a photograph, but moving. A pattern of dance.
Beautiful, he thought. The Atenoi must have jumped from the cliff to see this. It would have been the only way.
He felt his brain shift. Good. He had a second, maybe till he hit. But if he was right about the Atenoi then maybe, just maybe…
#
Alan Wilson watched his colleague fall. Even amidst his horror, and with no idea why, he whispered. “Come on Jack, come on.” Alan rushed to where his body would have landed, but found nothing. Rescue workers searched for days, but Jack was gone.
For a long time, Alan stared up at the cliffs. “Where did you go?” he wondered, then answered himself finally, “Only one way to find out,” and began to climb.
by submission | Aug 1, 2026 | Story
Author: James Mack
On the night her mother vanished, Mara followed the path through the bog with a lantern and a lie clenched in her chest. The lie was this: that nothing important had changed. The lantern’s light stuttered with each step, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep going either.
She had packed nothing. No food, no second cloak, none of the usual careful preparations her mother had always insisted on. Preparation, her mother used to say, was how you told the world you meant to survive it. Mara hadn’t packed because packing would have meant admitting this was real.
The trees whispered things she didn’t want to hear. Names. Truths. Warnings in voices like old lullabies sung backward. It is time, it might, it may. She stepped carefully, remembering her mother’s last words, spoken from the doorway, cloak still dripping, as though she’d meant to say them for years: “When the world stops making sense, follow the place inside you that always has.”
She’d rolled her eyes. Nonsense, she’d thought. And then her mother was gone.
Now, with the ground breathing beneath her boots and the stars rearranging themselves into shapes she had no names for, the lie in her chest began to crack. She was not a girl walking to find her mother. She was a girl walking toward the thing her mother had always known she’d become.
At the center of the bog stood the Mirror Tree, ancient and silver-barked, its roots wrapped around a pond the color of a closed eye. Nothing grew near it, not moss, not reed, not the bog-flowers that bloomed even in winter. The air around it held its breath. As Mara approached, her lantern flickered out, not dead, but hushed, the way a room goes quiet when someone says the one true thing. She felt it then: a pulse behind her eyes. A knowing settling through her bones like sediment.
She knelt. Touched the surface. And saw not her reflection, but memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Her hands weaving light from fraying threads, fingers bleeding at the knuckles where the power came through hardest. Her voice unraveling a storm over a city she didn’t recognize, a city of spires and burning glass. And one image she could not bear, herself, much older, turning away from a door while someone on the other side kept knocking. Kept calling a name she couldn’t hear clearly. The cost of what she was about to choose, already accumulating like interest on a debt she hadn’t yet agreed to carry.
She understood, then, what her mother had known. That this was not a gift so much as a direction. That you didn’t choose it. You recognized it, the way you recognized grief: not by wanting it, but by realizing it had always been yours.
She almost stood. Almost turned back toward the lights of the village, the known grief, the manageable dark. She could mourn her mother from a safe distance. She could live small and unlit and uncostly.
Instead, she picked up the lantern. It had begun to glow from within, no fire needed, no wick, no source she could name. Warm and steady, the way certainty feels different from confidence. The way a door feels different when you open it yourself.
She rose slowly. Turned her face toward the deeper dark.
She had a path.
She had power.
She had no need, now, for the lie.
by submission | Jul 31, 2026 | Story
Author: Hillary Lyon
Baxie watched the stars swirl through the large viewing window, holding her breath, trying her best not to throw up. She closed her eyes; that made her feel better. She knew her vertigo made the stars leap and dance, made her eyes roll uncontrollably. She’d feel a whole lot better when they ended this trip.
“Hey babe,” Joh said from the in-room bar of their posh hotel room, “come away from the window and join me for a glass of complementary champagne!” Baxie swallowed hard, turned, and put on her most convincing smile.
“Complementary champagne in the Honeymoon Suite of the Moon’s exclusive Tesseract Hotel!” Joh toasted. “Nothing but the best for my new bride!”
Baxie took a sip and promptly passed out.
* * *
Doc Brickell met the newlyweds on landing platform of the orbital base, far above the Moon. He helped Baxie to his office, where he performed a cursory exam—eyes, ears, balance, mental clarity. He checked off several boxes on his clipboard chart.
“Baxie,” Doc Brickell began, “you were born here, on board, correct?”
“Born and raised,” she answered proudly. “One of the first.”
“But Joh hails from Earth,” he noted.
Getting back to his patient he gave her his assessment. “What you suffered from is something we’ve only recently taken note of: spacesickness. This is what ails you.”
“What’s that?” Baxie’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it contagious? Is it curable?”
“It’s like homesickness, but with more pronounced—and debilitating—physical symptoms.” He smiled sympathetically at Baxie. “You will encounter these symptoms every time you find yourself dealing with planetary gravity—no matter how weak. Like on the Moon.”
“We have gravity right here on this orbital base!” Baxie countered. “Doesn’t bother me here.”
“Because it’s artificial,” Doc Brickell pointed out. “For some reason we don’t yet understand, artificial gravity is more endurable than the real thing, for those of us who were born here.”
“My new partner wants to relocate us to Earth after his term is up, can’t you prescribe something so I can—”
“Afraid not,” Doc Brickell answered before she’d finished asking. “Your place is up here with us,” he said emphatically, “not down there.”
* * *
Joh didn’t take the news well.
“If you can’t handle the Moon’s lame gravity,” he muttered, “there’s no way you can survive Earth’s. You’ll never be able to live on my family’s terrestrial farm, or produce heirs.” He folded his arms, something he did when he was angry. “Well, that’s it, then. We have no future together. I’ll put in the annulment request forthwith.”
A week later, the captain of the orbital base conducted the public annulment ceremony by cutting the braided golden cord which symbolically bound Baxie and Joh together. Two weeks later, Joh was aggressively hitting on Vinca, the Earth-born telecommunications tech. Six weeks later, they were engaged, and talking loudly about setting up house on Earth, in Iowa.
Baxie, depressed and ashamed, visited Doc Brickell once more.
He pulled out his prescription pad, jotted down a quick remedy, and tore it off. He handed it to her, saying, “This is a euphoric mood enhancer. It’ll help you knock those blues right out of orbit.”
As she took the prescription, he warmly clasped her hand. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about,” the doc reassured. “You’re smart, attractive, personable—any orbit-born would consider you a fine catch. Trust me.”
He winked at her. “I would know.”
