by submission | Oct 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : Sevanaka
It is an unnatural sensation. A man is meant to act; meant to take measured, deliberate steps after rational thought. Oh, for the keen, decisive edge of ideology, or the white-hot flurry of passion to drive thought from mind to hands. Instead there is only the unknown – the great, big, Outside – beckoning to him with the pirouetting lights of the tangled slipstream of subspace.
He had imagined it would have been silent: dark, cold, and uninviting, like some of the older films suggested. Yet here, in the slip, there was something he could only relate to a kind of music. An orchestra; a synesthetic orgasm that tore at his mind in a way that the holosims back home never could. A wild, pulsating and writhing symphony; a polyphonic ensemble of greater proportion than what might have been gleaned from the tutorials, or the guides, or the training. Here, this journey out of known space – just shy of six months out – was rapidly coming to a middle.
There had been little left of the excitement of exploration – of adventure! – left in the eyes of the crew. Their glazed-over expressions seemed to reveal a strange mixture of fascination and dull acceptance. Already, the constellations he grew up with were gone, or at least that’s what the navigation console would have told him. Already, the light from home would be a microscopic speck, or so the spectrometer might have read. But for right now he, like the others, was lost in the swirl.
It reminded him of dancing. Despite two left feet, and an absolute lack of rhythm, his mind wandered to the melody that had once carried his body across the floor. He thought of the tinkering laughter that made the waltz seem simplistic, natural. He lingered on the distinctly tactile memory of twisting limbs and searching lips, as the night wore onward towards morning. He recalled the joyous whispers, the rustle of silk, the profession of love. But his eyes were dazzled by the whirling lights; alas, he could not seem to picture the smile from the wrinkled image that faded, forgotten, at arm’s length.
To him, it felt surreal. There was nothing left of the wit and will of the crew around him; each standing dumbfounded and drooling. Slowly… slowly, the man tore himself away from the mesmerizing spectacle and glanced instead at the instruments. Alarming lights, harsh even against the cacophony of the stars, demanded attention and he gaped at the incoming reports.
The ship was screaming, the reports told him. Posts: abandoned, by men wholly lost to the blankness of space. Airlocks: left gaping, by crew wanting nothing but to swim in the stream of colors just outside. He considered it, briefly, but out of the corner of his eye, her face beamed up at him, chiding him with blissful ignorance.
And in that moment, he knew with a certainty that drowned even the starlight: he must act.
He must return.
by submission | Oct 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bhavin Siri
After an hour, Jason realized that he did not like his “perfect match” very much.
Everything was supposed to be in order. He had turned eighteen, and he was meeting his chosen partner for the first time through “Match Made in Heaven”, a service that you entered as soon as you were born.
Emma was still jabbering away, while he listened and tried to act interested. The Heaven service did really well in the appearances department. Emma’s long brown hair, slightly curved face, round cute eyes, they were gorgeous. She was not too skinny, just like the way he preferred, and the evening dress accented her curves.
All of this was possible through the services provided by Heaven. If you register in their database (and who doesn’t), they will monitor you for your preferences and pick out your perfect match. No more looking around, then getting dumped, then looking for more fish in the sea. Get it right the first time.
On the surface, Emma was the perfect match, but after listening to her for a while, Jason was beginning to doubt. The way she spoke got on his nerves. She was into heavy rock music, which the classical pianist in him hated. She loved trivial gossips about her friends, none of which were even remotely interesting. They just didn’t click.
“I don’t feel well tonight. Would you mind if I left early?” Jason said, cutting into one of her monologues.
“Sure. So when shall we meet again? I can’t wait to discuss the wedding plans with you,” Emma said with a smile.
“I’ll contact you later.”
He paid, and left without even a wave. Emma blew him a kiss on his way out.
Jason flopped down on his bed when he got back. Was this kind of thing supposed to happen? Everyone he knew just simply met their match and got married. If not Emma, then how was he going to find another partner? He gripped his phone until his hands were sweaty. He wanted to call her, but he didn’t know what to say.
Emma picked up the phone at the first ring.
“Jason?” He could tell that she was trying to keep her voice steady.
Then she broke down, and he tried to piece the story together between her sobbing.
For her, Jason was the perfect match. But she could tell that something was wrong, and his silence and inattention were too obvious.
Her crying felt like knives in his chest. “Let me make it up to you. If you could go there now, right this minute, where do you want to go?”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to visit Japan, …”
“I’ve never been to Japan either. Pack your stuff and I’ll arrange the trip.”
On the flight, Jason shared Emma’s earphones and found a few pieces of rock music that he enjoyed, to his surprise. He also got used to her unique way of speaking, and noticed that Emma talked about people around her because she really cared about them. They both gave a squeal of delight when they found that they shared the same favorite author, and then they couldn’t stop trading their favorite quotes from the books. Jason was holding her hand when they got off, and he wished he never had to let go.
Two weeks later, at their wedding ceremony, Jason looked into Emma’s eyes and knew that he had found his perfect match. And the Heaven database had another successful data point for its algorithms.
by submission | Oct 6, 2015 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
As long as it was bug-free, they didn’t care how the code was written.
That is why I built the interface.
The interface subdivided the programming work into tiny code packages and globally farmed it out using Layman’s code. Before long, I was earth’s biggest employer.
CodeMe began as a simple profitable hobby. Everyone already had the implants. All I did was offer a reward to use the processing power of the implant along with any residual brainwave activity. It seemed to fit society perfectly and soon became part of the norm.
CodeMe’s – as they came to be known – would profit from mentally coding through their daily thought-free moments. Coding waiting for an elevator, coding during lunch, coding during a long download or coding while waiting for a traffic light. There are lots of wasted moments in people’s everyday lives. CodeMe increased the efficiency of living. It turned the fat of our lives into profit. With little effort other than a spare thought, people started to pay off debt. Squeezing in that extra line of code meant being able to afford dessert or extending that holiday.
The interface distributed the code snippets randomly, so no-one could determine what its purpose was. Not that anyone cared. They each earned their penny for their penny’s worth of code. Even up at mid-level, I wasn’t privy to the code’s purpose. Only they knew – the ones responsible for assembling it all together like some monstrous scrabble board. I had read enough of it to see military and aeronautic applications but would never have believed that they had a grander scheme in mind.
Interface informed me that after 24 days, coding project Core4884 was finally bug free and ready for submission.
Core4884 had been far more complex than our normal contracts. To finish in time, interface needed a black market upgrade to evolve from plug-in hardware to a biological mush-ware neural net. Known among the cool kids as an Einstein wet brain, its processing capacity was unmatched. I sat looking at it’s hay bale sized, black mesh cage and thought of the pink womb inside now umbilically interfacing with the world. It was almost godly.
With Core4884 completed in record time, I encrypted, compressed and clouded it. Pay day was here and it would be a handsome one indeed.
They contacted me one hour later, very pleased with the fast bug-free work and followed up with an immediate payment transfer. They then proceeded to offer me another project, this one larger and more profitable than the last.
Smiling, I entered the project data into interface and set it underway. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Interface would interrogate their project data brief, and globally distribute the job into millions of momentary time filling tasks.
I awoke the next day to the chilling sound of screams echoing up through the white tiled light-well of my apartment. Emergency broadcasts had activated my monitors with the same news transmitting on all channels.
The first global death wave killed over 2 billion people. The Government was quick to assemble a committee of experts who each spouted numerous theories from solar radiation to wind-borne nanotech contagion. As soon as I realised that they didn’t have a clue, it immediately became obvious who did.
Wherever the sun was shining, people with free time were dying at water coolers, frothing outside elevators and collapsed over their steering wheels at traffic lights. I raised my hand, cupping the bumpy shell of the sub-dermal implant behind my right ear. No time to spare, no free time.
by submission | Oct 5, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Clarke
The air-bike hovered perfectly still and silent a couple of cms above the floor of his apartment. It resembled an old style jet-ski he had seen once but had a toughened clear canopy that completely enclosed the rider. He tapped the console and selected his destination from a list then touched the screen again to signal ready and held the hand grips, after that he needed to do nothing else at all, manual control was not an option. The front wall of his apartment opened in the middle then folded neatly aside and the bike slipped silently into the cool early morning air outside his 46th floor apartment. It glided straight ahead, lifted the nose slightly to ascend, banked to the North West and gradually accelerated to it’s maximum speed along the pre-determined route.
The Island was one of the last remaining places where it was still possible to own and ride a motorcycle, access is now strictly by permission only. It had always been a centre for motorcycle enthusiasts and still hosted the TT races every year. It was about 500 kms away but it was difficult to discern any sensation of acceleration or speed, the air-bike hummed almost imperceptibly and the canopy silenced all wind noise. The trip usually took about 90 minutes, he darkened the canopy and watched a movie to pass the time.
The old bike with bright chrome and polished metal curves throbbed into life as he kicked the engine over. The high octane exhaust fumes filled his nostrils as adrenaline coursed through his veins in anticipation. Out on the road the raw power grew rapidly as the engine revs increased and each successive gear change launched the bike to a greater speed. Lining the bike up for a bend he blipped the throttle to change down a gear, the exhausts crackled and snarled, he leaned over to clip the apex, the tyres gripped the road and he opened the throttle with confidence, the twin exhausts roaring in unison as the bike straightened up then before the revs peaked he changed back into top gear again and with the throttle wide open charged on to the next bend, grinning.
The rumbling vibrations through the bars, seat and footpegs made his whole body tingle, the rush of air tore at his leathers and buffeted his helmet. He was constantly listening to the engine and ready to respond to any change. He was aware of every detail such as the carburettors sucking air and the faint chatter from the valve-train, he even imagined he could hear the oil pump forcing the lifeblood through the arteries of the engine to cool and lubricate crucial components.
As the day wore on the shadows lengthened and fatigue started to creep in he gradually began to slow down and allowed the bike to cruise for a lap. The engine purred smoothly and deeply, the wind noise decreased as he gently pulled off the road. Finally coming to a halt inside the huge hangar he selected neutral and gave a last blip of throttle before turning off the engine. All was quiet now. He removed his helmet and listened to the tink-tink-tink of the swept back exhausts starting to contract as they cooled. He breathed, there was a distinct smell of hot metal and oil that was unique to motorcycles of this era. He just sat there breathing with ears ringing and whole body tingling, the adrenaline finally subsided as he waited for the circulation to fully return to his arms and legs before heading slowly to his lifeless, sterile, air-bike.
by submission | Oct 4, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rocky Hutson
Opius peeked out from behind a small birch tree. Seeing no sign of his adversary, Burhan, he stepped into the open. He’d only gone a few yards toward the portal when Burhan stepped into the open and pointed at him. Opius knew he had to act fast to avoid Burhan’s imminent attack.
“Stone,” he said, waving his arm to indicate the size and shape. A gray boulder appeared in front of Opius just in time to block the cloud of shrapnel Burhan flung at him.
“A thousand arrows from the sky,” Opius ordered.
Burhan looked up to see a blurred sheet of arrows descending on him. “Armored dome,” he yelled, as a thick silver shell formed over his head, deflecting the arrows.
“I am more clever than you Opius, and I will reach that portal first.” Burhan scanned an oak tree behind his opponent and made a sideways chopping motion with his hand. The trunk of the tree severed as if cut by an invisible saw and the tree began toppling onto Opius.
“Toothpicks,” Opius spoke as he looked up at the falling tree. The oak shuddered and fell to the ground in tiny pieces.
Opius checked the distance to the portal. Roughly thirty yards and he’d be there.
He had only managed to travel a mere ten yards when he heard Burhan bellow.
“Hobble.”
Opius fell to the ground. He struggled as a thick rope materialized around his ankles. He heard the sound of running and looked up to see his adversary descending on him. Opius grimaced as Burhan lifted his right arm and a gleaming sword appeared in his hand.
His Mind spinning, Opius wielded an invisible knife and slashed at the rope. His legs were now free but Burhan was upon him, chopping down with the sword. Opius rolled but the sword cut a deep gash in his right bicep.
“Shield,” Opius screamed. Relief flooded over him as a newly formed targe blocked Burhan’s second sword strike.
“Crystal case.” A clear crystalline structure rapidly encased Burhan. Opius knew he didn’t have long before Burhan devised an escape, but he might have just enough time to get to the portal. He looked down at his arm and saw blood running from the gash down his forearm and dripping off his fingers.
“Heal,” he said softly. He felt a tingle as the gash closed and sealed and the blood flow stopped. Reaching the door, he pressed the red button. Burhan had gotten out of the case and approached him but there would be no more attacks.
A voice boomed from a box above the door, “Thank you gentlemen, I’d say Molecular Nanite Test Number Three was an unqualified success.
“Sorry about that arm, Tom,” Nathan Burhan said.
The door of the enormous testing room opened and the two men exited together. “It’s all right Nate, just another day’s work at Landry MicroTech.”
