by submission | Jan 27, 2017 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
Once everyone in the auditorium was seated, Professor Gildritch wheeled his invention forth. On top of the rolling table was a small, modest-looking device. Gildritch didn’t care to explain it.
“I’m sure several of you have heard rumors about what I’m presenting here today. I won’t go into a lengthy explanation of what this device does; it will explain itself.” He flicked a switch on the side, and a large screen behind him lit up. A loading symbol circled the center of the screen for a few moments before an image emerged. It was of a man in a spacesuit standing on the surface of the red planet, Mars Base One in the background. He was holding up the camera in front of his faceplate, a tube connecting his helmet to the camera to transmit audio.
“Hi there, Kent,” Gildritch said. “How are you?”
The audience had subconsciously expected a seven-minute pause after that. Many of them were familiar with sending messages to Mars, particularly the fact that it was an affair greatly extended by the limited speed of light. But Kent promptly responded, “I’m doing fine, Professor. Just dandy. Honored to be doing this demonstration with you.”
The crowd gasped. This couldn’t be.
“As I said,” Gildritch reiterated to them, “self explanatory. This is an ansible. It allows for instantaneous communication between any two points in space, no matter how far apart. I know this isn’t very easy to believe, so my friend Kent here will now take questions from the audience to show you that our conversation is not scripted. Um, you there. In the orange shirt.”
“Mister, uh, Kent,” the woman asked. “How is this possible? How have you made a device that defies relativity?”
“Ah. Well, uh, you see, miss, it doesn’t quite. The path the signal takes isn’t a faster-than-light one. It doesn’t travel the distance between the planets at all. Each device has one microscopic black hole, which sends signals to a white hole in the other one. A wormhole connects black and white singularities, collpasing the distance between ansibles to–”
Something hit Kent in the head, knocking him out cold as the camera fell to the ground. Stunned, nobody said a word as a mysterious figure ripped Kent’s audio cord from the camera and ran off with it, bringing it inside an airlock and moving through the interior of the base.
“Hey!” the professor spoke up. “Who the hell are you!? What are you doing with that thing?”
Gildritch continued yelling as the criminal walked into the generator room of the colony. He ripped wires out of the walls, disconnecting parts of the base from electricity, and began plugging them into the ansible. When done, he dropped the device and disappeared.
“Wha– what the hell are doing!? What could you possibly….” The professor’s train of thought was broken by the ansible on his end. A high-pitched whir was emanating from it, and soon it began to glow a dull red. Gildritch backed away as he started to realize what was happening. When the device was white-hot, he turned and said, “EVERYBODY RUN–”
Professor Gildritch should have considered that every invention that allowed the transfer of information required the transfer of energy. His body was destroyed by that energy, the Martian reactor overloading the ansible to the point of explosion. He and twelve other people died that day at the International Invention Symposium.
His invention was analyzed. We know it works. But that day’s presentation is why, even now, we don’t use ansibles to communicate faster-than light.
by submission | Jan 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Joachim Heijndermans
The floor is so damn cold. I wish they’d turn the heat up or at least let me keep my socks and shoes. What are these floors made of? Some kind of metal, maybe?
For a single person cell, it’s way too big. You could fit a Firebird model jet in here. Why give me all this space, and then restrict me with a forcefield? And dark too. I can barely see two feet in front of me.
A new guard walks in. The first one throws him a salute. Bigwig, probably. Stern looking guy too. Not a hair on his head, but the heavy shadows fall over him like a thick coat of black, so I’m not gonna be blinded by light reflected from that cueball of his.
“The Prisoner will stand!” he yells out. S’got a course voice. Like he either smoked too many Thunder-hearts in his day, or he once dangled from a rope at some point. I’ve seen it before, back in the Tel-K facility. I wonder what he meant by ‘will stand’. I already was.
“You are onboard the prison vessel ‘Corinthian’. I will be your warden for this delivery. You will not learn my name. You will not learn where you will be taken to until we make the drop-off. You will be silent during the voyage. Is that understood?” he shouts.
I nod to him, but he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even give me a nod back or anything. He’s just standing there, like a statue wrapped in leather and velcro belts.
“You will not cause a disturbance. You will not complain. You will not speak. Abide by these simple rules, and you will be fed regularly. If you do not, I will watch you starve with an honest-to-God smile on my face. Am I understood?” he roars out, like a hungry bulldog.
Again, I just nod. I’ve been around the block enough times. Seen my fair share of dark hell holes that they call prisons, and even nastier wardens that go with them. I’ll play his game, though I still don’t know what I did to end up in this place. Or why I was in Tel-K. Sure, I’ve robbed banks. I’ve swiped an identity here or there. But why am I treated like a grade-6 terrorist?
“As you can see,” the warden continues, “the floor is set to go live. Ten billion volts. I presume I don’t need to tell you how much that hurts? So step out of line, or agitate me in any way, and I will fry you. Am I understood?”
I nod. He nods back, then waves his finger at the other guard. Around me, there’s a light flicker of blue light. They dropped the forcefield around me.
“The prisoner is free to eat. Dismissed!” the warden snaps. He then walks away. Where’s he going? And where’s my dinner?
“Uhm, warden? ‘Scuse me,” I mutter. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but you didn’t leave any food for me. What am I supposed to eat?”
He doesn’t turn around. He clears his throat and says; “The food is not to speak.”
I want to ask what he meant by that when I hear a soft clicking noise. It’s coming from the dark. Something slithers around me. I can just see it, out of the corner of my eye.
Hot air grazes my neck, as my cellmate breathes in and out. A drop of spittle hits my skin and runs down my back.
by submission | Jan 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : Iain Macleod
Here come another fresh load off the shuttle. I hate them, bloody smug rich earther kids here to “give something back”. Dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them, taking selfies wearing sunglasses. We’re inside a dome, morons! The sunlight is fake and nowhere near bright enough to warrant shades!
I have to greet them though, and pretend that them fucking round with patching kits or half assing a geotherm pump is really super helpful. The money they bring in makes it just tolerable.
The local dock rats watch them from further back, sneering at them and me for associating with them. Theres no shortage of labour here and many people are unemployed.
If these people thought for five minutes about the reality of what they were doing they wouldnt come here, they’d just donate cash. Instead they fly out here bringing tools and materials with them instead of buying them on mars and contributing to the economy. Then these unskilled idiots need to be babysat through the most basic jobs and pussy out as soon as they break a nail. A decent martain boy would work 12 hours a day for half the price and could support a family. His money would be spent in martian shops boosting the economy and the skills he learned could be passed on to other martians. Those willing to learn, desperate to help build a real community here, and give their lives meaning in the process.
I take a quick look at the photographs inside my wallet, my wife Claire and our daughter Marina. This is why i do it. I hate myself but i’ll do anything to keep food on the table.
Ok, deep breath in. Fake smile on.
“Hi guys! Welcome to Mars, are we ready to help some people?!”
The slackjaws all cheer and high five each other.
God i hate them.
by submission | Jan 22, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Thomas
It was a self-destructive spasm of madness!
When the hunter cornered it, The Future had assumed the guise of a malnourished, homeless psychotic, bumping his shopping cart full of human trifles along a dirt path underneath a highway overpass. In this iteration, the Future was utterly defenseless yet it made no attempt at disguise. In fact, it was wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with white block letters that unambiguously said: “The Future.”
“Stop!” the hunter commanded, leveling his rifle at the thing.
“I can’t,” The Future replied as it continued to force the wire cart through a network of hardened mud ruts.
The hunter fired a single shot into the ground underneath the nose of the shopping cart. Clods of earth spattered a nearby patch of weeds and a wheel spun madly for a few seconds before dropping onto the path.
The Future glanced nervously at the mutilated cart. “Well,” it reconsidered, “I guess I could pause for a minute.” But the abstraction in the black T-shirt soon fidgeted awkwardly and slowly squatted down to pick up a cigarette package which happened to be lying near its feet. “I can’t stop moving altogether,” it said apologetically. The scrap of cardboard was slowly placed in the basket.
The hunter nodded but his muzzle tip produced little air drawn patterns in response to every movement. The hunter didn’t trust The Future.
The Future was full of tricks.
The ragged manifestation squatted once again and picked up a plastic hand lotion bottle. The hunter’s rifle tracked each movement but didn’t fire. Emboldened, the Future decided to gather a few farther-flung bits of debris while it bargained for its continued existence. “What is it you want?” The Future timidly asked, although it surely must have known.
Fingers deftly extracted a wadded donut shop napkin from some nettles, then a cracked plastic lighter.
“You’re a threat to my investment,” the hunter answered. His cheek was still pressed against the breech. “I’m using a second lab-cultured liver. All of my long bones have been replaced with titanium rods. My viscera is silicon mesh, my memories are coded within magnetic bubbles.”
A dirty breeze wafted through the bridge pilings. “It sounds like you don’t need me,” The Future said sadly as it picked up a dented can of strawberry meal replacement.
“That was the plan,” the hunter said. “But I’ve been informed of a glitch within the process of live tissue synthesis…”
“Ahhh,” The Future said knowingly.
“My humanity is at stake.”
“I’m surprised you consider that a problem,” The Future sniffed.
The hunter’s eye discs became threateningly opaque. There was a small click as the guidance mechanism of his weapon locked onto target.
The Future licked its thin lips. “All existence is a delicate negotiation…”
The weapon exploded and The Future jerked violently backwards into his cart, spilling its contents onto the path. The hunter walked over to the body husk and poked it with the toe of his boot. The abstraction gurgled, but its adopted face soon became peaceful. Perhaps The Future was tired of dragging eternity to and fro.
The hunter meant to leave quickly but was distracted by a gaudy bit of tin near the shopping cart. The pseudo-human picked up a can of OldWest tobacco featuring a colorful prairie scene with a mounted cowboy slumped in front of a frozen sunset. Pink-tipped grassland offered endless tranquility.
The hunter picked up a scrap of notepaper veined with faint purple lines. The pattern was beautifully meaningless.
“Hmmm,” the hunter said and stooped again to retrieve another bright fragment from the endless pile.
by submission | Jan 21, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rory O Reilly
The blue was bright beyond measure shooting far out from the supernova displaying a beauty across the void. The vast ship passed within viewing range, the shimmering metal reflecting strongly. To the stern lay the bridge resplendent in decadent materials and there stood the captain and pilot desperately searching the area with both eyes and advanced scanners. Everything returned negative results from the blank screens to watered eyes. In deep space a distress beacon had been activated several months earlier, a class three dreadnought on routine patrol with over two hundred souls on board. Contact had been lost after the crew reported distortions in magnetic fields and severe damage to the outer hull. The rescue effort had been swift but unrewarding, however back on board the bridge, a piercing siren announced the possibility of better news. A large shape was visible on the scanner, a mass spread out over an almost impossible distance. The captain gave the order to make for the location.
It took several anxious hours to reach the spot and when they did sadness filled the crew’s hearts as they appeared to be the first to discover the ill fated dreadnought which it seemed had been ripped to pieces and now was nothing more than an immense floating graveyard.
The charged particles of the supernova cast an eerie glow behind the hulking debris field.
It was with an uneasy feeling in the captains’ stomach that it dawned on him what had occurred, he shouted the order to turn the ship and place the engines on full power. In the ensuing frenetic rush of activity, strange noises echoed through the craft; the sound of metal contorting and snapping as the pilot desperately tried to get the thrusters to respond. The visor section of the bridge began to crack, the violent arcing of dancing spiderwebs as the sheet weakened to breaking point. With a final explosion the reinforced material gave way and sucked both the pilot and captain into oblivion. With no one left to pilot, the huge ship continued to be torn apart, vast sections torn off as the remaining crew members breathed their last. As the rescue ship neared the end of its existence, its automated distress beacon was initiated and began its deathly symphony with its cosmological brother.
The debris was quickly melded into that of the dreadnought, increasing the radar blip to nearly twice its size. It was here in the vicinity of the beautiful galactic cloud and dense spinning pulsar that these two great ships became one and sat in silence for thousands of years. News travelled and the tale of the missing ships passed into legend until one day a nearby corvette class craft picked up what sounded like two extremely low pings of distress beacons off in the distance and a blip on their scanner.
The merchant captain with surprise in his eyes turned to his pilot and coughed out the order.
“Make way for that point at full speed”.
