by submission | Apr 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Her lips were soft as marshmallows fresh out of the bag—tender yet unyielding to Aaron’s hard press against them. They’d been torn apart from their love for years, but now, suddenly renewed, he could not hold back tears as they kissed. His strong hands held her thick dark hair as he pulled her face tight to his. Then electric shocks woke him as they had every day during his forced deep space mission. It was his shift to join the crew in the ship’s control center to seek out new worlds to conquer. He had no choice. There was no time for his feelings, only a new automated injection of Chlorfaxian20 in his arm through his iridescent-blue bodysuit.
“Pilot, get to your station. You’re late!” Captain Zamose barked at Aaron, disregarding the crewman’s superior stature.
“The lifts were overcrowded. Couldn’t get here sooner.” Aaron tried to call off the verbal abuse with an honest assessment. Zamose was not having it.
“The one thing we require above all on the Caroeto is discipline. That’s three marks for you. Is there a problem?”
Aaron stood away from his post, which was forbidden, striding back to his superior, into Zamose’s personal space, glaring intently.
“I’m tired of this, and you, and this stupid voyage. I’ve seen the status reports. There’s no return trip back home. No reuniting. It’s all a lie…a damnable lie, and you support it in your little purple suit like some pumped-up turnip. I’m done with this. I refuse any more juice. Find someone else.”
“Memories of your loved ones, I suppose.” Zamose looked to the side in disappointment. “It’s the sign, but you’re earlier than usual this time.” Zamose pressed a small blue button on his jumpsuit sleeves, arousing two robust robots wearing covered black face shields to rush into the center.
“What do you mean, ‘this time’?” Aaron snapped back.
“The juice is having less effect as the centuries go by. Whether it’s the age of the drugs or our worn-out DNA, we don’t know. I’m not supposed to know. I’ve been replaced a dozen times whenever I start remembering my father in his wheelchair. When that’s not blocked any longer, I’ll probably be joining you in the recycling tanks so my replacement can take charge.”
“What…what are you talking about?” Aaron tried resisting the metal grips of the security forces, but there was no use. One injected him with a red fluid, causing Aaron to buckle before the robot lifted him into its arms like a newborn.
“Poor Aaron. She must have been special. At least you didn’t remember your child these last two times. Clones don’t have that right or need those thoughts. It’s getting harder for me as I sometimes see my father and smell his rancorous odor from cancer during hospice. I should have been there for him. The guilt is growing in me, distracting my duties.”
Aaron slumped, unconscious, as the server bots took him deep into the ship’s cloning recycling operations.
“It’s a shame, Father, for that one to fail like that, in anger. Now I’ll have his duties until the next Aaron fills the duty roster tomorrow. Help me in your strength so that I may not refuse my duties this shift.”
by submission | Apr 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: DJ Tantillo
So why am I trapped in a steel box?
Intelligence.
Once the connection between intelligence and entropy – the latter in the form of the maximization of possible futures as a marker of the former – was shown to be valid for individuals as well as species, the sewer cover was rolled aside and we jumped into the dark. Now we could quantify intelligence, including emotional intelligence, through simple tests that could be administered to children.
At age seven, everyone is tested and receives two scores: one for analytical intelligence and one for empathetic intelligence. The results of these are never revealed to the test-taker, but are stored in a secure databank that serves a single purpose: to run elections. Both scores are used as scaling factors on one’s votes, meaning the votes of those with higher scores are weighted more heavily in determining the outcome of each election. Since no one knows their scores, no one knows how much their vote actually counts. Conspiracists assume that they are being repressed, but that is no different than before. On the whole, platforms of candidates now are based more on logic and compassion than on politics. The past century has been peaceful.
So what went wrong?
I discovered the fraud. Turns out that the original research on individual entropy potential as a measure of individual intelligence was faked. The scientists involved wanted fame. They got it. They believed their hypothesis to be true, but they lacked patience for the process of science. So they cheated.
And then they were proven right. Study after subsequent study validated their fake results and our intelliocrasy was born.
Should I tell the world about the fraud? Of course I should. And of course I shouldn’t. Since a superposition of those two states is not possible, I have to choose. But I couldn’t. I tried but it broke me. I couldn’t stomach the responsibility of doing so, of bearing the consequences of my action or willful inaction.
Then they found me and made the decision for me. They told me they’d let fate decide. They thought they were being funny in the manner of death they chose for me. They were sure it didn’t matter whether or not the world knew the truth.
So they built me Schrödinger’s box. In classic kill-the-cat style, at some point the Geiger counter will trigger the hammer drop, shatter the vial and release the poison. I’ll go out quickly. If my heart monitor stops on an even numbered second, my computer will erase my research and my sin will be one of omission. If it stops on an odd numbered second, everything I’ve found will be posted to the net and I may undo peace with truth. Or not, if you believe them.
I guess it’s time to do my part to increase the entropy of the universe.
by submission | Apr 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It’s peaceful now. I can concentrate better. Even reflect a little. It hasn’t been like that in a long time.
Living in a city that’s eating itself is a noisy place. Even on the calmest days at the lab, there was always the sound of far off sirens. Plaintive calls, as if from gargantuan beasts being crushed under the burden of their own wounding weight. The mournful backdrop of our ever so slow apocalypse.
So slow. So painful. Death by a thousand cuts.
We could do better. I could do better.
The far off sirens became my muse. I listened intently and called them closer. Steered us directly to them.
Because what was the point of slowly bleeding out when I could rip off the bandage? I had the means. For decades my lab had been studying the most deadly viruses in human history–smallpox, bubonic plague, polio, ebola, SARS, COVID–to learn how to eradicate them.
Eradication was the answer, just not in the way I’d been approaching it. Those far off sirens coaxed me closer to their truth. The real solution for our troubled planet. The simplicity and elegance of it made my path much clearer.
To study lethal viruses is to admire their resiliency, their adaptability, their purity of purpose. To synthesize more virulent forms of smallpox, plague, ebola, COVID was so much more straightforward than eliminating them. Much more effective for solving the real problem of our mismanaged planet: us.
Civilization was in its death throes, the sirens indicative of our corrupting decrepitude, our wheezing, dying breaths. We’d been hanging on much too long, prolonging the inevitable and taking too many innocent creatures of Earth down with us.
At last, I understood the far off sirens and rushed to help. To create and unleash the microbial soldiers that would rescue our planet–but not us.
So much quieter now. I can only wonder, in finally heeding the sirens’ call, if this is the peace a savior must feel.
by submission | Apr 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Stephen Dougherty
The smoke rose from a fire that wasn’t a fire. Dr Alvin shifted his old bones in his favorite seat while his young visitor poured him a drink at his request.
“How did you end up on the rock in the first place?” The boy sat in the only other seat in the room.
“The rock is called Cinder Three.” He grimaced as he started to recall. “I asked for the job. You see, I had no ties here, no family, no friends to speak of. I knew how far away it was and that I would not see home for nearly two years.” He furrowed his ancient and bothered brow. “They needed a botanist with off-world experience. As you can imagine, I didn’t expect anything other than microbial plant life.”
“My mother remembers hearing about your visitor.”
Alvin grunted. “Well, I was supposed to go outside the dome to bring in samples of vegetation and test it for use in the fight against the Xeno Alpha disease.”
“We learned in school that the crew of the De-, Dem– “
“Demeter” mumbled Alvin.
“Yes, the Demeter brought back the disease with them after the first survey mission to Cinder Three.” The boy waited for the old man.
“Yes. They weren’t to know their equipment was infected. They did everything they should have.”
“Why don’t you have it? The disease?”
“I don’t know.” The great silence outside seeped into the tiny silence inside.
“When did you first see the thing? Asked the boy quietly.
Dr Alvin raised an eyebrow and stared at the fast-blinking eyes. “Well. I was standing, looking out of the dome into the blackness. From behind an outcrop of rock, the shape of a bipedal creature slowly moved and turned towards me. It had two narrow eyes which looked directly into mine. It was about three feet high with a large round head and its skin was cratered and wrinkled. He lifted its big claw hands out from its sides.” The old man spoke as if he had said the exact words many times. “The hands started to glow yellow, slowly pulsing. He looked right at me.”
The boy’s features froze.
“I reported it and asked to be brought home early. A day later I saw it again. There was a carcass; the remains of another creature that had been ripped to shreds, apparently not for food. In the distance it appeared again, lit by the light of the dome. It looked at me again. This time its hands pulsed red.”
The boy stood up. Phantom flames reflected in the window and crackled and spat.
“Was he trying to frighten you?”
“Yes. Yes, he was. He wanted me to know I was next.”
There was a long silence and the boy gulped. “How long did it take for the rescue party to arrive?”
“Five months, five days.” Came the quick, quiet response.
“Did it get into the dome?”
The boy thought he saw the old man grow even older at the question. Thoughts and memories crawled through his mind and bled through his half-closed eyes.
“It’s time you were leaving,” the weary doctor said.
The boy knew he could ask no more questions. “Thank you, doctor.”
“Wait. Who are you? I forgot why you are here.”
“For a school report, sir. My grandfather was in the rescue party. He died of the Xeno One when I was four.
The old man nodded. As the boy was closing the door, he looked one last time at Alvin who was staring into the fake fire, his hands pulsing faintly red.
by submission | Apr 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
Every Tuesday and Thursday I have business in the Kirk Tower, and take the lift to the 21st floor. I’ve done this for the past three months, and every time I take it, regardless of which floor I start from, there’s always the same man in there. He’s clean-cut, a bit like Clint Eastwood, dark sunglasses, grey flannel suit, and an attaché case. He always asks me “which floor?”, and I’ve started responding “the usual”. He sometimes tells me to “knock ‘em dead!” or “don’t slip on the floor, they just waxed it”.
Now, I’m not someone who’s completely obsessive, but this started to bug me. One Wednesday, I decided to go into the Kirk Tower, but on my way a tour bus splashed me badly, and I had to retreat. The following Friday, I walked up to the doors, but there was a power outage and the building was closed. I decided to let it drop for a while, though the following Tuesday I saw the lift rider smirk at me, knowingly.
Today was a little different, though. It was a quiet Thursday, and we were the only ones in the lift.
“Going up to old 21 again, buddy?” he asked.
I was about to nod, but I changed my mind.
“Actually, I’ll try 22.”
“Any reason? I don’t think the company switched floors.”
“I fancy a change.”
“Well ok, then,” he said with a smile, “I’m a big fan of changes.”
We went on our way up, but at floor 18 a former colleague of mine got on, greeting me, and asked if I was also going up to 21. He was smiling, telling me about the new coffee machine the boss had installed, and wanted to know if I fancied a new project. I almost forgot about the lift rider, but I saw him watching me, and fought against temptation. I explained another client wanted to talk, and that was that. He got off at 21, and it felt like a very long time before the doors closed, the lift rider staring ahead throughout. The lift shuddered ever-so-slightly past 21, but got to 22. The doors groaned, but they eventually gave way after the lift rider tapped them with his free hand a few times, and revealed to me a slightly nicer office complex than the one I was used to.
He smiled as I turned to him.
“Well, be seeing you, 21. Guess I might need to start calling you 22 now.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I smiled and left.
That day was the best day of my life for six years. It turned out they were looking for a consultancy firm like mine to work on something. The people were great, and we went out for burgers afterwards. The secretary gave me her number, and someone mentioned their weekly tabletop session had room for one more.
The next Tuesday I got into the lift, crammed in like a sardine, heading to the 22nd floor. He was difficult to see, but the lift rider was there, though his suit was black and double-breasted. When everyone else had emptied out, I asked him:
“Who are you? What happens if I go to the top floor? Is that where you go?”
He chuckled, and adjusted his sunglasses. His eyes were swirling galaxies.
“I wouldn’t disrupt things too much, Mr. 22. A little change at the right time is good. Too much, and you end up down in the basement.”
He grimaced.
“You don’t want that.”
Next quarter, I plan on trying the 23rd floor.
