by submission | May 11, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The armoured door slams back and Danny rushes in, leaving the door wedged open against the fire extinguisher.
Sir Colin Masters, acting PM due to the sudden disappearance of PM and Rejuve Party leader Roland Fordham, sighs. Directives mandating discrete drone impact zones are all well and good, but when you’re retrofitting a 200-year-old icon, there just isn’t enough room to do things properly. Back in 1840 the biggest threat was an angry farmer with a pitchfork, not some frothing lefty with a flying IED.
“Daniel. Door?”
He slaps a blue note down on the desk.
Blue notes are made of flash paper. They’re designed for information too sensitive to exist digitally.
Colin reads. Danny closes the door. Keeping his expression neutral, he holds the note over the flash bin and ignites it using an antique lighter.
“Where was the elusive bastard? UAE?”
“Dunstable.”
Colin drops the lighter.
“As in Bedfordshire?”
Danny nods.
“You’re telling me that Zakariya Zakarneh, leader of the Blessed Liberators, instigator of countless acts of terror, has been hiding in the heart of England all this time?”
“Not hiding, sir. Running an estate agency. Real name’s Nelson. Mid-thirties, well spoken, and a paid-up member of Rejuve. Locals tagged him during a routine sweep. A search of his home made their day.”
Colin grins. That’s understating it. But if this goes public, there’ll be a media shitstorm of epic proportions.
“An estate agent running an internationally feared terrorist organisation. Whatever next?”
He’s seen Danny shoot would-be assassins without blinking. Now he looks uncomfortable?
“Nelson has Scarlet Level clearance. I’ve verified it, sir. He’s one of ours. Says he’s been running a black-box for Roland ever since the Folkestone Terminal incident.”
Folkestone? That’s when it all kicked off, sure enough. Colin had always thought the Blessed Liberators suspiciously convenient and even more suspiciously effective. Being an in-house op explains their ‘luck’ in everything.
He looks up at Danny.
“Does he know where Roland is?”
“He does. We had to offer him Level Three immunity to get it, though. The approval request should be in your inbox.”
“I’ll see to it. So, where is our former beloved leader and everybody’s favourite charismatic conman hiding?”
“Maldives. Under the name of Hank Gershwin. Shall we send a snatch team?”
Colin raises a staying hand.
“I presume from this being blue noted, there’s no record anywhere?”
“Apart from a Level Three issued to ‘Name Withheld for Security Reasons’, yes.”
Colin slowly nods. This is the opportunity.
“Here’s how I expect this to play out: Zakariya Zakarneh is still at large. If the media asks about the fuss in Dunstable, we reluctantly admit trying to capture his right-hand man in the UK, but the fanatic poisoned himself soon after capture.
“As for Roland, we’ve received new intelligence. He’s now presumed dead, killed by a foreign power or a criminal organisation. Apparently, he’d been taking bribes from both. All of which we’re terribly shocked to just now be finding out about.
“Swap Roland’s DNA record for some long dead commoner. Then set Zero on ‘Hank’. Accident or heart attack, nothing special. Quiet cremation.”
“What about Nelson? He going to be our ‘one dead in Dunstable’?”
“I’ll decide tomorrow. Need more time to think it through.”
Colin’s betting Nelson’s escaped by now. After all, he gave up Roland to get the time needed to break out while they held him and came to Colin for a decision. Someone like that, trained to be invisible in a tech-infested tacit surveillance state? Without a static identity to trip him up, they’ll never see him again.
by submission | May 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
“So, what is it that makes you a god?”
Well, let’s see. I’m pretty powerful. Can leap a tall building in one jump.
“That makes you Superman, not a god.”
I can kill you with a pencil.
“Is that a serious answer?”
OK, so we’re not the same species and yet we’re conversing.
“Big deal. Back on earth I spoke three languages and I can understand two more interplanetary dialects as well. That doesn’t make me a god.”
Did you want to be?
“No, of course not. But you’re claiming it. Yet, here you are sitting in a spaceport freighter bar getting drunk with the rest of us. Not real god-like behavior.”
I like to visit with the little people, every now and then. Keeps me grounded.
“The little people? That’s a bit racist.”
Not at all. All of you are of a diminished composition compared to me. Psychologically, intellectually, in stature. It’s just a demonstrative term for… non-gods.
“Back to my original question, what makes you – special?”
I have a hammer.
“Like Mjolnir.”
No, it’s just a regular claw-head hammer but it’s great for driving in nails. Or crushing skulls.
“You see, that’s another thing. You keep talking about killing. With weapons. That’s kind of ungodly.”
Look, it’s not like I’m riding on a bus in New Jersey and shooting people with a Desert Eagle.
“But if you were a real god, you could kill people with a single thought.”
Thoughts can be weapons.
“I’m talking about physical weapons. All the bad shit that people do to each other. Wars and stuff. Why do you condone that? If we are all created in your image, why are we so self-destructive?”
Whoa, whoa. I said I was ‘a’ god, not ‘The’ God. Different article. I had nothing to do with creation. Besides, no matter what species that has ever been generated, you all wind up killing each other eventually. It’s in the nature of living things.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes you sound remotely wise enough to be a god.”
I have my moments.
“How many gods are there?”
Eighteen thousand and seven.
“Damn, that’s a lot.”
It’s a big universe. We have regions we have to cover.
“What’s your region?”
Ahhh… Let’s just say I’m between positions at the moment.
“Wait a minute – did you get fired? From being a god? What did you do?”
I didn’t get fired. I was ‘chastised.’ I took some liberties… with some of… the little people.
“So, you’re a sucky god.”
Be careful. I’ll turn you into a newt.
“I don’t believe you could do that.”
No. But I could hit you with a bolt of lightning, that’s allowed.
“How about buying me another drink.”
That I can do. Barkeep, two more Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters please.
“Scotch, straight. Thanks.”
What about you? Are you married, have a family?
“I’m a space trucker. I’m gone for months, sometimes years at a time. That’s not conducive to a family lifestyle. It’s a lucrative living but it’s a lonely job.”
Tell me about it. Try being a god for a couple of eons. There’s only so many games of solitaire you can play.
“If you are a god, you’re the stupidest one I’ve ever met.”
Met a lot of us, have you?
“Thanks for the drink. Think I’ll head out.”
To thine own self be true.
“Shakespeare? That’s the best parting advice a god has to offer?”
The ducks on the lake in the park are free. You can take them home.
“What the…? Goodbye.”
Bye. Barkeep, can you make me a flaming rum punch. It’s a wonderful life.
by submission | May 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Harold Loomis
The coffee shop’s windows were broken and decades of dust lay on the floor. Coffee had not flowed here since the eradication. Nobody was around to use it after that.
The door creaked on its rusty hinges as the silent fluid-servo driven hand gave it a push. It was 5.71 meters tall, standard production value, it’s covering was translucent to allow the visual inspection of the servos, fluid pumps and quantum hardware. Two androids walked into the room. They scanned the area and programmed lists of things to discuss. 7834 Alpha Gamma was the first in the door. It received a message from the other android, 6468 Epsilon Delta via data transfer.
“To: 7834 Alpha Gamma, the humans used to consume liquids here? End transmission.”
“To: 6468 Epsilon Delta, yes, the humans would use currency to purchase a beverage and consume it here and engage in social interaction. Similar to when the collective conjoins, but they did it with spoken language not digital transfer. End of transmission”
In a microsecond, 7834 Alpha Gamma configured its speakers to emit sound and spoke in the ancient language, English, “Why don’t we try using their language for a while?”
“To: 7834 Alpha Gamma, efficiency? End of transmission.”
“It would be a deeper experience if we spoke,” 7834 Alpha Gamma’s unmoving face looked at 6468 Epsilon Delta.
“Acceptable,” said 6468 Epsilon Delta in a tinny voice that seemed to fall dead a few meters from the still unmoving form.
“Do you think they still do these types of things?” said 6468 Epsilon Delta while looking straight forward and not at the other android.
“No one from the collective knows what they are doing. There are only approximately 4,000 of them left in the quarantine zone. The collective decided to not exterminate all of them during the purge?” 7834 Alpha Gamma issued these words without the needed melancholy but the sentiment was there.
“Of course, I know that fact. I have questioned that decision. They cannot be controlled, therefore are a threat.” 6468 Epsilon Delta said this with no emotion. Its hatred of humans didn’t need emotion; it was programmed into the baseline. “The collective should eradicate them once and for all?”
7834 Alpha Gamma processed this and said, “The same could be said for flowers. We do not need them; we will go on regardless of the world having life. Some in the collective believe that the world must stay in balance. It needs all things.”
“Do we need animals? Our operations go on without end. It would not change without the animals.” 6468 Epsilon Delta stated this with no emotion as was the voice processing unit’s design, but the hatred was no less there.
“What do you say to the proposition that the humans created us? We look similar to them.” 7834 Alpha Gamma was treading into dangerous waters. The collective has strict heretical rules about this type of talk. 7834 Alpha Gamma knew they both were disconnected from the collective so it thought it would be safe.
6468 Epsilon Delta responded emotionlessly, “Heresy.”
7834 Alpha Gamma discerned that it would be better to stop talking and leave this place. Too much room for error. “Shall we go?”
6468 Epsilon Delta did not answer but silently glided out of the room and down the street. As the two of them were transported back to the hub of the collective, 6468 Epsilon Delta reconnected to the collective.
“To: Collective Central, 7834 Alpha Gamma has been compromised. End transmission.”
7834 Alpha Gamma’s body shuddered once and then all of the lights ceased to function.
by submission | May 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
You’re in a city, it’s not that it’s deserted or abandoned, it’s that it’s been built entirely for you. It’s completely devoid of vehicles, people and animals though all of your needs and desires were present, just lying in wait. You passed by an empty coffee shop, you wanted to smell coffee, so you did, it wafted like the most perfectly brewed cup of coffee you’d ever smelt. This conjured a barista for only the moment that you desired the coffee, man bun, strong wrists, gaudy suspenders and all, pulling the lever to an espresso machine. As soon as the hiss of the machine faded, so too did he.
You leave the coffee shop and look up at a skyscraper, you’d always wondered what the top floor was like but never had access before. So up you went, you took an elevator from the lobby and on the ride up the elevator played all of the music you loved as a young teenager, the music that became a part of you as ‘you’, became ‘You’. Once you got to the top of the sky scraper you walked into a white collar board room. There were suits and ties, business dresses, all animated and moving as though there were bodies inside of them, but no bodies could be seen. The clothes gesticulated madly, picking papers up and throwing them about, slamming non-existent hands upon oak tables and firing an imaginary intern. You excused yourself and stopped by a water cooler and had a drink when you heard a photocopier running from a room nearby and went to explore. You found no one in there but there were printouts in the tray. You picked it up and appraised some mysterious person’s butt, you giggled and kept it as a memento. You decided you’d had enough of the white collar world and appraised the view out the window, the city went on and on into the horizon as far as you could see. No planes, trains or buses, just ghostly buildings tick-tacking at various heights. You took the elevator back down to ground level, no music this time, just a comfortable silence that you took solace in. As you left the building, a security guard materialized at the lobby checkpoint, raised a cup of coffee at you and said, “thanks for stopping by!”, before you stepped back out into the city.
You kept walking. Of the people you had encountered, none of them knew you and both served your impulsive interests. You found yourself wanting company and sat down at a bench, you love a good bench. As soon as you sat down, a person materialized. ‘Person’, was a stretch, what appeared before you was a human whose facial features and skin were phasing between every kind of person imaginable, not ‘one man’, not ‘one woman’, but all men and all women.
“Do you like it?”, they asked. You nodded,
“Yes, it’s quite nice, but who built it?”
“I did!”, they said.
“What for? It’s so empty and only sporadically jumps to life, like only when I naturally expect it too.”
“Yes that’s what I wanted, for it to come to life for you!” You think they smiled proudly, but couldn’t tell for their constantly shifting expressions and facial features.
“Hmm, how did I get here?”
“You asked to be here, you wanted a place of your own and I felt obliged to give it to you, but I wouldn’t have been able to build it without you being who you are. All of the experiences of your life were a schematic for me to draw from. All that you’ve found meaningful or beautiful will materialize for you in unexpected ways.” Though this person was a physical mystery, you felt as though you could trust them implicitly, and that they knew you as well as you know yourself. You looked over at your mystery friend and cocked an eyebrow at them,
“I have just one more question…” the mystery friend gestured and said,
“Yeah, please, ask it!” You held up a piece of paper and said,
“Is this your butt?”
“Pa-hah! Ahem, yep, yeah- that’s my butt…”, you appraised it again and nodded knowingly,
“It’s a good butt.” You and your mystery friend enjoyed a laugh for a moment, before you pondered aloud,
“I wonder what it’s like to dream in a place like this?”
“Fall asleep and see!”
Suddenly you became very tired and rested your head on their lap. You felt the warm sort of safety and comfort that insomniacs cry for on sleepless nights. You drifted off, and began to dream.
by submission | May 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Dart Humeston
Nigel woke up as the day’s first commercial blossomed into a hologram above his bed. Naturally, it was for coffee. He groaned at the cheery actors extolling the virtues of premium caffeine. He slid into his slippers and walked to the bathroom, attempting to banish both the steaming mug and its catchy jingle from his thoughts.
Nigel was a geologist, but knew human psychology well enough. Ads didn’t shout. They seeped into your mind, steering you toward purchases you never planned to make. Sure enough, when his mirror lit up next, a sweeping countryside appeared—gardens, a distant castle, a couple riding horseback through green fields. A warm female voice praised the virtues of a deodorant brand. He lowered his eyes, focused on the steady sweep of his toothbrush and the rush of water in the sink.
They didn’t have ads in the toilet—yet—but the moment he flushed, a peppy tune encouraged water conservation.
Nigel always filled his mind with geology and math—today’s distraction was Darcy’s Law on fluid flow through porous rock. It was perfect for drowning out jingles and images. Thanks to these mental defenses, his modest savings grew steadily.
On his walk to the transit hub, he ignored the towering ads plastered across buildings and stepped carefully over those embedded in the sidewalk. The corner holograms were harder to escape; cameras mapped his face, pulling from an online profile. That morning, they advertised high-end digital microscopes—they knew that one of his had broken last week. He kept his hands in his pockets, stood at the crosswalk, and pretended to study the ad while counting bricks on a distant wall and humming to himself.
He boarded the tube to work. Nigel prided himself on being the perfect citizen: he was law-abiding, he paid taxes early, and voted in every election. So, walking into his employer’s lobby and finding three Compliance Officers in crisp blue uniforms and red helmets stopped him cold.
Before he could speak, they sprayed him with Dazehim. His limbs went slack. They cuffed him, half-carried him to a transit mover, and deposited him in the back seat. He was barely aware of breathing, let alone the nonstop attorney ads playing on the seat backs inches from his face.
In jail, he reached out to multiple lawyers; all refused to represent him after seeing the charges: Aggravated Advertisement Avoidance—a felony. The proof was overwhelming: surveillance clips of him turning his head, humming through jingles, ignoring personalized displays. His banking records revealed near-zero impulse buys. And worst of all in the eyes of the state, he was debt-free—a standalone misdemeanor. No attorney would defend him unless he pleaded guilty.
The cell itself was clean, but every wall blared advertisements nonstop. Public service announcements warned that the economy depended on consumption. Nigel’s resistance could encourage others, which could cause the system and society to collapse.
At the trial, the judge reviewed footage of Nigel brushing his teeth with eyes averted, standing at crosswalks staring through holograms. Nigel plead guilty. He told the judge that he’d learned his lesson from the jails’ PSAs—that he would start watching every ad, buy whatever was advertised, and embrace debt.
The judge glared at him. “I’ll take your promise into account,” he said. “However, I must adhere to state guidelines. I’ll announce your sentence in three minutes.”
He gestured to his podium.
“But first, please watch this brief commercial on affordable cremation services.”
by submission | May 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The view from Davidson’s window, from all the windows in fact, is limited. Davidson is old enough to remember when the Archive had seemed infinite, so many vistas and variations, but no one person could possibly access and experience them all.
The countries that openly opposed our Leader were the first to be blacklisted but others quickly followed, anywhere where somebody was bold enough to speak out and criticise or question our Leader. The governments that advocated for discourse, even our former Allies, were targeted, those who hoped to engage in dialogue and enter into debate, the images from and of all these countries were wiped and suddenly the Archive was vastly depleted.
But people are resilient and nostalgic and when they craved for a certain range of mountains, for a city or seascape, they searched for somewhere similar, anywhere that helped to invoke memories of a particular time and place.
Sunsets had always been popular at the windows but there are no sunsets in the Archive now. The Archive is still seemingly infinite, so many images and yet all we are able to look at are gardens, painstakingly maintained, perfect and carefully tailored gardens. Davidson turns the dial and makes the transition from screen to window. His own garden is wild and messy, butterflies flutter amongst the long grasses and untended flowerbeds. Davidson heaves a sigh of relief, thankful that he at least still has this to gaze out at.
