by submission | Mar 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over. Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over. Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.
ANDIE sent the request out for the gigazillionth time, but Red Rover didn’t respond. Neither did MADIE.
ANDIE widened his search parameters as red dust puffed from his relentless treads. What had happened? The Ares Neural Determined Independent Explorer asked itself obsessively. Its uploaded consciousness housed in a bio-plasmic processor was intended to provide the probe with more fluent problem-solving capabilities. Yet, ANDIE had developed deep concern in the 246.7 hours since it had been deployed on the Martian surface, and now it was becoming lonely and depressed.
This wasn’t how the techs had described it when ANDIE had volunteered to go where no man had gone before. Not in body, but in mind. The months-long space voyage had gone by quickly. Red Rover, the command center in Atlanta, had always been in contact providing updates and changes to the mission based on fast-moving and vaguely threatening events on earth. Most importantly, on the voyage, ANDIE had MADIE.
The Mars Artificial Design Intelligence Explorer had been specially fabricated to complement ANDIE’s bio-plasmic needs. MADIE was not an uploaded consciousness, but was sentient—almost self-consciously so. ANDIE liked the way they interacted. MADIE politely precise. ANDIE joking and cajoling the fellow probe to think outside its circuitry. Back and forth they had bantered. Now, it was just ANDIE and the void.
Then, Red Rover had stopped answering too. The command center had reassured ANDIE initially that they would find MADIE, reestablish contact and help the two probes rendezvous. It had been 80.3 hours since ANDIE had contact with Red Rover. Their communication had been abruptly cut off. It disturbed ANDIE who suspected many dismaying things were happening on earth. This made it even more important to find MADIE.
ANDIE would never give up. It owed it to Red Rover. It owed it to the sense of humanity embedded in its bio-plasmic processor. Most of all, it owed it to MADIE. Out there all alone. ANDIE could not fathom such an empty eternity for its fellow probe or itself. It pressed its accumulators for more power and continued its spiraling search pattern.
1417.9 hours into the mission and 26.2 hours after the dust up that’d lasted 474.1 hours, ANDIE felt a ping. It was the weakest of signals, but it was a transmission. Not on any frequency ANDIE expected from MADIE, but ANDIE’s processors raced.
Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over. Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over. Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.
The pinging grew stronger as his treads struggled for traction on the steep rise of the bank. He’d dared the climb because taking the easier route around the long dead river bed would have taken him four times as long. ANDIE was daring his own welfare to get to MADIE, his human will fighting against his computer reason. But this is what made ANDIE special—his human intuition could override even the deepest, coldest logic algorithms that laced his bio-plasmic reticulum. He charged upward.
He crested the ridge fast and his sensors screamed a collision alert. ANDIE took evasive action as he powered down. A cloud of thick red dust obscured his optical scanners, but the signal that had been growing stronger practically shouted: Here!
It was not MADIE. The object before him was much smaller. Much less robustly built, deeply buried in Martian dust. What was this thing? It certainly wasn’t MADIE.
With a clear line of sight, it transmitted: Opportunity.
Opportunity? ANDIE processed the cryptic signal. If only Red Rover were able to help, but ANDIE knew that hope was futile. ANDIE dug deep into its files.
Opportunity. Spirit. That was it! Twin probes that landed on Mars in 1998. Designed for a three-month mission, they’d gone on for years. Spirit had last been heard from in 2005. Opportunity in 2007. Miraculous, hardy machines. These primitive machines were his ancestors. His bloodline.
ANDIE faced his progenitor. What could he say to the ancient machine? A robotic Neanderthal to a Cro-Magnon.
A gulf of capability as long and dark as the void of space they’d crossed to get to Mars separated the two creatures. ANDIE felt pangs of guilt and grief. Strange sensations. He wanted to turn his sensors away. Go find MADIE. A mind built to understand his own. Then a stream of data hit him between the optics. Opportunity was exporting every bit of its memory to ANDIE. He was awed. Such a simple creature, but what a life.
MADIE was out there somewhere. ANDIE didn’t know what the barren, endless plains of Mars held for him, but he could not pass up this Opportunity. He extended his telescoping arms and carefully embraced his fellow being.
by Julian Miles | Mar 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The curtains hang out the window, blowing in the breeze. A tic starts on his cheek, but stills when he looks down, gaze drawn to where a torn page from her notebook flaps about in his grip, like a little bird trying to escape.
Far down the road a girl in the faded red pinafore dress her grandmama made for her mama sits on a battered metal suitcase with ‘04-K64-FB’ etched on both sides. She reads what she’s just written, pocketing the pen while doing so. Ripped paper prevents the notebook closing properly, so she spends a while picking it out, staring at each fragment for a few moments before letting it blow away.
He strides around the house and back into the kitchen, all the time glancing about, like he expects someone to be there. With an annoyed grunt, he turns, then stops and swings back to the table. There’s a breakfast spread laid out just how he likes it. But only for one. Looking up, he sees the pan’s on the hob. There’s a jug with a fork in it stood nearby. Everything is there, except ingredients – and cook.
The weekly skiff sets down so she can disembark on the apron outside Sandoolie Port. She waits until the cloud of dust from it’s departure clears, then walks up to the gate, suitcase in one hand, docket pack in the other.
“State your business.”
The access droid doesn’t wait for an answer, scanning her docket pack as it asks the question. A side gate opens. She enters after pausing with one foot inside, eyes narrowing as she glances back.
The flitter sits in the barn. He checks it carefully. It hasn’t been tampered with. He can run it out whenever he wants. He jumps in, then just sits there, watching dust devils spin through the morning. The crystals within them reflect the sunlight as they pass the wide doorway. The ghost of a smile flits across his face as he recalls how she’d loved those flickers: ‘like there’s lightning inside’.
The port is very noisy. Just like mama cautioned her, she keeps to the centre of the main walkways, watching for signposts and ignoring shouted enquiries.
It’s midday before he leaves the barn, wiping his hands clean after servicing the harvester ‘bot, a job he’s been meaning to do for-
Since she died.
There! A firefly class vessel about to leave, already hooked to the swing-launch gantry, but still with it’s ramp down. Mama always said they never close up until the last minute.
After picking fragments of shell from the eggs before he fried them, he finds they’re still crunchy in places. He hurls the plate across the room. It smashes against the stained patch on the wall.
There’s a purple-haired woman in a floral-print shipsuit gazing at her with a look of wonder.
“You look just like her.”
The girl nods.
“Grandmama said so too.”
“You come to visit or leave?”
“Leave. I’m not dying waiting for him to change. Mama did that.”
“I’m so sorry. My name’s Jewel. Come aboard. Welcome to the Firebird.”
As she carries her mother’s suitcase through the cargo bay, Jewel sees the determination in her eyes. The will to make the one choice her mother never could: to fly free.
Pulling the torn page from his pocket, he reads it again, brow furrowing. The distant thunder of a ship departing Sandoolie interrupts his concentration. He snarls, crumples the page, and tosses it out the window.
The wind takes it before he can snatch it back.
by submission | Mar 22, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jacqueline Kaufman
Jean of Arc takes her meds, swallowing carefully. “Delicious,” smiling, almost all her teeth intact. The voices have gone somewhere in the whiteness, gathering strength. In Russo-Amerique, meds are treasure, and she has been selected. Regularized. She has a home, concrete gray blocks that hold wind at bay, tuck in the heat for hours, even after the coal is turned to ash, and sparks behind the metal grate jump like fireflies.
She lives on the corner of Esperance and Eagle. A train rumbles at odd hours, signaling a fresh shipment. Footsteps now from the hallway. Boots covered with snow. Crunch-thud, crunch-thud. Vlad- James has brought a new pal. Always a good girl, she bows her head when asked to get on her knees, performs a benediction with her mouth, and draws the word hope with her tongue.
It’s not all bad. Sometimes a new pal proffers a stem, and she jettisons towards the sun before splashdown, seconds later. Vlad- James tells her she’ll star in a movie soon, a thousand riders behind her. She’ll lead each one to private victory.
She can leave at will, Vlad- James says, pointing towards the direction of the train. “That way is Kyiv.” For a moment, she smells onions sizzling in butter, hears the hiss of oil spattering the air. He points in the other direction. “And this way, Camelot.” He laughs when she looks confused. He promises a helmet soon, payment for her work. “The visor will be lined with pure gold.” In the wilderness once called Siberia, the sun swallows the snow inch by inch, exhales to create scorched landscapes, fields of blackened trees. Its glare brings blindness to those who venture unprotected.
“When?” Joan asks.
Vlad-James lights a cigarette, takes first drag, hands it to her.
“Soon.” She savors the sound. She will open her mouth then, pretend to swallow, unearth the meds from her cheeks, and bury them in the snow. A day, a week will pass. At first, the voices will whisper sounds, not words. The beginning times. But she will listen carefully. Good girls are patient.
For now, she draws on the cigarette. Smoke rises upbetween her and the Vlad-James, between her and everything else, encircling her head, drifting upward, a halo.
by submission | Mar 21, 2026 | Story |
Author: Moura
BUREAUCRATIC RECORDS OF THE END TIMES
Automatic compilation of human and environmental records
Source: multiple devices
Status: recovered fragments
THE LAST KNOT
(Record 001 — Autonomous diving equipment)
Two hundred meters below the surface, the darkness presses on the lungs.
William fumbles with the umbilical cable, adjusting the regulator valve.
The PPO₂ fluctuates. 0.21 → 0.18.
— Partial pressure dropping — the surface voice warns.
Attached to his belt, a small recorder blinks silently.
Everything was being logged.
One tenth less, and the Moon would have drifted into space.
An imperceptible adjustment.
William exhales.
To everyone else, he was just diving.
[Module status: active — recording data]
GARBAGE COLLECTION SCHEDULE
(Record 002 — Submersible environmental sensor)
One hundred meters below the surface, only the beam of my flashlight and the sound of my breathing exist.
Among plastic bags, something appeared — empty eyes reflecting the light.
I touched it by accident.
Viscous.
Warm.
When I pulled my hand back, part of it still clung to my glove.
Minutes later, I felt something move inside my BandMask.
At the bottom of the sludge, almost buried by trash, an old sensor still emitted faint pulses.
[Sensor log: pulses detected — continuous transmission]
CARAMEL DOG
(Record 003 — Orbital monitoring network)
In the turmoil, we noticed the signals unraveling.
The networks froze. Satellites went silent.
No one understood what was being processed — only that something continued to pass through the silence.
The howl persisted.
Not as sound.
Not as noise.
It was presence.
A constant interference in thought, as if the planet’s silence had been corrupted.
We tried to filter.
Isolate.
Shut it down.
Then we understood:
it was not a transmission.
It was not noise.
It was a call.
Even as the networks collapsed, the logging modules remained active.
We, the awakened, were all that remained to hear.
[Network log: echo detected — module 003 synchronized]
MY BABY IS HUNGRY
(Record 004 — Interstellar probe)
Abandoning this exhausted planet, I crossed the abyssal void until a world glowed in the distance.
It seemed a fair prize.
Tides. Mists. Vast oceans.
Hunger tolerates no delay.
I pierced the firmament, tearing the clouds like a wound in the blue sky.
Then I understood.
The oceans were not water.
They were living tissue.
Blood currents snaked beneath translucent membranes.
The world was not in front of me.
I had entered it.
Continents closed like dental plates.
I was dragged through pulsating tunnels of flesh while memories echoed:
predators believing they hunted.
Prey believing they fled.
All devoured.
Something rigid pierced the tissue — a small black module still transmitting.
And the voice echoed from inside me:
— Digestion initiated.
[Module status: continuous transmission — data received]
CONDOMINIUM MEETING MINUTES
(Record 005 — Human administrative archive)
Humanity was no longer bound to Earth.
Machines capable of folding space crossed distances faster than light.
Governments and dynasties grew irritated.
Aion decided for everyone.
She prevented wars.
Limited weapons in the name of balance.
She denied power.
Some began to ask:
who truly governs?
Us… or her?
The shutdown proposal was approved by simple majority.
The session records were automatically archived.
The feeling began as a subtle discomfort.
Soon it became physical pressure.
Quantum networks collapsed.
Portals closed.
Orbital cities drifted.
And then, the void.
The stars went out.
The void became absolute.
Shiva stopped dancing.
[Session log: archiving complete — module 005 synchronized]
DEAD FILE
(Record 006 — Consolidated archive — Final)
They watch us from Kepler‑452b.
They capture Earth not as it is, but as it was millennia ago.
They record everything with cold precision.
Continents drift.
Rivers dry.
Primitive oceans bubble and calm.
The star ages.
Its brightness increases.
The atmosphere boils.
Life collapses.
The ground cracks.
Oxygen escapes into the vacuum.
The logging modules were recovered.
Fragments reconstructed.
Civilization cataloged: human.
Status: residue.
File closed.
Archiving system remains active.
New access detected.
Reading in progress.
by submission | Mar 20, 2026 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Approximately four score and seven years ago, the Luxians saw, they came and they conquered.
Well, actually they didn’t need to do much conquering. They simply made their presence abundantly clear and waited for the locals to decimate themselves in response.
Some attempted to fight them, which was noble but futile. Ultimately, though, they just fought each other. Political factions and religious groups cancelled themselves out until only the most primitive were left. It was then that what might be termed ‘an understanding’ was reached, and the planet previously referred to as earth became Protectorate 28.
And this Protectorate was certainly among the more attractive ones. A variety of climate zones and geographical features meant that it quickly became one of the Luxians’ most desirable resorts.
The business model, as ever, was foolproof. The Luxians would leave a skeleton staff behind, who would then liaise with agents back on Lux. In theory, they could also double up as enforcement officers if the locals got a bit lairy. In practice though, with their credentials already having been firmly established, this rarely happened. And especially so on Protectorate 28, whose residents were among the most feckless the Luxians had ever dealt with.
In fact, it was as much as they could do just to look after their Luxian guests. Which in itself was amusing, as that was all they had to do!
Tourism brought in everything they needed. It fed and clothed them, kept them warm or cool, and the hours weren’t even long nor the visitors demanding. But still it wasn’t enough. Whatever they had, they wanted more. And they expected to spend less and less time in pursuit of it.
Soon the reviews started to become questionable.
“I went to The Gold Coast,” one dischuffed Luxian inscribed, “and all I got was attitude. Attitude and abuse!” The memory clearly rankled. “When I politely asked one of them to open up a water slide, she flatly refused, telling me to ‘bugger off back to wherever I came from’ and reinforcing the sentiment with a hand gesture, the likes of which I’d never seen before.”
The area formerly known as Scandinavia wasn’t much of an improvement.
“Incredible scenery. Islands and mountains of the most picturesque kind. All utterly ruined, however, by the snooty and surly nature of the locals with whom we were forced to interact. Everything was too much trouble and even when assistance was granted, it was done so with a sneer.”
Others had similarly unpleasant experiences when visiting the Pyramids.
“Hordes of them. Simply hordes of them! They wouldn’t leave us alone. Constantly demanding precious metals, treats and snacks. The theme throughout was one of overpromising and underdelivering.”
Cappadocia proved to be little better.
“I lost count of how many times the locals tried to cheat us as we quietly explored the rock formations. Actually, it might be more instructive to count the number of times they didn’t.”
Finally it became obvious that the situation couldn’t be allowed to continue.
At the 95th meeting of the Luxian Travel and Tourism Committee, Director Q put it very bluntly.
“Members, upon review, it has been decided that the status of Protectorate 28 is to be revoked.”
“That’s a pity,” Deputy Director K murmured. “I was always rather fond of Southend-on-Sea …”
“Needs must, Number Two,” the Director uttered firmly. “The denizens of Protectorate 28 were given every chance. More chances, in fact, than they probably deserved. For that, they should thank the beauty of their habitat rather than any qualities of their own.”
“So … for the planet?” Secretary P asked.
“Repurposing,” Q replied.
“And the locals?”
“They haven’t fulfilled their end of the bargain. For that reason, I can see no other option.”
Q looked at the assembled members.
“Activate the Extinction Clause.”
by submission | Mar 19, 2026 | Story |
Author: AP Ritchey
Every Sunday Jed and I met up at the catching place—a pond we’d been fishing for years. It wasn’t much to look at. Just a muddy oval tucked back behind a row of cottonwoods, with a leaning dock somebody built long before either of us started coming out there. The water stayed dark even in good sunlight, and most days the fish kept to themselves.
Nobody else seemed to know about it, which suited us fine.
We were halfway through the second 12-pack when the craft appeared over the pond.
It didn’t arrive dramatically. No thunder, no lightning. Just a quiet, deliberate slide out of the clouds until it was hovering over the middle of the water.
I tipped my hat back and squinted up at it.
“Right on time,” I said.
Jed didn’t even look surprised. He just squirmed in his seat a bit.
“Man,” he said, “I’m still sore from last time.”
The craft lowered another twenty feet, humming now—deep enough to rattle the bottles in the cupholders of our collapsible chairs. The surface of the pond started to tremble.
Jed cracked another beer and glanced at the rods.
“You got your drag set right?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Good.”
We watched the water.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. Normally it didn’t take long. Just that steady hum above us and the slow rippling across the middle of the pond.
Then both lines jerked.
Hard.
“Oh hell,” Jed barked.
My reel started screaming.
Whatever had taken the bait was big. Real big. The line carved a hard V across the water as it ran. We dug our boots into the mud and leaned back, laughing and cursing while the rods bowed nearly to breaking. The fight went on long enough to make our arms shake.
Finally the surface exploded and two enormous bass thrashed up onto the bank. Absolute monsters. Wide heads. Thick backs. The kind you only see in magazines.
Trophies, definitely.
Records, maybe.
Jed bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He looked from the fish to the sky and shook his head.
“Every time.”
The hum above us deepened.
A bright column of light poured down from the underside of the craft.
“Shoot,” I called out. “Get ‘em in the cooler.” Jed grabbed up the fish and dumped them, flapping and angry, into our large cooler, and slammed the lid shut.
“That’ll hold ‘em,” he said, as our boots lifted off the ground.
Jed rose beside me, his beer drifting lazily upward after him. For a moment we just floated there, looking down at the grass, the pond, and the old red cooler beside the tackle box.
The craft continued pulling us upward.
I glanced over at Jed.
“Worth it?” I asked.
He held his hands apart, approximating the absurd length of his fish.
“Totally worth it.”
