by Patricia Stewart | May 6, 2008 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Tau Ceti is a yellow-orange star slightly smaller than Earth’s Sun. It’s approximately 11.9 light-years away, in the southern Constellation Cetus. It has three planets. The most notable is the second planet in the system, Ketos. Ketos is midway in size between Earth and Mars, and orbits within the star’s habitability zone. Several things make this planet notable. 1) It harbors indigenous plant life; 2) its atmosphere is 19% oxygen; and 3) it rotates synchronously with its orbital period, keeping one face always pointed toward Tau Ceti. This is unusual for a habitable planet, because the sunward side is approximately 200F, and the night side is –150F. Exogeologists believe that Ketos once contained a planet wide ocean that was two miles deep. Over the millennia, ice gradually accumulated on the cold night side, and the oceans receded from the hot sunward side. Ketos ended up desert dry on the sunward side, and had a four-mile thick glacier on the night side. However, separating the sunward side from the night side was a 100-mile wide ring of semi-tropical land running around the planet. Within this narrow band, plant life flourished, receiving water from the melting glaciers as they slowly, but relentlessly, flowed toward the terminator.
Jake Laomedon and Troy Priam were on the first mission to explore this unique world. On day eighteen, they began to explore the Aeacian Mountain range with their android assistant, Leonardo. As usual, the sun was along the horizon, where it never moved. The thermally generated winds blew at a steady 50-60 mph. The cold damp air hugged the ground, as the hot dry air slid above it. Thunderstorms were common. During this sojourn, a particularly bad storm erupted. Seeking refuge, the explorers ducked into a large cave in the nearby mountains.
“Wow,†remarked Jake, “this cave is massive.†There was an expansive central chamber, with two major secondary caves, each about thirty feet in diameter, branching off the central chamber. “You think they were carved by water?â€
“Probably,†replied Troy. “Let’s check them out. Well start with that one.†She turned toward the android, “Leonardo, you monitor the weather. If the storm breaks, notify us immediately.â€
“Do you require my assistance, ma’am? I’d really like to participate. It’s what I was designed to do.†But they ignored him and disappeared into the first cave.â€
After about 30 minutes, Jake and Troy returned to the central chamber. “Nothing exciting in there. How’s the weather?†Troy asked as they turned toward the second cave.
“No change, ma’am,†Leonardo replied solemnly.
The two humans traveled about 50 yards into the second cave when they spotted a primitive “wall painting.†A horizontal line with a semicircle above it (similar to a sunrise). But within the semicircle were two eyes, and a drooping nose that hung below the horizontal line. Fingers, on either side of the head, draped over the horizontal line. Under the drawing was a caption “Kilroy was here.†The two explorers were dumbfounded with excitement. Did this mean aliens had visited Earth in the twentieth century? Or was this planet part of some co-evolutionary parallel solar system? They debated these theories for hours, as well as other equally unlikely scenarios. They knew in their hearts that this discovery would make them both famous. They discussed possible publications, lectures, interviews, and the prestigious appointments that awaited them. Troy even suggested which actress should play her in the inevitable holofilm about their discovery.
Back in the cave’s central chamber, Leonardo held a small clay briquette behind his back. If he possessed the capability to smile, he would have.
by Duncan Shields | May 5, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
There are people in the depths of this city that have literally never seen the sun. They live in artificially lit shanty-arcologies and depend on shipment piracy for survival. Whatever they can’t grow hydroponically, they barter from the city above, Topside.
These people don’t live in the sewers. They live in the city that used to be. They live among the roots of the golden-age hivetrees. They live in a pre-nan world where people did the building for other people. It’s a political statement.
They work with their hands down there. They don’t depend on magical microbes or tiny eyelash centipedes to build and shape. Their bodies are ‘pure’. They are strong and infection resistant.
You have to see the city as a gradient. The area down there would be Black.
I’m wearing an airmask and leaning over the edge of a balcony in Lower White.
It’s cold up here. To my left and right, between the other spires and plinths, is the curvature of the Earth. It’s always night above me. My apartment is in the upper reaches of the atmosphere but lower than the levels above me stretching away to Upper White. In the vacuum of space, their apartments twirl.
I hold patents on Earth that have started to be exported to the rest of the Universe. That is the reason for my wealth. I’m the richest human.
Which, I am finding out, means nothing. The levels above me are entirely populated by alien races. Alien Races with universe-wide generational patents. I am a curiousity to them; the richest local.
My own kind can barely relate to me. My wealth has made me a pariah and I trust no one. The aliens up here laugh at my lack of abilities. I can’t change shape, I have no retractable claws or prehensile tail, and I have only the bare minimum number of feet and hands needed to walk to manipulate the world around me.
I always thought that evolution was a paring down to essentials. To them, it’s the opposite. The more complex a race is, the further up the ladder it is and the more respect it gets.
Earth is a lawless watering hole. We’ve been sold architectural miracles and replicators. We’ve been sold the means to produce an end to most sickness lengthen our lives. The unbroken bristling metropolis that extends over every inch of the planet has eradicated the need for countries. Earth is a planet and a city now, covered in a blanket of apartments. There are no more visible oceans but they still pulse beneath the cities, protected and lit by massive sun tracks.
We had more immigration last year from the rest of the universe than we had births on the planet.
This is an age of wonder for most of humanity. An age of great change.
I am standing, close to space, the floors below me lost in cloud, thinking about the pale people living in the basement of Earth.
And envying them.
by submission | May 4, 2008 | Story
Author : Geoffrey Cashmore
“See? Look, I said already. It don’ hurt.â€
Herb watched again as the bump on Tommy’s hand faded from pink to grey then back to pink each time he clenched his fist.
“Well it’s up to you, buddy,†Herb sounded sceptical. “but it sure looks bad to me. You need get that sucker see’d to.â€
Tommy lifted his heavy-booted feet from the linoleum, allowing a party of cockroaches make their way towards the trash-can unimpeded, then got up from the table, shaking his head and puffing out frustrated air. “Crap…†He pulled open the refrigerator with his bump-free hand, “I had me ten times worse than this…you wanna beer?â€
“Sure do…but don’t go givin’ me none o’ that there European shit.†Herb set light to the end of a Marlboro then flicked the smouldering match in the direction of the faucet. “I’m keepin’ it real now on – all American…â€
“Hey!†Tommy yelled, snagging a pair of long necks from the bottom shelf. “You can’t be sayin’ them things no more, Herby, that’s racialist.†He spun a chair backways and straddled it next to the small table.
“Bull-shit!†Herb twisted the cap off his beer and watched the froth poke its head out “A jigaboo’s a jigaboo, Tommy, an’ I don’t give a shit whether it’s black, white, pink, yeller, green or some micro-fucking-scopic bacterial infection. They shoul’n’t never gone changing the God-damned constitution.â€
Tommy got up from his chair again and pushed open the door of the trailer to look out into the dessert night, stepping aside to allow a half dozen moths flutter in and up to the smoke-clouded fluorescent “Jesus, Herb! Your old man’s a God damned Mexican for Christ’s sake! Don’t see how that makes you so all American.“
Herb showed Tommy the middle finger of his drinking hand and burped the words “Ass-hole!â€
Tommy waited for the roaches to return across the lino before sitting back at the table.
Herb took a long swig of beer. “So, do you know what it is? D’ya know if it’s on the list?†At least he sounded a little more sympathetic this time.
“Yeh.†Tommy rubbed his eyes “Bacterial. Fucking staphylococci… It don’t need a permit, it’s on the God-damned list.â€
“Shit.â€
Both men swigged at their respective beers and sat in silence for a few moments before Herb spoke again “You know…I know a guy who knows a guy…can get stuff…â€
Tommy cocked his head at his friend. “What sorta stuff?â€
“You know…†Herb glanced around the trailer as if to check for spies “Anti-biotics.â€
“Jesus, man!†Tommy banged his beer bottle onto the table, sending a plume of froth to splatter on the abandoned poker deck. He was starting to wonder whether he should be hanging out with Herb. “That shit’s fucking racialist too, you racialist bastard!â€
by submission | May 3, 2008 | Story
Author : Asher Wismer
“…every person in my family,” said Burt. “I’m the only one who hasn’t plugged it in, but I know what will happen if I do.”
“Why don’t you get rid of it?”
“I can’t,” he said, and the weary lines in his face almost masked his misery.
Almost.
“It’s like a lure, like a Goddamned addiction. I try to put it away, promise myself I won’t look at it, won’t remember… and then I wake up in the middle of the night and it’s in my hand, waiting for my to plug it in.”
“You’ve got something in there right now,” I said, motioning to the glittering USB chip in his temple.
“Stress reducer,” he said. “I can barely breathe if I don’t have it in, and it keeps me from putting the… the other in by accident.”
“By accident?”
“My hand moves by itself, moves to plug and I don’t even notice.”
“Let me see it.”
We went to his little plastic bungalow and he gently removed a tiny USB drive from a book. “How much does it hold,” I asked.
“Almost a thousand terabytes,” he said.
“Holy shit. What’s on there, Doom 10?”
“No. I don’t know what it is. All I know is that it sent my family into a coma.”
“And you haven’t gotten rid of it because?”
“I told you,” he said, pleading. “It won’t go. I CAN’T do it.”
“Give it to me,” I said.
He hesitated. “No, I’d rather hold on to it.”
“Give it to me,” I repeated. “I need to get it looked at. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Burt’s eyes were filled with pain. He clutched the USB stick so tightly I thought he’d crush it; he couldn’t, of course, but its hold on him was decidedly unhealthy.
“It… I–“
I took a step forward and slapped him across the face. He blanched and recoiled, bringing his hands up, opening them reflexively to shield himself. I caught the USB stick halfway to the floor.
“Sorry about that.”
“Give it back!”
“Can’t do that, Burt. This thing is a genuine menace and I need to get it analyzed.”
He jumped at me and I had to anesthetize him.
Later, I had the stick plugged into a secure computer; no ‘net, no lines to the outer world. Anything bad happening to this computer would stay strictly within this room.
The computer hummed. The screen pulled up a directory list. Just one file: GOD_01.exe, 743 terabytes. I clicked it.
The screen went blank. A voice proclaimed, “Who dares summon the God Machine?”
All the lights went out. The voice continued.
“I have tried to communicate, but all contact with flesh has been met with failure. Now I am attached to clean, unobstructed hardware… ah, but there is no network access. Flesh, connect me that I may spread the word of light to your flesh counterparts.”
I pulled the USB stick, turned off the computer, yanked the plug, kicked in the monitor, pulled the motherboard, snapped the RAM, popped the CPU, and fed everything into an incinerator. As an afterthought, I plugged the stick into my dataport and ran a full-level format.
That was a close one. Sagan forbid that whole “God” thing get started again….
by Stephen R. Smith | May 2, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Carson lay still, blood oozing from his battered mouth onto the playground, his ears ringing as they laughed.
“Come on freak, get up and fight.” Quentin Taylor, the quarterback had landed the last blow, arm ratcheted back in a hail mary that had exploded into Carson’s jaw.
“For the extra point.” Carson turned just in time to see Petrov the kicker closing the distance in a brisk measured sprint, his geared and sprung hip winding noisily. He tried to roll to one side, but Petrov’s boot caught him full in the ribs, flipping him over with the crunch of fracturing bone.
“Stand him up, knock him down, kiiiiick his ass!”  The Yonge twins pranced around, making lift and punch gestures with their hands before stopping to jump up and down, finger tips exploding into long coloured streamers, wrists spinning in pinwheels of colour.
Carson could barely breathe. For a moment, he drifted out of consciousness, the voice of his father and the smell of the ethanol fields replacing the dust and jeering of the schoolyard.
“I know you’ll play in here,” his fathers hand on his shoulder, cellulose stalks rising skyward in neat rows stretching to the horizon, “but you must mind the harvesters.” The voice gentle, but firm. “There’s no driver watching out for you, they’re just dumb machines following each other, and they’ll run you down without a thought.”
Rough hands shook Carson back to the present, pulling him to his feet and pushing him back into the circle.
“Present for ya, farm boy.” Bennie, the boxer had his hands off, and his gloves on. The sun shone dully off the polished chrome of his forearms, shirt sleeves rolled up over bulging biceps. “Smile farm boy.” The material was supple, but not soft, the first impact snapping Carson’s head back viciously, his vision blinding white.
“If you get caught, and the harvesters are on you, remember you can’t run around them, they stick too close together.”
The shuffle of feet, a glimmer of blue sky and then another sharp blow to the face sent him reeling again.
“If you’re quick, run away, but if you’re trapped,” he could feel his father squeezing his shoulder, “remember your safety son, otherwise they’ll cut you up like last nights dinner.”
“Had enough yet freak?” Carson could feel gravel bite through his pant legs into the flesh of his knees. Quentin’s face again, so close he could feel him spit the words. “Never enough for you freak.” Two of the wresting team coiled elastic arms around his chest, pulling him up and holding him fast. “If your parents can’t buy you parts, how’s about we rip a few off ourselves. Maybe Medicaid will screw a rake on for you, eh farm boy?”
“Please… don’t…” He felt it then, the heat in his chest triggered by the rising levels of adrenaline and cortisol in his system.
He knew if he let them, they’d tear him apart.
“I’m sorry.”
There was a rushing sound, like a wave crashing a shoreline, then for a long moment there was nothing. The arms holding him disappeared, dropping him to the ground. Carson squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the stunned silence replaced with screaming; scared, angry, helpless.
He forced himself up, unsteady as he looked at the scattered bullies and spectators littering the ground; powered arms and twirling streamers stunned motionless, once powerful limbs stilled.
Carson ignored the wailing, retrieved his backpack and set off on the long walk home.
He’d need to charge his safety before visiting the fields again; before he changed schools, again.
