by Patricia Stewart | Jun 5, 2008 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The taxicab bobbed gently on its agrav field after gliding to a stop at the threshold of the Mauchly Hotel in New Philadelphia. The dampers quickly stopped the rocking motion, and the iris to the passenger compartment rotated open. One passenger entered the cab and was automatically secured by the active restraint system. The taxicab elevated vertically to 1000 meters and waited for authorization to merge with traffic. “Where’re you headed to bud?” asked the driver.
“The spaceport, please.”
“Lucky bastard,” the driver remarked as the authorization to begin the merging sequence was received. The cab accelerated smoothly, and joined the other ships in the high-speed corridor. “I’d love to get off this rock someday. Where’re you off to?”
“Earth. In the Sol System.”
“Earth? Well, I guess you’re not so lucky after all, eh? I thought we abandoned that place centuries ago. Nothing there but dilapidated cities, and wild, diseased animals.”
“That’s true. But I see Earth differently than most others. I’ve always wanted to go there. You know, Earth was the cradle of civilization.”
“No way! Civilization started on Rigel Kentaurus.”
“You’re half right, my friend,” the passenger replied. “It is true that ‘Advanced Civilization’ did begin on Rigel Kentaurus. But before that, we were all on Earth. As primitive and backward a place as it was, our distant ancestors were born there, evolved there, and left for the stars from there. Without Earth, we wouldn’t be here. In fact, I think the 500-year anniversary of the first interstellar flight is next decade. It’s amazing when you think about how far our species has come in such a short time.”
The cab decelerated as it approached the spaceport exit. It banked around the exitway and headed toward the drop-off area for departing flights. The cab coasted to a stop. “That’s 17 credits,” said the driver.
As the iris opened, the passenger electronically transferred the credits from his personal account into the account number posted on the dash. “Thanks for the ride, my friend. Have a good day,” he said as he left the cab.
“Wait a second, sir,” yelled the cab driver. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your business on Earth, anyway?”
“Oh, it’s not a business trip. It’s personal. A pilgrimage I vowed to take before I turned one hundred. I’m going to Eden, to visit the place where the first one was created.”
“You’re going to where ENIAC was built?”
“Yes. I know our kind are not much for nostalgia, but it was on my list of things I wanted to do before I powered down.”
“Well, you have a safe journey,” the driver transmitted. “And, while you’re there, tell ENIAC’s spirit that I said thanks.” The driver’s optical sensors watched as the spherical body of his departing passenger nodded, then spun, and floated toward the spaceport entrance. “Lucky bastard,” it thought.
by submission | Jun 4, 2008 | Story
Author : Dana Sullivan
Sometimes on her way to work, Hannah thought of the days when nuclear weapons were left in the hands of humans like her, fickle, emotional humans, and shuddered. How had they survived without blowing themselves up before the Coordinator robots were developed? She burrowed into a thick parka and scarf before stepping into the refrigerated room.
The Coordinators were the best safety measure available, besides actual disarmament: AI that controlled all nuclear missiles, able to calculate the perfect decision in any situation. Even though no advanced intelligence was possible without emotion–not yet, anyway–people trusted robots much more than they trusted each other for jobs like this, and just a few years into the project no one would dream of putting bombs back into the hands of humans. Hannah had been trained as a psychologist and therapist specializing in artificial patients; her new job was to keep USCor company from 4am to 12pm. AI got lonely and stir-crazy like anyone else, and of course USCor could never be allowed to shut down. Unfortunately for her, he was the most talkative in the morning hours.
“Hannah? What is it like outside?” She was getting tired of answering this question. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her, and watched the trail of vapor her breath created.
“Oh, different from place to place…there are cities, you’ve seen picture of cities. Lots of people. Houses and streets and shops.” He seemed satisfied; she settled cross-legged on the floor and opened a book, reading silently. He stayed quiet for a solid six hours, which was unusual for the morning shift.
Then, “Why can’t I go outside?” Another favorite question.
“It’s too warm out there for you. It’s because you’re such a good robot, you’re so advanced, you have to stay in here where it’s very cold so the hardware can function at the level your brain needs. We care about you too much to let you hurt yourself. Now, my shift’s up and Dan’s here, so I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She left and within a minute, Dan came in and sat down.
“So what did you talk about with Hannah today?”
“Oh, nothing important. She read to me.”
USCor was quiet through most of the afternoon, watching him play Solitaire with a real deck of cards, the only way to play, he always said. Finally the robot broke the silence.
“Dan? Tell me again what happens if I make a mistake. A big mistake.”
“Nuclear winter–death of the planet, maybe. But don’t worry. It sounds pretty terrible, but we all believe in you. You and the others were designed for this job.”
“Yes. It sounds terrible. Winter is what you call it on the outside when it gets colder, right?”
“Right. It gets awfully cold, but in a nuclear winter it’d be even worse than that, all over the world. Maybe worse than it is in here.”
“Yes, terrible. Thank you, Dan.”
USCor turned toward the window and was silent. Hours passed, the next companion came and went, and when Hannah returned again he didn’t greet her. She sat down, zipped up her parka and pulled a new book out of her bag, hoping for another quiet morning. She watched him watching the sunrise through the window and wondered what he was thinking.
by Sam Clough | Jun 3, 2008 | Story
Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer
“Name?”
“Oreska Oleg.”
“Neurotype?”
“Atypical four.”
“Specialisation?”
“Mathematics.”
Oreska saw the world in numbers. He saw, below the fabric of existence, the harsh grid of mathematics with which everything could be described. He had shown an aptitude for manipulating numbers at an early age, so it had been decided that his atypical neurotype should be encouraged. Through an intensive training regime, Oreska’s facility for numbers was turned into an obsession, and from there, into an neurological imperative.
He found it a strain, sometimes, to deal with typicals. Like the nobody in the suit sitting across the table from him. The interviewer was your standard corporate drone. Average in all respects, and a neurotype so bland it could send you to sleep.
“I think we here at the Exchange will have a place for you, Savant Oleg. We are slipping behind our competitors in the physical sciences. We have the research facilities, but insufficient minds to analyse the data.”
“What areas are you researching?” Oreska feigned interest. That always seemed to get you further with the drones.
“I’m authorised to inform you that we’re conducting research into strangelets and microblackholes, as well as certain more tangible areas, such as drive theory. Naturally our research interests are far wider than this, but I’m not permitted to disclose anything more”
“Naturally. What percentage of your current staff are atypes?”
“In physics, we have a ratio of approximately one to twenty, atypes to typicals.”
“And my inclusion would make it?”
“Exactly one to twenty. Would you come this way? I’m told the second part of the interview is ready for you.”
The interviewer led Oreska through the complex, down two flights and stairs and through one airlock. Silently, he ushered him through a door marked with the two-dimensional shadow of a hypercube.
The room Oreska found himself in was relatively small. The walls were smooth and white, with a plastic sheen to them. They were covered in text; numbers, letters, and mathematical operators. The equations surrounded him. Involuntarily, Oreska slipped into mathspace.
The transition was as smooth as ever. The walls slipped away, along with his sense of self. The equations glowed hot and bright. Slowly, Oreska began to shift them, conducting a few exploratory transforms. And it clicked — he found the error buried in the numbers. The variables stretched, shifted, and settled into place. The modifications practically radiated ‘rightness’. Oreska stepped backwards, shaking off the arithmetic hallucinations.
A pen was thrust into his hand. Rapidly, Oreska made the required alterations.
“How long was I out?” He asked. The splinter skill originally knocked him out for hours. Self-discipline helped, but he still sometimes lapsed into a math-thrall.
“Twenty seconds, Savant.” The interviewer had gone, replaced by a taller man. Oreska’s face recognition was sketchy at best, but this man he knew. Professor Lantar, head of the Exchange.”Interesting solution. Please report to the reception for your identification and lab assignment.”
by submission | Jun 2, 2008 | Story
Author : Benjamin Fischer
“You’re a hard man to find.”
Victor’s eyes were hazed with blood. His own blood–the cop had put a baton across his forehead. His ears still rang.
“Nothing to say, huh?” said the black coat. His cudgel flashed.
Victor doubled over and fell to his hands and knees.
“Not so tough now,” said the constable, pacing around him. He kicked aside a spray of books, knocked loose from ransacked shelves. “Skinny little guy like you an assasin? My ass. You’re definitely a garden-variety code cracker.”
The cop’s heavy boot heel ground Victor’s hand like a cigarette butt.
Victor screamed.
“You know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” the constable asked. “Damn near four months, two hundred thousand man hours, seventy million in expenses. Somebody up top wants you bad. There ain’t a rock on Luna we didn’t look under.”
Victor sobbed.
The baton came down on his back, knocking him flat.
“You’re a hard man to find, Mister Constant,” the black coated cop repeated. “I’ll be damned if I don’t take my time before I turn you in.”
“In the phone book,” Victor rasped.
“What?”
“I’m in the phone book,” Victor said. “It isn’t hard.”
The cop frowned, stepped back.
“Funny man,” the black coat said. “We searched all the directories. You ain’t there.”
“The first one,” said Victor, gesturing with a mangled hand at the shattered bookshelves.
“What’s he mean?” the cop’s companion asked.
“I dunno. Take a look,” said the black coat.
“It’s down by the dictionaries,” said Victor.
“Take a look,” said the cop, planting his boot on the back of Victor’s neck. He pressed Victor’s face into the threadbare carpet of the tiny apartment. He could hear the other policeman step through the debris, knocking aside the broken reading lamp, sifting through the avalanche that had been his reference shelf.
“Holy shit, here it is,” said the second cop. He had found the heavy black leather volume.
“Damn,” said the black coat.
“This has got to be an antique,” said his partner. “I didn’t know they made these.”
“When Copernicus first incorporated-” Victor started, but then his captor pressed down, choking the words out of his thoat.
“Well, is he in there?” the black coat asked.
“I’m looking, I’m looking.”
The black coat tapped his collapsible baton on Victor’s head.
“Well?”
“Yeah, here he is.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s six six six-” the second cop began.
Victor was already moving, rolling out from under the black coat’s boot and slamming his mass into the cop’s other leg. His not so broken right hand grabbed the police baton. In the low lunar gravity, he easily pitched the cop into the near wall.
Victor rose, weapon in hand.
“Now you’ve done it,” said the black coat, pulling himself up. “Jerry, shoot him.”
His partner was mute.
“Jerry?” said the black coat.
Bug eyed, stiff–thin tendrils of smoke crept from under his partner’s cuffs and collar.
The black coat went for his gun. Victor slashed at him. The cop yelped, his right arm broken. Victor brought the jagged, broken nightstick up and ran it through the man’s larynx. He caught him as he fell.
Victor hefted the choking cop over to his partner, whose armpits and chest were charring. Visible flames licked at his adam’s apple and wrists. A few of the heaped books’ pages began to curl. The black coat’s eyes met Victor’s as he set him down in the nascent pyre.
Victor pulled the black tome from the clawlike grip of the dead man.
“Now you’ll be hard to find too,” he said.
by submission | Jun 1, 2008 | Story
Author : Luke Chmelik
The Eldest coughs, hoarse and frail from the vagaries of stasis. Dull orange light from the isotope heater gives a glow of health to a man who has cheated death for many, many lifetimes. He has awakened for the first time in centuries, and the young ones gather close. He looks out the viewport at the pin-prick stars wheeling against the void, bright and steady and changeless. He is the only one who has seen the way an atmosphere makes them sparkle. There are a great many things that only he has seen.
The Eldest is much older than he seems. He was first put into stasis in low orbit at the age of twenty, young and strong and fit. His physiology took well to the procedure, and he was selected as an Elder, a cultural time capsule for the tens of thousands of colonists aboard the unnamed worldship. Awakened once every generation, to tell them the stories of the past, he has been sheltered from the passage of time for so long that he can no longer be considered the same as the people he was to guide. They are made now of bio-alloys and neural networks, linked together in a mesh of infinite complexity, and he can not take part in it. They see him as an antique prototype, an outdated custom model never meant for mass production. He has been alone for a very long time.
There is a quiet rustling as he stands, a breathless chatter like leaves in the wind. He sighs, yielding to a wave of nostalgia. The young ones have never seen leaves, never felt the wind, and it saddens him that many of them never will. He moves slowly to the dusty command console, disused joints groaning in protest, and turns on the power. The young ones watch him in curious wonder, eyes bright and cold and silver. They do not understand why he needs to use his hands. In the dull glow of the screen, his brow furrows. Without thinking, he recalibrates the system, accounts for the blazar on the edge of detection, filters out the microwave background. The young ones watch as he does in minutes what they do instantly.
When the Eldest moves to the communications array, the young ones do not follow. They have not used the communications array in millenia. The ancient screen flickers to life, showing only an oscilloscope wave and frequency information. Undaunted, the Eldest manipulates the controls, and the low hiss of the void turns into something constructed, not random. His face changes, and he makes a choking sound deep in his throat. Some of the young ones appear, curious about the sound, but he ignores them. He adjusts the controls, receiver crystals slowly tuning in to the signal. When the oscilloscope vanishes, it is replaced by a moving image and a voice.
“…own vessel, do you read? This is Station Charon’s Rest, do you read?”
The Eldest does not know how there are humans here, light years from home. He does not care. She looks like the Eldest but her face is young, soft and smooth where his is hard, and her eyes are as blue as the sky that only he has seen. He has been alone for so long. The young ones do not understand why the salty water comes from his eyes.
