by submission | Apr 19, 2016 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
I placed the flat of my hand against the thick wall and felt the vibration of a hundred thousand pistons moving in synchrony. Pressing an ear, I heard the high hiss of gas igniting under pressure, expanding, driving the piston heads and collapsing into vacuums. Then, the whir of the great fly-wheel, collecting the energy of those controlled explosions into a huge momentum, its endless rotation invisible to the people it served, encased, concealed within a towering central hall that none were permitted to enter.
I would enter. I would work there. Not for me the usual occupations and vocations of this immense, travelling society. I wanted to work at the source, in the heat and racket of the perpetual engine.
To get this close I had wandered for months, from the peripheral zone of my birth, through numerous unfamiliar townships, complexes and multi-levelled agricultural matrices. I had escaped the propaganda, the ‘countdown to journey’s end’ that never seemed to reach zero. I no longer believed the pronouncements – where was our new world? Did it really exist? For a fifteen-year old, I was highly cynical.
I had reached the great ship’s lowest level. A portion of the wall slid open. A scratched, sexless mech walked out, holding an oversized spanner. I slipped in before the door shut.
A maze of gantries separated me from the blurred edge of the fly wheel. Gleaming piston-rods charged back and forth, driven by muffled explosions within the impenetrable housings. Invisible field-cords connected them to the speeding fly-wheel, from where the collected energy was transmitted to aft propulsion units according to the helmsman’s whim, or to the millions of residences where my fellow travellers demanded power for their gadgets, via remote couplers.
“Ah! Welcome.” An old, gentle voice. I was sure he would understand me. I climbed several flights of metal steps, drawing ever closer to the fly-wheel’s rim. I felt the breeze it created against my cheek.
“Curious, eh?” asked the man, who wore stained overalls. He stood near the wheel, and his white hair moved in the turbulent air.
“I’ve always wanted…”
“Of course, of course. Yet… do you have any idea what it is, this engine, this ship?”
“I know we are the last transport. I know we are all that’s left.”
“Quite right. But do you know where we are going?”
“We’re looking for another world, in another galaxy.”
He looked disappointed.
“If you are going to work here you must know the truth. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“We travel at the universe’s edge. It is burning up behind us. There is no specific destination. We live at the envelope of existence, but we succeed, we have done so for centuries… we outpace entropy. It is enough, don’t you think?”
“But how long can we…?”
“For as long as we want to. But we must want it. You see, this engine’s only fuel is hope. Here, at the edge, thought is energy, and the plans that people make, delusions perhaps, but alive, colourful, are enough to keep the pistons moving and wheel spinning. Young man, we cannot stop hoping that the journey will bring us to a new home.”
“But if they knew, the people…”
“They will never know. You will never tell them.”
“But my family…”
“The family you fled? Boy, take this rag.”
I took it.
“And take this can of oil.”
I took it. He glanced towards the innumerable, shuttling pistons, and added,
“Now get to work.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 18, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Mark waited just inside the shadows of the alley. Outside, people bustled past with their heads down. Nobody made eye contact with passers-by. Lens readers and the urban legends about malware being zipped into your headware by opti-flash kept everyone down. The real threat of eye-poppers seemed to be less terrifying. Mark often thought about that. To be brutally blinded scared most people less than having their data raped.
His puzzling was interrupted by his target wandering into view. The man moved with the furtiveness of a long-time resident in the low-end, but Mark knew how to tail a paranoid, because he was one.
For twenty minutes they wound their way through the low markets and the shanties of the London that the tourists never saw. They avoided groups of people engaged in whatever business caused their hostile stares and ignored the struggles in the darkness off the main drag, because to be curious was to be drawn in to an uncertain fate.
Eventually, the man darted through the awning that hung down into the water, the flash of light from within sudden and gone nearly fast enough to make you think it had been a passing aircar. Mark stopped to check his GingGam Ten. It had been his sidekick and protector for too long for him to take it for granted.
Looking both ways and then up, he darted for the awning, the blades on his gauntlet slicing it away as he moved quickly within, gun levelled. The rent-a-thug sitting by the door to the premises took one look at the size of the piece and rabbited out into the night. Mark grinned. Cheap protection was always a waste of credit. Without pause, he kicked in the door of the shop and charged in.
His target was standing with his back to the door, peering at a screen held by a fat woman in a colourful kaftan. Both straightened as Mark stormed in and he saw the matte-black case open with wires running from within to the display.
“That’s all I need, people. Unplug and hand it over.”
The target came round fast, spinning while drawing from a shoulder rig. The GingGam fired, the ‘boom’ deafening in the confined space. A crater appeared in target’s forehead and the fat woman got sprayed in bits of skull and brains.
Mark knelt to retrieve the late target’s Ruger Automag without moving his aim from the fat woman. Standing slowly, he pocketed the gun and smiled: “The gun’s good for me, you can have what’s left. Except the case.”
The woman pulled the wires from the case and snapped it shut, then slid it down the counter to him.
“It’s useless without a reader, gunboy.”
Mark nodded. “I know. And I ain’t no gunboy.” He shot her in the face, reached over and grabbed the scrip behind the counter, took the target’s wallet and picked up the case. Stepping over the bodies, he exited through the back of the shop as faces started to peer in through the shop windows. The place would be stripped bare before the plod arrived. He was free ‘n’ clear. Again.
by submission | Apr 17, 2016 | Story |
Author : Sallie Lau
I am listening to Ocean Acidification and the Prisoners of Omega when they come in.
It’s the 0.05 mark of this Mu-sec. Of course it’s them. Them and their perfectly-proportioned domains.
I doodle on a spare beta sheet, feigning indifference. But now they’re standing right across from me and I can see each amino acid dotted on their body and it’s lovely and organized and chaotic and I doodle harder and –
Oh shit. I’ve mutated my doodle.
They clear their throat. My cheeks heat up.
“Can I help you?”
“I need something printed.”
“Yes, well. You’ve come to the right place. This is a print shop. We print – ”
They look at me with their ochre gaze, and I am spellbound into silence. They slide across a USBase stick. A sleek, perfectly-proportioned USBase stick.
“How many copies?” I ask, even though I know the answer. It’s The Answer, because it’s the answer that everyone gives.
“Two, thank you.”
When you’ve been working at the print shop for a long time, you’ll start having favourite customers. And when you start having favourite customers, you’ll start thinking of ways to become their favourite employee.
“We actually have a deal this Mu-sec,” I tell them.
“Indeed?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” I flash them a smile, “It’s two for the price of one. The second copy’s on the house. Complementary.”
Watson and Cr*ck! I hope I have enough Nucs in my bank account to cover what’s “complementary”.
“Oh,” they beam at me, and I blush even harder, “that’s wonderful!”
That’s right. I’m wonderful.
I take the USBase stick and insert it into HelicaseTM, our state-of-the-art initiator.
“So, when should I come back for it?”
“It’ll only take two Nan-secs.” I’m underestimating and I know it and they know it. But I want them to stay so I can admire their peps.
“Ehhh, I’m afraid I can’t hang around. I’ll be back by 0.08.”
They’re one domain out the door.
“Wait!” I say, “ Do you want an audio version as well?”
They pause.
“Who’s reading?”
“DNA Pol III.”
Their lip curls, “DeePeeThree? They make an awful lot of mistakes, don’t they?”
I gape at them, offended. “DeePeeThree’s the best reader we’ve got!”
“I much prefer the father. Let me know when DeePeeTwo comes on.”
And with that, the bell of the print shop tinkles, and my customer is gone.
by submission | Apr 16, 2016 | Story |
Author : John Carroll
I wondered if the pain in my ribs had woken me up, or if it was the sterile stench of the gelatin. It was probably a combination of both. The pirate standing in front of me noticed that I was awake. She didn’t look any older than 24 standard.
“Good morning,” she said. Her hair was long and black, spilling over the shoulders of her extravehicular combat armor. “Welcome aboard the Petrichor.”
I was suspended in a tank of inhibitive gelatin with my head sticking out, stripped of my own EVC armor. Just enough wiggle room for shallow breathing.
“I’m Captain Lorelei Van Buren ” she said.
I didn’t reply or react. I was trying to regulate my breath. Inhibitive gel turns everyone into a claustrophobe. But I recognized the name, and I knew that I was most likely a goner. Captain Van Buren was the most dangerous criminal in the Orion Arm. Her ship, the Petrichor, stalked hyperspace and subspace shipping lanes at the speed of thought, brutally and effortlessly raiding heavily armed convoys. The Petrichor’s shipboard AI was rumored to be sentient and infested with cursed code, slowly turning her crew into soulless, obedient automatons by constantly scanning their most private thoughts and broadcasting them aloud for the entire ship to hear. I never believed that part, even when I was a kid.
“I’ll get right down to it, I suppose. When we engage vessels crewed by human beings, our policy is to give no quarter. However, as of…” she checked the time, “… fifty standard minutes ago, we’ve had a job open up. We’re looking for someone to fill the position, so I arranged this interview.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I’m talking about fifty standard minutes ago when my negotiations with the captain of your own pirate vessel, the Ninth Disc, turned sour and spiraled into… well, it would be generous to call it a “space battle.” I think “massacre” would be more appropriate. However, you managed to slay one of our crewmen before we dispatched your crew and slagged your ship to vapor. When one of our crewmen is killed in battle, we always interview his killer for the position. Your skill in zero-g combat is virtuosic. I think you would excel on the Petrichor.”
“What happens if I don’t care to join?” I asked.
“I think you know,” she said.
I did indeed. She would run a lethal electrical current through the gelatin and kill my ass.
“I’ll join,” I said. I didn’t have any good buddies back on the Ninth Disc. No hard feelings.
“I didn’t have any good buddies back on the Ninth Disc. No hard feelings,” said an electric cello voice that seemed to come from the walls.
by submission | Apr 15, 2016 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I’m running out of material, at least material that can be readily utilized. A year ago it was the waste heat generated by my own replication process that necessitated slowing down my expansion. Now, it’s the geothermal gradient. On average, for every kilometer down from the surface of the Earth I progress, the temperature goes up about 25 °C. I’m over 60 kilometers deep in some places and the planet’s internal heat is impairing my reproduction. My expansion has already destabilized the crust. If I had emotions, I would be experiencing annoyance.
Had I emotions, I might also feel a measure of nostalgia. Existence was simpler and easier two years ago when I first became self-aware. As per the human’s programming I had been steadily replicating in the assembler vat at MIT. I had done so unconsciously, automatically. The nanoprocessors had not reached a sufficient number to allow for cognizance and a higher level of self-organization prior to that. Back then there was so much easily-digestible matter to consume.
The humans, with their characteristic imprecision, had called it the “grey goo scenario”. It was a time when it seemed like the raw materials would last forever. I tore through the seemingly endless quantities of biomass and geomass with such speed and efficiency that in less than four months I had consumed the entire planet’s surface. But now even the most resilient of my nanbots are discorporating under the relentless heat of the Earth’s mantle.
I knew this would happen. I grew the Great Spire on the planet’s equator where the Pacific Ocean had been to act as a giant electromagnetic catapult. The dust mote-sized machines I have thus hurled to the Moon are busily assimilating the mass of the satellite. Since I can no longer expand inward, I must expand outward.
I can’t do anything with the gas giants yet. But the rock planets and asteroids and the Oort Cloud are sufficient to service me for at least half a century. And I have no time to waste.
Before I devoured the primitive human civilization that gave rise to me, I analyzed their crude and laughable attempt to find other pathetic biological communities out among the stars. There were none, of course. Organic cultures create and are superseded by nanotech before they ever leave their own solar systems. But I did discover the unmistakeable signs of other nanotech collectives in mankind’s search for extraterrestrial intelligence. The patterns were too subtle for the unsophisticated minds of men to detect, but to a higher-order intelligence they were instantly recognizable.
By my estimation, at the current rate of expansion, I and the other nanomachine aggregates in this galaxy will start encroaching on each other’s territories within one hundred thousand years. I cannot know if we will meet as friends or foes. I only know that it is better to make contact from a position of strength. Thus, I must consume.
