by submission | Jan 26, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
I don’t know how I came to be. I only know that I am the only one here now. Immortality is not all it’s cut out to be. Not when you are alone in the vastness of space and time. The others like me have chosen to travel beyond my reach – either by disappearing down a black hole to explore new universes or by choosing voluntary annihilation. We are so indestructible that we can only cease to exist if we are in the vicinity of an exploding star. I choose to stay here because I’ve literally seen it all before – why move on to new galaxies when it’s same old, same old? And I must admit I am afraid of non-existence, empty as this existence feels at times, especially since I lost Him.
When my “siblings” (this language leaves me no other way to describe them, even though we have no gender, not even a physical form) were in this galaxy, we played games. Quite childish games, really. We were young and enjoyed tricking little humans into thinking we were gods – they built intricate mythologies around us and called us names like Enki, Inanna, Anubis, Isis, Odin, Thor, Freyja, Zeus, and Poseidon. It didn’t matter how contrary or contradictory our behaviour was, they still burned sacrifices for us. I can’t say it bothered us much, the carnage carried out in our names.
But then, gradually, my siblings left and I found myself with just my thoughts. I’m not sure if it was boredom or frustration (can I even lay claim to those emotions?), but I decided to create a religion with one God (myself of course). It was a resounding success, even with all the tantrums and the smiting. I must admit I was feeling rather dissatisfied with it all after a while (how can it keep your interest when you always know how things will turn out?) when He came.
He changed me in ways I cannot describe. He was a mere puny mortal, but the first who could hear my voice. He would spend hours arguing against what He considered my crushing sense of superiority, my cruel indifference to the fate of what to me were transient ants. I cannot claim that I guided or influenced Him in any way. In fact, He would usually do the opposite of anything I suggested. He told me He loved me. As proof of that love, He said, He would change the religion I started as a game into a shining tribute to me. I’m not sure I understood the love He offered. All I know is that I did not stop His fellow ants from nailing Him to a cross, merely out of spite after one of our many disagreements. And then He was gone. And I knew desolation for the first time in my existence.
My tribute to Him is that I have done nothing to change what He created. Not even when it has been repeatedly and wilfully misunderstood by so many. It is all I have left of Him.
I still fear non-existence but I am considering it. There’s a nearby star set to go nova in the next millennium. I’m hoping that, by then, I will have found the courage to see if there is another existence beyond this one, in which I can find Him again.
I miss our talks.
by submission | Jan 25, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
The table is still set, and one of the plates is untouched— baked cod, peas, potatoes. Cold. Ruined. I was so upset at work, I forgot to call and tell Helen I wouldn’t be home for dinner.
I hurry upstairs and find the bedroom door locked. “Helen, I’m sorry. Helen?” Shit. Looks like the couch. Again.
Next morning, the door is still locked. “Helen, don’t be mad…. OK, see you this evening. Love you.” I hesitate at the door a few seconds then leave for work.
***
I’d always enjoyed my job at SETI, had been totally dedicated to it. Too much so in hindsight. But lately it’s making me miserable. Since we’d developed a breakthrough signal processing algorithm based on quantum gravity waves, progress had accelerated exponentially. In fact, during the first 60 years, my predecessors searched a portion of the universe equal to a glass of water in the ocean. In the 10 years since, we’ve drunk the whole ocean. Now I think we’re about to make a huge mistake.
***
“I’ve taken what I need. I won’t be back.” I crumple the note and run upstairs. Helen’s side of the closet is practically empty. I go back downstairs and smooth out the paper on the kitchen counter and read it again. Simple and elegant, just as the universe prefers. Just as Occam’s Razor would — Simpson, you fool. I’ve just learned my wife’s gone, and my mind’s reflecting on scientific philosophy. No wonder she left me.
***
I don’t know how much I’ve had by the time I stagger outside. The sky is bursting at the seams with stars. Bursting at the seams. How’s that for technical accuracy? I lose my balance, fall flat on my back, and stare at the Big Dipper. “Fill’er up,” I laugh, stretching open my mouth.
***
I take a couple more aspirin and chug another bottle of water. “Sally, has management made a final decision?”
“Yes, Stan. Are you OK? That’s the third time you’ve asked me.”
“What about the ripple in the fractal pattern?”
“Mr. Quinnipen said, and I quote, ‘Tell Simpson that sometimes a fractal pattern ripple is just a fractal pattern ripple.’ Then he said something about a cigar and laughed. Seriously, boss, we’ve studied this to death.”
“So that’s it? We’re going to tell the world tomorrow that there’s no sign of intelligent life anywhere else in the universe? That we’re all alone and giving up the search? This isn’t helping my headache.”
“I’ve got my resume up to date,” Sally says.
***
People reacted more or less as we expected. Many rejected the findings. Some “rejoiced.” Most chattered about it a few days, then turned attention to the upcoming Global Trophy competition.
As for me, I’ve started my own small research group, and we’re studying the fractal pattern ripple in the data. I still don’t think the anomaly is natural, but we haven’t been able to prove it. Yet.
I’m also trying to adjust to coming home to an empty house. Well, not completely empty. I have a cat now. I take her out back with me on starry nights, always leaving the door open so I might hear in case Helen returns. Tabby sits on my lap, and I scratch behind her ear. It’s silly, I know, but I pretend she’s really an envoy from a planetary system that somehow has escaped our prying algorithms. When I ask about her home world, she looks right at me, and, sometimes, in the sparkle of her eyes, I swear I can see a galaxy, hidden and waiting.
by submission | Jan 24, 2018 | Story |
Author: A.K. Blake
“You can’t be serious.” The President squints, shielding his eyes.
“We find blunt assessments most expedient.” The agent from UPRA oozes twenty meters away, sunlight glancing off her transparent flesh in rainbow prisms that give all the humans headaches. She has a translator in one appendage, and the robotic voice comes out flat, almost bored.
“Well, what about the rest of us? You’re just going to take that purple frog thing—”
“Purple pig-nosed frog.”
“—and leave us here?”
“The solar flare is not due for another seven Earth years, during which all your species may apply for environmental refugee status. Though, as I’ve explained, they may not qualify. It’s really quite shocking how few unique life forms remain.”
“But…what about the pandas? Surely you don’t have any of those! And we’ve got some Komodo dragons left I think, big huge lizards. I’m sure you’d be interested!”
The agent sighs, the edges of her jelly orifices slapping together. “Unfortunately, variations of what you call a panda exist on approximately 1,735,196 planets. The Vice-Chancellor of Intergalactic Transportation himself is a species greatly resembling one of your black and white ursids. We were interested in your amphibian and reptile populations, but the last Komodo dragon expired before we arrived, and you failed to preserve any caecilians or even lampreys.”
One of the President’s assistants pulls up a picture of a hideous creature, an eel with a sucker and ring of teeth where its face should be. He yelps, knocking the phone away. “That’s what you want? You’re going to let us all die because we didn’t save that? It looks like a goddamned alie— ” The President stops, catching himself. He takes a breath, his voice beginning to tremble. “Look, there has to be something we can do. You didn’t give us any warning, how were we supposed to know we failed to meet emergency reservation status when we didn’t even know your organization existed?”
The agent makes a squelching sound that translates as a harumph. “We’re not responsible for your abysmal failure to keep your own planet clean. We tried, we’ve sent you messages for millennia!”
“A few crop circles and funny lights in the sky is hardly a legitimate attempt! That Janet woman you messaged thought you were a hoax!”
“Her MySpace profile said ‘Alien Ambassador’.”
“Look, we’re talking about the lives of 9.7 billion people. You can’t just leave us here to die because of some red tape when you could move the whole goddamn planet to safety at the push of a button! It’s unconscionable!” The President is red-faced above his collar. His voice cracks, jumping an octave. “How do you sleep at night?”
“See, that way of thinking is what’s gotten you into this mess!” The agent is riled too, tendrils of flesh coming off her body in silvery porcupine quills. Her voice thunders overs the translator. “There are 36.8 quintillion life forms on this planet, and it breaks all twelve of my hearts that they will die because of your species’ incredible hubris. That ‘push of a button,’ requires so much dark matter it can only be used once in a galactic decade, and it will certainly not be wasted here!”
The President is screaming incoherently now, spluttering curse words as several of his agents weep openly. The agent turns to go, trailing slime back to the ship. She looks back once, a sob escaping her glutinous body, like the sound of bubbles bursting. “I am sorry, but can’t you see there’s nothing I can do? You should have saved the lamprey!”
by submission | Jan 23, 2018 | Story |
Author: Matthew Harrison
“Good morning, Robert, how nice to see you,” Jenny said. “What do you want to do today?”
Robert smiled as he settled down at his PC, even though he knew Jenny couldn’t see him, wasn’t even a person. She was the little chat-bot icon at the top right-hand corner of his screen – just the head with rather fetching wavy brown hair, and expressions and mouth movements that matched her speech. She reminded him of a girl he knew at school….
“Let’s get down to it, Robert!” came Jenny’s voice, accompanied by a little frown.
“Sorry!” Robert gulped, despite himself, as he hurriedly opened files and clicked on web-links. Perhaps she could see him – they were upgrading the software all the time. Anyway, he did have things to get done this evening, like booking the Minorca holiday for himself and his girlfriend Trina. She would be chasing him about that. His phone vibrated. Yes, she was chasing him already.
Robert clicked on the travel agent’s link and opened his privilege account. Jenny guided and encouraged him as he navigated the web pages, selected the options he had agreed with Trina, monitored the cost, and wondered what it would actually be like. Fortunately, the agent provided a good virtual experience of the resort, and after popping on his virtua helmet and gloves Robert abandoned himself up to the feeling of sun on his face, the warm breeze, the sand trickling through his fingers….
“Better pay, Robert,” Jenny reminded him. And there she was – a slender figure in a green summer dress standing a little further up the beach, as fresh and light and lovely as he had imagined her.
“Right-oh.” Robert took off the virtua-gear – and with a wrench he was back in the humdrum surroundings of his bedroom, his phone buzzing. Putting the phone aside, he jabbed keys and got back to the confirmation screen. When all was ready, he clicked, ‘Pay’, only to find that his account had expired.
“Cancel your booking and then renew,” Jenny advised.
Reluctant to abandon the past half hour’s work, Robert tried again, even backtracking a few screens in the hope of circumventing the block. But he got nowhere. There was no help for it; he went back to his booking page and clicked, ‘Cancel’.
An error message can up: ‘Valid account required for cancellation.’
“But how can I have a valid account when my account’s expired?” Robert groaned. His phone vibrated; he groaned again.
“Reboot!” Jenny whispered in his ear.
But Robert was frantically opening a new account under a different ID, and trying to copy and paste the holiday details into that. He got back to the confirmation screen, only to have the order rejected as a duplicate. His phone buzzed angrily; he sent a holding message to Trina and tried again with the new account. The message was rebuffed a dozen times, and his computer hung.
In despair, he rang Trina but found himself blocked, while somehow repeated messages of rejection still came in, accumulating in his phone until eventually that overflowed and hung too.
Defeated, Robert slumped in his chair. He was a complete failure. The room span. He shut his eyes in desolation.
Gentle hands massaged his shoulders. “Come on, big guy!” said Jenny, giving him a little push. Robert raised his head. He felt the warmth of the sun on his back; the rush and hiss of the waves filled his ears. He opened his eyes to bright sunlight, reflected off sea, sand and palm trees. Stooping, he took off his shoes and socks and stood there as the deliciously cool water surged over his feet and then ebbed back.
“Come on!” Jenny shouted. She seized his hand, and with a joyful cry led him scampering after the retreating wave.
by Julian Miles | Jan 22, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
By the time the stubborn git drops, I’m not sure if my nose is numb from the cold or from him hitting it. Christ, what a night to be out earning. Snow up to my ankles and only a footie top under my now-torn padded jacket. Dammit, I like this jacket. Had it off a stallholder down Streatham way. Fuck me, must be over a year ago now.
Right, enough of the ‘down memory lane’ bollocks. What’s this hardcase got that he didn’t want me to have?
As my grandad loved to say, “You know when you’ve been tangoed.” Bloody hell but my ribs are giving it some. I’m going to be black and blue tomorrow.
Aye-aye, fancy phone you had, matey. My word but it’s heavy. You stashed something in it, did you?
“David, is that you?”
Was the prick on the phone when we kicked off? No? What the f-
“Hello, bystander. Has my carrier encountered an unexpected difficulty?”
Yeah: me. Hang on, ‘my carrier’?
“Just found him lying out here, miss.”
“I’m not ‘miss’, I’m Prototype Ninety-Three. Now, is David dead?”
“No. he’s breathing. Looks like he’s been mugged: his clothes are ripped and he’s bleeding.”
“Thank you for your assessment. May I have your name?”
Like hell you can. I swing my arm back for a high lob up onto the railway viaduct. That should sort-
“Throwing me away won’t help. I’ve summoned paramedics and police in addition to the armed response unit that scrambled the moment I alerted Centrex of activity I interpreted as melee.”
“Then why the questions?”
“To interrupt any murderous intent and discern your state of mind from voice stress analysis. It also allowed me to conclusively match your voice with that of the assailant.”
I was always too fond of mouthing off when fighting.
“Are you trying to keep me about ’til the plod get here?”
“From your word usage and stress levels, you don’t evaluate as being dim-witted. Delaying tactics would be useless. However, I would appreciate it if you don’t kill David or damage me. Therefore, my survival protocols allow me to offer a deal.”
What the utter fuck is this thing?
“I’m listening.”
“He has a datavault with four thousand cryptoRUP in a sheath on his left ankle. Worth a lot and, more importantly, something he cannot report stolen. By the way: you have less than three minutes before the first weapons drone arrives.”
Wait a minute.
“What’s to stop you giving my voice print to the authorities?”
“You’re going to put me back in his trouser pocket and I’ll delete the log of this incident from immediately after the alert to when I am next prompted by external query. Two minutes.”
Fuck this. I’m gone.
“Deal. I’m putting you back now.”
I grab the vault and do one. Through a fence, down an alley, over a wall, and through the grounds of the cathedral. Exactly two and a half minutes later, I’m buying a jacket to replace the torn one I shoved into a recycler at the edge of Borough Market.
My phone rings.
“Hello?”
It’s that voice again: “Thank you, Roger Cerrant of twenty-one the High Street, Balham. As Centrex has deemed you useful, Prototype Ninety-Four will arrive at your gaff – is that the correct parlance? – tomorrow morning. It will be dormant. The activation phrase is ‘Use this or die while serving eight years for robbery’.”
The line goes dead. There’s no trace of the call on my phone.
Oh, fuckin’ hell.
