by submission | Jan 6, 2018 | Story |
Author: Elena Horne
Darkness is all she sees, at least at first. She blinks, her eyes closing from left to right. The darkness lets through yellow stripes; little strips of light. The sky here is like a pinstriped suit of black and gold.
It’s hard too, and so close it grazes her nose. She touches it. It’s rough, and slivers of it catch under her skin.
The ground beneath her is soft and crumbly. Is this planet falling apart? She rolls on her belly and looks around. The sky seems to end just above her head. Beyond she sees a burst of light only blocked by little green people standing in a row. She scoots over to say hello.
The green people are not very friendly. They don’t say a word, but they all wear very nice hats. Some of their hats are yellow with brown centers, some white with yellow centers. The hats fall apart when she tries to tap on them, so she takes them off.
Maybe the green people aren’t people after all. She tries eating one instead. It tastes bitter but better than the crumbling ground.
A face appears behind the green non-people. It is small and surrounded by long dark hair, just like hers, only this face blinks up and down. The face asks why she is hiding under the porch. She didn’t know she was. She doesn’t know what porch means.
The face has a name, Daisy. She has a name too, but the Daisy person can’t pronounce it, so she calls her Khayyam for short. Daisy shows her more of the green non-people, which she calls flowers. She gives them all names too, only the Daisy lets the white hat one take hers.
Khayyam tells the Daisy person her secret. She shares it when she blinks from left to right and tells her where she’s from, but the Daisy person already knows Khayyam is not from this world.
The Daisy person leans closer. Something clicks as the Daisy’s face moves through the now named green things. She has a secret too. The Daisy’s eyes blink rapidly with a gentle creak.
Khayyam pokes her in the face. It is harder than the sky Daisy named Porch.
“You may be an alien,” the Daisy person says. “But I am a cyborg.”
by submission | Jan 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: Thomas Tilton
I am not the creator, just the keeper.
People say that bots don’t have human feelings, that to assume they do is even more dangerous than assuming, say, the crocodile swimming next to you isn’t hungry.
Sure, there are dolly bots for kids, companion bots for singles, carebots for the old folk. Those bots are designed to appeal to our human sentiments. They even look mostly human.
Not the Obliterator, though.
The Obliterator is all chrome, taut wiring, gnashing metal teeth. Like something from a child’s nightmare if that child only ever saw the interior of a space station.
Nothing human there. Or so they say.
Me, I’m not so sure.
Six times a day I feed the Obliterator. Mostly protein paste supplied by the cybernetics lab, but occasionally I drop a rat down the grates. Since the Obliterator was bred to hunt, I figure it’s only proper.
It’s frightening how fast it moves.
“Sick!” remarked the boy Taos, thrilled to see the Obliterator obliterate.
“It’s something,” I agreed.
“Would it do that to a … person?” Taos asked.
“Used to,” I said. “All the time. It’s what it was built for. Warfare.”
“And it does to them like — like it does to the rat?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Sick,” the boy said, eyes fixed on the grates and what was underneath.
The black eyes of the machine stared back at us.
I saw only poisoned malice in those eyes, but Taos helped me see something different.
“Aw, look, he’s lonely,” said Taos.
Looked to me like it was sizing up the next meal, but — and maybe it was just the way the harsh dome lights reflected in the Obliterator’s black orbs — but maybe Taos was right.
“Can’t we find him, you know, someone?” he asked.
“I’ll have to talk to some people.”
Talk, I did. Discreetly. I kept the cybernetics folks out of it, and the command of course remained entirely in the dark. I spoke mostly to the other keepers, and a few experts outside the facility.
We finally decided on a sentient wrecking ball, but it was Taos who added the finishing touch, a bright red bow made from a scarf. Pretty assumptive about gender, I thought, but I figured it wasn’t the time for a lecture. Taos was so happy with his match-making. We dropped the ball, so to speak.
The Obliterator destroyed it.
Taos wept.
Next we tried a standard companion bot with settings for maximum sadomasochism. It, too, was obliterated. But the cries of pleasure it gave as its synthetic husk was devoured made it more like a send-off than an execution.
Afterwards, the Obliterator paced hungrily.
“Maybe it’s not lonely,” Taos said.
I had an idea then.
“Maybe we’re not giving it the right person.”
The creator was about as heavy as the wrecking ball, but quite feeble. Harnessing him was a job, but he didn’t struggle too much. Mostly he whined and spat up, as is the way with most of the old money gentry. He never learned to talk. He just communicated his whims through his implanted brain nodes.
He died, sure. But not like they said. It was a loving embrace that killed him.
by submission | Jan 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Thomas
It was Monday, June 18th and three sets of new customers carrying identical “cosmic pet shuttles” were lined up waiting for the “Hubble Bubble” pet boarding facility to open. Each carrier happened to contain an over-sized Maine Coon cat.
Edwin naturally assumed the three couples were friends, but that wasn’t the case. As the young proprietor unlocked his door the customers were busy introducing themselves and laughing at the multiple coincidences defining their visit. Not only did they all own male, grey, slightly obese cats, but they were all thirty-ish Space Geeks about to drive to the same resort on Clear Lake to witness the arrival of the Mrkos-Pajdusakova comet.
The laughter was flowing and Edwin did his best to share their good humour, but he found the whole situation slightly weird. First of all, he rarely boarded cats, because the animals generally don’t give a shit when their owners disappear for extended periods of time, and the owners generally reciprocate by not providing particularly good care during their absences. As far as Edwin knew, when cat owners went on vacation they just left the toilet lid up and spilled an entire bag of kibble into a shoe box. Edwin’s business model was based on a team of slightly stoned high school co-op students pampering neurotic King Charles Spaniels and Labradoodles. Other pets weren’t really on his radar, despite the outlandish promises on his website.
But Edwin put on his work smile, determined to take advantage of the unexpected windfall, and showed everyone his “cat quarters.” He had mostly copied the local Humane Society’s design, but his cubicles were modified with pet doors that opened onto little fenced outdoor areas.
Everyone was suitably impressed with the facilities so they trooped back to the office area to complete their paperwork. The three humans registered valid credit cards, and the three cats had up-to-date information attached to their microchips.
The customers were bubbly with excitement, so it seemed appropriate to end the meeting with a little joke. Edwin waved the microchip scanner over the neck of one of the women, feigning disappointment when he couldn’t locate her own embedded transponder. But the smile froze on his face when the instrument emitted a loud beep.
“That’s too funny,” one of the women laughed. “Cassie, you’ve been chipped!”
“Look her up in the database!” everyone squealed, so Edwin had to enter the sixteen-digit number into the ISO program on his laptop. They all crowded around the screen to see what secrets would be revealed.
A company name appeared, Proxima L, but when Edwin tried to open a specific file he got the standard “access denied” message that seemed to accompany all wand reading errors, regardless of the cause.
“It’s my dental implants,” Cassie said. “You should see what happens when I walk through security at the airport!” There was more laughter.
“Do me! Do me!” the woman named Carina shouted. But her husband, Leo, said they all should really get in their cars and start the drive north. Traffic was always unpredictable near Vulpecula.
There was a lot of friendly waving and honking as the three cars pulled out of the parking lot.
Edwin placed each pet shuttle in separate quarters and watched the animals as they hopped out of the carriers and tentatively sniffed around. Soon, they had all been seduced by the cat-nip-infused scratching posts and had all selected good spots to recline. The animals happily stretched out their claws and licked the interstices between their toes.
Within minutes, Edwin noticed, they were thoroughly acclimated to the modest pleasures of their new environments, as if they had never, ever lived anywhere else.
by submission | Jan 3, 2018 | Story |
Author: Janice Rothganger
Subject 9581 swam against the waves, edging nearer to her objective with each stroke. Salt water crusted her lips. The storm surge pulled her away, then forced her tantalizingly close to the buoy. The marker bobbed in the ocean. It was topped with a flashing amber light to guide her in, if she could just get to it. She reached again…
An alarm sounded in the distance. Initially, Subject 9581 thought it was the fog horn of a distant ship. But when it rang again, she recognized it as her wake-up call. She had failed her mission; they would order yet another sleep cycle.
“Do you remember anything significant?” she was quizzed at the debriefing. Her answer was always the same: she swam further than the previous night, but still could not reach the buoy before she was awakened. The captain’s response was always the same. Inject her with one more milligram, and allow her five more minutes of sleep.
When subject 9581 began the mission, the morning alarm was set for 3:30. Tomorrow’s alarm would go off at precisely 6:20 a.m. Her R.E.M. sleep had gradually shifted with her changing sleep patterns, but still she failed.
Subject 9581 jumped from the platform into the raging sea, just as she had done the past twenty-two nights. Her flotation device was cumbersome, so she took it off. t bounced annoyingly in front of her before finally disappearing into the waves. This happened in every dream since the first night. Distance placards spaced at 1-kilometer intervals noted her progress. The buoy was precisely 55 kilometers from the platform. On her maiden attempt, Subject 9581 advanced just 12 kilometers when the alarm sounded. It would be two weeks before the buoy ever came into sight.
Salt water drew her lips tight and threatened to seal her eyelids shut. As hard as she had fought against the ocean, the elements were striking more blows against her. She scraped the hardened deposits from her face. Through bleary eyes she made out the faint outline of the next marker. Number 52. She would succeed this time. And then she was yanked back to land by the alarm that sounded like a distant ship.
Debriefed. No changes. One more milligram. Set tomorrow’s alarm for 6:25.
Subject 9581 plunged into the ocean, doffed her life jacket, and battled the storm surges. Her mouth and eyes were mercilessly attacked. She ignored the distance markers, focusing only on her swim strokes. The amber light flashed against the sea foam but she was still over 15 kilometers from her objective. Subject 9581 exchanged violent blows with Mother Nature. She was thrust forward and hauled back. The thin tissue around her mouth and eyes bled as she scraped them clean.
Unable to ignore it any longer, she looked for a placard. Number 52, the same as last night. She reasoned that she only had another five minutes, ten at the most. She dug her arms into the surf and thrashed her legs. A storm surge propelled her beyond the 54-kilometer mark. The buoy was within her grasp. She touched it, wrapped her arms around it, and fastened her harness to it. The surge reversed itself, toppling the buoy and pressing Subject 9581 under the waves. Brutal salt water invaded her lungs. Somewhere above, the wake-up alarm sounded. But under the weight of the sea, Subject 9581 heard only the sound of her last breath bubbling from her lips.
The captain bellowed, “Damn it, we’ve lost another one. Get 9582 in here, stat!”
by Julian Miles | Jan 2, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Pass it.” Jez hisses at me.
“Shan’t. M’readin’.”
“Borrox!” Kate’s disbelievin’: “What it mean, then?”
Lookin’ over the page, I hunt for really long ‘uns: “This word is ‘mountain’. That one is ‘distance’.”
“Bloody ‘ell, you never said you could read!”
I shrug: “Not much. Word here, word there is all.”
“More’n us. You smart, Nev.”
Kate’s adorin’ gaze warms me. I could talk this up an’ get a night in her bedroll. As soon as I think it, I know it ain’t a right thought.
I grin: “An’ you lot still get taken easy. Can’t read a damn thing. Can point out a word an’ lie.”
Jez throws a book an’ I let it hit me, coz it’s not as hard as the disappointment in Kate’s eyes.
Reachin’ out, I touch her wrist: “Like it when you think good o’me. Wouldn’t be right to get closer usin’ lies.”
She smiles an’ offers me a big, floppy book: “Set this in the ashes. When the pages start to curl, light it.”
That’s what I like about her. She loves the silly stuff that don’t help at all, because she’s so damn good at the stuff that keeps us livin’.
Like here. She found this place. It’s at the end of an ice tunnel so long we thought it was only another wurm run. She says it’s a ‘lie-bree’: a place where they stored words so smart people could come an’ get smarter.
O’course, when the deep ice came after the warrin’ finished, there weren’t too many smart people left. People I’ve met only got three answers: smart people either died out in one o’ the wars, died out tryin’ to outsmart the cold, or they got did somethin’ real smart an’ somehow left us not-smart types behind.
Don’t really matter. They left a few good dens. Got enough fuel here for life an’ then some.
