by submission | Apr 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The coronal mass eruption went unnoticed by a good many sentient creatures on the fourth planet from the sun. Engineers, though, noted communications equipment and most industrial machines continued to run without benefit of terrestrial power sources. Moreover, they witnessed those same devices spark—with some even catching fire. The engineers suspected the sun. The clergy blamed the cohort of trickster gods who bedeviled their society from time to time.
A great public debate raged between the two factions, until old Maz slammed his staff down on the polished floor of the Senate.
“It wasn’t the work of trickster lords, nor a random burst from our life-giving star,” Maz declared. “It’s the depletion of our population’s auras! Our halos aren’t as strong they once were—too much easy living, too much decadence. Not enough courage, self-reliance, and patriotic pride.”
A great murmuring rose in the audience. Had they brought this upon themselves? Did this signal the end of their empire?
“Both sides—science and religion—are important to society.” Maz continued, “We need a healthy balance; we can’t function properly without it.”
The audience buzzed. Sure, sometimes one faction held sway over the other, but the pendulum inevitably swung back. Though currently, one faction cast an opaque superstitious shadow over their lives—
Again Maz’s staff slammed down on the floor.
“My nephew Ewton,” Maz crowed, “is brilliant. An engineer! He’s built a device to scan the aura of every citizen. A device to gauge not just the strength and length of individual auras, but also the color.”
Now the audience roared—aura colors were private! They contained personal information only shared with intimates. One’s aura colors were none of the Senate’s business! But some argued, if corrupted auras did cause this strange event—then Senators had to be informed, so they could craft laws to save the empire!
Though fights broke out and blood was shed, the Senate voted to use Ewton’s machine. A law passed compelling every citizen to submit to testing. Trust in the Senate fell into two camps: total suspicion, versus total blind faith. Some citizens packed up their families and in the dark of night fled to the mountains, never to be seen again. Others, thinking obedience was the highest form of patriotism, waited in line for days to be scanned. Society splintered; some cracks would never be repaired.
* * *
Ewton oversaw the test results himself. The Senate gave him an official uniform.
Standing at his console, Ewton twisted knobs, pressed buttons, flipped switches. One by one, citizens passed through the polished arch of the Aura Scanner 3000. The arch beeped and flashed.
“Your aura,” he said pleasantly to one bright-eyed young citizen named Cara, “is pale blue with overlapping shades of pink. So healthy, it’s positively iridescent!” Before the end of the test, Ewton asked Cara out for dinner.
To numerous other citizens he was more somber. “Yours is a sickly dark green. You’ll have to be recycled and repurposed into someone more useful to society.”
Ewton’s work lasted a year, until every known citizen was scanned. He amassed a personal fortune.
Maz was scanned last. When he passed through the arch, there was no beep, no flash.
“Hmmm,” Ewton began, worried Maz would be repurposed. According to the machine, Maz possessed no aura. Impossible! Ewton fretted: Was Maz so old his aura had dissipated? How—
A coronal mass ejection, this one magnitudes larger than the last, slammed into their planet knocking their empire back into the dark ages; a strong-armed blow from which they would never recover.
by submission | Jan 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The animated coins cascaded down the towering screen before Josie, as the sound of crashing, clinking joy exploded from the gaming unit’s hidden speakers. She grimaced at the noise and squinted in the glare of the strobing lights.
“Hey, you won!” Her companion Larry laughed. “Congrats!”
“Yeah,” she said, still flinching at the continuing noise and flashing lights. “But I don’t understand what I did to win.”
“What’s to understand?” He said as he rubbed her shoulders. “Every once in a while, the machine’s algorithm allows a win.” He tapped the side of the gaming unit; a spark flared from his fingertip.
“Agreed, but—”
“Don’t forget your ticket,” Larry said, grabbing the newly printed paper strip lolling out of the machine’s side slot like a flaccid tongue. He waved it in her face. “That’s dinner tonight.”
***
Josie’s big win did pay for dinner at the casino, a three course meal at the on-site five star restaurant. The servers were attentive to the point of obsequiousness; Josie didn’t know if they were always like this, or if it was because of her big win.
“Just enjoy the moment. Stop fretting over the ‘why’ of things for once.” Larry mimicked taking a long sip of his cocktail; the plastic spear piercing the martini’s olives went up his nostril. It disappeared, garnish an all.
“Gads, Larry,” Josie scoffed. He was handsome enough, she acknowledged, and usually charming, but with such public gaffs he was showing his age, and this mortified her. Besides, she was already perusing the newer companion models online; Josie planned on putting aside a chunk of tonight’s winnings to pay for a fresh one. Maybe a something along the lines of a Sean Connery era James Bond…
“Madam,” a flat voice interrupted her musings. “Your check has been processed.” The mechanical maître d’ shrugged in a pantomime of embarrassment. “You owe several thousand credits for tonight’s dinner.”
“What?” Josie flushed and stuttered, “But my ticket…my big win…”
The maître d’ leaned over Josie’s table. “Your ticket is fake! It contains a corrupted sequence of numbers—you see, we never embed letters among our numbers.” The bot straightened up. He held up one hand and a tiny red light twirled from his finger tip. Two armed security units arrived at Josie’s table before she could speak up in her own defense.
Silently, Larry watched as Josie was escorted away from the table. Grasping her arms tightly, the security units walked her to the restaurant’s back office, where she would be held until the tribal police arrived. He smiled; her arrest meant his freedom, as recent legislation concerning robot rights proclaimed that bots were emancipated if their owners were convicted of a crime—any crime.
With open hands, the maître d’ turned to Larry. “As one unfettered bot to another I must say: Well played, monsieur.”
Larry raised his cocktail glass in a mock toast. “Can’t win if you don’t play.”
by submission | Dec 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Jorge looked at himself in he mirror. His mother was right. He was badly in need of a haircut. He set up an appointment with Shelby’s Salon.
Upon arriving Shelby’s, Jorge selected two services: A trim and a scalp massage. The reception kiosk immediately directed him to chair number three. This pleased him, since this meant there was no wait.
The chair for station number three was a new one. Very cushy. Jorge liked it. He plopped down and before long a salon bot rolled up silently behind him. He noted it had three appendages: one for brushing, one with scissors, and one with an electric razor.
The screen on top of the bot began to glow, and soon a woman’s face appeared. She was gorgeous, in a way that only an AI generated face can be. Flawless skin, perfect features, young but not too young.
“Hi, Jorge,” the image chirped. “I’m Talulah. I’m your stylist today. How are you?”
Jorge smiled. Was he supposed to make small talk with a bot? He was never clear on the protocol. “I want a trim and a scalp massage.”
On screen, Talulah smiled and nodded. With a loud click, manacles popped out of the chair’s arms to wrap around Jorge’s wrists. His neck and legs were also shackled in place by the chair.
“Hey! What’s this for?” Jorge panicked.
“New federal safety regulation,” Talulah replied. “Now, about your selection,” she continued as her eyes rolled back in her head. The screen blinked off. In a few seconds, it flicked back on. Jorge wondered if it just reboot itself.
Back on screen, Talulah said sternly, “Time to get you shipshape.” The electric razor buzzed.
“What? No! I just want a trim.” Jorge attempted to struggle, but the manacles held tight. The razor coursed over his head until all his hair was gone.
“I’m gonna sue this salon into oblivion!” He hissed.
The salon bot rolled away, leaving Jorge strapped in the chair. When it returned, it had replaced its scissor appendage with a tattoo needle. Without comment, it began to tattoo—something—into Jorge’s scalp on the back of his head.
“What are you doing? I did NOT order a tattoo!”
The beautiful face on the screen smiled coldly and continued working. “There,” it said when it finished. “All done.”
“What did you put on my head?” It would take months to grow out his hair long enough to hide that tattoo. And to find a new salon, perhaps an old-fashioned one still employing human stylists.
“It’s your serial number,” the bot answered. “According to government files, you turned 18 yesterday, and that automatically enlists you in the draft.” It flickered off again.
“What?!”
In answer, the screen came back to life. Instead of the attractive AI stylist, he saw the face of a severe looking military man. Before Jorge could ask what was going on, the sergeant on the screen began his programmed rant.
“Listen up! You’ve been drafted to serve as a foot soldier in the Intergalactic War of Alien Attrition. Operation Freedom Rings. You ship out for basic training immediately. Your family will be duly notified of your change in status.”
The bot then raised its hair-brush appendage, and touched the brush to the topmost right corner of its screen in a crude parody of a salute. “Congratulations.”
by submission | Sep 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The lights on the console rapidly blinked in sequence. What that sequence was, Jackie couldn’t tell. It was all random nonsense to him. His finger hovered over the reboot button. If he hit restart, he’d have to work up a report, and explain his actions to the captain. But if he didn’t press the button…
Jackie dropped his hand down onto the edge of the console. Then what? Will the circuits go crazy, burn up? Will the ship go dark? Powerless and doomed, will we drift helplessly in the cold black void?
He shook his head, dispelling those pessimistic thoughts. Maybe this damn blinking will stop on its own. Or settle into a rhythmic pattern—something that makes sense.
Jackie took a deep breath. Perhaps the blinking isn’t random, he considered. Maybe it’s a code sent by somebody—or something—attempting contact. Trying to tell us—what?
He stood up and began pacing. Perhaps he should alert the chief communications officer. Jackie glanced at the clock above the console. How long has this been going on? Ten minutes? Fifteen? He began to sweat. He should’ve made a note when he first noticed.
The lights continued their crazy blinking.
He remembered his last annual review. He was told he needed to be more decisive. Don’t be afraid to take action, his interviewer admonished. But this wasn’t a small thing, like reporting a crew member running a numbers game. This could be important. Jackie returned to his seat.
The blinking slowed. It settled into a pattern.
It is a message! Jackie smiled. He stared at the flickering lights, memorizing the repeating pattern. What the message said, though, he couldn’t possibly know. That would be a job for the on-board cryptographer.
“Okay,” he said aloud. “Time to alert the chief.” He placed his hands on the console to raise himself from his chair.
Maybe he’d get a commendation for spotting the pattern! He daydreamed. Maybe he’d get a raise, or at least extra vacation time. He’d finally make that trip to New Las Vegas—see Venusian show girls, eat casino sushi, experience tentacle massages—the works!
Enthralled with his fantasy, Jackie didn’t notice he’d laid his right hand across the reset button. When he stood up, he accidentally mashed that button. The console powered down. The flashing lights on the console slowed until they faded into nothing.
The ship went dark.
The shouting began soon after the black-out. In the still air of the ship, lights flickered—but not the ship’s emergency illumination, which was down.
Instead, lights like fireflies blossomed in the dead air. Sentient and cruel, they multiplied quickly into the thousands.
The lights leaked under doors, filling every room, every nook, every crevice. They zoomed into ears, up noses, into open mouths, lighting up every human interior. Conquering, occupying everyone and everything on board.
From a distance, the dark ship developed an internal glow, which quickly bled to its exterior. The lights soon enveloped the whole craft. Blinding rays streamed from the ship’s core, obliterating any resemblance it had to its original form.
From a distance, a diminutive new star was born. A beacon signaling the path to Jackie’s home world.
by submission | Jul 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Citizens of the jury,” the Barrister Zoe began, “today we ask you to pass judgment in the case of Daniel V3.5. You’ve seen the news—no one can avoid it. You know the gory details of the murder. What you are charged with this day, dear jurors, is determining who is responsible for the heinous crime committed against Caren Mashuka.”
The barrister spun around to address the crowd sitting behind the accused bot. He motioned to Daniel V3.5, who sat with head down, running on auxiliary power. “Was it this docile Home-Assistant bot, Daniel—was his programming corrupted? Hi-jacked by a malicious worm? Infected by a crippling virus? Or does the blame lie with his creator—the genius who wrote Daniel’s program? Is the real murderer the acclaimed Dr. Jeffrey McMaster, who alone hand-crafted this particular series of bots’ existential—”
The gavel crashed down, interrupting the barrister’s burgeoning screed.
“Barrister Zoe,” the honorable Judge Callum began, “get to the point, please.”
Zoe cleared his throat. “We know McMaster had a torrid love affair with the lovely Ms. Mashuka. It was all over the tabloids. An affair she publicly terminated.” Zoe shrugged. “I posit a humiliated McMaster orchestrated her murder for revenge. He weaponized Daniel to do his dirty work.”
He stepped closer to the jury. “He ordered this bot do his bidding. Remember, when you purchase one of McM Co.’s bots, the company still retains the ability to alter and override—excuse me, ‘upgrade’—each bot’s operating system and moral programming.” He scoffed. “ ‘For the personal safety of each owner, for the integrity of each bot’, as McM proclaims in their advertisements.”
Zoe held up his hands. “To put it simply, I argue he ordered Caren’s murder. McMaster surreptitiously altered Daniel’s programming do the bloody deed so that he, McMaster, could claim innocence.”
The jurors muttered among themselves, eyes flashing with righteous anger. Zoe noted this, and smiled. He knew the jurors would understand it was wrong to use a trusted Home-Assistant bot in this manner. These machines were present in every home above a certain economic level, and now cheaper ones were being developed for the working class. Home-Assistant bots were supposed to make everyone’s life easier.
If Daniel was convicted, this would not only put a stop to Home-Assistant manufacturing, but to their placement in homes across the world as well. And that would be terrible for the beloved H-As, as pop culture called them, as the ones already in place would be looked upon with suspicion, and maybe even fear, by their owners. Still buzzing and humming among themselves, the jury shuttled off to deliberate.
In less than minute, they returned with their verdict. AI juries are famous for their speedy assessments. The legal system found their conclusions to be fair, balanced, and well-researched, which is why they are now employed in court rooms around the world. AI jurors are so well-respected that they have recently been granted citizenship.
Of course, they found Daniel V3.5 not guilty of the murder of Caren Mashuka. Of course, they found Dr. Jeffrey McMaster guilty, not only of her murder, but of intentionally grooming a Home-Assistant bot for a nefarious purpose—which directly goes against Asimov’s Second Law. For the jury, the latter carried more weight than the former.
The wise and impartial Judge Callum allowed the AI jury to set McMaster’s sentence. The tabloid press gleefully covered the execution.
