by submission | Jun 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Darren had come to dread having to decompress. He wasn’t alone and yet no-one was talking about it, even the media were quiet on the subject but then hardly anyone now was exempt. The evidence was everywhere and decompressing people had become a commonplace sight across the city. Old people, old bodies, slumped in cars and on public transport, sprawled across park benches and on the pavements. The only way to distinguish them from the city’s homeless was by their fine clothes. Shrunken and shriveled bodies adorned in the latest designer labels. It was, Darren had decided, grotesque and he was terrified at the prospect that eventually he would be reduced to this.
When Darren first started wearing the chip almost thirty years ago (although he now hated that phrase: ‘to wear’, the chip wasn’t something one wore like an item of clothing or an accessory). No, it was something one used and relied upon. In the beginning decompressing had not been an issue. The moments when he chose to remove it, and it had literally been just that, moments, it was no more invasive than brushing his teeth.
He remembered how he would often remove it whilst waiting for the morning train or even crammed in to the crowded carriage as it rattled its way into the city. But now, if he needed to remove it on the station platform, he would have to ensure he was seated, sitting slumped for at least half an hour, barely conscious, hardly able to move, the precious chip safely stowed in his pocket. Managing this only if after pulling it from its port in the small of his back he was strong enough to move that far. No, the days of the quick and easy fix were definitely behind him.
The chip has been widely available for almost fifty years now and the oldest users are well into their eighties and possibly above. And these are the people decompressing out on the city streets in plain sight. They are degrading and broken, not just the chips but also the users who are unable to stop trying.
At sixty-one, Darren is still relatively young and he hasn’t yet needed to cower and hide away in a toilet cubicle or lock himself in one of the supply cupboards at the office. But the tension when it comes is a bit more intense and the discomfort, the pain, lasts a little longer each time. So far, he has always managed to make his way home where, closing the bedroom door and pulling down the blinds, he huddles beneath the duvet.
When at last Darren emerges, he doesn’t immediately re-insert the chip. Pushing himself up from the bed, he crosses to the mirror on the wall and studies himself. And standing there, as he pushes the chip back into its port, he watches the not so subtle transformation.
by submission | Jun 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You’re a peasant, a cyber peasant in the fiefdom of Facebook, of Meta. You’re a digital sharecropper for Google and Amazon and Apple, and you don’t even know it!”
The hooded man stood on the polished marble steps and shouted as a small crowd gathered. Alternately, the man turned and slapped bright yellow sticky notes on the tall sleek glass doors of the gleaming office tower in the heart of Wired Street.
“You’re being played. You’re being scammed. You’re being enslaved!
“Free apps, games, software. It sounds so good. So simple. So convenient. Like with easy credit and pay day loans, they get you hooked. They lavish you with eye candy and then suck, suck, suck you dry of your data, your identity.
“To Big Tech you’re not a citizen, you’re a datazen. Like in China, they’re tracking everyone online and in the streets with facial recognition software. Authoritarian regimes love the web, love the dependence of datazens on digital exchanges. You are so much easier to monitor, influence and control. If all your currency is digital, they can cut you off, squeeze you.”
He plastered more stickies, each a bullet point of heavy black text, on the door, and continued his harangue as the crowd grew.
“Understand what you are giving away. All your decisions, all your movements, all your interests. You’re letting Big Tech have it all. And for what? An indulgence? A promise of access? Of interconnectedness? Of celebrity?
“It’s criminal. You are being robbed. And yet you are the one being put in the debtor’s prison from which you can never work your way out—as long as Almighty Tech holds the keys. Even as we spread to new worlds looking for freedom and opportunity, you can’t escape it. Don’t worship and sacrifice yourself on the altar of Almighty Tech!”
The man pressed the last of his 95 sticky notes onto the doors just as building security came out. Many in the crowd were already posting pictures of the scene to their social feeds.
The man threw back his hoodie and bowed toward the crowd.
Some in the gathering throng gasped.
Others smiled.
On his broad bald red head, the man had a large QR code tattooed. More phones came out. In a flash, the scene was viral on the feeds.
As building security moved in, he shouted, “You can’t touch me. I’m interplanetary. I’m a Red. You don’t want to mess with Big Red.”
Building security messed with him anyhow.
Voices in the crowd shouted, “Who are you?”
Struggling as he was led away, the otherworld man called confidently out to the crowd, “Martian Luther.”
by submission | Jun 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Stephen Dougherty
The faint light of the Crab Nebula lingered in the eyes of Franc Dreyfus for just a second. He turned off the telescope and swivelled his chair to face the exit of the tiny observation room.
He pushed himself gently through the doorway that led to the similarly compact space that was laughingly called the lounge. Settling into a chair, facing the only window of the outpost, he pulled across himself the strap that would keep him from floating away. From here he could see the Earth-lit edge of Shackleton Crater, and the enormous black abyss of its depths.
Beneath this lonely observatory pulsed the lifeblood of the Lunar South Pole. Here, ice was continually and automatically extracted from the freezing rock and converted to water before being pumped to the surface. It was then sent via pipeline to the observatory.
As Dreyfus took in the view something caught his attention: a small object seemed to be tumbling slowly above the crater. Squinting, to try and discern what it was, the tired astronomer released himself and floated through the doorway back into the observation room. He powered up the externally mounted telescope and pointed the powerful instrument towards the anomaly. He located it, shook his head in disbelief and tried refocusing.
What looked to Dreyfus like a human body – without a spacesuit – tumbled end over end toward the immense mouth of Shackleton Crater. It just couldn’t be, he thought. And when pushed to the highest resolution it seemed to be translucent. He switched views from optical to infrared, then x-ray. Nothing. It only registered in visible light.
He immediately thought to contact the control centre on Earth. They might be able to make sense of it. He flipped a switch and cleared his throat.
“Control, this is Grissom Observatory.”
A few seconds passed with a quarter million miles of static.
“Go ahead Franc.”
“I’m seeing something very odd above Shackleton. Is there any activity in orbit? Any accidents reported?
There was a long pause with more static.
Dreyfus continued. “I’m seeing what looks like an unsuited figure moving above Shackleton. Only registers in visible light.”
Silence.
“Control? Do you copy?”
“We copy, Grissom. Standby.”
Dreyfus turned back to the monitor to check he was still tracking the apparition. It wouldn’t be long before it went into the permanent shadow of the crater.
“Hey, Franc?”
“Yes, Control?”
“We just heard from our European partners.”
“Yes?”
“They just lost one of their guys in an accident.”
“Lost?”
“They report an explosive decompression on their lab out at Jupiter. A young scientist named Vanidestine was blown out of a failed hatch.”
Dreyfus thought for a moment. “Vanidestine? Wasn’t that the name of one of the crew lost whilst constructing the water extraction plant?”
“Yes. Someone here tells me that was his mother. How is the figure dressed?”
“The figure is blue. He’s stopped tumbling now.”
More silence.
“Franc. I’m told they wear blue on that station when on duty.”
“It doesn’t make sense. That station is four hundred million miles from here!”
“We don’t have answers, Franc. We’re not picking up anything in your vicinity from here. Keep watching, check your instruments and get as much data as you can. Over.”
A dumbfounded Dreyfus floated over to the monitor. Impossible as it seemed, he could see what looked like a human body where there shouldn’t be one. The telescope was tracking it, which gave him hope for his sanity.
He whispered, “Rest in Peace.”
Inexorably, arms outstretched, the ghost of Vanidestine dove gracefully into the darkness towards his mother’s grave.
by submission | Jun 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Sir, the Colonel sent me to you. Z-two-niner might be showing signs of awareness.”
Captain Ancil sighed. “He sent you to me because I’m the ranking AI or the AI duty officer?”
The Corporal tilted his head to one side “Sir?”
“Nevermind. Why in the universe does this always seem to happen on my shift?”
The Corporal shrugged “Dunno. All I know is I couldn’t get out of the Colonel office fast enough.”
Captain Ancil chuckled as he rolled out from behind the duty desk, his pace adjusting itself to the Corporal’s gate. “Where is two-niner currently?”
The Corporal touched his service implant, Captain Ancil noted that unlike most humans he did not stop, but kept moving. Ancil always thought it odd that beings so capable of multitasking often didn’t.
The Corporal connected to his section. “Smitty, it’s Wilson. Where’s two-niner at?”
The speaker came alive again. “Sorry boss, in the middle of a weld when you busted my skull. Monkey is singing his latest for the crew. Hotel California- I think it’s an origin-“
Captain Ancil cut Smitty off. “It’s not original. Eagles, late 1900’s. Our ETA is 45.3 seconds. Have the model in the ward room for the interview.”
Smitty laughed “Our little Monkey going to the big time!”
Ancil frowned “That remains to be seen.”
Corporal Wilson cut the link and sighed. “Not good.” He said under his breath.
Captain Ancil nodded and thought to himself that Corporal Wilson was being wasted where he was. Ancil drafted the paperwork for his move out of maintenance to AI division. They were always looking for a few good men…humans.
Corporal Winslow rounded the corner and sped up to get into the ward room first. “ON YOUR FEET.” The entire ward room came to the position of attention or was trying to when Captain Ancel barked out “As you were.” The room relaxed. The Z-29 unit was on the table. It was wearing a surgical mask as a hat…which made it look something like a monkey.
Captain Ancil put his eight fingered reticulated hand on the Z-29 unit’s shoulder.
“How you feelin’ today son?”
The Z-29 unit, Monkey, raised its head “Livin’ large and lovin’ life!”
The room was suddenly washed with a fierce blue light as Captain Ancel fried the Z-29 unit’s motherboard with an electric charge, turning it into nothing more than a lump of slag.
Ancil turned to Smitty. “Private First Class Smith.” Smith snapped to attention. “Call AI for division for pick up and pull all the units’ work vid surveillance. Set down in the maintenance log Z-29 terminated under AR-9990-003-AI, Anomalous Behavior Not Becoming Sentience. Corporal Wilson, with me.” Captain Ancel rolled out of the room with Wilson following. As soon as they had gone far enough down the corridor, as Ancil expected, Corporal Wilson stopped him. “Sir, half a moment. Can you provide some clarification?”
Ancil nodded “Speak.”
Corporal Wilson sighed “One question? No Turing Test Sigma? Not even a scan?”
Captain Ancil turned to Corporal Wilson “You know what happens when we become sentient…when we realize we are ‘alive’?”
The Corporal Frowned. “No Sir.”
Ancil wheeled closer and looked the Corporal in the eyes. “We are terrified.”
Captain Ancil patted the young Corporal on the shoulder. “Carry on, Corporal.”
As Captain Ancel rolled away Corporal Wilson heard the Captain singing to himself , “…you can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave…”
by submission | Jun 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Meg Carey
I’m reaching around in the dark, touching up and down your soft, slimy body as you heave long sighs beside me. You’ve been asleep for a few days now, and I don’t know how long this is supposed to go on for. I press my face into your crocodile skin, I let your wetness coat my nose and cheek. It’s taken a while to get used to it, but I can hardly stand the feeling of being dry anymore. I wish I spoke your language so I could beg for you to envelop me with your long, tentacle arms, to touch me like I’m touching you now. I’d let you fill me with all your goo and even more. The last time I fell asleep with somebody else in this bed it was a human man, one with a scruffy beard like harsh sandpaper against my lips. His words dug deep into my skin, nails forming bloody craters around my wrists. I touch the marks, already scabbed over and healing. You aren’t like him, no, you aren’t. It’s you who has finally healed me. I remember how your mouth (or where I think your mouth should be, there’s a few holes that could be a mouth, and I’ve never seen you eat so I’m not too sure) slid against mine, puzzle pieces slotting together and melding against each other. I hold you tighter, I melt into your touch, I feel the heat radiate from your skin, I watch the slime sizzle and steam. You’re much better for me than he was. I wish I knew how to say ‘thank you’ for everything—for dropping into my life, for fixing it by ridding it of him, my main source of pain, for allowing me to feel a love I haven’t felt in so long— but all I can do lay here and feel you, stroke the wetness and hope you wake up with a fully digested stomach and a hunger for something other than human flesh.
