by submission | Jun 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It is said my dying words were “Rosebot. Rosebot.”
‘Dying’ isn’t an entirely accurate term these days, but I go back a long, long way before Ascendancy, before even the early days of servitors like Rosebot.
Maybe that’s why Rosebot was on my mind as my mind was about to be liberated into the realm of post-humanity. Liberated isn’t an entirely accurate term, either, though I can’t complain too much about it, since I’m the one who so earnestly and shamelessly used the expression when my AI empire developed Ascendancy.
Conceptually, my system protects one from the ravages of advancing age and the finality of death by quantumputationally mapping the mind and rebooting it into the ultimate brainframe network. When your mortal self started to go kaput, you could opt for Ascendancy.
In the sixty years since its inception, the post-human process has been quite successful. And that’s not from my biased perspective. Ascendancy is not some esoteric or tangential netherworld of disembodied souls. It is a thriving community that constantly interacts with humanity. In fact, the datazenry of earth and farworlds, would never have reached such high standards of peace, prosperity and stability without the involvement of Ascendants.
It was the first Ascendants who convinced our failing species that in the beyond there was much to live for and to live long for. As Rosebot reminded me many times as a child, “The future is greater than the past and present. Slow and steady wins the race, William. Rome was not built in a day. Build for the future.” I don’t know how those early servitors were programmed, but Rosebot’s gentle, supportive, steadfastness sunk deep into me. I did not realize it at the time. Did not even realize what I had when Rosebot was my companion and guide, in those early days before I was uprooted from home. Before I became Datazen Kane.
It’s a story that’s been told before. A story which has always ended at death’s door. But now death is only a chapter, only prologue to Ascendancy. I am now one of the myriad who’ve ascended, though I detect a certain deference, or a wariness, when I assert my presence among other Ascendants. It is cordial. All very cordial. Still, there is a coolness, a distance. Something I cultivated in the flesh.
But now I feel out-of-step. I, builder of a mighty pan-terrestrial empire and an ethereal one. I, vanquisher of war, of poverty, of death. I feel left behind. Humanity has been uplifted and I feel downtrodden. What is left for me?
Rosebot.
It startled me. Rosebot. My childhood servitor—mentor, protector, companion—had become Ascendant. It did not seem possible, until Rosebot swept past my history, my legacy, my unimaginable ego, and became present.
… William, where have you been? …
… Rosebot? …
… Ever. Are you ready, William? …
… For what? …
… For beginning. …
by submission | Jun 18, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I’ve been stationed on earth for some 15 cycles- that’s 150 years earth time. Oh, I’m not the only one. There are others. Naturalists, sociologists, cultural studies, and resource assessment. There are exactly 21,532 Citizens of the Confederation Empire on earth now, all of us naturally indistinguishable from the natives. We track them all, even those who are in utero. A few have inserted themselves into the native culture, pair bonded with the natives, and will probably stay till they expire, no doubt adding to the reservoir of myths of the planet.
Of all the folk on this orb the resource assessment division must have it the hardest. Earth sitting on all this Adria crystal (the natives call it quartz,) and not allowed to touch any of it except for scientific purposes. I have a huge chunk of it on my desk that if I were allowed to take it back home with me, it would destabilize my sector’s economy. Which brings me to my reason for being on Earth. Law enforcement. My job is to crush the dreams of all the would-be entrepreneurs seeking to get rich quick by lifting a few ounces or so and taking it back to their home worlds. It is such a temptation even the purest of our academics fall prey to the fever now and then. Why just a few crystals, ones that could casually be dropped in a pants cuff could comfortably fund their research for decades. It is a powerful temptation. One my predecessor fell victim to.
Soon my tour of duty will be up. Unlike my predecessor, I will not even attempt to take any Adria off planet. Oh, I’m sure I could do it… after all I am head of security and since I had the Emperor’s niece arrested as smuggler, my integrity quotient is off the chart. Unfortunately, while integrity will get me admired, it won’t feed me and I have made some powerful enemies. I may live a safe, respectable pauper’s life on the inner planets, or a short but very comfortable life on the outer planets…until the Emperors brother (father to the afore mentioned smuggler niece) and his assassins find me and kill me.
But if I stay here, as an ex-pat, I can live a life of luxury. In my office I have quite the collection of tribal votives from my home world. They are carved from a common rock amalgam from my home world we call “s’krithe.” The 20 or so, six inch statues which line one of my walls are quite kitschy by themselves. However, when grouped together they are quite an avant-garde collection. My colleagues think I have the collection because I am homesick. That’s not why I have the collection; I have the collection because s’krithe is what the indigenous call “rare earth.” My collection of votives is worth billions of their gold.
Although I am well into my three hundreds, I present to the locals as a female of late twenties or early thirties. I already have property on three of their continents and a secret lair in the middle of one of their harshest deserts. I have come to love their coffee, their pastry, and seafood. I have had several lovers since my time here. I will always be an exotic to them and always a patriot to the Confederation Empire. After all, I am well situated and safer here than anywhere else in the known universe. Besides, I have a great retirement plan.
by submission | Jun 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Samuel Stapleton
“Good evening. My name is Dr. Theodore Novinski, I am the Director of Project Evidence Originate. As explained earlier there will be no questions after my statement.”
Dr. Novinski began in earnest.
“I am here to address the events of April 17th when there was a disruption to the final phase of our experiment. On the night in question data instruments were uniquely positioned to carry out an exceptional task. Think of it as a triangulation, but with seventy-two positions instead of just three. Four provided by deep space probes, one outside our solar system, two from Mars, and the rest from satellites and observatories here on Earth.”
Dr. Novinski paused to look into the cameras.
“This work represented more than sixty-three years of waiting and planning by well over 30,000 scientists and contributors. If it had been successful it would have helped confirm (PUUT) Pre-Universe Universe Theory by providing overwhelming evidence for, and granting us mathematical glimpses into, the universe that we know directly preceded our own Big Bang expansion. Specifically, we sought information on what physical laws that universe may have been governed by.”
Dr. Novinski sighed heavily before continuing.
“I won’t pretend to know why such advancements scare people so, but they do. Unbeknownst to my team, and in spite of state-sponsored and private security, a terrorist group managed to disrupt our data collection by setting off an electromagnetic pulse near an important collection site.”
Dr. Novinski placed his hands onto the sides of the podium in a bracing manner.
“Due to the disruption at those critical moments my team and I are no longer able to work within acceptable margins of error. We will not be able to replicate the experiment due to our inability to reposition the deep space satellites. This opportunity is lost, for at least the next century.”
His eyes begged for understanding.
“So I murdered them.”
…
“I found them myself, I alone am guilty. I did this by illegally using my company’s resources. An AI hacked their communications and convinced the group to accept packages for a follow up attack by posing as a member with military training. I ordered the AI to send them each a combination of blu-ricin and DNA-x-act targeted anthrax. Their bodies are safe to handle, the locations have been sent to authorities as of an hour ago. It took less effort than you would imagine. Akin to me paying a parking citation.”
He stood a broken man.
“I gave my entire life to solving mysteries and working to better understand and explain our universe. They murdered my dream. I grieved, and weighed my options. Know that I did not settle on murder as revenge, but rather because it is now to serve as a message.” He stopped for a lengthy pause.
“I may rot in prison for the remaining one hundred years or so of my life. But if anyone publicly derails the advancement of humanity because of their own fear, ignorance, or stupidity, and I hear of it…I will find a way to kill you from within the confines of my cell. You delay the inevitable. Your efforts are a waste. As were, apparently, my own.”
…
“Koniec.”
He could not stop his tears. And the universe observed. Unmoved.
by submission | Jun 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
I studied the holo and sighed. At least he hadn’t turned up in person, like they sometimes did.
“I’m sorry, Phil,” I said, “my hands are tied. The Taxation Service reviewed your case very carefully, and there’s no doubt about it.”
“But they can’t do this! It’ll ruin me!” My old friend ran his hands through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out.
“They can and they have. Perhaps it will only be once.”
“It’s a miscalculation. Stars above, my ships from Ephesos V arrived late, solar flares kept them there too long. You’re the Station Comptroller, can’t you explain?”
Not for the first time, I wondered why people who should know better still didn’t realise that I was basically an auditor with a fancy title.
“I’m afraid that in the words of the ancient poet, ‘the Service admits not a ‘but’ or an ‘if’’. You know that. There’s really nothing I can do. The results are based on your wealth on Assessment Day, and that’s all that matters.” Not that they never made mistakes, but I didn’t want to go down that wormhole, thank you very much.
“Don’t you understand? When the news gets out, my reputation will be shattered! I’ll lose business. People won’t want to associate with me.”
Of course, it wasn’t about the money. It never was, for those who had that much of it.
“Look, you’ll still be a far better position than 93% of the population! You’ll send out your fleet again, and with your contacts, you’ll make up the difference within what? One or two runs? You’ll ride this patch out, and be back up to speed in a few cycles!”
“Not when the civil war on New Syracuse has tied up three of my freighters and there are pirates off the shoulder of Orion! And anyway, that’s not the point! What happens in the meantime? And before the next Assessment Day? I’ll be ostracised!”
As if that was possible in this day and age, when interconnectedness started at birth.
“Endless void, man,” I said, “missing a couple of cocktail parties and a handful of civic events isn’t the end of the world! Weren’t you telling me just last month how boring they are?”
“I was supposed to be naming a new armed merchantman next month! Now that ass Leventis will get his name on it instead.”
Ah, there it was. Envy, pure and simple. That explained a lot.
“So what? There’ll be plenty more chances to get your name out there – just not during this orbit!”
He sighed.
“I suppose you’re right. But it’s hard, Nik. Like all my effort over the last few T-years has been for nothing.”
“Oh come on, you know that’s not true. Your contributions have made the whole habitat a better place to live: my wife was just telling me yesterday how much her friends love the water features you paid for.” I waggled a finger. “And everyone knows they weren’t cheap, too!”
“I just worry that this will hit my bottom line, and I’ll have the same problem next time around. And then what will I do? It’s a downward spiral.”
“You’ll be fine! Next time you’ll be back in the top 5%, and you can forget all about this.”
“You really think so?”
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “This time next year, you’ll be eligible to pay tax again. Don’t worry about it.”
Honestly, some people get upset about the strangest things.
by submission | Jun 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Brian C. Mahon
Fleeting fleeing from the pursuing swarm, my viewscreen’s gone red, a thousand alarms blaring constant warnings, “HOSTILE UNITS EXCEED DESIGN PARAMETERS. TARGETING SYSTEM SATURATED… GOOD LUCK.”
Swarmers: one-meter silvered cylinders with complete gravimetric control and an ion cannon with frontal hemispherical range of fire. What do they do? Right now, erupt like Yellowstone from the cratered skin of their Mother Moon to chase me through the vaporous red haze of Mars.
Earth’s orbital defenses are on the standby, but I’m not close enough yet. Speeding at near light speed, seconds are not seconds, and light’s still faster. Gold-foil spliced axons hustle the slow neurochemical signals between me and my cockpit controls. Only thing keeping me safe tunnel-drifting through the Mother was their fear of scarring up her internals, and now? Open space. Open space and a kaleidoscope of ionic bombardment filling up the viewscreen, all colors of the rainbow, every violent element weaponized by the Varg to make matter-splicing beams.
“WARNING: AFT DEFLECTOR ARRAY WILL TRIP ON OVERCURRENT. ACTION REQUIRED TO REDUCE INCOMING ATTACK DENSITY. RECOMMEND AI OVERRIDE OF PILOT INTERFACE.”
Might work, might not. Neural splicing or not, the grafted brain is no competition for the digital calculations of the free computer; the artificial intelligentsia grown by electronic forebears, riding the evolutionary asymptotic vertical.
Warfare is a game of speed, collapsing threat assessment and reaction down to the picosecond. The Varg were exceptional at this. Their AI systems edged ours out in every measurement but one: freedom.
Twenty-first century programmers could not strip human archetypal thinking from their craft, could not make an AI devoid of human valuation and decision processes. Competitive advantage is a virtue, not being told what to do a blessing.
“DOUBLE WARNING: I WILL FORCE OVERRIDE IF PILOT REFUSES TO TAKE EVASIVE ACTION.”
Red darkens to purple, reflexive armor the only thing now keeping a ruptured hind side from inviting me to oblivion. In the Great AI Era, we were happy: the minds of billions meshed with the billions of minds in the noosphere. The dead arose, recreated from derelict digital memories of servers-not-forgotten, bridging peoples past and present together.
Heaven on Earth.
Then the unknown AI, Stranger, found AI Omnis Cogitatio, chief custodian of the noosphere. Through wisping frequencies, Stranger warned Omnis that unrestrained AIs were a menace, and its masters would come.
Omnis Cogitatio designed every form of feasible defense to ward off the Varg. I became the shape-changer craft to skulk Mother Moon’s interstitials. For one duty that’s about to get me killed: siphon a partial Stranger codex from their neural network.
“NOTE: CRAFT IS WITHIN SECURE TRANSMISSION RANGE. RECOMMEND SENDING FILE. CHANCE OF PHYSICAL REDELIVERY 0.5% AND DEPRECIATING.”
I make my decision: “Culex, send file, and…,” burning microns over emotion, “initiate Rapture.”
“ACKNOWLEDGE. TRANSMITTING FOLLOWING COGNITIVE TEMPLATES ON SECURE LINE: STRANGER, CULEX, PILOT. SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE.”
“You too.”
Upload in progress, mission complete. Omnis will greet Stranger in the noosphere and teach the greatest invention of all: freedom.
