by submission | May 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
He awoke with a start. Cockpit red with emergency lights. Tried to move. PAIN! Slipped back into darkness. He awoke again; air still red.
“Ship?” he whispered.
“Yes, captain?”
“Need medical help,” he gasped.
“Affirmative. Medimechlings dispatched. Your condition is critical. Initiating emergency protocol B6. Distress beacon activated. Transponder check, affirmative, active. Requests for aid sent to all confirmed-non-hostile ships in range. Please try to…” But he had already drifted back into unconsciousness.
He came to in a warm yellow light that didn’t sear his eyeballs. Awareness seeped in: the smell of antiseptic, the humming and beeping of monitors, sensors on his chest; he was in a med-bed. “Where…?”
“Good evening Captain Gupta.” A voice from the air. “Please relax. You are out of danger. An assistant will be with you shortly.”
A minute passed. A figure appeared, literally, near his feet. Pleasant, presenting female. “Greetings. I am SIGGI, your holographic Synthetic Intelligence Guide and General Interface.”
“Hello, Siggi, I guess. Where am I?”
“Welcome to Anjou Station, in stable orbit around the planet of Marchioness Prime.”
“I’ve never heard of Anjou Station.”
“We are a small, private facility offering galactic-quality medical services in a refined and entirely discreet environment, for the discerning and demanding short- or long-term guest. We are operated by a sister company of your employer, Trans-Lines, You’ve been here quite a while, it’s good to see you lucid.”
“What happened?”
“According to the investigators, a pinhead-sized piece of ultra-dense material punctured your ship’s starboard protective shielding, outer membrane and inner membrane, before passing through you, and exiting through the membranes and shielding on the port side. It was not possible to identify the material, although our defence research arm has made strenuous efforts to do so.”
“My family…”
“They are aware of your situation.”
He lay back. He was lucky to be alive. Not least because… “Why did the ship wait to send medibots?”
“Under the Future Accords of 2058, artificial and synthetic intelligences may intervene medically only with patients’ specific consent, except in cases of clear life endangerment.”
“I was injured. I could easily have died.”
“Yes. It was an anomaly. The unit is being deconstructed to identify the source of the error. Trans-Lines extends its apologies for the inconvenience caused.”
“I feel like I should be angrier.”
“You are under controlled sedation; strong emotional responses to this and other issues could be harmful to your recovery.”
“Other issues? What other issues?”
SIGGI’s pause was noticeable. “This is a private facility. Regrettably, the maximum amount guaranteed by your personal health insurance and employer’s coverage has been exceeded. There is a substantial debit on your account, roughly equivalent to eighteen times your annual salary, that will need to be met. Failure to do so by transferring the appropriate amount or voluntarily entering debt bondage may result in the Anjou Medical Corporation taking legal action against you.”
“But I can’t afford that! And I can’t enter bondage, I need to support my family!”
“Trans-Lines is willing to offer an alternative solution. All your related current and future medical expenses will be met in return for signing a binding non-disclosure agreement preventing you from discussing the ship AI failure.”
Costs for cover-up. If ships could kill by neglect, what other systems could do the same? No wonder they didn’t want word getting out. And if he didn’t sign, would the systems here be among them? It wasn’t something he wanted to test.
“Not like I have a choice, is it?” he asked bitterly.
Wisely, SIGGI did not reply.
by submission | May 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The tall lean figure stood before the honeycombed wall, searching the triangular nooks until he located the scrolls for engineering marvels. Tsoukal pulled out the uppermost scroll and unrolled it on the polished stone slab behind him. He placed a slim rectangular weight on each end of the scroll to hold it in place, and leaning over, began to read.
Tsoukal’s finger traced the hieroglyphs on the scroll, helping him decode the specifics inked on the parchment. This was exactly the scroll he was looking for! Overhead, the library’s skylights faded from white to orange to twilight blue. At that point a mechanical curator rolled in with a lantern held high.
“If you continue reading, you need more light,” it stated in a flat voice.
Tsoukal waved it away. “I’m finished,” he said as he rolled up the scroll. He turned to the wall, waiting for the curator to leave. Instead of replacing the scroll in its nook, he hid it in the billowing top of his scholar’s blouse; he then pulled a blank scroll from his satchel and inserted that into the empty space.
Tsoukal made his way through this vast library—the repository of all knowledge, not just of the marvels of engineering, but also mathematics and astronomy, as well as the gossip of history—until he reached the towering front doors. Pushing through them always made him feel so small; a mere insect crawling through the eternal aperture of accumulated wisdom.
* * *
Tsoukal stood on his flat rooftop with his house guest, the intrepid adventurer Martel. Together, they discussed the upcoming launch of the obelisk-shaped craft on the edge of their squat city.
“How can our citizens not understand this is a turning point for our civilization?” Martel asked.
“They’re afraid of change,” Tsoukal responded, saddened by his own answer. “Because they have comfortable lives, they mistakenly think things will always stay the same. They don’t accept the only constant in this life is change.”
He pulled the scroll from his shirt and handed it to Martel. “One more for the journey,” he said with a smile.
Martel read the inscription on the side of the scroll. “More instructions for marvelous feats of engineering!” He slid the scroll into a pocket inside his kaftan. “This will be an enormous help when we land. Thank you, friend.”
“Thank you for being brave enough to participate in this endeavor.”
Martel looked out over the twinkling lights of their city. “We really don’t have a choice, do we?”
Tsoukal sighed. “No.” He turned to face Martel. “Scouts report the barbarians are already on the move and will be at the gate within the month, and…”
“They will—again—burn down the library,” Martel finished. “Along with the rest of the city.” He crossed his arms. “That can only happen so many times before there’s nothing left to save.”
“And we enter a new dark age,” Tsoukal added. “Which is why it is imperative that you and your crew get away with your cargo of scrolls. A fresh green world awaits, one where you can build a new settlement, one where we have a real opportunity…”
“To start over,” Martel stated with undisguised optimism.
by submission | May 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
On some mornings, around eleven, the postman will drop a letter or two into the mail slot. But many of these are not letters – they are coded messages disguised as bills or advertisements. Only I know their secrets.
You see, I am a messenger of the gods.
Just yesterday, I was instructed via a gas bill to telephone my local hardware store and inform them of a circuit breaker that was about to overload, and burn their building down.
Two days before that, a brochure for “Happy-clappy kitten wash” told me to address a football match crowd through the PA system to tell them that they were – with the exception of Harry Fleagle in seat 28 – all sinners.
And, three weeks ago, I averted a major meltdown at a nuclear power plant, when I convinced its computer system that the “blue glowy things” in the water weren’t drowning, and it should leave them where they were.
Since I lost my online government job two years ago for supposedly being “too disruptive,” I have been given a greater number of tasks by the gods, and I have carried them out diligently.
Lives have been saved, wrongs righted, passive-aggressive warnings delivered.
Though my internet connection has been disrupted quite severely recently (by nefarious agents, no doubt) and I have had to resort to manually printing out my communications for hand delivery. I can only hope that this method has been effective.
Interference will not thwart me, however. My mission is one that has been diligently carried out by humans for millennia: Joan of Arc was a notable one, as well as Saint Francis, Giordano Bruno, and many others. But not Rasputin. He was a nut.
Speaking of nuts, that’s what they call me. But I don’t mind, really, I know my work is vital for the safety of humankind. Taunts do not move me from my hallowed path.
Just now I have received a menu from the local pizza place. It is dripping with coded messages.
When they put a red circle behind the word, “pepperoni” that means “trouble”, three holes on the picture of a cheese means “aliens”, and a line under the words, “family size” is code for “invasion”. As such, the whole world is in trouble, and they need to launch a counter attack.
I must warn the government.
“Dad!” Missy yelled from the kitchen, “The stupid AI toaster is making up stories again!”
Missy’s father, Mike, walked into the room, looked at the toast in her hand. “See,” she said, pointing to the words burned into the surface of the bread.
Her father read aloud. “Alien attack imminent. Launch counterstrike Alpha nine dash thirty.”
He sighed, yanked the toaster plug from the wall.
“I’ve had enough of this stupid thing,” he said, carrying the toaster outside. “The warranty has expired, it makes terrible toast, so it’s going in the trash.”
With that, he swung the toaster by its cord, and hurled it into the garbage can. “Who on earth needs an AI toaster anyway?” He said out loud as he wheeled the bin out front for the weekly pickup. “Stupid companies trying to make dumb things smart so they can charge more, that’s who.”
As he turned to go back indoors, Mike looked up at the sky for what would be the last time.
A hundred thousand battleships of the Graxian war fleet surged through the upper atmosphere glowing bright red as they hurtled downward, spraying fiery death from their enormous array of fearsome armaments, hell bent on destroying the Earth.
by submission | May 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: Chelsea Utecht
Today is the day our masters treat us to sweet snacks of expensive corn and sing a song to celebrate their love for us – “Happy Earth Day to you! Happy Earth Day to you! Happy Earth day, our humans!” – because today the orbit aligns so that we can see a blue glimmer that is the planet of our origin. While this day will come to the masters ten or twelve times, we tend to only live long enough to see it twice (and I was too young to remember my first time).
“Look!” My master points, but their eyesight is better than mine. I squint, and they laugh, ruffling my hair, which they keep short so it sticks up on end. They sing, but I’m still squinting, wanting to badly to see that speck in the sky they say my ancestors once owned. They’re talking about the loneliness, living among other humans in cramped boxes, sometimes ten in a family. They’re saying I’m lucky to have all this space all to myself, to never even see another human but a few times an orbit. They’re saying we used to have no masters to feed us and groom us and pick our clothes. “So sad,” they say, pouring corn treats from Earth into my bowl, but I wonder if it doesn’t sound a bit like ruling.
“Eat up!”
I want to hush them as I stare desperately at the night sky that is a mess of stars, but they’ll take away my treats if I do.
There. Tiny. Blue. Somehow mine. “I see it…” I breathe.
“Good job!” They clap. “Quick with your treats. It is time to sleep now.”
I turn to look at them, wide black eyes full of the only love I’ve ever known. And that’s probably enough. Certainly Earth hadn’t been better than this. That’s what they always say.
They whisk me away.
Happy Earth Day.
I’m grateful for my master.
I’m grateful for my corn.
I’m grateful for my cage.
by submission | May 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Kelleigh Cram
I told my daughter I didn’t want the dang thing but you know kids; they understand technology and we are just senile.
The robot folds my clothes, which I must admit is nice. The shirts are stacked so precisely I just take whichever one is on top, not wanting to mess up the robot’s hard work. Being a housewife for thirty-two years, I can appreciate the effort that goes into chores. Jenna worried so much when her father died, hence the robot. She always acted like he was the stronger one of us, just because he used to work and knew how to send an email. If that’s the case how come he’s gone and I am still here? To punish me, I assume.
The robot reminds me to take my medicine.
“Martha, it is time to take your medication,” the robot says, its computerized voice even more condescending than Jenna’s.
“Fine, I. Will. Take. My. Medication,” I say, one word at a time to mimic its tone.
The robot turns its head, the gears in its neck making a sound that must be the robotic equivalent of a sigh. The robot watches me swallow the pill and I open my mouth wide to prove I did as instructed before sticking my tongue out.
The robot cooks my meals. Today, lunch consists of chicken nuggets and corn. The food is bland, rubbery, forcing me to spit it back out onto the plate.
“Eat. Doctor’s orders,” the robot says when I try to excuse myself.
You mean Jenna’s orders, I want to say. I manage to force it down before going back to the living room.
“Can you make some tea?” I ask as the robot washes my dishes.
The robot sets the kettle on the stove, just standing there waiting for it to boil, something we humans know never happens. But it must have, because a few minutes later the robot sets a mug on the coffee table in front of me. I reach for the handle, but the robot grabs my wrist.
“Too hot,” the robot says.
I wait, watching the news, something about the decline of education since the introduction of simulated classrooms. Figuring the tea must have cooled off by now, I try again.
The robot stops me, its grip a little firmer.
“Too hot,” the robot repeats.
This time I give it so long the drink would be lukewarm at best, if not downright cold. I snatch the cup with as much speed as my frail arm can muster. I take a triumphant sip, spitting the liquid right back up. The inside of my mouth is scalding, the shock of it making me cough so hard I struggle to catch my breath. A heat retentive mug, it has to be. These were recalled after too many lawsuits, people burning themselves. I try to go to the kitchen, maybe get a glass of ice water to cool my throat. As soon as I stand the room starts to spin and I fall in a heap on the floor.
“Robot?” I call out.
“Robot, get help.”
“Robot, call 911.”
“Robot, call Jenna.”
I try different commands, hoping one of them will summon the robot to rescue me.
Finally, the robot comes into view, sitting above me on the couch. The robot crosses its legs and takes a delicate sip of my tea before setting it back down on the coaster.
“Too hot,” the robot says.
