by submission | Jun 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jackson Lanzer
Screens illuminate my face as the names of the damned dance to a symphony of crimson letters atop a digital stage. I will give each name justice. It is what they deserve.
My forearms are strong. It takes strength to push a button that snuffs out another man’s flame.
One name amongst the crowd of traitors catches my eye.
James. Accused by his neighbor of harboring a personal telephone. Guilty. Espionage against social order. Death.
The screen changes from the crimson names to a colorless, bleak cell. John sits on a chair, and tears rip themselves from his closed eyes. He knows his fate.
My fingers hunger for justice, and I set them rampant, leaping toward the button. My index finger hits plastic, and a guillotine slices through the room.
Thud.
The screen is doused in color: scarlet death.
Darkness conquers the screen momentarily before another name is dragged before me.
Sara. She taught her daughters about Susan B. Anthony. Guilty. An attempt to destabilize gender order. Death.
Again my mighty forearms grasp the button, bearing the weight of Sara’s fate. I think of her children as I press the button, and I smile as I free them from lies.
Again, a wave of scarlet purifies the screen. The truth remains eternal.
A third name arises on my screen. Only I know this name.
I knew this day would come.
“Comrades, it is not enough to bring justice to our enemies,” the glorious leaders would say. “We must bring justice to ourselves. Revolutions are built on sacrifice.”
So my arm reaches towards the button as the screen shows a young revolutionary at his desk.
I watch the revolutionary. He stares at a screen, contemplating a man’s fate, and his arm inches toward a button.
I take a deep breath and press the button just as the revolutionary presses a button of his own.
As the blade rips through our body, I don’t scream or cry like the others.
I simply wear the proud smile of revolution.
by submission | Jun 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
The summons had arrived three weeks ago.
“Jury duty, ugh.” Andy moaned.
The summons was simple upper case bold text.
“YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO SERVE AS A JUROR. IT IS YOUR DUTY AS A CITIZEN TO COMPLY, ALL WHO ARE CHOSEN MUST ARRIVE AT THEIR APPOINTED DATE AND TIME, REGARDLESS OF SOCIO-ECONOMIC POSITION.”
Below that in bigger bolder letters was a date and time. May seventh, eight am.
Andy arrived at his date and time to stand in one of several queues inching their way slowly through security. He tried to make polite conversation with the cute little neon in front of him, but she wasn’t having it, he chalked that up to the stack of court docs she carried.
“Papers?” the guard asked. Andy handed them over. The guard glanced at them quickly and handed them back, to a distracted Andy who was watching the girl board an elevator.
“Floor six, scan the back of the form.”
Andy hurried to the elevators; she was gone. Up to floor six, a sterile lobby of glossy grey concrete. A dozen steps from the elevator there was a pulsing red light. He walked over and held up the summons. He thought he saw something embossed on the blank side of the sheet. A door he hadn’t noticed opened on his right. An arrow pulsed on the floor pointing him to the portal.
He followed the hallway for a minute when he came to another door, which opened as he neared it. Sitting at a small desk next to a chair was the neon from downstairs. She smacked her gum and rolled her eyes as Andy entered.
“Sit.” She ordered.
Andy sat in the chair, a standard rig like back in college. The girl took a few minutes to plug him into the deck.
“I am Magistrate Elle Hammons. You have been selected to act as a juror in the trial of Frankie Flameshot (a presumed alias). She began to read the counts, some pretty heavy stuff, it went on for two minutes.
“You are representing the state and are given every tool you need. Mr. Flameshot has one pistol with one shot. We assure you he can’t hurt you with it. The lawyers will begin closing arguments before me starting now. Subdue or kill the defendant.”
Andy bopped into the Ether. He was in a large open space, reminiscent of a gladiator’s arena. There was a pulse and Andy got the gist of what he needed to do, another pulse and he understood the system he was jacked into, inventory management, the like. He finally noticed that he was not alone when he felt the hard tap of a bullet smack against his exoskeleton.
Frankie must have been a repeat customer because he used the time Andy was lollygagging to cross the distance between them. Andy pulled up a submachine gun intending to do this quickly but managed to fumble it. Frankie took the opportunity to ninja-kick Andy, sending him sprawling. The dropped submachine gun was in Frankie’s hand. Any scrambled up, raising a shield. There were several taps and the shield crumbled, them several, harder this time, as his exoskeleton weakened. A few more and Andy was done.
“Objections your honor.” A voice spoke. The assault paused, and Frankie was frozen. It took a moment for Andy to realize he could flip through his inventory. He equipped a new shield and an automatic shotgun. The look on Frankie Flameshot’s face evaporated into panic.
“Overruled.” the magistrate declared after consideration.
A moment later justice was served.
by submission | Jun 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Caleb Coy
Lieutenant Elizabeth Rodriquez gazed at the lunar surface, her heart thrumming. Floodlights lit up the expanse of the moon’s far side, a barren ocean floor. Her crew-mates, Commander Harrington and Dr. Crowe, shared the silence, emptiness, and a simple two-fold mission.
Set up a radio telescope. Collect a sample from the sphere’s largest crater.
The chamber opened with a hiss. In her descent, Elizabeth could hear only her own breathing and the digital whirring of her life support and data-gathering hardware. Her booted feet touched the snow-like ground.
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” she announced. The Chinese proverb she’d selected was a clear nod to Armstrong. The endeavor felt so small, and the other scientific chatter rang through everyone’s helmets like any routine.
But she was the thirteenth to ever set foot here. Joined by the fourteenth and fifteenth. A privilege.
“How’s the fairway?” asked mission command over the comms, their signal bouncing live from earth to a satellite to the module.
“We’ll need a sand driver,” Harrington joked.
“I see something,” said Crowe, faintly nervous.
Elizabeth turned her shoulder light in the direction of Ali’s. Emerging from the horizon of shadow just beyond the reach of light, advanced a scurry of violet. Things. They kicked up the ashy pillar of dust. Dozens, maybe more. Tall legs, dark as wine, stilts with nothing atop them, their movements like arachnids, synchronized in some frenzy. Toward her. Her team.
“The hell?” said David.
It was impossible. Life. Heretofore unknown. Swarming upon these visitors now. No time to turn and run.
Had it not been for the screaming, they would not have heard a single step in the soundless vacuum.
Elizabeth had no words. She knew in an instant, beyond panic, the meaning of this closing curtain. Defeat welled up in her. The creatures were quickly upon them as any predator knew to do its will upon prey.
“It can’t,” she said, before the swarm overtook them. Six, maybe seven feet tall, with hundreds of black eyes, they struck with their limbs and knocked Elizabeth to the ground. The other two bodies fell beside her. A pair of fangs hovered over her helmet, then clamped down.
The first sound of contact, and it was like a tennis ball hitting a window. Again, the mouth struck the helmet. The mandibles felt strong, but the material of their suits was stronger.
Crowe was shrieking.
“Can’t move,” cried Harrington.
Any other words were lost in the gasping grunts of distress, the sound of teeth striking Teflon and polycarbonate. Try to rise, and a hungry head pushed them down.
This would not be their salvation. If the suits held, so would the endurance of these arachnoids with limbs like stalks of lavender. As her helmet jostled back and forth against the dust, she knew she would not be devoured. She would be starved of oxygen in less than a solar day.
A thousand steps they never heard coming. There was no cosmic order to this.
She knew then what her training and her life commitment expected of her. With all the breath that remained, about fourteen hours under duress, she and her team would give a testimony. As their helpless bodies rocked under teeth and tarsus, they would use their dwindling time to theorize, to analyze, to report. Anything else was futile.
To die in this lunar maria, to be the first to perish at the hands of an extra terrestrial, to survive enough to give a full account of the inexplicable. Her one final leap.
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.
