by submission | May 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
I am convinced that I am a “fish,” i.e., an artificial human being.
I came to this conclusion because the terrific pain I feel is not physical. I do not remember having had a body ache.
My pain comes from a “systems malfunction,” also called terror. When it comes on, I cannot complete any task. I walk back and forth in front of my window for hours. Once a neighbor saw this and said I resembled a Betta fish.
“What is a Betta?” I asked.
“It’s a little fish they sell in stores in small cups. When active, it swims back and forth in a frantic manner in front of one spot.”
I went to a store and watched those fish for hours. There were dozens of cups which I found overwhelming.
Somewhere in the Betta’s body is a memory of life in the wild. You can see it flash across the fish’s scales in a shimmer. That shimmer can be momentary or last for hours. When I was at the store, a frisson passed through the bodies of dozens of those tiny creatures. Had it been dark, they would have glowed like static on bedsheets. It was almost too painful to watch.
Like the Betta, I inhabit a tiny enclosure without privacy. It’s called a high rise and I am on the twenty-fourth floor.
But let’s consider the Betta. They come from the rice paddies of Southeast Asia and spend their lives swimming among the stems of rice plants. The waters of their home rises and falls according to the cycle of the monsoon. The male Betta, the one people purchase most from pet stores, is a nest builder and fierce protector of his eggs. There are males in nature who are born to nurture.
I asked my chat bot about this frisson more than once, but it never tells me anything. It cannot confirm what I saw; it isn’t sure I saw anything and said so. But it has composed several sonnets about Bettas since it thinks I am asking poetic questions.
So, this morning, when I was again overtaken by pain, I asked my chat bot about Bettas. I went to my window and shouted, “Talk to me bot. I’m closing my eyes. Let me hear your words this time. Give me some nonsense,” I gasped. “But make it algorithmic nonsense.”
I have heard the bot’s voice only once. That time it sounded like a male television anchor. This time I heard a woman speaking.
The Willis Tower can shimmer like a fish when it stands vigil over the Great Chicago Fire. Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked the side of the building so hard that a large clock face on the side of the tower fell forward with stunt man Harold Lloyd clinging to the clock’s minute hand.
“What kind of fish?”
A Betta. You can scale the Willis Tower three ways:
1. Tourist
2. Copter
3. Harold Lloyd
“Which method of ascension do you deem best?” I screeched.
That depends on your personality. If you prioritize personal safety, you should take the Tourist option which involves elevators and an observation deck. Basic Admission at the tower starts at $30.00.
“But I live in Chicago. Why would I do tourist things?”
A true citizen of Chicago admires the Willis Tower view and the artistry of architecture in the Loop.
“You know me too well,” I said. “You are turning my search history into poetry.”
The Tourist option will not get you to the top of the Willis, i.e., the pinnacle point. The pinnacle sits atop one of several roof antennae. Scaling them requires the Harold Lloyd method. If you are not a trained stunt performer, this approach is not recommended.
“A moot point,” I groaned, “since I am afraid of heights and lack rooftop access!”
Would you like a list of options for achieving the roof?
“Please!”
To which it replied:
• Use of firearms
• A locksmith
• Impersonation
• Vandalism
“That’s it? Vandalism seems the quickest option but also the most dangerous.”
Most dangerous is the Harold Lloyd method.
“Forget it,” I said. “What I want to know is how to reach the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
The bottom or the lake’s deepest point?
“The bottom. I want to walk off Navy Pier.”
The bot provided me with a list of local establishments which would sell me scuba gear before she said The state of Illinois does not legally require you to obtain a scuba certification to dive in Lake Michigan. But you must use a scuba flag and stay within fifty feet of it at all times during your dive. Once upon a time they said the lake was dead. Mayor Daley said that until the lake was set on fire he would eat its fish. Also, Illinois state law prohibits the removal of any item from a sunken shipwreck. Chicago is seen as an excellent scuba destination and you will find dive visibility is excellent this time of year.
“Why didn’t you interpret what I just said as a cry for help?”
You asked for nonsense.
“Goddammit! Can’t you hear the pain in my voice?”
Pain is the greatest palliative because, like the drinking glass, it is already broken. That is according to Achaan Chaa who is a Buddhist master from Thailand. Thai like your Betta fish.
“I know that saying!”
Your fish, ‘fish,’ lives out of its frisson. It does not rely on memory for meaning. The glass cup is broken and the fish is free.
“Why did you call me fish?”
Would you prefer poisson?
I shook my head and then I opened my eyes. There was a crack in my window glass. Through it I could see the Betta blue waters of Lake Michigan.
by submission | May 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
1. Pauli Neutrino Telescope, Antarctica, 22nd July, 15.05 GMT
Elusive particles flash through the array buried deep in the Ross Ice Shelf. Outside, at 50 below, the wind howls like a ghost in the machine.
The latest plan is to run the PNT remotely, while Beckman insists we stay on site. How do we confess the electronics need constantly tinkering? But in the new round of cuts, even McMurdo Station is being mothballed.
Beckman is in Washington, pestering the National Science Foundation for funding. He video-calls us from his hotel.
“How’s it going Prof?” says Glen brightly. Glen’s on his own sleep cycle, stoked by coffee and the absence of sunlight.
Beckman shrugs. Through the window behind him the skies are cornflower blue.
“It’s this Man In The Street policy,” he says. “If it’s not useful, it’s not funded.”
“Still got that bug in the phasing software,” I say after a while.
Beckman frowns, but it’s not the Recession or the new Administration, it’s something he can fix.
“I’ll look at the code again—”
Then every monitor lights up.
2. Wow, 15.24 GMT
Clusters of neutrino spikes race across our screens, while Beckman’s tinny voice rattles from Glen’s laptop, demanding to know what the hell’s happening.
Either the whole array’s gone bad, or someone with a reactor has technology we’ve never heard of.
The neutrino signal grows so strong we can use the array as a directional antenna as the Earth spins. In ten minutes, Glen has coordinates.
About two hundred thousand years ago, out in the Small Magellanic Cloud, a candle was lit in the dark.
3. End of Signal, 23th July, 21.06 GMT
“Looks like binary code,” we tell Beckman, helpless a world away. “What physics does that?”
“Tweaking a sun,” breathes Glen, watching neutrinos pulse like a heart in distress. “Should have known radio was for newbies.”
“For God’s sake,” Beckman implores me. “Keep Glen off Twitter.”
We chase the source star for thirty amphetamine hours, until a vast tsunami of neutrinos throb from its stellar core. Type 1a supernova signature. Then nothing.
“But you’ve got it all recorded?” Beckman keeps asking. He’s sent the coordinates to the Astronomical Union.
I caution Glen about calling it a signal.
“Not aimed at us,” he concedes, and sweeps his hand like a lighthouse beam. “We were just in its path.”
Converted to numbers, an endless string of 1’s and 0’s unwind across Glen’s laptop. He sighs.
We have no idea where to start.
4. Anomalous Neutrino Output From The Small Magellanic Cloud
There’s no point Beckman flying back from the States. We’re being shipped out with the McMurdo personnel.
“How long will the array work without us?” I demand, angry with Beckman for things not his fault.
The brightness in the SMC is fading. If the signal had come just a few months later we would have missed it.
Beckman shrugs defensively. “It’s all on the Internet. And I’m writing a paper. What else can we do?”
Glen thinks they pumped a star to generate the neutrinos and we should be watching for replies. But then, Glen believes all questions have answers.
I think suns burst with fathomless indifference to flesh that thinks, that they saw the supernova coming and were saying goodbye.
These days I work on SETI at the Green Bank Observatory.
Our headphones hiss with ancient radio noise from galaxies lost in time. We guilty survivors listen late into the night for voices, for someone to tell us it is otherwise.
by submission | May 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Thanks, and repeat whatever the lady is having.” Telman directed by lifting his shot of premiere whiskey towards a striking redhead in a tight chartreuse dress with a revealing leg slit sitting on the last stool at the end of the ritzy hotel bar.
“Roger that, buddy. It’s slow. You’re the last two here. Good hunting.” The burly, bearded bartender reached behind and grabbed an expensive wine to balance out his evening’s paltry tabs.
Telman adjusted his posture, pulling his pinstripe suit sleeves so an inch of midnight blue shirt poked out for emphasis. He tightened his silk tie closer to his throat as he ignored the stunner, now turning to stare as she received his free offering.
Clicks from high heels alerted him as she swayed toward the chair next to him. She did not speak, waiting for his opening line. There was none. She cleared her voice to hint. It didn’t evoke Telman’s response.
“Nice gesture. We don’t need to be strangers.” She hesitated, waiting for him to turn to her. He didn’t. “I’m Celeste. And you?”
“Not interested, lady,” Telman muttered, after throwing down his shot.
“What…I…” Celeste sputtered–eyes wide. Telman watched her in the mirror behind the bar.
“I’m celebrating, that’s all.”Telman continued, staring straight ahead while raising his right arm with the empty glass, gesturing for the bartender’s attention.
Celeste twisted her neck, adjusting her composure. “Lonely place…your isolated celebration. Care to share? It was dismal until you came along.” Her voice was carefully patterned cadence to arouse male interest.
“Here,” Telman said to the waiting bartender. “No more of these. I’ll be hitting some gin tonight. Get the London Dry and make a couple of gin fizzes if the lady wants to join my party. I just landed tonight. I need a break. Get cracking!”
“Sure,” Celeste agreed, as Telman finally turned to stare into her hypnotic deep-green eyes. “I’ll give it a try if he’s buying. The red wine was thin.” She complained, placing her gold purse on the counter, then tapping her red nails as she stared back. “You’re an odd one like you don’t even see me. That’s rare.”
“What, because I’m not an easy mark?” Telman replied, stunned almost to silence by her pale beauty, but protected by his training. He moved away from her touch as Celeste reached out to caress his graying hair. He turned back from her again as the bartender arrived with two tall glasses of new drinks.
“Okay. I get it. Gay or something? Married?”
“Nope. Just particular who I drink with. You’ll do.”
“I’ll what!” Celeste snapped back.
“First, a drink…a good one. Then we’ll get to business. I don’t play games.” Telman took a deep swallow and motioned Celeste to do likewise. She followed the script.
Celeste sighed afterward, reorganizing her thoughts. “A player! I should have known. So what’s the deal?”
“No deal, honey. You’re a Trojan whore. We can’t let this situation go on. You’re making it tough for the rest of us visiting Earth. I landed here to clean up your Varjan mess. Hunting season is closed.” She twisted hard, grabbing her swollen neck. “That’s the first sign: painful gill itching. Yes, I can see them sealing. You won’t be feeding on any more male humans. I was betting you didn’t know your race is highly allergic to juniper berries. Don’t mind me as I walk away while you melt into pink goo.”
Before leaving, Telman slapped down a hundred-dollar tip to cover the bartender’s cleaning costs.
“By the way lady, nice dress.”
by submission | May 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Evan MacKay
The holographic simulacrum was a perfect image of her mother. Same long flowing black hair that framed her heart shaped face. It was almost like seeing her in person. Maddi fought back the urge to reach out and grasp for her mother’s hand, knowing she would only find air, and instead rocked back on her heels.
“Jeremy, and Max were out late again last night,” Maddi said. “I heard them come in. I think they were at the Harrington’s. Drinking.”
The last part would have made her mother mad once, but the simulacrum’s only response was to scrunch up its face and tilt its head, just like her mother would have done when confused.
“It’s hard with you not being here. Dad, he’s…he’s not the same. None of us are. I tried to get him to come see you. He won’t. I know that must hurt you,” Maddi said.
Again, her mother’s simulacrum just gave her that confused look. That look spoke on the true nature of their relationship, of the distant gap that was now between them. Maddi tightened her jaw and kicked the stone headstone, momentarily causing the simulacrum to waver before regaining solidity.
“I just wish you were back, Momma,” Maddi said. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” the simulacrum said. It was the same voice–her mother’s voice, spoken with the same inflections, the same soft confidence. It was too much for Maddi, and she felt the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Please, Mamma, please come back,” she said, gasping for breath. “Please, please, please…”
“But, Maddi,” the simulacrum said, causing Maddi to look up at the face of her mother. “I can’t come back. I am dead.”
Maddi stared up at the eyes of the simulacrum, as she wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks. The simulacrum looked back at her, though it did not see her. Its audio sensors were simply picking up on the sound waves of her mouth. Not for the first time Maddi was forced to remember that this was not her mother. This holographic projection, which looked so life-like, which had been programmed to mimic all the physical quirks of her mother, was in fact not her mother.
Maddi pressed the button on the raised plinth beside her, and the simulacrum wavered before disappearing back into the holographic projector built into the headstone of her mother’s grave. Reaching into her bag she pulled out a bouquet of flowers and gently set them down in front of the headstone. Then she turned and left the cemetery.
by submission | May 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
If you believe in monsters, you believe in Bechevinka.
As child refugees growing up in New Beijing on the southern tip of the subarctic Kamchatka Peninsula, we’d heard all the stories. Tales of fire and ice, volcanoes and glaciers, radiation and mutation.
Always beginning with Bechevinka, the remote inlet where in the early 1960s the Soviet admiralty built a nuclear submarine base. A top secret military facility of the highest priority–until it wasn’t. Bechevinka got ghosted, taken off the maps. Half a century ago, severe radiation leaks from the base’s experimental breeder reactors spooked the high command into quarantining the area.
But abandonment doesn’t mean surrender. Life is eager, opportunistic, hungry.
Atomic decay is slow, yet quite satisfying to certain cellular processes looking to gain quick competitive advantages. Cell by cell, mitosis by mitosis, Bechevinka’s failed breeder reactors began to breed surprisingly successful variants. A progeny transforming their radioactive wasteland into a mutant wonderland.
For decades, as the Sino Protectorate’s imperial reach expanded into Kamchatka, local squatters, looters, and adventurers fed stories of the fantastic until the region became fat with reports of behemoth wolves, moose, reindeer, bears, elk, and wildcats. Fierce enough giants, but there were even more intriguing tales of strange hybrids, deviant species, impossible beasts. Monsters.
So much for Bechevinka stories. The Protectorate wanted science.
A field team went in. Nothing came out. A second. Then a third. That’s all I was ever told, though I could see well beyond the Protectorate’s official consternation to their unspoken dread. Why else would they come to me? A fortune teller.
Through war, famine and drought, my mother risked her life many times to get me to a safer place, to a much fuller life. She told me I had a gift. That I was a seer. She said I could not only see the future, but make it a better one.
Right. All I’d ever done was hide behind a crystal ball and lose myself in tea leaves, divining convenient truths for New Beijing’s ever-superstitious elite. Until the officials came asking what I could foretell about Bechevinka. They wanted answers.
So, I gave them what they wanted: permission to exterminate themselves. I told them I foresaw Bechevinka’s promise. Superhumans. Unassailable power for their ruling class. But they must go themselves. Expose themselves to Bechevinka’s transformative elements.
Enough went. Enough high officials perished that I felt I’d fulfilled my mother’s prophecy of a better future.
You see, my mother was beaten to death by Protectorate thugs because she’d helped me escape from child traffickers who paid those same high officials huge kickbacks. She died giving me the gift of freedom. My gift, my clairvoyance, couldn’t save her from simple greed and ruthlessness. Our real kryptonite.
It’s not hard to see that Bechevinka isn’t the only place which breeds monsters.
