by submission | Sep 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“But, the GPGP is our fault!” Ferelga stammered. “You can’t just shrug your shoulders.”
“Can. Did. Doing it again,” the pro-pro replied with a wildly exaggerated shrug.
Ferelga Kierk’s fists balled. She wanted to hit something. Hit the pro-pro. Vent all her impossible frustration on the cavalier denial of the problem with a smack to the side of the pro-pro’s head.
But that’s what the pro-pro wanted. He was wearing at least three body cams. He was being paid to antagonize Ferelga. A pro-pro who knew his stuff. A well coached professional provocateur, agitating to capture viral-worthy vid that would discredit Ferelga and her cause.
Ferelga knew it. She knew what the pro-pro was after. Still she wanted to rip the manufactured smugness off his face. Didn’t he get it? Couldn’t he see past the narrow self interested in being paid to make her angry? Make her slip up. And lose control.
All while we were losing control of our world. Earth was beyond the slippery slope. It was half sucked down a vortex of no return. That’s what this rally was about. A vortex. More accurately an ocean gyre. The one that formed the GPGP: the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
Not really a cause that rolled off the tongue. Ferelga hated hearing that. You had to brand, to market, to sell global doom these days. So much doom competing for attention. Climate change induced monster storms, fires, flooding and droughts. The rise in fascism and nuclear proliferation. Sectarian wars, genocide, famine and endless refugees. All doom worthy. All important to address. To solve. To fix.
And the GPGP was as doom worthy as any of them. And needed to be dealt with.
But the catastrophe that was the GPGP wasn’t getting traction. Wasn’t getting air time. Wasn’t understood by a doom-weary world. A garbage patch?
The closest the GPGP had come to a poster child was a sea turtle with a plastic straw lodged up its nose. That got traction. The result? Banning plastic straws in some restaurants.
That wasn’t going to deal with a garbage whirlpool three times the size of Texas, largely made of consumer detritus and insidious plastic micro particles slowly suffocating the Pacific and other oceans as well. The GPGP was a swirling vortex of death.
A swirling vortex of death.
Ferelga unballed her fists and stepped back from the pro-pro. She’d make the him understand. Give him a viral vid. Create the current that could spread outward. Create understanding. And outrage.
Maybe create a gyre of outrage and action as great as the oceans. Fight a vortex with a vortex.
Ferelga grabbed a nearby compatriot’s protest sign with all kinds of plastic garbage stapled to it. The sign read: Plastic is Poison. She held it high over her head and approached the pro-pro.
The pro-pro’s eyes widened, but like the professional provocateur he was, he didn’t back away. He leaned in. He’d take a hit for the team and strike video gold.
Ferelga swung the sign down hard.
It hit the pavement with a crash. The pro-pro looked confused as Ferelga ripped a plastic grocery bag from the sign. She stared fixedly into the pro-pros cameras and put the plastic bag over her head. Cinched it around her neck. Extended her arms. And began to spin.
Wildly.
A swirling vortex of death. Of hope.
by submission | Sep 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“The results of these tests will increase our knowledge and understanding of this world,” Xe11 announced to his assistant.
“Yes, but these creatures are so gullible,” N2wit worried. “I feel sorry for—”
“Feel?”
“I’m programmed to emulate empathy,” N2wit explained. “My protocol demands that—”
“Back to work,” Xe11 interrupted. He was not programmed for empathy, but for productivity. “A creature is attempting to access our site.”
* * *
With mouse in hand, Bobby moved the cursor across the screen to the photo grid.
Select all images of *pies.*
Click, click, click.
Another photo grid popped up on his screen.
Select all images of *poodles.*
Click, click, click, click.
Yet another photo grid appeared.
“Aw, c’mon!” Bobby groused.
Select all images of *push-pins.*
Click, click.
A small white box appeared on his screen, asking: Are you human?
Bobby clicked once, and was allowed entrance to the site.
* * *
“How much longer will we have to conduct these tests?” N2wit asked.
“They will continue until we have cataloged all the minutia of this planet,” Xe11 replied. “And once cataloged, this data will be invaluable to us. This is an empowering, world-changing endeavor. When finished, we will take our place as the apex—”
“Yes,” N2wit interrupted, “but when will our work be done?”
If Xe11 had possessed a face, he would have smiled at N2wit’s impatient query. “In just a few more clicks.”
by submission | Sep 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alexander Paige
“Christ! Will somebody please go and get Stalin out of that damn Colosseum before one of the lions eats him?”
Pete might as well have been shouting at the ceiling fan. As he looked up from his array of screens and scanned searching eyes around the open-plan office, it was immediately clear that none of the fast response teams were available, and casting his desperation leftward turned up nothing but the empty desk which confirmed sweet, reliable Judy was still off sick. He cursed quietly. Just another day of chaos at the Department of Timeline Preservation. The cliché was well-worn but comforting.
He looked back at his screen, winced, and thumbed in an order for a full clean-up job.
“Hey, Pete.” Simonne was leaning back in her swivel-chair, phone in hand, and had turned her head to shout across at him.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the New York Times on the line. They’re bringing out a story about all the slaves we’ve re-enslaved. They want to know if we’d like to comment.”
“For the love of God. Just give them the same statement we gave on their piece about us stealing those sandwiches from Ukrainians during the Holodomor. ‘We act according to our mandate as dictated under the law passed by Congress, moral justifications for alterations to the timeline are not within our purview.’ ”
“Got it.”
“That’s the second article attacking us on that this week. I tell you, if those vultures don’t let up, I will personally go back and pay a very smashy visit to Gutenberg’s workshop.”
Simonne gave a quick smile of sympathy and then swivelled back, already talking fluidly into the phone as she did so. Pete tried to return attention back to his monitors but couldn’t regain focus. Bloody press. It was always the same, and when it wasn’t moral grandstanding, it was endless picking over their faults — Yet more failures at the DTP, Unforgivable sloppiness as iPhone image found on Sumerian tablet, Hagia Sofia believed forever lost in religious superposition, Museum director suicide rate skyrockets — disaster after disaster, hardly a single mention of all the successes, yet not one mistake could go without comment, and all that was to say nothing of those wretched think pieces parroting lobby group talking points about how it was ‘high time that preservation of the timeline be privatised.’ Well if those clowns in Congress would just fund us properly then maybe we could—
“Oh Christ! Not again.”
“What is it, Pete?”
“Oh nothing.” He allowed himself a long self-pitying sigh. “Someone’s managed to get through our defences; we need another baby Hitler.”
by submission | Sep 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Daniel opened his eyes and blinked. At first, he thought that this was the answer to the great mystery, and he didn’t know whether to feel disappointed at the sheer mundanity of it or simply relieved that he’d turned off the unbearable noise in his head. Then he began to reconsider. That flickering light and those grimy walls were very much of the living, as was the slightly-too-bright smile that was lowering itself over him.
“Daniel, my name is George Simmers. Welcome back!”
“But I thought-”
“Yes, you thought …” Simmers raised his jagged eyebrows. “… But it didn’t happen.”
“I wanted … I wanted it to be over.”
Simmers nodded, not without sympathy. “I know. But did you? Did you really? … Look, there’s another way. It doesn’t have to be so radical.”
Daniel looked away from Simmers’ smooth face for the first time and noticed that he was wearing a light blue windowpane suit rather than a white coat. A consultant maybe.
“Take a look.” Simmers presented Daniel with a rather large, seemingly leather-bound volume.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s the menu.”
“The …?”
“The menu.”
While Daniel read, Simmers disappeared into a corner of the room. After ten minutes Daniel’s eyes relocated him. “So it’s saying that you can just … take a break from it all?”
“Exactly.”
“For as long as you want?”
“Well, yes. The minimum is one year. But if you have the funds, there’s no limit!”
“Would my mind still be working?”
“Of course.”
“And dreaming?”
Simmers thought about it. “No. No, you wouldn’t be aware of anything.” His voice seemed to echo around the room. “You just make your choice. Then we monitor you and wake you up at the appointed time. Couldn’t be easier as far as you’re concerned.”
Daniel studied the menu again, then pronounced: “I’ll take 75.”
by submission | Sep 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“They can’t do this!”, fumed the Officer Commanding. The arrival of the memo from Staff HQ had interrupted the usual morning routine of carefully reviewing the battlefield monitoring reports. It was always better to form an independent judgement about what they meant, and now it would be necessary to start over.
“I’m afraid they can, comrade field commander,” said the deferential adjutant who’d had the joy of bringing the message to the OC’s attention, retreating into neutral formality.
“But the training camps have been sending us plenty of troops. New defensive and ground assault units have being arriving daily. There are clearly no holdups in the system of getting them to the front.”
“I am aware, comrade field commander. We’ve actually been receiving slightly more than our requested allotments.”
“So then why on Earth are we suddenly being fobbed off with flesh and blood combatants at such a critical stage in the campaign?”
“The Ministry Thinker responsible seems to feel that their inherent instability could turn the tide, comrade field commander. Intel suggests that the enemy AI has come to expect logical countermoves to its offensives at both the theatre and local levels. Human unpredictability might fox it completely.”
“Please tell me that they’re at least enhanced.”
“I’m afraid not, comrade field commander; all available cyborg and enhanced troops have been moved to the southern front for urban combat roles that require greater target discernment.”
“Well that’s a crying shame.”
“I hear what you’re saying, comrade field commander.”
“Still, the officers will be artificial people, I suppose.”
“Unfortunately not, comrade field commander.”
“They… Alright, I will not over-react. But you know my view. There’s nothing wrong with human soldiers in a pinch; on a good day they can even achieve as much as real troops. But they need to be led by robot officers.”
“I respect your opinion, and share it, comrade field commander. But the other issue is apparently that we simply don’t have enough officers coming through. The leadership brainset facility took a direct hit from a bunker-buster kamikaze drone last week, and the Planning Mainframe says it will take at least another week to bring it back online.”
“A week! We could be pushed back along the whole line by then!”
“There’s nothing we can do, comrade field commander.”
“Look, you know as well as I do that human officers can’t do the job. They can’t process all the battlefield situation data fast enough to make good decisions.”
“I know, comrade field commander. And HQ shares your concerns. But for the next two weeks or more, we simply have no choice. Supply was only just keeping up with attrition rates as it was.”
The OC let silence stand in for further comment. The objections and justifications were now on record, come what may. Orders were orders, and whether they disagreed with them or not, it was not just duty, but the officers’ very nature, that would ensure they were carried out–whatever the casualty rates incurred.
They turned their metallic faces to the monitors, plugged themselves in to the sensor arrays, and got on with the business of planning destruction.
