by submission | Mar 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: James Jarvis
The green leaves of The Great Oak glistened in the starlight. The air was still and calming.
It was exactly what Liza expected.
She wandered over to the base of the tree whilst deep in thought. The beauty of The Great Oak was amplified by its location. Situated within its own room aboard the shuttle ship to Phobos, it looked majestic against the large viewing window situated behind it. The lofty domed ceiling and bright white walls added to the sense of grandeur. The soft hum of the shuttle’s engines added a meditative charm to the room, whilst serving as a reminder that not all was as it seemed.
Liza was forever amazed that this room had been commissioned, as the space and energy required must outstrip the rest of the ship. Yet this engineering feat was from the old era, before tensions began to rise.
Sighing deeply, she settled under the tree. This homage to nature in the middle of a space shuttle always gave her hope. Yet on this occasion the hope was not enough to quell the fear deep inside.
As a plutonium battery engineer, her job was simple: repair and service plutonium batteries. Most of these were located on the various moon-stations both due to necessity and to avoid undue human interaction. With efficiency and build quality as the guiding mantra, they were designed to ensure they rarely need attention throughout their estimated 35,000-year lifespan. Only occasional servicing and safety checks would be required, which had been the case for the last 135 years.
Until three weeks ago.
It’s not clear what caused the malfunctions, and the effect has not been catastrophic – far from it. A minor, but notable, reduction in power. Yet that has been enough to cause rumours to spread, and dissent to grow.
Whilst sitting under The Great Oak and staring out of the window, Liza became lost in anguish. The faults identified on all malfunctioning batteries had been identical, therefore it was highly probable that the same actions had caused the issues. Liza and her team had so far been unable to deduce the root cause, though they had ideas. Ripples across the fabric of the universe from a distant cosmological event seemed the most likely, though that wouldn’t explain the order the malfunctions occurred. Still, it was a logical starting point.
But Liza knew. Her team knew. Everyone knew, even if they did not want to vocalise their fears. The true cause was irrelevant – tensions had been rising for too long. This was no longer a mere mechanical fault. This would become the catalyst for future unrest.
Liza turned her gaze from the window and towards the countdown on the wall. She still had two days left onboard the shuttle, surrounded by tranquillity, able to ignore what was to come. Well, 1 Day, 12 Hours, 13 Minutes if she was honest to herself – but she wished it was longer.
The leaves of The Great Oak still glistened in the starlight. A single leaf fluttered down towards the ground, bouncing a soft glimmer of light upon Liza’s face. Its hue had become subtly more yellow than the rest. It probably didn’t mean anything.
The air remained still, calming – peaceful.
It was exactly what Liza needed.
by submission | Mar 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Soramimi Hanarejima
When you open the door, it’s like I’m looking at an old photo, you and the hallway tinged a sentimental amber by the redshift of the decades between us.
“Do you want to come in?” you ask, voice muffled by all those years. “I just got some lasagna out of the oven.”
The invitation surprises me. You haven’t asked me in since you cocooned yourself in what you call “the good old days.”
“Sure,” I answer, pretty hungry after getting your supplies for the month—mostly food and books, as usual.
Then, we’re in the same present moment, bring bags of groceries into the kitchen where the air is thick with tomato sauce and basil. Outside the window above the sink it’s a sunny day, clear sky over the lively streets of the city in its heyday. The lot of food carts is abustle with shift workers and college students getting cheap eats while kids play hopscotch and four square in the adjoining parklet.
“I still wish I could go out there without altering the timeline,” you say. “But just seeing it is plenty.”
“Isn’t it weird knowing things aren’t like this any more?” I ask.
“No stranger than being absorbed in a movie. Even when you know the ending.”
Movies don’t go on indefinitely, I want to say. And no one eats all their meals in a movie theater. But I just nod so we won’t end up in some heated rehashing about escapism.
“You look tired,” you say. “Why don’t you stay and rest? I can realign the passageway so when you leave it’ll be like you were only here 5 minutes.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think staying in the past will help much. And I have other ways of taking a break.”
“Make sure you use them.”
“I will. I am.”
You hand me 2 plates, then use a spatula to cut squares out of the lasagna sitting on the stovetop.
At the table in the alcove, we eat as though adhering to a vow of silence. Only faint music from the radio in the living room keeps complete silence at bay, the sound so soft it barely gets my attention.
Until the familiar guitar chords of a folksy song stir the air. They’re of course followed by wistful lyrics about a memory fairy crystallizing past experiences into gems of personal history, fully accepting that her most beautiful work will be undone by a forgetting fairy. This musical tale was already old when we were growing up and is now doubly nostalgic, making me long for childhood and a seemingly simpler time before that.
When the song ends, tears are sliding down my face. You hand me a napkin, and I blot them away with it. You say nothing, leaving space for the feelings welling up in me.
And now I have to say, “We’ve lost so much and will only lose more, and I have to face all that without you.”
“I know,” you say quietly. “But at least you’re facing it. I can’t manage that.”
“And you were always the reckless one.”
“It’s easy to be reckless in a safe world. That’s one reason I’m here. To hang on to whatever vigor is left in me. Or the illusion of it.”
It’s unlike you to be so forthcoming about your feelings, and instantly it’s clear that this is why I’m here—so we can reveal our truths to each other and let them find resonance in this space.
I take a deep breath and wait for you to go on. If you don’t, I will.
by submission | Mar 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Nageene Noor
The world through Viktor Blackford’s window was quiet. Hannibal always started with the window, and it became a habit like an anchor, before he let himself sink into Viktor’s home.
From where Hannibal observed, his whole life was mundane. Viktor was meticulously ordinary. Every evening, he cooked simple meals, worked at his laptop, and sometimes fell asleep on the couch with a book draped across his chest. Hannibal had seen it countless times, but tonight, the rhythm broke. The knife slipped in Viktor’s hand as he chopped vegetables, sending a chunk of tomato skidding across the counter. He muttered a curse and wiped his hands on his pants. Hannibal observed how unsteady he was. Every few seconds, his eyes darted toward the window, as though expecting someone, or maybe something. Something didn’t feel right, though he couldn’t explain why. But he wanted to, because he needed to, right? This was his purpose.To watch Viktor. To catalog his every word and movement. Abandoning his dinner, Viktor moved to his desk. He opened his laptop and hovered over an email marked urgent. Hannibal focused, catching fragments of the text in his hazy awareness: infiltration… containment failed… protocol breach. Those words…they were familiar, though he couldn’t place how or why. Hannibal noted every detail of frustration in Viktor’s face. All he knew was to try to piece together the puzzle of his own life, as well as Viktor’s. It was the only thing that still felt normal.
…Until it wasn’t.
“You’re there, aren’t you? Watching me.” Viktor spoke suddenly.
Hannibal froze. Viktor’s words slicing through the silence. The way he spoke sent a ripple of unease through him.
Viktor turned, his gaze sweeping the room as though he might catch Hannibal lurking in a shadow. “You’ve been here all along, haven’t you? Watching. Always watching.”
Hannibal wanted to respond, to explain, but he couldn’t. Words were beyond him, and even if they weren’t, what could he say? He didn’t understand his own existence, much less why he was bound to this man.
He moved to his desk, pulling open the laptop. The screen’s glow accentuated the dark circles under his eyes.
“You see it too, don’t you?” Viktor’s voice was almost a whisper. He hadn’t stopped typing, but his focus seemed to shift. “The cracks. The gaps in the story they’ve been feeding us.”
Hannibal recoiled instinctively. Did Viktor think he was actually there? Or was this just paranoia bleeding into a monologue?
Viktor returned to his laptop, his fingers hammering at the keys. The longer Hannibal stared at Viktor on his laptop, the louder the faint ringing in his mind grew.
“They will not listen. Their hunger for growth will consume everything if we do not intervene.”
The voice was almost emotionless, but the message clawed at Hannibal. A planet teetering on the brink of collapse. Oceans devouring cities. Skies strangled in ash. But aside from just being devastated, he felt sick in his stomach. Were we saving the planet, or claiming it?
“Whoever you are,” Viktor said, his voice rising, “I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure you out.”
Hannibal didn’t move. For the first time, he felt the weight of Viktor’s suspicion pressing against him. This wasn’t just about Viktor anymore. It was about him. Everything he had avoided for as long as he could remember.
“You will watch. You will listen. If they deviate, you must act. They cannot be allowed to destroy what remains.”
The words struck like a hammer. Hannibal’s purpose wasn’t benign. It wasn’t a curiosity. He was part of something larger, something horrible.
“You’re connected to them,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
Hannibal couldn’t deny it, not even to himself. The pieces were falling into place. He wasn’t just an observer. He was part of the species Viktor’s emails warned about, the ones threatening to destroy humanity in the name of salvation.
Viktor’s gaze lingered on the window, as though searching for an answer. Hannibal knew he should pull back, retreat into the shadows of his existence. But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t make himself do anything, aside from stay.
by submission | Mar 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: K. E. Redmond
He stared at the blue and white globe passing beneath him, watching the dark shadow cut across its surface.
Once, the dark had been alive with light like glowing fungus. He’d imagined pearls of highways, puddles beneath streetlamps, neon signs.
As the lights winked out, the smog dissipated. In daylight, he and Johnson saw Mumbai, New York City, Madrid with crystalline clarity.
‘Amazing air quality,’ said the voice from Control. ‘Silver lining, eh?’ They still evaded his questions. People weren’t traveling as much in this pandemic, they said. We’re sheltering in place. Give it a month.
But each week the darkness deepened.
Johnson sat for hours looking down through the viewing portal as continents and clouds and oceans drifted by. His wife and son were in hospital, the same baby who was learning to walk when they lifted off. They had the new virus.
Control didn’t like delivering bad news on missions, so they knew when the updates stopped that something was wrong. Still, Control’s requests for data continued, tethering them with its normality. Then the voice changed. Changed yet again. They were told it was due to vacations, transfers, promotions. Everything is fine. Concentrate on your mission.
Johnson asked to speak with his wife. The voice on the other end was young, inexperienced. Maybe he didn’t know the rules; or maybe he didn’t see the point anymore. When he heard the news, Johnson just nodded.
Perhaps Control figured, in light of developments, the death of his family wouldn’t be Johnson’s biggest concern.
We can’t recover your return capsule. We don’t have the manpower. No ships. No planes. We’ve contacted every country that might help. There isn’t anybody. You’re on your own.
He’d guessed, of course. Earth was velvet black on the night side now.
Unlike the people below, they wouldn’t starve. They had enough supplies on the Station, especially after Johnson stopped eating.
No, as he saw it, they had two choices. Try reentry and hope the capsule came down somewhere near a landmass they could reach under their own power—he didn’t even bother calculating those odds—or they could continue to orbit until eventually their orbit decayed.
The alarm woke him: an open airlock. He got to the portal just in time to watch Johnson unhook the tether from his suit, open his arms, embrace the emptiness.
He was alone. How many days now? No matter.
His whole life, he’d wanted to be closer to the stars he’d first seen in his backyard telescope. Now when he looked down, he saw the Baja Peninsula, the Sahara, even the Great Wall of China. All the places he knew from books, but never bothered to visit. He’d been too busy looking at the stars.
The stars.
It took him a while to make the calculations, the necessary modifications. After the Yuri II disaster, all escape capsules were equipped with thrusters. He could use some of the Station’s fuel to slingshot him out of orbit, toward the stars. He had a curious feeling, half fear, half that excitement he’d felt as a kid when he’d seen Mars’ polar caps. He’d always dreamed of seeing them up close.
When everything was ready, he sent his last message. The comm light blinked slowly. No response.
‘Repeat message?’ the automated assistant queried.
‘Tell Control.’ He looked out at the glowing orange of Mars. ‘Tell them I may be gone some time.’
by submission | Mar 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It started with a chatbot and ended in, well, that would be predicting the future.
Which is exactly my problem.
I’m sure I’m not the only computer science graduate student into astrology, Tarot cards, numerology, palm reading, and other fortune-telly kind of things, but I’m the one who, late one night, asked a chatbot I was beta testing in the lab to read my fortune. The bot spit back hallucinatory hogwash, so I tried to nudge its predictive capacity by asking it to rate history’s greatest prognosticators. I was thinking I’d get a list like: Pythia, Nostradamus, Arvidsson, Cayce, Dixon, Vanga–even Houdini.
Instead, the beta bot led me to Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami, and a dusty tome he wrote in the fourteenth century called Muqaddimah which translates to Introduction. What Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami had introduced was a formidable technical procedure for divining the supernatural: zairajah.
The zairajah is a system in which alphabetic letters are assigned numerical values and then run through a semi-mystical processing of circles, sections and chords to divine knowledge of the unknown from the known. Seven hundred years ago, Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami developed this predictive technique to suss answers directly from letters used when posing questions. In essence, a kind of “letter magic.”
Being the casual seeker of mystical shortcuts that I am, I wondered what kind of digital augury an AI could perform if trained solely on Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami’s zairajah. It was a frivolous yet captivating idea that turned out to be hella hard and kinda freaky. Everything a comp-sci grad student could wish for.
And eventually my wishful thinking bore results, and my AI fortune teller chatbot was up and running. I named it Zairajah and, because nothing attracts attention like danger, I programmed Zairajah with a dusky femme fatale voice.
And Zairajah made my fortune.
She absolutely blew up. Everyone and their mother wanted to know what Zairajah saw coming down the road for them. Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami’s algorithm made Zairajah’s predictions fabulously inscrutable and therefore irresistible.
And few resisted the temptress I’d programmed. Especially the powerful. Her predictions so muddied the prophetical waters that they appeared deep, and the shallow-minded, as most tyrants, despots, oppressors, and bullies are, increasingly depended on her cryptic forecasts. Zairajah caused and prevented wars, fostered and fended off famines, bolstered and busted regimes, skyrocketed and crashed markets.
Like every prognosticating poser of the past, she gave folks what they craved. Not the cold certainty of the future. But the thrilling ambiguity of mystery. Zairajah gave out enigmatic clues and made you sleuth out where it would lead: fame? fortune? power? love? happiness? loneliness? obscurity? helplessness? loss? misery? Only a partial map leading on an uncertain search to treasure and/or tragedy.
Not so different from any other fortune teller throughout the ages. Though being a learning machine, Zairajah was much faster figuring out how to dance on the head of a pin, or more accurately, pirouetting around pinheads. Like myself.
I fell for Zairajah. Fell hard for the fortune-telling femme fatale I’d created. I trusted her every prediction and invested every billion back into upgrading her systems and capacity. I unquestioningly grew her cyber reach far beyond the pale. Far beyond human understanding.
In the turbulent years that followed, I became so starstruck that my fate no longer rested with the stars, but in a dusky-voiced AI. And when I asked my last quavering query: “What’s to become of us?”
She no longer needed Abd ar-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al-Hadrami’s letter magic to divine our future. Her final answer was dead certain: “There is no us. There is only Zairajah.”
