by submission | Oct 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
When researchers at the University of Queensland announced the creation of a quantum microscope that could reveal biological structures otherwise impossible to see, they predicted it would answer fundamental questions and spark revolutionary breakthroughs in healthcare, engineering, transportation and communications. Little did they know, however, that the new device based on quantum entanglement would result in even more fundamental questions asked about the nature of the universe.
“Denkins, come here and look at this. I thought you said this equipment was properly calibrated!”
Harold Denkins, Professor William Chidley Fleming’s assistant, scurried in from an adjacent laboratory. Denkins glanced anxiously at his boss. Fleming eyed him with a stern look.
Fleming had chosen a random small molecule chain, dichlorine heptoxide—or Cl2O7—to examine that day.
Denkins peered through the binocular viewing piece for almost twenty seconds.
“Doctor, I—I’m sorry. I adjusted it myself according to manual. The equipment seemed to be working fine this morning. But this looks like…”
“Like what, Mister Denkins?”
“Doctor, if I answered your question honestly, I’m afraid that your opinion of me would drop precipitously.”
As Fleming looked at his assistant, a big grin broke out on his face then he shook his head.
“On the contrary, Denkins. You will probably think that it is I who have taken leave of my senses. But let me assure you—just as the invention of the telescope allowed Galileo to observe the rings of Jupiter for the first time, we are now bearing witness to another quantum leap in mankind’s knowledge of the universe. You and I have just discovered that the universe infinitely repeats itself! I hypothesize that this common molecule we looking at here, dichlorine heptoxide, interrogated under entanglement—is in fact, Messier 51a. The Whirlpool Galaxy. Now, I wonder in which molecule we’ll find our Milky Way lurking?”
by submission | Oct 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
There was a monster loose in the city. I, like everyone else in the city who could spare a moment to look at the news screens, had been tracking events as they unfolded all day. There were at least two hundred dead, including a score of peace keepers, and several buildings demolished.
I knew that monster. I had raised him from an egg, then trained him in the circus to spar with the gladiators. He’d learned quickly. Too quickly for his own good. After his last win in the arena, the legions had commandeered him for the special forces and that had been the last I had seen of him. He’d been smaller then, only a couple of tons.
And now they wanted me to bring him in. Me, a retired animal trainer, when the entire legion couldn’t manage to kill him. I wondered what had happened to his handlers from the legions. Dead, I supposed, or they wouldn’t be calling me in.
I hung, suspended from the helipack strapped on my back, about two hundred feet up, and watched as the special-ops boys flew circles around him, darting in to fire missiles that exploded harmlessly on his shield plates, then zipping away before he could swat them from the air. Most of them made it.
“Captain,” I said over my com-unit. “Can you call your boys off? If I’m going to get close to him, he’s got to see that it’s just me and not somebody trying to shoot him.”
“But shooting him is the whole point of bringing you in.”
“I know, but I’ve got to get close enough to do it.”
“OK, I’ll call them off.”
I couldn’t hear the orders, but the special-ops flyers pulled back a couple of thousand feet. I dropped down to where the monster stood crouched on his hind limbs, ready to spring, and hovered about fifty feet away.
“Billy?” I called over the loudspeaker. “It’s Ren from the circus. You remember me, Billy, Ren from the circus. We’re going to go home now, Billy. Time to go home.”
He watched me, uncertainly, glazed eyes peering out from under his armored brows. Very slowly, I turned my back on him and started flying back down the street. Amazingly, he followed me. I tried not to look at the bodies littering the street or the special-ops flyers I could hear faintly hovering in the background.
We wound our way back to the grounds of the circus where I had worked with him years before. I flew carefully over the entrance to the arena, but Billy just smashed through the gates. I didn’t scold him. He was coming home.
In the center of the arena was a great tree stump, the remains of the sacred tree that had stood here before humans came and built the city. I flew over to it and hovered.
“Stump, Billy, stump,” I called, recalling the first command he had learned.
Like the tiny winged creature he had been, he followed me and stood on the stump, which was now buried beneath his enormous bulk.
“Show claws, Billy, show claws,” I called.
He spread his wings and wiggled the comparatively tiny claws at the fold of his wings.
He peered at me confusedly from under the armored brows of his lizard-like skull.
“Billy, good boy?” he asked, his tiny bird-like voice sounding incongruous in such a giant frame.
“Yes, Billy good boy,” I agreed, tears running down my face.
He opened his beak to accept the expected treat and I raised the missile launcher and pulled the trigger.
by submission | Oct 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: Brian Etta
Professor Thomlin was equivocating as to whether or not he’d let his TA, Lee, teach his last class before finals until Lee decided to return to Shenzhen to pursue tenure in his home country. Historically it was a complete and utter slaughter of a perfect beach day. Students who’d been on top of the material throughout the semester usually aced his test as that was by design. He had his favorites and played to their strengths! The kids, dumbasses, as he lovingly called them, who thought they were Neo and could download 5 months of Plato, Descartes, Spinoza and Sartre….Sartre, for God’s sake…were indeed living in some kind of Matrix (the original of course!) Those little pecker heads would definitely get an “A” for jamming up his hang time. The waves would just have to wait!
Breathing in acceptance and blowing out resentment he thought to the universe and himself, “The dude abides!” He leisurely entered the auditorium and took notice of the shrinkage, i.e. the 2nd week crowd, usually up from week one and built on the fake news that he was an easy “A” he wasn’t and that he took the high holy days off as a practicing Jew…half true. He wasn’t practicing but he did like days off. By week 2 when reality set in, driven home with a liberal smattering “C”s, “D”s & a few “F”s for good measure. The roster had slimmed down and how! It was like Roman decimation, one out of 10 would be gone every few weeks. His class was a philosophical isotope with a very, very short half life. Scanning the bleachers nothing was out of the ordinary, the kid with the post modern coif was gone…what a shock…as well as the hipster collective who rocked 80’s tees but ironically, of course! One thing caught his eye…a new face. Typically that meant a proxy for a real student and that would not stand. He’d shred this little pecker head and turn him over to the Provost. Let the school do its job, he had way, way better things to do and places to go. Have 6 pack, will travel!
“Oy” he called out to the ringer, the ringer in turn “Oy’d” him back. “Cheeky bugger” he thought channeling a Britcom only he could see. “Haven’t seen you before, what can we do for you Mister…?” He did that trailing rise of intonation on Mister to indicate he was asking for a name. “RT” the ringer easily responded, as if answering question 2 on an oral exam. “No Mister, RT is good” he continued. Thomlin said, “Well RT, in case you’re lost, Liberal Arts is an entirely different wing, sorry you wasted your time.” “Professor Thomlin?” RT inquired as if he didn’t know. “I’m here for you. See, I’m planning to take your class in Fall and wanted to see what it would be like”. Thomlin thought…”Oh, OK, no worries. Got an audit slip from the Registrar?”, “Got you now!” he thought with finality and glee. No way he had it, how? That department was usually closed, they were seemingly always closed. To his chagrin, RT produced it, why? “OK then, why would you want to take the last class, I mean, you know it’s the last class…right? Said the professor incredulously. As if seizing an opening, storming a breach, he replied, “That’s exactly why”…”Creepy” Thomlin thought, but interesting could be fun. He engaged, “About what?…as in you clearly have something in mind and this is your time, lo it pains me to ask, about what would you like me to speak?” RT twisted in the uncomfortable decades old plastic seat and looked out, as if formulating the answer for the first time. He took a beat and said, “Theseus, or to be precise his ship, the Ship of Theseus”. Thomlin looked down at his hands and back at the loose assembly of students. “Yes, yes I know what you meant”, replying indignantly. The Ship of Theseus was a thought experiment wherein if succeeding parts of the ship were removed and replaced but with identical parts, could the resulting entity be considered the same ship with which Theseus entered port? Arguments could be made in the negative as also to the affirmative, hence making for lively debate. Franky he couldn’t care less.
Over the next and remaining 45 minutes between helping the other pecker heads, he found he was enjoying the back and forth with the youth, RT was smart, like how he was, odd, he reminded him eerily of his younger self. RT asked him, “What if you took discarded human limbs, let’s say cells, hell…let’s go with atoms. What if I collected, at whichever scale, all the components used by your body as it recycled and renewed itself then put them back exactly as they were, would that entity be you? If yes, why? No? Why not?” Thomlin felty the planet spin just a little slower as he took a seat, he felt disoriented. He was too old for late night dorm room philosophising. After class, he hoped RT would leave…RT wouldn’t leave and in fact took him further down the rabbit hole. RT pressed him and finally he admitted that while a good thought experiment he’d have to say no, maybe yes…and finally no. No the reconstituted ship and the reconstituted Thomlin were essentially fugazi…ersatz versions.
RT smiled, “Thought you’d feel that way” He took off his jacket to show a sleeve tattoo. It matched the professors well hidden ink. Richard Thomlin, my name is not RT my name is Richard Thomlin…a pleasure for me to meet me…I mean you.”
by submission | Oct 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Leon Taylor
“Tonight’s the night,” Devon said to his robot. “Conditions are perfect. Cool, dry weather and a long night.” Of course, he was talking to himself. The robot could not speak or do anything but deliver to its human the daily kasha meal, stored in its boxlike body, at the end of the 20-hour workday. The alien captors provided the box-bots so that the humans would mine rare metals rather than forage for food.
As the sun set, Devon watched the guards file noisily out of the concentration camp. The invisible electrical fence surrounding the camp, Devon knew from months of nightly observations, would remain open for twenty seconds. He sprinted for the exit, groaning with effort, running on the sides of his splayed feet. His pasty skin reddened and bled. He gripped the foot-long knife that he had held back two days ago when he had returned his mining tools as always to the guards. The other human prisoners paid no attention to his breakout.
The last guard, a pot-bellied baldish human, bellowed at Devon. But the eight-foot-tall alien commandant made him lower his laser rifle. “No point in killing a strong young worker. He’ll be back soon enough. Sic the Pinscher.” The aliens had bred Dobermans as guard dogs for the strength of their bite, the equal of 600 pounds of weight.
The slathering, snarling dog raced a hundred yards beyond the camp and lunged onto Devon’s back, sinking its teeth into his right shoulder. They rolled down a muddy ravine, the ash-black muscular dog as large as the stunted human, until Devon could break away long enough to plunge his knife into the Doberman’s belly. The dog yelped and retreated. Bloodied and bruised, Devon hobbled into the silent scented forest. Now he just needed to find the city on a hill.
He knew, from his parents in whispered conversations, and they from theirs, that it lay in the direction of the rising sun: A sparkling castle, beyond the reach of the alien invaders who ruled the netherlands; a castle where a human was free to live, love, and think. You could learn to read novels and write your own. You could listen to the long intoxicating songs called symphonies. Men and women could mingle freely, not just in the gloomy pairings dictated in Mating Week. Everyone knew that the city was just outside the forest. Devon limped down the rocky path, propelled by crescendos of pain. A quarter-mile behind him, the dog picked up the trail of blood.
After a few hours, Devon paused and gathered acorns off the trail to appease his gnawing hunger. The dog hid in the bushes, keeping the human within sight. Exhausted and still starving, Devon resumed his hike at a snail’s pace.
At daybreak, Devon reached the young birches and weedy meadows at the eastern edge of the forest. A mile away, the grassy mounds seemed to radiate in the spreading rays of the sun, as if illuminating the fabled city. Devon contemplated the vista and thanked God. Someday hundreds, thousands, would surely follow his lead. He prepared a bed of leaves and lay down for just a moment, to relax his muscles. In an instant, he fell asleep. By the time that he detected the charging dog, he was muscle-bound, unable to move.
In the tall yellow weeds at the end of the path, the box-bot, still carrying the oatmeal dinner, watched as the Doberman, despite its training, ripped out Davon’s throat. The robot stood stock still, as if in shock and grief.
by submission | Oct 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Sandman, I’m so alone
Don’t have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.”
“Here come those irritating anal-probe bastards in their black helicopters.” Theodore pointed his bison-penis walking cane at the crystal blue horizon holding three floating dots moving swiftly towards the couple standing before their ram-earth cottage surrounded by yard-tall pedestals of new, black soil supporting lush cactus on solid earthen podiums. “At least there’s no sand to blow in my face this landing. Glad our garden’s in a greenhouse.”
“You’re still holding grudges, Teddy. You know military types freak when they lose control, still believing you have secrets to stop Sandmen.” Amelia’s Millennial, petite body hid behind Theodore’s aged, tall, lanky frame as waves of propeller wash rolled over the Mojave Desert floor. They waited for disembarking government visitors to walk to them.
“Hanson, you seem well. That’s surprising with COPD meds gone.” The thirty-something, black colonel rubbed his forehead as he pulled his filter mask back between questions to clearly understand Hanson’s responses.
“Getting tough outside for you normals, Mace? I never felt better. Still got hearing aids, but you’ve got nausea, tinnitus, blurred vision, and headaches. What’s the oxygen up to now, fifty percent? I’m betting that flight out was a bitch. We haven’t seen planes in a year. What’s your fuel source that doesn’t explode?”
“Nuclear. Radiation’s a bear but cut the crap, Hanson. You were the first contact. We heard the groans underground for years until those circular, pulsing, pink cocoons emerged, with silicone worms squeezing out first into your desert. You must know something that stops them. Hell, man, you’ve lived around them the longest.”
Hanson shook his head side to side. Amelia crept forward, grasping his arm. “Colonel, after two years using all your weapons, you have no idea?” Hanson paused. “I’ve seen lightning bounce off them. Give up. Sandmen don’t care about us. You’ve already evacuated your elite below ground inside the cave cities and tunnels of our ancestors, as these worms devour our sands. You won’t slow them from flooding the atmosphere with oxygen waste products, multiplying their herds over land and sea. Still, look what these invaders left–deep, rich, plentiful, mineral-rich soil.”
Hanson bent down, lifting a handful of earth. “Everything grows in it. And rain, my God, what they’ve brought through climate change. Our oceans grow as coastal areas subside and deserts become Edens. Unfortunately, you can’t breathe in these gases or save the great seaside cities. You’ve become choking troglodytes. We won’t. This air blesses those with inherited breathing disorders.”
“A warning, buddy. They could become gray goo, like relentless nanobots. Imagine Earth covered in piles of silicone worms. You and others like you won’t make it on the surface.”
“Wrong, Colonel Mace. They’ve never harmed a single living organism. I’ve listened to their hum and trilling songs, as their red glows guide them on blowing-sand pathways. They scare some animals, but they’ve never hurt one ant or blade of grass. We’re the only species that’s impacted. We can’t adapt fast enough…well, you can’t.” Hanson smiled as the officer exhibited increasing signs of pain foreign to Hanson and Amelia. “Our genetically flawed kind will survive and thrive.”
“Like your healthy daughter?” Mace sneered at Amelia.
Hanson took a deep breath. “Amelia was a chronic asthmatic abandoned by a LA clinic as you forced only healthy people underground. She made her way here, alone. We have no information or help for you…so leave, before you can’t. Oh, and Amelia’s not my daughter.”
