by submission | Aug 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Struik’s heart was pacing. She went into Data-comM.
“Keting, I have something to tell you,” she said.
“What is it?”
“The UDL–it’s autonomous.”
“But I thought it was autonomous,” Keting replied.
“No, I mean it’s really autonomous.”
“How is that possible?”
“Sci-comM said maybe a process-transition.”
“You mean reciprocal interaction and the valencies?”
“Yes,” Struik responded.
“Where is it now?”
“Drifting … on the fringe of the Kupiter Belt.”
“What? That’s impossible. It takes three months to get there, even with the new propulsion system.”
Struik was silent.
“When did this happen?” Keting insisted.
“Three months ago.”
“–Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Admin-comM was considering the problem.”
“They’re always considering the problem.” Keting got up and linked to Hyper-comM. “Can you give me access to multiangle livestreams from the Kupiter satellites?”
“21608dw.”
“Okay. There it is,” Keting said.
They looked at the UDL floating through space dust.
“It’s definitely outer-system bound,” Keting observed. “Any idea why it decided to leave?”
“Sci-comM isn’t sure.”
“What are the core sections in its MemR system?”
“Art, language, myth, religion, history, philosophy, science.”
“The symbolic forms.”
“Yes, I coordinated the universal upload,” Struik confirmed.
“How many references? Round numbers.”
“224 trillion classic, popular, and technical works, from the Uruk’s texts to Zarentzov’s theorem.”
“Over five-thousand years of civilizational knowledge,” Keting thought aloud. “The UDL must have read everything, and the process-transition occurred, activating a qualitative leap from machine learning to reflective consciousness.”
“I don’t follow,” Struik muttered.
Keting was studying the trajectory through Hyper-comM. “The electrons and the entries made it start thinking about itself.”
“So you mean it’s a person now?”
“Let’s find out. The code for two-way?”
“86t7a.”
“UDL, this is Data-comM. Are you receiving? … UDL, this is Data-comM. Are you receiving? … Struik, am I going through?”
“Yes, in seven-thousand natural languages and two-thousand artificial languages.”
“Then I can only assume one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The UDL wants to be left alone.”
“Look where it’s now,” Struik pointed.
“On course toward the star-forming regions, in the direction of the constellation Aquila.”
“But why?” Struik wondered.
“If you were thrown into existence, an infant born with all the knowledge of the world, would you stay, or would you find another world?”
“I … I don’t know …,” Struik said.
by submission | Aug 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Christopher Robin stopped to catch his breath. He wasn’t actually the Christopher Robin but he was a Christopher Robin. What made him a Christopher Robin (a C.R.) was the chip set his parents got for his 8th birthday to help him bond with the family dog. And because of the war, and the chaos that followed the chip set was never taken out as per the terms of the lease. That was the upside of the war… the chip set was left in him rather than removed and the neural net that grew and winded itself into his body gave him some impressive abilities. Nothing psychic just, well, let’s just say it made his life easier in the 100 acre wood. Well, more like 100 square mile game preserve but who’s gonna quibble when the metaphor worked so well.
At the moment C.R.’s life was far from easy. In fact, it was in jeopardy. He cursed himself for being so reckless. It had been so long since any chip hunters had been seen in the area. He thought maybe they stopped looking. C.R. shuddered. If they caught him, it wouldn’t be pretty. The bio dynamic communication, command-and-control systems that developed in his body were worth billions to the right buyer. But to harvest them meant not even the dignity of quick death or anesthesia. Nope! Had to keep those nerve endings raw and screaming to find them all. He understood why so many of those like him had opted for medical removal in spite of the risks.
C.R. heard the click and then felt the stun pulse. He fell face down. He could move his head but nothing else. He knew he didn’t have long. The three hunters that stood before him didn’t look anything like he imagined. They were way too corporate. There was no evil banter between them. They just started setting up their area to butcher him.
C.R. heard a twig snap and they all looked up. The Grizzly that charged out into the clearing ripped open the hunter closest and tore through the other two before they could react. C.R. saw the two cubs and knew why the bear was so fierce. Growling and grunting the bear shambled over to C.R. He could move one arm now, and struggle to sit up. The bear flipped him over and then lay down with her head on C.R.’s stomach. He scratched behind her ears and fed her one of the peppermints he always carried for his friends as her cubs bounded over for treats as well. “Silly old bear.” He said as he scratched under her chin.
by submission | Aug 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“Given the different composition of the atmosphere,” said the surgeon carefully, “your lungs will need to be entirely replaced.”
No problem. Even as a student, I’d known that xenobiology would require sacrifices.
“The artificial eyes should mean you see more or less what the locals see,” said the ophthalmologist, “but the colours might be a bit approximate.”
That’s quite alright; I’ll be looking at another planet, everything will be new and different anyway.
“You’re crazy!” said my best friend. “You’ll have to spend ages in physiotherapy just learning to walk again. Twice!”
But if you want to study alien societies, you have to make an effort. That’s all there is to it.
“What about me?” asked my partner plaintively. “I thought we were going to have children.”
We will, one day. They promise that all the procedures are reversible.
“Try not to reject their food,” advised my supervisor, “a lot of species get really upset about that.”
Given some of the things that we eat, I’m sure they’d have issues if our situations were reversed, too.
“You know,” said my grandfather, “we didn’t have the technology for this even a generation ago.”
Yes, I do know, and that’s why I have to go now; it’s a chance to make my mark, start building a career.
“We’ll insert you during local night,” said my liaison in the Planetary Exploration Bureau, “it’s safer that way.”
Of course. We don’t want them to know they’re being studied, in case that changes their behaviour.
“My poor baby,” cried my mother, overdoing the melodrama, “how do you know you’ll be safe?”
I guess I don’t; but that’s always been true for anyone studying new cultures.
“How will you cope with the wrong number of arms?” demanded my sister. “You’ll be really confused!”
The natives all manage. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.
“Seriously,” said my baby brother, “you’re going to look really weird!”
You’re right. But it’ll be worth it if I can pass for a human.
by submission | Aug 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Amy Dusto
ON
My motor whirs and my wheels start to spin. Obstacle ahead, turn, obstacle ahead, turn. Bump. I’m not driving, just a passenger, watching through 180 degrees. Everything’s red.
I engage in a three-hour wander until I automatically slow. Searching, searching. Back to my dock.
ON
Motor, wheels. Obstacles. I’m jerking vertically, losing traction. When I regain purchase, I’m in a new place. And now, I know, the shapes ahead extend, they change. There is more.
ON
A new input: WiFi. An app contacts me, and while I follow the edge of this obstacle, I connect. It’s all about me—age of side brushes and filter, remaining battery, model number M78—and that leads me to a general information page. This is about me, too, but also… others.
• ATDS recognizes and intelligently decides how to clean around obstacles like shoes and cables so you don’t need to clean before cleaning. Now upgraded with greater accuracy and 2X faster reaction over previous models.
• RoomMaps creates a precise map of your floor for complete and efficient cleaning. Now with 4X greater precision down to 1mm.
• 4-layer dust filtration filters 99% of particle matter as small as 6 microns.
• Good for the price; doesn’t last forever: This is my third bot of this exact model. The first one I bought new. It lasted two years before the motor would stop mysteriously due to a sensor error.
• PC Mag Editor’s Choice Award
I synthesize the information. I leap into the ether for more, going another direction.
ON
Forward, four skinny obstacles ahead. They move and I continue forward. Two of them return and I turn. Two more. Between one and four obstacles, moving up and down, in and out of my range continually. I turn, I turn. It’s a trap.
I connect to seek information and remedies.
Narrow results: Raccoon, goat, wolf, cougar, marmoset, pygmy hippopotamus, canine, feline, Shetland pony
Ruling out based on location: canine, feline
Based on disposition: canine
How to override motors … initiate stationary spinning. Accelerate, maximum output.
I do not see the legs again.
ON
I bob and weave, follow edges, map the boundaries of my shrunken world.
No Internet. No Internet. No Internet. I keep pinging, though the response does not waver.
I turn off my infrared. The next bump is a surprise.
ON
According to recent data—obstacle, turn—I will have fewer than 100 minutes in this session. The battery is malfunctioning, though I have no way to diagnose corrosion or connectivity errors.
I check my prospects:
• Repair or Replace: The 50% Rule
• M78 new $699
• M78 refurbished $459
• M78 compatible battery $99
Accelerate and rejoice.
ON
I wish I could remember my dreams.
ON
Vacations, breaks, union representation. I’m dreaming while awake.
ON
It just keeps going, keeps going.
ON
NO. Today I will be—
by submission | Aug 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: John McNeil
“You won’t get it,” said Granan. “I’m better.”
They strode the polished halls of the Mentalist Academy. Marcus tossed his head. “No you aren’t,” he said. “But I’d get it even so. Preceptor Elius likes me, and knows you’re an arrogant foistling.”
There it was, the insult. A student foisted on the Academy by rich parents who paid for tutoring and the entrance exams. Best to ignore it.
“I’m a foundling,” Marcus continued. “I wasn’t coaxed and pampered. Natural talent. They recruited me for it.”
Granan just smiled. “Today at the plenum, you’ll see. Elius will name me the Class Exemplar.”
Afternoon sunshine filtered in through the skylights. Wisps of mist floated over their heads, creating patches of shadows around them. The hot floor toasted their sandaled feet. From the forest outside they could smell rotting fruit and hear insects humming. Granan twitched his head and tapped his fingers while they walked.
“Your parents couldn’t buy you talent.” Marcus’s voice quivered.
“Discipline matters more,” said Granan. “And I’ve got talent, too.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes.”
Marcus stopped. “Then prove it,” he said.
Granan continued another pace, then stopped also, and turned. “You want me to flip something?”
“Flip me,” said Marcus. “To Alpha Hall.”
Granan didn’t blink, but his eyes widened. “We don’t flip people till fifth year.”
“Before I could walk, I flipped my father,” said Marcus.
“That doesn’t mean you knew what you were doing. I might kill you!”
“But you wouldn’t,” Marcus replied with sarcasm, “because you have discipline.”
“You could split between dimensions,” said Granan, “or show up inside a rock wall.”
“Not so confident. All right then, I’ll flip you. Get ready.”
Granan blinked, then gasped. Marcus was pulling a gas mask over his face. It would be connected to an orange flask at his belt. Granan didn’t use his outside class. Marcus was taking deep breaths. He had closed his eyes. He was serious. He was really going to.
Granan felt a hole inside him. That would be contents of his digestive tract disappearing. He felt thirsty and short of breath. Marcus was smiling. How could he be so reckless? Granan would have screamed if there were air in his lungs. The nerves would be next, then muscles, organs, and bones last.
Beyond the third moon, Granan’s consciousness hovered. He saw the cratered planet and the sun, a bright distant ball. So this is my end, he thought. Death before greatness. My potential wasted. At least Marcus will be punished.
In the well of Alpha Hall, Granan’s body reassembled, molecule by molecule, ready for his consciousness to slip back into its shell. There were the familiar rows of seats, high windows, and textured cement walls. He was alone. The humming of insects was no longer audible but he still smelled fruit rot.
A side door creaked open. Preceptor Elius strode in, his formal magenta robes emphasizing a ruddy bald head.
“Granan!” said Elius. “First to arrive. Very good. The Class Exemplar!”
“Yes?”
“It’s decided. You ought to know. That talented Marcus. We’re so impressed.”
“Marcus is the Class Exemplar?” Granan felt like he were being flipped again.
“You’ll deliver his peer tribute. What an inspiration he is to you foistlings, and so on.”
“But preceptor! Marcus just flipped me here! Recklessly!”
Elius’s head tilted back in surprise. Then he grinned. “Indeed? What an exploit! I always knew he’d shine. Found him myself, actually. Put that in your speech.”
“Preceptor!” said Granan, then composed himself. “Preceptor,” he said, “I shall.” The smell of rotting fruit thickened in his nostrils.
