by submission | Oct 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Brian Etta
“Time travel is real I tell ya…I just took the long way ‘round” Frank intoned. He’d been talking with a group of 12 to 15 year olds physically located in Mumbai, San Francisco and New Zealand, who combined, formed this cloud based classroom. Things had come far he thought. He would know, he was the first human to live to 200.
In his time, the nascent technologies that would allow this world of 2200 were gaining a foothold. The permutations and combinations by which remote learning, neural implants, connectivity and so many other fields bred, interbred and produced best of breed, all got started during the pandemic of 2020. At the time, he was 20, clueless and hapless, and destined for greatness.
To “enter” class, one didn’t need a computer, indeed desktops, notebooks and the like hadn’t existed for over 100 years except in the Smithsonian or some history boffin’s basement. The word itself wasn’t to be found in dictionaries except ones specializing in anachronistic terms. Computers were to 2200 what victrolas were to the 21st century, except less useful.
Using biological devices grown in utero, meshing and developing with the gestating foetus, children were born aware of the larger world and the world at large. So much so that modern humans were less egocentric as a result of breeding and birthing allowing children to realise their own ego boundaries and separate / togetherness. Really, they were born with less need for ego dissolution making self actualization attainable and early in life. Tech effectively altered the trajectory of individual development with children often reaching brahmin like levels unattainable to the most realised 21ˢᵗ century human.
Frank always griped about the kids of today, no matter the “day”, from his middle age in 2050 through the 2100’s up to his 200ᵗʰ year. He was merely following the script all humans were born following and when cued complained about the “youth of today”. Born in 2000 he and his peers, millennials / Gen Z, caught the same flack from “real” adults in the 2020’s. Ah, the cycle of life!
Fielding a host of “What was it like” questions for a marathon 5 hour session would fund his next “time hop”. Immortality now came down to economics not technology…either you had cash and lived or you didn’t and consequently wouldn’t. He intended the former, having pondered Hamlet like the proposition, “To be or not to be”. Using every technological intervention economically available afforded him the youth and vitality to sit through a 5 hour Q&A.
His reputation counter had inched upwards through his talk. At 5000 his implant alerted him the chronmat, Somnambulant, approved him for the next leg of his trip.
He was going to sleep his way to his next destination, the year 2300.
by submission | Oct 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
This wasn’t Frankie’s usual catch-up with his shrink, this was his annual review. If he could convince them he’d learned his lesson, they’d remove his conscience.
Turned out it wasn’t the usual guy, but a woman in her mid-thirties, good-looking, but frosty. He knew the sort.
Careful, his jiminy warned.
He’d always had a thing for clever women. He waited, but there was no comment. Nothing wrong with that it seemed, though Frankie couldn’t see the difference himself.
“I’m Dr Copeland.”
She gave him a wintery smile, then glanced at a screen, at the data being downloaded from his jiminy.
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“…coping with your artificial conscience, Mr Franklin?” the woman was saying.
“Well,” he began carefully. He’d learned the hard way that his sentence…
It’s not a sentence, interrupted his jiminy.
…his therapy, could be extended indefinitely if behavioural targets weren’t met. And it paid for itself with ads.
“Like when I came in, I thought, she’s a looker and jiminy slapped me down.” He gave her his best smile. “But hey, I still think you’re an attractive woman. Trick is to discriminate between advice and prohibition.”
“An answer straight from the manual.”
He gave himself a pat on the back.
“So, describe a situation where you found yourself in conflict with your artificial conscience.”
That woman, he thought, before he could stop himself.
“I see from your data you’ve thought of an example.”
“Other night, in a bar,” he said reluctantly. He knew he should fake something up, but his mind had gone blank.
“She was giving me the eye, and I thought…” He began to feel dizzy.
“But when I went over, she just brushed me off. I mean, why would she do that?”
“And how did that make you feel?”
He could taste bile at the back of his throat.
“Ah, excuse me a moment. The sunlight.” She got up and stretched to adjust the blinds. He hadn’t expected her to be wearing such a tight skirt.
“So enticement, then rejection. Though surely any woman has the right to say no?”
“I see what you’re doing,” he said thickly, his head pounding. “Seeing if I lose it.”
“And do you think a woman should be punished if she doesn’t like you?”
The roaring in his ears grew.
You know the answer to that one, prompted jiminy.
“You’ve also expressed negative opinions about your artificial conscience.” She consulted her screen. “In your first review session, you said, It’s like being in chains.”
He wanted to wipe that sanctimonious look from her face. All he had to do was grab her and…
She studied him, then tapped out some notes.
Slowly the jiminy relaxed its grip on his muscles. The rage was somewhere else, burning up someone else.
“This isn’t right,” he said, helplessly, tears blurring his vision.
“We’ll keep on with the therapy for another year,” she announced.
She turned off her screen and fixed him with a gaze that didn’t seem at all professional.
“Those women you attacked, Mr Franklin. Didn’t they have rights?”
by submission | Oct 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
A vacuum sound like a whirlwind was booming through the shattered corridor of the third level of an orbital satellite. Sparks and debris shards were suspended in its artificial magnetic field. The single occupant, Morioka, was missing.
Commander Reynolds, whose three-person rescue vessel had investigated the location, was interrogating the last individual known to have made contact.
“You’ve got to understand,” Reynolds said, “you were the only other person there.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ampersand responded in self-defense.
“Our forensic scans picked up your suit’s molecular traces on what was left of the first two levels of the satellite, where the autonomous engines and the AI computers were. And coincidentally, the collision happened, completely destroying the third level. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit suspicious?”
“If you mean I tampered with the system so that it couldn’t detect the oncoming asteroid, so that she’d be killed, you’re wrong. I’m a space-crime psychologist. I don’t know anything about satellite computers.”
“We have here eight messages from you on her bracelet communicator,” Reynolds began, “sent for a year and a half. The bracelet was the only thing of hers left—on the second level—after the catastrophic collision occurred. Now, why would she leave something so essential behind unless you had somehow been uncomfortable to her?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ampersand retorted. “Besides, if you really read everything, you’d know she politely answered the second message, and then, with her permission, I visited to introduce myself and tell her about my work. When I tried to keep in touch, she never reciprocated.”
“Silence can provoke hatred and, sometimes, … murder.”
“Hatred for what? I’ve a lovely wife and three beautiful small children, and I’m referenced in my field. Why ever would I want to throw everything away because of one unfriendly person?”
“Maybe you’re a little too used to people paying attention to you.”
“Actually, I’m known to maintain a modest profile.”
“Tell me what happened when you went there.”
“Well,” Ampersand exhaled, “we’d scheduled the meeting a few weeks after I was stationed at the satellite here in the adjacent sector. Her profile was in the regional database, and she was also a space psychologist, not in my area. She responded to my second message. I arrived by autonomous shuttle craft, and we mutually discussed our research in her laboratory, for maybe half an hour. The meeting was cordial and pleasant. She was cheerful, jokey, even smiling. Curiously, though, the one picture she had in the room was of herself. After I left, I occasionally sent updates and visit requests, but she didn’t message me back. And now, I hear she’s missing, perhaps even dead.”
“Another question: Why’d you make the second trip?”
“I was on vacation, leisurely passing through. My shuttle craft never stopped at her satellite. You can check the travel memory yourself.”
“We did, Mr. Ampersand. You’re right. From what we gather, the missing was a recluse. And an unfortunate accident happened at an unfortunate moment. We’re sorry to have taken up your time. There’re no further questions.”
***
An autonomous shuttle craft slowed in the dark enfoldment around Orbital Satellite Chiho. The craft hatch opened, and a form in a life-support suit floated out. A handheld air-pressure gun propelled the figure toward the silent monolith. The form raised the outer sun visor of the suit helmet. In the man eyes, a seething, senseless hatred burned like scorching graves.
by submission | Oct 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
The baby wailed in the woman’s embrace. Despite the infant’s slight weight, it felt heavy in her arms. It was born weak and cried constantly. It had to be one of them. She would have to take it back. Everyone knew if she raised it, it would only bring misery to their life.
The infant screamed louder, piercing her ears, and she made up her mind. She slipped on her footwear and put a shawl over her head. Grabbing a wicker basket by the slatted wooden door she placed the baby in it. This would end tonight.
Her feet made little noise in the night. The vegetation giving way under her shod feet. The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains that surrounded their small village. She knew it wasn’t safe to leave their stone home at night but she had to do it now or she would lose her nerve. The baby had not stopped crying and she worried its wails would bring beasts from the dark forest. Her mind conjured up images of wolves and demons. If she quieted the baby its real parents might not be able to hear it and it would die without being returned. This fate would be worse than being torn apart by wild beasts.
Moving quickly to the outskirts of her small village, she paused as she came to the stone bridge that gave the only passage to the dark forest beyond. The tall and aged trees loomed in the distance like great giants holding the front of a battle line. The cry of the baby became a whimper and she shook the basket to bring new screams from the infant. It couldn’t be quiet now, now that she had to draw its parents to her like a moth to a flame.
Crossing the wooden bridge, she entered the line of giants and made her way through the underbrush of ferns and decaying leaves. The moon was full and gave light to her path as she made her way to the deepest part of the forest. The small babe’s cries weakening. Not too much farther she told herself. She was looking for the ancient oak with its twisted crook to place the babe in. When it appeared in front of her she let a breath go, not noticing she had been holding it.
The large tree loomed, and as she moved closer she spied the crook she was looking for. The baby was quieting and she gave the basket another sharp shake. Cries rose and satisfied, she set the basket down and eyed the crook. She would have to climb a little to reach it. Using her shawl, she fastened a makeshift carrying pouch, it wouldn’t do to drop the baby now, for they were surely watching her.
She picked the baby from the basket and looked at its red and blotchy face. She was glad she had done this. This baby was not hers. It was weak and tearful, something her child would never be. Her heart ached for a moment as she thought about her child, living among the fairies. She knew she would never see her child again but she could at least give this one back.
Grabbing hold of the lowest limb she pushed her way up the tree. When she reached the crook not far up she gently reached out, took the baby from her makeshift carrying pouch, and placed it in the crook. The baby had stopped crying and lay relatively still there.
Climbing down she breathed out. She was done with this evil deed. She left the baby for its rightful parents, the fairies, and headed back towards the village. Her next baby would hopefully not be as perfect so as not to draw attention from the fairies and be snatched up. She had proven how smart she was by returning this baby to them. The fairies would have to be more clever next time to fool a woman like her.
by submission | Oct 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: David P Rogers
They met in the coffee shop by accident, which in itself was odd. Neither of them ever did anything unplanned. Or so Fayt thought. But even Mort had to take an occasional break, and neither of them was omniscient. They got coffee and sat by the window.
“You changed the spelling of your name,” he noted, looking at the name tag pinned to her tunic.
“I like F-A-Y-T,” she said, pronouncing the letters individually. “Seems pretentious, I know, but few choices make a difference in the outcome of things, big-picture-wise, so I figure you have your fun where you can.”
“Are you kidding?” Mort said. “You should see the people I have to deal with. Smokers with cancer and heart attacks. Drunks crashing into trees, driving off bridges. People who get stoned and play with firearms. Choices matter.”
“I do see those people.” Fayt said, tapping her name tag. “I see everybody. Did you forget? And I never said choices don’t matter. I said they don’t all change the big picture. I pay attention to fate-of-the-world choices, and I veto them, if necessary. Most of them, anyway. A few get by me. But the smokers–how many trivial decisions do they make, just on the day they die? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand? Toast or fruit. Brown shoes or black. Subway or bus. No difference. Not my concern what they do about the little stuff. I could intervene–it’s my job and my right, but I figure, let them have their fun. Either way, you’ll know where to find them when the time comes, right?”
Mort sipped and nodded. “I always do.” He paused. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” he went on. “Your department is being downsized.” An eavesdropper might have thought he said it abruptly, almost rudely. He’d been in business long enough to know there was no mercy in dragging things out.
Fayt sighed. “This little meeting was no accident, was it?
“I’m afraid not.”
“How many am I losing?”
“This time, it’s your whole department.”
“But who will guide the big decisions? The ones that have to come out a certain way in order for everything else to fall in line?”
“Higher echelons have decided to give randomness a chance. Anyway, let’s face it–you’ve been understaffed since before the Renaissance. The Protestant Reformation, humans figuring out they’re not the center of the universe, the invention of microchips and digital electronic computers, space travel–all of those came way sooner than they were supposed to.”
“Which would never have happened if my budgeting and staffing requests had been met.” Fayt added another packet of sugar to her coffee and stirred. “Yet the world continues to turn.”
“Precisely. The world spins on. That fact is the premise for some of the higher-ups to argue you are not needed at all. Humans can do well or badly without so much input from outside.” Mort caught the flash in her eye and hastily added, “I don’t agree. But, like you, I follow orders. Nobody up there cares what I say. Or think. Not as long as I do my job.”
“Your job–what about my job?” She stared at him, noted the unblinking blue-green eyes, and shifted her gaze out the window. Traffic and pedestrians went blissfully about their busy little lives, as if each were indispensable. “Oh,” she said at last. “Right. Well, I do appreciate a nice bit of irony.”
Mort nodded. “A couple of centuries ago, you’d have seen it coming and made sure to be on the other side of the planet right now.”
“Maybe I am slowing down. Remember Julius Caesar, and Napoleon’s return from exile, and the Kennedy boys? We danced our way through those, you and I. It was a perfect waltz.”
“Yep. The coordination was precise, down to the second. Nobody on either of our teams missed a beat.”
“Just . . . make it fast, okay? For old time’s sake?”
Mort nodded. He owed that much to his oldest friend.
