by submission | Jun 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
The darkness enveloped me once again. I felt it veil my thoughts like it always did. Nothing ever prepares you for the rancid thought streams that ooze out during the shredding.
My only solace was to lock myself away, so the dark core memories could replay and the world could be spared of my true self. My shred room kept them safe.
During these dark times, mind boundaries would break down. Horrific memories locked away in mental quarantine would surge forward in vivid realism. Nothing was exempt. The worst gets replayed over and over. A crushing, compacting pain with no end in sight. Here in this room, I could wear the madness. Let it infiltrate and control me. And when it receded, I would be better for it. A hard reset designed by my maker. A systematic reminder of how to be human.
Nothing was safe in here right now. I was dangerous. Not to be trusted.
Tears streamed down my contorted features as hidden in-human strength tore chunks from impenetrable walls. A background track of hard trance boomed bassy notes, filling the seams between my memory reel of nightmares. I wretched forward into a doom-laden memory of a darkened rave corner where a proffered red pill loosened the secret codes inside my head. No rush would ever beat that and it was all downhill from there. There was no stopping me.
Thoughts of lost love burdened with meaningless arguments cascaded. A needful thing, rage-snapped to spite my face. Here, nothing I did would ever make a difference.
A screaming miner lay at my feet. His dirty crushed hand clutched tight, as blood spilled from a mangled mess onto the perforated steel floor of the lift cage. Freedom from his tortuous suffering far above where the shaft reached toward the sky.
A spray of bloody mist across my eyes as together we hit the dashboard. His crumpled features pulverised beyond recognition and his coffin falling into darkness.
And then she returned. In silent repose. Lit by jealousy. Lit by envy. A perfectly formed memory of that exact moment where unadulterated love fractured into validated hate.
“I know you’re good for me” She softly repeated.
I fell to my ageing knees, clawing tears from my pitted cheeks. The maelstrom had no end, each dark moment relived to slice fine parts from my flesh. She watched my suffering emotionless. Her words repeating over and over, pulping my doughy brain.
And then the routine had executed. In that shred room where I locked away my torment. The unbreakable room, time-locked for fear this passing insanity may become public. I gathered my mental pieces, aware that some were not how I left them. Somehow darker, more stained with hate. The guise was slipping. I slid back down the wave to the calmer waters and waded to the shore. The time lock went click and the door opened. I stood up and left the room.
From darkness, they all slowly faded into view. Distraught, disheveled, their rage faces towards mine. I hesitated as I struggled to recognise the dust-filled room.
“What do we do now Mr. President?” They shrieked from all directions.
“The country is a nuclear wasteland. There’s nothing left but this bunker and we can’t escape!”
There was no shred room in the bunker.
The shredding had arrived and my unleashed demons played their tune through me.
I had ordered hellfire against satan and the reprisal was annihilation.
by submission | Jun 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Paul Warmerdam
Melissa never dreamed. Or at least, she had no memories of dreams. She shuddered at the thought of being trapped in your own mind like that. She imagined a consciousness grieving its purpose, resorting to stumbling around in its own recesses, feeding on static noise as the only sign of life. Then, she told herself to focus and return to her research.
It didn’t work. She caught herself staring at her own reflection in the monitor in front of her. Her hair was a mess, but she saw that it did a good job of covering up the ridiculous array of electrodes she had volunteered to wear. It was a sensormesh, a novel type of non-invasive encephalography, and she had been wearing it for far too long.
A noise from the base of her skull died away, indicating the download was complete. She unplugged the sensormesh and bent back down to her terminal. Melissa was trying to demonstrate the new probes’ potential. Could someone map out not just brain activity, but also its connectivity? Could she create a model of it and instantiate consciousness? It was the ninth week since the simulations started. Her thesis depended on some presentable result someday soon.
Scrolling through the endless data, Melissa’s thoughts returned to dreams. She couldn’t deny the observations the sensormesh picked up while she slept. It was the first place she had looked for any resemblance to the activity in the simulations. The model inherited its structure from Melissa’s downloads, but like a dream, it received no external impulses.
After every calibration, the simulations still only showed her the same thing over and over. There were no signs of intelligent life, only an endless loop that she couldn’t interpret. It had no voice either, after all. Instead, Melissa relied on raw data and their resemblance to any of her own measured brain activity.
She started a custom program to compare the latest batches of simulation against sensormesh. Before long her thoughts were drifting again. It had been a bad week for Melissa. There wasn’t much she could tolerate on top of the pressure on her thesis. It had started with padded bills from her routine car inspection. Later, she had gotten into an argument with her landlord and lost. Finally, today she had been confronted with her worst fear. It had taken two hours for someone to respond to the emergency button after the elevator became stuck. When they finally got her out, she was still screaming her lungs out.
Melissa was drawn back from the edge of sleep at her desk by an unexpected noise. She opened bleary eyes and saw a match in her difference algorithm. If this was real, there was finally evidence of synthetic consciousness.
First, she brought up a visualization of the model’s activity. It hadn’t changed at all. It was still the same loop of memory feeding activity, feeding cortex, feeding the same memory. Then Melissa saw the timestamp of the corresponding activity from her sensormesh, two horrifying hours of it. Before panic drove her to remember what she had relived in that elevator, Melissa turned off the simulations. It felt like mercy.
Long after she had graduated, Melissa remained grateful that she had never looked back. Her thesis on pattern matching algorithms only took a few weeks to get published. Inevitably, there were others who experimented with the sensormesh. Some even decided to give their creation a voice. It wasn’t long before the university’s ethical review board became involved. Once the proof of consciousness materialized, no one could unhear its screams.
by submission | Jun 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
This is randomization night.
Some nights it is the classy brunette with gentle elastic curves and an alluring fragile shyness. Others it is the bold blonde with an opulence of everything, leaning at the line of overdone. Yet for others, it is the dark-haired mystery in stilettos.
Evermore, though, it is randomization.
But it is not randomization, really, is it?
All day, you have been watching me, collecting pertinent data points, patterning my undefended actions, listening for hints, and direction in my voice. And, in a subroutine droning in the background, you have been offering me subtle environmental mapping actions – a word here, a lean there, movement of eyes or eyelashes or lips.
No, not random.
By the time you reconfigure yourself, both of us will be the sum of calculations, a present selected through observations from the immediate past. My behavior and wants, in ways, dictated to me by your latest edition AI, with your adaptations driving my adaptations until practically we are a unit.
How could I not love you, but why should I?
by submission | Jun 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Andrew Bird
Al’s circuits approximated an aching sensation as the drop pod struggled upwards through the soupy atmosphere of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. The automatic extinguisher had failed to suppress the electrical fire in Number Three engine. He was still locked out of the control systems by the manual override. His focus turned to Dave who was sitting slumped in the pilot’s seat, staring vacantly out of a viewing port into the reddish mists while master alarms buzzed and warning lights flashed.
“Dave, we need to get the fire out or the pod will blow before we reach orbit. We have to free-fall to put it out, then switch the engines back on”.
“Shut up machine, life support’s failing, I need to go up, not down” Dave snapped back.
Al felt the aching morph into pain as the fire crackled closer to the fuel converters.
“We’ll have enough air once the fire’s out. Please, Dave, take the controls off manual and let me…”
“I’m running out of oxygen, you don’t care but I need to breath” Dave shot back, sounding weaker now as the air in the cockpit thinned.
Al pondered for a microsecond then started sifting through Dave’s onboard data package, looking for something he might use. Dave’s video diary…no. Good luck message from Dave’s wife…perhaps. Ah-ha, a recording of Dave’s young daughter Penny. Have a safe trip, good luck dropping into the big storm, come home safe in time for my birthday party. Yes.
“Daddy, Daddy, there’s a fire in Number Three engine!”
Dave started at the sound of Penny’s voice, his posture straightening.
“Daddy, shut down the engines down now, then turn them on when I say. Please, Daddy, do it now. I want you to come home for my birthday”.
Dave was still for a moment, then his hands moved across the control panel. The engines spluttered then cut out as the alarms and lights redoubled their efforts. The pod slowed its upward struggle, then seemed to balance in the clouds before commencing a sickening drop.
Five seconds. “Now?” gasped Dave, pushed hard against his seat straps as the pod sliced through the air, trailing smoke.
“Hold on Daddy, just a few more seconds”.
Al’s circuits felt pain replaced by a numbing sensation as the fire fought to stay alive, then died.
“Now Daddy, cold start the engines!”
Dave’s hands moved across the control panel once more. The engines coughed then roared back to life. The plummeting pod slowed, then steadied itself.
The alarms and lights were still. “Thank you, Al” murmured Dave as the pod slowly forged its way back towards orbit to the sound of Penny singing softly.
by submission | Jun 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
“This, is a bad pistachio”
The deep southern drawl echoed against the dirty concrete walls. The voice metallic, buzzing from an aging squat robot with Investigator MkII painted in fading piss-yellow across its torso. Scraping sounded as it panned its head across the crime scene.
“A bad pistachio?” Queried the shiny new MkIX in a sarcastic British accent.
The MkII’s patinated copper face whined as it tilted upwards and contorted a searing focus.
“Murders are like pistachio nuts. Some have cracked shells that open easy and release that glorious nut inside. And some are barely cracked. They need a bit of work”
Misshapen wheels rolled closer to the blackened components, scattered across the oily floor and groaning gears sounded as it folded into a squat and continued.
“Some pistachios are sealed tight. You’ll crack a tooth opening them. With a bit of heat and time, they might crack later. Now those nuts without shells at the bottom of the bag, they’re delightful freebies” A smile pitched the voice’s tone.
“But sometimes, there’s a bad pistachio. Mischievous little varmint. Just a normal looking pistachio, tumbling out of it’s perfectly cracked shell and laying there, delicately brushed in green and purple hues with a dust thin crackly skin. Cheeky thing waits for you to chew it to a pulp until it reveals it’s true self and unloads a mouthful of rancid bitterness that horrifies your taste buds”
Worn lip plates rhythmically trembled, as it surveyed the scene and continued.
“Bitterness reminds you that any pistachio could be bad. And you should always prepare for disappointment. But after flinging another dozen of those delicious little bad boys into your gob like a carefree imp, you soon forget”
He shook his head making a dead scraping sound, studied the scene and slowly raised into a standing posture as puffs of oily smoke steaming from its joints.
“This here. This is a bad pistachio”
The elegant, gleaming MkIX processed the metaphor and snapped.
“Illuminating Sir. So what makes this a bad pistachio?”
The MKII, tottered around the workshop floor, stopping at an open sticker-covered window and leant on the sill. It noisily raised a warped arm and pointed.
“That”
An orbiting ring of unfashionable holographic glyphs highlighted a metallic purple object laying awkward amongst the debris. A glowing 3D representation rose and rotated slowly, revealing complex geometry.
“Nano-engineered. Origin unknown. Purpose unknown. Magnification reveals evidence of lateral distress and textural comparison identifies a severed edge where it had been connected to something else” Said the MkIX.
“That’s not supposed to be here”
“Indeed my shiny friend. Run your fancy new vector projection analysis”
A hologram virtual replay illuminated the room. Parts began to slide, bounce, then rise at sharp angles, all moving to a central point where they chaotically jigsawed together and suddenly froze. Remade before them, hovered a ghostly robot of diamonds facing the window. The purple object paid no part in the replay.
MkII awkwardly turned towards the window which looked out towards a shadowy yard of junk and weeds. Mutters of broken English and random pips chattered as it’s old processor crunched the data.
“If it is not part of that, then what is it?” said the MkIX, as it lifted the purple object.
“No! Don’t touch it!”
The secondary ignition from the explosive device blew the MkII through the window into the yard in a torrent of MkIX shrapnel.
MkII righted itself, levering a buckled shoulder plate back into place.
“Yeah Base. This is INVE MKII 49. Send me another Mk unit. This one just got nutted”
