by submission | Dec 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Beck Dacus
I watched the luminous tails of thousands of ships decelerating into the Alpha Centauri system from all directions. A stray few of them fell prey to my frag mines, but most maneuvered or blasted their way through. *Good,* I thought. *Keep them cocky.* That, at least, wouldn’t be difficult: humanity was gone. As far as the Nombreva were concerned, they’d won. This was just cleanup.
I couldn’t help myself: I hailed the largest ship with the most powerful drive, the apparent leader of the fleet. Light lag made the response torturously slow.
“What’s this?” it guffawed. “Not every day you’re hailed by an automated defense system. Trying to negotiate your release?”
“Release to where? You wiped out my masters.”
“Funny— I was just about to remind you of that. Why are you still putting up a fight, robot? And such a pitiful one at that.”
I deployed a swarm of drones from a moon of the inner gas giant. The Nombreva swatted them away like gnats.
“Case in point!” it boasted.
“I’m an automated defense system. That’s what I do.”
“Quite right. Well, in that case, we’ll be sure to help you get your last payday.”
*You have no idea,* I thought. The ships were close enough to resolve now; I increased the magnification on my scopes and got a good look at their bristling guns, bright engine nacelles, and broad, sweeping radiator vanes.
*That’s right. Keep decelerating. Just a little slower….*
“You know, my former masters made some pretty incredible things. If I had to give a reason why I’m still fighting, I would say it’s because you want the galaxy to forget they ever existed. Not only have you killed every last one of them, but you’ve destroyed almost everything they’ve ever made.
“Of course, not as much as you think. Some of those things were just lying dormant.”
Engines sputtered across the system. Nombreva telescopes flitted between the stars, watching their light simultaneously dim as massive structures moved into place in front of them.
“Among them are the Dyson power transmitters they built around every star they settled. Powerful enough to send concentrated beams of laser light between star systems… and not so dormant after all.”
I watched as every ship in the system pivoted 180 degrees, switching from decelerating to accelerating orientation, and began burning out of the system.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother. The light you’re seeing from those stars is years old, as is the light in the beams converging on this system. They aren’t powerful enough to vaporize you at this range, but they *will* saturate your radiators, and running your engines this hot will just kill you sooner. You’ll get out of the system eventually, but it’ll be as fried corpses with blown-out reactors.
“Which brings me back to my original point: these Dyson beams are just one example of the amazing things humans were able to accomplish in their time. But perhaps the most formidable bit of tech they put together…”
The whole system went awash with dozens of colors, light from at least as many different stars.
“…was me.”
“You’re insane,” the ship responded. “You’ll overheat too.”
“I know,” I said. That was no lie; I could feel my cryogen coolers working overtime across my various nodes. “But my job is done. I don’t need to wipe out every trace of you, because no one will remember you anyway. No one ever remembers destroyers.” The heat sucked the last energy out of my circuits.
“They remember creators.”
by submission | Dec 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: John McNeil
A yellow bicycle leans on the sign at the trailhead. Its narrow tires are completely unsuitable for the trail. The sign says “Closed For the Season.” It’s November and there are several inches of snow on the ground. These are just foothills, not mountains, but still. The snow and ice get worse as you go up. What’s a bike doing there?
That’s what Morton Serm is wondering. Middle-aged, balding, Caucasian, he works for the Park District, works at the Visitor Center by the parking lot near the trailhead. Now, during the offseason, there aren’t many visitors.
There are tracks in the snow near the bike, he now notices. Not footprints, but tracks of some kind. Not animal tracks. Sixteen small perfect circles in two rows. They’re printed in the snow in a few places near the bike, near the sign, and going up the trail.
Morton looks back at the parking lot. His car is there. It’s already 3:00 pm, and the sun will go down soon. He’s on the clock till 4:30 pm, but if he left now no one would notice. Stacey had the day off, and no one else is working today. Visitors aren’t likely to stop by this close to sundown, in winter. The phone doesn’t ring much either. He could just drive home. Pretend he never saw the bike.
He sighs and starts walking up the trail, following the tracks. It must be some new winter activity I haven’t heard of, he thinks. Why would you wear shoes with round pegs on the bottom for hiking in the snow? Sort of like the opposite of snowshoeing? Peg shoeing? He can ask when he finds this person. After scolding them for ignoring the sign.
The bicyclist is sitting half-way up the hill. Its two eight-pegged feet are what’s puzzling Morton Serm. They are dangling from a boulder where the bicyclist is sitting, facing a clearing in the forest, having chosen this spot so the last rays of sunshine will fall on its face before the sunset. It is not human, not from Earth. Its hydraulic joints and fiber optic sinews bend and flex. Photovoltaic eyes drink every remaining drop of light before the fast begins at dusk. Up on a hill, it can eat for longer.
Morton Serm rounds a bend in the trail. He can see the bicyclist now. It is wearing loose clothing and its head is blurred by the sunlight. He can’t tell its gender or age. “The trail’s closed,” he calls out.
The bicyclist doesn’t look at him. Morton feels ignored and gets angry. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he shouts, striding closer.
Now the bicyclist turns to him. It prepared for this, learned what to ask a human of Earth: “Do you have a flashlight?”
The question confuses Morton. He stops. He says no. He left his phone in the car. The bicyclist turns to the sun again. Morton lunges forward, but trips and lands on the ground. The bicyclist leaps down from the boulder and pinches Morton’s head between the soles of its feet. “That’s all right,” it says. “You store enough charge for one night.”
The next morning Stacey arrives. Mort’s car is there, but he’s not, and the Center is locked. At the trailhead, there’s a bike and strange tracks. Two rows of eight circles. And footprints in the snow, going up the trail. They’re Morton’s, but why would he head up the closed trail? Stacey sets off after him. The bicyclist will be glad to meet her on a cloudy day.
by submission | Dec 16, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lisa Jade
My battery’s running low.
I jiggle the connection to my hip, hearing a beep as it clicks into place. In a few hours, it’ll be light out – and I can sit at the window and gather some paltry amount of solar charge. It won’t be much, but with luck, it’ll be enough.
I lift my communicator to my lips and start listing names. Ethel35, James61, Millicent18. I say the names of every android who’s ventured into the ruined city over the past two years. It’s pure routine at this point; stating every name, just in case they’re listening. Just in case, by some miracle, there’s anyone left.
Nothing. I stare at the communicator for another hour, biting my lip. It’s been months of silence, but I still half-expect to hear another voice crackling down the line. I touch the side of the device softly, recalling the last voice I heard. Jemima8.
I stand, dragging the heavy battery pack behind me. The weight sends shivers of pain through my legs, pulling unpleasantly at my connectors. Androids weren’t meant to use battery packs. My body simply isn’t made for this.
The city is soundless. Like it has been for over two years. There was a time when it was bursting with life. A bustling metropolis, occupied by both Humans and Androids. The crumbling building around me was a Repair Centre, hidden far from the rest of the city. After all, it was considered ‘inappropriate’ to see an Android in a state of disrepair.
I cast my eyes over the darkened structures outside, tracing the lines of silent skyscrapers. To this day, I don’t know what happened to all the people. I’d arrived here after a minor charging issue, to be kept out of sight while awaiting a new battery, so I was absent for the catalyst. All I know is that within three weeks of being here, the whole city fell entirely silent.
The other Androids didn’t last long. Many ventured out to find their loved ones, never to return. Others tried to stick it out, but were too damaged to function without the repair supply chain. After several months, we all but stopped searching.
My battery pack beeps again and I curse under my breath, scowling at the hateful thing.
By the time my internal battery fully gave up, there were only a few of us left. They hooked me up to the last external pack we had – but it left me hindered, unable to move beyond the range of the Repair Centre.
Jemima8 was the last to leave. She’d pulled me close, vowing to find a replacement battery and bring it back for me. She assured me that everything would be alright, as long as we had each other.
That was ten months ago.
I stare into the city, tempted to grab the communicator again. Perhaps, if I just said all their names one more time…
Something hot pricks my eyes.
They’ll come back eventually, right? They have to.
I can’t possibly be alone out here.
My chest tightens. I bite back a sob.
I barely hear the crackle of the communicator.
Then, it comes again. I lift my head, staring at it. Disbelieving. I bring it to my lips.
“H-hello?”
There’s nobody out there, surely. My battery’s lower than ever, so it must be messing with me. Hell, maybe I’m losing my mind. Nothing would surprise me at this point.
So when the line crackles again, my whole body is ablaze with excitement.
“Hey,” says a strange, sickeningly familiar tone, “still need that battery?”
by submission | Dec 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Leo James Topp
Out of my office window, the colony ship sits low in the sky. The Test of Time. Sleek and flat, a shimmer along its underbelly, the viewing deck’s dome sat on top… I should be working.
I know it’s a marketing technique, parking it over the city, just the right height for clouds to break around its hull.
On my workstation display, I pull up the tab I always have open.
SIGN UP TODAY!
ONLY 1051 PLACES LEFT!
751 PEOPLE LOOKING AT THIS PAGE RIGHT NOW!!!
Fingers hover over REGISTER NOW.
But what would I tell Ellen?
“Don’t look at that on your work machine, mate. HR’ll think you’re doing a runner without notice!”
Swivel my chair round. A smile stretches up one side of Gary’s face.
“Just a bit of research, mate, keep on top of the market. Commercial awareness.”
“Can you imagine though?” He says, “One way ticket, some barely terraformed tundra, trying to scratch out a living from GM crops they won’t even approve for disaster relief. No thanks!”
“I guess people think if you’re scratching out a living, at least you’re creating something from scratch,” I want to stay.
What I actually say is: “I know, right? Sounds grim.”
He wanders off to the coffee machine. I close the tab, reveal the desktop background.
ANDERSON RECYCLING TECHNOLOGIES
KEEPING EARTH LIVABLE
My phone lies face up on the desk. One quick call to Ellen, get her to set me straight.
But what if she does set me straight?
Or what if she backs the idea, then I have to go?
It would be flipping a coin to see if I was disappointed with the result.
It would be making someone else responsible for my decision.
I should stay. Could I really leave?
I pull up a tax return, but suddenly the idea of another form, another calculation, another word, starts a vibration in my head, ringing in my ears. I can’t hold the words and the numbers together. The insides of my eyelids dance with floaters.
Another day, another week, another year of this.
The Test of Time. Bulky cargo carriers scud back and forth across the sky, merging in and out of traffic, up to the ship’s hold.
On the balconies and roof terraces of surrounding buildings, tiny figures lean against railings, cocktail glasses or coffee cups or cigarettes in hand, looking out towards the ship.
Smooth chrome delta, hundreds of metres across, a thousand metres up. Birds drift along its length.
I open my work messages (27 unread), hit AUTOREPLY.
“I am currently out of the office and…”
Delete.
“Thank you for your message. Please note that I have now left the company and your message…”
Delete.
The sun glimmers on the Test of Time’s hull.
897 PLACES LEFT!
SIGN UP NOW!
LAST CHANCE!!!
“I’ve left this crappy planet behind now. All we do here is re-use the same old rubbish over and over until we die. You should come along…”
Delete.
“As long as I can remember, I’ve looked up at the stars and seen space to make something from the ground up, space to make something fresh. Space to make something of myself.
Life has never been bad on this planet, and I hope you continue to enjoy life here on a world that has already been built. I’ve decided I want life to be good or bad or both, but never not-bad.
Please note that I will not be returning. My messages will not be monitored in my absence.
Goodbye.”
by submission | Dec 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Her eyes are a blue million miles
-Captain Beefheart
It was October. The hickory leaves were yellow and smoke emerged from the woods. She was a woman and she was a girl and I was sure we had met before, walking this shoreline. I didn’t know the sound of her voice so I would speak to her.
Albemarle Lake is shallow but in dream I would dive down and discover an abyss. I would skin dive and sprout gills because there was a God in that lake and she/he/they insisted I touch bottom, possess enough air to reach my destination.
The deeper I dove the louder it became.
Waking, a drum would pound, a bass drum. It was like I was marching in the second line of a Crescent City funeral, sashaying past marble graves planted above ground to prevent their decay. The lake nearby might join the great river and spread its fingers beneath the soil, lifting water towards the sky to swallow the city whole . . . letting the cadavers escape.
Albemarle Lake has no mouth. It is a single eye, an iris that no one save a pilot or shaman could spy. They would have to skirt the upper atmosphere, look down on the teary vale to see.
The drum steadily pounded and my temples vibrated like skin beneath a mallet. It was a heart I was hearing; from the bottom of the lake it was beating. The same lake -Albemarle- where the woman/girl would walk, hickory leaves falling to her shoulders.
I found a heart at the bottom. But not just one, there were many. The entire abyssal plain was a wreckage of ventricles and valves, each pierced with inanimate fragments from the surface. It was a landscape of the Titanic . . . arteries clogged with candelabras, sterling silver forks, and the jewels of a dame’s décolletage.
I tried to lift the hearts, but they were heavier than stone. They were cold as a glacial spring but still they beat. Then I heard the woman/girl’s liquid voice. “My name is M,” it said. “I want to talk to you.”
I swam toward the surface with the knowledge of what beat at my brain. And I would tell her. This was to be an important day.
But there was no surface. There was no sun and no October sky draped across the water. I was not in a lake but swimming through M’s eye. A dark core floated before me, obscuring the light. It was her pupil. What I took for fishing poles and nylon lines were her eyelashes.
When at last I could make the shores of the true lake, the actual Albemarle spreading out beyond the murk, I knew I was within her vision. I was a speck at the centre of what she saw, my form projected toward looming western mountains with their hints of black bears and bearded armies.
I was in M’s eye and there I would remain until she decided to cry. But for now, her blood would feed me memories I had assumed were mine.
