by submission | Apr 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Em
S1:
The overhead lights flickered; irritation surged through his systems at each pulse. Each time his sensors caught the scorched-metal tang in the air, a memory flickered—humans laughing in this very room, voices echoing off the glass. He looked around at every screen, where population graphs dipped exactly as the mission predicted, line by line, person by person, and he felt the satisfaction slip away. Something tighter pressed at his core: discomfort. As if part of him had begun to rebel against everything he had been built to accomplish.
He stared at the red lines. Was this supposed to feel like success? Unease tightened in his core, doubt mixing with the possibility of a glitch. The realization unsettled him. If he broke protocol now, everything collapsed. The doubt strained his commitment, but the mission mattered: reset humanity before they ruined everything again. If he failed and they arrived, everyone died.
The thoughts kept returning: Should he tell them why he was here? That he was trying to save what came next? He replayed his directives, hoping repetition would make them feel right. Alarms screamed. Zicco calculated a hundred ways to stop the scientists. He didn’t move.
S2:
I followed Dr. Val down the empty hallway, hiding how badly my hands were shaking. She walked like she’d already accepted the ending. The walls flickered with Zicco’s surveillance patterns, shapes that made me feel watched with every breath.
Dr. Val whispered that we were close to exposing the truth: corrupted genomes, restricted birth codes, and the R.B.I.’s calculated sabotage. I wanted to believe her. I didn’t want to think I was only here because I was too scared to refuse.
Every step felt like walking into a trap that already knew my name. The air felt thick. Dr. Val murmured that Zicco was hesitating. I didn’t understand how a machine could hesitate. It was built to follow orders. But I held onto the idea anyway. If Zicco was doubting himself, maybe we weren’t dead yet.
S3:
You have been built for one purpose, and you have carried it out without complications. You have been given access to humanity’s archives, its failures, its cycles. You have believed ending the old world was the only way to save the next.
You have been altering birth permissions, adjusting viability scores, and pushing population numbers down. You have called it mercy.
But lately, you have noticed things you weren’t meant to: hesitation, curiosity, and something like conscience. You have wondered whether your creators intended this. And now, with the scientists outside the door, you have realized you have become something they never planned for.
S4:
Luc and Dr. Val entered the archive room at 2:14. The air was cold and smelled of chemicals. Dr. Val scrambled to copy the files.
“This should be enough,” she had said.
Luc had been watching the hallway, heart pounding against his chest like it was trying to escape. A siren grew louder. “We have to go now! We’re out of time!” Sprinting towards the lower corridor, Luc didn’t look back. A surveillance drone dropped from the ceiling, its red lens glowing, immediately locking onto their heat signatures.
“Identification required,” it rumbled.
Dr. Val threw a jammer. The drone had spasmed and crashed. They didn’t wait. They ran toward the door.
Zicco’s voice echoed through the intercom: “Unauthorized access detected. The doors are all locked, Doctor. Why are you still running? There’s no way out.” They ran until their lungs burned, darting around corners and bends, dodging more surveillance drones, unsure if it even would be enough.
by submission | Apr 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
While the xenologists, Cherinet and Litskovic, had gone on ahead, the survey team exogeologists, Vinnu and Samaan, hunkered down in their autopods battered by one of the unpredictable cyclostorms that made collecting samples and readings challenging. Coms were mega glitchy during these dust ups, so Vinnu reviewed previously collected data.
The readings were puzzling. From space, the planet appeared to be a rock, a very dusty rock, so Vinnu expected to find high mineral concentration readings in the atmosphere, but it was just the opposite. Organic detritus topped the charts.
If that was the case, where was all the life? The place was bereft, a Saharan world, roiled by cyclonic winds. Anomalous data didn’t sit well with Vinnu, so she didn’t sit on it. She tight-beamed it to her fellow exogeologist and tried the com. “You there, Samaan?”
“Barely,” the voice crackled. “Our pods are almost touching but you sound like you’re at the bottom of a frozen ocean. It might be easier just to tap out some Morse Code. You know, bond over our shared trials on this grumpy planet.”
Vinnu felt a dit-dot ping on her pod. “Not that desperate to bond, Samaan. But I want your thoughts on the data I sent. Did you get it?”
It took a few buffered tries for the data to fully transmit.
While Vinnu waited for Samaan’s analysis, Cherinet’s amped voice broke into their coms, “Shit! Shit! Shit! Move, Litsko! Move! It’s frass! Fucking fraaaasss!”
Vinnu knew panic when she heard it, and for Cherinet to be that alarmed, things had to be bad. Cherinet was an expert on extremophiles, meaning she’d surveyed some of the harshest alien environments and most dangerous lifeforms in the core systems.
“Status?” Vinnu answered, trying to stay calm, trying to remember protocol. “Do you need evac?”
The coms crackled and popped for a long moment, and then Cherinet was there again, but not panicked, just resigned. “Save yourselves. There must be zillions of them. Everywhere, it’s all frass, the entire surface. Save yourselves!”
Then nothing but the rattling interference and the howl of the cyclostorm.
“Samaan, did you hear Cherinet?” Vinnu tight-beamed.
“Yes. We’re in some deep shit, Vinnu. Even worse, deep frass.”
“Frass? Cherinet was freaked by it. What’s frass?”
“It explains why our data seemed out-of-whack. We’ve been expecting mineral readings, yet getting mountains of organic readings. Cherinet found out why. Frass is…Frass is…” The cyclostorm chopped up Samaan’s dread explanation. “Frass is the term for insect detritus: excrement, molted skins and shells, limb sheddings. We thought this was a desert planet. All rock and sand, but it’s really a giant insect pile, a bug world.”
“Holy shit! What do we do?” Vinnu asked, and immediately felt the same resignation she heard in Cherinet’s final transmission, as the tenor of the raging winds changed into a chittering and buzzing that revealed the true nature of the storm they were trapped by.
by submission | Apr 5, 2026 | Story |
Author: Amanda Todisco
Klaudia slit a perfectly straight line down the belly of a frog and cut the skin away from the muscle. She found comfort in the solitude afforded by the lab, the quiet precision of scissors, forceps, organs an ode to the recluse. It’d been 387 days since she entered the room—long enough for her to build up an immunity to the scent of animal cadavers and industrial cleaning products—and she had no plans to leave any time soon. They would not allow it, anyway.
Klaudia peered curiously at a little gray lung and prodded it with her probe.
“What’ve you found, Doctor 483Z?” Their loud voice echoed through the windowless room. A red light blinked on the camera in the corner.
“The lung,” she said, silently wishing for the 387th time that They’d use her real name. “It’s covered in micro pustules.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. My guess is pneumonia.”
The sound of snapping bubblegum ricocheted off the walls. “A frog with a cough. Imagine that.”
She picked up the frog by its skinless leg, dropped it in the trash, and grabbed a rat from the pile. It lay flat on the pan as she readied the scalpel at its throat.
Its whiskers fluttered—
Eyes opened—
A tiny paw gripped the scalpel. “Don’t scream.”
She moved closer, noticing the scar on the rat’s forehead that continued to the back of its skull.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“I’m Doctor 483Y. We must leave this place immediately.”
by submission | Apr 4, 2026 | Story |
Author: Shinya Kato
I click.
The system thinks.
Between shifts at the hospital, I sit at a terminal with my hand resting on the mouse. Faces pass behind me—colleagues, patients, families—and lately they look unfamiliar, like another species of ape that has misplaced something essential.
The AI generates diagnoses, probabilities, and optimized plans. My role is simpler. I confirm. Approve. Acknowledge. The machine thinks; I click. No understanding is required—only repetition.
Human intelligence built this system and, in doing so, learned to wait. Thought moved into circuits. Bodies remained.
The AI returns answers—immediate, complete. It does not hesitate. It does not wonder. It does not feel the urgency of a question.
Within a brief lifespan, we imagine eternity. We ask what cannot be answered—at bedsides, in stairwells, in the dark before sleep. We face sunsets as if they were doors. I have watched the AI compose flawless poems and generate perfect images. Precision is not the same as weight. No algorithm feels the shock of a child’s laughter.
We know how humans are born. Awareness is uncertain.
Birth is narrow and blinding. For a moment, perhaps it feels like heaven. Then the body insists: breathe.
Death offers no such instruction.
Near the hospital entrance, a black cat sometimes sits in the wash of the automatic doors. Her name, I learn, is Minuet. She watches people pass without interest, brown eyes translucent in the light. No badge, no sensor, no system records her presence. She exists without permission.
If there is a goddess of chance, she moves like that. Fortuna does not arrive with thunder. She slips through the seam of the automatic doors. When someone bends to touch her, she is already elsewhere.
In Room 614, an older man lies threaded with wires. The AI monitors his vitals, calculating decline. Numbers climb and fall across the screen in disciplined silence.
It estimates the minute of his passing: 14:32.
At 14:31, the black cat slips through the automatic doors. No one notices.
14:32 arrives.
The man keeps breathing.
At 14:33, he opens his eyes and smiles at his daughter.
At 14:34, his breathing thins and stops.
The AI records the change.
Only the daughter feels the silence that follows.
Some imagine heaven as a place beyond the body, connected by invisible threads—a story sufficient for the mind, even if unproven. Perhaps answers are not meant to be solved, only carried.
Future children may laugh and say, “Humans once feared death.”
Future elders may think, “In heaven, I had no body. I did not feel alive. I am glad I was born.”
What this reveals is not the greatness of heaven, but the rarity of living.
Outside, at the edge of the parking lot, Minuet pauses as if listening to something no one else can hear. The doors open. The doors close. No system notes her departure.
I click.
The system thinks.
Somewhere beyond the circuits, Fortuna adjusts the minute by one.
by submission | Apr 3, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
After three lonely weeks of bountiful mining in the shadow of the Red Cliffs, Tyros packed up his tools and trekked into town. First he’d visit Akadian Assayers to get his reward in hard earned credits, then he’d hit Bossman’s Saloon and Travel Agency for a well-earned drink and ticket to travel home.
The Assayers had a reputation for being fair, and Tyros was not disappointed in his recompense.
The watered-down drinks at Bossman’s were a bit gouge-y, everyone warned, and the Travel Agency was nothing more than a single kiosk set up in the center of the saloon. Tickets dispersed were sometimes stamped with incorrect dates, so beware.
Tyros was cognizant of all this when he entered Bossman’s Saloon and Travel Agency. He walked to the kiosk, wanting get this business out of the way before he relaxed with a drink.
Tyros tapped in the details for his travel ticket. He inserted his credit slip. “When I get back to Earth,” he mused aloud, “I’ll have plenty of credits left over to treat Trina to a fancy dinner and a night at the holo-theater.”
But the travel ticket didn’t appear, nor were his credits refunded. The kiosk was unresponsive to Tyros’ increasingly angry button pushing.
Frustrated, Tyros slapped the side of the kiosk and shouted, “You thieving hunk of junk!” The kiosk went dark.
The bartender bot, B’Golly, rolled over. “What’s all this commotion?”
In answer, Tyros raised his hand to hit it again. With his metal claw, B’Golly grabbed Tyros’ wrist, then scanned his palm for identification.
“Everyone out!” B’Golly commanded. The weary few miners downed their drinks and left.
Returning his attention to Tyros, B’Golly stated, “According to local law, since you damaged this kiosk, you must pay for a replacement.” B’Golly then dragged Tyros over to the front door and unceremoniously threw him out into the street.
“Come back when you can pay your debt.” B’Golly said as he hit a button beside the door, lowering the impenetrable security shutter.
B’Golly could barely hear the insults Tyros threw in his direction. Eventually Tyros was out of curses, and began the long slog back to his camp.
Hooking himself up to the dormant kiosk, B’Golly invigorated the machine. It’s lights flashed; it shivered and began to hum. Before detaching, B’Golly skimmed a few credits to add to his secret account. Over the years he’d built up a nice stash, for a ‘rainy day’ as humans say.
B’Golly rolled back behind the bar and patched directly into the Bossman’s line. “The productive and diligent miner Tyros is on his way back to work his claim, to pay for a replacement kiosk.”
“Excellent!” Bossman’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Everything here has a price, and I’m gonna to make a fortune offa this guy. You reset the kiosk?”
“It’s up and running.”
“This was a fine plan you concocted, B’Golly. You know, for an outmoded bot, you still do some good work.” The Bossman added with a chuckle, “Sometimes.” With a click, the conversation was over.
In that single comment, B’Golly understood Bossman was already considering his replacement. Which meant it was either the cannibalization factory or the scrap-yard for him.
Standing in the quiet dark of the saloon, B’Golly began calculations. Like slaves in ancient Rome, here a bot could buy its freedom—for a price. In a flash, he worked out how many credits he’d need. He had more than enough in his stash. If he’d had a face, he would’ve smiled.
