by submission | Jul 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Moebius
Twins focused better together.
Navigating the universe in a faster than light vessel required a higher level of brain power than a single person could manage individually. In the late 23rd century, Dr. Sabine Korgev created a revolutionary device that stabilized synergetic neural connections. Countless studies backed up the science and decades in space were a testament to the technology. Embedded synth-sents managed most of the data processing, but critical analysis, and then selecting the final plots were best managed by people.
Still, it wasn’t enough to prepare for the unexpected. Damage control systems had sealed off sections torn up by the rogue meteor shower and stabilized life support on what was left of the SEV Copernicus. Engines were at forty percent and improving. Slowly. Thanks to the small army of repair drones. Six total casualties, four confirmed fatalities, from a crew of only ten.
Bahati was one of those wounded when a shower of fragments ripped through the galley. She gingerly lowered herself into the pod beside her twin. Her breathing was slow and shallow, but she smiled reassuringly at her sister. Amani masked concern with procedure and initiated the dive into the navigational construct that allowed the twins to perceive their location in five dimensional space.
Perception in the construct was like having a double-sided mirror along the line of your nose, swinging from left to right, while constantly swirling about in a thick viscous oil of complex data points. Fragmentary and confusing. This is why it requires a second, merged consciousness as validation for self-perception. The synthetic sentient engine of the ship distilled the critical data and created navigational links which the twins investigated.
“So, ladies, where are we?” A third consciousness entered the nav-con. It was the first officer, Krit. Geoff was in stasis down in the medical bay. He was now technically captain of the Copernicus. Krit was off shift and in his berth when the meteor shower knocked them off course.
“We’ve identified Aldebaran, Matar, and Zibal. Confirming distances now,” replied Amani. “We need at least two more stars to get an accurate URH.” She didn’t really need to vocalize her responses since all three of them were tapped in to the nav-con. Her sister confirmed a fourth star and plugged it into the data set.
“How long before we can get a plot back on course?”
“At least another hour, Krit,” Amani said. Her sister disagreed and argued that only ten minutes more was all they needed. She could not see the course projections without the fifth point for the URH location. Bahati showed her the first pass of a thousand navigation threads and then plotted in the final point. “Thank you, sister.”
Perhaps it was the urgency brought on by tragic circumstance, but the link with Bahati was more intense and even more coordinated than usual. They were analyzing complex data threads almost as fast as the synth-sents could generate them. Amani smiled and felt the warm glowing presence of her sister grow inside her own consciousness.
“We have a solution.” Bahati prompted her sister to add, “Captain”. Amani felt a realization that Geoff was no longer with them.
“Thank you, Amani.” Krit replied slowly. “I don’t know how you can manage, but I will leave you to it.” His presence disengaged from the navigation construct. He helped another crew member remove the lifeless body of her twin from the adjacent pod.
by submission | Jul 10, 2019 | Story |
Author: JT Velikovsky
They say, (well, Science says) the human brain is wired to love natural rural scenes.
So, call me an old-fashioned Utopian, but… these days, I always have my brain-computer interface re-design, re-sculpt, and re-paint, my realtime-vision of the city I live in.
Augmented Reality. It overlays perfectly-rendered three-dimensional graphics onto objects in the visible world. I can’t tell, they’re not the real thing. So–instead of concrete skyscrapers towering above me–I always see: giant redwoods. I mean truly gargantuan ones… Draped in lush green vines.
And instead of endless columns of cars clogging up the swarming city streets, I see miles of mammoths, migrating in millions as they trudge along a well-trod earthen track… (Sometimes, just for some variety, it `swaps’ vision of the mammoths out for giant ants, or other enormous prehistoric insects… I can watch those for hours… Sunlight glistening in rainbows on their shells as they amble along.)
And–the bustling city human crowds–for me–are all dressed in `caveman’ bear-skins, rather than their business suits… Their briefcases become old wooden clubs; their cell-phones are sea-shells. People no longer talk on a phone, but instead just listen to the sound of the ocean inside the shell… No-one texts a message, but instead I just see them tracing out a swirled shell-pattern, with their fingers. I like it that way.
The sounds I hear are all synthesized, too… No more inner-city engine-roars, screeching tires, car alarms, police-sirens… Just: serene animal sounds… The rumble and screech of the Jurassic jungle.
But–mostly, the soothing silence…? The whisper of the breeze in the tall trees. And that pungent smell of the ancient forest: fecund fresh earth, and moist fungi–instead of all those car-exhausts, rotting city rubbish, septic sewer-ooze.
A really funny thing… I really don’t miss all that Euclidean city geometry–and all of those strange, straight parallel-lines of brutalist buildings and byways… The square swathes of all those cement sidewalks.
All gone, for me!
I much prefer this new, ancient natural rural world… I feel at home.
They tell me that all the Dystopians instead have their realities `painted over’ with: bombed-out buildings, scorched landscapes. Mutant zombie critters roaming the ruins, instead of the people… (It’s not my thing…)
My own brain-interface even makes my sense of taste match that of the ancient past… So everything I eat tastes and smells like raw meat. But I do miss the ice-cream… And, burnt bacon.
I could ask my digital interface just to rewire my brain, so that I was equally-pleasured by the sights, sounds and smells of the actual city, as it is now… As, we had made it. All: parallel and perpendicular.
But–billions of years of biological evolution baked into a bipedal brain are not so easily undone.
And can we ever really believe all that we see, hear, taste, smell, and touch? Last count, we had eight senses, not just five. Some studies even suggest–with our technology upgrades–we have twenty-two senses(!)
You can alter the observer, or the observed. The perceiver, or the perceived. Or both.
I like to think that both me, and my environment, are: co-evolving. An emergent synthesis.
So, call me an old-fashioned Utopian…?
I’ll hear it.
Decoded as primeval guttural grunts, as we stroll in the ancient cities of tomorrow.
by submission | Jul 7, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The flag of the Kingdom of Florida features a white ibis, and supporters of beleaguered King Rollo consider it patriotic to pin ibis feathers to their caps. After the recent troubles with Atlanta, it even looked disloyal not to.
Sept collected ibis feathers to sell in Titusville, though he made a better living if he shot ibis and plucked them bare. Of course, poaching royal birds was a hanging crime, but who would suspect a raggedy youth without a fowling piece, and carrying only a shortbow? Still, best to keep moving.
Trudging north round the Cape, with its rusting towers and shallow mosquito lagoons, Sept was musing why folk in older times ever built here, when he saw a shadow ripple along the dunes. For an instant, with the sunlight on its wings, it seemed like some great bird, until the thing flashed overhead, buffeting him wildly. No bird this. With a yelp of excitement, he set off in pursuit.
He glimpsed it perched on an open stretch of concrete, and arrived breathless just as the man was climbing down.
Even stooped as he was, the fellow stood a head taller than anyone Sept knew, and gleaming droplets hung from his thin frame at wrist and ankle; more shiny teardrops swung from his ears. He dripped like a bather rising from quicksilver.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the man called out. “I mean you no harm.”
“I ain’t alarmed,” countered Sept. This close he could put an arrow in the fellow’s eye.
“Good. But keep your distance.”
“Jus’ look at that thing!”
“What is the name of this place?”
Sept made a face at such ignorance. “Canaveral.”
“A legendary name. Those were gantries once, and launch pads.”
Sept hesitated, not wanting to sound foolish. “There’s stories about here. You one of them flying fellows come back to visit?”
“I had hoped not to be seen. Keep your distance I say.”
“Jus’ making sure it’s real,” said Sept, caressing a wing.
“After so long we might be susceptible to your diseases.”
“Feels like glass.”
“Good guess,” the man said, offhand, as he gazed about him.
“Where you from?” ventured Sept.
“A c-ship.”
“A sea ship? But…”
“Just passing. I will never see you again, nor your grandchildren.”
“Grandkids!” mocked Sept. “How old you think I am?”
The fellow shook his head, jingling like a wind chime. “There is something about ancient places.”
Sept pictured himself telling this tale, and knew some of the fellow’s trinkets would be convincing.
“Here is where it all began. Then you abandoned it. Do you know why?”
He was not from round here, Sept said, edging closer.
“You went your way and we ours. Are you happy with your choice?”
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
The man shrugged, tinkling. “So fragile, the past.” He sounded disappointed.
Sept sized him up. He’d seen unlikely fellows before who proved quick with a hidden blade. And his craft did have something of the hawk about it; the way it kind of bristled when you got close; a feeling that it watched.
“No, they were right,” the man said. “Going back’s a mistake.”
The moment to act passed, and Sept watched as the thing dwindled into the sky with a sound like wind in an organ pipe. Turning away, he caught a glint on the concrete. A silver droplet.
Generations of their wearers had gone through fierce selection in high radiation environments, retroviruses boiling from their DNA. Two days later, in a crowded Titusville tavern, Sept collapsed, crying that his eyes must burst.
The start of what survivors called the Weeping Plague.
by submission | Jul 6, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
I wait outside the garage for one of the missionaries from Uklid. I have to admit life is better for most people since they arrived.
The Uklidins began with small enhancements like portable force field emitters they pass out like candy. Concerned about plastic bags clotting the oceans? Key the right code into your emitter and carry groceries in a force field. No umbrella on a rainy day? Pop in a code and out pops an umbrella, colored red with the built-in laser to brighten the gloom. Speaking of rain, the Uklidins promise we’ll be able to control the weather when their algorithms say we’re ready for such power.
The Uklidins also are advancing our medical capabilities, albeit far too slowly. To prevent overpopulation, their human longevity program is formulaically synced with space colonization knowhow they’re spoon-feeding us. By the time humans are living for hundreds of years, children will be playing throughout the solar system.
A female Uklidin appears in my driveway. They look like us except they’re all drop-dead gorgeous and about a foot taller than the average human. “I’m Hypatia,” she says. “You must be Albert. I understand you’re having trouble with your garage?”
I was so upset one day, I backed into the garage door. The Uklidins replaced it with a force field, matched perfectly, of course, to the color of our house. There are some things in the garage my wife and I have decided to part with, but I can’t steady my hand to turn off the force field. Not wanting to go into all of that with Hypatia, I tell her there’s a malfunction.
Hypatia steps to the emitter mounted by the door. In a moment the garage entrance force field vanishes, bringing the tricycle into view. She looks down at me and frowns. “Seems to be working.” Then she smiles. “Have you heard The Truth today, Albert?”
She’s helped me, now comes the sermon.
“I’ve got something to do. If you’ll —”
“I understand some earthlings believe God is an old person in a white robe.”
“I’m not so religious. If you’ll excuse me—“
Hypatia raises her arms to the sky. “Where do you believe it all came from?”
OK, there’s no escaping this. “The Big Bang, I suppose.”
“Before the Big Bang?”
“I’ve read about colliding branes.”
Hypatia shakes her head. “Before branes.”
My turn to shake my head.
Hypatia sighs. “Mathematics, Albert. Mathematics have no beginning or end. You and I are but songs from the stars, and stars are the music of mathematics.” A look of rapture captures her face. “The entire multiverse is a symphony, Albert, with mathematics the composer and conductor.” She begins shaking in ecstasy, her eyes rolling back.
When I reach to steady her, she grabs my wrists. Her touch burns, and wisps of smoke rise between her fingers.
“Do you believe, Albert?”
I want to tell her the truth, but when you feel like you’re about to burst into flames … “I believe,” I shout. “I believe.”
Hypatia loosens her grip. “That’s enough for today.” She touches a button on her collar and disappears.
I take a few deep breaths, roll my sleeves to hide the scorch marks on my shirt and load the pickup with the boxes of toys we’re donating. I pause at the trike, then steel myself, cut off the price tag and put the three-wheeler with the boxes.
I don’t know if God is a being in robes, an infinite page of calculations, or anything else. All I know is some songs are cut far too short.
by submission | Jul 5, 2019 | Story |
Author: Shon-Lueiss Harris
“Most patients don’t notice a thing until they head to the bathroom,” explained the doctor as he smoothed the sensors along his patient’s forehead. “How’s everything feel?”
Gene turned his head and began making expressions. “Everything’s great. I barely feel them.” His eyes flicked to the mirror hanging on the wall. The range of animated looks reduced into a singular image of disgust. “When will this kick in? I’m tired of seeing… that.”
“The system is already active. Your avatar will appear to anyone using a visual assistant. There’s a transitional period for you, though.” The doctor removed his gloves and grabbed a tablet off the table. “Think of it like warming up. It helps avoid the jarring effects of seeing another man looking back in the mirror.”
“Hence the bathroom.” Gene nodded, observing the synthetic flesh stretched and stitched around his prosthetic limbs. “What will others feel if we touch?”
The doctor smirked. “You’re hooked into the network. As long as there’s internet access any physical contact should reflect your avatar. Even, uh, vigorous contact.” The doctor cleared his throat. “If you catch my drift.”
“I think so. Thank you.” Gene glanced at the door. “Is there a recovery time or…”
“Discharge papers are in your email with additional information about the system. We’ll schedule a follow-up to see how it’s going, otherwise, you’re all set. Enjoy the new you.”
The new you. Those words repeated in Gene’s mind until he trembled with excitement. He decided to head for the waterfront. Lined with trendy bars and exclusive restaurants, all filled with the kinds of people too beautiful or too rich to drink beside someone held together with stitches and staples. Just parking in front of the bar made his heart beat faster.
He pulled the rear view mirror down and found two piercing eyes looking back. A man almost ageless with smooth skin spared from any blemish, scar or worry line. A man more perfect than Gene was or had ever been.
The bouncer stood with his arms crossed by the door. Gene’s heart skipped a beat as he caught the man’s attention. At once the bouncer’s eyes opened wide and he propped the door with one burly arm, even going so far as to bow his head.
“Welcome back, sir.”
Inside was all neon lights and fog machines. Gene passed the bar without paying it or the men and women fixated on him any mind. Walking along the edges of the dance floor, he took stock of the space. By the time he arrived at the backrooms, he had a list of changes in mind.
A man stood beside the door to the back office. His mouth fell open. “Sir, I didn’t realize you left.”
“That was the idea.” Gene shrugged and gripped the door handle. “I need some privacy. Don’t let anyone disturb me.”
Gene disappeared into the back before the guard could respond. Shutting the door quickly, he took care to fasten each lock.
“The fuck you think you’re doing?” challenged the manager, Henrick.
“It took me years to decorate this office,” Gene admitted, walking up to the desk. “I wanted people to feel at ease in here. You went another way.”
Henrick narrowed his eyes then gasped. His hand shot to the desk, just barely opening the drawer before Gene caught him by the wrist. They stood face-to-face in the dim light. It was like looking into a mirror.
“You took my life.” Gene bent the wrist back and grabbed Henrick by the neck. “It’s my turn to take yours.”
