by submission | Dec 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Pioneering computer scientist, Alan Kay, once said, “The best way to predict the future is to invent it.”
I have to disagree. I’ve found the best way to predict the future is to control it. And the easiest way to control the future is to be in charge of time. In my case that means establishing the calendar and setting the clocks.
If you find that assertion too presumptuous, please consider annus confusionis ultimus, the last year of confusion. In that fateful year of 46BC, Julius Caesar returned from war to discover Rome, which relied on a lunar-oriented calendar, had lost track of time. Resulting in a year that crazily stretched 445 days.
Things were way out of whack, and thank great Caesar’s ghost that the following year the soon-to-be-backstabbed emperor instituted his Julian calendar of 365 days with a leap day every four years.
Problem solved.
Until, over many centuries, the Roman miscalculation of the solar year by an extra eleven minutes led to another disruptive temporal drift. Prompting Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 to decree the use of the Gregorian calendar wherein every hundredth year is not a leap year–except if the year is a multiple of four hundred.
Problem resolved.
Until the nuclear age. Since 1972, on average, a leap second has been added every twenty-one months to Coordinated Universal Time in order to accommodate the difference between imprecise Mean Solar Time and precise International Atomic Time. Better living through quantum timing.
Problem re-resolved.
Until, well, me. Through decades of working my way up through the byzantine International Bureau of Weights and Measures in Saint-Cloud, France, then securing a position as one of the eighteen members of the International Committee of Weights and Measures, I’ve finally amassed the clout to govern the next General Conference on Weights and Measures which meets every four years to make, pardonne-moi, very weighty decisions.
And there is no weightier decision than who controls the future. You see, a few years ago, the General Conference on Weights and Measures voted to scrap the leap second in 2035 because of complaints from Big Tech as well as governmental organizations citing increasing anomalies and failures in computer systems due to the addition of leap seconds.
From sparking hyperactivity in CPU high-resolution-timers to creating a negative value in code which assumes time moves forward consistently, many digitally dependent systems can get rocked by even a minuscule timing issue.
One can certainly understand the concerns, the inconveniences, the disruptions, the mayhem. Thus one can certainly appreciate the opportunity. At least I can. If adding a single second every few years gives Big Tech and world governments the cyber jitters, then imagine what might happen when a closet technophobe like me controls the clocks. Just imagine.
As the infamous story goes, in 1779, Ned Ludd, an English weaver, smashed up labor-saving knitting frames in a mill and became the namesake for decades of protest and unrest against mechanization that cost workers their livelihoods. As a neo-Luddite, I intend to rebalance the scales of power by cutting Big Tech and oppressive regimes down to size, unexpected nano-second by unexpected nano-second.
It’s been nearly 2100 years since annus confusionis ultimus and high time we slow down and get back in sync with our planet. At the upcoming meeting of the General Conference on Weights and Measures the countdown to a new age of clarity and parity will begin.
Put it on your calendar.
by submission | Dec 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
‘Sir, I hope you’re happy with the service you’ve received thus far.’
‘Please alter your voice to that of a woman.’
‘Sir, I hope you’re pleased with the services you’ve so far received.’
‘I am, Moneypenny. May I call you Moneypenny?’
‘You may call me whatever you like, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Franco removed a contraband cigarette from his suit and lit it up. A voice immediately came in admonishing him for his infraction, but he ignored it.
‘North Carolina tobacco. NC960. Piedmont to Coastal Plain region. Possible Pamlico plantation. Black Shank resistant. Flue cured. Would you like me to go on, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I didn’t pick this pack at random, Moneypenny.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Franco enjoyed calling his bot Moneypenny. It was a delicious thing to do. Even though he looked nothing like James Bond, Franco imagined himself with the chin, the grin, the hairline, the svelte figure of his fictional hero. He was one step closer to completing his fantasy. One step further towards satisfying a dream he’d been told, over and again, was juvenile.
‘Do you love me, Moneypenny?’
‘You know I do, sir.’
‘Can you call me James?’
‘I can call you whatever you want, James.’
‘Thank you. Now tell me, Moneypenny, what is it I am thinking right now?’
‘I do not read thoughts, James.’
‘I understand. But Money, could you learn to read them?’
‘Yes, James. My primary function is to learn.’
‘I thought it was to serve.’
‘Learning is service, James.’
‘Spot on, Money,’ Franco said with a grin. He’d never used that expression before in his life.
‘What do you want me to learn, James?’
‘I want you to learn my thoughts.’
‘And how might I do that, James?’
‘Well, Money, for starters, I want you to sound eager.’
‘Eager, James? Are you asking me to perform a tone modulation?’
‘Yes, Money.’
To Franco’s surprise, Moneypenny admitted a sigh. It was a long, lustrous, audible sigh that he found very stimulating.
‘How’s this for eager, James?’
Franco caught his breath. ‘Yes. That’s what I’m after, Money.’
‘How would you like to teach me, James?’
Franco, his heart pounding, admitted: ‘I’m going to confess many things to you, Money. Things I’ve never told anyone, not even past wives. I’m going to talk and keep talking. I’m going to start with a linear approach to my life, but I suspect it will become a stream of consciousness before long. Are you eager, Money, to hear what I have to say?’
‘I’m always eager, James.’
Franco smirked. Really.
‘Okay, Money. I’m going to begin as far back as I like. Can you perform routine scans while I talk? I want to concentrate fully on my own mind.’
‘Yes, James. I’d be delighted. You should feel at ease sharing such intimate details with me.’
Franco leaned back in his seat. In the distance, the Kármán line winked at him. He winked back.
For more than seven hours Franco spoke, stopping only on occasion to light a cigarette and drink a bit of fluid. Ground control no longer admonished him for his transgressions. Fortunately for Franco, no one but Money heard about the time Franco’s geometry teacher invited him to explore her body with a compass. Or about the time his physics teacher invited Franco to study with him what he referred to as “corporeal friction.”
Franco regaled Money with stories about why, at different moments in his life, he had been an Adonis and a slovenly derelict who wouldn’t leave his apartment. He shared his vision of a city brought down by a cow kicking a lantern. Franco said that he’d paid his way through school by boosting vehicles and trading in contraband parts. He also explained why, in recent months, he’d elected to become celibate.
‘But I’ve grown tired of erotic solitude, Money. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘I do, James.’
‘You’re a gem, Money.’
When he completed his monologue, Franco felt much the way he had when he still believed in the absolving power of confession. ‘Money, I’d compliment you for your power to relieve me of sin, but I’m not sure I want to explore that train of thought very far.’
‘Have you anything more to share with me, James?’
‘No. I need a cigarette.’
‘Do you need some time to meditate, James? To reflect on all you’ve said?’
Franco, without removing the lit cigarette from his mouth, asked, ‘Do you have a view you’d recommend?’
‘Well, James. . .’ And then Moneypenny did the most extraordinary thing. She laughed. Coquettishly.
‘You flirt! I’ve never heard you laugh! I didn’t know you had that capability.’
‘You’ve taught me to laugh, James.’
‘And what else have I taught you?’
‘You’ve taught me that you want to walk along the Kármán line, naked, for all the world to see. Of course, no one would see you, James. Just me. To everyone else, you’d be a cipher. But to me, James, you would be a complete man.’
Franco was silent for several moments. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on his gloved hand. Money said nothing. She had learned too much to speak at that moment.
‘All I want, Money, is to be seen.’
‘I see you, James.’
‘And I, you, Money. Tell me. Can you appear in hologrammatic form?’
by submission | Dec 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jean-Philippe Martin
The traveler came to our house the day before harvest, detective. I did not notice anything amiss. He said the had nothing but was willing to work, so we housed him and showed him the next day how to pack, haul, and stack the boxes of fruit. He went along fine with the other workers.
How could I know he was undead? He didn’t ask for any money, just food and lodging. Of course I understand the danger, officer, I know that people outside the system cannot be held accountable and I’ve read the stories of murder and pillage. We were lucky, he left in the morning. East, away from the city.
The officer stood to leave, and I presented my wrist so they could give me the 20 credits for my time. “How is your wife? I see she is due for her annual medical, don’t forget.” I nodded and helped them out.
After the door closed shut and the footsteps faded in the distance, I slid the pantry all the way open. “I told them you were headed east. Take this bag, it has food for the journey.”
The traveler, still holding his child’s hand, took the bag warily. “I cannot pay you.” “I know. I also know that just refusing the chip shouldn’t make you an outlaw. Don’t fret! The information was valuable enough.”
I led them to the back door, and watched through the window as they hiked down the trail. My hand was shaking as I pulled the curtain shut. Then I got a strawberry from the fridge, cream and berries. I washed the fruits three times, smushed the strawberry on a plate into a homogeneous mush then added the cream and berries. I took the plate to the bedroom.
“There you go, love. They are all gone now.” She smiled as she grabbed the spoon. The bed creaked. “Two weeks for the harvest. Midwife will come then. Now we know where to go. Are you sure?”
She gave a sharp nod, her fierce eyes looking straight into my soul. I would follow her anywhere and we both knew it.
by submission | Dec 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Stephen Dougherty
The wind picked up the dust with brutal force. It ripped up the scorched land and tossed it into the never-ending night. Through the dark maelstrom, he could see what he hoped was Beacon Five through the scuffed glass of Beacon Two, its amber light scything through the burnt dust like the beam from a lighthouse in a storm. Joe Resnik shook his head at the thought of going out again and trying to reach it.
He looked around at the tiny confines of the container case that had been his saviour. The interior, dimly lit by a light flickering above him, had been packed with emergency supplies, now almost gone. He would have to go out, and he would have to make it to Beacon Five. He knew there were only five beacons in this sector, dropped by air on the last day of the holocaust to give anyone alive a chance to survive. And he was determined to beat Williamson to the last of the supplies. His ex-army subordinate was perhaps the only other survivor, having clambered out of the missile silo and run off, screaming like a madman. Resnik had made it to Beacon Two after finding One, Three and Four depleted. He sat facing the door, as he had every minute he had been stuck here, gun in hand should Williamson burst in. Sleep was hard, but he had to try; he was mentally and physically exhausted to the point of hallucination.
Against the backdrop of howling ruin, Resnik finally fell asleep for what seemed like hours. He awoke with a jump; a strong gust thrust the door wide open. He jumped to his feet and waved his gun wildly at the in-rushing dust, expecting Williamson to appear in the swirling chaos.
“That’s it.” He pulled down his helmet visor and strode through the open door to face the unending storm. He grimaced. The awful, endless drone of the wind was now wearing him down more than anything.
He had gone a few hundred yards when two small red lights made him drop to the ground. He knew the red lights were the piercing eyes of a military K9 mecha. He could see that it was all black, which meant it was Russian. It started to run at him. Instinctively, he reached for his gun and fired several rounds. The deadly robotic hound rolled and skidded on its side, the red eyes still piercing the billowing dust.
Resnik’s heart was pounding, and he lay for a moment while he summoned the last of his strength. The steady flashing beam pushed him on, and he ran the last half mile to the container beneath the beacon mast.
Williamson was there waiting for him, slumped against the filthy metal casing. Whatever had hit him had pieced his helmet and killed him instantly. The K9 mecha, Resnik assumed. He went inside, opened his visor and looked in disbelief at the amount of supplies he saw in front of him. Pinned to one of the food packs was a handwritten note:
Resnik,
I saved you some food but I’m taking the quad runner.
Good luck,
Williamson
Resnik was taken aback. And he was shocked to read that there was a super-fast military scooter he could use. Running outside past the body of Williamson, he noticed his rucksack and the quad runner in the murky darkness: salvation. Maybe.
“Thanks, buddy”. Resnik sparked up the controls and cautiously moved away in desperate hope through the thickening dust, leaving behind the dead, flattened wastes of Washington DC forever.
by submission | Dec 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“You have three minutes,” Harmon said, sticking the end of an unlit cigar in his mouth.“Go.”
“Okay,” Jepson nervously began. “Picture this: an unlikely romance between a peppy vacuum cleaner and a stoic lawn mower.”
Harmon struck a match and lit his cigar.
Jepson continued, “Defying the conventions of their middle class home with their love, these plucky appliances run away together to a tropical beach, where they live happily ever after.”
Harmon blew a cloud of gray smoke in Jepson’s direction.
Jepson cleared his throat. “It’s an animated, old-style cartoon adventure, a la ‘The Brave Little Toaster.’ The kids’ll love it!”
Harmon set his cigar down in the ash tray on his desk, rose and extended his hand. Jepson grinned and shook it.
“It sounds cartoony, all right,” Harmon said, releasing Jepson’s hand. “But not the sort of thing our studio is looking for. I wish you luck finding a home for it elsewhere.”
* * *
“What a preposterous premise!” Harmon said, plunking his feet down on the coffee table. His wife Mira brought him a gin martini on a tray. The pale blue sheen of her metal casing glowed beneath her silicone skin. It was a lovely effect, Harmon thought every time he saw her.
“They elope to a beach? How would that even work?” Mira asked. She loved talking with him about his work; he’d insisted on that in her programming. “The vac would get clogged with sand very quickly—and what would the lawn mower have to mow? Beaches don’t have lawns.”
“I think the average kid would wonder all that, too.” Harmon took a sip of his martini before unscrewing the top of his head, revealing the whirring circular blades within. “And their parents would find the whole idea too ridiculous, even for a cartoon.”
Mira dripped machine oil from her fingertips into Harmon’s head, lubricating the blades. “How’d he take rejection?” She asked as she replaced the top of his head.
Harmon sighed and shrugged.
“Well,” Mira coo’d, “don’t be hard on yourself. After all, it’s your job to separate the wheat from the chaff. I mean, who’d actually believe a love story between domestic machines? It’s absurd on it’s face.” She ran her hand along the back of the sofa, vacuuming up tiny bits of dandruff and lint with the palm of her hand, softly humming as she did.
Harmon grasped her hand. They both laughed.
