by submission | Nov 8, 2019 | Story |
Author: Lance J. Mushung
The man standing in my doorway was me wearing different clothes.
He smiled and extended his right hand. “Hello, Brad.”
After a couple of seconds, he grabbed my hand and pumped it. “You should close your dropped jaw and invite me in.”
He released my hand and I stepped out of his way. He walked past me into my family room.
I closed the door, and my mouth, and followed him to the stone-colored sectional sofa. After we sat down, I did nothing but stare. His bald head, olive tone skin, hazel eyes, and other distinguishing features all matched mine. He even had the small scar under his left eye from my skin cancer surgery.
He broke the awkward silence. “You want to know why I look like you.”
I almost laughed. “That’s a safe bet. Is this a prank for some sort of hidden-camera TV show?”
“No. I am not native to Earth.”
“Yeah, right!”
“I understand your skepticism, but it is true. Can you guess why I appear to be your doppelganger?”
“Why should I?”
“I will explain later if you try.”
I shrugged. “All right, I’ll play along for a bit. Are you a shape-shifter or some sort of holographic creation?”
“No.”
“Are you a robot made to look like me, or my clone grown by your people?”
“No.”
“Are you using telepathy to just make me think I’m seeing myself, or maybe you’re me from an alternate reality?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I’m running out of ideas here.”
“Are you going to suggest time travel?”
“Time travel is crap. As a matter of fact, this is all complete crap. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” I stood up and pointed to the door. “Start talking or get out.”
He got up and grasped my hand. “You should go to the garage with me.”
He let go of me and walked toward the garage, and I realized I was following him. Why had I accepted his suggestions twice?
Once in the garage, he stopped at the front of my Mustang and lifted the front end with one hand the way I’d pick up a box of cereal.
He said, “I am a nonorganic being modified to look like you for the moment.”
“So, you are a robot.”
His eyes narrowed almost too little to notice. “I am a nonorganic being.”
I’d struck a nerve, so I put up my open palms. “Sorry, I meant no insult. I’d really like to know what’s going on.”
“My people have come to test 8,192 humans to assess your potential as a species. You are part of the random sample.”
“When does the test start?”
“It is done.” He put down my car. “It is time for me to go. Thank you for your time.”
The garage door opener began pulling the door up.
He shook my hand. “You should remain in the garage.”
He walked away and the garage door began closing the second he stepped onto the driveway. I wanted to follow him, but my legs wouldn’t move.
“Wait,” I shouted. “Why are you testing our potential? What happens after the testing? What was the test? How did I do?”
He smiled and waved. The door hid him from sight seconds later. All I could do is wonder if anyone would believe the story, if I told it.
by submission | Nov 7, 2019 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I saw the black limo outside our cottage. I knew why the angel of death was here. It was for my partner Andrew. He hasn’t looked well for over a week. What’s more, he’s been grumpy- as grumpy as his actual age of 337, rather than the 42 he presents here in the Home.
The Home. Once they were actual, physical, warehouses for the aged and infirmed, the Alzheimer’s, and the ones forgotten by their relatives. Thank the stars those are no longer issues for us but even so, humans still eventually wear out. In this case, our neural paths degrade after a time so not even our perfect VR simulation will work anymore. I’m sure one day science will figure out a way to keep us alive indefinitely through VR, and then the debate will be “who wants to live forever?” I think at age 204, the age I came to the home, plus the additional 136 years I’ve lived here, I could go anytime without making a fuss. 16 careers, four spouses, 232 descendants (can’t keep track of all the grandkids, but love ‘em all and they visit.) I think when my time comes, I’ll be ready.
I turned up the walk of our Block Island simulation cottage. On my wrist set, I dialed “showered” and chose “gray suit, business formal.” Andrew was so stuffy. He was always overdressed and insisted that I was perpetually underdressed. I got a little misty. I knew this day would arrive I just thought we’d have a little more time- but then, isn’t that what we all say in the real world as well?
I met the Angel of Death at our door. Dressed in a black rifle rock coat and bolo tie, he was young- looked to be in his twenties. Only his eyes gave away his real age- while they were clear and bright, there was a depth that told me this was no twenty-something.
“Mr. Philip Sinclair?”
“Yes, I’m him.” Before he could speak, I cut him off, “Does Andrew know?”
Death, or rather, the death notification avatar from the Home nodded. “He’s been made aware.”
“How’s he taking it?”
“About as well as can be well as can be expected.” Death opened the door for me. I sighed and walked in. The French doors in our vestibule were shut and when I opened them our cute little cape was transformed into what can only be described as a wedding venue- lots of white, strings of lights, champagne, hors d’oeuvres and all my relatives- oh. This is not Andrew’s time. It’s mine.
I turned to Death. “Not Andrew. Me.”
There was a look of shock and then sadness. “I’m sorry sir. I thought you understood. Death only meets with the decedent. It’s made very clear in the brochure.”
I nodded. “May I ask what’s happened?”
Death nodded. “Neural cascade failure. Our techs figure out we can loop you for no more than 30, possibly 40 minutes.”
I nodded. “Well, let’s do this shall we?” I winked at Death and he smiled. Andrew took my hand. I kissed him on the cheek and dried his tears.
Death walking ahead of us, our relatives all around us, we reached a set of doors and stopped.
“This is as far as we can go.” Death said solemnly.
Andrew was weeping. It broke my heart. He hated it when he lost control like this. I kissed him again.
Death opened the door. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, then stepped through the door into a blinding white light.
by submission | Nov 6, 2019 | Story |
Author: Thomas Fitzgerald McCarthy
— An excerpt taken from Pioteer Gigan Trilorgh’s Anthropology on Extinct Pathologies
Two Anecdotes On the Fragility of the Human Mind
In the 24th century, a human biotech engineer designated Angeline Mateo was heralded by the Earth press as the new saint of protection. After years of research, she’d finally solved the Static Bubble Equation and created the first interstellar shield that protected against rogue particles of dark matter. Fatalities from collisions during interstellar journeys dropped by ninety-four percent. All remaining accidents were classified as technical failures or intentional sabotage. No casualties. Human entities from her home territory of New Zealand created holographic representations of her in their windows to serve as charms of protection.
On the cycle marking her fifty-eighth solar rotation, when a monetary payment failed to process during a planet-wide plasma storm that obstructed the banking networks, subject Mateo’s previous polar-gendered mate confronted her at her work quarters at Biotech Laboratories, accusing her of deliberately withholding compensation from him. When she turned away to call for security, he struck her in the back of her skull with a figurine composed of quartz and bronze metals. Her biological functions ceased immediately and she was dissolved.
Despite all of her technological achievements, the human body remained as it was five-hundred thousand solar cycles earlier — nothing more than soft, vulnerable tissue encumbering a consciousness that could connect star systems.
Ninety solar rotations before Mateo’s termination, one of her biological predecessors, twice removed from direct biogenesis, was killed in transit to Alpha Centauri in an incident which inspired her life’s research. A stagnant asteroid, trapped for centuries in a mini nebula by the twin stars’ gravitational pull, was abruptly thrust out into space by a massive solar flare. It collided headlong with the Artomis, the flagship of the human race’s luxury cruise fleet. Mateo’s ancestor was eliminated almost instantly, along with nearly a thousand others.
A rear admiral named Gesius Magellan, a biological relation to one of the dematerialized humans, commandeered a military warship and pursued the rogue asteroid. This decision was made in full knowledge that the asteroid was headed out of the system, into extrasolar darkness. Before it could be intercepted, it passed into a subspace slipstream and accelerated beyond his reach. Magellan took his ship into the slipstream and across the quadrant—a journey spanning more than seven thousand light-years and eighteen solar rotations.
During this trek, Magellan’s ship experienced numerous problems that quickly turned fatal. Seven human crew members and two semi-conscious androids perished during an attack by a hostile race of anthropoids from the Caleos System. Nine more were killed when one of the engines imploded due to structural fatigue. Three more terminated their own biological functions due to psychological degradation resulting from their longterm isolation.
At the end of his journey, Admiral Magellan finally reached the asteroid when it encountered a pocket of interstellar gases that slowed its inertia. Despite threats of mutiny from his remaining officers for depleting the ship’s energy reserves, Magellan destroyed the asteroid and deployed a message buoy to alert Earth’s central command that his mission was complete.
Never having returned to port, with no further communications, the ship was assumed lost by historians.
Human languages are quite complex in their subtleties. A recurring issue in my research is the differences between the brain and the mind. In my research, I have found that one represents the physical, and the other, the metaphysical. Yet, both are extraordinarily vulnerable in their condition, and with it, the human condition itself, capable of magnificent feats and inexplicable obsessions.
by submission | Nov 3, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Updike
A shadow slid along the crowded sidewalk, and we instinctively stepped aside and opened a path for it to pass. Looking up, we saw that it was a Mini, the kind they dispatched for someone who wasn’t going to mount much of a fight. A sleek, white wafer the size and shape of a manta ray, it cut its way through the rush-hour crush of bodies until there was just one man standing alone, back pressed against the side of a building, clutching a black briefcase to his chest. The drone zoomed in and hovered above his head. The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but then the beam hit him squarely between the eyes and he fell face down on the pavement. The drone lingered, monitoring his vitals to make sure its task was complete. Satisfied, it swooped down, extended a slim metal arm, and picked up the briefcase in its pincers, then rose straight into the sky and was gone. Scavenger bots would be along soon enough to pick the body clean of organs, prosthetics, and other recyclables. No need to multiply the tragedy through senseless waste. And was it a tragedy, really? Who knew what that guy was up to? Maybe he had a bomb in the briefcase. Perhaps the Laserdrone had just saved all our lives. Though if he’d had a bomb, wouldn’t he have. . . . Ah well, no sense in speculating. Whatever the situation, it was resolved. Scattered applause broke out among the bystanders, and then we all resumed our different trajectories, feeling a new sense of urgency about getting where we were going.
by submission | Nov 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
The wail of sirens grew louder as I ran towards the control room. We had drilled for this at least a hundred times in the past year, and I had hoped this was yet another drill. The image on the Heads-Up Display said otherwise.
‘Comet inbound for Artemis One’ were the large green words on the screen. Marty was already there, typing in the activation code for the Gravitational Wave Amplifier.
“Help me turn on the graviton supply,” he shouted over the noise. I scrambled over to the controls and started flipping the switches. As I began keying in the access codes, I heard Marty say the first cuss word I have ever heard him say.
“This is bad. Today’s Harmony Day.”
I felt my heart and mind mash together in a panicked frenzy. Harmony Day was the day the two flagship space cities, Artemis One of the Earth Empire, and Galaxis Suprema of the Kuiper Federation, came in close proximity to celebrate the end of the Fifty Year War. Citizens from both cities would visit each other and partake in joint festivities. This also meant that activating the Amplifier would push the comet towards Galaxis Suprema. Even with today’s technology, we do not have fine control over the amplification process.
Marty and I looked at each other in joined paralysis, scared of our next move. The implications were pretty clear. If we did nothing, we would be sacrificing our Empire’s flagship city, along with a large part of the Ministry of Space Colonization and bureaucrats visiting from the home planet. On the other hand, pushing the comet towards the Federation’s city would not sit well in this fragile peace. It was certain to start another war.
“We have less than a minute to act, no time to ask for orders,” I did my best to steady my voice. “I say we sacrifice Artemis One. We will lose our jobs, there’ll be some political vacuum, but at least there’ll be no war.”
Marty’s look was one of disbelief and hardly suppressed irritation.
“We would lose more than just our jobs! The Emperor would have our heads! Besides, a comet like this wouldn’t just appear out of nowhere. This has to be an attack by factions in the Federation unhappy with the peace. It’ll be war either way.”
The decision should have been clear from that statement alone, but none of us wanted to go down in history as the one who pushed the button. Even if we absolved ourselves of murder, the Federation would not spin it that way. I imagined nasty books written about us, parents telling children horror stories about monsters in our likeness, our tombstones desecrated with unflattering graffiti, our kids living in a shadow of hate.
“Hey, Tim the maintenance guy doesn’t have kids, right?”
I looked at Marty with confusion before realizing what he was intending. I saw him take out a miniature welding torch from the toolbox, walk over to the Amplifier’s chiller control, and fired at the wires inside. The Heads-Up Display went dead.
“I’ll doctor the evidence further. I’ve seen blown-out circuits before.”
I did not want to question the moral grounds of the action. Marty had been the faster thinker, and he had decided that selfishness was justified here and now, that we should let historical forces bury this moment in the sands of time. I gave him a thankful nod as silent fireworks erupted in the darkness of space.
