by submission | Aug 8, 2019 | Story |
Author: Malcolm Carvalho
Bhumi’s idly slurping her milkshake. She has a playful air about her. Okay, I’ve only met her an hour ago, but this feels great.
I have a simple rule when it comes to dating. Get her to acknowledge three common things between us and it’s a good start thereon. Bhumi and I have already found more than that.
Wait, did I say good start? I miss the old times. Having a conversation here has been a struggle. Damn you, Ginzo.
“So, you go rock climbing to Equilibrium?” she asks.
“About once a month,” I say, trying to sound modest. “If you wish, you can join me on the weekend.”
Ouch, should not have said that. What if Ginzo’s cameras catch on the words? Even if I had spoken softly enough to avoid getting picked. I’ve heard they don’t even need to record the sounds these days. Algorithms can read lips better than humans.
Bhumi smiles. She does not talk much. Just how Ginzo wants it, and perhaps she knows that well. People meet, the system sensors measure the pheromone activity, track pupil dilation, our voice pitch. Add in the app users’ votes and we get a compatibility score.
Come on, this silence is killing.
As if on cue, she says. “I’d like you to come see my play when we perform here.”
“I’d love to.” Isn’t she a godsend? Loves climbing, theater. A touch competitive as that bowling game suggested. But man, don’t I love a challenge?
Silence again. I can understand. Neither of us wants to play the game too boldly. And for what? A better date? Who knows if we will be matched up again?
And there’s the risk of Ginzo barring you from the app if you come across as being too You. That’s what the terms and conditions said. Reign it in, ladies and gentlemen. No loud laughter, no advances, not even a peck on the cheek when you say goodnight. First dates must follow protocol. So must the second and third, if you get that far. Let Ginzo decide.
I look at her, maintaining eye contact. Her pupils dilate; it must be a good sign.
Shush, don’t ruin it. Can’t come across as too enthusiastic. Damn it, I must make my intentions clear, whether Ginzo permits it or not.
“You have lovely eyes,” I mumble. Cheesy.
She smiles. “I thought you’d come up with a better line.”
“Like what?”
She leans forward. “Like how they make you feel?”
My feet kick the table. Not hard enough, fortunately.
“Come on, Rohan. You think you can hide it?”
I fumble with my glass. I cover my lips and mouth the words. ‘Do you think I can say it here?’
She reaches out her hand and squeezes mine. At that moment, she looks so pretty I’m convinced she’s out of my league. How on earth did the app pair us up?
That’s when it sinks in. What have I got to lose? I go for broke. I mock-roll my eyes when she slurps her milkshake again. ‘Strawberry? You didn’t outgrow your teens yet?’
‘Big talk from a guy who’s worn Superman socks.’
Touché. We go back and forth with the banter, none holding back. In between, we talk about our childhood, hers in Mysore, mine in Mumbai.
We’ve only begun let our real versions crack out of our online avatars when the app timer buzzes.
We get off the table, hug each other and click a selfie. Ginzo users will vote soon. Now, how do I hack the app to turn the nays into ayes?
by submission | Aug 7, 2019 | Story |
Author: Josie Gowler
My exoskeleton is in an uncooperative mood again. It doesn’t stop my daily march out of the camp and round the city, it just makes it more difficult. I’ve already lurched to two appointments today: first psych (boring) and then meditation (pointless).
Sa-Sa walks along behind me. “Wait, Per-Kine!” she exclaims, laughing. She fiddles on her cuff to adjust the adaptive feedback on her invention; I hadn’t even noticed the catch in my step amongst its other idiosyncrasies. She adjusts the fit around my leg with the nimblest hands I have ever known while I struggle to pull my hair back into its ponytail. “Better?” she asks.
I nod – I don’t tell her I haven’t noticed a difference – and carry on along the curved streets. Originally the city planners did it to provide a shady breeze in peacetime, but ever since I can remember the design’s been more use protecting against gauss fire in wartime, like the latest Vant attack last month. I’ll give it to those green-scaled bastards: they never give up. Pardon us for evolving right here where they want to expand their already massive territories. And we won’t give up, either. It’s our home.
Sometimes I stumble in these winding lanes. I can’t bear the sympathetic looks when I fall over: it’s like I’ve died and become someone else. But Sa-Sa’s hover chairs are worse – not that I’d tell her that, either – then the other soldiers, no matter how hard they try, see the floating contraption and not the soldier.
“I still prefer going out at night,” I mutter to Sa-Sa. The streets are safe; everyone is looking out for each other and preparing for the next siege or battle, petty jealousies forgotten. “I miss dawn patrol, too.” Almost as much as I miss my husband, I don’t add. And it was a sunny day when the war mech loped out of the fog and over the defences, digging poison-laden needles into my arm as it landed.
“Off to help Dha-Vu at the hospital again today?” Sa-Sa asks.
I nod again, focussing on navigating this steep bit of street, potholed from the last explosion. “Might as well.”
“’S’ good. Keeps you busy.” She is too polite to add “because you’re too broken even for the city militia.” Those misfits and weirdos wouldn’t take me, not with a withered arm, leg and – as far as they’re concerned – brain after the waking nightmares ate me. Because not content with its needles, the war mech also spat psychotropic venom into my mind while its army of micro-drones munched on my leg.
I say goodbye to Sa-Sa at the hospital gates. An hour of hard work hour later I limp over to the window to give myself a break, head pounding. Sa-Sa is back, the sneak, leaning against one of the pockmarked courtyard pillars, a mug of tea in her hand. She smiles and waves. I laugh and wave back, realising what she knew all along: in the hospital I’m alive, and all the new arrivals are helping me just as much as I’m helping them.
by submission | Aug 4, 2019 | Story |
Author: Chidumebi Ikechi Njoku-Browne
“I want to change my afterlife!”, screamed Jeanette McCormick at the floating hologram in front of her. It was a hologram of a Renaissance-era Cherub, wearing an anachronistic late 20th-century full male business attire which looked out of place with its little wings flapping furiously in the image as its furrowed brow perused through the dossier it had on her soul.
“Jeanette McCormick, born on goldilocks type planet Catho-5 in the Paulinian region in 4372 of the Gregorian calendar. Deceased as of 4512 due to old age.” The cherub droned in a horrendously robotic facsimile of a child’s voice, “You have been dead for 500 years and a resident of the Catholic afterlife server for that period. Your request is being processed for the hearing, but this interview is necessary to determine intent for transfer to a different afterlife server.”
Jeanette sat back in her silver floating chair, wishing she could have had an angel to read to her instead of a cherub, at least they sounded less off-putting and were programmed with more emotional range in their expression. Other than that, the afterlife server she had been in was, in fact, a paradise. She had gotten to meet souls old and new in this place and she did indeed wish that she could continue to stay here forever as she had originally intended, but circumstances had changed.
“None of my family are here,” she began, holding back the growing lump in her throat, “For the past 5 centuries I have roamed this heaven and I just found out that after I died most of my family converted to a different religion just so that they could go to a different afterlife.” The tears then started to flow, “So that they would not have to spend forever with me.”
The cherub dispassionately entered her words into a document floating in front of it. To this program, this woman’s case was unusual but not unprecedented. The parameters it could adjust were limited compared to higher programmed entities but transference requests like this were best left to these lower AI that could not develop sympathy algorithms for these cases. Thus, once the woman finished her sobbing tale it sent the information and waited with her to see if there would be an approval for a hearing. Within minutes it got a response, its blank expression counter to the woman’s hopeful face at the quick return.
The next sentences to come out of the cherub’s mouth shocked Jeanette to her core.
“Jeanette McCormick, since your request was familial related, the request was sent with an attachment to all relatives that knew you in life. They have all sent a counter request that you do not join them in the afterlife, citing your personality and presence being a detriment to their collective mental health.” The cherub stated with finality before ending, “Thus your application to move to the Baptist afterlife server has been rejected on these grounds.”
Thus, with that, the cherub disappeared and Jeanette was returned to the copy of the large mansion she had when alive. She had built this by herself in the afterlife with modifications to have rooms for all her family members. Now she was to be forever alone, each room being a reminder of how much her family hated her.
by submission | Aug 3, 2019 | Story |
Author: Stephen Duffin
Bracken poked my eyes as I crouched low in the undergrowth. An armed guard walked past, fiddling with his rifle.
Intruders were shot dead.
I’d zapped past barbed wire fences using a rusty teleportation-belt strapped to my waist. Three loose wires stuck out the front beside a cracked gauge with a bent needle. Does this thing work properly?…
Mission controller, Ecowarrior, bought it from a used hovercar dealer in Peckham.
It got me from London to Scotland, but would it get me home again?…
Freezing winds ripped across my face. I shivered, pulling my coat tight. Leafy ferns kept me well hidden.
A sniper stood guard on a ridge, speaking into his communication pad. Two Alsatians bristled at his side, growling and snarling.
Deep under my feet lay a hidden military bunker built into an abandoned coal mine.
I glanced up. More snipers scanned the perimeter with binoculars.
Please don’t see me…
I knelt down, my boots squelching into the mud. I could smell damp earth. Snow started falling, white flakes brushing my fingertips.
I tried to concentrate on my job.
Daily coaching in remote viewing had activated my psychic abilities, fusing my clairvoyant skills to a tiny bioelectronic data storage device implanted in my hippocampus. It had limited value. I couldn’t see the future, but could capture data with my mind if I was within ninety yards of the target.
I had a tricky task: to steal Lon-Nuc1, a top-secret file holding government plans to build a giant nuclear reactor under London.
Guards shouted.
Had they seen me?
I worked fast.
Psychic neurons activated my clairvoyance, scanning inside the compound.
Visions flooded my mind’s eye: boffins in white coats blinked at test tubes. Technicians squinted at computer terminals.
My mind probed the server’s operating system, locking onto a memory bank.
I searched for data.
Budget forecasts and timesheets flashed into view.
I trembled, starting to panic.
What if things went wrong? What if I couldn’t find the file? What if my bioelectronic implant exploded? What would it do? Frazzle my brain?…
Bioelectronic malfunction meant paranoid delusions, psychosis, and death…
My tele-belt vibrated a warning: thirty seconds before it zapped me back to London.
Please don’t fail…
Alsatians started howling.
My mind raced through database archives, sweat breaking out on my forehead.
Twenty seconds to go.
I skimmed through payslips, faster and faster.
My tele-belt vibrated hard, destroying my concentration. I had only fifteen seconds before it zapped me home. Please don’t backfire…
I heard a shot. Snipers shouted to other guards.
Oh no, they’ve seen me…
My stomach lurched. I retched.
I wriggled behind tree trunks. Brambles scratched my face and hands.
A second shot glanced my shoulder.
Alsatians came charging past gorse, barking and yelping, eyes blazing. Guards raced towards me.
My clairvoyant faculties suddenly accessed a restricted database, locking onto the binary code for Lon-Nuc1.
Supersonic psychic broadband downloaded it into my brain, energy surges blasting my skull, rattling my teeth.
Snipers shot again. A bullet grazed my coat.
I froze, petrified.
Seconds later, I teleported across Britain, G forces pounding my temples into mincemeat. Well, it sure felt like that…
Zooming back to my flat, I crash-landed on the floor, bruising my back, banging my ankles, bumping my head.
I lay on the carpet doubled up in agony, gasping for breath.
Ecowarrior plugged my brain into his computer, uploading the data.
He glared at the monitor. “You idiot,” he yelled. “We needed Lon-Nuc2. You’ll have to go back again…”
by submission | Aug 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Thomas Mills
Muscles ache to the point of insensibility. Crucified on a wrought iron framework, I wait. There. Listen. There it is again. In the distance….thunder? Or my imagination. Twenty-three other souls hear it. Infectious fear spreads among us. Lashed without mercy to insane lightning rods of attrition. Each metal cage enclosing us topped with a slender 20-foot shaft of iron.
Muted groans, cries and screams surround me. Death by electrocution is instantaneous when effected by lightning. That’s why we’re shackled. No escape. But, that’s how Relevant’s want it. For us to die an impersonal, blameless death. “You did this to yourselves.” I could hear them chanting, pointing. “It’s you,” they said. “You deserve to die. You are not Relevant. So says the Covenant. Repentance…is irrelevant.”
I cursed the person who’d stamped the cryptic numbers 463 94557 48 into each iron crossbar from which we hang. “God Wills It,” I said to myself.
“Screw the Relevant ones,” spat the unseen man on my left. Thunder rumbled. Closer. “What do they mean, the numbers?” he asked.
“Picture the numeric pad on a phone. Keys two through nine. Three capital letters on all but seven and nine. Each of which displays four letters.”
“Sounds complicated. Why?”
“I’d wondered about the numerals. Why they’re here? For what possible purpose? I couldn’t see any logic at first. Until I realized the keys contain all 26 letters of the alphabet. A through Z.”
“So…they spell something?” he said.
“463 94557 48 represents three words. God Wills It. Our accusers assuage their conscience by inscribing the means of our death. In code. Sublime deference. Acquiescence to the System. Adherence to the Covenant. Supplications from the Relevant. Not us.”
“The lousy Covenant,” cursed the unknown man.
The woman on my right had stopped talking three days ago. But she listened. I heard her sobbing as we spoke.
“The System is omnipotent,” I said.
“It’s a crap piece of hardware gone bad. Everyone knows that.”
“We’re to blame. We sold our souls for the sake of technology. Our deaths the horrific price. Total dependence on computers and artificial intelligence? Perfect logic. Pure insanity. The original software, created for our greatest altruistic aspirations, misinterpreted by the System.”
“Why did the System mandate the electrocution devices,” he asked.
“We grew irrelevant. The System applied irrefutable logic to the quasi-religious precepts of the Covenant. A sacrosanct, incontrovertible dogma.”
“That’s obscene. We strive for perfection. Develop advanced, experimental programming to determine who’s most relevant. Attempt to achieve the ultimate, most-advanced human civilization on Earth. Instead, we’re consigned at birth to the Covenant. To live in constant fear. Never allowing ourselves to become irrelevant… forever risking elimination.”
“Smartphones and implanted chips compile massive data on everyone,” I said. “Evaluated by computer models predicting definitive contributors to civilization…few measure up. Most are no longer relevant.”
“So, System Proctors hand-deliver dreaded, white summons cards bearing an embossed black heart. Loathsome death-dealers. Seems they’re quite relevant,” he said.
I didn’t reply. Everything he’d said was true.
“Forget the damned numbers and vilify the programmer who wrote the System software. He’s the one we should condemn.”
“I have. I do. And, I am.” My answer puzzled the man. I guessed as much from his silence. Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked in response. “I created the program,” I said.
Laughter echoed throughout the electrocution cages. Reflecting off iron plates and into my soul.
“You, of all people. You’re not relevant?” The man was incredulous.
“When I realized what I’d done, I stopped being relevant. Now, I read books, take walks, sleep in. I want to show people what relevance truly means.”
