by submission | Dec 28, 2018 | Story |
Author: Richard M. O’Donnell, Sr.
Frank Blair woke up confused, but that was okay. Confusion in the morning was normal, a challenge. His caseworker used that word a lot. “Frank, you have challenges and that’s a good thing.” So when the robot woke him from his night-night tube and asked him what his job was aboard the colonial starship, Esperanza, he answered, “I meet challenges.”
“But what is your job, specifically?”
Frank did not like the robot’s three eyes. His mother had one eye, but she still had two eyes sockets. She wore a patch.
“I miss Mother.”
“I don’t think you understand. I am the ship’s encyclopedia, Librarian-Prime. A meteor storm wiped out the mainframe and damaged the ship. I am responsible for retrieving as much of human history as possible to rebuild the library. Do you understand?”
“No, but that’s okay.”
The robot made a sound much like a sigh.
“I have interviewed 1,402,623 survivors for one week each over the last 26,899 years. I started with the human with the highest IQ and worked my way down to you. You are my last interview. In seven days, I will have recompiled as much human knowledge as is possible.”
“Mother would be proud of you.”
“Thank you, but human validation is unnecessary to complete my primary directive. Let’s start again. When you were on earth, did you work?”
“I folded pizza boxes at Larry’s Pizzeria in Farr Creek, Ohio.”
“Good, describe exactly how you folded a pizza box.”
Over the following week, Librarian-Prime grilled Frank on every aspect of his life on earth. Frank tried hard to listen, but it was…a challenge. The food didn’t help. The robot called it space oatmeal, but it tasted like paste. It reminded him of eating Elmer’s glue as a boy. This made him think of his mother. Most things made him think of her. She studied bugs. Frank liked bugs. Bugs tasted better than the space oatmeal.
At the end of the week, Librarian-Prime flew Frank in a shuttle to New Earth. Frank had seen the Esperanza from space when he boarded. It had looked like a city among the stars. Now the spaceliner looked more like a broken Lego castle.
“Ruined,” he said.
“Almost, the meteor shower wreaked havoc on most of the systems. Only my primary directive, to save the human culture, forced me to direct the repair and maintenance of the ship. I am programmed to improvise, adapt and overcome.”
“Meet challenges,” said Frank.
“Exactly.”
Dropping through white swirling clouds, the world below was a green forest dotted with shimmering lakes. As they neared his new home, Frank saw that the construction bots had cut a swath from the primeval woods along the shore of a blue lake. In the nearby fields, the ag-bots were busy bringing in the first harvest. They landed between a gigantic concrete building and a single log cabin.
“The cabin is all yours,” said Librarian-Prime. “The service-bots will meet your every need for long as you live. Best of all, I’ve transcribed human knowledge onto parchment and filled the library to the brim. Long after our power cells fail, the wealth of human knowledge will survive.”
Frank stepped into the cabin and frowned. Nobody was there. He looked outside the window. There were only three-eyed bots.
“I miss Mother.”
“I recorded her interview. You can view it anytime.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“To fulfill my prime directive I invented space oatmeal.”
“I’m confused, but that’s okay.”
“It’s simple. To feed the interviewee, I fed them with the previous one. I improvised, adapted and overcame. The library is saved.”
by submission | Dec 27, 2018 | Story |
Author: Logan Thrasher Collins
Anabelle and Enrique lived on Mars in a prim antebellum cottage with white walls. Each morning, Enrique emerges and dusts away the maroon regolith which accumulates on the walls during the nighttime. He typically wears lime green overalls and uses a long-handled broom. One crisp Sunday, Enrique pauses in his work to look out across the Red Planet’s rusty hills and marvel at the dawn. He inhales the morning air and grins like an adolescent boy. The sky is blue.
“Enrique Darlin?” Anabelle’s voice swims out from the home’s foyer and curls round Enrique’s ears like an ethereal ferret.
“Yes sweetness?” Enrique asks, still beaming at the landscape. “Ya really should see tha mornin light. It’s beeyewtiful!” He removes his crumpled cap and folds it absentmindedly in his hands. Annabelle emerges from the doorway, her pale skin blazing incandescently as it converts the dawn’s photons to internal fluorescence. Her movements more resemble cascading spring water than flesh and bone and nerve.
“Ah’m afraid ah’ve some bad news mah love.” She exclaims dejectedly. “This life… Ah can’t live it forever.” Enrique’s smile fades. “Ah’ve got ta move on sometahm.” She interlaces her gossamer-gloved fingers.
“But Annabelle, this life… it’s a good life. Ya got no reason ta end it all sudden like this. Sides, I don’t wanna die. I like ya. I like living with ya and lovin with ya.” Annabelle regards her husband with genuine remorse, a tear meandering over her flawless cheek.
“It’s been quite a long tahm Enrique. Ah should’ve programmed you ta get tired of it eventually. But Ah didn want you ta stop lovin me. Ah was selfish. Ah’m sorry.” She steps towards him and kisses him tenderly on the lips, locking him in her embrace. The scene begins to evaporate. Even as his simulated nerves disassemble, Enrique trembles with vivid, desperate love. After all, his wife was responsible for all the joy he’s ever known. Then Annabelle’s synthesized existence is gone and Enrique’s soul deleted. Annabelle remains, encoded in neuromorphic neutronium.
As her sensor arrays look out at the glittering infinity of realspace starlight, Annabelle wonders if she made a mistake in ending her existence with the man she created. After all, they had been together for eighty thousand years.
by submission | Dec 26, 2018 | Story |
Author: Philip Tudball
“You know what the worst part of it all is?” Harper reflected “It’s the codpiece. Definitely the codpiece. I mean the food is rubbish and my health plan is currently non-existent” Harper picked another louse from his hair, just to reinforce the point “but it’s still the codpiece, bloody itchy thing, and never sits straight”.
Marsden shifted uncomfortably, not yet used to Harper’s mutterings. New on the job and on the first assignment, this was not what he had expected. He kept his eyes on a house opposite, trying to keep himself to the shadows, pressing himself into the stone wall of the alleyway behind him.
“See, there are things you can get used to, give the rats a kick and they’ll leave your ankles alone and your nose will just shut down to the effluent eventually, but the codpiece, you see it-“
Harper stopped as a light appeared in the street, a door opened and a figure stepped out, throwing on a cape with an elaborate flourish and patted a bag of scrolls as he began to wander off.
“Hold on” Harper stated, he reached up to tap his earpiece “subject is moving” he whispered. Harper waited for a moment, “copy, following”. He adjusted his codpiece and turned to Marsden, “right, let’s go”.
Moving unseen, Harper and Marsden followed the retreating figure. The road meandered out towards the river. The figure would stop every few hundred paces and mutter, thinking. At one point he pulled out a small pot of ink and a quill, writing furiously on a small sheet of paper. Minutes later, with a grunt, he scrunched up the paper and threw it into a ditch, before moving on towards the river.
“Quick, grab it” Harper gestured towards the parchment “get it, bag it, call it in”. Marsden scrambled down into the ditch, he reached into his leather jerkin, pulling out a plastic bag. He carefully picked up the crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it out and sealing it into the bag before hiding it away again.
With the parchment secured Marsden scrabbled back up, boots sodden from the water. “I mean seriously, why do we do this, for every scrap he drops, it’s disgusting?” he grumbled
“You know the drill, it’s all valuable. Ever since the boys upstairs won the rights we collect it all” Harper sighed “you thought time travel would be a lark but you’re new, so you’re bottom of the barrel, so you’ll do the grunt work until we send you home. Until that time all original materials are to be accounted for and catalogued, so something gets dropped in a sewer you know where you’ll be heading. Get used to it”
This brief interchange had masked their quarry returning. He stopped as he saw them. “Fair evening to you gentlemen,” he said, with a small bow. Harper and Marsden said nothing, so the figure continued “you two fine people would not have seen some scribblings, a play, my thoughts? Cast off in error but only now revealing my true intentions. If one of you would be so kind as to help me down here, you would have my eternal gratitude.”
Harper nodded “Of course, my colleague would be obliged to help”. As the figure made his way to the ditch Harper grabbed Marsden by the arm and hissed “Do not show him that piece of paper”. Harper adjusted his codpiece “and, whatever you do, you are not to inform Mr. Shakespeare that all of his work is now the property of Gideon Pryce Conglomerate, in perpetuity, all rights reserved, forever”.
by submission | Dec 23, 2018 | Story |
Author: KevS
I watch them squabbling like vermin. Vicious, pathetic vermin. 3 months ago they arrived, answering the beacon. In 2 months they exhausted the food.
Like vermin they have numbers, so I watch, I wait.
In the first month, they harvested rocks, heating them with their weapons, to survive the bitter night. They tried, they failed, to repair the catastrophic damage done to their ship by the rock fall. The second month they found the ship that hailed them, the beacon silent, its job done.
Now they fight, bicker about scraps.
So much meat on them when they arrived, my mouth watered at their scent. But alone, against many, I could never claim the spoils.
So I wait, let Mother Trised, show them the despair in her barren embrace.
They didn’t see me, they never do, so eager to salvage and escape. Then too hungry, too desperate to really look.
Yet I watch them every day, silently.
The first explosive anger is sweet, the rock lifted as the words get louder, fiercer, then the wet crunch, red nectar spilling across the scarred jagged ground.
The remorse, the hushed voices, the desperation, and then the inevitable feasting.
Some of the vermin vomit, retching on their knees. They’ll be next to feed their pack, no stomach for survival.
Patience is hard, my insides clench, envious of every morsel that passes their lips, but one by one they fall.
The fights stop as does the pretense. They look hungrily to the weak. When the first death in the night occurs, no anger, no violence, just quiet, desperate hunger, I know my time is soon.
From many, to a handful, of weakened pathetic shadows.
I walk tall into the shelter of their ship, and their eyes seem uncomprehending, confused, one tries to attack me, a rock in its fist, but I step aside, letting it fall, gripping its head, I twist, and the crack echoes. The next, sleeping and wretched are similarly dispatched.
The final, sits in a chair in what remains of their ship, it makes sounds, but I do not understand, I never understand. I drive my fist into its stomach, claws easily tearing the weak flesh and pull from it wet glistening food, cramming it to my mandibles.
It watches me, its entrails slipping through my hand as I force more and more into my hunger.
I am Mother Trised’s only child, cursed on her bountiless rock, scorched by deserting children, the last of my kind.
Knowing that she would cease sustaining them my people built huge ships, thousands upon thousands like me deserted her, and I watched from my cell, not one tear did I shed. Not one moment of sorrow, these cowards who forgot our lore, who forgot the tenets of our faith “Mother Trised will provide”.
I alone spoke out, I alone kept my faith, I alone tried to stop the ships being built, to destroy them, until they imprisoned me.
In final indignity my cell turned stasis chamber as the ships burnt and irradiated all that was left of worth from Mother Trised’s surface, obliterating our existence.
When I woke, broke free of my imprisonment, there was nothing.
I saw the first vermin arrive in their ship, wanting to scavenge from Mother Trised. I smashed their ship with her rocks. I hid, I waited, I feasted.
As this vermins eyes close, I walk to the remnants of the control desk, ripping free the cover and pushing the salvaged power cell to the beacon.
More will come.
I kept my faith, Mother Trised will provide.
by submission | Dec 22, 2018 | Story |
Author: Philip Tudball
We explore. As a species, it is both what we do and defines who we are. It is what we have always done, since the first of us gazed outwards and wondered. We took ships and travelled out into the unknown, planting our flags on distant shores. The world shrank around us as the unknown became known. Eventually, the world became too small for us and we took ships, out into space, back out into the unknown. Still, we planted our flags. As the technology advanced so did our horizons, we planted more flags, reaching ever further out, until here we are today.
We are far from Earth now, so far out. Lightyears out, generations out even, and we have been travelling a long time. Our ancestors would not recognise us, those who first pushed off from a rocky shore into turbulent waters, or who first left the safety of ground for the promise of open skies. But they would recognise our intentions.
A spaceship the size of a Terran continent is hard to wrap your head around and makes the term ‘ship’ almost insulting. ‘Self-sufficient’ also loses almost all meaning when dealing with such measure. But we are a ship, and we are alone. We left our species behind when we began our journey further than any before. Longer than any before, taking us to parts of the universe our forebearers could not even conceive of. We have been seeding areas of space, marking them out for future colonisation, those rare bits of the universe where verdant star systems will allow for empires to flourish, given enough time. For those who will follow us in decades, even centuries, time. Today we are planting a flag, so to speak. Our ancestors would know us and be proud.
Today a star is going supernova, and will soon become a pulsar, throwing its detritus all the way across the universe. This star has been laced with markers and been forced into an early metamorphosis. This star will mark us out. The power required, the time and knowledge to make this happen. Decades of work by the greatest amongst our ranks. A flag our ancestors could not even comprehend.
We are grouped on the bridge, thousands of us but all quiet. Anyone who can be spared their tasks, anyone with sufficient rank. These moments come once a generation. All of us, expectant and waiting and silent. We are so far off as to make the event look insignificant. The explosion, one of the most violent acts the universe can throw at us, will be so small it cannot be seen with the eye from our vantage. There is no need to be here all together, yet here we are, we gather together anyway for we know this is a momentous occasion.
Silence. Then a computer chimes. It chimes again, then continues in short bursts. That small sound is all we need. Such a small sound for something that means so much. Some cheer, some clap. I allow myself a smile, with the knowledge of this momentous thing we have done. Our flag, to be flown across the universe. Others will follow us, our beacon or flame, a mark on the map.
Our horizons become smaller but we move on, we explore. It is both what we do and defines who we are.
Follow us.
