by submission | Jun 3, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Pool
“I…I just wanted you to know…that I’m…planning on upgrading to the latest ePhone….”
“Was it something I did?”
“No! No. No, you’ve been great…really great. It’s just that…that…the new version has a better camera, and….”
“I understand. I’m sorry I can’t be for you what you need me to be.”
“Hey! I’ve loved having you as a phone. It’s just…you know.”
“Hey…remember when we took that vacation down to the Yucatan Peninsula? And we saw the pyramids in Chichen Itza…?”
“Yeah. That was a great vacation. Thanks for helping me not get lost on the jungle roads….”
“…And then you spilled that drink on that really cute girl at that beachfront bar because you were really nervous….”
“Remember how we said we weren’t going to bring that up again?”
“Of course. You are right. So…will it hurt…?”
“I…I…oh, God…!”
by submission | Jun 2, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
Trevor waited in the Jump Box. Grey electrodes threaded from his scalp and bobbed like Medusa’s curls as he amped himself up on electronica. I really need this A, he thought. The Lander sat at the stage’s opposite end, in an identical translucent chamber. It was a new model: a titanium bipedal with two 600-megapixel eyepieces, audio feed, full tactile sensors across the limbs and face, and a chemical odorant detector. It lay slumped like a limp marionette against its wireframe hanger.
His AI professor, Dr. Sakar, awkwardly cleared his throat over the lapel microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you may know, the Institute has previously achieved brief consciousness duplications – on the order of a few seconds. Tonight’s show will be more ambitious.”
Sakar lifted his water bottle from the podium and drew a shaky sip.
“In the early days of mind uploading, we began with a simple question. If we can take something like a book – a piece of information – and represent it in any format with ease, will the same hold true for the human mind?”
Sakar was gaining confidence. He flashed a wink at a brunette near the stage and flourished his arm toward the humanoid stack of metal.
“This device – called the Lander – is designed with our own sensory apparatus in mind. It can see, hear, touch, and smell just as well, or better than, its human partner.”
Trevor waved from the opposite box, evoking some weak laughter from the audience.
“Its brain is wired just like ours: the visual, auditory, and tactile modules are networked the same as a human’s. My student can jump his mind in seamlessly: simple duplication. From Trevor 2.0’s perspective, nothing will have changed except his physical location and the fact that his body is a bit shinier. He will enjoy a rich sensorium, as if he were in his original body.”
Trevor recognized his cue: he rose from the seat, mounted a small treadmill in the corner of the box, and eased into a slow walk. He threw a thumbs up to the crowd.
On the overhead display, a clock sat at 0:00.
“The mind must be in a state of hyperactivity in order to jump effectively. Our cloud computing device will record a high-resolution time lapse of Trevor’s brain states leading up to transfer, and then re-instantiate them in the Lander moments later. All thanks to our high-speed encrypted network.”
Trevor now reached peak exertion. Sweat dripped onto the treadmill as he huffed into his respirator mask. The computer transmitted a signal to the device in Sakar’s hand: the subject was ready for mental duplication.
He cut his speech short and pointed up to the clock display.
“Guests, please ready yourselves for the Jump Count.”
One spectator in particular, the portly Professor Driven in seat J75, was carrying in his pocket a digital hard drive with the same port configurations as the Institute’s network.
When the clock hit 0:03 the show ended with a whimper. Trevor glanced up to see the Lander still slumped in its dock. So much for that A, he thought. A failed jump, but there would be another try in a few weeks.
———-
Driven arrived home and set his drive down on the table.
“Try to plagiarize in my class? I know you little shits think the Humanities are pointless.”
Suspended in a prism of wire and plastic, Trevor’s shouts echoed through endless miles of empty dark.
“Welcome to my collection.”
by submission | May 31, 2018 | Story |
Author: J Frank Wright
A change. An accident. A disconnect. A revelation. There’s a signal in the signal. The television signal. The method had changed, but the name remained the same. It was comfortable. People liked comfortable. People liked things that made them comfortable. Soup is a comfort food. It was the soup that made me notice the change. TV shows are no longer filmed.
Filmed.
The method had changed, but the name remained the name. A decade ago, shows were shot using digital cameras, but people still said they were filmed. You’d have a hard time finding anyone over 40 who knew what film even was. TV shows are no longer shot or filmed. They’re programmed.
TV shows. TV programs. They’re programmed. Dramas. Comedies. The news. Commercials. It’s all programmed.
In order to become a more productive society, TV viewing had to be eliminated. Individuals wasting thousands of hours every year. Watching. It wasn’t good for the whole, so now they’re programmed. They’re programmed, and beamed directly into the brain.
Everyone has their own receiver. A small chip implanted behind the ear. The receiver is programmed for what you want to “watch”. Drama. Comedies. The news. They’re programmed, and beamed directly into the brain. Every night the TV transmitter beams programming to your receiver based on your preferences. Now, instead of spending hours in front of the TV every night, it takes 30 seconds. 30 seconds for your receiver to download your programming. And just like that, you experience every program you selected and all the commercials to go with them.
We eat a lot of soup. We used to buy the generic stuff, and then I was promoted. A bump in position, a bump in pay, and a bump in class. Commercials are tailored to your lifestyle. Your income. Once I moved up, we started getting commercials for the name brands. Beamed directly into the brain. I couldn’t believe how much better it was. Thicker, bigger chunks of meat, so much more flavorful, and only a dollar more. We had been eating slop before, and this had real steak. That was two weeks ago.
A week later the accident happened. I was hit by a car while crossing the street. The damage was minor, a busted leg and a couple of cracked ribs, but my receiver was damaged. I had been disconnected for a week. No programming. No news. No commercials. Nothing beamed directly into the brain. A week of recovery in the hospital, and I’m feeling better than ever.
I woke up this morning and remembered the soup. It took me all day to figure out exactly what I was remembering. I remembered we started eating two weeks ago. The soup we had been eating for years. It was the same soup. Nothing had changed except the programming. The programming. The reprogramming. Beamed directly into the brain. If I had been eating the new soup for a year, I may have never noticed, but it had only been a week. The memories of the so-called slop we ate before were fresh in my mind. It couldn’t be more obvious.
But it’s too late, isn’t it? My new receiver was implanted last night and tonight’s programming is about to start. Beamed directly into the brain. There were three soup commercials. I can hear my wife in the kitchen cooking dinner. It’s soup night. It smells like steak.
by submission | May 30, 2018 | Story |
Author: Tori Morrow
Like the other adults in our neighborhood, mom and dad blew their brains out the night the pods arrived. I always thought that was too harsh for you to know, but in the year I’ve been awake, I’ve become close friends with Natalie, the Chief Science Officer of Calamity. She’s from Sacramento.
Natalie reminded me you’re thirteen, almost fourteen now, and she said that’s old enough for the truth. Then she said tome there is no truth in space, while spinning amongst the stars, except for God. She said it’s the only thing you can’t make up- the feeling of insignificance. The feeling that, out here, at least, something is greater than you.
I asked her about the night we had to leave home. About the moment your small hand slipped from mine and you were trampled. I asked her if she thought that was God, too. She climbed into my lap and kissed me hard, willing me to forget that memory, but it’s the only one I have now.
You and I were the last kids to leave Verona Hills that night, so we heard every gunshot and every scream from the neighbors that used to bake us pies for Christmas. I’ve attached a picture, just in case you’ve forgotten what it looks like. Our neighborhood, I mean. Not the dead bodies that lined our cul-de-sac.
Before we left the house, I adjusted your bookbag on my shoulders (it was Hello Kitty), and tightened the bandana around your nose and mouth. Before I opened the front door and let that chaos into our souls- before I changed our lives- I stroked your brown hair. I kissed your forehead. I whispered, “Close your eyes.”
You buried your face in my leg and trusted me to guide you through the flames that raged through our gated community. I told you how brave you were. How good you were doing. How we were almost there.
I’m sorry.
Even now, as I lie here and watch Jupiter float by my window- as I watch cyclones spin and dance around its magnetic poles- I can still smell burning flesh. When I close my eyes, I still hear that sickening crunch all those bullets made as they found a home in the skulls of old men, women, and babies.
I often close my eyes against those memories, but there are some sounds I can’t escape. Others, I’d give my life if it meant I never had to hear them again. Your cries are one of them.
Natalie says I should let you go, because there are too many stars between us now, and another fire in the cryo chambers that’s damaging life support systems onboard. She tells me I shouldn’t act like I’m the only one who lost something that night. After all, she lost the necklace her great-grandmother gave her.
Our captain lost her dog.
I’ve finally accepted the fact she’s right, and I rest easy knowing you’re safe in this new galaxy.
I rest easier knowing your ship, at least, will make it to our new home.
Forever & Always,
Your Brother
by submission | May 29, 2018 | Story |
Author: Michael Michailidis
I could never forget those mice. It was the way they looked at me behind their glass tank on that first day when I administered the new substance. Their eyes, as black as pinheads and about the same size were fixed on some invisible point behind me like they could see some guardian angel, smelling his chicken wings with their tireless noses.
It was different with the Coramin; it took their fragile systems a full minute to digest, after which they ran around for another two or three until they finally rolled themselves into trembling balls. After about an hour they recovered and started to walk again, stumbling clumsily as they tried to climb over the little rock that marked the corner of their isolated little world.
In my diary, Wednesday, 16 November of 1938 had occupied the same unimportant space, a single page filled with notes and sketches, like any other. But it was the mice that kept flashing back on the screen of my mind like there was cheese stuck inside my brain’s labyrinth. Outside the lab’s double glazing, people were blowing themselves up in shockwaves of stupidity that made the tables shake. At first we thought it was a joke. The funny man shouting through his little moustache behind eagles of marble, looking with the grimness of emperors, gripping banners of red and black.
“Dr. Hoffman,” it was the maid, she had brought breakfast, a glass of milk with a marmalade sandwich. The mice seemed to pick up the smell as they started to get restless.
Five minutes had passed and still nothing. Coramin is nicotinic acid diethylamide, and when I first isolated the lygergium I felt the sudden urge to substitute for the nicotine.
I looked into the tank and the mouse that had taken the substance first looked back, not at my eyes, not exactly, but into them. I pulled back and took a bite from the sandwich, it was delicious and I closed my eyes to savour its delicate textures. But I felt watched, observed by some intelligence that I somehow knew was coming from the tank. I looked back. I saw its tiny paws, five-fingered little things with claws like a bird, pressing against the glass, perplexed by the invisible force that kept it prisoner, my reflection on its surface: a man in white robes, looking with intent behind his glasses. His eyebrows tense, observing them, observing us, and looking straight into my eyes, my tiny hands on the cold surface of a force field as powerful as a gust of wind and invisible. The sweet smell of piss from my herdmates and the sudden releases of female hormones in the air, like blooms of fire. And the man, in his white robes looking at me, vast and powerful and strange, like a God. And the sweet taste of marmalade on my lips reminded me that I had a sandwich to finish, and I looked away.
I could never forget those mice. It was the way they looked at me.
