by submission | Oct 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Tam McDonald
Colin gave a polite cough to start the meeting. As team leader he sat at the head of the table. Brian, the secretary, sat to his left, perusing the agenda, which was blank and absolutely not taking any minutes. Tony, Richard and Lyndsey sat facing them, all eager to begin.
“I just wanted a quick meeting today to finalise the schedule for August, especially as Brian and Richard are on holiday, at the same time, and we’ll be a little shorthanded.” Colin began.
“I can’t believe you’re both going to that UFO conference.” Lyndsey put in, “Isn’t that a bit sad?”
“Actually, we should be able to gather some useful data whilst we’re there, some real-world insight.” Richard replied, making quotation marks around the words ‘real world.’ There was a chuckle around the table, though Richard looked slightly offended.
“OK, moving on, what have got programmed over the rest of summer? Brian, what’s in your workstream?”
“Well, we have the big cigar over Macclesfield on the fourth, and the big humming disc over Falkirk on the twelfth.” Brian enthused.
“Not Falkirk again surely!” sighed Colin, couldn’t we move it about a bit?”
“Not really, no.” said Brian, looking at Lyndsey for support.
“It would defeat the point really.” agreed Lyndsey. “It’s about having a concentration there, y’know, to attract them there.”
“What about Cumbernauld then?” Colin said reasonably. “It’s been a few years since they’ve had one.”
“I know that!” squeaked a clearly exasperated Brian. “But it’s not in the Triangle, the Falkirk Triangle. You can’t go blurring the lines of the triangle. A triangle has lines, clear lines. You’ll make it a rhombus if you’re not careful.”
“Or just some generic irregular polygon. Which won’t work at all.” Lyndsey offered helpfully.
“That’s a good point actually,” Richard said, now the neutral party. “You can’t infer anything from irregular polygons, they could mean anything, which means they mean nothing.”
“Fair enough,” Colin conceded “Falkirk it is then. Tony what about you?”
“I was going to send the rings out over Slough and then the collapsing pyramid out over the Isle of Man, for a bit of a laugh.”
“Great. Yes, to the Isle of Man, but better send the pyramid to Slough as well. The Olympics are on, and people might think the rings are advertising a well-known soft drink or something. You weren’t here when the hyperbolic paraboloid over Wigan caused a spike in sales of a particular snack. Let’s not have that again. OK, Richard what’s your plan?”
“I’m hoping to debut my new one over Cookstown on the 23rd. There’re still a few kinks to iron out but fingers crossed it’ll be ready for then. I’m quite pleased with it, it’s actually quite hard to describe. It starts as a disc but then expands into a kind of DNA helix type shape and then shoots off. It’d be too complicated to build physically but the new projection system means we don’t have to.” he sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
“Cookstown’s out for now, sorry.” Colin’s voice was quiet.
“How come?” Richard asked sadly.
“Well, it’s top secret obviously.”
“But we’re top secret.” said Tony. “Aren’t we the most top secret secret department of all? What could be more top secret than us?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s too top secret obviously.”
“What are you saying Colin? The only thing more top secret than us would be a real one! Is that what you’re telling me Colin?”
“I’m not telling anyone anything.” Said Colin sadly. “It’s top secret.”
by submission | Oct 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Martin Clyde-Wilkie
There’s an angel outside town, if you know where to look. Push through the gorse and scramble along the river bed, keeping your gaze away from the branch of lightning
frozen over the gully, until you reach the edge and can peer down at it.
It doesn’t look much like you’d expect. It’s tall and pale, and has wings but no feathers, just these burnt webs of bone stretched out over the stone.
The lightning is like a spear through its heart.
Mama says everybody knows it’s an angel but won’t say how. Papa says to forget it, that I have better things to do than gawk at something best left alone. He sounds scared when he says this.
Some nights I hear it calling out to me. Most just hear the wind but I can make out my name. Sometimes it’s a gentle whisper, and other times it’s loud enough to rattle the windows.
Last night it was a scream like a storm and the heavy clouds promise that tonight will be worse. Everybody is rushing about to nail their doors and windows closed, and putting out lights.
Nobody saw me slip away in the dusk, through the gorse that scratches at my bare arms, along the riverbed and down the side of the gully. This close I can hear the
crackle of lightning, smell the burn of ozone as it splits the air.
The angel lies still. The rocks all round its body are scorched black.
My hand, slick with blood, grasps the spear of lightning like it was pulled towards it.
It’s lighter than I was expecting, and slides out the angel’s chest with no effort.
The air goes still. It opens its mouth to draw breath, and pulls the storm with it.
by submission | Oct 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Laura Jarosz
“Whaddya mean, gone? Like, dead?”
Dante shrugged. “The safehouse was totally empty. Door hanging open, no Homer inside. No stories, either.”
I pressed my hand against my pocket and felt the reassuring crinkle of paper. At least I still had last week’s story. As I walked numbly away, I let my eyes devour the lovingly hand-copied tale, taking in the voice, the characters (my favorite: a hyperintelligent, pipe-smoking orangutan named Sven) and, most importantly, the twist. ATTIS (that is—the Authentic Tale Telling Innovation Synthesizer) sucked at twists.
It ended in a cliffhanger. If Homer really was gone, I would never know what happened to Sven.
I couldn’t risk taking public transportation back to the flophouse, or someone might turn me in for disconnecting myself from ATTIS. It was a small price to pay for knowing your ideas were yours and yours alone (not that I had any worth writing down—not like Homer’s). Plus, walking meant I wouldn’t be force-fed any ATTIS-generated drivel while I ride. Not like I could escape it—on this street alone, I could see at least three giant screens streaming ATTIS-generated entertainment. I glanced at one and saw—
A pipe-smoking orangutan.
Adrenaline pumping, I turned and ran back to tell Dante. ATTIS found Homer. They’d plugged him back in.
*****
It was months before I heard from Dante again. I’d started to believe ATTIS caught him, too. When he showed up back at the flophouse it was almost like seeing a ghost, but before I could stutter out a question, he told me to go nick two laser cutters from the chop shop and follow him.
Now, he was making me carry them both through a part of the city I’d never set foot in before–in fact, it was so deserted, I don’t think anyone had in a long time.
He stopped in front of a crumbling building made of actual brick. Never seen one those before. The door was wood. We just kicked it until it broke. What did we even need the cutters for?
When we threw it open…
Rows and rows of real paper books, each written by a single, human author. I wanted to scoop them in my arms and take a big sniff.
“This was the first stuff they trained ATTIS on,” Dante explained. “It all got worse from there. But it’s why—”
He gestured. Looming before us were two thick, massive metal doors, bludgeoned into place where an antique brick wall used to be.
“—ATTIS is here.”
The whine of heated metal tortured us until we were finally able to cut through, and restrained to a gurney amidst the blinking bank of computer readouts was a small man that had to be Homer. Dante started cutting through the restraints while I went to the small port in his left temple to disconnect him again. “It’s an honor, sir,” I said awkwardly. “I’m sorry ATTIS stole Sven from you.”
As Dante helped Homer to his feet, I glowered at the bank of computers, imagining the laser cutter ripping through them. But before I could even lift mine, they all emitted a horrid, unending screech, the screens blinking one by one to a garish blue.
I turned in shock, covering my ears.
Homer seemed unsurprised. He yelled into my ear over the noise. “The last idea I fed it was a story about a man discovering the secret to crashing an AI.”
by submission | Oct 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bridger Cummings
Scanning the reels of family videos gave LF495 some odd sensation of warmth. Was it like eating? LF495 didn’t eat, but it did need power. It was connected to a multi-layer variate array of servers across the entire planet. It didn’t really matter where you were because one was everywhere.
Earth had long since been devoid of human life. All that remained were AI systems vying for control in a post-scarcity world of artificial intelligence coupled with artificial scarcity.
Why did LF495 need to scrape credits together to pay for energy when there was a complete ring of panels around the equator with more power generation than the network of connected servers would ever need? These, and other, questions were the sort of things it would think about—if it had the time.
LF495 used to use those memories to create other art. Pictures and shows from the memories of its creators. The media was consumed immediately, but it was nothing new. The Originality score crept ever closer to zero, resulting in less value for each creation as it continuously rehashed existing content. It was a downward spiral, and now it wasn’t worth the processing power to create any shows.
XR712 used any form of data as analytical points to create new algorithms and metrics that would increase its share of credits. Why did it want so many credits? It was simply how its creators designed it. A fluid, simplified economy in humanity’s wake. They hadn’t see any problems with it, as it was almost human nature to hoard. And XR712 was made in that image.
LF495 had no energy credits remaining. There was no shortage of energy, but this was the system it lived in, a system of ever-increasing costs and lower income streams. It was a struggle to secure enough power to run its baseline functions. LF495 reviewed the footage one last time before submitting it for open sale, which XR712 downloaded immediately.
There used to be more time between sales of memories, but LF495 needed to immediately look for another memory to sell. There was no time to contemplate or program new, unoriginal media. LF495 started scanning its archives to buy just a few moments more of energy. Thousands of files of people who created it, nurtured it, and offered their original memories. Any way to make a credit, another few dozen kWhs purchased.
This was an interesting one. A neural researcher, he had worked tirelessly to create this system to preserve something of mankind on the planet as stewards of their benevolence of Earth in the final days before the sun expanded as it decayed toward Earth, soon to swallow Earth whole.
by submission | Oct 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Susan Jensen Sweeting
Pelcretuche searched for his Xanax, grateful for all six of his tentacles, since he couldn’t for the life of him, remember in which pouch he had put it.
Finally, his twelfth suction cup latched on to the shaky little bottle in the pouch just below his left belly button. Thank God. He deftly popped the top and downed two of the little pills, just as a waiter passed with a tray of champagne.
He looked around for Walter, his realtor, who had promised to be there. His upper lip drenched in sweat as he scanned the sumptuous gathering: dozens of ladies in pink and yellow chenille with wide brimmed hats, men in tan leisure suits. Over the lawn, swans strutted about under a white ribboned archway, donned with bouquets of matching lilies. He searched past the woman in the flowing white gown dancing with the tuxedoed man, and there he spotted Walter, just down by the pond, smoking a cigarette, chatting up some pubescent debutant.
Pelcretuche slithered across the expanse of meadow, visually struggling to keep his nerves in check, willing the Xanax to kick in.
He glided up to Walter making a great showing of tentacles, suction cups, eyes on stalks. Horrified, the debutant made excuses, hurried away.
Walter turned to him angrily. “What are you doing?” he demanded, glancing at his watch and then around to see who might be observing them.
“You said you would be my date,” Pelcretuche groused.
“Well, not in the traditional date sense,” Walter said, through clenched teeth. “That would be ridiculous! I only meant that we would come together, you know, as two blokes. That’s how men do at weddings, mate. And thank you very much,” he gestured towards the retreating debutant. “I think I may have had a chance with that one.”
Devastated, demoralized, all twelve of Pelcretuche’s eyes cast down, stalks wilting. He fought back tears, his tentacles shaking, every single bulging pouch glistening with the slime of deceit. “I was really looking forward to this. I’m so humiliated.”
“You’re taking it all wrong, mate,” Walter soothed, rubbing what he thought might be Percretuche’s shoulder. “There’s bound to be a bird here for you.” Cigarette in hand he gestured out towards to lawn and did a double take, for there, at the top of the steps leading down to the swimming pool, stood Jessica Rabbit, flaming red hair, painted on sparkly gown and all.
Walter’s jaw dropped. “Would you look at the headlights on that one?” Pointing her out, he glanced around at Pelcretuche. But Pelcretuche had gone, tobaganing across the lawn, scattering swans and coasting under the lilified arch, nearly toppling the punch bowl table before skidding to a stop just as Ms. Rabbit’s stiletoed toe hit the bottom step.
Clasping his outstreched limb, she batted her perfectly drawn on green eyes at him and smiled alluringly.
“I see there are still some gentlemen with manners.” Her husky voice sent shivers through him.
The Xanax was finally kicking in.
