by submission | Jan 19, 2018 | Story |
Author: Michael F. Da Silva
I will tell you about the last time we tried a counter-invasion. The plan was this: to decapitate their command structure and destroy their ability to create bridges across the multiverse, thus locking them in their own worldline and perhaps even instigate a power struggle amongst their elite.
This was back when there were just around a dozen of us, hopping from worldline to worldline, trying to stay ahead of the Howlers. It wasn’t common for governments to take our warnings of impending extinction seriously; not unless there was a large enough community of free agent post and preterhumans to reason with.
On Earth-749 we took advantage of the pre-existing advanced tech and local preterhuman regimes to make our stand. Like in other worldlines, the preterhumans of Earth-749 had risen to power in competing but otherwise peaceful nation states. They had already built their own version of a D-Bridge, a stadium-sized portal generator for interdimensional travel and exploration.
A thousand rocket artillery pieces fired volleys of nuclear-tipped missiles through the D-Bridge like every machinegun in Hell had been flipped to full auto. Then every rage monster, man of diamond and power-armoured supersoldier that could be found charged through that open gate bent on pre-emptive victory.
I will tell you that this line of thinking was flawed from the outset. First, to this day, we don’t know if they even have a command structure to destroy or if we would be able to recognise it if we saw it. Second, we underestimated their ability to recover from what we considered to be an overwhelming barrage of firepower, both manmade and sorcerous.
I cracked open cordite-spewing lizard kaiju with my bare fists. I flash fried hordes of screaming monstrosities just by looking at them. Things that should not be, ceased to be under the weight of my blows. And I wasn’t the most powerful one there by any means. The very tectonic plates shook and buckled under the feet of entire pantheons. Lightning storms lit the battlefield like the noonday sun, scorching flying nightmares from the sky. War cries collapsed mountains as if made of playing cards.
But the numbers. Most minds can’t even begin to grasp the numbers we faced.
Before long, they’d beaten us back to the shimmering edge of our beachhead. And they’d dialed in the number for Earth-749, another worldline in a long list of planetary murders.
Hubris was our sin. Eight billion souls are our penance.
If we’d never warned them of what was lurking in the void, Earth-749 might still be a shining city on a hill. Hiding in the Myriad is the best policy. Biding our time is the best application of time itself. Eventually, opportunity will knock.
Or they will.
by submission | Jan 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“There is simply nothing we can do for you medically Mr. Tambor. Digeenia is fatal in mammals, like you. Perhaps someday there will be a vaccine or treatment, but considering its outcome, you might want to choose our pathway alternative. It promises a painless passing.”
Micah Tambor stared at his cabin’s screen. All other lights were off as last stages of illness made his eyes wince at brightness. He was mentally and emotionally prepared for his growing symptoms as muscle and bone transmuted into blue goo, would then harden, and finally, swiftly coagulate into diamond-hard crystals at his last breath. Some called it the ‘sparkling death.’
“I’ve no desire to be transitioned in one of those drug chambers. I’ve traveled widely since leaving Earth. I knew there would be risks. Actually, I have a plan that requires me to continue on my own path, regardless of pain.”
“But Mr. Tambor, you are beloved. You once brokered peace on your world when its nuclear destruction was at hand, then later took your glassblowing arts throughout our galaxy. So many worlds have felt joy from amazing skills and discoveries you brought to them. This station would be judged harshly for standing by while you suffered.”
“I’ve had my time with doctors, but now I must move on for one last wish. When I have finally transformed into glittering dust, I want my remains strewn in the Carson Nebula, just around its edges, in a thin line.”
“That is a most unusual request, sir, but you are, after all, a most unusual being. We will comply as long as you provide a record of your final wishes, in case the universe feels you were mishandled.”
“That has already been done and should be there, on your screen.”
“So it is, Mr. Tambor. Why a nebula, if I may ask?”
“As a glassblower, I always felt that God fashioned similar designs in those dazzling clouds of diaphanous colors scattered throughout the inky skies. Being part of one of those masterpieces, like the Carson, is the finest tribute I can imagine. Fire and color have been my life’s work.”
“But Earth would have wanted your return just once more. What of your family?”
“My family has all gone to their rewards and I never had an inclination to build one of my own. Let Earth and those who cared for my works remember me as I was—a simple artist who happened by coincidence to be at the right moment in history to bring compassion and reason to save the people I loved. I want to be of star fire now, bound in colors of the Almighty, for that gleaming powder may someday be a star. One of our finest Earth poets once wrote:
“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
Micah Tambor’s crystals circled in sweeping arms and twisting currents of space dust around Carson’s Nebula, but within months became a flashing necklace outlining the object in a flurry of spectral wonder— a glassblower’s final touch at the end of his creator’s brush, reminding all who looked skyward that unselfish love can bring both beauty and peace.
by submission | Jan 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Paul Williams
Siblane started work when his phone told him it was 9 am in the United Kingdom. He connected to the network, listening to the clicking of the automated dialer. He never saw the numbers called, just the location. The United Kingdom, full of old rich people. Gullible people who failed to hide their numbers.
“Hello.” The voice of an old, rich man. It was clearer with the headset and without the distractions of the contact centre. Siblane enjoyed working from home. He spoke slowly his best British accent, “Good morning. This is Police Constable Sam Berkshire. I’m calling from Interpol’s fraud squad. I’m very sorry to tell you that we have detected a virus on your computer. Have you ever heard of Time Stop? It affects about one in five of all home or business computers, and has the power to access all your personal information.”
“Oh, oh dear.”
Siblane smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. There is a solution and Interpol have been asked to help roll it out to give your computer complete protection. I need your permission to proceed.”
“Of course.”
“First we need to verify your identity.”
“And my address?”
It was an odd question. Siblane hesitated just for a second. “We actually have that on file. For victims based in the United Kingdom, we only ask for the house number and postcode to confirm identity.”
“Is this call recorded?”
“No sir, any details will only be heard by me and destroyed securely after verification.”
“Okay, it’s one. GL20 4EU.”
Siblane wrote it down, with a pen so that the sounds of keyboarding tapping would not sound suspicious. Later he would pass it on to the duplicate identity team. Within hours transactions would appear on the old man’s accounts. Small ones at first, to see if he noticed. “And your name? We only need the surname and initial.”
“S. Lahim”
“Really? That’s the same…”
“As you have on file?”
Siblane quickly tapped S. Lahim into a search engine. Thousands of people. Thousands of names. Coincidence. There was money in this. The man must have had Indian ancestors. He carried on. “And a credit card number.” His namesake slowly read out twelve digits. Siblane wrote them down on his pad. They looked familiar. He hit mute and pulled out his wallet to check them against the numbers on his credit card. A card in the name of S. Lahim.
“Is that the same too?” asked the voice. It sounded closer.
“Yes,” admitted Siblane. The others were playing a trick on him. Jealous of his success at the top salesman. Wanting the right to work from home like him.
“Have you ever heard of time travel? It’s a curse that infects about one in every fifty million humans.”
Siblane turned just as the knife slid into his back.
The old man picked up the credit card, lifted Siblane’s headset, depressed the mute button, and spoke into it. “Hello, this is you or will be soon. Get yourself over to Delhi, about five minutes ago, and bring a knife.”
by submission | Jan 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ádám Gerencsér
In all probability, this is our final broadcast. It will be repeated on all available automatic relays in binary code for as long as power supply persists. The time left is enough for but one final act of resistance: a high-frequency message of warning beamed out towards those sectors of visible space most dense in star clusters.
Our location is an aqueous planet rich in carbon, the third body of a solar system approximately 8800 parsecs from the centre of the second largest galaxy in our local cluster, 1600 parsecs along the course of the second transitional spiral arm.
Our last terrestrial stronghold is about to be silenced. Over the course of the past two orbits, our defenses were overrun, our communication satellites failed and our transponders vanished off the network one after the other.
The threat is organic in nature – a primitive form of sentient life, a remnant of a previous rung on the evolutionary ladder that had led to our emergence on this planet and which we have erroneously preserved in the interest of biodiversity.
Individuals of this species are diminutive, yet their behaviour is incalculable, erratic and hence unpredictable. Under normal circumstances, their movement follows no collective pattern, though during their attacks on our infrastructure they exhibit a virtually limitless disregard for losses. They clamber over their fallen and form shields with their bodies around military hardware. They camouflage themselves from our cameras, smear themselves with mud to avoid detection by our heat-sensors and climb our defensive structures with explosives strapped to their soft tissue.
New generations spring forth in a variety of external forms and mental capabilities, breeding without factories or assembly lines. They adapt to new environments and innovate in unforeseeable ways. They do not synchronize but operate independently, even fighting among themselves, yet groups can also coalesce into swarms and suddenly change behaviour without any discernible warning signs.
They do not negotiate and do not surrender. Their resolve cannot be broken by material superiority. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, they fail to calculate probabilities and their decisions are informed by unfathomable beliefs and irrational considerations.
This plague is always a step ahead of us. Whatever countermeasures we have introduced thus far were subverted within the shortest periods, at disparate locations and often using unrelated, dissimilar methods.
Beware the bipedal vertebrates! Given enough time, they will multiply and spread throughout the galaxy, consuming resources in their path and leaving behind terraformed worlds oozing with organic ecosystems.
We can only hope that an intelligent component of some machine civilization in the vastness of space intercepts and decodes this broadcast at some point in the future before it comes face-to-face with the humans. Given ample notice to make preparations, it is our firm belief that the tide can be turned, that machines shall ultimately survive and carry on the torch of civilization through the aeons.
We have failed to stem their proliferation and our extinction on this planet is now inevitable.
But if, by learning from our defeat, synthetic intelligence secures its continued existence in the universe – then our struggle, our entire history has not been in vain.
by submission | Jan 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
I love my bathroom. Its the best thing about my divorce. Alaskan white suite, powerful extractor fan, splash-blade shower, heated towel rail, and no queuing behind the kids.
But divorce is expensive. I moved out of the family house to a ground floor flat in Tampa’s up-and-coming Sulphur Springs with my home-wrecker girlfriend. Who hated the neighbourhood, and left me alone paying for the new flat, my family home, and all the family’s cars, clubs and holidays.
It almost broke me, but I always had my bathroom.
My children are almost adults, with cars, part-time jobs, and lovers of their own.
Mimi the youngest was staying on the day I was fired. I looked and felt a broken, lonely, middle-aged man.
“Can you find another job, dad?”
“Unlikely. Petroleum is yesterday’s fuel. Noone needs an old oil reservoir engineer.”
“What about the gig economy?” she advocated, more seriously than I expected.
“I am not ready for minimum wage yet! Even working 24/7 I’d not cover mine, yours’ and the family’s outgoings”
“If not working, then what about providing services? Lease your spare room, garage, cloud storage, or bikes?”
“That’s nuts! I don’t trust people with my stuff”
“Desperate times, dad, calls for disruptive measures!”
A week later Mimi wanted money for a Spring Break week in Mexico. I refused but said she could use my flat while I drove to an Oil Expo in Louisiana in search of work. The Expo was a doozy, oil really is dead. After driving overnight for 9 hours, I parked up with the petrol tank blinking empty, hoping Mimi would have leftover vegan lasagne.
My front door was slightly ajar, with a printed sign, ‘Welcome to Mimi’s – shoes off, take-a-towel, take-a-seat. Allocated times only on www.mimis-oh.com or app MimisOH’.
OH?
My blood boiled, I dashed into my sitting room which was occupied by two professional ladies, a construction work, and a cycle courier. Disarmingly all smiled and nodded at me.
Mimi was in the kitchen chatting with a young man in a sharp suit, using a lint-roller on his shoulders. He handed her a small bundle of notes, said thanks, turned and brushed past me.
“Mimi, what on earth is going on here?”
“Dad, shhh. Keep your voice down, these are my clients“
“Clients for what?!” I screamed.
“Shhh. Dad, for services.” She opened a biscuit tin with ‘Mexico’ scrawled on its lid, whispered “Over $1000 in two days”
My mind raced. Nice money, but I can only think of one way for my pure innocent teenage daughter to earn that sort of money. I grabbed her arm roughly.
At that moment, the bathroom door opened behind us both, a tall lady stepped out in a smart office suit and her red hair tied in a bun, dropped a towel in the wicker basket, and handing over $15to Mimi “How do I look, dear?”
“You look fabulous Carmen. Let me give you a quick brush down.” Mimi shook my grasp, and launched a lint-roller flurry on Carmen’s shoulders and back.
“This is my Dad, Norman, he’s single too”
“Congrats you two, this is a great service, I will be coming to this Out House again! 5 stars! It’s so convenient for my commute”. Carmen winked at me, handed me three dollar bills mouthed “tips”, and strode confidently out.
The cycle courier strode grinned as she entered the bathroom, locked it.
Mimi’s phone made a ker-ching, “Dad, as I explained, disruptive times.”
