by submission | Aug 29, 2017 | Story |
Author : Charles Paul Wallace
Ladies and gentlemen of the Commission, I wish to explain my actions before I am sentenced.
It was me who named the alien civilization the Aeolians, yes. It’s a type of harp which sounds when wind blows through it. I thought it was quite fitting, given the delicacy of the objects we found. They had lain there beneath the surface of the asteroid for, at a very rough guess, 30,000 years.
No, they were fully intact upon discovery. Our survey instruments showed sub-surface caverns, so the Captain sent a team down to investigate whether there might be additional mineral deposits to mine. No, there weren’t. What was there were the artefacts; around 15,000 of them, give or take.
Yes, we informed the Captain at once. You have, I assume, seen the footage we shot? So did he. I also made a written report, which I would like to read from now; the extract contains some initial impressions of the artefacts.
– Sculpture #17: Seven arms, or possibly tentacles, emanating outwards from an indeterminately-defined centre, topped by an arrangement of ovoid chrysalides containing miniaturised copies of their parent structure.
– Sculpture #22: A meshed, circular shell surrounding a series of concentric honeycombed levels of infinitely-reflexive complexity and colour.
– Sculpture #23: A flower-shaped disc, petals arranged so as to form a precise astronomical representation of the solar system. I believe that methodical study of this particular artefact could have dated the contents of the caverns to within one or two years of their conception.
Those were just the ones we had the chance to examine in any great depth. Soon afterward I discovered that the Captain had, supposedly under orders from some CEO or other, directed the crew to annihilate the caves along with their contents. I received the impression the command was given in order to ‘stop that Musk bastard from getting his paws on them’, yes.
I attempted to argue the case for further study, of course. That I was subsequently locked in my cabin until the destruction was completed is a matter of record, I believe. I know I am not an archaeologist; I never claimed to be. And after my release I did my job extracting the deposits to the best of my ability, as per the terms of my contract.
I will take whatever punishment I am given. Before judgement is passed, however, I wish to state my point of view. These artefacts represented possibly the deepest enigma, the greatest philosophical paradigm shift mankind has ever had to contend with. That they were destroyed is a tragedy beyond imagining. I only wish I had been able to lead a full-scale mutiny. Regrettably, none of my fellow engineers seemed interested; indeed, one of them (who shall remain nameless) informed me that ‘money talks, asshole’, to the assent of the crew. As a result, my subsequent attempts at sabotage were largely symbolic, rather than the danger to life and limb they have been painted as in the popular press.
Therefore, I shall accept my fate with equanimity. However: I wish to sound a note of warning. Close examination of the film we took will show you that Sculpture #23 is, in fact, an astronomical clock of great ingenuity and complexity. Superficial analysis of said astrolabe led me to an interesting conclusion, one that you may or may not agree with as you see fit.
I posit that whoever placed the artefacts – eggs? – within the asteroid may, very soon, be returning. Are you, ladies and gentlemen, prepared for what may then occur?
I thank you for your time.
by submission | Aug 27, 2017 | Story |
Author : Fred D. White
After crossing the interstellar void for more than half a century Captain Carey, now fully awake, and his passengers, still in cryo, escapees from the toxic nightmare that Earth had become, entered orbit around Proxima Centauri-b. The human species would survive after all. Mothership’s DNA banks of half a million flora and fauna, along with her vast digital library, would ensure that survival.
Of course, Carey had to be certain that this new terra was as firma as the probe seemed to indicate before its telemetry ceased—apparently (according to Shuttle’s assessment, the result of unusual weather anomalies over highly irregular terrain. “Do you want me to suspend descent pending further analysis?” Shuttle asked.
“Err on the side of caution, you mean?”
“Makes sense, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Except that, if a cyclone or something knocked out the probe, that could happen anywhere, right? I mean, you can steer clear of any bad weather, correct?”
“Correct. I’ll take that as an implicit Go for descent.” And without further adieu, Shuttle ejected itself from its bay. “Initiating descent at your Go,” it said.
“Go for descent.” With Prox-b at 1.8 earthgrav, this was not going to be a joyride. Carey hoped his past two days’ post-cryo strenuous exercise would hold him together.
After several moments Shuttle announced: “Prepare for turbulence, also for internal temperature increase beyond my ability to compensate.”
“Just so long the shield can handle the inferno outside.”
‘The least of your worries,” replied Shuttle. “I’ve been monitoring the surface and don’t like what I think I’m seeing.”
“Tell me what you think you’re seeing!” Shuttle typically avoided speculation, so this had to be something truly unusual. But so far the screen displayed only rapidly swirling clouds.
Shuttle stayed silent for several minutes. Finally, it said, enigmatically, “Possible life form.”
“Explain!”
More silence. Carey felt his teeth rattling from the heavy buffeting.
Several moments later, tendrils—dozens of them—no, hundreds, were wriggling through the clouds.
What the hell?
“Explain what I’m looking at, Shuttle.”
“Life form, per earlier speculation,” Shuttle replied. “I’m having a hard time locating the source of those tendrils.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Give me a few more minutes.”
Carey felt both assured and unnerved by Shuttle’s stubborn adherence to protocol. He wanted to remind it that this was a watershed moment in the history of humanity. Would it care? Carey bit his lip as he punched the code to expose the ABORT button that would override Shuttle’s deliberations. Please, Lord of the Universe, not after a journey of twenty-six trillion miles.
Shuttle jolted violently. An alarm sounded.
“What’s happening?” Carey shouted unnecessarily; Shuttle had already displayed the problem on the screen: a hole, like a camera aperture, was now opening amid a gelatinous tendril-sprouting surface.
“I surmise,” said Shuttle, “that this planet is a single organism.”
Carey cursed, smacked ABORT.
“I’m sorry, Captain Carey, for not completing my analysis sooner,” Shuttle said as the screen displayed a mucous substance covering its hull. “Will you forgive me?”
Carey messaged Mothership: Break orbit! Go anywhere except back to Earth.
The screen picked up a spectacular fireball just seconds before Shuttle’s hull began to dissolve.
by submission | Aug 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Renney
Thomas was having a bad day. The bugs were everywhere, he was rife with them and he was writhing. He hated this – he knew how he looked. He had seen others like it, in a high level state and unable to control themselves and quite frankly he had thought it undignified.
No-one commented. They didn’t stop and stare. That had all stopped long ago. The jeering and the abuse, the low-level whispered disdain, the disbelief. Everyone suffered now and everyone understood. They were all too aware that tomorrow, or in just a few hours or merely minutes, it could/would be their turn.
Frantically trying not to scratch and claw at his body, Thomas was gesticulating wildly, Inwardly he was pulling away from himself and he wondered if he might be disappearing, moving in and out of the space he was occupying like an image on a screen, flashing on and off.
The more he thought about this the less outlandish it seemed. After all, the bugs weren’t real, they didn’t exist. Perhaps when he was suffering it wasn’t really him but a virtual incarnation somehow controlled by an external force.
There were so many theories about the cause of the condition it was impossible to keep up, to follow each and every train of thought. That the bugs were contained in the city was indisputable. Those out in the country didn’t suffer but despite this there had been no mass exodus. People had decided to stay and suffer, to live with it.
The media companies had been quick to defend against the idea that the bugs might be fallout from our digitalised addictions. They argued that life out in the sticks was just as immersive, that everyone, everywhere, had a tablet or a phone. But in the over-crowded city it was such an unholy mix. People constantly huddled over screens in an impenetrable clash. Thomas was convinced the bugs were the consequence of this, a digital flotsam as it were.
Thomas hadn’t ever suffered so badly. He had always managed somehow to cope but his levels hadn’t ever been this high. Always self-conscious of the writhing he was aware of just how desperately and manically he was squirming and gyrating but Thomas didn’t care how undignified it was or if anyone might be looking he just wanted it to stop.
And suddenly it did. It was almost as though someone had turned a switch and he was no longer there and no-one was watching or seemed to care.
by submission | Aug 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
I turn around, push open the door to the clinic, then spin back around and march to Check-In.
“Ralf Pattersen,” I say to the guy at the desk. “That’s ‘Ralf’ with an ‘f’ and ‘Pattersen’ spelled ‘en.’ “
“Yes, Mr. Pattinson, how can I help you?”
I spell my name again. “Here for my corrective surgery.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I fling up my arms in exasperation.
“Hey, watch it,” I hear a lady behind me say.
“Looks like your arms are on backwards, Mr. ….”
“Pattersen. Ralf Pattersen. Can’t you people get anything straight?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll help you. Let’s get your information into the computer.”
“You already have my information. From six months ago. When I was here, and you reattached my arms backwards.” I take a breath, try to calm down. “It should all be in there.” I turn around and tap the screen.
“Let’s just make sure everything’s up to date.”
I spend the next 15 minutes telling him my medical history and that of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. “Oh, and my dog had fleas once,” I finally say.
“I sense you’re frustrated, Mr. Parkinson. I’m here to help. Tell me how you lost your arms in the first place.”
I explain, again, about my rocketboard accident. “Just get them on properly this time. I’ve been living like this for half a year now.”
“Yes, I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a waiting list. But now we’re going to take care of you.”
“I still don’t understand. How could they’ve been put on backwards?”
“Mr. Pattison, we pride ourselves on providing our patients with the highest quality medical services.”
I’m sorry I asked. I’ve heard this before.
“Among other precautions, our procedures are conducted under best-in-class antiseptic conditions.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Our expert team is never in the room with you. They work on your holographic likeness, and perfectly sterilized, precise robotic arms mimic the surgeon’s movements.”
That’s yesterday’s tech. Now here comes the excuse.
“On the day of your operation, there was a software glitch, and we had some mirror-imaging issues. Didn’t our post-op QA team go over this with you.”
“Yes, they did, but I still don’t —“
“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Pakistan. Let’s get you admitted.” He looks at the screen. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is 9 August. You were scheduled for 6 August.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I turn on my virtu-phone and pull up the notice they sent me. “See.”
“This is embarrassing,” he says. “We had an orientation glitch in our communications software. We caught most mistakes. But 6 and 9 … I’m afraid that one slipped through. I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand nothing.” I wheel around and slap the desk with both fists. “I demand to see a supervisor.” The woman next in line shrugs her shoulders. I turn back around. “I demand to see a supervisor.”
“I’m afraid they’re all busy providing outstanding service to other customers,” he says. “But we’ve efforted our waiting list. We can take you in about five months from today. We’ll send you a notice with specifics.”
“This was your mistake. I demand to go to the front of the line.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He leans forward and whispers: “You could try Elite Medical on Fifth.”
No way I can afford that so I reluctantly agree to return in five months. As I’m going out, I approach a woman walking in backwards. She has a very angry look on her face.
by submission | Aug 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Amy Sutphin
She was perfect in every way. Her soft blond curls framed her perfectly proportioned face and amber, almond eyes. Not a single blemish marred her perfect skin. Yes God had made her perfect above all others. Of course in her case, God was a 3D printer and her programmers were the Devil.
***
Skin sagged at the cuffs and collar of a carefully tailored tux. Wrinkles creasing his eyes and cheeks multiplied as he laughed at a middle-aged woman in a sleek black dress. The bartender poured a generous glass of whiskey, the expense of which could have fed a family of five. His attention gradually turned to her as she moved with in range of his failing eyesight. He squinted slightly as his gaze moved up her legs to her tight red dress, lingered on her chest and finally met her eyes. In five seconds a lifetime of cultivated finesse was reduced to the sophistication of a school boy. He hid it well, but he couldn’t fool her sensors. He offered her a seat. The bartender poured her an identical glass.
***
She lingered in the mirror, assuring every detail from her silk red lingerie to the slight tension in her left arm. She swept into the bedroom, pausing for exactly half a second and glided, slowly enough to make his heart pump. Her sensors indicated his hormones reached ideal levels. She crawled onto the bed, pressing against his left side, stroking his cheek with her left hand and pressing her lips against his. The sensors in her hand confirmed heart rate and hormone saturation. His love was pure, real. He believed it with all his heart. She pressed against him. Numbers appeared in her vision. His breathing was shallow, barely enough to provide the oxygen he needed. All sensors indicated the moment was ideal. His hand caressed her neck and slipped down her collar and slipped the strap of her garment off her shoulder.
She seized up, threw her head back and gasped.
“Minny!” his frail hands could not stop her as she fell over onto the floor, clutching her chest. Wide eyed and drooling she attempted to draw breath.
“Michael,” she breathed her last.
***
“And so I humbly offer my fortune to the Minny Foundation for heart disease.”
She watched from her small TV in the robotics lab as Michael handed a ceremonial over-sized check to the Ross brothers. In a few months, no one would remember the event. The Minny Foundation would go bankrupt. The Ross brothers would become someone else, and they would wake her from hibernation, a new program installed, a new target set.
