by submission | Aug 19, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
It’s been a subjective month since we changed history. It feels like ten years. In reality, an infinitesimal fraction of a second has passed for us in the Stopwatch. That’s the unofficial and pathetically unoriginal name some smart aleck gave to the Temporal Exclusion Facility shortly before we started our experiment.
“Another report,” says a tired-looking undergrad to me as another anomaly dispatch pops up on the holodisplay.
Martin Luther tweets Ninety-Five Theses
Getting closer, I silently say to myself. I think back to how it all began. We were warned by both our fellow students and the faculty not to try this experiment. It would never work, they admonished us, but it might damage university equipment. They were wrong.
It had started as a late night, alcohol-fueled brainstorming session: What if the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts had admitted Adolph Hitler? He had no artistic talent, of course. He had been rightly rejected by the Academy. But what if someone had persuaded the powers that be to admit him anyway? Perhaps through the inducement of a large donation to the Academy? Or maybe just a large donation to the ones who determine who got admitted? Could the nightmare of World War II and the cold and hot wars that resonated on from it be avoided? There was a way to find out.
“Report!” says the undergrad.
American and Confederate Presidents meet at the Mason-Dixon Wall
“So we’re back to just the USA and the CSA? The Pacific States of America is gone?” I ask. “What about Canada?”
“Canada is back,” says the undergrad. “It’s no longer part of the USA and its borders are more or less like they’re were originally.”
More progress. Maybe we’ll pull this off yet. I think back to the first night. World War II had been averted. Millions of lives had been saved. But then we’d discovered it had only been delayed, not eliminated. A Second World War had begun in 1951. And this one quickly escalated into a nuclear conflict. We went back and tried to undo our original intervention. The original World War II was restored, but this time the Third Reich didn’t try to invade Russia. Able to concentrate all its military effort on the western front, Nazi Germany survived the war intact.
July 20, 1969: Buzz Aldrin becomes first man to walk on the Moon
“Okay,” I say. “So Aldrin stepped out before Armstrong. That’s fine. Don’t try to correct that.”
“We’ve got a problem,” says another student from across the control room. “The Soviet Union didn’t fall in the late 20th Century. Looks like the USA and USSR have a limited nuclear exchange in 2003. But it doesn’t escalate into a full-scale global war.”
“We can’t let that stand,” I say. “We need an intervention that will weaken the Soviets so the USSR collapses in 1991 like it’s supposed to.”
For thirty days and nights we’ve been endlessly intervening in history, a nudge here, a great shove there, trying to restore the timeline.
SOVIET UNION DISSOLVES INTO COMMONWEALTH OF INDEPENDENT STATES
“Have we succeeded?” I ask.
“Checking,” says one of my fellow students.
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said you can never step twice into the same river. A complete restoration will never be possible. But maybe this time we’re close enough. Maybe this time…
A chorus of moans erupts among the others.
“What?!” I yell.
A new report pops up on my holodisplay:
COMMUNIST COLLAPSE ENDS COLD WAR BETWEEN SOVIETS AND IROQUOIS EMPIRE
I punch the display. The ephemeral words scintillate around my fist.
by submission | Aug 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : A. Katherine Black
Titanium corridors were empty, galleys and docking bays silent, save the faint echo of rodents scuttling about. Still the ship continued on.
At its center stood a tree, supported by a system set in motion centuries ago. Its enormous black trunk sprouted layers of spindling branches, its purple leaves bathed in ancient light. The old thing stretched, decade upon decade, limbs long since pierced the ceiling and curled into floors above.
A girl sat at its base among discarded leaves, tucked into a nook perfect for her never-changing size. She stroked a textured branch and spoke so quietly, so slowly, a human’s mind would make no sense of it. But humans were only ghosts now, occasionally floating through her memory banks.
“How many were here, before?” Time had broken her programming. Somewhere between then and now she’d lost her original purpose. She settled in and waited for its response to seep into her mind.
Thousands shifted through these walls in repetitive cycles. So many bodies, no collective intention.
She asked the questions again and again. “Where did they go?” Its predictable response comforted her.
They fell from this place like my leaves fall at your feet, until one day there were none left to replace the fallen.
Iridescent toes, long and delicate, strong and durable, slid through the cool blanket of leaves. “Will we go away, too?” She lifted a foot and inspected her toes, dulled from the dust of decaying grey leaves that hid under fresh cover.
No child. We are going toward.
Every time the girl trekked to the control room, she gazed out enormous triangle windows at the beyond, at the many dots of light, and she wondered what the trees were like, out there. But the thought of leaving here made her hands curl and her thoughts freeze. Wondering was enough.
“Why are we going toward?” She sparked with every asking, wondering if one day the answer might be different.
We seek my kin. I will mix with them and create offspring.
She stilled as always when she heard these words. The tree never asked why, because trees don’t ask questions. They see things exactly as they are, and so there is nothing left to wonder.
The girl loved stomping loudly through the corridors, and she always paused to survey her lovely dents. She started punching walls simply because she could, because people were no longer there to tell her not to. The dents were random at first, but then they became a picture. Of her tree. Massive and twisted and everywhere.
Every trip she made to push buttons for her friend, she’d enhance the picture. A strike here for contour, a hit there for depth. But she hadn’t put herself in the picture. Because she didn’t know if she belonged. Because she wondered, when the end came, if she’d still be sitting with her tree.
And so the next time the girl stomped up stairs and down corridors, punching touches into her picture before entering the ancient control room in this relic of a ship, she did as she had always done, since the tree had first given instructions. She pushed buttons, telling the station to move them away, in the direction opposite to where the tree’s kin stood in wait.
The never-changing android girl gazed at the stars before skipping back toward the center, toward her captive friend. What she didn’t notice, what she’d failed to notice thus far, was the slightest tip of a branch peeking out from the corner of a floor panel, a single purple leaf sprouting from its tip.
by submission | Aug 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
“Why do we have a dog bot in the first place?”
Offended, “Robot K91 is my PARTNER, sir, and its very shape deters crime by evoking a primal human fear of wolves.”
“‘Deters crime’? The only bot on Mars that can harm humans has KILLED one.”
“K91 is not responsible… It was used as a weapon by the actual murderer.”
“That line of reasoning is exactly why we don’t allow firearms on Mars. Now we have a lethal bot whose Asimov chip is easily disabled.”
“Not ‘easily,’ Commander. The safety responds only to my DNA.”
“Which makes you the prime suspect.”
“Made… until an fMRI cleared me.”
“It’ll take weeks to scan every colonist. I’m giving you ONE DAY…”
“Solar or sidereal?”
“Don’t mess with me, Rochman. Catch that killer by this time tomorrow, or your dog bot will be SHREDDED!”
Looking into the cell, even he felt a twinge of fear at the menacing metallic canine pacing back and forth. It had ripped out the throat of a human and could do the same to him in a second. He entered and the robot stopped, head down, tail between legs.
“We have to talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about, Dan. I killed a human. I can never be trusted again. I must be destroyed.”
“Look at me. You’re NOT a killer, but you can help me find him…”
“We have been over this. There are no clues.”
“And we’ll keep going over it for the next 24 hours…”
“’24 hours'”?
“I mean, for as long as it takes.”
“Well, nothing makes sense. I would not have allowed anyone but you to touch the safety, and releasing it requires your DNA.”
“Maybe you were fooled by a facial prosthetic, and a sample of my DNA was smeared on his hand.”
“Perhaps. But just disabling the Asimov would not compel me to carry out an order to kill.”
“Unless ‘I’ told you there was an imminent life threat to humans.”
“Like a terrorist about to set off a bomb?”
“Exactly.”
“A plausible scenerio, Dan, except for the memory gap. I have no recollection of what happened and my viz was not recording.”
“Bit-level forensics found nothing to recover, because memory wasn’t erased, it was disabled for 14 minutes.”
“I do not have the ability to disable memory and viz, nor are there external controls that would allow others… That is important.”
“If you were partially disassembled, could someone…”
“No, that would take too long.” Cocking its head while puzzling out the clue, “Of course. Now I understand everything. I know who the killer is.”
Impatiently, “Speak!”
“I cannot say, because murder is a capital offense, and I will not be responsible for the death of another human.”
“But a human has already been murdered. And the killer may strike again.”
“No. He… or she, will not.”
Extending a hand toward the robot, “Your Asimov chip must be defective. I’ll release the safety and you can tell me…”
The robot simulated a growl and showed its fangs.
“No. It is I who am defective.”
With that, K91 jammed sharp claws through its chestplate, ripping apart its neural net and shorting out its systems.
After fMRIs had cleared every colonist, the investigation turned toward Earth. A connection between the deceased colonist and K91’s programmer was discovered. Rochman caught a freighter back to the home planet and took delivery of his new partner, UR2-K99, briefing it on the case. They encountered the programmer in a hallway.
One glance at the Mars Colony security officer and his canine, and she turned and ran.
“Stop! I’m releasing the safety on K99.”
She stopped.
by submission | Aug 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Sean Kavanagh
A third term as President.
No one since FDR had served three terms, but he could feel that tingling sense of anticipation, that odd, pulsing of the blood that foretold victory. He was on the verge of making history. The campaign had gone well. He’d connected with the electorate in such a very personal way and now he could almost taste that landslide. The speeches, the personal appearances, even the tedious writing of his manifesto, it had all gone smoothly.
A glance at his watch: 9.59pm – just one minute until the polls closed.
He sat down in his chair in the Oval Office to wait.
His eyes fell on the hands of an antique clock, which presumably one of his predecessors had installed, but which he’d not yet removed. The Oval Office did look a little threadbare these days, but times were hard.
The election was over: the clock struck ten. Now all that remained was the count.
He looked at the ballot box on his desk and smiled.
Wanting to savour the moment, he went back to the window and looked out. It was a dark November night in Washington, snow falling early, as it did now. But all the snow would be immaculate. Untouched. No footsteps. No sidewalks cleared. No hills littered with snowmen or the remains of snowballing fights between children.
The snow lay undisturbed by man, as there were no more men. Or Women. All gone. In a plague so swift it was over before panic even began.
But he had been spared.
Just him.
And, as the last living member of the human race, he intended to see out his days doing what he believed to be right and proper.
The country…the world… needed a leader, and he was proud to be President of…everything.
Slowly, he walked over to the ballet box. Unlocked it (tampering was unlikely, but he was a stickler). Up-ending the box, the single vote fell out. His vote. He picked it up.
“Commencing count,” he said to, literally, nobody. He unfolded the ballot paper. His eyes went wide with shock. No….No, how?
He looked closer.
In his haste he’d folded the paper before the ink had dried, and now the ‘X’ next to his name was smeared beyond recognition. He took a deep breath and showed the ballot to the empty room. “Spoiled!” He announced, and he set the paper aside.
Such a defeat was bitter. It wasn’t a charismatic opponent, or a popular ideology that had defeated him, no, it was nothing but his own sloppiness and arrogance.
They’d always said every vote counted.
He hated it when the dead were right.
by submission | Aug 14, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“So why spray millions of tons of toxic soup on the U.S. for years in chem trails if we had this fungus ready?” Harold Simpson leaned forward over half-finished plates of veal chop Milanese and Coho salmon amandine, adding impact while interrogating Elliot Thompson, Senator Farrell’s Chief of Staff. The two camouflaged themselves among dark business suites at lunch in Washington D.C.’s Fiola restaurant.
“Timing, like elections, is everything. You’ve worked D.C. long enough. We soften up targets first… then hit them hard. DARPA developed varieties of soups, confusing our enemies. Journalists wrote it was about metals used for HAARP communications or climate modification. Partially true, however, it was salts used in late winter and early spring that had a real bang. Those absorbed through their tough skins into their bio-operating systems. Made them vulnerable to what’s coming next.” Elliot leaned back and continued to dissect his salmon, turning his knife and fork like a Swiss surgeon.
“What about our people? You blocked the CDC conclusions: increased asthma and autism in children, obesity and lowered IQs. I met with the Director two weeks ago. They’re livid about outbreaks of common diseases, like measles, after mothers refused vaccination.” Simpson continued to hover over the table, whispering to his lunch mate. “Isn’t Farrell worried about the hell she’ll pay, revealing the back story on massive alien deaths next week? She approved the black project funds for Hawaiian research. Maybe she should delay.”
“Sit upright, Harry. You know the media vultures here watch for intense exchanges.” Thompson continued his repast, finishing the last bits of fish. “There will be inquiries, no doubt. She will deflect with standard collateral damage BS. You have to put the threat and risk in perspective. Simple fact is the Grays broke the Eisenhower agreement. In the 80s, a hundred thousand went missing…forever. Last year it was almost a million. How would you like to be veal on that plate?” Thompson picked up his heavy, red-cloth napkin, delicately touching his lips, removing almond chip debris. He noted his guest dropping his silverware as his jaw opened. “Really, Harry. You’ll make a mess of things. Pull yourself together.”
“So who gets the credit, or blame? I’m sure that’s been discussed.” Simpson waited for a response while quickly draining his glass of water, recapturing his composure.
“DARPA wants to stay on the sidelines for this one. We’ll probably tip the hat to Whittier and Mason. They may catch some flak for the early tests of ophidiomyces that took out the rattlesnakes on the East Coast and in Illinois. We covered that by comparing it to natural outbreaks of the bat fungus. Hey, the aliens read, too. It’s all a media war, but when we release the final product all over the country next week, good-bye Mr. Contact of the Third Kind…including their infiltration of hybrids into government and industry. It will be a slaughter.” The waiter interrupted the intensity with delivery of Italian ice cream.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t share your enthusiasm, reelection season or not.” Simpson’s phone rumbled on the table. “I’ll have to take this, sorry. Give my best to the Senator.”
“Sure, Harry. I think she’ll be pleased. Oh, no need to get up to leave, even if you could. Overpowering thirst is the first sign. How was your dinner salad?”
No reply was expected as the Chief of Staff watched Simpson melt in his Brooks Brothers suit, becoming a pile of cilia and fine dust on the floor.
