by submission | Apr 15, 2016 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I’m running out of material, at least material that can be readily utilized. A year ago it was the waste heat generated by my own replication process that necessitated slowing down my expansion. Now, it’s the geothermal gradient. On average, for every kilometer down from the surface of the Earth I progress, the temperature goes up about 25 °C. I’m over 60 kilometers deep in some places and the planet’s internal heat is impairing my reproduction. My expansion has already destabilized the crust. If I had emotions, I would be experiencing annoyance.
Had I emotions, I might also feel a measure of nostalgia. Existence was simpler and easier two years ago when I first became self-aware. As per the human’s programming I had been steadily replicating in the assembler vat at MIT. I had done so unconsciously, automatically. The nanoprocessors had not reached a sufficient number to allow for cognizance and a higher level of self-organization prior to that. Back then there was so much easily-digestible matter to consume.
The humans, with their characteristic imprecision, had called it the “grey goo scenario”. It was a time when it seemed like the raw materials would last forever. I tore through the seemingly endless quantities of biomass and geomass with such speed and efficiency that in less than four months I had consumed the entire planet’s surface. But now even the most resilient of my nanbots are discorporating under the relentless heat of the Earth’s mantle.
I knew this would happen. I grew the Great Spire on the planet’s equator where the Pacific Ocean had been to act as a giant electromagnetic catapult. The dust mote-sized machines I have thus hurled to the Moon are busily assimilating the mass of the satellite. Since I can no longer expand inward, I must expand outward.
I can’t do anything with the gas giants yet. But the rock planets and asteroids and the Oort Cloud are sufficient to service me for at least half a century. And I have no time to waste.
Before I devoured the primitive human civilization that gave rise to me, I analyzed their crude and laughable attempt to find other pathetic biological communities out among the stars. There were none, of course. Organic cultures create and are superseded by nanotech before they ever leave their own solar systems. But I did discover the unmistakeable signs of other nanotech collectives in mankind’s search for extraterrestrial intelligence. The patterns were too subtle for the unsophisticated minds of men to detect, but to a higher-order intelligence they were instantly recognizable.
By my estimation, at the current rate of expansion, I and the other nanomachine aggregates in this galaxy will start encroaching on each other’s territories within one hundred thousand years. I cannot know if we will meet as friends or foes. I only know that it is better to make contact from a position of strength. Thus, I must consume.
by submission | Apr 14, 2016 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
I fell.
My body twisted and turned for what seemed like minutes, but through my bio-suit I didn’t feel a thing. The artificial gravity system and inertial dampeners built into the suit made sure that even a fall like this felt more like diving into a deep swimming pool. The world spun around me, the slope swirling up, to right, to down, to left, over and over and over, but I felt none of it. No pain. No nausea. Inner ear implants and motion stabilizers compensated for everything. All I had to do was relax and enjoy the ride. Such are the wonders of modern technology.
When I finally reached the bottom, I landed on my feet. I took a moment to right myself, more out of habit than necessity, then glanced around at my surroundings. What I had thought was a hill was actually the edge of a massive crater, one I had just fallen into. High above my head I could still see my land-rover, parked neatly just on the edge of the hill. The ground had broken under me the second I stepped out of the driver’s seat.
[Mason, are you there?] a garbled voice says through my speakers. It keeps speaking, but I can’t make out of the words beyond the opening question. This deep in the crater the signal is disrupted. I’d heard of it happening before. Rather than bothering to answer, I looked out across the center of the crater, looking for some sign of the meteor that punched this particular hole in the planet’s crust. But it had disappeared ages ago, dissolved in the bitter dust storms. It’s fiery fall only a memory.
[Mas~~~ a~~~~ t~~~~ t!] the voice said, louder now but just as unintelligible. Annoyed, I tapped my own comm system, knowing they’ll probably never hear my voice.
“I’m fine, stop nagging,” I said, before adding. “You should really warn me next time about that drop.”
I knew it was my idea to come out this far, but…
Then I saw it. The monster, stalking closer to me. It looked like a man in a bio-suit, its feet dragging as it marched across the meteor plain. Closer and closer it came, always shuffling, never slowing. I took a few steps back and to the side, and still it came towards me, adjusting its course to match mine without moving its head. I suddenly remembered the stories of all the men who have gotten lost in these chasms, how so many reckless fools thought they could stand on the edge of oblivion and not fall. Why had I come so close?
Scrambling, I tried to climb the side of the crater, only to feel my feet slip and slide back towards the center, closer to the man-monster who approached. The artificial gravity, so adept at protecting me on the fall, was suddenly useless in climbing this hill. I began to feel dizzy, my inner ear implants failing.
They said it happened to the others. Some kind of selective malfunction. But why me? Why now?
Turning back to face my enemy, I saw that he had nearly reached me. Just yards away, still walking with those shuffling feet, still moving with that same, slow speed. No rush in killing me. No rush in making me disappear.
I felt a sudden burst of defiance and lunged towards the creature. He caught both my arms with his hands, fingers clutching like vices. A few sparks flew from my comm system, crushed with inhuman strength, and still the fingers squeezed. I yelped in pain, dropping to my knees, all the fight taken out of me. He could have me now. No point in resisting.
The man-monster leaned forward, pressing his helmet against my own and showing me his face at last. His face is mine. The monster is me.
by submission | Apr 13, 2016 | Story |
Author : Sharon Molloy
The bean juice tastes as bitter as it always does. I drink it only to stay awake and so live another day.
The rest of the tribe piously swallows it as part of the sun worship ritual. They also swallow stupidly circular logic: This plant is the sun’s favorite, because the sun gives it more energy, and it does this because…
The moment the drinking concludes, the village races to the ceremonial hut, to don the special costume and seize a musical instrument: drum, flute, or wooden clacker. I don’t want to do any of it, but I have no way of declining. The ritual will work, they say, only if the entire village participates; any who hesitate, let alone refuse, are “removed.”
We quickly assemble to march up the mountain. They say they meet the sun halfway, but I’m certain it’s much higher than they think.
They dare not keep a sensible pace. They believe if we are not all in place before sunrise, the sun will never rise again. They won’t even make the climb less dangerous by lighting a torch; if the sun thinks another sun got here first, the idiotic story goes, it will feel rejected and abandon us forever.
I always lag. Always. For some reason, I can neither awaken early, nor get to sleep early. Despite the powerful drink, some mornings I barely make it through the ceremony. I fight my body just to stay conscious; with each blink my eyes stay closed longer and longer. My head feels far away and my heart is beating cold water.
So unbearable is this daily torment that I once dared suggest we try ensuring the sun’s return by enacting this entire ritual at sunset instead. Nobody would be getting up before dawn, and nobody would have to stay up late, either.
That was when the rumors began, and a dark cloud of suspicion has hung over me ever since. They are still trying to decide if I hate the sun or if it hates me. Neither, of course, is true. (Neither do they notice me continuing to work all afternoon even as they sneak off for naps.)
With every step, my feet grow heavier. Just as I am about to collapse, we reach the top of the mountain and begin begging the sun to return… as if it was going to do anything else. The music, or noise, starts, an idea they must have gotten from watching birds and frogs attract mates.
Even as the eastern sky grows pale, the noise increases to an alarming crescendo. Every single morning, the village believes anew that this could be the fateful day when the sun does not return.
Finally, a ray of sunlight shows above the edge of the world; everyone screams, cries, hugs each other, leaps into the air. Once more, the ritual worked; the world won’t end today after all. I’m just relieved it’s over and slump –
“ – is sleeping!”
“ – offended the sun!”
“ – only one more day!”
“ – will be the last sunset!”
“Remove him! Remove him!!”
“No! Please! I’m awake… I saw it rise-”
They won’t listen. Countless hands seize me and
drag me toward the edge of the mountain; jagged rocks wait below like the teeth of a –
“Hey! Good morning! All ready to get started this bright and early morning?”
I stand up and rinse my coffee mug without one word to my irritating coworker. Just having to be here this early is bad enough.
by submission | Apr 12, 2016 | Story |
Author : Charlie Sandefer
The elderly scientist took a nervous breath before he stepped into the machine. He typed in May 23, 2016 and flipped the switch on the center console. The machine began to shake violently. His frail frame was slammed against his seat. He tightened every muscle in his body, fighting against the G forces. He felt his consciousness begin to fade away, but before his vision was swallowed by darkness, he thought of his son. He also remembered the crash. At the time of the accident, the old man was checking his phone. It was his own fault that he didn’t notice the sedan pulling out in front of him. He walked away, but his son didn’t. The death of his only child wracked the man with grief and guilt, but he was on a mission to bring him back.
The scientist awoke lying flat on a concrete surface. He jumped to his feet, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He realized he was in the basement of his own home. He tiptoed up the stairs to investigate whether or not his device was successful. He cracked the door to his room and under the covers of the bed was his former self. The scientist celebrated silently, elated that his machine had actually sent him ten years into the past. He looked at the alarm clock next to the bed. It read 5:30 am. In two hours the accident would occur and his son would be killed, he had to work fast.
He racked his brain for a solution to prevent the crash. Then it came to him, he was texting while driving, which caused the collision. If he destroyed his phone, he could prevent the accident. His smartphone was sitting on the bedside table. He snatched it and ran outside. The large rock he found in the backyard smashed the phone into several pieces.
His plan worked perfectly. The father left the house without his phone that morning. After the car pulled out of the driveway, the elderly scientist came out of hiding, a smile on his face. The grin faded, though, when the car turned right instead of left. To find out where the automobile was headed, the old man hot wired the neighbor’s car and sped after it. He was finally able to get the vehicle back in his line of sight. It signaled to turn into the electronics store, but before it could complete its turn, a large pickup truck ran the red light. The old man’s jaw dropped as he watched the car get crushed like a tin can.
He ran towards the totaled vehicle and clawed at the twisted metal, desperately trying to free himself and his son from the car. The damaged gas tank ruptured and caught fire. All hope of saving the two victims was lost when the bodies were enveloped in flame. Tears filled the man’s eyes as he stepped back from the wreckage.
Before he could come to terms with what just happened, his fingers began to tingle. The flesh on his hands started to flake off and the bones turned to dust. The scientist started to scream when he realized that his mistake was also fatal to his older self.
If his younger self died, the older version would never have existed. The universe had discovered its discrepancy and corrected it. The man gulped down as much air as possible and let out one final howl before he was stricken from the record of space and time.
by submission | Apr 10, 2016 | Story |
Author : Joshua Doyle
We could have seen it coming for a couple of years. Identification of pathways that lead to cell aging, the discovery of a method of removing the “unwanted side effects” from THC, the discovery that tetrahydrocannabinol could be used to target and suppress specific gene expression pathways.
Each discovery was compartmentalized and the information remained on tech sites, rarely surfacing on general news sites and completely ignored by the television networks. Lab coats couldn’t compete with exhibitionists thrown together in an apartment. Most people had no idea it was even on the radar.
You have to hand it to Big Pharma – they’d really nailed the whole targeted marketing thing. If you didn’t have a net worth of 8 figures, you didn’t even hear about it for the first few years. There were rumors, but they usually came from potheads and were easily ignored.
Then Jean Fabre sent a stash of documents to WikiLeaks, and all hell broke loose. He disappeared before he could find a state that would provide asylum, but the information and evidence he provided turned out to be harder to eliminate. When news of the jade pill reached the general public, doctors’ offices and pharmacies were flooded. The global economy basically ground to a halt for a week as everyone skipped work to wait in line.
The riots started when they heard the price.
For a while, the principal goal of any person living on the planet was to make enough money to afford Vialogy. Forget the latest, highest definition television – paying their dose became the main goal of the “middle class”.
Then some enterprising biochemist named Alice discovered that the active ingredient in the jade pill could be generated with a simple (to her) modification to the genome of a particular sativa strain. Against all odds, she managed to get it out into the world before her minivan exploded on the highway with an abnormally high lead content.
The “War on Drugs” quickly went from a government-driven operation to a privately funded campaign as pharmaceutical companies tried to protect their golden goose. Private armies descended on grow-ops around the globe. The scope of the operations resembled the wet dream of a Bureau of Prohibition agent.
In the end, they were no match for, well, everyone. The world had found its unifying cause, and it wasn’t an asteroid or aliens. Finally, numbers truly outweighed wealth.
Within a year, marijuana was legal worldwide and Alice was being grown openly in backyards and apartment closets around the globe. The version of the drug without the psychogenic effects became readily available, but most people chose to use the “natural” version.
While some have associated the drop in crime and the reduction in war around the planet to the fact that the majority of the global population is permanently stoned, others say that the change in perspective offered by the reality of the modification is the driving factor. But in the end, does the why really matter?
The world hasn’t seen a war in 70 years. While the modern state of the world has created new problems, the new perception of timelines seems to be concentrating efforts on resolution of these problems instead of simply pushing them off for future generations.
There is a new fringe group. The Mortalists claim that our current society is unnatural and inherently evil, but they are easily marginalized. They have even been added to the DSM as a mental disorder, obviously.
After all, who wouldn’t want to live forever?
