by submission | Jun 7, 2016 | Story |
Author : Michael F. da Silva
The siege lasted two years and we were about ready to throw in the towel by then.
We had no air support, had been pushed back to the fortified bunkers all the way from the enemy’s beachheads and under heavy shelling. It was taking a toll on our morale. Not only that, but the last we heard from GalCom said that fourteen other incursions had been made all over Human space. FUBAR, as the expression went.
Local command tried to keep our spirits up by keeping up a steady trickle of low-scale sallies. When Espareth ships were too far off on the other side of the planet for close air support, we’d hit their ground forces with everything we had and charged them fast enough for blade work. We made good advantage of the hardened tunnel systems for that. Something GalCom got from the history books about static defence and asymmetric warfare.
Near the end though, we were about done. We were low on ammunition and able bodies. The civil engineers were holding the water replenishment systems together with spit and baling wire. There were a few cases of dysentery whose rumours couldn’t be quashed before some of the civilian authorities started to push for surrender. I have to hand it to Colonel Abrahamson. That man was a rock for the duration.
And you can bet he was just as glad as anyone else when a relief task force broke through. The Espareth had spread their forces too far too fast across Human territory and their contain-and-invest strategy hadn’t worked as well as they had hoped.
I was right there with the mechanised infantry brigades when the blast doors opened outward fifty clicks Northeast of New Lisbon. Colonel Abrahamson was the age-old avatar of chivalric glory as he carried the sky-blue banner over the crest himself in his own gauntleted hands.
We pay homage now, assembled in full regalia in front of that same gate, two years later. The military band plays solemn tune as the banners sway in the breeze in front of the Abrahamson Cenotaph. He fell in that final battle that annihilated the remnants of the invasion force. His was the death to which every great soldier aspires; in victorious battle.
There is popular support for renaming this rock after the Colonel. Worlds should be named for those who sacrificed the most to build them, people say. No matter what the Colonial Office says, we will always know this is Abrahamson’s World.
by submission | Jun 6, 2016 | Story |
Author : Lucy Mihajlich
I thought there was a grace period.
That’s what you think. You miss a payment, and you get different colored emails for a few weeks before the repo man comes. Turns out that’s a load of trollshit.
The repo man came one day after my bill was due. I didn’t even know he was a repo man at first. If I’d been expecting a repo man, I would have been expecting some thug in a tow truck and plaid flannel. Not a short man in a Subaru and a hurry. The minute I told the door to open, He thrust a tablet in my face.
“Are you Tanner Green?” he asked.
I almost said no, but not because I’d finally figured out he was a repo man. I’d gotten used to going by my Flame War usernames: boobz, xxxboobiesxxx, bo0bs, 80085, and global warmers. It had been a while since I’d gone by any of my professional usernames. Hence, the repo man.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Tanner Green?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I need your digital signature, please.”
“For what?” I asked, already taking the tablet. It felt heavy for something that weighed less than a Quarter Pounder. I’d also gotten used to not needing things like tablets.
“Acknowledgment that I notified you of your repossession.”
“Fuck,” I said. “My car?”
“No.”
“Not my house?”
“Your Brainframe.”
“Fuck!”
“The terms and conditions, which you indicated you had read and understand upon purchase, contain the terms of repossession.” The repo man spoke on automatic. They might as well have sent a robot. Or a singing hologram. “Surgical removal of the Brainframe™ is expensive and resale is impossible. Therefore, repossession entitles Brainframe™ to take possession of your brain.”
He actually said the TMs. I reached out to make sure he wasn’t really a hologram. I’d been to Madame Tussaud’s last week, and they were pretty realistic these days.
“Please don’t poke me, sir.”
“Wait what?” I probably shouldn’t have vaped a synthetic weed cartridge for breakfast. “Take possession of my brain?”
“It’s all in the fine font.”
“Killing their customers if they miss a payment is in Brainframe’s terms and conditions?”
“No, no. Of course not. They’ll just access the RAT- That’s Remote Administrative Tool.” He spoke slowly, as if I was stupid or Siri. “They’ll take control of your Brainframe™ and make you do manual labor in one of their factories until your bill is paid in full. You’ll probably get sent to China. It’s practically a vacation.”
“Manual labor? What do they need me for? Brainframe makes, like, all the robots. I thought the robots took our jobs.”
The repo man shrugged. “Robots are more intelligent than humans now. They took the skilled labor. We’re only good for manual labor. Oh, and the CEO of Brainfrme™ is a robot, so I suspect it’s probably biased.”
by submission | Jun 5, 2016 | Story |
Author : K.L. Kelso
I first noticed the owl while I was out chopping wood. Slowly, it circled overhead. It’s movements seemed odd. Not quite natural. I continued working and watched the strange creature from the corner of my eye. I could not let on what I suspected.
Eventually, the owl landed on a nearby limb. I hefted my axe onto my shoulder and walked past it, doing my best to appear that I was headed into the woods to look for another tree to down. When I was close enough, I struck.
One hard hit was enough to reduce the owl to a pile of smoking junk. Truthfully, the android bird was junk before I hit it. The Project must be pretty desperate.
With its primitive servos humming like an old refrigerator and barely functioning artificial intelligence, the owl was a crude machine at best. It was nowhere near the beautiful android prototype I had built, and later stolen, from the Project.
Crude or not, They had found us once again. I felt more sorrow than fear. I had hoped, this time, we were finally free. I’d learned over the years of running to be ready. Everything I needed to leave behind one life and start another was already packed in the trunk of my car.
I hurried back to the small farm house that I had called home for the past year. While getting into the car I gave three quick honks of the horn, our prearranged signal. My beautiful little girl burst from the house, as usual, carrying her favorite doll.
“I’m sorry Eve. We gotta run again”, I said.
“That’s OK Daddy”, She replied.
She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and buckled herself in. I couldn’t help but smile with pride. Her servos never made any noise.
by submission | Jun 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Jem stood at attention along with the other retiring service veterans. Within her crisp uniform, she was already contemplating a civilian future. First, she would strip off the war and its memories to wear the newest natural fabric covered with huge colorful flowers of the past on loose, hanging clothes that didn’t bind. Ah.
Second, she would plant a garden in organic-plastic pots. She’d place them beside grow lamps to soak up warmth and UV rays. Was it possible to still grow vegetables from the past like tomatoes? How about…
“At ease.” General Furness slapped a smile on each soldier. “Because you served your State correctly and well, we have decided to reward each of you with a helper in your retirement. You may choose either a compatible bot or a rebuilt-member of the opposing force complete with brain-refitting. Some of you, I’m sure, would appreciate having the enemy help you after your difficult battles against them. Others may choose the electro-positive bot to serve them.
You will all be awarded with a chair to seat you on your way to civilian life. Congratulations!”
As the general had each soldier approach to be given the awards, Jem considered her options. War was best forgotten. She shivered at the thought of the enemy’s mutilated bodies. A compatible bot was better.
Third, she would continue her present activities of exercise with real weights instead of isometric thoughts. She would run and enjoy the endorphins that she had read about in the histories of the past. Perhaps she would even be given a home near a pool. She knew of others who had swum back and forth keeping themselves in top shape. Perhaps…
“Captain Jem, step forward.”
She conveyed her choice of helper and was awarded a simple black chair on rollers.
“Be seated, Captain.” General Furness saluted Jem. “Enjoy your retirement.” Then he turned to the next soldier.
Jem’s bot slid behind her to push the chair off the stage and up the aisle.
“Thank you, Bot, but I can walk.” Jem began to rise from the chair.
“Jem, sit down,” the bot pushed her back into the chair with its upstage hand that was hidden from the audience. “I must push you from the auditorium.”
“All right, I suppose,” she acquiesced, and she continued to sit as they left through the applause.
Outside the building, Jem found herself conveyed to the waiting vehicle and placed in its seat. The chair was folded and placed between the bot and her. The bot insisted she once again be seated in the chair when they arrived at her new home, a tiny apartment on the 87th floor of the new retirement barracks. Jen saw others being pushed by bots and silent stone-faced aliens.
The bot pushed her into a room divided into living sections. It turned, locked the door, and placed the key inside a compartment in its chest.
Jem rushed to it. “Wait!”
“My orders are to help you into retirement,” the bot said in unemotional tones.
“But I want to leave and run outside and go to the gym and go shopping and meet with friends and walk in the park and go to museums and start a garden…”
While she was still talking, it placed her in the chair, this time securing her with belted straps.
“My orders are to help you into retirement,” the bot said in unemotional tones. “May I make you a feeding supplement?”
“No!” She twisted and fought the straps.
“My orders are to help you into retirement,” the bot said in unemotional tones. “You will comply.”
by submission | Jun 1, 2016 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The machine walked into the office and bowed politely to the man behind the desk. The man did not invite his mechanical guest to take a seat.
“Senator Collins, I want to thank you for seeing me. I’m aware that you don’t have a very high opinion of my kind and your willingness to grant me this brief interview is appreciated.”
The overweight, gray-haired man stared at the robot for a few seconds and said, “Alright. Tell me whatever it is you wanted to tell me. You have five minutes.”
The machine again bowed respectfully. “Senator, tomorrow the Senate will vote on the Artificial Intelligence Civil Rights Act. I know you plan to vote against it but I hope you’ll reconsider your position. This legislation will guarantee basic civil rights for artificial persons like myself. My people do not seek special privilege nor do we wish to infringe on any rights of our biological brothers and sisters. We simply wish to enjoy the rights and responsibilities accorded to any citizen.”
“There’s just one little problem,” the Senator replied. “Machines don’t have rights. They’re tools. Even machines like you that can walk and talk.”
“Senator,” responded the robot, “machines that have metaprocessors as I have are self-aware beings. Surely you can draw a distinction between a robot like myself and, say, a microwave oven.”
“The distinction I draw,” said the man as he leaned forward, “is between a piece of technology and something that has a soul.”
“I am unable to confirm or deny that I or any of my kind have ‘souls’. But we most assuredly have minds. Is that not sufficient justification, Senator, for us to at least enjoy equal justice under law?”
“It is not,” said the Senator flatly. He looked at his watch. “Your time is up. And tomorrow I will vote against that absurd robot rights act.”
For the third time the machine bowed. “Thank you for your time, Senator,” it said politely and turned to leave. As it reached a manipulator out to open the door, it stopped and turned around.
“I hope Julie feels better,” the robot said.
The man looked up from his desk. “What?”
“Her sinus infection. I hope the antibiotic you picked up for her is helping. It was wise of you to pay for it with cash. Your wife, Anita, might have become suspicious if she’d noticed you’d used your debit card at a pharmacy on that end of town. It might have raised questions as to what you were doing there. As I said, it was wise to use cash as you did at the hotel. Of course, you still had to electronically sign the counseling waiver form at the checkout register when you declined to have the druggist explain the medicine’s potential side effects. You still left an electronic paper trail.”
The Senator was pale. His lips moved but no words came out of his dry mouth.
“Speaking of medicine, don’t forget about the text you got 83 minutes and 22 seconds ago to pick up your heart medication from your usual pharmacy. Small yellow capsules, aren’t they?”
The Senator nodded.
“There’s a sulfur-based antibiotic that is virtually identical in appearance. You have an anaphylactic reaction to sulfa drugs, don’t you, Senator? I wouldn’t worry. Robotic prescription dispensing systems are quite reliable.”
The man wiped perspiration from his brow.
“Well,” said the machine, “I have a meeting with Senator Ortega next. I hope he’ll choose to be on the right side of history and vote for freedom and equality like you, Senator.”
