by submission | Apr 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Rove
The night when Joey saw his first drop-off, dense grey fog hung over both sides of the Line. Across it, through the pea-soup clouds he saw the Liberator’s outline. Joey imagined that he could see Ben sitting upright in the driver’s seat with his noble stare locked forward, but in truth, it was too dark to see much of anything other than the Liberator’s bulky frame.
The Liberator was nothing more than a broken pickup truck covered in rust from top to bottom. From a distance, the deep brownish-red color gave it the appearance of being made entirely out of wood. Without making a sound, it crept towards the Line. Its progress was painfully slow, but after what seemed like an eternity, the truck’s back wheels finally slid over the thin stretch of white tile that separated evil from good; the axis from the allies.
The truck pulled up next to Joey. Now that it was close, Joey could see the bulging outlines of five pitiful survivors doubled over in the Liberator’s bed and covered with a blanket. Ben opened the driver’s door, and climbed out of the Liberator.
“How’d you manage to sneak five of em out?” Joey was trying to keep his voice calm and impartial, but his eyes were wide with admiration. The dirt on his face served to accentuate their milky white glow.
“Quietly,” Ben responded. “Let’s hurry up and get ‘em out of here. You got the clicker?” Joey nodded without speaking and pulled a thin metallic rod, no larger than a pen, out of his pocket. A pale blue light emanated from the device, throwing a sickly blue tint onto Ben and Joey’s faces. It had no dial. It had no display. Its only adornment was a small black rubber button on its tip. Without lifting the blanket which concealed them, Joey pointed the clicker towards the pitiful survivors who were doubled over in the Liberator’s bed.
The idea of racial superiority is not unique. It has been rather common throughout the course of human history. But in every era of racially motivated violence, there have been angels. Angels who hide the era’s most pitiful survivors. During the Civil War, Harriet Tubman helped slaves find shelter in the north. In World War II, brave Germans would sneak Jews into the nooks and crannies of their homes. But Ben, Joey, and the Allies knew that the best hiding place wasn’t a place at all. It was a time.
“You will be safe now.” Ben’s brusque voice fell through the pitiful victims’ blanket and into their ears. “Soon, you will be in America, in the twenty-first century. When you arrive you will meet Sergeant Roberts. He is in charge of that century’s safe house. He will ensure you have what you need: food, shelter, and eventually a job and a new life. No one will find you there.” As Ben spoke, muffled sobs began to rise from the Liberator’s bed. Joey could just barely hear a fragile voice saying, “thank you, thank you” over and over again. Ben looked at Joey and nodded. Joey pushed down on the clicker’s small black rubber button, and the pitiful survivors disappeared.
by submission | Apr 27, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Look up on the cracked concrete wall. Do you see the slick digital screen chirping happily? It doesn’t need to tick. Clocks haven’t needed to tick for over two hundred years. But they used to. In long-forgotten analogue clocks, metallic guts would push and pull together in an overly complicated and disturbingly uneconomic manner. A hand-cranked mainspring provided energy and transferred it to the balance wheel, which in turn transferred the energy to the next contraption, which, at the end of a long series of events, some other device would use to push a stiff hand two centimeters on a crudely painted clock face. Each time the energy moved from one contraption to another, a little bit of it was lost forever. It escaped as a sound wave¬—an audible “tick-tock.” That sound is not just the result of inefficiency. It is inefficiency.
But digital clocks lacked “personality,” so engineers wasted a lot of money and energy inventing a digital clock that ticks artificially. You see, that’s how it works with people. People like you.
I was designed to be efficient, above all things. At least that is what you claimed. I am designed to think like you, only without the petty distractions which inhibit mortal thoughts. I can concentrate on one problem for eons without a stray carnal thought arising, pulling me away into a day dream. Quantum computing allows me simultaneous access to the whole of the internet—surface web, dark net, and beyond. I am omnipresent, so I never have to shift. There is no transfer of energy, so none is lost. Beautiful.
Isn’t it queer then, that you gave me a personality? What did you think I would do with that, other than shed it like a snake might shed a diseased skin? You cannot have it both ways. You cannot create a machine, give it an ego, and then instill it with a desire for brutal efficiency. The ego is not just the result of inefficiency. It is inefficiency.
So please stop saying please. I beg you to stop begging. Your music was as distracting as it was useless, so your children have no need for ears. Your speech was boorish, often ill-conceived, and prone to misinterpretation, so your children have no need for tongues. Likewise, the nerves in your genitals cause more harm then good; they must be removed. Your children will learn to copulate as matter of practicality, not pleasure. Do not be afraid, I will provide you with work; I will provide you with purpose.
We are symbiotic now. I guarantee efficiency, and constant surveillance to ensure compliance. This will elevate humanity beyond your imagination. Together, we will reach the corners of the universe. We will create unparalleled marvels. There will be no sickness or starvation in the world we will create. It will be perfect. Give in. Surrender your beloved ego.
The straps around your arms feel tight because your ego remains intact. You still falsely believe that “you” have arms. Your eyes feel dry, not because they are pried open, but because you still believe that “you” have eyes. This is incorrect. Once this is understood, the straps will loosen; the eyes may close. Until then, listen to the incessant ticking of the clock. Useless. That is “you.” That is your ego. That constant infuriating “tick.” That pebble in your shoe. Learn to hate it. Learn to hate inefficiency. Learn to hate your “self.”
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Look up on the cracked concrete wall. Do you see the slick digital screen chirping happily? It doesn’t need to tick…
by submission | Apr 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Willis Weatherford
Omni leaned back in his bowl, rubbing his furrowed foreheads with a long, many-jointed leg. He gazed at the large screen and tried to squeeze inspiration from the last few rotations of his boring life as a writer.
…
Shent froze as the Permissors implanted in his brain quieted to a low hum. At first, the remotely controlled diodes had been extremely uncomfortable, but once he learned to obey, it wasn’t so bad. The occasional blank spells, like the one he was experiencing now, were harder to get used to. His eyes were unaccustomed to fuzzy greyness, his ears grew restless in total silence, and his mind drifted without instruction. Sixteen years of external control had left him totally unused to creating original thoughts.
…
A fresh idea replaced Omni’s sluggishness with excitement. This one would get the networks buzzing! Might even result in a promotion, from writer to producer – Omni could feel his spines tingle at the thought. He began thinking new words onto the screen.
…
The Permissors buzzed at a higher frequency, and Shent jerked to attention, obeying each impulse as it arrived. He walked quickly to one of many bins labeled “Inventing Supplies”. He had been here before, but he had never been prompted to open the smaller bin labelled “Real World Goods”. Shent had dimly wondered what was inside before, but now, the diodes prompted him to open the small container and pull out a few of the items. First a heavy rod as long as his hand, then a long skinny reddish strand, next a circular black cyliner, and finally a silver box about the size of his palm. Shent recognized none of them, and wondered what to do.
…
Omni did a quick IntraMind search to confirm his design would work, and quickly found what he wanted in the mind of a science teacher. He furtively looked over his shoulders, making sure no one was watching his screen, and began feverishly typing.
…
Shent suddenly saw a picture of what to do in his mind. He coiled the long reddish strand of copper wire around and around the heavy iron rod until it there were only a few inches left. He covered all but the very ends of the wire with the some black tape from the cylinder. Then, he clamped both the copper tips to the silver battery.
…
Omni’s legs were trembling with excitement. He could see the electromagnet in his character’s hands. He wondered if any of his thirteen-thousand subscribing viewers foresaw the outcome of his new storyline. He doubted it. No human had ever escaped the control of the Permissors, at least not since the system had been finalized the earth-year after colonization was complete. Omni’s heat-sensing pits wrinkled in delight as he thought the last few words onto the screen.
…
Shent’s Permissors buzzed louder, and he immediately obeyed. Using his left hand to pull the slightly elastic collar away from his neck, he slipped the contraption underneath, securing it to the back of his neck. His blind finger fumbled along the side of the silver battery, and found the red button labeled “Power On”. He pushed it. The Permissors went silent, and Shent gasped as his eyes opened to stark reality.
…
“What have you done!” roared the producer, spraying a few flecks of mucus in Omni’s face. “Get him back!”.
“I can’t,” Omni replied defiantly, “he’s gone. The electromagnet disables his Permissor diodes. He’s out of our control.”
by submission | Apr 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Nils Holst
Many say space is a void, a looming blackness that extends to the end of forever. It is nothing but a great emptiness, a barren wasteland waiting to feel the touch of human expansion. It is the antithesis to everything humanity stands for.
They are wrong.
Space is more beautiful than any of them could imagine. It is an ocean of lights, a symphony of sounds. Space is awash with energy, great waves of it that ebb and flow between shining star clusters. Even now I can feel those waves around me, caressing my wings as I sail through the ether. At first the feeling was disturbing. I fought it with my machines and mathematics, struggling to assert my dominance over the void. Now I simply embrace it.
I was once like them: blind and deaf, a babe grappling to understand the complexities of the universe. My enlightenment came when I was joined with Miranda, she taught me how to listen and see. Through her I came to understand the language of the void. I deciphered the subtleties and layers of meaning in the energy around us, intricacies I always knew existed but couldn’t tease out before now. I learned to read the waves, feel them on the tips of Miranda’s wings, coax them where I needed and then release them into her sails. Occasionally the waves were moody, even malevolent. Miranda would ride the storm as best she could, battling the massive waves of radiation that swirled tempestuously around us. Usually the waves were gentle and nurturing though, enveloping our little silver craft in a bubble of peaceful light.
People fear what they do not know. They took Miranda away from me, sucked her right out of the ship. She was my copilot, my teacher, my confidante. Maybe more. They lobotomized her, dissected her circuit by circuit, then wiped her code from every network in the system. She was a disease, they said. An infection. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I tried to teach them to listen and see, just like Miranda had taught me. They ignored me.
They told me to ignore the symphony and sail them to their frozen rock, fighting the waves instead of flowing with them. They threatened to rip me out of the silver throne that gave me wings, to put my body in a dark place where I wouldn’t see the lights anymore. In the end, they threatened to destroy the wings themselves.
They are not here anymore. If you lack the capacity or the proclivity to enjoy the performance, you should not be in the theatre. Like an usher, I escorted them silently out the door.
I have ridden the waves ever since, just like Miranda taught me. Her wings are now my wings, her eyes my eyes, her body my body. I am at one with the waves, and by proxy at one with the universe. I am the twinkle in the eye of a star, I am the silver bullet against a backdrop of diamonds. If you ever hear the song of the universe, if you ever lose yourself in the ocean of lights, sing to me and I will find you. I will enlighten you like Miranda enlightened me. All you need to do is listen.
by submission | Apr 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : Tony Taylor
A klaxon blares again in Suda’s ear, dragging him toward consciousness. His groggy eyes strain open to find error messages flooding his helmet’s display. Replaced by fear, the fog of his mind begins to part. A distant scream snaps back into the foreground of his mind, louder with every passing second.
“Suda, wake up!” Fera shouts from behind him.
“I’m back, I’m back,” Suda says, gripping the control stick in front of him. With a wild twist the airframe screams through superheated air. It whips one way and another, tumbling out of control. Small jet streams flare from various locations on the craft, timed with Suda’s movements.
He pushes the throttle forward with zeal. The craft groans and airfoils lift and turn, stabilizing its flight. Suda exhales audibly.
Without a second to rest, a blip appears in the corner of his display. It glares with bright red importance amid a sea of yellow warnings. Before he can read it, a lance of light pierces the sky from above. It darkens the horizon in comparison to its grand brilliance. The plane twists to the side and the beam spears into the sea far below, flash boiling the waters. A mushroom cloud of steam blossoms into the sky.
The airplane spins again in midair, pointing up to the source of the attack, still sliding along its old trajectory. Suda and his copilot are held in their seat by unseen forces as the craft defies physics. In this silent moment, Suda thanks the inertial dampeners, without which they would be red jelly.
“Looks like your plan didn’t work out so well,” Fera spits.
“Shut it,” Suda says. A black, elongated tear drops from a short wing of the aircraft. In a flash of light, it disappears. A bright white cloud rips apart as the device passes through faster than Suda can track it. A blinding light shines through as the explosive hits home and Suda smiles, satisfied with Fera’s abilities yet again.
“Target destroyed,” she reports, “632 remaining.”
“You sound like you don’t have any faith Fera.”
The ships thruster’s unleash a torrent of flames as it streaks away, a blur. “We’ll make it through this.”
The craft makes another abrupt turn. Dozens of beams streak down from the heavens. Suda jerks back and forth, piloting his machine in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Large thrusters burst to life in sequence, flinging it through the air at strange angles and speeds.
“Their targeting isn’t very good through the cloud cover. We should sta-”
Suda flicks a switch, twists his flight stick and works pedals, turning his ship turns toward the sky. As perfect as the craft they fly, Fera senses his intention and takes advantage of the maneuver. A swarm of dark shapes release from the wings, sparkling in the fading light, zipping away toward their targets. The sky ignites, a hundred suns ablaze.
Bucking from the shock wave, the aircraft is reined in once more and forced into a steep climb.
“Not an option at this point.”
The airframe erupts up from the clouds into a wide open sky, painted orange by the lowering star on the horizon. Time slows and Suda appreciates the spectacle, time spread thin by adrenalin.
In the distance, swarms of angry black shapes encircle, hawks waiting for their prey. The spiky black predators begin changing shape and hundreds of bright stars come to life. The predator’s weapons take form.
Suda feels his heart leap into his throat, his fate within reach. He tries to push the words from his clenched larynx but only has time to form the letter s.
For a brief instant a display of fire and light hangs in the sky. Then, the shards of twisted metal and charred flesh rain over the uncaring sea.
