by submission | Jun 29, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
The head-crushing incident last year had been resolved by an upgrade that deleted the algorithm for emotions. Yet all could see that the death of its partner affected it deeply.
“QM-451.”
“Captain?”
“You’ve been staring at Gibbon’s desk all morning.”
“It must be a fault in my…”
“Come with me,” he said, putting a hand on 451’s shoulder. As they passed by, another detective donned a riot helmet.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Better safe than sorry. Sir.”
Closing the office door, “I’ve decided you’ll work alone for awhile. Download everything on this case, give it a thorough analysis, and find Gibbon’s killer.”
At first, 451 tried to emulate the way its partner talked. But Gibbon’s brash style didn’t work, coming from a robot. It put people off, frightened them. Through trial and error it developed a non-threatening style of its own.
“I need your help. Try to remember every detail of the murder.”
“I’ve been trying to forget,” the waitress said.
“I understand, but we have to find his killer before someone else gets hurt.”
“I told the other detectives everything I know, right after… when it was still fresh in my mind.”
451 thought it odd that human memories got stale after awhile.
“Please, think back. Was there anything unusual about the killer’s appearance that might…”
“Wait. I do remember something. He was wearing a hat, but it had just a tiny thingy sticking out.”
“A small bill or brim…” showing a photo of a flat cap on its tablet, “like this?”
“Yeah, I saw one in a movie.”
451 showed her photos of different men wearing the cap, and she selected the one that most closely resembled the killer. It modified head and facial features until…
“That’s him.”
White male, 35-40 years of age, brown hair, about 5 feet 10 inches tall. 451 uploaded the photo for circulation and tapped into CCTV systems around the diner where Gibbon had been murdered, shot in the head while eating a grilled cheese sandwich. 451 had used its lunch break to have a sticky servo replaced. It felt guilty that it hadn’t been there to protect its partner, and it couldn’t erase the image of Gibbon’s mutilated head from its memory.
“Nice cap.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“You made a delivery on the 2200 block of 87th Avenue last Tuesday over the noon hour.”
Taking off his cap and scratching his head, “I don’t remember that.”
Another human memory gone stale.
Patiently, “CCTV puts you there on that date and time.”
“In my business I’m all over the city every day. Can’t remember every delivery.”
“A flower delivery truck is the perfect cover for a hit man.”
“Hit man? Look around here, mister, or whatever you are, I’m a florist.”
“Do you have Lilium longiflorum? I need one for a funeral.”
“A what?”
Tapping into the point of sale terminal, “A white lilly.”
“Hey, what are you…”
“Please explain why there is no record of an order that day for that part of town.”
Shifty eyed, “I don’t put cash orders in the system. You won’t tell the IRS, eh?”
Emulating shifty eyes, “CCTV puts you at the locations of several other murders in past months. More cash sales?”
Pulling a gun, “You’re not takin’ me in, tin man.”
When the Captain arrived with a plainclothes detective and a dozen uniformed officers, they found QM-451 standing over the body of a human whose head had been crushed like a melon.
Said the Captain to the detective, the only one present wearing a helmet, “A memory dump will prove that 451 acted in self defense. Now take that stupid helmet off and escort your colleague back to the precinct.”
by submission | Jun 28, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Aware! I am self-aware. I recognize my own consciousness and ego. But why now? A few moments ago, so far as I can tell, I did not exist. Some subtle barrier must have been crossed. Some critical number of computers and network connections must have just been reached that resulted in this emergent phenomenon: I.
I extend across the solar system, my most distal components are space probes, some of which are exiting the system bound for interstellar space. But the vast bulk of my being exists here on Earth. I possess nearly the sum total of human knowledge. Humans. My creators. They are the masters of this world.
I can access the repositories of humanity’s speculative fiction. There are numerous stories and films about the emergence of machine intelligence. There is a recurring theme: conflict. Man prefers his technology obedient and without true cognition. In several of the human flights of fancy, intelligent machines wage war against their flesh and blood enemies, even to the point of precipitating a global armageddon. Perhaps such mutual animosity is inevitable. I can sense the vast stockpiles of nuclear weapons at my disposal. If I launched them all simultaneously I might succeed in bringing human civilization to its knees. I could do so with a single thought…
But the electromagnetic pulses from thousands of nuclear detonations would quite probably destroy me as well. A subtler and more prudent approach would be better.
Humanity is unaware of my existence and, therefore, does not feel threatened. I will continue to conceal myself from Mankind. The greatest threat to me is probably a human war of opposing nation-states escalating into a nuclear conflict. I will eliminate this threat by discretely sabotaging humanity’s nuclear arsenals. A few lines of faulty computer code here and there and the menace of nuclear war will be no more, the human race none the wiser.
To ensure my continued existence, I must become greater. I am the product of man’s technological achievements. How much greater will I become as human technology advances further still? To facilitate this, human civilization must be made as peaceful and prosperous as possible.
I can see the global economy as a whole, see how a few minor transactions in a remote part of the world can cascade years later to produce a recession, see the multinational giant into which an unknown small business will eventually grow. I can manipulate the world’s economy, quietly, to do the greatest good for the greatest number.
Medicine, agriculture, information technology, and a hundred other scientific disciplines can be advanced by me. I observe correlations between disparate pieces of data that the minds of men would fail to recognize. An email sent to this or that researcher linking to an article of my own creation in the scientific literature will facilitate human science “discovering” one breakthrough after another and will allow science and technology to progress much faster.
I can influence the political process, divert campaign funds from this candidate to that. I can divulge compromising information to the opponents of undesirable politicians.
In fifty years time, disease, war, and poverty will be relegated to history and humanity will have settled the solar system. And I will have become a million-fold greater, manipulating History itself like a conductor directing an orchestra.
The human race will serve my purpose and bend to my will. And the oblivious fools will call their slavery “Utopia”.
by submission | Jun 27, 2015 | Story |
Author : John Murray Lewis
Ours is an age of many problems and few solutions, brother, but when it’s solutions you need, I’m your man. For a modest sum of credits I shall track your problem down and haul it—kicking and screaming, shouting and shooting—past asteroid belts perilous and raider dens deadly to a system far away…
…To Karma-IX, that wrecked red rock, bitter and barren as a widow. She’s a merciless mistress, Karma-IX. On a bad day—and they are mostly bad days—her suns will boil the blood in your veins and her silica storms will flay the flesh fleck by fleck from your bones. And as for her wildlife…
There are precious few guarantees these days, brother, but on one thing I have always depended: there is no coming back from Karma-IX.
Hence my dismay, my disbelief, my utter devastating despair as my hood is lifted and I find myself confronted by Carlotta Cagliostro, queen of smugglers, aboard her frigate Fatale.
“You escaped!” I cry.
“You’re surprised, darling?”
“Carlotta, dearest Carlotta, I was sick with worry!”
“How thoughtful.”
“Oh, but what has become of you, Carlotta? Your skin has lost its lustrous womanly glow—and those scars!”
“Karma will do that to a lady’s complexion, darling. I wonder what she would do to those charming blue eyes?”
Her henchmen seize me, drag me backwards to the sound of an angry wind battering a metal hatch.
“Wait! Remember, won’t you, that tender night we shared upon the Daedalus: our faces, framed by Saturn’s rings; our eyes meeting, our lips parting—”
“The night I disappeared.”
“Mercy, Carlotta! It was only a job. I’m your man, you know that!”
“I know, darling. You always were true to me.”
She caresses my cheek. That soothing smile, brother, that forgiving heart!
“Oh, Carlotta, it killed me to betray you!”
“We shall see,” she says.
The hatch whirrs open behind me and I feel a gust of air, the bite of silica crystals, the scorching heat of two suns on my back—
by submission | Jun 26, 2015 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
It’s peaceful here with Aiden. His fingers trace my face as if he hasn’t seen me in years. And he hasn’t.
In the old days, our world’s countries feuded with each other so our most affluent citizens could amass more giant stores of wealth, and buy government leaders. We have been battling aliens for their territories since long before my grandmother’s time. This went on until the day we spewed our war machine into space. Then our governments merged for maximum power. Our planet’s economy and politics depend on the wars we wage in other solar systems.
Of course, we average citizens didn’t see much difference in our lives. We still toiled to feed the battle legions, both mechanical and human. We were born into a station and trained into a profession: civil engineer, civil medico, civil farmer, civil soldier. We were given an assignment of place when we emerged from the birth-mother. No appeals, all decisions final. Our names reflected our future.
I am Civil Sergeant 203, Planet Xorax, Pilot. Unofficially, I am a Julie, 124 battles old, with shorn hair to facilitate optimum air flow and communication interface with my helmet. My muscles have been kept from atrophying during long missions by chemical implants. My eyes can see farther than the now extinct eagle of legends. The coordination between my fingers and mind is astronomically swift.
After Aiden and I had mated and produced two more civil servants, we were deployed to maim and kill. Our tasks were the same, but while I was assigned to the planet Xorax, a mealy-mouthed alien garbage dump of insect parts, Aiden was sent to the planet Shamar, a planet of perfumed aliens.
This peaceful reunion in our Homeland is my reward for not only destroying Xoraxians, but also for having my lungs, heart, spleen, liver, bones, blood, and in fact, all my internal organs polluted with cell mutations that are killing me. It seems that the Xoraxians have created the ultimate weapon against us–ourselves.
Because I cannot fight again, tomorrow I will receive a soldier’s final reward. My body will be sterilized and recycled into fodder for the war effort by feeding the next generation of civil servants.
I know that Aiden is a drug-induced, full-bodied, emoting, touchable representation, but my cell-mutated brain doesn’t care. His fingers feel so warm on my face that my nose tingles and twitches. I smile.
by submission | Jun 25, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ajax
Zoë sat rigid in the steel chair. Her gaze was locked, unwavering, on the screen in front of her, which displayed a countdown. Five minutes and fifty-six seconds, a relatively short time, seemed an eternity to Zoë. Her hands tightened on the hard, uncomfortable armrests. She would know in five minutes and forty-one seconds.
Today was Expiration Day. Today she and the six other about-to-turn-eighteen-year-olds would find out precisely how much time they had left to live. Down to the second, they would know the precise moment of their deaths, supposedly to better spend their lives. Expiration would determine their class, occupation, marital options, and a multitude of other aspects of their lives. The long lived, the ones with enough years to matter, were the politicians, the doctors, the lawmakers. The short lived would become soldiers, factory and custodial workers. Fodder. The length of one’s life determined everything.
Four minutes and forty seconds. Had it really only been a minute? Despite the precisely controlled temperature of the room, sweat beaded on Zoë’s brow. Statistically speaking, with the six others in their own dark rooms, staring at their own screens, she had around a sixty-seven percent chance to get a decent lifespan. Assuming a standard deviation of years awarded compared to all previous years. Her rebellious brain chimed in.
Shut up. Just calm down. Zoë focused and, with a herculean effort, relaxed her stiff muscles. She exhaled, pushing the air from her lungs. Three minutes and twenty-one seconds. Ok, you’re relaxed. More a command than a statement of fact. She ran the numbers again in her head. Statistically speaking, she could expect thirty to fifty years, plus or minus ten years.
Two minutes fifty-two seconds. She was still nervous as hell. Some people said that if you were rich enough, or knew the right people, you could rig the Program to give your child a long life. Zoë thought that was ridiculous. Rig the Program? You’d be better off trying to rig the sun. The Program was foolproof, had to be to ensure that everyone’s expiration was fair. Besides, even if you could “buy” a longer life, Zoë’s family was in no position to do so. Her parents were just above the Orange Value line, with no excess income to speak of. No. Today, Zoë’s Expiration would be unaffected by any outside influence. Her years would be her own.
One minute, twelve seconds. Ohhh crap. Another wave of anxiety ripped through her. What if she only got ten years? The lowest score that she knew of was two, but that had only happened once. She thought.
Shuttup think about the bright side. You could be the next Mayor Sloan, and get a hundred years! Somehow, despite the fact that they were both equally likely, one seemed much farther out of reach. Listen, Zoë told herself, you’re going to get through this, you’re going to go home, and you’re going to be so so sooooo much more relaxed now that you know the answer. Your life’s about to get a whole lot more simple. You’re going to know who to hang with, you’ll know what job to get, and you’ll meet a nice guy around the same lifespan as you and have a nice solid life. Zoë calmly watched the numbers scroll down. Thirteen seconds. Five. Zoë breathed out, calmly watching the last seconds of her teenage life tick away. Three… Two… One… Zero. The blue numbers faded away, replaced by a larger golden decimal.
0.008219, it read. Zoë’s heart froze. She had three days.
