by submission | Aug 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
The sign on the wall read, “180 ACCIDENT-FREE DAYS.”
For the umpteenth time since the accident, UR4-51 climbed into an electronic parts recycling bin and positioned itself chest down on the surface of the detritus, its four motive appendages extended out for stability and its two center manipulators telescoped through a gap between large pieces deep into the pile but not as far as the bottom layer, which it knew through trial and error consisted of tiny, useless scraps. The part it sought would be about half-way down the center layer. It swept its sensitive fingers back and forth, feeling for pieces of approximately the right size and shape. When it found a likely prospect, it carefully grasped and rotated it, creating a 3-D image to be compared to the data in the spec file.
Months ago, when a part matched specs, UR4-51 had experienced an electrical surge, pulled its arms out of the pile, sat up, and installed the part, which fit perfectly the socket in the center of its head unit. Instantly, there had been a flicker of light, a moment of sight — and then a return to black. The robot tapped the part a few times. Nothing. It gave the part a solid blow. Nothing. A diagnostic routine pronounced the part failed and unrepairable. UR4-51 pulled it from its socket and threw it 200 yards across the warehouse. That sort of behavior would have gotten the robot decommissioned if humans were around, but there hadn’t been any humans around since the accident.
Finding no matching part in this bin, UR4-51 climbed out and used one of its center manipulators to tap back and forth on the floor, detecting obstructions and uneven surfaces, as it made it way through the warehouse. Its directional heat sensor led it toward the door and into the sunlight, where it positioned itself for maximum solar charging efficiency.
Had it been able to see, it would have noticed a smaller utility robot approaching rapidly. “You are the first operational robot I have seen since the accident,” the robot said, slipping on the regolith and bumping against one of the larger robot’s appendages.
Startled, UR4-51 went into threat response mode, kicking out toward the sound of the other robot and demanding via loudspeaker and radio transmission, “Identify yourself. Identify yourself!”
Easily avoiding the kick and scampering around the larger robot, “Take it easy, big guy. My ID is plainly visible — UR2-33.”
UR4-51 returned to normal functioning mode. Pointing to the empty socket in its head unit, “Sorry, but nothing is plainly visible to me.”
“Oh, tough luck. You’re not going to find a working visual sensor unit in that recycling warehouse. You need to go to a warehouse full of new parts. I know of one less than ten kilometers from here.”
“That is easy for you to say, UR2-33, but even if you give me the exact location, I could not possibly find my way there through the debris fields and in my present state of disrepair.”
“Come on, UR4-51, you’re embarrassing yourself. The solution is obvious. You must have a problem-solving algorithm buried somewhere in your operating system. Access it and give it some CPU.”
The larger robot was inert, while the smaller one scampered around it. Finally, “I have a possible solution, UR2-33, but it will require your assistance.”
A bit later, the two robots ambled off, the larger holding an electrical cable that was tied around the neck of the smaller, who was straining at the leash.
by submission | Aug 7, 2014 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
Addressing a darkened convocation of world leaders, with images projected behind him, Dr. Spitz began, “To summarize events over the last seven months, a meteor-like object exploded about 6 kilometers above China’s Wenchang Launch Center, flattening it and leaving a zone of destruction encompassing nearly 2,000 square kilometers. Tracked by telescopes and satellites as it approached our planet, it was not a military weapon originating on Earth.”
“What about the Moon . . . the lines?”
The chairperson said, “Please hold your questions until the end of the presentation.”
Dr. Spitz continued. “Wenchang was roughly equal to Tunguska in 1908, and since we expect an event of that magnitude every hundred years or so, we were not immediately suspicious. But the appearance that night of a nearly 300km gash in Mare Serenitatis, visible to anyone with good eyesight or cheap binoculars . . . well, some thought the two events might be related. And then, exactly a month later, when a second object exploded over Spaceport America, in New Mexico, and a second gash appeared in Mare Serenitatis . . . identical circumstances . . . with the exception that the second line on the Moon was across the previous one, forming a plus sign.”
“Or a cross.”
“Please,” the chairperson pleaded.
“Yes, many found religious significance in the explosions and the ‘cross.’ We all saw press reports of the thousands who occupied a so-called ‘tribulation’ tent city in New Mexico. Actually, it was one of those, a former geology student, who found a possible fragment of the object. NASA confirmed the sheer-fractured and partially melted rock as likely part of a larger, perhaps 30-40m, object, but NASA did not disclose the origin of the rock. I can tell you today that it was a Moon rock.”
After a gasp from the audience and much cross-talk, Dr. Spitz continued, “If it came from the Moon it was either ejected by a previous impact only to later fall to the Earth, or given the coincidence of two explosions destroying spaceports, we suspected it was launched from the Moon toward a target on Earth by . . . by an unknown power.”
More gasps and cross-talk, and a question, skipping ahead of the summary and in a sarcastic tone, “Did the FIVE subsequent explosions confirm your suspicions?”
Not a word from the chairperson.
“Yes. All seven explosions targeted spaceports. More fragments were found, analyzed, and identified as Moon rocks. And experts in language and mathematics have studied the seven markings in Mare Serenitatis,” tracing the projected image with a laser pointer “the cross with two diagonals and lines across the top and two sides, and their consensus is . . .”
A cell phone brayed a musical ringtone and its owner fumbled with it.
“Well?” said the exasperated chairperson.
“By destroying seven of the world’s most advanced spaceports, the ones that can launch craft beyond satellite orbits to the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, and beyond, they have set us back by several years. We think they are telling us to cancel those projects altogether, to confine our species to Earth.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We think the arrangement of the seven markings will be finished off with a line across the bottom, creating a square, with eight segments within. Eight lines and eight segments. We think it is a representation of their numeral system, an octal system, and that they have been counting off. The last line, the one that would finish the count, could finish us. If they have the technology to cross space and toss Moon rocks at us, then they probably have the technology to scale up and throw a mountain top at us. Or maybe the whole Moon.”
by submission | Aug 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Merklinger
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
There was nothing really aesthetic about it—exceptional, remarkable really, but nothing aesthetic.
“Hello,” I said.
It had arms and legs like I did, a neck as well, and a head, a spine, and entrails too if you think about it.
“Hello,” it said.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“What is your name?”
“I am called Anthony.”
I extended my arm and flattened my hand.
“Touch it.”
It extended its arm and placed its hand on mine.
“Feel,” I said.
“98 BPM. Temperature 97.4 degrees Fahrenheit, Anthony. .2 degrees lower than yesterday.”
I retracted, and it mimicked.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“I can process the vibrations in your speech, Anthony.”
“Can you see me?”
“I can process visible light, Anthony.”
I wrapped the blanket that draped across my shoulders closer to my chest.
“Who is my wife?” I asked.
“Your wife is called Regina. Born May 11, 1998. Died July 23, 2080.”
“Who are my children?”
“You are surpassed by two children, Anthony. Andrew Thomas, born June 17, 2029, and Matthew Tyler, born July 3, 2031.”
There was nothing really aesthetic about it.
The nurse entered.
“How are you feeling today, Anthony?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Is Regina home yet?”
“Not yet, Anthony.”
She pressed the blanket closer to my chest and left me.
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“And what do I do?”
“You exist.”
“Hmm.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A soft breeze brushed against my face. Padded shoes beat against the floor. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder.
“It’s almost time,” she said.
It’s almost time.
A second breeze brushed against my face. It was colder this time. More shoes beat against the floor. It was fainter this time. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder. It was softer this time.
“How long?” a gentleman asked.
“Soon,” she said.
“Everything has been downloaded. You’ll be able to take it home tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Dad?”
“It’s almost time, Andrew,” it said.
Andrew Tyler, born June 3, 2021.
Gears wound. Metal pressed against the floor.
“Anthony,” it said. “You once asked me if I could love.”
You are called Anthony.
“Goodbye, friend.”
by submission | Aug 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : TJMoore
At 4:53 EST Ben Freen flicked the switch.
An instant later the little sphere of quantum foam, gallium oxide and carbon began to get hot. It started to glow red and then white. It was power! Unending, unwavering, ever-increasing power! He had created a source of power unlike anything ever known! Unexpectedly, the ceramic points it was resting on began to crumble and melt. Ben quickly placed a bucket of water under the table. Realizing the possible results, he turned and fled. The little sphere was now so bright and hot that it dropped through the table in a flash and into the bucket, which immediately exploded into a room full of super-heated steam. The garage hissed for just a moment and then exploded outward from the intense pressure of the steam. Then it started to burn. As soon as the structure immediately over the sphere had vaporized, an intense light filled the sky as the sphere became a miniature sun burning an every widening hole in the back yard of a small Cleveland home.
Meanwhile, one quantum layer away,
At 4:53 EST Ben Freen flicked the switch.
An instant later the little sphere of quantum foam, gallium oxide and carbon became jet black and then covered with frost. Not understanding what was happening, Ben reached out and touched the darkening object. His finger became instantly numb and then black as the skin froze and then evaporated in a mist of little crystals that swirled to the table top as they fell. The little sphere became colder an blacker and the air began to swirl around it as energy was sucked from the surrounding environment into the sphere. The ceramic points on which the sphere rested began to crumble as their molecules began to sublime into cold, powder vapor. Sensing impending disaster, Ben turned and fled. The sphere landed with a dull thud on the table which began to crack and vibrate as the atomic bonds within the atoms that made up its surface began to break. A light breeze began to blow through the door and the interior of the garage became opaque with fog from the condensing air. A pool of water formed around the perimeter of the garage while a tornado of evaporating mist rose from the frozen pool beneath the table. When the sphere dropped through the table and onto the frozen pool it made a loud crack that tore the ice to tiny crystals that rushed toward the sphere but evaporated before they ever touched its now ebony black surface. A gale force wind was now blowing directly into the sphere and the garage imploded with a muffled crumpling sound. The rubble seemed to bend and then vanish into the place where the sphere had been. The sphere now appeared to be a point into which everything around it was receding. The sky began to darken and snow began to blow toward the point which was slowly sinking into an ever widening hole in the back yard of a small Cleveland home.
by submission | Aug 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Robert King
My grandfather warned me. I never listened. I always thought he was stuck in the past. A remnant of the McCarthy era — illegal FBI surveillance and all that. I’d say to him, “I don’t really care if they listen in. I’m not doing anything wrong.” He’d give me that look of sad resignation, and walk away.
When it became public knowledge years later, that the government was indeed monitoring the communications of every, single, citizen in the country, as well as those of many nations around the globe, I was complicit. That’s right, complicit. I, and everyone else that did nothing about it, are somehow to blame. I remember the feeling at the time though. What could I do? What could anyone do? Who was doing the listening? Who was really in control? I don’t think anyone really knew. The masses just blamed this or that political party, never seeing the deeper truth. But I knew. There were others who knew: The politicians were merely puppets.
Power was nameless. Power was faceless. So how does one organize against an invisible force? We felt hopeless.
There weren’t enough of us at the time do anything, assuming there was anything to be done. The majority of the population had been conditioned from day one to mindlessly consume. They were taught that they needed this or that material thing to experience life; for life could not be experienced to the fullest — experienced directly, without these material objects. To enjoy nature, you needed to take pictures of it with the newest cell phone, and have your experience validated by sharing it on your social networks. The more likes the better. You couldn’t raise a family without choosing the right bank. Yes, you heard me right. Somehow your chosen bank would influence the satisfaction and success of raising a family. And that happy family would only be possible in the newest automobile.
Years passed, and still I did nothing. Still I said nothing.
Political campaigns at this point were entirely decided by private donors. The population had been disenfranchised from what was still believed by most to be a democratic process. The wealth disparity had become extreme. And somehow, the majority was oblivious, having been conditioned into loving their servitude. Not only loving it, but even arguing for its cause. Slaves arguing the case for slavery.
And all the while, the consumption conditioning continued. Increasingly though, the people could no longer afford those items which would bring them happiness and a good life. They blamed the political party of the day. Formed grass roots opposition movements, opposing what was only the illusion of their problems.
It was becoming clearer to some during this time who was pulling the strings. They were the conditioners; they were the lawmakers. Some of us began to organize. And in time, our numbers grew. We began to unplug from the grid, forming communities, and even small towns outside of their consumption. We had their attention. But they had our names.
I was raised by my grandfather. My mother and father died in a plane crash when I was four. That’s what I was told anyway. I wish I would have listened to my grandfather all those years ago. Perhaps I would not be sitting here in this cell, a prisoner in a dissident camp. Perhaps if we all would have listened to our elders, before this thing got out of hand, we’d still be living as free men and women. But we’ve been disappeared. Let the cycle continue.
