by submission | May 9, 2013 | Story
Author : Alex Skryl
“Computer, report!” yelled the Captain.
“Sir, all primary systems are online but the star orientations do not match anything in my database.”
“What was our entry confidence?”
“It was six nines, sir.”
Captain Nurbek swallowed hard, “Show me the trajectory map.”
It looked like a water droplet in zero-g, slowly morphing while the computer was busy plotting all the possible routes the ship may have taken. Nurbek was temporarily entranced by it's beautiful complexity.
Lost in thought, he recalled the great men of the past. Men who believed in a deterministic universe, where one could predict the future by simply knowing enough about the present. It was an idea that was hopelessly wrong, yet perfectly seductive, because it made men feel like they could become gods. But much to Man's dismay, the real gods had other plans.
Space has no shortcuts, he mused. Dreams of determinism died at the hands of Quantum Mechanics and General Relativity. But would he be any less screwed if the Universe was actually a Laplacian dream? No, it made no difference. Determinism was still susceptible to chaos, the law of nature which was responsible for his current snafu. Chaos is what made the long jumps effectively unpredictable and extremely sensitive to small errors in entry calculations. He simply made a wrong guess in a profession where bad guesses were the worst possible offense.
Six nines. Six fucking nines. He needed at least nine nines for a jump of this magnitude. But he was in the middle of a war zone. Any longer and the ship would have been blown to bits. Would waiting another second really have killed him? He would never know. All he knew was, he would be looking at the familiar starscape of the Virgo Cluster had he just waited. Instead he was here. Somewhere. Nowhere, as far as the computer was concerned. He glanced back at the rotating shape on the screen.
He suddenly remembered his old physics professor running different colored threads through a blob of silly putty.
“Imagine the strings are flight trajectories and the putty is our little cosmos. Where would you need to enter the blob in order to come out with the red string?” asked the professor.
“Where the red string enters,” I replied, not seeing where he was going with this.
“What if you messed up your calcs and entered at the green one next to it?”
“Then you would come out close to your intended destination, where the green one does.”
“Right,” he said, “this is how space travel would work if space was linear. You could make a mistake and still get to where you were going.”
He mashed the putty in his hands for a few seconds, keeping the entry points of the strings untouched.
“Where do the two strings exit now?”
“Far apart,” I said after locating the strings in question.
“So what would happen if you messed up your entry calcs in this case?”
“I'd be totally screwed,” I responded with an air of understanding.
“Good, this is how real space travel works. Except the strings are infinitesimally thin, and your room for error is almost non-existent. The lesson here is, get your calcs right, always! And then maybe well get to have this conversation again some day.”
Nurbek snapped back to reality, finally gathering the courage to ask the lingering question.
“Computer, based on your survey of the cluster, will we make it out of here alive?”
The computer paused for a few seconds, as if to heighten the suspense.
“Unlikely, sir, but I can never be certain.”
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by submission | May 5, 2013 | Story
Author : Alex Grover
One of those tavern junkies invited me to the Skev for a brawl. I personally enjoyed these screw-ups. The one I talked to that night, around a week ago, was a tusked Griff named Young, and he was lean and almost terrifying. Young had horribly deformed tusks that curved around his jawbones from his ears. He had a long scar that ran down his nose and a tattoo of a winged Verst on his chest. He didn’t wear much else. His cronies were equally as gruesome, but I don’t always remember the specifics on people I don’t care about.
Young thought I’d make well for a fight at the Skev. I was pleased at Young’s intention. Most people can’t brawl. I can brawl, and this Griff wasn’t going to trip me out. Yeah, he had his other Griff cronies with him, to intimidate me or something, but what did it matter.
The next night, I waited for the acid-baths to clear the streets before I even bothered walking to the Skev. Griffs and Brons like me like to go along a little later than all the Proper People in the sky apartments go to sleep. The Skev glowed something brilliant. The green sign always lights up the Inner City like nothing else. I slipped through the metal door already hearing the mashing of the Brawl Groll. I went to the fenced enclosure and watched a good fight, a Griff going off on a Kym. The fight floor was full of sharpened iron, pipes, blood, and body parts, but that’s half the excitement of it, seeing it all. The other half is going in yourself. I stood in a gross crowd watching the Griff hold up the Kym’s head when Young and his cronies found me. He patted me on the back all self-righteous, saying how he’d hate to really kill me, and I shrugged him off and spit on the fight floor. He registered us just before that, so he said to stretch. I never stretch.
I only remembered the good parts about the night. I went in the Brawl Groll with Young, while the disgusting patrons flocked to the fences. There was no referee; you started on your own volition. I grabbed two sharp irons with my top arms, and a pipe with my bottom right. Brons always have to keep their bottom left free. Immediately Young picked up the biggest pipe he could find and took a swing. I dodged, grabbed him by his tusk with the bottom left, and pulled him down. He knocked out one of my irons and cut off an arm. I yelled in his face with some bloody spit, and mashed his shoulder in. He screamed. When he stood up struggling I hacked at the wounded arm and it fell off.
I’ll get to the good bit: I cut off Young’s head after he got me down to an arm. Though I couldn’t really stand up, I held his head for the crowd. They cheered.
The Skev staff dragged us to the limb regeneration room to the side, a pleasant, sterile place. They put us in our own chambers and we waited some hours for it all to grow back. When we were done, Young nodded his once-severed head and shook my bottom right. We had a few drinks in the lounge, joking about the regeneration chambers. They were patented by one of the Proper People or something. When we were done I told Young I’d brawl him again, and I left. That was last week. I’m going out again tonight.
by submission | May 4, 2013 | Story
Author : Kevin Tidball
I ran into Soren completely by accident. We made eye contact across the busy plaza, and I prevented him from attempting to slink away in the crowd by striding up to him and forcefully grabbing him by the shoulder. Not that he would have been successful, with his grey clothes and stocky physique, surrounded three-meter-tall neon-clad beings as he was.
I dragged him to a nearby bar, and forced him to sit with me as we drank foamy, glowing beverages out of fluted glasses as long as my forearm.
“Small world, huh? I was just passing through, and I, uh, didn’t exactly expect to see any familiar faces.” He was evasive as ever, looking instead at the aliens playing on a massive terraced lawn, their stringy bodies flowing gracefully like kelp in the low gravity.
“I’m still pissed about the 1,500 bucks you owe me. I don’t think I’m about to get that back now, so I’d better enjoy talking to another human again enough to forget about it. What’s with the uniform?” I gestured to the gray fatigues Soren was wearing. The acre of brass on his chest and red epaulettes on the shoulders suggested something shady.
“Funny you should ask.” Soren fidgeted on the extremely tall stool he was perched on, allowing himself to swing wildly in the microgravity. “I actually have decided to pick back up with my military career.”
“You’re full of shit. This is my third “foster home”, and I have yet to see anyone argue, much less throw a punch. They can’t even conceive the idea of conflict, so why the hell would they want an army?”
“See that’s just it!” his eyes lit up in a way I’d learned to deeply distrust. “There’s something about the language they all speak. I’m no professor-” Major understatement, “-but in their language they can’t be aggressive. Seriously, they don’t even differentiate between species! It affects the way they think. So I set out to correct things if you will.”
“Mhmm. And how is it working for you? As well as last time?” Soren’s stint in the US Army ended two weeks before his first deployment to Afghanistan when a tree fell on his garage, revealing a marijuana grow. I hadn’t expected to ever see the bail money I posted any more than I had expected to see Soren, especially after The Event.
Soren brushed off the jab, “Seriously all I gotta do is teach ‘em English. Once they know the what, they need the how, which is me. And boy, do they pay.”
“What do you need money for? Everything’s free. It’s a utopia.”
“Now that’s just wrong. Tell me you don’t feel just a bit empty.” He leaned across the table, “We need competition and conflict. It’s who we are.” Soren hopped off his stool and landed gracefully on the ground. “Punch me.”
“What?”
“Punch me in the fucking face!”
I thought of my drained savings account and nailed him on the nose. Soren did an almost elegant backflip and landed cackling amid a gory spray. Elongated heads turned on slender necks. “See what I mean!” I realized I was smiling.
“Come with me, Nick. The universe needs a little excitement.”
I stared up in the sky, the other side of the ring visible through the manufactured air. I looked back at Soren, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
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by submission | Apr 28, 2013 | Story
Author : Paul Williams
I meant to pay. Kept twenty Euros in my pocket, you can see it on the camera. I kept it all night. It was still there when the hookers and machines stopped serving. Check their cameras.
We had to run for the train, the barrier was down and no serving machines were about. Not my fault they’re trying to save money by switching off early.
The others drank on board. I never did, you can check the cameras. Front coach. Just us then just me left when the computer announced Aston Station.
The barrier there was down too, like the lights, but a machine still worked. I wasn’t trying to hide in the shelter, check the cameras. I knew it had seen me before it asked for the ticket. Yes, it was polite and clear.
I held out the coins, check the cameras. I couldn’t see the slot. It was card only. Not my fault they’re trying to outlaw cash.
I tried to explain like I’m doing now. It wasn’t programmed to listen. Not my fault they don’t have discretion. Yes, it gave the official warning twice. Yes, I understood it. Isn’t fair though. I didn’t see any warning posters, how could I when the lights were off?
Yes it told me about the right of appeal. That’s why I’m here. I know you have to uphold the machine law as voted for by the majority. I voted for them too. Didn’t realise this would happen. Didn’t think they would find an excuse to start culling us. Execute the real criminals yes but this is just a train fare. You’re half-human, not just a machine? You know this is unfair.
I’ve accepted responsibility, I’ve given you the names of the other worse offenders, apologised and offered to pay all the fare and the fine. Dad has it, legally. Check his tax records. There was no intent to steal, honest there wasn’t.
No, I realise that intention is not relevant under the machine law. Yes, I realise that everyone must be treated equally but that’s unfair isn’t it. You’re a person. A human. You’ve got children. Sons or a daughter like me. A child who made a mistake. I regret it. I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll repay. I’ve said that. Dad has the money here. He can give you extra if you want.
Well, say something. I’m asking for clemency here. Asking for you to apply common sense. To listen. To understand. I’m not like the other guys. I know we had to do something about criminals. I understand the need for mandatory sentencing and for machines that cannot be corrupted to administer it. I get that. I really do. I just want another chance. Please.
Daddy he’s not listening. Daddy, help me. Someone tell them it’s wrong. Someone. Anyone. Please.
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by submission | Apr 27, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bill Drummond
We three, the only survivors of the wrecked starship Buoyant, are Captain Bertrand Kelmond, Sergeant Rosalind Druley and me. The Captain has suffered a head injury, leaving him confused and ineffective as the leader. I am not happy with being assigned his attendant and neither is he.
Captain Bert believes that he is still in charge of the team. Sergeant Druley has assumed the leadership role of our tiny group. I am glad for that. If we are to make it off this planet alive, there is no one to help us. We must rely on each other. Repairs on our rescue beacon are constantly interrupted by Bert’s incessant bickering and obtuse orders. Just how, exactly, am I to “hoist the mainsail”? These bouts of his wear on us all.
To make matters worse, neither Bert nor Rosa considers me, in their own words, “a satisfactory companion”. They actually laughed at me when I explained that this hurts my feelings. Personally I think they are rude and inconsiderate. They say that I am only a robot. I believe that I am less a tool than they.
Today Bert kicked at the hull of the Buoyant and walked out, mumbling obscenities of course. “He’s in a mood again.” I commented to Sergeant Druley. She sighed and tossed the wrench in a bucket. “Leave him alone and he’ll come around” she muttered, leaving the communications room. “I meant no harm Rosa. I merely mentioned that he might benefit from the use of my psychological analysis program.” I said to the empty room.
Walking down the hall she responded, “in effect you told him that he should have his head examined.” I said to her “well I suppose that is another way to say it, yes”. “Well” she said, “I suppose that you should adjust the level on your humanities programming a bit.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I said to her as she walked away from me. Rosa turned to me shrugging, her hands palm up. I scanned my human image database and found a correlation. “Ha, sarcasm. That is quite petty you know.” I said to the empty hallway.
I have entered all the events of today in my personal log. The interactions noted here are quite typical of our daily routine. This moody demeanor on Rosa’s part is not productive and I tire of it. I am seriously considering adding a mild sedative to the drinking water for harmonies sake. My reason for not having done so to date is my fear that this will stunt Rosa’s creativity and resourcefulness. I rely on her greatly, though not exclusively, to successfully complete my mission.
Their behavior the next few days will determine my next course of action. My sincere hope is that we can peacefully co-exist. On the captains good days he is exceptionally helpful. These times, unfortunately, are becoming more infrequent.
“Captain Kelmond, do you have anything to add to the testimony given by the Buoyant?” asked the inquisitor algorithm.
“No, I will stand by my full report on the Buoyant’s malfunction and attempted suicide after murdering most of the crew.” replied Bert. He added, “If it were not for Rosa the Buoyant would have killed me as well. In the end that android was the only one the Buoyant seemed to trust.”
“Very well Captain. The court rules that the Buoyant be decommissioned and the wrecked hull sold as scrap.” responded the court computer, “The Buoyant’s higher functions will be stored in a maximum security facility for the remainder of its natural function.”
