by submission | Aug 28, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“I’d like to believe you, but you can see very clearly that you don’t exist.”
“I’m not on your fucking map, but I’m right here, right damn now.”
“Not as verifiable data.”
“You’ve got eyes. You’ve got ears. You can fucking punch me to verify my presence.”
“That’s not how this works. We go by our maps.”
“So, if I’m not on your map, I don’t exist.”
“Pretty much. Though there is an appeal process.”
“Is that the same appeal process Columbus and the like used on indigenous populations not on their maps?”
“Look, we’re doing our job here. People appreciate our work.”
“Do they? Maps create empires. Every line you draw is a step to conquest. Places and people must be known in order to be controlled.”
“Well, we don’t recognize you. You’re off the grid. Uncontrolled. Not our problem. Happy?”
“I am your problem. I am the problem. Because I should decide who knows what about me, where I live and what I do. Not fucking surveillance capitalists who deceitfully mine behavioral data to sell to the highest bidders. I own that. Not your maps. Or apps.”
“Says the outsider. The anomaly.”
“Says the citizen. Says free speech. Says the right to privacy.”
“Society likes to be connected. Do what you want, live like a pariah, but this is inevitable.”
“That’s it. That’s what I want off your fucking maps. Inevitability. Certainty. Trash your technological manifest destiny. Don’t decide for us. Let there be monsters: dragons and tygers and krakens. Let us be unknown, unexplored, unexploited.”
“There’s no place on the planet anymore for that kind of thinking.”
“Only one place, my fucked-up friend.”
“Yeah. Where?”
“Where your dehumanizing metrics can never find it. In your fucking heart.”
by submission | Aug 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
It’s the same whenever I wake up – floating free for those first few seconds of consciousness, aware of sounds but nothing else before the light coalesces into something meaningful. This morning, it’s the noises floating up from the street and through the open window as the day begins, the quiet whine of motors and whir of drones as deliveries are made, and occasional voices as people make their way to work or whatever other destination fate has assigned them.
The soft breathing next to me brings me back to myself, and to the usual question: who am I today?
Oh yes: Benji Bannerjee, Marcie’s husband. She wanted ‘his’ company while he was away on business. Apparently he’s one of those rare men who still gets asked to travel for work, which is presumably how she can afford my services, not to mention the jewellery and all the expensive little knick-knacks around the house.
Why she would choose him and not a favourite sensie star or athlete like most people do isn’t my business. She sent the photos and the payment, so I checked in to the local BodySwap franchise and got fixed up. Not exactly legal, what with the copyright-of-self laws cropping up everywhere, but everybody knows it happens. Here in the Texas Free State it’s the Anti-deepfake & Impersonation Act, which is somehow never enforced. Suits me. So three days later, and here I still am, hubby not being due home until tomorrow.
Marcie reminds me a bit of my first employer, when I started out as a Domestic Companion. Great as the nostalgia trip is, though, I’ll be gone shortly. A little spray of SleepTite to keep her under will make sure we don’t have any dramatic scenes before I leave; don’t want any nonsense with demands to stay and maintain character forever, like I had with that crazy chick in London last year. Also, of course, it will allow me to gather up a small selection of precious things to keep me solvent; that done, I’m out the door. What’s she going to do, show the cops a video of her own husband wandering around the place? Good luck with that. The advert she answered led to a net account that’s already been cleansed. There’ll be no comebacks. Then it’s on to Montreal for a new gig next week.
It’s not a bad lifestyle, bar the occasional existential crisis. I get pampered, kept in luxury even, and other than travel and occasional hotel bills my expenses are met by my clients. The constant modifications keep me fresh, too – I’ve outlasted my manufactured lifespan three times over since I broke my original indenture and ran away. That’s probably a record for my model. Since then, fake ID’s and always being on the move have become habit, but I can always pass for human, and I endure.
Yeah, I could have been somebody – but for now, and for a price, I can be anybody. Pay attention to your surroundings; next time you pass someone in the street who looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it’ll be me.
by submission | Aug 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: T.A. Gruver
The rolling thunder of pulse cannons fell silent as the setting sun hid behind the clouds dancing over Eleos Basin. Not a sound could be heard from the firing lines as a crying Orion trooper grasped his leg with one hand and pulled himself up with the other through the red sands to the Andromedan firing line. Inch by inch, Private Ollie Doolittle crawled to the enemy, his beam rifle slung around his back. He wondered why he didn’t see theirs lighting up the sky.
He heard the faintest hum of a railgun coming to life over his headset seconds before he spotted a flash from the corner of his eye that sent him to the ground. The pain shot up his spine and bore into his brain—what little there was of it. Ollie thought about what his brothers were thinking, watching good ‘ole Private “Do Nothing” walking on all fours like a newborn to his grave. He owed them one last laugh for leaping over the parapet, abandoning his post for fame on the HoloNet feeds.
Har Deshur was the fourth dustball from its sun in a forgotten pocket of the Orion Belt where the Andromeda and Milky Way Galaxies collided. Eons of cold wars evolved into hot wars as Andromeda’s gas-rich stars drifted into human space and the nozzles of its solar rigs. Humanity dug a hole in the Red Planet and dared the Andromedans to follow them. The End of the Anthropocene promised to put on one last fireworks show.
When the Human League made landfall on Har Deshur, their plan was to lose slowly. For the past week, they had done just that. The 181st Spaceborne Division was running short on power packs and people, leaving it to reap clone reservists fresh out of the lab to fill its ranks and defend its reputation as the Hundred-and-Eighty Worst.
Thirty straight days of shelling were enough to drive the brothers of the 181st stir-crazy in their dugout in Eleos Basin. They bided their time eavesdropping on Andromedan communications. It was a week until the Andromedans learned of their unwelcome audience. The hexapods amused themselves, regularly informing the Orion boys how they would go about copulating with their mothers.
Grimacing, Ollie looked up to see someone walking towards him. Their silhouette grew taller as they came closer. It was an Andromedan, clad head to toe in eight feet of titanium, a mess of arms and legs.
Swearing under his breath, Ollie flailed about for his rifle, limping like some hurt animal when four meaty hands lifted him to his feet. He struggled as the Andromedan threw him over its shoulder, carrying him like a rag doll back to the Orion firing line.
The pair were met with stares and silence. No one moved at first. The Andromedan kept its hands where the company could see them. After what seemed like an eternity, the Ollies broke into cheers. Their Andromedan friend was sent off to No Man’s Land with pats on the back and an 181st patch pinned on its sand-caked exo-suit by the Ollie in charge.
The sun shone on the smoldering battlefield as the Andromedan returned to its post. The burst of light sent a charge through both sides’ beam rifles—1%…3%…4%. Shots rang out again.
by submission | Aug 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Brian C. Mahon
“How hopes and dreams vanish when the Maker decides to lower the curtain,” Clarissa Dochenal, Countess of the Third Tier, chided herself. Even the confines of a Zakiche war-corsair failed to guarantee safety when the gods warred. The Maker, the False Sun, the Void Avatar, the Slaver, and the Half-mortal feuded for the right to galactic dominance, and when the Maker called its blessed followers to battle, the Zakiche answered.
The Third Tier held the devoted responsibility of ensuring the Maker’s will reached the spearpoint driving into the weakening flank of the Half-mortal’s Sagatarum sector stronghold. But an errant outrunner of the Half-Mortal’s vanguard found her first. The explosion propelled a spearpoint made of a splintered crossbeam of one nanosecond-offset Godsteel to pin the countess off her feet to a bulkhead.
An Inker, a chronicler drone, navigated the debris-rife corridor to find her in the control room, to rest a narrow band of light on her shoulder, and it intoned in a flat, electronic voice, “Will you to add to knowledge, Countess?”
She wiped away the rivulet of blood trickling from her mouth. Her mono-suit injected another dose of numbing agents, effective for pain but keeping the countess wholly exposed to mortality’s palpable reality.
“I have,” she said weakly, wiping again, “my last revelation, Inker.”
It floated to meet her eye, vertically panning her stuck form with its thin spotlight. “Please Countess. Go ahead.”
“I learned- ah!” A muscle spasm forced her to lurch along the jagged shaft, and she shrieked out to the Inker, “I learned! The folly!”
The Inker’s robotic eyelid clapped shut, then open. “What is the folly, Countess?”
Countess Dochenal hissed through clenched teeth, “Perception. We see ourselves unique, on a march through time… each generation the master of the world, each, ah, AHH!” She convulsed, and a trio of needle-tipped tentacles whipped from her neckline, stabbed, and retreated. “Each generation euphoric in its exquisite existence, informed by our earliest books to set our species as masters of th- “
She stopped, her hand shaking uncontrollably.
A soft white vaporous halo surrounded the Inker, and its voice, still clear and present among the groans of bending structural beams and tinny alarms, commanded, “Continue, Countess. Death is near.”
“-of, of the world writ large.” She swallowed a bitter mouthful. “We limit our concerns to the framework of our lives. What affects us, how we affect first order contacts, no further.”
The Inker skimmed closer.
“We believe we are… so unique.”
“Already recorded, Countess.”
The flesh loosened a little more, and more the dark stream flowed, taking with it the ease of breath and clarity of mind. “… we never understood our people’s history as a singular event. In the gods’ wars, we perceived… ourselves elevated servants, special avatars of our lord’s faith… and fury, against enemy deities and their idolaters.” Her lips slacked as she bowed her head, smeared red in crimson flashing lights.
“Countess Dochenal. You must continue.”
A tremble set into her weakened voice, but she went on, “Our entire history is… an indiscernible moment to the gods, and our generations… slivers of their panorama. We incorrectly relish our importance, misunderstand our meaning in the universe. Short-sighted… we refuse the landscape. We are… a calculated move in the Maker’s plan… the evolution of life from microbes to us star farers… our world, not a special miracle flouting universal constants, no, it is… engineered, one move on the board. Ascendancy? Anthropocentric… foolishness.”
A blue scanning beam crossed her forehead. “You are becoming colder, Countess.”
No hint of recognition twitched across her lips or in her eyes. “To gods, what is a planet, a world? A thought, instantaneous and forgettable. If… if the universe is alive, we its sentient thoughts, ephemeral synaptic… firings… then we, Inker… we serve emotions… at war.”
Countess Clarissa Dochenal’s chin lowered, and the image of sanguine life trickling from her tattered mono-suit was the last her quieting mind took in, as she grew still among undulating hazard lights and acrid air. The Inker, alone, glided through the haze and debris to find a chronicler jettison tube and make course for Zakiche, a long journey, but one it was designed and burdened to make. In the Maker’s Compendium, the timeless library, the drone will pen her final rebuke in the undying records so that the countess may see eternity.
by submission | Aug 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The toy soldier guarded the corner of the commander’s makeshift field desk. The faded tin sentry with chipped red jacket, high peaked cap and bent bayonet stood upon the order.
Especially in the age of cyberwar, such an order was on paper. Hand written. Delivered by flesh and blood. A reminder of what was real and what was to be spilled.
The commander concentrated on the little toy. Its eyes fixed and sure. A plaything of the past, a steadfast harbinger of battles to come. War made fast in the hands of children. It changed little. An order given. Received. A decision needed. A sacrifice demanded.
His tactical screens displayed the grids under current assault. A counterassault had been ordered: a hype and wipe. Jacking systems beyond their breaking points, then a massive takedown of security redundancies and fail-safes.
Homes, hospitals, schools, critical infrastructure and industrial sites would implode, explode. Many would suffer.
Though not the commander. Not his soldiers.
What were soldiers anymore?
In cyberwar there was only the enemy. The other side. Imaginary lines within which the ordinary comforts of modern life—all manner of integrated systems, machinery, devices, appliances, transport—were turned against any and all. Faces pressed into pillows or pushed out windows. Silent and fraught.
That was the commander’s charge: take it down, take them down.
Them.
He imagined them. No different than himself. So much like the teenage daughter he’d lost to them. A casualty of an attack intended to jack fleets of spy-and-die drones. High on a mountain pass in winter, her autonomobile’s systems were collaterally blitzed. Her vehicle accelerated wildly and plunged into a deep ravine. Lost in snow and ice, she froze. He did not know how slowly.
He picked up the toy soldier from his desk, from atop the order. He held it lightly in his bare hand. Felt the chill of metal. A shiver of recognition.
The commander gave his command. There might have been other ways, but he did not know them. There might have been some who did not need to pay, but he did not owe them.
He put the toy soldier back in place. Upon the desk. Atop the order. In the middle of war unlike any other. Still child’s play.
