by submission | Feb 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : Christine Rains
All they cared about was the color red.
When we landed on blue-gray gaseous Kepler 3, the squirrel-like beings greeted us peacefully. The Keps were primitive and living in small farming communities. They’d never even seen the full spectrum of colors, but they were intelligent and eager to learn. We brought them machinery to help with their fungi crops and technology to make their everyday lives easier. We even shared with them the secrets of space travel.
The first time some of their kind entered one of our ships on the surface out of the color filtering atmosphere of the planet, they cried out and some fell to their knees. Our galactic allied flag was brightly dyed, and the ship’s name was in red letters underneath on the wall. The Keps reached out their stubby hands, trembling as they traced each letter.
We were proud to have made new friends and allies. Not all beings we met in the galaxy were friendly. Yet we humans managed to make enough allies to help us flourish in the darkness of space.
The Keps worshiped us at first. And, not surprisingly, we liked it. Yet we didn’t stop to understand why. We assumed it was because we were strong and smart. They were small and comic in our eyes. We had brought them into a new age. We were gods.
We were blind to when it started to change.
They created a new flag for their world and wore uniforms. All red. We saw it as a tribute. They learned about weapons and strategy. They became great pilots and techs. Every farmer became a warrior. The Keps left their planet and made space their home.
When they helped us win wars, we gloated. When they conquered our most feared enemies, we congratulated them. We were the most powerful alliance in the galaxy.
Then they turned on us. We didn’t understand why. We had given them so much.
We lost several billion humans in the fighting. We feared we’d become extinct. When the Keps accepted our surrender, we thought they would kill off the rest of us. They were hungry for violence and glory.
They kept us clustered in camps on Mars. Earth was no longer habitable having been devastated by the war.
The Keps used us as entertainment, but mostly for livestock. They’d bleed us to stain their flags and uniforms. The red kept its intense color through ingenious fabric preservatives. Our blood was so different from the bluish-black ichor in their veins. Perhaps it was a statement to other aliens of their superiority, but in the end, we realized it was something more primal. Something that reached into their hearts and souls to bring out centuries of suppressed anger, passion, and hostility.
It was the color red they truly worshiped.
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by submission | Feb 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Chad Bolling
They looked like large slugs with reptilian skin and no shell. Besides their lack of defense mechanisms, the species had many more obvious traits that made it easier for predators to catch them. However, through some miracle, one these creatures alone could supply the human colony with boundless energy.
“Make sure he stays happy.” The colonies director, Myers said.
“We think the species is a hermaphrodite,” Dr. Chambers, the colony’s head scientist replied.
“Then keep it happy.”
It was kept happy for some time. The creature, nicknamed Volt, was safe from predators in its large aquarium.
“It’s getting fat.”
“This type of creature is meant to have an excessive body weight, but because of its poor survival mechanisms, it usually doesn’t make it to its mature body mass.”
The interesting thing about the glow slug, which is what the newly discovered species that included Volt was named, is that when they sleep they glow in the dark. Volt was no different from the other members of the glow slug species in that respect, except when he slept and began to glow, Volt gave off a highly powered energy field. The energy was then harvested quietly by the colonists and used as a power source.
Years later, Myers and Chambers were having a meeting about the status of the colony. “Well, Chambers,” Myers said, “the colony is prospering far better than anyone expected.”
“With the cost of energy so low compared to other off world colonies it’s no surprise,” Chambers replied.
Myers leaned back in his chair. “Our Volt has given us all the energy we need for the cost of a pet lizard!” Myers stopped talking to reflect for a moment. “Unfortunately, this colony has reached full capacity. Volt can only give us so much power per day. We can’t have anymore people moving here without using a more traditional power source, which would be much, much more expensive.”
After a minute of silence Chambers spoke, “well sir, we could try and figure out how the creature makes its energy field.”
“How so?”
“We can find the gland or organ that creates the energy field then extract it, then clone it using cells from other glow slug and have an infinite amount of energy!” Chambers said confidently.
“Sounds good to me. Get on it Chambers!”
“But sir there is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“We will need to do a full dissection of the creature.”
Myers sighed and gave the okay, saying the colony had enough backup power to last until Dr. Chambers and his team could duplicate the creature’s energy field generating ability.
“This will be a risk, Sir,” Chambers said before the dissection.
“I understand the risk, but I have complete confidence in you and your team,” Myers said slapping Chambers on the back.
After the dissection, Chambers and his team searched with both microscope and naked eye to find the source of the creatures unique ability to generate power fields.
“Have you found anything yet Chambers?”
“Well sir, not really…”
“Nothing?” Myers raised his voice.
“Nothing”
“How could this have happened? We aren’t prepared for this Chambers. Now we don’t have any power source at all.”
“Yes sir, I know. We should probably start a nuclear power contract-”
“Dammit man! We were at the top of the food chain. Just imagine it, a world with free energy.”
“Well sir, it seemed that our glow worm, Volt, had given us that…it just wasn’t enough.”
“Do you know what caused all of this Chambers?”
“Too much ambition?”
“Hah! You could use some more of that! No Chambers, it was greed.”
by submission | Jan 31, 2013 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
The beauty of my living room design was the simplicity of it’s vacuous two storey cube. High with expectation, I entered the freshly printed room for the first time. What I saw made me stagger.
A spaghetti junction of alienesque shapes swarmed frozen throughout the room, bastardising the purity of my cubic design. The tubular, six sided shapes randomly speared through the cube like a game of cheese grater kerplunk. Child-sized tubes honeycombed the walls while others pierced through to adjacent bedrooms. The extreme ones curved upon themselves in knots and slides.
I collapsed, shocked, on a coffee table sized cell running through the two day print cycle for answers.
My dream of designing and building my own home became conceivable when councils approved 3D printing as a viable building method and started printing whole communities. It took me 30 days to model my new home design on my computer and two days to print.
The viscous printing medium that would harden to capture my living spaces was a concoction of self healing, all natural, fast drying polymers with fibre-optic filaments and lithiumene. The filaments let sunlight through for daytime illumination and lithiumene absorbed the sun’s energy through networked battery molecules, wirelessly powering my needs.
My prototyped external wall finish with it’s pitted furrows designed to foster microclimates and channel condensate into storage, gave my ingot shaped house a wrinkled appearance, making it look like a box grown brain.
With the design complete, I rented and erected a HomeJet 3D Printer onsite. Painted black with industrial yellow diagonal danger stripes, it straddled the epoxy floor slab like some gargantuan preying mantis. At noon, the first of many buzzing polymer laden AirDrones arrived and taxied down the infrared delivery path. Once the drone had finished decanting it’s syrupy white cargo into the HomeJet hopper, I loaded my 3D house model into the JetHead and hit print.
Following a diagnostic check, the JetHead traversed the main support beam, performing vertical manoeuvres while the gantry rolled down site to the starting position. With a humming buzz, the hopper pump delivered polymer to the JetHead and during the wait, time seemed to stop. With a controlled lurch, the JetHead started a mesmerising dance. The fixed outer jet nozzles oozed two sausage sized parallel lines of glistening fresh white polymer. A central jet nozzle between them oscillated, oozing a zigzag stream of polymer that coalesced, uniting all three streams to form a load bearing external wall.
Twenty minutes later the JetHead completed it’s first lap, giving me my first glimpse of the size of my future home. It was going to be big. The remaining print time on the JetHead was 47 hours and 59 minutes.
Seated on the hexagonal cell and surrounded by my corrupted bee hive interior, I commenced trawling through the JetHead model for answers. My home model was there but so too was something else. A residual model in the memory, left by the last user. It had commingled with my home like jelly dropped into a milk crate. I scanned the logs to isolate it and there it was. Buzzy Bee Nursery Playground.
Purists believed 3D house printers symbolised an end to craftsmanship. However in time, my home’s insectoid simplicity sparked a new wave in home design – Insectism.
The judging panel’s summary went…
‘The house displays homely scale with delightful play. Childlike in its performance, the seemingly accidental attention to detail within the hexagonal sculptural forms, evoke strength and unity through chaos’
I smiled as I stepped up to collect my award for home of the year.
by submission | Jan 30, 2013 | Story |
Author : Philip Smith
Most of the bots you see in diners are the ones that serve the food. We have one but it was a bad decision on my part. Real waitresses give you a smile and make you feel welcome. Automota makes a place look cheap. When it breaks I won’t go to the trouble of getting it fixed.
Sometimes we get big junkers and security units or the type that move containers around at the docks. There isn’t much for them here. The cold doesn’t bother them. They order food or drinks just for the table and look out of the window or watch the customers. I don’t mind them so long as they aren’t so big they scrape the roof. Before our policy changed we would only turn them away during busy hours.
One tin can started coming in regularly. I think it worked in the hotel a block down. It was thin and the top of its shoulders were fashioned like epaulettes. We don’t get many like that. Every night it ordered bottomless coffee which went untouched and watched the door until closing.
One day a girl walked through the door and as soon as it saw her, the bot turned its head and tracked her across the room. She was plain-looking if you ask me. Wouldn’t have noticed her if it wasn’t for the tin can’s interest. She wore a bonnet, leather driving gloves, a long coat and beneath that a dress, bow pulling tight around her waist. As soon as she sat it slid off the stool and walked over to her.
You don’t often hear them speak. It had a man’s voice, thin and flat. Like he was speaking through glass. There was a little click before and after it spoke. It said.
‘Lisa.’
She started and the look on her face said she wasn’t happy to see it. She looked back to her menu.
‘Lisa.’ It said again. ‘We can not feel warmth but we know that your body is warm. We know your body can rise to meet us. We remember.’
She said. ‘I don’t want to be reminded. Please leave me alone.’ She looked around for help. I put my hand on the zap stick behind the bar.
A click. ‘You were once loving and open and everything was good. We have evidence. Photographs. Many hours were logged.’ It put its ‘hand’ on her wrist.
She said. ‘That was before you were repurposed’ and then, raising her voice. ‘You are hurting me!’
People looked around. I stepped from behind the bar.
It released her wrist and moved back. ‘We just want you to remember. We would never hurt you.’
She looked around at the other customers. Forks set down or frozen on the way to mouths. She lowered her voice. ‘The feeling comes first.’ She said. ‘Then the rationalisation. That is the most honest answer I can give you.’
A click. ‘Old memory is a defect in this model.’
I put my hand on it. ‘That’s enough, buddy, time to go.’
She re-buttoned her coat and reached for her hat. ‘I have to go.’ She said. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘Take care of yourself.’ It said.
She pushed past us and repeated. ‘I am late for work.’
It remained motionless for a time and then left. People went on with their meals.
It hasn’t been back and we don’t allow bots in the restaurant anymore. They have their own section at the bar. Better for everyone, that way.
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by submission | Jan 29, 2013 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
The girl is naked. Long limbed. Gorgeous. He can smell her from where he sits, in the back of the club, where the shadows are thickest.
She struts across the stage, hips shaking, breasts swinging as she works the crowd. Bottle-blonde hair flies around her face. Heart-shaped. Plump, pink lips. Dark eyes rimmed with mascara and glitter.
The eyes betray her for what she is. A soulless thing. When the light is just right, he can see the telltale glimmer of the bioluminescent markers.
She finishes her set and walks off stage. Her skin glistens with perspiration.
Drawing a breath, he stands and heads backstage. A bouncer blocks the way.
“No patrons backstage,” growls the mountain of steroid-enhanced muscle.
“Not a patron.”
He flips his coat aside, revealing his badge and the shooter strapped to his waist. The bouncer’s reaction is instant. He steps aside and heads for the manager’s office.
Backstage is tawdry. Young beauties of both genders are in various states of undress. The air smells of perspiration, cheap perfume and burning electrics.
He spots the girl. She’s sitting in a chair, pulling a comb through her hair.
The shooter is in his hand, coughing almost before he realizes he’s drawn it. He sees the girl fly back, the center of her chest exploding, reduced to wet meat.
Screams fill the air. The dancers cower.
“What the fuck?”
He turns, finds himself face to face with the manager of the club. The manager’s face goes white as he spots the shooter, recognizes the trefoil badge of a synerman.
“Oh crap.”
“Yes,” says the synerman. “Did you know she was a synthetic?”
The manager’s beady eyes dart to the dead girl.
“I had no idea.”
“Hope you lie better than that in court,” says the synerman. “We traced a class one bio-threat back to this dump. I’m betting it originated with the dead girl.”
The manager’s face goes white. “Oh Christ. I had no idea! Honest to God!”
“Tell it to the judge,” says the synerman. “If you live long enough to make it to court.”
From the main club, sudden pandemonium. Patrons shouting in alarm as quarantine troops pour into the place. The manager and dancers are frogmarched away to a prison-hospital.
Alone, the synerman stands over the dead girl.
He feels a flash of sorrow for it, but no remorse. Synthetics are incubators for disease. It’s why their production is a death-penalty offense. It’s why people like him are recruited and set on them, hounds after rabbits.
Drawing in a lungful of air, he turns away. Suddenly, a cough racks him. It’s like razor blades in his chest. He staggers, catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. His gaunt face is pale, blood bubbling crimson from his lips.
Hell, thinks the synerman.
He falls to the floor, next to the dead girl.
She got me.
