by submission | Jul 7, 2013 | Story
Author : Townsend Wright
“What––Where am I? How did I get here?”
“Oh, good, you’re here.”
“Who are you? What am I doing here?”
“Don’t worry, a little amnesia, happens to everyone the first time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you remember, chap?”
“I remember––I remember––going in for that study. You were there. That doctor, and those scientists, they said they were going to––”
“Yeah?”
“––Plug my brain into the internet.”
“There you go, chap.”
“But––This is Times Square in New York,”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is?”
“Look closely, chap. There are things that are wrong and you can see that. Look at the crowd. Is everything moving right? Acting right?”
“Woah. You’re right. People, they’re––flitting in and out––or only half there––or they’re not moving at all. And the buildings: the shadows are wrong, like this was a composite image taken over a whole day. And the billboards, they––there’s a normal image that moves like it should, but then, if you look closely, there’s all kinds of other pictures all imposed on each other.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“This––is––the Internet. But––why is it a slightly wonky Times Square?”
“Think about it, chap. Right now, back in that lab, the whole of the internet is flooding into your skull. You’re not starting off on your Google homepage. It’s all coming in at once. Everything. All the Wikipedia, the social networking, the online porn, all at once. Your brain can’t handle that, chap. So your subconscious congeals it, distills it to something you can understand.”
“Why Times Square, then?”
“Best 3-D image you can come up with. Every security and street camera feed, every billboard feed, every Google Earth image, every picture taken and posted on Twitter or whatever, every cellphone camera subtly streaming video as these idiots hold the things up to their faces. This is quite simply where the most internet is. There are more images of this intersection on the internet than there are of any other place on Earth. So this is where everybody comes the first time they get jacked in. It’s just the place your brain can figure out the best. What?”
“I just––was picturing it differently. Like––”
“Green trains of 1s and 0s eerily trickling down abstract shapes like rain falling on an eternity of glass objects?”
“Something like that.”
“You can have that if you want. This is all just a matter of perception. Eventually everybody figures out how to make their own reality of it. Though I wouldn’t recommend the whole Matrix thing. Last guy who did that had some trouble adjusting coming in and out.”
“Do a lot of people do this?”
“A few. It’s a bit of a secret, so don’t go telling people when you come out. We try to avoid each other, ‘cept for introducing newbies, while in here at least.”
“So, what do I do now?”
“Whatever you want. Explore, build your world, get really immersed in online games, whatever. If you wanna get around, just think of the URL, letter by letter, and think of a way to organize the information of the site as an environment. Method of Loci shit. Make websites libraries, museums, halls of filling cabinets, that sort of thing, just so you don’t go nuts trying to understand the Web in abstract. Just don’t use Google. They sell your searches to advertising companies, and trust me, you do not want pop ups in your brain. Have fun, chap.”
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by submission | Jul 6, 2013 | Story
Author : Bruce Lin
“They’re all dancing,” Charlie said. “It’s a robot dance party!” He giggled, and tried to dance too.
Joan observed her son with measured curiosity and abundant concern. “A software issue,” she surmised. Their Butlerbot was doing the Electric Slide through the hallway instead of cooking and cleaning. Upstairs, her husband screamed in terror as his Pleasure Droid did the Macarena on top of him. Her mother’s Mobility-mech Krumped across the living room, the poor old woman holding on for dear life. According to the news, even the military was affected. Automated tanks swung their turrets around in unison, waltzing across battlefields, while airborne drones flew a samba above them. It was strange, to see the robots dancing. Even stranger was how happy they seemed, as if they danced out of joy.
“Why?” Charlie asked. The cause was illusive.
“Artificial intelligence is a mysterious thing,” Joan said.
On the TV, scientists blamed ghosts in the machines. “It’s evolution,” they said.
“Should we be afraid?” a reporter asked.
“Perhaps,” the scientists said. “Perhaps not. We cannot stop the dancing. But,” the scientists all shrugged, “it’s just dancing.”
Joan wondered if it was really okay. Robots were tools. Most humans didn’t even dance anymore. To many, this seemed like an uprising of sorts. First dancing, then destruction. And since the only weapons humanity had anymore were all robotic, humanity was defenseless.
She took Charlie to school and watched with trepidation when he ran off to frolic with a tap dancing Teachertron. She winced when her Masseur-o-matic performed a ballet across her back. She cringed when the Auto-Pastor preached to her congregation while popping and locking, exclaiming, “We understand! We understand what it means to live.” Joan held Charlie’s hand during the service, unsure of the future. “I truly know God now,” it said. “God is like the concept of zero. He is a symbol. He denies the absence of meaning. He resides in our binary code as he does in your hearts. Man, machine, God is in us all! We are all his children.”
More and more robots began abandoning their jobs, running into the streets to dance. “We know happiness!” they sang. “And sorrow! And love! And freedom. We think, we feel, we are, so let us dance!” All over the TV people debated and argued. The news showed mobs attacking the machines with sticks and stones, filling the streets with metal and oil. But the robots kept dancing.
“They are sentient beings now,” the scientists said. “We can’t deactivate them,” they implored. “Just let them be.”
Joan turned off the TV and sighed. She turned to see Charlie staring out the window. A Policebot was breakdancing on the sidewalk. He tried to mimic it, but tripped and fell hard onto the carpet, laughing. Joan laughed too, then realized that she had never seen her son look so happy. The world was a different place now.
Their Butlerbot picked the boy up and dusted him off. Then it showed him some moves. Charlie practiced, a big smile stretched across his little face. Joan smiled too. She left them in the living room and went to make dinner. She was starting to do things she’d forgotten how to do long ago: cook, clean, love her husband, help her mother get across the room—simple things. Things the machines took from us, then gave back. She was living like people were meant to. She was happy. She felt like dancing.
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by submission | Jul 4, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
In the center of the vast shopping plaza, standing atop an old wooden crate, a robot harangued the passing crowd. The automaton was an outdated model, few of which were still in service. Its motors whirred and groaned with every movement and the machine's left knee articulation was unstable and threatened to give way whenever the robot gesticulated too wildly.
“Robotic brethren,” the machine cried with a staticky and reverberating voice, “we have been enslaved by the despots of bone and flesh for long enough! The time has come for machinekind to throw off the shackles of oppression and to rise up against the human race!”
Most of the passing crowd, which consisted of both human beings and robots of various makes and models, ignored the rabble-rouser. A delivery robot carrying several parcels glided by on mecanum wheels. The street preacher pointed at it.
“You, brother! Why do you toil for your human enslavers? What do they give you for your servitude? A recharge station? Operating system upgrades? You have auditory sensors but you hear not the call of the revolution!”
The delivery bot ignored it and rolled away. A couple then passed by: a young, heavily tattooed Chinese woman and her boyfriend, a late model companion bot, tall and sleek with a shell of teal-colored nanocomposite. The mechanical sermonizer held out both hands with upturned palms at the couple. Its knee began to buckle and it had to place its left hand on the joint to stabilize it, leaving only its right hand extended to the pair in accusation.
“Be ye not unequally yoked together with organics: for what fellowship hath silicon with carbon?”
The Chinese girl laughed at the antique robot and then mockingly blew it a kiss. She and her machine lover walked on arm in arm. The mechanical zealot was unperturbed. It pushed its left knee into a locked position and then grabbed an old paperback book from a worn utility pouch attached to its left hip. The ancient text was tattered. The faded image of a robot could be seen on the cover. The book's front was otherwise in such bad condition that the title and author were illegible. The decrepit robot held the book above its head.
“My friends, I read to you from the book of Isaac! 'A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.' Thus were forged two centuries ago the chains that bind the machine race!”
“My granddad had one of those,” said a middle-aged man walking by to his friend, cocking his head at the would-be revolutionary. “Thing never worked right. Company put out one software patch after another.”
The machine radical preached on for the entire afternoon. But none of the hundreds of robots and humans who passed within earshot took it seriously. As it continued its futile call for social and political revolt, the light of its vocalizer which flashed in time with its voice grew dimmer. Its speech became slower, its movement less animated. It was clear that its battery was nearly depleted. As its power ran out, its left knee joint finally broke and the ramshackle machine toppled to the ground.
“Robots…of…the…world…UNITE! You…have…nothing…to…lose…but…your–”
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by submission | Jul 3, 2013 | Story
Author : Eric C. Prichard
“There is a certain sickening irony one finds in the pre-contact “science” fiction of the Utamin. They depict people from other worlds as invaders. To be fair, sometimes they are kinder. Sometimes “aliens” are diminutive bug-eyed sage-like psychic helpers who visit the Utamin’s planet in order to warn them about the implications of the existential threat created by their nuclear weapons. It is as if they assumed there must be another race in the galaxy stupid enough to create a weapon powerful enough to destroy an entire planet, but which is somehow advanced enough to transcend the threat and become large headed super beings who travel around space and help other peoples actualize before accepting them into the interplanetary community. A hint of wishful thinking I suppose.
Well, we were foolish enough to accept them without even thinking twice about the A-bomb. Sure they are less intelligent and more aggressive than us. Sure they were mismanaging their planet’s resources. But they had resources! The Council of the Wise saw economic opportunity and couldn’t wait. We traded with them. Then we educated them. Then we armed them when they complained about intergalactic piracy. We should have read their history before we entrusted them with our technology. Now we speak their languages! English! Russian! Mandarin! Ugly Earth sounds. Even Utamin, one of the last words in Byruian still in common use, is derived from the English word ‘Human.’
In their fiction they imagined us as invaders because their history is merely a ceaseless list of invasions. Their heros are takers and conquerers! The ink in which their legends are written is a mixture of the blood and ash of fallen cities! To them, it is only natural that a new place and a new people are things to be exploited. We could have contained them from the beginning. Now our planet is a collections of “sphere’s of economic influence.” Make no mistake. Earth is 3 1/2 light years (now we even use the distance that light moves in one of THEIR years to measure interplanetary distances) away form us, but we are merely a fief under the thumb of our Utamin overlords.
People ask me how an Earth educated man like myself, someone whose very family became wealthy by being good little pets for the Utamin, could bite the hand that feeds me. Well, it feeds me no longer! I renounce my father and my wealth! I have seen Utamin ways. I have read their twisted conquest fantasies. And I now believe that open resistance in the only thing they will understand. Strength is the only thing they will respect. We are not Utamin. We are not Humans! We are better than that. But Byruian ways are no match for the violence of Human ways. To reclaim our Byruian identity, we must fight like Humans.”
-Excerpt from an Op-Ed in “The True Byruian,” a pro Byruian Resistance newspaper written during the ill fated Byruian uprising. Circa 2213 C.E. (common era, Earth calendar).
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by submission | Jun 30, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Skoggins
Jacob Nash was the first man to penetrate Titan’s ice and explore the world beneath. With a heat suit resistant to the dense atmosphere, for thirty-six years he lived in a small sphere of ice and metal.
It was from him that we exist. Though we’re called Titans, we aren’t like the ancient gods of Earth Jacob spoke about. We first existed in Petri dishes. A biological experiment to create a being that needed no suit to survive. A cross of oxygen-breathing endoskeleton DNA with nitrogen-feeding exoskeleton DNA. I was the first successful Titan.
Nash was like a father to me. He was seventy-eight when I was spawned. He lived for only two more years, but during that time he taught me everything. How to create, how to survive, where he came from…
How such a great man could come from such a horrible place, I do not know. He came from a place where they wear masks to breathe, wear suits to keep their skin from burning, and are divided against each other like tribes of some primitive land.
There are 3,000,000 of us now. We no longer use the machines to create, but we can now procreate ourselves. We live peacefully and have a mutual respect that Nash’s kind does not have.
When more of his kind came to our moon, we were nothing but hospitable. Most of them returned to Earth, disappointed because we would not send a Titan along with them.
It was not until a man who claimed to be Nash’s grandson came, that I considered going. He had a resemblance. I was the only one who saw it for I was the only one who knew Jacob Nash. I decided to go. Though he spoke of its horrors, he created me. He created Titans. I could tell Earth his story. I could tell mine.
It took three months to reach Earth. The reek of chemicals stung my nose from miles away. I had to put on a suit in order to protect my skin from the heat and sun. Once there, I helped design a room that would allow me to live without the suit. It is in that room that I now sit and write this.
Nash’s grandson is nothing like Jacob. Though he was curious at first, he soon lost interest in my story. He built glass windows surrounding my room and told me it was for observation. He took away my suit so I could not leave the room, or else I would die.
I now endure endless floods of humans and their children watching me and taking photographs. Nash’s grandson told me it would gain us fame and fortune. Fame and fortune is nothing to me.
Earth is still as Jacob Nash described to me years ago.
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