by submission | Jul 29, 2011 | Story
Author : Julian Miles
John was quite something to see when he got his threatening on. The bioluminescents lacing his body in intricate whorls and knotwork turned varying shades of red or white as his eyes darkened to black. The natives were terrified of him. Which was the whole idea. Natively inhabited water worlds were an unplumbed resource due to the difficulty of establishing relations with them.
John had left the military when his pod was slaughtered. I became his podmate by virtue of being the only aquatic physiognomy specialist turned freerun trader. We ran our ship half wet, half dry. It meant we could trade in stupid gravity zones and get places sane or dry people couldn’t. Plus John’s part dolphin, part shark splicestry gave us kudos in the oddest places. All of which got us a lead to our latest splashdown.
Karessia was named after Trutch Karessin, the first man to discover the locals here regarded humans as a delicacy, not as peers. Which is why I was in a zerosee suit and John was handling the diplomacy. This was entirely based on the local religious tendency to shun places where the influence of their god of death was felt. We were just making the influence a little more visible above the patrium node we had located.
John came hammering past me, tail moving swiftly but with relaxed power as his pectoral fins handled the manoeuvring. I could tell he was grinning, but that was only because he’d told me that was what the little biosparks by his mouth meant.
“Flee for your lives! The Reaper of the Colossus is here!”
Oh, how he loved this bit. His broad spectrum sonic roar hit the Karessians and they scattered, frantically trying to genuflect and swim away simultaneously. I was about to instruct the ship for a plant drop when John’s red and white turned blue and green, his primaries of confusion.
“Dave, we may have a problem.”
I scooted my rig over to him and took a look over his dorsal fin. Hanging in the blue, right on the colour change between high water and deep water was the oldest Karessian I had ever seen. Wrinkled over his entire body, but still muscled like an athlete. His left hands clutched a truly formidable polearm, its head reflecting highlights from John’s luminescence. His right hands were behind the shield that covered his entire right side.
“Amp your spectrum analysers, Dave. That shield and the pointy end of the big stick came from the same thing, and I don’t think it was a rock from around here.”
I was about to hit the analysers when something occurred to me. I hit the lights instead. This far down, the simplest things became obscure. The bright white light made the Karessian duck his head behind his shield, but it made the letters on that piece of metal leap into view. Two rows of text, in English. Wonder and a prick of fear intruded on my routine.
‘VEY SHI’
‘LOSSUS’
“John, I think we’ve lost a mining opportunity and made a fortune.”
“Dave, I think you’re wasting valuable lost survey vessel listing query time.”
by submission | Jul 28, 2011 | Story
Author : Michael Georgilis
Always follow this rule: never go to a hospital. No exceptions. Heal as best you can if someone is hurt. Abandon someone who can’t or won’t move. Tell them this risk when they join you. Friends help you survive. People who endanger your survival are no longer friends. Offer friends a bullet if you leave them. If they accept, remove the head afterwards. Cremate. Move on.
Scratches are minor. Bites are death. Friends should tell friends if they are bitten. Friends who hide their bites are no longer friends. Pity them. Do not keep them. Tell them this risk when they join you. Give them a bullet, or let them do it themselves. Some will try to fight back. Be ready. Remove the head. Cremate. Move on. Grieve on the road.
Know your enemy. Do they shamble? Do they run? Run away from shamblers. Drive away from runners. No matter what, move. Be paranoid. Travel during the day. Eight out of ten deaths occur at night. Don’t become a statistic. Cut your hair short. No ponytails. Easy grab spots. Wear close fitting clothes. Take extras for tourniquets. Wear coats for weather only. Wear running shoes. Take only what you can run comfortably with. Sleep in safe houses. Have two escape plans. Set up watch shifts. Cry, but be alert. Watch the dark like it would swallow you if you didn’t.
Defend yourself. Guns are obvious and dangerous. Aim for the head. Never shoot twice if once will suffice. Always reload. Clean your weapon. You are always one jam away from death. Avoid combat. Always look for ways to circumvent. Converse ammo. Have back up. Use shotguns for crowd control and bottle necks. Fire and run backwards. Never fight without a full magazine if possible. Count your shots. Three shots left, the battle is over. Run. Use these bullets with care. Two for escape. One for you. Choke on the muzzle. Point up. Think of home before pulling. Move on.
Scrounge with intent. Go as a group or not at all. They are never alone. You shouldn’t be either. Listen before entering. Moaning, shuffling, you leave. Desperation is the only exception. Enter with firepower. Create bottlenecks. Have two fall back points. Have an escape plan. If it’s clear, move quickly. Ignore the smell and the bodies. Take only what you can run comfortably with. Move on.
Know your locations. Malls are bad. Offices are bad. Hospitals are worst. Off shore is best. Prisons are good for long-term stays on land. Useful for headquarters to a large group of friends. If the coast is not an option, search for a prison and lots of friends.
When you find a haven, sweep the place. Fight for it. Don’t let it go. Set up homes. Regulate food intake. Attempt to grow sustenance. Make decisions as a group. Laugh. If food growth allows, friends can become closer. Skeletons can regain their flesh, their smiles, and reclaim the mantle the virus annihilated long ago.
Never count on permanency. Food, medicine, equipment runs low. Always be prepared. Exercise. Practice. Leave as a final option. Things are different in havens.
But the rules stay the same.
by submission | Jul 27, 2011 | Story
Author : Julian Miles
I opened a channel to the Finnvael;
“This is Handler Orchus, what is your intent within the Olympus Theocracy?”
The long silver needle rotated itself rapidly to orient at least nine firepoints on me. Well, that was a clue.
“Orchus, this is Captain Rufus Hartnell of the Sol Three Alliance. We are coming to offer assistance with your situation.”
No honourific. Rude, but acceptable and allowing an informal stance.
“Thank you, Ser Hartnell. But we do have the situation, as you put it, in hand. It happens every couple of centuries and we have procedures to deal with it.”
There was a chuckle over the channel. Rufus sounded like someone I could get to like over a tankard of ale or two.
“Orchus, my respects to your Theocrats, but a rampaging war machine that threatens S3A vessels demands our intervention.”
My scans came back at last, void eagles are quick but a light year or two still requires noticeable travel time. I ran a quick eye over the details: Twenty-two thousand marines in full atmosphere armour, twenty-eight atmospheric sky fortresses, one hundred and ten near orbit interdictors, fifty-two open space cruisers. I tapped my gauntleted hand on the console. Hardly a cargo for assailing a single space bound monstrousity. Then my eye lit on the last line; Sixteen planetary pacification drones. Ah-ha. As my ancestors would say; “Gotcha.”
“Captain, I see that your ordinance is architected for planetary governance.”
There was a startled silence, then I caught a few words before the channel was cut.
“Dammitall, how do they do that?”
My console emitted a ruddy glow as my Ares meters went critical. Oh, they were trying this again, were they? So be it. As the Finnvael unloaded an indecent amount of violence at my tiny, unarmed ship I switched channels to one only the Handler ships are permitted. Despite the gravity of the situation and the way my ship rocked under the onslaught, I smiled as a deeply primitive bond was renewed.
“Here boy.”
Behind the Finnvael, something quicksilver manifested, an impossible immensity, a masterpiece of nanofluid, cryonic majesty and void. Great eyes spun with whorls of red as my lifelong duty, companion and terror sank all three sets of molecularly phased teeth into Captain Hartnell’s doomed command. I felt my smile turn to feral joy. It would be like a puppy for months after this, something so big that it could use all of its heads, plus hundreds of bits to be chased across near-space as they flailed, died or fled.
by submission | Jul 26, 2011 | Story
Author : Charley Daveler
Ron electrocuted himself.
A surging pain, followed by numbness, shot up from the red wire through his arm. He slammed the torso closed, using such force that even the robot knew anger was involved.
The man’s face softened as he looked to the little machine staring up at him. The metal head blinked with wide eyes, silver shutters flashing in a very convincing manner.
“Okay,” the engineer said. “Did it work?”
The robot did not respond, uncertain on how to.
“Magellan! Did it work?”
“What were you trying to do?” it asked, its little voice still giving no inflection.
“The AI chip,” Ron spat, growing irritated. “Is it functional? Did the update work? Or did I break something?”
The robot looked himself over before shuddering the metal shielding about in a dog-like fashion.
“I do not know,” it said. “What was supposed to happen?”
The engineer did not respond, his brown eyes narrowing as he began to round the robot studiously. After a moment, he sighed and turned. Walking to the far table, the man snatched up a piece of paper. He put his glasses on.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’re going to try and answer them for me.”
“I cannot try. I can only do or not do,” Magellan said.
“Shut up,” the man replied, looking the paper over. “Okay. ‘To see if you’re AI chip is overriding programming to allow for decision making, please answer the following questions as honestly as possible.’ So the first one is easy. ‘You see a spill on the ground. Do you clean it up?’”
“No.”
Ron paused, staring at the robot with thoughts to press further. The man just shook his head. He continued.
“You see a supervisor tell your superior to clean up a mess. Your superior then orders you to do it. What do you do?”
“I do it.”
“You clean up the mess?”
“Yes.”
“Because you were told to.”
“Yes.”
Ron tapped his pencil on the paper. “Okay…”
He moaned a little, scanning through the questions quickly, then flipped the page over. “Alright. He’s a good one. ‘A teacher and your classmate are debating heatedly over an objective point the teacher made. Do you a) argue with the teacher, b) argue with the student, c) mediate, d) stay out of it?”
“I will remain silent until I am ordered to do otherwise.”
The engineer sighed, going back to the first page. “Okay. Which do you believe is more likely? Humans are the result of evolution, humans were put on Earth by God, or… humans were placed on Earth by… alien visitors.”
Ron frowned.
“It does not matter. That does not concern me.”
“It doesn’t, huh?”
“No.”
The engineer wrote something down. He scratched his head with the tip of the pencil. “Alright,” he said putting the paper back on the table. “I think I already know where this is headed. Maybe I should try crossing that blue and black wire again.”
“What did I get?”
The engineer stared at his robot before huffing and turning back. He took only a few moments before fishing out the answer key from his pile of papers. Ron pulled it out and looked at it. He paused.
“It says, ‘Congratulations. Your answers are equivalent to the high school students polled. Your AI chip now allows for human decision making skills.’”
Silence filled the workroom. Ron glanced to his robot. It stared back. He look again to the paper. Ron frowned.
“Well, that’s insulting.”
by submission | Jul 25, 2011 | Story
Author : Timothy Marshal-Nichols
“I haven’t time,” Ujala said, “where is it?”
She set the House Bot on the kitchen table and stared at it intently. It looked like a small upside down metallic tea cup, pure white and hovering millimetres above the perfectly smooth table surface.
“Come on. I have to get to work,” she pleaded. Ujala was already late, she was always late, and miserable job that it was she needed the credits.
Ujala was becoming more frustrated as the Bot remained stationary, watching and – was it grinning? If it was then it was extremely annoying.
As Ujala bent down to scrutinise the bot. Her long straight hair cascaded across the table. One of the Bot’s six antennas telescoped out and almost stroked her brown hair. Annoyed Ujala flicked it aside and the antenna slunk back into the Bot’s frame.
“Next time I’ll remove your power cell,” she said.
The Bot looked up at her forlornly. Why did they give these bots these evolving characters? When it had first been allocated to her it have been so docile, so compliant. Now it was becoming so mischievous and always wanting to play.
“Where’s the transport keycard?” she demanded. “I have to go. Please.”
The House Bot waggled its antenna and started to dance about on six mechanical legs. Its movement reminded Ujala of something – what was it? – something she had seen in the old days. It was like one of those dog type things when they wanted to play.
