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.”
by submission | Apr 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : J. R. Hargenrader
When Mission Specialist David Branson joined the Solarian Defense Force, his romantic ideal of “see the universe, learn advanced skills, and encounter alien civilizations” never meant hiding on the far side of an asteroid, cleaning regolith-covered optics, and spying on Gliesians he never met.
“Do you ever wonder if we should be doing this?” Branson asked. He lifted the zero-gravity cup to his lips and glanced at the senior officer seated next to him.
Commander Culligan stared at the satellite feed centered on the alien launch pad. The imposing man was all military—square jaw, short cropped hair, low body fat.
“No.”
And efficient sentence construction.
Branson also didn’t envision being stuck at the far end of the galaxy in a pioneer outpost with a guy less companionable than the station’s railgun. At least today would deviate from their regular routine of scanning satellite images flagged by the computer or unclogging the Waste Collection System again. The Gliesians were preparing another rocket launch and, if their last few attempts were any indication, there was a good chance they’d get something into orbit this time. A part of him secretly hoped for their success.
“This violates SDF’s non-interference policy,” Branson said.
“Don’t you think?”
“Non-interference is secondary to the safety and perpetuation of humanity,” Culligan said, quoting SDF doctrine. His face remained cold and hard. “Besides, 581 won’t be the first system where we’ve done this. Or the last.”
The primary display flashed an alert and the image zoomed on the rocket. Branson straightened in his chair.
“Get ready,” Culligan said. He swiped his hand across the console and the display panned down the slender vehicle.
Branson admired the elaborate patterns of colored dots that decorated the ship and appeared on structures throughout the city. Everything they crafted was functional and beautiful. The Gliesian rocket was a vehicle to the stars and a work of art.
White hot light erupted from the engines. The support trusses swiveled away from the airframe and the rocket lifted above the launch pad. Branson’s breath caught in his throat.
“Perfect,” Culligan said. “The trajectory couldn’t be more perfect.”
The rocket arced over the sky as blue melted into black. The first stage disengaged; then the second. The hurtling nose cone soared along the curvature of the planet into a stable orbit. The Gliesians had done it.
The display flashed “IN RANGE.” The walls rattled as the outpost’s railgun tracked its target. “LOCK” flashed in red.
The cone unfurled to reveal a silver sphere at its core. This sphere rocketed away as its crystalline extrusions caught the red sunlight and created rainbows over the blue world. Branson opened his mouth to speak but no words came to him.
Sensors detected a new transmission. A beeping noise.
“Fire,” Culligan said.
“Wait,” Branson said. “There’s a signal.”
“Fire!”
A suppressed flash of plasma lit up the barren asteroid landscape and the outpost shuddered.
The sphere burst into a shimmering spray of silver and crystal. The beeping stopped. Branson thought he watched his own heart as the satellite tumbled forward into a silent death spin.
“That will keep them planet-bound a while longer,” Culligan said.
Branson imagined the explosion as the Gliesians would see it from the surface. Beauty and catastrophe as one. Did they feel shock, confusion, defeat, or sadness? Or were those emotions exclusive to humans? A burning sensation rose in his throat.
“What have we done?” Branson asked.
Culligan sniffed. “Completed our mission.”
Mission? To preserve the ‘safety and perpetuation’ of—
Humanity?
Oh, God. What have I done?
by submission | Apr 23, 2013 | Story |
Author : Dave Rigby
Steve sat in the beige waiting room idly flipping through channels on the tv, not stopping on any for more than the few seconds of allotted free viewing so as to not incur an automatic charge. At home he had a pretty decent entertainment package with no overrun fees but he couldn’t afford the roaming package so any entertainment here would cost him. He went to run his fingers through his hair but stopped when the stump of his right elbow came in to view. Phantom limb syndrome had been tough when he first lost the arm, it was ten times worse when the prosthetic was removed, but he knew at least that meant that it was still transmitting from wherever it was.
At last his name was called. Entering the room he knew straight away that he wouldn’t be leaving with his arm today. The cardboard box waiting on the table was all too familiar.
“Sorry Steve” Andy the technician emerged from an adjoining room “We won’t be able to get it fixed today. The knuckles are shot and we don’t have enough spares for your model”
“When?” asked Steve glumly.
“Tuesday at the earliest. You can manage without for a few days or you can take the loaner. Your choice”
It wasn’t a choice really.
“I’ll take the loaner”
“Ok cool. You know the drill, take a seat, prep your ports and get ready to sync.” The technician picked up the box and slid out the loaner. It was at least 3 generations older than Steve’s current arm. It hadn’t looked realistic when it was new but now the imitation skin had taken on a yellow colour in-between the assortment of stains and scratches it had acquired through years of service. It was a basic arm, no networking, no display, not even realistic fingernails. On the hand the rubbery skin was stretched and thin so you could almost see through to the aging gears and servos below. Steve had brought gloves just in case “Have you given any more thought to upgrading? I can keep repairing your arm but it’s not going to last forever”
“Can’t afford to upgrade” said Steve as he slid his stylus out of a slot on his arm and ran it around his stump. Tiny latches released and the port caps opened all the way around. He moved the stylus behind his left earlobe in preparation for the re-synch.
Andy moved the arm in to place then slid back a panel on the back of the wrist to reveal the sync and power controls.
“Ok here we go, powering on, ready to sync. Hit it”
Steve braced himself and hit the button behind his ear. His phantom arm disappeared as his mind severed its connection. A moment of almost pleasant release and lightness came and went then was replaced by sickening feelings of pain and loss from his shocked nerves and memories of the accident. He almost cried out, and then it was over. The new arm felt heavy and cumbersome but it would do.
“A quick check and then you can go. Make a fist for me” After a moment of concentration Steve did it. “Good. Now move each finger one at a time” Steve did that too, much faster this time. “OK great, now finally play me some Rachmaninoff” Steve showed Andy his middle finger instead. Andy chuckled. “I guess that will do. You’re good to go. Call if you have any problems and I’ll see you Tuesday”
“See you Tuesday” Steve said as he pulled his gloves on.
