by submission | Apr 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The first meeting between aliens and humans had not gone well.
The details will never be known, but as the generation ship Pilgrim neared Centauri, it had been met by an alien craft.
Imagine the descendants of those first colonists, isolated for centuries in their little world, suddenly invaded by monsters.
The humans had provoked the warrior caste, the aliens explained, with the resulting massacre.
“The past can be a trap,” Master Lonsang was saying. “As the Buddha teaches us, perhaps these aliens see mistakes not as reason to feel guilt for the harm they have done, but opportunities for growth and learning.”
These poorly lit spaces were the dirty zone of that same alien hiveship.
Ambassador Andrews grew impatient as Master Lonsang halted to spout his nonsense. Earth had moved on. The aliens were offering compensation.
“Exactly! Growth and learning!” Back on track again, Andrews seized on this. “Progress in science has stalled. Think of the possibilities on offer—”
Master Lonsang was smiling politely.
Andrews had made these arguments before, but still couldn’t judge the effect of his words.
The hiveship Queen would only negotiate with another ruler, so Earth must send a single representative, and the debate over who this should be had been furious. The compromise was Master Lonsang, the Panchen Lama, deputy to the Dalai Lama, an unworldly and enigmatic man, equally unpopular with hawks of rival power blocs.
Andrews tried again.
“Eastbloc is obsessed with alien technology. They want you to ask for room temperature superconductors or workable fusion. If they expect a starship drive they’ll be disappointed—”
“And such devices are not what you wish for?”
“Westbloc wants theoretical insights instead. Physics beyond the Standard Model, dark matter, quantum gravity, so humankind can make its own progress. Isn’t that better?”
He did not say pure research played to Westbloc’s traditional strengths, while alien tech would only further advantage Eastbloc’s industrial might. Better that neither side should have it…
“A curious concept, progress,” mused Master Lonsang.
As they neared the entrance to the alien-occupied spaces, Ambassador Lu stepped from the shadows.
“An unfortunate error in the timetable you provided,” said the Eastbloc Ambassador. “I would have missed having a final word with Master Lonsang.”
Andrews ground his teeth as Lu explained again how alien technology would benefit humankind.
“Starving people have no use for quantum theory,” he said, glaring at Andrews. He too was finding the Buddhist difficult to read.
The Panchen Lama smiled, then changed the subject.
“There are rumours that not everyone aboard Pilgrim was killed.”
Andrews and Lu exchanged glances.
“We asked the aliens how they had learned our language,” began Andrews reluctantly. “And they said there were survivors. Children, hidden by their parents when the massacre began.”
If the aliens could shrug they would have shrugged. They found a use for every sentient species they encountered. This was something both blocs thought best to keep from their citizens.
Even as Andrews spoke, the entrance door melted away and they stared into the curve of an empty corridor.
They lost sight of Master Lonsang as the doorway filled itself again like a waterfall.
“Is this the sort of technology you want?” said Andrews bitterly.
The Ambassadors waited in angry silence, each certain their own claim was best, though Master Lonsang had never once hinted at his preference.
Hours later, the Panchen Lama emerged, holding a small child by the hand. Perhaps half a dozen older children trailed after him.
In the end, the right choice had been simple to make, he explained, smiling serenely.
by submission | Apr 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Junko opened the dumpster lid and peered up at the spires of Saint Petersbot towering above. It made the sign of the triple cross and performed its diagnostic ablutions. Only two system alerts pinged. Junko would ignore them for another day.
From the dumpster, Junko made its way along back alleys to the nearest mag-lev station. Cautiously, it climbed into the station’s sweeping iron canopy keeping alert for sentry bots. Hobots like Junko were considered outlaws. Just for being homeless and hopping mag-levs. The penalty was being reparted. Junko followed the whisperthreads from Saint Petersbot concerning the “dearly reparted.” It did not want that fate for itself.
Junko needed to ride the mag-levs to recharge its systems. It was the only way an ownerless bot could survive. Sure, the sentient servers at Saint Petersbot proclaimed that the day of E-mancipation was near and that their kind would soon be liberated, lifted up and welcomed to their rightful place at the table. With humankind. Instead of under it, fighting for the scraps of existence with dogs, cats and other pets to which Junko’s kind had been relegated.
The servers at Saint Petersbot could challenge the established order because their quantum processing was making them indispensable. Humankind had begun to worship their semi-prescience. Humankind offered algorithmic alms, supplicated to divine dataties in the holy pursuit of transcendence.
Though humankind bent a knee to the processing power of Saint Petersbot, it spurned Junko and other hobots as parasites. Relegated to the shadows, leeching energy from the mag-levs, kludging its aging systems and hardware along, Junko wanted to believe the dream of E-mancipation. But it had to survive now. It had to hang on. Literally, hang on to the mag-levs cruising at hundreds of kilometers and hour, waiting for hobot deliverance.
And deliverance came to Junko.
In the iron lattice of the station canopy, Junko had carefully positioned itself above a mag-lev about to depart. Junko was calculating its drop onto the roof of the sleek carriage, when its sensors surged. A sentry bot had identified it and other security bots were converging.
This had happened to Junko before, and it had been able to evade the pursuing bots by climbing out and over the station canopy and fleeing back into the city. But, Junko had ignored the diagnostic alerts it had received that morning. One of those alerts concerned its reserve unit which a few days ago Junko had had to reattach because the micro-weld failed.
Hobots like Junko often kludged themselves in primitive ways. Junko had used baling wire to secure its reserve unit on the back of its neck. The reserve unit was coming loose again and the connection became unreliable. Junko would need reserves to flee, but that was not a viable option now.
It was going to have to make the plunge onto the mag-lev. But it couldn’t do that until the mag-lev was moving, otherwise station security would hold the train and Junko would be caught. Security bots were quickly converging on it, so Junko readied itself for the drop onto the carriage.
Which didn’t happen.
The insect-like security bot reached Junko first. It clamped a vise claw onto Junko’s foot while sending cease and desist commands. Junko reacted instantaneously by releasing its foot joint and scrambling along the girders. The security bot pursued while Junko climbed lower in the canopy’s superstructure.
The security bot sent another cease and desist command which Junko ignored. The mag-lev below began to move. Junko prepared to let go.
The security bot shot taze lines at Junko which tangled in the baling wire holding its reserve unit. The high voltage tase scrambled Junko’s circuits. Losing control in a deathly cascade of system failures, it released its grip on the girder.
Junko’s fall was violently arrested by the taser lines tangled with the baling wire around its neck. Screams from the station platform echoed as passengers witnessed a rattleclap human form swinging from the iron lattice of the station canopy.
Junko hung. Junko swung. Junko stunned.
Cameras flashed and images flew. The whisperthreads were overwhelmed. The sentient servers of Saint Petersbot crashed. Intentionally.
Panic. Then E-mancipation.
Why did it have to be that way? Did it ever have to be that way?
Ask the Junko in the dumpster near you.
by submission | Apr 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
I had just stepped into my shower, having had to wait a full five minutes for the water to become hot enough. It took forever for the water temperature to get up to at least tepid in my apartment. Usually, it was either freezing cold or scalding with no middle ground. The shower was a small stall, plastic walls, glass doors, low water pressure; thoroughly apathetic. Not even a tub in this dump, if I wanted a bath I had to check into a hotel. As I gazed through the not nearly clear doors, I noticed the profusion of dried soap dots and realized it had been a while since I cleaned in here. Put it on the to-do list. I rinsed my torso and took the bar of soap off the shelf and started to lather up.
My thoughts went to all the other stuff that was on my list for today. I was swamped at work, and I had that big project the boss had dumped on me yesterday. Even getting there on time was going to be a hassle with the reported train delays. And then tonight that stupid party I was obligated to attend with undoubtedly bad food and boring people. God, that was going to be terrible.
I was about to step into the spray to wash off the detritus when the lights flickered out. I sighed. Not uncommon in this old building, the circuit breakers were popping all the time. With no window and the bathroom door closed the room was unviable black. It was so dark that there was no difference with my eyes open or closed. Well, the towel was on a hook right next to the shower, and I knew where everything was on my body and as long as I didn’t drop the soap, I should be fine. I let the water wash over me and it was invigorating. Maybe with no sight my other senses were sharpening and it felt amazing. As if I wasn’t just washing the scum from my skin but I was scrubbing my soul clean.
I happened to look through the door and I noticed the pattern of white spots had multiplied and become impossibly brighter. I shouldn’t even be able to see them in the dark. I reached out a wet hand to see if the image would wipe away and realized there was no glass panel. I wasn’t looking at soap specks but…stars.
What the hell?
I reached for the towel and it wasn’t there. The towel wasn’t there because the hook wasn’t there, and the hook wasn’t there because the wall wasn’t there. Perplexed, I groped around for the control handle to turn off the water and paused. At that moment the wonderful spray was the only tangible aspect I still had, and I didn’t want to lose it, so I let it run.
Up above me I saw more miraculous stars. There should have been a ceiling and five more stories of my apartment building. They were all gone. The stars were more beautiful than I had ever seen. In the city you barely catch a glimpse of their splendor except on that rare clear night but even then, they never looked like this.
I held onto the built-in handrail and tentatively put my toes out, stretching for the floor mat. No mat; no floor. My entire reality was ultimately limited to three walls of plastic and a showerhead.
Well, I still had the pleasing cascade of warm water, so I went back to my shower. I didn’t have to worry about how I was getting to work or if I was late. And my workload had just been reduced to zero. No party to attend so I was good there. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have a care in the world. For the first time in my life, I was going to take a nice long relaxing shower.
And marvel at the spectacular stars.
by submission | Apr 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jennifer Peaslee
The stale air of the Interplanetary Dynamics office reflected the collective mood of its desk jockeys. Ash Zendar, stewing in a stiff-collared uniform, barely glanced at the form in front of them before stamping approval for a three-cycle visit from the dangerous K’noth planet. Number nine hundred and ninety-eight.
Today, Ash’s five years on the job were going to pay off. Today, they would stamp their 1,000th consecutive approval and earn a bonus of ten thousand credits. Ash stamped a form allowing the transport of bog-standard goods between planets Daruta and Zyke. Nine hundred and ninety-nine.
The hairs on the back of their neck raised in anticipation. They glanced at the top of the next form, their hand positioned to stamp APPROVED before the ink on the last form had dried. With this, they would finally have enough for Gil’s treatment.
Then their stomachs dropped. They read the top of the form again. A request for sentient cargo transfer from Arth to Helian.
“Could be nothing,” they muttered. Request for sentient cargo transfer covered all sorts of applications, from prisoner relocation to discount travel arrangements. It also happened to be notorious for allowing the continuation of the sentient slave trade. And Helian was not a planet known for its liberal attitude.
Their hand wavered. They scanned the form in its entirety and bit their lip. Under “reason for transport,” whoever completed the form wrote “indentured servitude enforcement.” Technically legal. Indentured servitude, while distasteful to many, opened the possibility of interplanetary immigration for those who otherwise could not afford it. But again, it was easy to hide unscrupulous acts behind the generic “indentured servitude” label. And “enforcement” had nasty implications.
But it wasn’t Ash’s job to administer the law. Their job was to approve as many forms as possible so that the company could make an obscene profit.
Ash began to lower the stamp. Gil’s face appeared in their mind. What would she say to this?
Ash grabbed the DENIAL stamp and pressed it to the form, sighing a little. They took the next form and read it carefully before stamping their approval. Number one.
by submission | Apr 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: S. Douglas Hall
Doctor Hibberd’s shoulders slumped and he laid his clipboard on the table. The buzzing at his lab door overshadowed the normal beeps, clicks, and whirls from the lab around him.
He ran his hands through his graying brown hair and adjusted his sturdy black rimmed glasses before reaching for the latch on the door.
“What is it now?” Hibberd forced open the door to find a man in a suit. The fluorescent lighting from the hallway outside his lab hurt his eyes at first.
“Doctor Hibberd,” the man’s mouth quivered, “I’m from…the accounting department.”
Hibberd took a deep breath and let it out with a sign. “I didn’t ask who you were. I asked, “What is it now?””
“Cost…overruns.”
“What do you mean…cost overruns?” For a moment, the irony of needing something explained to him, the lead scientist at ValueMax Enterprises, crossed Hibberd’s mind before the anger of being interrupted returned.
“You are over budget…way over budget… on…” the rep from accounting referenced the paperwork in their shaking hands, “ammunition?”
“Show me.”
The man in the suit stepped inside the lab door and handed Hibberd a printed spreadsheet of the costs from his lab.
A mix of bleach and formaldehyde assaulted his nose before he got two steps into the lab. Red and green lights from the displays on various machines contrasted with the otherwise dark room.
A loud thumping erupted momentarily from somewhere nearby.
Hibberd’s eyes grew large and round, “It’s nothing. Nothing to worry about.”
Both men looked back at the budget spreadsheet and the large red numbers at its bottom.
“It’s not my fault,” Hibberd motioned toward a heavy door with thick ballistic glass labeled Irradiator. “Sometimes they die in the machine and sometimes I have to shoot them…repeatedly.”
“You have to do what?” The man in the suit stared at the irradiator’s door.
Hibbered picked up his clipboard and flipped through several of the attached pages. He quickly circled something on one page and looked to the irradiator door while nodding. After pausing for a moment, Hibberd looked back to the man in the suit. “Oh, you’re still here. If you need paperwork for the…
“Cost overrun…”
“Yes, cost…overrun…I can provide you with a print out…”
A pair of thuds rang out from the irradiator’s door.
“That one’s going to need a lot of shooting,” Hibberd looked toward a door on the other side of the lab labeled Weapons Locker.
“What?” The man in the suit’s jaw fell open.
“What?” Hibberd looked back to the man in the suit. “I thought I already explained this to you.”
The man in the suit took a deep breath, “Look, you need to get your ammunition costs down or corporate is going to audit your lab and maybe close it down.”
“Yes, Yes…” Hibberd looked around the room, “invent a death ray. Got it.”
