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 The automaton was an outdated model, few of which were still in service.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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by submission | Jun 29, 2013 | Story
Author : George R. Shirer
The saleswoman had gray hair piled atop her head in a beehive. Her lips were painted a garish shade of red. Tremaine thought the color would have looked more appropriate on a whore. The pantsuit she wore was black polysilk; her boots were made of vat-grown human skin.
Rich, Tremaine decided, but lacking taste.
She flashed a garish smile. “Before we begin, Mister Tremaine, I’d like to know what’s brought you to us? According to your social profile you’ve been involved in several long-term relationships.”
“Which proved unsatisfactory,” sniffed Tremaine. “I want something, madame, that I haven’t been able to find on my own. So, an associate suggested I try you people.”
“And what is this quality you’re looking for?”
“Loyalty.”
The old woman’s eyes brightened. Her smile was shark-like.
“Easily accomplished. You do realize that this solution is only temporary? Your purchase will only last for a maximum of three years.”
“I do,” sniffed Tremaine. “May I ask where you get your raw material?”
“A girl’s home outside Newcastle. If you’d like, I can show you our paperwork. We won’t be offended and our clients’ trust and satisfaction are of paramount importance to us.”
“That won’t be necessary, madame. When can we begin?”
She handed him a pad and a stylus. “Simply select the traits you want from the menu and we’ll generate a number of simulations that you can choose from.”
“And she’ll be loyal?”
“As a dog,” said the saleswoman. “Behaviors are hardwired into the brain and there are failsafes that activate in case of a breach.”
“Meaning?”
“If your purchase should ever break your trust, Mr. Tremaine, her brain will shut down.”
“She’ll die?”
“Painlessly,” assured the saleswoman. “And if that happens we’ll replace her with another model at our own expense.”
Tremaine pursed his lips, considered the options on the pad.
“Can you make her love me?”
The woman shrugged. “Truly. Madly. Deliriously.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” the saleswoman added, smiling her shark’s smile, “love costs.”
Tremaine snorted and started making his selections. “So I’ve been told.”
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by submission | Jun 28, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
Rancent-1664 walked into the office of his Preceptor, Ferrin-3411, and waited to be acknowledged. “Enter, Rancent,” Ferrin said to his understudy. Rancent's thirteen pairs of legs glided the excited young scientist up to the workstation of his superior.
“Preceptor, I've found it! An Earth in another brane with a technological civilization!” Rancent's antennae quivered as he spoke.
Ferrin-3411 looked at the eager physicist and said, “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, young professor.”
“But I have the proof, Preceptor! Over the last eight weeks I've sent countless probes across into the other brane. Each time they could only linger for a very few moments before collapsing back into our brane-space. But the computer has been able to process and collate the data from the probes.”
Ferrin looked skeptical. “The volume of data you're talking about would be staggering.”
“It was! I had to get permission to use nearly the entire Lunar Processing Array for a brief time.”
“Nearly the entire array?” asked Ferrin, impressed that his apprentice was able to obtain such permission on his own.
“From the surface to the core,” said Rancent.
“And after a Moon-sized computer chewed on your data what was the conclusion?”
“Preceptor, I have found an Earth inhabited by intelligent mammals.”
Ferrin let that sink in. Rancent was a good scientist. Precise, methodical, respectful of orthodoxy but not bound by it. He was not the type who would make such a seemingly outrageous assertion. Ferrin could accept a parallel Earth with some sort of non-trilobite intelligence. But mammals? It sounded like the plot of some frivolous piece of speculative fiction.
Sensing that his mentor was not entirely convinced, Rancent said, “Preceptor, you will recall the discovery by Blorek-2832 of a parallel brane containing an Earth populated by reptiles?”
“Of course,” said Ferrin. “Blorek's discovery is the most significant in the history of brane exploration.”
Up till now, thought Rancent, who then replied, “Blorek theorized that life on the Earth in the universe he discovered developed much as it did here until a mass extinction event killed off the primitive trilobites. This, he suggested, may have allowed the reptilians to develop and eventually rise to dominate the planet.”
“That part of Blorek's theory is still controversial. But it does fit the facts. You propose that in the world you discovered a catastrophe destroyed the trilobites and the mammals rose to prominence?”
“That's one possibility,” said Rancent. “Or, perhaps, the reptilians came to dominate this newly discovered Earth as well for a time and they in turn were wiped out by a cataclysm that allowed the mammals to ascend. The data I've collected is most consistent with this latter scenario.”
“So you plan to ask the Brane Exploration Authority for the allocation of more probes to investigate this new world to confirm or deny your theory?”
“I had a somewhat different idea in mind, Preceptor.”
“Such as?”
“I want to ask the inhabitants.”
“What?!”
“That would be the most efficient way to find out. Based on the level of technology the mammals appear to possess, it's likely that they're advanced enough to have string theory. Parallel branes have likely been at least theorized by their physicists.”
Communication between two intelligent civilizations in two branes, thought Ferrin. In his mind, Ferrin pictured trilobitomorphic rodents discussing 11-dimensional membrane theory. He laughed.
“Preceptor?” asked Rancent, afraid his mentor was not taking him seriously.
Ferrin gave Rancent a gesture of reassurance. “Just wondering how one addresses an intelligent mammal,” he said as he opened a communication channel to the Brane Exploration Authority.
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