by submission | Aug 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
“Hello darkness, my old friend.
I’ve come to talk with you again.
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain,
Still remains,
Within the sound of silence.”
– Simon and Garfunkel
I awake from dreams about a person I once knew. Was it me? Opening my “eyes”, the brilliance of a new day assaults my senses, but it’s not the light of home. I’m 7,600 light years from my birthplace and it’s not one sun but two which dazzles my vision. I’m looking at Eta Carinae, a binary solar system possessing the largest known sun in the Milky Way galaxy, EC-A; a hundred solar masses and five hundred times brighter than Sol.
Blinking, I switch filters, shifting into the cooler ultraviolet range. This is as natural to me now as squinting once was. My brain, (the only real thing I’ve left that I can call my own), communicates via a synthetic nervous system to sensory units capable of 360 degree vision and can peer deep into all spectrums of light.
My “ears” hear radio waves like they once heard sound. When I first left Earth, I thrilled at the illusion of traveling back in time as I moved through (slightly Doppler shifted) radio signals broadcast since the dawn of radio. It was comforting to relive those transmissions from bygone ages of wars, musical genres and radio plays, but I never felt more alone than the moment I crossed the threshold of Earth’s first broadcast. What a strange form of resurrection it is, hearing Hienrich Hertze a thousand years after his death, a billion miles from home. When his historic oscillations cut silent, replaced by the cold, alien, inscrutable frequencies of space, I knew that I was truly alone. It took ages to comprehend the seemingly random and chaotic signals filling the void. But now, I understand the language of space as easily as a conversation in a crowded room. The rotations of suns are heartbeats to me now, pulsars, like the ticking of clocks. When I listen carefully, I can even hear the faint music of creation.
Moving through the Homunculus Nebula, twin billowing clouds of celestial dust blown from EC-A in one of its false supernova’s, my “tongue” begins to taste the bitter tang of iron and nickel, my “nose” detects the sweet aroma of oxygen and hydrogen. I compare the sensation to the sharp effervescence of a deep, red wine aged in oak barrels. Don’t ask me why.
A million units of data are unconsciously recorded and categorized as I’m caught in the gravity well of the massive binary system. It’s stored within my “memory”, remotely accessible by my Earth bound research team even should I “die” out here. I only wish I could remember more of my own memories… before the transplant. Only in the long dream, as I travel the vast gulfs of space to my destinations can I glimpse fragments of my terrestrial life, but it’s like gazing into a shaken snow globe full of shadows. The doctors told me this was to protect me from madness. I have no idea if they’re right, but I have an ache, an inexplicable emptiness I yearn to fill.
I feel gravity’s grip as I carefully maneuver my sleek, mirrored, oblong “body” into a trajectory which will make the best use of the extremely high gravity, one that will sling me like a catapult further on my journey, deeper into the unknown and closer to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream…
by submission | Aug 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
The twin, muscled eunuchs shove the girl to the feet of Tar Marrella, Crèche mother. The remaining forty-seven crèche citizens stand in a rough circle surrounding them. All but the girl wear pale, toga-like robes and watch impassively, dull eyed and slack jawed. The girl’s dirt smeared clothes are obviously Old World relics; black pants, a stained, white t-shirt and a filthy denim jacket, the likes of which haven’t been seen for over eight hundred years. A wild mass of auburn hair coils about her head.
“We found this one in the Restricted Zone,” says one of the eunuchs. “Near the old city,” finishes the other.
Tar Marrella, tsks disapprovingly. She lifts the girl’s freckled chin with her finger carefully, as if the feral girl might suddenly bite.
“Who are you?”
The girl’s emerald eyes blaze with rebellion.
“What Crèche are you from, child?”
No response.
“What were you doing in the Restricted Zone? Collecting these?” Marrella gestures dismissively at the girl’s clothes. “Every child knows it’s against the Law to enter the Forbidden Zone, or to possess artifacts from the Age of Death. Why awaken memories we have all tried so hard to forget?”
The girl remains obstinate.
“Stubborn, are we? Very well. There are other means of getting the answers I seek.” Tar Marrella speaks without anger, or malice. “But first, let us remove that defiled clothing. Even after all these years, Death clings to it. The smell offends me.”
Susurrations of agreement come from the crowd as the two eunuchs, despite her ineffectual struggling, strip her bare and thrust her into the center of the ring of watchers.
The gathering grows deathly quite. All stare in disbelief.
The girl stands naked and defiant, tangled hair cascading over her freckled shoulders to drape over the gentle mound of her breasts. Ribs push against her taught, pale skin. Her strong, lean legs brace for action. Her hands clench into fists.
It’s not her nakedness that has stilled the masses. All gawk at her navel, the tight little whirlpool of skin just above her tangle of ruddy pubic hair.
A woman’s horrified scream breaks the silence and the crowd erupts into frightened banter.
“Freeborn!” someone yells.
Tar Marrella circles the profane girl as if she was a poisonous viper and raises her voice above the panic.
“It’s Blasphemy to be born of the flesh, a Sin to live in the shadow of our ancestors, whose greed and lust nearly destroyed the world so long ago. We, the Children of the Crèche have lived harmoniously for a thousand years! Born in the Crèche! Dieing in the Crèche! Reborn again! This has been our way. Five hundred thousand of the purest were chosen. Only five hundred thousand can there be. This is the Law! Our wise forefathers knew the only escape from sin was through Clone Resurrection. There can be no Freeborn to taint our perfection. Death to the Lawbreakers!”
The murderous horde echoes the verdict and closes in, tightening like a sphincter.
The girl’s green eyes flash. She inhales deeply, a furrow of concentration creasing her brow. She waits patiently for the oppressive mass to condense, for the first tentative probing fingers of her dull witted attackers.
When all are within range, she retaliates.
Her short ranged, but powerful psychic assault reduces the entire mob into a quivering, spastic mass. Their weak minds, too old and frail, their intellect spread too thinly over a thousand years of revolving resurrections are easily dominated by her own.
The naked girl looms over the epileptic form of Tar Marrella.
“Evolve or die, bitch.”
by submission | Aug 12, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
Dr. Chow Ming Fu and his cat Schrödinger are the only inhabitants of the titanic supercollider surrounding Canis Majoris like a ring. With a diameter of over 4.5 billion kilometers, the supercollider harnesses the gravity of the massive sun, spinning quantum particles to velocities approaching 99.999% light speed. It’s here that Dr. Fu hopes to unlock the secrets of faster than light travel.
Tinkering with a hypercoil, Dr. Fu hums thoughtfully to himself, while Schrödinger, a tiger stripped, orange tomcat lounges on a nearby consol. A small, diode bejeweled collar adorns his neck.
Making routine passes of the labratory is a Robo-Vac. Contained within its super dense Diurelium casing is a miniature Black Hole, devouring dust, bits of discarded waste and cat hair, dutifully maintaining hermetic cleanliness within the station.
“Pass me the laser coupler, please.” The doctor asks, head buried in condenser wires.
“Certainly, Doktor.” Schrödinger replies. The collar’s microphone translates the feline’s vocal purrs with a faint Austrian accent. With a twitch of an eye, the coupler lifts out of the tool box, levitates gently through the air and rests lightly in the palm of Dr. Fu’s outstretched hand.
“Are you certain that flooding the Boson Stabilizer with Tachyons will work, Doktor?” The cat begins casually cleaning its paw.
“I’ve no idea what’ll happen, to be honest, Schrödinger. No idea at all. There. That should do it.” Dr. Fu extracts his oversized head from the mass of cables. Multi-optics goggles bulge absurdly over his eyes. “We’ve been unable to stabilize enough Bosons to do anything productive for over five hundred years. They are so short lived and difficult to preserve. My theory is that the Tachyons, which are moving backwards through space/time, will –“
“- will extend the life of the Bosons by slowing the temporal flow within the stabilizer.”
“Exactly!”
“Are you worried that a build up of Bosons might neutralize the Higgs Field Matrix, Doktor?”
“Nonsense!”
“Right then. What are we waiting for?”
Dr. Fu launches into a complicated sequence of calculations and calibrations, activating the supercollider and accelerating quantum particles along their sixteen quintillion kilometer journey around the sun to truly astronomical speeds. Schrödinger carefully monitors the flow of Tachyons while eating a tin of Nep-tuna (TM).
The Robo-Vac vibrates discreetly in the corner.
“It’s working!” Dr. Fu chortles happily. “The reservoir is filling with captured Bosons. They aren’t decaying at all!”
“Doktor, The Higgs Field Matrix is in chaotic flux. Perhaps we should stop.”
“Nonsense!”
There is a hollow thunk behind them as the Robo-Vac and it’s Black Hole “falls” into the Boson Reservoir, beginning an instantaneous and irreversible chain reaction. Cat and man simultaneously rotate their heads, peering awestruck into the new gaping hole in the wall. A red light begins blinking on the consol. Schrödinger is the first to react.
“I’m getting strange readings from Big Dog. It’s rapidly losing mass.”
“Did you say, ‘losing mass’?”
“Yes, Doktor.”
They look at each other, gobsmaked, as claxons scream. They feel the sudden absence of gravity.
“Doktor?”
“Yes?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes.”
“Ooop –“
Underlying the entire Universe like an intricate rug is the Higgs Boson Field, providing mass for particles, without which there would be no particle interactions, no matter, no life, just pure, impotent energy. As the microscopic Black Hole collapses into the unnatural accumulation of Bosons trapped in their temporal prison, the proverbial rug is pulled. Faster than the speed of light, the Higgs Boson Field collapses, removing mass from all of creation, instantly disintegrating the entirety of material existence.
Luckily, nature abhors a vacuum.
by submission | Aug 9, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
“We beat it!” Those were the words my lawyer had said to me right after sentencing. “It” was the death penalty. “Son, you shouldn’t have done this in Texas,” he’d said to me the first time we met. “This” referred to killing a man.
It happened in the middle of July. It was one of the hottest summers on record. There had been a power failure at the office. Power wouldn’t be restored until the following day. Nobody was too broken up about going home early, least of all me. It was about half past one when I pulled into my subdivision. There was a car in my driveway. I immediately recognized it as belonging to Jimmy. Jimmy and I had been best friends since elementary school.
I’d felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as soon as I saw the car, but I tried to ignore it. Jimmy had come by to see me, I told myself. Probably been here all of two minutes. Wait another minute and he’ll come right back out that front door. Of course, I knew what I would find when I went in the house.
This is where it starts to get blurry. It was a really long time ago, after all. I remember catching Jimmy and my wife in the act. I remember a lot of yelling. I remember the gunshot. I remember the cops cuffing me. The blood on the bed. My wife shaking uncontrollably.
The prosecutor had tried to get the death penalty. Maybe I deserved it. But I had a good lawyer. Maybe too good. He got me life without the possibility of parole. I was 45 years old when I was convicted. I had high blood pressure and high cholesterol and I’d smoked a pack-and-a-half of cigarettes a day since I was 17. My dad had died of a heart attack at 51. A life sentence didn’t seem all that bad.
I’d been in prison for about ten years when the Nanotech Revolution happened. Everything started advancing really quick. Robots, spaceships, all that science fiction stuff the movies and comic books predicted that never happened all became commonplace in just a few years. And everything became really cheap. “Self-replicating molecular assemblers,” they called ’em. Like tiny little robots that could build almost anything from dirt, water, and sunshine. Medicine got real advanced, too.
First they cured diabetes. Didn’t just come up with a better way to treat it, they really cured it. Heart disease, colon cancer, Alzheimer disease. One by one, nanotech cured all man’s ailments. Eventually, they announced they’d found a cure for aging itself. “Cell repair nanobots” and “telomeres” and a bunch of other stuff I never understood. And because all this nanotech medicine was so cheap, everybody was able to get it.
Including prisoners.
I’ve tried to commit suicide four times. They monitor me ’round the clock now. “They” being the machine guards, of course. Guarding prisoners is one of those jobs humans (and transhumans) won’t do.
Nations have risen and fallen around the prison. The Greater American Federated States is the name of the country that Texas belongs to at the moment.
I’ve been locked up for 485 years. They keep saying they’re gonna pass legislation to free us. Or to let us die. They’ve been saying that for almost 300 years. I wish to God that prosecutor had done his job right and got me the death penalty.
by submission | Aug 6, 2012 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
The judge gave Rick several choices, of which the young men’s wilderness therapy program on an uncolonized but certified habitable world seemed the most palatable. He learned to pitch an atmosphere tent, tie a tourniquet and find cover from acid rain. He was light years away from his pregnant ex-girlfriend and any means to procure nervous system stimulants.
Rick stuck a forked stick in a hole in the ground until he felt a soft resistance and twisted it. It tangled firmly in the fur of a plump, rat-like thing, which he pulled squawking out of its burrow. He hit it on the head with a convenient rock, deftly skinned and gutted it, packed it in mud and lay it on the coals to bake until the flesh was tender and free of parasites.
Shawn, his assigned “buddy”, sat down on the rock beside him. “OK, your turn, the doc’s on the screen for you.”
Rick trudged between several tents and campfires to the therapy tent and sat in the folding chair in front of the over-sized two-way video monitor that made the tent feel cramped and claustrophobic. The jitter in the image and the echo in the sound reminded Rick just how much space separated him from his therapist.
“Ricky, my man! How ya’ doing?” the young doc said with overbearing enthusiasm. “How ya’ settling in?”
“Well, I feel more like a kid at summer camp than a juvenile delinquent undergoing state-mandated therapy.”
There was a pause during which the image was frozen. “And how’s your buddy working out?”
“Shawn? He’s okay. He snores. Say, doc, what’s the plan here?”
Pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, when do we get started with the therapy business? It’s been three weeks already, and we still haven’t–”
“I know, and you’ve already come a long ways! You’re learning to be self-sufficient, and you’re building confidence and making healthy friendships–”
“But shouldn’t I be lying on a couch and talking about my cold mother and my relationship problems and my anti-social acting out?”
Pause. “Absolutely! Talking is very important. What’s on your mind?”
“I — I don’t know. Shouldn’t you ask questions or something? I mean, that’s what all the other shrinks did.”
Pause. “And did that help?”
“No, but–”
Outside the tent, the camp rocked as a sonic boom split the air. Rick was familiar enough with the sound at this point to know that a supply rocket had just broken through the atmosphere and was streaking across the alien sky in a blazing arc of fire. Outside the tent, the other boys were hastily digging out their field glasses and compasses and estimating where the next week’s supplies would land.
“Sounds like we’re breaking camp again, doc.”
Pause. “Is that rocket landing already? Seems early; sorry we got cut short. We’ll touch base next week. I wanna hear all about that mother of yours, okay?”
Rick walked back over to the campfire and checked his dinner. “Looks like two days marches due east,” Shawn said watching the rocket.
“They really keep us on the move, don’t they?” Rick dragged the mud-caked rat-like thing off the coals with a stick, and began chipping away the baked mud with a knife. The meat looked tender and moist, but the smell was characteristically sour. “Shawn, are you getting better here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you feeling — I don’t know — less depressed, angry, whatever since you got here?”
“Yeah, I think so. Don’t you?”
“Think things’ll be any different back at home?” The rat-like thing tasted better than it smelled.
