by submission | May 31, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
It took most of 20 years to bring the Labeyrie Hypertelescope Satellite Array online. But once the vast network of telescopes were in their various orbits out at the fringes of the solar system, the cosmos was finally opened up for humanity’s inspection. Using astronomical interferometry, the LHSA’s first target was an exoplanet called Gliese 581g. After extensive processing of the data from the telescope array was performed, a series of amazingly detailed pictures of the planet were released. A tidally locked world, half-charred and half-frozen with a narrow band of temperate climate running circumferentially around the planet’s terminator was revealed. It was the golden age of astronomy as what had been blurs and patches were resolved into worlds with oceans and coastlines, worlds with rings and moons, worlds with clouds and ice caps.
When my team’s application for time on the array was finally approved, we began our study of the Fornax Dwarf Spheroidal Galaxy. My career had centered around searching for brown dwarf stars. It was my theory that these dark, sub-stellar objects were ubiquitous throughout the universe and might even be the “dark matter” for which physicists and astronomers had been searching for decades.
Shortly after beginning our survey of the Fornax Dwarf, we discovered something incredible. The telescope array detected a dark object we initially thought might be a brown dwarf. I was working alone that night and data from the array was coming in and being processed. Suddenly, a number popped up on the computer screen that made me gasp: the object’s diameter was slightly greater than one astronomical unit; in other words, it was bigger than Earth’s orbit around the Sun!
The days that followed are in my memory a blur of phone calls and emails with astronomers and physicists from around the world. What the hell were we looking at? As the array’s computers made minute adjustments to the distributed telescope and as the incoming data were processed around the clock, a composite image of the object came into focus. The surface was a vast expanse of what appeared to be metal with what might have been ports at irregular intervals. If ports they were, they were large enough to allow the Moon to pass through them. The observed gravitational lensing effect suggested it had a mass comparable to the Sun. What we were seeing was a star encased in a solid shell. The public quickly became acquainted with the term “Dyson Sphere”.
Thus far, we’ve found 192 Dyson Spheres in six different galaxies. While no two are identical, there appear to be at least six distinctive designs, each galaxy’s spheres having their own unique architecture. No spheres have been found so far in the Milky Way.
Did a single race construct them all, or did several civilizations independently develop the technology? Could there be entire undetected galaxies with most of the stars shelled? Is this the “missing” dark matter of the universe? And what’s inside the spheres? Are there beings living inside them? Or are the spheres just massive solar collectors used to power…what?
In ancient times, people looked up at the night sky and thought the stars were gods. We now know the truth. The stars we can see are creation’s backwater, devoid of life or, at best, home to primitive, undeveloped rustics like ourselves. True civilization lies secluded in the darkness. The gods are in the shadows.
by submission | May 30, 2012 | Story |
Author : Anna Sherwin
Simion stares at his face in the mirror, does he look human enough? He practices a smile, pulling the corners of his mouth upwards. He does not know how to create that elusive light to his eyes that would bring the smile to life. His new heart nestles uneasily in his powerful chest.
His controller has put him in charge of the green revolution. He must descend from his eyrie here on the one hundred and forty fourth floor deep into the basement of the building where the first seeds of change are germinating. Outside the windows, far away beyond the sprawling city, the desert is edging closer.
He moves smoothly towards the lift, the doors opening soundlessly before him. Inside the lift he meets Crystal, one of the few unmodified humans still living amongst the privileged, high above the pollution. Almost like a primitive life form she has been neither enhanced, or genetically modified.
‘Crystal,’ he says trying out his smile on her. Knowing they need to work together he wants to make it clear he is without prejudice.
She give him an appraising look,wonders if he will have the vision required for their task. Together they descend to the cavernous basement where millions of plantlets are reaching up towards the artificial sunlamps that bathe the space in warm light. He picks up a catalogue, tries to decipher the unknown language of plants. Crystal moves gracefully amongst the seedlings, examining their shapes and colors; she is heavily pregnant, feels new life stirring in and around her. She imagines the desert blooming, the parched soil sucking in water from the network of irrigation channels already under construction.
She looks over at Simion. He is standing with the catalogue open in his hands, trying to learn a new language, searching through the circuits of his memory bank.
‘Victoria plum,’ he says ‘Coxes apple, Swiss shard, loganberries, mizuna, pak choi, perpetual spinach.’
For all his beautiful perfection he looks like a lost child. She feels the baby turn and kick within her, waiting to inherit their green revolution.
by submission | May 29, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Moen
Joel’s brow furrowed as he lost himself in thought. Work didn’t felt right. Nothing had for the past six months, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Nothing had changed in his life since the accident. The doctors had told him the procedure was experimental, but so far he had exceeded their expectations. When he had woken from the surgery they had asked him how he felt. Joel had laughed and said he felt amazing. The cybernetics merged with the freshly cloned parts of his new body so well he felt like a new man, which, he supposed, he really was. Only his mind was the same, saved from his old mangled body. The doctors and programmers had cheered. The first ever consciousness transplant had been a success.
Even then, on that very day, Joel had felt something was wrong. He couldn’t say what it was as he smiled at his wife and hugged her. Their kiss felt the same- was the same, yet somehow different. She had noticed as well after a few days. His therapist had said there may be differences, pieces of his old self lost in the transfer; the process wasn’t perfect yet. Memories may be foggy, old habits may not be there. However, Joel soon discovered due to his new mechanical brain he remembered more than he had previously; the color of his first girlfriend’s eyes, the exact seat he had sat in at his college graduation, his wife’s second cousin’s name. It was beyond expectations, the doctors kept saying.
But something was still wrong, he had told his therapist. His wife had even accompanied him to a few of his therapy sessions, but even she couldn’t say what it was. He was the same Joel. He laughed at the same things, he loved the same food, he made love the same. Though he did remember their anniversary now, she had said with a smile. They had all laughed, but Joel had wondered why. Why had he laughed?
Why did he do anything now? It all seemed contrived; it was as if he was an actor, all his lines and actions planned out in advance. When he laughed, his body felt happy, but in his mind, he felt blank. When he looked at his wife, he felt his heart beat faster, his mouth slowly curve into a smile, and he thought about how much he loved her. But inside it was hollow. Something about it all seemed fake.
Suddenly he gasped. His heart had skipped a beat as his brain made the connection. He felt the adrenaline rushing through him, clouding his thoughts with fear. He began to cry, though he wondered if what he truly felt was sadness. He knew he should, and for all the world he was, but inside it wasn’t the same as sadness he had known before.
It hadn’t worked, he thought to himself. The procedure was not exceeding expectations; it had failed that first day when he lay there after the car crash. Day in and day out, he had gone about his business a dead man, as dead as that body they had carted away that day. And now he was just another body, a technological wonder of cybernetics and bio-engineering drifting through the world as if alive; a robot, a zombie, a computer, but nothing more. Some part was missing; some part had not been transferred. He sat at his desk as co-workers gathered around his office door and he cried.
by submission | May 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
Jake loved this part of the day. No more phone calls, no more meetings, no more acting humble, just a Cognac, a cigar, and a few minutes of quiet egotism. He didn’t think of himself as particularly egotistic, but the thrill he got sitting in front of his wall of awards, the thrill of having them on display even in a private office, it always made him feel a little guilty. He had certainly earned them all, as impossible as that always seemed, and if you really are the smartest and most important and best person in the world, is recognizing it really ego? Heck, four of his meetings today had been people imploring him to run for President, clutching poll numbers that were …
“Jake Alderman.”
He froze. That was definitely the sound of a hammer cocking, he had fired too many guns to mistake it, but how could anyone get in here? The mansion was always cleared at night, security at the perimeter was tighter than the White House, and getting into this room required three different passcodes! He hadn’t been shot – yet – and the voice seemed familiar. A joke perhaps? Careful to keep his hands visible, he pivoted in his chair and stopped aghast at what he saw.
“Unbelievable.”
One word, one voice, two speakers. The man standing before him could easily have been his twin if not for the poor muscle tone, bad complexion, terrible hygiene, and gun. The man dropped a book on the desk, a copy of his latest biography.
“Jake Alderman. Enlisted Navy SEAL. Medal of Honor. Army Aviation officer. Medal of Honor again. Olympic decathlete with 3 golds. Doctorate from MIT, doctorate and law degree from Harvard. Fields Medal, Nobel Peace Prize, probably a few more Nobels down the road. You start a garage band, you get Grammys. You make some movies, you rake in Oscars. You start a company, it makes you the richest man in the world. You’re married to the most beautiful woman in the world, and I can’t get a date to save my life, and we’re the SAME DAMN PERSON!!”
“I don’t understand – who are you? What do you mean? And want?”
He had triggered the silent alarm, what was taking so long?
“I’m you. A different you. A you from another universe. A week ago another one of us dropped in on me. He was a physicist, figured out that there were infinite universes and how to travel between them.”
The man leaned suddenly forward.
“Do you remember in high school, all the things you thought about studying? You went engineering and military, I went into philosophy and dishwashing. I think that’s why I see it when the physicist didn’t.”
“See what?”
Christ, he should have kept a gun in the desk, kids be damned!
“Infinite universes, man. Really, truly infinite. Every possibility. Don’t you see?”
He shook his head. What did this lunatic want, how could he get away without getting shot?
“All this, all your success and awards, it’s all just a point on a probability curve. There’s no merit to what you are, no honor – in infinite universes you had to happen at least once. You’re just lucky. You’re just the us who guessed right every time, who had everything go just right, who got everything he ever wanted. And me? I’m just the us who got past your security.“
The man grinned at the confusion in Jake’s eyes.
“It’s okay – there’re infinitely more of us out there. But I’m lucky. I’m the us who gets to do this.”
Bang. Bang.
by submission | May 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : David Hartley
We’ve longed for this, the end of all times, echoed the rampant philosophers, baying for the choicest sound-byte to sing the species out. I flick the radio off, return us to silence. Better that than cloying intellectual redemption. I look to you, to your belly where propagation lies, wondering again what flush of nonsense brought about that defiance, wondering again if that is a baby pushing against your rags or a statement. You smile, as if that alone could reverse things, however much I wished it could.
Outside, the liquid creak makes itself apparent and your smile dies; closer now.
‘Shall we?’ I say. You are already rising, one hand cradling the bump of ambiguous potential, the other limp by your side, grasping for nothing. No weapons now, no point. No more bows and arrows, no lightning.
Together we lift away the rug-door and bow out to the balcony. There are two of them in the courtyard below, inspecting every brick, every wire and lump. Each touch is cautious; when something crumbles they whine and try to push the bits back together again.
Your hand slips into mine, grips. I purse my lips, whistle.
Creak, squeak, chatter, snap, they wheel on us and we stand firm; representatives of a fragile race at the weary end of its tether. It is almost immediate now; flails retracted, whip-limbs recoiled. Armed only with inspection fibres, softly, slowly, they creep, scuttle, and scramble up, over, and all around us. Their eyes, such as they are, have faded from scanner red to sky blue, an imitation of the expanse above perhaps.
They caress for hours and we resist squirming under the tickles. They spend a long time poking and measuring your bump, returning to it each time the rebellious unborn kicks or fidgets. I watch each grope from the edge of my sight, hands running cold with sweat. They inspect that too; catching drips, drinking it maybe. But we hold on tight, force of will, and not one touch hurts or discomforts.
Invader guilt, they have called it. A sudden cease of destruction replaced by this unease. No victorious mothership, no enslavements, just a mute confusion, a hasty sheathing of tendrils. We had been war-torn before they arrived, waging our own myriad paths of destruction across the globe, bending hell to cause devastation for obscure reasons. Perhaps, after all, they were just trying to join in. Trying to make a good first impression.
Our friends cease their inspection and we retreat. Throughout the night they build and build and build. By morning, a new Starbucks stands in the courtyard and they are gone.
