by submission | Dec 30, 2007 | Story
Author : Gavin L. Perri
Sometimes I wake in cyberspace and remember the wizened words of the old man, ‘When I was a one year old we didn’t have self-evolving tutorial programs, we had to learn by listening’. I try to picture what he looked like but all I get are a series of ones and zeroes, the discussion we had at eight, however, stays with me ‘Back when I was a lad we didn’t have spatial displacers, we had to walk everywhere we went’. Walking is such an abstract thought.
His words at my twelfth birthday for some reason stay with me ‘Pah! A telepathic communicator, when I was your age I used a mobile phone’ I create a simple program that recreates the genome of the old man but it does not show the creases on his age-old hands and it does not recreate our last conversation ‘When I was fourteen years of age we didn’t need time travel to find out about history, we just used the internet’. These words play around in front of me as I contemplate them. I will never hear the old man again, my program does not respond to wavelengths of sound and he never learnt to telepathically communicate.
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by submission | Dec 29, 2007 | Story
Author : John Tudball
When we are young we are told a story of a ship.
As the story goes, the ship is damaged beyond repair and is set to crash into its destination planet. The crew on board consists of one android, one clone and one pure born. There is only one escape pod left.
“Master,†says the android, “you must take the escape pod. I shall prepare it for you.â€
“Lord,†says the clone, “you must take the escape pod. I have made these provisions for you.â€
“Friends,†says the pure born, “when I am rescued your names shall be written in the book of records. No greater honour could you receive.â€
When we are old we tell a different story.
In our story, a broken ship is hurtling towards destruction and there is only one escape pod left. The crew of the ship – an android, a clone and a pure born – argue amongst themselves as to who should be allowed to escape.
“I should be given the pod,†says the android. “I can report to the ship’s maker what went wrong, so this never happens to anyone again.â€
“I should be given the pod,†says the clone. “Throughout this system there are a great many lords and ladies who would miss my touch, should I die here.â€
“I should be given the pod,†says the pure born. “For it is my right.â€
And with this, the pure born draws a weapon and forces the others to concede. He backs into the pod, keeping his weapon drawn on his crewmen and closes the door behind him. The android and the clone sit and wait for their deaths. After ten minutes – just as the ship is nearing its end – the door to the escape pod opens and the pure born comes back out.
“Um,†he says, “how does this thing work?â€
They don’t like us telling our story. It tells a truth they do not wish to face: Without us they are nothing.
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by submission | Dec 28, 2007 | Story
Author : Kaj Sotala
Even after nine years, people still stare at us. We’re used to it.
The plague that suddenly made all of humanity sterile wasn’t easy on society. There was panic, rioting, doomsday cults. But eventually people adjusted and things calmed down, and scientists turned their attention to finding a cure.
It took them ten years, but they succeeded. After a decade of global childlessness, our generation was born.
Adults say we’ve had a strange childhood – I suppose so, though I wouldn’t know. I’m used to everything centering around us, from all the stares we get to the entire industries, a decade dead, springing back up to cater to our needs. When we entered elementary school, it had been seventeen years since any of the teachers had last taught first-graders. I sometimes wonder if that made them better or worse.
The older kids, the last generation born before the plague, look at us with a mixture of jealousy and suspicion. Jealousy, because previously they were the ones getting all the attention. A noticable fraction of them still wore diapers when we were born, their parents unwilling to let go of the last babies they might ever have. Suspicion, because we don’t share their culture. All the games and silly rhymes and crazy rumors that passed from one generation of kids to the next, secret from the adults, are lost now. We never learned them from the kids a few years older than us. Instead we chose to make up our own culture.
Never in the history of mankind has there been a generation like us. Even the adults are a bit weary of us, deep down. They know they forgot how small children should be treated, and they fear that they’ve made mistakes.
I say: let them fear. It makes things easy for us. Each night when we pray, those of us who’ve been taught to pray, we secretly add a thanks for the plague.
For making us unique.
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by submission | Dec 27, 2007 | Story
Author : James Smith
Nardo sat in his broker’s office, running his “impatience” script. He occupied himself with the U.N. Secretarial bout running on hologram in the corner. One American candidate had just tagged out and his partner climbed to the top rope, towering above the Nigerian, when the broker’s pupils flashed twice and his BRB tags faded.
“Hi, sorry, meltdown in China, had to move some accounts, hold some hands, how you doing?”
Nardo hated that fast-guy-Eddie bullshit. “Ed. Population futures. I wanna get in on that. The returns sound fucking massive.”
Ed’s avatar smiled.
“Bernardo, let me guess. Some thirteen year-old Malaysian kid goes poking around in the GASDAQ, you pull the case, and some helpful soul explains population futures to you, just well enough to make you think you’ve struck gold. Now you’re logged into my office, wasting my retainer, and my time.”
“So… you’re saying…”
“I’m saying what the regulation scripts need to hear me say. I’m saying what the secret society of backchannel movers and shakers want me to say. But, you and me go way back, Nardo. You did that thing with the guy that one time–“
–blood, lots of blood, fucking everywhere–
“–and I owe you. So I’m going to do something for you. Now: You want me watching out for you, or do you want me getting hot wire hangers jammed up my ass on a Spanish prison ship? If it’s the former, keep your mouth shut about it. All right?”
“Stop trying to scare me.”
“Fine. First, I’m replacing this conversation with script on mutual funds. Now: Tinker’s Dam. Up in Christchurch? There’s going to be a storm next week, and the river’s gonna top it. No, no, shut up, stop typing. Don’t ask. There’s going to be a surge of untouchables into Rebekka proper, and property values are going to fucking tank. Absolutely. Now, Rebekka can’t absorb all these fuckers without some pain. The long and short is that over the next two to five years, the city’s going to hemorrhage middle class white folks over the wall into Snowtown and Twitch City. And you, having bought up a sizeable share of population vouchers in one or both of those fine municipalities, will be swimming in easy credits.”
“That… that’s how it works?”
“That’s what’s going to happen. How it works is beyond the ken of mortal man. You in?”
“My mother lives in Christchurch.”
“Move her the fuck out of there, man! That place is a sewer. Besides, the dam’s gonna blow and kill a bunch of people.”
“Five years?”
“You’ve already got a job. This is how you build a pension. Shit or get off the pot.”
Nardo looked over at the U.N. match playing on the side table. A Nigerian had one American in a sleeper hold. Her partner was beating the other with a folding chair, blood dissolving as it flew past the angle of the holo-cams. He had money on the damn Americans.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m in.”
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by submission | Dec 26, 2007 | Story
Author : William Tracy
It was late after hours at SETI headquarters. Still, two men hunched over a computer, it’s light bathing them in a blue glow.
“I can’t believe it, Jim.â€
“There’s no doubt. Arecibo is picking up an artificial signal from an intelligent source.†Jim straightened, raked his hair back with his fingers. “Play it.â€
“What?â€
“I’m just curious; the transmission looks like an AM radio broadcast.†He leaned forward. “Dave, can we play it?â€
“Well, let’s see—†Dave punched buttons. “There we go!â€
A voice speaking in English emanated from the computer’s speakers.
“It can’t be…â€
Jim stared at the screen. “That star is forty light-years away,†he pronounced solemnly. “This message is forty years old.â€
* * *
The general faced the SETI researchers down across his polished wood desk. Medals swarmed down his uniform.
“Gentlemen, you wish to speak to me about Project Starshot.â€
The researchers answered that they did.
The general placed his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Project Starshot is a classified government project—its very name is secret. I do not know how you found out about it, but whatever happened, a serious security breach has occurred, and national security is jeopardized.†He leaned back, crossed his arms. “Start talking.â€
Jim turned to Dave. “Play the tape for him.â€
First there was static, then a words. “… Officer Franks, of Project Starshot. I have completed the first manned test of the device. Our coordinates must have been wrong, because the wormhole seems to have delivered me to an alien world. The wormhole we created only works in one direction, and I have no means of returning. I am broadcasting this message in hopes that … †the message dissolved into noise.
As the tape played, the general’s eyes widened. Then he placed his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together, and propped his nose on his knuckles. He paused, listening. Then the general moved his head down, and leaned his hands against his forehead.
When the tape stopped, there was a long, awkward pause before the general looked up at his guests, eyes tired.
“We canceled Project Starshot in 1967. We thought they all died.â€
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