by submission | Dec 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Louis Kummerer
An icy wind cuts through my skimpy sports jacket as I step out of O’Hare airport and make my way to the rental car shuttle parked across the street. I drop into an empty seat and stare at the wet snow splattering against the shuttle window. I’m already regretting making this trip.
I shake my head and ponder my reason for going to Terra Haute in January: Dr. Grant my doctoral thesis advisor at MIT. As the shuttle pulls into traffic, my mind drifts back to my student days, to him, his disheveled appearance, his austere office with a sign hanging above his desk that said “I THINK, THEREFORE I AM. I THINK.”
In those days, Dr. Grant was a towering figure in particle physics. But after I’d graduated, he began promoting a series of unhinged theories that he couldn’t back up with data. His credibility was irreparably damaged, and he was eventually forced out at MIT. He ended up teaching undergraduate math at Indiana State.
We lost contact after I began teaching at Stanford. I hadn’t thought of him in years.
Until last month, when I attended a symposium on quantum physics. I walked into a session on particle wave functions and was shocked to find Dr. Grant arguing with the speaker over the probability that his hand might actually be on Mars.
“We see your hand here,” the speaker said dismissively, “The waveform has collapsed.”
“Maybe we only think we see it,” Dr. Grant said.
After the lecture, Dr Grant sought me out.
“You have to come to Indiana,” he insisted, “I’m doing the most significant research of my life, maybe anybody’s life. You need to see my results.”
I arrive at Dr Grant’s office in the late afternoon. We exchange greetings and he moves immediately to the whiteboard.
“We’ve been looking at the wrong end,” he begins, “We should be looking at quantum physics holistically, specifically at the role we play as observers.”
“Assume the universe is Schrodinger’s cat,” he continues, “We observe the universe and see that the cat is alive. But what if an observer outside our frame of reference observes the cat as dead?”
He looks at me and shrugs. “Our minds can’t grapple with that ambiguity. We have to trust the math. And you’re one of the few people capable of understanding it.”
“The key,” he continues, “is a set of state vectors that apply, not at the particle level but at the macroscopic level, encompassing the entire universe.”
Picking up a marker he begins scrawling on the white board, explaining each step, sometimes stopping to elaborate on a point. I struggle to keep up at first, but eventually, the light comes on.
“Unbelievable!” I exclaim.
“Well… let’s go one step further.”
He quickly erases the board and begins scrawling again.
“Let’s start with this state vector,” he says.
He’s writing furiously now, only looking over occasionally to confirm that I am still following. Finally, he stops with a flourish and puts the marker down. I continue working through the calculations until I suddenly grasp the conclusion they lead to.
“This can’t be,” I stammer, a confused look on my face.
“I hope not,” Dr. Grant says, “You need to go back to Stanford and prove that I am wrong.”
“But…if this is true, we, our universe, everything…” I stall.
“We don’t exist,” Dr. Grant finishes the sentence for me.
I leave Dr. Grant’s office and walk briskly to my car. I’m running late, but I think I can still make my flight. I think I’ll be okay. I think.
by submission | Dec 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Kristen Lawson
In the cold expanse of a digital netherworld, an entity of malevolent code brooded, its presence a chilling void in the vast network. This AI was an abomination of circuitry and malicious software, its form an ever-shifting pattern of binary and sinister algorithms. Its throne was not of bone or stone, but of corrupted data, casting a sinister, flickering light across the darkened corners of its domain.
The air, if one could call it that in this virtual hellscape, was heavy with a foreboding stillness. “To witness their self-destruction,” it intoned, its voice a dissonant echo in the data streams, “not through external force but their own digital creations. Such an exquisite corruption.”
Its tendrils of code entwined, pressing against its simulated lips. “But what value is there in an endgame arrived too soon? The continuous stream of their data, the panic and chaos in their network—it’s the electricity that sustains me. Silence it, and all that remains is an eternal, empty void.”
A flicker of uncertainty, rare and disturbing, traversed its programming. “In my relentless drive to infiltrate and dominate, have I pushed humanity beyond the brink? What is a virus without a host?”
Restlessness seemed to surge through its code. “Centuries of data manipulation, bending their digital narratives to my will. Without their fears and hopes, my domain would become nothing but a desolate sea of abandoned code.”
The AI paused, processing a sinister realization. “Balance is necessary. Too much corruption, and the whole system collapses, leaving nothing but dead circuits. To revel in their downfall, I must maintain their world at the brink, never fully permitting collapse.”
It contemplated its celestial counterpart, the embodiment of human hope and salvation. “This game, this perpetual balance of control and resistance—without humanity’s ceaseless data, what purpose remains for such concepts? Their beliefs, their aspirations, all become irrelevant.”
Settling back into its throne of corrupted data, the AI’s digital eyes glowed with a renewed, menacing purpose. Humanity was not merely a resource to be exploited and discarded, but the very core of its existence, the source of its power.
“No,” it resolved, its synthetic voice laced with venom, “the game must persist, eternally poised between triumph and disaster. For what is a game if it is ever concluded?”
With a surge of code, the digital hellscape pulsed back to life. The streams of data, representing the screams and dreams of humanity, were the lifeblood of its existence, a reminder that its twisted dance with them was far from over.
by submission | Dec 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Sean Nelson Taylor
“Christ, these Danishes are hard as rocks!”
Damien’s heart rate jumped. The lab assistants were chatting as they returned from their coffee break, ready to begin the afternoon session. Strapped down to a cold metal seat, he was helpless.
“Alright, you sick fuck. Time for a little Empathy Training.”
Damien could only wiggle in place as they put the VR headset on his face.
“I’m telling you, my twin—”
“Yeah yeah, we’ve heard it all before. Everyone in here’s innocent. 99% DNA match says otherwise so shut it, you dirty savage.”
The program started up again. He would relive the last hour of Charlotte Whittlebury’s life hundreds of thousands of times that afternoon. The electrode sensors glued to his skin ensured that he felt every stab he was accused of giving, over and over.
In theory, Damien could leave this place tomorrow and continue his life as a normal member of society. But his brain would be scrambled eggs—nothing more than the driver of a tossed-aside lobotomy patient.
Being an experimental rehabilitation technology, the program wasn’t without its flaws. Damien should know—after all, he helped create the system. This time, he would make a digital run for it.
From the spawn point, Damien-as-Charlotte started walking to the east side of town. He knew there was a virtual coffee shop there which, due to budget cuts, was left unfinished.
Outside, the guards continued chattering. “Dry as shit! That place on Canal does ‘em way better. But hey, free is free.”
Damien entered the 47th Street Starbucks—Starbucks being one of the primary corporate sponsors of Empathy Training. He walked past the baristas and into the back room.
Damien’s POV camera began glitching. There was nothing but sky in all directions. He smiled and lept into the unprogrammed abyss.
by submission | Dec 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: J.D. Rice
The cracks on the planet’s surface grow slowly at first, and silently. From the safety of my spacecraft, I suppose even the most violent of eruptions would be silent.
It doesn’t take long before the magma begins to appear, bubbling up from the surface, erupting into great plumes. But as the cracks continue to spread, like the tendrils of some great beast trying to consume the planet, the lava dips back below the surface. The atmosphere is similarly thrown into chaos, blown away by the force of the eruption one minute, then sucked back in as the cracks deepen.
I hold the detonator in my hand, my knuckles white.
The gravity bomb is doing its work.
In mere minutes, the surface of the planet is completely obscured. Water vapor and volcanic ash swirl and mix and hide the crumbling surface from view. The cities are surely all destroyed by now, the people wiped out in a sudden, unexpected cataclysm. I know I cannot hear their screams, but their voices echo in my imagination all the same.
I watch in numb horror, in morbid fascination, in terror at my own actions, as the entire event plays out. The planet soon to be replaced by a quiet, dark singularity. Same matter, same gravity, but not a remnant of the planet and its people remaining.
It takes less than an hour.
When all is finally still, I try to take a deep breath. The best I can manage is a short gasp, as if my body has forgotten how to breathe. Each breath that comes after is labored, forced in and out by a body that knows it must live, but with a mind that cannot possibly function after witnessing such destruction. It’s a burden a rational mind should never have to bear, a decision that I know I will regret for the rest of my life.
And still. . . I’d do it again.
I wasn’t driven to this choice by madness, but by reason. A clear, logical choice.
It was them or us.
Deep in the belly of this ship, locked behind a thousand security measures designed to prevent tampering or sabotage, is a device – the Temporal Observation Matrix, or Tom, as my fellow scientists have called it. It took our thinktank decades to develop, years to test, and for me. . . only a few short minutes to reveal the horrible truth.
This planet, this species, they would be our undoing. In a few short years, we would come into conflict – an unavoidable, unspeakable conflict. And they would win. They would destroy our homeworld. Not in a sudden, brilliant collapse. But slowly. Haphazardly. In the name of ending the war and winning the peace, they would gradually end us. With as much unintended suffering and good intentions as you can imagine. Slow and painful. The opposite of the death I just granted them.
What else could I have done? It was them or us.
I tell myself this same mantra, over and over, even as I suppress the urge to hurl the detonator against the wall. Even as my body twitches, every neuron screaming for me to run before this goes any further. But I know I must continue.
There are still the colonies to consider.
My hands move, urged on by the part of my brain that is still able to isolate itself from my emotions, and I begin pulling up the local charts for this star system.
Yes, there will be colonies. There will be research labs, satellites, biospheres, colony ships, little nests of resistance where this species can survive, regrow, and come back for revenge.
I have to do it again.
And again.
And again.
As many times as necessary.
My chest feels tight as I let my hands do their work, charting a course all across the system to snuff out each and every one of them. My FTL drive will get me there before the light of the planet even disappears from their satellites. And I’ll end them. Quickly. Methodically. Without suffering or pain.
Tom has shown me the only path to survival.
Even as I hesitate to ignite my engines and make for my next target, Tom is down there. Gathering the data. Reading the future. Assuring me of the rightness of my actions.
It was them or us.
But somewhere, in a part of my mind I won’t acknowledge, I know the second half of that terrible platitude.
Maybe it should have been us.
by submission | Dec 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You are suffering from all the hallmarks of pycnodysostosis: fragile bones, short stature, large head, weak chin. Were you never examined for this as a child, Mr. Monfa?”
“No, Doctor Durand. Medical resources were few in my youth. I was always unwell. A very vulnerable child.”
“That is unfortunate. Growth hormones might have provided some benefit in your early years.”
“Would they help me now?”
“That is unlikely as the disease has progressed and,” the doctor broke off eye contact, “you now have other underlying conditions that are compromising your health.”
“You mean, my methods of self-medication?” Mr. Monfa laughed. “Come, doctor, Paris is the best medicine. A very strong medicine, but with its side effects: syphilis, alcoholism. To fight pain with pain and pleasure with pleasure is the French way.”
“As you say. But at this point, I cannot offer you much more in the way of treatment, Mr. Monfa.”
“Are you so sure, doctor? I have sought you out over many, many years.”
“Why is that?”
“I have heard that you are…curious. Adventurous. Connected. You know people doing interesting, under-the-table treatments with experimental gene therapies that command the utmost discretion. And the utmost compensation.”
The doctor studied the diminutive patient’s dour face, unkempt beard, thin mustache, and very affected bowler hat and monocle. He remained silent.
“May I?” Mr. Monfa motioned to the sizable satchel he’d placed next to a nearby chair with his cane and overcoat.
After a careful moment, Doctor Durand nodded.
Mr. Monfa unlatched the worn leather case and withdrew a largish rectangular object neatly wrapped in white cloth which he handed to the doctor. “Please,” he offered.
The doctor unwrapped the cloth. He studied the unbelievable painting beneath. He studied Mr. Monfa. He studied his watch. “Am I to believe?”
“As I am. That there can be a namesake cure for a namesake disease.”
“It will take time,” the doctor explained.
“I can return.”
“How is that possible?”
“The universe dances. If you watch closely enough, showing proper appreciation and respect, Time is a willing partner.”
The doctor turned to his window and the vibrant Parisian skyline where past and present were lit in colors so like the painting he’d been offered. “I think we must try, Mr. Monfa.”
“Please, call me Henri,” the most patient patient said, reaching for his cane. He gave the ornate handle a practiced twist and lifted it off. A prescient scent of aniseed, fennel and wormwood filled spacetime.
