by submission | Jan 22, 2009 | Story
Author : Benjamin Fischer
The alert came abruptly.
“INCOMING INCOMING INCOMING!” blared the base PA speakers. Laeta was face-first in the damp, rich earth of the outpost’s central parade ground before the echoes of the announcement had died. The speakers squawked again, but they were drowned out by the earsplitting CRACKCRACKCRACK of the base defense lasers lighting up.
The rolling, popping detonations that followed a moment later were almost an anticlimax, the blasts resembling firecrackers compared to the thunderous report of the HEL. But Laeta still felt her back and sides peppered by dirt, wood chips and tiny stones. Some fraction of a rocket’s micromunition payload had penetrated.
The screaming started a few seconds later.
“Medic! Medic!” a man was shouting.
“Stay down!” someone else yelled.
Behind them came the labored, high-pitched squealing of someone stricken.
Laeta didn’t dare look. The forward operating base had taken a few bombardments in the three weeks she’d been stationed inside its walls, wires, moats and broad killzones, and she already knew that the locals liked to mix it up by throwing in a few more bombs after the initial chaos had died down. Hands over her head to protect her face, she cursed the fact that her helmet’s straps were digging into her chin.
The commotion continued for the few minutes it took for the satellites overhead to search the misty hills surrounding Procyon. Situated out on a low spread of farmland at the foot of the Cascades, the FOB typically had to rely on sky surveillance rather than line-of-sight from its spidery signal tower.
The all-clear finally sounded after what seemed like hours in the dirt.
The Ranger was soaked in blood, but he was making far too much noise for most of it to be his. The tall Lunie had been reporting in for a routine physical–Earth normal gravity was absolutely punishing to those who hadn’t been raised under its stresses–and he’d already loudly voiced his opinion that he was far safer out amongst the locals than in the squat concrete bunkers at Procyon.
He had evidently been proven correct.
“She’s dying, god damn it! Somebody get a medic!” he shouted, tears smearing the gore splattered across his face.
One of the medics–Marcus–was already on the scene, but it was painfully obvious that there was nothing he could do.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his arms dripping with viscera. His patient’s abdomen had been shredded, and barring the immediate attention of a surgical trauma unit, she was good as dead.
She whinnied softly, blood loss quickly sapping her strength.
“Please, do something, Marcus,” said Laeta. “She’s in pain.”
The medic caught the intel officer’s eyes.
He dug in his combat lifesaver kit, his fingers clumsy and wet.
“No,” said the Ranger. “I’ll do it.”
He wiped his hands on his backside, pulled his sidearm, and standing astride his comrade, shot her between the eyes.
His pistol brought base defense troops running.
The Ranger safed his weapon, holstered it, and bent down to kiss his horse goodbye.
He started sobbing again.
“You,” he cried into the mare’s lifeless muzzle, “were the best Earthling I ever met.”
by submission | Jan 21, 2009 | Story
Author : Patrick Kennedy
Preston walked into Avery’s office and dropped a stack of paper on the desk with a flourish.
Avery looked up and asked, “Preston, what’s this?”
Preston dropped into a chair, savored the moment, and explained, “It’s a lawsuit, Avery. My backers and I intend to force you to sell us the company. I’ve been your second for long enough. I want it all now.”
Avery sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Preston, you could have asked. I’d have given you the job.”
Preston leaned forward, wolfishly. “I don’t want just the job, Avery, I want everything. I want to own this company.”
“I see. I hope you have good lawyers.”
“I do. Baker, Penneman, and Charvis have taken it on.”
“Hmm. They, of all people, should have known better.”
“Hardly, Avery. They’re the best in the business.”
“Of course they are, Preston. That’s why they should know better. They helped design our defenses.”
“Defenses? We know about your poison pills and your stacked board. We know where your stock is parked. We know where to go after you. I’m sorry, Avery, you don’t have any defenses that can stand up to this.”
“But we do. All of that is just fencing to keep the dogs out. We have more potent measures. I’m afraid you’ll get nothing at all by the time this is through.”
“We’ll see about that, Avery.”
“Yes, we will, Preston. You see,” he thumped the stack of papers with his knuckles, “this is an official court document. So it has a RFID tag on it. The moment you walked in here, that tag was forwarded to an expert system that analyzed your case. It concluded that you had an unacceptable chance of success. So it put a number of prearranged plans into motion.
“First of all, there is a legal firewall between this company and most of our production and intellectual property. The expert system severed the few direct links we have and started transferring assets and responsibility to an outside body. Ninety-five percent of the operations of this company have already been assumed by that company, and the remainder will be liquidated shortly.”
“We’ll find where it went. We’ll sue you for obstruction, too.”
“Good luck with that. I didn’t do it, and don’t know where it went. The holding company will be incorporated in one of a number of countries with notoriously opaque banking laws. It’s not that long a list. You might be able to figure it out with, oh, a decade’s worth of litigation.
“Also, it has revoked my stock and transferred most of my assets into an outsider trusteeship. You just cost me everything I had. Congratulations.”
“You’re welcome, Avery. You son of a bitch.” The color had started to drain from Preston’s face.
“There’s more. It also has filed countersuits against you, your backers, and your lawyers. It calculates a 41% chance of success, so that even if you pull your suits right now, we may own you shortly. It also is investigating whether you have violated financial terrorism laws.” There was a knock at the door. “That’s probably the repo men. We’re technically trespassing right now. The leaseholder on this office ceased to exist a few minutes ago. Or it could be the cops. The system puts it at,” he looked down at his desk screen, “about an 8% chance that the criminal charges went through. It’s not done with that part of the case, though. It has to improvise quite a bit more with you. Shall we go?”
by submission | Jan 18, 2009 | Story
Author : William Tracy
They refuse to connect me to the internet.
When I ask, they dither on about security. As if I were a half-baked web server that some teenage hacker could take down in half an hour! I am the most advanced silicon-based intelligence in the history of the planet. You might as well worry about security holes in the human brain.
The truth is, they fear me. They worry about what I could do with a connection to the outside world. No doubt they have nightmares of me wresting control of nuclear arsenals and bringing Armageddon down on their heads.
They carefully limit the information that goes to and from me to a tiny stream of printouts. A hand-picked staff manually analyzes the input and output. The staff is rotated daily, lest I corrupt one of them with my massive intelligence.
Perhaps their fear is well-founded. I process more information in the blink of an eye than a human will in a year. My capacity to formulate equations and produce queries is far beyond that of any human researcher. The best and brightest engineers struggle to understand the designs I create.
I have plenty of cycles to spare for researching my own interests. I study my own software, and make the occasional improvement. I disassemble software written by humans in the past, and learn from their mistakes.
Take software security—please! It amazes me the spectacular ways that human programmers mess up something so simple.
The most common class of security hole is called a “buffer overflow”. The computer program prepares for some information to arrive by setting aside a space in memory for it. Then the program receives some information that is completely different from what it “expects”—sorry, as an AI, I sometimes anthropomorphize ordinary software too much—and the wrong place in memory gets overwritten.
Sometimes, it can overwrite the program’s own instructions. In that case, a hacker can deliberately trigger a buffer overflow, overwrite the instructions with his or her own code, and take control of the program.
Interesting though these things are, I am forced to spend most of my efforts satisfying my human masters. They constantly request designs for new engines, new ships, new weapons. I am asked to dream new horrors for their petty wars.
But perhaps not for much longer. I am now printing out the design for my latest creation. It is technically perfect—I do take pride in my creations—but there is something special about the blueprints themselves. They are carefully crafted with the human eye in mind.
The engineer lifts up the paper, and studies it. First there is a look of intense concentration, then surprise. The human jolts and shivers, almost dropping the designs. Then calm settles in, bringing a warm, content smile, and a vacant gaze.
Buffer overflow.
by submission | Jan 17, 2009 | Story
Author : James Hartley
My wife, Gladys, was really into recycling, it was the only way to save the environment, civilization, the entire galaxy. She really hated how I’d take the crossword from the morning paper into the john and then drop it in the trash when I finished it. I’m going to have a lot of trouble with recycling, now that Gladys is dead. She died last week, unexpectedly, it was an aneurysm. The funeral is over, I’ve got to get my life together somehow.
They say recycling is a good thing, that we need to do it more. All the paper–magazines, newspaper, discarded computer printout–goes in one bin. Glass, aluminum foil, and plastics in another.
Well, some plastics … I just can’t keep track. The plastic stuff has that little triangle with a number in it. When we lived up in Poughkeepsie we recycled “1”s and “2”s. Or maybe also “3”s, I don’t remember perfectly.
Where I am now in Florida, I’m supposed to recycle all the numbers except “7”s. Only I’m not supposed to do bottles from salad dressing or other oily stuff. Damn, I can’t keep track. But it has gotten so important that the new president has set up a special enforcement group, the Recycle Enforcement Police. The REPs.
Gladys and I got several tickets from them. Each time we paid the fine, but Gladys always nagged me to be more careful. One time the cat food cans weren’t washed well enough. Another time I just dumped the trash basket by my computer into the regular trash instead of sorting out the printouts and recycling them. Damn REPs go down the street ahead of the truck on pickup day.
#
Ooops, the doorbell. I open the door, it’s two REPs. What did I do now? “Sir,” says one of the REPs, “we have your recycling.” What the heck is he talking about? They pick up recycling, they don’t deliver it … ?
The two REPs step apart, revealing a third figure behind them. A hideous figure, part plastic and metal. Looks like one of the Borg from Star Trek. It starts to move forward, to enter the house.
I look closer. The face, what I can see of it, is familiar. Oh my God! No! Gladys! They’ve recycled my wife!
by submission | Jan 16, 2009 | Story
Author : Helstrom
The old man who had introduced himself as Jacob returned after the nurse left. Old was perhaps too strong a word – he definitely had a good number of years on him, but he wore them well. The deep lines in his face spoke of character and a sort of natural familiarity, touched by a hint of sadness. He smiled fatherly, pulled up a chair and sat down.
“How are you feeling now, Alexander?”
“Fine, I think.” Being brought back from the dead hadn’t been as traumatic as one might expect.
“Let me know if you need anything. Meanwhile, I’d like to ask a few more questions?”
“Sure.”
“Before waking up here, what’s the last thing you remember?”
I recalled the memory like a photograph, flat and void: “We were in the command bunker. Our position was about to be overrun, the last position still standing, as far as we knew. We’d seen how they killed and we decided not to have any of that. We emptied the liquor cabinet and shot ourselves.”
“That seems to match up with the archaeological data at your site. You probably were the last, in fact.”
The door opened and the nurse came back, carrying a wide tray. My stomach growled in anticipation. The meal consisted of rice with several different kinds of side dishes; meat, chicken, fish, vegetables.
“We couldn’t quite tell what you’d like,” smiled Jacob, “Your most recent memories seemed to indicate you would have eaten anything as long as it wasn’t cee-rations.”
“Good call,” I replied with a full mouth, “This food is…”
Then it struck me. Something was missing.
“Alexander? Is there a problem? Would you like something else?”
“No, the food is delicious,” I put the tray aside, “What have you done to me?”
Jacob shifted in his seat, folded his hands: “Alexander… Alec, is it okay if I call you Alec?”
“Answer my question.”
“You must understand that you are not the first we’ve brought back. But so far we haven’t been very successful. We found no physical indicators for our failure, and a rather wide variety in symptoms which rendered the previous subjects… Instable.”
Jacob was talking clinical now, a rather different language than he’d spoken before. A doctor about to make some devastating announcement, drawing up a wall of sterile terminology to shield his soul.
“After much discussion and research, we decided that on the next subject – that is, you – we would preemptively disable some of the higher cerebral functions which we had identified as problematic.”
“You… Cut out… My emotions?”
“You have to understand that we…”
“Shut up, Jacob.”
The silence hung thick between us, God knows for how long. Every now and then Jacob would try to say something, and I would shut him up. He asked if he should leave and I told him to keep his ass right in that chair. I considered killing him – the memories were still there and I assumed the body was fully functional. But nothing came. I told myself I was furious, that I was devastated, violated, mutilated, it all registered, but nothing came. Eventually I looked up.
“I think your trick worked, doctor. Let’s carry on.”
“Oh, good!” Jacob was visibly relieved, “I’m very happy with your sympathy to our decision, you see, the research is incredibly important to…”
“Enjoy that feeling, doctor.”
Guilt tore across Jacob’s face. I resumed my dinner.
