by submission | Jun 28, 2008 | Story
Author : Peter Carenza
The rain poured relentlessly outside. The micro-God was wistful this morning.
I turned down the shade, walking back to the recliner with stealthy footsteps. You never knew when one might hear, and perhaps deduce the wrong intentions… to them, intentions were everything.
And really, ironically, our good intentions were the start of this whole mess.
Our obsession with environmental purity, our fear of what might be and relentlessness in our pursuit of an all-encompassing solution drew laser-sharp focus from the world’s brightest minds. They all agreed that the technology, tools, and science were there for a quick resolution. Our rapidly growing skill set in the field of nanotechnology, they claimed, provided the potential to remove any excess carbon, ozone, methane, and many other kinds of pollutants from the atmosphere in short order. The money was there, as was the intent, and now there was nothing to stop it from happening.
The designers gave these nanorobots the ability to fly, or rather to glide , on prevailing wind currents.
They were given the ability to absorb certain molecules. The molecules would be “eaten”, until the nanobots were laden, at which time they would sink earthward and become part of the earth itself, as it had been so long ago.
They were given the ability to self-reproduce. That, I think, was the hitch, because once they evolved what appeared to be a primitive consciousness, there was nothing that could stop them.
You really didn’t want to upset them.
On a bad day, when the nanos felt threatened by a run-of-the-mill passenger jet that just happened to penetrate their masses, a built-in defense mechanism activated. Reproduction doubled, tripled, and more. Something just shy of anger erupted, and we soon knew what was in store for us when the plane got tossed from the sky by a sudden downburst from a supercell thunderstorm that appeared in just minutes out of a clear, blue autumn sky.
We knew then that they could control the weather, on a whim. Were they supposed to have whims?
They could control the flow of wind, the clouds, even the content of the air we breathed. They had, in essence, become God-beings.
The volume was muted on the television at the other end of the room. I couldn’t risk their comprehension of what was going on. I was watching CNN. Something important was going to happen in the next few days. I was impressed at the bravery of the reporters for even daring to break the story… but I knew they knew what was at stake. We needed, if only for a moment, to experience a small sensation of hope. Which of us remembered what that felt like anymore?
In the banner, there were indications that somehow, they were sensing what was about to happen. Hail storms destroyed crops in Italy, where a leading scientist lived. A typhoon like no other seen before threatened the coast of Japan, from which observers made the latest calculations and concluded that yes, this was probably the last hope for humanity.
The report grew bolder as time passed. We were instructed to seek shelter as far deep underground as possible. The God-things would not be happy, and that was the least of our troubles.
I think they knew. After all, it was raining. Everywhere, it was raining.
The scrolling banner now read “Asteroid expected to hit in three days – seek shelter now!”
Imagine that. Our only hope, coming from something that nearly rendered our world desolate many eons ago.
My thoughts? I think the real God didn’t appreciate the competition.
by submission | Jun 26, 2008 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala
“You’re sure these ships are safe?” Admiral Chekov asked, as he cautiously approached the tiny matte black fighters. They reminded the Admiral of the ancient projectile points used by the aboriginal people of the Siberian steppes.
“Of course Sir,” the squirrelly little doctor rung his hands nervously on the hem of his formerly white lab coat. “The organics of these ships were chosen from among the finest of the volunteers in the psi-ops programs from all three states of the Great Union.” Here he paused deferentially. “The Mark VI Psi Fighter is unparalleled. Nothing the Alliance has can rival it. Not even the best equipment of our own fleet can track it.”
“I’ve read the specs, but give me a rundown of the operations.”
“As you’re aware, all pilots must be unmarried volunteers and score in the top three percentiles of their psionics exams. After an intense training and indoctrination period they undergo a procedure whereby the central nervous system is removed from the body and placed in the interface cartridge, the “brain box” if you will,” he smiled nervously at his joke. The Admiral did not smile.
These ships, though small, have the most powerful long-range friend/foe scanners available in the fleet. The pilots brain activity is routed through the PK, that is the psychokenesis amplifier, into the ranging equipment. The pilot analyzes the long range readings, identifies an enemy ship, matches coordinates, and makes a psychic jump. As near as we can tell, the speed of thought is almost instantaneous. The ship appears out of nowhere, unleashes a full salvo of 140 rounds of combined nuclear and solid projectiles, and returns. Since the entire ship is PK controlled, there is no need for a propulsion system. The only energy needed runs the onboard life support systems, and the PK amp.
In their off time, the pilots live in a virtual simulacrum of their own choosing, but of our making of course. That way it doesn’t become stale and predictable as it would had they created it.”
“What is this pilots name?” the Admiral asked, gesturing to the nearest fighter.
“Sir, most of the pilots prefer not to use their human names, and generally go by their designation number.” He pointed to a flat white stenciled marking on the side of the craft. “This is RY038. His name is First Lieutenant ‘Ray’.”
“Can he hear me?”
“I can hear you Admiral,” a dull monotone voice responded. The Admirals face did not betray the sudden shock he briefly felt.
“Where are you from son?” He felt a bit odd talking to a fighter ship.
“Gladewater Sir. Texas. State of America,” the ship responded in that same sharp metallic monotone.
“How do you like your…um…duty Lieutenant?”
“Beats the alternative Sir.”
The Admiral was startled. “And that would be what, Lieutenant.”
“I could be married Sir.”
The General suppressed a smile. “May I ask for a demonstration?”
“Of course sir. Excuse me a moment.”
The outlines of the small fighter blurred, and just as quickly refocused. The ship suddenly seemed to be giving off a great deal of heat. “SIR. Mission complete. Threat neutralized. Orbit Secured, SIR.” underneath the mechanical vocals there seemed to be the hint of a shortness of breath.
The Admiral stared for a brief moment unable to say anything. “But, but I didn’t say…”
“Begging the Admirals pardon, but the Alliance ship in GeoSync orbit above the Europa colony has been neutralized” Lieutenant Ray stated flatly.
“But…but…how, I didn’t…,” Admiral Chekov spluttered.
“I’m sorry Sir,” the little doctor intervened, “didn’t I mention they’re telepathic as well?”
by submission | Jun 23, 2008 | Story
Author : Pavelle Wesser
“I’m through with you, Taylor,” Geena said as she stomped down the street. She looked beside her; he wasn’t there. She turned to see he had fallen behind: “Taylor, did you hear me?”
He stared through her: “I want not your identity.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
The afternoon light cast a strange glow over his features: “I know not yet your world.”
“Man, you are weird.”
With that, Geena turned and left.
Taylor continued walking into the darkness. When the street lights went out, he entered a hotel.
“Our cheapest room is more than you can afford.” The check-in clerk stared meaningfully at his shabby clothes.
Taylor placed a wad of cash on the counter.
“Well then,” The clerk smiled, “I’ll have Jen take you up.”
“Follow me.” A pretty blonde led him down a hallway and opened his room door. He pushed her inside and pinned her against the wall.
“I need now your identity,” he said.
“Get off me, you freak.” It was the last thing she ever said.
#
Jen, normally upbeat, now approached guests stiffly, as though stricken with arthritis.
“Hello,” she addressed a man in her new robotic voice, “Follow me.”
She walked woodenly down the hallway and opened a door: “This being your room.”
“Why so formal?” the man squeezed her buttocks. “Don’t you know what a man wants from a woman?”
“I wanted nothing from my girlfriend,” said Taylor, his memory sensors picking up on a specimen titled Geena, who had been relegated to the ‘failed missions’ file.
“Girlfriend?” The man breathed heavily down her neck. “I bet you never had a guy before.”
“No, but I will add your identity to my database.” Taylor stated flatly.
“Man, you are a kook.” It was the last thing he ever said.
#
Taylor roamed the streets. A man with dark eyes and white teeth jabbed a knife into his side: “Gimme’ your cash.”
Taylor’s empty eyes stared at him: “I am needing your identity,” he said.
“I don’t remember giving you that option,” said the man.
“Your memory is fallible and my options are unlimited,” replied Taylor, as he gripped the knife’s handle and absorbed the man. He swaggered down the streets, then, for the first time getting into the groove of human emotive complexities.
“Gimme’ your money!” He brandished the knife at a woman.
She gasped: “You look like my ex-husband. Take all that I have.” She shoved her purse at him.
“Geena?!” Taylor added inflection to his voice pattern. “Long last have I learned what a man wants from a…” As he reached out for her, she screamed and ran.
Taylor smiled. The sensation tickled his nerve sensors, which whispered to him of coming missions with successful outcomes.
by submission | Jun 22, 2008 | Story
Author : Glenn Blakeslee
I was in the flight center when the first probe went out. The heavy lifter rose on the obligatory pillar of flame, tracked across the south sea, ejected its boosters, and achieved orbit.
I was still in the flight center when the probe left Earth orbit, bound for the outer planets. Damon was at the station next to mine, monitoring the telemetry for the coolant temperatures on the sunward side of the probe. Everything was nominal.
“Well, they’ve done it,” Damon said.
He was referring to the fact that this was the first of several probes designed and built completely by non-human systems. The agency that we worked for had developed, after two decades of work, a process in which machine intelligences developed subsystems, robot manufactories produced the system components from raw materials and assembled the spacecraft, and huge automated gantries delivered the payload, on the lifter, to the launch pad.
It was a boon to the rapid prototyping and delivery of inexpensive spacecraft. Redundancy made the whole deal relatively error-free, and as the intelligences always designed along similar lines, the cost was very low.
All we had to do, as humans, was to enter the basic parameters desired for the probe. In this case a single engineer sat at a terminal at the start of the process and typed in:
>search for life
#
Damon and I were in a bar in South Miami when the news came in.
He and I were both laid off, living on unemployment and free-lance telecom jobs in the greater Miami area. The launch systems and flight monitoring had been turned over to the machines, too, as the success of the machine-driven spacecraft development process had been proven.
The television over the bar displayed a single all-caps headline, “LIFE FOUND,” and Damon and I both watched the live, albeit delayed, feed from the successful probe.
The feed was high-definition and the detail was magnificent. On the screen was the sunlit limb of a planet, green-gold, the hazy shroud of the atmosphere thickening as it diminished toward the horizon. In the foreground was a chaotic scene: a large artificial satellite teeming with the rapid, frenzied activity of machines, their silver metallic carapaces glittering in the harsh sunlight.
“It’s the wrong damn kind of life,” Damon said.
by submission | Jun 21, 2008 | Story
Author : Summer Batton
“Oh look! They have grass ‘n water ’n little huts, too!” squealed the little girl as she ran to press her face against the glass and get a closer look.
“Milly, get back here!” demanded the Nurturer with a click of her tongue. “Don’t scare them. They won’t show themselves if you frighten them away.”
“Do you see ’em?” asked Milly, ignoring the command. Her eyes scoured the dimly lit grasslands that lay beyond the 2 inch glass wall. The glass seemed to slide into a stone slab on either side which formed into the tunnel through which all the tourist could pass by with their brochures and sticky treats to see the exhibit. The cage was illuminated by a greenish-blue light that gave Milly spots in her vision. A hand-painted sign to the right read: “Feeding Times: ⅜ Ω, ⅞ Ω, and ⅝ Ω”
“Nothing visible yet,” said the Nurturer. She turned to a lengthy paragraph in her brochure scouring it. “It says here that they are shy creatures that don’t like excitement…easily scared…and mostly inactive, even during the height of the outer lights.”
“Do they even let ’em out to see the outer lights?” Milly asked as she pushed harder against the glass and gazed up at the stone ceiling which appeared to be all part of the same walls, floor, and background.
“I don’t imagine they care about the outer lights. I’ve heard they don’t much like anything except eating and sleeping and are rarely awake long enough to notice anything except just that,” murmured the Nurturer who seemed to forget herself momentarily and pressed her own face against the glass hoping for a glimpse.
They both stood there for several minutes as if trying to summon the animals from their hiding through mind control. Presently, the Nurturer shook herself and said sharply, “Come, Milly. We’ll have to see other animals. They aren’t going to come out.”
“Awww, but this is why we came,” whined Milly, “it’s the most—”
There was a rustling behind her—even through the glass plate, Milly heard the distant sound of an ancient bamboo door climb up on its hinges and she croak open. Both Milly and the Nurturer waited—their breath momentarily ceased to fog up the glass.
Slowly, out he came; out on all fours—his belly swinging down low in between. He had a coarse brown hair growing around his head, in between his nose and mouth, and down his chin. He was naked except for several clay-colored smudges on his mane from where he’s slept. He descended down to a small stream that was herded through the grass by fake-looking rocks. Upon arriving at the water’s edge, he lowered himself again into a laying position and let his foot and tongue dangle into the water. His eyes closed again.
“Wow,” said Milly, “so that’s a Homo Sapien?”
“Apparently,” returned the other, “that’s it.”
