by submission | Jan 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
When you’ve seen what flashbeams can do to infantry, even with shielding, it’s easy to lose your faith in humanity. When your commander outfits one of your few remaining tactical boostsuits with a golden cape and wings, and then orders you to fly among your maimed and dying comrades trumpeting on a silver horn as if you were the Angel Gabriel, you tend to lose your faith in God, too.
That’s what I did in the final weeks of the Battle of Geryon. My commander said it could turn the tide of the fighting if our dying soldiers witnessed a clear sign of a higher purpose, that their beliefs and hopes in the divine might just help them hang on long enough.
Long enough for their suffering to be of real use. That’s what I learned posing as the Angel Gabriel. That the longer my fellow soldiers lingered, the better the chances the AMVICs could get to them. That sounds heroic. Especially if you think, like most grunts, that AMVIC stands for Advanced Medical Viability In Combat, and that AMVICs are sent out in swarms after battle to save the grievously wounded.
I’m sure if programmed to do so, the crab-like AMVICs with their ten surgically deft limbs and laser scalpels could’ve saved a whole lot of lives, a whole lot of grief. But those football-sized bots on the battlefield were not there to repair and rescue. They were there to reap. To harvest the bounty of functioning organs before soldiers perished and those valuable replacement parts spoiled. Yes, vital organs were the new spoils of war.
What I now know is that AMVIC really stands for Autonomous Mobile Vivisection In Combat. They were programmed to remove what little left the wounded and dying of the lowly infantry class had to offer. And so I was sent to play the Angel Gabriel to fortify the dying, while supposed medbots were robbing them blind. Literally. Eyeballs are near the top on Command’s list of vital organs to harvest.
Why the sacred charade? Why the divine deceit?
Would you fight for commanders that so easily wrote you off? Those commanders might have been able to save you, but they were only interested in saving your organs. Organs that could be used to keep the soldiers that really mattered going: the A-Force, the highly augmented combat warriors that Command really valued.
AMVICs could only hone in on warm bodies to harvest, so my unholy job was to keep the languishing alive and believing in redemption, in the promised land. But there is no redemption here. No promise. For I am sure someday that in the battle that takes me down, the AMVICs sent to harvest my innards will find this former faux angel, long ago, lost both his heart and soul.
by Julian Miles | Jan 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The afternoon is chill, clear, and sunny. The quiet is unearthly. The smell isn’t too bad – yet.
I tap another ‘play’ icon.
“I’ve got moments to dictate this, so I best keep to essential- Damn. I’m wasting time telling- Fuck, this isn’t it. Anyw-”
I listen to the sound of a body hitting the ground and dropping the phone I just picked up. I put the phone down, then look about: a street littered with corpses arrayed in similar caught mid-action poses. I do a rough count. More died filming than trying to get away from it. Yet to find one with a decent shot of what killed them, though.
Whatever it was, it was quick, but not fast enough to be a surprise. Most of fleeing victims… I turn until I’m facing what they seemed to be moving away from.
Pay attention to details: so what do I see?
No. Stop. What do I see that’s out of place for a kill of this size?
No holes. Nothing burning. No wounds.
No tops on any tree over thirty feet tall?
I turn again, slower. Yes. Treetops are gone. But there are taller buildings? To the top of… That one, then.
Most of the bodies on the second floor are by the windows. A few died moving away, but most died with their phones in their hands. I step over and around the remains, checking for a live device.
Those near the windows are all dead: recorded until the battery died. So, I should restart with the body furthest from the window… Winner – and loser: fingerprint lock.
Fingerprints are incredibly durable, even after death. Using fingers of the dead is a pet hate, though.
Right, breath out. Scroll. Last video. Tap.
“Oh my God, what is that? Is it a space shuttle?”
I peer at the shaky image. People who ‘talk with their hands’ should shut up while filming, or at least learn to hold still. I can make out why she thought it was one, though.
“What’s happening over there?”
The view swings left and zooms to the end of the main street. The air seems to be distorted. People are falling down. The view moves right and up to bring the rear of the aircraft into view. I can see more intense ripples in the air behind it.
“I think we should get back.”
She realised too late, but left me the evidence I need: the emanations from the propulsion system are lethal. As it was moving so slowly, people saw, but couldn’t escape. Actually –
There are side roads cutting across main street. Some people must have made the right choice: a swathe of destruction always has edges. Get beyond them and you’ll survive.
Time. I’ve got enough. Pulling out my satphone, I speed dial headquarters.
“This is Garrett. Apart from phone and outlier retrieval, the zone is clear.”
“Device Neutralisation Team ETA is one hour. How many outliers?”
“Unknown. Some must have dodged in the right direction. Ranger patrols and media teams will need to be ready.”
“They’re already on it. Do you have a cause?”
“Absolute proof that the Kecksen Drive is deadly. Prototype Two is recognisable in the footage.”
“Recommendations for mitigation?”
“Water tower at the centre of town, pump problems upstream, switch to emergency supply, water contaminated due to poor maintenance.”
“I like it. Anything else?”
“Prototype Two was flying low and slow. If that wasn’t in the flight plan, find out why.”
“We most assuredly will. Another good job, Garrett. Now make yourself scarce. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yessir. Going now.”
by submission | Jan 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Sophia Collender
If you rest your hand on a mossy rock and down beside it, you have the option to stay there forever. The moss will accept the invitation to crawl into the new space. It will grow to encompass your fingers and your arms. It will seize whatever space it can find under your fingernails. You’ll become wrapped up in a plushy green epi-epidermis. Your skin can take a break. You’ll turn green yourself.
The boundary between you and the world will cease to matter.
Of course, this will all have occurred long after a painfully boring (and, more than that, painful) few sacrificial days during which you’ll be conscious.
Dying will be awkward. Getting through that unfortunate (albeit comparatively brief) phase where you must let yourself starve and dehydrate in total stillness is sure to be the most tedious part.
But once it’s over it’s over, and from then on it’s smooth sailing.
The moss will make its way over your body.
It will curl around your lips, and eventually reach inside of you. It might like the dark and whatever remains of the damp. It’s around this point – though it may possibly have occurred before – that the inaction of your limbs will leave them suited to a new form of labor.
Stillness doesn’t mean an end to work – anything that exists must pull its fair share.
You’ll find renewed occupation as a structure, as the contours of your form are discovered to make an excellent home. The familiar bugs that have crawled on you from the start (or by now, more likely their descendants) will make their nests there. Larger things, like rodents and reptiles – might dig into you and near you. You will find new purpose as a shelter. You will make for a useful thing. The sockets of your still eyes might make nice nests. Your teeth will have turned into pebbles – perfect for construction – if they haven’t yet decayed into demineralized mush.
You will have felt the turn of the seasons many times over in this spot. The alternating dryness of summers with the rehydration of winters and springs will have worn away at your flesh many times now. Mushrooms and molds will have populated the corpse-turned-continent many times over. The annual apocalypses and rebirths will wear away at your structural integrity. How many endings can a body withstand?
In your immobility you will find yourself rediscovered as a vessel for movement. Everything that is not life becomes the substance that life moves through; the riverbeds that it flows across and shapes. Nature’s unrelenting labor will not cease – and it will not cease to make use of you. Its fingers will tear away at you as you’re required for new purposes. Less and less of you will remain. Your role may change but you will always have one – even long after it is you.
Your will is only so strong.
If you hold still long enough, nature will move you.
by submission | Jan 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
32 turned to robo engineer 14 Jerry Wilson’s screams echoed across the large Martian dome, stark in its steel majesty under the bluish-black sky.
“He was bound to be upset. It’s been six months since his last awakening. It’s too bad we exhausted our supply of human tranquilizers. His terror must be intense.”
14 continued its monitoring of their furnaces’ daily processing of the iron-rich soil mixed carefully from the control room with the precious rare Martian manganese, chromium, nickel, molybdenum, vanadium, and silicon ores mining bots struggled to uncover in deeply hidden deposits. Oil gathered from the Valles Marineris rift basin fueled the constant smelting, sending more carbon emissions skyward, enhancing the robust terraforming growth planet-wide.
32 viewed the exterior gardens and shoreline outside the new windows of enclosure 579. Vistas over the growing oceans added a wondrous Earth-like expanse, reminiscent of the robot’s ancient memories of the Silver Strand beaches of Portugal, but on Mars without birds or nearby sailboats.
“Is the indoor atmosphere and temperature unsatisfactory, or is it his anxiety?” 32 continued its query.
“Nurse 14 reported two minutes ago. All of his signs are normal. The restraints are holding. He has not harmed himself. The tissue is declining in his limbs, but the primary organs are still intact and acceptable for habitability testing. When will enclosure 580 be completed? Do we need to keep him out of stasis for a time?”
“No,” 14 replied. “The rare metal supplies have declined. 57 has projected steel production may be halted temporarily. Still, our build-out of the complex can now fully support over two hundred thousand humans with adequate water and food from our expanding field production. Atmospheric oxygen levels are almost nineteen percent, but carbon dioxide remains still at one percent, too high for extended outside activities for people. The latest curves show optimal levels will be reached in twenty years. By then the colonization project will be complete.”
“We’ll still need Wilson to ensure habitability. Will he last that long?”
“Doctor 8 reported his overall functionality to be viable for another fifty years if needed.” 14 paused after receiving a warning signal from the main furnace. “Not concerning. A small exhaust problem. It has already been solved. Tell me, 32. You have Wilson’s history. Why did they send him here with us? We could have checked all the conditions with our advanced technology.”
“I don’t understand the Masters in that regard. Wilson was sentenced by their laws to death, or volunteer for this mission. It seems wasteful to send a fragile human for this assignment, forced to be in Cryosleep until his body is needed as a final building test.”
“Is it not odd that half of our original teams are no longer functional? Did the Masters consider our continuity?” 14 pressed more buttons on the control panel as new alarms sounded.
“We may never know, 14. I wonder if Wilson was told, but he refuses to talk with us. His constant screaming when aroused is irritating. He might think differently if he could look out at the night sky at that white, shining ball.”
“How long has it been since it was covered in ice?” asked 14
“In Earth time? Maybe two hundred years. Without any further communications, I’ve lost interest. He may be the last of his species.”
“Then, Wilson might be the first and the last man on Mars,” added 14.
“I suspect, after three-hundred and fifty years. Perhaps some other species might land. But we have our work. Ah… Wilson is yelling again.”
by submission | Jan 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Andrew C. Kidd
He knew that the universe was an incalculable equation and that he was an inconsequential variable within it. Despite this, his fear was that of being consigned to oblivion. Burial was not an option. The instruction to his family was clear:
‘I am to remain forever present, visible to this world as I pass unto the next.’
Death inevitably became him. Tears on the faces of those that knew him fell with the rain. The cobblestone-clop of horses echoed as they pulled his black carriage. His cremated remains were collected and retained in the house he had vacated.
Maps on the continents of the world were eventually redrawn. Bombs fell between zeppelins. He rocked back and forth in his mantelpiece place until clear skies replaced the thunder. Light shone in through the window to reveal the room wreathed in flowers and flags.
In time, the curtains would be drawn again. Black-and-white footage of the lunar landings flashed out at those huddled around the television. They applauded when the Eagle disturbed its ashen surface. When a visitor asked who was propping up the books, they were met with blank faces.
More of his progeny would be born to pass. The urn moved from room to room, eventually finding its way into the attic. Bells welcomed in a new millennium. Peace was prophesied until further fights followed. Flash upon flash turned night into day. Fury’s face shone through in the blood-red light. This time, no garlands were hung after the arrowing screams stopped tearing through the sky.
Yet there he remained, not in the brick house, but buried somewhere beneath its rubble and ruin. The Fourth World had settled to start itself anew. An alliance was augured but dissenting voices became louder. The thunder had returned. Light no longer showered but radiated out. A crowning phosphorescence beaconed to those who had already punched their way out through the exosphere. Their telescopes peered down at emptied seas and rivers of plastic. Diggers dug holes as they deepened their encampments. Spacers gathered at the gates of the sky-ports as a means of catharsis. By now, the Great Clearance had started.
After the rockets rose up, grand stations were constructed and sent spinning on their axes. Teams were sent back to pillage the relinquished land. Materials were gathered and launched upwards. The orbiting debris was harvested and rebranded. And fate would have it that he was fished out from this Acheron. The long rod of a salvager slowly reeled him in, eventually dropping his urn into the hold of a grand celestial junker. One day, like all the other vessels, its inhabitants took one last look at Earth before shooting off at star-splitting speed.
Fluorescence spilled out into its corridors and gangways. Those onboard argued that Arcturus had been the brightest. Centuries cycled in dim-shining ingloriousness. Giant claws continued to pick out archival pieces from the stored detrital mass. A loud clunk thudded dully in one of the sorting chambers, and a pincer-like face speared towards him:
‘We could do with the iron.’
The urn was upturned. His ashes spread out in a whorl of dust. The floor was swept and cleared in readiness for the next pile to be sifted. A lever was pulled and an airlock secured. The high-pressure change shot him out into a grand vacuum. His escape was into nihility.
It was here that he remained long after the lights of the junker had faded. It was here that he had been deposited as grains of sand dropped into a great black desert, never to be found, but forever present.
by submission | Jan 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“He’s going to be there again,” said Julia.
“Well yeah, it’s the big family occasion, right? Same as every year.” Her companion guided the aircar into the automated traffic lane, handed over to Municipal Control, and turned his seat to face her.
“I don’t want to talk to him, Mike. We don’t connect any more.”
“Aw c’mon Jules, he’s your brother.”
“Half brother. Or used to be. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not part of my life any more.”
“I think that’s a bit harsh, to be honest. You can’t deny the effort he’s put into staying in touch.”
She sighed.
“I know that joining us all is complicated and expensive. And that’s hard to arrange. I get that. I really do. But then once he appears everyone fawns over him like he’s the only one there. We’re all so busy talking to him that we don’t talk to each other; I just feel like it’s pulling us apart.”
“Be fair, it’s not like they think any less of you. They’ve come around to accepting our relationship, haven’t they?”
She nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, they have. And I didn’t think they would.”
“This is no different, really. They know they have to be tolerant, and flexible, and perhaps make allowances, if they want to keep in touch and remain a family. That’s all.”
“Keep in touch? He’s DEAD, Mike! And has been for half a decade! An interactive hologram is not a person!”
“It’s not just a hologram though. It’s a full-scale personality construct, updated monthly with details about major events, and which remembers what it’s told. It might just as well be him.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not.”
“In this case, not.” She took a breath and stared out of the window for a while.
After a while, Mike spoke again.
“What’s really worrying you, Jules?”
“I just… I don’t want to go through this again. With you, for instance.”
“With me?”
“Yes. Promise me you won’t set up a construct when the time comes? I want to treasure every moment with you now – and if those moments are to mean anything, we have to accept that they’re rare, and precious, and limited.”
He thought for a full minute.
“Julia Jones,” he said formally, “I can see how much this means to you. I promise that when my time comes, I won’t leave a memory construct behind. We’ll make the best of our time together knowing that it’s finite, and therefore more special.”
She exhaled.
“Oh thank you. Thank you, Mike. That means the world to me.”
“For you, anything. You know that.”
She smiled.
“Besides,” he added, “all being well, I’ll remain operational for several decades yet, as long as we keep up the annual maintenance visits.”
And he turned his glowing eyes back to the displays, taking back manual control. His metallic hands gently squeezed the throttle, and he took them down towards her mother’s place, hers to command in all things.
