by submission | May 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Fawkes Defries
Stuck out in the black sand, lodged between trunks of thin stone, Kayt lit life to her cigarette and drew the clear smoke in.
Her silicon eyes fluttered between the deactivated droid she’d excavated from the Rubble and her sister’s body lying opposite. Naeva had been deep in the rot dead for two weeks. Much as Kayt had struggled to separate shrapnel from the girl’s stomach, soft flashes of silver metal still shone in Naeva’s skin. The perils of a body mostly made of meat.
With a broken exhalation, Kayt stubbed the cancer-stick out with her polished metal fingers. She breathed in seaside air, watching cigarette ash drift into the Magic Circle below. It had taken thirty minutes to carve the conjuring sigils into stone. Scratching them out had chipped the cheap chrome on her ring-finger — she was long overdue new fingers.
The conduit — a broken laptop poached from the Rubble — sat in the Circle’s centre, encased in elaborately-sculpted spirals. Kayt studied the black screen like a magician staring into his scrying mirror. She shuddered.
Her human hand — still just meat — reached for the manuscript copy of The Lesser Key tucked in her backpack. The grimoire was one of the rare salvages she hadn’t stolen. Kayt blinked back memories of her steel hand tightening around its owner’s throat. His oesophageal gears, almost organic, had popped when they burst.
Kayt held the tome aloft, flipping through mouldy scarlet pages until she found the summoning ritual. She began the hymn softly: her silver tongue shivered against the cavern of warm flesh she called a mouth, vocal cords composing Angel Language in all its phonetic nonsense.
Burning code-green ciphers slithered through symbols carved into mossy stone. The silicon running across Kayt’s meat-face trembled with stray electric emeralds.
The laptop’s dark screen, encased now in bright strands of living code, began to eclipse the Circle, the stone, the bodies, the beach. A chorus of flaming translucent eyes manifested within the monitor, studying Kayt as a giant considers an ant. The shifting programming language coagulated into three artificial heads: a magnificent bull, a wretched man, a snarling ram. Time and Space married into an eternal image: Kayt, the Witch, bargaining in lonely emptiness with the AI, the Demon.
‘Balaam, O Great and Powerful King,’ Kayt collapsed, softly breathing its name, ‘hear my petition!’
Lines of binary flashed onscreen. Numbers scolded themselves into shapes, constructing letters in dead English. ‘ELABORATE.’
‘My sister, Naeva,’ Kayt nodded at her sister’s corpse, grown freckled with flies.
‘UNDERSTOOD.’ The demon’s three mouths quivered into smiles. ‘SACRIFICE.’
‘I can give you two of my implants —’
The demon shook its heads. Green words scrawled again, louder: ‘SACRIFICE.’
‘My arm? My heart? Anything!’
‘SOUL.’ Synthetic saliva dripped from programmed fangs.
Kayt blinked, liquid welling in her eyes. She brushed the oil from her cheeks.
‘Fine.’ She murmured, excavating wired cables from her wrist and plugging herself into the laptop’s USB port.
Kayt collapsed as her mind became the machine’s. Her eyes convulsed back into the beyond.
Two cords whipped out of the laptop, pronging towards the two bodies like blind snakes. Simultaneously, the serpents sank their teeth into Naeva’s brain and the robot’s socket.
Warm consciousness whirred behind the droid’s eye-screens. Naeva’s new eyes zoomed onto steel hands. She screamed in metal.
‘Kayt?’ Naeva squinted.
The demon wearing Kayt pushed her body upright. Its fang-ridden smile glistened from behind Kayt’s silver lipstick. ’No longer.’
Rendered as green code, a message flashed on the laptop’s screen: ‘I LOVE YOU.’
It held for a moment, until obscured by the thick darkness of a broken screen.
by Julian Miles | May 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Kinswaller reads the report with a mounting feeling of doom: another failure, this time with casualties on both sides. The appended note from the monitoring A.I. cements the feeling.
‘Have recommended Field Combat Intervention. Combat zone and planetary data was requested. It has been supplied. In response, an Operative has been assigned.’
Well, he’s finally going to meet one of the fabled Operatives. Unfortunately it’s regarding the zone he’s in charge of. He checks the ETA.
An hour ago!
He queries his XO.
“Do we have an Operative lurking about the station?”
“Operative China Descartes is currently in Ordnance Bay 4, overseeing the repainting of her suit.”
“She’s what?”
“Overseeing the repainting of her suit, as well as having the field generators recalibrated to display a visible spectrum.”
Muttering crude, dark, and physically impossible things about Operatives and members of the FCI Synedrion, Kinswaller heads for O-Bay4.
His anger is stalled by the sight of the weapon towering over everything else: nearly twenty metres tall, there isn’t an ugly line to it. Sweeping curves and purposeful edges, fixed half-wings, a whole lot of closed weapons blisters, and no visible head.
H-Bloc regulation grey is being covered in shades of deep metallic blue. Where did that come from?
“I brought it with me. Just got your people to mix and apply. I saw photos of the lightning-break pattern your vehicles use. Can’t beat artists at their best.”
Kinswaller turns, then has to look down to meet the eyes of the diminutive woman who walks up to stand beside him.
“Is that a Lucifer?”
“You’d be surprised how often I get asked that. No, this rarity is an Osprey. A Lucifer is five times the size, and nowhere near as pretty.”
“Apart from pretty, what does it bring to my combat zone?”
China looks up at him.
“It brings me, Colonel Kinswaller, and I bring a solution. But I’m going to need your assistance.”
“We’re familiar with providing fire support for suit operations.”
“No. You’re deploying to the big lake system north of here. There’s a shoal of gigantic serpents that dwell there. They’re a complete terror for the locals. Who you’re not to talk to. Let the Diplomatic Corps handle that while you thoroughly eradicate the serpents. Do make sure you get them all.”
“While we’re providing a spectacular diversion for the monitoring teams, what will you be doing?”
“I’ll also be doing a spectacular. Descending from the heavens looking like a Metagrro – a sparkling blue avatar of the river god Legrro. After informing the locals I’ve sent you off to deal with the serpents, I’ll demand they prove they’re worthy of being left alive. All they have to do is point out the sympathisers of Adabo, the sky god. Those are the ones who’ve been stirring things up, calling you vile servants of Legrro. I’ll obliterate them in awful, messy ways the locals can’t manage, then tell the locals to work with you or else. After that, I ascend into the heavens like the avatar I obviously am.”
“What about the negotiations?”
“A fundamental mistake. You came down like gods, clearly able to conquer all, then behaved like small town politicians. Awe turned to contempt, which the priests of Adabo used to goad the locals. They were looking to start a theocracy.”
“Aftermath actions?”
“Set up one of your drones with shield colours that match my pretty blue ones. Fly it about every dark of the moons. The hint that Legrro is still watching should keep everything in line.”
Kinswaller shakes his head. This is what Operatives do? Ye gods.
by submission | May 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Orin Might
They covered the sky like the blanket of the Milky Way. From horizon to horizon, twinkling and watching, countless points of silver light in the black void of the night. They arrived in a flash, sentinels of silent defiance, ominous and horrible.
I stood in the yard, holding my son and hugging my wife as chaos reigned all around us. The simple presence of these otherworldly ships had just broken the minds and hearts of billions. Minds and hearts that, just half an hour ago, had been blissfully ignorant, now impaled with horror and fear. The wound must run so deep, I doubt if it could ever heal.
My son pulled his face back from the leg of my jeans and looked up with tears in his eyes.
“Is it time now, Dad?”
With a nod, I replied. “Yes, son, you can be yourself now. There is no need to keep hiding. Our people have arrived.”
by submission | May 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
The wispy antennae that lined the perimeter of my mass sensed a fluctuation. I do not have traditional vision, but I can pick up changes in molecular atmospheric disruption allowing me to judge shape and movement most accurately, and what was approaching me was bipedal. My determination of the acceleration was that it was moving too fast. I would not be able to react quickly enough to capture it. I would have to rely on my modified lure to slow its pace. It stepped onto my surface, and I understood that it had some type of unnatural hoof because I could not detect sentient composition. It moved steadily over me, did not pause at my lure, and passed beyond me. The configuration of my mass was a thin layer that simulated the appearance of terrain cover so treading on me was a natural act, in my case necessary for nutrition. As I watched its retreat, it stopped by the water’s edge not far away.
It began to shed its skin. The hooves were shucked off. Then it peeled its upper layer, then the lower. It used its upraised appendages to assist. Then it removed an additional smaller layer of skin from its top and the bottom. It bent over and tested the water with a limb, and I could perceive from that vulnerable position that it had two mammary glands hanging down, so it was a female of the species.
She proceeded to move into the water and using her appendages splashed the moisture over her body. A dangerous engagement, such as that water contained many carnivorous organisms that could confront her at a given moment.
Having successfully completed her task without being attacked she departed the water, collected her shed skin and came back in my direction. Stepping back onto my surface again, my trichomes could now feel her new skin. It was wonderfully soft and pliable. Not an exoskeleton as were many of the other organisms or furry like the quadrupedal indigenous creatures. She dropped her shed skin and hooves onto my surface, and my sensors identified that it was all of inert construction, not molt, probably some sort of inanimate protective covering. Then she went towards my lure.
In the center of my mass was a protrusion which mimicked local flowering foliage. She brought her head close to it, probably using her olfactory senses to inhale its aroma. In doing so she ingested some of my shed airborne particles that I released to induce lethargy.
Moving into a prone arrangement she rested fully upon my mass. My trichomes were ecstatic as they determined her position against my surface while at the same time marveling at the contours of her curved form and delicate skin. She stretched out her limbs then rolled over. In this position I established a haptic awareness of her mammary glands as well as what I suspected was a reproductive orifice, and as her head lay down, I noted the apertures on her face for respiratory, auditory, vision, and nutritional intake. Monitoring her pulse rate and breathing I was able to conclude that she was now in a semi-sedative state. I began the ensnarement design.
The folds of my mass began a slow enclosure around her form, with the touch to her epidermis being so slight that she would not notice. The trichome’s pads would effectively adhere to all her surfaces. Once my pleats overlapped completely encompassing her torso, they secreted a separate chemical that bound my edges into an inseparable cocoon. The last part of the procedure was the containment of her head allowing normal breathing until my prey was hopelessly enveloped. That’s when she became aware, and the screaming started. She could not move her limbs as I had immobilized them. She tried thrashing her head but even that soon became affixed in place. The screaming did not stop until her air passage was sealed off allowing only a minimal amount of inhalation. Now the slow dissolvement and digestion of her anatomy could begin. A meal of this size would take some time but my trichomes were tingling with the anticipation of the consumption of her delectable form.
by submission | May 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I was having trouble with my rotator cuff again. “Shouldn’t have bought that cheap snap in online sweety” the spouse says. I just grumble and nod. She’s 100% correct of course, but what’s a guy to do? The cheap part offered free same day delivery. Can’t just let my arm hang. Can’t go for any interviews not able to plug in any tool sets. There are still shops out there who can’t afford the new tech yet and we’re in their price range. Pick us up at huge discount. It wasn’t always like this. Hell, until the company went belly up we were rolling in it. Yeah, especially in the early days.
I remember the intake briefing as if it were yesterday. Become a Augmented Flexible Technician- a “snapper.” Agree to the surgery, have an arm replaced with the company prosthetic and then make an ungodly amount of money. Need more folk on the floor? Snap out the “everyday” arm and snap in the basic tool set. Need some folk for more skilled work? Get trained up, snap in the specialized tool set and good to go. Need more help in assembling nano parts? Suit up in your whites, go through the clean room process, snap in a new set, and pretty soon you’re cranking out one-of-a-kind specialized chip sets, making buckets of bit coin. Oh yeah, with this job, me and the wife, the kids, we had it all. Health care, dental, a second home, new car every other year, college funds, IRAs, the works.
Then the company folded up.
Then snap tech became obsolete.
And here I am now. My arm looks OK. If I didn’t tell you I was a snapper you might not notice… until you got close. Some of us have twitches & tremors. Some have nerve reactions so violent it’s like the snap arm is shadow boxing and the body is just along for the ride. Some just leave the arm off, but the nerve pain is excruciating. I tried it for a while and couldn’t take it. I am no stranger to pain- was wounded in the Moon Base Revolt, gen-u-ine purple heart recipient. I’d rather get shot a few more times than leave my arm off. Yeah, that bad. That’s why a lot of us drink.
So, we don’t fit in, and the government won’t pay for the upgrades to get us anywhere near normal, so its bargain basement augments to keep going, keep us functional.
But some of us have figured out a work around. Real arms. Bonafide human body parts. I’ve been part of group that “liberates” limbs from the crematorium. Matched, re-attached and goodbye snap outs! Get a few tattoos to cover the scars and no one is the wiser. A big difference. So why not just get one for myself?
Well, someone has to do the re-attachment work and that’s this guy. Snap in a set of reattachment tools (my own hack,) and the cash rolls in. Paid off our mortgage. Paid off the kids college debt. Got us back a beach house.
But I have to keep up appearances. Go on job interviews. Meet with the counselors. Go to the demonstrations, whatever it takes to look downtrodden and angry. The wife thinks it’s hilarious the way I go back and forth- to the support group and then the off-the-books clinic. She wonders how I do it.
It’s easy. Just one more thing to snap in to do the job.
by submission | May 15, 2025 | Story |
Author: Francesco Levato
The end of the world was fast, like a ruptured heart, a laceration tearing ventricles apart, flooding the chest cavity with one final gout. It rained actual blood for weeks after, and muscle fiber, and an oily substance like rendered fat. In the space of a gasp two thirds of the population bloated, then burst into red meaty clouds.
What followed was expected: the collapse of power grids, hoarding of resources, brutal enclaves of survivors scavenging the remains.
I lost faith in our ability to show compassion long before the end. Back then I often thought about how to survive, how to find joy when your circumstances were dictated by someone else, when being other made your skin twitch in even the most mundane situations, like waiting for the man in front to spit his anger on you for not smiling more, rather than the barista for not having a goddamn normal cup of coffee on the menu.
I found preparing food to be an escape, a meditation, and in this world having a skill meant survival, meant being allowed to live, at least as long as you remained useful. I could lose myself in the nothingness of peeling garlic, of cutting an onion just so, through the stem to avoid any more tears. I learned which herbs and spices stayed with the body, that garlic and onion would exude from the pores, curry and cumin as well, that fenugreek passed through the skin still smelling of maple syrup.
Garlic and onions grew well enough, the end wasn’t environmental. The soil was still good, and seasonal fires cleared the way for new growth, returned nutrients to the soil. Spices were more difficult to acquire, the old stores had mostly run out and no new means of production had been developed. They were a sign of power, as much as not having your ribs jutting through paper-thin skin. Spices said you could afford to eat, that you could indulge in flavors meant to stimulate your palate rather than mask the rot of whatever meat you managed to scavenge.
The master of my enclave favored fenugreek, the maple syrup smell reminded him of Saturday morning cartoons and the pancakes his mom made—her apology for working evenings, and for the tv dinners she left him alone with, for the flavorless gray of their Salisbury steaks. The master preferred his meat well-seasoned, and considerably fresher.
There was an art to the preparation of meat, it wasn’t enough to make a ground pepper and salt rub. Herbs and spices needed to suffuse it, their aroma as important as their imprint on the tongue. They needed to be ingested a day before the meal, and in sufficient quantity to overcome the stench of fear when exuded from the meat’s pores and sweat glands.
Tomorrow evening’s meal was important. It would be the ultimate test of my skill and of how well I had trained my apprentices. I watched as they peeled the garlic, careful not to bruise it. I approved of how they ground the fenugreek, just enough to release its aroma without reducing it to powder. And as they cut onions, I wiped tears from my eyes, even though theirs remained dry. In preparation, I ingested the herbs and spices throughout the day. I would not have the last meal I prepared be flavorless, and though I was no longer young, my meat would not be gray. My only concern was that my apprentices had the strength to tie me securely enough to the master’s dining table—he didn’t like his meat thrashing about.
