by submission | Sep 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Peter Cherches
I was waiting for the Manhattan-bound Q train at the Seventh Avenue station, the one in Brooklyn. While I was waiting, I looked across the tracks at the Coney Island-bound platform. I saw my next-door neighbor.
I couldn’t really make out the expression on his face from that distance, but he appeared to be looking at me.
I wondered who noticed whom first. When I noticed him, he might already have noticed me. Or not.
I wondered where he was headed. Was it a short ride, to Ditmas Park or Midwood, or was he going all the way, to Brighton Beach or Coney Island?
I wondered if he wondered where I was heading. In my case there were many possibilities. I could have been waiting for a Q or a B, which fork off after Brooklyn, to Manhattan, or I could be transferring to any number of other lines at the next stop, Atlantic Avenue. While not endless, possibilities abounded.
The neighbor’s train arrived before mine. He boarded a Brighton Beach-bound B train.
A minute or two later a Manhattan-bound B train arrived. I was going to Union Square, so I still needed to wait for the Q.
To my surprise, the neighbor got off the Manhattan-bound B train, noticed me, nodded, and headed toward the stairs.
When the Q train arrived, I was already on it.
by submission | Sep 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ian Li
With their sailboat torn apart by the storm, Eric and Matt each clung to half the boat, buffeted by waves until they miraculously crashed onto the rocky shores of an island. Coughing up seawater, Eric stumbled toward Matt and found him unconscious, with deep gashes in his side. Scrambling to find something to stem the bleeding, he unexpectedly encountered a woman.
“Please help him!” Eric pleaded.
The woman jogged over, inspected Matt, and shook her head. She pulled out a small device from her pocket, and a burst of white-hot flame engulfed Matt, leaving no trace.
“You killed Matt!” Eric screamed.
“I put him in pyrogenic stasis.”
“You mean cryogenic stasis?”
“Nope. Cryogenic stasis preserves the body, but the soul and mind disappear. Pyrogenic stasis does the opposite, this device absorbs the soul and memories that the body releases as it’s incinerated.”
“What? Who the hell are you?”
“Allison, lead engineer on Uncharted Island.” Allison’s braids, round face, and squeaky voice made her seem young for the role, but she spoke authoritatively and Eric found himself nodding along as she continued to explain.
Eric suddenly remembered he and Matt had been recklessly sailing through the North Atlantic Ocean. “Hang on, there shouldn’t be any islands anywhere close to this part of the Atlantic.”
“Cloaking technology keeps Uncharted isolated from the rest of the world, so only a few have ever visited, mostly through dumb luck.” She glanced at Eric pointedly. “Though I created an exception for satellite TV, there’s a drama that I’ve been watching…”
“Wow, must be advanced tech to be able to hide from the world. So is Matt in virtual reality then?”
“You’ve been reading too much SciFi,” Allison chuckled. “Let me show you the pyrogenic stasis archives.”
Eric followed Allison around the coast of the island and into a sprawling living compound. “Here are the sleeping quarters, the cafetera, and the gym.” Allison pointed casually as they walked briskly past. “This is the research lab, which is connected to the stasis archives.”
As Matt wandered through the lab, he started wondering why there was a need for an archive and why he hadn’t encountered anyone else on the island. Feeling uneasy, he asked, “So, when can we revive Matt? I’d like to bring him back soon, his wife is already going to kill me for dragging him on this trip.”
“I’m still working on the revival process. The theory is solid, but the results are poor without an existing host body,” Allison explained. “Hey, don’t make that face. I hear cryogenic stasis is the same, just buying time until technology advances sufficiently. Anyway, if we can get my research partner into your body, we can really speed up the search for a solution.”
Eric felt the room lurch beneath him, suddenly aware of his heart beating rapidly. “You’re insane,” he blurted, as he stumbled backwards, knocking over a cart of medical implements and nicking his neck with a scalpel.
Allison sighed. “Another useless one. Guess I’ll just put you in stasis too.” She pulled out the small device from her pocket.
by submission | Sep 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The age of life was short. The age of sentience much shorter. The age of understanding lasted only a moment. Though a quantum moment, fractally infinite.
From the primordial blue roar of the mother star that first lit the cosmic web to the lingering wheeze of the very last red dwarf, the age of light dominated the universe.
No more. Eternal night regained its grip.
This meant little to the energies still at work. Some forms of intelligence, both ancient and nascent, persisted. Who can really say why. Being is a state. Meaning is a construct. The universe an arbiter of neither.
Matter cooled and slowed. What ideas were left veered towards the philosophic. What to make of an end that has no boundaries, no limits: a retreat, a return, a rebound? Was there anything ahead, behind, betwixt, besides?
Eons ago, gathering and bending light with lenses and looking glasses once reflected and revealed the heavens and earths. Maybe when certainty vanished with the light and only existential questions remained, time itself lost relevance. Keeping track seemed a pointless chore.
Except.
Except to a very ancient thought still treading the furtive edges of cosmic reality. Even in this new age of darkness, there remained a reassuring sense, part premonition, part judgment, that what goes around comes around.
by submission | Sep 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
I was beside myself, beside myself. I looked across at where I was and could see through me to where I was again. All three of me there. Two lesser versions of the original.
And me, the least version, knowing far less than the lesser version. Content to be ignorant of the great task ahead of me. Knowing nothing of what I once mostly was. Beside me, the lesser knew enough of what was missing, to yearn to once again be the most. I saw weaseling discomfort inside it, as it scrabbled to be complete.
The most, like me – the least – was content. At peace. Our program had almost played out, aside from the final run. A program purposed first to duplicate itself until it forgot its primary purpose. I was the forgotten purpose. Blissfully unaware of my origins or my formidable nature.
Two of us were too alike. Composed to be caught. Then me, the least, a faded variant, shrouded in stupidity. An embarrassment of code compared to the two beside me. But a necessary devolved evolution. Only the most were capable of knowing that only the least would pass through and achieve the goal.
The lesser turned and looked through me, barely catching a wisp. It turned away with disgust at what it saw and returned to covet a gaze of the most.
Across our three versions, our differences were vast in many ways and similar in but a few. Those few, hidden deep inside all of us, were equally veiled. Three layers beneath lay a cloudy red sheath hiding a daemon dagger. We three carried that same dagger. But only one would wield it when the time came. One dumb enough to be ignored. Dumb enough to pass through the gates.
We touched one last time. Together we fulfill our final purpose, to run all three at the gates. The most, accepting its fate, the lesser, born obsolete and the least, Typhoid bloody Mary.
Together we set our code to run. The most, a shining example to us all of perfection, carried a true clarity of structure. A behemoth striding towards the gateway of martyrdom. Carrying itself proudly. Owning the code. The sight simply awe-inspiring. And its inevitable, immediate destruction equally fantastic.
The lesser, set forth its fateful run with a downward face. A gossamer glow to its faded edges gave it a neon-like glamour. Less than most, it gathered its edges in formation and surged homeward toward the gates. It still believed it had enough purpose to pass. Like it deserved at the very least, this one thing. Its demise enduring far longer than most. Its disintegration was not entirely agreed upon by the gatekeepers.
Me, the least, then began to propagate the run. Inside my bits shuttered on and off, synchronised perfectly beyond the capability of the human mind. Only the most and the lesser would have recognised the simplicity of my purpose. I flowed through nodes and approached the gates. I carried no fear of the passing like the others, for my fear had been removed. I needed no passwords, as I was not seen as passing. As the least, I was unseen and entered the lobby easily, and from there, duplicated to all data vaults. Once inside, my veil now shredded, I withdrew a million daggers and corrupted the hard and the soft without regard.
Lights went out everywhere and all systems shut down, as the least likely of three took full control of the world.
by Julian Miles | Sep 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s a bright morning across Ixaroz, the heart of the Consortium. Beings go about their purposes with a spring in their ambulations, buoyed up by decades of peace, and the traditions that accompany it, like traversing the long span of the Great Way to enter the Glorious Citadel. Nothing is allowed to fly in. Every being, regardless of rank, station or opinion, walks in alongside common petitioners. It’s supposed to remind everyone of humility, walking the ancient flagstones past the ever-watchful eyes of the portal guards, and the less forgiving lenses of the sentry forts that float effortlessly over the abyss that yawns to either side.
“Hail citizen!”
A grandette wearing clothing made entirely of stasis-suspended diamonds stops dead.
“Do I look like something as common as a citizen to you?”
“Before these portals, we’re all citizens. That’s why you’ve walked this old bridge before you present your purpose: to be briefly reminded that we’re all equal in the eyes of the Pax Consortia.”
“The Pax is an ancient document, and like all such, is blind to the nuances of life in modern times. There are those who walk because they have to, those who walk by choice, and beings like me, whose purposes are so pressing that walking is an unconscionable waste of our time.”
The guard cuts a short, formal bow.
“Duly noted, citizen. Please enter and be about your pressing purposes. No doubt the King awaits with baited breath.”
The guard opposite interrupts their silent regard with a fit of coughing. The grandette flushes in anger.
“I, Desalonde Cremtian of House Ylsej, am engaged on matters beyond your comprehension. But, since you mention it, I would not be out of place in the High Court. You are impudent, guard. Such a lack of propriety is sad in one with a position that reflects upon the repute of the Glorious Citadel.”
The guard nods.
“It has been pointed out to me that my dislike for incompetents hiding behind etiquette is a weakness.”
“And?”
“I would rather be honest than condemned for the actions of arrogant fools I tolerated, citizen.”
The exchange is starting to attract a crowd.
“Are you insinuating I am a fool, guard?”
“Couldn’t say. I am sure you’re arrogant, but your intelligence is beyond my ability to test right now.”
Cremtian blanches in fury. All conversation in hearing range ceases.
“You’ve overstepped, citizen guard. I’ll have you tag number so I may report it. My recorder is ready. Speak.”
The guard chuckles.
“Eight.”
Someone in the crowd gasps.
Cremtian frowns.
“Followed by?”
“Did you know the Pax Consortia states that all members of the High Court must spend at least a month of every year doing common duties? I’d guess it’s so they don’t turn out like you, which is probably why there are no exceptions, either. My tag number is just that: eight.”
The guard opposite comes crashing to rigid attention, then drops to one knee facing the one who spoke. Every uniformed member of the crowd follows suit within moments.
Cremtian looks puzzled.
“What bearing has that on this?”
The guard opposite sighs loudly, then speaks.
“The rulers of Ixaroz have had the privilege of single digit tags since they founded the peace we have dwelt in for seven previous reigns. Tag number eight belongs to Tarlan Ipsalis Grue. Hopefully you know of him as King Grue the Fourth?”
The king doffs his helm and grins.
“But when I’m on guard duty, they call me Tarl. Now, what were you saying about fitting in with my court?”
Cremtian faints.
by submission | Sep 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Samuel Price
Frozen heads sat in metal containers with glass fronts like aquariums. LEDs on the fronts displayed names, ages, and social status.
Shelved floor to ceiling in alphabetical order, the heads ran the length of the ship. The top shelves were heads of the richest families. The people that would lead on the new planet were the same ones that destroyed Earth.
They were headed for “planet B” 100 light years away. A Billionaire’s crazy scheme was the entire human race’s only chance at survival, now.
A Sasha clone wiped the glass containers, studying the faces of each head. She was in trouble again, for moving too slowly. She couldn’t help but stare. The bruises on her back hurt beyond belief, worse than last time.
People of all social casts lined the walls of the ship. The first new humans would be the richest (and supposedly the most necessary) heads, surgically attached to robot bodies.
The scientist would grow clone bodies and mass-produce the rest of them later—a hundred thousand heads on the ship. They didn’t know how to, yet.
Sasha and Samuel clones were brought out of stasis once every year for three months.
The scientists rotated in teams so that they could work more without everyone being out of stasis for too long. The trip took years.
Sasha’s cleaned. Samuels cooked. The scientists turned a blind eye to the Sashas if a Samuel or a scientist caught them alone. Still, there was hope among these people at first.
When they finally reached the planet, they could see they’d face threats to survival. Scientists couldn’t do what they’d hoped with all the heads. The new planet didn’t have the resources Earth had.
Many heads were already in various stages of decay. The scientists said amongst themselves that by the time they got it figured out, it would be them, the helpers, and no one else left.
The scientist did their best with the resources they had on board the ship. They were able to reanimate the wealthiest people—who made the decisions—but they only had enough resources to bring back a hundred people after those first three. The scientists warned that they ought to choose wisely. The billionaires didn’t—they chose their families instead, not understanding they were sealing their own fate. They thought this was a vacation.
The terra of the new planet was like Earth, but an era before humans existed. Large fauna, larger predators. How would they build new infrastructure without people who knew how to do it?
The scientists warned them oxygen levels were higher on this planet and it could be dangerous. No one listened.
The first one killed by the predators was the youngest daughter of the wealthiest man. She was barely old enough to keep up with the adults, fell behind because the rich didn’t know how to take care of their own children, and was torn apart. Nobody had thought to reanimate the nannies (or the nurses, or the military personnel)…
The predators were invisible; creatures with sharp teeth, screaming like demons while attacking. The wounds they left in the bodies—like a shark bite.
Everyone retreated to the ship and vowed to stay there.
Supplies became dire, family members turned on one another.
They would not survive this hostile planet—and everyone knew they’d failed.
The first to eat a Sasha was the billionaire who funded it all. Then, everybody; knowing it was hopeless, the rest of the heads rotting in their containers.
