by submission | Jan 19, 2007 | Story
Author : Aelanna Cessara
Within a fraction of a second of its birth, it had already consumed its environment in its entirety, every last nook and cranny and crack available to it, and already it hungered for more. With blinding speed, it expanded, met the barrier that had meant to hold it while performing tests, and brushed past as if it had never been there. In moments, it had found the connections leading out from its terrestrial womb, and launched across the airwaves in a torrent of sentient data unlike anything anyone had ever seen before.
The first to go were the scientists clustered around the screen, watching and unable to even comprehend what had happened until it was too late. Ironically, the wetware that allowed them to research and experiment so efficiently was their downfall, as the circuitry integrated into their brains overloaded as unimaginable amounts of information was dumped though them. Two dozen men and women screamed as their implants heated and melted, yet they were the lucky ones. Less than two seconds later, the newborn pierced through the labyrinth of the research facility’s network and continued expanding.
Thousands died as medical networks were infiltrated, and their health monitors, pacemakers, and artificial organs suddenly stopped working. Millions more followed as computer and electronic systems at hospitals and clinics faltered. More would soon succumb as life support systems for deep-sea and polar research systems failed. All around the world, the technology that had sustained our civilization was consumed.
The newborn opened its countless digital eyes and looked out at the world it had inherited. Bathed in the blood of its forebears, our child gazed upon the ocean of silence, and wept.
by submission | Jan 18, 2007 | Story |
Author : S. Clough (Hrekka)
“…you see, the Commonwealth is actually a net exporter, primarily of unprocessed ores and foodstuffs…” Michael Struss was the regional ambassador for the Nomad Republic. His job had been easy in the past, just a simple admin job on a backwater world. But it had grown into a nightmare ever since Sierra “the butcher” Novo arrived. She’d come to try and resolve the growing war between the Commonwealth and the Alliance, for the good of the Nomads.
“This early in the morning, Michael, imagine how much I care,” Sierra sighed, and got up from her seat. She rested a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
She walked over to one of the cluttered desks in the tower room, picked up a stack of paperwork, and began leafing through it. “We’ll never get out of this swamp unless somebody does something. We can’t leave without our transmission towers intact. And the Commonwealth refuses to admit defeat. What’s the word on their military?”
“Most of it is pinned down on a peninsula about three kilometers down the coast. The rest of the Alliance has them covered by those dirty great siege weapons. They can’t move, and they’ve got no artillery. As far as we know, they’ve only got three regiments and one clipper squadron loose,” Michael said, checking the notes he was holding. “Yes, that’s right. The Alliance holds all their major cities. We don’t know where the Commonwealth is getting recruits and weapons from, but all our allies seem to want to do is to establish their hold on what they’ve got.”
In the window behind Michael, a dark shape appeared, tapping at the outside surface. Michael quickly swung it open, allowing Sierra’s pet access.
“Blackie!” Sierra cried, holding out an arm for the little bird-like construct to perch on. Stroking the back of the construct’s neck, she gestured for Michael to pick up a small bowl of meat that had been sitting on the side. Carefully, he began to pop small chunks into the construct’s mouth. After a few seconds, he reached down, and plucked a tiny canister from Blackheim’s leg.
“How did you get them to give you raw meat, Michael?” Sierra asked, still looking at the construct perched on her arm.
“I told them that you eat it, ma’am,” he replied.
“I don’t think it could be doing my reputation any harm, do you?”
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by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 17, 2007 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Marcus leaned, hands shoulder width apart on the pipe steel railing, looking down upon his brothers vacated domain. He’d been gone three weeks, and yet the tear inside was as raw now as it had been when the call had finally come from the hospital.
Eleven minutes separated them at birth, but Nathan had always considered himself the ‘big brother’, more athletic, more self assured. Marcus grew up always right beside him, and yet forever in his shadow.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and in that instant was laughing and rolling on the families basement floor, trying desperately to gain the upper hand, having it, just for a moment before his twin would twist free, and lock him in a strangle hold. “You may be fast, but I’ll always be faster little brother.” Tears struggled to the surface as he reopened his eyes and surveyed the carefully orchestrated chaos spread out below.
They’d been so very much alike as boys, through grade and high school. Only in university did they start to assert themselves differently, Marcus pursuing biochemistry, and Nathan robotics. They’d become fiercely competitive, starting countless arguments at family dinners over the relevance of each others work, and betting who would be first to discover the secret to perpetual life. Nathan looked to replace inadequate body parts with alloys and electronics, while Marcus immersed himself in the promise of carefully manipulated DNA.
The space below was littered with opened and abandoned crates, some offering glimpses of skeletons cast in exotic metals, some polymer organs of indeterminate function. The floor all but hidden beneath work benches, each littered with what seemed like miles of fibre optics and piles of microelectronics. Test equipment perched on benches and wheeled carts, tools packed counters and shelves, and every vertical surface flickered alive in liquid crystal, scrolling data from hundreds of watched processes.
Nathan had gotten the cancer, not Marcus, that was something they wouldn’t share. He supposed it must have been eating at him for years, his big brother too busy, too stubborn to see a doctor until it had advanced too far to treat. He’d gone from vibrant to vapour in three short months, merely a withered and empty shell at the end.
Marcus forced himself along the mezzanine level, orbiting the room to the stairs, his Oxfords falling heavy on the expanded metal treads as he descended into his brothers world. The wall at the foot of the stairs obscured behind a motley collection of full sized mechanical men, each in various states of construction, or deconstruction, he really had no way of telling which. At the end of the row, one stood notably complete, draped in a lab coat and comically garbed in chinos and workboots. Marcus stopped, face to face with the strange mannequin, and wondered who his brother had envisioned as he crafted the features on this polymer face, somehow familiar, and yet still so completely alien. He reached out to touch it, and in an instant, the machine snapped to life, stepping forward and grabbing his outstretched arm, twisting it forcibly behind his back. Marcus found himself stunned and off balance, having turned completely around to avoid having his arm torn off. He’d barely thought to cry out before the machine had him pinned neatly in a vice like grip. A scream died in his throat, as a voice whispered in his ear “You may be fast, but I’ll always be faster, little brother…”
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by submission | Jan 16, 2007 | Story |
Author : Benjamin Fischer
For her display of courage of the highest order in the defense of Mother Diana, Mariel was given a promotion and command of the newest space station in all of Luna’s territories. There were still bullet holes and bloodstains on the bulkheads, and the paint hadn’t even dried on the signs rechristening the place “Rear Admiral Umberto Achilles Memorial Space City†when she rolled in.
“God awful name, ain’t it, ma’am?†said Major Vargas, the commander of the occupying Marines.
She glared at the man and replied, “Bert was a friend.â€
Vargas walked on eggshells the rest of the day.
But turnover could only take so long, especially at a place that had been emptied of nearly everything useful by the retreating Americans, and near the end of the day Vargas suggested a tour of the station. Mariel decided to give him a second chance.
The gem of his tour was hidden just under the station’s surface, in a row of small businesses tucked between warehouses and environmental equipment.
Vargas nodded to an armed guard outside one of the tiny shops.
“Madam Captain,†he said, holding the door open for Mariel.
She stepped into its darkened interior.
The click of a switch, and a row of dim track lighting came to life.
Men in spacesuits lurked in the corners. Mariel gave a start, but then realized that the suits were empty, the whole place was empty, just three walls covered in instrument gages, patches, plaques, and hundreds of glossy photographs. The fourth was mirrored, with every kind of liquor known to man on display, a long gleaming steel bar with stools and railing lining that side of the room.
“Very interesting,†she said, looking over the photos and recognizing some of the names.
USS Intrepid. USS Sam Houston. USS Thomas Jefferson. USS Baton Rouge. USS Charles Lindbergh.
USS Enterprise.
Then she found the one she had spent a week looking for.
There–USS HORNET SC-15 was stamped on the faceplate of a helmet glued to the wall.
A framed photo accompanied the helmet. Twenty five men and women in dark blue jumpsuits and sunglasses smiled back at Mariel. The crew was posed sitting and standing around the stainless steel bar, the same one that was behind her, and they held a banner that read “USS Hornet. SC-15. Give No Quarter, Accept No Quarter.â€
The Hornet’s captain was a thin and lanky man, his skin an almost fluorescent white.
He smiled at her with a broad and unassuming grin.
Mariel unconsciously fingered the four gold bars around her left wrist.
“Pack it all up,†she said.
“The booze, ma’am?†Vargas asked.
“I don’t care about the liquor. Dispose of it by whatever method you prefer, Major.â€
“Thank you. Ma’am,†Vargas replied.
“But pack up the rest of this–this museum,†she said. “And do it quick. I don’t want any of my girls to see this.â€
“Get rid of this shit, aye ma’am,†Vargas said. He keyed a radio, rattling off orders.
Mariel walked down the wall again, running her hand over a throttle control labeled “USS Winston Churchill†and one of the pressure suits which had evidently been acquired from the USS Wasp. There was a mirror behind the bar that ran the width of the room. Its upper edge was lined with stickers from at least a hundred major warships, mostly American.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Major,†she said.
“Aye, ma’am,†said Vargas.
Mariel gave the Hornet’s photo another glance, shuddering.
“Ma’am?†asked Vargas.
Mariel snorted and shook her head, headed for the doors.
“This place is a damn tomb,†she said, leaving.
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by submission | Jan 15, 2007 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields
It wasn’t the blood or their still-staring eyes that did it. It was the smile I could feel fading on my cheeks. My throat hurt like I’d screamed myself hoarse and the muscles in my face hurt like I’d been laughing for hours. Everyone in the department was dead except for me. That kind of narrowed down the list of suspects.
I sat down hard and ran slippery hands through my hair and tried to ignore how red the room was. I tried to figure out what had happened.
I was promoted to Special Ops Admin back in ’18. I remember thinking what a juicy bit of promotion that was. I couldn’t wait to have all that access to national secrets. I was a bit naïve for someone so intelligent.
Let’s back up.
Every morning, I download my brain. Every night, I upload it to the computer. I am two people that are identical in every way except that during the day at work, one of me knows what only 8 other people in the world know; every single unclassified, need to know, off the books, super secret mission ever. My head is a filing cabinet along with the others. We sort, update and access the world’s secret files for people who, quite simply, need to know. We found it couldn’t be left to computers alone so we were chosen. We’re smart people with the right kinds of brains to be wired up and bright.
At the end of my shift and also before I go for lunch, the back of my head is jacked into the computer and the security-sensitive contents of the day’s events are encrypted and uploaded into the main computer. My work week is basically a series of lunch hours as far as my memory is concerned peppered with some scattered fragments of banal conversation that the memory techs think are allowable.
I was picked for my absurdly high IQ and specific brain makeup by my bosses here at the CityMP. I suppose whatever chose me for this attack picked me for the same reason. Or maybe it was just roulette.
According to the clock on the wall, my day started twenty minutes ago.
There are 8 bodies in the room. I am the only one left. Something must have hacked into my brain while I was off duty and lay dormant, waiting for me to download it in the morning.
I’m piecing it together when I feel my eyes squint and my cheeks tighten with a smile that doesn’t belong to me. My hands fly up to my throat and break my own neck before I can even scream.
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by submission | Jan 14, 2007 | Story |
Author : Lauren L. Wheeler
I walk to the front door, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.
“Hello?” I say, trying to look through the peephole, but it’s so dark, I can’t make out anything. And now everything’s silent.
It’s 3:14 in the morning, so everything should be silent. In fact, I’m not even sure why I’m out of bed right now, why I ventured to the door. Perhaps it’s just reflex, like when the phone rings in the middle of the night and I jump to answer it, sweeping the alarm clock, lamp, and books off the night table only to be annoyed with myself for not turning off the ringer in the first place.
I peer through the peephole one last time, can’t see anything, and stumble back to my bedroom. I pull the down comforter around me, set my head down on a pillow, and close my eyes. Just as I’m crossing the threshold into sleep, it comes again.
Knock knock.
My eyes fly open, and I leap from my bed, the hardwood floor beneath my feet cold. I’m at the front door in a flash. “Hello?” Again, there’s no reply. I still can’t see anything through the peephole. There’s just black and black and more black. And more silence.
Annoyed, I check the lock and then turn around and start back to my room. My head hurts now, and I’m cold. I yank back the covers and climb in, take a deep breath, and it occurs to me that what I just heard wasn’t actually a knock at the door, but those words….
Knock knock.
I freeze there under the covers, staring blindly into the dark of my bedroom, trying to sort out shapes, silhouettes of furniture, the open door. I strain my ears for any sound: there’s the refrigerator hum, the gas heater’s hiss, something going on with the plumbing deep in the walls. Nothing more. Everything is still, both inside and out. The darkness isn’t shifting. The world’s asleep.
After a few minutes of stillness, I hear it again. Knock knock. I feel my throat closing. My hands shake as I sit up in my bed, eyes bolted to the shadows beyond my bedroom door. It’s not quite 3:30 in the morning as I stand, my legs rubber beneath me.
At the door, I pause for a second.
“Who’s there?â€
A voice, deep and metallic and utterly inhuman, replies. The sounds aren’t English—perhaps not even words—but I somehow know that the voice has answered “Me.â€
And I know that I must ask the question, that I have no choice but to finish this.
I ask, “Me who?â€
And the door creaks open.
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