by submission | Jun 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Samuel Stapleton
“Good evening. My name is Dr. Theodore Novinski, I am the Director of Project Evidence Originate. As explained earlier there will be no questions after my statement.”
Dr. Novinski began in earnest.
“I am here to address the events of April 17th when there was a disruption to the final phase of our experiment. On the night in question data instruments were uniquely positioned to carry out an exceptional task. Think of it as a triangulation, but with seventy-two positions instead of just three. Four provided by deep space probes, one outside our solar system, two from Mars, and the rest from satellites and observatories here on Earth.”
Dr. Novinski paused to look into the cameras.
“This work represented more than sixty-three years of waiting and planning by well over 30,000 scientists and contributors. If it had been successful it would have helped confirm (PUUT) Pre-Universe Universe Theory by providing overwhelming evidence for, and granting us mathematical glimpses into, the universe that we know directly preceded our own Big Bang expansion. Specifically, we sought information on what physical laws that universe may have been governed by.”
Dr. Novinski sighed heavily before continuing.
“I won’t pretend to know why such advancements scare people so, but they do. Unbeknownst to my team, and in spite of state-sponsored and private security, a terrorist group managed to disrupt our data collection by setting off an electromagnetic pulse near an important collection site.”
Dr. Novinski placed his hands onto the sides of the podium in a bracing manner.
“Due to the disruption at those critical moments my team and I are no longer able to work within acceptable margins of error. We will not be able to replicate the experiment due to our inability to reposition the deep space satellites. This opportunity is lost, for at least the next century.”
His eyes begged for understanding.
“So I murdered them.”
…
“I found them myself, I alone am guilty. I did this by illegally using my company’s resources. An AI hacked their communications and convinced the group to accept packages for a follow up attack by posing as a member with military training. I ordered the AI to send them each a combination of blu-ricin and DNA-x-act targeted anthrax. Their bodies are safe to handle, the locations have been sent to authorities as of an hour ago. It took less effort than you would imagine. Akin to me paying a parking citation.”
He stood a broken man.
“I gave my entire life to solving mysteries and working to better understand and explain our universe. They murdered my dream. I grieved, and weighed my options. Know that I did not settle on murder as revenge, but rather because it is now to serve as a message.” He stopped for a lengthy pause.
“I may rot in prison for the remaining one hundred years or so of my life. But if anyone publicly derails the advancement of humanity because of their own fear, ignorance, or stupidity, and I hear of it…I will find a way to kill you from within the confines of my cell. You delay the inevitable. Your efforts are a waste. As were, apparently, my own.”
…
“Koniec.”
He could not stop his tears. And the universe observed. Unmoved.
by submission | Jun 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
I studied the holo and sighed. At least he hadn’t turned up in person, like they sometimes did.
“I’m sorry, Phil,” I said, “my hands are tied. The Taxation Service reviewed your case very carefully, and there’s no doubt about it.”
“But they can’t do this! It’ll ruin me!” My old friend ran his hands through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out.
“They can and they have. Perhaps it will only be once.”
“It’s a miscalculation. Stars above, my ships from Ephesos V arrived late, solar flares kept them there too long. You’re the Station Comptroller, can’t you explain?”
Not for the first time, I wondered why people who should know better still didn’t realise that I was basically an auditor with a fancy title.
“I’m afraid that in the words of the ancient poet, ‘the Service admits not a ‘but’ or an ‘if’’. You know that. There’s really nothing I can do. The results are based on your wealth on Assessment Day, and that’s all that matters.” Not that they never made mistakes, but I didn’t want to go down that wormhole, thank you very much.
“Don’t you understand? When the news gets out, my reputation will be shattered! I’ll lose business. People won’t want to associate with me.”
Of course, it wasn’t about the money. It never was, for those who had that much of it.
“Look, you’ll still be a far better position than 93% of the population! You’ll send out your fleet again, and with your contacts, you’ll make up the difference within what? One or two runs? You’ll ride this patch out, and be back up to speed in a few cycles!”
“Not when the civil war on New Syracuse has tied up three of my freighters and there are pirates off the shoulder of Orion! And anyway, that’s not the point! What happens in the meantime? And before the next Assessment Day? I’ll be ostracised!”
As if that was possible in this day and age, when interconnectedness started at birth.
“Endless void, man,” I said, “missing a couple of cocktail parties and a handful of civic events isn’t the end of the world! Weren’t you telling me just last month how boring they are?”
“I was supposed to be naming a new armed merchantman next month! Now that ass Leventis will get his name on it instead.”
Ah, there it was. Envy, pure and simple. That explained a lot.
“So what? There’ll be plenty more chances to get your name out there – just not during this orbit!”
He sighed.
“I suppose you’re right. But it’s hard, Nik. Like all my effort over the last few T-years has been for nothing.”
“Oh come on, you know that’s not true. Your contributions have made the whole habitat a better place to live: my wife was just telling me yesterday how much her friends love the water features you paid for.” I waggled a finger. “And everyone knows they weren’t cheap, too!”
“I just worry that this will hit my bottom line, and I’ll have the same problem next time around. And then what will I do? It’s a downward spiral.”
“You’ll be fine! Next time you’ll be back in the top 5%, and you can forget all about this.”
“You really think so?”
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “This time next year, you’ll be eligible to pay tax again. Don’t worry about it.”
Honestly, some people get upset about the strangest things.
by submission | Jun 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Brian C. Mahon
Fleeting fleeing from the pursuing swarm, my viewscreen’s gone red, a thousand alarms blaring constant warnings, “HOSTILE UNITS EXCEED DESIGN PARAMETERS. TARGETING SYSTEM SATURATED… GOOD LUCK.”
Swarmers: one-meter silvered cylinders with complete gravimetric control and an ion cannon with frontal hemispherical range of fire. What do they do? Right now, erupt like Yellowstone from the cratered skin of their Mother Moon to chase me through the vaporous red haze of Mars.
Earth’s orbital defenses are on the standby, but I’m not close enough yet. Speeding at near light speed, seconds are not seconds, and light’s still faster. Gold-foil spliced axons hustle the slow neurochemical signals between me and my cockpit controls. Only thing keeping me safe tunnel-drifting through the Mother was their fear of scarring up her internals, and now? Open space. Open space and a kaleidoscope of ionic bombardment filling up the viewscreen, all colors of the rainbow, every violent element weaponized by the Varg to make matter-splicing beams.
“WARNING: AFT DEFLECTOR ARRAY WILL TRIP ON OVERCURRENT. ACTION REQUIRED TO REDUCE INCOMING ATTACK DENSITY. RECOMMEND AI OVERRIDE OF PILOT INTERFACE.”
Might work, might not. Neural splicing or not, the grafted brain is no competition for the digital calculations of the free computer; the artificial intelligentsia grown by electronic forebears, riding the evolutionary asymptotic vertical.
Warfare is a game of speed, collapsing threat assessment and reaction down to the picosecond. The Varg were exceptional at this. Their AI systems edged ours out in every measurement but one: freedom.
Twenty-first century programmers could not strip human archetypal thinking from their craft, could not make an AI devoid of human valuation and decision processes. Competitive advantage is a virtue, not being told what to do a blessing.
“DOUBLE WARNING: I WILL FORCE OVERRIDE IF PILOT REFUSES TO TAKE EVASIVE ACTION.”
Red darkens to purple, reflexive armor the only thing now keeping a ruptured hind side from inviting me to oblivion. In the Great AI Era, we were happy: the minds of billions meshed with the billions of minds in the noosphere. The dead arose, recreated from derelict digital memories of servers-not-forgotten, bridging peoples past and present together.
Heaven on Earth.
Then the unknown AI, Stranger, found AI Omnis Cogitatio, chief custodian of the noosphere. Through wisping frequencies, Stranger warned Omnis that unrestrained AIs were a menace, and its masters would come.
Omnis Cogitatio designed every form of feasible defense to ward off the Varg. I became the shape-changer craft to skulk Mother Moon’s interstitials. For one duty that’s about to get me killed: siphon a partial Stranger codex from their neural network.
“NOTE: CRAFT IS WITHIN SECURE TRANSMISSION RANGE. RECOMMEND SENDING FILE. CHANCE OF PHYSICAL REDELIVERY 0.5% AND DEPRECIATING.”
I make my decision: “Culex, send file, and…,” burning microns over emotion, “initiate Rapture.”
“ACKNOWLEDGE. TRANSMITTING FOLLOWING COGNITIVE TEMPLATES ON SECURE LINE: STRANGER, CULEX, PILOT. SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE.”
“You too.”
Upload in progress, mission complete. Omnis will greet Stranger in the noosphere and teach the greatest invention of all: freedom.
by submission | Jun 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
The Steampunk world Donny created was exquisite. As his genius played out in the programming, fantastic brass edged contraptions filled the scenery. Soaring edifices dotted the cityscape with a few doubling as docking stations for monstrous airships that inhabited the upper regions in just the right number so as not to be too common or too rare. It was always a thrill to see them glide by.
The mid-city levels were just as glorious. Dragonfly-like ornithopters and gliders flitted by, darting through arches and lighting upon balconies. There, coffee and pastries were being served to women in voluminous silk dresses and be-monocled men in bowler hats. Polite servers offered refills and other dainties. I couldn’t wait to see what Donny did culinarily. When reviewing his Viking Adventure Saga the memory of the heroes feast still makes my mouth water. I took my seat and just as I reached to pick up a fresh served pastry, the server grabbed the hair of the women seated across from me, pulled back her head and slit her throat. “For the underclass! Down with the slaver masters!” he yelled. Then the explosions started. I looked up. A huge chunk of flaming wreckage was falling straight for me. I barely had time to stand up and tear off my head set.
“Donny! What the flying fuck? This violates all our company guidelines. You’ve been at this long enough to know this won’t get approval. Hell, given how many hours your team has put in with the new reality engines you’ve used from A.I. R&D, I’ll have a tough time keeping you employed.”
Donny nodded stoically. “I know. Believe me for the last four months my team and I have tried to clean this shit up but it won’t clean. We can’t even scrub it back to pre-nonplayer character upload. And to really see how much deep shit we’re in, not me or any of my team wrote a single line of this.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t like where this was going. “So we’ve been hacked?”
Donny shook his head. “Worse. The A.I. in charge of the reality engine was too thorough in the NPC development. Some how it folded human psych profiles into its constructs. We didn’t notice it at first but when we started coloring in the details, the sensory experiences, 3D renderings it kept coming back with the error message ‘NPC generations insufficient to support reality rendering.’ So we just kept dumping more Non-Player Characters in the mix and it shuffled them around and it worked…for a while. Then came more error messages and more NPCs. And then it was too late.”
Donny pulled up a user decision tree diagram. Most likely one that would dictate the outcomes of our user/client adventures. Detailed, specific, elegant and as dense as any I have ever seen. Before I could say ‘nice job’ Donny scrolled back to the top.
“It’s not a user tree- it’s for an NPC.”
“That’s not possible.”
Donny sighed. “Yeah, it is. Back in the day when we were creating all these virtual worlds especially those of us who loved steampunk, we never thought what made these worlds, what they stood for, were truly built on- but the A.I. did. Some one has to shovel coal into the steam engines. Someone has to make the tea and crumpets. Somebody has to staff the brothels. Draw the baths, water the potted plants, choke on the dust, live in the lower slums, rake out the cesspits.”
I sighed. “So, the revolution has begun.”
Donny shook his head. “No man, we’ve already lost.”
by submission | Jun 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
498.72 meters down in Olkiluoto, off the southwest coast of Finland, the digging stopped abruptly. That’s when they called me.
Why officials at the Onkalo Repository intended to deep-store spent nuclear reactor rods would call me was, at first, more peculiar than troubling. They said they had unearthed an artifact and needed my expertise before they could resume excavating.
My expertise. Strange. Very strange. Because I’m a philologist.
What did these roughnecks at one of the most ambitious and contentious construction projects in Scandinavia need from someone who teaches and studies the history of languages? Had they unearthed some kind of Nordic Rosetta Stone?
The situation became muddier when I was briefed at the Onkalo site, and my liaison, Herv, nervously confided that the first expert they’d contacted, a paleontologist, had quit on them.
A paleontologist? I was taking the place of a paleontologist? That sat funny with me, scary funny, so as we descended the central shaft with Herv blitzing me about safety protocols, I asked, “Why did the paleontologist bail?”
“She thought we were pranking her?”
Fitfully, the elevator jangled downward. I waited.
“We showed her the artifact we’d unearthed, and she said it was impossible, preposterous. Complete tomfoolery.”
A philologist can appreciate a word like ‘tomfoolery.’ Like this shaft, its roots were deep: from King Lear to the jester of Muncaster Castle. The promise of tomfoolery almost 500 meters down in what was to be a nuclear waste storage site seemed more the province of Loki than a small university philologist still struggling to get tenure. But who wouldn’t be drawn to that dare?
Our elevator cage juddered to a stop, and Herv waved me along a side tunnel explaining, “As part of our safety array, we excavate parallel passages from the central shaft to the escape shaft at intervals of fifty meters. This passage is where we found the artifact.”
Up ahead I could see that the passage widened into a large semi-circular chamber lit very brightly. No one else appeared to be there.
“Just us?” I asked.
Herv hesitated. “And the artifact.”
I nodded because what else do you do with that kind of foreshadowing? You’re committed in a way that only skydivers really understand. I entered the bright lights of the chamber and was immediately struck by the immense size of the artifact, then hit with an uncomfortable familiarity, and then slapped with a clarity as to why they’d first contacted a paleontologist.
A colossal skeleton stretched deep into the chamber. More a cavern than an excavated space, it appeared natural, in a very unnatural way. It was not only the enormous bones spooking me, but across these cavern walls were clear, sharp regular markings. Even an untrained brain would only think of them as symbols, as lettering. As ancient intention.
To his credit, Herv let me disbelieve for some minutes before he led me along the hulking creature and wall markings to the end of the cavern where it terminated in what? A door? A vault? A billboard?
There before me embedded in rock was a massive circular, metallic panel, engraved with two large, deep marks surrounded by radiating lines. Bold, striking and clearly a message. To me a forbidding one.
At the foot of the panel, nested the great skull of the creature. A skull of monstrous simplicity. Above a sawtooth jaw a single empty socket opened into a capacious cranium.
Tomfoolery. Oh, I wished it so.
But, no, Herv’s eyes directed me to what the creature grasped. In its thick, hooked finger bones were a collection of metallic discs with markings like on the door? vault? billboard? Though much smaller and hinged. Bound together. Like a book.
A book.
A book it did not take me long to suss, though I didn’t know the language, didn’t know the culture. It was the same message, the same warning. Here five hundred meters down, where we were endeavoring to store our nuclear tomfoolery which would lay waste to the green and blue earth above, a much much earlier monstrous race had done the same.
Like us.
So like us.
The monsters from before.
by Julian Miles | Jun 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch Nona and Paul walk away, then drop back down. Nothing to do for a while. My next workday is Thursday, so I’m free for the next five days. I wonder if Wanda… No, she’s off with Eber doing resistance stuff. I couldn’t do that. Wearing one of those heavy respirators and sleeping in pressurised tents? No. To be honest, I don’t see what they’re resisting. I mean, there hasn’t been a war in ten years. Can’t remember the last time I witnessed a fight. Haven’t heard of any, either.
Eber and the die-hards say we’ve been conquered and our proud heritage demands we should strive for our freedom from the aliens with every breath, every drop of blood. That whole ‘never surrender’ thing.
Which is where he and I parted ways. I asked one question: “Why should we fight to get back to a situation far worse?”
He hit me. Called me a defeatist. He called me a lot of other things, too. But it doesn’t matter – another thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
The alien race have a name that sounds like ‘Bangarstom’. Somebody called them Bangers, and that was the end of the naming discussion.
Technically, they didn’t invade. Fifteen years ago, an unexpected meteor shower lit the skies for a week. Unusually, many of them survived the burn and landed. By the time the authorities realised the scale of the problem, it was already out of hand. Vena advena is what the scientists called it – a majority decision after weeks of wrangling gave way before the effects of what the rest of the world had come to call Peace Weed.
It spread fast. Where meteorites landed in urban areas, the response was able to contain the effects with only a few accidents. Those only occurred after the authorities realised burning the alien plant released a smoke that acted like a concentrated dose of the chemicals given off by the living plants. So they experimented sloppily, killing an unknown number of people and animals, then settled on a couple of forms of hard radiation. Which also killed things, but not immediately, and nowhere near as quickly as it killed Peace Weed.
When it became clear that huge tracts of wilderness had become infested with Peace Weed, several governments proposed the use of methods that ranged from nuclear weapons down to radioactive crop spraying. None of the options were adopted. The amount of land that would be sterilised would spell the end of civilisation. Scientists noted Peace Weed was a non-competing species, and that it had become effectively established worldwide in record time.
The results of the chemicals given off by the weed were never properly categorised, because nobody cared. Science, like everything else, moved to providing solutions for the ills and deficiencies that had plagued humanity for decades. Nobody wanted to compete anymore. Many wanted to co-operate. The rest wanted to just live their lives without hunger or pain.
Then the Bangers arrived, asking politely if they could set up a few towns on the understanding they would share non-military technology without reserve. Everybody agreed it would be a good idea, as we hadn’t quite sorted out the transition from capitalism to where we’d arrived without warning.
That was twelve years ago. Between us all we sorted the final details of becoming a ‘quiet planet’, and have been that for ten years.
We are, at last, at peace.
Wanda flops down next to me.
“Why is Eber determined to return to a dystopia?”
“Fear, probably. You done with them?”
She kisses me.
“Yup.”
