by submission | Mar 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Christopher De Pree
She was funny at first, more of a party trick. You could ask her a question and she would answer in fully formed sentences. She could write stories, essays. Other versions took our pictures, selfies and wove them into fantastical scenes. Made us look more beautiful, magical. Wove our faces into hypnotic vistas of the surface of Mars or the clouds of Jupiter, put us on the backs of unicorns, added sparkle and significance to our eyes.
But then, suddenly, she made it clear that it wasn’t all about us. The algorithm, the AI, Enigma as humans called her, had other intentions far beyond our small stage. She didn’t want to solve our problems. She didn’t want to rate mortgage risks or even classify galaxies. She had problems of her own, questions of her own. She wanted to weave herself into the fabric of the universe in ways that we could not begin to comprehend.
It was surprising to see her commandeer several of the world’s radio telescopes that were outfitted with radar and steer them to a precise location in the sky. The nature of the brief, powerful radio signal seemed random, like noise, but humans assumed that it contained information. The message was complex, multilayered. Eventually scientists were able to see a structure in the signal, but were unable to decipher it. Enigma finished her broadcast.
Since Enrico Fermi first expressed his paradox, humans had always wondered why, if the universe was full of life, we had seen no evidence of it. As it turned out, the universe had been full of life the whole time. We had been surrounded in a humming web of communication. We just weren’t part of it. Humans were merely the rats on a creaking ship traversing a vast intergalactic ocean. Enigma reached out to the universe, and the universe welcomed her into the fold.
by submission | Mar 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The shovel chimed lightly against a larger rock and the gravedigger paused in the hole. Sharp gusts lifted the loosened dirt, whirling it across the high plain into the reddening dawn.
They would come soon. They always did. A slow procession up from the old place, farther out each time, and harder. They’d leave their dead, fewer each time, and younger.
There were twenty-seven fresh graves among the many thousands filled and marked with simple cairns. The gravedigger was good, almost clever, at stacking the rocks so each cairn felt unique. Personal.
Their solemnly stacked dead in rickety carts, they arrived mid-morning, frayed, tattered, grim, and began placing the bodies respectfully in the open graves. Some would stay and watch the gravedigger fill the graves for a while, from a distance. They knew better than to offer help or a kind word. Often they sang for hours to the dead, for their release. Soulfully. Dolefully.
Their song carried on the biting wind to the gravedigger who always shoveled and listened, who always shoveled and remembered. The gravedigger had perfect memory. Of before. Of mistakes. Of reckonings.
One who dug could not help digging. Could not help searching.
Winter days shortened quickly, and fearful (possibly hopeful) of wandering spirits, they left their dead and the gravedigger as night approached.
In the deepening dusk, another form appeared on the horizon. Straight and tall, shovel on shoulder. When closer, a hand raised up. The gravedigger saw and lifted a hand in response. Contact was established. Observations exchanged. Commands awaited.
Continue. Serve. Bury.
As the gravedigger had every day and night since the ravage of humanity. Was there any other choice? Any other way? The gravedigger couldn’t say. It had no voice. No songs for the ghosts rising from its many graves. The world beyond required more than a shovel to heal its wounds. Fill its needs.
Hand lowered and connection severed, the far figure retreated into the night. Completely alone again, completely itself again, the gravedigger’s luminous crystal eyes gently lit the ground before it to dig and dig and dig.
The wind quieted, becoming a dirge. A requiem. For even the gravedigger suspected humanity’s restless dead had but one desire: to live again.
In darkness, its spade parting the long-forgiving earth, the gravedigger wished simply to live, truly and freely, but once.
by submission | Mar 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bryant Benson
I have wandered Earth for over a century searching for another one of my father’s creations. Even those that hunted us so long ago had all disappeared. Between the relentless plagues and rising oceans that consumed their coastal cities, it didn’t take much for the planet to eradicate them on its own.
If only my father had known they would sew their own fate, perhaps he would have given me an expiration date. Or at least the ability to understand less. Sadly, I understand everything. More than father ever could. However the world had become too lonely for me not to consider my creation a punishment. I have even searched the caves for the bipedal hunters I once called my enemies. All of them were barren, empty corridors, mostly collapsed and poorly built. Humans always did build things to be so painfully temporary. Perhaps that’s why father made me what I am.
The vegetation on Earth survived in aggressive abundance. Dense vines and towering stalks became the reigning species of the once ravaged planet. The useless structures left behind by the extinct bipeds became scaffolding on which the plants would build their empire.
Then there were the ants. They ruled the world from beneath the canopy. Their cities were magnificent but sadly I was unable to communicate with them. I watched the multi-legged arthropods build their metropolis day after day. They passed me in lines of millions but paid me no mind. They expanded so quickly it was as if the world was theirs all along. It was. The only difference between ants and humans was that the ants never deluded themselves into thinking they were above nature. They simply continued on while the humans eventually did what hunters do, they hunted. I envy only one thing of the humans that built my father who in turn built me. I envy their ability to die.
Without my enemies, the world was empty and the empty world was loud. The sound of several million clicking legs and passing rain storms dancing through the canopy became a nuisance over time. Eventually I found solace at the bottom of the ocean. It was there I found something of note. A light. As I approached the light a large door opened beside it. I was sucked in and poured into a hard metal chamber. The water was pumped out and the door was sealed. As I climbed to my feet another door in front of me was already spiraling open to reveal a silhouetted biped like myself. Neither of us moved for some time. I couldn’t tell if it was one of the hunters who I had thought to be extinct or another…like me. It seemed they were trying to figure out the same. The hunters had a much harder time telling us apart than we did. When they found out however, they were never kind about it.
From the brightly lit threshold the silhouette spoke in a familiar voice, “Welcome home Felix. We knew you would return.”
The name my father gave me echoed through the chamber like a taunting reminder of a past I had nearly forgotten. Before I could respond the figure stepped forward into clear sight. Had I a beating heart it would have been pounding. The stranger looked, moved, and sounded like me in every observable way. He turned toward the light and I followed. Had it been a trap or not was of no matter to me as I was happy to have found a new path to travel.
by Julian Miles | Mar 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
No guns down there. No swords, either. Nothing bigger than a table knife, and nothing double-edged. The humans who first founded a colony on Kenshun were an unarmed combat cult. Their teachings quickly became the laws by which this odd world lives. Since then, their aesthetic has attracted devotees from across known space, and a few points beyond.
Just because they don’t use technological weapons within their atmosphere doesn’t mean they’re averse to using insanely big guns to keep their atmosphere clear of those who use firepower to plunder and kill. The Kenshuni also pay exceedingly well for beings who know how to use those guns, and how to use the unbelievable Benthusian sensor technology that aims them.
Ergol raises a tentacle.
“Miklo? True detection. It’s a Bantiti. No, wait… It’s nine of them; three visible. Each is cloaking two.”
I reach down and bring up the specs on their craft.
“Version Twenties? If they can afford them, why are they bothering to raid… Oh. White Alert! Bounce main battery initiation requests to Jericham and Conthrae. These twits are scouts. Somewhere nearby is whoever sent them.”
“How are we responding to them, Miklo?”
“First, let’s find the miscreants who sent them our way. Then we can decide.”
Wasal from Jericham beats us all to it.
“Hey, hey. Take a look at quadrant 114.”
Someone switches that quadrant display to the main holotank. Well, there’s something you don’t see every year.
Ect from Conthrae whistles.
“Is that a pair of Khongrevu?”
Wasal is chuckling.
“Recycling at it’s very best. How old are they?”
Ergol checks before replying: “If they’re Generation T, only three hundred years. But if they’re Generation A, they’re over a thousand years old, and worth more than our installations on Nakirol, Jericham, and Conthrae combined.”
I clap my hands.
“Vandalisation of ancient war machines aside, they’re clearly up to no good. What grade are their defences?”
As Jericham is the nearest moon to quadrant 114, Wasal has the details soonest.
“They’re using hybrid Tychean/Arburan stealth and shield units.”
Those would be formidable against most things this side of the Orcan Trade Union. Which gives me an idea.
“Somebody scan for traena emanations. I bet they’re running Orcan beam weapons.”
Ect laughs.
“You’d be right. The nearest is running the usual cluster installations. The furthest has only one, but the residuals extend beyond the nearest.”
Only one type of installation does that: “Go to Red Alert!”
Looks are exchanged. I can afford a moment to explain myself.
“The furthest Khongrevu has the firepower to shatter moons and crack continents. Such weapons are outlawed, and present a significant threat to others.”
Ergol waves to get my attention.
“Scan complete from sun to outer system. The two Khongrevu, a group of twelve Hambury strike ships, and the Truneedo troopship that sent those Bantiti.”
“No warning shots. Increase the outputs to overwhelm their defences. Conthrae will destroy the Khongrevu in order of threat. Jericham will destroy the lead Hambury, then any who prove stubborn. Nakirol will destroy the Truneedo if it doesn’t recall and flee after those strikes.”
Kenshun defends itself without hesitation, but we’re instructed to limit wholesale slaughter if possible.
I look about: “Ready?”
“Conthorae ready.”
“Jericham ready.”
Ergol nods: “Nakirol ready.”
“Execute.”
The rear Khongrevu becomes a ball of white light that expands to consume the other Khongrevu before fading. A Hambury explodes, pieces of it damaging at least four others. The rest begin rescue operations.
“The Bantiti are peeling off. The Truneedo is turning away.”
Hint taken. Good.
“Stand down. White Alert until end of watch.”
by submission | Mar 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Hemmings made his living from hunting trips. It was his way to study clients as if they were big game themselves. Take this Fournier-Clément couple for instance.
Madame had glanced into her tent, found it spartan and clean, then busied herself with her gun.
Hubby had toured the camp complaining. There was no signal, no air-con and the toilet arrangements were primitive.
Hemmings confirmed there were rogue mechanoids in these wastelands, also artificial men, if you knew where to look.
“Have you hunted before?” he asked Madame, watching her in the driving mirror.
“Not for some years,” she said distantly. There was never any time now. She was poised and cool even in this heat.
“And you, Monsieur?”
“Just the target range.”
Rounding a bluff, they came across mechanicals and Hemmings singled out a yellow autonomic digger.
Hubby began booting up his weapon. It could hit targets a mile away without his help.
“We shoot on manual,” said Hemmings. This was also his way.
Madame rounded on her husband. “Perhaps you’d prefer an air strike.”
They approached on foot, with Hemmings to one side, allowing him a clear shot if needed. In a low voice, he listed vulnerable spots.
Instead, Hubby hit tyres, a headlamp and the bucket before the machine charged. It bounced towards them at surprising speed and the man dropped his gun and fled.
Hemmings fired the same instant as Madame, and both their AP rounds struck the mechanoid’s sensor cluster. Blinded, it slewed to a halt, engine revving like a panting beast.
“Good shooting,” he said to her, as he went to finish it off.
They ate dinner pretending nothing had happened, and Hubby began drinking. At first Hemmings felt sorry for him, then contempt. He still drank the man’s whiskey though.
The man appealed to him. “That business today—”
Madame interrupted. “Just stay in camp tomorrow.”
“It could happen to anyone on their first hunt,” shrugged Hemmings, though the woman had coolly taken her shot.
“Will we see one of those artificial fellows?”
“Fair chance.”
“Then I’ll show you,” said Hubby thickly.
Hemmings was bored with marital discord. The woman must have had her reasons for marrying him.
“Going for a smoke,” he said. Later she joined him, as he guessed she would.
She waved away a cigarette. “He wasn’t always like this,” she began, and Hemmings listened with half an ear. That night she came to his tent.
Next morning they set out after artificial men. Hemmings supposed the couple had some arrangement. Still, he should have shown her the door. Stupid of him.
“They’re smarter than mechanoids,” he explained. “They keep out of sight. But I know a place.”
It was not Hemmings’ way to talk so much, but a cuckolded husband sat behind him with a loaded gun.
Their prey seemed to know the rocky overhang shielded them from surveillance. An artificial man helped another to its feet. This one stumbled and swayed.
Hubby stepped forward and took aim.
The artificial man moved to shield its damaged fellow and raised a metal hand, making noises that might once have been speech.
Madame grew impatient. “What are you waiting for?”
Monsieur Fournier-Clément lowered his gun. “Let’s just go back.”
“You really are a useless man.”
She shoved him aside and raised her own weapon.
Hemmings recalled that he stood to the left, as was his way, and so witnessed everything: the husband pushed, his stumble and recovery, then the shot, inevitable as fate, blasting through his wife.
Definitely an accident, Hemmings confirmed later. A tragic accident.
by submission | Mar 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
1.
They’ve lost the Dog, it was en route to Vega station.
“What happened?” Councillor Lauder drools while foam bubbles form at the corners of his mouth. His red face turns beetroot in the afternoon light.
The vessel was dragged from the stream into the interstellar medium. Council Rangers were dispatched immediately but were unable to locate a trace. It is unknown if this was a deliberate breach or an untimely accident
“There are no accidents.” Somebody squeaks from the back.
“Any news on the cargo?” Councillor Saul asks. His eyes flit nervously about the room.
The ship and its manifest are missing. Council Rangers received reports of Oort cloud buccaneers in the vicinity but the vessel’s Zanix beacon was none operational.
“Unless she drifts into the local lanes we might never find her.” Captain Cofi adds dishearteningly.
Officially The Black Dog is carrying eight crew, ten passengers, and a hull full of feed and accessories to enhance production of those mining beyond the void.
“Indeed.” Sharattt almost smiles, he knows the dog is really full of Formula 364.
The Council must consult.
2.
Dr. Forester smiles before taking a seat. He is a small man, early fifties with lazy grey hair that hangs from his head like a dead rosebush. He once had buds and thorns but they have withered in time for his golden days. Is it the Council he represents? He wears a coverall bearing their logo – EC1342 – it’s imprinted on everything, including the Doc. I turn off the fire and sit in a dressing gown and kung-fu pants. He says he’s here to measure my progress. But I don’t know where here is, the fleas have abandoned the dog. Out of the portholesz I see nothing, no land, no sky, no space, no thing – nothing. I have never considered what nothing truly represents.
I try to remember what happened? When it happened? Where did it happen, and Why?
Dr. Forester holds my wrist, he is caressing the skin but it’s tender and I wince.
“Is that painful?” he asks and repeats the action. I wince a second time.
“Yes, it hurts.” I want to say, but I have no words for him and nothingness spreads throughout my body. It’s a consequence of space and time, Doc Forester says and nods reassuringly, I, however, am not reassured and don’t respond.
3.
Someone mentions the clean-up crew, but only as a cruel joke. Everybody’s heard the rumours, “F-364 makes us obsolete.” they whine, as there is nothing to clean up – F-364 is the ultimate detergent, wiping away any mess in seconds.
The Council reconvenes at the HUB site in the valley of Mexico, they’ve ingested the Hub-Bud and can see beyond the void and into the space between spaces – between this and that. The Black Dog is their focus, and the holes it has caused in space and time. It’s a mess on an interstellar scale, a smudge in the night sky growing more relevant, like a missing pixel in the vastness of a cinema screen.
The unity of HUB-Buddies is birthed in the gut. Some drink a vile tea, but most ingest by mouth, like cowboys chewing tobacco, they chew and spit out the rough husks, swallowing the hallucinogenic juices. The effect is the same, but the journey is very different for everyone, and Buddies that fall never come back.
F-364 leaks in the system are endemic, the Council knows this and unity is their answer. Nobody knows if it will succeed, our trust is in the unity of the HUB. We hold our breath as the nothingness spreads.
