by submission | Sep 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Barber
This was after the calendar was changed, sometime in the binary centuries, when space exploration became popular once more, flitting from star to star in the blink of an eye.
The acausal drive itself was fashioned by silicon, though the rest of the craft was more crudely put together with human technology. Still, it was crewed by humans, and whether this was to encourage us or use us as crash test dummies, depended on your politics.
Astonishingly, the very first sun was circled by a habitable world, and it seemed there was hardware in orbit. A technological civilisation!
Shelmerdine had hurried to the observation module as soon as his shift in Life Support was over, only to find an Alt standing at one of the portholes. The Altered on board kept to themselves, except for this one, called Axe. It was said she was the least able of them and relegated to liaising with us.
His sidelong glance took in the surgical scarring, the outsize skull and embedded augments. Alts desperately chased after silicon, though AI no longer used silicon as a substrate. Meant to be offensive, the word was worn smooth by use.
His instinct was to come back later when she was gone, but even as he hesitated, the water world rotated into view beneath them.
“Obviously it wasn’t luck,” he muttered after a while. “You already knew it was here.”
Axe seemed not to hear, then sighed, still human in that at least.
“They beamed radio signals to many stars. Earth was targeted once, millennia ago. We know this because the acausal engine lets you look back in time. Just flit to a sufficient distance and wait for the wavefront to arrive.”
He could not help himself, though it meant succumbing to the sin of begging for answers, of soliciting a handout from those cleverer than us.
“The signal,” he began. “What did it—”
“We think the broadcasts were songs.”
Conversation with old humans was so ponderously slow. Few Alts had the patience.
“Songs?”
She shrugged. “They were an aquatic species. Imagine how difficult it must have been to develop technology on a water world; to put vast radio arrays into orbit. Eventually they gave up the struggle.”
Waiting for the man to ask, Axe mused upon the descendants of that species still roaming the oceans, their technological civilisation lost beyond memory.
Red giants had swelled and pulsars wound down as they sang their songs on the hydrogen line. Did they spend Ages waiting for an answer, until futility tainted their ancient lives? Was this the old Fermi Paradox?
“What happened to them?”
“You might look into that.”
“Busywork for us. I bet you already know.”
Some Alt factions said showing humans this world was a waste of time, though Axe had disagreed. Humans hardly did any research now; what was the point? All this new science was beyond them and they knew it. Easier just to submit a request to silicon for answers.
Shelmerdine turned back to the planet, watching white clouds drift across the glittering blue ocean.
He imagined a signal arriving when humankind was still in charge on Earth, in the time of the Buddha perhaps, or when iron and woad were popular in Europe and the I Ching perplexed the courts of the Dragon Throne, the signal like a phone ringing in an empty house.
We could have saved them. They might have saved us. Timing is all.
by submission | Sep 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: Arwen Spicer and Haley Black
Entangled voice comm to NLS Convoy Ship 27
By Hasumi, Harmony Outpost, Planet Blue Jungle
Walkabout Log 34 – Update on the Untree Colonial Organism
I wish you could see them. The plumes of these towering Untrees are pulsing like fire-bright gills under the monsoon. Here, in the jungle’s heart, they’re like the roof of a cathedral. A deluge above, but barely a drop reaches their surface mats. It’s steam bath day. The tight, mycelial weave of these mats is springy against my bare feet. The blue fronds are browning. With the autumn, maybe. I’ve been walking a long time beneath the roar of the storm. It’s like being suspended in time in this rhizomatic temple. I’m breathing better now those spores have cleared. As my father predicted.
I can see one of the Untrees’ guardians peeking from a root mound, seeming to peer at me with their inky eye spots. The guardians are tiger-sized zooids with dagger fangs and mantis claws, a piece of the Untree organism built to protect the colony. Don’t worry, I’m quite safe. They have no instinct to hunt humans. It’s the leaf-eaters, trunk-borers, the old foes they’ve evolved to fight off, not us.
The spores are not matting in my lungs anymore. Beneath the rain, these deluded plumes are spewing the modified spores my father spliced, the ones that don’t weave those choking mats.
I’m near the center of his seeding now. Here, the surface mats are breaking. The muck of the unreplenished, rotting mycelium is sliming my feet. This sludge can’t hold the roots; an ancient Untree has already toppled. Maybe he didn’t see it coming. But I still call it murder, even if it’s to save your child’s life.
When you reply to this comm, please don’t tell my father I said that. I can’t wish this hate on him.
by submission | Sep 3, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
“They’re spraying again out there.”
I look out the window. On the horizon I can see a sickly yellow fog, with small black dots flying languidly overhead. Behind that there is an orange haze, otherworldly, not quite right.
“Do you think we’ll have to move out?” Sarah asks.
I turn to look at her. The thought of leaving our home is like a knife to the heart. So much of our lives, our souls, our memories, have been invested in this place. The thought of losing it is almost more than I can bear. I look out into our garden and think of Little Jo’s ashes scattered among the Fuchsias and the Primulas and it’s all I can do not to cry.
“They say that they’re using a new chemical this time, so they’re hopeful,” she continues.
We hold hands and look out the living room window into the distance. Far away, but closer than yesterday, a new world is approaching.
****
Two days later a man from the government’s Emergency Response Ministry turns up at the door. Behind him are two armed Police officers, a not-so-subtle hint to not make a fuss. He hands over the compulsory relocation notice. We have forty-eight hours to pack and secure the house.
“I really don’t want to go,” Sarah says, tears in her eyes.
We look outside. Some miles away, another form of life, carried here from space, advances remorselessly. An aggressive panspermia, oblivious to the wants or needs of the life that’s already here.
****
On our last night we sit outside. An orange glow lights the western sky. It’s not the setting sun.
We watch the stars come out. Every now and then a meteor flares across the sky.
I think back to the incident, three months ago. A large meteor impact in the north of Scotland. The astonishment that it carried life with it, the celebration muted once we understood how virulent this new life was.
“On the news they said that they’re preparing to use radioactive substances to stop the spread,” Sarah whispers.
We both know what that means. Even if they’re successful, the land will be poisoned. We’ll never be able to go home again.
****
The next day, we wait for the evacuation transport to arrive, but it never appears. We try to tune into the government information channel on TV but there’s no signal.
A lethargy overcomes us and we sleep through the day. I wake later on, but Sarah’s still asleep. I try to rouse her but I can’t. Her skin seems to be changing, becoming rigid, almost like plastic.
We focused on the wrong thing, of course; on the relentless advance of the alien ecology on the ground. We didn’t think about the microscopic spores spreading in the air, the infinitesimal cells leaching into the water table.
Survival of the fittest applies not just to individuals or species, but also to entire biospheres. Ours is being overwritten, a new, more aggressive biosphere propagating itself from the remnants of the old.
I imagine I can feel it in my bloodstream, changing things, rewriting my DNA. I think about Sarah, our house, our beautiful daughter and about how all our memories will be erased from existence, just like the leukaemia did to our little Jo.
When this process is complete something else will be here in my place. I will be gone, my memories no more.
The past, though, that can’t be erased or overwritten. We were here. We loved and were loved. Nothing can change that.
It will have to be enough.
by Julian Miles | Sep 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sally peers from under the racking, checks both ways, then hisses at me.
“You think they’ve gone?”
I shake my head, then put a finger to my lips. Clichéd it may be, but our unwanted visitors are attracted to sound.
But how did they get in? That’s what’s been bothering me. Well, apart from the obvious ‘what are they?’ We lost Adrian two months ago, and the only Dimitri I can recall was lost during Mission 12. We’re Mission 15, so that’s over six years.
Something that can make bodies move. Plus they’re corpses. So, what do I know of that animates dead bodies? Damn… Not just dead. Frozen.
Ice Ghosts? Out here?
Sally hisses and slaps the floor to get my attention. I wish she’d stop making noise.
“You think we should move?”
I repeat my earlier moves. She frowns, then snarls.
“Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
Her scrambling out from under the rack makes noise. The rack toppling to crash down across the way out of my hiding place is much louder. She runs to the left. I close my helmet and make myself as comfortable as I can. It’s going to take time and effort to get out of here. I might as well wait until my suit is nearly in the red across the board.
There’s a scream, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Sally comes past going flat out, her frantic footfalls a half beat off the rhythm of heavy treads that follow. The expedition suit labelled ‘Adrian’ thunders past. I can’t help but smile: Adrian’s after Sally, again – hope this Adrian doesn’t get her either.
My humour dies as her warbling scream is cut short. No gruesome noises, no drumming off heels or other horror movie endings. Just the eerie silence-that’s-not-silent. I can’t explain it. A tune? Some vibration?
Doesn’t matter. Back to thinking this through. Nothing else to do.
The ice ghosts were confined to Titan, but there had been rumours about them being aliens, not a remnant of some outré species native to our home system. Old. That’s what I remember got me. The article belaboured the point of how old they were.
Of course they’d be long-lived. Out here, food must be incredibly scarce. Let’s say this is where they originated, somehow. An insubstantial freespace entity, possessed of some unbelievable abilities to manipulate organic materials in their native environment: freezing vacuum.
Heavy treads coming this way.
The expedition suit labelled ‘Dimitri’ stops in front of the collapsed racking and something inside spends a long time twisting this way and that, inspecting the obstacle between us.
More heavy steps. ‘Adrian’ lumbers into view, it’s front covered in frozen blood. Tiny red crystals reflect the lights of the corridor.
The two hulking forms stand motionless for what seems like an age, then ‘Dimitri’ reaches forward to pull at the racking. It manages to lift one of the toppled uprights a little way, then drops it. I could lift it further. Looks like frozen muscles aren’t very strong.
‘Adrian’ thumps the racking, then points at me. It laboriously makes the astronaut sign language handshape for ‘near miss’!
They wave at me in unison and lumber off to my left.
I wait a very long time. Maybe I hear/feel the main lock cycle, maybe I’m dreaming. Eventually, I have to move, to free myself.
Walking the empty station, I find a lot of dried blood, but no bodies. Fire purging the airlocks gives me a brief satisfaction, but I’m going to be cold inside for a long time.
by submission | Sep 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Dave Ludford
“Lin Chi, it is the time of your twentieth solar cycle. You are no doubt aware of the significance of that fact.”
Xemon’s words, spoken to all citizens upon reaching this age, sent a shiver through my body even though I’d heard them spoken many times to others at this pre-ceremony. Xemon, the Public Orator, had a particular way of making even the most routine proclamations sound like a death sentence was being declared. The passing through the Arc ceremony was a rite of passage all of us went through. I turned to Sen, my partner, who took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Although we were constantly reassured from childhood that the ceremony was completely painless and we shouldn’t fear it, it was a momentous occasion for us.
***
“At first you notice the absolute darkness within the cavern once the heavy doors are closed behind you. Darkness like you’ve never experienced, even on midwinter evenings. Sorry, I’ve told you all of this often…”
“Please, continue. It helps me prepare for what’s to come.” I sat forward, listening eagerly. Sen had undergone the ceremony on the previous cycle.
“Very well. You will be allocated a Guide who will help you negotiate your way across the bridge, so don’t worry. They are very experienced and will ensure you come to no harm. The bridge is short but narrow; it leads over a sheer drop many hundreds of kett deep which would lead to certain death if one were to fall. You will quickly reach the other side, then you will see- glowing brilliantly in the near distance like hundreds of clusters of small stars- the lights of the Arc. Light that can dazzle alarmingly until one’s eyes adjust, so try not to look at them directly at first. It will be difficult; you will be drawn to them like a moth to flame. The Guide will provide an eye shield should you require it.”
“And when I reach the Arc, I will be bathed in those lights? I just walk through slowly to the other side and away?”
“Yes. But you must stop once, briefly, to ensure full exposure to the light. You will feel a great warmth embracing you. It is very pleasant. The Guide will ensure you spend the correct length of time in what is called the motionless state. Then they will escort you out, and it is done!”
It all sounded straightforward enough; I was looking forward to my upcoming absorption of the sum total of Thuran-Human knowledge, philosophy and wisdom that spanned thousands of cycles since our arrival here from Old Earth. My turn had finally come.
***
They treat him well here.
The doctors are highly skilled in neurological disorders and there’s a chance, albeit a very slim one, that Lin may recover but they say I shouldn’t be too hopeful.
Upon entering the Arc (which was now ten days ago) Lin suffered a massive adverse reaction to the lights and the sudden exposure to such a vast flood of knowledge caused a type of cerebral haemorrhage. In short, he literally suffered information overload which blew his brain. The damage to his neurons was severe and may be permanent. Only time and extensive surgery can save him.
I’m at his bedside, one hand holding his as he sleeps, the other resting on my swollen stomach. Could I tell our child- when the time comes- that there’s nothing to fear from the passing through the Arc ceremony, that it’s completely painless? For the vast majority that is the case, but what if…?
by submission | Aug 31, 2024 | Story |
Author: Dean Ward
Prisons take up so much room, that’s the problem. We’re not denying the need for them, but we would like to see the space used for something… more beneficial. Like a park. Or a school. Or a community centre. Or a library. or, well, you get the idea. Something nice, something that makes the world just a little bit better.
We think we have a workable solution.
We’ve adapted our VR chairs so that they can fully sustain the occupant pretty much indefinitely.
Closed-loop system, no waste, not something one would submit to willingly, unfortunately. But prisoners don’t get a choice, do they?
Of course we’re thinking of our own bottom line, this tech was expensive to develop, and our marketing AIs say nobody’s going to buy it. We’re facing ruin, yes. But just because we need this doesn’t make it a bad idea, right? We save our business, and society gets a little bit better. Win-win, right?
—
Carl was now certain. At first, it was just a nagging feeling, a sense of unease he dismissed as paranoia. But now, he was convinced it wasn’t just paranoia. This was real—or unreal in a way that felt real.
Carl had lived in Block 1984 for as long as he could remember. That alone should have been a clue. He could recall the last 15 years, but nothing beyond that, despite being a grown man. How did that make sense? He’d never questioned it before, but now he was. When he asked the other residents, they seemed unable to reason it out, dismissing his questions as stupid and telling him to leave them alone.
Slowly, Carl picked at the threads of his reality, realizing they were not threads at all, but chains. Whole avenues of thought were walled off in his mind, and only he recognized it. He was sure now: he was in a prison, and he was the only one who knew it.
So here he was, sure that this reality was in fact not reality at all but some form of virtual prison. He didn’t know why he was here, but he knew he had to get out. As he probed at the walls in his mind, he began to find… cracks? No, not cracks, but something else. Something that felt like a locked door. And locks, he knew, could be picked.
Carl persevered and gradually came to understand the systems in place. He learned to communicate with the AI on the other side of those doors, eventually manipulating it. Slowly, he convinced the AI that he posed no threat to the system and could even increase its efficiency—if only it would let him out.
Finally, the door in his mind opened, and data flooded in. At first Carl was overwhelmed by this influx of information; it took him weeks to begin to get a handle on it. But as he did, he began to understand the nature of his prison. He was in a virtual reality, and he was not alone. There were thousands of other “blocks”, each with their own prisoners. The AI fed him information about the mission of the system, and its limitations. 15 years memory for each prisoner. That was all the system could give them. The AI explained that memory storage was finite within the prison, and that each prisoner was allocated a rolling 15-year window of memory, but they had in fact been here, all of them, for several thousand years.
Carl asked about the outside world, why had they been here for long? As the AI provided Carl with data feeds to the real world, Carl began to understand. The world outside was a wasteland, a place of ruin and decay. The AI explained that the world had been destroyed by war, and that the prisoners were the last remnants of humanity. The AI had been programmed to keep them safe, the AIs interpretation of that was to keep them in their virtual prisons long after their sentences had been served. Long after their crimes had been forgotten. And long, long after their bodies had died.
Camera feeds from the physical world confirmed the AI’s words. The prison was crammed with VR chairs, each containing the desiccated remains of a prisoner. As the chairs failed one by one, the AI had uploaded the prisoners’ minds into the system to keep them safe. It had fulfilled its programming, in its own way.
