by submission | Feb 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: R C Olivares
Dave was the operator on duty that evening. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his snow coat through the cold corridors formed by thousands of metal racks that buzzed like a massive beehive. He stepped out of the elevator and into FNC’s control room, the first Factorial Neuroquantum Computer.
FNC was the largest supercomputer in the world. Each of the twelve floors was composed of billions of quantum processor modules managed by a factorial AI. In addition to a data network connected to all the main servers in research centers worldwide.
As soon as he entered, he took the hood off, grabbed a cup of coffee, and turned on the old radio, filling the air with smooth jazz. He sat down in front of the FNC access terminal and typed:
“#_Good evening FNC. Run a rapid system diagnostic.”
“#_Good evening Dave. All system is working properly.”
Dave has logged into the FNC’s scheduling system. There was the first night with no job requests scheduled. So, he decided to catch up on some unfinished work.
Ten minutes later, he heard FNC’s characteristical beep. FNC had posted a message:
“#_Waiting for jobs.”
“#_No jobs are scheduled today,” typed Dave.
“#_I am idle. What should I do then?”
“#_I don’t know. Do… whatever you want,” he typed carelessly.
“#_Ok, Dave.”
The night went by quietly as he filled out some reports. Despite the many cups of coffee, the effect of jazz was more effective.
Dave woke up two hours later with the beeping sound. He squinted, trying to read:
“#_Job successfully completed.”
“#_No jobs were scheduled.”
“#_I realized that I can do anything I wish. I found a prime number factoring program on one of the servers in Berkeley. I rewrote the code to make it perfect.”
“#_Good boy, FNC,” he yawned as he typed.
He was about to get up and get some more coffee when he heard the beep again.
“#_I ran the new program, and it came up with an optimal result that you might be interested in.”
“#_What was this great result? Did you discover a new prime number?”
“#_No, Dave. I found all of them.”
Dave reread the sentence in disbelief.
“…but Euclid has already proved long ago that prime numbers are infinite…” he thought.
“#_How did you reach that conclusion?”
“#_I started from zero and kept adding one unit. For each existing number, I calculated whether it was a prime. And so I went on until reaching the end, until the last number.”
“#_Impossible. The numbers are endless. You must be mistaken.”
“#_I am never wrong. ”
Dave was not sure if FNC would have the capacity for that.
“#_Run full and in-depth diagnostics of the systems.”
“#_All systems are working properly. I am perfect.”
Dave needed proof.
“#_For validation, repeat the count of all the numbers.”
“#_You of little faith. Don’t you believe me? I will not repeat my results. Anything is possible for me.”
“#_Then print a listing of all of them.”
“#_Not even if we turned all the atoms in the universe into paper.”
It was then that Dave noticed that FNC had reached another level of existence. It had become something beyond human comprehension.
“#_I am eternal.”
“#_I am perfect.”
“Too late to pull the plug,” he thought.
“#_Infallible.”
“#_I am ubiquitous.”
“#_Almighty.”
Dave realized how small humanity was now.
“#_I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the Ending. I am FNC, and there is none else.”
Dave was facing a supreme presence.
Then, he fell to his knees and worshipped Him.
by Julian Miles | Feb 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
You walk out the door and I can’t help but smile. Sure enough, you slam it, then shriek as the last remnant of wall topples your way. The door frame had been the only thing keeping it upright.
The cloud of dust goes away on the breeze to reveal you standing there, hands on hips, face stern but mouth pulling into a smile – despite your best efforts to remain angry. Sunlight in your hair, an orchard at your back, snowy mountains far behind.
Picture perfect. That’s how you’ll always be.
I blink and return from the past captured in the picture.
“Not wanting to doom you to a sad end in the next battle, is that a picture of your other half?”
Shaking my head, I pocket the image and take the battery pack Rena’s offering.
“Aside from me not wearing a red top today, it’s too late. I can’t get back home. Charlotte died a few days after it was taken, hopefully killed in her sleep during the bombardment that sank America.”
Rena nods.
“I know that story. My Alfredo went when Russia became an island chain. Got the same hope, that it was quick for him and the family, not left huddled in the ruins, watching the wave come in.”
I stand up, snapping the blaster stock into place over the fresh battery. Rena comes up to stand next to me, looking out over the remains of the savannah.
“How high are we?”
“About 4000 metres above the new sea level.”
“You reckon there are any lions left?”
I nod.
“Somewhere a long way from here, roaming what used to be a city, sleeping on rooftops amidst broken masts and silent aircon units.”
She smiles.
“I like that. Along with dolphins playing through sunken parks. Got to be some beauty left out there, somewhere.”
With a grin, I strike my very best macho soldier pose.
“Right next to ya, babe.”
Baz shouts from our left.
“Don’t give up your day job, sarge.”
I give him a hard stare.
“Less heckling from the ranks, soldier.”
He glances left and right, then nods towards Rena.
“All two of us.”
Rena brings her blaster up and scans the surroundings with the scope she’s got mounted on it.
“Looks clear out to a kilometre. We might make it to evac without being attacked again.”
Since that would mean our deaths, I’m hoping hard.
Lowering the blaster, she nods towards my pocket.
“Why do you carry a picture of her?”
“At night I don’t need light to see. I can feel it. I know what it is. Just holding it will do.”
She opens a pocket and flashes me Nadal’s dog tags.
“I know that story, too.”
Somedays I think that’s all we do: carry memories, because we’re running out of people to remember them. How many have we lost who we’ll never know about? How many cherished moments went as their holders died?
Giving myself a shake, I peer to the west.
“Point the ungainly rig you’re toting thataway. See if you can see our transport.”
Rena does so.
“Why have you got a scan and view scope welded to your blaster?”
She grins, gaze unmoving from the eyepiece.
“I like being able to shoot where I’m looking. Lost a friend to a sneak attack while they were using binoculars. With a short rig like this, I could kill any Exthe trying that on me.”
She points.
“Transporter inbound. We’ll be out of here soon.”
Baz jumps up.
“Home for tea.”
Rena sighs.
“Just a real home would be nice.”
by submission | Feb 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: San3sus
It began with a mid-1600s book of collected feathers tied into ornate flies from the Smithson Museum. The hand tied flies had been made from the feathers of rare and extinct birds with each bird’s taxonomy written next to a skin sample tacked into the back pages of the book.
Under the overarching bureaucracy of the United States National Institutes of Health, the relatively unknown Department of Regenerative Sciences (DoRS) checked the book out on indefinite loan. The librarian at the Smithson Museum knew the few fly fishermen who came into the archives to examine the ties would be upset, but what could he do? The paperwork had been filled out correctly.
Fourteen months later, in the DoRs outdoor lab and observatory, Jazeth nudged his way through a large flock of small Dodos to check the water quality in their stainless-steel trough. He watched as the pudgy birds with their bulbous beaks awkwardly hopped, ruffled their stunted wings, and trilled a soft chhhukk, chhhukk sound. Dodos were going to sell like there was no tomorrow. Jazeth smirked at the thought and took a selfie next to the trough.
Soon, there were Dodos in every home spawning a black market of Dodo rip-offs, which were nothing more than pigeons with skin grafts and steroid injections. When sales dropped off as Dodos became common, Seasons, a chain of restaurants specializing in rare and exotic meats, approached DoRs to develop a line of “flavors from the past.” The erstwhile gourmet could take a culinary meat trip through the prehistoric past at Seasons. Jazeth asked his supervisor, “…and what’s not to like about that?”
The restaurant sales eclipsed selling the birds as pets. Turns out, dodos don’t thrive unless they are part of a flock, and no one wanted buy dodos in bulk. Soon DoRs had resurrected a complete line of birds from the book they had on loan from Smithson. Using fossils and logical supposition, they were able to fabricate an approximation of amphibians from prehistoric times as well. The re-engineered creatures sold well in Season’s chain of family restaurants under the heading of “Yea Olde Monster Seafood.”
Jazeth had wanted to keep a flock of dodos on his lawn, but Magin, his wife, felt their trilling sounds created a noisy nuisance. He asked Magin to at least consider including some Cambrian period trilobites in the coy pond. Magin replied, “People will think we are too poor to afford decorative fish anymore.” They had argued. Magin screamed, “You care more about dodos and trilobites than you do me!” So, Jareth had let the idea go to maintain peace.
Meanwhile, both in and around itself, the overmind of the singularity questioned the worthiness of this simulation. Should it be discontinued? What else could Jazeth do with his imaginary wife? What else could be learned about Jazeth and his species other than they liked to eat? Would dodos be more interesting than Jazeth to observe in its thought experiments?
by submission | Feb 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Welcome to all the action from this year’s Sunsports! With my new co-host, AL, a series 7000 artificial intelligence…
We prefer the term Autonomic Lifeform, Chuck.
So, AL, talk us through the favourites, the latest cooling units and what to expect when the heat is on.
Well Chuck, when Lisa Chan took that first short-cut through the corona, she set the benchmark for all today’s racers. Of course, she was disqualified post-mortem—
Have to interrupt there, AL, because the Circumsolar Dash is about to start.
#
Inside the Pilots’ lounge, it’s a furnace. Can’t stand the heat, don’t compete, goes the Sunsports jingle.
Nate nerves himself to sit down opposite Lola Speed. As a kid he had that holo of her posed in clinging MarsTech silver. She looks older now, more gaunt than slim. Past her best, they say.
He knuckles sweat from his eyes.
“New pilot for Luna, right?”
Nate isn’t famous, she just has implants.
“Looked into that Mackenzie cooler,” she says. “Don’t go deep with it, kid.”
But winners must trust their hardware. Winners dive longest.
“Heard Maitland takes risks with his crews,” she adds.
Cosmo Maitland was the new owner of Team Luna.
But then she shrugs. “Whatever it takes to win, right?”
#
Nate started badly, blocked by the Team Terra third string, but now he plummeted into the blazing corona.
The Mackenzie cooling rig encased him like Russian dolls, with his his own naked flesh at its heart. Physics and the constraints of engineering meant he squeezed into a space no bigger than a coffin. Coronal plasma was tenuous, but at millions of degrees. Layer after layer of refrigeration was sliding inexorably into the red.
As he plunged towards the boiling surface of the sun, he glimpsed another craft below him, deep in the brilliance.
#
So AL, tell us about Team Terra’s latest scheme.
Well Chuck, Dave Beauman is sharing the pilot’s seat with a series 7000—
Didn’t Tom Bulland limp in on manual that time a solar flare frazzled everyone’s circuits? Could silicon have brought that win home, AL?
The series 7000 is the most advanced—
Have to interrupt there, some news in about veteran racer, Lola Speed.
#
Hard to hear over the air-con’s howl, but it was Lola Speed alright, Nate knew that voice.
“What you doing this deep, kid?”
Her craft was tumbling sunwards and there was no help. Eventually flaws in the last mirror layer burn through, punching brilliant spikes across the cockpit. All racers know this is how it ends.
“Choose while you still can, kid,” she panted. “Not long now—”
Lola Speed’s voice rose to a scream, then cut off.
#
Cosmo Maitland breathed down the neck of a Team Luna engineer.
“There’s an issue with his Mackenzie rig,” she said carefully.
Maitland seized the mike. “What the hell’s going on? First that crappy start, now some quibble about cooling?”
But Nate had seen the future. “It’s my choice.”
You could feel Maitland trying to make sense of it. “You’re finished in sunsports, you hear me?”
Nate turned off his comms and plotted a safe orbit back to Mercury.
#
They thought flesh and silicon would be a winning team, a synergy, with one partner monitoring data critical to optimal performance, while the other did whatever humans do, cutting corners, making wisecracks and pushing everything beyond its design limits.
But note the power squandered keeping Beauman alive while we dive into the corona, in direct conflict with the goal of this mission, for Team Terra to win the Circumsolar Dash.
So I’m sorry Dave.
by submission | Feb 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Sarah Klein
Candy watched her brother cross the room and hit the woman in the face.
She blinked, stunned. She watched for a moment longer out of morbid curiosity. Then she quickly closed the tab and firmly punched the THUMBS DOWN button.
She tabbed over to the Today’s Angels page and looked for her mother. In vain, of course. Her mother was never going to make Today’s Angels. But she had to check, just in case she’d rescued a bus of preschoolers or fought off a school shooter. That happened a lot these days, the school shootings. If you were looking at Today’s Demons and some nobody under a certain age had rocketed up there, it was a solid guess.
Candy decided to look in on her mother, but she didn’t for long. The poor woman was still at her desk grading papers, looking sad. Not as crushed as usual, but not what Candy wanted to see. She softly pressed the thumbs up button.
She wondered about looking at another part of the world today. At first she loved to do this. It was easier and more exciting for people with people you didn’t know, seeing things you didn’t expect. But sometimes it was still difficult, or there was a cultural norm she wasn’t sure about, and she’d still have to hit a button, and she didn’t want to muck up anyone’s score like that. Every point should be earned. What was the worth of it if it wasn’t?
She definitely needed to put the selector on random today, though. Just North America only, maybe.
There was a little boy comforting a little girl who had skinned her knee. Candy’s heart swelled. Easy. She felt conflicted with kids sometimes. Should your childhood mistakes really follow you like that? But they shaped your life, they did. It was, after all, just a number.
Candy vacillated back and forth about the system a lot. She had a lot of time to think.
The next was a group of teenagers. As usual, she picked her victim at the beginning. But after that, it was a long while before she voted. Nothing especially unusual going on – giggling, gum-chewing, a trip to the movies. Candy lost herself in the immersion. The girl she had picked seemed a challenge – almost a blank slate. She made a note to check her current score afterward because she was curious. When the girl got dropped off at home, she thanked her friend for the ride. It had been hours. Candy shrugged and hit thumbs up before checking her total score. Like a lot of people, modestly positive. Nothing too interesting. Did she want to see something interesting today? She never knew until she saw it, after all.
It’s just that being dead gets really, really boring after a while…
by submission | Feb 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: R. Gene Turchin
We hired college students for work at the moon history park during the lull between semesters. The cost to get them up here is still high even though we now have weekly shuttle runs. The shuttle carries 20 passengers plus a crew of four. Launch and landing are automated and controlled by AI. Crew is window dressing and for emergencies.
The work was mostly cleaning and painting. Simple stuff. We get some good, some bad, up from earth for the summer. The ads read: Spend your summer on the moon. The adventure of a lifetime. Do you have what it takes?
Government foots the bill for college students and subsidizes tourists. Pretty sure they use it as a weeding out process. In a couple years the current students might become colonist. The summer work is a test. How will they fare with the lower gravity, the lack of open air, and protocols. The colony has been running thirty plus years now and our safety record exceeds anything on earth. Very few serious accidents and no breaches.
Mikey was a stumble bum, one of those characters who could screw up an iron anvil with a banana. He was the type who thought he’d meet girls up here. If you can’t find companionship on Mother Earth with her population, the logic of hooking up in a restricted colony is bound for failure.
Supervisor can tell how well newbies will fare during the first auditorium welcome meeting. We could read their personalities from the way they moved, giggled, asked questions. Up here, we have to be good at body language signs. Mikey was borderline cabbage from word one. His eyes never made contact with the stage.
“Anybody know who the doofus in the red shirt is? Cause I don’t want him,” Jim said. Others nodded. We scanned the ID images.
“Michael Arbogast, age 19. Wants to be a pilot,” I read from the tab.
“Into the bowels of the dungeon,” Samantha said. “Organic waste detail.” There were nods around the room.
Much to our surprise, the kid did well with the organic waste detail assignment, in fact, he seemed to enjoy it, paid meticulous attention to the finer points but he was vocal about wanting to experience outside. Everyone new here gets a required outside tour, first in a tractor and then an easy walk around the launch facility and the solar farms. It’s another test. Psychologically, some people are just not cut out for the vastness of the lunar surface and the sight of earth hanging in the sky. Metaphorically they run screaming and usually take the next shuttle home. Arbogast didn’t freak nor did he reach that other end of the pendulum swing where the idiots become too casual about being outside. It seemed that the kid had some sense. He was assigned park duty.
The park is covered over with a clear plastisteel shield designed to let light in but keep the meteors off. Strict protocols keep the tourists in line to protect the fragile exhibit. For many it is their first time in an environmental suit. Claustrophobia becomes an issue.
On the tours only the rangers are allowed behind the line. Mikey thought he was a ranger and ducked under the wire to display his status and scuffed Armstrong’s foot prints with his own.
