by submission | Feb 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Igor Dyachishin
More than thirty years have passed since we were made sure that we were not alone in the universe.
Aliens appeared unexpectedly in Jupiter’s orbit. Huge space fleet with unknown intentions.
Our governments, of course, did not immediately tell us about this. But they could not remain silent for a long time in principle.
Then the aliens contacted us.
Messages in several world languages were sent on different radio frequencies.
They said they would not harm us.
They said they would leave after a while.
And most importantly, they said:
“Please don’t interfere with us.”
As if we could do much!
“YOU ARE NOT INTERESTING TO US.”
That was all.
Of course, people are people. The sensation was accompanied by the fuss of politicians, covered by the media. Not without loud statements, of course:
“Aliens are preparing for an invasion!”
“The government is secretly negotiating with the aliens!”
Funny.
We were simply shown our place.
They even said something to us. I would say they showed remarkable generosity.
The fleet moved around the solar system for three decades. During this time, they managed to recycle Jupiter’s moon, Europa, and many main belt asteroids. Then they headed straight for the sun.
We were afraid. We trembled. We had our hopes.
And so they just disappeared, taking the resources they needed.
But the talking heads in the media and various interpreters have not calmed down so far.
It is so difficult for many of us to accept the truth.
We invented fairy tales in which kind aliens help humanity. We made up horror stories about invasion, enslavement, or destruction. We considered ourselves worthy of close attention. But the real aliens just glimpsed at us. What a blow to human pride!
My father was one of those who hoped. He had a reputation for being eccentric even before the aliens came. With the first news, he firmly believed that the aliens would save us. I remember he did not show even a shadow of fear, which was very strange. Personally, I was afraid. And not only me: probably, most of the population of Earth, who did not know what to expect, was at least somewhat afraid of the terrible scenarios drawn by the imagination.
Dad always, for as long as I can remember, took the suffering of humankind to heart. And he sincerely hoped aliens would help us.
But space travelers destroyed all illusions with their messages, and he could not live as before. He could not live anymore at all.
The night after the messages, he left home. Later, it turned out that he climbed to the fifteenth floor of an unfinished building and jumped out of the window.
Indeed, he was a strange man. He worried about humanity but did not think about loved ones. How many were like him on this planet?
Most of my life took place during the stay of aliens in the solar system.
Scientists have achieved little in their research (we are told so, at least). They say alien technologies are simply unimaginable for us.
Aliens just left.
A final shot to the head. The second blow to our ego.
They did not find anything interesting in us. If they were looking for it at all, of course.
by submission | Feb 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Melissa Kobrin
The first step of unLeveling is to dial down my Sense-thizer. Have to maximize my time to adjust to unsensethized bio senses. Caleb, set it to zero.
Strings of code slide through the mixed flesh and machine of my brain. The world runs away while staying still. My eyes dart around, instinctively trying to bring it back, as suddenly my focus decreases to only a portion of my vision. Everything other than that spot isn’t fully seen, and my natural bio subroutines seem to flag only motion in the dull areas. They won’t even run an analysis until I shift my painfully small focus spot. Peripheral vision, Coach calls it. And what are those noises? I should know, the input data is the same. But now they’re just sounds without meaning. No Sense-thizer to analyze and compare audio files. The difference in smell always hits me last. Instead of distinct interwoven strands, each one neatly labeled in my head, there’s now only one mushed together scent.
Next year, when I finally hit 5’9’’ and I stop growing, I’ll be eligible for augmented senses. Definitely want at least sight, even though it’s expensive. $1,299.99 for EagleEyeIII’s, Caleb says. Part of me is in no hurry to get to that Level though. Augmented is a huge adjustment. Going from sensethized to bio is bad enough. Not looking forward to augmented sensethized to bio.
The second step is to disconnect from the Net. First I quickly check my messages. One last peek, in case there’s something new. Nothing I haven’t replied to, good. Caleb, any important updates? Noelle Tyler’s new album has reached #1 on the billboards, Congress is debating another amendment to the genegineered pet bill, there’s an 87% chance Sam and Rene will break up tonight, and your grandma just posted a cute picture of her dog, Caleb says. Well, that can all wait until after practice. Caleb, turn off my Net connection.
Systems are logged off and shut down in a flickering cascade. With disorienting suddenness my connection to the rest of the world is gone and my brain goes dark. Information subroutines running in the back of my mind stutter to a halt with no new input. Caleb and I are limited to the data downloaded in my head. Anything could happen, anyone could try to tell me something. I won’t know until I log back on and reemerge in two hours.
Next step. Look down and check the telltales on my shoes. The uniform came from the team, and it’s deadclothes. But I’m wearing my own shoes, and I don’t want the nullifier around the court to damage them. They feel dead; my toes are a little cold and my steps plop instead of spring. The small light on the tongue is dark, nothing to worry about, they’re turned off.
You have thirty seconds, Caleb reminds me. That’s fine, I’m almost done anyway. Just one last step.
Caleb, go to inactive mode.
My senses are dull, my brain is dark, my clothes are dead, and I’m alone in my mind. Completely unLeveled.
Coach jogs into the gym, already blowing his whistle. My teammates and I jump up from the bench and run onto the court. There’s no program to help regulate my breathing during warmups. I have to think about it, do it on my own. Deep even breaths. As we start drills the sound of basketballs fills the air. Why are they called basketballs? Caleb should tell me automatically, as soon as the question runs through my mind.
Caleb isn’t here. Just me.
by submission | Jan 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Inspector Morrisey stood between the empty easy chair and the ancient cathode-ray television. He withdrew a pen and a small notepad from the inside pocket of his wrinkled trench coat. “Tell me again Mrs. Kittle, what happened.”
“My husband was sitting right there, arguing with me over what to watch on TV tonight, then suddenly,” she said haltingly, “in mid-sentence, he was gone.”
“Uh huh,” the inspector said, scribbling notes.
With a pink tissue, Mrs. Kittle dabbed the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “I walked to the bar cart for a drink, and when I turned—he was gone.” She waved her arms for emphasis. “Just gone! He waspjasih shjvdoi sj hp aryknyt!”
As her speech rapidly dissolved into gibberish, Morrisey shook his head sadly. He’d seen this many times before, when denizens of his little town became emotionally traumatized. Usually after house fires, or swimming pool tragedies. He nodded to one of his officers, and the young man gently led her away.
“So, watcha think?” McEwan, the rookie inspector, asked. “Did the old geezer just walk away from his marriage? Did his wife knock him off, then plant him under a rose bush in the backyard? Spontaneous human combustion?”
Inspector Morrisey looked at the chair, at the deep indention in the cushion where Mr. Kittle once sat. His gaze then rose to the ceiling.
“There’s no smoke damage,” he said, pointing to the clean white plaster overhead. He looked back down.“No neat pyramid of ash in the chair.” He sniffed the air. “No residual barbecue aroma. And,” he added sagely, “no ghost wandering about.”
“So . . .?” McEwan pressed.
“I’m thinking this is more like spontaneous human—” he snapped his pad shut and shoved it back into his coat pocket, “teleportation.”
* * *
“The old man didn’t just vanish,” Morrisey, now back at his office, theorized, “He’s out there somewhere. We just don’t know where.” He propped his feet up on his desk. “Might be in a closet, might be in a neighbor’s pool, might be—”
“An alien abduction!” McEwan said breathlessly, pacing in front of Morrisey. “Or snatched by a mad scientist for experimentation! Or he’s a victim of evil wizardly!”
“No, no, and no.”
“If this is spontaneous human teleportation, then he’s who knows where,” McEwan frowned.
“It’s perplexing.” Morrisey snorted. “What’s worse, folks have disappeared like this before.” He slid his notepad across the desk. “Type that up and turn it in to the captain.”
“Awww,” McEwan protested.
“You need the practice,” Morrisey added patiently, “if you want to be promoted.” The kid’s new to this game, Morrisey added to himself, but he’ll learn and—
The world went dark.
* * *
“I’m so bored with this town, with these people,” the boy moaned. “I put these characters in weird or dangerous situations, just to make things interesting, and their responses are entirely predictable!” He tossed his controller aside.“I should complain to the developer.”
“So change them,” his mom suggested. “Retire the dull ones, or tweak them. Or entirely delete them, then—”
“I did already,” her son pouted. “Got rid of the ones I’d had around for freakin’ ever. Left some in a pool without a ladder,” he said with a nefarious giggle.“Even burned down a few houses.”
“And? I hope you made better new ones.” The boy shrugged. His mom prompted, “What do I always say? If you aren’t having fun, then it’s time to stop.” Spontaneously, she leaned over and switched off the gaming console. “Now go outside and play.”
by submission | Jan 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Now then, Mr. Klatubowski, what is it I can do for you?”
Jerome sat across from the unremarkable little man in a billowy black rain jacket and fedora. He looked very out of place in Jerome’s ultra modern office of modular metals and arid glass. In Hollywood, it was never about comfort, all about show.
“Forgive inarticulateness. English difficult. No proximate parallels.” Mr. Klatubowski held up his two small, almost plastically smooth hands and moved them mechanically in and out from his chest. “Vast media. Aural, optical, tactile. Need acquire.”
As ViaDishFlix’s director of sales, Jerome had worked with some pretty interesting types, but the little man gave off a vibe that was beyond eccentric. “Could you be more specific? VDF has a massive slate of media offerings.”
The doll-like hands moved in and out as Mr. Klaruboski answered, “All. Entirety.”
Jerome blinked. He almost never blinked. “Let me make sure I’m clear on what you are asking. You’d like to purchase our entire media catalogue?”
The shiny hands moved faster. “Absoluteness. All.”
Jerome swiveled in his chair, so that he could give the impression he was deeply considering Mr. Klatubowski’s last remark. Really, though, he was observing the strange little man out of the corner of his eye and wondering if he posed a threat. His request was absurd. The catalogue holdings of VDF encompassed two-thirds of the world-wide media produced in the past hundred years.
He swiveled back to face Mr. Klatubowski. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is impossible. No outside entity is equipped to handle the extent of our content library, nor afford that kind of access. Whoever set up this meeting,” Jerome smiled thinly knowing that individual would be looking for work tomorrow, “led you astray, and I am very sorry for that, but I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands moved more slowly as he responded. “Forgive inarticulateness. Clumsy doppelganger.” Mr. Klatubowski’s eyes glowed brightly blue. “See. See.”
And Jerome was gone. Or Mr. Klatubowski was gone. Or his whole damn office vanished.
In its place, vibrant media surrounded and supported Jerome. His body surfed through a sea of utterly alien representations. He felt them with a close and curious kinship, experiencing each sensual stimulation as poignant, ridiculous, hilarious, demanding, depraved, and on and on. The sheer volume and foreignness of the representations saturated his brain until he thought he might entirely trip out and go mad.
Then as quickly as the onslaught to his senses had arrived, it departed. He was back at his desk with Mr. Klatubowski.
“Apologies. Countenance alarmed. No harm. Perception needed. See?”
Jerome rubbed at his eyes. “What happened? What did I see?”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands spread expansively. “All. All universal content.”
“You mean Universal Studios?”
The little hands clapped together with a hollow ping. “Mistaken. All universe. Galactic story trade. Buy content production. Must acquire.”
Finally sussing the depth of this beyond-Hollywood weirdness, Jerome’s business instincts perked up. “Are you saying, you represent beings beyond our world who want to trade?”
“Absoluteness. Extra-planetary broker. Acquire content. Universal commodity.”
“Universal commodity? You want trade, but not our technology or natural resources, just our media content?”
“Archives. Chronicles. All stories.”
“But what is special about earth’s stories. What makes them remarkable?”
“Unremarkable. Unusual. Freakish.” Mr. Klatubowski’s petite hands circled upwards. “Newness. Surprise. Astonishment. Stale universe. Earth fresh.”
That was a concept Jerome understood well. Fresh content. If alien races weren’t interested in our micro-circuitry, our abundant water or our tasty flesh, then why not I Love Lucy, Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Bay City Rollers, Edward Bulwer-Lyton. Where else were you going to find that novelty on the seventh moon of Vega on a Friday night?
“Yes, I do see: content’s the thing, content is king. I think we have an understanding, Mr. Klatubowski. Shall we shake on it?”
Jerome extended his hand and enveloped, Mr. Klatubowski’s tiny ones. A trill of energy raced up Jerome’s arms and his eyes flashed an impossible blue. Together the two brokers raced through VDF’s catalogue.
“Satisfied?” Jerome asked.
“Absoluteness.” Mr. Klatubowski’s discarded hands rested on the table. No longer needed, they looked so much bigger in comparison to the nodes that now extended beyond his sleeves. “Now then. We begin.”
by submission | Jan 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: James Callan
Metallic is in fashion, in women and in men –silver lipstick, bronze eyeshadow, the carapace sheen of loud, scarab hues glinting in the crests of loose-fitting, transparent plastic, artificial fabric. Sometimes you think you see one; a synthetic. Then you reach for your gun, look again, and see it was just a pretty girl, a glamorous boy, flesh-and-blood bodies. You holster your weapon and people-watch a little longer. At least you think they’re all people. These days, it’s damned hard to tell.
Above you, high up, dominating the public square in an ejaculation of neon scribble, ten thousand logos flash to out-compete one another for your well-earned dollar. Each advertisement mutes its neighbor, blends in with the collective whole. So many lights, so much illumination. As one, they blot out whatever starlight might shine, anemic, above them. Like an angry mob, they converge to steal the sky.
Back down to earth, your gaze soaks in the overcrowded corner of a sordid city made deceptively fetching in its extreme facade of electric color. Among the well-dressed rabble, the fashionable crowd, you see more than good dress sense, you see more than chrome paint and the newest line of android-chic. In the eagle-eye focus of your illegal, bionic optic, you see a serial number etched in weatherproof titanium.
Your state-of-the-art fingers find your gun in the deep pocket of your gold leaf trench coat. Metal on metal, the weapon feels good in your artificial hand. Reflecting neon, you shimmer like an angel descending from heaven, a biblical nirvana which urbanity has veiled in its man-made radiance. Among the crowd, deflecting all those many lights, the myriad advertisements that vie to feed on your hard-earned dough, you blend in with the horde of humanity. Now, as if from hell, a demon with a programmed purpose to maim, to delete from this earth, you walk, one sardine lost within the shoal, towards a synthetic just like you.
Your state-of-the-art fingers hold firm to your pistol. Metal on metal, the weapon feels like an extension of your artificial hand. You take aim and know the result. You pull the trigger, aware that mathematics do not lie. You don’t even need to look, confirm your target is down for good, as you turn and walk the way you came, as you part the crowd with your steps, like a shark knifing through a shoal of panicked mackerel.
Awash in an outpour of man-made brilliance, the brazen lights that outshine those constructed by nature –by God himself– you walk, contented by the binary code that simulates satisfaction within your circuits. Man-made yourself, you feel a superiority of sorts. You feel that you too, outshine all the rest. Killing synthetics is your job, but perhaps, you think for the first time, it’s not your calling.
You walk to report to the men who made you, the women who programmed your drive and motivation. They are expecting you. But they do not expect what you will bring to them. Metal on metal, the weapon feels good in your artificial hand.
by submission | Jan 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Deborah Shrimplin
Dr. Trieste, a cultural anthropologist, was hovering over her latest data. She and the crew of the spaceship, Daiedales, had completed their findings on five of the six dead planets in the Milky Way.
A planet was designated “dead” if it had been inhabited by humans at one time and was no longer able to sustain any form of life. Her mission was to analyze any and all evidence of each planet’s mythological history. What were the mythologies on each planet? Was there a myth common to all of them?
Dr. Trieste’s findings on five of the planets suggested a theory. All five had the same set of mythologies. Her thoughts turned to the last of the six dead planets.
“Show me the same evidence or my theory will be thrown into a black hole,” she said to the image of the old planet Earth on her computer screen.
She glanced at the spaceship chronometer. It was 45:36 in the year 4506 by TDR measurement. She was millions of miles from home and hurtling through space at double light speed. In a few hours, they would be at the dead planet Earth.
Dr. Trieste boarded her space shuttle, told the pilot she was ready, and powered up her investigative tools. They took off and circled the planet several times. All devices worked without a glitch.
When she returned to her lab, she began her interpretaion of the findings. There was evidence of all major mythologies found in common with the preceeding five planets. But, there was one strange phenomenon that troubled her. She called in some experts.
The geologist said, “They are definitely not made of the planet’s natural soil.”
The engineer said, “They were definitely not created to hold a structure in place.”
The philosopher said, “They were placed all over the planet. They could be the sites of a worldwide cult or religion we don’t know.”
Dr. Trieste was beside herself. Her theory was in jeopardy. She called in an archaeologist.
The archaeologist said, “Hmmmm. Arches were used in many ways. They were used in churches and building construction. These don’t seem to have been constructed to support any building. Maybe the gold color is significant.”
Dr. Trieste pleaded with her co-workers. “What are they? What was so attractive to the humans that they worshipped them everywhere on the planet? My myth theory won’t hold up here.”
All four co-workers agreed. It was strange. She needed their help.
“Now, let’s get to work on this. We will title this investigation: “The Golden Arches”.
