by submission | Oct 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: A.J. Glen
How long had they been here? There was no way to tell. After the ship, their suits and all their equipment had dissolved away, it became impossible to know what Standard Time it was. Attempts to mark the passage of time using their environment were fruitless – the native rock was composed of an ultra-hard diamond-like material, and the strange foliage that grew out the cracks was equally impossible to break or manipulate with human hands. They resorted to scratching tallies into their skin with their nails, until they realised that the skin would unnaturally and perfectly heal – presumably supported by the same mysterious force that removed their need to eat or drink.
At first their minds could take it. Unburdened with the immediate material concerns of survival, they wandered naked and free over the uniform, universally temperate landscape. Days passed with long, often playful conversations and socialising as they waited in comfort for their eventual rescue.
The Chaplain cheerfully announced he intended to use the situation as an opportunity for deep spiritual meditation. He began his meditation and we discovered that he had become impossible to wake. On discovering this, the Psychologist postulated that his mind was now irretrievably lost without the context of bodily needs anchoring him to reality. In a way, he had escaped. We wish he had taught us how to meditate first.
Time passed, or we presumed it did. The unchanging environment, our unchanging bodies, unable to alter ourselves or our surroundings. We had nothing more to say, or do with each other. Existence no longer rushed forwards to meet reality as comparisons, desires, fears, jealousies, impressions and perceptions became muted.
A discovery was made. A sharp shard of rock was found which had somehow come loose from the landscape. An almost forgotten ‘feeling’ was experienced, that of Hope. Perhaps this could be used to cut the foliage, and make a small start on some kind of civilization. Hope turned to another half-remembered feeling, Disappointment, as it was realised that the shard was not sharp enough to cut the plants. However, it could be used to cut the body deep enough to do serious damage before the healing energy began to work. Several of the crew used the shard to kill themselves in various ways before it was realised that they would wake some time later, completely healed. The trauma of this experience had an interesting effect. When they woke, they screamed at us, saying things like:
‘Why am I still here!’ and,
‘I just want to be human again, to be me!’
But we know better. Being reminded of our situation only causes us pain. Pain brings us back into time, back into existence, back into our nightmare. So when they awoke, those who killed themselves were held down and restrained. After what must have been many years of restraint, they merged with us. Now, no one uses the shard because it is better to be together. It is better to fly as one towards the moment when the unnatural sun above us eventually goes supernova, destroys this cursed planet and ends this terrible consciousness.
by submission | Oct 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I see them on the street corner again today. They’re an eclectic assembly of men and women. I count thirty-seven of them. While some are in their twenties and accompanied by young children, the majority are older—in their sixties and seventies. They’re part of a religious cult who believe that the world will come to an end in roughly sixteen months’ time. They are being led down the primrose path by a handsome, well-spoken young man who promises them a bounty of riches and eternal pleasures in the afterlife in exchange for recruiting more like-minded followers to promote his narrative. No doubt they’ve drained savings accounts and given their worldly possessions to this charismatic leader.
I’m not from this world—or even this time period—yet I still feel sorry for them. I cross the street and walk up to the nearest sign-carrier and ask, “May I?” I reach out and take the sign from her hands. Then I withdraw my pen and cross out the date on the sign and replace it with the actual date of destruction––5,041 years from now.
I hand back her sign and go about my business, leaving a collection of puzzled looks in my wake.
by submission | Oct 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Follow your nose. Trust your instincts. What bullshit. Might as well say a bedtime prayer cause that’s all you’re doing when you go with your gut.” Traisa took a swig and set her highball glass down.
“It’s worked so far,” Darte said, glowering at Traisa’s cocktail.
“That’s because, so far, the competition has been sorely limited. We’ve been competing against ants and termites. Not anymore. And the suits that oversee the lab and all our work don’t get it. ” She reached for her drink, but suddenly pulled her hand back. “You get it. I know you get it, Darte. You must get it.”
“They’re bots, Traisa. Simbots. They can’t evolve. They can’t get smarter. They’re too simple.”
She reached for her drink again. Stopped herself again. “They don’t have to evolve. Simple is smart—when the numbers get big enough. Simple machines following simple rules can ultimately make highly intelligent decisions.”
“Swarm behavior does not mean hive intelligence,” Darte argued. “Simbots do not have a collective conscious. They’re not instinctual.”
“Of course not. I’m not arguing a divinely innate ability. Simbots are coded. Just like we are genetically coded.” Traisa stared at her drink. Stared hard. “It’s all a fixed action pattern. All this crap we call life, the sham we call free will. It’s hard wired. Just like the simbots. We’ve got to figure out the pattern before they do.”
Darte shook his head, reached for her drink. She slapped his hand away.
“You’re the one with an action pattern problem, Traisa. And you need to fix it!” He stood up.
Before Darte could go, Traisa raised her drink to him. “The game from here on out is tic-tac-toe, not chess. So, here’s to three in a row.”
She downed her drink. Then went to the bar and ordered two more.
by Julian Miles | Oct 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch the spheres orbit about one another as they spin within the space defined by the delimiter field. Fractal printers are fascinating. I find their intricate revolutions calming.
“What do you think it is, Derry?”
Gia’s always trying to predict what’s next.
“I have no idea, young being. What do you think it is?”
She grins delightedly. Rocking back and forth on the dampers of her work boots, she points to the delimiter field.
“It’s taller than it is wide. Makes me think it’s an established tree or something like that. Can’t be fauna, because it didn’t put a constraint wire down before starting.”
“Aren’t trees mandated to start as saplings?”
She purses her lips, then shrugs and whispers up her infoscreen. Being polite, she says the query out loud.
“Tree printing size law.”
The screen flashes a single line of text back to her. Looking across at me, she nods.
“Saplings without exception, so it’s not a tree, and not fauna.”
Today’s game is getting interesting.
“Some sort of bush or shrub? Something with berries?”
Gia whispers up another couple of laws, then shakes her head.
“Seedlings only.”
Natan enters the printbay, feathers rippling in the final stages of preening.
“Hello, you two. Guessed it yet?”
Gia stares at me, a look of revelation dawning on her face.
“Fungus! You’re printing a Plutochrome!”
The two of them share a knowing look. I sit there, waiting for someone to give me details.
Natan catches my expression. With a slight bow, they explain.
“Apologies, Leader Being. I received permission to print one of my world’s adaptive organisms. As it’s going to be dropped in the Salantium Marshes, I also received permission to print a mature specimen.”
I nod.
“What’s a Plutochrome, Natan?”
“An environment-salvaging toadstool appearing like a giant member of the earthly Russula class. A distinctive red cap sits above a metallic stipe from which the common name is derived.”
That’s part of the name explained.
“What about the ‘Pluto’ bit?”
Natan nods: “Before our races established relations, your decision to develop a base on Pluto caught us by surprise. We’d been there observing Earth for two of your decades. We levelled and abandoned our outpost, but part of our garden regrew. When you humans saw them, the name ‘Plutochrome’ arose.”
Gia leans in.
“So we’re using the wrong name. It came from your homeworld. What do you call it there?”
Natan coughs a quiet, surprised squawk.
“We have names for every variety, which are distinguished by cap colour and aroma. Unfortunately, the diversity of both fall outside human perceptive ranges. What I got permission to print-revive is a second-year growth Sholtri.”
The three of us watch it take shape. Once complete, a burgundy cap looks like heavy curtains have been cut to size and thrown over the top of a metre-tall stretch of reflective purple-grey stalk. Metallic shades shimmer in the unvarying light.
“That’s beautiful.” Gia breathes.
Natan dons a curious mask that covers both beak and proboscis-horn.
“One breath of the spores would turn you into a small crop of Sholtri within a week. Best leave now. I need to get this into a drop canister before it can sporulate.”
Gia nudges me as we leave.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to print intelligent beings?”
“I’ve no doubt we would if we could, but the seat of consciousness is proving to be a difficult thing to locate. Besides, some plants exhibit advanced behaviours. Maybe we’re doing it already, but don’t know it?”
She looks startled.
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
by submission | Oct 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Kuiper-23917 tumbled lazily alongside the Ada Swann.
The conglomeration of dirty ice was on the small side, and worse, the market price was at an all-time low. When Perry was last on Vesta, folk were saying the Ice Rush was over.
She still had one throwaway booster left. Sensors scanned the stars for a fix, and software fired thrusters to keep the ice on track as it fell sunwards. All she needed was a buyer to collect six months from now.
Comms traffic was sparse out here, but there was that voice again, fading in and out. She fiddled with the settings.
“.… nav failed and life support went sour a week ago. Repeat. Wolf Moon calling Ada Swann…”
Perry looked up Wolf Moon. It was an old Lunar Industries craft. Crew of two. Ceres registry. L. Chekov, owner.
His voice was tinny over the speaker. Name was Lev, he explaind. His brother Yuri wasn’t doing too well.
“You got space for us?” he ventured.
The Ada Swan was a roomy six-berth. “There’s just Ada and me,” Perry answered after a pause.
Lev and Yuri exchanged looks. Had she been alone it would have been easy to surprise her.
“She’s running solo,” Yuri insisted.
“Ship’s named Ada. She’s just being cute.”
Lev shook his head at his brother..
“What if you’re wrong, and this Ada sends out a broadcast? No, we get aboard and wait our chance, right?”
“Alright,” muttered his brother.
“And why don’t we use that stupid gun of yours?”
Yuri said nothing.
“Because it needs to look like an accident. We want a nice legal salvage claim.” He glanced around at his ship. “There’s no future in this now.”
“Been having trouble with my main lock,” Perry radioed when the Wolf Moon drew close. “But I’ll open the hanger door.”
When the Ada Swann was shiny new, it boasted a runabout kept in a hanger off Engineering.
Lev pictured the Spacer meeting them. If she wasn’t in a suit, they’d just bundle her out the air lock and make it look like a faulty suit afterwards.
They were waiting for the hanger to repressurise when there was a thump from the hatch into Engineering.
“Sorry,” said Perry. “But that’s you locked in. You get cautious when you fly solo.” She didn’t sound sorry.
“See,” hissed Yuri.
“Just sit tight while I check out your story.”
Yuri began banging on the hatch.
Lev shrugged inside his suit. “She’ll have to let us go sometime, and later it’ll just be her word against ours.”
Wolf Moon smelled funny, and was grubbier and more cramped than Perry was used to, but life support was fine and every control panel was green. She’d felt there was something off about these two.
“Opening the hanger door now,” Perry said.
“There’s been a misunderstanding—” began Lev smoothly.
“Get back to your ship before I light up my drive.”
Lev grinned ruefully to himself. Some you win…
“See the throwaway booster?” said Perry, once the brothers had launched themselves back towards their ship.
She’d fixed her last booster to Wolf Moon, programmed to nudge the ship towards a rendezvous with Ceres in five months’ time.
“Best leave it alone,” she advised. “I took some of your motherboards, so that’s the only drive you’ve got that works now.”
She told them they’d get the chance to turn themselves in before she contacted Ceres Law. Then she switched off comms. No call for language like that.
It looked like she wouldn’t break even this trip either. There was no profit being honest these days.
by submission | Oct 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Lori D’Angelo
The problem with the time machine wasn’t the motor, as I had first suspected. The problem was the inhabitant.
John, in his infinite wisdom or infinite stupidity depending on how you regarded it, had made it so that the machine would only work for Laurel. However, John hadn’t foreseen that Laurel would be pregnant at the time of his death. How could he have? I mean he wasn’t a mind reader. Though he had foreseen the probability of his death, he hadn’t foreseen the possibility of his wife’s pregnancy.
But the issue of Laurel’s pregnancy was complicated. John had knowledge, medical knowledge, that had proved to be, well, mistaken. And you can’t factor in variables that aren’t even on the table at the time you go to make the calculations.
I was trying to figure out how to break the news to Laurel. I settled on a metaphor. Laurel was in the hospital for monitoring. The shooting, John’s death, had given her quite a shock. It wasn’t something that she had foreseen. Laurel was resting when I entered. The hallways were quiet. She was in the nicest, newest part of the hospital. John was, had been, a major donor. She didn’t open her eyes. But, like John, she had a sense for things.
“Luther,” she said, “any news?”
“Laurel, do you know the gameshow, Deal or No Deal?
“I’m not in the mood to play games.”
“Just humor me, please.”
“Luther, I’m so tired.”
I poured her some water out of the pink pitcher by her bed. “If you could see John again, would you, even if it meant risking everything?”
“Deal or no deal?” she asked, finally understanding.
I nodded.
Her face was pale, her eyes were red, but a light came into them that had been absent before.
“I’d do anything,” she said, “to see John.”
“Okay, then,” I said, “come with me.”
“I’ve got all these monitors,” she said, pointing to the pulse oximeter, the heart monitor, the sensor measuring her respiratory rate.
“We’ll silence them,” I said, “but we’ll have to hurry. I brought you clothes.”
I handed them to her. “You can put them on once you’re inside. When we get to the machine, the doors will lock. I can’t go with you.”
Laurel nodded. I thought she would have more questions. But, like John, sometimes she operated on pure intuition.
“The world doesn’t make sense without John,” she said. “Tell me what I need to know.”
I told her about the elevator down the hall, which wasn’t really an elevator, but a machine to take her back in time. “It will only work for you.”
It was maddening sometimes how much they trusted each other, and each other alone. But then why had he told me and not her about the machine?
She understood before I did, and she smiled. “He didn’t want me to worry in case his death never came to pass.”
“He didn’t know you were pregnant when he built it. So we don’t know how,” I began.
“Luther,” said Laurel, her nerves now steely, “it’s okay. I’ll go back in time and save him, so he can see his child grow up.”
“You will?” I said, for her utter confidence astounded me.
“This is one game that I will not lose,” she said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to match her confidence with my own. “Go save your husband.”
