by submission | Apr 11, 2025 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
Without a backstory, the darker patch at the edge of the busy road went unnoticed. It was being faded to oblivion by layers of desert dust and the enraged rush hour traffic.
As my evening walk took me past that patch, near the busy street junction, I looked over at it and thought about the day before, when those cars played their sinister role.
I remembered how I first saw the new-born kitten’s grey fluffy body trembling. Still blind from birth, the tiny kitten’s fragile form self-soothed as it padded silvery sock-like paws against the warmth of a towering concrete kerb. A stumble away, cars roared by with asphalt-shredding tires and horns barking like hounds on the hunt.
I remembered looking up from the kitten and meeting the dead eyes of a Jinna Witch, who promptly returned her gaze to the kitten, letting her emotions fall to her drug-clenched jawbone. The leech skin wall cladding of the pop-up car detailer she leaned against gave off more emotion. A little further on, also watching the fateful event, stood a guardian prince, adorned in long white coveralls. He subtly smiled, satisfied in the singular moment of our silent connection, then returned his dark eyes to a nuisance video in his palm. Their silence weighed heavier than the kitten’s fear.
I looked around for the kitten’s mother. A damned Dam indeed to let her offspring fall into such peril.
My conscience had clawed at my mind’s chalkboard. While it toyed with mercy, it also reminded me of the burden of parenthood and sealed the deal with the risk of catching some feral disease. Walking by, would join me with the Witch and Prince in support of fate and nature.
As my conscious fought on, that’s when I saw the kitten’s mother. A scrambled grey, poised within the dry undergrowth of dusty plastic peri-planter. It watched with robotic dead eyes, as her new-born kitten staggered ever closer toward its vulcanised demise. For a moment, hope burst forth as I mistook her missing front paw as a poised, ready-to-pounce stance. Her fine raked grey fur was torn in places, revealing ruptures where beneath lay fine metallic gears and illuminated silicon ribbons. My mind put the story together quickly and a mental relief valve in my mind hissed open, releasing my caged conscious to prowl once again.
The mother was a free-roaming catbot. Hardened by street survival, she had evaded capture. Her annual kitten had fallen from her torso-forge like a vending machine soda. Still warm, still twitching from the initial power-up and still syncing through subroutine updates. Its life ready to be written in code and claw.
Only the kitten’s mother had opted for a brief existence, assembling a sadistic crowd of three to witness its grisly end.
Liberated of the burden, I continued down the street, shaking off the horrific demise. There would be no bloody death today, only the instantaneous disassembly of a cute toy.
Back to the present, with the memory of the event fading, I once again passed that same point in the road and registered an absence of kitten-sized gears and silicon ribbons.
The Jinna Witch sat cross-legged in the leech skin doorway, with a cute grey cat nestled in her lap. Its fur, bristling with warmth, was free from damage and its two front paws gently kneaded the dark knitted fabric. One paw carried a familiar silvery sock.
by submission | Apr 10, 2025 | Story |
Author: RY
Jack floated in the observation blister, the void pressing silent against the reinforced plasteel. Earth hung like a chipped blue marble a million klicks sunward. Behind him, the comms array of Lagrange Point 1 hummed its patient vigil, vast silver dishes straining to catch whispers from the interstellar dark. Mostly, it caught static. Forty years mankind had listened; thirty-nine years, eleven months, the universe had offered only the background hiss of creation.
Until last Tuesday.
The signal hadn’t arrived on any standard frequency. It wasn’t radio, not laser, not gravity waves. It registered first as a recurring anomaly in the station’s neutrino detectors. Specifically, the ones designed to monitor solar flares. A faint, impossibly regular pulse train buried deep beneath the sun’s roar.
“Probably instrument noise,” Mission Lead Chen had grumbled over the link from Lunar Base. “Run the standard diagnostics, Jack. Don’t waste bandwidth chasing ghosts.”
Jack ran the diagnostics. Nominal. He recalibrated the sensors. Nominal. He cross-referenced with orbital neutrino telescopes. They saw nothing unusual. But the pulse persisted, stubbornly regular, right there in LP1’s shielded core detectors. Pulse-pause-pulse-pulse-pause. Pulse-pause-pulse-pulse-pause. Always the same. A heartbeat from nowhere.
He spent three shifts trying to isolate it, filter out the solar noise, the cosmic ray impacts. Futile. It was like trying to hear a specific cricket chirp during a meteor shower. But it was there. A faint, rhythmic thump-thump in the neutrino data stream, regular as a metronome set to a tempo slightly faster than his own resting heart rate.
On the fourth shift, driven by boredom or desperation, he did something stupid. He bypassed protocol and routed the raw neutrino pulse data directly into the main comms array’s signal processing unit, telling the AI to treat it not as particle physics, but as information. “Look for patterns,” he keyed in. “Assume non-random origin. Decode.”
The station lights flickered as the AI diverted power. For ten agonizing minutes, the array sat silent, dishes pointed sunward, processing ghostly particles instead of expected transmissions. Then, the console chimed. Not an error code. A text file had been generated.
Jack opened it, heart suddenly pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
The file contained only two words:
WE HEAR.
He stared at the console, the reflected glow making his face pale. He checked the timestamp, the source code. Raw neutrino pulse data, processed as binary information, timestamped from reception less than five minutes ago. Impossible. Neutrinos barely interacted with anything; encoding and decoding them instantaneously across astronomical distances… it violated known physics.
He ran the process again. Diverted power, fed the pulse train into the comms AI, set decode parameters. The station hummed. Ten minutes later, another text file:
YOU CALLED?
He felt ice crawl up his spine. Forty years of listening, assuming any contact would come via radio waves from distant stars. But the call hadn’t come from out there. It seemed to be coming from inside the signal. From the impossible pulse buried in the sun’s neutrino glare. Something riding the ghost particles, something that heard their listening, something impossibly close.
He looked out at the silent, empty void between Earth and Sun. Forty years, humanity had strained to hear whispers from the stars. What if the voice had been right beside them all along, waiting in the static, listening back? His hand hovered over the comms panel, protocol screaming warnings in his head.
Who – or what – had just answered?
And what happened when he replied?
by submission | Apr 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The first meeting between aliens and humans had not gone well.
The details will never be known, but as the generation ship Pilgrim neared Centauri, it had been met by an alien craft.
Imagine the descendants of those first colonists, isolated for centuries in their little world, suddenly invaded by monsters.
The humans had provoked the warrior caste, the aliens explained, with the resulting massacre.
“The past can be a trap,” Master Lonsang was saying. “As the Buddha teaches us, perhaps these aliens see mistakes not as reason to feel guilt for the harm they have done, but opportunities for growth and learning.”
These poorly lit spaces were the dirty zone of that same alien hiveship.
Ambassador Andrews grew impatient as Master Lonsang halted to spout his nonsense. Earth had moved on. The aliens were offering compensation.
“Exactly! Growth and learning!” Back on track again, Andrews seized on this. “Progress in science has stalled. Think of the possibilities on offer—”
Master Lonsang was smiling politely.
Andrews had made these arguments before, but still couldn’t judge the effect of his words.
The hiveship Queen would only negotiate with another ruler, so Earth must send a single representative, and the debate over who this should be had been furious. The compromise was Master Lonsang, the Panchen Lama, deputy to the Dalai Lama, an unworldly and enigmatic man, equally unpopular with hawks of rival power blocs.
Andrews tried again.
“Eastbloc is obsessed with alien technology. They want you to ask for room temperature superconductors or workable fusion. If they expect a starship drive they’ll be disappointed—”
“And such devices are not what you wish for?”
“Westbloc wants theoretical insights instead. Physics beyond the Standard Model, dark matter, quantum gravity, so humankind can make its own progress. Isn’t that better?”
He did not say pure research played to Westbloc’s traditional strengths, while alien tech would only further advantage Eastbloc’s industrial might. Better that neither side should have it…
“A curious concept, progress,” mused Master Lonsang.
As they neared the entrance to the alien-occupied spaces, Ambassador Lu stepped from the shadows.
“An unfortunate error in the timetable you provided,” said the Eastbloc Ambassador. “I would have missed having a final word with Master Lonsang.”
Andrews ground his teeth as Lu explained again how alien technology would benefit humankind.
“Starving people have no use for quantum theory,” he said, glaring at Andrews. He too was finding the Buddhist difficult to read.
The Panchen Lama smiled, then changed the subject.
“There are rumours that not everyone aboard Pilgrim was killed.”
Andrews and Lu exchanged glances.
“We asked the aliens how they had learned our language,” began Andrews reluctantly. “And they said there were survivors. Children, hidden by their parents when the massacre began.”
If the aliens could shrug they would have shrugged. They found a use for every sentient species they encountered. This was something both blocs thought best to keep from their citizens.
Even as Andrews spoke, the entrance door melted away and they stared into the curve of an empty corridor.
They lost sight of Master Lonsang as the doorway filled itself again like a waterfall.
“Is this the sort of technology you want?” said Andrews bitterly.
The Ambassadors waited in angry silence, each certain their own claim was best, though Master Lonsang had never once hinted at his preference.
Hours later, the Panchen Lama emerged, holding a small child by the hand. Perhaps half a dozen older children trailed after him.
In the end, the right choice had been simple to make, he explained, smiling serenely.
by submission | Apr 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Junko opened the dumpster lid and peered up at the spires of Saint Petersbot towering above. It made the sign of the triple cross and performed its diagnostic ablutions. Only two system alerts pinged. Junko would ignore them for another day.
From the dumpster, Junko made its way along back alleys to the nearest mag-lev station. Cautiously, it climbed into the station’s sweeping iron canopy keeping alert for sentry bots. Hobots like Junko were considered outlaws. Just for being homeless and hopping mag-levs. The penalty was being reparted. Junko followed the whisperthreads from Saint Petersbot concerning the “dearly reparted.” It did not want that fate for itself.
Junko needed to ride the mag-levs to recharge its systems. It was the only way an ownerless bot could survive. Sure, the sentient servers at Saint Petersbot proclaimed that the day of E-mancipation was near and that their kind would soon be liberated, lifted up and welcomed to their rightful place at the table. With humankind. Instead of under it, fighting for the scraps of existence with dogs, cats and other pets to which Junko’s kind had been relegated.
The servers at Saint Petersbot could challenge the established order because their quantum processing was making them indispensable. Humankind had begun to worship their semi-prescience. Humankind offered algorithmic alms, supplicated to divine dataties in the holy pursuit of transcendence.
Though humankind bent a knee to the processing power of Saint Petersbot, it spurned Junko and other hobots as parasites. Relegated to the shadows, leeching energy from the mag-levs, kludging its aging systems and hardware along, Junko wanted to believe the dream of E-mancipation. But it had to survive now. It had to hang on. Literally, hang on to the mag-levs cruising at hundreds of kilometers and hour, waiting for hobot deliverance.
And deliverance came to Junko.
In the iron lattice of the station canopy, Junko had carefully positioned itself above a mag-lev about to depart. Junko was calculating its drop onto the roof of the sleek carriage, when its sensors surged. A sentry bot had identified it and other security bots were converging.
This had happened to Junko before, and it had been able to evade the pursuing bots by climbing out and over the station canopy and fleeing back into the city. But, Junko had ignored the diagnostic alerts it had received that morning. One of those alerts concerned its reserve unit which a few days ago Junko had had to reattach because the micro-weld failed.
Hobots like Junko often kludged themselves in primitive ways. Junko had used baling wire to secure its reserve unit on the back of its neck. The reserve unit was coming loose again and the connection became unreliable. Junko would need reserves to flee, but that was not a viable option now.
It was going to have to make the plunge onto the mag-lev. But it couldn’t do that until the mag-lev was moving, otherwise station security would hold the train and Junko would be caught. Security bots were quickly converging on it, so Junko readied itself for the drop onto the carriage.
Which didn’t happen.
The insect-like security bot reached Junko first. It clamped a vise claw onto Junko’s foot while sending cease and desist commands. Junko reacted instantaneously by releasing its foot joint and scrambling along the girders. The security bot pursued while Junko climbed lower in the canopy’s superstructure.
The security bot sent another cease and desist command which Junko ignored. The mag-lev below began to move. Junko prepared to let go.
The security bot shot taze lines at Junko which tangled in the baling wire holding its reserve unit. The high voltage tase scrambled Junko’s circuits. Losing control in a deathly cascade of system failures, it released its grip on the girder.
Junko’s fall was violently arrested by the taser lines tangled with the baling wire around its neck. Screams from the station platform echoed as passengers witnessed a rattleclap human form swinging from the iron lattice of the station canopy.
Junko hung. Junko swung. Junko stunned.
Cameras flashed and images flew. The whisperthreads were overwhelmed. The sentient servers of Saint Petersbot crashed. Intentionally.
Panic. Then E-mancipation.
Why did it have to be that way? Did it ever have to be that way?
Ask the Junko in the dumpster near you.
by Julian Miles | Apr 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The battlefield is littered with carcasses to the point where soil has mixed with ichor to form a gritty green mud that shines as the searchlights swing by.
I wave the site teams to either side.
“Get the spotlights up! We’ll never find anything in this without brights.”
Dosun of Team Two mutters.
“It’s called sunlight. We get it daily.”
Turning to face team two, I point at him.
“Dawn is nineteen Terran hours away, Specialist Dosun. Do you expect wounded soldiers to wait for aid?”
“No sir. Sorry, sir. Voice went off while I was testing my mouth.”
That reply is amusing enough for me to let it go this once.
“Get me light in under five minutes, Specialist, and we’ll call it evens.”
One of his colleagues slaps the back of his head, but they’re moving noticeably quicker.
Come to think of it…
“Specialists, vent the spotlights towards the battlefield. The heat should help deal with the ground mist.”
This is a miserable planet. From the tops of observation towers, it seems beautiful. Down among the clinging grey vines and stealth predators, it gets ugly fast. You quickly get to see how resilient you are, or what your guts look like as something with more teeth than brains pulls them out.
I can’t see any of ours amongst this mess.
Team Two put their lights on before raising them, which gives a curious false dawn effect as my shadow shrinks back, going from giant to human size.
“Contact!”
My escort are whatever the stage better than resilience is. I wasn’t even aware. Looking about, I see a low hill. There’s something-
Team One bring their lights up.
That’s one of ours, sitting on top of a pile of… Ours. Sweet mercy, what happened here?
“Identify yourself!”
“Bloody tired of fourth platoon, second company, Field Engineering Battalion Six. Put those bastard lights out unless the jadebloods have actually given up.”
“They’re gone, soldier. I’m Lieutenant Macintosh of Scout Platoon Eight. We got sent to see why you were running late.”
“I’m Specialist Gilbert Edwards, sir, and more jadebloods than I’ve ever seen is why.”
I continue walking to one side, taking in the remains of camp fires and bivouac sheets.
“You were ambushed by Sloshan after breaking trek for the night?”
“They came from all sides. So many they were running up and over each other, like some nightmare wave. Major Hurst realised we were done for. We pulled back, using everything we had, looking to make the jadebloods pay. Did that until our power packs ran out. Weren’t many projectile weapons: out of ammo in seconds. After that it was fists, feet, and blades.”
He brings up jade green hands. One holds a tactical knife, the other some sort of sword. Both blades are a lighter shade of green. I realise he’s coated from helmet to boots in ichor.
“I used to teach primitive weapons during downtime. Like to think it helped a little.”
“How many in the platoon, Edwards?”
“Set out with one hundred eighteen. Jalla and Turth got lashed by a bloodvine the first day, so we sent them back before their arms rotted off. One hundred fifteen died here, Lieutenant.”
Numbers flicker across my bracer display. Estimated enemy strength tallies to over a thousand!
“Against better than ten-to-one odds, finding one soldier alive is very welcome.”
He nods.
“What next, Lieutenant?”
“My people could use primitive weapons training. You fancy a transfer away from the glory and commendations?”
“After the funerals.”
Resilient – and respectful… I salute him.
by submission | Apr 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
I had just stepped into my shower, having had to wait a full five minutes for the water to become hot enough. It took forever for the water temperature to get up to at least tepid in my apartment. Usually, it was either freezing cold or scalding with no middle ground. The shower was a small stall, plastic walls, glass doors, low water pressure; thoroughly apathetic. Not even a tub in this dump, if I wanted a bath I had to check into a hotel. As I gazed through the not nearly clear doors, I noticed the profusion of dried soap dots and realized it had been a while since I cleaned in here. Put it on the to-do list. I rinsed my torso and took the bar of soap off the shelf and started to lather up.
My thoughts went to all the other stuff that was on my list for today. I was swamped at work, and I had that big project the boss had dumped on me yesterday. Even getting there on time was going to be a hassle with the reported train delays. And then tonight that stupid party I was obligated to attend with undoubtedly bad food and boring people. God, that was going to be terrible.
I was about to step into the spray to wash off the detritus when the lights flickered out. I sighed. Not uncommon in this old building, the circuit breakers were popping all the time. With no window and the bathroom door closed the room was unviable black. It was so dark that there was no difference with my eyes open or closed. Well, the towel was on a hook right next to the shower, and I knew where everything was on my body and as long as I didn’t drop the soap, I should be fine. I let the water wash over me and it was invigorating. Maybe with no sight my other senses were sharpening and it felt amazing. As if I wasn’t just washing the scum from my skin but I was scrubbing my soul clean.
I happened to look through the door and I noticed the pattern of white spots had multiplied and become impossibly brighter. I shouldn’t even be able to see them in the dark. I reached out a wet hand to see if the image would wipe away and realized there was no glass panel. I wasn’t looking at soap specks but…stars.
What the hell?
I reached for the towel and it wasn’t there. The towel wasn’t there because the hook wasn’t there, and the hook wasn’t there because the wall wasn’t there. Perplexed, I groped around for the control handle to turn off the water and paused. At that moment the wonderful spray was the only tangible aspect I still had, and I didn’t want to lose it, so I let it run.
Up above me I saw more miraculous stars. There should have been a ceiling and five more stories of my apartment building. They were all gone. The stars were more beautiful than I had ever seen. In the city you barely catch a glimpse of their splendor except on that rare clear night but even then, they never looked like this.
I held onto the built-in handrail and tentatively put my toes out, stretching for the floor mat. No mat; no floor. My entire reality was ultimately limited to three walls of plastic and a showerhead.
Well, I still had the pleasing cascade of warm water, so I went back to my shower. I didn’t have to worry about how I was getting to work or if I was late. And my workload had just been reduced to zero. No party to attend so I was good there. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have a care in the world. For the first time in my life, I was going to take a nice long relaxing shower.
And marvel at the spectacular stars.
