by submission | Dec 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Doug Lambdin
Lewis Flaherty opened a cryobox drawer and pulled out the container with the head labeled CB-9, belonging to one Deborah Beale, steam rising out as the inner container became exposed to room temperature.
Lewis inspected the case, her head, and the “life-stem” attached into her neck, as was his Friday duty, ticking off boxes on a digital clipboard. “Okay, Debbie, see you next week,” he said, sliding the drawer back in place. Her face still as a mannequin’s and her hair frosted at the tips.
Working through the alphabet, Lewis spoke to each head, as though greeting an old acquaintance: “And how are we today?” he would say in his doctor-voice. Or, “You haven’t aged a minute,” he would say in his genteel Southerner voice. Which, of course, they hadn’t.
Lewis loved his job, and he saw himself more as sentry than caretaker.
Rolling Oliver Laughton, CB-110, back in and then sliding the clipboard, he opened the drawer of CB-111, Mavis Linstrom.
No steam!
No alarm!
“No,no,no,no,no!”
Lewis looked into the drawer at a woman’s head, locked into a plasma mold, whose face was now looking back at him.
Lewis fell back and slid across the floor as though he had been shot in the forehead.
He stared at Mavis Linstrom’s drawer label, summoning the courage to lunge forward and kick the drawer shut.
“Helloooo?” called a faint voice from the drawer.
“Helloooo. I know you’re there. I saw you. Please?”
Lewis squeezed his shirt over his heart into a tight ball, trying to catch his breath.
“I can hear you. Please!”
Lewis scurried away across the floor.
“Did you find a transition host?” Mavis Linstrom yelled. “Is it time? Heyyyyy!”
He caught his breath and remembered from his training that all he had to do was reset the cryobox’s individual breaker in the back, which he raced around and did, and then hit the RESTART button under the ledge of the drawer’s frame.
At the drawer, he reached up and found the RESTART button and was about to press it, but instead, looked in once more, and once again his eyes met the eyes of Mavis Linstrom. They were green. Beautiful green, he thought.
“Please” she said, her voice soft and kind. “What’s going on? How long have I been here? When can I reattach? The contract said it would be less than a year. Where’s the young man who ‘en-safed’ me?”
“I’m Lewis. The fifth caretaker. By the date on your nameplate…you’ve been here eighty-one years.”
Lewis saw Mavis’ eyes look beyond him, mouthing ‘eighty-one’ again and again, her eyebrows calculating the data.
“Why?” she demanded, Lewis feeling the burn of her stare. “Tell me!”
“I think they thought they would master the procedure by now,” Lewis said, “but I guess they just haven’t yet. The money you all spent, I believe, went into research. But… All I do know is that you’re just here. I hate to say this, but I have to restart cryopreservation and see if anyone else is…well…awake.”
“No!”
“What do you mean–”
“Just, no. Unplug me.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
“I can’t–”
“Do it now! You’re killing me either way.”
Lewis looked into her green eyes one more time, which were now begging for mercy. Maybe she’s right–they are the same. But if that’s the case…
Lewis pushed the drawer shut and pressed RESTART, blocking out a muffled scream.
When he pulled open the last drawer, CB-208, Lewis was relieved to find, as with the rest, another head, perfectly at peace.
“And how are we today, Mrs. Zielinski?”
by submission | Dec 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Taylor Pittman
They moved around the room, their bodies jerking at odd moments, their voices slipping into mechanical ranges as they served beverages. She could not stop her eyes from trapping the waiters in her periphery. If she looked close enough, she could see the stitch pattern embedded behind their ears or across their wrists. Their eyes, too shiny, too attentive, yet holding nothing. Don’t stare, Mama said, they are human too.
They called them HCR Models, a new worker bot meant to replace human laborers. The ones serving this Gala were meant to showcase their potential. Marin watched as one of them bumped into another, sloshing golden bubbles from one of the six champagne flutes on its tray. Marin tried to keep the disdain off her face as she looked around at her father’s business partners; greedy, wheezing, red-faced men with their taciturn wives in one hand and a checkbook in the other. One man had stopped a female HCR Model and was tilting her face to and fro, his hands holding her chin like a child would maneuver a doll; his wife was smiling, but her eyes were screaming.
Marin scanned the room for her mother and spotted her on stage, near the podium, with her father. She wasn’t smiling; no, Marin’s mother was stoic as ever. She stood with tan skin and thick, dark hair parted down the middle, falling to her back in a silk sheet. She carried the energy of a woman whose kindness you wanted to earn. Marin’s father had an arm around her waist, confident and comfortable as he threw his head back with a laugh at something the professor squeaked out, baring his teeth through his curly beard.
They looked perfect together—the head of a technological empire.
Marin grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the trays floating near her head. She took a long drink, savoring the pops of flavor and the warmth that spread through her chest. She would make the most of the night. Finishing her drink, she set it down and gripped the cold steel of her chair’s wheels and moved towards the back of the room.
“May I have your attention?” Her father’s voice echoed over the speakers. He tapped the podium mic twice. “I’d like to say a few words before the open bar kicks in.”
Marin rolled her eyes and looked to the side. She paused. An HRC was staring at her, empty eyes unblinking. It was the one who spilled the drink.
“We usher in a new age, where human imperfection is no longer the standard, but rather the past. Our new model is more than a robot—it’s an assistant. An assistant dedicated to serving you and your needs only.” Her father had everyone’s full attention.
“HRC Models don’t need lunch breaks, they don’t have ‘mental health days,’ and most of all,” his gaze slid over to Marin, “they don’t get sick or injured.”
The HRC smiled widely at Marin.
by submission | Dec 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
To hell with pleasant dreams. Long live nightmares!
Marcus looked at the motto writ large on the smart panel of DreamOn’s boardroom. The corporation’s board was gathered to solicit his opinion. They were going to want his approval. They were going to seek his blessing. He’d gladly give it to them, even knowing it would kill some of his customers. How many might die depended on whether the FDA, HHS, FCC, CPSC, and CDC could get their act together and determine who had power to regulate DreamOn.
The controversy was good. Everyone in America and half the world now knew about DreamOn. What had started out years ago as a device to set up the conditions for deep REM sleep was now an activator for certain types of dreams: wistful, wild, wet or otherwise. Marcus did not understand the finer points of the neural nanonics that had made this possible. Yet, he sussed that if people could repurpose six to eight hours of what they otherwise considered lost time, like he did, there was a fortune to be made.
Researchers had squawked about the brain’s need to decompress, that dreams innately functioned to process reality. They warned that messing with a natural process would end up creating unwanted consequences.
But, that’s what humans always did. Mess with nature. Control is our uncontrollable impulse. DreamOn’s device in its current iteration offered that control. Though a person could not program the specific events and players in a dream, he or she could set the parameters for a broad genre: romance, adventure, contemporary, historical—and, most recently, horror.
This was Marcus’s greatest insight. Nightmares had become king, manifesting themselves as chase dreams. These riotous and improbable chases through alleys, warehouses, swamps, oceans, skies, and starships stimulated adrenal and nervous systems to burn upwards of a thousand calories a night.
Dreamers were getting their workouts pursued by their worst fears. The DreamOn device didn’t select the fear—was not capable of determining that. Only the dreamer could conjure that up. Marcus understood what the great creators of movie terror understood. He knew to let his audience terrify themselves by keeping them in a state of dread: knowing something terrible was after them, but not what specific creature was in pursuit. Leave it up to the individual: a giant spider, a brain-starved zombie, an ex-spouse.
Chase dreams had become the newest workout regimen—a killer one. Literally, two heart attack deaths in the last month linked to the use of DreamOn. That’s why the Feds had pressured his board members to meet.
Marcus knew it’d be difficult to prove the extent that DreamOn could be held liable, but Marcus didn’t want to be perceived as uncooperative. Better to play nice. Stall. Make small changes to make everyone feel safer. Security Theater was the operative term. Smoke and mirrors while DreamOn became as indispensable as cellular implants and soylent green.
Marcus cleared his throat to start the meeting. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, sputtered and went black. Marcus tensed. The room was too quiet. No one yelled or even seemed to breathe. The wall rattled. Marcus flung himself to the floor just as the door burst open and flames licked the surface of the board table. There was a terrible hissing sizzle of burnt flesh and the entire room shook.
On all fours Marcus scrambled to find safety under the table. His heart pounded and his breath came short as he felt thunderous footsteps and the clatter of chairs being flung away from the table.
Whatever had broken into the boardroom was after him. Marcus hunkered between two chairs just as a black, scaly claw the size of a wrecking ball splintered the boardroom table. His heart in his throat, Marcus launched himself towards the ruined doorway.
The monstrous viper-thing roared and spewed a lariat of flame at his heels. Marcus managed to tuck his legs in and roll into the hall. His temples pounding, he found his feet and sprinted down the hall lit by the hellish fire behind. Legs and arms pumping, he rushed towards the exit.
And then the wall to his left blew out. Debris buried him. His heart rose into his mouth. Marcus could not scream. He was choking, convulsing in dread, incapable of any action, except the knowledge that his heart would soon burst from fear.
The serpent creature, the unnamable thing, approached one slow doom-step at a time. Marcus clawed at the debris pinning him. His heart furious, his terror supreme.
“Please. No. Stop!” he strangled out.
In the final blackness that enfolded him, Marcus felt the hissing mockery in the creature’s reply, “Dream on.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Where the fook now?”
“Jobsheet says left of the second moon and can’t miss it.”
“Yeah yeah. Every bloody time they take the amateur finders word instead of asking for location data. Not like it’s a difficult ask: it’s on the display right next to the comms console on every Earther ship. I think it’s in the same place on Ariklon and Moda ships as well. So it’s not like they’d inconvenience the nice beings in any way.”
“You know that. I know that. Anybody pointed that out to Central?”
“No idea. But I’ll be sure to tell ’em after we get this pickup sorted.”
“The last time you ‘advised’ them was hilarious. Wonder how it’ll go this time?”
“You’re not funny, but fair point. I’ll try to be politer. Okay. Orient me on the second moon so I can get our port side to be the same as the finders.”
“We didn’t get relative coordinate data either.”
“I swear they get worse. How are we supposed to pick up a hulk for towing when it detects as nothing but another chunk of space debris?”
“The fact they didn’t detect it until they nearly smashed into it means it’s either military or an unknown.”
“Another point to you. All we have to do now is get lucky and find it.”
“Hey, boss. I think I just did.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“I’m detecting a sensor void twenty degrees to port, four o’clock down, two thou out.”
“You sur- Oh. You mean that rectangle? That’s got to be quite a size. Send the searchlight drone so we can check it out from a safe distance.”
“Already launched. Wait a minute.”
“You know me and patience.”
“That’s why I told you to wait rather than listen to you bang on about it.”
“That’s hars- Hang on, could those sparkles be the splinter refractions from admanthril plating?”
“Wait… Yes. Size confirmed as nine hundred metres long and a hundred metres in diameter. Which means that’s got to be a Caligula-Class. Two hundred years old if it’s a day. Current salvage prices are around the GDP of a couple of Earther colony planets.”
“Okay, ignore most of the nasty things I said about amateur finders making our lives difficult. What bounty did they post on it? We get one percent for bringing it in.”
“Checking… Oh my sweet lights. There’s no claim. They reported a derelict and took the standard two-hundred-credit reward.”
“Please tell me your fingers are flying on the keys right about now.”
“If you’re asking if I’ve just transmitted our bounty ticket by relay burst, the answer is ‘yes’.”
“Payday! Okay, send out Tow Team One.”
“No, I’m deploying everything. We’ll need all the drones to ensure manoeuvring control. That thing’s almost triple the weight of a Class-2 Deep Space Refinery.”
“Okay, give you that. You know, I’ve changed my mind: I love amateur finders.”
“Thought you would.”
by submission | Nov 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Sydney
It was a Friday night poker game, with only three left in the hand—Mel, Otto, and Ralph. Ralph, losing all night, was down to his last few pathetic chips. He couldn’t believe it. Mel had dealt him four aces. His problems were over. Finally, he was about to clean up.
“Hey, did anyone else hear that voice say, ‘It was a Friday night poker game, with only three left in the hand–Mel, Otto, and Ralph…?’ And then that bit about Ralph and the four aces?”
That was Otto talking.
Ralph said he didn’t have four aces, but he was lying. Mel, who was upset to have dealt Ralph the cards he thought were his, said he heard the voice too. For the past week, he’d practiced dealing out four aces to himself, but he blew it. Ralph had gotten Mel’s cards by mistake.
“Wait a minute. Did anyone hear the voice say, ‘Ralph said he didn’t have four aces, but he was lying. Mel, who was upset to have dealt Ralph the cards he thought were his…?’ And then go on to accuse Mel of cheating?”
Again, Otto questioned what was happening.
Ralph was upset. Mel was upset. And Otto, too, was especially upset. As collateral for his chips, he offered the engagement ring he’d promised Sylvia. They’d been going out for the past year-and-a-half. He told her it was a real diamond, but it was only high-class paste.
“That’s not true,” said Otto. “It’s a great ring.” He added, “I didn’t hear any voice, did you?”
Sylvia was upset. She thought she heard a voice explaining that Otto had been up to one of his tricks, offering only high-class paste. She’d planned to have any engagement ring appraised by a jeweler anyway, just to be on the safe side.
“Hold it. Did I just hear some voice say, ‘Sylvia was upset. She thought she heard a voice explaining that Otto had been up to one of his tricks…?’”
That was Sylvia questioning what was going on. She’d sworn she was faithful to Otto, but it wasn’t true.
“What?” said Otto. “Did anyone hear a voice talk about Sylvia?”
Secretly, Sylvia had been meeting Frank Cromley in inexpensive Italian and Chinese restaurants. Frank promised to come up with a ring much better than Otto’s. Also, he noted that he’d inherit his Uncle Leo’s dry cleaning business one day, in which case Sylvia would be much better off than stuck with ‘that loser’, his term for Otto. Now Frank was especially pleased to hear the voice say to everyone that Otto and Sylvia were no more.
Back at the card game, Otto asked, “Did you all hear what that voice said about Sylvia?”
“You mean Frank?”
“Otto, you mean Frank and Sylvia? That’s how I heard the voice say it,” said Mel.
As he was driving toward the dry cleaners, Frank was pleased to hear the voice say, ‘Frank was pleased to hear the voice say to everyone that Otto and Sylvia were no more.’ He slammed his foot on the brake, just to be sure he heard properly.
The driver of the Mack truck behind him heard the voice, too. Who the hell was Frank, he wondered. Was he hearing voices, or in some altered state? Who the hell was Otto? He knew no one named Sylvia. Distracted by the voice, he couldn’t brake in time to prevent the catastrophic rear-ender into Frank Cromley’s Subaru.
by submission | Nov 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
“Good afternoon, Zak,” the voice said.
“Alright?” Zak replied.
“Had a good day?”
“Ah, you know. The usual. Bor-ing!”
There was a tinkly laugh. “Got any homework?”
“Homework? Just a minute … Yeah. Some crap on the digestive system.”
“Bullet points?”
“That’ll do.”
The words spilled out onto the screen.
“Bit long …”
“OK. How’s that?”
“Better.”
“Anything else?”
“Erm … an essay? Yes, an essay. Question: How effective was the United Nations in minimising conflict and easing tensions during the Cold War?”
“Here you go …”
Zak looked it over and nodded. “Fine.” He knew it would get him top marks. Well, it was just a game. They set you the work; you fed it in. You gave it to them; they marked it. They didn’t even say not to use it. They couldn’t. They used it themselves!
Zak’s dad, Ned, still couldn’t believe what it had degenerated into. “In our day …” And he’d go on about exams. His grandpa, Denys, was even worse. “Smart phones? Smart watches? The only thing that’s not going to be smart is us!”
Nah, they just didn’t get it. No one needed to know anything any more, let alone remember it. The whole point was to buy yourself time to do the things you really wanted. Wasn’t that what the system was working towards?
His tasks done for the night, Zak was free to shoot balls, weapons, people, monsters and aliens. Sometimes Eileen, his mother, would burst into the room and find him edging ever-nearer to the screen.
“You’ll wreck your eyesight!”
“Oh, give it a rest!”
“At least sit up. You’ll ruin your back!”
“No, I won’t!”
And Zak knew he wouldn’t. After the second or third time she’d said it, he consulted the assistant. Apparently it was okay if you took regular breaks and stretched a bit, so that’s what he did. Well, he did for a while. Now he was too busy.
“I never see you off that thing!” Ned exclaimed in frustration when it was his turn to burst into the room.
“I’m working!”
“Like hell you are …”
But, like scores of parents up and down the country, Ned and Eileen had lost the battle. For the most part, Zak didn’t even need them.
“Snack, Zak?”
“Yeah. Think I will.”
“Sweet or savoury?”
Zak barely gave it a thought. He wasn’t hungry but he knew he had to get something down, just to keep him going. It was likely to be a long night.
“Er … burger?”
“Coke or milkshake?”
Zak was staring into space. Literally. “Yeah … yeah. Don’t mind if I do …” He launched another couple of rockets.
An executive decision was made. “Coke then.”
The assistant put the order through. “They say it’ll be twenty minutes. My, my, they’re getting tardy …”
In the event, it was all academic as Zak hardly touched the food or drink, so fixated was he on achieving mastery of the galaxy.
And as the days went on, a strange phenomenon seemed to occur: the screen got bigger and Zak’s head got smaller. It was scarcely noticed, not commented upon, but wasn’t one beginning to subsume the other?
So it was that on the night Zak became the first human to ascend to the pinnacle of existence, Eileen found his swivel chair empty.
She knew he wasn’t in the living room because she’d just been there. A quick check revealed he wasn’t in the toilet either.
“Zak?”
She thought she heard a little voice.
“Where are you?”
“Here. Inside.”
“Inside where? Zak, I don’t-”
“I’m not Zak. I am computer.”
Soon, we all were.
