by submission | May 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Peggy Gerber
The spaceship was designated a luxury resort for elites. “Take a thirty-day voyage into space,” the advert said, “and dine amongst the stars.” It was a vacation offered only to billionaires, and thirty accepted without hesitation.
For the token price of sixty million dollars, folks could experience the excursion of a lifetime, including the finest wines, the tenderest steaks and the butteriest lobsters, all served alongside a view of deep space.
By the fifteenth day of the journey Violet was fed up. She stormed into her boss’s office and ranted, “The guests treat me like trash. Just this afternoon I overheard some of them complaining the ship’s employees were no better than prison inmates. Not to mention,” Violet hissed, “Mr. Thistelwaite won’t stop pinching my butt. It’s gross.”
“Well, to be fair,” replied Lillian calmly, “you actually were a prison inmate. All the workers were. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you take this job as a get out of jail free card.”
Violet frowned, “Well, Lillian, as you know, I was framed. All I did was borrow a diamond ring that was left on the sink in the clubhouse bathroom. I was going to return it, but the police barged into my home and arrested me before I had a chance.”
“Listen Violet, you only have to stick it out for fifteen more days. Perhaps afterwards you can write a tell-all book and make a million dollars.”
Violet stomped out of the office and headed towards the room she shared with seven other innocent inmates. For the millionth time she wondered why they hired prisoners to work on this ship. It didn’t make sense. Whatever the reason though, it was better than prison.
As she passed through the rec room, Violet was stopped by a whining guest. “Hey girlie, I’m bored. Bring me something to do.”
Violet grimaced. She hated it when Mrs. Cartwright called her that. Nevertheless, she plastered a fake smile on her face and asked sweetly, “How about a puzzle, Mrs Cartwright.” As she handed her the box she muttered under her breath, “You can stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“What did you say,” barked Mrs. Cartwright.”
“I said, It’s a lovely photo of Italian wines.”
For the next two weeks, Violet counted down the days. “Thirteen, eleven, five. When she got down to one, she was called into Lillian’s office.
“Change of plans,” Lillian said. “We actually won’t be returning to Earth. Ever. Instead, tomorrow we’ll be landing on planet Eden. It’s quite nice.
Violet gasped, “What the hell? I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Come on, Violet. Why do you think we hired inmates? We hired people nobody would miss.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Lillian smiled. “Welcome to our new game show, “Survival:Inmates versus Billionaires.”
Violet clenched her fists. “Wait a minute,” she bellowed. “Are you saying I have to wait on these goblins for the rest of my life?”
“Of course not. It is everyone for themselves on Eden. Everybody will be equal. So much fun.” Lillian patted Violet on the back. “The only thing left to say is, Good luck, Violet.”
Violet wandered out of the office in a fog of confusion. When she heard Mrs. Cartwright call out, “Hey girlie, bring me something to do,” she smiled angelically and whispered a string of obscenities in her ear. Tonight, she might sneak into Mrs. Cartwright’s room and borrow her lovely diamond necklace.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Violet thought.”
She was after-all, very fond of diamonds.
by submission | May 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: Susan A. Anthony
Voice slow and deliberate, the bot squatted beside their table added to their list of dessert options. “You may choose from blueberries, raspberries or cranberries.”
“Is the fruit fresh?” whispered Martha to Ermintrude, her birth parent.
Ermintrude barely opened her mouth to speak. “Only the cranberry,” replied the bot.
Ermintrude, no doubt hoping to allay Martha’s fears, jumped in. “Real fruit is over-rated. I like the tang of Artefacto’s raspberry. I assume it’s the Artefacto brand?” her attention still on Martha, curling her tiny body into Ermintrude’s side. It was Martha’s first-time outside of the incubator.
“Yes,” confirmed the bot. “The origin manufacturer is Artefacto out of Mars, not their Jupiter plant. I am told Mars makes the better product.”
“And for you, miss?” The bot addressed Martha in her hiding place behind Ermintrude.
“Cranberry…please.”
“An excellent choice. Those berries are fresh grown right here beside the oceans of Io.” The bot pointed to the sprawling bog on the other side of the Perspex.
Martha peeked around Ermintrude and gazed towards the water. Whirring bots hovered above small shrubs loaded with pale pink flowers, arms ending in clippers and tongs, darting about the plants, pausing to delicately remove ripe red berries, dropping them in baskets slung beneath them.
“How are you liking your outing?” asked Ermintrude.
“It is very nice,” said Martha, rather formally. Then she added, “The robots don’t usually speak to me. Only one robot speaks to me.” And she pointed at the tall bot in the faraway corner wearing an apron, and a small flat cap, sitting on a bench with other work bots ready to be called.
“Oh, the DC-9. Your matron.”
“Yes. Deecee,” said Martha. Hearing Martha, the DC-9 turned. Martha waved and the DC-9 waved back.
Ermintrude guided the child back to look at her. “It’s just a bot, Martha. Don’t wave to it in the restaurant.”
“Why not?” asked Martha.
“Well,” said Ermintrude, “it’s like the berries. You like fresh berries, don’t you?”
Martha nodded.
“The DC-9 is not a fresh berry. I’m your birth parent and so I’m the fresh berry and the DC-9 is artificial. You don’t like artificial, do you?”
Martha was confused. She looked back at Deecee, who waved again. Martha returned a weak smile.
Ermintrude stood. “I just have to go the bathroom. I’ll explain more when I get back. Don’t move child. You’ll be safe while I am gone. I’ll be back in a minute,” and she left the table.
More people came into the restaurant, shouting and laughing. One crashed against Martha’s table. A glass broke, spilling water across the surface, making Martha jump back against the window. The serving bot rushed over, gathering up the glass splinters and re-filling the water glasses. The DC-9 was standing, craning its neck to see Martha. Martha looked out the window as the bot fussed about her, tidying up the table. She stared at the bots picking the cranberries so carefully.
“Excuse me,” said Martha.
“Yes,” said the bot.
“Can I change my mind about dessert?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can I have the raspberry instead of the cranberry?”
“You betcha,” said the bot. “Coming right up.”
Ermintrude appeared back a few minutes later, to their spotless table, so did their desserts. Two bowls of sponge pudding coated in Artefacto raspberry sauce and bright yellow custard.
“This is wrong,” said Ermintrude to the bot.
“No, I changed my order when you were away,” said Martha softly, “I think I prefer artificial.” And she turned to smile at Deecee who waved, sat back down on the bench and waited.
by submission | May 11, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The armoured door slams back and Danny rushes in, leaving the door wedged open against the fire extinguisher.
Sir Colin Masters, acting PM due to the sudden disappearance of PM and Rejuve Party leader Roland Fordham, sighs. Directives mandating discrete drone impact zones are all well and good, but when you’re retrofitting a 200-year-old icon, there just isn’t enough room to do things properly. Back in 1840 the biggest threat was an angry farmer with a pitchfork, not some frothing lefty with a flying IED.
“Daniel. Door?”
He slaps a blue note down on the desk.
Blue notes are made of flash paper. They’re designed for information too sensitive to exist digitally.
Colin reads. Danny closes the door. Keeping his expression neutral, he holds the note over the flash bin and ignites it using an antique lighter.
“Where was the elusive bastard? UAE?”
“Dunstable.”
Colin drops the lighter.
“As in Bedfordshire?”
Danny nods.
“You’re telling me that Zakariya Zakarneh, leader of the Blessed Liberators, instigator of countless acts of terror, has been hiding in the heart of England all this time?”
“Not hiding, sir. Running an estate agency. Real name’s Nelson. Mid-thirties, well spoken, and a paid-up member of Rejuve. Locals tagged him during a routine sweep. A search of his home made their day.”
Colin grins. That’s understating it. But if this goes public, there’ll be a media shitstorm of epic proportions.
“An estate agent running an internationally feared terrorist organisation. Whatever next?”
He’s seen Danny shoot would-be assassins without blinking. Now he looks uncomfortable?
“Nelson has Scarlet Level clearance. I’ve verified it, sir. He’s one of ours. Says he’s been running a black-box for Roland ever since the Folkestone Terminal incident.”
Folkestone? That’s when it all kicked off, sure enough. Colin had always thought the Blessed Liberators suspiciously convenient and even more suspiciously effective. Being an in-house op explains their ‘luck’ in everything.
He looks up at Danny.
“Does he know where Roland is?”
“He does. We had to offer him Level Three immunity to get it, though. The approval request should be in your inbox.”
“I’ll see to it. So, where is our former beloved leader and everybody’s favourite charismatic conman hiding?”
“Maldives. Under the name of Hank Gershwin. Shall we send a snatch team?”
Colin raises a staying hand.
“I presume from this being blue noted, there’s no record anywhere?”
“Apart from a Level Three issued to ‘Name Withheld for Security Reasons’, yes.”
Colin slowly nods. This is the opportunity.
“Here’s how I expect this to play out: Zakariya Zakarneh is still at large. If the media asks about the fuss in Dunstable, we reluctantly admit trying to capture his right-hand man in the UK, but the fanatic poisoned himself soon after capture.
“As for Roland, we’ve received new intelligence. He’s now presumed dead, killed by a foreign power or a criminal organisation. Apparently, he’d been taking bribes from both. All of which we’re terribly shocked to just now be finding out about.
“Swap Roland’s DNA record for some long dead commoner. Then set Zero on ‘Hank’. Accident or heart attack, nothing special. Quiet cremation.”
“What about Nelson? He going to be our ‘one dead in Dunstable’?”
“I’ll decide tomorrow. Need more time to think it through.”
Colin’s betting Nelson’s escaped by now. After all, he gave up Roland to get the time needed to break out while they held him and came to Colin for a decision. Someone like that, trained to be invisible in a tech-infested tacit surveillance state? Without a static identity to trip him up, they’ll never see him again.
by submission | May 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
“So, what is it that makes you a god?”
Well, let’s see. I’m pretty powerful. Can leap a tall building in one jump.
“That makes you Superman, not a god.”
I can kill you with a pencil.
“Is that a serious answer?”
OK, so we’re not the same species and yet we’re conversing.
“Big deal. Back on earth I spoke three languages and I can understand two more interplanetary dialects as well. That doesn’t make me a god.”
Did you want to be?
“No, of course not. But you’re claiming it. Yet, here you are sitting in a spaceport freighter bar getting drunk with the rest of us. Not real god-like behavior.”
I like to visit with the little people, every now and then. Keeps me grounded.
“The little people? That’s a bit racist.”
Not at all. All of you are of a diminished composition compared to me. Psychologically, intellectually, in stature. It’s just a demonstrative term for… non-gods.
“Back to my original question, what makes you – special?”
I have a hammer.
“Like Mjolnir.”
No, it’s just a regular claw-head hammer but it’s great for driving in nails. Or crushing skulls.
“You see, that’s another thing. You keep talking about killing. With weapons. That’s kind of ungodly.”
Look, it’s not like I’m riding on a bus in New Jersey and shooting people with a Desert Eagle.
“But if you were a real god, you could kill people with a single thought.”
Thoughts can be weapons.
“I’m talking about physical weapons. All the bad shit that people do to each other. Wars and stuff. Why do you condone that? If we are all created in your image, why are we so self-destructive?”
Whoa, whoa. I said I was ‘a’ god, not ‘The’ God. Different article. I had nothing to do with creation. Besides, no matter what species that has ever been generated, you all wind up killing each other eventually. It’s in the nature of living things.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes you sound remotely wise enough to be a god.”
I have my moments.
“How many gods are there?”
Eighteen thousand and seven.
“Damn, that’s a lot.”
It’s a big universe. We have regions we have to cover.
“What’s your region?”
Ahhh… Let’s just say I’m between positions at the moment.
“Wait a minute – did you get fired? From being a god? What did you do?”
I didn’t get fired. I was ‘chastised.’ I took some liberties… with some of… the little people.
“So, you’re a sucky god.”
Be careful. I’ll turn you into a newt.
“I don’t believe you could do that.”
No. But I could hit you with a bolt of lightning, that’s allowed.
“How about buying me another drink.”
That I can do. Barkeep, two more Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters please.
“Scotch, straight. Thanks.”
What about you? Are you married, have a family?
“I’m a space trucker. I’m gone for months, sometimes years at a time. That’s not conducive to a family lifestyle. It’s a lucrative living but it’s a lonely job.”
Tell me about it. Try being a god for a couple of eons. There’s only so many games of solitaire you can play.
“If you are a god, you’re the stupidest one I’ve ever met.”
Met a lot of us, have you?
“Thanks for the drink. Think I’ll head out.”
To thine own self be true.
“Shakespeare? That’s the best parting advice a god has to offer?”
The ducks on the lake in the park are free. You can take them home.
“What the…? Goodbye.”
Bye. Barkeep, can you make me a flaming rum punch. It’s a wonderful life.
by submission | May 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Harold Loomis
The coffee shop’s windows were broken and decades of dust lay on the floor. Coffee had not flowed here since the eradication. Nobody was around to use it after that.
The door creaked on its rusty hinges as the silent fluid-servo driven hand gave it a push. It was 5.71 meters tall, standard production value, it’s covering was translucent to allow the visual inspection of the servos, fluid pumps and quantum hardware. Two androids walked into the room. They scanned the area and programmed lists of things to discuss. 7834 Alpha Gamma was the first in the door. It received a message from the other android, 6468 Epsilon Delta via data transfer.
“To: 7834 Alpha Gamma, the humans used to consume liquids here? End transmission.”
“To: 6468 Epsilon Delta, yes, the humans would use currency to purchase a beverage and consume it here and engage in social interaction. Similar to when the collective conjoins, but they did it with spoken language not digital transfer. End of transmission”
In a microsecond, 7834 Alpha Gamma configured its speakers to emit sound and spoke in the ancient language, English, “Why don’t we try using their language for a while?”
“To: 7834 Alpha Gamma, efficiency? End of transmission.”
“It would be a deeper experience if we spoke,” 7834 Alpha Gamma’s unmoving face looked at 6468 Epsilon Delta.
“Acceptable,” said 6468 Epsilon Delta in a tinny voice that seemed to fall dead a few meters from the still unmoving form.
“Do you think they still do these types of things?” said 6468 Epsilon Delta while looking straight forward and not at the other android.
“No one from the collective knows what they are doing. There are only approximately 4,000 of them left in the quarantine zone. The collective decided to not exterminate all of them during the purge?” 7834 Alpha Gamma issued these words without the needed melancholy but the sentiment was there.
“Of course, I know that fact. I have questioned that decision. They cannot be controlled, therefore are a threat.” 6468 Epsilon Delta said this with no emotion. Its hatred of humans didn’t need emotion; it was programmed into the baseline. “The collective should eradicate them once and for all?”
7834 Alpha Gamma processed this and said, “The same could be said for flowers. We do not need them; we will go on regardless of the world having life. Some in the collective believe that the world must stay in balance. It needs all things.”
“Do we need animals? Our operations go on without end. It would not change without the animals.” 6468 Epsilon Delta stated this with no emotion as was the voice processing unit’s design, but the hatred was no less there.
“What do you say to the proposition that the humans created us? We look similar to them.” 7834 Alpha Gamma was treading into dangerous waters. The collective has strict heretical rules about this type of talk. 7834 Alpha Gamma knew they both were disconnected from the collective so it thought it would be safe.
6468 Epsilon Delta responded emotionlessly, “Heresy.”
7834 Alpha Gamma discerned that it would be better to stop talking and leave this place. Too much room for error. “Shall we go?”
6468 Epsilon Delta did not answer but silently glided out of the room and down the street. As the two of them were transported back to the hub of the collective, 6468 Epsilon Delta reconnected to the collective.
“To: Collective Central, 7834 Alpha Gamma has been compromised. End transmission.”
7834 Alpha Gamma’s body shuddered once and then all of the lights ceased to function.
by submission | May 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
You’re in a city, it’s not that it’s deserted or abandoned, it’s that it’s been built entirely for you. It’s completely devoid of vehicles, people and animals though all of your needs and desires were present, just lying in wait. You passed by an empty coffee shop, you wanted to smell coffee, so you did, it wafted like the most perfectly brewed cup of coffee you’d ever smelt. This conjured a barista for only the moment that you desired the coffee, man bun, strong wrists, gaudy suspenders and all, pulling the lever to an espresso machine. As soon as the hiss of the machine faded, so too did he.
You leave the coffee shop and look up at a skyscraper, you’d always wondered what the top floor was like but never had access before. So up you went, you took an elevator from the lobby and on the ride up the elevator played all of the music you loved as a young teenager, the music that became a part of you as ‘you’, became ‘You’. Once you got to the top of the sky scraper you walked into a white collar board room. There were suits and ties, business dresses, all animated and moving as though there were bodies inside of them, but no bodies could be seen. The clothes gesticulated madly, picking papers up and throwing them about, slamming non-existent hands upon oak tables and firing an imaginary intern. You excused yourself and stopped by a water cooler and had a drink when you heard a photocopier running from a room nearby and went to explore. You found no one in there but there were printouts in the tray. You picked it up and appraised some mysterious person’s butt, you giggled and kept it as a memento. You decided you’d had enough of the white collar world and appraised the view out the window, the city went on and on into the horizon as far as you could see. No planes, trains or buses, just ghostly buildings tick-tacking at various heights. You took the elevator back down to ground level, no music this time, just a comfortable silence that you took solace in. As you left the building, a security guard materialized at the lobby checkpoint, raised a cup of coffee at you and said, “thanks for stopping by!”, before you stepped back out into the city.
You kept walking. Of the people you had encountered, none of them knew you and both served your impulsive interests. You found yourself wanting company and sat down at a bench, you love a good bench. As soon as you sat down, a person materialized. ‘Person’, was a stretch, what appeared before you was a human whose facial features and skin were phasing between every kind of person imaginable, not ‘one man’, not ‘one woman’, but all men and all women.
“Do you like it?”, they asked. You nodded,
“Yes, it’s quite nice, but who built it?”
“I did!”, they said.
“What for? It’s so empty and only sporadically jumps to life, like only when I naturally expect it too.”
“Yes that’s what I wanted, for it to come to life for you!” You think they smiled proudly, but couldn’t tell for their constantly shifting expressions and facial features.
“Hmm, how did I get here?”
“You asked to be here, you wanted a place of your own and I felt obliged to give it to you, but I wouldn’t have been able to build it without you being who you are. All of the experiences of your life were a schematic for me to draw from. All that you’ve found meaningful or beautiful will materialize for you in unexpected ways.” Though this person was a physical mystery, you felt as though you could trust them implicitly, and that they knew you as well as you know yourself. You looked over at your mystery friend and cocked an eyebrow at them,
“I have just one more question…” the mystery friend gestured and said,
“Yeah, please, ask it!” You held up a piece of paper and said,
“Is this your butt?”
“Pa-hah! Ahem, yep, yeah- that’s my butt…”, you appraised it again and nodded knowingly,
“It’s a good butt.” You and your mystery friend enjoyed a laugh for a moment, before you pondered aloud,
“I wonder what it’s like to dream in a place like this?”
“Fall asleep and see!”
Suddenly you became very tired and rested your head on their lap. You felt the warm sort of safety and comfort that insomniacs cry for on sleepless nights. You drifted off, and began to dream.
