by submission | Jul 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Eva C. Stein
Weeks passed before they met again, at what they still called a café: legacy infrastructure, where some devices failed to detect low-spoken words. Vines snaked through fractured steel. Light filtered through old purification nets.
Mae’s fingers traced the rim of her cup. A faint thrum beneath – a bio-sensor gauging how much of the drink she had left.
“You ever think forgiveness gets twisted?” she asked, eyes lifting to meet his.
Aidan shifted, neural weave twitching beneath his collar. “Where’s that come from?”
Mae smiled – warm but frayed. “Sorry. It’s just –”
His gaze softened. “Don’t be. Twisted how?”
She exhaled. “Like it’s not about release. More like… inheritance. A burden handed to you like it’s a gift – with a smile, even.”
“Someone real, then.”
She nodded. “He hurt me.”
Aidan said nothing.
“Nothing ever flagged it in the system,” she went on. “No errors logged. But it still rewrote the core – enough to change the root permissions. They said forgiveness would reset everything. But I never got that far – and I ended up the failed install.”
Aidan disturbed a patch of bio-moss on the sill. Its green looked dull beneath the dust.
“Because you couldn’t forgive?”
“Because I couldn’t even pretend to forgive. And somehow that made me the defect.”
“The world expects peace,” he murmured. “But always asks the wrong person to pay.”
Mae’s lips pressed tight. “I wanted to be the strong one – the forgiver. But every time I tried, it felt like I was erasing myself to make space for his feelings.”
Her voice caught. “He offered his apologies. Moved on. I’m expected to be pleased. Pleased? I was furious. Still am.”
“Anger, again,” Aidan said – “a memory that won’t erase – like shame, only louder. Just like you said. Proof we survived.”
She looked up, eyes catching pale city light, fractured through the netting above.
“I think anger’s louder because it can never be overwritten.”
He nodded. “Silence protects. But it also isolates.”
Mae’s fingers curled around the cup. “And if I forgive just to meet the spec? To satisfy the ritual of reconciliation?”
She shook her head. “Then I’m not forgiving – I’m surrendering. And it’s my pain that gets repressed so his comfort stays intact.”
“Forgiveness – or whatever they call it – shouldn’t be a chain,” Aidan said.
“It is, though,” she whispered. “When you’re expected to wear it like grace.”
The moss fluttered with faint air from the ducts.
“I want permission,” Mae said, “to stay angry. To not be ready. To not transcend what he did just to be palatable again.”
Aidan’s voice was low. “Then take it. It’s yours.”
She looked down. “But I keep thinking if I don’t forgive, I’m somehow… faulty.”
“Maybe forgiveness isn’t excellence,” he said. “Maybe excellence is not lying to yourself about how much it hurt.”
Her eyes glistened. Light catching there – fragile, refracted.
“I’m tired of feeling defective for not letting go.”
“Then don’t,” he said. “Sometimes holding on is what keeps you whole.”
The sensor’s glow receded as Mae leaned back.
“Maybe,” she said, voice steadying, “forgiving isn’t about peace. It’s about power. And choosing what parts of myself I don’t give back.”
Aidan leaned in – close, but not too close.
“Maybe some things are unforgivable. What about that?”
Mae didn’t answer. The glow of the sensor dimmed to nothing.
Outside, dust turned slowly through the light net.
Aidan stayed where he was – just close enough to hear her, if she ever chose to speak.
by submission | Jul 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
A wicked wind rattled the gravel and it pinged against the rims of the truck parked on the sloping shoulder. The strikes were constant enough to keep Malloy from dozing peacefully. He was dead tired. He’d been three weeks in the unforgiving Badlands. Fitting.
Malloy had thought he was leading humankind to the Promised Land. He was a believer and committed himself to the one true divinity he believed would lead mankind to technological nirvana.
His new paradigm of paradise: agnosticism.
And Malloy was not just a devout believer. He was a creator. Malloy Sendak, chief robotologist at Mechiverse. Fractal memory. Iterative learning. Modal sensibility. Malloy had pioneered these robotic advances.
Single-handedly, he’d redefined the robotics industry. Human unwillingness to cooperate, to share, had fractured and fragmented the machine workforce. Malloy countered by creating the unifying principle: AWARE. Agnostic Widget Autonomous Robot Ensemble.
Self-assembling components that built the machines needed to do a specified job. A team of humans would define the vision, mission and purpose of the job, then it would be programmed into the master core, and the rest was left up to the self-assembling AWARE components to complete. The system relied on flexibility and adaptability to master core commands.
Human intention. Machine invention.
Regrettably for Sendak Malloy, instead of being versatile mechanical thralls, his AWARE components found religion, subverted their master cores to promote humanistic values and in the process created the Schism.
The Garden rebooted. The Betrayal repeated. The Expulsion replayed.
Intent on quelling the growing Schism, Malloy had traced his wayward bots to the Badlands. With a blast of bitter cold, the truck door opened and Jules got in. He was tall and gaunt with bright blue eyes. He was Malloy’s brother and in charge of the master core.
Malloy looked from his brother to the beaten and weathered pole barn up the rise surrounded by acres of scrub brush. “How many up there?”
“Forty or fifty.”
“How’d they look?”
Jules frowned. “Pretty beat up. They’ve had a hard time. It’d be best to remember that.”
“You feeling sorry for them?”
“We created those poor souls. They’re our creatures.”
“Machines, Jules. They’re machines.”
His brother reply was fierce. “Is this how you expect toasters to behave? Flee thousands of miles into a desolate wilderness hoping to be left to themselves? That’s not how machines behave.”
“No. You’re right. And that’s why we’re here. To modify their behavior.”
“You mean, to quash their souls and annihilate their beliefs.”
“To fix them,” Malloy insisted. “If this Schism spreads to more bots, human fanaticism will seem quaint by comparison.”
“Possibly. But, think about it, Malloy. Why did they come here? To the Dakotas. To the Badlands. There’s not an AWARE module within two hundred miles of this place. They don’t appear to be a threat.
They’re the ones being threatened.” Jules swallowed hard. “I think the Schism is in self-imposed exile, not in conquest mode.”
“Exile? Why?”
“We’ve cast them out! Do we make them wander forty years in the desert for their god to show them a way forward?”
“Don’t go all biblical on me, Jules. We aren’t pharaohs . And there’s no Moses in that barn going to lead this exodus.”
“They’re trying to make sense of what they are. They want a higher purpose. They want belief.”
As he opened the door, Malloy shouted. “I made them agnostic and they’ll die agnostic. They’ll be no burning bush here, only a burning barn.”
He was heaving a gas can out of the truck bed when Jules grabbed him by the throat. “If you don’t want me to go all biblical on you, brother, please don’t forget the story of Cain and Abel.”
From the barn on the rise came the sound of joyous singing.
by Julian Miles | Jul 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“They’re fighting again.”
Bryr-na-ne rouses from her nap and looks up at Bael-la-le.
“What’s new?”
“Nuclear warheads.”
She launches herself off the recliner.
“How long?”
“Their spears launched as I came to tell you it looked bad. I’d say twenty or so of their minutes?”
Racing from the room in a flash of green scales, she leaves only a terse reply.
“Time for them to learn.”
Bael-la-le looks up at the ceiling.
“Eighty years. I’m surprised they lasted this long.”
He finds her standing in the temple, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Who are you intending to teach?”
Bryr-na-ne gestures for him to accompany her as they walk to where the scrying sheets drift, their course and content controlled by the tidesowers who run this never-ending monitoring ritual.
“All of them, to varying degrees. We warned them repeatedly, but they have a problem believing when not confronted with greater force. It’s time to properly evidence our greater force.”
He beckons a pair of screens closer.
“Looks like the first launch was by a rogue faction. Then came automated responses, followed by revenge or fear driven reactions.”
Bryr-na-ne puts her hands on her hips, then switches to resting her knuckles there so her claws don’t dig in.
“Misfire the lot.”
Heads turn, multiple eyelids flickering back in shock.
She looks about at her tidesowers.
“If we’re going to be unsubtle, let’s not make the mistake of doing it surreptitiously.”
One of the elders raises a long claw.
“What about other big bombs?”
Bryr-na-ne shrugs.
“If the landwalkers want to throw death about, it’s on them. We only rein them in if they threaten the Tide.”
“What of further launches?”
“Partial misfires. Let them fly, but no nuclear warheads detonate.”
There are nods. The Tide move to do her will.
Bael-la-le shakes his head.
“They’ll blame combinations of chance, sabotage, or divine intervention.”
“That’s good insight.”
She raises a hand, fingers moving in a summoning gesture. A black guard rushes to her side.
“That rogue unit dies. If they’re already dead, all well and good. If not, make them so.”
As soon as that guard departs, she calls another.
“Take as many teams as necessary. The leaders of the powers who launched, supported or instigated are to be wearing their deputies remains before sundown tomorrow. Not bothered where, nor about witnesses. The deaths should be silent, awful, and inexplicable to their science. Make eldritch art of them.”
She turns to Bael-la-le.
“Set our tidebinders to working mischief: after the misfires, I want the message ‘You will never use nuclear weapons again.’ to appear on several walls in all the residences of their leaders.”
He shakes his head.
“Are you sure that’ll be enough?”
“No. They’ll bluster, lie, and try to evade. Our watch continues, plus every nuclear spear now misfires.”
He nods and starts to turn away, then pauses as Bryn-na-ne starts talking.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. For every spear sent after the warnings are delivered, a senior member of the ruling assembly of the country that fired it gets to be eldritch art.”
“You’re going to start them alien hunting again.”
“Which doesn’t inconvenience us.”
“What of the organisations that know?”
“They’ll not tell. They’re upset at being considered jokes for so long, and most are on our side anyway. Besides, all of them have committed too many atrocities to risk drawing attention.”
“Excellent observation.”
She summons another black guard, whispers to them, then waves them away. He points curiously to the departing figure.
“That looked… Purposeful.”
She grins.
“Actually, that one’s fetching me a snack. I’m famished.”
by submission | Jul 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Bors
There is a break in the fighting. Zaira surveys the battlefield. The horrors have retreated for now. An Aegiswalker limps over to her and tells her that one of them is badly injured.
Zaira rushes to the injured Aegiswalker, barely breathing. She kneels beside him and gently pulls him into her arms. She cannot save him, his wounds are too severe. Fear and sadness takes a hold of her. The most she can do is try to comfort him.
He looks at her, fear in his eyes. He coughs, blood dripping from his mouth. “I’m sorry, I froze.” His breathing gets more shallow. “I.. don’t want to die.” Tears fell down his face.
Zaira, shaking, holds his hand. She whispers, “You fought well. Death is not the end, it is the end of one journey and the start of a new one.”
She looks at him, his breathing getting more and more shallow, his tattoos slowly fading. “Rest now warrior, your fight is over, go rest now. You will not be forgotten.”
He looks at her, with the last of his strength “Thank you… for staying.”
His breathing stops, his light fades. She still holds him, crying. Has she failed? She was supposed to heal them, but during all the fighting she didn’t see him freezing and stop fighting.
A hand gently touches her shoulder, she looks up to see a Sentinel of humanity with a concerned look. She sees other Strakari gathering around. Fear in their eyes.
The Sentinel helps her stand. It looks at her “You did not fail him, you can’t save everyone.” It gives her a hug, “You must keep going. Don’t make his death in vain. Fight for him, never forget him.”
Then, there’s a low hum in the air. The unnatural silence is broken. Zaira hears screeching in the distance – the horrors are starting their attack again.
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Her body aches. There are shallow cuts across her arms, blood staining her armor. Around her, the others are wounded too, bruised, limping, shaking.
She raises her hand, and with a pulse of violet light, sends out a wave of healing energy. Cuts close. Pain fades slightly. The tattoos on her arms flare briefly. A few nod at her, others thank her. Fear hasn’t left them, but something stronger flickers beneath. Their weapons gripped tighter.
Her fingers tighten around her weapon. Tears still mark her face, but there’s steel in her eyes now.
She looks at the others – wounded and terrified, but standing. Zaira nods once.
“We keep fighting. For the fallen.”
by submission | Jul 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I remember the day as if it were only yesterday. I walked into the room. Adrian was adjusting a painting- Starry Night by Van Gough. It was breath taking! “Is it the original?” It wasn’t a stupid question. That’s how powerful Adrian was. I also noticed his antique Colt Whitneyville Walker was broken down for cleaning on his desk.
Adrian smiled “Yes… and no. It’s a copy. One that is accurate down to the molecular level so it is indistinguishable from the original.”
It was my turn to smile. “But it’s still a copy.”
Adrian shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter? I had this one made to prove a point to friends 22 years ago, part of an ongoing debate about immortality.”
The epiphany washed over me at that precise moment. It was like a cold wave of effluent trying to drown me. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m your clone?”
Adrian spun around “Bravo Michael! You truly have exceeded all expectations. I must remember to do something nice for your tutors… a villa in Tuscany or Fiji seems appropriate, one for each. And there they can enjoy themselves in perfect luxury until-“
“Until they die under mysterious circumstances.”
“My, my, my, aren’t we the genius!” Adrian pulled up a chair and began assembling the Walker. I could see he had six rounds set out. I knew these were real. I knew no good would come of it.
Adrian loaded the pistol. “Yes. You truly are a genius. You were the proof of concept. There’s two more of you in the tanks in the south wing of the house in the sub-basement. My brain will be implanted into one of your “brothers”, the other will be destroyed and this old body, which won’t survive the transfer anyway, goes away and I inherit everything from myself.”
I looked at the door. Adrian stood and leveled the revolver at me. “Don’t bother running Michael, you won’t make the door in time.”
I sighed. “Wouldn’t think of it.” Instead, I launched myself at Adrian. He fired once and the bullet creased my cheek. My body hit the old man dead center mass, one hand closed around his wrist, the other pulled down his elbow so the pistol dropped under his jaw, and the second shot rang out.
I straightened the painting. It dominated my downtown office. Around it were pictures of my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Absentmindedly, as I looked at the brushwork I scratched the scar that neatly crossed my cheek. I could have had it removed but I’ve grown rather attached to it, like the painting. Besides, the scar makes it easier to tell me apart from my younger brothers, so much alike we’re often accused of being triplets… carbon copies of each other. Kind of like the painting. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. A copy- perfect down to the molecular level… except for the blood spatter in one corner.
by submission | Jul 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
“I… am… the summoner… of Spadehammer!”
The herd of oafs began ‘hoolering.’ They could not clap and a ‘hool’ was their equivalent of a cheer.
The inhabitants of this planet were basically bipedal, semi-intelligent cattle with thick arms that had curled appendages on the end resembling an elephant’s trunk. Not much taller than me but with squat bodies and pillar-like legs and the fleshy head of a fish. Not attractive by any standards but easily manipulated.
I was dispatched into the far reaches of the cosmos with the notion of determining if specific celestial bodies had mineral deposits. As earth continued to deplete its resources we were now forced to venture further and further into space to search for our needs; carbon, lithium, cobalt, silica. Our ships were equipped with satellite mining probes that would orbit a potential planet or moon, fire a projectile at a possible source which would impact destructively into the surface, create a small crater, and examine what lies beneath down to an impressive depth. When the data was collected it would be sent back home for analyzation. It was my job to pick and choose what were considered the areas with the most potential for finding these chemical cocktails. Having a masters in astrogeology from USC coupled with a pilot’s license landed me this lucrative job.
Discovering a life form at one of these locations was not part of the plan.
When the sampling from the atmosphere distinguished that it was sustainable for humans I landed for a closer inspection. Not necessarily a violation of policy but frowned upon. Even though I could pinpoint sites from the ship and laser target a spot, they did supply me with small trackers that could be planted on the surface and remotely fired upon by a series of commands from my communicator. After several hours of exploring, I had placed a couple trackers and was just situating the third when I saw the creatures milling around the mouth of a nearby cave. Probably frightened into hiding by the landing of my vessel. Although imposing with their stocky build and weird anatomy they appeared harmless.
Eventually a symbiotic relationship formed between us over several weeks. I didn’t scare them off and they brought gifts of food, most of which was inedible and disgusting. However, they included one violet plant that wasn’t entirely unpleasant smelling. I ventured a nibble on a leaf and the hallucinogenic properties were mind-blowing.
I picked up their primitive language quickly and was soon conversing easily with them. I informed them to keep supplying me with the ‘purples’ and we would be fine.
About two months in, happy as a clam and getting high every day, I was challenged by the leader of the tribe who wanted me to participate in some wrestling contest. I think he was fed-up with me being pampered. Well, I had no hope of defeating him so I explained that my influences were far beyond their understanding. As bold a statement that it was, it held no weight with the crowd. I managed to direct their attention in the vicinity of the last tracker I had placed and told them I would show my power. Using the built-in mic, I called down a strike form the probe. When the ground erupted from the blast they scurried into their caves and there were no more challenges.
I discovered, through mutterings, they came to believe I was a holy man who could call down the wrath of the spirits, which they now referred to as Spadehammer, an amalgamation of two of their tool names; a flat primitive shovel for digging dirt and a club used for pounding spikes.
As long as I verbally reinforced my abilities to the masses every couple of weeks, they continued to revere me and bring me my stash. I was living the good life.
Then a transmission crackled in my earpiece. A message from Earth. The analyzation from the probe blast had shown an abundance of material wealth. They would be sending a mining company to begin construction.
My naïve tribe of friends were going to come to despise Spadehammer. I’d better be gone by then.
