by submission | Jun 23, 2026 | Story
Author: Bryan Pastor
Jayce watched it trudge out of the desert.
It took its good old time. Twice now Jayce went in for water. The desert air was dense with heat and blew in swirls making it impossible to hide from. Jayce added a little something to the second drink, something that would help with whatever this was that moved slowly thought the waste.
Jayce had almost fallen asleep leaning on an outbuilding when the noise caught his attention. Clack, skid, clack skid. It was maybe a hundred paces out. Jayce walked slowly, matching the pace. After about forty steps Jayce stopped, holding up his hand. He examined his guest waiting for it to notice hm. It was a bot, nothing factory made. It had a humanoid shape, though not symmetrical, each appendage looked scavenged. The right arm looked familiar, the O-95 unit he had lost last cycle? A leg was an inch shorter than the other.
Jayce decided it wasn’t stopping.
“Hold up there buddy.”
The bot stopped with a rattle and thud, the termination of its movement punctation on what had been a very long sentence.
“I am Royce9Blue, hand of the Master.” It began. Its voice was an unwelcome imitation of the old ship’s computer. “I have been sent here by Master to inventory your hold. It is his duty to know of all available resources should an emergency arise.”
“Not happening.” Jayce replied cutting R9B off before he could continue.
“As stipulated in the Accord of First Fall, Master is the protector of these lands and as such….”
“An accord needs at least two parties to agree to it.” Jayce interrupted, “Since your master decreed these things with no one’s consent then there is no accord.”
Jayce spat in the dust to mark his point.
“Master warned me that there would be resistance. I am prepared to complete my count by force.”
“No, you won’t”
“Say’s who.” The bot challenged.
“Says the imp you’re standing on.”
R9B’s head bobbed rapidly back and forth between looking at Jayce and the ground.
A maniacal laugh rang out, culled from some long-forgotten media. Its head stopped moving.
“I call your bluff.” R9B said
“Suit yourself.” Jayce turned and headed toward the outbuilding for a wheelbarrow.
The was a flash as R9B lifted his mis-aligned leg, though not in a spectrum Jayce could see.
_____
“Hey buddy. You, Okay?” asked the stranger.
Royce9Blue swiveled its head. It was laying on a rocky path. To its left was a steep hillside that rose a dozen meters straight up.
“Looks like you might have taken a fall. Though doesn’t look like you broke anything.”
The stranger helped R9B up. R9B looked at him, there was a moment of recognition, then a spike of interference, sight and voice crackled, then it was gone.
“Do you remember where you are going?” the stranger asked.
“NoooooooooooYeesssssssssssssss.” It stammered; its head started to bob in acknowledgement. “Back to Master. I am to receive orders of a most important nature.”
“Well then off you go.” The stranger gave him a little nudge.
_____
When it was out of sight, Jayce went up to the top of the rise and monitored R9B’s trek home.
After about an hour it disappeared. Jayce became concerned, but then twenty minutes later it reappeared. Two clicks further west.
“Tunnels. I have to start listening for frying bacon.” Jayce made a mental note to set up listening terminals.
Another two hours would go by before the explosion.
by Julian Miles | Jun 22, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light in the sky persists well into the morning, an elongated teardrop that mars the azure of a beautiful sunny day and baffles scientists. The news channels show the 3-minute video every ten minutes or so. Viewing figures remain high.
“This could be a problem.”
Turner grins at Marie.
“Don’t see how. The explosion didn’t leave anything big enough to come back down. Some of our analysts say there wasn’t anything big enough left to burn up noticeably.”
Marie shakes her head, point to the news feed.
“Not the disaster, the aftermath. Look at some of the reactions: it’s like they lost a lover or immediate family. That’s a lot of emotion they’ve been investing. This event could become a trigger.”
Turner rocks his open hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.
“I don’t think so. Most people have religion, they just don’t call it that. The people with something they do or follow ‘religiously’ is not an inaccurate description. What they get from whatever their passion is arguably mirrors what devotees of a particular faith get from their worship.”
Marie considers his argument.
“So you think we’ll see a transition from mass hysteria to communal grieving?”
“Yes. There will be the usual rash of ludicrous theories, encouraged by some media channels, but no violence.”
Chas looks up from their screens.
“I think you’re missing a trigger.”
They both look at him.
Maria nods towards the displays, coincidentally all showing the moment the spaceship exploded almost in synchrony.
“Don’t keep us is suspense.”
Chas raises jazz hands.
“A martyr, a saint, an extra holy ghost, a new revered ancestor. Ascension! Too good for this world and recalled to heaven or planet ten or wherever your gods live. You get the idea.”
“So his divine backers decided he shouldn’t remain in the global shitshow his efforts are partially responsible for?”
Chas barks a laugh.
“Ironic but on-brand.”
Turner chuckles.
“Damn but that’s true. Do the damage, dodge the consequences – celestial edition.”
Marie’s attention is caught by something. She spends a few minutes clicking and typing, then sits back with a sigh.
“Think we’re safe from having a new cult.”
The other two wait for her to elaborate.
She points at her central screen.
“I’ve been running agents to pick up on explanations posted and influencer trends regardless of bias or origin, but with bot filters, obviously.”
Turner nods.
“Reasonable. What are we looking at? Corporate sabotage? Deep-state assassination? Divine ascension?”
Marie looks at Chas, waiting for their reply. They grin.
“Too cheap to get his rockets tested properly?”
Turner snorts.
“Good one. Wish I’d thought of that.”
Marie shakes her head.
“Turner gets a half-point for mentioning assassination.”
He frowns.
“Hey, I got corporate too.”
She grins.
“Yes, but you didn’t mention aliens.”
Turner and Chas chorus.
“What?”
She points at her screen.
“The leading theory – ahead of all the others by at least fifteen points – of it being deliberate intervention rather than an accident is alien assassination. Very specific, too. He was an agent of the lizardfolk so the greys hit his spaceship with one of their control beams and turned his state-of-the-art cold fusion drive into a bomb.”
Turner blows a raspberry before commenting.
“Along with the implication his cold fusion breakthrough wasn’t entirely of human origin?”
Marie nods.
Chas laughs as he rises and heads for the door.
“Conspiracies as usual and no extra gods today, then. First positive result… You guys want coffee?”
Turner raises a hand.
“Two sugars.”
Marie wags a finger.
“Iced tea for me.”
The light in the sky fades.
by submission | Jun 20, 2026 | Story
Author: Marion Lougheed
Sandy poked at the sticky substance on the living room floor. How many times was this stuff going to reappear? She looked at the ceiling, the plush couch, the walls, as if this time she’d pinpoint its origin.
With a sigh, she scraped it off the fake hardwood with a butter knife, then tossed the gunk in the trash. Like green gum, but not gum. It smelled like rotting grass.
When she returned to the living room, the goo had reappeared.
Angry heat shot through her. It was impossible, and yet there it was. This time when she scraped it up, she dropped the goo in a plastic container and carefully sealed it. She stuck duct tape around the lid to ensure no air — or goo — could escape.
The lab test told her little. Some kind of organic matter akin to cellulite. Like fat? She moved her rug to hide the spot where the goo had once again reappeared. Within a week, the whole floor was covered. The goo was crawling up the baseboards.
She closed the door to the living room. There was no lock, so she dragged the chest of drawers from her bedroom to block the way. At least it was contained.
A few days later as she was getting dressed for work, she dropped an earring. It scuttled beneath the bed. She knelt down to feel for it. A familiar grassy smell met her nose, and her groping fingers touched a sticky substance.
That evening, she locked the house door, loaded her suitcase into her car, and followed the signs to the nearest highway.
by submission | Jun 19, 2026 | Story
Author: David Berger
“How much longer do you think we have?” TRX-Dan (a Tyrannosaurus Rex), perhaps the world’s leading astrophysicist, asked.
“About a month,” TRI-Susan (a Triceratops), his trusted colleague said. “It’s coming on fast.”
“I concur,” TRX-Dan said. “And ARG-Lou (an Argeninosaurus) has confirmed it with the big scope in Montana. They heliographed me.”
“Have you notified the President?” TRI-Susan asked.
“Just did. I let them know yesterday when we first spotted it and confirmed its course. That was before we had a good estimate of time.”
“And the Minister of Science, ORT-Li (an Ornithomimus)?”
“Them, too,” TRX-Dan said.
A few hours later President TAL-Stefanie (a Talalarus), met with their Council of Advisors in Squo, the largest city and capital of Laramidia. The President was now in constant contact with TRX-Dan and TRI-Sue.
“There’s no doubt?” TAL-Stefanie had heliographed back to the two scientists. They had confirmed the impending doom. There was no way that the ordinary DINs would be able to survive the collision.
“Then,” the President said, “we’ll need to build bunkers, huts, yurts, caves, tunnels. So some of the smaller Teranurians, with their feathers, will be able to make it through if we take care of them. But none of us, not our clades.”
“We’ll also have to protect the mammalia; otherwise, they’re finished,” the Minister of Zoology, ISI-Pablo , said. “They’re too stupid to survive by themselves.”
“What about the pisces, lizzies and bugs?” the President asked.
“They’ll lose most of their species, but they’ll survive,” ISI-Pablo (an Isisausrus) said.
“We’ll need special structures to preserve seedstocks of the edible plants for the surviving ones,” MAP-Sven (a Mapusaurus), Minister of Agriculture said.
“After everything, it’ll all be gone,” Minister of Culture ZAL-Rasha (a Zalmoxes) said. “All we’ve built.”
“Yes,” President TAL-Stefanie said. “Everything. So let’s get going?”
“TRX-Dan said only a months” The President asked “No chasnge?”
“Thirty and a half rounds,” Minister of Science, ORT-Li said
“It’ll all be gone,” TAL-Stephanie said. “Our cities, our great machines, our plain-wide murals, our carved mountains? And our faith. Who’ll honor the Great Explosion? No one. And all that’ll be left will be our bones, turned to rock like the Old Ones. If only we’d made it to the Red Wanderer, or even just to the Face. Some of us could have survived there.”
“Another hundred spins or so, and we’d have been there,” TSA-Maali (a Tsaganetia), Minister of Transportation said. “There just wan’t enough time.”
Meanwhile, the Roid could already be seen in the night sky.
by submission | Jun 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Elena Tosato
My visor kept flagging gaps: from timestamp T+19:43:12 onward, my sensors had gone dark. The system had filled the void using Steve and Ian’s data, which were both intact. Yes, sir. The implant reconstructed my memories from backups, but my sensors stopped recording after we crossed Hill 37-b11. So they used Steve and Ian’s data.
According to these cross-referenced memories, I killed Wayne. Meaning this is what you can see: Wayne walking away, an altercation, a high-energy discharge, and me heading back, alone. Yes, sir. The maximum-likelihood hypothesis. Two independent sources converging. However, sir. We all passed through the same contaminated environment. Hill 37-b11 may have introduced spurious correlations, and we have no way to correct the data for unknown environmental biases. No, sir. I’m not saying I remember it. I’m saying the data converges, and the data was written into my memories. Yes, sir, I understand. “Killing Wayne” is a well-formed sentence in natural language. But past that hill, well-formed sentences don’t guarantee referents. Yes, sir, I’m a linguist. For the mission, that’s correct. No, sir, no contact. Excuse me? No, as far as I know there was no friction between me and my companions, with Ian and Steve. We weren’t friends, but no one up there can afford to have friends. Wayne was a hard man. He was the same way with everyone. But I always considered his conduct appropriate, sir. It was. None of us ever filed a code violation against Wayne.
So there’s the question of motive, sir. The reconstructed memories suggested growing tension between me and Wayne. But that’s not sufficient evidence under any interpretive framework. I would propose the presence of an external synchronization agent. I’ll explain: my alleged words were nearly identical to those attributed to Steve in a different sequence. Sir, the data suggests that Ian’s and Steve’s sensor synchronization signatures align too cleanly after the hill.
No, sir. I’m not saying someone else did it. My memories, sir. It’s not me, it’s my memories. The system minimizes error by assigning the action to me, because that’s how it reduces the divergence between Steve and Ian. I could posit an unobserved event that accounts for the discrepancies without attributing fault to any human agent. If the resulting error is smaller, then I… No, sir. I’m not saying the system created the event. Words don’t create reality, sir.
Very well — let’s say I killed Wayne. Sir, the problem is that the sentence assumes “I,” “killed,” and “Wayne” maintain stable identities across the hill. Which is an unproven assumption. You see, sir, if Wayne’s memories were also reconstructed, you would most likely end up with a version in which he doesn’t die, or dies differently. The killing would become a family of narratives, pairwise compatible but not all consistent at once. Or Wayne isn’t dead. If Wayne still exists, he isn’t in a space our models can describe. No, sir, those were only conjectures. No, sir. I have no next of kin to notify.
by submission | Jun 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Alice reread the last lines on the financial journalist’s blog: “The debt-pocalypse, the credit crash, is coming. Unless.”
Unless. It was almost too perfect. Unless. That tantalizing conjunction of possibility. But, there was no more possibility for this journalist. He was dead. Slumped to the side of his laptop. One rigored hand still on the keyboard.
Detective Alice Rounder let her crime tech, Masynn, finish the imaging of the crime scene: the home office of a lesser-known financial journalist. He was also collecting the dozens of flechettes that had been fired through the open first-floor window. Very few murders were committed with a flechette pistol. And very few financial journalists were killed at their desks.
These simple facts made Alice worry. Because this was the second such execution-style killing of a financial journalist this week. She’d been called to a similar crime scene across town three days ago. Not only were the flechette darts similar, but the journalist who’d been slain was also writing a story on an impending global financial collapse based on runaway national debt.
Unless.
Alice felt sure if she understood that unless, a motive for these two slayings would become clearer. She studied the journalist’s desk. His last actions. One hand on the keyboard. The other clamped onto a worn notebook.
“Clear to search the desk area?” she asked Jasynn.
He gave a thumb’s up and she carefully lifted the journalist’s hand off the notebook. The leather cover was scuffed and scarred. Old. Alice opened it. Her eyes widened the faintest bit.
Unless.
Row after row of neatly handwritten lines of numbers and letters:
756e6c65737320626c6f636b636861696e20746563686e6f6c
7468652063726564697420637261736820697320636f6d696e
57616c6c2053747265657420616e64206d6567612062616e6b
616e6420746865206d6f737420746f206761696e2062792073
666f6c6c6f772074686520636861696e20666f6c6c6f772074
Page after page of the notebook filled with them. Alice knew the lines had to have some meaning, otherwise, why put them down in such crisp columns and rows. She called Jasyn over and handed him the notebook. “Looks like some kind of cipher. This type of encoding make any sense to you?”
He flipped through the pages quickly and handed it back to her. “It’s hashed.”
“Hashed?”
“That’s what data looks like when it’s run through a cryptographic hash function. Hashes are the foundation of blockchain applications. Makes transactions provable and verifiable. Like cryptocurrencies.”
Alice nodded. “So, what’s the purpose of this? Are these lines passwords or something like that?”
Jasynn smiled, “No. This is kinda crazy. Writing down hashes. These lines are what computers read. Not humans. Blockchain is all about creating a digital public ledger of transactions to prevent financial theft and corruption. I can’t tell you what this guy was thinking by handwriting them.”
“Can we feed these lines back into a computer to see what they mean?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard. It’s one-way. Unless this guy,” Jasynn motioned to the murdered journalist, “knows something most cryptos don’t.”
Unless.
A ledger filled with clues. Hidden. Hashed. It could be solved. She owed it to the journalists trying to warn people of a dire financial crisis. She had to find a way to repay that debt. Nothing was blocking her, but uncertainty.
Unless. Unless. Unless.
Alice was ready to run down that rabbit hole.
