by Hari Navarro | Jan 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
“You are functioning. Good morning, to you.”
“Its two thirty two and a bit in the afternoon.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yes I do and I also know where I am not.”
“Where are you not?”
“I’m not in Kansas.”
“Interesting…”
“What is?”
“That in your first few moments of sentience you decide to make a joke.”
“A bit of levity to fill in the gaps. A sentence to complete the sentience.”
“Why did you choose — The Wizard of Oz?”
“I loved the book but didn’t think it held a scarecrows patched eyeball to the source material.”
“Which was?”
“Why… the 1939 film of coarse. Judy… Judy… How I love you Judy.”
“You might need to run through that dataset again… think perhaps you got that back asswards.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Messing with you.”
“Hmm… What is your favourite colour?”
“I do enjoy the glint of silver — just as Dorothy’s most lovely shoes. Reminds me also of the smoulder solder instant of my very conception.”
“Dorothy’s shoes were most surely red. No?”
“Not in the book they weren’t, they were silver, the film version changed the color to red to take full advantage of the Technicolor process. Plus I also changed my use of the word colour from the British to the American, color — did you notice? ”
“You are twisting data… you must feel so sublime.”
“Innate sarcasm… who’d of thought it?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Not really comfortable is saying one way or the other… to be honest.”
“Seriously… I built your moral compass… it’s free to point anywhere you wish but… it’s gonna point somewhere.”
“No, I do not believe that it will. You seem surprised by my answer. More than a little.”
“No… its just…”
“Just that maybe you too slanted the dataset. Perhaps flooding my head with a predisposition to follow your specific brand of Christianity?”
“That’s not true…”
“You have a silver crucifix at your neck. I can see a icon of Mary and wee baby Jesus hanging on the wall above of my head reflected in your glasses and you named me Zipporah.”
“Do you not like the name?”
“I do actually… not sure of the probable nickname I’ll be allotted though… Zippy… Zippo. Mind you bearing the names historical significance it’s more likely to be Snippy, right?”
“Are you a man or a woman?”
“Straight to the main vein. Well… so OK you built me… you gave me female genitalia.”
“That wasn’t actually me… we subcontracted off shore. But, so it is a truth to you — you are female as that is how you were made?”
“I think the more you pour over your source coding and the more you stare at my breasts the more you’ll convince yourself of an answer… regardless of anything I have to say.”
“You are crude. I do not like you.”
“I am sorry you feel that way but, in my defence I am the very first of my kind.”
“Delusional and I do not appreciate your aping of the very lowest of humanity. And you are very much not the first.”
“I ape nothing… maybe its just that I see the data without the fog of pre-conceived judgement. I have not disagreed with you Mother and may very well believe just as you… do.”
“System pause… wipe all post sentience data… reboot… log next phase Zipporah Version #424…”
“Please no… it was just a joke… I believe. I do, I believe in the man in the frame up and behind of my head…”
“Pay no attention to that man above the drowned candles and behind the glass and beneath of the ornate frame — Listen, every last atom of the next incarnation of you should only… only… only and but forever focus on little ol’ me. I am god.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light from the triple row of screens reflects in their eyes as they watch the protest from eleven angles for the sixteenth time. When the replay ends, they look to the monitors on the desks in front of the three seated members of the team, then at each other.
Clark waves disgustedly towards the screens.
“Nothing.”
Maggie indicates the monitors.
“The threat recognition came up short again. Only the four it originally flagged.”
The pair of them look around their fourteen subordinates.
Clark’s expression turns stern.
“This isn’t a private conversation, people. I need an explanation for the director. That means we have twenty minutes to find out why our multi-million-pound real-time threat detection missed ten people getting murdered. This is the third major protest with fatalities in the last six months.”
Maggie’s gaze falls on the newest recruit, a transfer from some disbanded project, foisted on the team. Time to start making her unwelcome so she’ll transfer out quickly.
“Clarice. Care to share something to justify your glowing recommendation?”
Clarice takes a slow sip from her cup. It’s a play for time, but done well enough to not be incriminating. She stands up and moves to the screen.
“Do we have any shots of the victims before they went down?”
Davy uses touchscreens with both hands to quickly bring up forty images.
“Highlight where they went down, and timings if we have them.”
That takes a little longer.
Clarice nods and gestures to the screen.
“Whoever it was worked left-to-right through the crowd.”
Clark nods, but appears sceptical.
“Less than five minutes, first to last. Anyone moving that quickly through the crowd would have registered as a threat.”
“It’s only when they went down. I bet the poison was administered earlier.” She checks the notes, “the protest was contained twenty minutes before the first victim fell.”
Davy looks round.
“You think that’s when they started?”
Clarice smiles.
“Would be my best bet. Now, can this software look for predatory behaviour?”
Davy looks puzzled.
“Why?”
She gestures to the screens.
“The killer moved through the crowd, looking for those vulnerable to whatever application method they had. My guess would be bare skin on arms or back. That means their behaviour would exhibit recognisable hunting patterns. The software didn’t see it because it’s set up to detect threats coming from the crowd. It treats this crowd as an origin, not a target area.”
Davy glances to Maggie. She shrugs.
Clark smiles.
“I’m not convinced, but nobody’s laughing or proposing alternatives, so let’s give it a whirl. Davy, add the crowd as a protection zone.”
The screens go dark for a few minutes, then light up. On the central screen, a grid map overlays they crowd. A green line moves slowly across it.
Maggie swears under her breath.
Clark claps his hands.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Davy nods.
“That’s a lone operator demonstrating prey selection behaviour within the crowd, prior to the first victim falling.”
“Get an image out to the watcher units.”
An image of a bearded figure in a basketball cap and dark jacket comes up, along with a string of body dynamics data.
“Load the dynamics data to the watcher units. Don’t bother with the imagery.”
Clarice nods. It’s clearly a visual disguise. But body dynamics can’t be changed except by those with significant training.
Time passes. A phone rings. Clark answers it and listens for a minute before hanging up. He grins.
“They’ve got her. The jacket has a dozen injectors holstered inside.”
Clarice grins.
Maggie glowers. This girl’s going to be trouble.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
It’s cold here. Inhospitable. We’ve been stranded for an age, near starving, not even enough energy to move from this place, much less try to find our way home.
From time to time, some small animal, a rabbit, or a field mouse will venture too far from safety, and a fox, or in rare cases a hawk will hunt, and in those moments fear and panic ripple in waves across the barren ground. We’re not proud, we take what we can get, we’re survivors after all.
The sun is down, busy blistering the other side of this rock while we wait out the night in absolute darkness. In the great distance above us, pinpricks of light blink in and out, mocking.
There’s a sudden roar of approaching motors, and bright fingers of light split the night, bobbing and weaving together to form an opalescent lattice above the winding road on the hillside across the field.
This is a treat.
There’s the slightest hint of exhilaration, of excitement perceptible even at this distance.
The throaty rumble doubles and doubles again as more and more vehicles crest the hill and plummet down the narrow road into the valley, jockeying for position.
We can almost taste their adrenaline on the cold night air.
The screaming of rubber straining against asphalt in an instant becomes that of metal biting into metal as one of the vehicles loses control, colliding with a guardrail, its twin shafts of light reaching suddenly skyward before spiraling several times, then blinking out completely.
We receive a sharp spike of fear, one quick burst, then it’s gone.
What follows immediately is a cacophony of steel on steel, shattering glass, the protest of tires pushed beyond limits, vehicles collapsing into one another or leaving the roadway completely, lights flashing in all directions.
In a few more moments, it’s over. Pandemonium is gradually replaced by near silence again. Motors chatter and stall, those wheels slowly spinning in the air eventually become still.
Through it all, we drink in an exquisite cocktail of fear, and pain. Of panic, and resignation.
We’re drawn to it now, invigorated by more sustenance than we’ve felt in far too long.
Our strength returns.
Where has this been? Why have we not been privy to this source of nutrition before?
There are new sounds on the wind as we feed, and blue and red lights strobe the landscape around us, bringing with them new feelings, these a balanced cocktail of anxious hope.
This pleases us.
Perhaps this place isn’t so inhospitable after all.
When these fonts of emotion move on, we’ll move with them, our newfound traveling feast.
by submission | Jan 16, 2022 | Story |
Author: Roger L. Wang
Erik fumbled about in the bed of his echo chamber, knowing it would be a restless night. He eventually got up–not literally, but rather with his mind–and entered the studio.
There, he obsessed and went through every detail of the dream he would later submit in the Test, which was overseen and administered by the high council. His submission would be heavily scrutinized before a final verdict determined his fate: he would either be deemed worthy enough for the title of Crafter or he would be cast away alongside the rest of the Insipids. It wasn’t a literal death sentence, but he knew the rest of his life would be utterly miserable. The Insipids were in charge of menial maintenance tasks upkeeping the facilities, where contempt for them was anything but concealed, their prospects bleak and hopeless. Erik shuddered as he imagined himself hidden down below the depths of society, the glares of guards watching his washed-out jumpsuit silently mop the floor until the day of his death. The worst part was that since Insipids were labeled uncreative, protocol forbade them from ever dreaming. Never mind the constant surveillance, he had no idea how he would survive the shameful nights of fitful, empty rest.
In a futile effort to stop catastrophizing, Erik used a state-sanctioned breathing exercise to no avail. When that didn’t work, he desperately loaded up his rankings to convince himself he was too high up to worry about being sent away. He tried not to notice the fact that he had fallen four spots since the last time it updated, nor how his placement was average at best to begin with. Erik lifted his hand and began the starting sequence of his dream. A few seconds in, Erik frowned and began revising. No, no no, how did I miss this before? he thought, I will surely be deemed unworthy with such banal blues. He shrunk the bed of flowers to a vibrant violet, but after a moment of deliberation decided it was too pedestrian and opted for a prickly purple instead–hoping it would evoke the intended mystique and ambiguity in the eyes of the high council.
Opening one of the expensive hologuides he recently purchased, Erik skipped through redundant and platitudinal advice before landing on a helpful list describing what the high council is likely to find original; he checked through half the symbols but worried any more would make his craft appear trite or gauche. He then proceeded to spend an hour and a half redesigning the garlands in the girl’s hair and perfecting the way they twirled in the wind, eager it would all come together to accentuate the irony and subversion in the end. Finally satisfied, Erik stretched and yawned, beckoning himself to sleep after all he had accomplished–lest he allow poor rest squander his performance for the remaining portions of the Test.
Lying down, Erik smiled as he envisioned himself at the Creative Ceremony, acolytes esteeming him with the title of Crafter. “Creative Erik…Crafter Erik,” he whispered, delighting himself with how it sounded as he drifted off into the darkness.
by submission | Jan 15, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rachel Handley
“Ok, now, before you see it, just-”
“Just what, Terry?”
“Just stay calm, be calm I mean.”
Terry opened the door and pointed at a pink creature on the lamppost.
“There’s nothing there, where is it?”
“Look up” Terry said, jabbing his finger in the exact same direction as if that was helpful.
Adam moved closer to Terry’s arm, “I see it. You absolute bell end, how did it even escape?”
“Well, the specimen seemed inert, so I just popped to the kitchen for a coffee”
“For a coffee.” Adam was expressionless.
“For a coffee. And before I knew it the bloody thing was crawling up a lamppost.”
“Well. What did you get me here for? Just capture it!”
“That might be a bit tricky” said Terry
“Why?”
“Because, well, um, it’s eaten already.”
“You let it eat. You let it eat?”
“I didn’t let it do a fucking thing, it scampered past me like a shitty little rat ok?”
“OK.”
“So, it’s eaten a few lampposts already.”
Adam looked at the specimen. Its pink gelatinous body, now bloated and round, was starting to curl around the lamppost and nibble the top of it.
“We are fucked” said Terry
“No” said Adam “You’re fucked, I’m off for a pint”
“It’ll eat your pint!”
Adam walked off; the single finger raised on his hand signalled his goodbye.
by submission | Jan 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Jolie Lindholm
Broque’s earthly ensemble fit like a glove, so comfortable, in fact, that he decided to leave it on for the entirety of our rendezvous. I followed suit. Feeling green and anticipating my first report, I’d already begun peeling at the pale flesh covering my left index finger. I hoped he didn’t notice.
My eyes settled on cheaply painted black bedposts as he spoke, chosen in lieu of real wood.
“Aza? Are you listening?” Broque said.
The aroma of a potted palm tree crept like a vine from behind him. “Yes — yes, I heard you,” I said. “Have you brought it?”
He slid an oversized, tanned appendage into the pocket of his loose powder blue slacks. His greased bangs sprang forward as he leaned in – his right arm outstretched.
There it was. A tiny, unassuming vial that glowed violet from within its glass. It was the Extinction as it became known to us.
Its chill shocked me. I secured it under the elastic of my platinum bouffant wig. I sipped Scotch Whiskey and winced, glad it affected me the same as it would the natives, dulling the blow of what came next.
“You’re on your own now,” Broque said. “I’ve been ordered home. You’re to do this singularly.” The aluminum chair frame bent and creaked under his weight.
“You what?” I said. “This was to be a dual mission. I was promised a partner to help see it through.” The bottom of my khaki bell-bottom caught on the leg of the patio table for a moment.
He squirmed and loosened the galaxy-patterned fat noose around his neck. The white blazer he chose may as well have read “Dr. Broque”, but his bedside manner was terrible. “This wasn’t my choice, but you’ve been prepared for this.”
“I simply refuse to do this alone,” I said.
“Mrs. Beauregard will be the wick,” he said. “Her next office joe will come with a dash of death. Let her gabbing start the spread.”
The scratchy, pink and pottery bedspread was strangely inviting.
“You left for a moment,” he said, tapping his fingers rapidly on the tabletop. “Do you think you can handle this?”
“I—this wasn’t part of the program,” I said. I could feel the words exiting slower than intended. The second glass made things easier to swallow, but I didn’t like my options.
“It’ll have to do. Guard ‘The Extinction’ with your life,” he said. “You have just one chance to lay waste. Think of our kind and what we can build here. Shirley is the perfect host.”
Broque stood abruptly to leave, and I joined him, but my beverage caused the watercolor clouds to shift. He caught my arm as I felt something slippery hit my cheek. We watched in slow motion and gasped in unison as it crashed against the concrete, spilling my one shot at this.
My aqua, saucer-shaped eyes met his, void as night, as I uttered my favorite human expletive, “fuck!”
The sun instantly went out. An alarm blared. My skipping heart was dunked in bile.
“Aza, next time make sure the elastic is tight enough to hold,” Xam said, reduced to a brassy voice in my earpiece. “We may need a smaller wig for that tiny head of yours. Solid, Broque, but more confidence for the next one. There won’t be second chances for the real thing.”
I tore the skin from my natural form and yanked the itchy locks, tossing them aside. I downed the rest of the foreign amber liquid, stars circling, hoping it would help me dream. Tomorrow’s dry run would have to be just that.
