by submission | Jun 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Torion Oey
The Future is Now.
Dwight Crosby frowned, narrowing his eyes at the bold text that had appeared on his eyeglasses. Despite his conscious distaste for the clichéd ad, the text enlarged and filled his vision, an automatic process resulting from a preference he unwittingly agreed to in the EULA when big tech rolled out the TechSpecs. He stopped walking down the sidewalk and internally scolded himself while the ad played across his lenses. Convenience was one thing, though there were plenty of drawbacks to having his preferences neurally uploaded to the public Cloud.
The owner of the company who was the innovator that created the TechSpecs appeared and began to silently talk, subtitles appearing at the bottom. Dwight didn’t use earpieces that’d remove the need to read, as he already felt detached enough from the real world. Tiredly, he began to read the corpocratic innovator’s spiel.
Hello, everyone. I am pleased to announce a new project that ensures our survival—and—our prospect to thrive. Thanks to TechSpecs, much of our research has already been collected in the public Cloud. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—
Dwight tore his glasses off, disgusted. Having his walk to work interrupted was one thing, but learning of yet another way big tech was using his daily life as a means to some end filled him with a silent anger. EULAs, he thought spitefully, then noticed all the way down the sidewalk people were similarly stationary. Their TechSpecs’ darkened lenses signifying they, too, were observing something digital.
He turned in place, all too aware of the lone scuffing noise his shoes made on the concrete. He came to face his dimmed reflection in a plexiglass window, one of hundreds that lined the buildings on each street. Putting a hand over the front of his suit, his reflection doing the same, he breathed in deeply. There’s no reason to get worked up, he thought.
Finally, something moved. He turned. A man wearing a deep blue business suit much like his own was slowly taking off his TechSpecs. The man threw them on the ground and stomped on them repeatedly.
A horrible crash of breaking glass resounded, as if all the upstairs windows along the multileveled plexiglass buildings had shattered.
Terrified, Dwight looked up while crouching and covering his face, though none of the windows were broken. Confused, he looked back down at the man. He lay crumpled and unmoving on the sidewalk. Dwight ran to him. Lenses of others nearby became transparent, reacting to the wearers’ conscious fear at the sound. Dwight knelt and shifted the man onto his back. His eyes were open and staring at nothing.
Frantically, Dwight shoved his TechSpecs back on and urged the network to display medical information while it simultaneously called for emergency medical services. Following the directions on his lenses, he checked for breathing. Then, a pulse. Nothing. He followed the directions for CPR, starting with chest compressions. It was no use. The man was dead.
Standing, he took a step back. A horrible thought occurred to him, and he quickly urged his own TechSpecs to go back to the ad that was playing. The lenses dimmed and the corpocratic innovator reappeared in a blurred unmoving image behind huge text displaying the name of the project that allegedly would ensure the survival of humanity.
LifeLink—a virtual you, virtually you.
by Julian Miles | Jun 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’ve been a fool for many things, but she who survived the cyber-conversion with me has always been my only weakness. That was true even before we fought and bled alongside each other for six years. At first, we kept a distance. When we both got our own squads, the need for restraint went too. We quickly came to sharing quarters.
You were always the pragmatic one. I was too much of an optimist, even in the midst of a war that saw planets stripped of their atmospheres and entire armies sacrificed. We swore we’d survive; swore we’d stay loyal – to each other, at least.
Then came Mohgren, and the infamous order to retreat. On the surface, all we knew was that every line to command went dead. They left us to fight and die. Unbeknownst to all bar command, the retreat was sector-wide. The Danshe had managed to get portal ships into place at Lagrange points in eleven systems. Their reinforcements were pouring through in numbers we couldn’t hope to defeat.
“Seven years, Cass. I spent seven years crawling around on Mohgren, more swamp creature than soldier.”
I see a tear start from the corner of an eye.
“For five years after that, I worked my way across human-held space. I tracked down every ship that got away from Mohgren. Every. Single. One. You weren’t rostered on any of them. None of your squad were.”
You nod.
“Two years ago, an old skipper told me he’d seen a Peryton cloak up in the Mohgren system before the fleet withdrew. There were no orders to cloak. Orders were to save power for retreat manoeuvres. Took me a year to find that Peryton. Still had Scalzy in command. Looked like he’d seen a ghost when I sat down opposite him. He told me this crazy story about you getting all het up when the retreat order came. Said you lost it completely, talked the whole squad into deserting. Saved their lives by doing so, because we all know what happened to that fleet when it arrived in the Latullus system.”
You wave for me to sit. Unconsciously graceful as ever.
“He said you just lit out on your own at the first port they hit, never even said goodbye. Nobody had a clue where you went. Took me a while, but I remembered what you’d said about your childhood.”
You tilt your head and smile.
“Madagascar.”
Your voice is hoarser, but still the one I fell for.
“Took me a while to get here, and I’ll not interrupt your new life for long. I just want you to tell me one thing: why?”
I’m waiting for a flood. Of tears, or apologies, maybe both. But there’s no guilt in your eyes. Instead, you hold out a hand, and not towards me.
She comes into the room, lean and barefoot, wearing your old off-duty bodysuit, sleeves rolled up, her wiry hair tied back. I see the circuitry that webs her arms and face, the sensors in the fingertips she extends to you. There’s a smudge of dirt on her button nose. When she turns to look at me, I see the smudge extends along her cheekbone. I recognise it. I get the same when I try to rub my nose while I’m work-
Her eyes are mine. It’s like looking into the eyes of a younger me.
“Sarah, this is your dad.”
There’s no hesitation. She lunges and wraps her arms about me.
“Mum said you’d find us!”
I extend a hand to Cass. No more explanations.
by submission | Jun 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Joshua Daniels
10
Was how many years Jim and Sally were together before the Global Aeronautical Service called ‘all intrepid adventurers willing to travel to the great unknown!’
9
Was how many astronauts were finally whittled down for the ‘Voyage of a Lifetime!’ as the papers were calling it.
Jim, the only one from England, was asked how he was feeling by the papers, ‘I’m over the moon!’ he said.
Sally rolled her eyes.
8
Was how many months it took travelling at light speed to reach the strange nebulous lightning cloud that had first appeared on the G.A.S. radar over a year ago. The last video message Jim had from the fam was of Sally saying how much she missed him, the big doofus, and of little Elena doing her alien babble as they called it. They lost contact after that.
7
Was how many alien aircraft entered Earth’s atmosphere. Large, sprawling, tentacled ships – partially built of some unknown space rock and partially of viscous spongy membrane.
6
Was the number of strange alien noises sounded by the invaders. Expert code analysts feverishly worked to understand the message as Earth was being reduced to dust.
5
Was how many sleeping pills Sally gave Flora as she sang her nursery rhymes. They could barely be heard over all the screaming outside.
4
Was how many years had passed before The Odyssey finally returned to Earth. They were greeted by a welcome party of debris and human bones.
3
Was how many years it took Jim to get back home. He walked pretty much the whole way, foraged on whatever vegetation hadn’t been obliterated by cosmic laser rays.
2
Was how many human skeletons were lying huddled together on Elena’s bed. Jim fell to his knees and felt himself shatter to a million pieces.
1
Was how many notes Sally had left him just on the off chance he was still alive, and the even unlikelier chance he made it back home.
She told him how she loved him and missed him and how even a whole universe could never keep them apart. Elena had smeared pen ink at the bottom. How much she had grown since he left. From her alien babble to her alien scribble.
Strange symbols that Sally had probably thought nothing of. But Jim knew. He who had travelled through unfathomable dimensions and learnt the tongue of superior beings.
He read the symbols out loud producing the same sounds that had so terrified humankind on their day of reckoning.
A message sent through time and space to the lips of a child.
A warning she had tried to tell him all those years ago, and one he had failed to heed:
Those who shall invade, shall be invaded yet.
Blast Off!
by submission | Jun 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Richard Jordan
The truth is you can’t tell much about a world from orbit. You can scan as much as you like, you can send out probes and even scouts – and we do all these things – but unless you set foot on the surface yourself, you can never really understand a world. I am an explorer. I want to know what makes worlds tick, what makes them unique. That is what drives me through space, searching for new frontiers and strange planets. There is always something different and wonderful about a world – an organism, a quirk of the weather, maybe a geological formation. Some planets heave with life, some are desiccated husks, but they all have their own…style. Their own beauty. Take Earth, for example.
Billions upon billions of organisms, crammed onto a tiny blue-brown speck orbiting an unremarkable star. Unique cultures, a vivid history, bizarre creatures. My kind of world, bustling and confusing and so very alive. And the mineral wealth? Don’t even get me started. Huge concentrations of everything a civilisation needs. This is a wonderful planet. From orbit you can look into the eye of a hurricane as it sweeps silently across a vast ocean. You can track the migratory patterns of millions of animals, or focus on a single human struggling through a city crowd. Of course, none of the organisms below have any idea of how to use the planet properly. The dominant life-form (bipedal, close-minded, prone to violence,) spends much of its time engaged in bickering, politics and war, or in pointless ephemera – wasting the planet’s resources and their own time. Their defences are painfully inadequate. They are so concerned with killing one another that they have not considered any other threats. Their satellite system looks mostly in rather than out – a fitting metaphor for this myopia. I have been here for years, cruising amongst the orbital detritus and observing without their knowledge. I know them well, and I have even visited the surface. This isn’t strictly in line with protocol, of course, but I couldn’t help myself. The planet is so rich that I had to experience it for myself. I am an explorer, but I am just the first. The others are, shall we say, differently motivated. I have catalogued and collected. I have preserved what I can.
To my regret, my time is up.
My work is so often bittersweet. I come to love the places I discover – their creatures and their quirks – but this planet is too ripe a fruit to sit unmolested for long. I must depart ahead of their arrival. I cannot bear to watch.
I am an explorer, but my brothers and sisters are hungry. The Hive must feed.
by submission | Jun 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
The day had been long and busy. I was on the Marsport Metro on my way home. The pilotless shuttle shook and rattled and made its usual stops.
The time was late, and not many people were on board. At one of the stops, a woman of thirty-eight or thirty-nine entered. She dressed like a twentieth-century factory worker. She wore a blue headscarf, a very plain grey dress, and dusky vinylon shoes. She was carrying a fishbowl.
The woman sat by the shuttle door. We were across from each other. The doors closed, and the shuttle started.
I saw the fishbowl was cracked. There was nothing inside. I wondered where she was taking it. The shuttle made a few stops. The few other passengers disembarked each time. After a while, the woman and I were the only ones left.
She sat still the whole time, looking at the fishbowl, and she started to cry. I thought she was afraid to be alone with me.
“Sister, it’s okay,” I said gently. “I’m a father, with a wife and a three-year-old daughter.”
The woman did not respond. The shuttle made another stop, but she took no opportunity to get off. She was still crying. The shuttle resumed its course and was shaking.
“Sister, are you okay?” I asked. She stopped crying. The tears dried and stained her cheeks.
“You must be assured,” she muttered downwardly. “You must be assured with your daughter and your wife.”
I felt I should speak honestly. “I’ve had my share of hard times and worries,” I said. “They’ve affected me over the years, and my health is not very good, but I love my wife and my daughter.”
She was quiet. A faint twist passed on the left side of her face. Maybe I said too much, I considered. She began to caress the fishbowl.
“What’s your work?” she asked indistinctly.
“I’m a mineral trader operating from Albor Tholus,” I answered. “I buy and sell to various habitable satellites.”
“I’m a sewing factory worker from Terra Sirenum,” she volunteered briefly.
She was not afraid of me, I could tell, but she still seemed troubled. The fishbowl sat on her lap. The shuttle was swaying. I asked as before, “Sister, are you okay?”
“There were two goldfish inside,” she said slowly, “but I dropped it, and now, the goldfish are gone.”
Was that all it was? I thought to myself. Why should she be so sad? Could she not buy another fishbowl and get two other fish? So I said in some uplift, “Oh, sister, don’t worry. It’s such a little thing.” I reached into my shirt pocket, and I offered her a renewable credit voucher, assuming she was in need.
The woman looked at the smart card in my hand, and for the first time on the ride, she turned her gaze at me. Her face was worn with anguish, and her eyes were like an empty sea. She looked down, into the bowl. I felt a turn in my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She did not say anything, and I did not know if I should speak again. The shuttle shook and rattled and made its usual stops. The lights flickered. We came to a stop near Alba Patera, and the shuttle doors opened. The woman got up from her seat, holding the fishbowl.
by submission | Jun 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Albertson
The doctor is sat trimming his nails with a scalpel when I float into the surgery. He glances up and grunts, nodding his head towards a bed covered in a white sheet. The entire surgery is white, sterile, except for one wall which is glass. And behind the glass, water.
I nudge my levchair over to the bed and push myself out. My arms tremble at the physical activity, but only for a moment, and then I’m laid on the bed, the gel contouring to my body. I glance over at the doctor again, wondering when he is going to start.
He reaches over and flicks a small switch, not even looking up at me. In the water behind the glass, something shudders to life.
“You want to pick one?” The doctor asks, still only looking down at his nails.
“Pick?”
“Yeah,” the doctor glances up. “Oh, your last transplant was a few years ago, right? Custom? Yeah, they’re off-the-shelf now. Non-immunogenic, guaranteed. So you can pick. If you want.”
The glass of the aquarium wall tracks my eyes and magnifies. I see them swimming through the water, which surely can’t just be water. Fists of blind muscle pulsing this way and that, long veiny fins trailing behind them. As my eyes settle on one, a silvery mechanical spider detaches itself from the wall of the aquarium and slinks through the liquid. It snares one of the swimming fish with two of its legs and uses the others to clamber to a small porthole in the glass.
The doctor flicks another switch and the porthole opens, the spider pushing through with the fish in its grasp. The spider click-clacks across the floor, dripping fluid behind it. It crawls up the side of the bed and sits above me.
“You don’t mind the machine doing it?” The doctor asks. He’s picking at a hangnail on his thumb.
“Umm, no…” I say.
“Good. You like bacon? Might not want to eat it for a few days.”
“Oh right,” I say. Maybe because of the salt?
A long, glinting knife flicks out of one of the spider’s forelimbs. It uses the blade to slice off the fins of the fish. It trims around long, white, fatty deposits along the underside of the fish, cores out a few orifices and holds it up, as if inspecting it.
A heart. My new heart.
A small pinprick as the spider numbs the skin of my chest. Almost instantly, I can no longer feel it sat there. It’s legs move, tapping on my skin, and I feel them only as a dull pressure. A razor flicks out and shaves a long smooth stripe above my sternum.
The spider rears up and a small eye opens in its underbelly. As the laser jets out, slicing open my skin and the bone of my ribs, I catch a smell. I realise what the doctor ment, and my stomach rolls.
The smell of my cauterised flesh is just like bacon.
