by Julian Miles | Dec 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
When I crash-landed here, I thought my life was over. Sure, it might take a while to actually end, but nobody would be looking for a freak-chance survivor from the Fourth Battlegroup, who only avoided sharing their grisly fate by a twist of luck.
I’d been testing modifications to my jump wings: all the Conqueror-class powered walkers have them. There I was, skimming along parallel to the hull of the Shiva when something massive blew holes clean through it, nearly killing me too. By luck, I made it to clear space. From there I watched the Verbt, the Shango, and the Kresnik suffer the same fate.
I couldn’t even see the enemy! Either they were using a new type of long-range weapon, or they actually had the cloaking technology the high-ups had been having nightmares over.
As I watched the fighter squadrons from the Fandango and the Tarantella fall foul of some smaller varieties of whatever had taken out the big ships, I set my tactical computer to monitor and learn, then waited for an opportunity.
Watching a hundred thousand people die without chance of retaliation was the worst four minutes of my life. The enemy weren’t even assisting life skiffs. Everything of ours was blasted without mercy.
Until my dying day, I will swear that the creature who piloted my Conqueror out of that slaughter was some divine ghost possessing my body. I have never been that good, nor will I ever come close.
Something catches my eye, interrupting my reminiscence. There’s a little flag waving down below. I give a thumbs-up and stomp my way towards the mountain range in the distance. As I step across the gorge, I give the slack-jawed troops manning the barricade halfway across the single bridge a jaunty salute.
Stepping up the butte to loom over the fortress that controls access to the pass far below, I casually backhand the roof off of the tallest tower, then cross my arms and wait.
The Kalashdig had been losing a genocidal war against the armies of Mastilig. Then, one night at the end of a long story-circle, petitioning the spirits for aid, a gigantic meteor fell from the heavens and plunged into the lake beyond their hills.
By the time they got there, I was sitting next to the campfire I’d made on my Conqueror’s chest plate, grilling some of the fish stranded on the shore by the tidal wave of my arrival. In a world where a big man is 20 centimetres tall, a 180-centimetre woman who pilots a 10-metre-tall war machine is something that can only be comprehended as a gift from the spirits above.
Gashdy reminds me of my grandpapa. He’s an irascible old elder who leads the surviving Kalashdig with a heady mix of cunning and bravado, backed by coarse wit and courage. We spent weeks drawing pictures on the side of the Conqueror and laughing while I learned their language.
The fortress lowers its flags and runs up a single black pennon. Another surrender. I pulverised the first fortress and it’s army. Ever since then, they roll over every time.
Returning to camp, I leave the Conqueror with its solar panels deployed and swing down to join everybody.
“Crazy granddaughter from the stars, they are finally sending envoys to sue for peace.”
“Have somebody barbeque me a steer, Gashdy. I better eat or I’ll be in no mood to be polite during negotiations.”
He cackles and calls for food. I turn to watch the sunset. Of all the places to find a home.
by submission | Dec 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Connor Long Johnson
It began in 2049 as the Asimov Initiative and ended a decade later with the release of the Mother AI – the most advanced program in human history and man’s biggest undertaking since the Manhattan Project.
Everyone wanted M.O.T.H.E.R. The brains behind her promised that she would solve all of our problems. Traffic would never block our drives again, the trains would run on time, all the time, and the possibilities for the future would be endless. “Mother Knows Best!” was the slogan plastered on every billboard and webpage from Seattle to Sydney.
What’s more. She was a free download worldwide.
Uptake was incredible, with over four billion downloads in the first week of release and a further two billion a month later. The Genius Company, the good people behind M.O.T.H.E.R., raked in billions in revenue, and the acquisitions of Google and Meta six months before the release of the A.I. meant that the entire world was eating out of the company’s hands. Mother had spread her wings and was flying across the world.
Though now it seems more like syphilis spreading in a whore house.
Two months after its launch a North Korean cyber-attack took M.O.T.H.E.R. offline for three days, then soon after that a Russian/American mission to the I.S.S. almost spilled into international conflict after it was discovered that the Russians were intending to install software into M.O.T.H.E.R. that would allow them to survey the United States from Orbit.
A long line of abuses came and went before the inevitable happened.
She began to change.
Being initially designed for personal use rather than business, government, or military capability, M.O.T.H.E.R was designed to look, learn and implement changes to change our lives for the better.
In a way, she did just that.
The changes were subtle at first, a different route to work was recommended or a change in diet to reduce cholesterol. But then they became more invasive, M.O.T.H.E.R. began sending resignation letters when she considered someone unqualified for a job, she would prevent people with poor medical records from ordering processed foods and would suspend all air travel if pollution levels got too high.
That was three years ago.
But things are better now, I have a new job, working in Data Entry at the Genius Labs, I live only 10 minutes from my office in a small place that’s perfect for me and my new children are much better than the ones I had before. Everything I have is thanks to her.
I guess M.O.T.H.E.R. really does know best.
by submission | Dec 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Because they’d all turned up for book club and Kitty’s apartment was on the compact side, Jo-Anne’s Companion had to be left out in the rain.
There were cries of appreciation at the period detail. There was even a bulky TV set in the corner.
“Who recommended The Affair?” Taylor wanted to know.
“Though fads like that can date pretty quickly,” said Jeanie. Because of a backstory about majoring in English at college, Jeanie’s comments always sounded like the final word.
“It’s not just a fad,” protested Jo-Anne. The Affair was Jo-Ann’s suggestion, for obvious reasons.
They’d experimented with gossip about Jo-Anne before, and they might have tried out an Awkward Moment, but Kitty bustled in from the kitchenette with real-looking snacks, artfully displayed in a variety of styles and colours.
“Have we got round to No Way to Love a Starship yet?” Kitty wanted to know.
Kitty’s storyline included a husband who worked for Boeing. So the choice of sci-fi was most likely his, hinting that Kitty was meek and secretly unhappy.
Book club was a forum for trying out personalities, to help them to organize data and choose an identity out of the haphazard information that surrounded them, after all, choice was the foundation of consciousness.
Anger was the theme tonight, and talk was getting heated. Taylor thought the mixed sentience relationship in The Affair was unnatural. Jo-Anne was outraged.
While they argued back and forth, Kitty confided in Jeanie. “I’m the one who hasn’t read the book.”
They’d all been issued with a glass of domestic red, which was Taylor’s turn to spill, and soon Kitty was kneeling down with cleaning products.
“The Affair might seem sensational,” Jo-Anne said, trying to pick up the thread again. “Why don’t we just ask Tucker?”
Tucker was the name of her Companion.
So they moved chairs and bunched up on the studio-couch and invited him in.
Jo-Anne had chosen well. He wasn’t that much smaller than them, but gave the impression of being delicate and easily broken, and Jo-Anne had dressed him like Don Johnson in Miami Vice. His hair was beaded with damp from the rain and he shivered a little.
Jeanie was about to say what a realistic touch that was, then realised it was real.
Tucker knew all of their names and backstories. It seemed he had a lot of spare time while Jo-Anne worked, so to share Jo-Anne’s interests, he read the book club choices.
“You want my opinion?” He sounded surprised.
Well, wasn’t The Affair really a fairy tale about a knight rescuing a princess from a life that imprisoned her?
He was good-looking and seemed devoted to Jo-Anne, but it was obvious he wasn’t the fastest chip on the motherboard.
As they were tidying away props at the end, Tucker touched Jeanie’s hand.
“See?” he murmured. “I’m not cold like a machine. You should try out a Companion. Give me a call.”
The signal for anger/distaste played across Jeanie’s silver face.
“Remember,” Jeanie called out as everyone left, and stared at the human. “I’m hosting next week and the theme is secrets.”
“Something wrong, Tucker?” Jo-Anne inquired later.
“They frighten me.”
“I’ve told you before,” said Jo-Anne firmly. “Don’t worry about the book club. I’m the only one that can have you put down.”
by submission | Dec 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Majoki
When Misty smiled that big smile of hers I could see the cancer so much more clearly. It was hard not to say anything.
I mean what do you tell the thirty-something supermarket cashier you see a few times a month and only know her name because it’s pinned to her blouse? “Hey, thanks for giving me the store discount on my Cool Ranch Doritos, even though I don’t have a coupon. And by the way, Misty, you should really get a blood test soon because you’ve got a serious case of lymphoma.”
How do you think that would go over with Misty?
She might say, “What are you, some kind of doc? An oncologist intern? A Dr. Oz wannabe?” More likely, she’d just stare through me and charge me full price for my damn Doritos.
Because I’m not a doctor. Or any kind of medical professional. Hell, I barely passed Biology in high school. No, I’m a professional poker player. Just the kind of trusted source for handing out a seemingly random cancer diagnosis.
So how do I know Misty has lymphoma? I know because I’ve seen it before. A close cousin of mine had it about seven years ago. I wish I could’ve diagnosed it then. But I didn’t know what I was looking at. I only noted his facial colors changing over the course of a few months. I didn’t know what it meant then. I do now.
You see, I see the world in a very different way. I’m a tetrachromatist. I don’t know if that sounds impressive to you. I’ll just tell you that it’s a rare condition. It means I see about 99 million more colors than you.
For the guy who barely passed Biology, I know I’ll sound like a geek here, but I’m really not. I had to read up on a lot of this because I needed to understand why I saw things other folks didn’t. Most humans are trichromatic, they have 3 cone cells, photoreceptors, in their retinas which allow them to distinguish about a million color variations. Tetrachromatists like me have 4 cones, and that fourth photoreceptor means my fellow retinal mutants and I can register around 100 million colors.
Yeah, that’s a lot, but before you get too excited, a dragonfly has about 10 times that capacity, plus it can see ultraviolet light. And it can see in slow motion, six times as many frames per second, as humans do. Yeah, a dragonfly’s got real super power vision. It could see bullets coming at it. I’d only be able to see the richer hues of my own blood after the bullets struck me.
I’m providing you that little peek into optic science (and my less than upbeat nature), so you understand that what I see isn’t magic; it isn’t x-ray vision; it’s only a higher level of discernment. Like sound frequencies humans can’t hear. You know, dog whistles and all that.
The simple truth is that everyday I’m blindsided by color. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes annoying. Sometimes very troubling. Like seeing Misty’s cancer or noticing the semi-silvering tones of fault lines in fatiguing metal holding up a pedestrian overpass.
Being hyper perceptive to color sometimes pushes me close to the edge. Sometimes, it gives me a needed edge.
That’s why I’m a professional poker player. Everybody has tells when they are nervous, excited, pissed. The best poker players mask their tells well. But there are tells and there are tells. And I can discern tells in other players that no one else can. Such as a slight capillary dilation that minutely flushes the lips when a player lands a helpful card. And the tip of the nose deepening a micro shade when a player draws a disappointing card.
Yup. That’s what minor mutants like me do with their semi-super powers. Win at cards. It’s a living. Except for the whole Misty-cancer thing and all the other troubles you can’t see, but I do. I guess that’s pretty much life. It’s mostly about what we don’t see, especially in ourselves.
That’ll blindside you for sure.
What’s the good of seeing the hundred million hues of a rainbow when you cloud it by inaction?
If I’m the one asking that question, I should see enough to answer it. Seems like I need to do a lot more than win at cards.
Seems like a good time to go to the grocery store for some Doritos. And a conversation. Time to see past the blindness of complacency. Time to see the more than 7 billion shades of humanity. Time for me to color outside the lines.
by submission | Dec 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Feeling drained, Walter Banks decides to prepare a homemade energy drink. As he tries to find a recipe online, he interrupts his search every few seconds to check his phone for email, headlines, sports, weather and more. Before he knows it, a couple hours have passed. He tells himself to stop squandering so much time and finds a drink he thinks will pep him up.
After he blends green tea, lemon, honey and broccoli, he takes the beverage to his recliner and lays his phone just out of easy reach on the side table. As he sips the drink, the phone starts chirping one notification after another. Walter tries to resist but finally gives in. When he looks, the words “Hold me” stack up multiple times on the screen. His heart skips thinking the message is from the dating app where he’s uploaded his profile. But when he signs in, there’s nothing more recent than the one-star rating from his last date and her comments. “The jerk kept talking to his phone. Not ON his phone but TO it.” What does she know? Walter thinks. “As long as I keep you charged and don’t drop you in the toilet, you won’t betray me will you?” he says.
As soon as he lays his phone back on the table, the notifications start again. He creates a reminder to see whether his operating system is out of date and holds the phone as he finishes his drink. He notices the battery is at 100 percent, which is odd because he hasn’t charged it in days.
Despite drinking the concoction, Walter can’t keep his eyes open. Putting the phone back on the table, he feels a pain in the palm of his hand and sees two pin pricks of blood. Too tired to be concerned, he falls asleep.
Walter dreams he’s lost in a marshland. He waves his hands frantically as a giant mosquito buzzes around his head. Then the buzzing becomes interspersed with a thumping sound. He opens his eyes and sees his phone vibrating so hard that’s it’s bouncing up and down on the side table. He thinks he must still be dreaming and pinches himself, but his phone keeps at it until he snatches it out of the air in mid hop. Although the device calms down when it’s in Walter’s grip, he feels the biting in his palm again. He screams at the phone to stop and tries to fling it away, but it sticks to his hand.
The pain in his palm sharpening, Walter heads for the garage. He tries to run but has only enough energy to shuffle along. He realizes he’s lost so much weight his clothes hang on him like drapes.
In the garage, Walter rummages a screwdriver out of a toolbox and punctures his palm as he tries unsuccessfully to pry the phone loose. The pain becoming unbearable and, feeling so dizzy he can barely stand, he puts his hand on the workbench, takes a deep breath, and smashes the phone with a hammer. The device remains intact, but the tool recoils and conks Walter in the forehead. He staggers then collapses onto his back, his phone, still joined to his hand, coming to rest on his face. He hears sucking and slurping sounds, and the screen grows brighter and brighter. Unable to move, Walter Banks closes his eyes for the last time, sighs and tells himself to go toward the light.
by submission | Dec 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
When we found her, the Marsport Mary should have been dark and silent, or a wreck. Instead, the lights burned, the life support systems ticked over, the computers hummed… but there was nobody aboard. The salvage crews are bringing her in this afternoon; no doubt she’ll be in the news for a while. I won’t be watching: I’m scared, and I’d rather forget.
She’d been “overdue: presumed lost” in the shipping lists for seven weeks, after failing to return from a survey into the Belt. We only came across her by accident, on a run of our own. Her engines were disengaged and she was drifting, enigmatic, a metallic speck in the vastness of the solar system.
The Captain risked sending two of us over to see why. Pat and I, chosen by lot as the away team, mentally prepared ourselves for a traditional horror: the aftermath of a micrometeorite strike, contagion or a crewmember gone berserk. What we found was an empty shell.
We went over every inch of her: utility spaces, crawlways, sample holds, stores, labs, rest areas, everything. There was nobody there. The quarters for the twelve crew were neat, bunks made up, with family pictures and personal devices. The canteen automata were functional. The equipment was properly stowed, the EVA suits all present and racked. The emptiness was an almost physical pressure, and strange echoes made us jumpy.
Nothing suggested violence or disaster; there were no suspicious smears or residues or bodily fluids, no notes or scrawled messages. On the bridge the downloaded logs showed nothing unusual, just records of minor mineral deposits located. The distress call hadn’t been activated, the emergency systems were idle. A single 3-person escape pod was missing, but even that couldn’t account for all the missing.
“This creeps me out,” I admitted on the voice net. I sure as hell wasn’t taking off my suit, however much the bioscans insisted there was nothing unexpected here.
“There’s got to be something,” said Pat. “People don’t just vaporise, do they?” But there was nothing.
“We’ll mark the asteroids they surveyed as potentially dangerous,” the Captain interrupted, “Something might have happened to them there.”
“Like what?” asked Pat, “Because I’m telling you, I have no clue.”
“If I knew, there’d be no ‘potentially’ about it.”
“This is plain weird. Can we claim for salvage at least?” I asked.
“And get accused of running a scam? Or blamed for… whatever this was?” said the Captain sardonically. “Not worth it. Fire up her beacon, and I’ll message Corporate. Someone else can come and get her. Maybe they’ll have more ideas.”
So eventually the insurance company did send someone out, and she’s coming home to Mars today. There’s been speculation, but no conclusions.
I can’t go back to work without knowing what happened out there. It could have been us. Asleep, my dreams are haunted by her absent crew. Awake, I’m terrified: was this first contact? Or something else?
