by submission | Aug 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Matt McHugh
We got the aliens’ first message when they were nine years out, about the distance of Neptune. It was a series of microwave pulses repeating the prime numbers between 1 and 1000 every few minutes. We replied with different sequences—squares, cubes, Fibonacci’s—until they were matched in reply and the back-and-forth was steady.
We then worked out a common language. I won’t bore you with details, except to say it was the most electrifying experience of my life. Mathematicians are not often considered sentimental, but recalling the sheer awe of the enterprise, its elegant precision, can still bring me close to tears.
Within a few months, we could communicate on technical matters. By the following year, it was downright conversational. They wanted quartz granules. Sand. Their vessel and instrumentation were based on crystalline silicates, and they’d spotted the Sahara from God-knows-how-many light-years out. They asked for about a billion cubic feet, roughly a hundred pyramids worth, and offered to barter.
The ensuing global brouhaha is well-documented, though I doubt anyone who didn’t live through it can appreciate the scope of the madness. Social, political, religious, scientific, nationalistic, psychological: every possible human reaction played out. There were conflicts and deaths, alliances formed, or dissolved. Once the panic more or less settled, we still had six years to wait before their arrival. That was when I was most anxious: wondering what else we’d do to embarrass ourselves.
After they settled into orbit, they began sending shuttles to scoop up a few tons of sand at a time. Over and over, around the clock, for nearly a year. They explained, with courteous regret, that they were unable to leave their craft or host visitors so any face-to-face meeting (they adopted our colloquialisms, since we proved incapable of grasping theirs) would be impossible.
Again, we behaved badly. Arguments and posturing. A few overt aggressions. At least one of their shuttles was shot down. They accepted our apology. A sect of lunatic zealots launched an improvised missile at them, which made it about four miles into the air before plummeting impotently in the ocean. They pretended not to notice.
After nine months, they had all they needed. They thanked the Planet Earth, sent us in return specifications for vastly improved battery technology (that’s why you only have to charge your phone two or three times a year now… it used to be every day, if you can believe it), and left. That was almost forty years ago. Astronomers still track them, gently accelerating away with propulsion we don’t understand toward destinations they declined to specify.
When I was twelve, standing at a post office counter, a handsome man asked to borrow my pen. I handed it over without a word. He signed a few things, smiled, and handed it back. Through the window I watched him get into an expensive car with a beautiful woman and drive away. For years, I dreamed about their journeys. Never once was I silly enough to hope they thought of me.
A few years ago, in a pit of drunken depression, I composed a poem for the aliens using the exquisite quaternary dialect they taught us to speak. I even beamed it off. I’m still waiting to hear back.
A generation has now grown up in a world where aliens exist. Oh, there’s still conspiracy theorists that cry hoax, and fanatics who preach about angels or demons, but most of us have come to accept the brutal truth:
We are not alone.
We are just unwelcome.
by submission | Aug 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: A. Lyn Thomson
“Mother, where are we?”
“This, my dear, is called the Male Incubatorium, and as the new Queen of our world, it is now your responsibility.”
Shock flows through my veins as we stroll through a room I have never seen before. The fact that I have never found this place before is impressive in itself. Especially since I grew up in this castle, my home during my 21 years of life.
But this room is strange in so many other ways. Glowing green, it’s filled with evenly spaced tubes, each possessing a body. A Male. How did Mother keep this a secret from me all these years? She has been training me to rule for the past decade, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of this place. Or that there are still Males in existence. Our history lessons always said they were eradicated eons ago, once the First Queen found a way to reproduce without them. Now, I’m finding out that’s a lie.
What else has she been lying to me about?
“I understand if you are confused,” Mother says, “as I was too, when I was your age. So let me enlighten you. Yes, Males do still exist, but only here, in these incubators.”
“Why? I thought we didn’t need them anymore.”
“We don’t need them for anything other than their gametes,” she explains. “This is how we collect the serum to give our citizens children. Think of it as a silo. We store them here, and collect only what we need from time to time.”
“But why? Why do we need to keep them here, like this? Why can’t they just live-”
I’m cut off by her suddenly spinning towards me. She glares at me forcefully. “Under no circumstances can they be allowed to just live.” Seeing the fear her sudden outburst caused me, she calms herself down, then continues. “Listen, you remember the history lessons I taught you. While Males were allowed to roam free, they did unspeakable things, to us and to each other. Even when the First Queen decided to enslave them, taking away their rights, they still committed one crime after the other, rebelling every day. Males are extremely dangerous, and so cannot be released from here. Do you understand, dear?”
I nod, knowing that’s what she wants me to do, and we continue walking past incubator after incubator, until she stops in front of one. I look at it and see a Male for the first time, but that’s not what surprises me.
He looks like…me!
“Yes,” Mother says, reading my facial expressions, “this is the Male whose gamete I used to make you.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“So that you don’t use him to create your own Heir. Such a thing could cause horrendous complications, both for you and the Heir.” She sighs, then takes a step back. “I’m going to get the Royal Manual, which my Mother passed down to me, and I will pass down to you now. It explains quite well how to maintain this place. Wait here.”
I do as she says, analyzing the Male in front of me. I then look down at the panel and notice a red button labelled “Open Chamber”.
I gulp and stare at it. I know what she just told me, and I understand what pressing this button could mean, especially if she were telling the truth, but…
What else is she lying to me about…?
I press the button and watch as the incubator opens and the Male blinks for the first time.
by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The view outside is breathtaking, one that many would pay to see. The lights of Xīn Xiānggǎng spread as far as the eye can see, both into the distance and up into the skies above: islands of light connected by the coruscating ribbons and kaleidoscopic fireflies of the ways and vehicles that link them.
Inside a room the size of a tennis court, the spectacle outside is ignored. Holoscreens bigger than luxury coupes are arrayed in a semicircle two deep and three high about a king-size chaise-longue.
Sprawled on that gigantic piece of furniture, looking like a child in an adult’s seat, Alois Jean Danube IV plays his fingers across the trio of holographic keyboards before him like some crazed organist at a recital.
“To complete the spaceport within eight hours will require 180,000,000N$.”
The fingers stop moving. Alois looks up and to the left, into the main focus of his AIPA.
“How much to do it in eleven?”
“147,600,000N$.”
“Do it in eleven. Divert unused resources to the reception dome.”
“Reception dome completion now expected in nine and one-half hours.”
He smiles: “Confirm colony ship arrival.”
The silence stretches for four minutes. Alois sits motionless.
“ETA for ECS Margaret Hamilton is sixteen hours twelve minutes.”
Alois nods.
“Subcontract residential builds on Tescona to tier one and two players. Ensure they receive a completion date that is one Terran month before the reception period completes.”
He’s made the mistake of trusting lower league members before. Now he always has a top-tier player stage a one-year ‘city life’ sim on any new build. They regard it as a recognition of their abilities and never let the slightest thing slip by. Fatalities due to infrastructure failure in colonies SIMbuilt by his company have dropped to 0.04% since he instigated the procedure.
“Next greenfield site?”
“Pethtornay. We have a NeoGenesis Explorer 4.0 in orbit. It has just confirmed that all initial assessments were correct. The planet is ideal. SIMbuild 1.1 will be sufficient.”
Alois sits up.
“We are Danube Planetary Development. ‘Sufficient’ is for other companies. Institute a SIMbuild 2.0 frame with luxury pack 12.”
“That will offer more accommodation than a single consignment can deliver.”
“Then notify both ECS Katherine Johnson and ECS JoAnn Morgan. Have them confirm our projection of their ETA being seven months.”
“Done. Reply will take nine minutes, give or take.”
“Give or take?”
“I have updated my interaction routines. I selected ‘give or take’ as a suitable conversational substitute for ‘deviance of less than eight percent’.”
“Valid, and I like it. Next item: order me a six-course meal with a Szechuan bias, but with wines from California. While I wait for that, give me a roster of the next ten brownfield sites. It’s been a while since we ran a competition for entry to the top tier. As the petty cash could do with a top-up, a premium entry contest with the usual paid viewer packages should get us a new recruit, pay for their induction, and fill the coffers.”
“Very well, Alois. Meal ETA is twenty-two minutes.”
“Wine ETA?”
“That request I was able to predict. Double decanted, chilled, and here in three minutes or less.”
“Excellent.”
by submission | Aug 16, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ilya Tolchinsky
Oleg was playing his mod of the classic Asteroids game.
Instead of triggering the usual pain that put Oleg on disability for the last two years, the gameplay soothed his damaged wrist. It was as if the FeelGlove controller was expertly massaging his forearm. After an hour, his hand felt like it was being pricked with hundreds of tiny needles. This sensation spread up his arm, then faded as a feeling of deep relaxation soaked his entire body. A stream of euphoria coursed from the soles of the feet all the way to his palms.
Oleg had missed video games. Decades of playing plus working as a coder had nearly destroyed the tendons in his forearm. When the FeelGlove appeared on the market boasting unprecedented sensitivity, Oleg saw he could use his knowledge of Kung Fu to write a game that healed the players. A game he could play. His algorithm used the glove to monitor blood flow patterns and created game events that rebalanced circulation. It worked better than Oleg ever imagined.
His breathing slow and heavy, Oleg observed himself — gloved hand twitching as it reacted to the insane number of enemies now on-screen. He dodged between them, just managing to stay alive. The speed with which he scanned the battlefield accelerated. The spaceships, asteroids, and bullet trails appeared to slow down, dreamlike.
Outside of his familiar senses, Oleg became aware of other life. First the orchid on his desk; she seemed contented. He felt his neighbors going about their day, the forest over the road. His awareness rushed outwards. A few more breaths and his mind filled the Earth’s magnetic field. Here the expansion stopped. He began to struggle against the energy flowing into the auroras like a sea fighting incoming river water.
Earth consciousness noticed the disturbance and turned to face Oleg.
***
Autumn’s golden evening light washed over Father’s face. He sat at the dinner table with Mother by his side in partial shadow.
“Son, you have a choice to make,” Father said. “You are now ready to leave our home and start your own adventure. Or you can stay here and help out your brothers and your sisters.”
Mother gently placed her hand on Oleg’s wrist. He felt one with the Earth, no longer fighting with her currents.
“Odds are,” Father continued, “You are the only one who will ever reach this state of being. Your martial arts tradition is the last one that still knows the path, but it is almost gone and soon will follow all the others. None of your Kung Fu siblings share your potential. Even the glove and your game will not bring them here.” He sighed. “The lost wisdom will not be found again until the world returns to darkness.”
Father placed his hand on Mother’s. The Sun’s energy flowed through the Earth and through Oleg. The vastness of the Universe splayed open before his startled gaze.
“My dear boy,” Father said, “Another ascension is unlikely. What will it be?”
***
Oleg took off the glove. No thanks, he thought. The pounding of his heart eventually quieted down. Not yet, anyway. He prepared his game for publication.
by submission | Aug 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: Arkapravo Bhaumik
It was on the insistence of Tom that I agreed to that silly piece of imitation. James died a frightful death, his cancer gnawed through him in less than ten months, and ever since I have not been able to clear out the lump in my heart. He is not coming back however well the imitation tried. Tom said it was augmented hologram with textured plastic for skin and it had an emotional quotient akin to that of James. It looked a lot like James and Tom even claimed that it had a similar memory. While it could not process 5567889 x 3344216 with elan but it responded with a smile when it got a whiff of James’ favourite brand of cappuccino and sometimes even looked at me and added, “Thank you, love.” I really could not care less.
*** ***
Sunday. I stood before his tombstone – ‘James McDougall (16 April 2004 – 21 July 2047), Wonderful Person and a Loving Husband’. I touched the cross and then the shiny marble covering. The best I could to get closer to him. Then reality took over. I rubbed my eyes and walked away hoping my soul would quickly repair itself and I would be back in the world with a smile, as though it had never been ripped apart.
*** ***
At the riverfront. The trees had the lush of spring. The water played along both the banks. Kids were making paper boats and sailing them and a few others walking their dogs. One of these days we should take the boat trip downstream. $12 for two tickets and half an hour of a fun ride. We can get down to the old market. Oh! yes… I just forgot he is no more. Oh! my.
*** ***
Couldn’t sleep. Tried reading a book and then watching TV. If only he was here, but then there were times when I prayed for his peaceful death as the pain was unbearable. I rubbed my eyes and then my forehead as I contemplated sleeping pills.
“Are you all right?” it was Tom’s gadget, the imitation.
“No, I am not” I turned and replied. Inadvertently I felt it’s left palm. It was probably a reflex or maybe just my weakness that I quickly took it in a tight embrace and burst out in tears.
“Hey, what happened love?” it said.
“James, take me in your arms and let me cry” I replied in spurts and gasps.
“It is okay, you should be sleeping at this time,” it said as it put its hands on my shoulders.
Cries had taken over my voice and venting it all out mattered more than making civil conversations with a robot.
by submission | Aug 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Marina Barakatt
You don’t know where you are or how you got there. You figure that it’s technically a prison, but nicer than anything you’ve ever paid money for. The bedroom alone is as big as your apartment. There’s a King bed and a hammock on the patio. The patio of your dreams. There’s even a kitchenette with a small electric stovetop.
You walk the outer wall, counting steps, concentrating hard on taking one step per second. You count exactly 1,200 steps. The first time you think it’s a fluke. You start the third lap immediately after the second, increasingly agitated every time you land at an even 1,200. You try to keep track of days by scratching marks in the wall, but every morning you wake to find them gone. Not painted over, just gone. You begin scratching marks into your arm.
The restaurant is big enough for dozens of tables but only one is positioned precisely in the middle of the room. The wood of the empty bar and maitre d’ stand gleams with fresh oil. Corners are free of dust and dirt, even with the windows open and the lace curtains dancing in the constant, pleasant breeze.
Three times a day, a meal appears on the table. Never the same thing, never anything you dislike. Always just enough food to keep you full until your stomach starts to grumble. Bottles of juice and water in familiar brands appear in the bedroom’s small fridge.
At first you refuse to eat, though you find yourself compelled to wander towards the restaurant at mealtimes. The aromas wafting off the plates drive you crazy, but you’re damned if you’re going to eat food without seeing any evidence of its preparation or ingredients. On the second hungry evening, a note sits next to the plate.
Please eat, it says. It’s safe. The heavy paper is neatly folded in half.
After the hunger strike, you stay in the restaurant for three full days, trying to see the meals arrive. You sit in the chair and stare hard at the table, but inevitably, despite your best attempts to keep your eyes open, you find yourself squeezing your eyes closed and shaking your head to fight through fog. When your head clears, the table is back to the middle of the room, bearing a new meal.
One night you arrive to find perfectly cooked steak, creamy mashed potatoes with green beans that are crunchy in the way you like, and a velvety red wine. Next to the plate sits a large steak knife. You hold the knife in your hand, feeling the weight of it. They’ve never given you a knife this sharp before. You run your finger lightly along the serrated edge, so sharp it nearly breaks your skin, a thought forming into your head. You look around to make sure whatever it is is watching you, then let the knife rest lightly on your skin. You begin to press.
A sudden sensation envelops your head, like you took a huge bite of ice cream and then stood up quickly. You try to maintain your grip on the knife but realize that you’re bent at the waist, elbows tucked into your stomach. When you open your eyes, a bowl of creamy pumpkin soup sits on the table. The air around you somehow feels apologetic.
You sit for a moment, running your fingers over your wrist, then something releases in your chest. You stand and flip the table.
