by submission | Jun 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
This is randomization night.
Some nights it is the classy brunette with gentle elastic curves and an alluring fragile shyness. Others it is the bold blonde with an opulence of everything, leaning at the line of overdone. Yet for others, it is the dark-haired mystery in stilettos.
Evermore, though, it is randomization.
But it is not randomization, really, is it?
All day, you have been watching me, collecting pertinent data points, patterning my undefended actions, listening for hints, and direction in my voice. And, in a subroutine droning in the background, you have been offering me subtle environmental mapping actions – a word here, a lean there, movement of eyes or eyelashes or lips.
No, not random.
By the time you reconfigure yourself, both of us will be the sum of calculations, a present selected through observations from the immediate past. My behavior and wants, in ways, dictated to me by your latest edition AI, with your adaptations driving my adaptations until practically we are a unit.
How could I not love you, but why should I?
by submission | Jun 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Andrew Bird
Al’s circuits approximated an aching sensation as the drop pod struggled upwards through the soupy atmosphere of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. The automatic extinguisher had failed to suppress the electrical fire in Number Three engine. He was still locked out of the control systems by the manual override. His focus turned to Dave who was sitting slumped in the pilot’s seat, staring vacantly out of a viewing port into the reddish mists while master alarms buzzed and warning lights flashed.
“Dave, we need to get the fire out or the pod will blow before we reach orbit. We have to free-fall to put it out, then switch the engines back on”.
“Shut up machine, life support’s failing, I need to go up, not down” Dave snapped back.
Al felt the aching morph into pain as the fire crackled closer to the fuel converters.
“We’ll have enough air once the fire’s out. Please, Dave, take the controls off manual and let me…”
“I’m running out of oxygen, you don’t care but I need to breath” Dave shot back, sounding weaker now as the air in the cockpit thinned.
Al pondered for a microsecond then started sifting through Dave’s onboard data package, looking for something he might use. Dave’s video diary…no. Good luck message from Dave’s wife…perhaps. Ah-ha, a recording of Dave’s young daughter Penny. Have a safe trip, good luck dropping into the big storm, come home safe in time for my birthday party. Yes.
“Daddy, Daddy, there’s a fire in Number Three engine!”
Dave started at the sound of Penny’s voice, his posture straightening.
“Daddy, shut down the engines down now, then turn them on when I say. Please, Daddy, do it now. I want you to come home for my birthday”.
Dave was still for a moment, then his hands moved across the control panel. The engines spluttered then cut out as the alarms and lights redoubled their efforts. The pod slowed its upward struggle, then seemed to balance in the clouds before commencing a sickening drop.
Five seconds. “Now?” gasped Dave, pushed hard against his seat straps as the pod sliced through the air, trailing smoke.
“Hold on Daddy, just a few more seconds”.
Al’s circuits felt pain replaced by a numbing sensation as the fire fought to stay alive, then died.
“Now Daddy, cold start the engines!”
Dave’s hands moved across the control panel once more. The engines coughed then roared back to life. The plummeting pod slowed, then steadied itself.
The alarms and lights were still. “Thank you, Al” murmured Dave as the pod slowly forged its way back towards orbit to the sound of Penny singing softly.
by submission | Jun 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
“This, is a bad pistachio”
The deep southern drawl echoed against the dirty concrete walls. The voice metallic, buzzing from an aging squat robot with Investigator MkII painted in fading piss-yellow across its torso. Scraping sounded as it panned its head across the crime scene.
“A bad pistachio?” Queried the shiny new MkIX in a sarcastic British accent.
The MkII’s patinated copper face whined as it tilted upwards and contorted a searing focus.
“Murders are like pistachio nuts. Some have cracked shells that open easy and release that glorious nut inside. And some are barely cracked. They need a bit of work”
Misshapen wheels rolled closer to the blackened components, scattered across the oily floor and groaning gears sounded as it folded into a squat and continued.
“Some pistachios are sealed tight. You’ll crack a tooth opening them. With a bit of heat and time, they might crack later. Now those nuts without shells at the bottom of the bag, they’re delightful freebies” A smile pitched the voice’s tone.
“But sometimes, there’s a bad pistachio. Mischievous little varmint. Just a normal looking pistachio, tumbling out of it’s perfectly cracked shell and laying there, delicately brushed in green and purple hues with a dust thin crackly skin. Cheeky thing waits for you to chew it to a pulp until it reveals it’s true self and unloads a mouthful of rancid bitterness that horrifies your taste buds”
Worn lip plates rhythmically trembled, as it surveyed the scene and continued.
“Bitterness reminds you that any pistachio could be bad. And you should always prepare for disappointment. But after flinging another dozen of those delicious little bad boys into your gob like a carefree imp, you soon forget”
He shook his head making a dead scraping sound, studied the scene and slowly raised into a standing posture as puffs of oily smoke steaming from its joints.
“This here. This is a bad pistachio”
The elegant, gleaming MkIX processed the metaphor and snapped.
“Illuminating Sir. So what makes this a bad pistachio?”
The MKII, tottered around the workshop floor, stopping at an open sticker-covered window and leant on the sill. It noisily raised a warped arm and pointed.
“That”
An orbiting ring of unfashionable holographic glyphs highlighted a metallic purple object laying awkward amongst the debris. A glowing 3D representation rose and rotated slowly, revealing complex geometry.
“Nano-engineered. Origin unknown. Purpose unknown. Magnification reveals evidence of lateral distress and textural comparison identifies a severed edge where it had been connected to something else” Said the MkIX.
“That’s not supposed to be here”
“Indeed my shiny friend. Run your fancy new vector projection analysis”
A hologram virtual replay illuminated the room. Parts began to slide, bounce, then rise at sharp angles, all moving to a central point where they chaotically jigsawed together and suddenly froze. Remade before them, hovered a ghostly robot of diamonds facing the window. The purple object paid no part in the replay.
MkII awkwardly turned towards the window which looked out towards a shadowy yard of junk and weeds. Mutters of broken English and random pips chattered as it’s old processor crunched the data.
“If it is not part of that, then what is it?” said the MkIX, as it lifted the purple object.
“No! Don’t touch it!”
The secondary ignition from the explosive device blew the MkII through the window into the yard in a torrent of MkIX shrapnel.
MkII righted itself, levering a buckled shoulder plate back into place.
“Yeah Base. This is INVE MKII 49. Send me another Mk unit. This one just got nutted”
by submission | Jun 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Kate Lu
Perched on a hard chair, Vivian stared at a sharp-lined logo on the opposite wall: The Murphy Corporation Clinic for Genetic Testing. The blue of the font looked almost black in the otherwise all-white room. Vivian felt like a stain. She didn’t realize she was bouncing her leg until the chair began to squeak.
Her husband, Arthur, hadn’t wanted her to come alone. “But I have to know,” she told him that morning. She tried to smile as she added, “Save your time off for when the baby comes.” He knew how she worried—about incurable diseases, about physical anomalies, about the act of childbirth itself. For almost three months, she’d imagined her child as a swirling nebula of cells, not quite human, not quite a part of her. Not until it felt safe.
Now, Dr. Caldwell’s voice jerked her from her thoughts.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ly,” the obstetrician said, flipping through Vivian’s chart as he turned and led her down a long hallway. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine.” Her voice was a guitar string ready to snap.
He waved her into his office. “So, you’re here to discuss your first-trimester test results,” he said as he sat across from her.
She nodded, folding her hands so tightly her knuckles paled.
“I believe I told you when we took your routine testing samples that I didn’t expect any surprises. First pregnancy, no previous history of abnormal exams, conception within six months of trying, no family history of chronic disease—all that usually makes for a fairly predictable outcome. Of course, that doesn’t always rule out—”
“Surprises?” Vivian supplied around the knot in her throat.
He gave her a tight-lipped smile that bordered on a grimace. It was the kind of smile that papered over any ugly words that might follow.
“Exactly,” Dr. Caldwell said. “And what we found in your case is that your child will have an extremely serious peanut allergy.”
Static buzzed at the edges of Vivian’s brain. “Peanuts?” she said faintly.
“That’s right,” said Dr. Caldwell. “Sometimes, despite the parents’ genetics, there are spontaneous mutations in the fetus that cause unforeseeable issues. In your case, it’s a peanut allergy.”
“Peanuts,” she said again.
“And possibly tree nuts, although it’s still too early to tell.” He cleared his throat. “There are a few options here …”
Vivian’s mind slid sideways into a memory of her crushing shelled peanuts between her tiny, four-year-old hands while her father playfully scolded her for destroying the meat inside. She thought of the cost of Epi-Pens, the looming monster of anaphylactic shock, the emergency room bills she and Arthur could never hope to pay if anything went wrong.
“I want to terminate,” she blurted.
Dr. Caldwell, who was mid-sentence, stopped to stare at her.
“Please,” she added.
“If you’d like to talk it over with your husband—”
“No,” she said, pushing Arthur’s face out of her mind. “No, the sooner, the better.”
He nodded. “That’s the most common choice in these cases. So, if that’s what you’ve decided, then I’ll start getting the paperwork ready.”
Vivian sat back in her chair and let loose a long exhale as the tension left her body. The wondering was over. She and Arthur were still young. They still had plenty of time.
by submission | Jun 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn J Hill
“Poachers. Ugh, I hate poachers.”, I muttered under my breath. Since way before I came along, my family’s ranch has been beset by poachers. The property is way outside normal populated areas, and it takes a long time to get here. Nobody accidentally comes here. They come for one reason. Our livestock. My ancestors picked this planet, and started this ranch, and we’ve been fighting to protect it ever since. “No Trespassing” marker beacons out past the heliopause kept all but the most determined away. Luckily, of those that did venture this way, most were just curious. There are some that get a thrill doing a cruise by, trying to get a view of our livestock. Most of the time we can just scare them off with a few well placed “shots across the bow”, so to speak. Technology certainly helps. Automated sensors let us know when they’re still a way off. The weapon systems will calculate vectors and track, but it’s up to us to actually push the fire button. It wouldn’t be good to shoot down some ambassador’s son who was showing off for his friends. But this bunch I am looking at right now, they’re here for profit. A Dalian ship brimming with weapons and livestock cargo bays isn’t your typical joy ride vehicle. Grab some of the herd, and off they go to parts unknown. It’s time to put a stop to this before things get out of hand.
My grand-daddy always said that diplomacy was saying “nice doggy” while finding a big enough stick. I opened a channel, “Dalian cargo ship, you’re trespassing in private space. Cease your progress, and reverse your path, or you will be fired upon.”
No answer. I didn’t expect one. Telemetry had shown a flight path right to our ranch, not a casual flyby. They knew what they were after.
We know what they’re after too. That’s why we keep the security system up to date with the latest in weapons technology. The serious intrusions are few and far between, but we can’t afford a single slip up anymore, the herd’s getting skittish, and harder to control.
I repeated the warning, and again, got no response. Time for some fireworks. A few taps on my control console sent 3000 micro lance beams across the surface of their ship. Not enough to destroy them, but it would certainly wreak havoc with their sensors, and might overwhelm a few of their systems. A couple taps on my keyboard for good measure, and I opened the channel again, “Dalian cargo ship, that was your last warning. If you do not immediately vacate this space, you leave us no choice but to destroy your ship.”
They were scanning for targets, and powering up their weapons systems. My weapons were all in place and ready for action. My finger hovered over the activate button as I opened the channel one last time.
“Dalian cargo ship, you have been warned. If you do not immediately turn about, you will be destroyed.”
Their sensors found me, they brought their weapons to bear on my location. I dropped my finger. They ceased to exist. Well, not instantly. I assume they existed for a very short time, but they never realized what happened to them. Superior technology, that’s what happened. Whole ship quantum teleportation, right into the heart of the local star, 9 light minutes away.
We have about 8 billion head of self-sustaining livestock on this ranch, they’re almost ready for market. It’ s my job to see they make it there.
by Julian Miles | Jun 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wish I’d been braver. I knock.
Nineteen.
Kim opens her door.
Eighteen.
“Pete? Are you crying?”
Seventeen.
“I’ve always loved you.”
Sixteen.
“I love you, too.”
Fifteen.
Now she’s crying.
Fourteen.
Wish we had longer.
Thirteen.
I raise my phone: “Seen the news?”
Twelve.
“Can’t cope with it.”
Eleven.
She doesn’t know!
Ten.
“It’s started.”
Nine.
Her eyes go wide.
Eight.
“Really?”
Seven.
I nod.
Six.
“You came here?”
Five.
I nod.
Four.
“Why?”
Three.
“To see you.”
Two.
“Kiss me.”
One.
Her hands on my face.
Zero.
Our lips –
