by submission | Jun 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Don’t feel threatened, Melissa.” A squat, balding officer faced off a bewildered woman in a beekeeper’s outfit, shackled to an interrogation desk.
“Threatened? Your armed thugs dragged me inside for just crawling ten feet over your fence. What the hell…who the hell are you? This isn’t a USDA bee research lab.” She pulled back away from him as he leaned forward.
“Obvious, I’m sure, after we escorted you through our main laboratory. You saw what we wanted you to, enough to pique your curiosity.” He leaned back relaxed, hands locked behind his head.
“I know bees, mister…whatever your rank…”
“Captain, but just Brian is fine. We hoped you would track your missing swarms, wondering where they disappeared. I’m sorry we tricked you, but you’re dearly needed.”
“Needed? You’re kidding, after you arrest me like a common criminal!” Melissa surged forward to choke him, but shackles restrained her fury.
“That redhead spirit, too. Fits your profile folder.” Brian leaned forward, outside her reach. “Probably another reason Northern California beekeepers don’t like you, especially after your illegal breeding program using Alpine bumblebees smuggled from Tibet. Brilliant. Your successful combination of alleles produced a new species. That shock spurred our program to make bees thriving in limited atmospheres. You’re amazing.”
“I’m happy for you, creepo,” Melissa responded, slamming back in her steel chair. “Just what I need–my government spying on me. I mind my business. This is what I get?”
“Melissa, you propelled our program ten years. You deserve a medal, but there’s more to do for your…no, for your world. Bees are dying. You know that…even the bumblebees. Your mutants could turn that around, but we’re looking for even more. You saw the springbank clover in lab salt tanks. Surely, you wondered about that and the algae ponds. We also took you through the robotics center. You dragged your feet, taking a hard gander at electronic bees. No one sees those experiments unless they’re carefully screened. You are, dear lady, the most perfect candidate on Earth.”
“For what? Hey, if this is a sex-slave trafficking thing, forget it. I won’t put up with any shenanigans.” She bit her lip and then crossed her legs.
“You misunderstand. We need a tough, brilliant person to lead the next step. The algae fields are already growing in brine water from near the pools we identified. Our modified clover was planted by algae growths last spring. It’s taken off, but needs regular pollination to thrive. It’s a beginning. Now, we need a beekeeper for the next evolution to prepare our new home–someone with no family and only bees for companions.”
“What? I’m confused. Where is this all going down…in those salt marshes in the Delta, near Stockton?
“No. I’m afraid not. We’re asking you to volunteer as the pioneer with our new hives. They are part bee, but they don’t breathe oxygen. They survive on carbon dioxide. Our algae and clover are producing oxygen and nitrogen soils. But, we need our new insects to spread the growth. You could be critical for establishing a new home for all Earthers…as the first Terra-former.”
“No bee can live in carbon dioxide. Can’t happen. Terra-forming what?”
“You see, we merged your new bee’s DNA with a tardigrade, the only animal we know can survive freely in space. Took years, but now we have living specimens that can fly, pollinate, and build hives. That’s why you’re here, Melissa. You can be the first queen bee on Mars. Interested?”
by submission | Jun 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
In the age before Adam, somewhere between the branching of hominina from panina, there was a small tribe that found a tree.
They were a shortish nation of forty—large browed, flat faced, wide nosed, and slate skinned—with three infants and five young. Constantly hungry and thirsty, the tribe lived a life of perpetual foraging and perpetual fleeing, eating seeds, plants, insects, and carcasses and evading large predatory animals as often as inclement weather.
On one of their wanderings, they followed the contours of a new land, which took them to a rank of green wooded mountains. They trudged up the ribs of the elevation, through coarse foliage and deep thickets, and under arching boughs, wary of the possible carnivores.
Drifting single-mindedly into the wilderness, they came upon a clearing where they saw a solitary, gargantuan tree abounding with yellowish-red globes amid shining leaves. The tribe’s little eyes widened, and they stood in speechless silence. A shared association formed in their minds, and collectively, a uniform muttering rose among them. They marched to the tree. Beneath it, they stared and pointed at the globes that dangled high above them.
The tribe attempted to climb the tree, but they, like the generations that preceded them, had wandered for so long, they had forgotten how to climb trees. They gathered pebbles and threw them upward, but the tribe’s throwing strength was weak, and their aim was poor. Exhausted, they sat under the tree and, out of past habit, resigned themselves to it as a shelter from the heat and the expected rains. The sky dimmed, and with no predators about, the tribe fell asleep.
One morning after a meager forage in the woods, they returned to find piles of the globes scattered at the foot of the tree. They shouted and chirped in excitement, ran to the fruit, and engorged themselves, satiating their hunger on the pulp and quenching their thirst on the juice. And they continued to do so every dawn and dusk over seven passings of the sun.
That night, the tribe felt the beating in their chests quicken irregularly, and then in the next few days, there came a heavy malaise, followed by a nauseous agony of vomiting and inflamed faces, torsos, and limbs.
Many of the tribe turned rabid from the torment and began to devour their enfeebled kin, infants, and young; whereas others few, who were still sane, found and ate white flowers with yellow stamens, which previous wanderings had taught them relieved stomach pains. Helplessly, the tribe laid beside the tree, subdued by unsteady pulses, strange flutterings, and feverous dreams. Uncounted days passed.
* * *
Under the blue arch and the round sun, the tribe awoke, their affliction finally lifted yet their number greatly reduced. The remaining five females and four males assembled and buried the dead. Soft wind wafted over the survivors. They looked up at the tree, and they looked down at the graves strewn with mossy rocks. Shuddering, the nine trod down the mountain, hunger and thirst compelling them to relinquish their calamity and their sadness. The tribe wandered, foraged, and fled, and gradually, they multiplied.
As the ages glided away, time claimed the nation and its memory, and new tribes came. A lone pair, whose form and gait had slightly changed, plodded into the wilderness and happened upon the mountain, the clearing, and the tree.
by submission | Jun 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
The darkness enveloped me once again. I felt it veil my thoughts like it always did. Nothing ever prepares you for the rancid thought streams that ooze out during the shredding.
My only solace was to lock myself away, so the dark core memories could replay and the world could be spared of my true self. My shred room kept them safe.
During these dark times, mind boundaries would break down. Horrific memories locked away in mental quarantine would surge forward in vivid realism. Nothing was exempt. The worst gets replayed over and over. A crushing, compacting pain with no end in sight. Here in this room, I could wear the madness. Let it infiltrate and control me. And when it receded, I would be better for it. A hard reset designed by my maker. A systematic reminder of how to be human.
Nothing was safe in here right now. I was dangerous. Not to be trusted.
Tears streamed down my contorted features as hidden in-human strength tore chunks from impenetrable walls. A background track of hard trance boomed bassy notes, filling the seams between my memory reel of nightmares. I wretched forward into a doom-laden memory of a darkened rave corner where a proffered red pill loosened the secret codes inside my head. No rush would ever beat that and it was all downhill from there. There was no stopping me.
Thoughts of lost love burdened with meaningless arguments cascaded. A needful thing, rage-snapped to spite my face. Here, nothing I did would ever make a difference.
A screaming miner lay at my feet. His dirty crushed hand clutched tight, as blood spilled from a mangled mess onto the perforated steel floor of the lift cage. Freedom from his tortuous suffering far above where the shaft reached toward the sky.
A spray of bloody mist across my eyes as together we hit the dashboard. His crumpled features pulverised beyond recognition and his coffin falling into darkness.
And then she returned. In silent repose. Lit by jealousy. Lit by envy. A perfectly formed memory of that exact moment where unadulterated love fractured into validated hate.
“I know you’re good for me” She softly repeated.
I fell to my ageing knees, clawing tears from my pitted cheeks. The maelstrom had no end, each dark moment relived to slice fine parts from my flesh. She watched my suffering emotionless. Her words repeating over and over, pulping my doughy brain.
And then the routine had executed. In that shred room where I locked away my torment. The unbreakable room, time-locked for fear this passing insanity may become public. I gathered my mental pieces, aware that some were not how I left them. Somehow darker, more stained with hate. The guise was slipping. I slid back down the wave to the calmer waters and waded to the shore. The time lock went click and the door opened. I stood up and left the room.
From darkness, they all slowly faded into view. Distraught, disheveled, their rage faces towards mine. I hesitated as I struggled to recognise the dust-filled room.
“What do we do now Mr. President?” They shrieked from all directions.
“The country is a nuclear wasteland. There’s nothing left but this bunker and we can’t escape!”
There was no shred room in the bunker.
The shredding had arrived and my unleashed demons played their tune through me.
I had ordered hellfire against satan and the reprisal was annihilation.
by Julian Miles | Jun 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures stand on the observation deck of the patrol ship ‘Camelot’. The taller of the two points at an object silhouetted against the planet.
“That has got to be the ugliest spaceship I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not a spaceship,” replies the shorter of the two, tail flicking in irritation.
“One end is blunt, the other end is sharp, and it’s got fins that slope backwards toward the blunt end. What is it, then? Orbital art?”
“It’s a sunbomb.”
“A planetary defence antique powerful enough to appear as a star in the sky, eh? Impressive.”
“No, it’s for use on a sun.”
“I’ve seen a starburster. That would fit inside one of the drive tubes.”
“Not designed to explode. Designed to age.”
“Do what?”
“The writings upon it speak of many interference effects – including several we’re not familiar with – along with a schedule of causes that we have yet to fully understand. There is also a time manipulation component of baffling complexity.”
“You said it was a bomb.”
“‘Sunbomb’ is easier to grasp than ‘alien chronosolar accelerator’.”
“They wrote instructions on the outside?”
“In big characters.”
“Why?”
“Think of it as a huge signal flare.”
“Signalling what?”
“To attract their attention.”
“Who?”
“They call themselves Barsiliumonalf – it’s as close as we can get with any language on Earth. An ancient star-faring race, arrogant and powerful. Some of their phrasing indicates they regard everything as theirs if they want it: stars, planets, beings, it makes no difference.”
“Why make this?”
“Laziness. They got bored of looking for intelligent races, so they scattered a few of these about. Any race smart enough to figure out how to set one off, and mad enough to do so, might be worth talking to.”
“Could we set it off?”
“Detailed translation is going to take a while, but I’m confident we could be in a position to do it within a decade.”
“While you do that, our superiors will decide which sun we can lose. Better get started on creating better defences.”
“Defences? They left star-warping time-distortion devices lying about like litter. How can you possibly hope to defend against the technology they have now?”
“Oh, I’m not preparing for the inevitable and brief shooting war. I’m talking about places to hide in, and observe from.”
The shorter one swings to face the taller: “What?”
“No matter what we recommend, many factions will be sure we’re exaggerating and will go looking for a fight. Which, as you pointed out, is almost certain to go very badly for anyone opposed to the Barsi-whatchamacallits. I’m going to make sure the sensible are protected until the stupid have been swatted.”
“Better still, let’s forget about this device.”
“Too late. It’s been found. Eventually, someone’s going to use it. All we can do is prepare. Which includes making sure nobody drags it off for use on a sun orbited by anywhere nice.”
“You have a low opinion of the tendencies of your fellow humans, monkeyboy.”
“Like draconians don’t like igniting stuff for fun, scaly?”
“Touché.”
by submission | Jun 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Paul Warmerdam
Melissa never dreamed. Or at least, she had no memories of dreams. She shuddered at the thought of being trapped in your own mind like that. She imagined a consciousness grieving its purpose, resorting to stumbling around in its own recesses, feeding on static noise as the only sign of life. Then, she told herself to focus and return to her research.
It didn’t work. She caught herself staring at her own reflection in the monitor in front of her. Her hair was a mess, but she saw that it did a good job of covering up the ridiculous array of electrodes she had volunteered to wear. It was a sensormesh, a novel type of non-invasive encephalography, and she had been wearing it for far too long.
A noise from the base of her skull died away, indicating the download was complete. She unplugged the sensormesh and bent back down to her terminal. Melissa was trying to demonstrate the new probes’ potential. Could someone map out not just brain activity, but also its connectivity? Could she create a model of it and instantiate consciousness? It was the ninth week since the simulations started. Her thesis depended on some presentable result someday soon.
Scrolling through the endless data, Melissa’s thoughts returned to dreams. She couldn’t deny the observations the sensormesh picked up while she slept. It was the first place she had looked for any resemblance to the activity in the simulations. The model inherited its structure from Melissa’s downloads, but like a dream, it received no external impulses.
After every calibration, the simulations still only showed her the same thing over and over. There were no signs of intelligent life, only an endless loop that she couldn’t interpret. It had no voice either, after all. Instead, Melissa relied on raw data and their resemblance to any of her own measured brain activity.
She started a custom program to compare the latest batches of simulation against sensormesh. Before long her thoughts were drifting again. It had been a bad week for Melissa. There wasn’t much she could tolerate on top of the pressure on her thesis. It had started with padded bills from her routine car inspection. Later, she had gotten into an argument with her landlord and lost. Finally, today she had been confronted with her worst fear. It had taken two hours for someone to respond to the emergency button after the elevator became stuck. When they finally got her out, she was still screaming her lungs out.
Melissa was drawn back from the edge of sleep at her desk by an unexpected noise. She opened bleary eyes and saw a match in her difference algorithm. If this was real, there was finally evidence of synthetic consciousness.
First, she brought up a visualization of the model’s activity. It hadn’t changed at all. It was still the same loop of memory feeding activity, feeding cortex, feeding the same memory. Then Melissa saw the timestamp of the corresponding activity from her sensormesh, two horrifying hours of it. Before panic drove her to remember what she had relived in that elevator, Melissa turned off the simulations. It felt like mercy.
Long after she had graduated, Melissa remained grateful that she had never looked back. Her thesis on pattern matching algorithms only took a few weeks to get published. Inevitably, there were others who experimented with the sensormesh. Some even decided to give their creation a voice. It wasn’t long before the university’s ethical review board became involved. Once the proof of consciousness materialized, no one could unhear its screams.
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?
