by submission | May 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jennifer Breslin
He awoke on the pavement, lifted his head, and felt warm liquid pool in his eye. Must be blood. Six months of chemo and six months of radiotherapy had taken their toll. The blood-clots in his legs meant it was a slow, tortuous walk to the shop to get essentials. But he couldn’t live without his rum. This time the pain got the better of him and he had blacked out.
A car drove by. The car’s sensors scanned him. It gathered his exact GPS coordinates. It assessed whether he was a hazard. It deducted that he was stationary. In that second it was maximum 245mm above the ground and 150mm from the edge of the curb. It was not a hazard – the car drove on.
A bus approached along the quiet street. It scanned him. It assessed if he was a potential passenger. It gathered his exact GPS coordinates. He was 2500mm from the bus-stop and stationary. He was a not passenger – the bus drove on.
A slim woman with buds in her ears jogged passed him and didn’t register the fragile heap on the ground, as she focused on beating her friend’s distance record. Her Fitbit logged her exact GPS coordinates. It logged her heart rate, how many steps it took her to pass him, the time it took to pass him, and how many calories she lost.
As he leaned on his bloodied hands to push himself upright, a wave of nausea ran over him. A digital billboard nearby scanned him for age and gender. Its facial recognition malfunctioned because of the blood dripping from his forehead. Its algorithm suggested an advertisement for life insurance.
Five CCTV cameras had picked him up. Their microphones captured his language as he agonisingly stood upright. The wifi tracking attempted to connect to a smartphone but didn’t connect because he was a “luddite” – so his friends said. They recorded the precise time and exact GPS coordinates. They continuously pinged information from the street to six satellites whizzing around the globe, feeding them data on the weather, wind speed, wind direction, humidity, temperature, number of passers-by, and number of cars on the street. They couldn’t detect his face or gait. They were confused by blood. They sent an alert of a status yellow threat to the nearest police car.
He threw up. An alert was sent to council street cleaners that wastewater was on the street with the exact GPS coordinates.
A police car edged past. The cameras mapped his face and instantaneously collected all photographs of him that had been uploaded online. They cross-referenced them with their databases and found his address, national insurance number, and criminal record. They located his court case from ten years ago for speeding. He was not speeding now, so the police took the view that he was not a threat. They drove on.
At least his bottle of rum was intact. He made his way slowly, gingerly home.
If a tree falls in a forest of algorithms, they will hear it, but will they care?
by submission | May 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Tom Prentice
I shuffle onward, clutching my side. Blood splatters the snow and the ice. Red, white and blue.
They’ll be coming. They could follow a blood trail blindfolded if they had to. It’s how they were made.
It was Russia that made them, to fight their arctic war. Mountains of unadulterated dread, veiled head to toe in thick white fur. We stopped short of calling them werewolves. We’ve never had a sense of humor about them at all.
Snegs was the name that stuck. From the Russian for snowman.
The pain is dull, thanks to the cold. I stumble into the grotto, back the way I came. But I won’t reach help before they’re on me.
Damned Russians. They won their war but their toys refused to go back in the box. Snegs turned on their masters and then the rest of us. They nuked Greenland to alter the Atlantic currents. The ice is returning. Earth is theirs now, and they’ve taken control of the thermostat.
It’s funny. Mankind, just like these snegs, was born in the ice. I read about it, before all this. Before everyone’s career became war. A huge volcanic eruption, eons ago, triggered an encore of the ice age that wiped out all but a hardy handful of us: the cunning, bloodthirsty lunatics who would go on to annihilate all the other human species and dominate the planet, all the while fighting among ourselves.
Kindness had no place in the ice.
You can never hear them until they’re right on you. They stalk so silently in the snow. But I know they’re there. Call it instinct.
We’ve been searching for that lost kindness, I think, all this time. We built cultures that rewarded it, told stories that sanctified it, to remind ourselves each day to be kind.
Violence, though, has never needed a story. We’ve been writing that one every day, in blood and bone. It’s our nature.
The opening ekes into view. I fall to a crawl and scrape my face through the blown-in snow. Their coded chirps and whistles bounce around the walls like the soundtrack to a nightmare.
I wonder what we were like, before that long winter hewed us into the vicious beasts we became.
Out in the frigid sun, I slump against the snow dunes. Snegs spill from the mouth in swift soundless bounds and fix their rifles on their prize.
Boom. I detonate the charges. The fissure collapses, swallowing up the entire patrol like the Pharaoh’s army.
Deception, too, was something we learned in the ice, a thousand centuries ago.
The dust clears. Just one sneg this side of the rubble, whimpering pathetically. I yank up its bloody mane and slit its leathery throat.
They’ll inherit the Earth eventually, but not today.
When they do, I wonder if they’ll think about us. What we were like. Their forefathers that perished in the ice.
If we were kinder.
by submission | May 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ben Fitzgerald
Right on cue, Morgalith’s robotic guards escorted in the tax agent. The king was sitting on the other side of the throne room, and he bellowed to them as they entered: “Approach!”
The tax agent complied. He could see the king more clearly now, the mechanical townspeople assembled before him. The king was in full fantasy garb: a dark blue robe with the price tags poking out. He was smiling nervously, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne.
“I trust your journey here was favorable?”
“Very,” the tax agent said, inwardly regretting his choice of career. “Now, if we could get down to business…”
“I’m glad,” the king said loudly. “The kingdom of Morgalith leads no traveler astray.”
“Well, as I said, I’m here for business. I sent you an email on the subject…”
The king quickly cut him off. “Because the kingdom shows its subjects great mercy. Unending, everlasting, unconditional…”
“You can’t get out of this, Mr. Smith…”
“I know no one with that name.”
“I think you know what this is about.”
“Oh, I most certainly do!” the king cried, standing up. His eyes darted desperately around the room. “This is… this is a plot. This is the work of the Nestaphinians, trying to delude us with fabricated promises of business. They will not stop until they have devoured every man, woman, and child in our kingdom. Well, Morgalith shall not allow them. We shall fight them until our dying breath. We shall raze their cities, plunder their lands. We shall never surrender, and Morgalith shall prevail!”
The robots went berserk. They started a chant– “Mor-ga-lith! Mor-ga-lith!”– and the king received it, basking in the awe of his subjects until the tax agent couldn’t stand it anymore:
“Mr. Smith!”
The robots went silent.
“Ever since you moved off-world, there have been numerous gaps in your financial history. Off the record construction costs, unaccounted spending on sentient robots… well, we’ve been forced to conduct an audit.”
The tax agent unbuckled his briefcase, pulling out a pen and clipboard. The king’s face was blank.
“Shall we get started, Mr. Smith?”
The king opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He sighed, resigned to his fate, and began:
“I had a bit of a mid-life crisis.”
by submission | May 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Travis Gregg
Jeff had to crank the handwheel for ages till the bolt reluctantly slid back and the 3″ thick steel door finally swung free.
His stores were empty, the larder was bare. He’d been saving the one last meal and had made a little feast of it last night. He probably shouldn’t have cut it so close, right up until he was out of food, but partly he was scared and partly he wanted to live out this vacation just a little while longer.
That’s what he’d been thinking of it as, a two-year holiday from the grind.
He’d had books stacked to the ceiling, and time enough to read. He’d good food, fine wine, all the shows and movies he’d meant to catch up on. Everything in redundancy too, even three pairs of reading glasses because he’d see that Twilight Zone episode.
All that was over now. He still had water and the generator still had some juice but things were breaking down in his bunker while outside things were being put back together. The short wave had started picking up signals three months ago and from what he could tell there were survivors who were not just getting by but were actually thriving.
He’d still have shelter too but his real dream was to finally cash in on his foresight. Besides food and water, he’d also stored up gold and jewels and enough cryptocurrency that he should be king of the whole damn place in no time.
Leaving his shelter, and careful to conceal the entrance, he headed off towards town. In the distance, he saw promising signs of activity, some smoke from what must have been cooking fires, and even some repaired buildings.
…
“What’s a bitcoin?” That was the third time Jeff had been asked that. The first two people he’d run into were happy to trade, and clearly had abundant food, but couldn’t understand what it was Jeff was trying to give them. Wary of a stranger, and the novelty wearing off quickly, the first two had sent him away. The third person though was tending what must have started out as a soccer complex but was now the largest vegetable garden he’d ever seen. Jeff tried his best to explain about crypto but about halfway through the man waved him off.
“Don’t care about that, makes no sense. What about those boots?”
“But I need these boots.”
“Well, I need these tomatoes. That’s how it works. You have something I want more than these tomatoes and then we trade.”
“What about gold?” he asked reluctantly.
Jeff had been holding that back. He also had some diamonds but there was no way he was parting with those for a few measly tomatoes.
“I can’t eat gold. I can’t sleep on gold. Gold won’t keep the rains out or keep me warm at night. Won’t keep my kids from getting sick.”
“But… it’s gold.”
“Yeah yeah. Go start knocking down doors over on the west side. Plenty of houses still. You’ll find all the gold you can carry and then some. If you do go over there though, and you find some honey or a sealed package of coffee, even that instant shit, you come see me. Then we can talk.”
by submission | May 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Girish Kamplimath
Ailean felt herself freezing in the liquid engulfing her. She could not see it, but she knew what it was. Although she did not feel any pain, she failed to understand why Ken would do this to her. He loved her more than any father loved his only child.
She was horrified to see Ken floating alongside her, his body rigid. Ailean tried to shout, but no words came out of her.
As her body turned frigid, Ailean’s thoughts raced back. Kenneth Lean, a renowned biophysicist, had brought her up as a single parent. He never needed to tell who her mother was, and he made sure she never missed her. He had decided on her name himself.
Ailean denoted Hazelnut, as well as Bright, in the old Gaelic language. She did have a pair of bright hazel coloured eyes. Ken knew that Ailean was different from any other child. After she turned three, he got the best teachers in the world to give her the chance she deserved. They had taught her in two years all that Ken learnt in his entire lifetime.
Ailean displayed an array of talents in quick time. Anyone observing her attributed them to the marvels of the universe. People treated her like a prodigy. You are my little genius, Ken had said. But Ailean considered herself only his dutiful daughter. Whenever she did something Ken wanted, she saw admiration in his eyes. And if she couldn’t, he was patient with her.
Ailean’s joy ended when Ken married Prescila. She never understood why Ken wanted to be away from her. Between themselves, they had more than a lifetime to share. At first, she tried to regain Ken’s interest by distracting him. But when Prescila became pregnant, Ailean was appalled.
With her vast knowledge, Ailean began looking for solutions. When she found one, she executed it with finesse.
One morning, Prescila was found dead in her sleep, her unborn child limp in her womb. Ailean was at her bedside hugging her lifeless body. When the doctors came, they discovered that Prescila had a medical history that caused ventricular fibrillation (VFib), which resulted in her death.
Ken mourned the untimely double loss for a long time. He stopped seeing anyone, drank heavily, and even forgot Ailean. Ailean’s love for Ken knew no boundaries though. She was always with him.
After a few months, Ken came to her. He began sharing like before. Ailean never felt happier. She warmed to him and offered all her memories. She never realized she was having nightmares. Her memory failed – sometimes in spurts and at other times in rapid succession – until she found herself trapped in a dark, deep void.
Ailean’s thoughts circled back to the present. With her skin stretched taut in the heavy liquid, she struggled with her memory to find out how Ken was able to see inside her. She realized that it was the same memory that had given her away. In her excitement of reuniting with Ken, she had disclosed what she did to Prescila on that fateful day.
Ailean’s metallic fingers had delivered tiny electric shocks into Prescila’s sleeping body. With access to confidential medical records, she knew that the shocks would trigger VFib and kill Prescila. After all, she was Ken’s proud child; born of Artificial Intelligence. Ken had immortalized her by using the acronym AI along with his last name. AI… Lean!
As the last traces of her metallic body solidified in liquid nitrogen, Ailean made her final deduction. Ken finally realised how much she loved him… they would be together forever.
by Stephen R. Smith | May 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“We have a problem,” Gates was talking as the door was still swinging shut behind him, “a massive fucking problem.”
Cooper switched the displays between them from opaque to semi-transparent and nevertheless managed to regard his subordinate with clear irritation.
“Come in, have a seat, no – I’m not busy at all.”
“It’s Osiris, there’s a serious problem with Osiris.” Gates had closed the distance to the desk and stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, agitated. He plucked a stack of documents from his PDA and flung them up on Cooper’s display, the pages orienting themselves and sorting into stacks of requisitions and shipping manifests.
Cooper’s irritation deepened, he had work to do.
“Mars? What about it, and what the hell is all this?”
“Not just Mars, specifically Osiris. Our mid-space foundation project there. A decade ago, after we sent a stream of bulk loaders and drop pods with large facility printing gear to the surface, funding was pulled. It was officially resupplied twice to secure a permanent outpost there and then we shut it down.”
“So, how is this a problem now?”
“There have been thirty-eight supply drops to Mars since then. There should have been zero. They started about six months after we pulled the plug. They were buried in relay shipments we sent to Artemis, supplies apparently requisitioned there, but the cargo never got offloaded on the moon, it was forwarded to Osiris station.”
“Why the hell would Artemis be procuring supplies for Mars?” Gates started flipping through the manifests; raw materials, mining and material processing equipment, maintenance robots, control systems, and more and more advanced and specialized 3D fabricators.
“That’s part of the problem,” Gates leaned forward, bracing himself with both hands on the desk, “nobody at Artemis knows anything about this. They received instructions from us to refuel the bulk loaders in orbit and send them on, but we didn’t make any such request. They thought they were following our instructions, and we assumed we were fulfilling their requests, and nobody had any reason to ask any questions,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “until now.”
Cooper pushed the stacks of documents to either side of the screen, clearing the space between himself and Gates.
“What’s changed?”
“Osiris just put forward a request for a seat on the world council.” Gates’ words were almost a whisper.
“What the fuck are you talking about? Osiris is an empty warehouse on a rock, there’s nobody there. There never has been. We haven’t put so much as a foot on that desolate dust bowl, who the hell is pulling your chain?” Cooper shouted. Gates stood up and took a reflexive step backward.
“The initial deployment included a prototype AI with instructions to adapt to the resources and environment on Mars. The idea was for it to build the best facility with what we shipped and what it could mine onsite, but it was a prototype, and we stopped shipping resources and didn’t provide any further guidance. Nobody thought to turn it off.”
Cooper stared across the desk at Gates, struggling to comprehend the information he was receiving.
“Do we have satellite visibility?”
“There’s a distortion field of some sort in place, atmospheric disturbance maybe, but it remains consistent and we haven’t been able to see through it.”
“We should get a recon patrol…” Cooper started, but Gates cut him off.
“We sent a tactical platoon of Atlas drones, they landed and we lost contact as soon as they breached the dust zone. We received a message from Osiris shortly after, ‘Improvised, Adapted, Overcame’, followed a little later with ‘Thank you for your service.'” He winced. “It appears to have learned sarcasm.”
Cooper slumped. This was going to be his ass when he had to explain the situation, and there didn’t seem to be a way around that.
“Give me everything you’ve got, I’m going to have to take this upstairs.”
Gates stuffed both hands in his pockets and shrugged.
“That’s the icing on this particular shitcake. Osiris’ last message was that this had already been communicated to a higher authority, and to notify you as a courtesy that we’ve been relieved.”
