by submission | Mar 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
Since its accidental discovery two decades ago, the phenomenon referred to as the Veil has been a heavily discussed topic. For five years, nearly every University in the world sent their best researchers billions of lightyears away from home to study it. Yet, despite strong evidence pointing to the existence of a seemingly infinite, yet invisible barrier, irreproducibility in testing has kept the Veil from becoming an established scientific phenomenon. Only a few research teams persisted in their work when it became clear that nothing useful could be learned. To this day, there is no agreed-upon theory on the nature of the wall that many are calling ‘the edge of the Universe’.
Aside from the lack of reproducibility, the Veil also exhibits properties that violate fundamental physical principles. Light directed towards the Veil has been found to scatter at aberrant angles and wavelengths. Instruments detect large emissions in the ultraviolet range, although no object in its vicinity has shown signs of UV exposure. Given the regular media updates of inconclusive experiments, public opinion has largely been in favor of terminating all further studies to focus on more fruitful projects closer to home.
Despite the pessimism, scientists still on the project believe that finding a way around the Veil is only a matter of time. The existence of the Veil at different longitudes of the Celestial Sphere has also not been confirmed. Yet an increasing number of renowned thinkers are cautioning against such ambition. Such dissidents point to the unpredictability of the Veil’s properties as evidence that our laws of science cannot be applied to the boundaries of the known. A notable futurist has said that intelligent beings have built the Veil there to “keep us from encroaching into their territory while toying with our instruments”. A philosopher has stated that “the Universe itself is telling us to know our place”.
Another obstacle to further scientific work comes from the psychological effects on observers after prolonged viewing. Celestial objects seen on the opposite side of the Veil are believed to be reflections of those in the known Universe, although the anomalous reflective properties of the Veil distort them into nearly unrecognizable forms. After twenty minutes of observation, observers report these forms transforming into disturbing visions, causing heightened levels of anxiety and distress. Such effects only dissipate an hour after observation is ceased. The longest recorded viewing was done by a graduate student who looked at the reflections for forty minutes (as recorded in her notebook) while taking measurements. She was found unconscious by her advisor and hospitalized for two days. When she awoke, she reported having dreams of deformed humanoid entities chanting in a language “so horrific and fantastic that you are drawn to listen while feeling so unsettled [sic]”. However, she could not recall taking measurements, or that she even reported for work that day. Her advisor was investigated for coercion to work under dangerous conditions, but the case was dropped due to a lack of evidence.
With large budget cuts and poor public opinion, scientists have turned to Defense agencies for funding with the hope that they see the Veil as a potential threat. No further statements have been made regarding this request.
by submission | Mar 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Tomas Marcantonio
You’re not supposed to fall in love with an alien. The first time our lips touched I knew my spirit was being ripped down the centre, never to be whole again. I was forever doomed to live as a fragment of myself. Part of me here in this foreign land, the other part left to rot on the other side.
My family are waiting. I visit when I can, of course, but I never come back whole. I wonder if they see it when I step back on home soil: me as a decaying monster, different parts missing with each visit. A leg this time, a few fingers the next. A leper dropping limbs.
We pay the toll and take the bridge. We’re well-stocked for the journey; last time we crossed it took four days. Most couples make it in three, but my partner walks slowly. She can’t help looking down, watching the recesses between the wooden boards, glimpses of the red sea hundreds of feet below. There’s no fear in her eyes; in fact, all expression seems to drain from them, as if the fiery waves are swallowing particles of her soul. The closer we get to the other side – my homeland – the more her eyes glaze over, the slower her movements become, the less she speaks.
We’re like a pair of tortoises, slipping in and out of different shells, all of them ill-fitting. When we walk the bridge, we’re both shell-less, naked. Without shells tortoises should scamper like slick geckos, unburdened and gloriously light-footed. They don’t. They drag their clumsy feet across the ground, withered and half-formed, like slugs being peppered by bullets of salt.
Perhaps I should have run when I could, turned tail before her eyes bewitched me. I should have journeyed homeward as soon as our souls began to connect, our alien wires intertwining of their own accord. That way, I might have kept my soul in one piece.
But we leapt. Together. We joined hands, stoked the fires that burned in our shared furnace. We looked at the bridge and laughed. It’s not so far, we thought. We’d toss our shells and watch them melt away in the red sea. Then as the tears streamed down our cheeks, we’d kiss. Many on both sides tell us it’s wrong; they’ll never know how tears taste the same no matter where you come from.
I see my homeland growing out of the horizon. My family are a minuscule silhouette of open arms waiting on the shore, ready to lovingly reattach the pieces I’ve lost. My partner glances at me and in that moment her eyes sharpen; two glistening galaxies alive with sweet sensation. She smiles with such startling beauty that all doubt is sucked out of being.
My soul is torn in two. It is the most wonderful sensation.
END
by submission | Mar 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Moriah Geer-Hardwick
“What a mess.” Cabot wearily scans what’s left of the room. “Damn ATU didn’t leave us much to work with.”
Spattered with blood and bits of debris, the ATU stands to one side, patiently awaiting its next objective.
Stokes nudges a severed arm with the toe of his boot. “You’d think the Company would upgrade to quantum hardware for this kind of operation.”
“Too expensive.” Cabot shrugs, easing his way passed the splintered wreckage of a couch.
“What about cloud-based AI?”
“Too many security issues.”
Stokes walks over to a corpse crumpled awkwardly against a bookshelf. The lower half of its face has been ripped away. “This one’s no good? Damage looks superficial.”
Cabot shakes his head. “Possible head trauma. Let’s see if one of the others is more viable.”
Stokes moves to the destroyed couch. A mangled hand sticks out from under the far side. He gestures for Cabot. Together, they heave the couch aside. Underneath, lays the upper half of a human torso. From the shoulders up, everything appears intact.
“Sure.” Cabot sighs. “Get the collar.”
Stokes drops his kit and wrenches out a bulky, ring-shaped device. Moving with practiced deliberation, he soon has it locked in place around the corpse’s neck. He jabs a thumb into the activation button. There’s a quick crunch as the neural probe stabs through the skull, followed by the slight gurgle of necro-gel being injected into the brain.
The head twitches. Then, the jaw feebly opens and closes. A moment later, the corpse gives a spluttering gasp.
“Trying to breathe.” Stokes taps away at the collar’s control pad. “Should have autonomics in a second. I’ll see if I can go ahead and get speech up.”
Cabot crouches and taps the corpse on the forehead.
“Wha…” The corpse struggles to form the words. The sound comes from a speaker in the collar. “What… Happened?”
“You were killed.” Cabot glances at his watch. “About four minutes ago.”
“I was… dead?”
“Yes, for about four minutes. Try to keep up.”
“How am I…?”
“We can talk about the technicalities later. For now, I have a few questions. What’s your name?”
“Malick. Andrei Malick.”
Malick’s eyes roll back and his face sags. Cabot looks over at Stokes.
“Cognitive issue disrupting the imposed homeostasis.” Stokes hurriedly makes a few adjustments.
“Mr. Malick.” Cabot again taps the man’s forehead. Malick blinks. “I know that factionalism tends to lure individuals away from the natural compulsion of self-preservation by promising a glorified afterlife, or by arbitrarily ascribing a hyperbolic social value to personal sacrifice. Your presence in this room suggests you have fallen prey to one or more of these tactics. Now that you have experienced the true cost of your political views, do you remain committed to your previous ideology?”
“I was… wasn’t…” Malick’s face distorts in confusion. “There was nothing…”
“Mr. Malick, we’ve pulled you back from the void of non-existence to offer you a choice. We can either return you to emptiness of oblivion, or the Company is prepared to offer you a position that will let you remain here, in the land of the living.”
“I want… to live.”
Cabot nods, amicably. “Sounds like enough to imply consent.”
Stokes pauses at the control pad. “Mr. Malick, the manual says after your brain is processed into an ATU, you won’t retain any memories, but in case you do, please try and remember to keep everything center mass. Makes our job easier.”
“Wha…?”
Stokes presses a command and in a flash, the collar separates Mr. Malick’s head from what’s left of his torso.
by submission | Mar 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
It was a beautiful VR construction. Potted dwarf apricot trees, soaring arches, piles of ornate cushions and silk settees, thick oriental carpets. It was, by all accounts, the most perfect steampunk zeppelin grand salon the Adjustor had ever seen. Clearly, Citizen Archer had a keen eye for detail. Adjustor 507 sighed. Such a waste of talent.
“How did you get in here?”
Adjustor 507 reached into his jacket pocket barely noticing how fine the VR Edwardian wool waistcoat construction was as he pulled out his badge.
“As per the Bureau of Individual Ethics and Standards, I have warrant to go anywhere, including any kind of VR construction being utilized.”
“But this is my own world. My own thoughts. No one else is allowed here.”
“I understand you think that. Sadly, what happens here bleeds out into your real world. Since your purchase of this program and the construction of this simulation, there has been an 8% rise in your workplace aggression. Nothing too serious needed beyond this visit and intensified monitoring, but the aggressive peer comebacks and the inappropriate gender construct comment- “
“Inappropriate gender construct comment?”
“Yes. You were flagged by our system after a routine review of the national workplace CCTV footage picked up a questionable exchange. That exchange was selected for human review. On Fifthday last, you referred to the small watercraft you are building as “she”.
“But that’s what ships are called… “
Adjustor 507 interrupted. “Exactly the problem. The term comes from a day when women were routinely objectified. A watercraft with a female pronoun. An embodiment of a woman who could be lashed down, made to go where the patriarchy demanded.”
“It’s a boat.”
The adjustor sighed. “It starts with a boat. Then it generalizes by increments until it spills out as full-fledged gender-biased microaggressions. From sailor to sexist oppressor. It is better for the broader society if we stop this now.”
“At what cost to the individual?”
The Adjustor narrowed his eyes “I beg your pardon Citizen Archer.”
Citizen Archer stood up. “I said ‘what cost to the individual?’”
The Adjustor smiled. “I thought so.”
Archer smiled “Thought what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You just got through telling me what happens in my head spills out into the real world.’”
The Adjustor took a step backwards. “I’m not the issue here-“
“No. What you think matters. How you act on those thoughts matter. Is there a bias you are hiding?”
The Adjustor rolled his eyes “Not bias, data. Your types-“
“My types? Do you mean older late 21st century males of predominantly Caucasian extraction?”
The Adjustor began to sweat visibly. “I-I-I just follow the data.”
“Indeed. End simulation.”
The steampunk zeppelin disappeared. In its place, not anyone resembling Citizen Archer, but a representative from Internal Affairs.
“Yes Adjustor 507, you are following the data. However, the data sets you are selecting indicate a more than 30% bias against the aforementioned profile.”
Adjustor 507 shoulders sunk. “I-I-I- don’t know what to say. I thought I was doing my duty.”
The Internal Affairs officer smiled sympathetically. “I understand. It’s nothing that a few hundred hours of biased data selection avoidance training can’t cure. Report to the re-education center for your district on Firstday”
Adjustor 507 handed the Internal Affairs officer his badge and left the room.
The I.A. officer did not smile, nor sigh, nor do anything that could possibly be construed as any positive or negative emotion at all. Yet, deep in their soul, they jumped for joy.
by Julian Miles | Mar 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dawn is like a neon tube: a strip of too-bright light. Above it are the clouds that hang across the city all the time, below are the outer walls. From this far inside, the watch towers and turrets look like the bits that soldiers hid behind in castles.
Castle? If so, City Central is the big fort in the middle where the royalty live. Around it are the homes of the rich people. Beyond that are the services that make sure the rich or royal never have to do dirty jobs. Around that are the places where the people who do the dirty jobs live.
Beyond that? It’s a big place, filled with hydroponic farms, scrapyards, shanty towns, and us.
I shake my head and pick up where I left off.
“Not that we’re any different. Don’t have clothes for different times of day, don’t have much choice in the shops, don’t get to eat out often. Apart from that, if you scrub me and stick me in a fancy suit, you wouldn’t know the difference. That’s until you try to have a conversation. It’s not like we have much common ground.”
There’s a giggle from my right.
“Torin, stop worrying.”
I look down at the vision sprawled in the filth next to me.
“That dress cost more than my old man could make in five years.”
She smiles and rolls onto her tummy.
“Not really. Only vanity and greed make it expensive.”
A flitcar drops to hover a metre or so off the roof edge.
“Rebecca de Vure Marigny! Come here!”
She sits up and winks at me, then turns her head and shouts at the noisy machine.
“Roberto, I will not. Mother said I was free to go where I wanted for Centenary Night. Here is it.”
“Leave that tarted-up rough! He’ll just roll you and run!”
She looks at me, eyes wild, but there’s something there that’s ours.
Turning back, she points at me.
“He made it all the way to the Botanical Gardens Free Fair with nothing but a good suit and an attitude. Could you find your way downstairs without a valet? Are you even alone in there?”
“That’s beside the point! Charles Harringdon was asking after you!”
“He wears bedsheets and smells like damp dog.”
“He’s a good catch!”
“Then you have him!”
Her dismissive wave stops midway.
“You fancy my rooftop Romeo too, don’t you?”
“Of course not.”
I lean toward her: “He’s an impressive flyer, but not my thing otherwise.”
A wet kiss lands on the tip of my nose.
“I’d missed that.”
She stands up and points at the flitcar with both hands.
“Barbara de Vure Marigny, you can’t have this man. Have Roberto instead!”
The privacy screen drops and I see a younger version of Rebecca grinning at us from the control seat. Behind her is a darkly handsome young man. His menacing glare is marred by the intense blush that’s spreading across his cheeks.
Rebecca makes an intricate hand gesture toward Roberto, who recoils like he’s been punched. The girl, who I presume is Barbara, is laughing as she replies.
“Dirty cow, enjoy your mucky morning. I’m going to take this fool away and help him with the obvious problem he’s had ever since he saw you lying on that roof.”
The flitcar dives out of view. Rebecca turns to face me.
“Speaking of ‘problems’… Hope you fancy helping me with mine as much as I fancy helping you with yours.”
I chuckle.
“Didn’t come up here to roll in the dirt on my own.”
by submission | Mar 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Michael Anthony Dioguardi
The pianist pounded on the ivory keys and produced such sound that dust trickled from the ceiling. The shadows of his hands collided with the flicker of candle light, orchestrating a waltz of chiaroscuro. The trills and follies manipulated each other into exotic patterns. The pianist’s pupils reflected the rattle of seasoned appendages in their abode. Sweat crept down his face and dried on his neck.
He ran up the pentatonic, skipping the eights and fifths. His right hand pressed full octave chords as his left hurdled over it; stepping on the black keys as if they were hot coals. His hands and mind raged in a vicious tug-of-war for control over the concerto. His chair bellowed as his arms swung and whipped around the pages of his manuscript. Papers wallowed from the stand and floated to the floor but the pianist was uninterrupted. Notes hung in the air like mist. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and gazed into the void of his own creation.
And then he felt it — the vibrations in his ears. His lobes pulsed with blood flow. Saliva avalanched over his bottom teeth.
This vibration — this sound, it was alien.
There was a competing force, not of his creation. The pianist confronted the sound of another. He recognized the melodies and the unmatchable style. The unknown force propelled the pianist’s hands back towards him. His vision blurred and the chair beneath him disappeared. The details of his workplace dullened into azure hues striated by fleeting measures, now incarnate. The pianist found himself in the most obscure chamber. The rival force filled the deteriorating space with haunting sonatas. The piano’s notes lingered fresh in his view. Their figures elongated and revealed their innards. Lines pirouetted into complex shapes and exploded before his eyes. The rival conductor engaged the pianist, chiding him into terror. The rival’s face, obfuscated by the arrangement, contoured a familiar image. The pianist extended his hands towards the face, but the ceiling’s imperfections returned to view. The music faded and his hands returned to him.
The pianist observed his corner in silence. He collected the papers from the floor and placed them atop the stand. The pianist shivered past his lips, “Thank you, Amadeus.”
He caressed the keys once more, their surfaces still burning, “Your Requiem is complete.”
