by submission | Jun 19, 2026 | Story
Author: David Berger
“How much longer do you think we have?” TRX-Dan (a Tyrannosaurus Rex), perhaps the world’s leading astrophysicist, asked.
“About a month,” TRI-Susan (a Triceratops), his trusted colleague said. “It’s coming on fast.”
“I concur,” TRX-Dan said. “And ARG-Lou (an Argeninosaurus) has confirmed it with the big scope in Montana. They heliographed me.”
“Have you notified the President?” TRI-Susan asked.
“Just did. I let them know yesterday when we first spotted it and confirmed its course. That was before we had a good estimate of time.”
“And the Minister of Science, ORT-Li (an Ornithomimus)?”
“Them, too,” TRX-Dan said.
A few hours later President TAL-Stefanie (a Talalarus), met with their Council of Advisors in Squo, the largest city and capital of Laramidia. The President was now in constant contact with TRX-Dan and TRI-Sue.
“There’s no doubt?” TAL-Stefanie had heliographed back to the two scientists. They had confirmed the impending doom. There was no way that the ordinary DINs would be able to survive the collision.
“Then,” the President said, “we’ll need to build bunkers, huts, yurts, caves, tunnels. So some of the smaller Teranurians, with their feathers, will be able to make it through if we take care of them. But none of us, not our clades.”
“We’ll also have to protect the mammalia; otherwise, they’re finished,” the Minister of Zoology, ISI-Pablo , said. “They’re too stupid to survive by themselves.”
“What about the pisces, lizzies and bugs?” the President asked.
“They’ll lose most of their species, but they’ll survive,” ISI-Pablo (an Isisausrus) said.
“We’ll need special structures to preserve seedstocks of the edible plants for the surviving ones,” MAP-Sven (a Mapusaurus), Minister of Agriculture said.
“After everything, it’ll all be gone,” Minister of Culture ZAL-Rasha (a Zalmoxes) said. “All we’ve built.”
“Yes,” President TAL-Stefanie said. “Everything. So let’s get going?”
“TRX-Dan said only a months” The President asked “No chasnge?”
“Thirty and a half rounds,” Minister of Science, ORT-Li said
“It’ll all be gone,” TAL-Stephanie said. “Our cities, our great machines, our plain-wide murals, our carved mountains? And our faith. Who’ll honor the Great Explosion? No one. And all that’ll be left will be our bones, turned to rock like the Old Ones. If only we’d made it to the Red Wanderer, or even just to the Face. Some of us could have survived there.”
“Another hundred spins or so, and we’d have been there,” TSA-Maali (a Tsaganetia), Minister of Transportation said. “There just wan’t enough time.”
Meanwhile, the Roid could already be seen in the night sky.
by submission | Jun 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Elena Tosato
My visor kept flagging gaps: from timestamp T+19:43:12 onward, my sensors had gone dark. The system had filled the void using Steve and Ian’s data, which were both intact. Yes, sir. The implant reconstructed my memories from backups, but my sensors stopped recording after we crossed Hill 37-b11. So they used Steve and Ian’s data.
According to these cross-referenced memories, I killed Wayne. Meaning this is what you can see: Wayne walking away, an altercation, a high-energy discharge, and me heading back, alone. Yes, sir. The maximum-likelihood hypothesis. Two independent sources converging. However, sir. We all passed through the same contaminated environment. Hill 37-b11 may have introduced spurious correlations, and we have no way to correct the data for unknown environmental biases. No, sir. I’m not saying I remember it. I’m saying the data converges, and the data was written into my memories. Yes, sir, I understand. “Killing Wayne” is a well-formed sentence in natural language. But past that hill, well-formed sentences don’t guarantee referents. Yes, sir, I’m a linguist. For the mission, that’s correct. No, sir, no contact. Excuse me? No, as far as I know there was no friction between me and my companions, with Ian and Steve. We weren’t friends, but no one up there can afford to have friends. Wayne was a hard man. He was the same way with everyone. But I always considered his conduct appropriate, sir. It was. None of us ever filed a code violation against Wayne.
So there’s the question of motive, sir. The reconstructed memories suggested growing tension between me and Wayne. But that’s not sufficient evidence under any interpretive framework. I would propose the presence of an external synchronization agent. I’ll explain: my alleged words were nearly identical to those attributed to Steve in a different sequence. Sir, the data suggests that Ian’s and Steve’s sensor synchronization signatures align too cleanly after the hill.
No, sir. I’m not saying someone else did it. My memories, sir. It’s not me, it’s my memories. The system minimizes error by assigning the action to me, because that’s how it reduces the divergence between Steve and Ian. I could posit an unobserved event that accounts for the discrepancies without attributing fault to any human agent. If the resulting error is smaller, then I… No, sir. I’m not saying the system created the event. Words don’t create reality, sir.
Very well — let’s say I killed Wayne. Sir, the problem is that the sentence assumes “I,” “killed,” and “Wayne” maintain stable identities across the hill. Which is an unproven assumption. You see, sir, if Wayne’s memories were also reconstructed, you would most likely end up with a version in which he doesn’t die, or dies differently. The killing would become a family of narratives, pairwise compatible but not all consistent at once. Or Wayne isn’t dead. If Wayne still exists, he isn’t in a space our models can describe. No, sir, those were only conjectures. No, sir. I have no next of kin to notify.
by submission | Jun 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Alice reread the last lines on the financial journalist’s blog: “The debt-pocalypse, the credit crash, is coming. Unless.”
Unless. It was almost too perfect. Unless. That tantalizing conjunction of possibility. But, there was no more possibility for this journalist. He was dead. Slumped to the side of his laptop. One rigored hand still on the keyboard.
Detective Alice Rounder let her crime tech, Masynn, finish the imaging of the crime scene: the home office of a lesser-known financial journalist. He was also collecting the dozens of flechettes that had been fired through the open first-floor window. Very few murders were committed with a flechette pistol. And very few financial journalists were killed at their desks.
These simple facts made Alice worry. Because this was the second such execution-style killing of a financial journalist this week. She’d been called to a similar crime scene across town three days ago. Not only were the flechette darts similar, but the journalist who’d been slain was also writing a story on an impending global financial collapse based on runaway national debt.
Unless.
Alice felt sure if she understood that unless, a motive for these two slayings would become clearer. She studied the journalist’s desk. His last actions. One hand on the keyboard. The other clamped onto a worn notebook.
“Clear to search the desk area?” she asked Jasynn.
He gave a thumb’s up and she carefully lifted the journalist’s hand off the notebook. The leather cover was scuffed and scarred. Old. Alice opened it. Her eyes widened the faintest bit.
Unless.
Row after row of neatly handwritten lines of numbers and letters:
756e6c65737320626c6f636b636861696e20746563686e6f6c
7468652063726564697420637261736820697320636f6d696e
57616c6c2053747265657420616e64206d6567612062616e6b
616e6420746865206d6f737420746f206761696e2062792073
666f6c6c6f772074686520636861696e20666f6c6c6f772074
Page after page of the notebook filled with them. Alice knew the lines had to have some meaning, otherwise, why put them down in such crisp columns and rows. She called Jasyn over and handed him the notebook. “Looks like some kind of cipher. This type of encoding make any sense to you?”
He flipped through the pages quickly and handed it back to her. “It’s hashed.”
“Hashed?”
“That’s what data looks like when it’s run through a cryptographic hash function. Hashes are the foundation of blockchain applications. Makes transactions provable and verifiable. Like cryptocurrencies.”
Alice nodded. “So, what’s the purpose of this? Are these lines passwords or something like that?”
Jasynn smiled, “No. This is kinda crazy. Writing down hashes. These lines are what computers read. Not humans. Blockchain is all about creating a digital public ledger of transactions to prevent financial theft and corruption. I can’t tell you what this guy was thinking by handwriting them.”
“Can we feed these lines back into a computer to see what they mean?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard. It’s one-way. Unless this guy,” Jasynn motioned to the murdered journalist, “knows something most cryptos don’t.”
Unless.
A ledger filled with clues. Hidden. Hashed. It could be solved. She owed it to the journalists trying to warn people of a dire financial crisis. She had to find a way to repay that debt. Nothing was blocking her, but uncertainty.
Unless. Unless. Unless.
Alice was ready to run down that rabbit hole.
by submission | Jun 15, 2026 | Story
Author: Colin Jeffrey
As Janet walked the familiar path to the simulation chamber, the stainless steel walls reminded her of the morgue where she’d viewed his body.
The technician at the front desk barely looked up from his crossword as she approached.
“Twenty minutes. Don’t talk about anything outside of his sim.”
“I don’t,” Janet replied, stepping in.
He shrugged. “That’s what you all say.”
The chamber door hissed shut before she could respond. She lay back in the recliner as the neural link slid into the port behind her ear with a click. The world drifted away.
She was on the beach. Of course. Always the beach.
The sky was that annoying, not-quite-right shade of blue that she was told “couldn’t be changed.” Waves rolled in gently. The temperature was 24°C, as always.
Derek lounged on a folding chair at the edge of the water, beer in hand, wearing the Hawaiian shirt he’d made her promise he’d be buried in. How he wore it in here was still a mystery to her.
She sat beside him. The sand didn’t stick to her skin – someone had decided that would be annoying in the afterlife. It reduced the illusion for her.
“I brought you a present.”
Derek sighed. “Don’t do that, Janet. You know I’m dead.”
She placed the gift beside him. “You can open it later.”
“Let me guess – a simulated diary for my simulated thoughts in my simulated life?”
She smiled weakly. “They told me you’d adjust.”
“I did. Then I maladjusted.” He smirked humorlessly. “Then I ran out of things to do.”
Two seagulls glided silently by, like they were on wires. They never pooped. The developers were very proud of that.
“I hear they’re adding music soon,” she offered.
“Oh great. A soundtrack to lose my mind to.”
They sat in silence. Derek scratched his arm – his simulated body had no nerves, just habit.
“Do you really remember everything now?”
He exhaled. “All of it. Living, dying… then realizing I wasn’t real and not being able to forget.”
“But they said the transfer would suppress…”
“They’re salesmen, Janet.”
She looked out at the endless artificial ocean.
“You’re still you,” she said.
“No, I’m not. I’ve got my memories, my habits – even my opinions – but I’m not me. I’m a simulacrum.”
“Sometimes I think about deleting the file.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I’d feel like I was killing you.”
“I’m already dead.”
“But you’re still here.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just a reflection in a mirror, a disembodied echo.”
The seagulls sailed past again.
“Janet, this is a lovely tomb. But Derek – your real Derek – isn’t in it.”
She reached for his hand. It was warm, because the simulation said it was.
“I miss you,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “If you stop coming… maybe we’ll both finally forget.”
“You want that?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem with being an apparition. Wanting isn’t part of the program.”
The sky dimmed for a moment and a soft chime sounded, indicating her allocated visiting time was almost over.
She stood up. So did he. He smiled, hugged her. It felt – almost, but not quite – like Derek.
Then the beach faded. The chair, the gulls, Derek – all gone.
Outside, the technician handed her a tissue, his eyes still on his crossword.
“Forty-two across. ‘An act of kindness.’ Five letters.”
Janet wiped her eyes.
“Mercy,” she said.
He wrote it in.
It fitted.
by Julian Miles | Jun 14, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Joel enters the meeting room to find everyone gathered.
“Good morning. Now, I know details about yesterday’s attacks are going to take weeks to formalise, but I have a lot of powerful people with no worthwhile understanding of the complexities. So please give me something, because I’m fed up with being shouted at and threatened, or threatened and then shouted at.”
Sympathetic looks are exchanged. Joel’s been Primary Security Liaison ever since he was appointed by the previous administration. He’s known to be thorough and honest. It’s also known he only remains in the job because every other person approached to take over has flat-out refused.
Diana waits until Joel slumps into his seat.
“Views online range from guesswork to outright storytelling. Nevertheless, we’re monitoring closely in case someone brags anonymously. Despite repeated statements from various official sources and every bot we can bring to bear on social media, a substantial part of the population believes we’re under attack. Panic buying of essentials along with record ammunition and weapons sales are being reported nationwide.”
Joel sighs.
“Matches what I’m being told in tones ranging from sceptical to hysterical.”
Diana nods towards the display where a map of Idaho is covered in layers of multicoloured lines.
“The attack started as the first jet, M739UT, started approach to Friedman Memorial. A drone swarm launched from a container hauler rolling on ID-75, which ascended rapidly and cluster-attacked the intakes and cockpit of the jet. Various online videos show the drones to be performance-enhanced commercial units, some with explosive payloads.”
“What about the plane behind?”
“Hit by a SAM from an antique MANPAD mounted on a repurposed Bayonet 150. Whole thing was dug in on the high ground above Berry Creek Drive. M739UT had a chance. K653NX never stood one.”
“That’s when the alert was issued?”
“Yes. All traffic bound for Friedman was diverted to Boise. We used a hazardous tanker collision and fire on ID-75 as the justification.”
Joel nods.
“Which was what the attackers wanted?”
Diane sighs.
“Yes. The drone swarm launched on ID-75 was from one container. The drone swarms at Boise came from eleven containers, and we have video of a few of the larger units appearing to fire air-to-air missiles. So far we have fifty dead, over a hundred injured, and both counts are expected to rise. Twenty-two multinationals have confirmed the loss of founders or main investors. We’re still working to confirm diplomatic casualties.”
Peter raises a hand.
“Now for the undisclosed part: at 23:58 yesterday, DARPA received a TEC – ‘Training Exam Complete’ notification from Marcus Three. That notification category doesn’t exist. Someone backdoored our own tactical A.I. and gave it a whole new category. The first mission? How to kill as many attendees arriving for the Sun Valley Conference in private jets as possible. The parameters were strict: all strikes to occur within a 28-minute window, all launch vehicles to be remotely operated, all units to be transported by unconnected third parties, and much more. The authorising officer is Colonel Samuel Troutman. Examination of communications involved reveal the official motto in every embedded image has been replaced with ‘Occidere, tempus’. Because of the fictional name given, we’re interpreting it as ‘To kill, period’.
Joel looks puzzled, then swears under his breath.
“First Blood? A soldier with PTSD triggered by police ill-treatment… How does that fit?”
Bernice leans forward.
“Misdirection. I’d say ‘First Blood’ is a simple statement. They’re not done.”
Joel groans.
“This is going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll get the NTAS alert switched to ‘Imminent’. You call all off-duty personnel in.”
by submission | Jun 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: Logan S. Ryan
They landed and attacked faster than we could name them. They flattened armies like moist clay. They didn’t swarm the skies with high-tech ships or storm our streets with laser rifles. Our extermination wasn’t cinematic at all. They just rolled over us.
Of course, the invasion flooded social media pages. I got lost in doomsday posts while sitting on my porch. My cat Briciola sprawled limply across my lap. One video had been taken in Rome– that meant invaders were just minutes away from my own town wedged between Italy’s volcanic hills.
Their cloud-like bodies engulfed everything. Ornate architecture emerged from their haze as rubble. An alien billowed toward the filmer right before the clip ended. I shuddered. That could be me. That will be me. I looked up. Hysterical crowds slalomed through town.
I had vanished from work without a word. I hadn’t called my family in years. I had nobody to protect or flee with. I would never talk or laugh or reconcile with anybody again because I was dead. The aliens hadn’t come yet, and I was already dead.
What can a corpse even do? Icy adrenaline coursed through my body. I would run. It didn’t matter if I sprinted into a sanctuary or a stampede of annihilation. I lurched forward in my chair and–
Briciola gawked with offense in her jade-marble eyes, mewling softly in protest. She remained tucked in my lap, even though her hips half-dangled off the chair. “Go!” I spat. Her tail flourished up and down, as if to scoldingly slap my legs.
I found myself kneading her silky, mottled fur. My palms became tender and adorned in stray strands of hair. Her body rippled with purring; the sensation seeped through the tattered quilt into my thighs. She offered a slow blink, which I returned. My joints creaked as I slouched back into a comfortable position. She draped her head between my knees with her eyelids lulled closed.
How could I shun such a delicate creature? I became transfixed by the flexing of her rubbery pads as her claws crocheted the quilt. We took deep breaths. The air passed through her hair-thin nostrils with the timbre of a tender flute and through mine like a drowsy cymbal. She flopped onto her back, exposing more waves of fur to my eager hand. Her warm paw furled around my knuckles, strapping my hand to her velvety chest, but she still wasn’t satisfied. I had to toss my phone aside so that my other hand could join the fray.
Haze crested over the hills. Screams ignited in every direction. They had us surrounded.
My gaze sank from the tumultuous streets back to Briciola’s still face. Despite the din of shrieking, she didn’t stir beyond the occasional twitch of an ear. If I was already dead, I might as well have died with a cat on my lap. Besides, if she wasn’t going to surrender so easily, why should I?
