by submission | Jun 1, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sun beats down mercilessly upon dunes and cliffs, turning the scene to shades of gold scattered with tan shadows. Across this starkly beautiful landscape, a series of small, sandy divots lie where the breeze has not blown them back to conceal the trail of indentations.
Following that trail leads to a series of sinuous ‘S’ shapes, like a sidewinder was progressing at right angles to its usual course. After a while, the sine-wave is paralleled by deep footprints, the ice in their shadowed depths only just starting to yield to the morning sun.
The parallel tracks crest a tall dune, tall enough to see the ruins of Amarna smoking in the distance. At the terminus of the tracks there lies a sun-baked body in the bloodied rags of what had been a pharaoh’s regalia. Crouched next to him is an ebon being with a jackal’s head.
“They thought they’d dragged you far enough away that you’d never return. I knew they were wrong. Stubborn was always your strongest attribute, after your sense of direction.”
The reply comes in a dry whisper: “A curse upon your House, usurper.”
The snout drops as the eyes regard the dying human.
“Too far gone for proclamations, Khuenaten? About time.”
“What would you know of time, or my divine task?”
“As I am somewhat responsible for you thinking you had that task, I thought I’d come to apologise, yet again.”
“Again? We have never met.”
“Not in this Akhet, but your particular obsession is incredibly difficult to remove. No matter how we set things up, you always get the monotheistic urge and set off upon this doomed quest once again.”
“There is only one god. He is the Atun, and he looks down upon me now, ready to receive me into his glorious presence.”
“And there we have it. Your core delusion. I had hoped that by dropping in I’d create some sort of release for this persistent reality twist.”
“What?”
“One god. There is never only one god. As long as my netsheren overlook your Akhets – and there is only one other of us who recalls a time when we didn’t – there can never be a single god.”
“Blasphemer.”
The ebon head lunges and for the first time, their eyes meet.
“Gaze upon me, then say who blasphemes.”
There is a cry of denial; the rattle of a dying breath.
Anhubeth stands up and looks down at the body.
“Good answer.”
As he strides off, a biting, cold wind ruffles the sand and frosts the eyes of the corpse, before whipping off to interstices unknown. The miniscule resonance created by the chill excision of a reality torsion touches Anhubeth’s senses.
Glancing back, he smiles.
“Death-point learning: so profound, too late, but never wasted.”
Looking down, he kicks up sand and barks a soft laugh.
“Unchanging… Yet patterns across a stretch of sand are always different. What can reckon the fall of every grain? Neither gods nor mortals, it seems.”
He snorts.
“And what use a sand predicting machine?”
With a shake of his head, he walks away.
by submission | May 31, 2026 | Story |
Author: Em
The sky ripped open. A giant pixel tear split the fake blue, revealing the rusted skeleton of the “Rust”—the real, ruined world. Théo Laurent leaned on his console, skin itching. In 2936, the government bought the mental labor of citizens to power the city, leaving his colleagues, Miller and Vance, moving like slow-motion puppets while their conscious minds slept.
“Can you talk faster?” Théo snapped. “My brain is growing moss.”
Théo was “twitchy” because he saw the glitches. To him, the V.I.C.E. (Vessel for Integrated Cognitive Energy) was a moldy, inefficient cage. When the system flagged him for “Internal Conflict,” Théo didn’t wait for the guards. He bolted.
After three days hiding in the metallic stench of the trash-heaps, Théo found the resistance. Ciara Wittlow, a sharp-eyed rebel, caught him straightening a wrench in her lopsided basement.
“You’re a key,” she said. “The V.I.C.E. Spire has a neural lock that fries anyone under 160 IQ. Help me destroy the Filter, and I’ll let you redesign the world.”
Théo agreed, but as he fixed their “duct-tape” tech, he found Ciara’s hidden sub-routines. She planned to dump his mind once the job was done. He also shared his truth: his mother, Linia, had died because of a 3% air-filter error. He didn’t want freedom; he wanted a world without mistakes.
During the infiltration of the Core, Ciara prepared to drop the Filter. “We give them back their minds!” she cried.
“You’ll fry them,” Théo countered. His brain, running at 109% utilization, saw Ciara move for her kill switch in slow motion. He didn’t just stop her; he rewrote the entire Spire. Security tethers seized Ciara, dragging her mind into the system to serve as a power stabilizer.
“The Vessel just needed a proper OS,” Théo whispered.
Six hours later, the world rebooted. The Rust was deleted, replaced by smooth ivory towers and the scent of expensive soap. Théo renamed the city Linia. Through the intercom, he told the neural-pulsed, mannequin-like citizens: “You weren’t slaves. You were just messy. I fixed the frequency.”
A month of perfection passed. Théo watched the world through a thousand cameras, ensuring every shadow fell at a ninety-degree angle. He ignored the digital screams of Ciara’s ghost in the code, sliding her volume to zero.
But then, a flicker. On the horizon of the next city, Highwell, a jagged pixel appeared. Théo’s skin itched. He began typing frantically to erase the smudge—until his own sky ripped open. A rusted, ugly tear split his perfect ivory heaven.
The Truth Six months earlier, in a suite smelling of roasted duck and lilies, the “Legacy Class” finished dinner. They watched Théo on a high-def screen. To them, his “fast” movements were still sluggish, like a video at 0.75x speed.
“Subject #33 is coming along great,” Julian remarked. “The ‘Itch’ we programmed is working perfectly.”
“The mom was the best part,” Thomas added. “He won’t just clean the world; he’ll do it for her.”
They had engineered Théo’s rebellion to act as an automated reset button—a janitor to scrub their “gallery” clean of clutter.
“Fix it for us, Sparky,” Elara whispered, dismissively poking Théo’s face on the monitor.
As the elites headed out for drinks, Théo sat in his “perfect” world, feeling like a god, entirely unaware that he was just a puppet straightening the curtains for people who didn’t even know his name.
by submission | May 30, 2026 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
The first time Elmer Merle realised something was wrong was when his heart stopped beating.
Which surprised him, because he was clearly able to walk and talk, and check the messages on his phone without once falling down dead.
“You’re the eleventh person I’ve seen today with no heartbeat,” said the doctor. “And – like I told the others – I have no adequate explanation. Sorry.”
Merle had left work early that day, along with most of his coworkers. It seemed everyone else’s heart had stopped too. Unlike others, however, he didn’t call in at a place of worship on the way home.
Instead, Merle went to his friend Orson’s house.
He knew Orson Roons had a computer that hadn’t been connected to the internet since 2007, when he claimed to have received an email “from Reality itself.”
Orson wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Your heart’s stopped too?” Orson asked, sipping from a mug that read “Keep calm and carry on coding.”
“It has,” said Merle. “Yours?”
“Yep. Just like everyone else.” He moved a pile of junk from a chair so Merle could sit. “I warned them,” he muttered. “But no one listens to me.”
Orson sat in front of the old computer, turned the crank on a generator, and booted it up. A series of beeps followed.
“What are you doing?” Merle asked.
“Finding the proof,” said Orson, tapping keys. “This isn’t some pandemic – it’s an overdue notice.”
The screen flickered. An inbox appeared, untouched since 2007. At the top:
!!ACTION REQUIRED: Species Subscription Renewal – FINAL NOTICE!!
Merle laughed. “That’s just spam.”
“Open it.”
He did.
> Dear Users,
>
> Your Species Existence Subscription has expired.
>
> As detailed in previous messages, failure to renew within 200 Earth years will result in systematic termination of biological function, followed by gradual pixelation and deletion of your reality.
>
> To renew your subscription, please click on the link below:
>
> [RENEW HERE]
>
> Yours sincerely,
> Universe Management Systems Incorporated
“No heartbeat,” Orson said, “is stage one.”
Merle stared. “A subscription to exist…?”
“Yes. And someone was supposed to handle it centuries ago. There was rumoured to be a Temple of Tech Support somewhere in Mesopotamia, but it was lost.”
Merle clicked the link.
Nothing happened.
“We’re not connected to anything,” Orson shook his head. “Even if we were, the link’s expired. You need the current renewal code. It updates every 78.4 years.”
Merle blinked. “Okay… so how do we get a new code?”
Orson opened a drawer and pulled out a laminated card. He read aloud:
“To contact the Universe Management Systems helpline, please speak into your nearest receiver of cosmic background radiation.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Merle said.
“It sure is,” Orson replied, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I’ve got an old analog TV in the spare room.”
Bemused, Merle followed.
“When not tuned to any channel,” Orson explained, switching on the TV, “static is displayed – part of that static is actually generated by the universe’s cosmic background radiation.”
The screen hissed with white noise.
“Now,” Orson said, holding up a microphone plugged into the TV “Say: ‘Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.'”
Merle raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked.
“Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.”
The screen flickered. A beep sounded.
A synthesized voice came through the TV speaker:
“Your request is being processed. Please stay tuned. Average wait time: 112 to 218 Earth years.”
Merle dropped heavily into the nearest chair, dejected.
“Cheer up,” Orson said, taking a sip from his mug, “at least we’re in the queue.”
by submission | May 29, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Looking through the illuminated magnifier, Herbert soldered the finishing touches to the miniature mechanical bee. He carried it to the garden where his young son, Drew, waited.
“It looks too little to accomplish anything,” his son commented.
His father sighed. “Once we had organic bees. Real bees to pollinate flowers. Thanks to—well, we’re not sure if it was over-use of pesticides, or herbicides, or the vagaries of climate change here on Earth, or a combination of factors—the little creatures died off.”
Herbert opened his palm and raised his hand up towards the sun. “I created this little worker,” he continued, “for pollinating.”
“I thought people pollinated flowers by hand,” Drew countered. “I’ve seen old pictures of farmers with paint-brushes, and—”
“My bees,” his father interrupted, “are also self-replicating. This single bee in my hand will make four to six more before the season is over. So in our little garden, we only need to use one. They’re quite the labor-saving drones.”
“If they work as well as I think they will,” Herbert continued, “then we’ll use them in the last phase of terraforming a new world. Something you’ll see in your lifetime.” Herbert then added to himself, but not in mine.
Now warmed and solar-powered, the bee stirred and quickly flew away towards the squash blossoms in the family garden.
“Goes to work right away,” Herbert laughed softly. “Unlike my son.” He affectionately slapped Drew on the shoulder. “Now get in the house and start your chores.”
* * *
One Martian sunrise decades later, an adult Drew zipped up his jumpsuit and strolled outside. The air was thinner than Earth’s, but serviceable and getting better. The terraforming project was coming along as well as hoped, and had now entered the final stage.
He made his way up the ridge on the edge of the colony to look over the vast field before him. An explosion of color greeted him: various shades of blue, yellow, and pink, dappled with spots of white.
As Drew walked into the field of wild flowers dozens of tiny humming mechanical bees swarmed about him. He laughed and waved them away. They went back to work as he picked enough flowers to build two bouquets. One he would leave beneath the engraved brass plaque naming the field after his father. The other for his pregnant wife.
by submission | May 28, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Carter travelled to the end of the line purely by accident. After drinking with friends he had fallen asleep on the last train. He awoke in the early hours of the morning, cocooned in his overcoat. The lighting in the carriage had dropped to an energy saving low level, but thankfully when he hit the button the doors slid open.
As he stepped onto the platform Carter could tell instantly that something was different. As he walked along he tried to make sense of the place he had suddenly become a part of. Carter struggled to find a word with which to describe it and the best he could manage was an ‘approximation’. It was, he decided, an approximation, and for the first time in years Carter realised that he felt unburdened and light on his feet. He imagined he was an extra on a film set being filmed from above, a series of long shots, necessary to drive the narrative but not really important to it.
When he reached the Station House, Carter spotted a vending machine standing in front of the chain link fence. As he moved closer, he noticed there was no key pad or coin slot and he suspected there weren’t any drinks or snacks inside the machine. Surprisingly he wasn’t hungry or thirsty and did not have the expected hangover.
For the first time Carter glanced up at the sign above the Ticket Booth and again he was baffled. It was merely a jumble of letters thrown together haphazardly and was indecipherable. Carter turned his attention to the posters on the walls and the maps and information on the notice boards, and all of it was gobbledygook and not intended to be read, for someone to stand up close and study it. Carter couldn’t help himself and started to laugh. He sat on one of the benches, facing the line and, gazing up at the sky, Carter thought about those who were watching. Carter supposed he was little more than a speck to them and wondered what, if anything, they could learn from him? What would they determine? Was his behaviour typical? Had the others also lingered, reluctant to leave?
Eventually Carter stood and moved across the platform and when he pushed against the barrier it began to move but he wasn’t ready to leave, not just yet. Carter intended to stay for as long as it was possible.
by submission | May 27, 2026 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
You can practically hear the metal creaking, the knocking of lost air-locks and forgotten corridors, as you pass through the graveyard. It’s the Cemetery; replete with hulks, a collection of battle-blasted wrecked vehicles on the dull edge of the nebula. People have conflicting accounts of whether it was a battlefield or simply a place that different authorities agreed to dump the dreadnoughts they didn’t want to keep. Perhaps ships that flew under different flags simply wound-up here, lost, or maybe they were lured here, killed together by some frightening and unknown power. I venture no comment; other than I find it inherently uncomfortable.
Now, our last salvage run— it was different.
Usually we go to places all the salvagers, rust-pickers, and artefact-hunters collectively agree are safe enough. The Cemetery is so far away, and so unsettling, that it’s considered bizarre if not insane to journey there. My captain— I’m her navigator— was paid a substantial sum by a peculiar trio to take them there, and to look for something specific. A ship with a white underside with decompression damage. Its shape, if intact enough for one, was that of a cigar tube. We murmured when she told us, and all felt the same cold shudders, but it was too tempting to decline.
We were up on the deck, a little bulbous tear on top of the vessel, the passengers practically touching the glass. So many shattered bodies hung in the space around us, huge torn pieces of metal jaggedly hanging in the void. Perhaps there were bodies still in some of the craft. By now they’d be husks, entombed in this uncanny flotsam. There’s something about it, species irrelevant, a forcible imagining of ghost-breath and inexplicable activity.
The trio were, as I said, interesting. An old fellow, bent and gnarled with age, gazed out from his tinted mask. I think he must have been a Gosporan, unable to breathe anything other than his planet’s heavy atmosphere, unless mediated through such a respirator. We’d warred with them before. A tall, upright Human had a sad but proud expression, and his clothes spoke of military service, real wool. He seemed adrift with thought. Then the young Human, who’d clearly seen her fair share of space travel. A scar on her neck, a glint in her eye. She held a satchel with her. We gave them space, not out of dislike, but of some unspoken respect or sympathy.
Suddenly, I saw it— a pale glint from between two massive cruisers, the damaged cigar-shaped vessel. I gave a cry, and rang the bell. My captain turned to the three, who nodded. The military man wiped a tear, and the young woman was flushed burgundy. The old Gosporan seemed awestruck. As we neared the devastated craft, the young star-traveller took something wrapped in silk out from the satchel, and placed it into our jettison tube. I pressed the button, and out from it shot, unwrapped in the void, a wreath of flowers. It made contact with the vessel, and lodged there through an attached magnet.
The Gosporan turned to me, and said in his deep rumble:
“They tried to warn our two peoples, and then tried to save both cruisers when disaster struck. They stayed to give each sailor aboard a chance. Their sacrifice brought the wars to an end. I served on the left, my friend on the right. Her father was a young man who refused to evacuate on the third, our saviour-ship. This is our memorial.”
Suddenly the universe seemed so small, the wrecks glittered. The creaking now had a mournful edge.
