by submission | Oct 26, 2019 | Story |
Author: Matt Ingoldby
‘Room’ conjures three dimensions of no specific shape. This will have to do.
‘Waiting room’ seems speciously appropriate except that it conjures time – not apt for eternal, infinite multitudes like us. Nonetheless, we are all waiting, most of us since before there was a universe to lay time across.
In your misleading and dimensionally-confused parlance, we have waited ‘a very long time’.
In the waiting room (okay, okay) we dwell. Though we exist at no point, there is a queue. It may shock you to learn that social laws have existed long before the laws of physics.
#953426304582635402390839472-69476029864324538763406578530692876-862-629867534857634876553875623984762342364876238676260000624626230462346200000032426346328756438765235782364 is my friend.
#953426304582635402390839472-69476029864324538763406578530692876-862-629867534857634876553875623984762342364876238676260000624626230462346200000032426346328756438765235782364 is dreaming of what they will achieve in life: “I don’t care what others say,” they muse warm-heartedly (the words are my own). “I’ll still remember. I’ll come and find you, breather to breather, wherever you end up.”
Wherever, in this case, is not meaningless. It means a specific range of coordinates.
I express a mutual sentiment, aware that many others have vowed this before. #953256304582635402390839472-69476029864324538763406578530692876-862-629867534857634876553875623984762342364876238676260000624626230462346200000032426346328756438765235782364 and I stick together.
A jolt of desire takes us into the presence of Perfection. A subliminary byproduct of Perfection greets us with a bath of warmth. Forever they express: “Ready?”
The smell of rotting meat is introduced to us. #953256304582635402390839472-69476029864324538763406578530692876-862-629867534857634876553875623984762342364876238676260000624626230462346200000032426346328756438765235782364 and I respond with nausea. Correct: a positive is expressed.
Now a burst of animal terror lunges at us. It creates fear no academic grasp could prepare you for. In the eternity it leaves, a negative is expressed.
“You forgot to breathe.” the envoy informs #953256304582635402390839472-69476029864324538763406578530692876-862-629867534857634876553875623984762342364876238676260000624626230462346200000032426346328756438765235782364. My friend inflates imaginary lungs desperately, but their portal is already closed.
They transmit courage to me for the advanced round. ‘Human’ is notoriously hard.
(But you did it. You sly genius, you.)
I am forced to regard myself. I respond with hatred and fear. To return to this state of absence is a poisonous thought – I am disgusted by death.
A positive sounds; my disgust is enough. I am jettisoned from non-life. But I remember those eternal moments even as I begin to breathe, witness, and cough.
At last I am born.
by submission | Oct 25, 2019 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
The fog in my brain had lifted, and all I saw was the rubble. My memories were there; my family, my friends, my comrades of the ill-fated revolution, the building blocks of my identity. But these blocks lay in heaps and piles, the cement and the steel that once held them together lying uselessly around them.
“Do you remember the imperial guard you shot?” The well-dressed man sitting across me in the interrogation room asked.
“I do,” I replied without thought.
“Do you feel any remorse or pride regarding your actions?”
“I do not feel anything,” came my stone-faced answer.
It was true. I felt nothing, not even the surprise that was supposed to come with realizing you felt nothing. I have memories of being actively involved; of making and throwing Molotov cocktails and laughing as it smashed in the faces of imperial loyalists, of high fiving my friends after I broke through the imperial firewall and messed up the tax records. I should be swelling with pride as the well-dressed man recounted them to me, but I felt nothing.
The well-dressed man made some notes on my eye movement and pulse, then spoke into his voice recorder.
“Teleportation subject appears to be clear so far, proceeding to stage two of confirmation.”
I remember the teleporter, the two stygian obelisks in a room of chrome and ebony. I remember being dragged screaming into one of them and coming out the other with the fog in my head, a side effect of the brain being torn apart then recreated. Often loosely compared to restarting a computer, it is part one of the most effective brainwashing method ever accidentally developed. We kept all our memories, but the Empire could put them together the way they wanted. We would be filled with shame, then pride as we were reminded of the Empire’s regimented education system and the free healthcare. We would believe that the surveillance, the suppression, and the brutality is needed to sustain the New World Order. We would come to love the Empire, and it would be easier to do so without a desire for freedom.
Let the Man repaint the canvas.
“Get in there!”
The well-dressed man had left and returned with a woman in handcuffs, his vice-like grip on her upper arm. She was sobbing. She was my wife.
“You recognize this woman? She’s under suspicion for aiding your kind with crimes against the empire. What can you tell me about that?”
I looked at my wife’s tear-filled visage as she stared back at me in horror, realizing what they had done to me. I remembered how we had embraced amidst the fires of protest, how she had defended me from her friends who said I was no good for her, how she had nursed me back to health when the Empire used biotoxins on the mob. Without any sense of identity, it just felt like somebody else’s life.
“She helped steal the virus that I used to break the firewall,” I told the well-dressed man.
There was a gunshot and my wife fell dead. I blinked a little.
The well-dressed man checked my pulse and spoke again into his recorder.
“Teleportation subject confirmed clean.”
As I sat alone in the interrogation room, my wife’s corpse lying near the door, I remembered my last thought in the teleporter just before the pain of my old body disintegrating.
“How could anyone think this is a good idea?”
by submission | Oct 24, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The morning Ethics Officer Summer flew in for duty aboard the USS Grover Cleveland, a pair of ancient Tornados jinked in at sea-level, heading for the task force on Golf-Bravo Station. They were still twenty miles out when they were brought down in balls of flame.
“Most excitement we’ve had all month,” Lieutenant Commander Hightower said.
The carrier was ploughing through heavy seas and Summer steadied himself. “I suppose those planes had human pilots.”
“I suppose they did.”
Hightower could not conceal his dislike of the young man. “What with this, and the South China Sea, we’re in overstretch. The Cleveland was brought out of mothballs, and we’re flying old F35’s retrofitted with AI pilots, so there’s no remoting. You’ll have a seat on missions.”
Hightower had been a Navy flyer during the Iran conflict, now he baby-sat someone with a philosophy degree pretending to be an officer.
“You know you won’t be popular round here.” Shame if the new guy fell down a ladder, seemed a popular opinion.
“Daniel in the lion’s den.”
“They see it as interference. Just don’t…” Just don’t be so righteous, he wanted to say.
Summer was woken by the bang and roar of planes being flung into the sky from the deck above. AI pilots needed no rest, no downtime, and night was same as day to their avionics. But he fell asleep again, reassured that humans were back in the loop.
His first mission launched at dawn. He sat in a cockpit stripped bare of manual controls.
Welcome Officer Summer. This autonomic pilot has been reconfigured for human oversight. I currently have 96% mission success rate and hope together we can do even better.
This was the problem he was here to address.
They crossed the coast near a bombed-out naval base, the glittering water dotted with wrecks. Summer was comforted by the steady whine of the engine. Below him the green land lay idle. Target One was an arms dump.
“It’s a church,” said Summer. Its tall, square tower had stood since the Middle Ages.
Munitions are stored inside.
“And when they’re moved, we can hit them in the open.”
Target Two, a mobile radar array, was too close to a school.
They sited it there, the AI protested.
After landing, Hightower was waiting for him. The AI had already registered a complaint. “They love their mission stats.”
“Every decision was within guidelines,” Summer maintained. He spoke with utter certainty.
Mostly they returned with their weapons load unused. Risk of collateral damage. Poor Intel. Once they safely destroyed a bridge. Climbing down from the cockpit, deck crews greeted him with ironic cheers.
Summer had aborted a strike on a convoy winding through narrow streets, when warnings sounded in his earphones.
Small arms fire. Critical systems damage. You should eject before I lose control.
He hesitated, and the plane yawed and pitched violently. He reached for the handle between his feet and was blasted into the sky.
Summer tried to tell his captors about the churches he’d saved, the targets next to playgrounds he vetoed, all the civilians unharmed because of him, but the rage of those bombed and strafed daily by robots could not be satisfied by kicking the wreckage of downed drones.
In a war-crimes trial they might have let him read out a statement, but he saw it would not come to that. The soldiers stood aside and let the mob have him.
His last thoughts were of multicoloured fields spread below his chute, and his plane receding into the distance as it headed back to Golf-Bravo Station.
by submission | Oct 23, 2019 | Story |
Author: Edwin Tam
She’s waiting for me as I get out of the elevator. Smiling, but her eyes look sad. Dressed all sexy-like, but you could tell it wasn’t natural for her. Short black dress and heels, and even stockings. Classy. But she looks awkward in it. Just like she looks awkward trying to hold that Taser in her hand. Like it was a shaver or something. I wonder whether I should grab it off her before smacking her, or just smack her first. But outta the blue, the crazy broad just jumps me, and I feel my whole body cramp up. Damn that always hurts. But I black out quickly, so if she had plans to torture me, she fails. I’m smiling as I hit the ground.
I wake up on the roof. She’s just sitting there, looking at me. How that scrawny broad managed to drag my hulk ass out to the edge I can’t figure out. It doesn’t look like she’s got any goons with her, so it’s just us. Only I’m tied up, and my muscles feel kitten-weak, so I gotta sweet talk my way out of this one.
“If you let me go now, I promise I won’t kill you.”
She ignores me.
“You have the wrong guy!”
“You’re Jason Montel. You’re a thug who got his hands on some high-tech memory-jacking hardware. You kidnap your victims, usually executives, and throw a memory lock on their work memories. You let them go, but hold the key for ransom. Their employers usually help out. I hear they’re even offering insurance for that sort of thing these days.”
“I’m just trying to pay the bills-”
“But recently, you added a twist. You went for personal memories.”
“Yeah, it’s trickier but I figured guys would pay even more to get those back.”
“In February, you ambushed a Dwayne Rhodes and attacked his relationship memories. Specifically, you ransom-wared his memories of his wife.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember that one. But lady, I never took a dime off him. In fact, I never even heard from him again. I figured he must have found a way to unlock it himself.”
“Yes, well he didn’t.”
“What?”
“Well, I guess he took one look at me… and didn’t think I was worth it. He decided to leave me instead.”
“Aw jeez, Mrs. Rhodes. Him and me could’ve negotiated-”
“I got half the estate. But I just wanted to die. Came close. Until I got to thinking. The wrong person is dying in this scenario.”
“Nobody has to die, Mrs. Rhodes”
“Money and the dark web can go far, as I’m sure you know. Seems like some of your friends aren’t really your friends.”
I tell myself that after this is over, I’m gonna track down who sold me out and make him pay big time.
“Look,” I explain, “there’s an easy answer. I can give it all back! Hell, we can jump him together, hold him down and unlock it in 5 minutes. We can undo all this. With his memories back, he’ll hafta love you.”
She looks at me with that sad smile.
“No. No, Mr. Rhodes has made his choice. We have to respect that.”
“But why?”
She doesn’t answer. Stands, grabs my jacket and drags me towards the edge.
I manage to wrap a leg around hers just as I’m tipping over. Gotcha!
“If you push me, we’re going down together!” I shout.
She pulls me close and whispers: “Silly rabbit, that was the plan all along,”
With a heave, she throws us forward.
She’s still smiling when we hit the ground.
by Hari Navarro | Oct 22, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
Thick vines encircle in an ever upward choke of the huge concrete pillars that support the spine roof of the great cathedral. It is not a cathedral but, rather, a great subterranean chamber in which building supplies were once stored. Though its heavy sad gape does give a certain sense of those ancient halls of empty and pointless worship.
At the base of the walls, thick undergrowth gives way to vast open plains of the most vivid green. If you look closely, there are polar bears and elephants and marmots and kiwis and all manner of other creatures to be found. Lazily, they forage beneath the freshly rendered great orange orb that glimpses through the foliage that creeps and intertwines overhead.
The walls themselves are a crush of great centurion trunks with multitude branches that filter out to the most delicately formed tips. It is beautiful. It is silent. And it is as black and unseen as most deepest and inanimate of dreams.
“It’s nearly here. Do you not hear the crackling roll of its approaching feet?”, says the artist as her lover toys with the holes in the ends of her fingers.
“Are they painful?”, he asks and, then, snorts at the redundant stupidity of his question.
“We did well. Working our fingers to the bone. I think the last details are no more than our flesh and our blood.”
“Do you think it is beautiful? This memory of a world now all but lost.”
“I think it is perfect. Don’t worry, you’ll see. We’ll see it all… Just hold me…”
There is a shudder and a patter of falling cement in the darkness and then, of a sudden, the roof renders apart and a great molten wave surges and crests up above.
The artists, the lovers, the last two beings on Earth lay together and feel the heat grip and contract at the grey sag of their skin. And they look upward with long blinded eyes and they do not see a thing.
In the roar of an instant, a great vast artwork becomes drenched in a ferocious and searing light. The last ever record of the trees and the animals and the grass beneath their feet ignites as the defeated slurry of the poor melted earth crashes down and into the void.
by Julian Miles | Oct 21, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We smash through the door barely a minute after Abernacke entered. It’s an empty corridor. The air is about twenty degrees below ambient and the floor is gloss black.
“Goo?” Felps is wary.
I nanoscan the floor, finally a chance to use the expensive add-on to my left cyber-eye: “It’s cold stone. Seamlessly fused, but only polished rock.”
“Monofil?” Tashta is more practical.
A zoom-pan reveals no molecular wire waiting for us. I shake my head, then fight the wave of nausea induced by not normalising my left vision-field first.
“So where the frack is Abernacke?”
A very good question. The door at the opposite end of the corridor opens. The suit standing in it looks unremarkable. Which means nothing these days. He could be a cybered-up slice and dice man, but he’s outside our scanner range.
“Mister Abernacke is no longer your problem. Kindly depart.”
“Frackoff.” Felps is always confrontational. And greedy.
The suit folds his arms in a way that tells me that he’s done this and watched the results before.
“This hall has some, – ahem – effects you cannot defeat. But you are welcome to take what you like from the installation above.”
Tashta flicks me a wide-eyed glance; we’d both seen the Levitt-MacLachlan cyber-integration and calibration rig. It’s the stellar peak of cyberpsychosis treatment. Anywhere we unpack it we could set ourselves up for life.
“We came for Abernacke, Mister Suit. We’ll take him before we go, and take you apart if you try and stop us.” Felps gestures to include us in his threat.
Tashta and I exchange glances again. There are some scary rumours spreading about execs in deep shelters and what they could have waiting for unwanted guests.
“Felps, that’s a good offer. Let’s take it.” Tashta is speaking but I wholly agree.
“Frack that, frack him and frack you. Stay here while I go and get Abernacke, but you’re only getting ten percent if you do.”
Tashta looks at me and I nod: “Ten percent is good for both of us, Felps.”
With a muttered curse, Felps sprints down the corridor.
She looks at me: “Bad mojo, Rex.”
I’m about to say something when Felps screams: a full-on, girl-in-a-slasher-flick wail of terror. We look. Tashta screams as well. I can’t get my body out of terrified paralysis long enough to manage anything that useful.
There are creatures coming out of the walls, floor and ceiling! Well, out of the places where one meets another. The nearest one of them has its jagged fangs in a no-skin-just-muscles grip on Felps’ calf. I watch ropes of muscle bunch in the creature’s neck and jaw, then I hear Felps’ titanium-laced tibia snap.
Three skinless horrors with patches of ragged bluish fur, burning yellow eyes and black talons on all four feet emerge into the corridor, one of them standing on the ceiling! They move like Dobermans and are the size of Great Danes.
“Are we done?” The tone of the voice from the end of the corridor is conversational.
Tashta punches my arm, hard. Bodily control returns.
I have to shout over Felps’ screams: “Definitely. Sorry to bother you.”
The suit nods and shuts his door. Seeing that the two horrors not involved in dragging Felps into the floor are ambling our way, I slam ours as well.
“Rex. We retired to open a cyber-treatment salon. We did not quit because skinless hellhounds dragged our team’s enforcer into the ground like solid is an optional thing for them.”
I nod to Tashta and we scarper.
