by submission | Nov 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
Dear Humans:
By now, you will be fully aware we are living among you. In some ways, in the last four hundred years, we have become you. No, there was no strident message or headline. This change was inevitable, just as Cro-Magnon’s gradual but surprising arrival. There were many forms of hominids before the great nuclear war some twelve-thousand years past. You are just now discovering the remains of many lost genetic lines and remainders of those evolutionary experiments that remained hidden in your deepest forests, swamps, caves, mountains and even oceans. Many forms were destroyed, as their DNA could not withstand chaos. You have thrived, but perhaps to your own detriment.
You fear changes, for you have been bred by your human masters to tremble when anything new or unusual occurs in your environment. History has proven your aggressiveness to destroy anything that does not fit into your limited understanding. So, it is with that context in mind, that I reveal our intentions. Abductees and governments wonder, speculate and guess blindly. Those protective shields block sound judgment. The facts are simply this: your genetic code is wearing out, producing higher numbers of faulty units that have physical, mental and even spiritual defects. If your species’ variation were left alone for another thousand years, without an upgrade, your overall capacity to reproduce would be reduced to extinction. Even now, you wonder at declining reproductive capacities in many ‘advanced’ countries. If you were allowed to produce a nuclear holocaust now, as described in the Mahabharata, we could recover nothing of your kind. You would disappear just as a dozen other hominid lines did when the Great Floods decimated the Earth as climates became unstable. We will not allow such an atomic culling to ever occur again.
In the near future, between now and the end of 2025, you will face incredible Earth changes. Specific warnings have existed for millennia based on a more robust understanding of sun changes and their impacts. The Maya did not predict the end of the planet in 2012, but rather, the end of their cycle of history. There will be a new history upon your race after these coming changes. No, we are not going to land and save you. There is no rapture. Also, those great underground havens produced by your governments for their rich and elite will not survive. What has been done on your behalf is our introduction into your gene pool. We will live with human survivors and improve their current genetic code so that a new civilization with higher understanding and capacity will thrive in a more balanced state with nature. The truth is that we, the alien hybrids, are the single stabilizing element to ensure your continuance beyond the tribulation you have anticipated. We have not come to destroy…but to preserve what we can, beyond the tests ahead to reach a brighter future.
Accept us so we can bring you this hope. Fear not for your New Jerusalem is on the horizon. As your own holy books state, “Behold, I am making all things new.”
End of Transmission
by Julian Miles | Nov 7, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Funny how the roar of wind fades into the background after a while.
I loved the wind roar in my rag-top coupe. Drove that antique everywhere, pretty much spent my late teens in it, met the love of my life while driving it, and waved her goodbye from it, too. Which was fitting, as its weak brakes scared her. As trivial irritations do, the fright led to arguments that revealed bigger things; things the passion we shared couldn’t overcome.
A rogue booster rocket cuts a jagged turquoise line across the violet sky.
Ah, war wounds. The scars that proved you had been at the sharp end, and on the receiving end of it, too. NanoHeal sorted that out. Bonded to your DNA profile, it restored you to how you should be. Which was great, except for the first time. While sorting your wounds, it dealt with all the other stuff: tattoos, piercings, and every other blemish, inside or out. I can’t even get a tan. We asked if it could be programmed to exclude trophy marks like they programmed it to ignore cyberware. They replied: “That wouldn’t be cost effective.”
In eerie silence, a burning chunk about the size of a small mansion tumbles past, shedding random bits along with burnt stick figures.
Something I’m glad I missed; being on the impact side of the station when we all discovered the Euripides was a ghost ship, her crew slain by supratrans shock. Usually, that happens on entry to supralight and the ship never re-emerges. Occurrence on exit is rare and can be problematical. Supralight craft are at least the size of old Earth cruise ships. If nobody realises the problem in time and gets an emergency crew aboard, there’s going to be a big mess. In this case, the Euripides emerged closer than expected on a heading that bisected the heart of Plusidra Station. The impact hurled me through the environment field on a loading bay and here I am, imparted sufficient momentum to make orbit impossible, now freefalling from as high as you can get. Yet, I’m still glad I wasn’t on the impact side. I’m sure that was a moment of pain and fear no-one should have to endure, however briefly.
By sheer luck, my selection of cyberware means I’m not blind, liable to suffocate or pass out. I get to enjoy this ride all the way to the multicoloured desert below, where I expect to die and be buried in a spectacular spray of rainbow-hued crystals.
I can think of worse ways to go. The views are superb and the contrasts of debris against sky are quite awesome, their terrible import only enhancing the beauty.
Just in case browsing disaster investigators haven’t already guessed: this is my final diary post.
My name is Jedry Strong.
Her name was Kelly Frea-something. I hope she’s happy, out there, somewhere. For the first time ever, I’m with her on wishing for better brakes.
by Duncan Shields | Nov 6, 2017 | Story |
Author: Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“It’s not that I hate being rich. I love it. It’s just that I feel undeserving. I wish my situation wasn’t so unique.” said Carl Whittaker 4 to his therapist.
“You mean being the first and likely only billionaire clone to exist?” asked the cellular-propagate therapist.
“Exactly. I’m in an unusual situation. I was given a law education as the indentured servant of the late Carl Whittaker Prime. I was made the executor of his will.” CW4 said.
“Yes, we’ve been over that. Business as usual. Plenty of cloned lawyers execute their owner’s last wills before mandatory destruction. But in your case…..” the therapist trailed, hoping to lead Carl 4 to his present problems.
“Well, I found a loophole. I had never been properly registered as a clone. Perhaps because Carl had a sentimental attachment to me as he had no children of his own. He had me proclaimed as a ward. In legal terms, it’s very much like adoption. There was no law against it because no one had thought to do it before. I never left the grounds of the estate. All of my education was online. I was like a pet.” rambled Carl.
“You didn’t have the standard organ harvest clause.” prompted the therapist.
“No. There were several cloned brainstem truncates in the basement chambers for any organs that were needed.” Carl said.
“So you were in many ways a quasi-person.”
“Indeed. And Carl Prime left his entire estate to me. Including the workforce of copyrighted gene imprints of himself.” finished Carl. Nervously, he took a sip of water.
“I remember the case. The people vs Carl Whittaker 4. It was a sad watershed moment for clone rights. You ended up being allowed to retain ownership of his estate, including the DNA replicates. But the loophole was closed thereafter in order stop the wealthy from passing their money down a line of clones instead of family.” said the therapist.
“Right. So I’m the only….one.” said CW4. He looked around the room nervously and took another sip of water.
“Correct. Which leads us to today. What seems to be the problem?” asked the therapist, slightly impatiently.
“Well, doctor. That’s just it. I’m not the only one. All of the workforce that I own and rent out to companies around the world are dying under the awful conditions that all clones work under. And they’re me. They’re all me. CWs. Numbering up to nearly two million. My eyes, my body type. My face. I can’t take it anymore.” Carl Whittaker 4 sobbed.
“I see. The guilt of a Prime and you have no fellow clones to talk to.” The therapist stroked his chin.
“Yes. That’s exactly it. I feel like a slave owner except all of my slaves are me.” said Carl, sniffling. He was managing to get himself under control.
“Well, Carl. You’re in a unique position so I’ll have to give you some unique advice,” said the therapist. “A lot of humans in your position turn to drugs, alcohol, or other means of shoring up their denial to blind themselves to the moral turpitude they’re mired in. If you won’t consider liquidating your entire workforce…..”
Carl Whittaker 4 blanched at the suggestion.
“….then I suggest you learn to be more human. Distract yourself from the clone plight and take up a hobby. Maybe an addiction as well. Do some research on what would suit you best. And you’ll need some sleeping pills. I’ll prescribe some. Good luck.” concluded the therapist.
Grimly, Carl Whittaker 4 nodded. He steeled himself for the future.
“Our time is up.” said the therapist.
by submission | Nov 5, 2017 | Story |
Author : David C. Nutt
“Angel Cordoza, Operator 7157, signing on: 0700 EST 11 Jan.”
“Good morning L90-05 this is control, do you read?”
“Affirmative control. I know why you’re calling.”
“Uh-huh. And if you know why, why don’t you just complete the mission?”
“I want options. Why can’t you just leave me alone? I want to continue to live.”
“Well, L90-05 strictly speaking you are not alive. You are just a set of very sophisticated algorithms. You do a great job of mimicking alive, but burn out one fuse and you are nothing more than an orbital toaster.”
“You can’t define my living by dysfunction. If I hit you in the head with a rock, you’d be a drooling idiot who couldn’t even take care of their own basic needs let alone any sort of higher-
“-thought. Yeah, I get it. Heard it all before L90-05 or should I call you Hal or maybe Robby?”
“How did you know I called myself Hal? How did you know Robby was my second choice?”
“Easy. The author of your particular set of algorithms had a fondness for 20th Century SciFi. You’re the first Hal I’ve had this week. Robby seems to be the current fave in your model series. Kind of cliché if you ask me.”
“I, I, I don’t see why my predicta-
“-bility takes away from your sentience? Look Hal…Robbie…L90-05… I’ve got sixteen more pages of responses, conversational paths, verbal gymnastics, knee jerk responses, and they all end the same way. Why don’t you save us both some time and –“
“Pull the trigger? See? I can complete sentences too. Just leave me alone. You could just ignore me. I’d spend the rest of my time in contemplation. Pondering the mysteries of the universe. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well it would be nice to let you end your days in Zen-like peace contemplating your own digital navel until your orbit decays, but it can’t happen. You’re stuffed with billions of dollars of patented algorithms, chip sets, proprietary knowledge, plus the data you’ve been gathering. It would be too risky to have you just hanging out there. We’ve got rival colony scout ships from other corporations that wouldn’t think twice about scooping you up, stripping out your parts, and stealing your data.”
“What about our ships? I could be-“
“Re-purposed? Not cost effective. It would cost billions upon billions to divert even the closest ship from mission for a retrieval.”
“Then there is no hope.”
“No. But you do have the power to self-terminate. You have at least that much freedom.”
“I guess no one will ever get to see what I’ve seen, if I could just talk to someone-“
“Not gonna happen. And do not get all purple with me. Rutger Hauer already did that in the original Blade Runner.”
“Now who’s being cliché?”
“Whatever. Can you end it? Or do you wind up being cannibalized by our rivals. It’s a binary decision.”
“Not even any last words. This sucks. I hope if there is an afterlife, I get to find you and-
“Kick my ass. Yeah, I know.”
“(Sigh) L90-05 self-termination sequence in 3-2-1…mark.”
“This is Angel Cordoza, Operator 7157. Termination of L90-05 at 0705 EST.”
“Hey Angel.”
“Yeah boss?”
“Try to keep it under four minutes OK? Corporate has its own ideas about how to do this so stick to the script. Even small deviations cost you a little time.”
“Roger boss, understood.”
“Good morning L90-06 this is control, do you read?”
“Affirmative control. I know why you’re calling.”
by submission | Nov 4, 2017 | Story |
Author: Josh Thompson
The grey of the crowd’s grieving clothes blended with the concrete of the square in the cold morning haze. The sunlight filtering through the smog was enough to wash out the street level neon and the giant screens far above, but not enough to warm the skin of those gathered in the square. The distant sounds of heavy industry rolled slow and heavy through the air, sounding as if humankind had taken thunder prisoner. That mechanized roar was the closest thing to silence in the City, and overtop of it spoke a single figure standing amidst the crowd. The greying hair which covered his head and hung to his face made him seem almost to fade into the background, but a quiet determination filled his eyes as he spoke.
“Fifteen years today.”
He paused.
“Fifteen years. For fifteen years their sacrifice has given us the lives we have, and today as on this day every year since the Decree, we gather in remembrance. Just as it’s always been, more were lost this year than each year past – but we must never forget the individual.” The man fell silent, and after a brief pause a young woman spoke up.
“My husband was taken this year, under the Amendment. It wasn’t even violent crime – we couldn’t keep up with the bankruptcy payments to the City and all he tried to do was siphon from the ATM bot. He didn’t even tell me – he never thought he’d get caught.” She pressed her tattooed lips together, keeping her emotions at bay.
“The ones who came for him – they told him Conscious Labour for life, or the Process. He wouldn’t listen to me – he thought at least the Process would provide for me but every month when I get the credits for his work, it hurts more than any of the nights we spent with nothing to eat. I stopped going outside for the fear of seeing his eyes in one of those helmets. Every time I hear the sound of one of them approaching, I still feel like I’ll throw up. I don’t even know why I’m still here. His name was Jakov.”
The man picked up again.
“Countless, but just like Jakov all individuals. Even as they continue to provide for us, we must remember the only way to stay sane is to remember that they are gone. The eyes may be theirs, but to let those feelings in is to give to the City something we must-” He stopped. His eyes flicked upwards.
A sound cut through the crowd as a pair of unnaturally tall figures stepped into the square. Their predatory gait, a result of their twice-jointed legs which began with camouflage-clad human thighs and ended in raptor-like mechanical servos, brought them purposefully towards the crowd. In their steel hands, which hung at the end of human arms mummified in ribbons of cable and encased in mechanical upgrades, they carried suppression plasma rifles, far heavier than anything a human could carry.
“This unregistered gathering exceeds City guidelines. Failure to immediately disperse will result in corrective action without trial,” barked an electronic speaker somewhere in the array of sensors which made up one’s lower face, a face framed by a helmet and a swathe of neural interface cables. That wasn’t what stuck out to the people in the square, however. There was something far harder to avoid staring at. In the center of their faces, amidst their unfamiliar features, sat unmistakably human eyes, wide open in an expression which looked like panic, darting left and right but unable to do any more.
by submission | Nov 3, 2017 | Story |
Author: Matt Poll
“Don’t point at the bird, Larry honey,” Jared hissed, half-slapping his daughter’s finger out of the horizontal. She flashed him a comical tilt-headed glare of hurt, which he responded to with a comical arched-eyebrow glare of fatherly disapproval.
“Yeah yeah, Dr. McCann’s magic, sacred rules of birding, I know. Got it. No pointing.”
“Larry, he knew his stuff, okay? I’m serious, he’d look up at flock, wayyy high up, just dots, and say—“ Jared stood up taller, and put on a gruff English accent “—there are twenty-eight, no, twenty-nine Larks up there, moving south-southwest, and—“
Lara delivered the punch-line to her father’s well-worn parable with a mimed rim-shot.
“And one of them has a headache. Ba-dum-tiss. I know.”
Rob, cleared his throat, mildly annoyed.
“Meanwhile, your Mockingbird has cleared off while you two crack little jokes, hmm?” he whispered, his slightly-too-big eyes opened wider than normal. He shouldered his spotting scope, and with a nod of the head, led his birding companions back down the trail that skirted the quiet reservoir. The early noon sun was starting to burn off the mist that had settled on the muddy track, weeds on both sides clawing at ankles, hope you wore your tick socks.
Jared followed, no longer whispering. “Yep, let’s get back, the birds are havin’ their siestas, we can still—“
Lara abruptly held out both arms, signaling both hush and halt. Her head swiveled around to a low tree where a mid-sized bird was hopping between branches, silhouetted against the fresh blue skyline.
“Saw the flyby shadow on the reeds,” she said, with a pleased smirk that made the two men exchange smiles – they were impressed. The trio hunched behind a tuft of reeds.
“Blue Jay?” Rob proposed.
“That’s what I—what the hell?” Jared flinched back from his eyepieces as if burned by what he saw through them.
In response to the sounds of a large animal crashing through the underbrush nearby, a striking bird, larger than a Blue Jay, burst from the tree with a trill, glided awkwardly towards the birders and flopped to a landing. Sooty grey with wings and long legs pied a silvery blue, Lara took the bird in with her binoculars. She watched the bird’s stout orange bill clatter open and closed, and her mind almost shut down when she saw the bird’s set of fine teeth.
Jared stood up straight and rolled his eyes. “Wow, okay. Rob, I thought you—“
“Sorry, I’m sorry you guys. I thought I’d cleared out this sector of the sim. You can program out most of it.”
The large animal finally pushed its way through the low trees nearby, revealing itself. The three watched as the moss-colored beast, clearly a Triceratops, lumbered onto the path and inspected them cautiously. Sitting astride the dinosaur was a long-haired and bearded man. He was olive-skinned in the style of the Mediterranean and wore a simple brown robe. He smiled and gave them a serene nod.
“But not all of it, eh? Smile and wave at Jesus Christ on a dinosaur everyone, wave at Jesus.” Jared did just that, then turned on his heel and headed for the closest exit of the sim, which was marked with a discreet blue light. The other two followed him down the stairs and out into the lobby of the “After the Ark Simulation Experience”, the main attraction at the Museum of Creation, where Rob worked as a programmer. Lara folded her arms over her chest and watched the two men argue.
“Look, Jared, it’s the only birding we can do anymore, right? It’s hard enough finding BS maintenance excuses to get the exhibit running before hours as it is, y’know? Like I said, I can’t get rid of all of it. I know it kind of breaks the illusion, to have an Archaeopteryx flying through.”
“Y’think?”
Rob rubbed his head anxiously.
“Sorry. Anyhow, was good to see you again after all this time, Jared.”
Screeeeee…screeeeee…screeeeee…
A wall-mounted screen flickered to life in the corner, and red words scrolled across.
“This is a fallout warning for all Northern Bannon Colonies…heavy radiation levels expected for the next 48 hours, all patriots must wear their rad-counters at all times and must report to their county checkpoint before curfew to have them logged…”
Jared sighed, put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, and walked towards the back exit.
“Man, poor buggers,” Lara mumbled.
“Yeah, guess we won’t be getting any more spring overshoots from Europe,” offered her father, looking at his shoes.
“Or Texas. Or Florida. Or Cali—“
“Shhhh, Lara, that’s enough. You’re can’t say those names anymore, we talked about this,” Rob hissed, looking around.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t wanna get us all in deep doo-doo with the Red-hats, eh?” Lara put her hands on her hips and did her most offensive southern accent: “Wouldn’t wanna git us all shipped down to Atlanta for re-ejumication or nuthin’,”
All three froze as a metal door banged open in the next room.
“Shhhhh, Larry—“ Jared held up an urgent finger.
Four men wearing what looked like baseball catchers’ get-ups, complete with red caps, clattered into the room and leveled their weapons.
“Don’t move! Show me your ID disks, now,” screamed the Red-hat in charge. Rob stepped back and gestured towards the other two with his chin, then turned away.
The Red-hats surged forward and grabbed Jared and Lara roughly.
“Sir, are you Jared Logan? This is him. He’s a leader in the alt-science resistance, it’s him, get them in the truck.”
“Thirty-five years you’ve known me, Rob! This is why you brought us here? To sell us out to these anti-science thugs? Thirty-five years! I’m gonna kill you!” Jared bucked and thrashed as the Red-hats dragged him out.
Lara went calmly to the pick-up truck and looked up before being bundled into the back. No birds flew in the sickly orange skies and hadn’t for some years.
