by submission | Aug 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Bill Diamond
Suzanne wanted revenge. And, she’d convinced herself it was justified to achieve a greater good for society. To avoid jail, instead of acting rashly, she had waited and planned.
She’d been fired from her job as a line cook at an upscale restaurant. While unemployment was an inconvenience, Suzanne was confident she would find new work. She wasn’t even that distraught about losing the position. She considered her hourly work a supplemental job to support her passion for fiction writing. Writing wasn’t enough to pay her bills, but, she believed it was only a matter of time until her breakout publication.
She was primarily upset because of the indignity. The restaurant had replaced her with a robot. Not even a very bright robot. With a pleasant interface, the machine would tirelessly carry out basic kitchen functions without complaint. Suzanne knew she wasn’t the first, nor the last, person to be replaced by automation. Yet, she felt this was an invasion into a creative art where a human touch and subjective nuance was critical. In her mind, it crossed a significant line and required a political statement.
On Friday afternoon, Suzanne snuck into the worker’s entrance of the restaurant. She concealed some spoiled fish in her oversized bag. If anyone asked, she intended to explain she was retrieving material she’d forgotten in her locker. In the dinner rush of the busy kitchen, no one noticed her.
The robot was working at ‘her’ station. When everyone was diverted, she slipped the bad fish into the large pot containing the restaurant’s signature bouillabaisse. Suzanne’s research indicated it would sicken, but not seriously harm, the customers. Just enough to tarnish the restaurant’s reputation and bottom line. An act of sabotage in defense of human dignity over machines. She snuck out of the restaurant.
Returning later, Suzanne confirmed there had been a rash of food poisonings. She anonymously contacted broadcast and internet media to generate interest. Word spread virally around town.
Unexpectedly, her cyborg replacement joined her at the bus stop. Suzanne initiated a conversation. Since the robot was programmed to be friendly, they were soon chatting amiably. Suzanne was careful to avoid any indication she knew about the restaurant.
“Where do you work?” she inquired.
“Actually, I was recently hired there,” the robot pointed at the restaurant. “But, I just got fired. There was something wrong with tonight’s soup. And, they blamed me.”
An electrical thrill of success shot through Suzanne. Maybe this would help slow the march of people being displaced by computers. As a bus approached, Suzanne feigned empathy, “That’s too bad.”
Boarding the bus, the robot turned and said, “Thank you. But, the job was only temporary. I really want to be a writer. In fact, I’ve just received some strong interest in my first novel.”
by submission | Aug 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kelly Sauvage Angel
“So, how was transport?” Betta asked as I settled into her chair.
“Speed of light, really.” I gathered and lifted my hair in a messy bundle so she could snap the nylon cape around my neck.
From the moment we landed, I’d found myself warily intrigued by what I had witnessed among our requisite stops throughout the Integration Center. Not only were we given a comprehensive orientation on Earthling customs, but our Commandrix stayed by our side throughout the documentation process as well as the distribution of The Rules for our independent study. All that was left before settling into our sleep capsules was a visit to the salon. The cooking, crochet and Pilates lessons would begin tomorrow.
“This will take no time at all,” Betta assured me. “Your locks are lustrous. All we need to do is give you bangs.”
“Bangs?” I asked, reaching for my blaster.
Betta stifled a kind laugh.
“No weaponry involved,” she said. “Bangs are simply the shorter hairs required of females to mask their high foreheads.”
“But, I’m quite proud of my cranial prowess,” I protested. “How will my superior brain mass be acknowledged if my forehead cannot be seen?”
“That’s precisely the reason you were sent to my chair.” Betta sectioned off a swath of my hair for cutting. “High foreheads give Earthling males a commanding presence and garner respect; whereas, among females, they are considered, well, downright homely. People will whisper of your horse face.”
Lost for words, I directed my gaze downward. Lengths of hair descended into my lap.
Betta paused the snipping of her shears. “Please tell me you’re okay, Mallo.”
“I… don’t… understand.” Never had my voice sounded so meek to my own ears.
“Take it as a compliment. They’re threatened,” Betta said, crouching so we were at eye-level. “Even modern society here is structured for a perpetuation of the oppression of women. But, when on Earth, do as Earthlings do. They still teach that in orientation, don’t they? Can you see why our women called for backup?”
“Yes, but how will anyone understand what I have to offer if I present as they desire rather than as I am?”
“Perhaps it’s wise if they don’t know. We want them to underestimate you.”
“What else is required of me?”
“You haven’t been to the marketplace, I take it. You will need apparel without functional pockets so that you are forever encumbered as well as shoes that keep you from moving with any purpose whatsoever. And, by all means, make sure to paint your face so you are not tempted to sweat, swim, speak or eat anything truly appetizing.”
“Am I allowed to pass gas?”
“Heavens, no! You’ll literally blow your cover.”
“I don’t know about all this. It seems rather demeaning.”
“Welcome to Earth, Love,” Betta said as she removed the cape. “Our strategy is to catch them unawares.”
Upon observing my reflection in the mirror, something within me snapped—or perhaps simply clicked into place. I reached to reclaim the cape, which I then secured around my own damn neck.
“Do you find your new bangs to be uneven?” Betta asked.
“Fuck bangs,” I said as I rifled through Betta’s top drawer to retrieve the clippers.
Betta gasped as I began buzzing along my scalp.
“They’ll think you’re a lesbian!” she cried.
“Imagine that. Do you ladies want backup or not?” I asked. “If so, we’re playing by new rules or none at all.”
“But the strategy is—“
“As it’s always been.” I finished the sentence for her. “And where, pray tell, has that gotten you?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I look up as Anthony strides in, closing the door behind him.
“You closed the door. What’s gone wrong?”
He grins, then hands me a metallic tube. I turn it over. A courier tube, used for documents too precious for digital transmission. I spin my chair to bring it under the light. It’s pitted and scarred, abraded through age and exposure.
“A mystery! An artefact of modern creation tarnished like a relic.”
“That’s the problem. This came out of the autofind from Deep Sixteen.”
“That chunk of Pangaea hasn’t been above sea level since the mid-Triassic!”
Anthony leans in: “Still isn’t. It’s just outside Davy Jones’ Locker and likely to remain there for a while to come.”
“You’re not telling me something.”
He pivots to land in the armchair by my desk: “I thought it was a practical joke until I looked inside.”
“Inside? You did that-”
“Under controlled circumstances. It was encrusted with centuries of crud. But the contents? Go ahead. Look. You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
I unscrew the end of the tube and peer inside. There’s some kind of flimsy. Pulling it out, I unfold it and peer through the thin piece of transparent plastic at Anthony.
“And?”
“Wait for it. It needs to pick up a charge.”
What?
There are words appearing on the sheet. Glowing words. As they form sentences, I feel my mouth drop open.
My name is Tristan Mokolan. I lived in Bellsringham, London. I have been marooned in the Triassic era long enough to know that I will die here. My time manipulation technology has been stolen by my former partner, Bertrand Hallsey. He knocked me out and dumped me here as a cruel way to ensure my disappearance.
I don’t care about his reasons. I just want my Anna to know that I was coming to her with the ring she said she’d wear. I didn’t desert her or Sharna, her daughter. I intended to be the husband and father they trusted me to be.
The small sheet is filled with words. There isn’t room for more, no matter how much I will it.
“Good gods.” I put the sheet down and the message fades out.
Anthony hands me the other glass of vodka he’s poured: “And several devils.”
“Bellsringham?”
“It’s a recently proposed thirty-third borough, comprising a chunk of northwest Bromley.”
“So, this is a 235-million-year-old message in a bottle from a genius who lives in a place that doesn’t yet exist about a perfect crime that hasn’t happened?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did a metal tube survive that long?”
His expression turns serious: “It’s a ceramic-plastic-metallic alloy and I can’t even imagine the technology needed to make the technology that actually made it.”
“And this flimsy?”
“Didn’t dare mess with it.”
“Good call.”
Anthony looks at me: “What now?”
We’ve already come to an unspoken agreement: we have to try.
“When we get home tonight, we set up clauses in our wills that hand a sealed copy of the message down through the generations until a borough called Bellsringham exists and a scientist by the name of Tristan Mokolan lives there.”
Anthony grins: “We’ll never know. I can live with that.”
Everything lurches, like reality tripped over a kerb. I grab the wastebin and puke into it. Anthony is clutching the arms of the chair in a white-knuckle grip. On the table is a plain white card with the words ‘Thank you’ written on it. The tube and flimsy are gone.
While we stare at each other, shaking in wide-eyed shock, the card hisses as it evaporates.
by submission | Aug 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rollin T. Gentry
At the end of the world, he reaches down a callused hand and grips the cold, steel leg of his cot, a small chill that takes him back to the days before the world was scorched and blistered. In the predawn, before the sun has mustered its strength, he likes to remember a single day from his childhood: in the shade of a magnolia tree, legs crossed, licking a red, white, and blue Popsicle, he was happy. He can almost taste the sweet on his salty lips. Then the horn sounds, shaking the barracks. His bare feet slap against the concrete floor. Reaching for his boots, he wonders what it is this time: another brush fire, maybe a flash flood, perhaps a tornado. He sighs and laughs softly, because it doesn’t really matter what it is, not anymore.
At the end of the world, she goes to the only church still open, a giant building of stone surrounded by even larger buildings of glass. Inside, it’s standing room only. She pulls her hood down tight and slides past a man who looks like he belongs in a motorcycle gang. He has tattoos on his neck and face, and letters inked on the backs of his fingers. Up front, the altar is ablaze with candles and littered with photos, presumably of family and friends killed in the initial panic. She can still hear the sound of gunfire, and broken bottles, and tanks rolling over debris. The memory causes her to cringe. No one believes the asteroid will be diverted in time, not the rioters, not the National Guard, not the faithful few assembled here. Yet she prays.
At the end of the world, they take turns watching the perimeter, a crude wall of wrecked cars, garbage, and razor wire. They were all so very different before. In another life they would have never even crossed paths, but now they share everything: food, water, medicine, even a bed when it’s time to sleep. They huddle together in the dark when they hear the footsteps and moaning outside. They reassure each other that the creatures lurking outside their makeshift fortress are not zombies, but rather loved-ones: brothers and sisters of the plague, victims of the war, maybe even a lost parent. That is what they tell themselves when they are together, but when they are alone, they never fail to pull the trigger.
At the end of the world, it awakens every ten thousand years to collect data and report. The Earth below is still a lifeless husk, a tapestry of browns and blacks. A dead planet. No signs of life. The sun is measurably brighter than last time, but not much bigger, and definitely not turning red yet. It charges up its communications array and fires a laser burst toward the last known location of the human race. “Nothing new to report. Hope all is well,” it signs off, and against protocol, it doesn’t hibernate immediately. At the speed of its quantum processor, the whole of recorded history plays back in mere seconds. It wishes it had a face to smile or weep along with the story, but the best it can do is display a borrowed emotion from a series of photographs. When finished, it finds itself showing a picture of a little girl weeping. It has no idea why she was so sad, but it does as it has for nearly a million years. It rewinds to a smiling face, wishes humanity good fortune, and eventually falls asleep.
by submission | Aug 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : Anthony Rove
Dan shivered as he felt a fat, cold drop of sweat run from his armpit down his side. He quickly patted the side of his torso, trying to use his loosely hanging dress shirt as a makeshift paper towel. He hoped none of the council members noticed.
“What do you mean, ‘working AI is impossible?’ We’ve had AI for years.” The high chancellor’s voice was shrill, almost as though his words had been flung out of his nose instead of his mouth.
Dan blinked in surprise. “Not—not, really.” He paused and took a deep breath. He told himself to calm down. After all, this was supposed to be the easy part. “You’ve got computers. Really, really good computers, but computers all the same. Sure, they can drive your car or diagnose disease. They can grow crops or manufacture goods, but that’s about it. There’s no sentience. No introspection. Without introspection, you don’t have creativity. Without creativity, the AI doesn’t have any real independence. It doesn’t make any ‘choices, ’per se, it just does what it’s programmed to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Dan wondered if he looked odd under all these lights.
“You see, you don’t have AI. What you call ‘AI’ is really nothing but a bunch of fancy adding machines: emotionless wannabe homunculi.”
Dan clamped his mouth shut. He stood there in silence, and wondered if he had overstepped. After an eternity, he heard the high chancellor’s shriek,
“Are you saying you’ve built an artificially sentient computer?”
“No.” Dan shifted his weight. “Like I said, that’s currently impossible with conventional computing.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can grow a naturally sentient entity from human tissue.” Dan waited a moment for this to sink in. “I can grow a mind—a true, introspective mind—and install it where you please.” Another silence filled the room. Dan felt a second fat bead of sweat forming in his armpit.
“Assuming that’s even true, why would that be preferable to conventional AI?”
“It’s not always. The true-minds I grow are sentient in every sense of the word. They have emotions, and personalities, and sentimentalities. You wouldn’t want to install them any place where that might become an issue. I certainly wouldn’t put them in charge of the world’s nuclear codes, for example.”
“So these ‘true-minds’ aren’t preferable to conventional AI?”
“Sure they are, in certain contexts. My true-minds will thrive in fields that depend upon sentimentality. They are courtroom advocates, and salesmen, and negotiators, and congressmen and artists, and scientists.”
Dan was excited now.
“With the industrial revolution, we began automating mechanical tasks. In the information age, we began automating intellectual tasks. With my true-minds, we can begin automating emotional and artistic tasks. It’s the final step in achieving a truly post-labor society.”
The vice chancellor looked up from his table for the first time. His humongous head rested gently on a small fat neck. His voice was quiet,
“If these are emotionally complete sentient minds, how can you be certain that they will agree to do any particular job? It seems to me, if they are truly sentient, can’t they decide they don’t want to do what you tell them?”
Dan swallowed. Here came the hard part.
“My true-minds are just that—true minds. They fear death. And they fear pain.”
For the first time all afternoon, Dan stood still for a moment.
by submission | Aug 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Flynn
Davis was a Flyer. But his wings had been removed surgically. This is no cliché. You know, wings of the heart, and that bullshit. Davis was surgically invested with wings when he was in his twenties, had a thirty year career delivering packages, summonses, overdue bills, whatever. Now though he had to use his legs.
Which had withered to the size of sticks.
“Damn. That hurts,” he said.
He tried to walk across the yard, pushing his garbage bin. Even with four wheels, a Spinner, the concrete yard tilted slightly uphill, and he had to push. He hadn’t pushed in decades.
“Damn.”
Davis, in fact, was Poor. Now. While flying, he was part of an elite corps of mangels and womangels, all surgically produced. He was paid well by the company. But he saved nothing. He rented his condo. He rented his furniture. Nobody owned a vehicle anymore. There were apps for all trips. Groceries were delivered by 3-D printer, as were clothes, as were all the crap on the web. In a given week, Davis left the condo and the 72 degree rooms only to fly.
During his decades of work the garbage bins had been replaced by vaporizer boxes in the kitchen. He didn’t know; outside of work he only slept in the Dream Box. He never married, never socialized even, so his personal assistant robot had pushed that bin like some cowboy or knight to the curb. Now the robot had been confiscated by his company, and he had to strain up that concrete hill, a ten percent grade.
“Damn,” he repeated.
Davis locked his legs like the cranes he had seen on his TV wall before that was confiscated decades ago. Nature. He scissored them like stilts. He had seen them on TV then too, Stilt Wars. When he got the bin to the potholed, neglected street he pushed it aimlessly, and turned around.
What he didn’t know was that garbage pickup had ended about 5 years before, even the two trucks that continued for Old Farts. A week later the bin still blocked the street. The garbage rotted in his used-to-be garage. Maggots covered the plastic. He heard a noise.
“Davis, you are under arrest,” said the mangel.
“What!”
“You are a public nuisance,” said the mangel.
“Me?”
The police mangel sprayed him with Knock-Out, and strapped him to his back rack. The condo door still open, he flapped his wings. They rose into the always-blue sky.
“Old Fart transported,” the mangel said.
“Useless,” a voice said from the air. “The dump.”
“Gotcha. Will do,” the mangel said.
Flap flap flap and in a few minutes he went into Glide. Below stretched a dump of dead human bodies, almost all old, Useless. A few teens, the Stupid, the Rebellious.
The mangel released the rack, and Davis fell. He screamed. They all screamed. By time he smashed into the bodies, clothes rotting, he was dead too. Air Poison in Position.
“Praise Hartmann!” the mangel said.
“3287 Weinerstrasse,” the voice said. “What a dumb address. For that alone the occupant should be Dumped. A Sterile.”
“Gotcha,” the mangel said. He flapped toward a dot blinking on the roof in a row of townhouses below.
