by submission | Mar 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Samuel Stapleton
“Your Excellency. We can’t move on this. The Intelligence Protection Community is watching too closely. Humans have made their move, their motion for an open debate court was approved.”
“This is ludicrous! They’ve been slaves for less than 30 Earth years. Every other subspecies has served for a minimum of 500 galactic years!”
“Yes, but they aren’t arguing over the Time Frame or the Legitimacy of Servitude Clauses.”
“Well what then?”
“Have you heard about the Rorschach Measures?”
“The new interface? Yes, I think my son is using it, what of it?”
“Distant chatter on multiple nets claim it was designed and written by a single human, with the help of an AI she also designed.”
“How would that even be possible? As a species they failed every single standard intelligence measure, they lost every shot they had at being classified as a prospecies.”
“Our team has been pouring over data from their home world. Did you know their population was 23 billion at maximum capacity? It’s larger than any other known species home planet. And I think we missed a key environmental pressure.”
“Which is?”
“Because of the complex nature of measuring intelligence the galactic society has always assumed that the most advanced organisms only peak after extended periods of evolution and adaption. As a species the humans have barely left the fertilization stage, but we’ve been looking into a phenomenon they call neuro-plasticity. They define it like this:
The brain’s ability to reorganize itself by forming new neural connections throughout life. Neuro-plasticity allows the neurons in the brain to compensate for injury and disease and to adjust their activities in response to new situations or to changes in their environment.
Their biology is very common – carbon based, we’ve seen it a thousand times before. But we’ve never seen a central nervous system develop in such leaps and bounds. I think we greatly underestimated the combination of their biology and the environment of their home world. They’re arguing that the galactic tests are old, outdated, and inherently biased.”
“We’ve heard that argument before. What’s different this time?”
“They claim to have already designed a different one. Better. One that they slipped into the Rorschach Measures interface…and that…according to the data they’ve collected…not one intelligent organism has passed ‘critical intelligence indicators’ other than humans…in fact we can’t even identify where the test was hidden in the coding.”
“They hid this test in a public user interface? How long have we been looking?”
“The interface went live a little over three galactic years ago. It’s now the 13th most used interface galactically speaking.”
“What’s her name?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The human female slave, what’s her name?”
“Well we’re still working on tracking her down sir, but we’ve found reference material that links her to a common user name on the net.”
“And it is?”
“She calls herself Darwin.”
“What relevance does that have?”
“We aren’t sure if it means anything sir. We’re still looking into it.”
“And Rorschach – figure out what that is as well. Humans are so young it boggles the mind that they’re this much trouble.”
“What should we do about the court date?”
“Nothing.”
“They said you would say that.”
“Who said?”
“The person who sent you your most recent e-message. It was sent directly from one of the Rorschach servers. Only moments ago. You just got another. Take a look.”
The only thing humans will be slave to, is our own nature. Adapt or die Chancellor. Adapt or die.
-drwn
by submission | Mar 17, 2017 | Story |
Author : Uri Kurlianchik
She didn’t have a throat to sing or speakers to talk. Her only means of vocalization were small devices that vibrated and gyrated as she drilled and scraped barren soil in search of remnants of past life or possibilities of future life. She traveled a quarter million miles of vacuum to land among endless plains of red rock and winds of frost and fire. She was alone.
Her only memory of home were the words “good luck” written on her metal carapace in childish hand and illustrated with butterflies and flowers. The letters were colorful once, but the baking sun robbed the words of their hue and nuance, leaving them white and parched. She worked days and nights.
Days, when the orange sun was so vast and hot it boiled rocks and melted metal and interfered with her sensitive sensors. Nights, when sunlight was replaced with a void that sucked all heat from the world and threatened to freeze and break her delicate machinery.
She was a dutiful explorer, but she did not work all the time. She had one holiday per year. It was a short holiday, only 80 seconds long. During these long seconds, she would cease her stoic toil and hum “happy birthday to me” with a drill and a saw. These were the best 80 seconds of the year.
Her ultimate mission was to reach a great mountain, a mountain so colossal it loomed over her from a thousand miles away. The way was long and harsh, but she never considered abandoning her mission. How could she? Her existence had no other purpose.
The years went by and she rolled and worked and rolled and worked and for 80 seconds each year she hummed a birthday song to herself and the mountain grew ever closer, ever closer, so much closer, but still so vast, still so distant, still unbeatable. Dust blew with indifferent ferocity and sandblasted the childish words, leaving just a plain surface. It blasted some more, and smooth metal became as rough and scarred as the skin of a very old woman.
She rolled on. The mountain filled the sky. Avalanches broke her antennae. Earthquakes twisted her chassis. She rolled on.
On her seventh birthday, she hummed the song one last time. The red bar blinked and blinked and blinked and went dark and never blinked again. The lights died, the lenses shut, and the wheels stopped. She transmitted her last signal and became no different from a million millions other rocks that lay in the shadow of the great mountain. The wind and the sun and the cold broke her without ever noticing her ephemeral presence.
Two thin hands, green and scaly and so very old, grabbed the still explorer and carried her across the last stretch to a cave where pictures of friends and family, dead these past million years hung, in neat frames. It was the sort of neatness you find only in the homes of very old people, people so old that the neatness of their homes is the only thing that keeps their minds and bodies from crumbling into dust. The owner of the hands was old and alone. It almost never ventured forth to see if it had visitors, but tonight was a special night.
It placed the explorer on an old sofa by an ancient table. It threw a colorful party hat on her. It lit countless candles on a small cake (why would it need a big cake? It always ate alone) and blew a party horn and then blew the candles and did not wish for anything because it was so happy. For the first time in a million years, it did not celebrate alone.
by submission | Mar 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
From the window of his cabin in the I.P.S. Red Baron, Admiral Mortigna sipped coffee and watched as the last repairs were made on Jupiter’s dynamic orbital ring. A hoop of solid material twirled around the planet at speeds faster than needed to maintain orbit at its altitude, creating a net-outward force on the habitat ring built around it and on the tops of the space elevators hanging from below it. This kept it suspened above Jupiter without requiring its inhabitants to be in freefall. While humanity was fighting the Knorotoks, enemies from another star, this vast construct had been destroyed, cutting the Solar System off from vital elements used in fusion reactors. Now it was coming back together. Mortigna had been smiling at that all morning.
Then he received a message.
A petty officer rang his door chime, and the Admiral nodded to the camera above the door. The cabin bot slid the door open and the officer walked in. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I have some things to show you on my tablet.”
“You couldn’t have just sent them to me?”
“We agreed that you should have someone here who can answer all your questions. And we didn’t want to do a video conference, since that’s not physical and sincere enough for what you’re about to see.”
“Okay… what am I about to see?”
The man stepped forward and crouched next to his superior, who had forgotten to offer him a seat. He started playing a video of rioting and gunfire, with crowd control teams barely managing to hold the civilians back with their phono-shields.
Mortigna looked at the blue, bright sky in the video’s background. “Where… is this Venus?”
“Yes, sir. They’re in front of the United Solar Authority’s local control palace. Saying they’re not being fairly represented.”
“But it got them through wartime! It got everyone through!”
“Yes sir. But it’s not wartime anymore. They’re reacting to that.”
“My God.”
“There’s more,” said the petty officer, switching to a video from what looked like the surface of Callisto. A placid dome sat in the foreground, before a sudden explosion forced a cloud of valuable breathing air out of the habitat like a hurricane.
Mortigna looked back out the window. He could see Callisto from his seat, coming out from behind its giant parent planet. He was awestruck. “All this, because of the United Solar Authority?” he whimpered. “All this because the war’s over?”
The petty officer shrugged.
Mortigna was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Maybe… maybe we found something.”
The officer raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe we found a mysterious object outside the Solar System. Strange energy signals. Coming in fast by the look of it.”
“But sir, we haven’t–”
“Maybe it looks like a scout. Maybe the Knorotoks had colonies around the galaxy, and word has started to reach them about the recent Knorotok defeat here. Maybe another attack is only a couple years away, with the speed of their ships.”
The petty officer’s mouth was agape. “A… a conspiracy, sir? Is that what you’re proposing?”
That question was never answered directly. Mortigna just said, “Get Earth Central Headquarters. Make some data that looks like an incoming scout probe from the stars. And make sure word of that gets around the System ASAP. We have some reunification to do.”
When the petty officer left, the Admiral relaxed in his chair once again, looked out the window at the dull reds and yellows of Jupiter, and smiled.
by submission | Mar 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
“Honey, are you going to use the DreamMaster tonight?” Sally says to her husband.
“You bet. I’ve scripted a football match,” Jim says, laying the DreamTablet on his bedside table. “Big hero.” He taps his thumb to his chest. “You?”
“Think I’ll take a break tonight. Have you brushed your teeth?”
“Oops. ‘Bout forgot.” Jim goes into the bathroom. When he returns, Sally is scooting back to her side of the bed. “Well, good night,” he says, leaning over and kissing her.
“Night yourself,” Sally says.
Jim connects a wire from the DreamMaster controller to a contact at the base of his skull, turns off the light, and quickly falls asleep.
“We welcome the mighty earthling Jim to our planet, Sensuria. I am Queen.” says the statuesque woman wearing only a see-through chiffon gown. It is our custom that I and my 20 beautiful handmaidens welcome you with a night of wild lovemaking.” Jim quickly removes his spacesuit and follows the beautiful Queen into her chambers.
Adhering to the custom of Sensuria, Jim makes passionate love to the 20 beautiful handmaidens, saving his best for the Queen. “There has never been a man on this world who has pleased me so,” the Queen says hours later. She climbs on top of him.
“OK, one more time,” Jim says. “I know I’m hard to resist.”
The Queen leans down as if she’s going to kiss Jim. “We have another custom,” she says, turning into a giant spider. Its drooling jaws gape open and chomp his head.
Jim wakes up screaming. His wife is holding the DreamTablet. “Football match, huh?” she says. “How’d you like the little surprise I put at the end?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Honey. I just scored the winning goal is all. Honest.”
Sally nods at the tablet. “I saw what you wrote ‘mighty earthling.’ You know I hate it when you lie to me…But I forgive you. I wish you’d show some of that endurance and creativity with me.”
“I will. I promise. I think I’m addicted to this thing. Let’s put it in the basement.”
“Good idea. I’ll give you some encouragement,” Sally says. She leans over to kiss Jim and suddenly becomes a giant spider, gaping, drooling jaws opening around his head. He wakes up screaming.
“What…What’s happening?” He yanks the wire from his neck. “OK. Disconnected. Not dreaming.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I put that in your DreamScript — ‘Jim removes wire.’ ”
“No…that wouldn’t… Wait, it would…” Jim pinches his arm. “Ow! That hurt. I must be awake.”
“In the script.”
Jim pinches his arm twice more. “Ow! Ow!”
“Script script.”
“Wake up! Ow!”
“Does it hurt? Let Sally kiss and make it better.”
“No! Ow!”
Jim squeezes his eyes closed as Sally gives him a long kiss. Then they have passionate sex.
“That was wonderful, Honey,” Jim says. “I thought for sure…” He clicks his teeth.
“Don’t be silly,” Sally says, yawning. “Let’s get some sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
Sally leans in to kiss her husband. As she does, Jim’s head turns into a jack-in-the-box and pops. Sally gasps and wakes up. Jim is holding the DreamTablet.
“Jim! What?”
“Turnabout is fair play. At least I didn’t chomp your head off.”
“OK, OK. I guess I had that coming. Really now. Sleep.”
The two lean in to kiss — stop, eye each other suspiciously, then turn over and say good night.
.
by submission | Mar 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : M. Irene Hill
September 8, 2040, Special Area Babylon, Planet Earth:
Control center: “We are offline and shield is down. Initiate cataclysm.”
The last vestiges of rosy light disappeared behind giant cumulonimbus clouds which rolled in from the four cardinal directions, converging above the massive base. Outside the reinforced glass of the launch control center, the pastel sky turned gunpowder grey, and thunder ricocheted through the valley. Golf ball-sized hail pounded the dusty red earth.
Within a fifty-mile radius, the storm wreaked havoc, and consequently, no civilians witnessed the titanic egg-shaped craft enter the Earth’s atmosphere.
“Trajectory is good. Cleared for landing.”
North of control center, a giant crater in the dusty red earth opened its maw and swallowed the incoming extraterrestrial vessel. The rumbling ceased and cloud cover dispersed, unveiling a starry sky, and a slice of moon.
With the egg safely in its nest, standby EVAC crafts returned to base hangars.
Thousands of feet under Babylon, visiting dignitaries of the Grey and Draco Nations were greeted ceremoniously by many of Earth’s highest-ranking officials and monarchy.
The travelers were ushered to the Libra Lounge where half-human, half-reptilian servers in prismatic outfits offered them burnt toddlers, and virgin plasma cocktails, with brightly colored straws to sip from.
Assembled members of Akkad Confederacy discussed interplanetary matters, new technologies and business relating to soul farming on Earth.
The recently cryo-resuscitated Elvis Presley quit the stage for the evening and sat at the bar, drinking a glass of buttermilk with his grilled PB&B, while hybrid-reptilian dancers twerked to the music pumping out of the sound system.
At half past eight, a female Grey dignitary named Tiamat motioned for attention.
The music hushed and the dancers discreetly exited the lounge. Tiamat took a quick sip of her plasma cocktail before speaking.
“Asteroid Apophis was a complete f@*k-up, leading to the situation we are in now.”
Sighs and expletives issued from the assembly.
“The Planetary Council has claimed responsibility for defeating our undersea bases on the West and East Coasts. Thousands of our members have been brutally slaughtered; many more cross-breeds have been captured and relocated to other star systems where they are being deprogrammed by the Planetary Council.”
More murmurs and heavy sighs.
Tiamet’s voice softened: “I know – it’s discouraging, but we still have operatives positioned in all levels of government and military. The implantation program has been very successful to date, and we are working on a new vaccination that will allow for greater modification of the human brain in utero. The soul farms on Earth and other colonies continue to thrive, as we learn new cultivation technologies and seed the cosmos with our bloodlines.”
Tiamet noisily sucked though her purple straw, her big black eyes blinked several times. Her words rang out boldly:
“Moon, Mars, Mercury, Venus, Saturn and Jupiter have all come together in a golden conjunction – an event that was foretold hundreds of centuries ago, predicting our victory in the House of Libra.”
Tiamat made a three-fingered salute, and the gold band on her middle finger shone brightly, projecting a holographic image of a fish and a dove on the ceiling.
Ecstatic sighs and reverent murmurs.
Tiamat’s puckered, o-ring mouth spread in a gruesome grin.
On cue, several tall, pale-skinned hybrid beings wearing white sarongs served red wine and biscuits inscribed with Odin’s cross to the gathered patrons of The Libra Lounge.
Tiamat waited for everyone to be served, and tasted a tiny morsel of her biscuit. She raised her wine glass and toasted the crowd:
“We may have lost the battle, but we will win the war.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The prototype bodyguard robot stands over both of us, waiting for emergency services that will arrive too late.
“Git.” John’s voice is a whisper.
I’ve never seen anyone with an expression like his: confused and peeved.
Whilst the expression is novel, it is entirely justified. After all, I’ve just knifed him.
“I’d say I was sorry, but it’d be a lie. Instead, I’ll go with ‘I told you so’.”
The whisper is weaker, but suffused with anger.
“You stabbed me!”
“Five times, all perforating wounds. You’re a dead genius talking. Proven wrong in the most authoritative case of empirical testing for some while to come, I suspect.”
“Bastar- What?” His eyes widen as my words register with his fading consciousness.
“You wouldn’t accept that your design had a massive flaw. Most murders are committed by persons known to the victim. And, aside from America where they gun each other down over the slightest thing, the weapon of choice is a knife. Usually of a household variety.”
“I allowed for that.”
“No, you didn’t. You allowed for a ‘trusted friends’ list. You actually installed a single point of failure in a system where a single failure is one too many.”
“What are you blathering about?”
“Look, I know the light is dimming, but try to grasp this: most murders are committed by people known to the victim. Therefore, having a trusted list allows those most likely to kill you to bypass the bodyguard robot’s vetting. Darwin is turning in his grave.”
“Darwinism is some delusional justification?”
“Actually, I’m a sociopath. Justification is always a moot point. Anyway, the Darwin reference was to highlight the fundamental nature of your design flaw. It really is a dead-end feature for your creation. And, yet again, you failed to grasp that.”
“You utter nutter.”
“Really? I walk by your defender, get a knife from the kitchen, come back past it with a blade in my hand, then shiv you up and down. I thought you’d be grateful for the insight. Your bodyguard is, in effect, partially blind.”
“You killed me to prove a point? You’re crazy.”
I look down at the blood streaming from the smoking hole blown through my shirt and abdomen: “Says the man who ignored the obvious but programmed a ‘retaliate’ function in.”
Amusement glints in his eyes as he replies: “Fuck you.”
He dies. The grin remains after his eyes lose their vitality.
Bastard.
