by submission | Nov 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Dr. Nagireddy R Sreenath
The notification appeared at 3:47 AM: FINAL CONSCIOUSNESS BACKUP COMPLETE.
Amara stared at her phone, hands trembling. Tomorrow—today, technically—she will undergo the procedure. Her biological brain, riddled with an inoperable tumor, would be replaced with a neural substrate. The doctors promised it would be seamless. She’d wake up still being Amara, just in a different medium.
But which Amara?
She’d spent the last month with her previous backups, courtesy of NeuroSync’s Premium Continuity Package. Meeting yourself is stranger than any mirror.
Backup-23, from three weeks ago, still had hope the experimental treatment might work. She cried when Amara told her it hadn’t. Real tears on a real face, salt-taste and red eyes—except the face was a rental body, the tears manufactured by borrowed glands, and Backup-23 would be deleted within forty-eight hours of successful substrate integration.
“I don’t want to stop existing,” Backup-23 had whispered before leaving, fingers tight around Amara’s wrist. “I know that’s what happens to us. Redundant data. But I’m me, Amara. I feel as real as you do.”
Amara had reported it. Standard existential crisis, NeuroSync assured her. Common in 40% of backup interactions. The backups would be humanely terminated. They wouldn’t feel a thing.
Backup-19, from before the diagnosis, was worse. She laughed too easily, made plans for a hiking trip next spring, couldn’t understand why Amara kept staring at her with such desperate envy. Amara had wanted to warn her—get screened earlier, push for the MRI, change something—but the NeuroSync tech stopped her. “Paradox protocols,” he said, not apologetically enough.
Each backup had her memories, her mannerisms, her irrational fear of moths. Each one insisted she was the real Amara.
Now Amara understood what Backup-23 had meant. Tomorrow, she would die. Something would wake up claiming to be Maya, with all her memories intact, believing it had survived the procedure. But would it be her? Or would it be Backup-32, wearing her identity like a stolen coat while the real Amara simply… ended?
She thought about running. The tumor was accelerating—two weeks of cognitive function left, three if she was lucky. At least the substrate would give her decades. At least someone who loved her family would continue existing.
At least there would still be an Amara.
She opened the backup interface. Thirty-two previous versions of herself, stored in NeuroSync’s servers. Thirty-two Amaras who had each believed they were the original.
Her finger hovered over the termination protocol for Backups 1 through 31.
They were already gone, really. Discontinued instances. But somewhere in those server farms, thirty-one versions of her were frozen mid-thought, mid-breath, still believing they were real. Still believing they would wake up tomorrow.
She initiated the deletion.
Backup-32 would wake up tomorrow believing it had survived. It didn’t need to know about the others. It didn’t need to carry the weight of being a copy of a copy of a copy.
It could just be Amara.
by submission | Oct 31, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alicia Cerra Waters
The current of the river surged in silvery waves, rushing over rocks jagged enough to turn bones to dust. It roared, quiet as any monster. Anyone could go backwards in time if they were brave enough to jump in with a conduit. I kept telling myself I was brave as I waited, holding the last book my father ever read.
I heard my brother’s footsteps before I saw him. Even over the noise of the river, I knew him. His flannel shirt hung off of his bony shoulders, with that forever-smirk on his pinched face. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I put my hands in my pockets. “I have the book.”
“And I have the conduit,” Damian took the metal sphere out of his pocket and it whirred with otherworldly energy. Its power was a magnetic, leeching drag on the atoms that made up my body. I wanted to throw up and come closer at the same time. Some people thought the conduits could talk, but that was just superstitious bullshit. At least that’s what I told myself as I pretended I didn’t feel a voice pushing at the edges of my consciousness, trying to find a way in.
“How can you carry that thing?” I asked, stepping away from its thrall. Maybe that’s why Damien looked so sallow, like he hadn’t had a real meal in months.
Damian shrugged. “Somebodys gotta to do it.”
I looked down into the dark water, second thoughts making me dig my hands into my pockets. Just give him the book and he’ll go, I told myself. If nothing changes, we can avoid each other for another ten years, no problem.
“You’re willing to give it up for an old book?” I said.
Damian nodded, and I saw the exhaustion that ringed his eyes. “The conduit wears you down.”
We stood with a stretch of browned grass between us, already dormant as winter bit into the air. He gave me a knowing smile, like the asshole didn’t think I could do it. The thought grated more than it should have. “Just give it to me,” I said.
He didn’t move. “Are you sure you won’t unravel? Like Dad did?”
Even with the energy field the conduit created, that was a risk. I pressed my lips together, trying not to think about the vapor of atoms that people could become if they went too far back in the river. It happened to my father, but that didn’t have to be the end.
“You don’t think I can stop him?” I said, crossing my arms so I didn’t feel tempted to throw a punch.
Damian barked a laugh. “If two young sons at home couldn’t stop him when he left, a grown man on a suicide mission won’t.”
I threw the book onto the grass between us. “Give me the conduit.”
Damian twitched. “You miss Dad enough to try and go back for him?”
I took the conduit out of his hands and he didn’t stop me. “The next time you see me,” I said, “It won’t matter. Because I’m going to stop Dad from jumping into the river. He’ll raise us himself. You won’t recognize me.”
Damian put the book into his pocket. “Time travel is the worst thing that humankind ever did,” he said.
I barely heard him over the voice of my father coming from the silver cylinder. The conduit throbbed as the water pulled me under, and I heard the first words of the book; once upon a time…
by submission | Oct 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Today, my face fell off. It has a habit of doing that sometimes, but it doesn’t really bother me. Have you ever wondered why your face doesn’t fall off?
I have a headache once in a while. It comes and goes, so I scratch my temple. That’s usually when the face falls off. I put it back on again. However, this time, I decided not to. Everything inside was exposed. I don’t feel anything. I look at my eyebrows on my face. I’m holding it in my hands. They’re black eyebrows and bushy. Have you heard of Golgo 13? They look something like his eyebrows.
I took a breath. Then, I walked to the kitchen sink, and I washed my hands. The water pours over them, down into the sink. My hands are veiny. They’ve always been veiny. I like to look at the water rolling on my hands. The water goes into the drain. I turn off the tap. I don’t have to wash my hands, but I do every day, and I clean under my fingernails. Dirt accumulates. Washing hands is good hygiene. After all, so many people touch things. I wouldn’t want to catch anything or spread it to someone else.
On the afternoon bus, I held a metal bar above my head. The bar was cold. After a stop, some people got off, and others moved forward. I moved forward too, and I held another part of the bar. It was warm from a person’s hand, so I moved my hand back to where it was. Then, I forgot about that for a while. I later took the train. The whole time, I stood, except after my transfer stop. I got a seat on the next train. My feet were achy, but my face was still on, so there was no hassle. My face has never fallen off on the train, but there’ve been times when I had to adjust things a little.
Before I took the bus, someone said, “Hello,” to me. She was walking with a girlfriend. I thought I recognized the greeter. I said, “Hi,” in return, and I waved to both of them. I thought I remembered who the first girl was, someone from work on Wednesday. But after I took the train, got home, and before my face fell off, I realized she was someone else, from last year. Or at least, I think she was. Does that happen to you sometimes? Do you mix people up in your mind? I have a good visual sense, but there’re so many people over such a long time, all the faces become overcrowded. I’m not sure who wears faces and who doesn’t. It’s polite not to ask.
After I washed my hands, I thought a little, and I changed my formal clothes. I lay down on the wooden floor. I don’t have any furniture or furnishings. I like the hard floor. It feels better that way. I feel more comfortable. It doesn’t hurt, not for me anyway.
My face fell off before I washed my hands. I picked it up. When I was done looking at it, I put it on the low folding table in my kitchen-dining room. My face is still on the table. I’ll put it on later. I don’t have to wear it every time, especially at home.
Before I lay down, I walked around the room even though I’d walked a lot outside, in the train stations, and on the road. I mostly stood at work. There’re times I sit too. What would you do if your face fell off at work?
I walked to the mirror cabinet over the sink, in the same room, next to the shower door. I looked at my face, or, what’s behind my face. It’s not metal. It’s not wires. It’s not gears or chords. It’s just a space, a void, and, there, a tiny green pepper seed.
by submission | Oct 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
His friend Leonard had warned him that Ms. Carraway conducted her business very differently, but he’d insisted she was an extraordinary travel agent.
“What has brought you here?”
That was a complicated question for Travis Kite. So many things: his mundane job, stale friendships, aging parents, romantic relationships that never lasted. He was in his early forties and life didn’t seem to be panning out. He’d begun feeling empty and unmotivated like he’d missed life’s bandwagon. He couldn’t possibly tell a stranger all this, and yet he spent the next half hour doing exactly that.
Ms. Carraway listened attentively. She took no notes. Made no interruptions. Just listened. When Travis finished, she closed her eyes, and he felt like he was watching her sleep.
She stirred after a few moments, rising from her seat and studying the many travel posters on the wall. She tapped one. “This is what you’re seeking, Mr. Kite.”
“The Taj Mahal? India? I’m not an experienced traveler. I’ve heard India can be overwhelming.”
Ms. Carraway silenced his objections with a wave of her slender hand. “This poster of the Taj Mahal does not represent a place anymore than any of these other posters do. They represent a change, a way of becoming. When you travel with my agency, where you actually end up is determined by you and you alone. From what you’ve told me, you’re seeking to renew yourself, your purpose. I believe India represents a meaningful direction, a personal challenge for you. Though it will be up to you to determine the actual route.”
“I don’t get your meaning. Ms. Carraway. I thought you’d make all the arrangements we’ve worked out an itinerary.”
“I really haven’t much to do with destinations and the like, Mr. Kite. You’ll decide those things as you go.”
Travis balked. “What’s going on here? If Leonard hadn’t recommended you so highly, I’d think this is some kind of joke.”
“Did Mr. Sherman ever share any details of his travels with you?”
“Not really. He said you arranged a trip to the Grand Canyon that exceeded his wildest dreams. He mostly talked about how it’d changed his outlook on everything.”
Ms. Carraway nodded. “Mr. Sherman did indeed travel to the Grand Canyon. His wildest dreams were exceeded because he went to watch the canyon form, one geologic age at a time. He witnessed the birth and growth of a incomparable natural wonders.”
“What?” Travis stared at Ms. Carraway as if she were a unicorn.
“I helped Mr. Sherman personally witness millions of years of geologic time.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Travis now knew he was being played. “What kind of charlatan are you? Did you hypnotize Leonard or something? Is that your so-called travel expertise?”
Ms. Carraway simply shook her head and sat down behind her desk. “You see, Mr. Kite, that’s why Mr. Sherman would not provide details about his travels. It sounds unbelievable. Impossible. Like only hypnosis could provide a rational explanation. But that is not what I do here.”
She rapped a knuckle on her desk, “Nothing is as solid as it seems, Mr. Kite. Reality is merely a thin construct. Just as humans invented time to prevent things from happening all at once, reality is our way of keeping universes from colliding at decision points—which would be very messy for us. I help my clients sidestep the messiness.”
She swiveled in her chair and opened a side drawer. She handed Travis what looked like a thick pair of sunglasses. “Please put these on.”
The glasses were heavy and he hesitated. “What will these do?”
“Convince you,” Ms. Carraway replied as she began to manipulate a tablet on her desk.
“How?”
“Your consciousness is going to take a little trip, Mr. Kite. Then you will either follow or you will not.”
Of course Travis hesitated. This was crazy talk. Complete crazy talk.
When he approached his home much later that afternoon, the sun still shone like it had for five billion years, but Travis no longer believed in its singular power. Only hours ago he’d traveled another earth with its provident sun and come face to face with the consequences of decisions he’d never dreamed nor made.
Ms. Carraway had led him to new worlds. New Travis Kites. And now he understood why Leonard wasn’t able to explain his own journeys. One could only become them.
Travis still wasn’t sure what Ms. Carraway had done. It made much more sense to believe she’d hypnotized him and implanted memories and sensations. It made more sense, but he didn’t think he could shave that explanation close enough to the truth with Occam’s razor.
The poster of the Taj Mahal in Ms. Carraway’s office stuck in his mind. Before he left, she’d provided the details of the services her agency would provide during subsequent travels and their accompanying risks. She’d been very clear about the risks. Especially that he would not be the same Travis Kite upon his return. That was both the great risk and guarantee. The cosmos was vast. His decisions even greater.
Travis climbed the stairs to his front door and glanced back at the low sun, a brilliant dome like the Taj Mahal. He blinked it all into place and unlocked his door—to everywhere.
by Julian Miles | Oct 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Shess comments into the mike.
“Are you not bored with blowing stuff up?”
Ralf hollers back.
“Aw hell no. What else is there to do out here on a weekend?”
I hear Shess whisper.
“Watch the stars, drink, eat, play Konane…”
Far to our left, just over the horizon, something blows up in a ‘hit to the armoury’ kind of way.
“Didja see that? One Ritmarfo cruiser that’ll never return to the stars.”
I lean back and beckon for Shess to do likewise.
“Hey, did you do what you said?”
She nods.
“I made the call, but I’m counted as ‘deployed alien allies’. There’s a lot of sympathy, but nothing can be done until locals speak up.”
Directly above us in LEO the battleship ‘Hammerstorm’ comes apart as a Ritmarfo counterstrike gets through.
How many of ours just died?
How many of theirs moments ago?
What exactly did it settle?
I activate my mike.
“Hey, Ralf, how many did Command say we need to take down before peace talks will start?”
“Last I heard they’d gone back to ‘until we clear our skies of Ritmarfo scum’, or words to that effect. The peace initiatives will never take off. You need trust for those, and there’s been too much bloodshed to forgive. Civilian protests can’t compete against military paranoia and every trooper seeking revenge for lost friends.”
He might be a bit of a berserker, but he sees clearly in ways I can’t.
A series of smaller explosions beyond the horizon trail up into the atmosphere. Just as I think the show’s over, a colossal fireball lights the sky at the head of that blast trail.
“Woohoo, that’s one of their Colossi that’ll be taking no more lives.”
Shess cuts in.
“That was a Type 9: a medical Colossus.”
Ralf snorts.
“Command said those are covers for stealth ops. Better to be cautious than k-.”
Comms break up as a daylight briefly erupts behind us. By the time they stabilise again, we already know that Command Base Shafter has been devastated.
How many-?
Will knowing help reduce the toll?
I lean back and gesture to Shess again.
“What do I need to say?”
“Ask for help. Tell them why you think it necessary.”
“I’ll do it.”
She gives me a long stare, then fiddles with a device around her neck. After speaking rapidly in Nactorisi for a minute or so, she nods to me.
“This is Corporal Bell Reave of United Earth Strike Force One requesting Peace Action because Humanity and the Ritmarfo are too entrenched in cycles of vengeful slaughter to ever stop without one side being eradicated.”
Shess smiles. Minutes pass.
A booming voice comes from the speakers.
“This is a Peace Action. If you hear this, cease all war activities. Look up.”
Something appears above. A ship? It’s black and white and must be over a hundred kilometres wide… No, long: it’s a gigantic cigar shape, and it’s got little silver and gold triangles hurtling about it. No, wait. Those are squadrons of somethings!
I look at Shess.
“This is what you meant by ‘our petty warring’, didn’t you?”
She nods.
“There is always a greater power. You go far enough and they’re either indifferent or benign. Evil powers consume too much to last. Greed is nothing but a primitive tool that evolved societies have moved on from.”
I glance back at the behemoth above.
“I guess there are still a lot of societies that need help doing it?”
She nods.
“This one will for a while. It’s part of growing up, and now you can start.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Kurtis woke into near darkness, which itself was unusual. Oh four hundred on the button, his body clock having sync’d to local time when he got here a few days ago. His bloodstream was already coursing with adrenaline and the usual cocktail of morning wakeup drugs, which was also evidence of a problem as he wasn’t scheduled to wakeup for another two hours.
Something was happening. An incursion of some kind? Hit squad? The fact it was on the hour suggested a military washout squad, as this is the kind of amateur scheduling he’d expect at that level, not being random enough for actual professionals.
He was on his feet now, boots lacing themselves as he shouldered into his jacket and then became motionless, still as stone listening through the ambient sounds of a several hundred year old mid-rise for the sounds that didn’t belong.
Boots, in a stairwell on the other side of the bathroom wall, maybe two floors, no three floors down, walking softly but steady.
He’d miss breakfast, which he’d been really looking forward to. Someone was going to answer for that.
He moved slowly, but surely, footsteps in a staggered, nearly silent anti-pattern to the bathroom door, the creaking of the floor blending into the building’s background noise, and waited.
The footsteps on the other side of the wall grew clearer, four bodies, the familiar sound of strapped weapons straining on tethers, the breathing of men accustomed to exertion, the regular pause at the landings to check sitelines.
Kurtis opened fire through the wall as they stopped at the door on his floor, reducing the lath and plaster wall to dust in a firehose of high calibre anticipatory violence. When the noise stopped, he moved from the room to the hall, to the door at the top of the stairs, roughly shouldering it open to survey the carnage.
Nobody was left moving.
He stepped over the bodies and worked his way cautiously eleven floors to the ground. It would be some time before his hearing would have settled to provide much advance notice, so he relied on caution and his other senses. On the street a RoboCargo van sat in the loading zone. He wondered how long it would wait before abandoning its hold pattern and returning home. He climbed inside, sirens approaching from a distance. Breakfast would have to wait. Best not be here when the authorities arrived, besides, someone just tried to kill him, and he was going to hitch a ride back to find out exactly who and ensure they would not try that again.
