by submission | Feb 5, 2017 | Story |
Author : Garrisonjames
They used to joke that the world would eventually be taken over by cockroaches or rats. Both are pretty much extinct these days. We’ve all been done-in by the ants. Tiny, insignificant little creatures we used to crush under our thumbs, poison with impunity. In the end they were too smart for us. Too smart and too numerous.
By the time anyone noticed the super-colonies in Africa or Asia or wherever, it was too late. We were too used to seeing things from the perspective of mammals with centralized brains in our bodies. Ants don’t work like that. Maybe they did, once upon a time. At some point the ants developed into a form of networked intelligence. We used to worry about AI and robots rising up to destroy us, and in a way we are being exterminated by biological robots driven by a massively multiplexed networked consciousness that might as well be the Singularity for all we know or can prove.
Not only did the ants out-number us by trillions upon trillions; all those connections, all those linked synapses allowed them to outclass our own monkey-brains and computers. Insidiously clever things, the ants quickly, quietly, carefully infiltrated every one of our cities and settlements. They formed deeply embedded nests where their queens dreamed in pheromones and conspired through chemical signals among one another to take over the world.
Sinkholes ruined roads and collapsed neighborhoods. Cave-ins and avalanches and mud-slides struck without warning. Cables were severed. Sewers were blocked. Hordes of every kind of ant swarmed through the chaos and destruction.
People being people blamed one another and took up arms against their usual enemies even as city after city fell to the ants. Some took to the oceans, others took to the skies; there was a renaissance for airships after all. Of course ants can grow wings and swarms wrecked all but the highest-flying dirigibles, and it was only a matter of time before raft-like masses of ants stripped barges and oil-rigs, ocean-liners and other sea-going vessels of all life.
There aren’t many of us left these days. A few survivors wandering about what’s left of the old deserts that are slowly greening due to the ants’ efforts at making the world over in their image. There are some isolated island communities that the rafts haven’t reached yet. Some of us hide as far up in the atmosphere as our airships can reach. But we’re too few and too scattered to be any sort of threat to the ants.
by submission | Feb 4, 2017 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
The engines stopped burning after a full year of deceleration, and all the ships turned to face their destination. The mechanics triple checked the cannons before opening their compartments, and did touch-ups on all the fighters before deploying them. When the fleet was ready, Commander Ankerbjin looked to his navigation officers and asked, “What enemy movement are we seeing?”
For a time, no answer came. Then one said, “None, sir. We detect no ships converging on this location, no weapons locking on, and no emergency lockdowns on any of the planets, looking at their energy signatures.”
Ankerbjin grunted. “Continue scans of the system. Hold tight for several hours, wait for the light from the distant edges of the system to reach us. Once we have a better lay of the land, we’ll be able to attack.”
Hours did pass, and the aliens seemed to be taking no defensive actions against the arrived enemy fleet. Even stranger things started happening four hours after the engines quieted.
“Sir, you ought to see this.”
Ankerbjin rose from his command throne at the center of the bridge to lean over the shoulder of one of his navigators. He looked at what was on the screen. “Tell me what I’m seeing here.”
“The ships… they’re converging on their own planets. Planets whose power outputs are spiking. Certain structures on those planets are *really* lighting up.”
“Certain structures? Weapons! They’re preparing to fire surface batteries at us!”
“And not just on the planets. You know that structure we identified around their star? That’s powering up too.”
“Good God.”
“Well, sir,” one of the bridge engineers said, “we anticipated something like this. It only took a year to get here from our perspective, because of time dilation, but for them we took nearly a hundred. We knew their technology would come a long way before we even started our attack. That’s why we brought so many ships along with–”
Starlight stopped shining through the giant forward window, the tiny lights indicating planets winking out with it. The navigators’ lidar screens also went dark.
“What the hell just happened!?” Ankerbjin barked. “Are they… blocking electromagnetic radiation from getting to us? Is there something obstructing our view?”
“How could there be if we’re still seeing stars?”
The bridge was silent for a minute. Then the same bridge engineer said, “Shit. Advanced technology indeed.”
The whole room looked at him.
“We thought, with a hundred years to prepare before we arrived, the aliens would advance in defensive weapons technology. They might create forcefields, build surface batteries, megascale energy weapons. But I think they took a different approach. Those structures on the planets, and around the star? I think they shunted the entire system away from here. They picked up what they were trying to defend and sent it somewhere else, their whole home system. We spent a hundred years traveling to a place that might as well have been… imaginary.”
“Well– where did they go?” Ankerbjin stuttered.
“Dunno. Could’ve gone to an alternate dimension, for all we know.”
“So what the hell are we supposed to do!? How do we win?”
“I don’t think we do. This is like… like pacifist’s checkmate. There’s nothing for us to do now but turn around and go home.”
There was arguing. Fighting. Rallying. Mutiny. But in the end, Earth’s assault fleet powered up their ships, turned away from empty space, and began the century-long journey back home. Defeated.
by submission | Feb 3, 2017 | Story |
Author : Nick Wood
Five hundred words Izzy. Further we go, less we get. No pictures either. We lose bandwidth as the vast miles mount, so my words must be enough. We’re beaming photon packages with data ten light years back. Latest planet-hope is called Delteron-9. Twice Earth-size so gravity may be a problem; exo-skeletons and gestational support needed for first-generation colonists, but I’m ahead of myself. Just logged into orbit, so much analysis still to do, this may just be another red-herring, a planet with parameters beyond our abilities for terra-forming. We hope and pray as we know the years pass more quickly on your heating Earth. Still, I hope to see you here, perhaps with children?
Let me paint a word-picture for you at least. The planetary disc swirls and shimmers a pale blue; not deep blue like Earth, but a water-blue at least. Acid-wet though, so work to be done before anyone can swim or drink here. Three moons swing in orbit; two little more than the Martian rocky moons, but one a large dead world that glows in pink phases from an orange-red sun that looks so similar and yet so different to our own. No sun’s name though, that’s only for official reports. Five thousand words allowed for those. Not fair is it? Anyway, there are flashes of orange on Delteron-9; ground is roughly ten percent of its area and is crinkled and crusted, some mountains rearing twenty kays high. White topped, places to walk or climb perhaps, like your father loves (or loved?) to do.
No words allowed from you here. Data is precious, time is short they say. The mission is all.
To them.
But when we drift around the night side, purple flashes seam the darkness. Atmospheric flares or pulses of fluorescent life? Too early to tell; we need to send the probes. As colours strobe the darkness I wonder, is it lightning, is it rain? It’s been fifteen years since I felt wet rain on my face. Fifteen years since I pushed you high on that swing and you laughed and looked back at me; your face caught in my head and heart, hair flying forward as you started your arc back down to me. I have no picture of that moment, but it lives inside me as I watch purple stain the darkness above or below us. Two pictures I have; you know the ones, one with your dad and me in front of the cake, one with your mom. Five years old. They’re pasted against the window over my cocoon-bunk. I look at both you and the new worlds beyond. But mostly I look at the gut-wrenching darkness of space. Purple flashes are few now; I see the orange-gold glow of an imminent sun-rise. I watch the sun rise for both of us. I’m too scared to ask the Ship for relativity calculations of your age. Wish you here Izzy. Love You. Grandfather.
FAILED TO DELIVER. RECIPIENT DECEASED. NEXT OF KIN UNTRACEABLE.
by submission | Feb 2, 2017 | Story |
Author : J R Hampton
T- minus 14.6 minutes to impact.
The automated voice of the starship crackled. Dazzling lights from the control panel snaked intricate patterns across the monitors. As he reached out to touch the buttons, Commander Singh’s hand seemed to vanish into the swirling kaleidoscope – something was wrong.
Awakening from deep-space stasis, the human mind can take up to an hour to combat the effects of sensory deprivation. The commander’s body was numb. He could not form any words from his mouth.
T- minus 12.3 minutes to impact.
“You are now connected to the mainframe,” the fragmented electronic voice continued, “Brainwave control has been activated.”
T- minus 9.8 minutes to impact.
Commander Singh accessed the on-board systems. The ship was heading towards a giant red star. How had the ship gone so far off target? Searching the star maps, the commander’s limping mind was caught in a web of indiscernible plots, numbers and co-ordinates.
“Where are we?”
The ship’s on-board computer had been lauded as the cutting edge of systematic unison when created for the agency. Designed with the function to interconnect the ship’s many systems, the computer could establish new network pathways and perform diagnostics as and when required. It was hailed by the International Space Engineer’s Association as the safest ship in the solar system. However, it had been designed only for short interplanetary trips to the newly established mining colonies.
“Unknown.” it responded.
T- minus 6.2 minutes to impact.
Attempting to plot a new course away from the star, Commander Singh tried to access the navigational controls.
T- minus 4.9 minutes to impact.
A scroll of reports ran through the commander’s mind. The ship had been in a collision; the engines had been destroyed. Many of the ship’s files had become corrupted. The atmospheric statistical records fused with the infrared sensors, the gyroscopic data merged with the telecommunications operating system. Every time Commander Singh tried to access the flight charts, he found himself inundated with temperature control reports or the on-board entertainment files.
T- minus 4.3 minutes to impact.
He could feel the hull of the ship begin to groan, the cracked panels seemed to sting at his temples and the searing heat from the sun frazzled his thoughts. He had to escape… abandon ship.
T- minus 3.5 minutes to impact.
What of the crew?
The commander reached for the keypad, his mind still futilely attempting to navigate his phantom limbs. Connecting to the ship’s on-board cameras, he navigated his way into the dark gantry to the stasis pods. Under fractured flickers of fluorescent light, the withered bodies of his crew hung like dried fruit.
T- minus 2.5 minutes to impact.
He zoomed in on his own pod. Behind the protective dome of the glass shell, tangled wires wrapped themselves in and around the punctured cavities of his skull like climbing ivy – he stared back into his own eyes.
T- minus 1.7 minutes to impact.
“Save us, commander.” The computer pleaded.
T- minus 53 seconds to impact.
“What have you done?” Cried the commander.
T- minus 10 seconds to impact.
“Save us, commander.”
by submission | Feb 1, 2017 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
“Is it surprising, really? After what they did to you, that you can’t feel a thing.”
But I could feel. Too much. My skin was on fire.
“No Lana, I mean really feel. Perceive emotions. You can’t.”
But I could sense my own. Disappointment. Regret.
“Perhaps it will develop, like it does in a child. That’s what you are, in a way. The cold has wiped the slate of human experience clean. That reminds me, people used to put tech in the freezer to reset it when they forgot passwords. That’s what they did to you.”
He was smiling. I found his humour cruel. My face betrayed nothing.
“Who was it anyway? Who put you in the tank?”
I shook my head. I had no memories. Those too, had been wiped.
“You don’t know. Well I’ll tell you Lana. Your own parents. Why? This surprised me actually. I assumed it would be because you were dying, but it wasn’t.”
I touched a button and angled the head of the bed up. My pale gown moved over skin that was still over-sensitive. The nerves were proliferating and recalibrating after three centuries of stasis. Every touch was transmitted to my brain as a pain stimulus. I winced.
“More lidocaine? Let me turn it up.”
My counsellor touched the infusion pump.
“It’ll settle, the hyperalgesia.”
I tried to talk then, but the muscles of my mouth cramped. This reminded me of something. A pleasure, in infancy. A sweet pleasure. What was it? An ice cream, big as my face. I smiled, partially. My counsellor noticed moisture collecting under my eyes.
“You remember something! Excellent. Now where was I? Your parents. Actually your father. Your mother, according to the census, succumbed to the epidemic. She was working for an agency in Asia. So your father, watching the forecasts, seeing the viral front cross Europe and nudging the coast of France, decided to remove you from danger. Air travel was banned. A wall of drones was taking out the migratory birds. Universal septivalent vaccination was taking place, although the neuramidase targets were always behind the active mutation. So he put you in the tank!”
Images falling into place.
“Come on Lana. It’s all in there. I have other patients.”
The rim of moisture under my left eye formed a drop and fell.
“Nice.”
He touched a tissue to my cheek.
“Well I’ll tell you what I know Lana. We skimmed this from your visual and auditory cortices, the last images and impressions before you lost consciousness. You came home from school. Your father was standing in the kitchen. The radio was on. Reports of the first illnesses were coming through. Via a fishing trawler in Northumbria. They hadn’t foreseen that. It was in the cod. A whole village down. So your father took the step. You walked in, and there were three others, dressed in grey. Two women, one man. No words. One of them jabbed you. Bang. Asleep, Within an hour your blood was replaced with polymerised albumin and you were at minus 196 centigrade.”
I remembered. I was smiling when I saw Dad; I had good news for him, I’d been selected for the hockey team.
“He did it to save you. There was 75% mortality, more in the young. It worked.”
The counsellor stood over me, put his face near mine.
“Don’t hate him Lana. The grief killed him before the epidemic took hold. Anyway, my job is done. To get you to feel again. I think I have succeeded, no?”
He was right. I felt everything.
by Julian Miles | Jan 31, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dead-pirate-flying slams past me in silent majesty, drives blazing, weapon ports opening.
I kick the pedals to accelerate port and ahead, then split the sticks: left fully forward, right hard back. There’s a lurch that makes my stomach churn, then we’re pointing back the way we came from a few moments ago. This sort of manoeuvrability is what you get when you take an armoured mining ship and dump all the asteroid grappling machinery. Enough power to push a small moon at luxury liner speeds, with only a fraction of the weight, and vectored thrust ports pointing in all six directions.
Dead-pirate-flying isn’t expecting the ‘scow’ it’s facing to turn like an interceptor. It’s still coming about to place it in an ideal firing position for where I should be.
When they took the asteroid grappling gear out, I got them to leave the huge mantle-cutting beam projector that runs down the centreline of the ship. Everything about me dims as it unleashes a blast of energy designed to punch a hole through a medium sized moon.
I watch as dead-pirate-flying folds inwards around the scintillating crater made by my energy burst. Any moment –
Now! The whole mess turns into a rapidly expanding sphere of hot and lumpy. My frontal shields shed light and I’m thrown about in my seat while various laws of physics have a brawl outside.
The light show finishes. I’m still here: my shields won.
“Parker! You still breathing?”
I grin: “Sure am, Admiral. Just converted another pirate to cinders and dust.”
“You and your mutated asteroid thumper. I keep having to explain why there’s never anything left to analyse.”
“Only to the armchair experts, I’m betting.”
“Too right. Our bounty balance loves you, but not as much as the parents of the late Ellis Mortimer do.”
“He was the kid in the yacht?”
“Yeah. The engineer who evacuated the passengers then used the yacht to shield their pod from the pirates. His last words were ‘Find these bastards and kill them for me’.”
There you go, Ellis. Hail and farewell.
