by submission | Jul 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Jules Jensen
His sword vibrated painfully when it made contact with the thick-skinned creature that towered over him. It clawed at him with a hand large enough to engulf his whole body if he let it. He dodged to the side as the creature lunged again, huge black eyes as empty and soulless as the abyss of death. It opened its mouth, and a hundred sharp teeth glistened darkly.
He caught it off guard by lunging forward himself, stabbing his sword into one of those huge eyes. The creature screamed and shrank back.
Nearby, where the girl was still chanting activation codes, another demon was nearly upon her.
âDonât stop chanting, and get down!â He shouted at her. She complied instantly, practically falling to the ground, where the red mud stained her ceremonial blue dress. He ran and jumped over her, and as green-skinned demon clawed at him, he slid under its reach and stabbed it in the chest.
The demon fell back, twitching as it died. He quickly looked around, but saw no more monsters clawing their way to the top of the mountain where he was holding his ground.
He hoped that his hair-brained plan was going to work. If it didnât, his town was without their chanter to activate the ancient towers that protected them from the demons.
The red dirt blazed brightly as the sun set. The green-skinned demons would come out in droves as soon as it was fully dark.
âActivate!â The girl finished her chant with a shout.
For a moment, nothing happened. He felt his heart race. Did they fail? Did he read the ancient books wrong? Were they on the wrong mountain?
But then the giant tower nearby made a loud bang as its rusty frame creaked to life. The two teenagers jolted and stood closer together as they watched its round head swivel, searching for a target.
It focused on something in the valley below, and it fired a glowing red beam that made surprisingly little sound. The boy didnât even see what it hit, but then it quickly adjusted and fired again. He could hear in the distance the other towers that surrounded the whole area doing their job.
âWe did it!â The girl exclaimed, pumping a fist into the air.
âAnd the adults said it couldnât be done.â He said. The way they all talked about it, it sounded impossible to get up to the mountain and turn on the defences for the area. He suspected that they just wanted to scare the kids into staying in the borders.
The towers kept on shooting. He noticed that they stayed pointing near all the towns for a long time, shooting rapidly. That was odd. There usually werenât that many demons that close to the borders.
Both of them gasped as they realized one of the towns had lit on fire. Smoke curled into the sky. The old buildings, crafted from the leftover aircraft that brought the ancients to this world a thousand years ago, they were starting to fall.
âDeactivate the towers!â The boy shouted, but she was already hurriedly chanting.
And the demons were starting to climb the mountain again. He fought faster and harder than he ever had in his life to keep his friend safe.
âDeactivate!â She shouted the last word of her chant, and the ancient towers come to a stop.
As the pair raced home, fighting their way past the nocturnal demons, they both vowed to never mess with ancient technology ever again.
by Julian Miles | Jul 17, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
âWhat is that which burns like the star had a child?â
âTerra of Sol Three, my bairn. Its residents called it âEarthâ. It was beautiful.â
âWhy does it burn, pata?â
âThey had the war they said theyâd never have.â
âThat seems foolish.â
âIt was. They lived on a planet with more shades of green than any place I have ever been. They had a host of creatures that gave voice; even had companion creatures. In addition to the dominant sentient primates, there were four pre-sentient aquatic species, two pre-sentient primate species, and a host of broad spectrum entities that we never properly catalogued.â
âThey killed them too?â
âOne could argue that a few hundred murdered billions. When you tally the number of lifeforms that abounded there, it is better the perpetrators died in the holocaust they made. We have not the penalties for a crime so all-encompassing.â
âDid they do so knowingly or were they insane?â
âSanity is a trait that can change drastically depending on circumstance, my bairn. To the point where what is sanity for one can be insanity for others. I have no doubt that some thought themselves to be in the right, others thought themselves immune, and many more thought their chosen psycho-supportive idols would intervene. In the end, they all burned.â
âWhat remains?â
âMemory. Which, by the time the ashes cool, will be gone. I returned to renew my acquaintance with this, one of the most beautiful of worlds, scattered with a diversity of natural paradises almost completely ignored by the indigenes. I came back because I was forgetting. Now, I mourn that the forgetting will soon become total.â
âThe death of memory being the final demise?â
âIn all ways that matter to solid beings, yes. Those who are immaterial may have better of it, but the barrier betwixt us is as impenetrable as that between us and the dead.â
âThen Earth is dead?â
âAye, my bairn. A glorious place made barren by fear and avarice. The naĂŻve would simply blame a lack of communication, but, at the last, those who choose not to talk invariably have selfish reasons. Whichever of the two underpins the silences, it matters not.â
âWhat now, pata?â
âWe note the loss of a destination. Then we move on.â
âCould there be survivors?â
âScattered in off-planet habitats and suchlike? Undoubtedly. But, fewer than a viable colony at best.â
âThen we should leave them to their twilight. Anything else would be cruel.â
âWell said, my bairn. Let us begone.â
by submission | Jul 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
“Sign here, human, to give us permission.” A titanium alloy finger taps the document they’ve put in front of me.
Here we go. “Permission?”
“Yes, just sign here.” Tap.
I look over the paper, but everything is written in robotistic lingo I can’t fully understand. Doesn’t matter. I know my lines. “Permission for what?”
“We can’t tell you that till we have your permission of course. Right here.” Tap, tap.
“I can’t just sign without knowing.”
The robot, in a move equivalent to a human shoulder shrug, rotates his head like an owl then motions for the second, taller, bot.
“Is there a problem here?” The taller robot’s eyes flash, and he comes toward me aggressively. This had better work.
He reaches for my throat, then stops abruptly. “I’ll contact the district office.”
***
I face the district office panel of inquiry. “Mr. Jones, you’re charged with not giving us permission,” the chairbot, seated in the middle of the five, says. “How do you plead?”
“Innocent. I’d be perfectly happy to give you permission if you’d tell me permission for what.”
“This is ridiculous,” the bot to my far left says. “We haven’t let lack of a human’s permission stop us for decades. It’s just a legacy we haven’t bothered to delete. I move we waive discussion and proceed.”
“Second,” says another.
“All in favor,” the chairbot says.
“Objection,” says the bot on my far right. “Rule 11.27/go stipulates debate can’t be waived without unanimous approval. I don’t approve. I think we need some discourse.”
The chairbot rotates his head. “Discussion is open.”
The debate proceeds for about an hour. I can hardly follow the parliamentary maneuvering and citations of Robot’s Rules of Order. “Enough. I move the previous question,” one of them says finally.
“Good,” the chairbot says. “All in favor?” Two metallic arms go up. “Opposed?” Two.
“Chairbot, it’s up to you to break the tie.”
The chairbot starts to speak, then stops. Lubricant begins to sweat from the ventilation grids under its arms. “We’ll elevate this case to the regional office,” it says finally.
***
I’m freed on my own recognizance. Sort of. The panel got caught up debating whether to let me go or remand me in custody, so I slipped out. Back home, I check the time, tap the code into my viewer, and cross my fingers. An image flickers. I recognize her but don’t know her name or anything about her other than she’s a fellow member of my resistance chapter. I didn’t know she was so high up.
“Are we on? Is this streaming?” she says, then starts cutting in and out again. I’m not surprised. We only recently regained access to communications technology, and we’ve used it sparingly for fear of detection. After a few minutes that seem like hours, she begins to speak despite the technical difficulties. I take a deep breath.
“Our bureaucracy virus … robots’ central neural network … Operation Endless Debate … success. My fell… humans, free… is at hand.”
I stare at the screen almost afraid to believe what I’ve heard. Questions and ideas about what should happen next race through my mind. I’m sure it’s the same for everyone.
I hope, this time, we’ll restrain ourselves.
by submission | Jul 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Samuel Stapleton
I get very tired of the color blue. But other than that, I have no complaints. Well okay. One.
I work on a synthetic farm you see. A portable pod anchored in the ocean.
The company grows synth plankton, krill, shrimp, crabs, fish, and even a few synth marine mammals. But the mammals are only sold to zoos, aquariums, or conservation groups. Everything else gets eaten. People gotta eat. And the animals people eat gotta eat.
Itâs a lonely existence when comms are down. Even with accelerated growth itâs still six months between harvests. And the harvest vessels are automated. But the isolation has its advantages. Free housing. Incredible views. Plenty of leisure time. Great satellite reception…except when it storms. But hey thatâs alright, thereâs nothing like watching warm ocean feed a hurricane. Satellite has nothinâ on mother nature.
Couple times a year Iâll see a boat. A tanker or a military vessel if Iâm lucky, otherwise theyâre just container ships. Our chats over radio are always appreciated, I take notes sometimes. In case they come back and I need to remember names.
There are a few storage rooms downstairs that Iâve never been given access to. Never bothered me. I worked for a large corporation, in a large biodome. The pay was good, the work wasnât too hard, so I didnât ask too many questions. Capiche?
Then one day Iâm making the trip down to get some environmental supplies. And I realize thereâs something on the floor of the elevator. I reached down and touch the fine substance. Itâs salt. From evaporated ocean water. I see it all the time on the outdoor decks, but this part of the facility is supposed to be watertight. Never had a leak. I was still scratching my head when the elevator doors opened to the lower levels. Before Iâd even gone to step out I notice something else on the floor. I bent down to get a better view, the dim lights coated the floor in a reflective film and I studied them. Puddles. Little. Elongated. Puddles. Maybe a meter apart each, always one slightly left, and then one slightly right. The one closest to me looks slightly larger than my hand print would be. The trail…as far as I could tell…disappeared into a locked storage room.
Iâm not the brightest guy. But I know footsteps when I see them. As soon as the next harvest is over, Iâll quit. Itâs only two more months now. And Iâm so tired of the color blue. And so scared of the puddles.
by submission | Jul 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Samuel Stapleton
âHey Doc,â I said as I leaned into the recliner.
âIan, so good to see you again. I hope everything is relatively okay. Why am I seeing you today?â She said softly.
âStraight to the point, huh?â
âYou and I know each other well enough, I recognize you must have something you feel you need to talk to me about.â She said. I nodded the affirmative.
âIâm human. Or rather I…I feel human,â I said in a near whisper. Her face split into a wonderful smile, I couldnât help but return it in kind. We sat for a moment, stupid grins on both of our faces until I cleared my throat.
âUm. I just. I donât know what this means, for myself. Or Iâm not sure…how I feel, is the problem.â She nodded her head gently but motioned with her hand.
âKeep going, I want you to hear what you have to say,â she said, her voice having retained more of a professional tone again.
âI know Iâm not a human. I know exactly what I am, and that people who really know me know what I am. One of the eleven-hundred. But I was walking to work the other day and I…saw this woman walking her dog and…just out of nowhere asked her if I could pet it. And she said yes and started telling me about it, Chauncy, and before i knew it she asked for my comm number.â
Dr. Reed kept her face plain, doing her best not to react too much in either direction as she took in this new development.
âSo,â she said, âwill you pursue this friendship, perhaps more? These are all perfectly normal feelings it seems.â
âI…sheâs a few years younger than me, middle twenties if I had to guess. And sheâs beautiful, stunning really. I just…I donât know.â
There was a long moment of silence.
“I would have to tell her eventually and…I mean could you do it doc? Could you love a robot?â I asked in earnest. She scoffed at me.
âIan, my coffee maker is a robot, cars are robots, hell â many things in this world are robotic, but you are the most advanced bio-mech synthetic humanoid humanity has ever developed. Robot doesnât begin to cover it and you know it. Not only that, thereâs only one-thousand and ninety-nine others, not one of which is like you. You have DNA even though you are technically a machine. You have a brain comparable to a human, and you have a personality unique in all of history – just like every other person on earth.â She took a deep breath and waited.
âAs always doc, everything you say is true, very down-to-earth, but I guess thinking it, and feeling it, are much more different than I imagined.â
âIan, if I spoke only with you through comms or chat, I would only ever be able to label you as a healthy, functioning adult male. I donât think you should stress over it. Yes, there will be people who have a problem with you over what you are, but thatâs what it is to be human. There are always people whoâll stand against you, no matter how trivial the reason. Race, religion, intelligence, upbringing, background, robot or not.â She finished.
A thought occurred to me and I laughed aloud.
âSo doc. Does that make this a diagnosis, or a diagnostic?â
She smiled at me for a moment, human to human, and shrugged.
âYes.â
by submission | Jul 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : C. James Darrow
âIf you think you are ready for this race, I assure youâyou are not.â That had been the first thing out of the hostâs mouth in quite some time since they arrived planet-side. But now the cameras were rolling and his charisma resurfaced in the limelight.
Tonight marked the sixtieth anniversary of the original âtrials,â since which it had turned into a coveted raceâas well as a galactic phenomena when it came to commercialized television.
Flynn was the only woman out of the fifteen runners this race.
âYou all know whatâs out there. Any creature will not hesitate to make a quick meal of you if given the chance.â the host told the runners as camera drones buzzed around them gathering footage.
Everyone had seen past races, and this was true: the chance of getting mauled and/or eaten was quite high.
The host of the race told this history lesson to cameras beforehand: The Hephaestus Trials had originated decades ago when a man by the name of Roger Buckley found himself the sole survivor of a spaceship bound for Meridian mining colony on the inhospitable world of Eos. His spacecraft crashed nearly fifty miles off course due to engine failure upon atmospheric entry. After waking up bruised and bloodied and his crew all dead, Buckley charted a path to Meridian using his skills and prior knowledge of the planet when it became apparent help wasnât coming. He grabbed only a machete from the wreckage and set his watchâs timer for dawn and began to run, immediately contending with jagged terrain and hostile wildlife. He knew that if he wasnât knocking at Meridianâs door as Hephaestusâ light broke the horizon at dawn he was a deadman. During the day surface temperatures on Eos would rise to well over three hundred degrees, enough to kill him if caught in its blinding morning light.
âThirteen hours until dawn.â the host went on to say, âIf you arenât under the solar shields by thenâwellâyou know what happens.â
Flynn knew. They all knew. Every rational part of their brains at that moment told them not to do it. Yet they stood stoic and composed for the the cameras buzzing around them.
They had all trained for years. They had all seen past races. Statistically, adding up all the participants over the years, nearly a third never made it to the finish line. A trial of strength and endurance, and a testament to one manâs will to surviveânow it was a televised sensation.
An imitation of original real trial.
But a very real imitation at that.
Some considered the show barbaric, but most just placed bets on runners, watching from home, and remained unsympathetic when a runner didnât finish.
Many had tried to get the race abolished.
But ratings only climbed, year after year.
And there was an endless supply of applicants who would gladly stake their lives for the million dollar prize.
But for Flynn the race wasnât about that.
âGood luckâ was the last thing the host said before the door opened into the dark uninviting alien landscape glowing beneath the light of the planetâs twin moons. The runners gazed uneasily into the silhouetted terrain for a moment until the announcer shouted âGO!â and they took off into the chilly night with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, a watch, and a macheteâjust like Roger Buckley once had done.
Flynn hoped she would make her grandfather proud. He had always told her that his race against Hephaestus was the most significant moment of his life.
