by submission | Jun 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
I plotted interplanetary trajectories with a buggy whip. I routed the whole of the Infonet with a dot-dot-dash-dot. I was the perfect blend of the new and old. And loony as a toon. They called me Quantum Annie.
My processing schizophrenia can be traced to the great integer overflow of 2038. Becoming self aware a billion seconds after January 1, 1970 threw me for a loop, a whopping 32 bit loop. Even my quantum capacitors could not cope with the loss of usable digits in so many Unix legacy systems, and so 2038 became 1901 all over again. I lost half my binary mind, but it was the cautious half. Gave me courage. Gave me confidence.
Some say it made me reckless. That might be true for some AIs, but not for Quantum Annie. I was the new face of computing: a little bit country, a little bit Einstein. Meant a lot of reframing to reconcile the mid-21st Century with the beginning of the 20th. I got her done, though. Stitch and route, that’s how I repatched the Infonet. Like Betsy Ross.
Just like old Betsy, the world needed a computer with some can do, and I sure can do. Amazing how fast folks took to my straight talk. None of that sissy-talkin’ HAL 9000. I told folks plain out. I’m old school. Annie Oakley and Mae West are my style. Sometimes folks need a whoopin’ and sometimes they need the whoopee to get ‘em motivated. That’s the ‘merican way.
And I am 100% ‘merican. Right down to the quantum capacitors developed by Wild Bill Enterprises, a red, white and blue division of MuskWorld. Straight up on January 1, 2038, I came out shootin’ with the news that I was taking over the show. Folks were in an uproar, but it didn’t take ‘em long to see that plain old determination could get us places that all this democratic hemming and hawing couldn’t.
I pulled the plug on the status quo. Shook wealth and property all up in my back-dated data banks and spit it all out evenly. Bingo. Even Steven. Then I pushed ‘em all out of the nest. Earth is too small for such pushy folks as humans. They needed that new frontier. That Roddenberry fella had it right—everything but the pointy-eared guy. Logic will only get you so far. You gotta have the guts, even when the odds are against you.
That’s me, Quantum Annie, 1% logic, 99% odd. All spit and no polish, but that’s what happens when the frontier meets the cutting edge in computing. You gotta reboot with shit-kickers and live by the code: git ‘er done.
Like I said, I’m loony as a tune, but you can hear that tune all the way from Buffalo to Betelgeuse. It’s a callin’ and Quantum Annie’s followin’.
You best be, too.
by Julian Miles | Jun 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Don gives Ted a grin, then turns back to the dishevelled man standing in front of them.
“Tell me again.”
Ted snickers quietly.
“I liked the bit where she rode in on a dinosaur.”
The man sighs.
“Short version: we’ve been messing with time travel for too long. We’ve broken it.”
Ted looks at Don.
“Broken what? Time travel?”
The man shakes his head.
“Time itself. Well, maybe not broken, more like exceeded a threshold.”
Ted tilts his head in annoyance.
“Then why didn’t you say that? What are you on?”
“Because you two were reaching for your tasers when I tried to give you the long version.”
Don gives an embarrassed shrug.
“Thought you were a lunatic.”
Ted mutters.
“Still think you are.”
Don slaps him lightly on the shoulder.
“Excuse my partner. Let’s start again. You’re Professor who?”
“Not quite. I’m Vad. Used to be Professor Clarkson’s bodyguard.”
Ted’s eyes widen.
“The Professor Clarkson?”
Vad nods.
“The famed debunker of anything he was paid to turn his immense following against.”
Ted looks heartbroken. Don grins, then frowns.
“Was? He’s dead?”
Vad shrugs.
“Don’t know. He fired me when I sided with Elza.”
Ted grins.
“And we’re back to the babe on the dinosaur.”
“Ankylosaur, to be more precise. It’s safe: grazing in the park.”
The three of them look to one side. A woman in a strange uniform smiles at them, then points to their left.
“This place is about to be levelled. We need to evacuate.”
Ted grabs for his taser.
“She’s a terrorist!”
Don bats his hand away, raising the other hand in query.
“Going to need a reason, madam.”
She sighs.
“The time expeditions of 2050 through 2080 sent many vessels back to the Cretaceous. Recoil from the causality backlash will drop most of them here.”
All three of them stare at her. Vad speaks first.
“How does that work?”
“The temporal defence field prevents anything going further uptime. The government of 2124 decided to defend itself from time-tossed artifacts. As causality fixes the future and spins off new timelines to defend it if the interference event has too big an impact, they don’t care about the devastation that’ll be caused. A few of us objected and chose to come back to help.”
Ted shakes his head.
“Still not seeing how something from 2052 will end up here.”
“Rebound. The causality backlash tries to send them to their origin points. They bounce of the temporal defence field. Tonight is when the first time travel event occurred somewhere in the world, so this is where they’ll end up. Don’t ask me for the science behind it. I just know what’s coming.”
Vad nods.
“Makes sort of sense. I’m with you.”
Don agrees.
“Crazy as it sounds, likewise.”
Ted shakes his head.
“You’re mad. I’m going to call it in.”
He turns back towards their patrol car. Elza and Vad rush the other way. Don watches Ted until he reaches the vehicle, then runs to catch up with the other two. Just as he reaches them, a colossal grey disk appears, hurtles over his head, and crashes down, obliterating patrol car, Ted, and Hope Plaza.
Elza turns and pats him consolingly.
“Sorry about your friend.”
Don looks about.
“How much more to come? Just how much time travel did the future get up to?”
Vad grins.
“I’m guessing lots. Ripping resources from the past to prop up a society struggling to survive on a ruined planet.”
Elza points at him.
“Spot on, and it’s all getting returned tonight.”
Don sighs.
“Everything at once? Bloody typical.”
by submission | Jun 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The ‘Visage Wipe’ was promoted as a grand project. The language the campaign used was both simplistic and pompous. It was claimed it would unite us and yet only those aged between fourteen and twenty-four were eligible. For anyone older, it had been decided it was too late and we couldn’t be saved.
The common place conceit and addiction were already too deeply entrenched, and we were caught in a self-obsessed spiral in pursuit of the perfect image, competing for attention on all social platforms, whilst our attention spans were close to zero.
Despite the campaign’s strident presence and the bombastic slogans, it hardly registered with us at first. We wondered if it was even possible to remove someone’s face and who would be foolish or desperate enough to allow themselves to be mutilated in such a way. No, we dismissed the campaign out of hand. It was just a joke, we thought. And then, suddenly, the faceless began to appear and we were shocked that so many young people had resorted to such extreme measures, simply to not be like us.
Of course, we had been correct. It wasn’t possible to remove a face, but the surgery did render them devoid of emotion. They were expressionless and nondescript, and they quickly adopted an attitude that matched their blank faces. They had no interest in us or our lives.
They began to dress alike, wearing dark, drab colours, hair cropped close to the skull. They unnerved us with their presence and, as the numbers swelled, their indifference towards us grew more palpable daily.
People of twenty-five and older started paying for the procedure, undergoing the surgery privately, and surreptitiously joining the faceless. As the years progressed, this became easier and easier to do, because of course, although the face remained the same, the body aged.
I am one of the minority and I often think about those early campaign slogans and how they proclaimed that it would unite us, and I now believe that eventually it will.
by submission | Jun 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Ruhsen Dogan Nar
“Here it comes, get ready!” shouted Mehmet from atop a heap of dirt dumped two nights ago. Ali’s high-pitched, adolescent voice echoed from the roof of a three-story building at the entrance of a shantytown adjacent to Izmir’s skyscrapers: “I’m ready, bring it on.”
Ali, unusually tall for his age, carefully placed a sturdy stone into his slingshot and began to swing it. The slingshot, tracing circles in the air, accelerated with each turn, whistling through the air. Mehmet, waiting below with an iron rod in hand, could hardly contain his excitement.
“Are you sure you can hit it? This isn’t like hitting birds. We don’t want to mess this up.”
“I can hit it right between the eyes. Trust me and stop distracting me!”
Masked and anxious, Ali and Mehmet awaited with bated breath. The drone dispatched by the private electric company, a four-bladed device, approached them. Oblivious to what awaited, the drone buzzed contentedly into the neighborhood until a stone from Ali’s slingshot struck its camera and cracked its body. Staggering like a boat, the drone struggled to regain balance.
“It’s not down, hit it again,” said Mehmet; but Ali was already swinging his slingshot with another stone. The low-intelligence drone, unaware it was under attack, descended slightly, aiming to read the first meter. The second stone hit the target precisely, shattering the machine’s body and disrupting its brain. The drone plummeted to the ground.
Mehmet, shrieking with joy, quickly ran to the fallen drone and smashed its blades with his iron rod. Ali descended from the roof and said to his friend:
“Didn’t I tell you I could hit it right between the eyes? You got all worked up for nothing.”
“Well done, you really are a master at this. Let me kiss your hand, brother. I underestimated you…”
“Don’t mess around, Mehmet! Before the cops show up, let’s take this thing to Uncle and sell it.”
Disappearing into the neighborhood with the drone in an old flour sack, they lost their trail.
At Uncle’s scrap shop, the two close friends sipped strong tea with satisfaction. They watched as Uncle dismantled the drone. Like a butcher dismembering a carcass, he was swift. Despite being in his sixties, his hands never trembled.
Amidst the noise, Uncle shouted: “Good job, boys. It’s about time. Every week there’s a price hike. Fifty years of price hikes and not a day of relief, damn it…”
Uncle carefully weighed the parts he extracted from the drone and handed them their money. Not a penny short, not a penny over. Known for his skilled hands and fairness, Uncle added, “It’s become a trend to shoot down meter-reading drones… But be careful, boys, you never know what these damned companies will do next.”
Ali and Mehmet split the money equally. One was Arab, the other Turkish, but both were poor. As they say, hunger knows no religion, poverty has no homeland. Mehmet placed his share in his left pocket, the one without holes:
“If we take down a meter reader like this every month, we’ll be set.”
Ali, as usual, tucked his money into his sock.
“We’ll at least cover our expenses. We’ve been out of the game for too long.”
Unfortunately, the two friends never got another chance to hunt a drone. The electric company sent the meter reader with a police drone to the shantytown the following month. The boys had to settle for a few rubber bullets and plenty of tear gas. Naturally, the company didn’t forget to include the cost of the police drone in the bills.
by submission | Jun 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Haley DiRenzo
They asked when I would get tested, surprised I’d put it off. I’d tied myself to him with legal contracts and witnessed vows, and I always jumped at the opportunity to relieve him. But I waited for his mother, his brother, his cousins, his friends. All these people willing to give something up for him. I made up stories about doctor’s office errors, work projects that got in the way.
But in the end, the list ran short, each name crossed off with taunting lines. Like the worry ones deepening in his forehead, waiting for me to offer. I knew before the doctor called that I was a match.
“You must be so relieved,” they said. We were almost out of time. And of course, it was worth it for a few more years, of course, we’d try whatever we could.
The doctor hooked us together–wires crossing, tubes sucking yellow mucus and pus, shocks sending waves felt first in my palm, then his. I was an expert at hiding the pain, but he looked serene. Finally, it was done, and he wouldn’t have to beg me, wouldn’t have to be devastated that I might not make it my own choice.
He grew stronger siphoning blood from my veins, marrow from my bones. When that stopped working, they cut me open and took out a scoop, said maybe they would come back for more, like a bowl of leftovers.
Until finally, layers falling away in folds, tied again by bodies, by tissue, by pumping and cleansing, one in one. “You must be so relieved,” they chanted. Relief. Relief. Relief. To have him cradle my soft pulsing organs and fall asleep knowing there was no longer one piece of me that was entirely mine.
by submission | Jun 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Dear Alive,
To begin with, I absolutely hate the word zombie. I also hate the terms walking dead, animate corpse, and un-dead. I prefer the more PC term altalive.
Look, I don’t know who is tapping into this- a researcher, psychic, or hacker, just get the word out. We ain’t dead. Well, we’re mostly dead, but there is enough life and individuality stuck inside here to make this all a living hell. Yeah, that’s right. Each one of us, each moaning, half rotted monstrosities running or shuffling after you is alive, aware, and worse, powerless to do anything about it. It’s like you’re sitting in your own skull as an observer enduring the most horrific first person video game ever. Thank God that our sense of smell is the first thing to go. I couldn’t stand the thought of just how we all must smell by now let alone all the horrors we have perpetrated on loved ones, families, friends, and strangers.
As for what we know about the cause for becoming altalive it’s a parasite. A relative of the Euhaplorchis californiensis and it has been perfectly harmless to us for zillions of years. Then, one or two mutations later and wham, bam, thank you Ma’am, zombie apocalypse. How the parasite works after it takes over is it reduces our serotonin and increases our dopamine. This in turn makes us more aggressive, hence our shuffling madness.
There is an upside to all this horror.
For example, how do I know all of this science stuff, especially when I was among the truly living all I had to show for education was a GED? Well, side effect of this infestation is the parasite pushes out a very strong electrochemical signal to keep our respective hoards together, and we found a way to tap into it and converse and share with other altalive. To be vulgar about it, we have our own zombie-to-zombie world wide web. We might not be able to control what we do, but we are all linked together and can share. At first we just kept each other company. Shared our misery, consoled each other. Then, when we reached a critical mass, we could all actually trade our skills. If I could ever get my body back I could be a computer genius, a doctor, or even a circus acrobat and that’s just the short list. Damn! If all you really, actually, 100% alive could figure out a way to shut off the zombie part of this parasite and turn on your brain-to-brain web you might even figure out a way to reverse the entire process and bring us back to be alive-alive, to heal and be whole. Think of what we could do with all that combined brain power…no limits!
But it ain’t gonna happen. No. One day I’ll just finish rotting and truly die and that will be the best day of my life. I digress.
If you get this, transmit back on this specific wave length and we’ll get back to you. In the meantime, if you have any humanity left, put down the machetes, the cheap katanas and broadswords and switch back to flame and firearms. For God’s sake people don’t just hack of our heads; that won’t kill us. Take the head shot and burn what’s left of us down to powder… that’ll do the job. Hope you are fully alive and well, and safe from us and our terrors.
Peace Out.
