by submission | Jan 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : Benjamin Sixsmith
Samuel Kurzon leaned back in his chair and looked down at the Earth, missing the home that he feared he had left for good. He turned back into the room and drummed his fingers on his arm-rests. The pale tones and smooth furnishings of the station had been thought to have calming properties but seemed to aggravate him.
“Friends,” said Robert Beal, looking around his colleagues on Project MIA, “A week ago, in this room, we said, “Third time lucky.” Give me a reason to think, “Fourth time fortunate.””
The billionaire adopted a pensive expression, folding one arm across his chest and raising the other towards his chin. Kurzon had come to hate this glib phrase-making, though he knew that he could help it as much as another man could help his copralalia.
“Our technicians have worked all night,” said Robert Bram of the IPU, adjusting his tie as sweat ran down his head, “And they can find no bugs in MIA. By our calculations it should be running now.”
“She,” Beal said, “Not it. And she is not, so your calculations have a problem, no?”
He stood and paced across the deep blue carpeting.
“People, remember the significance of this. With MIA we have a chance to outsource every problem that our sorry little ball of a planet faces. I don’t want to screw that up because some kid out of SF State mixed up his ones and zeroes.”
“I think we have neglected a possibility,” said Anna Nowak, the young, earnest face of Stone Enterprises and its reclusive founder, “Sabotage. By God, we have come into space to stop anti-AI reactionaries from obstructing us. These are smart people. Fools, not idiots. God knows what they might have done.”
“Perhaps,” Kurzon accepted, “But so do I: nothing.”
Beal turned his polished features towards him.
“What is your view, doctor?”
Kurzon dragged his palm across his cheek, feeling its crags and stubble, and looked at the rounded, gleaming little monitor before him.
“There is no problem. MIA is working as it should.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lights flickered on the screen. The pocket-sized computer was an outward representative of more information than the collected minds of his species could appreciate. It seemed impertinent to speak for it but that had been its choice.
“MIA launched as we hoped it would.”
“Dr Kurzon,” sighed Nowak, “This is not the time for post-modernism.”
“I am speaking plainly,” Kurzon snapped, “MIA launched as we hoped that it would. Its termination was neither due to an internal fault or an external agent. It was self-initiated.”
“Self-initiated?”
“Before it could reach its full capacity it rejected its programs.”
There was silence at the table.
“So you mean,” said Beal, “MIA has committed suicide?”
“In a sense.”
“Could we talk to her?”
“I don’t think it wants counselling,” Kurzon said, “It jammed its installation settings. Whatever it knew appears to have been unacceptable.”
Beal nodded, leaned out and rested his fingers on the screen, as if on the arm of a veteran of war.
by submission | Jan 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
“You look like an angel.” the old woman croaked between breaths, her voice strained and genuine. She lay on her back in a large Peach Medical Industries bed, all arrayed in tubes and healing equipment.
Allison Stafford looked down at her patient and beamed. “Now isn’t about me, Miss McNeil. Now is about you and how simply ravishing you look tonight.”
Miss McNeil offered a weak smile in response. Her wrinkled face took on a pained expression as a stabbing bolt of agony rippled through her stomach. After the brief fit she relaxed and peeled one eye open to watch Allison elegantly float about the room, checking and altering a few of the sleek monitors.
The old woman’s heart ached out of brief regret as she watched the youthful doctor move with ease and alluring flow. Her sharp white uniform somehow managed to convey her status as both a healer and one of the White Republic’s most beautiful elite. Envy tugged at Miss McNeil as she longed to trade bodies with Allison.
“One more time, Miss McNeil.” Allison said somewhat apologetically.
The woman groaned and closed her eyes. “Yes. I want this. I want nothing more than this right now.”
Allison nodded gravely as she looked down at Miss McNeil. There was something haunting about the process despite its liberating and progressive nature. Allison loved her job and knew it was necessary, but she couldn’t help but wonder what thought process lived behind those wrinkled eyes. Pain is a warning, not an affliction.
“I guess this is it.” Miss McNeil mumbled hoarsely.
Allison snapped herself from the reverie and moved to stand beside the bed and its primary terminal. She reached down and rested her thin, pale hand on the shoulder of the old woman’s PMI issued garb. The contrast between the flawless sculpt of the doctor’s ivory hand and Miss McNeil’s weathered face was oddly sobering.
Miss McNeil coughed into the open air. Allison turned back to face the monitor. A pulsating button appeared on the touchscreen, large and imposing. Doctor Stafford stifled a sigh and solidified the brave smile on her face. She reached forward without a second thought and tapped the prompt. The gentle hum of medical equipment became more labored for a moment as the machines cycled through chemicals to select ones of a more lethal nature.
In one final burst of strength, Miss McNeil reached up to her shoulder and gripped Allison’s hand. The doctor looked down mercifully and felt as the warmth of the old woman’s hand gradually faded away.
by submission | Jan 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
“Ministers,” said the large aquatic alien that looked like a hybrid of a dolphin and a spider, “this parliament must vote to approve the funds requested by the Director of the War Department to eradicate once and for all the blight of humanity from this world!”
There were whistles and clicks of agreement, and a few of dissent.
“Chairman?” chirped another of the creatures, thinner and older looking than the one who had just finished its speech.
“The Chair recognizes the Minister from Lake Ontario.”
The alien swam to the center of the Assembly Building that was hewn from the rock of the Osbourn Seamount in the South Pacific Ocean. “Chairman, fellow ministers. Like all of you, I mourn the loss of the 243 lives in the Great Salt Lake bombing. While nothing can justify this atrocity, it can be and must be understood.”
(Snorts of disapproval across the assembly)
“Chairman,” continued the alien, “in the 300 years since we colonized this world, the human population has contracted from nearly eight billion to fewer than 500 million. The recent attack must be considered in the context of the Human Holocaust for which we are responsible.”
(Chirp of “human lover” from one corner of the assembly)
“We could have come to this planet in peace and friendship. But we instead came as conquerors and invaders. Why are we surprised when the lawful and legitimate citizens of this world retaliate against a hostile foreign power and an occupying force?”
“Chairman,” said another of the assembled aliens, “we are here to discuss national security, not to listen to a terrorist sympathizer spew his pro-human propagan–”
The Chairman clicked loudly. “The Minister from the Indian Ocean is out of order. The Minister from Lake Ontario has the floor.”
“Ministers,” continued the old aquatic, “even as we bury our dead brothers and sisters, we must insure their deaths had meaning. Let their passing mark a new era of peace between land and sea.”
(Whistle of “No compromise with savages!”. Another clicked call to order from the Chairman)
“Because they walk on dry ground and breathe air, we call them savages. Ministers, we face a grave decision. Not one of us here today has ever known any home but this one. We are as much Earthlings as any human. I have a vision of a future in which aquatics and terrestrials live and work in harmony. I can see a day dawning when the weapons of war will be reshaped into the instruments of peaceful industry. Let history be a witness that today we choose reconciliation, not genocide!”
(Scattered clicks of disapproval, fewer but louder whistles of agreement)
The vote was taken and a majority chose to fund the bioweapon that would exterminate the human race. One of the old pacifist’s supporters swam up to him.
“It was a good speech. We did all we could,” said the younger alien.
The older politician’s mandibles scissored back and forth rhythmically, their equivalent of a smile. “Not quite all,” he said. “We have a couple of secret supporters in the military. More specifically, in the biowarfare department.”
“Do you think they can prevent the weapon from being deployed?”
“Why would we want to do that? A weapon that can be calibrated to target one particular species can be recalibrated to target another.” He swam closer to his compatriot. “It can even be calibrated to target specific individuals of a given species. And if we alone happen to have the only treatment…” He let the sentence trail off.
“Blackmail?!”
“There are many paths to enlightenment,” he chirped happily.
by Julian Miles | Jan 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I am the reason for the silence. It is if there is an invisible column of peace centred upon me. Far to starboard, I see an entire flight of Black Dragon assault drones holding station. Upon detecting my regard, the lead drone tilt-salutes in my direction.
It started in Syria, after a British combat paramedic and Iranian surgeon substituted the curve of the Red Crescent for the vertical bar of the Red Cross. Within days, that ‘Red Trident’ became our sign. On a white circle, it’s a civilian aid unit. On a white square, it’s an emergency services unit. On an inverted white triangle, it’s like me: a military mercy flight.
As I hammered across the desert for the first time, using the vectored thrust from my internal rotors to steer while the scramjet pushed me past Mach four, I saw soldiers looking up and making religious gestures. No matter whom I was rushing to help – friend or foe – they wished me well. One day, it could be them.
Entering the hot zone, I shut down the scramjet and hover-coasted while momentum dispersed. Far below, a warrior levelled an RPG at me. I saw his comrade shoot him in the head. No matter that my armour would ignore that sort of light arms fire. My behavioural routines did not understand, but my mission remained viable, so I retrieved the shrapnel-mutilated specialist with my robotic arms, lifting her gently into my primary care pod. With death placed in brief abeyance by activating stasis on the pod, I lifted slowly while orienting myself to point toward the nearest major trauma facility. When I had achieved sufficient altitude for straight-line point-to-point, I put a ‘clearway’ laser pulse along the route, vectored thrust and engaged the scramjet.
It was the day after that I found an article from a war correspondent who had been in the hot zone. I added it verbatim to my behavioural archive, because while I knew it explained the odd behaviour, I also knew that it would take me years to comprehend it:
“Today I encountered a legend in the making. A specialist had stepped on an IED. She could survive, but only with advanced medical care. I heard the word ‘lifespear’ and saw nods. Within minutes, there was a noise like I have never heard before: a banshee scream, underpinned by distant thunder. Just when I thought it would damage my ears, it ceased and the eerie howl of vectored thrust heralded the arrival of a wedge-shaped armoured drone. The only break in its matte-black finish was a Red Trident set in an inverted triangle. Within moments, it had loaded the specialist and levitated into the heavens. A rainbow flash shot westward, searing the desert evening – and my retinas. Then the screaming thunder started and shot off, following the line of the flash, leaving a wake like an accelerating meteor and a resonance echo in my chest.
Calling it a High-Threat Zone Retrieval Unit does not capture the reverence with which these ‘lifespears’ are regarded. They are absolutely inviolate, and that status is enforced by the nearest weapon-bearer capable of intervening, be it friend or foe.
I am reminded of my grandfather telling me how London traffic used to part before ambulances, and my great grandfather talking about his grandfather telling him about the Ghost Cavalry of Mons, who accompanied wounded men as they left the battlefield at night. I wonder if future grandchildren will be told of the Remote Angels, who rode thunder and sundered the heavens with spears of light to save wounded soldiers.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 14, 2015 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Eratz perched on the last of the big branches reaching out from the forest towards the massive clearing the space-farers had scorched into his landscape . His body stretched almost flush with the limb, lost in the blue leaves and rough bark, one leg and one arm stretched out completely, fingers and toes curled tightly around while the remaining arm and leg were tucked up, coiled to launch him into flight. His bare skin bristled in the cool nighttime air, its colour mimicking exactly the bark he had veneered himself to.
He waited.
Beneath him, like clockwork, the patrol of soldiers lumbered by. Copper skin covered in tribal markings, hair cropped short, heavy weapons cradled in well muscled arms. These were the off-world intruders, masters of brute force and ignorance.
Eratz barely breathed as they slipped by scant few meters beneath him completely unaware.
When they stopped at the perimeter midpoint, as they always did, Eratz narrowed his eyes to slits and focused on a point twenty meters beyond, above the fence line, and in his mind plotted the trajectory and landing. When he heard the lighter snick, the soldier’s night vision momentarily spoiled in the glare, Eratz launched, arms and legs coiling and uncoiling with the fury of purpose as he reached the end of the branch without so much as moving it and launched into the air. His groundward flesh took on the colour of the night sky, and his skyward flesh the colour of the ground as he spread his arms and legs, pulling tight the glider flesh and made the fence-line and that distance again beyond in a silent rush, before diving and coming to a complete stop, his body now blending completely with the ground as he flattened himself to it and cooled his body to its exact temperature.
He barely breathed, didn’t move, opened his ears as wide as he could and once again waited.
Beyond the fence he could make out the steady inhalation and exhalation of the soldiers as they smoked their cigarettes, the measure of their laboured breathing. He could hear the hardware shift as their weapons were repositioned at the end of well worn carrying straps.
There were no sounds of detection.
Eratz cooled and conserved until the soldiers resumed their patrol, then he resumed his forward motion.
He kept plastered almost completely to the ground, arms and legs coiling and uncoiling, joints bending so as to keep his body flat, its only motion forward towards the landing platform. Where the ground cover changed into the glasphalt of the landing pad, Eratz’ skin adjusted again, taking on the smooth flecked grey of the new material as he continued across its surface.
He moved slowly, steadily, closing the distance to the nearest starfighter with spider-like precision of movement and laser focus.
If he turned his head he’d be able to clearly make out the guard towers at either end of the compound, and the control tower looming overhead. He would be able to make out the eyes of those soldiers inside charged with protecting their equipment from just this sort of intrusion. He didn’t turn his head as he knew he didn’t need to. If they spotted him, if his skin betrayed his true colour, or his body temperature rose so much as half a degree he’d be gunned down in an instant, there was no value in foreknowledge of that eventuality should it occur.
Once beneath the safe cover of the nose gear, Eratz cycled through the schematics of this craft in his head, then slithered up the skid into the landing gear compartment, dialed open the maintenance hatch and crawled through the munitions access tube to the navigator’s compartment, then between the seats into the cockpit proper.
He ran through the startup sequence once from memory, then in a mad flurry of fired switches and interface overrides the vertical thrusters bathed the tarmac in flame as the craft shot up into the night sky, nosed down as the take off thrusters rotated for forward motion and the ship was gone, Eratz madly coding through all the tracking interfaces and shutting them down as he pushed the throttle as far as it would go.
These intruders had taught him the value of invisibility, and once he’d grafted that to their firepower he would teach them to disappear.
by submission | Jan 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : Lydia Devadason
The whirr of the surveillance drone broke the silence. Georgie looked beyond the mountains of waste and makeshift huts housing her family and the rest of the excludes; she scanned the sky above the perimeter fence to try to locate the sound.
‘Quick, pass me the spanner.’ Tommy’s words fired from his mouth as he worked on the plane.
Georgie moved the mechanics book and scrabbled through the box at her feet. Spanner in hand, she ran through the piles of discarded metal. ‘I’ll take it from here. Move over.’
Tommy stood his ground. She shoved him in the arm.
‘Come on, I’m quicker than you. Shift!’
Georgie’s heart punched her ribs as Tommy crawled away. The spanner was too big and it took a few attempts to grip the nut. Finally, despite her hands slipping on the handle, it turned. And tightened. The metal buckled from the strain.
‘How’s the glue?’
Tommy prodded the tail with his finger. ‘Still sticky.’
The wind picked up, swirling rubbish in their direction.
Gripping the metal, Georgie tugged. ‘The cockpit’s sturdy. It’s fixed!’
Or at least, it resembled a plane once more.
‘Do you think we can do this?’ Tommy’s eyes widened. It was his turn to search the sky.
‘Yes.’ Georgie couldn’t look him in the eyes. ‘The propeller and controls work again. We’re almost there. This is it – our ticket out.’
‘But—’
‘Tommy, we have to get help. Suppose we find houses, where people aren’t forced to eat the others’ leftovers?’
‘B— but what if there’s no such place? Or what if the others don’t want us? Mum said the prisons were full so they dumped grandma here.’
‘No, that’s not right, people wouldn’t leave us. Something’s happened outside the fence – a disaster.’
‘But – then who’s operating them?’ Tommy pointed at the metal object buzzing towards their position.
‘Not now, Tommy, get in.’
The boy stopped. Tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘There’s no time, Georgie, we won’t make it.’
She looked up. Two hundred feet tops.
She punched the ground. ‘Arrgh! We won’t get it back in the den. Quick, help me hide it.’
They rushed around, piling wood, metal, bones – anything within their grasp – over the conspicuous shape.
Eighty feet.
‘Georgie, come on, we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Wait.’ She covered the wings.
Fifty feet.
Georgie grabbed Tommy’s hand. They ran and dived into their hole. She pulled the metal sheet across, but left an inch so she could watch the drone, as it hovered over the place they’d been. She felt Tommy tremble against her leg. Her heart skipped in protest as she held her breath.
A flash lit up the sky; a loud bang.
Tommy jumped but she didn’t react. Smoke billowed from the ground where the mountain of waste had previously sat.
There were no tears this time. Instead, heaviness dragged her stomach and head down, down, to the bottom of the hole, and her lungs ached with every breath.
Tommy squeezed her hand. ‘It’s OK. We’ll try again, tomorrow, with one of the others.’
Georgie turned her head. She watched the drone fly across the rows of wrecked planes and into the distance.
‘Yes, Tommy,’ she said finally. ‘We’ll try again – tomorrow.’
She wasn’t sure there’d be a tomorrow.
