by submission | Dec 20, 2014 | Story |
Author : Stephen Whaley
“Step right up! Just step right up here! Come and see the incredible Marveloso. Come see him lift a car over his head. Come see him do a hundred hand-stand push ups. Come see him jump over ten feet into the air with a single bound. Come on, ladies and gents, only two credits for a ticket.”
Two boys ambled past the broken down circus tent and stopped to look at the garish poster of a muscle-bound man balancing a huge barbell on his head. The carnie, seeing their interest, renewed his cries.
“Come see Marveloso himself, folks! See him do a double summersault. Watch in awe as he executes the spine-breaking death drop!”
The first boy put his hand into his pocket and rummaged around for a moment before extracting two battered coins. He tossed them up thoughtfully and caught them again as they were still rising.
“Do you want to go? It could be fun.”
Floyd shook his head. “I’ve seen it before. They just get an immigrant and have him perform stunts. It’s not like this guy is anything special. Now come on, I gotta get home.”
The pair picked up their pace, skipping in the peculiar manner that only native Lunites ever fully master.
by submission | Dec 19, 2014 | Story |
Author : Michael Strang
I know my experiment is a success when I open my eyes in an unfamiliar place. It takes longer to start to wonder what that means for me. A sudden shock of pain interrupts my train of thought as the neural probes retract from my skull, leaving behind a pounding headache. Reaching up to clasp my pounding head, I freeze completely when I realize I don’t recognize my hands. These ones look older, lighter-skinned, heavily marked with scars and callouses. Not mine.
“What did you expect?” I hear myself mumble. The lights in this room are too bright, they’re making it difficult to think this through. “This was exactly what you were hoping to accomplish.”
Thinking this, I realize that someone must be running the procedure. I fight through the blinding pain and survey the room. It reminds me of my own lab, in some ways, but it looks worn and decayed. I notice one wall has an immense mirror, probably two-way glass, which is surrounded by about a dozen screens of various shapes and sizes.
“Alright, who’s in charge?” I try to keep my voice steady, try not to think about how it sounds wrong. “I demand to see whoever supervised this procedure. I need answers!” I shout the last words, panic creeping into my voice. This isn’t right. I had only wanted to test the backup procedure. The resulting brain-image was never meant for uploading.
The screens surrounding the mirror flicker to life, all at once. Each screen shows a different person, sitting in this same room, in the same interface chair. I see the people, some men, some women, some indeterminate, look around as if in confusion, mumbling something to themselves. Their movements are almost identical, eerily so. Then they begin to speak.
“Alright, who’s in charge?” each of them say, each in a different voice. “I demand to see whoever supervised this procedure. I need answers!” The monitors turn off, one at a time, as each figure turns in sequence to look at the camera.
Without thinking, I look towards the corner of the room, where I see a security camera pointed directly at me. I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to think about what this means, about what might happen next.
I hear a voice speak from all around me, pumped in from speakers on the edges of the room. “Doctor Lucas Abernathy, you have been found guilty of crimes against humanity. The blood of billions is on your hands, both for those killed in the upload wars and for those whose minds were overwritten to serve as killers. Your invention has claimed more souls than any other weapon in the history of mankind, and so it is only fitting that it should be the instrument of your punishment. You are sentenced to serial execution, from which death is no escape, to recur until we feel you have suffered your due.
None of this makes sense to me. I want to explain about the plans for cloned bodies and digital instantiation and everything else we’d put so much thought into, but the carefully rehearsed speeches tangle and snare in my head. “There must be a mistake!” I manage to shout, hoping that someone will hear and take mercy.
“This will be your 14th execution,” the voice says. “We will begin by reviewing previous procedures. Play recording #1.”
As the monitors light up, I hear an unfamiliar voice scream “There must be a mistake!” I can’t stop myself from watching what comes next.
by Julian Miles | Dec 18, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The external camera pan across a steely – if a trifle motley – flotilla of guard skiffs, arrayed before a Griffin-class Space Dreadnought painted in the eye-baffling ‘wasp-fragmentary’ colour scheme.
Voiceover: “These nights, the long hand of the law comes to the furthest territories in the form of the Space Dreadnoughts from Privateers-of-the-Line; possibly this decade’s greatest rebranding triumph, although their former peers have also rebranded them, less flatteringly, as ‘The Turncoat Company’.”
The internal camera shows an anchorwoman dressed in ‘Gypsy’ formalwear: “Privateers-of-the-Line, formerly the Cutlass fleet ‘Desperados’, ruled by Captain Jake Delahunt, have gone – in ten short years – from Galactic Most Wanted to Galactic Defenders without compare. Good evening. My name is Verdanata Lires, and tonight I bring you a special presentation from Mercantor Unlimited.”
Subtitles: ‘Formerly the crew of the Cutlass Banshee. Incorporated 3455, Alastor Cluster. Trader registry 160828130526JV’.
The external camera jump-cuts to a battered Cutlass tethered to a barren asteroid.
Voiceover: “Is this your future? Have the days of star-wolfing fallen to nights of fleeing the Turncoat Company? Take heart! We have the answer. Guaranteed improved profit-from-pillage within a stellar month!”
Subtitles: ‘Subject to non-capture and abiding by raiding guidelines as established by Captain Blackhook under the Gather-In of 2609’.
“But don’t take our word for it! Here’s Captain Durgindar of the Cutlass Cremator, leader of the ‘Unforgiven’ Cutlass fleet.”
The internal camera cuts to a cyborg whose flesh components sport marginally more gold piercings than obscene tattoos, and whose cyberware is black chrome blazoned with fluorescent skulls.
“We wuz at d’end of owa teffer.”
Subtitles: ‘We had reached the end of our patience.’
“D’ally plots dun cropped our take.”
Subtitles: ‘The planetary alliances had made raiding too risky.’
“Me ladz dun fink we go deeptime.”
Subtitles: ‘My crew were considering crossing to the Fergall Cluster in cryosleep.’
“Den softlad fro Mercata cum bord wit savin graze.”
Subtitles: ‘Then a representative from Mercantor came aboard with his revelatory device.’
“From dat day to dis, we dun mor bootee dan eva. Black ‘ook bless Mercata!”
Subtitles: ‘Since then, we have made more profit than we ever did before. We cannot recommend the new Galactic Pillaging System from Mercantor highly enough.’
The internal camera cuts back to Verdanata, whose Gypsy formalwear is now looking somewhat informal in places: “Well, that’s it for tonight, ladies and gentlebeings. This is Verdanata Lires, signing off.”
Cameras chop to black. Audio continues: “Keep your filthy graspers off of me, you tin-clawed perverts! Guardee! Get me out of here!”
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 17, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“It’s a pure stroke of genius that I was able to downsize the stabilizer assembly in time for the conference.” Stuart fiddled with his bowtie with his free hand while piloting the sedan with the other. “Does this look alright?”
His wife leaned forward and reached to straighten her husband’s tie as he cut her off. “Of course it’s alright, you need to make sure not to answer any technical questions tonight, I want complete control over the disclosure.”
It was her work that allowed them to pack the stabilizer assembly into one of the containers that took up most of the back seat. She bit her tongue and focused her attention instead on the passing trees just beyond the cone of their headlights.
“There’s going to be a lot more of this, they’re going to want me on the conference circuit, that’s for certain.” He adjusted the rearview mirror to fuss with his hair, gone awry with the mid-summer humidity. “Publication and talk shows, I’ll be gone a lot.”
Julia mused that even sharing a bed and most of their waking moments together, he was seldom entirely present.
“We should be able to push a minute or two on the battery charge, and longer if we get power to the backup, but we’re still not stable on the grid, are we?” He paused and looked right at her, was the man she’d once loved still in there somewhere? “You could have put a little more effort into that, a couple of minutes back isn’t nearly as dramatic as I was hoping for.”
No. That man was gone.
Stuart checked his phone again and read the few new congratulatory texts and emails.
“Stuart, please, pay attention.” Julia tensed in her seat as the car drifted over the centerline. He looked up and corrected, a pair of headlights sliding by punctuated by a long angry horn blast.
“Don’t backseat drive Julia, I am paying attention.” He put his phone upside down in the cupholder and fished for the charging cable to attach to it. “And don’t correct me during my speech tonight either, I hate it when you do that.”
Because you’re usually wrong when you’re talking about my part of the project, Julia thought to herself. She shook her head and looked from the road ahead to where he fumbled one handed with his phone.
“Here, let me do that, you drive.” She picked up the phone and he snatched it back.
“Leave that alone–” The glare of headlights caught the words in his throat, and he jerked back into his lane seconds before they both felt the tires lose their grip on the asphalt. The car began a slow rotation until the oncoming vehicle hammered them where their trunk encroached on its lane, spinning them violently in the opposite direction before stopping abruptly, the ragged end of an already damaged guardrail skewering the passenger door and Julia’s right side.
For a moment there was silence, Julia in complete shock as blood pooled in her lap.
“Jesus Christ, why didn’t you leave it alone?” Stuart was screaming at her, but the words seemed muffled in her ears.
She had a hazy awareness of him climbing in the back seat of the car, opening the cases and wiring up their demonstration equipment, and then in a flash of white light–
–he jerked back into the lane, then immediately over corrected, losing control and catching the passenger wheels on the gravel shoulder, putting the car into a long skid that he couldn’t correct before–
–he pulled back into the lane slowly, but the oncoming car had already swerved, losing control on the far shoulder and hitting them fender to fender head-on, sending them into a violent sideways slide before they hit–
–he hammered the brakes, the tires losing grip on the wet pavement putting the car into a slow-motion sliding turn until the–
“Stuart!” Julia screamed at him as he climbed into the back seat for the fifth or fiftieth time. He hesitated. “Stuart stop, please stop.”
“Julia, I almost got it last time, if I can–”
She cut him off for once. “Stuart, stop. You keep killing me, just let me die.”
She held his arm until she was sure the few minutes had passed, and then they both let go.
by submission | Dec 16, 2014 | Story |
Author : Ryan Swiers
“My beard, son,” Ivus Hadler said to Heather Brantley, Solipsister correspondent. The old man rocked back in his chair, tapping one weather-bulged knee with his pipe’s stem. “That’s how I know so much.”
“Your beard?” Heather asked, ignoring his mistake. She was familiar with her androgyny.
“You betcha. All wise men have beards for a reason.”
“There’s certainly wisdom in not having to shave every day.”
“Exactly! It ain’t no crop o’ corn. Why would you cut what you can’t eat?”
This she also had to ignore. This was her interview. “Mr. Hadler, what I’m most curious about is how your beard allows you to know so much. It’s said you never forget a conversation or a date or any fact you’ve heard and even some you shouldn’t. Skeptics say–,”
“I’m an old man done too many turns at the coffee grinder, son.”
“I…,” She flipped through a notebook on her lap, “I’ve never heard a skeptic say that.”
Ivus chuckled. He scooted and leaned his chair closer to her. “Mr. Brantley, why don’t you tell me what you think? I know all that hubbaloo. Let’s not waste words that they already have. Say what you’re gonna say.”
“Okay. Mr. Hadler–,”
“Ivus, son. Call me Ivus.”
“Ivus, I don’t think you’re any more special than the next wise, old man,” Heather leaned in closer herself, his tobacco strong and persuasive to his habit, “You just have something they don’t.”
“Yup, they don’t get as many hemorrhoids as I do.”
Heather gave that a hearty grin. What a coot, the grin said. “No, I think that you never actually grew that beard.” And then she tugged it off for proof.
The beard slid off with a slight, electric discharge, like unplugging a television. Ivus’ chin emerged bruised and blackened but otherwise normal. No slots, no ports, only face and follicles.
Before the old man could start an objection—his bare mouth slack, his expression stunned, a glazed looked to his eyes—Heather placed the beard to her own chin. At first she felt only the coarseness of the thick hair. Then, slowly, like a sleeping limb, a prickling sensation started near her ears, along the top of what would be the side-burns. This sensation travelled along the mutton chops, through Lincoln’s curtain, and then pooled around the goatee, the fu-man chu, the soul patch, the handlebars, and the moustache. Her skin tightened and burned. Finally, an agonizing pain flared to life inside her skull, as if her sinus cavity had been filled with gasoline, the beard a brand, consuming all fuel of thought for frantic arm-flapping.
Despite the pain, Heather began to understand. Information was a scratchy, grey weight through which an old man’s memories ran perpetual: spilled scotch over paper, one sheet scarred with formulas; hot, sweaty nights; the first fiber he’d attached, light-spun; cold, shaking mornings; a woman, too many turns at the coffee grinder, she had said before she shut the door behind her for the last time; and his obsession, growing one strand, one data drive at a time.
It was too much. Heather slumped low in her chair. Many years from now it would be more than her knees that ached in the weather.
“Son, any idiot can tell you, you can’t swallow the ocean in one gulp.” Ivus peeled the smoking beard away. “The trick is to do it one sip at a time.” He settled the beard slowly, tip-tapping it snug with his pipe.
When he had snugged the last hair, he gave a startled blush. “Apologies, ma’am. Don’t know everything yet.”
by submission | Dec 15, 2014 | Story |
Author : Lawrence Buentello
Five billion years ago, two members of the Fraca species stood staring at the stars from the balcony of their laboratory.
They had worked ceaselessly, along with thousands of other scientists and technicians, to formalize the seeding project many thought impossible. On the following morning all the orbiting engines would release their rocky projectiles into space toward precisely determined celestial targets. A thousand projectiles would travel untold light years toward a thousand other stars, and the planets orbiting these stars.
The two astronomers had been discussing the philosophical implications of such an endeavor.
“If even a few succeed,” the one called Jangus said, holding his long arms before him like a priest from their ancient past, “we will be the creator of these species.”
“A millions years,” the one called Zoris said, “or a billion years hence.”
“We will have created all these beings.”
“Yes.”
“I hope our people are still alive when these others are capable of contacting us.”
The Fraca were the single intelligent species on their planet; and they had never, in the course of their twenty thousand year-old civilization, found evidence of another intelligent species in the universe. Their science was highly refined, but the stars remained silent.
And so it became imperative to the Fraca that they not remain the solitary intelligent species in their galaxy, or perhaps even the universe. Once their biological sciences had refined the means by which to manipulate their genetic material masterfully, a great plan was drawn to deliver carefully coded amino acids and other chemical combinations to other planetary systems suspended in the corpus of comets.
If their extensive calculations were correct, the introduction of the coded sequences would initiate the creation of complex organic forms, leading to a long, slow evolution of increasingly complex organisms, culminating in a subtly programmed intelligence.
When the galaxy was filled with new species, and sentient beings, the Fraca would no longer be alone.
“Do you ever wonder,” Jangus asked his colleague, “if this was the manner in which our species was created?”
“Wouldn’t we have found others like ourselves by now?” Zoris replied.
“That’s a logical assumption. But perhaps the equations are not in our favor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps,” Jangus said, nodding at the stars, “time is a barrier a sentient species simply cannot surpass.”
“Time is an illusion.”
“But entropy is not.”
“If you’re correct,” Zoris said, considering the stars, “then we’ll never know, will we?”
“I very much hope that we do.”
The next morning, the mission proceeded as planned. The launch was a magnificent success, and the Fraca waited a hundred thousand years to receive even a primitive communication from another species.
But the Fraca never did; they died alone, never knowing if they had brought light or darkness to the universe, and never realizing that they had brought both.
