by featured writer | Apr 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“The corporeals have sent another machine to planet four,” said Wyvin to Lekvar. Of course, Wyvin had not really “said” anything. He, or more precisely “it,” had communicated its thoughts via short range radio frequency modulation to its companion as the two gaseous entities sailed through the atmosphere of Saturn.
Lekvar responded with a radio signal that in a human being would have been a look of astonishment coupled with a shake of the head. “It never ceases to amaze me. Devices are sometimes of solid construction, but lifeforms? The planet three aliens are as concrete as the robotic mechanism they send out into space. What would that be like, living as a small, indurated mass?”
Wyvin modulated a response: “Unable to fly or change shape, unable to expand or contract, and trapped on a tiny, dense rock world. The most confining magnetic prison would be preferable. When planet three first started broadcasting modulated radio signals a few years ago, the scientific community was perplexed how life could have arisen on such an inhospitable world. When it was discovered that the signals were generated by technology operated by non-plasmatic lifeforms, our very concept of biology had to be revised.”
Wyvin and Lekvar stopped transmitting to each other for some time. They floated together in radio silence, propelled by 1,600 kilometer per hour winds and contemplated what existence might be like for the odd, impossible, solid aliens of planet three. Finally, Lekvar signaled, “Is it true they landed a device on the Great Satellite?”
“Yes,” said Wyvin. “Our colonists were instructed not to signal the probe and not to go near it.”
“Why not make contact?” asked Lekvar. “They’re our neighbors. Shouldn’t we establish some sort of diplomatic relations like we have with the inhabitants of planet five? Shouldn’t we let them know there are tens of thousands of civilizations in the galaxy?”
“Tens of thousands of plasmatic civilizations,” said Wyvin. “Lekvar, we’ve managed to acquire and translate a lot of information from the corporeals, including their speculation on the future of their own expansion into space. They imagine a galaxy teeming with other corporeals. They’ve even made pitiful attempts to monitor the cosmos for signals from other civilizations they imagine to be like their own. You see the problem?”
“I believe I do,” responded Lekvar. “The third planet aliens are an oddity, the only documented case of non-plasmatic life in history. Is that why we’ve been forbidden from telling the other extrasolar civilizations about them?”
“Precisely,” said Wyvin. “If word got out that we have corporeal lifeforms, our solar system would be overrun. Half the scientists in the galaxy would descend on planet three. Can you imagine the experiments to which those corporeals would be subjected? That world and its inhabitants would be taken apart by every xenobiologist within 50,000 light-years to try to discover how something as paradoxical as solid life could even exist.”
“So,” said Lekvar, “we are effectively administrators of a nature preserve.”
“Effectively, yes,” replied Wyvin. “The corporeals are a unique form of life. They have as much right to exist as any plasmatic.”
“And when they expand out far enough into the solar system that they inevitably discover us or the sentients on planet five?”
“When that day comes,” Wyvin said, “we’ll have to tell them the truth. But I hope that day is long in coming. I hope they can persist in their silly, naïve worldview for a while longer. I think they’ll find the true nature of the cosmos a heavier burden than even their massy, compacted bodies.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Screams mingle with the hiss of blood on coals. The clatter of dropped gear and the sound of running feet. When will they learn that using small weapons against us is the same as committing suicide?
> CMNDLCK0
I jerk into wakefulness as the amber letters glow across my optic. What the frack? Tactical comms icon flashes for attention. I look and allow.
“Trooper Lillman. Are you returned from C-mode?”
“Awake and curious.” The fact I reply casually is proof. Combat mode has limited syntax and doesn’t do chat.
“Thank Elvis for that. I am Captain Morebay. I need you to do full-droid until we are in the lifter. Do you understand?”
From an observer’s standpoint, you cannot distinguish between biodroid and android unless we are loaded. Biodroids have a diversity of gear and personalisation. Androids, obviously, do not indulge in personal anything. So when things hit the fan, all of us have learned how to behave like an android. Because they have immunity, in effect. It’s called ‘progmal’ and means that the android experienced an error. You don’t court-martial faulty machinery.
“I am returning control to you but erasing recent memory.”
That’s bad. Means something triggered C-mode outside of combat.
> DELMEM90
> RETCMND0
My view returns and I’m standing across the road from my parent’s house. They’re on the lawn talking to a constable. Mum’s crying. There’s a biodroid officer standing by them. I realise that is Captain Morebay and officially she’s nowhere near me.
“Lifter is on your three at the end of the street. Go. Now.”
I pivot on my right heel and parade march to the lifter across front gardens, through fences and over vehicles. There’s a click as the Captain shares her vox with me: “As you can see, your son has had a void episode brought on by progmal. What you see is what acted earlier. Only the android. I’ll make sure he receives the best treatment, but you understand that because of this incident, he cannot legally visit here again.”
Dad’s voice is full of gratitude. “Thank you. Captain. It’s such a relief to know he’s not lost.”
With that, it all wraps up double-quick and moments later the Captain is across from me as the lifter heads for Aldershot.
“Free and easy, Lillman.”
I drop the stiff poise and relax the bits of real me in here: not many.
“What did I do, Captain?”
“Not your fault, Lillman. You went over to a neighbourhood barbeque at your parent’s request. People are curious about hybrids, as you know. While you were doing a sterling job of relationship building, one of the teenage boys pulled a zapgun and shot you in the back.”
That would do it. Zapguns were the favoured challenge weapon on Uritreya. Always followed by a vicious firefight.
“How many, Captain?”
“Twenty-six. No wounded. Gunman first. Apart from them being friendlies, it was beautiful. The police car was a work of art.”
I put my head in my hands. “Oh gawd. What a way to end.”
“You miss the point, Lillman. You were getting along famously despite being eight feet tall, covered in armour and having eyes that look like one-piece sunglasses embedded in your featureless alloy face. When the situation changed you only took out immediate threats. They didn’t realise that any movement toward you would be interpreted as aggression by C-mode. Everyone who ran away survived.”
I looked at her. “And?”
“You’re joining my mob. Executive Operations. One of us with the charisma to interact with fleshies? You’re wasted on gruntwork.”
by Desmond Hussey | Apr 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
Our Probation. That’s what the first hundred years of our subjugation by the Thkar were called. After a long history of subservience to home-grown oppressors, we were extremely pliant to the superior wills of alien powers. Universaly speaking, we were easy pickin’s. Ten decades of “good behaviour” earned us a semblance of civil rights; a boon from our generous masters, who have, in Chancellor Sssths’s own words, “long grown bored of the tediousss and sssychophantic Hu-man sss-pecies.” Posing no threat to Thkar dominion, humans can now vote, marry, own property, do business – even hope to achieve a seat on the Earth Senate.
Or become crime reporters.
“He was asking for it,” the human prostitute drawls around a thick wad of chewing gum. “See what he’s wearin’?” She blows a tight, florescent pink bubble, which snaps accusingly as an officer ushers her behind the police line. The crowd’s whispers drift over me as I approach the corpse. “He shoulda known better.” “Idiot.” “Tragic.” Several Thkar tongues lick salaciously at the scent of fresh blood in the air.
The victim, DNA matched as a Mr. Timothy Hutton, is revealed through a series of flashes as my Tri-D camera records his death in sublime detail. His body’s been dumped atop a pile of garbage, decapitated. His clothing’s shredded, stained crimson. Blood is copious. The story of his demise is clear: an opportunistic Thkar simply bit the unwitting head off a passing jogger – its massive jaws tearing deep into the man’s torso – then discarded his lifeless remains in the trash.
Mutually agreed civic policies have been implemented to protect human citizens from becoming a Thkar’s lunch, but new laws spawn new criminals. Truth is we’re second-class citizens on our own home world. Our freedom is an illusion; a belief we cling to for sanity’s sake.
I can’t see how the victim’s attire – a tank-top and shorts ensemble – earned him the dubious privilege of having his head devoured (a Thkar delicacy). But then I see it. He showed too much flesh around the alien carnivore. Which is akin to saying, “she asked to get raped.” Some days I hate my job.
I snap a final Tri-D of the mutilated corpse and leave Mr. Hutton to the clean-up crew. Elbowing my way through the mob of gossip-starved onlookers, ghosts of past victims make cameos in the gathering darkness demanding answers I don’t have.
A heavy rain falls as I step into the neon soaked night. I turn up my collar and walk.
Soon, I’m drenched, alone and certain I’m being followed. Glancing over my shoulder I see a bulky shadow emerge from the darkness; a long, clawed limb reaching toward me. Adrenaline drunk, I blunder over an ill-placed garbage can and slam painfully onto the wet concrete. Skin on my hands and knees rip; I taste blood. The mammoth Thkar looms nearer. Terror freezes me to the ground, muscles disobeying my mind’s desperate command to “move, move, DAMMIT MOVE!”
A leathery hand grips my wrist and I’m hauled gently to my feet by powerful arms.
“Careful now,” the Thkar hisses amiably. “You hurt?”
Only my pride. I shake my head.
“You dropped thisss back there.” The reptoid holds out my wallet, which I numbly retrieve without a word. “Ssssshame about that poor guy.” The Thkar seems genuinely concerned, but I can only mumble an embarrassed, “thanks” before slinking away into the enveloping night, ashamed of my own prejudice against this well-intentioned Thkar, but eager to put as much distance as possible between us.
by Duncan Shields | Apr 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Dawn jumps up from behind the mountains and splashes over the city, making a high tide of light that reaches with bright yellow fingers up to my bedroom window.
The glow filters through the dust motes and the blinds. It paints stripes onto my floor. My dry body twitches, climbing the ladder up from dreams to a state of awareness. The images let go of me as my brain re-orders into something more limited. My conscious mind asserts itself, pushing the dreams away, eradicating the memory of them.
I remember. Last year that the road outside would have been filled with cars, honking horns, the hum of radials on warming pavement as the first world went to work.
That’s missing now. I can hear the scuffling of footsteps and people talking to each other. This is the new world. There are still banks and borders but cars, those dinosaur-blooded monsters come to reclaim the earth, they’re almost all gone.
I hear the ratcheting of changing gears on bicycles. I remember that rent will be due in two days.
Those of us that can afford it carry firearms now.
A frontier mentality is taking over, a mindset that always happen to humanity when faced with tough challenges. There’s an bluntness to it that I find refreshing in its brutality. Like the human race is going through a chapter of being honest with itself.
Gold is still gold but a majority of the businesses in the world have gone bankrupt. The upper floors of most high-rise downtown buildings are deserted. Offices have become hovels for nomads and squatters. We haunt this city.
The desert is reclaiming the world. I’ve heard the term ‘dustbowl’ from old books about the depression of the 1930s but I never understood it until now.
We all wear handkerchiefs or cheap air filters on our faces.
We feel lost. No leader has risen yet to take over. The whole notion of government has become informal. Local leaders are making the rules. The republicans were well-prepared. The liberals think the end times are here.
Myself, I know that I have to find some food out there and a day’s work. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. I’ll check the condensation tanks and see what the day’s water levels are.
I’m awake.
by Clint Wilson | Apr 1, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“Breeding for luck?”
“Breeding for luck.”
“Why does that sound familiar?”
“A famous 20th century science fiction writer once hypothesized…”
“Okay, okay I remember now. I read the whole series,” waving his hand in the air, “Plus most of his other stuff, brilliant fellow indeed.” Then the elderly prime minister’s face became serious again, “But you’ve done it for real?”
His science advisor looked like a schoolboy bursting with a nasty secret, “Better yet if I show you, come this way sir.”
As they ambled down the long corridor the younger man briefed him. “Sir our families go back together well over a century, in fact,” he held up a knowing index finger like an exclamation point, “my great grandfather started this experiment with your own great uncle, the thirtieth minister, Hector.”
The prime minister’s face showed genuine surprise. “Really, that far back?”
“It takes time to breed through generations sir. Of course they started with the best. The first couples were all multiple lottery winners, many of them also recipients of large family inheritances. But we didn’t stop there.”
“Oh?” Now the older man was entirely transfixed.
“No sir, not at all. We had survivors of multiple accidents. There was one fellow who lived through three plane crashes, and a woman who plunged from 40,000 feet without a parachute only to land in a thick patch of forest without a single broken bone.”
“Amazing!” interjected the prime minister.
“Indeed,” answered the scientist. “And we kept at it, over and over, testing subjects in a variety of ways. One of the earlier descendants is said to have played over 500 hands of blackjack against a professional Vegas dealer without a single loss.”
“Oh you tale spinner Norbert, don’t keep me in suspense, where does that leave us now?”
They reached a large set of double doors. “Come see for yourself sir.” He pushed through and they entered a laboratory buzzing with activity. “Ah good, we are about to witness a live test run. Our timing couldn’t be more perfect.”
The lab-coated workers parted as their boss and their national leader walked toward the large bay window overlooking the testing room. Together the men stood and watched as the scene unfolded.
Inside the chamber a door opened and a young man entered wearing a blindfold. Norbert pushed an intercom button and said, “Go ahead Mr. Reid, like we practiced, make your way through the room at your own leisure, and remember, it’s all virtual, you can’t be hurt.” Then releasing the button, “He’s our best sir, you’re bound to like this.”
Then the two watched as the blindfolded man proceeded forward and a spiked club sprung down from the ceiling missing him by inches. He continued and stumbled forward as a volley of sharp darts flew by just above his head. And it continued, a swooshing razor sharp axe, an onslaught of arrows, a pit full of buzzing saw blades, he stumbled on almost comically, avoiding all of it without a scratch. And then for the grandest of finales as he neared the far side of the room, he suddenly hopped to the left, narrowly missing the crushing weight of a grand piano dropped from a hidden trap door.
The prime minister applauded, “Marvelous, simply marvelous!” Then he turned, a questioning look on his face. “But I must know, how was that virtual, everything looked entirely real.”
“Oh it was,” the scientist patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “It all has to be real, otherwise we wouldn’t really be testing his luck now, would we?”
by submission | Mar 31, 2013 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
Nightshift was almost over when iHUD flashed:
unknown abscess.
“Great! More lumps and bumps” My sarcasm catching Turing’s interest.
“Yeah, I scanned him in. Big and green. I’ve never seen anything like it” Turing exclaimed.
Khomyakov, a deep space medical ship was stationed strategically to serve the needs of the frontier marine colonies. Providing care via live virtual links with ground based medical technology so advanced it was experimental.
The report explained that during a sustained ground attack on B, a green planet orbiting Epsilon Eridani, a Marine reported a pinch in his back, he was comatose within the hour. By the time he arrived at Base Hospital the abscess had begun to form.
The young Marine lay prone, his biological deep scan danced like haunting spirits across iHUD. The green capped abscess barred examination and was growing fast.
accelerated growth, no prognosis.
Time for a closer look. I let loose a spider, a medical robot, to start with a tactile assessment. The hand sized spider emerged from the bedside recess, it’s elegant scissor legs delicately eased onto the Marine’s back
The EyePaint applied to every available surface mapped the treatment cell in 4D. It gave me omni-presence but at the moment it was giving me nothing.
The spider prodded and massaged the abscess mound. Leg tip sensors fed tactile and ultrasound data, identifying an internal mass. As I viewed through the spider’s 42 micro-lenses, I thought I saw the mass move. Or was it just lens distortion?
“This abscess is telling me nothing!” I said to Turing.
“Stick it. Lets see what’s inside” Turing’s avatar joined in.
I instructed Spider to setup a needle probe and immediately it’s white steel leg shivered and from within, a needle articulated into a functional form.
Bracing itself against the Marine’s spine, the needle tip targeted its entry point while micro nozzles lacquered the skin in topical anaesthetic. The tip pushed slowly against the skin causing a slight depression and then abruptly broke through. The green mass shivered in response.
“Did you see that?” I exclaimed to Turing.
In the background, physical and digital security lockdowns cascaded. Nothing would get in or out. Turing had my back and was playing it safe.
I pushed deeper through the pus filled outer sac, receiving feedback from the nacelle sensor array.
white blood cells – high concentration
Strong natural defences meant the Marine was winning the battle. High concentrations meant he was losing the war.
I advanced the needle toward the mass, now a silvery green bladder before me and flicked a handful of collectors. They clung like limpets to the fibrous skin.
complex muscular cell formation.
I advanced further, the needle tip meeting resistance from the muscular mass. The Electromagnetic spider legs powered up 50% punching through. Turing shuddered.
Through the lens array, a sinewy tendril faded into view, spiralling away through green fluid. I followed it blindly to the centre of the mass where a tiny arm hovered, resting against the tendril. I panned across, following the length of the arm and held my breath as a large pink alien shape with veiled green eyes stared down at me. In shock, I reversed immediately bringing it fully into view.
The human foetus, a delicate shade of pink was unmistakeable, suspended within its liquid womb.
Clone Parasite, 99.99% DNA matchup to host.
As I contemplated humanity’s demise via substitution, a pinch in my side made me wince. Turing stared at me with deep green eyes, a small woven tube in his hand.
“I thought your eyes were blue?”
