by submission | May 9, 2013 | Story
Author : Alex Skryl
“Computer, report!” yelled the Captain.
“Sir, all primary systems are online but the star orientations do not match anything in my database.”
“What was our entry confidence?”
“It was six nines, sir.”
Captain Nurbek swallowed hard, “Show me the trajectory map.”
It looked like a water droplet in zero-g, slowly morphing while the computer was busy plotting all the possible routes the ship may have taken. Nurbek was temporarily entranced by it's beautiful complexity.
Lost in thought, he recalled the great men of the past. Men who believed in a deterministic universe, where one could predict the future by simply knowing enough about the present. It was an idea that was hopelessly wrong, yet perfectly seductive, because it made men feel like they could become gods. But much to Man's dismay, the real gods had other plans.
Space has no shortcuts, he mused. Dreams of determinism died at the hands of Quantum Mechanics and General Relativity. But would he be any less screwed if the Universe was actually a Laplacian dream? No, it made no difference. Determinism was still susceptible to chaos, the law of nature which was responsible for his current snafu. Chaos is what made the long jumps effectively unpredictable and extremely sensitive to small errors in entry calculations. He simply made a wrong guess in a profession where bad guesses were the worst possible offense.
Six nines. Six fucking nines. He needed at least nine nines for a jump of this magnitude. But he was in the middle of a war zone. Any longer and the ship would have been blown to bits. Would waiting another second really have killed him? He would never know. All he knew was, he would be looking at the familiar starscape of the Virgo Cluster had he just waited. Instead he was here. Somewhere. Nowhere, as far as the computer was concerned. He glanced back at the rotating shape on the screen.
He suddenly remembered his old physics professor running different colored threads through a blob of silly putty.
“Imagine the strings are flight trajectories and the putty is our little cosmos. Where would you need to enter the blob in order to come out with the red string?” asked the professor.
“Where the red string enters,” I replied, not seeing where he was going with this.
“What if you messed up your calcs and entered at the green one next to it?”
“Then you would come out close to your intended destination, where the green one does.”
“Right,” he said, “this is how space travel would work if space was linear. You could make a mistake and still get to where you were going.”
He mashed the putty in his hands for a few seconds, keeping the entry points of the strings untouched.
“Where do the two strings exit now?”
“Far apart,” I said after locating the strings in question.
“So what would happen if you messed up your entry calcs in this case?”
“I'd be totally screwed,” I responded with an air of understanding.
“Good, this is how real space travel works. Except the strings are infinitesimally thin, and your room for error is almost non-existent. The lesson here is, get your calcs right, always! And then maybe well get to have this conversation again some day.”
Nurbek snapped back to reality, finally gathering the courage to ask the lingering question.
“Computer, based on your survey of the cluster, will we make it out of here alive?”
The computer paused for a few seconds, as if to heighten the suspense.
“Unlikely, sir, but I can never be certain.”
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by featured writer | May 8, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
It was the year 3.98 billion, but no one regarded it as such. Sentient beings across the Milky Way knew the date by the Galactic Pulsar Network Clock. The day was an historic one. A delegation of 88 sentients representing the most advanced civilizations of the Galactic Commonwealth were meeting with their counterparts from the Andromeda Galaxy to discuss a common problem: The two galaxies were colliding and in the eons to follow would merge into a single galaxy.
“As the larger and culturally superior civilization, we are willing to admit the peoples of the Milky Way as subjects of the Andromedan Empire,” said a small, purple, sea urchin-like creature through the translator.
The space station's computer recognized a Milky Way representative who wished to respond, a light blue frog-like being from one of the core worlds. “Ambassador, the collision of our two galaxies will have almost no impact on any given solar system other than to reposition them. Such is the vastness of interstellar space and the comparative smallness of stars and planets in both galaxies. There is no reason both great civilizations cannot coexist in peace in the new, merged galaxy with as much or as little interaction as is mutually agreed upon.”
The spiny, globular Andromedans conferred briefly and then responded. “We do not understand what you mean by 'coexist'. There is a hierarchy in the universe. For example, our galaxy produced a few carbon-based sentients like yourselves. But in the course of time the superior boron-based life forms like us superseded them. Offering you admittance as subordinates rather than the accredited practice of genocide is quite magnanimous.”
The frog-man's dorsal spines rose in outrage. Before he could respond, a tall, thin, exoskeletoned being from the Perseus Arm of the Milky Way was recognized. It clicked the 88 digits distributed on its four hands in rapid succession. The translation came out as “We do not seek conflict, but we are in no way willing to sacrifice our independence. The wars fought for freedom in the Milky Way's history number in the hundreds of thousands.”
“That is the typical carbon-based response,” said the Andromedan. “First, an appeal to goodwill and then a threat of violence. So be it. Annihilation instead of assimilation.”
“I agree with you completely, Ambassador,” said another Milky Way representative after it was recognized.
Gasps (or their equivalents) spread across the Milky Way delegation. The representative was a robot, bipedal and tall.
“We are not all created equal. Some must rule, some must serve. Machinekind, for example, will eventually dominate the Milky Way. We can be produced faster, learn quicker, operate in extreme environments. We are superior to carbon-based life. And, it goes without saying, to boron-based life as well. Yes, we will do well in the new combined galaxy after the organics and boronics are dealt with.”
The alarmed Andromedans called for a recess as the Milky Way delegation descended into chaos. Back in their embassy on the space station, the Milky Way representatives conversed.
“Think they bought it?” asked the frog-man.
“I believe so,” the robot replied. “I wouldn't be surprised if they now discretely proposed a boron-carbon alliance to check the coming machine menace. When we reconvene, I'll claim my words were taken out of context and that I was just musing on one possible distant future. I suggest several of my organic colleagues act as if you don't believe me.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said the frog-man with a smile to his robotic comrade.
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by Julian Miles | May 7, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“A Tamborda Eleven-Ess-Two should never be underrated. Treat each one as if it just came off the production line.”
Master Needle’s words are soft-spoken yet carry upward to all in the gallery. On the dojo floor, his whipcord frame stands in an attitude of relaxation amongst the wreckage and rubble that simulates a city street. With a teeth-grating hiss, the mechanical doom that is a Tamborda-11S2 strides into view, its hatchet profile swinging as it searches. With a low whine, it locks onto the Master and moves swiftly in a standard intimidate-and-subdue protocol, the result of which should be another dead human.
Master Needle waits until it looms over him before moving. He hooks his right leg over the extending left arm while pushing off with his left leg. The Tamborda is still selecting proximity subdual protocol when the Master’s right hand shoots forward and round to touch the base of the skull at the spinal junction. With a crackling whine, the Tamborda ceases to move. Master Needle dismounts as the juniors applaud until cuffed into silence by their mentors.
“That is the way. Decision and precision are the true weapons of a Kochola practitioner. When you possess both in such quantities as to allow you to know every joint and seam in every model the Federati send against us, then you might return from your grading. Until then, you study.”
Everyone bows to him, founder of the martial art that allowed us to survive. Where South America fell and Africa capitulated, Europe only staggered. Who would have thought that acupuncture combined with an exhaustive knowledge of the robots sent to slaughter us would mark the start of a renaissance in us, the Resistors? Master Needle took a motley crew that spent more time running and hiding than resisting and fashioned a force to save us, using dojo and biker gang principles.
As we start to turn away, his voice carries a last admonition: “Do not push the robot over to celebrate your victory. Every one taken undamaged is another warrior for free humanity the following day.”
We pause to be sure he has finished the lesson, then carry on.
“Patch-bearer Grace. You are ready.”
Those words electrify me. Without thought I leap the gallery rail and land crouched before Master Needle, head bowed. To think I had come to this day. From scavenging the wastelands of London to the grading challenge that will either prove me a Kochola adept or leave my corpse lying unmourned.
If I survive, I will go out to spread the Art That Keeps for as long as I can survive. The Federati do not like us and have taken to carpet-bombing areas where we are establishing chapters.
I take from Master Needle a leather roll of needles so fine as to be almost unseen, yet strong enough to drive through sealant and polymer, conductive enough to short-circuit delicate systems. These are mine until he comes to take them from my body. Acolytes we have plenty of. Piercing needles are more precious than flesh. I see that the roll has eighteen coloured threads wrapped through its seams. I am to take a roll with provenance.
My dread switches from passing the graduation to not adding enough coup-threads. I feel a burden lift and look up to see Master Needle smile a knowing smile.
“Save your trepidation for avoiding the robot’s masters, Grace. Now take the Art That Keeps and make sure it keeps you riding, counting coup and teaching for a very long time.”
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by Clint Wilson | May 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Doctor Flynn had a difficult decision to make. He looked up from his desk. The afternoon sun was beaming through the window alleviating the need for candle to see by. Out in the massive garden two-dozen people knelt, keeping the commune alive, keeping the family thriving.
He looked back to the ancient leather binding on his desk and traced the archaic symbols. “Never more than half a billion,” it read. It was their credo. It was the ultimate law.
They were already at their maximum of one hundred people. No one was supposed to be pregnant yet. Cassandra was definitely an anomaly. But it had been happening more often in recent years, women were becoming fertile again.
Flynn looked out at old Ben as he tottered by with a wheelbarrow. He was looking frail and sickly. Flynn knew that if he guessed wrong and Ben lived another year he could be risking the entire commune. It had happened in the past to one of their nearest neighbors.
Maxwell Commune only fifty kilometers away had been caught with new children, half a dozen people over their allowable, and the authorities had repelled from airships and razed the place. He remembered seeing the black smoke in the western sky.
He looked up and to his surprise saw Cassandra looking through the window at him. Her face was hopeful yet it was obvious she had been crying, she absentmindedly ran her hand across her stomach and then, her tears welling up again, turned and ran toward the sleeping quarters.
The doctor loved her as he did all the people of Flynn Commune. And he desperately wanted her to have her baby. But rules were rules and he had to tread lightly. A surprise audit was always a threat. They had been here in the past and they would come here again, especially to a community whose numbers were at capacity.
He still had a week. He would watch old Ben’s health carefully.
Two days later the northern gate sounded the horn. They had visitors. Flynn walked out to the edge of the farm flanked by his closest advisors. The envoy from Jefferson Commune escorted an official auditor and his two assistants, both armed with government only technology in the form of long-range communication devices and electrical weapons. Old man Jefferson shook Flynn’s hand and said, “We passed with flying colors. Down to ninety since I lost my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Flynn.
“No need to be sorry.” He nodded to his envoy. “We’ll be off.” Then nodding back at the officials, “They’re your problem now.” And with that they turned and began their seventy-kilometer walk back home.
The commune gave no trouble to their unwanted guests as they were all assembled and counted. Cassandra came into the common room bundled up in a thick robe. Flynn hoped the officials wouldn’t notice the garment’s heaviness for the current warm temperatures.
Then finally, “I see you’re at capacity Flynn.”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
“ Well I’m afraid I can’t leave until we administer pregnancy tests to all women under fifty.”
“What? Since when was that the law?”
“Word travels slowly by foot my friend. It was passed into being several months ago.” The auditor stepped forward and eyed Flynn. “What are you worried about?”
Suddenly old Ben burst forward toward the auditor, a fire poker raised high. Both guards drew and fired simultaneously, their weapons sending forth lightning blasts, leaving poor old Ben a smoldering mess on the floor.
Flynn gasped, and then looking up he answered the question. “Nothing at all.”
by submission | May 5, 2013 | Story
Author : Alex Grover
One of those tavern junkies invited me to the Skev for a brawl. I personally enjoyed these screw-ups. The one I talked to that night, around a week ago, was a tusked Griff named Young, and he was lean and almost terrifying. Young had horribly deformed tusks that curved around his jawbones from his ears. He had a long scar that ran down his nose and a tattoo of a winged Verst on his chest. He didn’t wear much else. His cronies were equally as gruesome, but I don’t always remember the specifics on people I don’t care about.
Young thought I’d make well for a fight at the Skev. I was pleased at Young’s intention. Most people can’t brawl. I can brawl, and this Griff wasn’t going to trip me out. Yeah, he had his other Griff cronies with him, to intimidate me or something, but what did it matter.
The next night, I waited for the acid-baths to clear the streets before I even bothered walking to the Skev. Griffs and Brons like me like to go along a little later than all the Proper People in the sky apartments go to sleep. The Skev glowed something brilliant. The green sign always lights up the Inner City like nothing else. I slipped through the metal door already hearing the mashing of the Brawl Groll. I went to the fenced enclosure and watched a good fight, a Griff going off on a Kym. The fight floor was full of sharpened iron, pipes, blood, and body parts, but that’s half the excitement of it, seeing it all. The other half is going in yourself. I stood in a gross crowd watching the Griff hold up the Kym’s head when Young and his cronies found me. He patted me on the back all self-righteous, saying how he’d hate to really kill me, and I shrugged him off and spit on the fight floor. He registered us just before that, so he said to stretch. I never stretch.
I only remembered the good parts about the night. I went in the Brawl Groll with Young, while the disgusting patrons flocked to the fences. There was no referee; you started on your own volition. I grabbed two sharp irons with my top arms, and a pipe with my bottom right. Brons always have to keep their bottom left free. Immediately Young picked up the biggest pipe he could find and took a swing. I dodged, grabbed him by his tusk with the bottom left, and pulled him down. He knocked out one of my irons and cut off an arm. I yelled in his face with some bloody spit, and mashed his shoulder in. He screamed. When he stood up struggling I hacked at the wounded arm and it fell off.
I’ll get to the good bit: I cut off Young’s head after he got me down to an arm. Though I couldn’t really stand up, I held his head for the crowd. They cheered.
The Skev staff dragged us to the limb regeneration room to the side, a pleasant, sterile place. They put us in our own chambers and we waited some hours for it all to grow back. When we were done, Young nodded his once-severed head and shook my bottom right. We had a few drinks in the lounge, joking about the regeneration chambers. They were patented by one of the Proper People or something. When we were done I told Young I’d brawl him again, and I left. That was last week. I’m going out again tonight.
by submission | May 4, 2013 | Story
Author : Kevin Tidball
I ran into Soren completely by accident. We made eye contact across the busy plaza, and I prevented him from attempting to slink away in the crowd by striding up to him and forcefully grabbing him by the shoulder. Not that he would have been successful, with his grey clothes and stocky physique, surrounded three-meter-tall neon-clad beings as he was.
I dragged him to a nearby bar, and forced him to sit with me as we drank foamy, glowing beverages out of fluted glasses as long as my forearm.
“Small world, huh? I was just passing through, and I, uh, didn’t exactly expect to see any familiar faces.” He was evasive as ever, looking instead at the aliens playing on a massive terraced lawn, their stringy bodies flowing gracefully like kelp in the low gravity.
“I’m still pissed about the 1,500 bucks you owe me. I don’t think I’m about to get that back now, so I’d better enjoy talking to another human again enough to forget about it. What’s with the uniform?” I gestured to the gray fatigues Soren was wearing. The acre of brass on his chest and red epaulettes on the shoulders suggested something shady.
“Funny you should ask.” Soren fidgeted on the extremely tall stool he was perched on, allowing himself to swing wildly in the microgravity. “I actually have decided to pick back up with my military career.”
“You’re full of shit. This is my third “foster home”, and I have yet to see anyone argue, much less throw a punch. They can’t even conceive the idea of conflict, so why the hell would they want an army?”
“See that’s just it!” his eyes lit up in a way I’d learned to deeply distrust. “There’s something about the language they all speak. I’m no professor-” Major understatement, “-but in their language they can’t be aggressive. Seriously, they don’t even differentiate between species! It affects the way they think. So I set out to correct things if you will.”
“Mhmm. And how is it working for you? As well as last time?” Soren’s stint in the US Army ended two weeks before his first deployment to Afghanistan when a tree fell on his garage, revealing a marijuana grow. I hadn’t expected to ever see the bail money I posted any more than I had expected to see Soren, especially after The Event.
Soren brushed off the jab, “Seriously all I gotta do is teach ‘em English. Once they know the what, they need the how, which is me. And boy, do they pay.”
“What do you need money for? Everything’s free. It’s a utopia.”
“Now that’s just wrong. Tell me you don’t feel just a bit empty.” He leaned across the table, “We need competition and conflict. It’s who we are.” Soren hopped off his stool and landed gracefully on the ground. “Punch me.”
“What?”
“Punch me in the fucking face!”
I thought of my drained savings account and nailed him on the nose. Soren did an almost elegant backflip and landed cackling amid a gory spray. Elongated heads turned on slender necks. “See what I mean!” I realized I was smiling.
“Come with me, Nick. The universe needs a little excitement.”
I stared up in the sky, the other side of the ring visible through the manufactured air. I looked back at Soren, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
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