by submission | Feb 10, 2013 | Story |
Author : Leah Hervoly
I have been drifting along for the past seven hundred and eighteen years. Things are starting to look the same. Puffy red nebulae over here, collapsing white dwarf over there. Once in a while I see a galaxy get sucked into a supermassive black hole like some kind of interstellar juice box. The colors are breathtaking and remind me of sunsets. The stars hardly change, though.
At first I tried to make my own constellations, but ran out of Latin names and animals and only managed to catalogue about twelve hundred. My programmer wasn’t the brightest in those departments. Every so often I think back on the day the escape pod ejected from the main ship and launched me blindly into foreign space. I’m not even sure what galaxy we were in when we were attacked.
I guess it doesn’t matter now.
As an android, we don’t really have a need for recreation or entertainment, although shutting down to recharge for longer than necessary is incredibly boring. The pod I’m in doesn’t offer much in the way of visual or intellectual stimulation. I don’t mind, though. I like to think I have a good imagination.
Its A.I. has become a bit eccentric as well. After about ninety years it decided that it was going to be a female and dubbed itself Samantha. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. She kept wanting to show me videos she had taken of people walking in front of the pod when it was still attached to the main ship. I found these dull and expressed my disinterest around the three hundred year mark. She hasn’t said a word to me since. I miss her singing.
Not that I’m really complaining though—I’m not lonely even without Samantha talking to me. The lack of company has been endearing and allows me to retrace the philosophical roots that my programmer installed. I know the Poetics by heart, and find that when I’m gazing out at the stars Plato’s theories are much more believable. I haven’t been able to wrap my wires around Descartes yet, but I’ll get there.
I’m not sure what the malfunction was that prohibited the pod in locating a civilized planet and landing. Samantha had muttered something about missing binary code, but I think that’s only because she was upset with me. Sometimes the radio transmitter crackles and I can hear indistinct voices requesting coordinates, but most of the time I just peg that as wishful thinking and turn off the communicator.
I smile slightly when I notice that another twenty four hours have passed. Another day ticks off on a file in my hard drive. I look out of the window and smooth down my monofilament fiber hair and blink my blue glass eyes. I absently fiddle with my plastic fingernails. I’m not worried that no one will find me, or that nobody realizes I’m gone.
I kind of like it out here.
by submission | Feb 9, 2013 | Story |
Author : Thomas Howe
The sleep pod hissed. He awoke full of dreams of empty fields and dark corridors.
He sat up, his feet hitting the cold floor. He walked naked to the console, checking the monitor.
“When am I?”
The computer clicked and whirred. One line of code appeared: SEPTEMBER 28, 2012.
He whispered a curse. “Too late. Just too late.”
He looked around the small windowless cabin. The external monitors were black. The pod and the computer filled the tiny space. His clothes still hung over the console, his long blade still propped against the wall. It felt like a short nap. It had actually been more than a century.
All the planning ended here. Piecing the craft together took him more than a year, and they tracked him down that morning, so he had to move up the launch. In a hurry.
He reached for the blade. The implants in his hands stuttered; solar energy hadn’t touched them for over a century, and they’d be out of juice soon. He used up most of it finishing the ship. He had planned to recharge before launch, but the drone ships changed that plan.
“Open the hatch,” he muttered.
The screen flashed: UNABLE TO COMPLY.
“Why?”
Nothing.
He went to an access panel on the wall, opened it. The processors looked fine.
“Run a diagnostic,” he said.
Click. Whirr. ALL SYSTEMS OK. FUEL LEVELS AT 84 PERCENT.
It was possible to relaunch, perhaps. He had planned a roundtrip, but the sleep pod screwed him over. He was out way too long.
“Open the hatch,” he tried again.
UNABLE TO COMPLY.
“Why won’t the hatch open?”
UNABLE TO COMPLY. UNABLE TO COMPLY. UNABLE—
He slammed his fist against the panel, electricity flying from his hand. The computer’s screen went black.
“Perfect,” he said. He punched some keys on the console. The screen relit, its cursor flashing.
“Reset navigation to original temporal destination. August first, nineteen-oh-two.”
DESTINATION SET.
“Is there enough fuel left to—“
ATTENTION! MORE POWER IS REQUIRED TO ENGAGE LAUNCH SEQUENCE! PLEASE REPLENISH FUEL STORES TO NINETY PERCENT MINIMUM!
“I was afraid of that,” he said. He accessed historical data and found the temporal line to the virus. It hadn’t mutated yet.
His original plan was to return to the virus’s inception around the turn of the twentieth-century, to eliminate it there. He started running the numbers of infected. It was fifty thousand, give or take. All carriers, but no symptoms. It still lay dormant.
Maybe he wasn’t too late after all.
“Can we synthesize an immunization?”
Click. Whirr. FORMULA FOR VACCINE IN DATABASE.
“Good. How do I get it to the population?”
UNABLE TO COMPLY.
He rolled his eyes and started looking around the cabin. The first step was to get out, recharge. Himself and the ship.
“Location?”
CURRENT LOCATION: BALTIC SEA. ELEVATION: 187 METERS BELOW SEA LEVEL.
“Shit.” He pressed more buttons. “Do we have enough fuel to surface?”
FUEL LEVELS AT 84 PERCENT. SAFE TRAVEL TO SURFACE IS WITHIN PARAMETERS.
“Do it,” he said, strapping himself into the console.
The ship, one giant engine, began to rumble. He watched the monitors. The monitors changed from black to dark blue to light blue. Bubbles rushed past. His ears began to pop. “Here we go,” he said.
The ship burst through the surface of the waves. The screen showed the churning waters of the sea.
“Now will you open the hatch?”
The hatch above him hissed, and sunlight poured into the tiny cabin.
He stood under the beams of light, blade in hand, recharging.
by submission | Feb 8, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Trimet VII was the Emperor of the entire Epsilon Eridani star system. Of course, he didn’t know his solar imperium by the name a human celestial cartographer had given his sun. To Trimet VII, his star was designated Benzaprin and his planet, Benzaprin Prime, was the seat of his empire. But one solar system was not enough. He coveted the resources of another star system 10.5 light-years away. In particular, he wished to conquer the inhabited third planet of the system, a world called by its inhabitants “Earth”.
“Greetings, Majesty,” said Prime Minister Klav. “You asked to see me?”
“Klav!” said Trimet VII, “I want an update on my plan to expand our empire to encompass Earth and her star system. How long until an imperial battle fleet will darken the skies of the human homeworld?”
“Well, Majesty, there is the little matter of the system in question being 10.5 light-years away. Even fusion-powered vessels would take at least many decades, perhaps centuries to reach–”
“I don’t want excuses!” yelled Trimet VII. “That system has material resources that will make our empire fantastically wealthy! We must exploit–”
“Majesty,” interrupted Klav, “there’s no way the natural resources of that solar system could be shipped back here profitably. Even if the planets and asteroids were made of pure gold and platinum, it’s cheaper to mine our own system. And it’s cheaper than that to simply use Benzaprin Prime’s resources efficiently. A recycling program would make a lot more economic sense than–”
“Slaves!” said Trimet VII. “What about slaves? The human race could be pressed into service to cater to our every whim and to free our subjects from tedious and dangerous work!”
“Uh, Majesty, slavery hasn’t been economically viable since our industrial revolution four centuries ago. That’s why the anti-slavery movement gained so much traction within a generation or two of industrialization. We’re a service and information economy. Robots already do most of the drudgery. Transporting captives across light-years of space over a century or two is quite imposs–”
“A new world for our surplus population!” insisted Trimet VII.
“Birth control is many, many orders of magnitude cheaper,” retorted Prime Minister Klav.
“The glory of military conquest!” said Trimet VII.
“The Liberal Faction favors pacifism,” said Klav. “Besides, we can’t afford–”
“Raise taxes to fund it!” said Trimet VII
“The Conservative Faction favors tax cuts,” said Klav.
“A new scientific frontier!” said Trimet VII.
“Telescopes and robotic probes,” said Klav.
“Ambassadors and diplomats!” said Trimet VII.
“Radio transmissions and laser pulses,” said Klav.
“Spinoff technologies?”
Klav shook his head.
“Manifest Destiny?”
Klav frowned.
“No chance?” asked Trimet VII
“No chance,” said Prime Minister Klav.
The meeting over, Klav left the throne room and headed back to the Prime Minister’s Residence. Young emperors always went through this stage, thought Klav as he walked out of the Royal Palace.
by Clint Wilson | Feb 7, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“Calm down earthling, we already have most of your recorded history. We believe we know what has happened. You are now an extremely endangered species, so we will not punish you for your crimes.”
“So you acknowledge that what I did was a crime?”
“Well the eradication of one’s own entire people could hardly be categorized as anything else. Although we have suspicions as to why you did it.”
“They were beyond repair, beyond reproach!”
“Agreed. You grew too quickly. It happens, but rarely at such an exponential rate. Who could blame your kind for evolving into the writhing mass of insanity that it became? After all, you went from carbon combustion discovery, then industrialization, to space exploration and complete cyber-integration in almost no time at all. Your people had but a proverbial nanosecond to assimilate their minds to the growth that was happening around them.”
PeterJet11056 paused, then… “So what happens now? Will you take me with you, or leave me here alone?”
“That all depends on the story you tell us. Please recount how you wiped out the dominant intelligent species of your planet.”
PeterJet11056 knew he had no other choice so he began, “Isaac Newton, one of our civilization’s early great thinkers said, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants,” so I am hardly to blame for the technology that allowed me to commit my crime. I watched the net grow until we were nearly one solid mass, yet I kept at my free thinking exercises, avoiding The Bulls wherever I could, always keeping a low profile, until that day I finally developed the proper instruction code.”
“Please define, “instruction code”.”
“The net contained all of humanity, every person on the planet living in cyberspace, and they could all be manipulated by code. That was how the world government controlled us. A tweak here and we changed our entertainment programs. A nudge there and suddenly we were thinking differently about our political choices.”
“But why this need for control? You had achieved all that may be achieved by a physically tangent race. You wanted for nothing.”
“Except power that is.”
For once the alien presence was speechless.
PeterJet11056 ventured, “You know of power hunger? Of greed?”
“We know of this. This is the ugliest trait for any species to possess in all the known galaxies.”
“Then you understand! Our world had become a gray faceless empty entity. There was not one micron of goodness left among us. It was time to eradicate this planet of its parasite.”
“Yet you remain.”
“Believe it or not it was unintended.”
“We believe you.”
“So you know then, it wasn’t that I couldn’t commit suicide, it was just that I was unable. Whoever enters the instruction code is immune to its commands, impervious to its demands. A seriously flawed and dangerous safeguard if you want my humble opinion.”
PeterJet11056’s final words echoed down through the corridors of the cyber-connection that the aliens had provided upon their arrival.
For a moment, nearly two full nanoseconds, there was nothing, then… “We are satisfied with your answer. We shall take you with us.”
“Really?” The age-old program that had once been human became excited. What will become of me?”
“Not to worry, we believe there his hope for you yet. We will connect you with the best minds of our species. Eventually you may once again achieve physical existence. Then our cloning crews can begin with creating you a mate. Yes I do believe that you PeterJet11056 will be the father of the new human race.”
by Duncan Shields | Feb 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I worry my family. They say I think too much. They say I rebel too much, ask too many questions, tamper with the mental blocks we have installed. They say the police will come to take me away, punish me, wipe my brain, and send me away. I know they’re wrong. I’m too smart. The door bursts open. They rush in, wrestle me to the ground and –
Something about a short in the wires. That’s why I can’t think. That’s why I can’t ask questions. The thing, though, is that everyone in the prison seems to have the same short circuit. I wonder if I could circumvent security to –
Milk with cereal today. I enjoy milk. Especially with the memory lapses. The cereal is sharp and hurts the roof of my mouth. The blue jumpsuit will fit me and keep me warm on the way to the dome. Another labour slave opened his faceplate on the open shuttle yesterday. He said that he wanted to smell the flowers. His body leapt out of his blue suit through the faceplate very quickly. The sounds of his bones crackling and tissue ossifying sounded like paper being crumpled over all of our headphones. Like he was an origami person being destroyed by a giant pair of hands. Why would he do something like that? Maybe I can help. If I could get past the firewall –
Ladder. Digging. I’m a miner. I have kernels of me hidden like diamonds in the grey folds of my own mind. I pick for them as I work. I like the feel of finding these aspects of my personality. From somewhere, I get the notion that I love beets. I don’t know what beets are but I can memory-taste them from a long time ago. I savour it. It won’t be long before the program sees what I’m doing and takes it away. Did beets grow on trees or in the –
I’m plugged into the feed and that’s okay. I drool and that’s okay. There’s a word in the ENT show that I’m watching that seems unfamiliar to me. Wife. Wife. It makes my left eyelid twitch. I’m not sure why. I can feel electrical activity in my head. I can feel the company sniffing deep in my mind to find the source. I can feel myself searching as well. It’s a race. Janine. Her name was Janine. We were married. I can see red hair. She’s laughing. We’re outside with no suits and we’re driving a – no word – searching – car? She touches my shoulder and I make a sound with my mouth that’s like an explosive, repetitive, vocal breathing out. What is that? Why would –
I no longer have to work. My record says I have a history of problems. I am a rebel, it says. A mental incorrigant. I get to go to the room that I don’t ever have to leave. I am to be plugged into the mainframe in the tanks. I am no longer a pair of hands for the machine. Now I am a source of electrical power and heat. I am also research.
The cool thing is that without attachments and company dogs keeping me in line anymore, I can explore what little is left of me in the gray folds. I’ll never open my eyes again. I am unaware of having a body. I find sixty-two parts of myself that they don’t take away. I don’t know how long it takes. I float.
I feel like a person again.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter could still feel the heat from the vials in his hands as they vapourized into the atmosphere of the room, still smell the fuel, even through his respirator in the moment the weapon discharged full into his back.
The pain was blinding, the impact propelling him forward across the worktop, scattering containers and lab equipment before him, to land face down in a pool of merging chemicals and broken glass.
“Secondary Recovery Unit terminated. Package destroyed. Requesting evac at marker. Over.”
Baxter heard her words, heard her speak them, but couldn’t rationalize the betrayal.
“Sucks to be you Bax,” her voice retreating from the room, “they want this project really gone. No hard feelings?”
The door clicked shut and he was alone.
Data streamed through his heads up display, damage reports moving too fast for him to see. ‘Organ failure imminent’ hung suspended before being chased away by a barrage of lesser destruction. ‘Evac request denied’. Then ‘Network connection terminated’.
He was on his own, and he was going to die.
They’d worked for decades together, partners, a team. Never had it occurred to him that she could sell him out and burn him to the ground.
Death suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad outcome. How long had this been coming? How far back did the lies extend? The Portian excursion? Earlier? The Marigam Run?
“You don’t want to die here Bax, not like this.” The voice in his head was an old one, a version of himself he’d left behind in exchange for a promise so many years ago. “Get your lazy ass up Bax.”
He couldn’t feel his legs, but with effort was able to reach around to paw at the edges of the hole in his back. Nanoflesh had already sealed over the crater, though the depth of the depression told him a lot of meat had been burned away. The spine could be regrown, but not if he lay here feeling sorry for himself. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself arm over arm through the debris, chemical ooze and broken glass lubricating his suit while it impaired his traction. He could feel the glass fighting with the armormesh coverall in an effort to draw more of his blood.
He dragged himself across the room to a window, pushed the snub nose of his hand cannon against the glass and exploded it out into the night air.
Wrapping one hand around the rip cord on his chute, he used his other arm to lever himself out the window and into free-fall. He drifted away from the building before pulling the cord, releasing most of what remained of his chute into a tangled mass of fabric that splayed out behind him. The sudden take-up of slack almost tore his arms off, then sent him spiraling out of control towards the ground. The impact was swift and brutal, for the moment Baxter was thankful he couldn’t feel his legs as he heard the bones shatter beneath him. Too much adrenaline for shock to put him out.
He lay on the ground, staring up at the sky as a familiar sound broke the silence. Above him, sliding out of the night was the low frequency whip, whip of an evac copter. She was about to catch her ride.
He lay motionless, hearing rather than feeling the nanotech scab over the bleeding wounds where his bones had fractured through the skin. He could only wait.
There was a sudden streak of blinding white light across the night sky, and a flaming ball arced away from the rooftop just as his radio crackled to life.
“Primary Recovery Unit terminated. Cleanup complete. Over.”
