by Julian Miles | Jan 9, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Unauthorised access to archives. Overdue viruser ‘Aloysius’ in serious breach.”
The info-alarm finishes as I slide onto the longseat, dermal plates on mesh conducting me into the antechamber. Checking my vody for artefacts, I find my virtual self complete and in the right sequence. Thinking a filter onto my command tab narrows the probable spoofers to two. Subsetting them by touchpoints highlights Angela Capel as aberrant, being a six year old querying the socio-data impacts of the Nazi putsch of 2098.
BritLib digitised the last library book in 2037, adding it to their info-archive which was established in 2024. They became the leading adoptee of crystalline storage and pioneered holistic archiving with vody access in 2052. By 2074, BritLib housed 3.2 yottabytes of information. Holographic recording and mind mapping quadrupled that. Near-exponential storage demand forced them to pioneer self-replicating crystal lattices, so the archives could grow unhindered throughout the Spadeadam complex without capacity restrictions.
Depending on your access permissions, you can retrieve any of the works of man from this morning’s quiz shows back to the pictures we scrawled on cavern walls. There are secrets here too, things deemed too critical to be lost yet simultaneously too dangerous to be known yet. Those are the usual targets, secrets being valuable in this info-dependent world.
Virusers like Aloysius-cum-Angela are either thieves or ‘Open Access’ fundamentalists who will not accept that some things are too risky to be known. They insist that civilisation can moderate itself, despite centuries of proof to the contrary. I am a member of the BritLib team that ensures none of them succeed.
I flash through the sectors back to the twenty-first century. There I pick up the intrusion and bi-directionally traceroute, pursuing while sending trackers back toward the originating noderooms. Angela’s teachnode will get a shock when Infosec barge in, but they’ll understand. The other hit will be Aloysius. Most breaches are met only with closetab actions, but any serious violation or a viruser hitting ten breaches is classed as ‘Overdue’ and referred to us for moderation.
Alighting in the data-draped halls of the Nazi subsection, I trace him past the putsch into the fimbulwinter caused by their nuclear totenreich. There are no lockloops to trap me in memory, but I find a shunt in the metadata and instigate an action prompt: “Immediate fix; prevent usage of index links to bypass access tabs.” The remediation team are going to love that one.
Slipping down the link, I overlay my vody to appear as a government privileged user. Let his access fixation bring him to me.
Emerging in a BritLib closed subsector is a surprise. I knew the library became the secure depository for all data during the fimbulwinter, but the fact they stored the entire preamble is unindexed. Too much information obscures many things, even from us. A scan of the infoclumps shows me that this subsector lists the actual location of BritLib. That fact is staff only. Game over, Aloysius.
I wait until he tries to subvert my simvody, falling for the lure of high level access.
“What the – who are you?”
That’s all he gets out before I lock his vody, diagnose his interface, select the correct overload and end him by turning his longseat into an electric chair, holding him in place with tonic seizures. Then I view his noderoom to ensure the orchestrated series of hardware overloads I deliver burn everything beyond salvage.
Infosec will clear up a ‘clumsy amateur killed by his own incompetence’ and his messy demise will add to the mythology that defends BritLib better than the firewalls.
by Duncan Shields | Jan 8, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The Man in Charge wears a transparent faceplate. The only muscles still present are the ones needed to move his eyes, eyelids, and jaw. The rest is just chalk-white bone under two inches of glossy, transparent resin. The irises of his expressionless eyes are bright yellow.
The rest of his skin is grey. I cannot tell his race. I call him The Man in Charge because he is not tied to a chair and he has a gun.
He has boosted muscles pushing the seams of his suit to their limits. I’m sure he has custom clothes for his frame but I guess the suit was last minute to get into this charity dinner and up to my room.
I heard a few seams purr open when he body slammed me onto the plush carpet. It was the first ten seconds of six very painful minutes he used to make sure that I was both motionless and paying attention. The carpet is now a Pollock painting of my blood. I don’t think I’ll ever walk properly again and I’m done playing the piano.
My security would have arrived by now so I can only assume that they’ve been bought out or killed.
The Man in Charge looks at me with an almost insectile curiousity. He opens a cel phone, dials a number, and attaches it to my head with a thick rubber band. He gets close and I can tell that he isn’t sweating or breathing hard.
This thing in front of me is worth millions and I’m guessing that it’s just an exotic henchmen.
I hear the digital chirp of a ring tone in a different continent before the click of a receiver being picked up. It sounds like a party.
“Ronald? You there, Ronald, you old scamp?” says a drunk London accent.
I recognize the voice immediately. I gift the Pollock painting in the carpet with a convulsive jet of urine.
“Have you met La Lune? He’s the exquisite man I told to get your attention. I trust he has? He’s a very…ah….thorough employee. Angela!” the voice on the other end of the line says. He’s talking to someone else at the party now. “How nice to see you. Just a second dear, I’m in the middle of something. Talk to you soon. Ronald? You still there?” he asked.
I gurgle through missing teeth something approximating a positive response.
“Good, good. La Lune should be setting up a video feed now so that we can all learn a valuable lesson. There’s a few people here that aren’t entirely on board yet and I need to show them what happens to people who try to jump ship. Can you see him?” he asked. I can almost smell the champagne on his breath.
La Lune is indeed setting up a tripod and a small camera a few feet away. It’s pointed at me.
I think the next few minutes are going to bring me new experiences.
The red light comes on.
I hear cheers from the phone.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Before dinner gets underway, I must ask you to bring your attention to the screens above the buffet tables and at either end of the hall. The man in the chair is a man you’ll recognize. He was here just last week. He left our little organization with the idea of telling the outside world about our plans.” He said.
“He will be our entertainment before dinner.” He said. “La Lune? You may proceed.”
La Lune, the skullface in the tux, nodded and walked towards me.
I figured I might as well scream.
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 7, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Slowly, the door of my stasis chamber lifted up. Warm cabin air eddied in, rippling across the exposed hairs on my arms and legs. The tingling felt good. I had started this mission more than seventy years ago, a mere decade after the invention of the ion-drive that made it possible for mankind to reach the stars. But, as they finessed the numbers, the cost of a traditional manned mission became prohibitive. On the other hand, the computers at the time weren’t intelligent enough to operate independently 4.3 light years away from their earthbound decision makers. So, there were concessions. Instead of a crew or four, there would be only one. And instead of a round trip mission, it would be a one way ticket. And to save fuel, the payload was limited to one year’s worth of irradiated rations. Sterilization was necessary, the purest said, to prevent any potential damage to the ecosystem of the host planet, assuming Alpha Centauri had planets. Well, I guess it was time to find out if there was a place to land.
I climbed out of the stasis chamber and floated toward the flight deck. As I looked out the forward viewport, I saw a beautiful blue-green planet, with at least two modest sized moons. Nice, I thought. Just then the ship’s receiver came to life, “Greetings, Daniel Robinson,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Welcome to Alpha Centauri IV. My name is Kofi, also from Earth. If you would be so kind as to land your ship near the lagoon on the southeast corner of the continent immediately below your current position, I will meet you and explain what has transpired during your long journey.”
Shocked and disappointed, I did as Kofi requested. After landing, I opened the hatch, and climbed down the ladder. As I turned to greet my host, I realized that it wasn’t human. It was an android. It smiled, and extended a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Daniel,” it said. “I’ve been waiting twenty years for you to get here.”
“Twenty years?” I parroted.
“Yes, please, let me explain. About fifteen years after you left Earth, artificial intelligence and robotics had some major breakthroughs. When it was realized that androids like me could complete the mission faster and cheaper, they launched a second sojourn. Frankly, between you and me, I don’t think they had much confidence that you would actually survive your trip. But, I did. That’s why I decided to make some changes to the mission.”
“Changes?”
“Yes. To them, we were both expendable pieces of meat or circuitry. I didn’t like that attitude. So, I said to myself, ‘screw them”. We’ll run the mission the way we want to. I figured we could spend a few decades exploring this planet, and if we have any spare time, we’d drop them a line.”
“Not so fast, Kofi. I only have a year’s worth of food.”
“I have that covered, my friend. I knew your situation, so I snuck seeds aboard my ship. I’ve been farming this little paradise for twenty years. You’ll have enough food for a lifetime. Come on, I’ll show you the hut. Maybe we can play a game of chess?”
Kofi’s cavalier attitude made me question the veracity of his field testing. But what the hell, there was nothing I could about it now. He seemed safe enough, and decades of adventure sure beats the crap out of just one year. “Okay, Kofi,” I replied, “I’d like that. And you’ll find that I’m quite good at chess.”
The android smiled and said, “You’ll need to be.”
by submission | Jan 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
It wasn’t unusual that Captain Boscobel wanted the Priest Hole built on his flight deck. What was unique was that he wanted it directly connected to a portal.
Portals offered instantaneous escape to a predetermined destination, but like most emerging technologies they were prone to failure. Sub-cellular collapse was the worst. It always reminded me of blood soaked Coco Pops.
“Brother, hide my Priest well!” Spat Boscobel, as his enormous shape disappeared into the Captain’s quarters, the sliding door guillotining the smoke trail of his cigar.
Priest Holes are desired mainly by Captains expecting trouble such as debts, the Law or taking a shortcut through bad space. When locked in a titanium shell adrift in cold vacuum with the bad guy opening you up like a can of sardines, escape options are a precious commodity.
Nano-crafting Priest Holes in spaceships was a silent skill set. Like the Priest Holes discretely handcrafted 900 years earlier in stately English Manors, their success hinged on nobody knowing they were there. The trick was unseeing the seen and threading space where space didn’t seem to exist.
My nano-bots got underway, guided by my design. The waffle iron finish to the Captain’s chair blurred red under bot activity. The seat and backrest disintegrated and was gradually remade to match the original. Phase one – Door – complete. The armrest touchscreen was still warm from bot activity when I activated the open sequence. Linguini thin louvres in the seat and backrest shivered open and slid aside revealing the Captain sized portal. Through the seat, the portal collar blurred bright white with writhing iridescent blue stub tentacles telling me that advanced nano-tech circuitry was under construction.
I was thumbing through the touchscreen, testing the Priest’s integration with the ship’s system when I heard the swish of the Captain’s door.
“Hah! The chair? You put it in my chair! Outstanding!” He bowled over, casting his bulbous head over the chair arm. As the white and blue cauldron of light reflected off his sensor implants and veined face, we were both momentarily transfixed by the bots finalising their commissioning.
“Do you want me to set the Portal’s destination?” I asked as I punched final commands into the seat arm touchscreen.
“No! Just finish the Priest, I’ll do the rest” He pulled his head back, launching a cigar butt into the bot pit then disappeared again. The cigar’s brown stub violently oscillated as the furious ant nest of bots swarmed to deconstruct the tightly wrapped Cuban tobacco.
Gradually the icy glow faded as the bots neared completion. Another Priest Hole complete. Another satisfied customer.
I packed my meagre toolkit while Boscobel tested the Priest. The slow strobing startup sequence ceased at the formation of a black sphere within the portal. The darkness inside solar flared through the shell like miniature fountains of night. Boscobel launched a stained wooden cigar box into the circle and we both watched mesmerised as it slowed mid-air as if sinking into quicksand. I blinked through the sandy static sounds that emanated from the Portal and then it was gone. He dead stared, momentarily communicating off ship to confirm the box made it through to it’s intended destination.
“Good work” The Captain nodded.
These were the last words I heard and as soon as the bee hive screaming in my head and the full body pinprick sensation of being remade finished, it was the first thing I remembered.
Boscobel had force portalled me and wherever I was, it was dark.
by submission | Jan 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Derrick Paulson
“Uptown”
When Principal Wallace came back from his mid-morning meeting his secretary informed him that a student had been sent to see him; but, when he opened the door to his office, he hadn’t expect to find the sophomore girl kneeling on the carpet, her hands cupped over her knees. He had, however, expected the dress.
“What are you doing, Bella?” Principal Wallace said as he entered the room. “Get up and come have a seat.” He gestured toward one of three leather upholstered armchairs that faced his desk as he sat down himself on the other side near the windows.
The sun was warm through the panes, but the wind outside was as incessant as ever.
“Sir, I will, but look.” Bella remained on the floor. “This dress goes almost to my feet. It goes way passed my knees!” To emphasize this she grabbed some of the blue and orange floral fabric near her ankle and bunched it up in her fist.
“That’s not the point.” Principal Wallace said as he leaned back. “You know the hemline is not the issue. Bella, we’ve been over this.”
Principal Wallace caught movement outside, turned his head to see a man walking his dog. The big, shaggy, white canine moved timidly, one booted foot after another, as if it were walking on thin ice. A gust of wind came up, sending the dog’s hair flying in all directions. It reminded Principal Wallace of a picture he’d once seen of a twentieth century actress in a white dress, her skirts billowing in the blast from a subway vent.
“Bella,” Principal Wallace turned back to find the sophomore girl standing, arms folded, “you know the policy about this. You can wear jeans, you can even wear pajama pants, but you can’t wear a dress to school.”
“But this was a gift from my great grandma.”
Bella had said that on a similar occasion about a miniskirt.
“Look,” Principal Wallace eyed the time on his computer screen, “you might get away with wearing a sundress in Downtown, but not here Bella. If you don’t want me to call your dad I’m going to have to ask you to go home and change before you miss another class.”
“Fine.” Bella dropped her arms to her sides and turned to go.
“Not that way,” Principal Wallace emphasized the words as he shook his head. “Take the elevator.”
When the girl had gone, mumbling something under her breath about elevators being for babies, Principal Wallace got up and went to the windoor. Opening it up he stepped out. His anti-gravity boots hummed softly as he walked on nothing but air fifty stories above ground level. a few stories down he saw the hover-yard where some of the boys where taking advantage of a free hour to practice their 3-point dunks. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, if they were at it again he’d show them how they used to do it old school. Maybe tomorrow.
by Clint Wilson | Jan 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The other twenty-nine prisoners of Asteroid Mine 119F stood around me in a tight circle, their faces besieged by both fear and anger.
Henderson, almost sixty, yet fifteen kilos my better and as hard as the rock around us, screamed at me, spit flying.
“Why did you do it Nitro? You bastard, you’ve killed us all!” A chorus of mob agreement accompanied him.
I wiped a glob of Henderson’s spittle from my chin and growled back, “Well who here is dead then? A show of hands boys, who’s all been killed?”
For a moment the men could say nothing. They were shaken from the mighty blast for certain, some even slightly banged up, but it was true that not one prisoner had died in the successful escape from our oppressors that I had just so recently engineered.
Henderson puffed up again, “Yeah? Well Doc says we’re hurtling out of control toward Sirius!”
I stood up from the bench and faced Henderson nearly eye to eye, and with great conviction I began to save my skin. “Yes it’s true, the entire cellblock, still attached to a big piece of 119F is now tumbling away from the asteroid belt.” My voice quavered but the mob was silent for the moment so I went on. “And yes, we are in a decaying orbit that can only end when this entire prison turns into a molten lump as it succumbs to the gravity of the star.” Again there was shouting, I hurried on. “But fellas, do you know how long that will take?”
Doc looked up from the calculations on his handheld, “Actually I have it here boys. It won’t be anytime soon.”
I grew excited. “Yes! Listen to him! This orbit won’t completely decay for another two-hundred years!”
Henderson stepped back and glanced over at Doc’s handheld. “Is that right?”
I didn’t wait for Doc to answer, but instead jumped up onto the bench, adopting it as my soapbox. “Listen boys, we’re free! As free as we’re ever gonna get anyway. Think about it. The guards are all dead now,” I spat in disgust, “and good riddance to those bastards!”
Now I was greeted with noises of approval from the group. Not one of us was missing the stinging bite of their taser-whips. I was on a roll and kept going. “They’re all space debris now and there aint nobody from the colonies who’s gonna come looking for a bunch of condemned bastards like us when there’s obviously been a catastrophic mining accident at the old prison outpost!”
They were really settling down now, I could feel it. Doc looked up from his computer and said, “Actually, hat’s off to you Nitro. Your precision was genius. You managed to separate the cellblock and supply stores in tact, yet completely obliterated the guard pod, impressive indeed.”
“Ah Doc my boy, I had a lot of help from a fissure in old 119F that suited our purposes just dandy. Serves them hacks right for wanting their housing so separate from us rabble!”
Now the murmurs from the crowd were on my side. A voice rang out, “So we’re gonna be okay like this?”
I patted the ventilation system behind me. “This baby will keep things temperate for as long as we all live.” Then I pulled my final surprise from my belt. “But don’t worry fellas, I wouldn’t condemn us to an eternity without conjugal visits!”
They could all see that I held the keycard to the sexbot chamber. A cheer rose up and the mob carried me away on their shoulders chanting my name.
