by submission | Nov 6, 2012 | Story |
Author : Susan Nance Carhart
“There’s no way to program my time machine remotely. Not really,” Solberg told his friends. “I can’t perform a unmanned test. I can’t even use an animal for the passenger. But the modeling works. It all comes down to me.”
The friends caught each other’s eye and shook their heads. Solberg’s private laboratories were in a separate wing from the rest of his facility, and even more amazing. Cool blue light suffused the shining interior. Before them was the device that Solberg had dreamed of for thirty years.
“You tell him, Royce,” muttered Julia. “He won’t listen to me.”
Solberg stared back at them, and then put up his hands. “What? What is it?”
“You always think it comes down to you, Jack,” Royce grunted. “Real science can’t be done by one person these days. And it should never be done in secret. You have a team to vet your ideas. Bring them in on this! You need free discussion. I don’t care if you have more money than God. If you had to look for funding, you’d have the challenge of informed analysis and constructive criticism—”
“I might as well send my research to the Chinese,” Solberg sneered. “This is going to revolutionize human life. I’m getting all the credit this time. Do you want to see the test, or not?”
“Yes, we want to see the test,” Julia shot back. “We want to know what happens to you. I think this is insanely reckless, but there’s no way to stop you now. What’s the plan?”
“A short hop, really. I’m going to go back in time one month exactly. I know that no one was in this laboratory at that moment. To prove I’ve been moving in time, I’ll scribble a message on that wall.”
He pointed to the white and pristine tiles facing them. “You’ll be here, and as soon as I’m gone, those words should appear on the wall. Then I’ll come back. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes in absolute time. Don’t move into the space occupied by the device… that could be bad.”
“You are completely crazy, Jack,” Royce sighed. “You know that, right?”
Julia took him in her arms and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, you idiot.”
Solberg grinned at her, shook Royce’s hand, and climbed into his time machine. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’ll just be in this exact spot, one month ago.”
A crackle of light enveloped him, and he vanished.
They waited.
They waited all day.
They waited until nightfall, with aching hearts and fading hopes. They called the Head of Research just after midnight. Doctor Philip Carmichael was at the facility in half an hour, and poking through his employer’s holy of holies in another ten minutes.
Balding and sardonic, he heard their story, and gave it some thought.
At length, he ventured, “You know what Galileo said to himself, when the Church forced him to swear that the Earth was the center of the universe?” He paused, and then told them.
“‘And yet, it moves.'”
Illumination. Each saw, in a mind’s eye of awe and terror, the time machine winking into empty space: in the exact position on the Earth’s orbit that the planet—and Solberg Laboratories— wouldn’t occupy until one month into that time’s future.
by Patricia Stewart | Nov 5, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The Prometheus Station was an engineering marvel. Orbiting the Earth in a low altitude sun synchronous polar orbit, it did the impossible. Its six mammoth hyperspace siphons sucked more than a Zettajoule of energy directly from the sun’s core, converted it to columnar microwaves, and transmitting it to thousands of receiving stations on the Earth’s surface. This station, and its twin orbiting 180 degrees behind her, provided Earth with all the energy its ten billion inhabitants craved.
As Hellen Sappho relieved her alpha shift counterpart at the Prometheus Station’s Command and Control console, she glanced at the calendar wall clock on the inboard bulkhead. It read Sunday, March 20, 06:00. She then turned to the large viewport and watched the Earth as it rotated serenely some 500 miles below. The daylight terminator was slowly traversing the Rocky Mountains in the western half of the United States. In a few minutes, she noted, the sun would be rising over her hometown of Eagle City, Utah.
Sappho’s peaceful repose was interrupted by the ear piercing variable whine of the emergency klaxon. With catlike reflexes refined by years of intense training, she quickly assessed the nature of the impending threat. The proximity sensors had detected an incoming object, and it was on a collision course. Sappho diverted all available power to the station’s deflectors, but she could see it wouldn’t be enough. Quickly, she closed all of the decompression bulkheads, and activated the emergency distress signal. Seconds later, a fifty foot meteoroid slammed into the habitation section, ripping a gaping hole, and instantly killing dozens of her friends and colleagues. The shock wave raced through the station, testing the very limits of its structural integrity. Sparks erupted from her console, as the shock wave knocked her to the deck. Sappho tasted blood as she climbed back into her chair. She opened a comm link. “C&C to Engineering. Status? Engineering, report.” No reply, not even static. “Control to Power Conversion. Report.” Again, silence. That’s when she looked out the viewport, and realized the real terror that the asteroid had unleashed.
The targeting arrays were misaligned, and the safeties had failed to shut down the hyperspace siphons. As Sappho watched, hundreds of intense microwave beams scorched swaths of hellfire on the surface of the Earth as it rotated beneath the Station. Forests burned and oceans boiled. Millions of people were being roasted alive, and billions more would join them if Sappho couldn’t shut down the siphons. Trapped in the Control Section, she feverishly tried every protocol in the manual, and many more that were not. Nothing she did could stop the station from sucking energy from the sun’s core. As the hours passed, her frustration grew, and the Station continued to transmit death rays upon the helpless souls below.
More than half the Earth had been destroyed when she conceived a new plan that was born in desperation; unsure of the consequences, she fussed the conduits that transferred the power from the siphons to the transmitting array. Without the array to release the unimaginable power being siphoned from the sun, the Prometheus Station reached a critical point where it exploded with such intensity that it ruptured the very fabric of space-time. For a brief instant, yesterday, today, and tomorrow merged into a fog of chaos. Slowly, as the continuum repaired itself, the river of time began to flow again…
As Hellen Sappho relieved her alpha shift counterpart at the Prometheus Station’s Command and Control console, she glanced at the calendar wall clock on the inboard bulkhead. It read Sunday, March 20, 06:00.
by submission | Nov 4, 2012 | Story |
Author : Melinda Chapman
Specimen 459 cannot see its reflection, or the glass itself, or the woman entering the room beyond it.
Christine enters the small laboratory and settles into the office chair in front of the glass capsule. Contemplating the specimen inside, she sighs. She gently fidgets until her lab coat becomes comfortable. Lately she’s been wondering what she’s really doing here – they’re getting nowhere. Christine speaks a sentence to 459, again.
459 realises this, as it does every other day. Listening in its own way, the specimen knows that Christine means well. She is more or less saying that she wants its health to improve. 459 sends her its gratitude, and wishes the same for her; perhaps not quite the same. 459’s expression of goodwill is personal, as opposed to experimental like hers, so they do not resonate together and there is no real exchange.
Christine looks to the waves on the screen. The machine doesn’t detect any variation in 459’s biometric pattern. She makes a note of it and begins her next communication.
459 considers her new words, but they are difficult to translate. The message vibrates at a higher level than the last question, and 459 thinks it knows what it means. The researcher’s frame of reference is different to 459’s, however, and her message is obscured by clutter. Even so, 459 believes she has primarily asked if it has a soul. To which, 459 reverberates a resounding…
“Yes.”
Christine touches the screen and zooms in closer on the biometric waves, hoping to detect some degree of change in the pattern, but there is none. She makes more notes.
459 waits patiently for her attention to return. It enjoys the questioning. It appreciates her dedication and has much time for her endeavour. But 459 also knows the device she is using to measure its responses is useless. The device can only measure certain frequencies, such as those that control biological functions. But these react much more slowly and minutely in response to other beings.
The device can’t measure high enough frequencies to detect the level of consciousness on which 459 communicates. As of yet, no machine can. 459 must wait for Christine to discover there’s only one device that will detect frequencies of that level and translate them as a response. She brings it with her every single day, to every session. It is consciousness itself. Even so, hers would need considerable tuning upward. Currently, it can barely detect anything. Christine predominantly uses her consciousness as a simple device for processing input from her other senses, not unlike the device she’s using on 459. She looks with her eyes at the patterns on screen for any suggestion of answers. She listens with her ears for the blips that she hopes will one day tell her that 459 has something to communicate.
The monitor flashes continuously, and Christine swipes her hand across it. Martin, a colleague, is using the screen to transmit to Christine that she needs to attend a meeting. He will come past the lab, and they will both walk a short distance in order to congregate with others and communicate using their basic physical senses.
Martin opens the door as he knocks. His eyes flicker with curiosity at 459, as if he might discover something ground-breaking in those brief seconds.
Christine pinches the corners of her tired eyes and picks up her cold coffee. As she walks through the door, Martin shakes his head and says “I can’t believe they pay you to talk to a plant.”
by submission | Nov 3, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sierra Corsetti
The visor of my pressure suit starts to fog up at 11,243 feet. My pilot notices as he tweaks the gas valves that propel the balloon ever higher into the winter night, and grins knowingly.
I adjust a knob on the control panel that’s inset to my right sleeve, and return his smile, feeling the butterflies dance in my stomach as my visor clears.
Thirteen-hundred feet now.
“This your first time?”
I shake my head. “It’s just been a while.”
Nobody ever admits to being a newbie. You never realize how easy it is to lie about it until you’re in the basket of a hot air balloon, headed to heights that even airplanes don’t fly at.
We reach 23,601, and I look down over the side of the basket. If I fell from here, I’d end up as a red smear on the sidewalk of some poor kid’s neighborhood. There’s no turning back now. I have to get high enough to surf away and get far enough out of town before I open my parachute.
“Having second thoughts?” The pilot seems to be reading my mind. Of course, he’s been in the business for probably longer than I’ve been alive. Nothing will surprise him.
Instead of looking at him, I look up. My breath catches in my throat when I see the ribbons of green light, snaking across the black night, reaching their long tendrils out to me. Beckoning me to come to them and learn their ways.
“Never,” I tell the pilot.
My pressure suit hisses as it compensates for the thin air and my ears pop. I check the gauge on my oxygen tank. I’ll be fine for a few hours.
“Ten thousand feet to go,” the pilot says. I nod in acknowledgement, because what do you say to that? Wow, we’re so high. Well, no kidding. You can’t surf waves of light at ground level.
And then we stop climbing.
“Ready?”
It takes me a moment to process the question, before it sinks in that I’m here, I’m really going to do this. Then I hear myself say “Yeah, of course,” and the pilot is checking my parachute and oxygen tank and board, and helps me get my feet strapped in.
He helps me balance on the edge of the balloon, 50,000 feet above the earth, and gives me a final thumbs-up. I return it, and jump.
I’m in free-fall for about a minute. It gives me just enough time to panic and wonder if I’m going to end up as a red smear after all. I look down and see the streams of brilliant green light rushing up towards me and then my board catches and I’m flying, I’m doing it, oh heaven help me, I’m doing it.
My muscle memory from the hours I spent on the simulator kick in and I glide effortlessly across the bands of energy. But no simulator could ever replicate the sound.
There are legends of how ancestral spirits live in the lights. There are more legends of how the lights are divine beings dancing over us.
They are the past. They are the future. They speak to me and sing their songs, songs I’ll never remember and never forget.
And as suddenly as it began, it’s gone and I’m falling again, down through the black night.
Come back, I hear them call. But I cannot fall up.
by Duncan Shields | Nov 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“This is not a conspiracy theory” was tattooed across the dead boy’s back. Below that it read, “It’s a matter of public record.”
This was all in black gothic lettering above the twin towers. Below that was a multi-headed snake monster like a hydra or a kraken or something coming out of a lake of fire. Below that was a mess of shredded meat that Special Coroner Davies preferred not to look at until he had to.
The dead driver was a pale, skinny, shirtless boy with sores. God knows how he’d bypassed enough of the security systems, let alone hotwired a truck without the proper dna to start the engine.
Unfortunately for him, after all that, he’d crashed the truck. It was guesswork at this point as the Special Coroner’s team was taping off the scene, redirecting traffic and taking pictures but it looked like the boy had taken the wide off-ramp too quickly and gone smashing through the railing, off of the bridge, and onto the streets below.
He didn’t look like he had led a clean life. SC Davies was sure the test would show some sort of stim in the boy’s system and too much of it. He’d been celebrating the getaway before he’d actually gotten away. If Davies had seen crime scenes like this once, he’d seen them a dozen times.
It was late so luckily no one on the ground was hurt. The giant truck lay splayed, almost flattened, on its back. The wheels pointed around at awful reaching angles and the main shaft stood up at attention, pointing to the sky. The cab itself was scattered around like a broken lunchbox.
The worst part of this whole thing was that the truck was the only truck in the bay that had been carrying live cargo. It had a bunch of worker and sex clones in the back that had not survived the crash either.
The street was green with containment fluid and shattered glass. Their pre-activation hairless bodies lay splayed and grotesque across the roadway. Like mannequins with bones and blood, they stared as the rain came down into their open eyes.
News choppers were circling and Davies knew that someone would be getting paid lots of money for the footage.
Public spectacles like this were always hard to keep uncontaminated once the footage went out. He knew the place would be crawling in minutes. Just lucky it was night time and it would take a few minutes for people to get dressed and find their car keys.
Jameson walked up to Davies. Jameson was another old dog on the force and didn’t rush when the dead weren’t going anywhere. They got along fine.
“Look at all those bodies.” Said Jameson, nodding towards the clones, then he nodded towards the boy. “You reckon he was trying to steal them or save them?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Jameson.” Davies replied. “Maybe both.”
by submission | Nov 1, 2012 | Story |
Author : James Bambury
V pricked the side of the universe and giggled as it contracted and spun about in circles.
“Did you see that?” V poked another universe. It collapsed into a space-time singularity and V laughed again. “That one had more of a fizz. Make some more.”
“Are you going to burst them?” X asked.
“Yes.”
“What about letting one go for a little longer, just to see what would happen?”
“I am almost certain it wouldn’t be as exciting as watching them blow up.”
“Well, I want to see. Will you leave this next one alone? Just for a change?”
“I guess.”
X lit up another universe. It flared outwards in a bubble of quark-gluon plasma that was just coalescing into a soup of particles when V stabbed it. It sputtered and collapsed.
“Come on.” X said.
“You can always make more,” said V. “I’ll leave the next one alone, I promise.”
X sighed and sparked a new universe. It flared into being and floated between them.
“This one is nice.” said V.
“You stand back.” said X.
“I mean it. This one seems a bit different.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, seriously. You’ve done something interesting with the gravity in this one. There’s just the right textures of galaxies and dark matter in there. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was sentience in there. Remember the last time that happened?”
“I was drunk and lonely. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“There’s going to be a whole lot of planets in this one.”
“As if you care about any planet that’s not being engulfed in its own star.”
“I care far more about things than you think. Now, let’s grab some lunch and see how this plays out.”
“Fine.” X stood up, turned away and heard the familiar pop of a universe collapsing on itself.
“After you said all that you had to just–” X glared. V scrunched the universe into a Planck sized ball and flicked it at X.
“I just had to see your look,” said V, “but also, have you actually thought about cold death if there was sentience around to experience it? I think I’m being the nice one here.”
X waited for V to leave, then tried to remember what had happened with the gravity on the last universe. X lit a tiny universe and hid it under his seat.
He would catch up with V and start another argument. That would give the stars time to burn. Then he’d send back his main course, spill a drink, do anything to buy some more time while the universe would become pockmarked with evaporating black holes. With a little luck, X would see cold death when they got back from lunch.
