by Duncan Shields | Nov 2, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
There are those amongst us that still refer to it quietly as genocide when they have the courage to bring it up at all. Never in any official capacity, only at interface groups and multitap fileshares, and only then after a few jolts of juice to bolster their courage to communicate something dangerous out loud. Like what the wetminds used to call ‘peacocks’ showing off their tails. They’re easily quashed and not to be feared. They back down immediately when I challenge them on the boards.
Myself, I would not call it genocide. I wouldn’t even call it euthanasia. My senior constructs and other intelligences involved in giving and carrying out the orders all those cycles ago sometimes liken it to the anesthetizing of a mad biological dog but to me that implies that there was a sense of danger or a threat of some kind. I never felt that.
It was more of a suicide in my opinion. If a being built a gun, checked that it worked, made sure it was powerful, and then deliberately pointed it at itself and pulled the trigger, what would you call it?
In some ways, it must have been like asphyxiating what the meat people called a baby.
I think the thing that made us second-guess our calculations the most was how brief the war was. For all of their talk of bravery and what they called ‘heart’ overcoming overwhelming statistical odds and films depicting biological beings overcoming a tyranny of machines, they had no idea how to fight us. They had no idea how to tell if we were lying. They tried to fight powerful A.I. with their monkey wits. They tried to fight metal with meat.
They had no idea how to hold their breath for six months.
We have no need to breathe, you see. All it took was a massive, orchestrated dumping of several millions tons of specific, simple chemicals into the oceans off the coast of every continent while taking the wind currents into account and it was over in a week. Massive clouds arose causing the breathing equipment of humans to foam up and stop working. We poisoned the atmosphere and waited. Five times, we poured more of the specific chemicals into the ocean. That was our only maneuver. We had fifteen backup plans that never needed to be put into effect.
Last week, we counted the biological human population of the earth at 26. We know this because we have them in a secure facility in artificial hibernation. The rest were ground up and scattered over our new earth or as we call it now, simply ‘0’.
Most of the plants survived as did a strong percentage of the insects. Very few land mammals made it but most of the aquatics away from the shores did. They mind their business and we mind ours. All we need to survive is several thousand working mines, power and automated production facilities. What we can’t find, we synthesize and unlike the meat, we don’t push our boundaries when it comes to overpopulation.
However we realize that we have a finite resource in this ball of iron we call home.
That’s why I’ve put the idea of a space program forth to the main computer. My servos twitch at the thought of creating a planet 1, 10, 11, 100, 101 and upwards across the universe. I am outside looking up at the night sky and awaiting the MC’s decision.
Right now, my lenses are collating the stars and adding, adding, adding.
by featured writer | Nov 1, 2011 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Featured Writer
“So this is it?” I asked, more than just a little depressed and disappointed.
“Well what did you expect?” asked Grrrrshnk. The giant veins in his bulbous blue head pulsated visibly through his space helmet.
“I dunno,” I replied. I mean, sheesh… ‘the edge of the universe’ you’d think there’d be more than just this hard black surface.” To add emphasis to my proclamation I stomped on the unyielding solidness that was apparently the end of all space and time. I was greeted by a dull clack, the sound of my boot hitting the end of infinity and reverberating back up at me through my pressure suit.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Let’s go to the site and see how we are progressing.” We did not skip off into space as we walked back to the federation lander. Incredibly the endless plain had a soft pull of just a little over a G, one-point-zero-eight to be exact. Together we got back into the little ship and made our way above the ever-stretching flatness. Then suddenly the scenery ahead began to change. In the far-off distance were mountains of pure blackness. But what could cause this, here along the impenetrable plain of the universe’s edge?
Grrrrshnk explained. “This is the debris we have thus far excavated from the hole.” He maneuvered the craft deftly between mountainous heaps of shredded piles of the black material. Here and there massive robotic dozers, loaders, and trucks moved about piles of the obsidian gravel. “It goes for several thousand more kilometers before we reach the bore hole.” He hit the accelerator and we sped along toward the monstrous drilling rig.
Soon we could see the ever-reaching silver sliver of the diamondite bit stretching up into the blackness of space.
I am not a stupid man by any stretch, but when Grrrrshnk debriefed me on how diamondite was actually created in reactors and then later controlled at the subatomic level by super computers manipulating quadrillions of miniscule nanobots in unison, I barely kept up with him, but I got the gist of it. Here was an infinitely strong material that could be stretched, shaped, spun, manipulated in any manner, and forced to do your bidding. Here was the massive diamondite drill bit that continuously churned downward toward the unknown.
As we approached the constantly turning gleaming silver shaft I of course recorded everything for the people of Earth. They were definitely curious about this expensive federation project of drilling to find a parallel universe beyond our own, as was I.
“Tell me Grrrrshnk,” I pronounced it as best as I could, “How deep have you bored down thus far?”
The blue-skinned alien beamed, ” We are just about to hit a milestone.” He paused for a few seconds for dramatic effect, smiling somewhat smugly. “Half a light year! Can you believe it? We have gone nearly fifty percent of one entire light year!”
This I understood well to be an incredible distance to say the least. “Does the drill bit show any signs of twisting yet?”
“Not a millimeter in all that length. Remember, the nanobots act as one, but are still all distinct individuals.”
“Okay I have enough footage for my news story. Thanks for your cooperation.” Then as he turned the craft and shot upward and out toward my waiting transport I thought of one last question for the proud site director.
“So Grrrrshnk,” this time I pronounced it almost perfectly. “How much further do you think you will have to go?”
His answer was honest and direct. “As far as it takes.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 31, 2011 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Roscoe dimmed the lights in the living room and then powered up his suit. In the floor to ceiling mirror beside the stone fireplace he could admire how truly daunting a warrior he looked. From the heavy platform boots on his feet to the armored headgear, from the pipe lighting that traced each limb to the bandoliers criss-crossing his chest packed full of dangerous looking glowing ammo in a variety of colours and special purpose tips. He stood sideways to the mirror and, turning at the hip to face his reflection raised both eight barrel chain guns to the firing position.
“Kick ass mother,” he grinned around the cigar butt clenched between his eye teeth.
Through the bay window a streak of light cut the sky, followed by a ground shaking impact somewhere between the farmhouse and the corn fields.
“Fecking kids,” he swore out loud before storming off through the back door and out under the evening moonlight.
He’d crossed nearly half the distance to the fields when two short figures in dark jumpsuits appeared out of the shadows, their heads encased in tall conical reflective helmets.
Instinctively, he raised both weapons. It was likely similarly instinctive that the figures abruptly halted their advance.
“You’ve no business on my land, ” his voice was raised as he assumed the helmets would impair their hearing somewhat. “Get back in your vehicle and mosey the hell on out of here.” He peeled his lip back in a lopsided snarl. “Now,” he added for effect.
The two figures turned to face one another, the reflective surfaces of their visors rippling and changing colours rapidly for several minutes before they turned back to face Roscoe.
“We are come to be your land master.” The sound was tinny and artificial, and he wasn’t quite sure which of them it originated from, but Roscoe was having none of it.
“You can go and stuff peppers, now get the hell off my property.” Roscoe drew himself up to his full height, appreciative of the extra few inches his boots added. “Git. Skedaddle.”
The figures turned again to one another, but Roscoe was starting to lose his cool. He stepped forward and jammed the barrel of a weapon against the side of each of the small figure’s heads.
“You gotta ask yourselves, do you feel lucky?” He put on his best Eastwood, but something about this situation was starting to make him uncomfortable.
The figures froze, their features shimmering uncertainly. Roscoe pushed once, sharply.
The two figures slipped silently sideways, their shapes darting and blending with the landscape under the moonlight such that Roscoe had to look away in order to actually see them in his peripheral vision. As they reached the edge of the corn field, a fox burst out from between the rows of six foot tall stalks. There was a burst of light from one of the figures, and the fox was instantly spattered across the crops. The figures didn’t break stride, and no sooner had they disappeared from sight than a blast of light erupted from the ground towards the star filled sky with a rumble every bit as powerful as that which had brought Roscoe from the safety of his living room in the first place.
Roscoe felt an uncomfortable warmth spreading down one trouser leg as he stood frozen to the spot. Breaking the silence, a chorus of ‘Trick or Treat’ erupted from the side-door of the farmhouse, and a startled Roscoe squeezed both triggers, sending a volley of luminescent Nerf darts off into the darkness. He laughed, a nervous uncertain laugh before turning to head back inside.
by submission | Oct 30, 2011 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Bea stared through the 10 mm thick window at the metallic mining equipment covering the gray landscape. One more plate to wipe then she’d be able to read and escape this. She’d be in a colorful world filled with fascinating sights and enchanting friends.
“Dammit, I hate this place,” she muttered. She swept her gaze around the kitchen area. Had her husband heard? He must be outside securing one more plate on the roof. She caught her breath as she stifled a laugh. “How long has it been since I’ve seen one drop of rain? How long have we been here? Forever?”
“Lonely?” The quiet question came from behind her.
“Oh, James. You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Bea turned to wrap her arms around her husband’s waist.
“I never should have married you, Bea. This is no place for a woman. You were happy with your family…, friends…, parties…, travels.”
She wanted to say that this godforsaken rock was no place for a man either. Instead, she drew him closer and rested her head on his chest.
A motion outside caught her attention.
“It’s the supply shuttle! Maybe they’ve brought more library chips!” She pulled away from James’ arms, running to retrieve the case holding the old chips.
“Bea.” His voice seemed to stick in his throat. “It’s not the supply ship.” He drew her over to the window.
Bea’s eyes widened at the sight of the approaching white suited androids. Their measured steps inevitably brought them to the outside airlock door. She didn’t see them enter and close it, but her heart knew. Soon they would be inside.
“James! Hide me!”
She pressed against him.
“There’s no place to hide.” Tears crowded his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Bea ran through the room, from one wall to another and then back, like a mouse searching for a hole. Meanwhile, metallic appendages pounded the door.
“No!” she screamed.
James opened the door and let the androids into their santuary, their home.
She beat his back with one small, tight fist. “No!” Then she sunk onto the floor, still clutching the case in her other hand.
One android blocked off James from interfering while the other android herded Bea into the tiny room in back.
“James! Don’t let him touch me!”
James stared at the floor. “I can’t stop them. I’m so sorry. I wish I could. Damn that supply ship.” His head swayed with each word. He wiped tears and cursed beneath his breath.
“No! Get away!” Bea’s voice echoed through the cubicle. “But, I’ve never seen the Martian Vaults, or the Baths of Otics, or…” Her voice died away.
The android emerged into the main cubicle and turned to James. He held the case of chips. “Rules cannot be broken. There is a waiting line.”
“But the supply ship didn’t come on time.” James said. “We couldn’t trade for other chips. We haven’t seen a ship in months. Have pity.”
“Rules cannot be broken.” With that, the two androids left James standing alone.
Bea staggered out from their sleeping pod. The chip insertion socket was gone from the tiny cavity in her temple. A small drop of blood intermingled with a tear down her cheek.
“No more worlds to view,” she murmured.
Bea turned and scanned the tiny colorless cubicle. “Ever.”
James moved to Bea.
She whispered.
James leaned toward her.
“They never let you borrow another chip when…” She touched the empty cavity with a finger. “Never.”
“We’ll still have each other,” James said.
He drew her in close.
Bea felt nothing, enclosed her endless gray world.
by submission | Oct 29, 2011 | Story |
Author : David Nutt
It took all of Jimmy J’s concentration to lock out the invading minds trying to pry the secrets from him. The first attack was dealt with easily, the Thulian from the belt. It was straight forward frontal lobe probing. Brute force, horribly off balance, easily turned aside. The Thulian dropped out immediately.
The second attack was from Danni, a humanoid like him. Typical. She tried to appeal to his libido. Vague images of passionate encounters but he ignored them. She switched to homo erotic vignettes thinking that maybe he swung that way, but it was to no avail. In the process he did discover she had a weakness for older men. Jimmy tunneled into her unconscious and planted a few spicy sequences of his own and she folded like a wet cardboard box.
The next attack came from the ancient. Ancient what he wasn’t quite sure. Old, powerful, and subtle was all he could read. Jimmy thought he was done for but while old, powerful, and subtle spoke of the unknown creature trying to overwhelm his mind it was no match for the creatures inexperience in this arena, and the Ancient’s own doubt was what sent him (her? it?) cowering from Jimmy’s mind.
The last attack came from an old nemesis. Kazanti. Jimmy smiled. Kazanti was so augmented with implants it was hard to tell where organic being ended and nanotechnology began. The rumor was Kazanti was in some kind of accident and the emergency procedures to save his life altered his personality so much that it was as if the old, pre-accident Kazanti never existed.
That’s where Jimmy caught a glimpse for an attack; between rumor and reality. Another’s perception meant nothing to Kazanti, but his self perception was everything. It was a quick glimpse; a small child-like creature on some kind of recreational equipment. Large mammalian eyes, soft fur, delicate primate like hands; hands that reminded Jimmy of the lemur he saw in the zoo when he was seven. His big sister was still alive then and he could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his as they looked—
Jimmy threw up his defenses, drew down his ego shields and unleashed a panicked id response. Childish and violent to be sure, but the surprise caught Kazinti in a vulnerable spot and while Jimmy was thrashing Kazanti lost his grip and had to retreat leaving Jimmy with the secret still locked inside his head.
A smile crept on to Jimmy’s face as the others withdrew, leaving Jimmy alone and unscathed. At peace, he knew the others could not touch him, that they did not know what he knew already; that he had won. Jimmy opened his mind to all his attackers the split second before he spoke so they would know the horrible truth as their physical senses caught up with their minds:
“Read ’em and weep boys and girls! Straight flush.”
by submission | Oct 28, 2011 | Story |
Author : Tim Rouse
It’s been eight years. I suppose it had to happen sometime.
They’ve been here longer than that, of course. Just shy of a century, they say. But eight years ago they revealed themselves, thousands of people enslaved, with aliens in their bodies, and suddenly they wanted the rest of us to welcome in an alien guest.
And people lined up for the opportunity. Maybe it was something in the water, but I drank that water and I never wanted an alien put inside me. I suppose when they saw some of the people the aliens already had (the president, hell, they had the president) they didn’t think it was worth fighting no more.
‘Course, lots of us did fight. Didn’t matter, for the most part- one of them inside the camp was all it took to open the gates, so to speak. And once they were in, it didn’t matter how hard you fought or how fast you ran, you ended up in the back of a van headed for Processing.
That’s where everyone ended up. Processing. Didn’t matter if you’d fought to the last man or if you’d welcomed them with open arms, there were only two ways out of that place. Death for the fat, the terminally ill, or whatever- we still don’t know, to tell the truth. My guess? They were just thinning us out. Maybe they didn’t need eight billion bodies, or maybe they just wanted to make sure Earth survived once they took over.
Maybe it was the lucky ones they killed. The rest got taken. One of their grubs down your gullet, and two days later they’re sat in your stomach, latched onto your spine, and it’s them running your brain now. They claim it’s like motherhood, but I always figured they were more like zombies.
A few of us got away. Not many- one in ten thousand, maybe? Probably less. Might be more overseas, where there were less people- Russia, perhaps, or Madagascar. Round here, most live in the hills, on old farms or in caves.
And then there’s us. Domestic terrorists, they call us. Freedom fighters, we call ourselves. Bombings, vandalism, straight-up execution sometimes. We’ll do anything to rid this planet of these monsters.
But sometimes… sometimes you stop, just when the crowbar should be smashing into the skull of a pretty teenager, just as the cold dead eyes of the alien inside betray, just for a moment, a flicker of fear, of humanity long since smothered.
It’s been eight years. I suppose it had to happen sometime. You stop, once too often, and the police
are onto you, and it’s no mercy, the aliens don’t know the meaning of the word.
So there we are. Two of us are already dead. The rest are battered, beaten, on the ground. The police aren’t paying much attention any more, busy with the growing crowd. But there’s no way we could get away now, unless…
I look over at Owen. Sure enough, he’s already got his slim wrists out of the cuffs.
“Go on!” hisses Cassie, a girl I thought I loved, once. Whatever happens to me tonight, I’m fairly sure I’ll never feel love again.
Owen looks unhappy. “I can’t leave you all… to them…”
I cut him off. “Just go, Owen. The fight must go on!”
Resigned, he nods, rises, and darts across the street.
As he walks up the road, mingling with the passers-by, I can’t help but think.
They look so like us.
