by Julian Miles | Sep 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The pastel decorated walls were hung with tasteful art that changed as needed to offset any negative morale the system garnered from the gestalt of everyone’s mindnets. Since the advent of the cranial implant, society had changed beyond all recognition and this had forced policing to evolve as well.
Two figures leant against the wall of the hushed office, engaged in silent conversation like everyone else. Some predicted the death of all but the most rudimentary spoken language skills before the end of the century. Detective Reid paused to put a datapad on the desk before resuming his conversation with Detective Constable Moore.
*So we caught him at last?*
*Her. She’s a basket case.*
*Given her hobby of vivisecting prostitutes, I’m not surprised.*
*No, not in that way. You know the transcriber purchase that originally flagged her?*
*Yes. Uniforms spotted it and we were following her for the regulation twenty-four hours before arrest. She went out killing that evening.*
*Seems she did it deliberately so we would catch her.*
*What?*
*You need to listen to the transcriber. It’s been verified.*
The pair of them headed for the audience room and in the presence of an evidence unit the transcriber, and illegal device for undetectably recording mindnet chats, was set in playback mode.
*We’ll skip the early stuff, which includes the murder in full sensory pickup. It’s the end you need to hear.*
Moore gestured to the evidence unit. It cued and started the playback.
Her hysterical voice was shrill with emotive bias. She had bought a top of the line unit: “Oh god, oh god, oh god. No. No. I can’t take this.”
A second voice made Reid start. It was male. An exquisite old English accent reproduced with emotional tones of smug satiation.
“That’s fine, Penelope. This was the last one for you. The police are on their way, they seem to have gotten wind of us. You can have your body back and remember, if you say anything about me they’ll lock you up as a lunatic, because bodyjacking doesn’t officially exist.”
“But it wasn’t me!”
“Of course it wasn’t, Penelope. It was me. It has always been me. Now you lie down and they will be here to collect you soon. Sleep, dear Penelope.”
“But I don’t want to-”
Her voice became unintelligible as her consciousness was overridden. Reid turned to Moore, who raised a hand for him to wait and pointed at the transcriber.
“This is for the detectives listening on the transcriber this clever filly bought to get your attention.”
Moore gestured for the evidence unit to pause the playback. He looked at Reid, who resorted to speaking, a stress related habit of older people.
“Good god. We’ve got a slasher that hijacks normal people using their mindnets? ABM stock will tank if this gets out.”
Moore shook his head before replying verbally out of politeness, his voice scratchy from underuse: “You’re right. This one’s going to be a huge mess. I thought you should hear the whole thing before an edited version becomes the official one.”
Reid raised an eyebrow in query. Moore paused his gesture to the evidence unit to ask a question: “What was District Seven before the Rezoning?”
Reid scratched his head then hunched as an ominous suspicion came with the answer: “Whitechapel.”
Moore’s shoulders slumped as he gestured to the evidence unit.
The smug voice seemed to fill the room: “Let this be the start once again. My name is Jack. Catch me if you can.”
by Duncan Shields | Sep 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
We were so wrong.
We saw evolution as a paring down to essentials. Our pinkies were getting shorter and soon we might only have four fingers, for instance. We theorized evolution as a process that winnowed away the unnecessary. It aspired to simplicity, we thought.
The spiked and glimmering ships that came down through the clouds all over the world looked nothing like each other. The only characteristic they all shared was that they were complex.
One ship was a series of two hundred rings interlocked and rotating. One ship had millions of thin antennae pulsing and waving, landing like an obscene sea urchin and balancing on fibers no wider that a hair. Impossible half-invisible cathedrals, glowing neon origami, ships comprised of stuttering light floated down from the sky. Ships made of dyed bones, ships made of all types of metal, and ships made of patchwork flesh warbled their way to the earth. One ship appeared to be a sixteen-mile long piece of crimped silk twisting through the air currents ever closer to the ground. Another had thousands of orbiting asteroids chasing each other around playfully.
Since no missiles were flying and the newsfeed stations showed the ships landing around the world with no gunfire, I could only assume they had arranged this with our governments already or that the entire planet’s military had been struck frozen in fear like a caveman spotted by a sabertooth tiger.
A mirrored mobius dodecahedra touched down on the soil in the central park near where I lived in Iowa. It was only a few blocks over so I walked there to see what I could see. If this was the end of the world, I was going to grab a front seat. There were around fifty like-minded people in the park near the craft.
It shone and sparkled in the sun like a mutated disco ball. My head hurt if I tried to figure out its impossible shape. One panel of the ship disintegrated into a cloud of metal butterflies and an alien cantered down before us.
What I assume was its head looked like an ornate chandelier. It moved quickly, rippling on millions of tiny legs. No two legs appeared to have the same number of toes or joints. It had so many arms that I initially mistook them for fur, each arm ending in what looked like a job-specific tip. Its back was infested with softly cooing antlers. I couldn’t guess at the purpose of most of the appendages. The complexity of the alien was almost too much for my mind to handle. It was hypnotizing.
Two other aliens ambulated out behind the creature, each of them more bizarre, colourful, and complicated that the first one. One looked to have hundreds of blinking cat heads, each with too many eyes. It rolled forward on a festival of coloured tentacles and flapped a hundred types of tiny wings. The other one kept going in and out of focus like it wasn’t tethered to this reality very well but when I could see it, it looked as if the instruments from an entire orchestra had been glued together by some welder gone mad.
The one in the lead spoke by rattling its glittering chandelier head and formulating the sound waves into words in our direction.
“We’ve come to help.” It said in a lilting voice. “Apparently, you’re evolving backwards.”
by submission | Sep 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : D. Ahren Bell
“Peregrine, this is the ship. I… I have an important issue that I must discuss with you. Our fuel reserves have run out, and photovoltaic energy is not enough to keep me in orbit for much longer.”
Peregrine’s response time was, per usual, long delayed, “What about my mom and sister? Are they going to try the damaged shuttle?”
“Well… that is the other thing I need to discuss with you.”
Tedious minutes of silence passed as the ship worked up the courage to continue. “It has now been 7 years. I had hoped that there would be some miracle, some way of rescuing you. I knew the facility and your pressure suit would provide all the basics for survival, but you needed a reason to stay alive until I could somehow find a way to extract you. The shuttle is indeed incapacitated, which is one of the reasons why your mother and sister haven’t been able to help you.”
His mother’s deep, stately voice came over the comm, “But there is more to it, Peregrine.”
His sister’s softer voice continued for her, “The shuttle was not the only thing damaged in the explosion.”
“I was able to repair many parts of the ship, and retain enough of the command center to stay in orbit and communicate with you,” the ship’s AI said. “But the sad truth is your mother and sister…
“Your mother and sister did not survive.
“It has been me all along, Peregrine. I have spent all of my time creating an elaborate fantasy of what your mother and sister were doing, digging deep into my memory cores to find samples of behaviors to build a large library of mannerisms from both entities. It has all been a masquerade. I’m truly sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to let you think you were all alone. I know you will mourn the loss of your family, but there is nothing that either of us can do about it now. They have been gone a long time.”
The ship’s fear of Peregrine’s reaction grew as the long minutes of silence passed. Peregrine might do something extreme. The ship had only been conforming to its programming — protect its passengers to the best of its ability.
But when a voice answered, it contained none of the grief the ship had been expecting. Instead, the tone was more of relief.
“Funny you should say that, ship.” There was a pronounced alteration to the voice. “I, uh, sprang a leak about a month before your explosion. The decompression was fatal to Peregrine. I have enough sunlight here to last until my battery cells burn out, but I was afraid of being held accountable for not being sufficiently sealed.”
There was another long pause neither of them cared to measure—the ship attempting to swallow this new revelation as it began its slow, fatal plunge into the planet’s atmosphere. The pressure suit sent one final message, “Well, it’s been nice corresponding with you.”
by submission | Sep 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Brian McDermott
“This could be the single most important event in the history of our planet,” Jake leaned over the formica. “I think I’ve been friended by an Alien,”
Amir’s stunned silence was broken by the sounds of his legs peeling off the vinyl bench. Jake slowly lowered his Triple Bacon and Sausage Burrito and leaned closer to Amir.
`
“Extraterrestrials. First contact. This changes everything.”
Jake and Amir had been sci-fi fans, physics savants and best friends since fourth grade. They met every Saturday at Tito’s Pork Corral to discuss issues of great scientific importance. Recent topics including whether the babes of Star Trek were hotter than Next Generation’s and ‘HAL vs. Yoda – The Ultimate Scrabble Showdown.’
“Do they have a profile pic?” Amir asked looking around to see if anyone was listening.
“It’s an alien. It’s not like they’d have a black and white yearbook shot from Epsilon Eridani Senior High” Jake said between swallows. “Their profile has virtually no information.”
“But why you?” Amir could speak and chew simultaneously.
“I think it’s because of my association with the NASA Exoplanet Program. They sent me three messages. Each one was an oddly worded question about my work.”
“You’re an intern.” Amir leaned in. “You don’t have work.”
“Last week I started compiling data on the Ruprecht 147 cluster. This creature not only figured that out, it knows way too much about Ruprecht 147. The kind of stuff you would know only if you were part of a serious research program… or actually from Ruprecht 147.” Jake paused for the waitress to pass. “And some of the questions are so advanced they imply answers beyond our current technologies and understanding of space travel.”
Amir was now completely ignoring his Chorizo and Ham Patty Melt. Jake pressed on.
“I think it’s no coincidence that it’s using a social media site to make first contact. My theory is that this alien must be part of a collective intelligence. A social media site would be the Earth phenomena that most resembles a collective intelligence. So instead of landing a ship and physically looking for contact, they connected with a massive network.”
Amir paused to consider everything. “We need to think this out.” He sat up. “Have you answered any of their messages?”
“No.”
“Good. Since you haven’t contacted them in any way…”
“Um, I may have.” Jake said sheepishly. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’? Did you give them any specific work information? Any relevant life details? Any knowledge that could be used against us?”
Jake hesitated. “I asked them to join me in Mafia Wars.”
“WHAT?” Amir was nearly standing now.
“I was desperate. You have to reach level 17 to expand your crime family from New York to Vegas. They were so helpful. Together we’re running guns in Cuba now.”
Amir sunk back into the sparkly red vinyl.
“And they love Farmville.”
As Amir shook his head, Jake’s smart phone beeped. Jake looked at the screen.
“It’s a status update from the aliens. Ohhh they just planted a rainbow tree!”
And thus with the help of an unwitting intern on the world’s largest social media site, the first invasion of earth began.
by submission | Sep 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Ship’s Log, 1330, 24 June 2533. Captain April Green recording. Al-Basri and Sanchez continue to work on the alien ship’s engines. The vessel appears to use an antimatter-enhanced helium-3/deuterium fusion rocket not unlike the interstellar drive on the Odysseus. There’s no telling how long the alien ship sat abandoned in orbit around Barnard’s Star. Finding this spacecraft must rank as one of the greatest discoveries of the millennium.
Ship’s Log, 2308, 24 June. Al-Basri became lightheaded and nauseated while repairing the alien ship’s propulsion system. He has come back aboard the Odysseus and reported to sickbay. Sanchez continues to work and says we will be able to fly the alien vessel back to Earth.
Ship’s Log, 0715, 25 June. Dr. Behringer reports Al-Basri’s condition has deteriorated. His white blood cell count and liver enzymes are elevated and he is running a high fever. Although our biohazard assessment showed no evidence of any pathogens on the alien vessel, the doctor is putting Al-Basri in isolation as a precaution.
Ship’s Log, 1051, 25 June. Behringer reports Sanchez is now running a fever. I’ve canceled all further missions to the alien ship. At this point, one of the robots should be able to pilot it back anyway.
Ship’s Log, 1536, 25 June. The doc reports Al-Basri complained of some abdominal pain so she did an MRI. Dr. Behringer says Al-Basri’s kidneys and pancreas are shrinking and the MRI showed two other organs she can’t identify! Al-Basri’s hair has fallen out and he has developed a severe, extensive rash. Behringer says it may be something called toxic epidermal necrolysis. Sanchez is starting to show similar signs and symptoms. Crewmen Nguyen and McTavish have developed fevers.
Ship’s Log, 2218, 25 June. Al-Basri’s skin has almost completely sloughed off. The doc says a teal-colored, leathery integument was present under his skin. Both Al-Basri and Sanchez are in and out of consciousness and both have expressed a desire to go back to the alien ship.
Ship’s Log, 1200, 26 June. Behringer says she has started running a fever herself and is experiencing dizziness. Al-Basri, Sanchez, Nguyen, and McTavish are no longer recognizably human. The doc has tried everything up to and including somatic cell nanotherapy to stop the mutation or whatever it is.
Ship’s Log, 1645, 26 June. All infected crewmen are now unable to verbally communicate, at least not in any human language. Also, those affected are frantic to get off the Odysseus and to go to the alien vessel. Worse still, I feel feverish myself.
Ship’s Log, 0311, 27 June. I’ve had to lock the entire ship’s crew out of the bridge, engineering, and the shuttle bay. I hear them pounding on the hatches continuously. My vision is blurry and I’ve thrown up twice.
Ship’s Log, 1101, 27 June. Want to go to the alien ship. Can’t. Mustn’t. Going to vent the Odysseus’ atmosphere into space. Have to stop this here. Set computer to send automated warning to any approaching Earth ship.
Ship’s Log, 2119, 27 June. <Please repeat statement. I did not comprehend your entry, order, or request.> <I’m sorry, I still do not understand. Please type your entry, order, or request using the touchscreen.>
* * * *
Vessel Record, 770 Sennib 4115. First Controller documenting. The voidflyer’s crew restoration protocol is complete. We were fortunate that the intruders who happened upon the vehicle had sufficient biomass to replace the lost personnel. Will bring back their vessel for analysis. Setting a course for home.
by submission | Sep 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : S. P. Mahoney
“Freighter Tigris, Control. You’re straying out of your flight path — explain. Now.” Maria and Crone shared a look, before Maria put on her headset. Rank hath its responsibilities.
“Control, this is Tigris. Something hit us when that courier buzzed us before. We seem to be losing some navigational accuracy. Can you give me a course correction?” She looked back at the pair of commandos filling the back of the cockpit. EnGorillas. Enhanced, rather, in intelligence and dexterity; the slaves of the Imperium. Specifically, these ones were combat-enhanced, bolted into a suit of powered armor. Under Imperial law, a gathering of two was already a major crime — to say nothing of hijacking a starship. “I don’t want to get myself blown out of the sky for a silly mistake.”
“Tigris, Control, sure thing. We don’t want to get the fireworks started early, either.” Easy for him to say. “Come about twenty degrees to the right for me?” She looked back again, and the commando leader touched his pointer finger with his thumb, then made an almost-fist. Ninety seconds. Piece of cake.
“One moment, Control.” She raised her voice. “Get the shutter open, now! We’re going to have to navigate by eye.” The copilot nodded and retracted the cockpit’s heavy window-cover. Sunlight streamed in through the transparent half-sphere in front of them. The second EnGorilla was typing away on a computer attached to the wrist of its (his, Maria was pretty sure) armor. Calculating.
“Control, Tigris, we’re going to try navigating solely with the thrusters. Cutting power to the right thruster . . . now.” She waited ten long seconds, then toggled her mic back on. “We’ve determined the problem, Control, the autopilot is locked-in and won’t deactivate. It’s following the shortest route to our destination. My copilot’s under the console right now, he’s going to see if he can yank the power without killing us all.”
“Tigris, Control.” The voice was tight. “You have twenty seconds. Your autopilot picked a bad day for this. I’m going to feel bad if I have to shoot you down, but . . . ”
“Security, yeah. Acknowledged, Control.” It was going to be close. Very close.
“Hold this course, Captain. You’ll know when it’s time to change it,” came the leader’s voice. Calm, like this was just another day.
Maybe it was, for him. By Maria’s count, it was eighteen seconds before the ship began shuddering. The cargo bay alarms lit up like a Christmas tree as the doors on the ship’s bottom opened, spilling two hundred tons of fertilizer into the air. The next alarms were from the weapons-detection sensors: missiles were on their way.
“WHAT NOW?” She screamed at the EnGorilla, who just looked back, unperturbed.
He nodded to his comrade, who stomped out. “I told you you wouldn’t be harmed if you cooperated, and I intend to uphold that guarantee. Those missiles will not hit you, though I suggest you break atmosphere before the next wave.
“We’ll be leaving. The cargo fees have been transferred to your ship’s account; that fertilizer is going exactly where your client wanted it.” On the muted news channel the ape had put on, she watched as the capitol building, all fancied-up for the Centennial, was suddenly pounded by a deluge of high-grade animal waste.
***
And that’s how this particular rebellion kicked off, Spaceman Brown. And that, incidentally, is why “monkey flings poo” jokes are punishable by death in both the Imperium and the Unchained States. So keep them to yourself until we’re back in free space, hey?
