by Patricia Stewart | Jan 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Receiving a distress call, Captain,” reported the communications officer of the SS Diciotti. “It’s coming from Lavello III.”
“Lavello III?” repeated Captain Campbell. “What idiot would land on Lavello III? It’s a death trap.”
“Captain,” said the science officer after consulting his monitor. “According to the ship’s transponder code, it’s a rental. The manifest lists a Mr. and Mrs. Balordo. Married a week ago. No mention of Lavello III on their registered flight plan. Looks like the honeymooners got more than they bargained for.”
“Okay, let’s investigate,” replied the captain. “Helmsman, best speed to Lavello III.”
As the Diciotti came out of warp, a featureless gray planet filled the center of the forward viewscreen. Although all terrestrial planets appear spherical from space, Lavello III was the closest thing in the universe to it. The difference between the top of the highest mountain and the bottom of the lowest valley was a little less than three centimeters. Scientist attributed this unique characteristic to a gravitational instability in the planet’s core. Every five hours, the core emits rhythmic graviton waves that cause the planet’s diameter to grow by almost 30 meters. These gravity quakes last about two minutes, and then the planet settles down to its original diameter. The net effect of billions of years to expanding and contracting is the pulverization of the crust and mantel. Mountains were leveled; boulders were crushed to rocks, rocks to pebbles, pebbles to grains. Over the eons, the denser fragments settled toward the planet’s core, and the lighter pumas-like material drifted toward the surface. As a result, the density of the surface ‘sand’ was 0.95 grams per cubic centimeter, or a little less than the density of water. During the five hours of dormancy, a person could walk along the surface of Lavello III, but during a gravity quake, the liquefaction of the surface meant that anything more dense than 0.95 grams per cubic centimeter would sink below the surface. In other words, the surface of the planet became quick sand.
“Any sensor readings?” asked the captain.
“Aye, Captain. Their ship is already fifty meters below the surface. However, I’m reading two life signs near the surface. I can’t tell if they are still on top, or just below the surface. The next quake will occur in approximately three hours. If they are not completely under now, they will be soon.”
“Have a maintenance team meet me in the shuttle bay,” ordered the captain.
An hour later, the shuttlecraft landed near the two partially buried newlyweds. The ground crunched under the weight of Campbell’s boots as she walked up to the protruding heads of Mr. and Mrs. Balordo. They were both buried up to their mouths, with only their blinking eyes confirming that they were still alive. Captain Campbell knelt down and scooped the sand away from the woman’s jaw, making it easier for her to breathe. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” asked Campbell.
“Yes,” sputtered Mrs. Balordo after spitting out a mouthful of sand. “He did it to win a bet. He’s a moron. Please, dig me out first. I want to use his head for a soccer ball.”
Campbell checked her chronometer and motioned to the maintenance crew to start digging the woman from her would-be grave. Then she moved over to the husband and asked, “Did you sign up for the additional insurance for the rental ship?”
Mr. Balordo closed his eyes and moved his head back and forth very slightly.
“Well then,” said Campbell with a grin, “I guess it’s not a good day to be you.”
by Duncan Shields | Jan 1, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
My entire celebrity life is online for people.
There are over a million people looking out through my eyes, breathing in time with me, feeling my exhilaration as six months of rehearsal come to a head and I perform my number-one hits to a crowd of fifty thousand people in a Barcelona arena. My body is taut with the proportions of a goddess thanks to Olympic trainers and amazing surgeons. The online population’s hearts are racing along with mine. They’re smelling the air of a packed coliseum and tasting my Evian in between songs. Women and men both are dialed in behind my eyes and being me.
Each one of them is paying six hundred dollars to experience it. In my peripherals, the ones that have kicked in an extra hundred are chattering to each other and sending me messages. Scrolls of text run up either side of my vision that I have trained myself to ignore.
My encores end with a massive fireworks discharge and the stage goes dark. The crowd screams my name as I strut backstage along with my backup dancers and band.
A swath of names in my peripheral vision pops and fades. Their tickets have expired.
The half a million that are left have paid a thousand dollars each for the backstage experience. My body’s vital signs pump through the optical cables all over the world to wherever they are. Other celebrities are backstage crowding me for smiles and handshakes. Fans with real-world passes are there. There’s one girl with cancer who got her ticket as a last wish. I pose for pictures with her and I nearly cry. All over the world, five hundred thousand people nearly cry with me.
That lasts a half hour. I say a prayer with my fellow performers, we talk about how good tomorrow night is going to be in Los Angeles, and I head down to my dressing room. As I walk down the stairs, many of the names in my field of vision wink out.
There are a thousand people left in my field of vision. The super rich who can afford to be at this level at most of my concerts and a bunch of lucky strangers who have scraped together ten thousand dollars each to get this far.
Once in my dressing room, I undress slowly in front of the mirror and let them stare at my toned, sweaty body. Then I climb into the shower for a long, long time. Even when I close my eyes, I can see the names in my peripheral talk to each other about how amazing this is.
As soon as I reach for my towel, most of the names wink out. There are sixteen left and they have each paid a million to still be here. There are four new names but the rest are familiar to me, almost old friends at this point.
The door to my room opens and my lover enters with that famous smile. His body is also perfect. He won another Oscar last year. Behind his eyes, people lean forward in their sense chairs, aching with the knowledge that they are about to have sex with one of the best-selling pop musicians on the planet. Behind my eyes, sixteen people brace themselves , ready to athletically fornicate with a dreamy leading man.
The only time we’re alone is when we are asleep or going to the bathroom.
He touches my shoulder, going in for a full, hungry kiss, and my towel dramatically slips off of me and onto the floor.
by submission | Dec 31, 2011 | Story |
Author : Aradhana Choudhuri
“No. There’s no funds, Mr. Lawrence. None. We work with what we’ve got.”
“Then you have to repurpose this satellite, Mrs. President, or we start losing vital assets. We’re deep in Kessler syndrome time — LEO and GEO are going to have one catastrophic collision after another, each spawning off more debris. Chain reaction.”
“I get all that. That’s why I gave you Webb! The science lobby’s gonna go nuts if I give you this one too.”
“It’s the only one left that can monitor that segment of the graveyard orbit, warn us before we start losing the Geostationaries.”
“Why can’t you build more telescopes on the ground? I can scrounge a few million out of discretionary.”
“Ma’am, Earth-based telescopes can only look out at night. We’re already using each and every ground asset we can just to keep the nightside covered from dusk to dawn. Anything sunside we won’t know about till satellites start going down.”
“What about other countries? China started this problem with their testing, and they’re the only ones with enough money left to spend on watching outer-space garbage. It can’t hurt to ask.”
“You want to ask the People’s Republic of China to launch a constellation of telescopes pointed at us?”
“Nevermind. Tell me why the Japanese repurposing their visible-spectro-thingamabob satellite wasn’t enough.”
“It was never designed to focus fast-moving near-Earth objects. Pointing requirements have been thrown out the window, delta-V budgets make any kind of repositioning? The point is, it’s not enough.”
“The science lobby is powerful, Mr. Lawrence.”
“So is the telecom lobby, Mrs. President, and it’s a helluva lot more relevant to the average taxpayer.”
“I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes Ma’am. This is no longer about competing priorities — it’s about threats to the vital infrastructure of this country. You think the ARGOS/NOAA-L collision was bad? We’re going to start seeing one like that every three months.”
“When will the next one happen?”
“In ten minutes? Tomorrow? Probability goes up to better than ninety in two months.”
“Allright, Mr. Lawerence. I’ll sign it. You’ll have Kepler by the end of the quarter.”
—————-
…peoples of earth…2051 by the…transmission…share…speck of light in a…static…we heard you…must have…scope…hear us…wait…response…
—————-
…earth…093…share joy…by now you…have telescopes…transmit…AMGE…hear…respo…
—————-
…ello?…
by submission | Dec 30, 2011 | Story |
Author : TJMoore
Sam squinted into the dimly lit cupboard, the all but extinguished ICL held out in front of him like a jar of fireflies.
With a sigh he gave up on the fading lamp and began searching for the rye seeds by hand. He did like a good seeded bread and if he didn’t get it mixed up tonight, he’d have to wait another day to bake it, which may be the case anyway if it was cloudy tomorrow.
Seeds found, he turned the ICL back on to use the last possible lumens to measure out his ingredients. He’d have to mix and kneed in the dark, but he was skilled at that by now.
Fondly, he reminisced on days gone by when he could simply drive to the store, any time of the day or night, to buy whatever he wanted from wherever it came from. So many things had been lost.
The war for fossil fuels had been fairly brief once all the combatants came to the conclusion that the fight would destroy the prize. But the technology to support the population at the time did not exist without it. The war for survival lasted much longer and was more brutal than any war fought in recorded history. The survivors who didn?t live near the oil were few and hardened. Sam was such a person.
He and his neighbors, the Andersons and the Downins, worked every minute of every day just to stay alive. It took acres of land per person to produce enough food and all of that land had to be worked by hand. The Andersons had a horse which helped some, but the horse itself required several acres and a lot of additional work to keep it through the winter. The horse was also a valuable commodity that required constant protection from raiders. Sam was an exceptional shot had earned a reputation for keeping marauders at bay.
In the now dark kitchen, Sam carefully covered his bread dough with a clean cloth and set in the old gas oven to rise. The oven could be used occasionally when he had accumulated enough methane from his generator, but during the summer he used the solar oven exclusively. He groped around and found the cradle for the IC Light and plugged it in to recharge when the sun came up. He had five solar collectors on the roof that provided a few watts of electricity on sunny days; an acquisition he had made just before the wars when he could still drive to the city. A hand crank weather radio sat on his repair bench, waiting for the day when he found some spare parts to fix it. There were no radio stations broadcasting anymore, but the radio also had a light and a power outlet for recharging cell phones back in the day. He wished it was working now so he could take it on his scouting trip in two days. He and the Downin boy were going toward the city to look for glass.
by submission | Dec 29, 2011 | Story |
Author : Ian Rennie
It’s not really time travel. Not how that expression is traditionally meant, anyway.
It has long been a maxim of those involved in my kind of research that you can look back and travel forward, but never the other way round. In a way, everything we know about forensic science is a way of looking into the past with slowly increasing resolution. My work is just another step down that road. A bloody big step, but a step nonetheless.
Every movement leaves a trace. Some leave more of a trace than others, most leave a trace so small as to be beyond invisibility. Theoretically, if you had a completely closed environment, you could infer everything that happened within that environment from an accurate enough look at its current state. In practice, that’s nonsense. The world is much too complex, too many variables need to be accounted for. Plus, once you look at things closely enough, you can’t be entirely sure of exactly where everything is, let alone where it was.
Electromagnetic signals are a lot simpler, comparatively speaking. With enough computing power and enough time, it becomes only really really difficult to figure out what a signal was, rather than impossible.
The Hartnell Array has made it even less difficult than that. I won’t go into details about how it works: every time I try to explain it to the chiefs of staff I can see their eyes glaze over. Instead, I try to talk about what it can do.
With enough time, and enough energy, any signal that was ever broadcast can be recovered.
Obviously, the implications are considerable. I’ve had scientists from every field asking for time on the Hartnell Array once its up and running. Even before it was finished it was booked up for the next decade. However, the British Army paid for it, so the British Army get first use.
Well, second use. Officially we’re testing its capabilities for another two months. Unofficially I’m enjoying the major reason why I agreed to build the thing.
“Everything in order?” I ask Dr Patel. She doesn’t understand my enthusiasm, but she humours me.
“Signal reconstruction is complete. Playback is ready whenever you want.”
I settle into my chair, and hit play. The music starts at once, as does the image, blurrier than I remember from my childhood yet no less magical. In awed silence I become the first person in more than half a century to see these images.
Recovering television isn’t difficult compared to some things. There were so many broadcasts at such a strength that you can pick and choose. The only real decision was what to recover first, and for me there was no question.
106 lost episodes, of which I was now watching the nineteenth. We were getting them at a rate of four a day. We’d have every one within the month. I sent the pristine recordings to the BBC within the day, but that first viewing was mine alone.
Dr Patel walks in as the episode finishes and smiles indulgently. She never liked the show, but I think she’s happy that I’m happy.
“Everything in order?” she says, handing my words back to me.
“Perfect.” I say “I think we should go after The Daleks’ Master Plan next.”
by submission | Dec 28, 2011 | Story |
Author : Tris Smith
She sat down on the bench, overlooking the local park. She and James used to meet here. It seemed a fitting place to say goodbye. After the operation, she might never come here again. Worse, she might never want to come here again.
At 13, it had been minor. A doctor had suggested she try self harming, and that was it. With modern technology the scars weren?t a problem, and for some people it worked really well.
By 15, she was having weekly online therapy. The AI was great, but somehow it just never worked. CBT just wasn’t her cup of tea. Eventually, they gave her one-to-ones with a specialist. No matter what memories they removed, nothing seemed to help.
The final step had been to test her out in a few different virtual realities, to see if she could be happy. Apparently she couldn’t. After that it had been official. They said she was mentally defective. That no amount of talking or support could help. They suggested drugs or surgery.
She couldn’t stand the drugs. The weight gain, the constant tiredness, the knowledge they were targeting everything in her brain. The systems which worked, and the systems which didn’t. Gradually changing and modifying all of them, building up all kinds of long-term side-effects.
James sat down beside her, taking her hand. “You don’t have to do this” he said.
“I do.”
“Why?” he said.
“I can’t do it. I can’t keep going.”
“I know” he said.
“I might not change that much. Some people don’t.”
“Most do” he said.
“Jenny” he said “Don’t do this. I can’t lose you Jenny. We can find another way.”
“No James, we can’t.”
“It’s nonsense Jenny. Mental deficiency is nonsense. The brain’s still too mysterious for us. Even doctors don’t understand it” he said.
“If I killed myself tomorrow, you’d lose me. This way we have a chance.”
“Goodbye James.”
“Goodbye Jenny” he said, standing to leave. James walked away.
“Goodbye Jenny” she said, smiling slightly.
