by submission | Apr 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Eva C. Stein
Kaela had misread the trail map. She expected thorns and sunbaked clay; instead she stepped from the composite walkway into a grove. She wore a field harness of sterilised vials and a hand lens that layered spectral readouts over her vision. She was thinking about leaf venation – dicot xylem bundles versus the scattered vascular monocot strands – when her peripheral HUD pulsed and the clearing snapped into focus.
The captain was a calibration post in human-shaped form: reactive fibre and ceramic plating, a corporate helix where a flag might have been. Six operatives held pulse carbines; an AR lozenge drone hovered, its sensor array washing the group in low intensity lidar. Twenty people sat bound on polymer blocks: woven trackers, temporary smart bindings that fed heart rates and glucose levels to the captain’s slate.
Kaela’s training ran a silent inventory: the captain’s jaw comm node and micro spectrometer, Class 2 directed-energy rifles, drone Model AR-4, cuffs logging cortisol spikes. Running would make her a clean visual target. She stayed.
The captain’s gaze found her; his jaw-comm clicked and an invitation downlinked. She walked forward; standing still would be to admit she was a specimen. Under the drone’s light she spoke the language of her field: first botanical expedition beyond the corporation’s buffer, intent to catalogue epiphytic taxa with anomalous anthocyanin profiles, notes on likely altitude and leaf anatomy. The comm node blinked in tempo with her heartbeat.
He listened without botany in mind. He ran the variables: her honorary foreigner tag, the optics of an international witness, the cost of a diplomatic incident. The frontier’s ‘summary reprisal’ clause permitted one act of discretionary clemency if it was witnessed and recorded by an independent party. The captain’s voice was flat; the drone transcribed, and her HUD displayed the words.
“Shoot one,” he said. “You take a life; nineteen go free. Refuse and all twenty die.”
Kaela’s first reflex was nausea. Then calculus: the weapon would have to link to his biometric. The system required a Williams handshake so the deed registered in the legal ledger. Accepting meant a recorded complicity – an immutable entry that would alter career and conscience. Refusing meant no witness, no ledger, and the squad’s default lethal protocol. The drone’s sensor sweep caught micro adjustments of aim; the nearest magistrate node was a day away.
Her scientific mind catalogued another loss: these people were living repositories – DNA, microbiomes, songs and practices encoded in flesh. If they lived, the corporation would harvest that data; if they died, embodied knowledge could vanish. As a botanist, the erasure felt like both moral and professional catastrophe.
The grove was quiet. In her lens, the plants she’d come for clung to an overgrown canopy – pigments that should reorder phylogenies – and she measured them against the human price.
The captain waited. The drone focused. The legal timer ticked.
She could have recited taxonomy. Instead she reached for the language her work had taught her to trust: preservation. She thought of herbarium sheets – pressed specimens labelled and saved – and of voices that couldn’t be catalogued if gone. Minutes narrowed; the clearing held still while a woman trained to name leaves weighed the lives of men.
The captain eased a rifle towards her, the grip still warm. The HUD flashed the biometric handshake prompt: align your palm, accept the link. The drone’s camera tracked her pupils.
Kaela’s tongue found words she’d never practiced in lecture halls. She spoke of evidence and witnesses, of the need to keep living knowledge intact. The drone recorded. The captain watched his slate and the legal timer slid down another notch.
She lifted her hand, and history waited.
by submission | Apr 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Kewei Chen
I have been staying in this mountain temple for a long time, long enough that I’ve grown used to its rhythm.
The place feels colder than I remember. Not sharply so, just something you notice before fully awake.
The wooden floor beneath me still holds last night’s cold a little too long.
I usually sit in silence before doing anything. There is nothing here that needs to be rushed.
Time is not reliable in the mountains. It doesn’t stop, but slips out of alignment from time to time.
Most days are the same. Breathing. Sitting. Wind through the wooden beams.
I only notice it when something feels slightly off.
Occasionally, people come. Not many. They don’t stay long.
They pass through carefully, leaving almost nothing behind.
Still, something remains. Not memory—more like a trace.
A few weeks ago, a young man came to the temple.
Tired, but unusually alert. He said he needed somewhere to rest.
So I let him stay.
He sat across from me, trying to be still. But stillness didn’t hold.
Something kept breaking it, like thoughts that never finish.
After a while, he said:
“Have you ever felt like something has already happened?”
I paused. Not memory. Something looser.
He continued:
“Not memory, not a dream. Just a moment that feels familiar when it shouldn’t.”
“As if the world is trying to remind me of something I was never told.”
“What is it reminding you of?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t speak again for a long time. The silence stayed longer than the words.
After he left, the temple felt different. Not in sound, but in something harder to name.
As if the space had shifted slightly and never fully returned.
From then on, I noticed things I had always ignored.
Strong emotions—fear, loneliness, sudden surprise—leave residue, not memory.
These residues accumulate across people and time.
They overlap, forming something like a structure. A web without shape.
It doesn’t follow time well. Past and present blur.
They feel like different intensities of the same thing.
Once, during meditation, I saw early humans under a nameless sky.
Firelight, darkness, long silence. Only loneliness.
It felt familiar, not emotionally but structurally.
As if it had happened more than once.
Then I thought: maybe I was inside it, not watching it.
The feeling passed, but not completely.
I cannot return to them. That much is certain.
But this “web” does not seem to belong to time.
Or perhaps it never did.
So I leave a simple thought: it is alright.
But I no longer know if I am the one leaving it, or receiving it.
People talk about déjà vu. A place that feels already lived.
A moment that never happened, but feels remembered.
I once thought it was memory failing. I’m not sure anymore.
Two moments briefly touching. That is all.
The young man said something was trying to “align” with him.
I still think about that.
Maybe nothing approached him. Maybe he was briefly placed inside something that already exists.
Only for an instant.
If so, those under the stars were not alone.
Neither are we.
We are the same process, briefly overlapping across time.
I sat for a while.
But even “before” no longer points to the same thing.
by submission | Apr 22, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Cartwright tends to the machine, the work is all-consuming but perfunctory at best. He cleans the machine and he replaces the data chips. It is vital this is done in the correct order and at the opportune moment, when the machine is able to upload that particular information.
The machine and the house in which it and Cartwright reside is large. It amuses Cartwright that everything is getting smaller, all the things the others desire have become minuscule and they can even choose not to handle them, but simply conjure the information out of the ether. But the machines are getting larger and louder.
The house sits apart from the others and its grounds are sparse and barren, there are no outbuildings or trees, no cover or shade. The boundary is clearly marked by a low level picket fence and only those making the necessary deliveries pass through the gates. They bring everything Cartwright needs and wants, machine parts as required, tins of paint and of course the all-important data chips.
Screens are difficult to use, the living quarters are sound proofed but even so the resolution and volume are ultra-low and distorted. Just a few minutes’ use induces ear-splitting headaches and nausea.
Cartwright’s only luxuries are books and almost exclusively he reads the latest engineering manuals. He is content and happy with his lot and hasn’t any intention of stepping away and relinquishing his position but Cartwright does not want to fall behind. Part of his duties is the maintenance of the house and grounds but apart from almost constantly repainting the walls this really only amounts to more cleaning. Nothing grows or flourishes close to the machine and there are no flowers or vegetables to tend, no weeds to pull or lawns to mow. The house is sparsely furnished and functional but Cartwright is comfortable and has all he desires.
Occasionally Cartwright walks to the edge of the grounds; he doesn’t cross the boundary. But if he stands close to the fence he can no longer hear the machine, its whirring and grinding, its breathing, and he can’t feel the rumble under his feet. He doesn’t take a device but it is enough for Cartwright to know if he did it would work. That he would be able to communicate with the others and have complete access.
by submission | Apr 21, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Philomena paced the floor of the lab. “It’s the only thing that will do the trick.”
“Quantum bacon?”
“Of course, quantum bacon. What else is going to attract the right kind of scientists to work here?”
“And who exactly are the ‘right kind’ of scientists?” Akira asked.
Philomena smiled her patient and most patronizing smile. “The ones who believe that all souls were created during the Big Bang.”
“Wait. So souls are made of atoms?”
“Of course. But thoughts are not.”
Akira didn’t take that bait. “Philomena, be real. Where is this all heading? Why do we need so many scientists, let alone all the lab space you’ve leased across the country, for a dark matter experiment that sounds like woo-woo mysticism.”
“Franchising.”
“Franchising?” Akira waited. And waited some more. “Franchising?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to this theoretical physicist.”
Philomena snapped her fingers. “Exactly why we need a new breed of scientists. We don’t want old stuffy classically trained brains. We need much fresher brains as in B-R-A-N-E-S!”
“So, that’s your play. Brane theory. That we’re a 3D brane trapped inside higher dimensional space.”
“The Bulk.”
“I know the multidimensional jargon, Philomena.”
“But you don’t see the opportunity, Akira. The multiverse. It’s an unlimited market. And we can sell in bulk to the Bulk.”
“Sell what?”
“Quantum bacon. Stellar shampoo. Cosmic trading cards. It hardly matters. In a market so enormous, even low volume sales reap incredible profits. It’s called the long tail and we’ll be wagging ours all the way to interdimensional dominance.”
“Are we physicists or pitchmen?”
“Both. We need to be both. Rutherford, Curie, Einstein, Planck, Bohr, Heisenberg, Fermi. They opened the atomic door with no sales experience, no business plan and all it got them were a few measly Nobel Prizes. When we harness fermions to portal into the multiverse, I want to be ready to capitalize on the infinite possibilities.”
Akira contemplated Philomena and the planes–and now branes–of delirious ambition that drove her.
He only had one answer. “Quantum bacon.”
“Now you get it, partner. Quantum bacon. The taste of the truly infinite future.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 20, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“How can I be expected to rule well when all of you keep on believing the FAKE news spread by people who hate me for being so good. Why think enemies of what I am trying to do tell you the truth? I tell you the TRUTH you need. I am a gentle giant in many many things. VERY smart. But you will not believe. I do not understand why you keep failing me. So I have decided. Best if I start again. No more weak people. No more arguments over ruling. No more disagreements over my brilliant plans. No more crying over this piece of sand or that length of sea. No more fighting what I want. This plan is GENIUS. So many people who said they supported me were really WEAK servants of woke and foreign powers. They kept the truth from me. NO MORE! My very very clever Minister of War found what you had all been trying to hide and showed it me. Today you will know what we do when the gloves come OFF. You would not believe me. You would not help me. You only have nukes because we let you keep them! This got set up in case you betrayed us. Been up there for years. My people just finished making it better. Very clever of me to know I would need it. Put all the launch codes in as well. Do not try to fight back! I don’t know why they tried to keep all this from me. Even tried to tell me it would not work. RUBBISH! It works FINE if you don’t need to AIM! I do not need to because everywhere I need to feel my authority is in range. So I am going to hit all of you. Nobody gets to insult me anymore. All the cities who said I could not tell them what to do. All the states who said I had no power. All the countries who would not support my wars. You said I could not be trusted. We will see about that! All of you are to BLAME! If you crawl from the rubble afterwards you will see mushroom clouds. Then you will LEARN. You should have listened. You should have obeyed. Now you will. Tomorrow is MINE!”
by Alastair Millar | Apr 19, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
[> play]
“So that, ladies and gentlemen, is SePPO, the Self-Propelled Public Order system: the bipedal, flexible law enforcement tool for the next century! Do we have any questions?”
“Angus McAndrew, New Tech News. What OS do they run on?”
“The units run on a proprietary AI-rated operating system trained for public order situations. They will identify genuine, repeated threats and subdue them.”
“Could these units kill? Aren’t they just robot soldiers?”
“Absolutely not. They are programmed to subdue not liquidate. Much safer than armed, fallible humans, in our view. Next?”
[|| pause]
“Programming can be changed of course,” noted the Aide drily. The Strategic Planning Director nodded.
[> play]
“Anne Carpenter, TechToday. Can they discriminate between genuine threats and bystanders?”
“Absolutely. They will protect themselves from direct threats, but only subdue persistent threats. For example, falling masonry or even a single thrown missile is a threat to avoid; someone throwing multiple missiles is a threat to be subdued.”
“What about guns?”
“We recognise that in some jurisdictions there is a right to bear arms. If firearms are for example holstered and not being aimed, the units can be programmed not to consider them a threat. Next?”
[|| pause]
“In other words, Director,” said the Aide, “these are half-ton machines with the reflexes of lizards, that can be told to consider anything a potential weapon, and can react to their presence, not just their use.”
[> play]
“Max Mofolo, Sub-Saharan Educational Review. Are they safe to use around schools? Couldn’t they injure kids?”
“Geofencing is used to limit areas of operation. Next?”.
“Syd Jones, GB Republic News. Aren’t their operators a weak link?”
“Not at all. They run through remote aerial or orbital links. So operators are never in danger, and can’t be compromised.”
[|| pause]
“Their promotional material says that they can run on any of the global satnav systems, or via loitering stratospheric drone or high altitude airship. Pretty soon any moderately competent local or national polity will be able to use them.”
“Hmmmm. Okay, I’ve seen enough.”
“The Department’s view is that these are going to be very popular, sir. Obviously they’ll make opposition to the government much more difficult, which in turn will serve to entrench the regulatory status quo, which would be bad for us. Should we manipulate regulators into shutting the manufacturers down? Or attempt sabotage to make the products look unsafe and the companies careless?”
“Good Lord, no. The exact opposite. Have our proxies invest heavily in the companies concerned.”
“Sir?”
“Look, they’re going to work, and will inevitably be adapted for full military use. Cheap soldiers who will obey all orders without question, after all, regardless of laws and irrespective of self-preservation. Which is good news for us.”
The Aide blinked. “I… don’t understand, sir.”
“As the martial artists say, Gillian, ‘use your enemy’s strength against them’. These new systems are all dependent on those comms linkages – for command, control, overrides, defining areas of operation, the lot. None of which will work here on Mars. The more their armed forces come to rely on them, the less likely an effective intervention here will be possible, and the more likely that the Terrans won’t be able to move against our eventual secession.”
“Er… secession, sir? I thought MarsCorp was opposed to the Arean League’s independence campaign? We’ve locked enough of them up!”
“Of course! The League have this ridiculous notion of making us a democracy, of all things. But the Board would prefer us to be independent, and not shackled by Terran politicians…”. He winked. “As long as we’re still in charge.”
