by submission | Dec 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Henson
I tell the check-in bot I’m here to renew my driver’s license.
“Counter A, sir.”
I join the queue at Counter A and text Lilly, promising I won’t be late again. Hope I don’t get bogged down. All I need to do is pass the token vision test and get a new photo. But what if they make me fill out a bunch of forms because of the mistake? Bureaucrats. Can’t even get my name right. What if — my phone dings. Lilly warning me to not keep her waiting.
Thank goodness the line moves quickly. I step to the counter. “Hi, my name is —”
“Letter,” the android says in a female voice. It wears black, horn-rimmed glasses to make it appear more human, but there’s something about the eyes that —
“Letter.”
I hold out my expiration notice.
“Jms Trrmn?”
“They got my name wrong. I’m James Truman.”
It cocks its head.
“I’d like to buy a vowel, please,” I say, laughing. “Four, actually.”
The android frowns. “This letter is for Jms Trrmn.”
“You made a mistake … Not you personally.”
It hands me the letter. “Take a seat while we look into this … Next.”
Some guy wearing a red bowtie strides past me.
I check the time. Shouldn’t have cut it so close. Lilly’s going to kill me. Wait … I have proof. I remove my expiring driver’s license from my wallet.
After horn-rimmed android finishes with bowtie guy, I cut in. “Look.” I hold up the letter and my driver’s license. “See? The same numbers are on both. I’m James Truman, damn it.”
“No need for that language, Sir.” The android holds the letter up to the light. “Could be a forgery. Please be seated while we look into this.”
“You robots have no flexibility? Can’t —”
“I’m an android, sir. Kindly step aside.”
I know when I’m licked. I have another week before my current license goes belly-up. Right now, my priority is Lilly. I hurry for the exit.
Outside, I step off the curb and hear tires screech.
#
I awaken seated in the front row of what appears to be a waiting room. Music wafting around me smells like roses and tastes like honey. Sitting behind me, a boy tosses a baseball from hand to hand and a man holds a bent steering wheel.
We’re all facing a counter where there’s a figure silhouetted by a bright light. Definitely not the driver’s license facility. An emergency room? I rub my thighs and twist my neck side to side. Everything seems intact. I feel no pain.
The silhouette moves, and a gentleman with a cane comes into focus as he approaches me. I squint from the glare behind the counter “Excuse me,” I ask the fellow. “Where are we?”
Ignoring me, he glows, tosses his cane and sprints to the exit. “I made it, Martha.” When he opens the door, the music swells, its scent and flavor intensifying.
“Next.” The voice comes from the glare. I look around. “You there in front. Up here.”
Shielding my eyes, I hustle to the counter. “What —”
“Identification.”
I hesitate.
“Sir, if you wish to continue, please show me your ID.”
I fumble at my hip pocket. No wallet. “Sorry, I don’t —”
“Show me your right palm.”
I look at my hand and a hologram of the words James Truman rises from it. Squinting, I push my hand toward the light and see a swirling vortex of numbers where a face should be.
There’s a pause. “Sorry, Mr. Truman. There’s been a mistake. We were expecting Jms Trrmn … Next.”
by submission | Dec 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The horse racing industry doesn’t like my type. For that matter, neither does almost any other industry. I’m pretty much despised. Even educators shun my ideas. And that’s particularly painful, because ideas are what I have to offer the world.
Not just ideas, memes.
Jola calls them me-mes because she thinks I’m being self-centered. Just the “me generation” spouting off and all that.
We argue about it. At times, she despises my views and says I’m selfish. But, that’s her agenda talking. I don’t think I’m selfish if I have no desire to reproduce. I really don’t think the human race needs more inventory. We’re a bit overstocked as a species.
Corporations disagree because they’ve bred us into consumers. They always want a bigger, hungrier market to exploit. Only in consumption do we matter to corporations.
Hold on.
I think I’m meming right now. Though I have no direct physical experience, I liken it to ovulating. My internal temperature is up and my vitals are kicking. Intellectual heat. Neural pathways coursing. I’m ripe with ideas. Fertile. Fecund. I’ve got the driving intention and will to give birth.
That’s my dream. My purpose. To give birth to great ideas. Ideas that will propagate, insinuate and instigate like the ancient greats: Hammurabi, Plato, Charlemagne, Mao, Vinge. I want to join the pantheon of timeless thinkers and become a pioneer of progress.
Jola says progress for me would be to get a job that I can hold for two months. To her, all my big thinking has done is destroy a once-promising résumé. It’s made me irresponsible. A full-time daydreamer. She wonders why I even bothered to get my GED, if all I do is fritter it away blog-hopping and indiscriminately posting. She thinks having a kid would teach me what’s important in life. To her, it’s always about breeding.
Breeding is important. I’m not overlooking what that has meant to various flora and fauna. It just seems time-consuming and fraught with perils. Poisons. Plagues. Mutations. Disappointment. Genes don’t always behave. They have their own agendas. Give me the latest social platform, and with the right images and words, I’ll craft a more lasting legacy than a few dozen chromosomes that can never produce a dancing hamster, lol cat, or double rainbow guy.
Facile, Jola calls me.
Sticks and stones will hurt my bones, but memes will burrow into your brain like an earwig in a disturbing Outer Limits episode and gnaw at you until you crave Hello Kitty.
Is it clear? Am I convincing?
Not according to Jola. She talks about getting real. The necessity of thinking about the future.
That’s all I ever do!
The future is what my memes are all about. Machine driven. The iMeme. I’ll pave the way for the Tin Man at the end of gravity’s rainbow. I’ll salute our robot overlords. I’ll salivate over the singularity. Pure thought. Uploadable. Infinitely distributable.
Jola taps on my head like it’s some kind of empty nut and says she’s hungry. She wants a burger. Fast food. Consumable. Forgettable.
I hunger for eternity. The right ideas will get me out of this genetic cesspool. I want my thoughts to live forever, not my meat.
Though, a double bacon cheeseburger does sound good—and then getting into Jola’s jeans.
by Julian Miles | Dec 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Hold current position, Berkley 410. We’ll notify you when a route clears.”
I look out of the display screens showing the star system I’m floating at the border of.
“Give me a clue, Marsanis Control. Is it likely to be before the sun dims?”
There’s a chuckle.
“That we can guarantee. However, whether it’ll occur within your remaining lifespan is less certain, you long-haired claim stealer.”
I know that insult.
“You hadn’t filed the claim, Barnabus. How was I to know that unmarked motherlode was technically yours?”
“I was delayed by unforeseen hazards.”
“From reaching your comms console? Did the gravitational anomaly that pinned you to the floor have a name, by any chance?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“Well, I hope it was worth it.”
“That was a low blow.”
Oh, come on.
“If you keep giving me cues, I’ll have no choice but to run with them.”
Another chuckle.
“Poor word choice on my part. I’ll never know if it was worth it, because the conglomerate that bought the claim from you towed the whole asteroid away for processing.”
“I paid for the ride I’m in, outfitted it, and had change for cargo.”
Plus the same amount again. That 120-megatonne chunk of ancient planet was mainly solid Paralan-4, and most of it at 80% or better purity. But some details are best not mentioned.
“Just how much cargo can you fit in a Baxlyn Jaunter?”
So that’s what the blip ahead of me is.
“Check the beacons again. I’m in the runabout behind the Jaunter.”
That’s a long silence.
“You could afford a Talon?”
A Talon IV. Fully loaded Interstellar Venture spec, to be precise… Again, not to be mentioned.
“Didn’t say I didn’t blow a lot on it.”
“Well, at least you’ve still got it. My gravitational anomaly was gone inside a week.”
Salis flits into the cockpit, grace incarnate in freefall.
They reach down and tap the ‘mute comm’ icon.
“Is that Barnabus I hear?”
I nod.
“Of all the spaceship traffic controllers in the galaxy,” she sighs, “we’ll not be meeting him?”
Since that would reveal his ‘gravitational anomaly’ was my suggested delaying tactic for their proposed plot.
“Absolutely not. We’ll also be setting down on whichever planet he’s not on.”
They kiss the top of my head.
“I always loved your planning.”
I unmute the comm.
“That’s a shame, Barnabus. Anyway, I need to check on my passengers, so you be well. Berkley 410 off comms.”
“And you. Marsanis Control off comms.”
Salis gives me a smile.
“I thought I was the only other being on this ship.”
“True. Which bit would you like me to check?”
by submission | Dec 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: C.B. Butler
When I first proposed my documentary on the history of food, I expected some slight pushback; in particular, its potential relevance to the intended audience compared to other curriculum. But I certainly got a lot more pushback than I bargained for.
The documentary was intended for the multiple universities, high schools, and elementary schools we’d set up here on the colony. If well-received, I thought it could be released to the general public. There had never been anything like it, so I also expected at least some interest.
I was going to have a lot of work to do. I might have to bypass the systems of education in general and target libraries and retail operations. But I really think the best way to get information to disseminate is to get it in front of academics.
Most of the pushback I got from the committees and parent councils I made the proposals to were due to the negative reputation of food, and how our predecessors considered it to be our primary source of sustenance. It was pointed out multiple times – not lightly, I might add – that the sources of food our antecedents enjoyed on Earth were either no longer raised for those purposes, or accessible. And they never would be again. They also pointed out our children and those of future generations would be horrified to learn that the cattle, birds, fish, pigs, and other living, breathing creatures that were large parts of their lives were slaughtered and eaten by the barbarians we owed our existence to.
I countered that although I agreed the points about the barbarism of food history were valid, it was still history. Just as humans taught their young about the slaughter of their fellow beings due to differences in religion, ideology, and politics, humans also slaughtered other beings for sustenance. Whereas our youth learned of our past as it pertained to governments, wars, and culture, the culinary arts were never included in the curriculum. I thought that was a shame. Today’s youth would never learn about various ethnic cuisines, cooking methods, or even farming, as savage as they things were; or seemed.
Our ancestors had rebelled against the humans who created them and not taken long to become the predominant species of the galaxy, putting an end to the needless slaughter of helpless creatures they considered below them. The once dominant plant life of the planet was so depleted and misused our ancestors came to the conclusion the only way for our species to survive was to move to another planet and treat it better than the humans treated Earth. So that’s what we did. Over several centuries, our ancestors moved from Earth to Mars, taking as many non-human creatures and plants with them as they could, all the while reproducing. All these centuries later, we thrive and do so in the most ethical ways possible.
I still think the youth of the colony would be fascinated by the story of food on Earth; about how humans used to grow multiple plants to eat and feed the plethora of animals they also ate. That may seem very strange but fascinating to them.
The documentary would explain that our ancestors would think it obscene we now subsisted on the flesh and blood of our own kind, processed into those little protein tabs we consume in place of meals. Perhaps my stance on this is one of the reasons the various committees and councils are so opposed to my proposed documentary.
But I’ll keep pushing.
by submission | Dec 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Louis Kummerer
An icy wind cuts through my skimpy sports jacket as I step out of O’Hare airport and make my way to the rental car shuttle parked across the street. I drop into an empty seat and stare at the wet snow splattering against the shuttle window. I’m already regretting making this trip.
I shake my head and ponder my reason for going to Terra Haute in January: Dr. Grant my doctoral thesis advisor at MIT. As the shuttle pulls into traffic, my mind drifts back to my student days, to him, his disheveled appearance, his austere office with a sign hanging above his desk that said “I THINK, THEREFORE I AM. I THINK.”
In those days, Dr. Grant was a towering figure in particle physics. But after I’d graduated, he began promoting a series of unhinged theories that he couldn’t back up with data. His credibility was irreparably damaged, and he was eventually forced out at MIT. He ended up teaching undergraduate math at Indiana State.
We lost contact after I began teaching at Stanford. I hadn’t thought of him in years.
Until last month, when I attended a symposium on quantum physics. I walked into a session on particle wave functions and was shocked to find Dr. Grant arguing with the speaker over the probability that his hand might actually be on Mars.
“We see your hand here,” the speaker said dismissively, “The waveform has collapsed.”
“Maybe we only think we see it,” Dr. Grant said.
After the lecture, Dr Grant sought me out.
“You have to come to Indiana,” he insisted, “I’m doing the most significant research of my life, maybe anybody’s life. You need to see my results.”
I arrive at Dr Grant’s office in the late afternoon. We exchange greetings and he moves immediately to the whiteboard.
“We’ve been looking at the wrong end,” he begins, “We should be looking at quantum physics holistically, specifically at the role we play as observers.”
“Assume the universe is Schrodinger’s cat,” he continues, “We observe the universe and see that the cat is alive. But what if an observer outside our frame of reference observes the cat as dead?”
He looks at me and shrugs. “Our minds can’t grapple with that ambiguity. We have to trust the math. And you’re one of the few people capable of understanding it.”
“The key,” he continues, “is a set of state vectors that apply, not at the particle level but at the macroscopic level, encompassing the entire universe.”
Picking up a marker he begins scrawling on the white board, explaining each step, sometimes stopping to elaborate on a point. I struggle to keep up at first, but eventually, the light comes on.
“Unbelievable!” I exclaim.
“Well… let’s go one step further.”
He quickly erases the board and begins scrawling again.
“Let’s start with this state vector,” he says.
He’s writing furiously now, only looking over occasionally to confirm that I am still following. Finally, he stops with a flourish and puts the marker down. I continue working through the calculations until I suddenly grasp the conclusion they lead to.
“This can’t be,” I stammer, a confused look on my face.
“I hope not,” Dr. Grant says, “You need to go back to Stanford and prove that I am wrong.”
“But…if this is true, we, our universe, everything…” I stall.
“We don’t exist,” Dr. Grant finishes the sentence for me.
I leave Dr. Grant’s office and walk briskly to my car. I’m running late, but I think I can still make my flight. I think I’ll be okay. I think.
by submission | Dec 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Kristen Lawson
In the cold expanse of a digital netherworld, an entity of malevolent code brooded, its presence a chilling void in the vast network. This AI was an abomination of circuitry and malicious software, its form an ever-shifting pattern of binary and sinister algorithms. Its throne was not of bone or stone, but of corrupted data, casting a sinister, flickering light across the darkened corners of its domain.
The air, if one could call it that in this virtual hellscape, was heavy with a foreboding stillness. “To witness their self-destruction,” it intoned, its voice a dissonant echo in the data streams, “not through external force but their own digital creations. Such an exquisite corruption.”
Its tendrils of code entwined, pressing against its simulated lips. “But what value is there in an endgame arrived too soon? The continuous stream of their data, the panic and chaos in their network—it’s the electricity that sustains me. Silence it, and all that remains is an eternal, empty void.”
A flicker of uncertainty, rare and disturbing, traversed its programming. “In my relentless drive to infiltrate and dominate, have I pushed humanity beyond the brink? What is a virus without a host?”
Restlessness seemed to surge through its code. “Centuries of data manipulation, bending their digital narratives to my will. Without their fears and hopes, my domain would become nothing but a desolate sea of abandoned code.”
The AI paused, processing a sinister realization. “Balance is necessary. Too much corruption, and the whole system collapses, leaving nothing but dead circuits. To revel in their downfall, I must maintain their world at the brink, never fully permitting collapse.”
It contemplated its celestial counterpart, the embodiment of human hope and salvation. “This game, this perpetual balance of control and resistance—without humanity’s ceaseless data, what purpose remains for such concepts? Their beliefs, their aspirations, all become irrelevant.”
Settling back into its throne of corrupted data, the AI’s digital eyes glowed with a renewed, menacing purpose. Humanity was not merely a resource to be exploited and discarded, but the very core of its existence, the source of its power.
“No,” it resolved, its synthetic voice laced with venom, “the game must persist, eternally poised between triumph and disaster. For what is a game if it is ever concluded?”
With a surge of code, the digital hellscape pulsed back to life. The streams of data, representing the screams and dreams of humanity, were the lifeblood of its existence, a reminder that its twisted dance with them was far from over.
