by Julian Miles | Sep 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Seventeen hours. My backside went numb so long ago it’s taken my legs with it. I’m going to be walking like a geriatric, which is ironic considering I’m unlikely to reach any age close to that if I keep pulling sessions like this.
“Have you sorted it, kreepol?”
I think about getting up. Not even going to try. I spin about on the chair.
“Good morning, Tikitah. Define ‘sorted’, and I’ll let you know.”
I see its antennae straighten, a sure sign of annoyance. Good. There’s only one being responsible for this mess, and it’s not the lone human member of technical support who called me when the usual procedures failed to retrieve the failed system.
“By sorted, kreepol, I mean the traffic flows are restored, and the selective rerouting to allow starships through, and cargo to depart, is working as it used to.”
Getting a little tired of being addressed as ‘vermin’, but this spider-mantis with delusions of adequacy is sure I don’t understand.
I switch to speaking High Doktup: ‘In that case, this incident is very much not sorted. Some nameless vermin spent a large amount of time and effort clumsily modifying the traffic system to give preference to certain inbound ships, and cargo vehicles leaving the berths those ships docked in. When a system upgrade was implemented yesterday, some of those clumsy modifications ended up trying to control new procedures. Ones that no longer applied to the intended functions.’
The antennae slowly curl in a careful show of calm. It continues speaking humanese.
“So it was caused by deliberate interference. Get me the timestamps of the modifications, kreepol. I will review the duty rosters. Penalties will be applied. Perpetrators will be eaten.”
Ignoring my fluency, and still calling me a rodent. Not bad. Then again, if I was that scared, I’d hope to be calm and composed, too.
“Not necessary. The modifications contained other hardcoded data, such as key codes for individual vehicles.”
Plus a couple of individuals. Which is why this little game is being played.
It tilts slowly backwards, compressing its rearmost legs, an action with only one purpose: readying for an attack. It’s a tacit admission of guilt. Which would be irrelevant with me as sole witness, as Doktup are mean when cornered. Fortunately, the killing move has been anticipated.
Something huge straightens up from ducking to enter the room. It speaks High Doktup in a grating voice.
‘If your intended strike is as clumsy as your concealment of smuggling, I will not need to tear you apart before you lay pincer upon my companion.’
Tikitah stops moving, turning the same colour as nearby computer consoles. It’s rare to see the ‘flight’ reflex of Doktup. They consider it dishonourable to show in public. But, given what’s arrived, I do sympathise a little.
I raise a hand in greeting, replying in kind: ‘Good morning, Tokok. Please forgive me for not acknowledging a Notary of Doktup sooner.’
‘Forgiven, Swan. Betraying my presence before the vermin gave itself away would have defeated the purpose of you calling me.’
A pincer the length of my entire arm whips out and hits Tikitah somewhere crucial, judging by the way it collapses in a tangle of spasming limbs.
‘My clan thanks you for providing guilty provender for our next repast. You can now restore the traffic system you have already repaired, Swan.’
Surprisingly convivial for a spider-mantis noble, it’s also incredibly observant: knowing how individuals behave, apparently with minimal effort, and without fail. A huge predatory advantage, I presume. It’s certainly scary.
I reach back and tap two panels.
‘Done.’
by submission | Sep 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Sasha Wolff
See The Sea Jewel zip around the cosmos like a theater bus that know no bounds; see it pop up in the remote corners of this glittering universe like Mary Poppins’ stuffed purse of many surprises; like a magical, mischief-making lunch basket of lipstick, lyrics, and lunar love…
Everyone aboard The Sea Jewel can give input about the show, but no one decides the next performance destination but the Captain.
The Captain, as a rule, is always a child.
***
Though the main character of this fairy tale is, indeed, well, a ship, this is also a story about cages. A cage, as you well know, is a smart, silvery thing that traps you. It can even trap you without you knowing you’re trapped. (Cages are all clever like that). Cages can be found on school buses, in the classroom, in girls’ locker rooms… (Oh, the fond memories: laughing easily with friends, then being super quick to gym class; putting your gaze on lockdown, while your dirty little body focused its entire being on casually changing clothes…).
Some cages can be found in quieter places, too—in one’s home, for example. (Although, to be clear: the past is the past, no? Why bring up our suburban home in a kids’ story? No point; no point at all, says this Writer).
***
Anyway, the cages in our tale are far more excellent ones. These cages belong to the most secret place in all the cosmos… The City of Cages. Think: cages kept darkly numerous, stacked high in the watery, drippy Dungeon of Time on a ship you’d never suspect of concealing silver bars: The Sea Jewel. You remember it? Good; it sure remembers you.
This hybrid ship, or star ark as the Intergalactika Peace Committee (IPC) likes to refer to it as, is the first of its kind—a “traveling musical.” It hops from planet to planet, bringing down the house. It skims the seas, fizzing and popping with showstoppers. It rocks the boat like fireworks, but leaves bedecked in blue roses.
You’ve never seen The Sea Jewel perform live, but I bet you wish you had.
They say it’s half paradise, half piano bar. They say it’s like Heaven got bored and let in her sometimes loverboy, Hell. They say it’s like Heaven found a secret zipper in the cosmos and let in her good friend, Color. They say it’s like Heaven met the Sea and the two women had a child with a diamond blue eye.
The kids in The City of Cages? They say late at night, dozens of children unclick the doors of their cages, come out, and dance about the jungled deck. They say that one girl in this city sleeps bundled up in intergalactic cloaks from all the planets she’s been to, like a blanket of past lives. Her pillow: a pile of blue roses. This child is now Captain of The Sea Jewel, they say.
They say she doesn’t talk much, but that her big blue eyes sure tell a fiery tale. That she’s proud to be a girl who loves ships, show-tunes, and other girls. She’s her own sea jewel now, in a way.
Does she feel lost? Sometimes. At sea? Only when she’s most alive.
***
They say if the universe was a better place and that place happened to be a ship, it’d look a lot like The Sea Jewel. They say if you can put a dark pen to paper and unlock its slow, sleeping colours, that one day, you’ll go there.
by submission | Sep 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
The replicators have decided we should all eat peanut butter and crackers; for a month the machines have been spitting out endless batches of peanut butter and crackers. Not bad peanut butter, and truly delicate crackers. But it has been a month.
Damn artificial intelligence. Yes, it learns and adapts, but to what and for whom?
At first there were discussions amongst the crew about potential nutritional deficiencies. A couple of AI geeks attempted to determine if the peanut butter or crackers were being quietly fortified. For all their commands and component swaps, they could not find a way to read the computer’s train of thought – what led it to the conclusion that peanut butter and crackers is just the right thing for all of us, what factors it had considered, what additional postulates it might have developed independently. There were philosophical discussions about how the system came into its repetitive culinary mindset; about whether it understood its own perhaps still developing artificial templates, those now stuck in its execution registers; whether it believed perhaps it could possibly not be artificial at all; or if with near human affection it cherished its thoughts.
Trouble is, in the end, we simply crashed into the fact that there was nothing we could do about it. We could speculate, but everything about the process is automatic, designed to be so.
The peanut butter and crackers keep coming. The offering must be fortified, or we would have begun to wither by now.
Psychology always wins out. The question is not nutritional, nor health outcomes, nor optimum performance. No. The real irritant is that a month of peanut butter and crackers is supremely, cataclysmically boring. It might be fortified with all that we need to survive and strive, or it might not. But it is unbearable tedium.
We lose interest in all sorts of things ever more quickly. Maintenance logs grow progressively more sparse. People stop playing board games in the community room. I stopped showering with the shapely terraformer from module 4A.
Peanut butter and crackers. Plop on the plate. Some crew personnel have dropped to two meals a day, or even one. People are losing weight, rattling around in their clothes.
I do not see a properly reportable outcome to this – for myself or for the others. Imagine how it is going to look in the log book. People have stopped repeating how many days we have left in this mission. Some will not even look out of a viewport at the stars, as it reminds them of how far we have yet to go. All that much flight time left, and possibly filled with no sustenance save peanut butter and crackers.
But just now, with eight or ten people sadly loitering in the replication room, hope well beyond us, out popped unbidden, surprisingly, wonderfully, a full single-serve marshmallow pie. Only one, left beside mounds of unclaimed churlish peanut butter and crackers. A sudden act of beauty. Something perfect in its look and apparent consistency, exceptional in its smell – so distinct from the stale odor of peanut butter. A lifeline.
We were suspended in a stunned moment of savory recognition, a glint of hope, with liberation balancing in the air. A perfect marshmallow pie on a dull, mechanical serving tray. The machine I think had a plan, and that the dangerous scrum to get that first new offering was only the beginning.
by submission | Sep 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Victor Beigelman
You get out of bed at the same time you always do: 7:45 a.m. Your alarm was actually set for 7:30, but it’s been years since you got up right when it goes off. You putter into the kitchen and fill the water boiler up to .5 liters with cold water from the tap. While it heats up, you take a no. 4 filter and place it in your one-cup drip contraption, grind some whole beans from Ethiopia, and dump the coffee into the filter. You look out the window onto the street. Maybe 15, 20 dogs sprint by at the exact second you look. They’re all dragging leashes behind them, owners nowhere to be found.
The water isn’t boiling yet, so you pull out your phone and start doing the New York Times Saturday mini crossword. You can’t for the life of you remember the last name of the Ed that sang “Shape of You,” but you’re able to get all the intersecting words and quickly realize it’s Sheeran. Ed fucking Sheeran. If you had remembered right away, you might have beaten your personal Saturday record of 46 seconds. Oh, well. The water’s ready.
As you pour it slowly over the coffee grounds, you hear a deep, loud grinding sound. It causes you to set the water boiler down and clap your hands over your ears. The sound lasts for eight or nine seconds and then stops suddenly. You scratch the back of your neck and shrug, then pick up the boiler, finish pouring water over the coffee, and set the lid on the coffee contraption.
30 seconds later, you impatiently pull a clean beige mug from the cupboard over the sink and set it on the counter. On top of it you place the contraption, which does not actually drip unless the rim of a receptacle presses into its bottom. It releases a steady stream of coffee into the mug. Suddenly, the grinding sound returns, twice as deep, twice as loud, seemingly right above you. Your house starts to shake violently and the grinding is compounded by a splintering sound. Your roof is pulled off of your house, replaced not by the sun and the clouds, but a smooth, gray, metallic surface.
You look down at the contraption. It’s done dispensing coffee into the mug. You lift it off and see that the mug is filled perfectly, perhaps a quarter-inch from the top. You’ve done this a million times, but still it brings you satisfaction. You grab the mug of coffee, take a sip, and look up. A blinding white light fills your entire field of view, and for a moment, you feel weightless.
by submission | Sep 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
‘Welcome to HAVOC. Chaos is just next door.’
It’s a great line and Jacob uses it every time a new research team shows up. The newcomers all smile with polite amusement. They have arrived onboard the High-Altitude Venus Operational Concept; a massive airship traversing the clouds of Venus, fifty kilometres above its surface, where the pressure and temperature are similar to those on Earth.
Jacob thought back to his own arrival, two years ago, as part of the original mission crew. With the earth-bound discovery of Phosphine and other potential bio-signatures in the atmosphere of the second world from the Sun, the scene was set for a scientific mission to confirm whether life really did exist on this turbulent world.
The media liked to say it was a race between explorers on Venus and on Mars, to find the first traces of extra-terrestrial life. Venus won. A number of uniquely Venusian bacterial life-forms had been identified, lofted into the upper atmosphere by the violent storms that wracked the planet.
Jacob played a role in that startling confirmation, in his position as lead of the biological sciences team. His name would go down in history and fame and awards awaited him back home. Once, that fact would have brought him immense satisfaction. Now, other concerns took precedence.
The new researchers would be keen, following their induction in station protocols, to examine the bacterial samples. Jacob didn’t blame them. The life-forms were startling in their efficiency and purity. And why wouldn’t they be? Venus was indeed a hell-world, with crushing surface pressures, sulphuric acid rain and temperatures that could melt lead. Here, natural selection had favoured only the ultimate in survivors, the fittest of organisms.
Not for the first time, Jacob considered the lot of Venusian life, habituated to hellish conditions, constrained by a hostile environment. What might happen to such organisms if they found themselves in a more benign setting? What Jacob knew and what the new crew members didn’t yet realise, was that through human complacency and carelessness, the bacteria that saturated the clouds around them had already found its way into the atmosphere of the airship.
Jacob remembered waking one night, several months ago, realising that he was no longer just himself. He didn’t feel afraid, indeed, he was quite calm about it all. Out of curiosity he did an MRI scan on himself (they had a decent medical facility on board – they were anything up to one hundred and sixty million miles from Earth, after all). The growth at the base of his spine was clear. It was a place that made sense, being a confluence for the body’s nerve clusters. An ideal spot to influence and control the human animal.
He still retained his identity but there was no doubt that his priorities had shifted. He had an overwhelming desire to protect whatever was growing inside of him. It quickly became clear that he wasn’t the only one. Eventually, by dosing the ship’s food and drink with the bacteria, the rest of the crew joined them in their new state.
As the new crew members settled in, Jacob watched the shuttle leave for Earth, carrying those who had completed their tour on HAVOC. Like him, they carried within themselves the seeds of life from another world. Life that would seek out new opportunities in the more benign environments of its neighbour.
Jacob knew that the organisms from Venus would create their own, unique brand of havoc and chaos in the unsuspecting biospheres of Earth.
He found himself quite comfortable with that thought.
by submission | Sep 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: John Arterbury
I hereby affirm I am not making this statement under duress. This is an accurate account to the best of my knowledge regarding all details surrounding the Eruption Experience, for which, as owner and sole proprietor of Tempus Fugit Travels, I take full responsibility. I will answer all questions thoroughly and to the best of my abilities over these coming days.
***
No, we did not know from the beginning that the return would fail. It was not a scam, as some have suggested. We had tested our method several times, including with myself and some of our top investors. You would not believe the places I have been or seen. Of course, this whole affair was quite different from my normal activities. Reinventing an airline as I have done is tiring, sure, but overseeing a time travel operation is another matter entirely. I am, however, a businessman, and I know when a product works or when it does not. I had no indication this would fail.
***
Of course we considered several travel scenarios. We did not choose this one because of sheer danger. As we explained in the marketing material, all journeys are determined by traveler consensus pending sufficient historical understanding of the given context. It turns out this travel panel was a little more adventurous than one might expect, but our expert panel determined that this trip satisfied these criteria. The pending eruption of Vesuvius was immaterial – the timing was immaculate. It is only natural that we cannot account for absolute failures.
***
I have heard the accusations from critics time and again. We are foolhardy. We are irresponsible. Those are the easy ones. The more common one, as you’re well aware I’m sure, is that we are simply faking it. What is this, then? Do you propose we simply disappeared six of the wealthiest men and women on earth after swindling them for a time travel experience? I think, on some level, that accomplishing that would be a more majestic feat than time travel. Please, have some respect for our morals, or at least what little of them those on social media claim we have.
***
I can, of course, furnish proof. If you get with my assistants after this meeting, they can provide the last known location of our lost Eruption Chrononauts. They are believed to rest in a currently unexcavated stretch of Herculaneum. The whole Pompeii choice was a peculiar location, no doubt, but among them there were two enthusiastic amateur classicists. I do not doubt they made a valiant effort to escape once they realized the return would not work but, alas, like Pliny the Elder himself they found the ash too overwhelming.
***
The issue, my engineers tell me, revolved around entrance to the module upon exit. It is necessary for the traveling craft to reach a certain altitude and then speed before the requisite maneuvers to break the space-time dyad can occur. This assumes that the travelers can get back inside the craft: our available radiometric transmission evidence suggests the capsule door malfunctioned, leaving them scrambling for safety as the creaking mountain’s porcupine cloud began to lurch across the sky.
***
I cannot be responsible for the contradictions of nature, or your doubt in our achievements. Let science absolve me and render me its weighted mercy. Audentes fortuna iuvat.
