by submission | May 17, 2014 | Story |
Author : Brian Varcas
John didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. Ever since he sent out the email invitation for his demonstration he’s been inundated with offers of ridiculous amounts of money for the manufacturing rights for his invention. It looked like it was going to change his life.
It had started as a bit of fun. He’d been in the garden of his parents home last summer and was being targeted by the local population of wasps who seemed to be taking it in turns to dive bomb him. John waved his arms furiously every time one approached.
“Don’t do that, “ his father had said, “you’ll only make them angry.”
John’s dad, Arthur, was a retired engineer. “If I could have harnessed the power of angry wasps I’d be a millionaire” he laughed.
“Great idea!” John had exclaimed, waving another marauder away, “I’ll get onto it on Monday”
So, the following Monday John set to work. His plan was to find a way of generating electricity from the activity of wasps. As a lecturer and researcher in Astrophysics at the local university he had all the equipment he needed for his little side project and within a couple of weeks he had produced a working model; a toy train running around a circular track powered completely by wasps. He showed his dad and they had a good laugh about it.
John decided to present his little invention to a wider audience and sent an email flyer to faculty members and students inviting them to a demonstration. Somebody must have forwarded the email on to a number of British and American companies and that’s when the offers had started to come in.
As he carried the box containing his train and a number of furiously buzzing wasps into the hall where his demonstration was to take place he glanced at the poster on the door. That’s when he saw the typo and his heart sank. The poster read:
“Professor John Kendrick, renowned Astrophysicist presents:
THE FIRST WARP DRIVE – AN EVOLUTIONARY STEP IN TRANSPORT!”
by submission | May 16, 2014 | Story |
Author : P. S. Walker
Day 2:
Only day fucking two? I’m pretty sure time’s measurements are inaccurate. I’m trapped in my kitchen by my home built robot. How insane that in a world where everything is connected I’m stuck in the only room without any sort of communication. At least there’s food in here, but I’ve had to piss in the sink a couple of times.
I guess since this is my first entry that I should explain what happened here; for when they find my mangled corpse. Hopefully they decide to read the folded up paper towel I’m writing this on.
I’ve always been interested in robots, so I thought it would be a square little project to build my own. It’s much cheaper than buying one and easier than you’d expect these days; choose your parts, check compatibility, plug the right bits into the right holes and you’re done. I say it’s easy, but I’ve managed to fuck it up immensely.
I’d built a functioning Bot, even its hand-eye co-ordination worked pretty well with only a few adjustments, apparently I have a knack for this. Once my Tab was showing signs of all the sensors working properly, all commands making sense, even customised voice commands (while we’re on this, please don’t command the Bot to “do your thing”, save a dead guy some embarrassment, eh?).
At this point it was going well, then I installed the IU (Intelligence Unit). They always say this is the part that defines your Bot’s quality, the problem is that makes it an expensive part, and if you haven’t noticed the shitty state of my flat (no, the robot didn’t throw my clothes or a month’s worth of half-eaten pizza on the floor during its rampage) I don’t have much money. To the internet I ventured; hundreds of suggestions, it was overwhelming, I found one boasting very good physical functions for about a third of the price of a big-brand option, I couldn’t resist myself.
The ad never mentioned it was programmed to kill people. I don’t understand it, is this some sort of small-scale cyber terrorism? Or maybe my Tab had some sort of virus? Anyway, the install went perfectly as far as I know, all hardware drivers seemed to be fine. It was able to smash my phone with perfect accuracy within seconds of it booting up for the first time (told you, I have a knack for calibration).
It went for my throat but I somehow dodged, it chased me, ignored all verbal commands and I’d yet to assign any sort of emergency override (no one does that before having a quick play with their Bot). So without thinking I dived into the kitchen and barricaded the door with my fridge and washing machine. Now I’m stuck here, no plans. I’m a rabbit, trapped in its burrow with a fox waiting at the only exit. The only difference is I’ve made my own personal plastic fox.
End
by submission | May 15, 2014 | Story |
Author : cchatfield
The child hovers in the doorway, reluctant to abandon the light of the hall.
“But it’s dark…” she whispers, “I don’t like the closet. Or the bed.”
Her father pats the pillow and proffers a gently humming comfort-bot. “Don’t worry. I promise there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“But what about the monsters?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “They wouldn’t dare. Would I ever lie to you?”
————
“It won’t hurt you.”
The girl is crouched on the couch, broomstick at the ready.
“It’s just a helper-bot,” says her father, “It’s here to clean and take orders. It won’t even come near you.”
Slowly, she lowers her plastic weapon. “Are you sure?”
————
Father and daughter stand in the docking zone, lugging suitcases fit to burst. The interplanetary ships loom overhead, buzzing with the activity of labor-bots, crews, and passengers.
“Dad, I’m not sure I want to do this.”
He pauses to rest a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Will life be better there?”
He drops his baggage to wrap an arm around her.
“Life will be different, and we’ll have to work hard. But we’ll be happy and it’ll be worth it.”
“Promise?”
————
The alarm’s shrieks are replaced by a lone strobe-light flickering from the hallway. The man murmurs into a handheld screen: “Thanks, but no. We’ll stay here. We’d rather be alone.”
He signs off and sits beside his daughter on the bed.
His face is haggard, but his voice calm. “It’s the air systems. The bots destroyed the fuel reserves. They’ll breach this end of the ship soon.”
He opens his palm and the two pills glint in the light.
“If we’re unconscious, it won’t be bad at all. The air will stop and we won’t even know.”
The young woman’s voice quavers. “Will it hurt?”
His lips twitch and he shakes his head, “Just like going to sleep. Would I ever lie to you?”
by Clint Wilson | May 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
I am Charlie. I have been augmented with idog software. I can understand over 6000 words of English. I like food. I like warmth. I love my master.
He navigates the garbage-strewn alleyways with the expertise of someone born post invasion. I am only two years old. I follow him with undying loyalty. Together we study the open plain of an abandoned city square. A rabbit scurries sixty feet away yet I sit frozen. Not until my master gives the signal will I move a muscle.
Finally he lets me know it’s time to proceed. We slip along tight against the burned out buildings, hiding in the shadows as much as we can, avoiding the open space.
With a thunderous explosion the clouds part and a saucer drops from the sky like a weight, thudding hard onto the concrete of the square. My master reacts instantly, twisting and diving through a half-boarded up window into a long abandoned tenement. His familiar whistle pierces the air and I follow him through the opening.
Their humanoid detectors have located his form and they will not give up easily as they continue their relentless pursuit to abolish his kind.
My master sprints across a cluttered family room and bursts through a paper-thin door into a dingy hallway. I follow at his heels. Together we make our way toward the fire escape. Suddenly a lean muscular rottweiler jumps from an apartment doorway and lands in front of us, slobbering and growling like a hellhound. I skid to a halt on my four blonde paws, my master coming to a stop beside me. My father was a Pit-bull. My mother was a German Shepard. I remember them both dearly. I am a handsome dog who knows how to fight.
But my idog implant gives me other options. I quickly send the rottweiler an imessage. She receives it and I know that she too has idog. “Where is your master?” I type across the inside of her eyeball.
“He no longer moves.”
“So he is dead then?”
“I am not a doctor. I am not qualified to say.”
My own master has had enough of this and raises his weapon. I give him a familiar whine and a wink. He lowers his gun. “Hurry up then. We must move quickly!”
I turn my attention back to the rottweiler. “My master would have killed you had I not just intervened. Let us pass.” She looks up at him, then at me again, and bows back inside of her apartment doorway.
Together my master and I jump out onto the fire escape. Air drones buzz down and fire their lasers. My master dives into a dumpster and I follow. A blast from above explodes a cinderblock wall and knocks the dumpster over.
We scramble out and down the alley. Then another turn, and over a low cement wall and down an embankment. We are free. Soon we arrive in an old part of town, one we are familiar with. Yet, something has changed. The roof is missing from the Main Street Plaza. Suddenly a saucer drops from the sky. My master is blasted and instantly obliterated into a cloud of red droplets. I dive behind a pile of garbage, catching my breath.
I wait for hours, yet no one seeks me. My master is gone; I have witnessed this with my own eyes. After a time I realize that nobody is ever going to look for me. I slink from the rubble and make my way back toward the rottweiler’s apartment. Perhaps she has some ideas.
by Julian Miles | May 13, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
In a room devoid of décor, two chairs face each other across a table barely wide enough to be called a bench. Everything shows the khaki swirls of extruded Replast. In the left hand seat, a young man in filthy rags sits in a pose of tired resignation. Opposite, in many ways, sits a young woman in the uniform of a Major in the Ministry of Defence.
“Please speak clearly. This interview is being recorded and witnessed.” She smiles after she speaks; an encouragement.
“I must have given my statement a dozen times over the last week.” The tramp seems unimpressed, but his shoulders straighten.
“This will be the last time. Full and formal record.”
“Okay. How would you like it presented?”
“Tell the version you gave to the Draft Evasion Board.”
He leans back and stares at the ceiling. His voice betrays an education at odds with his appearance.
“It was ten years ago, just after the first conscription draft intake. We were in the same barracks. As you know, that draft was split into units after the first three months. I ended up in the scutwork battalion. He got into the new army cadre. I never figured it out, just got on with it. UNE profiling gave us the jobs we could do best, so I did my bit.”
She leaned forward: “Then came the Advent City Incident.”
“We all watched the news. The firestorm, the ship coming down, the recruits getting massacred trying to protect the townsfolk. Then the camera picked up a lone figure at extreme range, hanging off the old mine workings on a firing sling with a Trapenor Missile Launcher. Firing that monster was suicide; he’d bring the hillside down on himself for sure. But at that range, the missile would penetrate the Khomin’s shields and hull. We cheered like everyone else when he gave his life to save so many. We were so damn proud. A conscript had become the first hero of the Human-Khomin War. Everyone was fired up.”
“Until the hero was named.” She sat back and crossed her legs.
He grimaced: “It took them a week to recover his body. I was just out of the showers when someone slapped me on the back and told me I was a hero. When I heard the news, I went to our battalion office and made some enquiries. They told me my name was Gustav and that I should stop messing about. I got really angry. So they sedated me. I woke up in an ‘Unsuitable for Service’ workhouse.”
“Which you escaped from and disappeared. Until eight days ago.”
His grin was infectious: “Wouldn’t you? All of a sudden, I was a lunatic and my mum had a dead hero for a son.”
“So why did you come back?”
“Mum died two weeks ago. She’d had the support of a grateful Earth in her waning years, something far better than I could have given her. But now she’s gone, and the war is two years past. It’s time for the truth to be revealed. There is no way that a five-month recruit could have rigged an ad-hoc sniper harness on those mine ruins, let alone overcome the safety limiters and proximity locks on a Trapenor.”
“Say it clearly, please.”
There is a silence as he gathers himself. It reminds her of an animal shaking off the concealment it has risen from.
“My name is Leon Sprake. The man you have named streets, warships and memorials after was an identity thief, and I think we all need to know who he really was.”
