by submission | Dec 8, 2012 | Story |
Author : Ian Florida
Jack was grateful he had never been human. He was thankful that he’d skipped out on that entire sliver of Earth’s history. He knew humans: pink bundles of flesh with more emotional baggage then a type IV psychic could ever hope to unravel. That he didn’t want to be human wasn’t strange at all, what was surprising, however; was that he kept falling so madly in love with them.
He kissed her. Her breath tasted like wine and chocolate. Pulling away he looked into her eyes which shone as brightly as Andromeda’s galactic core. “Will you upgrade?”
“I’m already H+, I’ll live forever if that’s what you’re worried about, my little Metal Man.
They’d had the conversation before, and part of him didn’t want to bring it up again. He knew it’d be painful. But if he could only make her understand… “But we can’t interface.”
She caressed his bare chest.“I thought we just did?” She cooed.
He tapped his soft polymer head. “I mean up here.”
“You mean you can’t read my mind. You don’t trust me?”
“No, it’s about intimacy.”
“You don’t love me as much as you’d love another robot.”
He tried to kiss her again hoping she’d forget it. But she wasn’t interested in a truce. Her long aquamarine hair slapped him in the face as she turned her head.
He hissed. “Don’t be like that.”
Her eyes were hard and cold. “I-Should-be-more-ro-bot-ic,” she mocked the way he spoke.
“I don’t like that word. I’m an AI, I don’t sit on a line riveting space ships.”
Her tone was smooth but still not quite as warm as right before the kiss. “Is that robot racism?”
“All I’m saying is if you were to upgrade, just to Cyber, not even full body, we’d be able to Link.”
She spat. “Like you and Aurora.”
Jack groaned. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“Why do you keep winding up with women if what you really want is another bot?”
“I hate that word.”
Her slender fingers wrapped around the control disk on the wall. “Fine, bodied AI.” I’m going out for a bite, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see anything so crude so you can stay here.”
“Stay, please. Let’s talk about this. You know you don’t need to eat.”
“And you don’t need to Link. But they’re both a part of who we are, and if you can’t love me for what I am….”
She slammed the door. Humans loved slamming things, but her especially. She’d even found a way to slam the automatic ones.
She was always partly right. He attributed it to her being such an advanced Bio, reorganized at the genetic level. She wasn’t natural, any more than he was really. But Bio’s and Metals had two different ways of thinking about things. Maybe I just love the conflict. He mused. He closed down his physical inputs and plugged into the Global Link.
…
Kate’s gentle voice whispered into his ear. “Wake up.”
His eyes came back online. He glanced out the window, it was light outside. She had let him “sleep,” all night. She was nowhere in sight. “Did you sleep well?” She asked.
His eyes darted around the room. “Where are you?”
She cooed. “Next door.”
He stepped into the bedroom. A wave of ecstasy washed over his mind, at that moment he realized it was not her voice he was hearing.
She was spread out naked on the bed. Her amber body glowed with the light of early dawn. On the surface she looked exactly the same. But he could feel her thoughts washing over him, like a shower, warm and comforting. He could see all her past and all her fears. He crawled into bed beside her and took her into his arms.
“I love you so much,” he whispered.
“I didn’t get a full conversion, it’s just the wireless.”
“But we can still Link, that’s all that matters.”
“I did it for you Jack, and now you’ll have to do something for me.”
“He grinned as she pressed her warm body against his.”
“I want you to learn Salsa Dancing,” she cooed as sent him the image of a man in a sombrero.
Their lips pressed together. He linked directly to her mind, the sensation overpowered him. Made his whole body tremble. Their mouths pressed tight his words danced out directly from his mind to hers. “The things we do for love…”
by Clint Wilson | Jun 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Falkland brushed past the patrons in the smoky bar. He had not visited such a place as this in decades. But he heard that they were back, and he had to see for himself.
Glancing around one last time he advanced on the booth. He looked down at the payment slot and was not surprised to see that it still accepted sticks. He stretched his long unused monetary storage capsule out to the end of its coiled cord and touched it to the slot. Immediately the booth flashed to life and a tutorial started to play.
In the hologram a jaunty blonde fellow in a shiny green suit stepped forth in mirror-polished shoes, while a bland but upbeat orchestral arrangement droned in the background.
“Welcome back citizen! Now before we begin, please allow me to orate a brief history on fortune telling, for your benefit.”
Falkland looked for a “skip” or “close” icon but there were none. Oh well, he figured. I guess for a hundred bucks you had to listen to a little preamble.
The hologram went on, “The beginning of the mapping of mankind’s forward progression really dates back to the early computerized categorization of personal information. From files as simple as home addresses and telecommunication access numbers, to more complex examples containing behavioral habits and psychological patterns, information gathering evolved quickly.
“But then once personal handheld com devices and, soon after, cyber-integrates became commonplace, it was easy for the web to follow the majority of society in its every move. And as mankind became more and more integrated with the web it became possible to track nearly every thought had by every human everywhere at all times… and as the web became faster and more powerful still, it began to run more and more complex simulations. And before long it was accurately predicting almost every single instance that would ever take place amongst humankind.”
Falkland knew the rest of the story. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as the holo went on to summarize about how fortune telling had eventually almost wiped out the human race. (A much longer tale, and thankfully not one that the little CGI character was about to make him endure) And of how the global elders had only just recently begun to allow “limited” forecasting under strict regulation. The parameters were stiffly regimented. No specifics were to be given, only vagueness. But at least there was one failsafe. The machine could not lie. Falkland knew that whatever the booth told him would be true.
So as he waited patiently for some high tech tendril of the web to calculate everything the entire network knew about him in a few seconds, he eyed the fortune slot. No matter what it said, no matter how vague, he knew it would be true. That was the one thing he could count on.
Suddenly a plastic card rattled out of the slot and hung there by its corner as if though supported only by the apex of fate itself.
Falkland glanced around nervously one last time and then plucked the card from its slot. Whatever it said, no matter how bizarre, he could be assured that it was absolutely accurate. He flipped it over and read, “The fate of the world lies in your hands.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 7, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“A is for Android, B is for Blood,”
They chant so happily, without a care in the world. I love them so much, but that is exactly why I am crèche matresse. The room is huge and covered with colourful pictures of all the neo-heroes and the choices available to those who succeed.
“F is for Fractal, G is for Grunt,”
Jemima is clapping in time with perfect rhythm, tapping her heels on the off beats and nodding the quarters. She will be an entertainer. Natural gifts and predilections are so essential to a healthy adult purpose. I am better than any at spotting the indicators.
“K is for Kill, L is for Longevity,”
Gregory’s pupils dilate when he says the word ‘kill’. I always suspected that he was a cleaner like his father. Others had been squeamish when he flushed his mother for emotivating. I knew that he had merely found his vocation before his time.
“P is for Perfection, Q is for Quality,”
They are so delightful, so innocent, so soft and so very fragile. The empty chair shows where poor Michael discovered that he couldn’t take the fast way down from the family apt like his adult brother. Stupidity is genetic and in this society, self-erasing.
“U is for Ultimate, V is for Valour,”
Tomorrow they are having a trip to the bioengineering facilities, to see this year’s graduates receive their adult states. Tracey will not be coming back. Her extra-sensory abilities merit quantitative analysis. Vivisection will allow rapid assessment.
“Z is for Zanjero; this is the Alphaset.”
They finish with a shout and laughter. I raise my hand and they fall silent.
“Nigel, define Xenium for us.”
He stands up, hands by his side, head back. Excellent form.
“Xenium is what the Cygress requires of humanity, the gift of adulthood. We give it so that our emotional excess can never cause mass destruction again.”
I nod and he sits quickly.
“Samantha, define Deviance for us.”
She stands up, arms crossed and feet a shoulder width apart. I had been wondering where her predilection placed her and now I see. She will make a fine grunt.
“Deviance is when a human does not submit Xenium. The Deviance movement has it origins in the resistance to the cyber-statutes of 2419. It was confirmed as a unified resistance in 2505. While it suffered losses with the institution of the cleaner programme in 2630, today it is considered a viable threat to the Cygress. It is gaining ground and its signature is raids of incredible daring and high risk under the aegis of Commander Connor -”
She stops a fine summation to stare behind me at the portal to the crèche. I rotate my head to see which luminary has decided to join us today.
He is dressed in a brown duster coat with a neural defence headset. His utility harness is festooned with weapons and guerrilla insurgency technology. He is smiling and his eyes are clear blue. Behind him I see the rest of his team securing the corridor.
In my near-field, I can see the tip of the shell at the base of the barrel underslung on the Jensen Suppressor EMP gun. It is a massive piece of anti-cyborg hardware and I feel fear for the first time since I went to receive my adult state. His voice is a rich baritone.
“That’s as fine an introduction as we need kids. Schools out.”
I see his finger tighten on the trigger and the pulse
fragmen
ts
me…
by submission | Jun 14, 2011 | Story
Author : Jordan Whicker
Wake up, Pjotr.
My eyes snap open. I am awake. Adrenaline courses through my body and my eyes flit around my bedroom, eager to locate the source of the voice before I alert it to the fact that I’m no longer asleep. There’s no one here.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the pregnant darkness of the predawn world.
My body uncoils and I roll over onto my back, riding out the jarring hum of a body coming down from its own blend of crank. I boot up my HUD – the world seems foggy without it – and check the downloads tab. A tingling of excitement runs down my spine as I see that the package I began seeding last night has completed. A mod that – if the chatter is to be believed – will change the way we perceive the world. It’s illegal, of course: a legacy of the drug wars. Not to mention that if they actually cracked down on every illegal modder they’d run out of cells to constrain the wicked masses.
This alarm clock mod my mom installed under my admin login, for instance. Under the Preserving Inalienable Cyber Rights Act I am guaranteed exclusive access to and use of my admin account. My mother has made it clear what she thinks of her Inalienable Right to induce suffering and culture dismay. And this cheap-ass alarm clock can’t even get my name right. Peter. Some hackjob she got off the Russian penny markets, no doubt. Pathetic.
I walk into 4th hour geometry as the tone is sounding. Hood up, head down, I head straight for my desk at the back of the class. I slump into the seat and resume my Sisyphean meditation on the faux wooden desk in front of me that is now dancing with an assortment of shapes and formulas that I look at but do not see. This facade of fastidious concentration assuages the teacher (what was his name?) and frees me up to spend time navigating my HUD, which I begin to do immediately.
I bring the package to the front and give it clearance to assemble. Immediately the mod begins executing billions of operations – the initial stirrings of a coded entity’s existence. After a handful of seconds and a furious sequence of alterations to the source code of my HUD, the mod’s icon floats suddenly, irrevocably, at the center of my vision. KLB502, it reads. Karium LithoBios number five hundred and two. The sum of our efforts. My heart quickening, I open the mod.
And nothing happens. I shift in my seat, to see if the mod’s effects are reticent; I’ve heard of mods that alter base level cerebral processes. But there’s no discernible difference. Nothing has changed. A panicked anxiety begins to constrict my heart and the dread of squandered anticipation and hope and promise begins to seep into the periphery of my brain. I look desperately around the room, silently pleading for some revelation to appear in this drab, unidimensional existence that is my life. I want to scream.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself, for the second time that day.
Stand up, Pjotr.
And then I am standing, although I do not remember leaving my seat. The teacher has stopped lecturing and the other kids in the class have all turned to look at me; his mouth is moving but he’s not making any sound. I tilt my head to look at him – why is he mouthing words at me?
Kill them, Pjotr.
And I take my first step forward.
by submission | Apr 25, 2011 | Story
Author : Jordan Whicker
Henry Goodman sank readily into the welcoming embrace of his favorite recliner; the whoosh of air escaping these cushions and the groan of its leather was the only ‘Welcome home, honey!’ he’d ever known. He sat in silence for a few moments, his eyes closed, his mind working to quell the tempest of thoughts that had roared unabated for years. He wasn’t having much luck.
He opened his eyes after some time and stared at the TV across the room. A large part of him wanted to leave the TV off, as if doing so might preserve his anonymous existence here in his comfortable chair. He knew it was impossible; whether he watched or not millions of others around the world would be glued to their sets at this very moment, seeing his face and speaking his name, committing them both to memory. Henry Goodman, the father of the Second Computer Revolution. The Singularity. No, nothing would ever be the same. Not for him. Not for the world.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
Moments ago, Henry Goodman, a Senior Researcher at the Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, committed a cyber attack against the United States of America. His unprovoked attacks crippled the nation’s internet, cellular, and telephony capabilities, plunging the nation into a communications deadzone. As Goodman has effectively deafened the nation’s police and counter-terrorism forces, a $10 million bounty has been placed on Henry Goodman, effective immediately. Authorities warn that Goodman is extremely dangerous, likely armed, and liable to intensify his cyber attacks against the United States of America at any moment. President Ibson has authorized the use of lethal force to neutralize the domestic terrorist Henry Goodman. May God bless the United States of America at this dark hour.
The message looped, then, the female voice speaking over security camera footage of Henry working in his lab.
“No,” Henry croaked. “No no no no no no no.” He cycled through the channels on his television. They all broadcast the same message, the same voice intoning his death sentence.
How can this be happening? Henry thought. We put controls in place and –
His thoughts were cut off by three staccato bangs on the door.
“You in there, Good Man?” The muffled voice added stress to the second syllable of Henry’s last name where there typically was none. “I don’t really need to ask. I seen you come home and I ain’t seen you leave so unless you already offed your own fool self I reckon you still in there.”
Henry’s eyes darted around the room; he cursed the sudden uselessness of all his possessions. He grasped the lamp that stood next to his recliner, yanking it away from the wall and plunging the room into darkness.
“Well then. Guess there’s my answer. Make this easy on me Henry, it’s gonna happen eventually.”
A clipped blast freed the deadbolt and set the door swinging wildly on its hinges. The man stepped in, shotgun pressed to his shoulder as he scanned the room.
“It’s too late,” Henry stated from his hiding place behind the recliner.
“I know it is, and I’m almost sorry Good Man.”
“No, you don’t get it. I’m the only one who knows how to stop it. And it realized that.”
The man stepped around the recliner and leveled the weapon at Henry. “Good for it. Any last words?”
“All hail the computer overlord,” Henry said. His voice was even; a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had done it.
