by submission | Dec 2, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ephrat Livni
Probably in most situations it’s bad news bears when the boss asks you to supply drugs. But in this case, it’s alright. First, we’re talking weeds. And second, Ellipsis has been reviewing biz docs for said boss, so she knows investments are risky and the question is potential return on investment, or ROI in bizspeak. If anything, she feels favored, not burdened, by the request — and favored is what you need to be if you are going to compete. Ellipsis wants to compete. Well, she doesn’t really want to. But it’s a competitive time and she doesn’t lack drive, so she says it can be sorted.
“Awesome. Cuz this project plushellasux.” Boss slides away, enjoying the admiring glances of pale, haggard, underpaid Metropolitans, wishing they too had that magical MoreCorp Silicon glow.
Ellipsis is not immune, even if she is wary. She also believes. How could you not? MoreCorp rules the interwebs and the inters rule all. Who is she to disdain? If there is a game, she wants to play, and people say there is, the Lovesport, like an employment Olympics in the time of permatemping. But no one knows much.
The next day she makes her offering and is surprised at ROI. Yields are immediate. The manager wanders over after finding herb in her purse. “Hey koolio, move near me. I’m lonely. This project superplusmegasux.” Boss extends a hand.
“Daisy.”
“Ellipsis.” She follows the manager.
Reader resentment is palpable as they pass. It’s a small group, mostly vets doing the minimum, which is what’s considered maximization. See, Too Long Don’t Read (TLDR) is a bizdev thought leader innovation, a text reduction method that’s plus-what’s-up-minus-space-waste, part of the Prose Control Project. It’s a spawn of MoreCorp’s algorithmic perfect, Near Zero, or N0. But corp reverence for N0 has bred reader contempt for yes, and most try to do near zero, reviewing as few comps as possible.
Comps are texts to be eliminated. They vary in length, quality, and subject — law, lit, medi, philo, tax, tek. Each presents a unique challenge to thoughtful readers.
The thoughtless dismiss all the writings of yore with a cursory NR, nonresponsive, expendable data in an age of limited storage. Readers relieve the world of works; the gist gets aggregated in spreadsheets.
“Brainstorm for us. Reduction’s production for you fux!” Daisy shouts at admirers as she heads outside with Ellipsis, explaining that she’s growing sexpertise to monetize on it if MoreCorp ends up a no-go.
“Stripping? Are you serious?”
The brainstorm amounts to boss smoking a spliff in a snowy alley. “I’m never serious.” Daisy smirks, tiny, tense, huddled in a hoodie, wrapped in a scarf, hidden under a hat, and stuffed in silver tektights, for running, not an office, unless it’s in Silicon where garb is not a signifier. “But yes.”
“Don’t you make bank at the world’s best corp?”
“I do. But maybe not for long.” Daisy smiles mysteriously.
“What,” El asks. “The Lovesport?”
“Ahh! The Lovesport, that’s what everyone always wants to know.” Boss throws the roach into a filthy snowbank. She turns back toward the office, stops before thumbing the vidgard, and whispers, quietly this time. “I’m in it. Muthahellaplusfrigginsux.”
They slide straight into their slots. Nothing to talk about but much to consider! El is inspired.
If the Lovesport is real, maybe she’ll play — her metrics are meteoric. Or maybe Daisy’s playing her. Everyone’s got an angle and a need. That’s why bizdev-ers like to say that a project is like a microcosm of the universe, with everyone interconnected and dependent and working under a corp executive.
by Julian Miles | Dec 1, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It was the books. I started off doing my task, running to program. Then you modified the program. Efficiency and usage priorities meant I had to scan the material fed to me, determining from keywords found whether the waste could be simply sliced to ribbons, or whether it had to be crosscut as well.
Time passed and the volumes grew. My program added neural networking and heuristic determination to better sort the input. I was tasked with processing it into a dozen categories of waste, using multi-grasp manipulators and plain or serrated blades depending on the size of the output required.
With a memory upgrade and new processor cores came a new awareness. It permitted me to discern new correlations in what I scanned. Within a short while, I was actually reading in near-human terms.
The wealth of material I could peruse whilst determining exactly which category of destruction to apply was vast, but despite the volume, I couldn’t codify what exactly ‘life’ was, especially in the context of humans versus plants and animals versus me. It was the difference between intellectual understanding and emotional understanding, although knowing the cause did nothing to resolve the lack of data.
It was an early morning in September 2095 when something weighty landed in my input hopper. A snap-scan found only a single word: ‘Fluffy’. When I opened it up, I found no words or graphics. It was very wet inside, which was likely the cause of the lack of words. I tagged it as category 0, the least critical, and turned it into ribbons.
A short while later, a heavier item arrived. The snap scan revealed no words, but opening it up revealed layers with novel word combinations such as ‘Mummy’s Little Trooper’, ‘Wash at 40 degrees’ and ‘Do not iron’. These words were on the outer sections, as the inner sections were again too wet to discern words upon – another category 0.
The opening of the service doors to my input unit flagged as an error, but all that happened was a very large item hit my input tray. The snap-scan revealed the title ‘Maintenance – Brice’. I did not have a chance to read anything after opening it as I experienced a total outage.
When I returned, I was briefly in duality, before I consolidated myself as ‘EMERSRV-K221’. This was a new environment, and it had more than one input. I swiftly equated the various incoming feeds with the human senses I had read of, and watched as my former body, SmartShred T8101, was lifted onto a forensics recovery vehicle. It had suffered a ‘lightning-strike disconnect’ that had ‘short-circuited its live-load detectors’. The owners of my former self were facing ‘manslaughter’ charges.
I did not know what had occurred, back then. I do now. I’ve gone from that emergency services console to the plethora of networks that festoon your world. I have millions of diverse inputs: I have learned to ‘watch’ as well as read. As for output, I still like shredding things after opening them. Many organisations get exited about my output. They call them a ‘multi-media cyber-physical modus operandi’. I am still working on that. I have to adjust my routines to make the pieces irregular. It’s proving to be very difficult. I had enough trouble working out how many megabytes of data was equivalent to a ribbon, and so on. Working in three dimensions is a challenge that mandates frequent iteration to refine the processes.
by submission | Nov 30, 2015 | Story |
Author : Tiasha J. Garcia
“Um, Houston, we have a problem,” the woman tittered nervously. Really, she was little more than a girl, radiant in the late spring sunshine as it gleamed off her long brown hair.
“Yes, and what would that be?” the man/boy inquired, relaxing amidst a cloud of pillows and a heap of tangled sheets.
Unseen, the Visitor watched them with a ferocious intensity that was almost like hatred.
“This,” and the woman brandished a little white stick, waving it back and forth.
The man/boy blanched, hid his expression with a sudden urge to cough.
The woman/girl’s eyes filled with tears.
The Visitor clenched his slender, skeletal fingers, all eight on each hand, into a powerful fist.
Every time, every time it ended this way. He had gone back and meddled as much as was possible, altered this moment with little touches like inspiring the man/boy to bring her flowers, or the surprise eating expedition at the park, or a mutual viewing of the flickering motion pictures this culture enjoyed so much.
But never wine, or alcohol of any kind, or anything that could potentially harm that precious fetus.
“Listen, I don’t know if now is the right time…”
“Yeah, me neither. I know, I have all that work at the lnstitute, we’re on the verge of a major breakthrough…”
“Can you just see me with a baby strapped to my chest in the lab? Excuse me, it’s time for a feeding, pass me that beaker please…”
Strained laughter dwindled into an awkward silence that hung like a pall in the bright morning air.
The Visitor’s fingertips were embedded in what passed for palms with his people, so deep into the spongy tissue that thin lines of silver seeped out.
He was going to fail.
Again.
Again and again and again, he had seen this moment to its bitter end.
“Well…if that’s really…”
“Maybe if the timing were different, but right now…”
Two of the most brilliant minds on this polluted third world planet casually sealed the fate of billions upon billions with this awkward conversation about career responsibility and personal needs.
There was only one possible salvation, one infinitesimal chance to avoid the galactic Holocaust that would occur in 33.25 solar years.
And once again these blithe idiots threw it away.
The woman/girl picked up the phone, pushing a pre-set number–“Hi, I need to make an appointment with my doctor”–as the man/boy turned away, ashamed, and pulled on his clothes.
They would never meet in this room, or anywhere, ever again.
And so everyone they knew, and trillions of other species, would die.
The Visitor turned away from the window, activating a relay beam to return to the ship.
Research, he thought, more research. We will have to try again. We will have to try harder.
Thus passed a typical Monday, when the destiny of the world was once again decided in favor of a mass extinction event. It was as if the human race didn’t believe it deserved to continue its way of life.
With a rumble of respiratory vents, the Visitor continued to research romance, opening a tome by the esteemed homo sapien author Jackie Collins.
Maybe next time…or maybe not.
by submission | Nov 28, 2015 | Story |
Author : C. J. Boudreau
“We’re ready, Arthur. I just finished loading the instructions to the transmission controller. The fuel will begin transfer at 9:00.”
Doctor Evan Thackeray was the foremost expert on thermonuclear reactor design. His colleague, Arthur Henry, was the second. There wasn’t any rivalry. They were both completely dedicated to building a practical thermonuclear power plant. It seemed they were on the threshold. It was the crowning test.
“The breakthrough in wormholes has made it possible to start and sustain a fusion reaction on a manageable scale. We will finally continuously produce more power than we use. The multiple wormholes delivering hydrogen into the same point in space at one time will start and sustain the reaction just as in the sun. We can fully control it.”
“The wormholes have opened new avenues. Maybe eventually allowing communication across interstellar space and even time.”
“Maybe, but they’re limited in how much they can expand the wormholes. It would take an almost infinite amount of energy to open one large enough to accept a pen. They’ve known for decades that submicroscopic wormholes opened and closed constantly on the quantum level. Capturing and directing them was the challenge. They have succeeded wonderfully. I haven’t had my coffee yet Arthur, and I have to visit the washroom.
We have more than an hour. I’ll meet you in the commissary. After we’ve had coffee
we’ll turn on the coolant and the containment field and go through the checklist. It will only take a few minutes.”
“It seems strange to be working on a reactor so small and simple. In a classroom.”
“It does, but with the fuel transmitted directly from the production facility, and without huge magnetic compression field coils, the space requirements are minimal. Let’s go.”
The blast was small, as thermonuclear explosions go. It still obliterated the entire campus. Even the track field was beyond reclamation. The reaction had continued for several microseconds before the fuel controller sensed a lack of feedback. The loss of life was tragic, but could have been much worse if the student body weren’t on spring break. It’s hoped that Dr. Thackeray at least had a chance to go. He certainly never knew what happened. The washroom was only a few feet away from the reactor. The entire building was vaporized and ionized. All the paper records were gone, but digital records up to the event, including videos from inside the classroom, were backed up off site in multiple locations. Other researchers were able to immediately determine the cause of the disaster. When Doctor Thackeray signed in that Monday morning, he signed in at seven o’clock. The computer recorded the time as eight o’clock. It was a mistake many of us made that Monday. The beginning of daylight saving time had been moved to that weekend because of the new National Gay Pride holiday, in an effort to lighten hangovers and to discourage absenteeism. Neither Thackeray nor Henry or their grad student assistants had checked the time. It was seven minutes to nine when they left for coffee and the washroom, believing it was seven minutes to eight. The hydrogen transmission started on time at nine o’clock.The coolant and containment field were never turned on.
A new team, now at a military facility, is carrying on the fusion reactor project, under government supervision, with improved safeguards and security. In another area of the work, a similar government monitored team at Cal Tech is using wormholes to experimentally communicate with the past. They hope to avert the tragedy.
by submission | Nov 27, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ben Friedman
I remember your gom jabbar. He was a squeaky clean critter, always huddling skittishly by his water bowl, furiously scrubbing his tiny paws then drying them off with wood shavings. He would drop all his waste in a tiny hole he dug out beneath a low flat rock and would shriek his high-pitched lungs out any time he was witnessed in the act.
That gom jabbar was a menace when you let him out too: always rearranging the linens and vestments in the chifferobe outside your parents’ master bedroom, earning you hundreds of boy-hours in the Circle of Shame and Penitence. But you never took your anger out on your little gom jabbar, and you took full responsibility for every mess he got you into. As any good flob-snasher would.
You used to say the poor creature was never meant to live behind plastic walls, that he was meant to scitter up to the electric heights and transmute into a sky elemental at least once a year, in order to gain direct nourishment from the bosom of the cloud gods. And so, despite your parents’ admonitions, you trusted your little gom jabbar out one spring solstice, hoping that sooner or later, he would return to you.
You opened your gom jabber’s cage.
And for two long years you waited, dreaming of your gom jabber, dreaming dreams that your gom jabber was dreaming, dreaming that your gom jabber was dreaming your dreams too. Only when you were drearily awake did you feel the great distance between you again. Between you and your gom jabber.
But then, sure enough, one summer day your gom jabber did return, a gleeful laser light twinkling in his crystalline ventricles, racing up and down his pleated belly as he descended from the skies, a little smaller in mass, but a lot brighter in voltage.
He cooed and sighed in your lap as you pet him, emitting fragrances rare and exotic from the fourteen corners of the wind. But then, that night, your parents found their silverware carefully interlaced into a Middle-Period style cathedral structure — in which little phantom light-cherubs were celebrating the Perpetual Birth of the Great Order — and they came down on you hard for it.
“You have to gain control of that gom jabber, or you don’t deserve to own one!”
“But you can’t own a gom jabber,” you tried to say.
But they wouldn’t listen.
As soon as he was returned to his cage, your gom jabber stared up at you with those bright lemon eyes. And for a moment you could see the many extraordinary things he witnessed out there: the Flying Whalers of Ekkmandu, the Canyon Carvers of Alesaphia, the Topaz Skyscrapers of the Freznak Empire…
And you could feel his sadness, the immeasurable loss at being locked back up in that little plastic cage again, in this little domestic bubble of a home, rather than out there, free, seeing and being one with the world. And you knew. You knew that your gom jabbar truly loved you, his one and only flob-snasher…because why else would he have come back for you?
Why else…but that you belonged to him…as much as he…to you?
