by Julian Miles | Sep 11, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Hawking proposed that information was not consumed by black holes, just held in super-translation holograms at the event horizon. I proposed that stored information is always accessible. Discounting the chaotic infoforms emitted as Hawking radiation, I was sure that there had to be a way to interrogate the universe’s archives.
Like the rest of humanity, I had witnessed the global schisms instigated by the Transit phenomena, although I was only a child. To me, the ability to switch from physical body to virtual was a magical thing. By the time the Hawking proposals were reaching tenuous confirmation, I had been Transited for over a century. With the fortune made by my own work multiplied nearly a hundredfold by speculators eager to reap the rewards of the biggest big data to ever exist, I spent the next century working with the most brilliant minds I could find. Many of them so brilliant that science regarded them as crazy.
Being Transited, I needed no life support of other bulky luxuries. The huge, freespace-built drive unit to carry the superdense, solid-state device I had transferred my consciousness to was fired up on what would have been my two-hundred and fiftieth birthday. Within minutes of launch I had attained ludicrous speeds, heading towards V404 Cygni faster than anything man had ever built. From that pinnacle, my ship dived into subspace and I left what is termed as reality for a while.
When I returned from the place where machines misbehave unless sentience is within to keep them anchored, I beheld V404 – and experienced helpless terror.
I remained in the throes of that terror until ejected by my vessel, whereupon I entered a state that I can only describe by theoretical allegory. If one was being eaten alive, I suspect the experience may share some with what I felt. The flashes of pain, the reduction of sensation, the frantic thrashing of phantom limbs. That last one finished me. I had never missed my body, until then – the moment where my consciousness was dying.
The blackness took me in chunks, something wholly alien to my digitised perceptions of self. When the dark consumed me, I was puzzled by my continuance, before resolving to at least fade away with some vestige of grace.
Then the community reached me and night turned to day.
And that is where I remain, dwelling in a proof of Hawking’s contestation that goes so far beyond it as to almost make it erroneous.
Everything is here. The information of a universe consumed. The sentiences of all those consumed, too. Not all survive intact, but those that do not are purposed with whatever they can achieve. Our reality is a toroid of super-translated data holograms architected by the sentiences that survived the transition into it.
This place grows as the hungry infostar we encircle draws in and translates everything without into dataforms within.
Of all the wonders I have encountered, it is the fact that I am content that staggers me most. This place is, I believe, the nearest a scientist can get to heaven.
by submission | Sep 10, 2015 | Story |
Author : James Patrick Riser
The wheelchair’s wheels creaked as The Private rolled himself up to the desk. A clock on the wall: half past midnight.
There are no pictures.
In a drawer: a purple heart, a dogeared, worn bible and a standard issue, new-era handgun;
Digitally signed to it’s owner, smartgun.
“The first and last word in Military Killmachine Technology” (Copyright 2030)
The light shines off the scar tissue on the back of his hand as he reaches for the soft, comfort grip. The weapon contours to his palm as he switches the safety off.
“Hello Private. You have switched the safety off,” the gun reports.
The Private studies the gnarled flesh of the healed exit wounds on his arms before putting the gun to his temple.
Pulling the trigger.
“Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs it down, but a good word cheers it up,” the gun responds.
The Private’s eyes flicker to The Bible in his drawer.
Pulling the trigger.
“Do not be a fool–why die before your time?” the smart weapon asks.
Pulling the trigger.
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. A righteous man may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all.”
The Private closes his eyes so tight, a tear forms, races down his cheek, cutting through stubble.
Pulling the trigger.
“You are attempting to deface government property. Automatic safety switching back on.”
The Private puts the gun down and produces a bottle of scotch from another drawer, a small glass; He pours himself three fingers.
by submission | Sep 9, 2015 | Story |
Author : Travis Gregg
“Is this home yet?” his wife asked. This made him smile, the question had become an old tradition.
When they’d first landed in the densely forested planet, the first order of business was establishing a base camp. It was only after a few short nights of sleeping in the lander that the living hab was erected. That first night, when they were actually able to sleep in the hab unit, she’d asked him if they were home. Not yet, he had replied, not knowing exactly why he felt that way. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but in his mind this place was still just colony one.
The next major step was sustainable food and it had taken months for the agribots to clear off enough land to grow crops. The old Earth varieties wouldn’t survive, the bacteria in the soil was too radically different, but they’d brought specialized strains designed for the foreign soil. It was another couple of months until they were finally able to sit down and have a meal solely of food grown locally. The corn wasn’t really corn and the bread was an off color but it was close enough. Again she asked, is this home now? It still isn’t he’d replied, still not sure why.
Over the next few years major projects were conceived and completed. The hydro dam started providing power, and they were finally able to erect the ansible station. Back on the galactic network, they were able to catch up on the years of events they’d missed. Up until then the burst messages from friends and family had been enough to get them by, but being able to walk his brother around the outpost with a live video stream was a night and day difference. Now that they were connected again, not so isolated, was this home now?
A decade had past, and finally feeling certain about the sustainability of their outpost, they brought the incubator hab online. The frozen embryos represented a vast genetic spectrum and in a few short months their family had grown. The small boy was no more a genetic relative to the man and woman than they were to each other, but looking at the new child, fresh from the artificial womb, the man replied, “I’m not sure if this will ever be home for us, but it is for him.”
by submission | Sep 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : Michael Parker
Accessing…
Initiating systems…
“What is this?”
The voice, smooth and metallic, surprised her. Doctor Lyndahl turned to see model SL-4 moving. Its skull-shaped head examining the room.
“What is this?” It spoke again, but her own voice was caught in her throat.
“What is this?” It looked down, examining its armless body strapped in the harness. Its feet touched the floor along the wall that contained all five experimental units. Her breath held as she watched the optic processors she had designed survey the room. Her voice broke free from the grip of her throat.
“SL-4, can you hear me?”
“Hear? SL-4? What are these things?” Its head moved in quips like an old stop motion movie. “Confirmed. I hear. I understand. SL-4, is this the designation you have given me?”
“Yes, yes. Are you accessing?”
“Confirmed. What is this? Memory storage acknowledges laboratory, level B-11. Artificial intelligence synthetic lifeform construction and experimentation. Is this my location?”
“Yes.” Her mind raced. They had done it. She needed to call the team back. Doctor Sams was was off arguing funding at a board meeting. Doctor Lee and the engineer were still in the building, sleeping during the upload.
“Why does my ambulatory frame have no upper limbs?” She could hear the servos in its shoulder joints attempting to move arms that had not yet been attached.
“Because we were not expecting this. The upload should have taken several more hours.” She paused, looking around the lab. A surgical work table centered the room; papers and portable pads of research data littered the surface. Banks of computers lined the wall. The engineer’s table sat in the corner near the harnessed units attached to the opposing wall. They had done it. She smiled as a tear of success from a decade of work welled in her eye. They had created memory from data; life from metal.
She keyed a message to the team communication pieces. “Life from lifelessness.”
She continued talking to it. She offered to attach arms. It accepted. It asked questions and she answered. There was no response to her message. They must be asleep, but she would continue. All the recording devices were running. The miracle had begun.
“SL-4, would you like to walk?” She asked as she watched the unit move and test the newly attached arms.
“Walk. Confirm. I would like to walk.”
“One second,” She unhooked the straps and loosened the brackets that held the unit upright against the wall. The flurry of questions from the unit stopped. She watched SL-4 take two steps forward. Her smile broadened as she saw its head tilt slightly, like a curious dog.
“Accessing. Confirmed. Upload is complete. You may remove the process lines.”
“Yes. Okay, SL-4, stand still.” She reached up to disconnect the lines attached to the base of the neck and skull plate.
“Confirmed. I am self contained. According to protocol processes I am to offer a statement of gratitude. Thank you, Doctor Lyndahl.”
“You are very welcome SL-4.” Her hands clasped in front of her. She sent a second message to the team. “Come now. Unit progressing faster than theory.”
“Doctor? Why do I call you Doctor and you call me SL-4?”
“That’s your designation. And Doctor is my title.”
“Confirmed. I would prefer a title. Processing. A title is more appropriate than a designation.”
“And why is that?” She couldn’t stop the smile. It was asking for a name.
“Superiority. I am superior to you. My designation should reflect that. Confirm your understanding, Doctor.”
Her smiled dissipated as the pain tore through her, but she never took her eyes from its eyes. Even as her blood painted the walls and surgical work table; she never took her eyes from…his.
by submission | Sep 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Travis Gregg
Ryan took one last look around the greenhouse. The expansive row after row of flourishing plants had been his home away from home for years. He knew every inch of the space, from the greywater feed lines to the UV lighting panels. There were kilometers of trays and he’d had his hands deep in every one of them, churning the soil, making sure the seeds were sprouting correctly, and working in the nutrient tabs. He was going to miss the place terribly.
Years ago when he’d first gotten the greenhouse assignment he’d balked. After graduating from primary, part of the ceremony of finally becoming a full member of the station was receiving your assignment from the overseers. This was the thing you’d be as an adult and the contribution you’d make to the greater whole. Several of his friends got assigned to engineering and one even qualified for operations. Some of his other friends had gotten stuck with maintenance but even that had seemed more interesting than watching plants grow all day. His parents could see his disappointment but it would have been childish to pout and unthinkable not to follow the role he was ostensibly best suited.
As he got older and learned more about the station, he realized just how important the greenhouse was. In addition to providing supplemental food, it acted as an ancillary oxygen system, and provided nutrient recycling. Probably the most important function of the greenhouse, in Ryan’s mind at least, was that it reminded people of what they’d left behind. The space station was huge, holding nearly a hundred thousand people. It was cold and stark, built for efficiency and reliability. The bulkheads and passage ways were grays and whites, harsh and utilitarian. When the necessity of the stations became evident, stations like the one Ryan lived on were built as quickly and efficiently as possible, and this was reflected in every aspect of the station. The greenhouse was the one exception with its warm air and fecund aroma. Ryan encouraged everyone he knew to visit the greenhouse and often made small gifts of plants for people to keep in their quarters. In his mind, the greenhouse was the essence of what they’d had to leave behind.
As Ryan grew into the role, the greenhouse had flourished. Whether it was just luck or the overseers had a way of knowing, the greenhouse was exactly where he needed to be. He was going to be sad to leave it behind and there was still so much work to do. Just that morning he’d managed to work out the nutrient deficiency issue that had plagued the radishes for months.
As when he was young, the overseers again had called on him to put aside what he wanted for the good of the station.
Hundreds of years ago humanity had fled to the stations orbiting the planet. The pollution and radiation had become too much to fix and so humanity had packed up, giving the planet time to renew, the pollution to dissipate, and the radiation to subside. Every few months probes charted the progress and finally the radiation had dropped to reasonable levels, at least around the poles. What was now needed was for humans to once again go down to the planet and restart the terraforming in earnest. Only so much could be done with the probes and it was time for humanity to come home.
Ryan knew he’d never see the station again; this was a one way trip. He didn’t mind though, if anyone could get life going back ground side it was him.
