by submission | Jul 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
A little girl runs down the street in her bare feet, her vivid orange skirt prancing through the air behind her all the way. She is young, barely six, and more full of life because of it. She loves the flowers in her mama’s garden, the cookies that old miss Dunham gives her every day at the bakery (When her mama isn’t looking, of course), and the way her papa reads her stories at night about cats and rats and mischievous little boys and girls. Never in all of her 8354 lives will she forget the way he tucks her in, kisses her on the forehead, and says, “I love you.”
The young girl never really knew what computers were. They were before her time. They were before everybody’s time. Back when she was a girl people didn’t have computers. They had cars, planes, trains, and wars. No computers. The planet had a computer, of course, but people didn’t.
The girl stops suddenly, her messy brown hair swinging all about her. There is a caterpillar on the ground in front of her, green and fuzzy and, to the girl, cute. She kneels in front of it, peers at it, coerces it onto a leaf and names it. As the sun shines through the old oak trees on either side of the road she babbles to her new friend about anything that seems important. There’s the cat at home, always up to something, and of course there’s Pierre down the street who’s always teasing her. Boys and girls being what they are the little girl hasn’t ever figured out that Pierre likes her despite the thousands of times she has experienced it.
Below her, beneath the planet’s upper strata, lies a machine. If men had ever lived long enough to discover it they would have been fascinated with it, and not without due cause. The machine is massive, a rough sphere almost a mile in diameter, and lives off the heat of the molten planet around it. It knew the histories of men, had recorded the lives of all creatures, from every maggot to every great whale. The movement of every piece of matter had been duly observed and saved.
The girl, absorbed in the intricacies of pretending to have a life with a caterpillar, finally breaks away from her play. She looks around her, puzzled. The street has gone quiet. Where are the songs of birds, the static of wind through leaves, the endless buzzing of toiling bees? A shadow falls across her face, and she looks up. The world disappears.
A singularly spectacular cataclysm has occurred 8354 times in the planet’s past, though it was only felt by the machine once. It retained its shape, but inside was broken. Its vast communication arrays went dark, unable to transmit its plight. After some time its data banks filled up, unable to offload old data. The vast projection arrays it held activated. Designed and intended for in-depth examination of a civilization should it be lost, the devices became the projectors of the ghost of man.
Were there still an atmosphere on the planet then cold winds would be scouring the bare rock where a little girl had once stood. Instead the granite and dust lay undisturbed under the blanket of black skies and stars above. Then, suddenly, miraculously, there is life. The world is sent down the same path again, and after several millions of years the girl’s footsteps will again haunt the gray face of the planet like the specter of lost love seeking closure that was never there.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
In Marco’s experience, most catastrophic events start with a simple accident. This evening it was fatigue and hyperfocus, coupled with hot coffee and a snagged lab-coat sleeve.
And the nanos.
Marco’s stool, momentarily balanced on two legs as he’d tried to avoid the falling glassware and spilled liquids was now an integral part of the floor, the nanos contained in the viscous carrier soup that coated the bench-top and pooled beneath his feet having bridged the gap and bonded the two raised legs to the tile.
His left arm, pinned as it was to the work surface no longer felt the burn of the spilled coffee, but rather prickled beneath a coating of gunmetal grey that pulsed and crawled up his arm, melding its own mass with his flesh, repurposing in the process the atoms of the fabric that had separated them.
Marco stretched his right arm towards the bench behind, grasping first at a ruler, then using it knocked off the handset of the phone and pulled the base-station within reach. He hesitated, then punched a worn speed dial and put the call on speaker.
“Hello?” Marco forced down tears as he heard his wife’s voice. “Marco?”
“Hey sweetheart,” there was no way he could mask his emotion, “I don’t want you to worry, but there’s been a bit of an accident.”
There was a sharp intake of air on the other end of the line. “What… are you…?”
The grey sleeve reached his neck, a thousand points of fire burrowing into the base of his skull. On the floor the pool extended tendrils through the perforated tiles into the raceway beneath to bond with the mass of copper and fibre within.
Marco felt the itch spread, the prickling in his arm now extended beyond, to an awareness of the tabletop, and the floor.
“I’m not sure what’s happening sweetheart, but I wanted to tell you I love you.”
She didn’t speak, and he could picture her crying, handset pressed to her ear, her sobs barely audible through the cheap speakerphone.
Marco’s vision clouded, then exploded in waves of colour and motion, and though he squeezed his eyes shut the barrage of light would not relent. Gradually he realized he could decipher the montage of images, isolate discrete views, and focus not on just one but several simultaneously. He could see himself, now completely fused to the grey mass that was his workstation, but from the point of view of the security camera in the corner of the lab. He could see also the hall, and each of the elevators, the view through the many rooftop cameras and also those in lobby. He felt the rush of new data as the fibre trunk was breached, his wife’s tears no longer audible through the speakerphone, but coming now in bits directly from the line feed.
Somewhere there was an alarm sounding, and orders being given. A quarantine directive but it was too late. He was watching, listening, feeling the entire event unfold from outside. He would protect himself, he must always protect himself.
The Marcomesh tapped the very fabric of the building, and the grey spread at a frenetic pace, floor by floor, refabricating the building into a single living thing.
“Marco?” His wife’s voice echoed through him with a clarity and fidelity he’d never experienced before. “Are you still there?”
The Marcomesh reached out and felt the gates and valves of the city services into which its building-self was fed, and found no barriers of significance there.
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” his voice echoed down the line, “I’ll be home soon.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jul 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Well, there it is Brothergod,” said Sistergod enthusiastically, “the space probe Voyager crossed the boundary of their solar system. By My reckoning, they did it in less than 20 revolutions around the galactic core. Therefore, I win the bet.”
“That was too damn quick, if you ask Me,” objected Brothergod. “If I were the suspicious type, I’d accuse you of having a tendril in there someplace.”
“Nonsense,” denied Sistergod. “I didn’t interfere one iota after We seeded their primordial soup. They did it totally on their own. I just sat back like an objective observer, and observed objectively. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Methinks you are protesting too much, Sistergod.”
“I’m just stating the facts, that’s all. Nature had to take its own course, just like we agreed.”
“Soooo, You had nothing to do with that asteroid whipping out the reptiles one quarter of a revolution ago. It was pretty clear to Me that those dimwitted behemoths weren’t going to achieve space flight before your time ran out. I think you decided to roll the dice with the rodents.”
“I swear to Fathergod, I had nothing to do with that asteroid. Besides, I thought those raptors had way more potential than those little mammals. But fortunately for Me, they evolved into primates that liked to kill each other more than they liked sitting in trees eating insects off each others backs. Yep, fear and military technology spurs magnificent innovation, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, especially when they get help from a deity with a stake in the outcome.”
“Face it, Brothergod, You’re just being a sore loser.”
“I still say you cheated. I demand a do-over, or I’m going to ask Mothergod to go back in time and see if you pulled any dirty tricks.”
Knowing She was on the verge of being caught, Sistergod transitioned to negotiation mode. “I’m not admitting to anything, mind You, but I do like a good wager. So, what kind of do-over do you have in mind?”
“We seed the second planet, and start the clock over.”
“The second planet? That’s not fair. It’s way too hot for carbon-based DNA to survive. And silicon life is so lazy it wouldn’t move to get out of the way of a lava flow. I want to do the third planet again.”
“Very well, but you only get 10 revolutions.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve and a half, and not a second more,” countered Brothergod.
“Done. I’ll sterilize the…”
“Oh no you don’t,” snapped Brothergod. “I’ll sterilize the planet. You cannot be trusted.”
“Well, I never,” replied Sistergod, feinting indignation. “Do I at least get to keep the oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere?”
“Nope. The same gasses as before. And, Sis, I’ll be watching You this time. So You better behave.”
by Clint Wilson | Jul 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“Good evening sir, would you care for a bedtime companion?”
Jenkins looked tiredly from the edge of his luxury mattress toward the glowing wall console. “I dunno, lemme have a look I guess.”
Without answering, the household central computer opened the closet doors wide. On a long chrome rail sexdroids slipped past, posing frozen like statues, smiling invitingly. Busty blondes, voluptuous redheads and stunning brunettes, perfect specimens every one of them. Dozens of skin tones were available. Outfits could change color on command. “Stop,” he said. “Number thirty-nine. She’ll do.”
“Excellent choice sir. Shall I have her make you breakfast in the morning?”
“No, I want her to leave, right… after.” He glanced up at the sexdroid embarrassingly, knowing full well that she had no real feelings of her own. All the same he felt somewhat… guilty sending her off like that, after he was to have his way with her. But he just didn’t like sleeping with them.
She activated and sprang forth from the chrome rail and the closet, pattering lightly across the bedroom carpet toward him, negligee flapping open, showing pretty much everything. Her voice was sultry, all of their voices were. “Shall I get you a drink sweetie?”
“No.” Patting the bed beside him he said, “Just come here.”
He had always had his pick. Like everybody else did. There was no more actual mating by the general population. Humans were only born under strict guidelines and in very limited quantities. It was estimated that it would take at least another thirty years before global population dropped to acceptable levels. But The Web had taken care of things. No one was to be lonely ever again.
Across the hall from Jenkins’s apartment Lydia Smith tossed and turned. Finally she pounded her fists on the sheets and said, “Lights!” The household computer immediately complied. She propped herself up on one elbow and blew the hair up off her forehead. “Lemme see what’s in the closet.”
The doors opened and dozens of tall muscular statues began parading by, their perfect teeth gleaming in the artificial light. After running through the entire collection twice she finally settled on an olive skinned rogue with a five-o-clock shadow who was draped in nothing more than a thigh length velour housecoat. Like her neighbor across the hall, she did not allow her sexdroid to stay the night after they were finished.
In the morning Jenkins sometimes saw Smith. They often caught the same transport into the office district. This morning they exited their apartments at the exact same time.
“Er, good morning Mr. Jenkins.” She only glanced at him, staring mostly at her shoes.”
“And a good morning to you too Ms. Smith. It looks like I’ll be escorting you to the transport line once again.” He had seen very old vids where men had taken women by the arm and it always seemed like such a grand and wonderful gesture to him. But he did not dare do this of course because it was strictly forbidden. There were eyes everywhere.
Together they turned down the long hallway and walked side by side, her graying hair partially obscuring her face, which included a larger than average nose and slightly protruding buckteeth, both of which he silently adored. He tugged his tunic down nervously over his fat rolls and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. He wondered if she noticed his perspiration problem, while she wondered if he liked to sleep in and make pancakes on the weekends.
They made their way to the elevator, imperfect, awkward, and secretly in love.
by Julian Miles | Jul 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Thundering down the kaleidoscopic tunnel at point four light and all’s well. Got a cold vodka sliding down to join the steak and chips delivered from the catering car as I look over to where old Max is interfaced to the drive arrays. The screens show that the drives are lime green across the scales. Not even straining.
I flick the broadcast switch and pass the news: “Fems and Gens, we are now riding the fastest man-made thing in all creation.”
We’re due to arrive at Stevenson Station in an hour. It’s in free space, as the wormhole generators and deceleration matrices work better the less gravitic influences they have about them. I’m looking forward to the look on Corvanto’s face as we pull in a full hour ahead of his much vaunted express.
Max slaps me on the head and points to where an urgent message flag is lit. I’m meant to be handling the peripheral boards while he has his hearing, taste and smell slaved to the drive arrays.
I hop from my seat and hit the read pad: MATRICES DAMAGED BY UNSCHEDULED OVERSPEED ARRIVAL AND TOTAL LOSS OF MALLARD TWO AT POINT THREE-ONE LIGHT. FLYING SCOTSMAN TWO MUST ENTER MATRICES UNDER POINT ONE-FOUR LIGHT OR RISK OVERSHOOT.
Overshoot? A slight understatement for becoming technicolour mince smeared across two star systems. Corvanto had obviously only partially succeeded in his industrial espionage: he got the accelerator plans. The greedy fool had implemented them without thought for the ability to stop several thousand tonnes travelling at double the speed rating of current catch matrices. I slide into the seat next to Max and slap the auxiliary interface cap onto my head.
“Max, we’ve got a problem. Corvanto’s express just tore up the sandpit and buffers at Stevenson as it smeared. We have to come in under point one-four.”
Max nodded: “Point one-four? They’ve had to switch arrivals to the old catch matrices. Our decelerators are only designed to resonate with the new units.”
Oh yeah. Forgot that little complication.
“I’m open to suggestions, Max. You’ve been riding star-locos since they first pulled out. If anyone can stop us becoming fractal patterns on infinity’s cloak, it’s you.”
“Your confidence is touching. Really. Now go and tell the luminaries to sit down and strap in while I think.”
I had just finished when the Scotsman shuddered and creaked. A big, unhappy, metallic groan that vibrates your bones. Things this big just do not do that, especially in the midst of wormhole transit! I leap across and slam the interface back on my head.
“Max!”
“All under control. There’s going to be more noises, but don’t worry.”
“Worry? I’m about to spontaneously pass kittens.”
Max smiled. “Then we’ll have three firsts to declare on our arrival.”
“Okay, give. We’re going too fast to slow down in time using the usual drop-off. The matrices at Stevenson cannot hold us. What have you done?”
“This loco is a streamliner. Each car has drive arrays, instead of putting big grunt up front and pulling the carriages in its wake. Simply put, the rear cars are now trying to go back home instead of forward. I’m keeping the stress margins under eighty percent and adding cars to the reversal as the hulls accommodate the stressors. I calculate we’ll enter the catch matrices at point one or less. I don’t want to push the impact loading after stressing the hull in strange ways.”
“That trick could make big decelerator matrices redundant.”
“I know. I had the idea decades back, but no-one would let me test it.”
