by submission | Sep 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : S. Tyrel Murray
Darius looked out through his living room window, and noticed the diminutive, glittering metallic object in the grass. It wasn’t there fifteen minutes prior, when he had finished mowing his lawn. His inquisitive nature proved to be too much, and he bounded out the front door to inspect the object.
He could feel the air pulsating as he approached it, and saw shimmering lines around the object, almost as if they were heat rippling through the air. As he drew closer, the hair on the nape of his neck stood up, and a shiver ran down his spine. It wasn’t a feeling of fear, rather more like exhilaration.
The shimmering, pulsating air currents faded to nothing as he stood before the object. He bent down to grab it, and as his hand touched it, it began to melt. He tried to remove his hand, but he was locked into place, unable to move his body. The object began moving through the grass, much like maple syrup would, if it were poured out. As it touched his skin, it was absorbed into his hand.
It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant, either. He could feel the metallic fluid push through the skin on his hand. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Darius collapsed onto the grass, unconscious.
He awoke a few minutes later to the sound of a woman calling out his name. The voice was unfamiliar to him, and he was startled to find no other person around, save for himself. He pulled himself up from the ground, and hurriedly entered his front door.
“This is crazy,” he exclaimed. “That didn’t just happen!”
“Oh, you silly child. It most certainly did happen.” The woman’s voice was still there. He felt a sense of dread come over him, and a sickly pall crept across his face.
“Who are you?” he demanded, not knowing whether he was talking to a ghost, or a figment of his imagination. He stumbled his way through the house, finding his way into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, he noted that apart from surprise or shock, his appearance had not changed since the morning. Then it happened. She appeared in the mirror, standing to his right.
“Is this better?” she queried. Gathering his courage, he peered to the right of himself, and saw nothing there. His gaze returned to the visage of a lovely, early 20s brunette in the mirror.
“Please don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.” He was awash in various emotions, but he collected himself, and nodded. “I’m sorry I had to integrate with you without your consent, but I had no choice.”
“What are you? Are you an alien?” He asked, not knowing whether he wanted the answer, or not.
“Heaven’s no! I’m a Neuronal Induction Nanotech Agent. Nina, for short.”
His worry subsided, and he began to smile. “Hi Nina. I’m Darius. Its a pleasure to meet you.”
by submission | Sep 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Hannah Hunter
Darkness. Eyes open, still dark.
Why?
Why is your arm burning?
Where is your phone? What time is it? Why is there no light? I always have my phone on the bed when I go to sleep.
Pain.
Sharp burning, pain. Just my arm. Why only your arm? So intense I can’t think straight.
This isn’t my bed.
Where is your phone? It will give me much needed light and tell me who I am.
Who are you?
Name.
Name?
It’s gone. How do you lose your name?
Not lost. Taken.
Taken?
Who would take your name?
This definitely isn’t my bed, so it’s not my room. How do you know it’s not your room? You don’t even know your own name. The pain. It’s distracting. It’s doesn’t feel like mine. The flesh is tight, raised and warm to the touch. The pain is not going away. How do you know it’s not your room?
Think.
There is no bedside lamp. You had one. You’re in single bed and you had a double. You know this. Some memories are here. My eyes fall shut as I try to locate further memories. My eyes are heavy and my brain fogs over. My sleep had not been natural?
Was the pain spreading? I clutch my left arm again as a new wave of pain hits. It’s certainly getting worse. Infection perhaps?
How old am I? My skin does not feel young. I don’t remember any of my birthdays but I know such a thing exists. I know people have birthdays. I know I had birthdays. I’m sure they sucked.
A light.
Where is it coming from? There’s a door.
There’s a room beyond.
Can you move?
My body is heavy and aches but I can move. I swing my heavy legs over the side of the bed.
Can you get up?
I don’t have a choice. I must get to the door. It has answers. I will myself to leave the bed. I’m standing. Facing the door.
It has answers.
I need answers.
I shuffle forward. Slowly.
Shouldn’t I be cold? I can feel the air conditioning blasting onto my skin but I am numb to its temperature. Goosebumps appear on my skin, making the flesh on my arm hurt all the more.
Small movements.
Big effort.
Are you in a medical gown?
I can feel the recycled air tickle my bare back.
Is the pain from surgery? Is that were your memory has gone?
Push forward.
The answers are in the light.
Did I choose this? It hurts. Who would choose this?
Perhaps it was an accident that got me here?
The floor.
My legs are unforgiving of the snail’s pace in which I was travelling.
The floor was no kinder.
My face feels warm. And wet.
Is that blood?
Only the light can tell you that.
Get up.
Get up now.
Ignore the pain. The pain is not going away. My legs are definitely old. The skin feels loose and dry as I pull myself up. I don’t remember being old.
Smaller steps
Bigger effort.
The door is heavy. Or is it that you have no strength?
Push
Push, push, push.
Light.
Soft light.
A bathroom. Not mine.
A mirror. Not mine.
A reflection. Not mine. The eyes, the hair, the broken and bloody nose are not just unfamiliar. They are not belonging to me.
My stomach and heart lurch as I read the note that is on the mirror. The note that was definitely left for me:
“You said you did not want to be you anymore.”
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.”
