by Patricia Stewart | Apr 29, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Tell me, Mr. Brunner, how did your first date go?”
“Very well, thank you. She was quite pretty. Actually, ‘cute’ would be a more accurate word. She had curly blond hair, crystal-blue eyes, fantastic smile, and dimples.”
“How about her scent? Did you notice if she had a sent?”
“What? Of course not. Why would I smell her?”
“Thank you, Mr. Brunner, that’s all for now. We’ll talk again tomorrow, after we make some adjustments.
***
“Tell me, Mr. Brunner, how did your second date go?”
“Absolutely fantastic. Louisa is a goddess. And I noticed this time. She has a lavender fragrance that drove me wild.”
“Excellent. Have you thought about proposing to her?”
“What? Of course not. We’ve just met.”
“That will be all for today.”
***
“Tell me, Mr. Brunner, how did your latest date go?”
“Doctor Kane, Louisa is the one. I can’t imaging living another day without her. She’s all I think about. I plan to ask her to marry me tonight.”
“Perfect,” replied the doctor. Turning toward his partner, he said, “Well, Dianna, I believe the new formula is ready. I think we can terminate the experiment, and set up a conference with the client.”
“What are you talking about?” inquired Brunner. “What experiment?”
“I guess we can tell you now,” replied Kane. “Louisa doesn’t exist. She’s a virtual person that the computer created so that we can test simulated drugs for the treatment of depression. Ever since 2135, we’re not allowed to use actual people to evaluate the effects of experimental drugs on humans. All of our clinical studies have to be done on simulations.”
“Nooooo,” cried Brunner. “Louisa is real. I know it. I love her.”
“Come, come, Mr. Brunner. You’re not listening? We can’t use real people in these experiments. And that includes you. You’re an android. Your emotional responses are just complicated mathematical algorithms intended to simulate the mental state of depressed humans. And, if we programmed you correctly, you’re about to make Dianna and me very rich.” Kane picked up the control padd and put the android in sleep mode.
“Dammit Tom,” snapped Dianna, “Was that necessary. You didn’t have to tell him. We could have let them get married before ending the simulation. He was in love. You could have given him a happy ending.”
“Dianna, I thought that you were a scientist, not a romantic. He’s just a tool. A means to an end. If you make him real in your mind, you’ll lose your objectivity. It’s all programming; ones and zeros, nothing more.”
“I don’t know,” Dianna replied. “I keep thinking that if it were me, I wouldn’t want to know that I was just a simulation?”
“Well, it’s not you, so let’s drop it.”
“How do you know it’s not us? Maybe we’re creations in a computer too. We could be part of an experiment to test the ethical behavior of research scientists. How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure,” was the curt reply.
“Okay then, let me ask you this. We’ve worked together in this lab for two years. Do you know what perfume I use?”
“What? Of course not. Why would I smell your… Oh crap!”
by submission | Apr 27, 2010 | Story
Author : Dale Anson
We captured her javelin just short of a light year out from Earth. Javelins are small ships, roughly 30 meters long and about 10 cm in diameter at the widest point. Eighteen javelins were launched from a rail gun on the moon six years ago. Each javelin contained a small amount of maneuvering fuel for use at its final destination, and housed the downloaded contents of the minds of 64 people.
I’d been shocked when Allison told me the news that she’d been selected for a spot on the javelin mission. Literally millions of people had applied, and the computer programs had run for several months to calculate the optimal crew. I figured I had a better than passing chance since I work as a loadmaster for Virgin, but Allison got selected, not me. Those selected would have their minds installed into a dense carbon nano-structure, capable of holding the petabytes of information that described their minds. I begged with her not to go. Allison put me off, saying this was the chance of a life time.
I took some vacation days to drive her from LA to New Mexico, where she’d catch the flight from the spaceport to Aldrin base. I worked at her, trying to convince her not to go. The computers had secondary lists, I told her, she didn’t have to go. I offered to marry her, but she was determined to go. I held her tight during our last night together.
I dropped her outside the west gate of Spaceport America, she leaned in the window and gave me a quick peck. “I love you,” she said, but I couldn’t see it in her eyes. It must have been the way the morning light cast a shadow across her face. The last I saw of her was when she stepped onto a shuttle bus headed toward the distant buildings.
Technology is funny. When the javelins were launched, it was thought that they were the only way humans would ever be able to reach another star. The javelins are small and light, and the kilometers long rail gun launched them at a good fraction of the speed of light. Nothing invented by humans had ever traveled faster, and technically, still haven’t. It turned out that there is no need to travel that fast after the scientists figured out how to do the brane-bending trick and apply it to a large space ship. I don’t claim to understand the physics, but basically, the ship generates a field that bends space so the starting point and the destination are in essentially the same place, then moves the tiniest amount to complete the trip. Snagging the javelins mid-flight was only a little trickier — bend to a location in front of the javelin, and bend back when the javelin was within the ship’s field, and repeat about a thousand times to reduce the kinetic energy that the javelin was carrying to a managable level.
It didn’t take much for me to wrangle a spot as loadmaster on the ship sent to capture Allison’s javelin. I wanted to be there, and be able to talk to her as soon as her javelin was connected to the ships computer. We’d still have to figure out our relationship, six years have gone since I last talked to her, and she doesn’t have a body anymore.
I caught my breath as the screen came to life. “Allison!” I gasped. “God, how I’ve missed you.”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “Dammit. I thought I’d never see you again.”
by submission | Mar 30, 2010 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
It was bright, cold morning in late November when I pulled up to the high security gates at the Ministry of Defence’s Secure Facility for the Mentally Disabled at Rampton.
The gate guard greeted me formally and took my name.
An orderly met me in the atrium, but he was shooed away by an approaching doctor before we’d finished exchanging pleasantries.
“Welcome to Rampton, Mr. Hill,” the doctor extended his hand, “I’m Dr. Appleyard. Thank you for coming.”
I shook his hand firmly, perhaps a little too firmly.
“How is my brother?” I queried.
“I should remind you,” Dr. Appleyard appeared to ignore the question, “that anything I or any of the medical staff tells you today falls under the Official Secrets Act.” Perhaps he was answering as best he could. “Likewise anything your brother says to you, or anything else you see or read.”
“A very nice man from the Ministry popped by and explained it all to me,” I assured him.
“Excellent,” he responded briskly. “Follow me.”
We set off down one of the green, pastel corridors.
“Your brother was a physicist; is that correct?” Dr. Appleyard glanced down at the notes in a folder.
“A mathematician,” I corrected.
“Ah yes,” the doctor found the correct place in his file. “Have you been told not to look directly at his stump? It will upset him and you may have to leave.” I must have looked of shocked, because his brows pushed together and he asked, “They have told you we had to amputate his hand, haven’t they?”
“Yes, yes,” I assured him, “but it’s taking some getting used to. No one has told me what happened.”
“His hand became stuck in his workbench,” Dr. Appleyard explained. And then, after a short pause, “Mr. Hill, what do you know of quantum physics?”
“Only what I’ve seen on the Technology Channel,” I confessed. “What does this have to do with my brother?”
“Some people think of quantum physics as theoretical, merely science fiction, but I can assure you that, even in my field, it’s very much a science fact; it allows plants to photosynthesise and it’s how your nose is able to smell.”
I nodded, trying to keep up as the doctor quickened his pace. I nearly collided with him when he stopped suddenly outside his office.
“Mr. Hill,” he said looking me straight in the eye, “did you know that if you removed all the space between the atoms, squashed everything down to just the base particles, you could fit the whole human race into a cube the size of sugar lump. Mostly, Mr. Hill, we are made of spaces in-between.”
Before I could respond to this revelation he disappeared into his office, and so I followed.
“If you read further, they will tell you,” he explained, “that what stops your hand passing through this desk,” he moved as if to wrap his knuckles against the wood and then appeared to think better of it, “are the bonds between the molecules. But really, at a quantum level, it’s just probability. Perhaps the sort of probability your brother was researching. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
I was speechless, so I shook my head.
“Almost anything is possible,” he said seriously, “right at the far end of the probability curve. As a result of his work your brother was, quite unexpectedly, able to pass his hand right through the surface of his workbench. Unfortunately he was not able to remove it again. Do you understand?
It was, probably, enough to push him over the edge.”
by submission | Mar 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Jacqueline Brasfield
I was 18 years old when they’d captured the first howlers.
Mom and I stayed up to see the first footage of them flash across the TV screen on the 11 O’clock news, blurry images of hollow-eyed men and women wearing orange jumpsuits, their arms hanging limply and obediently at their sides. I felt a pang of disappointment. From all her stories I expected them to be fierce, savage, proud creatures struggling and straining at their chains. I expected them to be warriors. They looked no more savage than my science teacher at school. Mom said I shared a connection to them. I didn’t know what she meant.
On the screen, three figures stood proudly at a podium adorned with microphones from various news agencies. My mother spit down at her feet when the camera panned over their faces – two men, one woman, all impeccably groomed. One of the men wore a military uniform decorated with medals, and it was he who spoke to the camera.
“We’ve prepared a small statement regarding the hybrids and then we’ll move to your questions.”
My mother spit again and took a long swallow of gin straight out of the small glass bottled held in her hand. I’d never seen her drink before.
“It is with great pleasure that we can confirm we have successfully located and retrieved all of the hybrids. The last remaining rogue tribes were identified and brought into protective custody for their integration into the United States Military Evolutionary Hybrid Unit. The success of the device used to free these hybrids from their condition continues to prove effective and provide a stability and peace of mind these individuals will not have ever known. All of them have been offered training and assistance and the opportunity to serve this great nation, and we can confirm we have 100% uptake on this offer. The public is safe once again – if not safer. We believe these hybrids will make the finest soldiers in the history of the United States military forces. My colleagues and I will take your questions now, on the understanding we cannot reveal information that is classified.”
Immediately, a flurry of questions came from the mob of journalists off camera. My mother turned off the TV before I could hear any of the replies.
“Why’d you turn it off?”
She sat there in the dark for several long seconds before answering me.
“Because they’re lying, Ben. About everything. All the stories I’ve told you. All of their history. Does any of that suggest to you that they would willingly give in to slavery and bondage? That they would agree to serve those who rape the land, and poison the water and kill the innocent?”
I opened my mouth to speak, to tell her no I did not think they would, but she was quick to interject.
“And do you think they’ve really caught all of them?”
She looked over my shoulder as she said the words, eyes fixed on something behind me. And that something began to move, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up like orderly soldiers.
“Mom?”
I turned quickly to look behind and stood frozen at the sight before me. A woman more bone than skin prowling forward on bare feet. Her movements were alien and animalistic and savage. She spat haughty words at me in Russian that I didn’t understand.
I thought her the most beautiful thing I’d seen in my life.
“Meet the resistance Ben,” my mother murmured. “Meet Katja, your mate.”
by Kathy Kachelries | Mar 15, 2010 | Story
Author : Kathy Kachelries, Staff Writer
There are two things I hate about a job like this: Carrie, and the viewer-at-home.
That’s not true. There are dozens of things I hate: network executives, directors, producers, footage editors with their nasally little ‘we could have used a little better resolution here. ” I hate pretty much everyone involved in a documentary, but it’s the viewer-at-home who matters. Once that viewer decides they don’t like Carrie, don’t like fish, or don’t like learning, all of us are out of a job.
“There’s the entrance!” Carrie squeals. If nothing else, she has enthusiasm.
It’s a low-budget gig. Unlike Carrie up ahead, who was lucky enough to be female, skinny, blond, and (of lesser importance) a marine biologist, Tommy-crap-for-lighting and Joe-the-assistant-camera-guy (that’s me) actually have to lug junk into these tunnels. The sound guy and lead cameraman are resting cozy on the boat, practically retired.
“Over here,” she calls, swimming smoothly over a long-still turnstile and into the submerged station lobby. I bring the cameras around an ancient ticket machine but find nothing more than a ragged hole, smaller than a kid’s fist. “There are thousands of these,” Carrie continues, looking at my headcam. Who the hell wears makeup underwater? “Even though their slowed metabolism gives them twenty or thirty minutes underwater, the skeletal structure hasn’t changed much. If it weren’t for these nests, they’d make easy dinner for anything down here. A single Long Island Crocodile could take out a whole school in seconds.
Great. Crocodiles. I really ought to read a pamphlet or two about this junk before strapping on the cam and jumping overboard.
My comm beeps and the cameraman patches in, private to me and Tommy. “Can we get a shot of these rats?”
“Carrie, they want rats,” I say, switching frequencies.
“Be patient.” Her primary concerns always involve creatures lacking higher brain function.
“She says be patient.”
“We’re working overtime here,” he says. I hear the hiss of a bottle opening.
On the main channel, Carrie’s still rambling science. “Marine biologists continue their search for the secrets of the tunnel rat,” she says. “Despite intensive study, their rapid evolution remains a mystery, and we can only hope that in decades to come-”
“Joe, can you get a better shot of that hole?” Tommy comms.
Carrie, caught up in describing the rats’ miraculously pathetic life, doesn’t notice as I clickswitch my handcam to fisheye without turning my helmet camera from her face.
And then, Tommy delivers a kick to the ticket machine with so much force that I have no idea how he pulled it off with flippers.
They crawl and swim, dozens, maybe hundreds, not just from the hole but from the ticket slot as well, from unseen gaps behind and beneath the machine. An emptying hive of nearly hairless grey and pink rodents, tails swishing and feet scrabbling for purchase as a stream of bubbles trail upward from a corner.
“That’s what we need!” open-comms the cameraman. “We can edit out that kick, right?”
Only the glow of Tommy’s sidelight lets me see Carrie shake her head. “You can’t just empty a whole colony like that!” she says, voice weak. “Do you have any idea how territorial–”
“Look, Carr, we’re making a documentary here,” comes a new voice, the assistant director. Asshole must have been monitoring everything.
“They’ll only invade another colony, and–”
“Let the marine biologists worry about that junk, okay? All of you, back to the boat, and–”
“I am a marine biologist.”
“Back to the boat. Now.”
It’s a month until filming starts on Carrie’s next Learning Channel adventure, and hopefully, it’ll be somewhere warm.
