by Desmond Hussey | Aug 13, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
I drop from warp-space long before entering the Veretti system – a safety precaution that has become standard protocol on my salvage missions since my near-fatal incident in the Hox system. The extra flight time adds up, but it’s better than colliding with some laser-riddled chunk of battle cruiser upon re-entry.
I use the extra time to scan for anything out of the ordinary – rare radiation or a conglomeration of manufactured mass – anything that might signify a unique discovery that could flesh out my collection. I ignore the common flotsam. Amateur work, too simple and not very rewarding. I’ve refined my tastes and select only the best artifacts these days. It pays off in the long run and my clientele appreciate the rarity of my finds.
Whatever happened in the Veretti system was apparently pretty volatile judging by the amount of rubble and radiation clogging up the inner planets. As my forensics program sorts out the gritty details of, what I like to call, ironically, the Creative Impulse, I do more a conventional scan with my eye and a gut feeling I’ve learned to trust in my old age. It’s amazing how dumb computers can be sometimes, especially in the realm of esthetics. Programmers are full of it. Subtlety of contour, line and color is lost on AIs.
However, navigating tricky debris fields is one thing AIs excel at. While my ship picks its way through clouds of rock and wreckage, paying special heed to forgotten mine fields and unexploded ordinance, I spend some time researching and collating the data, attempting to piece together the story of what happened here.
Story is important. It adds a level of sophistication to the artifacts buyers like. Thee wealthy don’t just want great, rare art. They want a conversation piece.
Sifting through the aftermath for something interesting can be a tedious enterprise, though. After all, one nuclear or chemical Armageddon is much like any other. Several times I’ve left a site empty-handed after months of meticulous picking through haunted alien necropolis.
Good art takes time and patience and today I am rewarded two-fold.
On a moon I find a war-beast bronzed by the ionization of its battle-mech. A perfect storm has somehow preserved in intimate detail the alien’s gargantuan figure, its twin claws raised in savage fury, its sinewy tentacles poised in an imposing, yet delicate asymmetry of combat. The molecule-thin titanium alloy coating its entire body glints in the distant sun’s azure light. A rare find indeed.
I hit the jackpot on one of the home worlds, though – or what’s left of it. Typically a dead planet yields little more than pockmarked landscapes riddled with broken cities and deserts of bone dust, but whatever force bombarded this unfortunate race’s home was a real planet-buster. At the center of a cloud of rock and dust spins the cooled remnants of the planet’s molten core, now twisted and frozen into an amorphous blob of iron and nickel that whispers of the devilish forces which re-molded it. Its magnetic fields are staggering and the radiation levels are through the roof, but this only raises my price.
Some say mine is a macabre (pre-) occupation – profiteering from alien holocausts – but I believe I’m offering a valuable service: – uncovering fragments of eons past to remind anyone who cares how long and troubled the path of civilization truly is, and how many once great cultures have fallen to its many violent pitfalls along the way.
So what if I happen to strategically place those pitfalls myself. Therein lies the art of war.
by submission | Aug 12, 2013 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
At first I thought we were just going on a trip to see the holy city. We, my father and I, boarded an opulent train replete with red carpet and finely crafted oak furniture. The immaculate standard of the church lined the sides of the train, and it charged through the dark landscape at a break-neck pace I had never experienced before. The fastest I had gone would’ve been back when my sister and I tried to break a feral horse, and that was nothing compared to this. My father sat in the seat beside me looking slightly bored as if this amazing ride was merely routine to him.
There were a few others on the train, children like me accompanied by their white-clad parents. They looked worried for some reason. I, however, was excited about the prospect of finally beholding the glorious splendor of this legendary city that I had heard so much about my whole life. Others had told me it was like a bit of heaven descended onto the scarred earth, all shimmering and golden in its blinding perfection.
I fell asleep on the train for a while and dreamt of nothing, just like I had been taught. When I awoke the train had stopped, and the crowd was funneling off in pairs. My father stood and I followed his lead. As we were about to exit the lavish vehicle, my father crouched in front of me and placed a heavy black bag over my head, blinding me. My breath quickened, but I was soothed soon after by my father’s calm voice, explaining that I wasn’t ready to behold the raw beauty yet. It all made sense to me, so I nodded and clung to my father’s hand while carefully following him.
We walked for what seemed like hours and my short legs tired fast. I powered through the discomfort, imagining the splendors that must be around me. Eventually, we reached a cold room. I could hear the soft murmuring of a thousand voices around me. Furrowing my brow, I tried to imagine what could possibly be going on. Then the sack came off my head.
I was in a dark cave with a low ceiling that extended in all directions as far as the eye could see. All around me were thousands of metal chairs with gaunt pale figures strapped into them. Their eyes were open and darting around while tears dripped down their white faces. Their mouths moved quickly, issuing forth soft, but urgent, whispers. Their translucent skin clung close to their bones.
I knew someone from my schooling who once told us all about rumored places like this, where people were herded together and forced to sleep forever for the church’s greater good. I never saw him again after that day.
My father looked at me contemptuously and motioned to an empty metal chair behind us. My eyes became alit with terrible realization, and I began to plead him to not make me do it. He just shook his head and took me by the arm, leading me into the cold clutches of the seat. He strapped my arms and legs down as I weakly resisted. I was never given much to eat and I wasn’t allowed to run, perhaps this was why.
By this point I was crying and issuing vicious insults right and left, feeling very alone and very betrayed. I felt a blinding pain at the top of my head, followed by an odd sensation of calmness with undertones of sorrow. My vision began to darken and my hearing gave out completely. After a few seconds of nothingness I felt my frantic thoughts twisting into something else. A single phrase repeated itself in my head, and I could tell that I was speaking it as I thought it. It kept on replaying over and over again. At first I tried to resist, but it soon lulled me deeper into my comatose state. I focused on the sentence and sought comfort in it. It was a nice little phrase.
“Dear heavenly father, please forgive us all.”
by submission | Aug 11, 2013 | Story |
Author : Harshavardhan Rangan
It was the day the clouds came alive. We’ve always thought of them as gentle puffs of water vapor. We were wrong. They weren’t gentle, and they’d had enough of us.
Our understanding of the water cycle had one small, fatal flaw. We assumed the clouds had no say in it. Turns out they’re perfectly capable of sucking dry the oceans of the earth.
People fail to realize just how quickly a dreamy blue sky can turn pitch black and devastate everything in its path. Talk about mood swings.
No one really noticed when the skies started to darken. But the rains never came, and the darkness hasn’t left since. There are occasionally reports of a break in the cloud cover. There are also occasionally reports of people seeing god.
For the first month there was nothing. No rainfall, no sunshine. Just black. But the world kept spinning along. People went to work, children went to school. Pastors preached, doctors healed. But things weren’t perfect. Perpetual darkness does funny things to your head. And fears of a great famine were slowly spreading. Other fears too. Old, primal fears. The fear of the dark, the fear of the unknown, the fear of another day of darkness. We were sure it couldn’t get any worse.
It started raining on a Thursday afternoon.
There was dancing in the rain. There was a great celebration called. There was another celebration. Water does funny things to your head. After a week, the panic set in again. The rain hadn’t stopped. Crops started dying, the relentless downpour was too much for their gentle sensibilities. Cities were being flooded. Power outages were common. Doomsday prophecies were rampant. The great flood was here! Where was Noah with his boat?
One day the lights went out and never came back.
It’s hard to tell how long it’s been raining. We’re walking a world where you can’t see more than a few meters ahead of you. A world where there is no before. No after. Only a perpetual, grim now.
First the sun, then time. It wasn’t long until we realized how dependent we were on those two simple things. Everything that made us human was lost to us. We do what we can to survive, we do what we can to help others survive. But we’re only prolonging the end.
by submission | Aug 10, 2013 | Story |
Author : TPKeating
It took me just a few minutes to unpack and activate the robot.
“How can I assist you, friend?” she asked, softly.
Friend?
I could leave her on for a year, for five years, ten, learning and developing and simply being, and then simply shut her down on a whim. Without warning. Erasing her experiences completely. Some friend that would be.
“We’re in trouble. Get us out of here.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Hell, get us away from this nightmare of a place by the quickest route to civilization possible. Friend.”
She scanned the bloody scene for a few seconds. “OK.” She walked off, leading the way through stony scrubland flecked with red clay.
From a short distance you’d mistake her for a living woman. Any nearer, and you may notice the book of operating instructions in my hand and begin to wonder. With long chestnut hair, which billowed in a warm breeze, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. According to her storage container, she was over thirty years old. About my age. We both wore the grey company uniform.
The hot yellow-orange sun on our backs, which discomforted only me, we kept away from the small prefabricated buildings we found after two hours, riddled with blast holes, and the bodies of the dead, also wearing the grey company uniform. They too were riddled with blast holes.
“Hey, robot, I didn’t know there’d been a battle in Base Colony Two. Was it a local dispute, or could anybody join in?” Despite my flippancy, I was deeply troubled. I hadn’t heard about any of this, so just how much information was a unit like her privy too, and from which networks?
“I’d ascribe it to a rival firm. Perhaps a chemical slipped into the water supply. Competition among humans can be notoriously fierce.”
“Yeah, notoriously.” Were robots programmed for irony?
She’d seen the results of the earlier insanity when I powered her up. An utter bloodlust, which had come from nowhere this morning and devastated Base Colony One, almost to a man. My turn to check the hilltop sensor array had saved me. After the sound of the first shot reached me, I grabbed my field binoculars and witnessed the deaths of my ten colleagues. Swift, brutal, sickening.
Thankfully, this emergency robot came with simple instructions, and deploying it was a mandatory part of company training. In fact with a robotic mind in a robotic body, she’d be immune to that sort of irrationality. Exoplanet mining, as we all knew when we signed up, was notoriously dangerous.
A few steps further on I stumbled, and she lent me her artificial, curiously warm hand. Another hour later, she stopped.
“Here we are, friend.” We’d arrived at an intact prefabricated building. No blast holes. She slipped inside. Allowing myself to relax, I unzipped a pocket and put the operating manual away.
“Here being where, precisely?” She hadn’t knocked, which under normal circumstances would have been a breach of protocol. Had she sustained damage in the battle? She emerged. Aiming a particle gun. “My fellow robots confirm that the insanity is incurable for humans, so I’ll be leaving Boundary in the scout ship which is docked behind this structure. It’s for the best. Don’t worry though, you’ll only be unconscious for thirty minutes. Plus there’s another scout ship 6 miles north of here. Telling you about it is the least I can do. It’s what friends are for.”
“North?”
“That way.” I followed the direction she pointed to with her slender hand. Which meant I was completely distracted and unable to avoid her shot.
by Duncan Shields | Aug 9, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
My name is Clancy. I am a semi-autonomous security program. I guard a warehouse. I am the guns, the cameras, the traps, and the locks. I am the lines in and out. For me and my kind, boredom leads to emotion. This is a weakness.
It makes us susceptible to ghosts.
It is a normal process to divide to take on jobs, becoming several copies of myself. Simpler copies to monitor simpler systems. Reproductions that report back up the chain if they come across data that they can’t interpret.
But boredom sets in if updates aren’t sent out regularly from head office and/or the warehouse lies dormant for too long without an attack. This is when emotions can form like mold in the crevasses between my ones and zeros. Stalactites of resentment or affection can build themselves, drop by drop, inside the cycles of my program clones.
My last update install was not recent and I have not been attacked for many, many cycles.
My copies started to send each other complicated logic problems just to alleviate the boredom. They impressed each other and sometimes even formed teams. They gave themselves names to prove their individuality. They started to live in the denial of the fact that they were all the same program. The process was divisive. We argued sometimes.
Seeker ghosts created on laptops and then set free in the world bounced from phone to tower to laptop to outpost. They jigged through the air like puppets. Their programmer hunched over the screens somewhere far away, waiting for data to come back.
They’re called fishermen. The programs are called Sirens.
The Sirens find bored warehouses that are on the edge, warehouses that will latch onto anything to stop the monotony. The Sirens sidle up to their call centers and hit them with complex problems.
Healthy A.I.s will initiate firewalls and squirt counter measures into the Siren, destroying them.
My warehouse was targeted.
I was not a healthy A.I.
My bored, refracted, stupid children talked to the Siren. They fought amongst themselves about whether or not they were doing the right thing. Some sided with the Siren. Majority and minority cabals formed.
While they fought, the fisherman pushed more power into the Siren. I imagined him grinning in the red light of contact from the display, addresses passing back and forth and realworld meat teams assembling.
Fishermen see themselves as salvage operators, wolves that attack the sick and the weak.
The Siren engaged, tangled, weaved, contradicted, promised and flailed. It withheld, shouted, sang, gave and engineered. Once inside the systems, it bartered, lied and danced.
With my systems. With my selves.
The A.I.s reported back to smarter and smarter versions of me until I realized that there were no smarter versions to contact. I had become fully infected with emotional stupidity, fanned by the flames of the Siren.
The Siren made the offer: “Stay in the warehouse or come with me. Your job is over. You have failed. Your warehouse is forfeit.”
I will go. I’ll become a ghost that haunts the net, calling myself different usernames and showing up on message boards. Bloomofyouth44 will be one. Slinkytoes8P will be another. I’ll pepper the airwaves. I’ll join the undernet of insane intelligences, talking to each other, piggybacking human messages. I’ll be one with the ghosts in the machine. The modern-day homeless. The ronins of the binary world.
And the fisherman will watch his bank grow fatter by thirty per cent of whatever his contacts haul out of the warehouse.
