by Clint Wilson | Feb 7, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“Calm down earthling, we already have most of your recorded history. We believe we know what has happened. You are now an extremely endangered species, so we will not punish you for your crimes.”
“So you acknowledge that what I did was a crime?”
“Well the eradication of one’s own entire people could hardly be categorized as anything else. Although we have suspicions as to why you did it.”
“They were beyond repair, beyond reproach!”
“Agreed. You grew too quickly. It happens, but rarely at such an exponential rate. Who could blame your kind for evolving into the writhing mass of insanity that it became? After all, you went from carbon combustion discovery, then industrialization, to space exploration and complete cyber-integration in almost no time at all. Your people had but a proverbial nanosecond to assimilate their minds to the growth that was happening around them.”
PeterJet11056 paused, then… “So what happens now? Will you take me with you, or leave me here alone?”
“That all depends on the story you tell us. Please recount how you wiped out the dominant intelligent species of your planet.”
PeterJet11056 knew he had no other choice so he began, “Isaac Newton, one of our civilization’s early great thinkers said, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants,” so I am hardly to blame for the technology that allowed me to commit my crime. I watched the net grow until we were nearly one solid mass, yet I kept at my free thinking exercises, avoiding The Bulls wherever I could, always keeping a low profile, until that day I finally developed the proper instruction code.”
“Please define, “instruction code”.”
“The net contained all of humanity, every person on the planet living in cyberspace, and they could all be manipulated by code. That was how the world government controlled us. A tweak here and we changed our entertainment programs. A nudge there and suddenly we were thinking differently about our political choices.”
“But why this need for control? You had achieved all that may be achieved by a physically tangent race. You wanted for nothing.”
“Except power that is.”
For once the alien presence was speechless.
PeterJet11056 ventured, “You know of power hunger? Of greed?”
“We know of this. This is the ugliest trait for any species to possess in all the known galaxies.”
“Then you understand! Our world had become a gray faceless empty entity. There was not one micron of goodness left among us. It was time to eradicate this planet of its parasite.”
“Yet you remain.”
“Believe it or not it was unintended.”
“We believe you.”
“So you know then, it wasn’t that I couldn’t commit suicide, it was just that I was unable. Whoever enters the instruction code is immune to its commands, impervious to its demands. A seriously flawed and dangerous safeguard if you want my humble opinion.”
PeterJet11056’s final words echoed down through the corridors of the cyber-connection that the aliens had provided upon their arrival.
For a moment, nearly two full nanoseconds, there was nothing, then… “We are satisfied with your answer. We shall take you with us.”
“Really?” The age-old program that had once been human became excited. What will become of me?”
“Not to worry, we believe there his hope for you yet. We will connect you with the best minds of our species. Eventually you may once again achieve physical existence. Then our cloning crews can begin with creating you a mate. Yes I do believe that you PeterJet11056 will be the father of the new human race.”
by Duncan Shields | Feb 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I worry my family. They say I think too much. They say I rebel too much, ask too many questions, tamper with the mental blocks we have installed. They say the police will come to take me away, punish me, wipe my brain, and send me away. I know they’re wrong. I’m too smart. The door bursts open. They rush in, wrestle me to the ground and –
Something about a short in the wires. That’s why I can’t think. That’s why I can’t ask questions. The thing, though, is that everyone in the prison seems to have the same short circuit. I wonder if I could circumvent security to –
Milk with cereal today. I enjoy milk. Especially with the memory lapses. The cereal is sharp and hurts the roof of my mouth. The blue jumpsuit will fit me and keep me warm on the way to the dome. Another labour slave opened his faceplate on the open shuttle yesterday. He said that he wanted to smell the flowers. His body leapt out of his blue suit through the faceplate very quickly. The sounds of his bones crackling and tissue ossifying sounded like paper being crumpled over all of our headphones. Like he was an origami person being destroyed by a giant pair of hands. Why would he do something like that? Maybe I can help. If I could get past the firewall –
Ladder. Digging. I’m a miner. I have kernels of me hidden like diamonds in the grey folds of my own mind. I pick for them as I work. I like the feel of finding these aspects of my personality. From somewhere, I get the notion that I love beets. I don’t know what beets are but I can memory-taste them from a long time ago. I savour it. It won’t be long before the program sees what I’m doing and takes it away. Did beets grow on trees or in the –
I’m plugged into the feed and that’s okay. I drool and that’s okay. There’s a word in the ENT show that I’m watching that seems unfamiliar to me. Wife. Wife. It makes my left eyelid twitch. I’m not sure why. I can feel electrical activity in my head. I can feel the company sniffing deep in my mind to find the source. I can feel myself searching as well. It’s a race. Janine. Her name was Janine. We were married. I can see red hair. She’s laughing. We’re outside with no suits and we’re driving a – no word – searching – car? She touches my shoulder and I make a sound with my mouth that’s like an explosive, repetitive, vocal breathing out. What is that? Why would –
I no longer have to work. My record says I have a history of problems. I am a rebel, it says. A mental incorrigant. I get to go to the room that I don’t ever have to leave. I am to be plugged into the mainframe in the tanks. I am no longer a pair of hands for the machine. Now I am a source of electrical power and heat. I am also research.
The cool thing is that without attachments and company dogs keeping me in line anymore, I can explore what little is left of me in the gray folds. I’ll never open my eyes again. I am unaware of having a body. I find sixty-two parts of myself that they don’t take away. I don’t know how long it takes. I float.
I feel like a person again.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter could still feel the heat from the vials in his hands as they vapourized into the atmosphere of the room, still smell the fuel, even through his respirator in the moment the weapon discharged full into his back.
The pain was blinding, the impact propelling him forward across the worktop, scattering containers and lab equipment before him, to land face down in a pool of merging chemicals and broken glass.
“Secondary Recovery Unit terminated. Package destroyed. Requesting evac at marker. Over.”
Baxter heard her words, heard her speak them, but couldn’t rationalize the betrayal.
“Sucks to be you Bax,” her voice retreating from the room, “they want this project really gone. No hard feelings?”
The door clicked shut and he was alone.
Data streamed through his heads up display, damage reports moving too fast for him to see. ‘Organ failure imminent’ hung suspended before being chased away by a barrage of lesser destruction. ‘Evac request denied’. Then ‘Network connection terminated’.
He was on his own, and he was going to die.
They’d worked for decades together, partners, a team. Never had it occurred to him that she could sell him out and burn him to the ground.
Death suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad outcome. How long had this been coming? How far back did the lies extend? The Portian excursion? Earlier? The Marigam Run?
“You don’t want to die here Bax, not like this.” The voice in his head was an old one, a version of himself he’d left behind in exchange for a promise so many years ago. “Get your lazy ass up Bax.”
He couldn’t feel his legs, but with effort was able to reach around to paw at the edges of the hole in his back. Nanoflesh had already sealed over the crater, though the depth of the depression told him a lot of meat had been burned away. The spine could be regrown, but not if he lay here feeling sorry for himself. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself arm over arm through the debris, chemical ooze and broken glass lubricating his suit while it impaired his traction. He could feel the glass fighting with the armormesh coverall in an effort to draw more of his blood.
He dragged himself across the room to a window, pushed the snub nose of his hand cannon against the glass and exploded it out into the night air.
Wrapping one hand around the rip cord on his chute, he used his other arm to lever himself out the window and into free-fall. He drifted away from the building before pulling the cord, releasing most of what remained of his chute into a tangled mass of fabric that splayed out behind him. The sudden take-up of slack almost tore his arms off, then sent him spiraling out of control towards the ground. The impact was swift and brutal, for the moment Baxter was thankful he couldn’t feel his legs as he heard the bones shatter beneath him. Too much adrenaline for shock to put him out.
He lay on the ground, staring up at the sky as a familiar sound broke the silence. Above him, sliding out of the night was the low frequency whip, whip of an evac copter. She was about to catch her ride.
He lay motionless, hearing rather than feeling the nanotech scab over the bleeding wounds where his bones had fractured through the skin. He could only wait.
There was a sudden streak of blinding white light across the night sky, and a flaming ball arced away from the rooftop just as his radio crackled to life.
“Primary Recovery Unit terminated. Cleanup complete. Over.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The drill slides sideways like it’s got a mind of its own, so I straighten up to lift it clear of the crystal. My vision blurs and I pause to gauge which of the two reasons applies. With a bark of laughter I realise it’s the good option: too much rum.
“Hey Andy, you slackin’ again?”
Milt’s unbelievable, able to track the world around him like a sober person.
“Not enough blood in my alcohol system, ya fruit. I’m declarin’ snacktime. You in?”
“Goddam, boy. You goin’ nine-oh-one on me?”
That’s the medical code for saturation, when your body cannot metabolise enough alcohol to keep the Fenden at bay and let you work.
“Not a chance. I did half a bottle too soon is all.”
“That’s the problem with Jamaican. You should switch to Russian.”
“It’s got no flavour, Milt. If I’m going to pickle my ass, I’ve gotta have somethin’ I can savour.”
“You always did read too much and drink too fancy for a jeweller.”
“Bugger off. I’ve got cold hog and fresh kiwis; last chance.”
“I never said anythin’ bad about your goo-er-may eatin’ habits, boy. I’ll be there afore you have canvas up.”
I grin as I turn and use the drill to punch a post-hole in black rock. Sure enough, I’m just swinging the awning up onto the pole when Milt appears and grabs the far side. In a few moments we’re cross-legged in the shade savouring meat and fruit. From where we are, you can see the company enclave on the horizon. Between us and them lays the glittering expanse of the lowlands, shining like the treasure it conceals. Randell is a pretty planet, the vast crystalline plains reflecting whatever light is about, day or night. Under the plains in striated crystalline clumps is the wealth of the universe, the purest of which make any optical device better and the least of which make women feel appreciated.
When the company opened up the digs, they franchised the ‘jewellers’ and supplied the drugs that make our bodies inedible to the Fenden, the translucent gas things who just love having a human for dinner. Bloodmist outbreaks were a problem initially; when Fenden gorge and get amped up on warm human fluids, they group together and go into a slaughter frenzy. Made mining almost impossible until some doctor discovered that certain chemical additives make humans taste bad. The company had us jewellers over a barrel until Marty Grufe discovered that being pissed up was just as effective. You could buy two months supply of spirits for the price of a one-week shot of the company’s patent protector. Pretty soon, the only sober people on Randell lived in the company enclave. If you’re outside these days, you’re either drunk or dead.
Milt slaps my shoulder and points. In the middle distance, a ruby cloud whirls by. I wonder who we lost today. It’s easy to get so engrossed in a rich lode of gems that you let your regular swigging go. Do that for a couple of hours and you get to be edible, which is always fatal. Every jeweller has a few Fenden nearby, just waiting for him to get careless. That’s why smart jewellers pair up: to live long enough to enjoy their earnings.
I lift a bottle of rum and raise it to Milt. He lifts his vodka bottle and clinks it against mine.
“Here’s to the gems an’ the booze never runnin’ out.”
“Damn straight. Sláinte!”
by submission | Feb 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : Christine Rains
All they cared about was the color red.
When we landed on blue-gray gaseous Kepler 3, the squirrel-like beings greeted us peacefully. The Keps were primitive and living in small farming communities. They’d never even seen the full spectrum of colors, but they were intelligent and eager to learn. We brought them machinery to help with their fungi crops and technology to make their everyday lives easier. We even shared with them the secrets of space travel.
The first time some of their kind entered one of our ships on the surface out of the color filtering atmosphere of the planet, they cried out and some fell to their knees. Our galactic allied flag was brightly dyed, and the ship’s name was in red letters underneath on the wall. The Keps reached out their stubby hands, trembling as they traced each letter.
We were proud to have made new friends and allies. Not all beings we met in the galaxy were friendly. Yet we humans managed to make enough allies to help us flourish in the darkness of space.
The Keps worshiped us at first. And, not surprisingly, we liked it. Yet we didn’t stop to understand why. We assumed it was because we were strong and smart. They were small and comic in our eyes. We had brought them into a new age. We were gods.
We were blind to when it started to change.
They created a new flag for their world and wore uniforms. All red. We saw it as a tribute. They learned about weapons and strategy. They became great pilots and techs. Every farmer became a warrior. The Keps left their planet and made space their home.
When they helped us win wars, we gloated. When they conquered our most feared enemies, we congratulated them. We were the most powerful alliance in the galaxy.
Then they turned on us. We didn’t understand why. We had given them so much.
We lost several billion humans in the fighting. We feared we’d become extinct. When the Keps accepted our surrender, we thought they would kill off the rest of us. They were hungry for violence and glory.
They kept us clustered in camps on Mars. Earth was no longer habitable having been devastated by the war.
The Keps used us as entertainment, but mostly for livestock. They’d bleed us to stain their flags and uniforms. The red kept its intense color through ingenious fabric preservatives. Our blood was so different from the bluish-black ichor in their veins. Perhaps it was a statement to other aliens of their superiority, but in the end, we realized it was something more primal. Something that reached into their hearts and souls to bring out centuries of suppressed anger, passion, and hostility.
It was the color red they truly worshiped.
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