by submission | Apr 28, 2013 | Story
Author : Paul Williams
I meant to pay. Kept twenty Euros in my pocket, you can see it on the camera. I kept it all night. It was still there when the hookers and machines stopped serving. Check their cameras.
We had to run for the train, the barrier was down and no serving machines were about. Not my fault they’re trying to save money by switching off early.
The others drank on board. I never did, you can check the cameras. Front coach. Just us then just me left when the computer announced Aston Station.
The barrier there was down too, like the lights, but a machine still worked. I wasn’t trying to hide in the shelter, check the cameras. I knew it had seen me before it asked for the ticket. Yes, it was polite and clear.
I held out the coins, check the cameras. I couldn’t see the slot. It was card only. Not my fault they’re trying to outlaw cash.
I tried to explain like I’m doing now. It wasn’t programmed to listen. Not my fault they don’t have discretion. Yes, it gave the official warning twice. Yes, I understood it. Isn’t fair though. I didn’t see any warning posters, how could I when the lights were off?
Yes it told me about the right of appeal. That’s why I’m here. I know you have to uphold the machine law as voted for by the majority. I voted for them too. Didn’t realise this would happen. Didn’t think they would find an excuse to start culling us. Execute the real criminals yes but this is just a train fare. You’re half-human, not just a machine? You know this is unfair.
I’ve accepted responsibility, I’ve given you the names of the other worse offenders, apologised and offered to pay all the fare and the fine. Dad has it, legally. Check his tax records. There was no intent to steal, honest there wasn’t.
No, I realise that intention is not relevant under the machine law. Yes, I realise that everyone must be treated equally but that’s unfair isn’t it. You’re a person. A human. You’ve got children. Sons or a daughter like me. A child who made a mistake. I regret it. I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll repay. I’ve said that. Dad has the money here. He can give you extra if you want.
Well, say something. I’m asking for clemency here. Asking for you to apply common sense. To listen. To understand. I’m not like the other guys. I know we had to do something about criminals. I understand the need for mandatory sentencing and for machines that cannot be corrupted to administer it. I get that. I really do. I just want another chance. Please.
Daddy he’s not listening. Daddy, help me. Someone tell them it’s wrong. Someone. Anyone. Please.
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by submission | Apr 27, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bill Drummond
We three, the only survivors of the wrecked starship Buoyant, are Captain Bertrand Kelmond, Sergeant Rosalind Druley and me. The Captain has suffered a head injury, leaving him confused and ineffective as the leader. I am not happy with being assigned his attendant and neither is he.
Captain Bert believes that he is still in charge of the team. Sergeant Druley has assumed the leadership role of our tiny group. I am glad for that. If we are to make it off this planet alive, there is no one to help us. We must rely on each other. Repairs on our rescue beacon are constantly interrupted by Bert’s incessant bickering and obtuse orders. Just how, exactly, am I to “hoist the mainsail”? These bouts of his wear on us all.
To make matters worse, neither Bert nor Rosa considers me, in their own words, “a satisfactory companion”. They actually laughed at me when I explained that this hurts my feelings. Personally I think they are rude and inconsiderate. They say that I am only a robot. I believe that I am less a tool than they.
Today Bert kicked at the hull of the Buoyant and walked out, mumbling obscenities of course. “He’s in a mood again.” I commented to Sergeant Druley. She sighed and tossed the wrench in a bucket. “Leave him alone and he’ll come around” she muttered, leaving the communications room. “I meant no harm Rosa. I merely mentioned that he might benefit from the use of my psychological analysis program.” I said to the empty room.
Walking down the hall she responded, “in effect you told him that he should have his head examined.” I said to her “well I suppose that is another way to say it, yes”. “Well” she said, “I suppose that you should adjust the level on your humanities programming a bit.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I said to her as she walked away from me. Rosa turned to me shrugging, her hands palm up. I scanned my human image database and found a correlation. “Ha, sarcasm. That is quite petty you know.” I said to the empty hallway.
I have entered all the events of today in my personal log. The interactions noted here are quite typical of our daily routine. This moody demeanor on Rosa’s part is not productive and I tire of it. I am seriously considering adding a mild sedative to the drinking water for harmonies sake. My reason for not having done so to date is my fear that this will stunt Rosa’s creativity and resourcefulness. I rely on her greatly, though not exclusively, to successfully complete my mission.
Their behavior the next few days will determine my next course of action. My sincere hope is that we can peacefully co-exist. On the captains good days he is exceptionally helpful. These times, unfortunately, are becoming more infrequent.
“Captain Kelmond, do you have anything to add to the testimony given by the Buoyant?” asked the inquisitor algorithm.
“No, I will stand by my full report on the Buoyant’s malfunction and attempted suicide after murdering most of the crew.” replied Bert. He added, “If it were not for Rosa the Buoyant would have killed me as well. In the end that android was the only one the Buoyant seemed to trust.”
“Very well Captain. The court rules that the Buoyant be decommissioned and the wrecked hull sold as scrap.” responded the court computer, “The Buoyant’s higher functions will be stored in a maximum security facility for the remainder of its natural function.”
by Patricia Stewart | Apr 26, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The shrimp trawler ”Treadin’ Water” plowed through the calm gulf seas on its way to Baratana Bay. Clasping the wheel in his massive hands, Captain Noyent eyed his son skeptically. “So, your mother and me spend half our life’s savin’s putting you through Hopkins, and instead of becoming a doctor, you built that contraption.”
“I told you, Pop, it’s an ultrahigh frequency subliminal neurostimulator. If it works like it did during the lab trials, we’ll have enough money to buy a fleet of trawlers.”
Still doubtful, the senior Noyent prodded his son, “How so?”
“You know how the size of your catches has been declining every year. That’s because the shrimp are diving deeper into the gulf because the surface water is so much warmer than it was a decade ago. And you can’t put your nets down that deep because of the risk of snagging them. However, when I lower my neurostimulator into the water, I can transmit a signal that will make the shrimp want to swim to the surface. For a radius of about a tenth of a mile, we’ll have so many shrimp at the surface you’ll be able to scoop up a pound by dippin’ your ball cap over the side.”
“Sounds like science fiction to me. I won’t believe it until I see it.”
“Well, you’re about to, Pop. Drop your nets right here, and I’ll deploy the neurostimulator.”
Thirty minutes later, millions of shrimp could be seen disturbing the calm, mirror-like surface surrounding the ship. Captain Noyent nudged the throttle forward and began trawling at 2.7 knots. To his amazement, the shrimp boat filled her nets in less than a hundred yards. Within two hours, the hold was filled to capacity, and Captain Noyent was smiling from ear to ear. That’s when all hell broke loose.
From out of nowhere, thousands of fish suddenly converged on the shrimpfest surrounding the idle trawler. As the schools of fish started their feeding frenzy, the shrimp’s instinct to flee to deeper water was being countermanded by the still transmitting neurostimulator. As a consequence, the crusteans, and the pursuing fish, whipped the sea into a caldron or foaming, bubbling, froth. Father and son watched in stunned silence as the water surrounding the ship turned from blue to white. Only then did they both realize that the ship was losing buoyancy due to the incessant churning of the aerated sea. Water started pouring over the gunwale, and into the open hold. The ship went to the bottom is less than a minute.
by featured writer | Apr 25, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“Surrender your cargo and you can leave unharmed.”
The message comes over the radio the moment I come out of a space fold maneuver inside the Gliese 832 system. It’s a fairly old trick. There are a finite number of space fold nexuses and of that finite number only a small subset located close to settled star systems. From a pirate’s point of view, it’s a logical place for an ambush.
I reply to the bandits’ demand with an anatomically impossible suggestion.
“Surrender your cargo or we will open fire!”
I scan their ship. Railgun. It could punch holes in my ship if I gave them the chance. I examine their propulsion system. Fusion rockets only. No space fold system. And their vessel has heavy radiation shielding. Locals. They might even be completely unmodified human beings. I’m heavily cyborged. The unmodified human body isn’t designed for space travel, let alone space folding. The nanomachines in my cells are already repairing the damage from the Bremsstrahlung radiation I was hit with upon defolding back into normal space. I decide to give them a break.
“Boys, my cargo isn’t that valuable. But I have a legal and professional obligation to deliver it. Clear out of here and we’ll pretend this never happened. Or stand your ground and I’ll kill you. You won’t get another warning.”
I switch off the radio. Suddenly, my ship lurches violently. The ship’s computer isn’t designed to inform the pilot of a threat and then wait for a response. Too slow and inefficient. And potentially lethal. The moment the sensors detect the pirates have fired their railgun, the ship itself reacts like a man reflexively swerving out of the way of an opponent’s punch. Dozens of rounds streak by the ship. None make contact.
Another jarring course correction. My ship heads directly for the pirate vessel. The horizontal axis g-force on my body is over 30 times the acceleration of Earth’s gravity. The enemy doesn’t even try to lock their railgun back on my ship. What would be the point? My vessel has more than 100 times the mass of theirs. A few holes in something that massive striking their ship wouldn’t change anything. Their rather pathetic attempt at evasive action indicates the crew, not their ship’s computer, is manually trying to move the spacecraft out of the way. I imagine there’s quite a lot of screaming going on over there right now.
My ship’s space fold system comes online. The vessel is still close enough to the fold nexus to form a jump point. The craft veers slightly to avoid a collision with the pirates. As I streak alongside the raiders’ spacecraft, my ship’s computer abruptly shuts off the fold drive.
My ship cuts acceleration. My vessel is sailing toward the colony at a good clip. I’m even still on schedule for delivery. My aft sensors show the pirate vessel’s contorted hull, the fold drive’s spacetime distortion and sudden cut-off having twisted and warped enemy ship into a piece of surrealist art. The bodies of the crew, I imagine, are in much the same state.
My vessel’s computer uploads the entire sensor log of the battle to the colony. I’m still six weeks of travel through normal space away. Plenty of time for the authorities to review what happened. It’s extremely unlikely any charges will be pressed. I’ll get asked a few questions and that will be that. Gliese 832 is not known for coddling criminals.
by submission | Apr 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : J. R. Hargenrader
When Mission Specialist David Branson joined the Solarian Defense Force, his romantic ideal of “see the universe, learn advanced skills, and encounter alien civilizations” never meant hiding on the far side of an asteroid, cleaning regolith-covered optics, and spying on Gliesians he never met.
“Do you ever wonder if we should be doing this?” Branson asked. He lifted the zero-gravity cup to his lips and glanced at the senior officer seated next to him.
Commander Culligan stared at the satellite feed centered on the alien launch pad. The imposing man was all military—square jaw, short cropped hair, low body fat.
“No.”
And efficient sentence construction.
Branson also didn’t envision being stuck at the far end of the galaxy in a pioneer outpost with a guy less companionable than the station’s railgun. At least today would deviate from their regular routine of scanning satellite images flagged by the computer or unclogging the Waste Collection System again. The Gliesians were preparing another rocket launch and, if their last few attempts were any indication, there was a good chance they’d get something into orbit this time. A part of him secretly hoped for their success.
“This violates SDF’s non-interference policy,” Branson said.
“Don’t you think?”
“Non-interference is secondary to the safety and perpetuation of humanity,” Culligan said, quoting SDF doctrine. His face remained cold and hard. “Besides, 581 won’t be the first system where we’ve done this. Or the last.”
The primary display flashed an alert and the image zoomed on the rocket. Branson straightened in his chair.
“Get ready,” Culligan said. He swiped his hand across the console and the display panned down the slender vehicle.
Branson admired the elaborate patterns of colored dots that decorated the ship and appeared on structures throughout the city. Everything they crafted was functional and beautiful. The Gliesian rocket was a vehicle to the stars and a work of art.
White hot light erupted from the engines. The support trusses swiveled away from the airframe and the rocket lifted above the launch pad. Branson’s breath caught in his throat.
“Perfect,” Culligan said. “The trajectory couldn’t be more perfect.”
The rocket arced over the sky as blue melted into black. The first stage disengaged; then the second. The hurtling nose cone soared along the curvature of the planet into a stable orbit. The Gliesians had done it.
The display flashed “IN RANGE.” The walls rattled as the outpost’s railgun tracked its target. “LOCK” flashed in red.
The cone unfurled to reveal a silver sphere at its core. This sphere rocketed away as its crystalline extrusions caught the red sunlight and created rainbows over the blue world. Branson opened his mouth to speak but no words came to him.
Sensors detected a new transmission. A beeping noise.
“Fire,” Culligan said.
“Wait,” Branson said. “There’s a signal.”
“Fire!”
A suppressed flash of plasma lit up the barren asteroid landscape and the outpost shuddered.
The sphere burst into a shimmering spray of silver and crystal. The beeping stopped. Branson thought he watched his own heart as the satellite tumbled forward into a silent death spin.
“That will keep them planet-bound a while longer,” Culligan said.
Branson imagined the explosion as the Gliesians would see it from the surface. Beauty and catastrophe as one. Did they feel shock, confusion, defeat, or sadness? Or were those emotions exclusive to humans? A burning sensation rose in his throat.
“What have we done?” Branson asked.
Culligan sniffed. “Completed our mission.”
Mission? To preserve the ‘safety and perpetuation’ of—
Humanity?
Oh, God. What have I done?
