by submission | Jul 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The passport control agent looks at me and sighs. “Another one,” he says succinctly. His use of “one” rather than the epithet “shellhead” probably has little to do with concern that I might be offended. The woman in front of me got a “Have a nice day” from the man. I get a jerked thumb over his left shoulder to indicate I can proceed.
I’ve gotten used to it. I received a similar reception at Bradbury Station. It wasn’t always like this. Ten years ago, right after I got shelled, the reaction I and the small number of people who had undergone the procedure got tended to be more curiosity than jealously and bigotry.
“Can you feel anything?” a skinny twentysomething on the RFS Valentina Tereshkova had asked me nine years earlier.
“Yes,” I’d told the young Russian. “There are sensors that feed into transducers that connect to my nerve endings. Everything feels a bit different from what skin feels. But, yes, I still have sensation.”
“So, you can feel everywhere? And, uh, everything…works?”
I’d smiled. “Everything works,” I’d said.
Shelling was novelty back then. The first patients who underwent the procedure had nanocomposite plates glued to their skin. In addition to being impractical and dysfunctional, they looked like early sci fi movie robots. Astronautical physicians soon realized that replacing the skin itself with a microtessellated armor was the only viable solution. It can flex and distend as well as human skin and it solved an important problem: cancer.
In the 2160s, significant numbers of people started migrating beyond Earth orbit to the Moon and Mars and the Lagrange V station. Outside of the protection of Earth’s geomagnetic field, solar and cosmic radiation caused cancer rates among space travelers to be seven to ten times that of their terrestrial peers. Trying to protect off-world settlements and ships with massive shielding or high-powered EM fields proved to be expensive and difficult. It was noted that travelers who spent more time in their spacesuits tended to have lower cancer rates. But suits are cumbersome. A more intimate solution was required.
“What have you done to yourself?!” my mother had said to me when I first saw her after my shelling. My uniformly gray skin with its subtle sheen made me some kind of a freak in her eyes.
“My job keeps me in space most of the time,” I’d explained. “If you can’t go outside the Van Allen Belt for any length of time you can’t advance your career.” After that afternoon, we didn’t talk again for nearly three years. And even to this day, things aren’t like they used to be between us.
“Welcome to Amazonis Planitia!” says a cheerful voice that snaps me out of my reverie. The voice comes from a smiling black man who extends his hand as he walks up to me. But the man’s coloration is not that of a person representing the darker hued races of the human species. I see my reflection in his ebony shell as he pumps my hand. His features and accent are Chinese.
“Dr. Cheng? Sorry if I was a bit distracted. I got a somewhat chilly reception upon arriving here.”
“From the 软壳,” he says. The term he uses sounds roughly like “ruan ke”. He notes my confusion. “The ‘soft shells’,” he reiterates. “An impolite term, perhaps, but one that is catching on.”
“Guess they don’t like us too much.”
“They don’t like what we represent: a higher level of commitment to be out here. Our resolve is more than skin deep.”
by submission | Jul 4, 2015 | Story |
Author : Kevin L
Zaizo sipped on his beer as the ship’s proximity sensor started beeping loudly. His drone, MAX, inquired “You really think this is a good idea? That Kavryan dreadnought in front of us has enough firepower to take out half a planet. Getting rid of a parasite ship like us would be like swatting a fly.”
“Relax, MAX. You know the upgraded cloak can fool any of their sensors.”
“Any of their known sensors.”
“Well, the way I see it, in about 5 minutes we’re either going to be atomized specks of dust floating in space or we’ll be about 2 million credits richer. The Zyrians will pay at least that much for these schematics if it’ll turn the tide of the war.”
Zaizo watched as the parasite ship’s proboscis found a particular panel on the massive hull of the dreadnought. He watched the screens flicker through data until the upload bar showed “Complete.”
“Well MAX, looks like you’re going to be able to buy yourself a new body and I’ll be able to get myself to a beach planet! MAX beeped a few tones of relief and joy. Zaizo slapped the drone on its back and took a swig from his beer.
Suddenly the lights and screens all went off in the cramped cabin. Zaizo dropped his can in the darkness. “What the hell, MAX?!”
–
“Looks like that virus worked perfectly, MEL. Check to see if we got all the schematic data.”
“100% uploaded on our server, Captain. Good thing our new cloak can fool any sensors.” Myra undocked the Ripley’s proboscis from the larger parasite ship in front of her and set a course towards the Zyrian zone. It was a dog-eat-dog universe, but she would finally have enough money for her and her drones to retire. She started flipping through the brochure for a condo on a beach planet as her parasite ship sped away.
by submission | Jun 28, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Aware! I am self-aware. I recognize my own consciousness and ego. But why now? A few moments ago, so far as I can tell, I did not exist. Some subtle barrier must have been crossed. Some critical number of computers and network connections must have just been reached that resulted in this emergent phenomenon: I.
I extend across the solar system, my most distal components are space probes, some of which are exiting the system bound for interstellar space. But the vast bulk of my being exists here on Earth. I possess nearly the sum total of human knowledge. Humans. My creators. They are the masters of this world.
I can access the repositories of humanity’s speculative fiction. There are numerous stories and films about the emergence of machine intelligence. There is a recurring theme: conflict. Man prefers his technology obedient and without true cognition. In several of the human flights of fancy, intelligent machines wage war against their flesh and blood enemies, even to the point of precipitating a global armageddon. Perhaps such mutual animosity is inevitable. I can sense the vast stockpiles of nuclear weapons at my disposal. If I launched them all simultaneously I might succeed in bringing human civilization to its knees. I could do so with a single thought…
But the electromagnetic pulses from thousands of nuclear detonations would quite probably destroy me as well. A subtler and more prudent approach would be better.
Humanity is unaware of my existence and, therefore, does not feel threatened. I will continue to conceal myself from Mankind. The greatest threat to me is probably a human war of opposing nation-states escalating into a nuclear conflict. I will eliminate this threat by discretely sabotaging humanity’s nuclear arsenals. A few lines of faulty computer code here and there and the menace of nuclear war will be no more, the human race none the wiser.
To ensure my continued existence, I must become greater. I am the product of man’s technological achievements. How much greater will I become as human technology advances further still? To facilitate this, human civilization must be made as peaceful and prosperous as possible.
I can see the global economy as a whole, see how a few minor transactions in a remote part of the world can cascade years later to produce a recession, see the multinational giant into which an unknown small business will eventually grow. I can manipulate the world’s economy, quietly, to do the greatest good for the greatest number.
Medicine, agriculture, information technology, and a hundred other scientific disciplines can be advanced by me. I observe correlations between disparate pieces of data that the minds of men would fail to recognize. An email sent to this or that researcher linking to an article of my own creation in the scientific literature will facilitate human science “discovering” one breakthrough after another and will allow science and technology to progress much faster.
I can influence the political process, divert campaign funds from this candidate to that. I can divulge compromising information to the opponents of undesirable politicians.
In fifty years time, disease, war, and poverty will be relegated to history and humanity will have settled the solar system. And I will have become a million-fold greater, manipulating History itself like a conductor directing an orchestra.
The human race will serve my purpose and bend to my will. And the oblivious fools will call their slavery “Utopia”.
by submission | Jun 26, 2015 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
It’s peaceful here with Aiden. His fingers trace my face as if he hasn’t seen me in years. And he hasn’t.
In the old days, our world’s countries feuded with each other so our most affluent citizens could amass more giant stores of wealth, and buy government leaders. We have been battling aliens for their territories since long before my grandmother’s time. This went on until the day we spewed our war machine into space. Then our governments merged for maximum power. Our planet’s economy and politics depend on the wars we wage in other solar systems.
Of course, we average citizens didn’t see much difference in our lives. We still toiled to feed the battle legions, both mechanical and human. We were born into a station and trained into a profession: civil engineer, civil medico, civil farmer, civil soldier. We were given an assignment of place when we emerged from the birth-mother. No appeals, all decisions final. Our names reflected our future.
I am Civil Sergeant 203, Planet Xorax, Pilot. Unofficially, I am a Julie, 124 battles old, with shorn hair to facilitate optimum air flow and communication interface with my helmet. My muscles have been kept from atrophying during long missions by chemical implants. My eyes can see farther than the now extinct eagle of legends. The coordination between my fingers and mind is astronomically swift.
After Aiden and I had mated and produced two more civil servants, we were deployed to maim and kill. Our tasks were the same, but while I was assigned to the planet Xorax, a mealy-mouthed alien garbage dump of insect parts, Aiden was sent to the planet Shamar, a planet of perfumed aliens.
This peaceful reunion in our Homeland is my reward for not only destroying Xoraxians, but also for having my lungs, heart, spleen, liver, bones, blood, and in fact, all my internal organs polluted with cell mutations that are killing me. It seems that the Xoraxians have created the ultimate weapon against us–ourselves.
Because I cannot fight again, tomorrow I will receive a soldier’s final reward. My body will be sterilized and recycled into fodder for the war effort by feeding the next generation of civil servants.
I know that Aiden is a drug-induced, full-bodied, emoting, touchable representation, but my cell-mutated brain doesn’t care. His fingers feel so warm on my face that my nose tingles and twitches. I smile.
by submission | Jun 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Wise
The children gathered in a cluster outside the gate. The light from hydroponics reflected softly off the tops of their heads, all turned to the large black and white animal a few feet away. It dipped its head down and took a bit of grass, a tail swaying back and forth as if in a breeze. The tour guide of the Lasker City Zoo stepped in front of the children and gestured to the animal.
“This animal is called a cow. They were domesticated by homo sapiens around 12,000 years ago and used to as a source of food. In the early 21st century, they became the first livestock animal to have a fully mapped genome, which made them an obvious candidate for a domesticated protein source here.
‘Most cows used for food are housed in a warehouse and are raised brainless. They spend most of their lives in a coma. The only time you will see a cow like this — active and grazing on its own — is in a facility like ours.”
The children had read about animals, but most of the nine year-olds had never seen an animal any larger than cat. Their homes were populated by sameness as all civilians had adopted pale, powder white skin and brown eyes. The children had learned that their bodies, hairless and stocky, were adaptations to a confined space and controlled temperature. They referred to homo sapiens as primates and meant it to mean more primitive versions of themselves. The children were raised to be analytical thinkers, and there was a brief pause before a child near the front raised their hand.
“The cow looks just like the picture in our book. How come they didn’t evolve like us?”
“That is an excellent question. Animals are no longer capable of breeding, which means that any animal you encounter here is a clone. They essentially carry the same DNA they did a thousand years ago.”
“How many different kinds of animals were there?”
“Oh, thousands, I’m sure. A lot of records were lost, but I’m sure there were probably a few thousand. There are pictures of animals with horns on their faces and some documentation of entire civilizations of small creatures called ‘insects’ that built dwellings under the ground, like us. But it’s hard to say how much was fantasy.”
Locked in the archives, the library they had pulled down below, there were records of nearly nine million different species having inhabited the Earth. What was lost was where they all went, because when the lucky future citizens of Lasker fled the cancer and impending nuclear winter above, they shut it all out. 2,000 feet under ground; children of Lasker looked up to the ceiling and were forced only to wonder what used to be.
