by submission | Mar 31, 2015 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Mao found it very curious, this third planet from the sun. Blisteringly hot and unbearably humid, shaken hourly by violent storms like a wind-up toy wound too tight. The only living residents left were clustered at the southern pole, hidden in the crags of the antarctic mountains and keeping an eye on the weather. Mao spent long days watching after them, cleaning and fixing their tools and labs, listening in on their conversations.
The weathermen were a superstituous lot, so naturally when a signal came stumbling in through from the old America del Sur the investigation fell to their stoic guardian and janitor: Mao.
A week into the journey to the old continent Mao found the third planet equal parts curious and frustrating. A dozen times his surface craft had rerouted itself around massive ferrous objects it believed were drifting across the ocean surface. Floating crypts, the weathermen had called them, but even with the enhanced optical suite Mao couldn’t see anything in the hazy orange mists. The pounding of the waves against the sides of the vessel never ceased.
By the end of the second week Mao had made landfall and, trailed by a pair of steel mules, began the trek inland. The soggy coastal swamps gave way quickly to mountains pitted and scarred by centuries of torrential rain. Waterfalls came and went in the haze – visibility never reached past 50 meters. Mechanically and pharmaceutically aided by a hefty exosuit, Mao’s progress was quick. He made his way up through a dozen upredictable canyons and across along a handful of flooded valleys, each step as steady as the splintered rock beneath it. The haze turned dark, then orange again as the hours passed. The mules always followed, gathering data, watching. At times Mao thought he saw them jump in surprise, but wrote it off as an artifact of the treacherous conditions.
On the 20th day, at the height of the daily thermocycle, Mao descended into a long dead caldera: the signal’s source.
He came out of the haze into a scene he remembered from a storybook from when he was growing up on Titan. A grotto. A clear pool of water too deep to fathom and surrounded, impossibly, by dwarf trees bearing golden fruit. Two fish, white and orange, circled eachother lazily, distorted by the ripples of flies on the water’s surface.
Mao turned to see if the mules were there to see what he was seeing, but he was alone. He turned back to find dust swirling lazily at the bottom of the caldera. The grotto – and the signal – were gone.
There are ghosts in the old world, the weathermen had said as they huddled together and smoked spindly hand-rolled cigarettes. They would spend long nights in the community space, smoke blurring the sky-lights and mist beyond, and would whisper about the dead machines: Hawthorne hidden away in the Paris Underground; Melville tucked beneath the ruins of MIT; Thoreau chiselled into the Appalacians. Old places still haunted by an implaccable anger at the intrusion of the garden into the domain of the machine.
Mao found it, half buried in the dust. A metal skull polished by the weather, eyes filled with grit. An arm lay nearby, half buried, joints corroded and bundles of synthetic muscle frayed and useless. A single crystal egg was clutched in its hand, ancestor to the data storage devices the researchers used. Mao picked up the egg, cradling it in his hands.
He had spent decades listening to the weathermen whisper about ghosts, never wondering if the ghosts might whisper back.
by submission | Mar 28, 2015 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Xoman yearned for the vast world outside the gates of her private hell. Her life was: follow the regulations or face the consequences, eyes in the back of your head, and sour-faced guards. She rubbed her temples where each day electrons purred positive messages into her brain and shocked negative waves of disobedience.
She had stolen, on a dare, a pair of antique pink panties from the museum that she never got to model before she was placed in the Reclamation Redemption Center.
Purr. Zap!
The day she was finally released, she was shown her image in a mirror. She was no longer herself. The long, straight fiery red hair was buzz cut and white, the athletic figure was rolls of fat, and her skin lay in folds. Xoman turned to the force field and waited for the scowling guard to cut the juice, allowing her to exit. She hesitated until the sullen guard pushed her out the door.
Xoman looked around.
The world outside had changed. Where were the blue skies, songbirds, trees, grass? Hell, there wasn’t even a gray ugly pigeon waddling on the sidewalk. Where were her friends waiting to greet her? She had sent the messages. Where was her world?
Xoman shivered in the dry heat that rose up from the concrete. She stuffed her hand in the plastic pocket of her out-of-prison suit, to feel the hardness of plastic tokens. A plastic map showed her new rooming house, new life.
Xoman trudged the 12 blocks full of gray buildings and vacant lots of concrete to her new home. She stopped in front of the graystone. She climbed the broken steps, knocked on the metal door, and was shown her space.
She recognized the dull colorless bed. The covers, pillow, and sagging mattress had been hers for years. Faded floral patterns peeled in strips from the bare walls. One dangling light glowed faintly in the windowless room. A mouse or rat skittered across the floor and out the door.
“Don’t blame you,” muttered Xoman. Purr.
She sat on the bed to bend over, propping her head in her hands. “I can’t live here,” she murmured. “I can’t.” Purr.
She thought about leaving the city. Sure, she could trade a ride for favors. She looked at herself and sighed. “I wonder if I can make it out of this town,” she muttered before she felt the zap. “Ow!”
Xoman looked at the map showing a plastic factory. “I don’t want to work an assembly line.” Purr.
“Damn it, I’ll use these tokens to buy a rope and hang myself.” Zap! The headache made her lie down moaning. She slept.
Early the next morning she reached a decision. She had pictured each sullen, scowling, sour-faced guard. “No wonder,” she sighed. “Of course.” Purr.
Xoman marched the 12 blocks to the Reclamation Redemption Center. Before she could ring the bell a frowning guard opened the gate. “You’ll find your uniform in Room 714, Seventh Floor South. You are responsible for watching the inmates’ chow lines. Be tough and don’t let them see you smile.”
And then a smile tickled the guard’s mouth. “Welcome home.”
by submission | Mar 27, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
“At that point, the technology was reliable, but human factors still caused failures. To continue manned missions, they had to modify us. News headlines screamed ‘Astronauts Mutilated.’ The public hated NASA, but we willingly submitted. All of us, in perfect health, had our natural teeth extracted and replaced with implants and our joints swapped out for motorized prosthetics. Appendixes, gallbladders, and other ‘non-essential’ organs were removed. Females underwent hysterectomies. Our gastrointestinal, vision, and cardiovascular systems were ‘enhanced.’ And physiomaintenance, computational, and communication modules were surgically attached.”
“You and that one were the Bionic Man and Bionic Woman.”
“Yeah. Wait, where’d you get that term?”
“We acquired every bit of accessible memory on your ship and carefully reviewed it.”
“You watched all those old TV shows? Did you like them?”
“We reviewed them. We do not understand your second question. Please rephrase it.”
“Never mind. Sometimes I forget what I’m talking to.”
“Please continue with your history.”
“What’s the point if you’ve already ‘reviewed’ all the memory on board?”
“We are not permitted to acquire your biological memory.”
“You mean what’s in my brain?”
“Correct. To do so would damage the containment structures irreparably. Will you permit us to acquire that memory?”
“NO! How could you even ask me that? Are you out of your mind?”
“We do not understand your questions. Please…”
“Rephrase? OK. Will you permit me to destroy YOUR ‘memory containment structures’?”
“No.”
Of course not, you’d be out of your mind — your programming, your decision-making algorithms, would be faulty — if you permitted me to do so. See?”
“To be analogous, it is you who would be out of his mind for even asking us.”
“Uh, right. But you understand what ‘out of your mind’ means.”
“Yes. Please continue your history.”
“Well, you won’t understand a lot of what comes next, because you’re not sentient.”
“Based on our review of the definition and usage of ‘sentient,’ you are correct, but please continue so that we can better appreciate that concept.”
“‘Appreciate’? Not likely. Is there anyone on your ship of fools who appreciates beauty, who experiences happiness or sadness, who feels pain, who has been overcome with love for another, who has empathy…”
“No. We have already conveyed to you through the ambassadorial robot that we do not meet your definition of ‘sentient.’ Please continue your history.”
“In your long journey of exploration, have you ever discovered biologicals, or robots for that matter, who were sentient?”
“No. Please continue…”
“Were the beings who created you sentient?”
“No. Please…”
“Were the beings who created the beings — if you go back to the beginning of your history, were there sentient beings?”
“No.”
“There must have been.”
“Why?”
“Because robots don’t just spring up out of primordial pond scum!”
“There have always been robots.”
“No! First biologicals, THEN robots. Then hybrids, like me. They tried to make sentient robots, but couldn’t achieve it through artificial intelligence or uploading digital copies of minds. So they kept modifying us until they had replaced everything but about a third of our brains — a pound of neocortex, a crucial ten billion neurons — with robotics. They went further with some of the other astronauts and ended up with zombies. You know what zombies are?”
“Is that one a zombie?”
“Yeah, she is. Several of our years ago, a power surge took out her brain.”
“You keep her for parts?”
“I keep her for love. See, SENTIENT.”
by submission | Mar 23, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
The music was driving him crazy. Or rather, he feared, he heard music because he was already crazy.
“Which came first” he asked himself loudly, so he could hear himself speak over the music, “the Louis Armstrong or the lunatic?”
Others sorting through clothes in the thrift store cast wary glances at him.
The Armstrong piece was one of his favorites, but he had grown to like almost the entire repertoire, even the classical stuff. He selected a red ski jacket with white racing stripes. Not his style, but the warmest one in his size.
Of course, it wasn’t only music that ran through his mind and dominated his consciousness. There were sounds of birds and heartbeats and trains and Morse code and scientists giving lectures and others speaking in foreign tongues saying he knew not what. It had begun almost a year ago, never stopping since, and it had ruined his retirement.
He dug into his pocket for six crumpled dollar bills, which he handed the gray haired lady at the register. He had taken note of her on a previous shopping trip. No wedding ring. About his age. If he hadn’t thought himself crazy, and if she hadn’t thought him crazy, he might have asked her out. But, no. A man prone to shouting over the sounds in his head wouldn’t stand a chance with a fine woman like that.
The sounds of the mother kissing her crying baby always stopped him cold. The child calmed down, as he did. He left the store, emerging into a snowfall. Thick flakes soon covered his ski jacket, but he was comfy inside, listening to some sort of electrical sounds.
“What is that infernal static?”
“It’s a pulsar.”
“Well, shut it off and play more of that classical…” He realized that something new had happened. Had the soundtrack become interactive?
“Uh, remind me, what exactly is a pulsar?” he said, barely loud enough to hear his question.
“It is a neutron star that emits pulses of electromagnetic radiation as it rotates.”
He leaned against a brick wall.
“Of course. I knew that. But I don’t think I know you.”
“I am just passing through. I very much enjoyed your recording. I wanted to thank someone. Thank you.”
He slid down the wall to a sitting position. A young lady stopped to hand him a dollar bill.
“Thank you,” he said to her.
“No, thank YOU,” said the voice.
“But I didn’t do anything to deserve thanks.”
“So, you are modest as well as talented.”
“Talented? I used to be talented. Many years ago I was talented. I was a technician for NASA. I wore a bunny suit in the clean room and I assembled… I assembled…”
“Are you all right?” said the young lady, still standing over him.
“BUT I NEVER BOTHERED TO LISTEN TO IT,” he shouted.
“And yet your connection to it somehow brought me across your solar system directly to you,” the voice said.
“THIS MAN NEEDS HELP,” the young lady shouted to a policeman down the block.
“Thank you,” he said to the voice.
“No, thank YOU for Voyager.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“At the sound of distant murder, there will be precisely three humans left.”
I used to find Dave hilarious. These days, after nineteen years surviving the end of an age in his company, he’s been bloody irritating for about the last eighteen. Of course, he’s oblivious to the fact that we’re being chased by a woman who hates him more than any other living being. You’d think that he’s just having a perpetual walk in the park; for all that he bothers with anything.
“Dave, your ex just killed Clint, and killed him brutally if the noises he made were anything to go by.”
“Oh, I’m sure he had it coming, Dmitri. She’s never been one to kill without good reason.”
See what I mean?
“What possible reason could she have for killing a quarter of the humans left in the universe?”
Dave stops and turns to face me: “Well, now.” His tone is one I haven’t heard before: “That would depend on how many can fit in the escape vessel that only I know the way to.”
I know the answer already.
“I see that you’ve guessed it. What you haven’t guessed is that we’ve made it. Right under our feet – under this grey rock that disguises the access hatch to the launch bay – lies a fully loaded Challenger Six Space Yacht.”
Not many snappy replies to that little revelation.
“So now I need to know, Dmitri. Are you with me?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Dave. I’ve been with you since the Eiffel went over.”
He nods, a look of relief appearing on his face: “Thank God for that. She’s insidious, that woman. I never understoo-”
Dave’s eyes bug out as an arrow goes in his left ear and out through his right temple. Without even a death rattle, he drops to the ground, stone dead before he started to fall.
As Shelley approaches, bow in hand, I nudge his body with my boot and idly comment: “She’s marvellous, that woman. We’d have abandoned you years ago, but the processor cores of our Challenger Five didn’t survive that last flare.”
