by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 8, 2016 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
They waited at the mouth of the service corridor, the mezzanine railing just a few meters away. Above them somewhere, the heavy thumping of the security spider marked its progress in its pursuit of them. Across an open space broken at intervals by tree trunks and greenery, the armored glass of the laboratory stretched floor to ceiling, and out of sight in either direction.
“That going to present a problem?” A rhetorical question. Mett knew Gaez wouldn’t have signed on for this if it wasn’t going to present a challenge.
“Working on it” the disinterested reply. Gaez was more interested in their stalker.
They broke cover and sprinted left, hugging the wall. Cameras hung limp and blind at frequent intervals from the ceiling, one of the many indicators that Gaez had taken ownership of the facility’s less deadly security systems.
A whine from above, rising in pitch, was abruptly punctuated by a volley of sabot rounds fired across the garden atrium into the laboratory windows. Large pieces of their armored surface buckled under the impact.
“Work faster, those aren’t anti-personnel rounds,” Mett chirped, picking up the pace of his sprint. The spider, realizing it had been firing at reflections, began recalculating and relocating to obtain firing options on their actual position.
“No, they’re not. As far as the security system is concerned, we’re an intruding spider.” Across the atrium a heavy section of weakened wall crumbled, their pursuer having none-too delicately ripped a gaping wound through the only thing left keeping them out of the lab. “See, told you I was working on that.”
Mett’s communication alarms flashed red at the edges of his vision as Gaez had started speaking over an open channel. He grabbed Gaez by the shoulder, tapping his mouth and making a slashing motion across his throat with one hand.
“I know, I opened the channel. We’re encrypted, so it can’t understand what we’re saying, but it’s listening intently. All good.” Gaez grinned.
They continued to the end of the mezzanine and ducked back into another service corridor leading away from the open area as the spider on the floor above clambered out on a walkway, cannon noisily searching the space where they’d been.
“Keep talking, it’s time to turn off that ugly bug.”
Mett kept the pace, but couldn’t keep the doubt from his voice. “Those things aren’t hackable. I’d have heard about–”
Gaez cut him off.
“No, not directly hackable, but I know a few useful service codes.”
Another volley hammered down the hallway as they turned left again – the spider was picking up speed, anticipating their movements as they doubled back on the route they’d taken a few moments ago.
“Service codes? You hacked TacComm’s network?”
Gaez shook his head, obviously concentrating as he ran code through the broadcast system in his head. “Not TacComm, but they outsource service for some of the local deployments.”
“So you hacked one of those?”
“No, but the local service providers can’t all manage the spider’s heating and cooling systems, so they outsource that to some other companies. I hacked one of those.”
As they reached the first hallway heading back towards the atrium, Mett grabbed Gaez by the shoulders and stopped him just short of the opening, seconds before the spider unleashed another volley of shells into the space it had predicted they should have occupied in that instant.
Mett turned his partner around, locking eyes. “And what the hell good is that?”
Gaez grinned again.
“While we’ve been talking, the spider’s been listening, and I’ve been spiking the comms with temperature-sensor code-shrapnel.” He pushed Mett back slowly the way they’d come. Down the hallway the spider’s cannon was spinning down, no longer firing. “The polarity of the firing systems temperature sensors in the ammo storage compartments has been inverted, and the spider is compensating for the fact that it thinks it’s starting to freeze. The more it turns up the heat, the colder the thermo sensors will report, until–”
His words were drowned out by the sudden ignition of every remaining round inside the spider’s armored chassis, coupled with the rupturing of its fuel cells.
When the noise subsided, Gaez patted his partner on both shoulders, and turned to pick through the wrecked hallway towards the opened lab.
“Consider it worked on. ”
by submission | Feb 7, 2016 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Within a huge classroom, Professor Stella watches what appears to be a wild party. Twelve divergent beings converse in languages of uttered speech, thought, movement and touch. Shouts, laughter, and slaps resound. Is this a scene of galactic insanity?
No. It is an experiential warehouse of virtual reality learning which spins in space billions of parsecs from the nearest star. Images of cooperative and competitive thought-architectures fill the shelves, spilling onto the floor and piling upon each other.
Stella calls to Xerus who immediately blows a gust of laughter at his tottering bot to prevent it from smashing into his partner’s project. Stella turns her attention to another team.
Often during this past season, Stella had contemplated how she would feel on her last day of teaching. Would she regret the seemingly infinite number of seasons she had spent here? Would she regret her sacrifice of personal time and relationships for this full-time network? Would she find another vocation in her mandated retirement?
Stella’s breathing is heavy and her two hearts pound.
Last day is here.
Stella smiles as she gathers her students into a circle. The playful shoving, poking, and guffaws take time to settle into place. Each “other worlds” student has grown in personal and interpersonal confidence. This season has been successful. Now is the time to release their images back to their own worlds. Her smile falters a moment at her future loss, but again Stella smiles.
“The universe survives by intertwining cycles with networks. Use these to prosper the spheres of light in our worlds.” She breathes deeply. “I am satisfied you possess the tools to network successfully.” Stella reaches out her rainbow-colored fin toward each student. “Network wisely, my children.” Professor Stella closes her eyes. “Power out.”
The darkened room becomes empty space promising a new season.
by submission | Feb 4, 2016 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
“Sorry,” Merida said, “but why did we let him come aboard with a gun?” She looked warily at Jonathan’s holstered pistol, his hand guarding it from her and preparing to draw it.
“You do know why he’s here, right?” Vennix asked her. “Right?”
“Yeah. To show him the world’s not flat. One of the last Flat Earth theorists, right?”
“Yes. He is. So think about it. We’re willingly taking him into orbit to show him this. Don’t you think he would think that we were trapping–”
“I know, but this is a space shuttle, for God’s sake! We can’t possibly–”
“Is this lady tellin’ me to get off?” Jonathan asked. “Because I can if I can’t carry–”
“It’s fine,” Vennix told Merida, telling her to shut up with his eyes. “We’re taking off as soon as your men are finished with their… inspection.”
“What. The hell. Are you talking about?” Merida asked.
“He’s having his men check the rocket to make sure the windows are actually windows, and not screens. What did you expect?”
“’What did you expect?’” Jonathan interjected. “What else was this dumb freak gonna do, right? I’m making sure that you’re not tricking me! What’s so hard to understand about that?”
“Because we’ve done experiments for thousands of years! Because we’ve verified this over and over again! Because you can see the horizon, moron! We’re letting you have too much power in all this!”
“MERIDA!” Vennix said. “We’re trying to show him that with this trip! Remember?” He pulled her up the ladder, to the pilots’ seats. “This is the last known Flat Earth theorist on Earth. We’re bringing down an immense amount of ignorance, superstition, and bigotry right now! Do not ruin this. He won’t shoot us if we don’t provoke him, which we obviously won’t. Understand?”
It wasn’t really a question. “Yes, commander.”
The rocket swiftly made its way to orbit, as they all did now. It was this affordability that inspired this crusade to remove all doubt about Earth’s shape. Because it didn’t cost millions of dollars to launch five people into space anymore, they could manage to remove this man’s twisted ideology.
“There it is,” Vennix said. “You saw it unfold, right from launch. You saw it turn from the launch pad to the entire, spherical planet.”
“And that,” Jonathan said, “was incredible.” His eyes were glued to the window, his face contorted with deep thought. “I just– everything, put into perspective like that… my God.”
“Do you acknowledge Earth’s curvature?” Merida pressed.
He looked back at them. “I… can I have my moment?”
“No!” she said. “We brought you up here for one thing, and I’m not going to let you evade the matter to spare your pride! Do you accept, or do we need to send you outside to have a look for yourself?” Her face had turned red.
Jonathan sighed. “Fine. All right?” He put his right hand on his heart, and said, “The Earth, my planet, is round.” He sighed. “Now all my friends are gonna disown me. Call me flaky.”
Merida sidetracked. “Why do you care? You’ve seen Earth from up here. Didn’t you just say that was amazing? Focus on that.”
Silently, he turned away, and took her advice. Merida turned to Vennix, who was smiling.
Now everyone knew.
by submission | Jan 28, 2016 | Story |
Author : Janet Shell Anderson
All our executions are political. Of course, that makes them right, and no one rich or well-connected dies.
The poor man’s on his knees in his orange jumpsuit, with the red waves of the pitiful surf of this prison world, Kepler 435b/Gilgamesh, behind him, a red pseudo-gull that doesn’t know what’s going on overhead, and the tall masked figure in black with the knife, sword, whatever, beside him. I don’t look. It’s live, popular on homeWorld. Millions watch.
Here, not so much.
Back in the cells, Joker watches and laughs, although next dawn, out in the red desert, he dies. Joker’s a politico, hard to like.
Being a woman, I have to be a guard here (unless I’m a prisoner which would be unthinkable). Or at least I don’t want to think it.
Gilgamesh’s the best prison planet, has big-time criminals like Joker and nobodies like Freddie Graywhale. Our trials are fair; our executions quick. Now, though, this new information about time, what it is, how it works, makes the death penalty problematic. My cousin has proved time is circular. So if someone is executed, what’s the point? Do they come back? Can they sue?
The new physics had to come from Kepler 435b/Gilgamesh of course, not the homeWorld, because my cousin George Poorbear’s here. Why is he here? That’s another story. I’m here because I’m his cousin; it’s an honor. Doesn’t feel like an honor.
George shows all the worlds that time is not as linear as we think. Past. Present. Future. Lined up? No. George replaces Albert Einstein. Knowing George like I do, this is hard to believe.
We’ve got problems on this clean, well-packaged, well-presented, low-populated prison planet Kepler 435b/Gilgamesh, with its red star dunes, a thousand years old, and its sitcom lizards, who can talk but never say anything worthwhile.
We’ve got believers and unbelievers.
We avoid them. Some believe time is circular; some don’t.
I’d like to deal with George face to face, but having created both the believers and unbelievers, George is holed up in some fortress on the edge of the Anvil of the Heavens, a wasteland no one wants to travel. The believers and the unbelievers are getting ready to have a war, George thinks.
My prisoners cry, beg, offer money, every kind of sex, diamonds which will melt in your hand, pizza. You can’t imagine. Some of the other jailers get so tired of it they hang the prisoners before their due dates.
I won’t watch another death. I’m disgusted by it. My Somalian cat, who can talk but won’t, helps me patrol this afternoon. The sky’s red and dim, and the desert’s bitterly cold.
I’d like to have a universe that makes sense.
I go among the prisoners to one cell.
“Hey, Freddie. I’m going to let you out. Your wife sent the money.” I push the button, and my deeptime keyless lock pops the door open. One click. It’s important not to do more than one click. George was very specific about that. More than one click does something else.
Freddie Graywhale grabs me around the neck, kisses me. I walk him to the exit toward the transport.
The desert’s serene in the slanted light. The cat and I patrol; puffs of red dust rise. Somebody killed a man I loved in these low red hills. I don’t know who killed him. Somali knows. Maybe someday she’ll tell me. Probably not. Our somedays are running out. We need a change.
I’ve got the deeptime keyless lock. George talks about Calabi Yau Manifolds, pieces of space so small you can’t imagine them, where time goes backwards, sideways, upside down, for all I know. George’s always talking about things like that, and when I ask him about my lover, it’s more Manifolds. No answers.
I walk with Somali out in the red desert. Maybe George’s right. Maybe not.
I’m letting all the prisoners free. I may even talk to the cat Somali. The deeptime locks open everything, change everything. Will anyone remember the past? Will anyone find the future? Do they even exist?
At the very least the deeptime locks will open up the Calabi Yau Manifolds. It’ll be fun.
by submission | Jan 27, 2016 | Story |
Author : Tristan Krahn
It was a miracle of science, a triumph of the Human mind over nature that allowed them the chance to be gods, but it was careless hubris that destroyed them.
The Large Hadron Collider, the largest particle accelerator on Planet Earth: ten billion dollars worth of high energy hardware; the world’s most expensive science project. It was here that the most cutting edge physical breakthroughs in Human history became realities.
It was here, one hundred meters below the Earth’s surface, in a twenty-seven kilometer circular tunnel, that Humanity’s brightest minds verified a generation-old prophecy. First described by the luminary of particle physics, Peter Higgs, the discovery of his namesake field was a crowning achievement, not only for particle physicists, but Humanity as well.
The Higgs Field: the field underlying the entire standard model of physics; the field that gives particles mass by interacting with and slowing down these particles each to a point where their wave function no longer vibrates at the same frequency as light and other mass-less particles, allowing them to interact with each other and form the basic elements. This field, finally discovered by a machine that smashes particles together so hard that the resultant debris actually mimics, for a brief nanosecond, the conditions present just after the Big Bang.
The Large Hadron Collider had, in short, succeeded in creating tiny short-lived universes, thus bestowing godhood on the Human race. For, with each collision that resulted in a momentary Higgs Field, a new universe was born and lived out its natural progression in the fraction of an eye’s blink. To the physicists, it was no more than a few nanoseconds to live and die; to the tiny universe, it took tens of billions of years.
This marvel of science should have bred humility in the physicists that represented the Human race but instead it bred a god complex. Now that Humans could create whole universes, they wanted to see if they could manipulate the conditions just enough that they could create a tiny fleeting version of their own universe. Not only were they playing god, they were trying to be their own creators.
What would they do when they succeeded? Would they build a shrink ray and draw straws to determine which egghead would play diminutive ambassador to a synthetic analogue universe? They would have to act fast, in the space of a few picoseconds, if they wanted to interact with the analogue’s Humans. Perhaps they could beam the universe into space using quantum teleportation and somehow expand the universe so that humans seeking a holiday in an artificial analogue universe could simply go into deep space, cross a barrier and be within a smaller but virtually identical universe to their own.
It was a miracle of science, a triumph of the Human mind over nature, but in the end their hubris did destroy them. For, as they had hoped, the physicists truly did create their own universe. Due to the infinite nature of probability, it was by mere chance that they created the exact universe they existed in. Before they even had a chance to examine themselves, the tiny universe annihilated, taking the entire human race with it, casualties of their own god complex.
