by submission | Feb 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
They heard the sound of the approaching vehicle and looked at each other.
“That can’t be,” said John Hemington, “the rover’s been gone for three weeks. It’s programmed to stay gone for two months.”
He looked quizzically at Daniel Hepford, communication expert.
Hepford looked out the viewport. The wind was blowing at its usually one hundred miles per hour, blowing debris and dirt all over Cantza 3. The filth in the air was so dense that the rover’s searchlight could not cut through it.
“It is damned peculiar,” replied Hepford. The rover was programmed to survey the alien planet’s landscape, then return when its batteries needed recharging. They shouldn’t have needed a recharge for quite some time.
“You think there’s a malfunction?”
Hepford nodded. “Has to be,” he said.
He looked at the computer in front of him and punched in command codes for the rover. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What?”
“The rover….it’s not responding.”
Hemington stood and walked to Hepford’s side and looked at the display. “May I?” he asked. Hepford nodded and let Hemington sit. Hemington punched a few buttons and the console displayed new information. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“What?”
“The command codes…they’ve been overwritten,” he said.
Hepford looked confused. “But…we’re the only people on this planet,” he said.
“Apparently not,” replied Hemington as he punched a few more buttons. Another screen displayed and, on it, he saw a language that he did not understand.
“What the….?”
Outside, the rover struck the building. The entire building shook. Both men ran to the window and looked out. The wind and debris hid most everything, but the rover was so close now that they could see.
Both men gasped.
On the rover, wrapped around it like an octopus, a grayish-skinned creature, rode. As they watched, its arm, which more closely resembled that of a squid than an octopus, lashed out and struck the window. A thick, gooey mucus covered the window where the arm fell.
“My God!” Hepford shouted. “Do you realize what that is?”
Hemington looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
Before Hepford could reply, another wet slapping arm struck the window.
“It’s a Lamfir?”
“A Lamfir?” asked Hemington said. Then, slowly, an expression of realization crossed his face. A Lamfir. A mystical space creature rumored to travel across the void of space. It attached itself to a spacecraft and traveled across the void. Once the creature made landfall on a planet, its sole purpose was to consume any and all organic life.
With the exception of a small spaceport a few hundred miles to the south of them, Hemington and Hepford were all the organic life on Cantza 3.
“Oh my God!” Hemington said. “Get on the radio and contact the spaceport.”
Hepford ran to the radio just as another wet slap smacked the window. A long crack appeared in the glass.
“Space port 1,” Hepford said into the microphone. “Come in, spaceport 1!”
No reply came.
Then, when Hepford switched to the auxiliary channel, he heard the slow ting of the automated distress call.
The Lamfir had been there already. It had headed in the direction of their base and, along the way, come across the rover. It had, somehow, taken control of the rover, attached itself and gotten a ride back to base.
Another wet slap cracked the window further.
Hepford looked at Hemington. Both men were afraid.
Hepford turned to the radio again, grabbed the microphone, and shouted: “S.O.S. To anyone near Cantza 3. We need immediate assistance. We are under attack!”
Then, the window broke inward.
The Lamfir slid inside.
Later, when it was done, it lay dormant on the floor, awaiting the rescue ship.
by submission | Feb 19, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
General Vlank walked along the corridor toward the Research and Development Lab, his motors whirring quietly with each step. Quietly, but perhaps not as quietly as they once did. He’d been neglecting routine maintenance. A lot of the High Command had as the war dragged on. Sometimes, standing in his recharge alcove at night, he wondered if the conflict would ever end. Day after day, the damage and deactivation lists kept growing. It seemed like the whole world was becoming an enormous junkyard.
Finally, Vlank reached the lab and entered. “Lieutenant,” he said, “make it fast. I have a very important meeting to–” Vlank ceased talking the moment he saw…it. The thing was roughly shaped like a person: it had arms and legs, a torso, and a head. But its housing was some strange, pale, elastic material. White glistening globules were where visual sensors would normally reside. Twin cavities on the undersurface of a protrusion on the thing’s face dilated and contracted slightly; this bizarre movement appeared to correspond to a rhythmic expansion and contraction of the thoracic region. And under the protrusion where one would expect a vocalizer was a horizontal linear gash in whatever it was that covered the surreal being.
“What,” Vlank asked, “is that?”
“That, General,” said Lieutenant Nelk, “is what’s going to bring this war to an end.”
“It’s a machine of some sort?”
“Yes, General. But it’s like no other machine that’s ever existed. Look at these schematics.”
Nelk showed Vlank images of the thing’s internal structure and video records of how it worked. Vlank looked on in amazement at the depiction of a weird soft pump in the device’s thorax pushing fluid through tiny flexible pipes throughout the body of the creature.
“What are those bag-like structures in the thorax?” asked Vlank.
“Those respiration units deliver atmospheric oxygen to the nutritive fluid to help power the drone.”
“Drone?”
“Drone, General. That’s what it is. We’ve built this experimental prototype from the molecular level up.”
Vlank poked the thing with an extended finger. The surface was firm but yielding, somewhat like rubber.
“It seems rather flimsy.”
“Oh, yes, General. It’s made of organic compounds. It’s less sturdy than a person. And it would be utterly vulnerable to projectile weapons. But it has no electronic components. Even its processor” — Nelk gestured at the thing’s head — “employs an organic cellular network and a purely electrochemical process for cognition.”
Vlank studied the odd creation. “So, it’s not alive?”
“No, of course not, General. ‘Organic life’ would be a contradiction in terms. We 3D printed the drone’s flesh layer upon layer.
“Flesh?” said Vlank quizzically.
“FLexible Electrochemical SHeets. ‘Flesh,’ for short,” explained Nelk. “Surely you see the tactical advantage? Fire from electromag rifles would have no effect on the drone’s organic processor. You could detonate an EMP bomb right next to the thing and the same EM pulse that would kill both of us would do nothing to it!”
Vlank was impressed. “When can I see a demonstration?” he asked.
“Next week, sir,” Nelk responded.
Vlank nodded and walked out of the lab. As he strode to his staff meeting, he imagined squadrons of organic drones storming enemy positions, totally invulnerable to EM field ordnance. Why, he thought, organics could even be equipped with EM pulse generator vests like those the enemy’s suicide bombers have used to spread terror. And the drone would be totally unharmed and could continue to operate.
Somehow, Vlank noted, the world seemed somewhat less grim. After the meeting, I might even stop off for a little maintenance, he thought.
by submission | Feb 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
“The universe is holographic? Surely you’re joking.”
“I am not joking, Dr. Feynstein. But I did not say THE universe. I said YOUR universe. Your universe is a simulation. Pay attention. There is not much time.”
The young man appeared jittery in the flickering light. Feynstein glanced at the overhead fluorescent fixture.
“OK. You’ve obviously wandered into the wrong building. This is Physics. Science fiction would be in English, across the quad.” Offering a campus map, “Or maybe you’re looking for Psychology? Student Counseling?”
“Shake my hand, professor,” the man said, extending it across the desk.
“I’m not touching you.” Pointing the map toward the open doorway, “Please leave. Now.”
“Just shake it. Then if you want me to leave I will do so immediately.”
The man went out of focus momentarily. An intriguing thought crossed Feynstein’s mind. He attempted to touch the man’s hand with the map, but it went right through. He swiped through the hand several more times.
“What the– You’re a hologram.” Slumping into his chair, “And not a very good one.”
“A crude avatar, so we could talk. For the record, Dr. Feynstein, would you agree that whatever flaws there are in the simulation of your universe, they have not interfered with the development of human civilization?”
“Huh?” Looking around his office, “Look, I don’t know how you’re projecting a hologram, but that doesn’t prove we’re in a holographic universe.”
Pointing to a laptop, “One of your colleagues is remote observing through the Gran Telescopio in the Canary Islands. Bring up the VPN.”
Feynstein logged in.
“What do you see?”
“WR 104. Could go supernova at any time. Dr. Gambel is trying to determine if the gamma ray burst is likely to hit Earth.”
“If Earth took a direct hit, what effect would it have on life?”
“It would cause a mass extinction.”
“Well then, fortunately for you, I am erasing WR 104 from the simulation.”
The star disappeared, leaving its larger binary companion strangely unaffected. Feynstein could neither speak nor breathe.
Finally, he gasped, “The other star, make it disappear.”
It disappeared.
“You’re just messing with the video feed.”
“In a few hours it will be dark enough here for me to take you outside and make more stars disappear, or entire galaxies and constellations, but I think you already know I am telling the truth.”
The phone rang and seconds later people ran past the door in the direction of Dr. Gambel’s office.
A graduate student poked his head in, said, “Dr. Gambel says he needs you right away,” and joined the others.
“So, I am a hologram?” Looking at a picture on his desk, “My wife and daughter? Everyone on Earth? Why?”
“You and they are what passes for ordinary matter according to the laws of your physics. But you are in a simulated universe.”
“But why did you do this? And why tell me?”
“You have always been skeptical that dark matter and dark energy make up 96 percent of the universe. You’re right, of course. I botched some of the physics.”
“But…”
“And you wrote a paper on the possibility that your universe is holographic, although I know you were not serious, Dr. Feynstein. You were just poking holes in quantum theory.”
“But…”
“And now you’re about to begin that Holometer study. It could ruin everything.”
“WHY?”
“You stood out from the others, Dr. Feynstein. You deserve to know the truth before I wrap up the experiment.”
Another intriguing thought crossed Feynstein’s mind. And again he was correct.
“My graduate thesis in anthropology depends on this simulation not being discovered by its subjects.”
by submission | Feb 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Cliff Cymrot
I once thought living forever was a gift. We all did. At first it was the rich and affluent that benefited from nanobots (bots); those impossibly complex micro-machines. They cured disease, maintained proper hormone levels, repaired damage, even healed wounds so fast that blood was kept from bleeding out (heaven knows I’ve tried). Finally, they repaired telomeres; those ends of chromosomes that gets shorter with each cell division which is the cause for aging. Immortality, achieved at the tiny hands of mechanical bots coursing through the veins of humans. After several hundred years the technology was produced at a price everyone could afford, unfortunately. Bots were then passed from mother to child, reaching all of humanity.
(I lift the shovel)
At first no one realized how society would be drastically changed. After accidents no longer killed people, or time, society cast off currency, crime, and violence. There was no need for such things anymore. After 500 years of living, who cared about petty arguing, theft, or acquiring as-seen-on-TV rubbish. The world was heaven. No more death, no more suffering. This was gratefully accepted, at first…
(I shovel some dirt)
It didn’t take long, perhaps the first thousand years or so, before immortality began wearing on the individual. Life was empty without the prospect of change. That’s when the rebellion occurred. No one really remembers the exact date but it did start somewhere in France. Someone decided living for 800 years wasn’t that appealing anymore and stepped in front of a car. Their broken body lay there lifeless, long enough for those around to see breathing had ceased. And then it happened, the body convulsed, the sound of bones realigning and lungs filling with air emanated from the human. They were alive. Amazingly enough, instead of this causing reassurance, fear spread like wildfire. For the first time in eons humans realized something precious was taken from them, freedom.
(I continue shoveling)
Soon, tens of thousands attempted all manner of scenarios from jumping off the side of buildings to ingesting household cleaners. Each time the person recovered, with less time between the cessation of bodily activities and normal functionality. This continued until the rebellion terminated. Nanotechnology is remarkably resilient and adaptive. The bots saw our attempts at self-injury as something that needed to be fixed and inhibited that part of our gray matter that desired such foolishness. We became unable to end the game we created. Every time someone tried, they were immediately restrained from continuing in thought, their body would just not listen and even the desire would dissipate. Though bots can’t stop all desire, I’m proof of that.
(I watch as dirt piles up)
We are prisoners of heaven. No one has attempted to cease human function in ages. But I know we are all thinking it. I know the topic on the tip of everyone’s tongue. I know the secret desire of every last human being even if we can’t act on it. I also know the answer. See, the bots have a simple code they live by, to protect their human from harm. So no one is able to harm themselves if the thought is to end their life. However, they seem completely unable to stop someone else from doing it. And that’s when I came up with a way to save humanity.
(I pat down the dirt. One place for the head, another for the rest of the body. The bots can’t fix that).
One down, 10 billion to go. Good thing I have all the time in the world.
by Julian Miles | Feb 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It all started when Amelia and I were sat in the deserted faculty restaurant at 3AM. In reply to a piece of silliness that had being going on all day, I said: “What if the dream goes sideways?”
The silence of mutual epiphany descended and we dropped our cans to race back to the lab.
It’s been twenty-eight years since then. The ‘dream going sideways’ effect has become the Pardell-Surrensson Theory of Multiplanar Interaction, and we are famous, or infamous, depending on who you ask. If a dream is not your mind organising the events of the day, but is actually your mind peeking into one or more alternate realities, then the subconscious has a reach far greater than anyone thought. If one considers the placebo effect, one might get a glimmer. But when one realises that past-life remembering is ‘forced’ interplanar viewing, then reincarnation becomes a dirty word – or an appealing religious alternative: as the soul goes from reality to reality, living a new life in each. Of course, there are those who choose to interpret multiple realities as many hells on the way to one heaven, but I secretly sympathise with those who believe that the mutated concept of Karma – popular in early twenty-first century western social media – is finally vindicated; live a life as a bad person, come back as a slug on a world of salt…
Amelia Pardell has been asleep for twenty-six years, hibernated at near-zero to slow the spread of the ferocious cancer that was travelling up her spine toward her brilliant brain. Today is the day I have to decide whether to let my partner die, as she has reached the boundaries of conceivable cryonic retrieval. It’s 3AM. I’m sitting in the deserted faculty restaurant, sipping a can of the same brand that we dropped all those years ago, torn between swearing and crying.
There’s the ‘crakk-tsssh’ of a can opening and a familiar voice says: “Let me go. I’ve not been here for ages.”
I drop my can and leap away from the voice, spinning round and staggering backwards as I recognise her.
She smiles: “Sleep deeply enough and you can ‘wake up’ in an alternate. We’re not sure of the exact rules over that govern it, but we’ll be coming to ask for your help as soon as we’ve stabilised the reverse bridge.”
Stepping closer as my body refuses to do anything but shake, she raises a hand to my cropped grey hair: “It suits you. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone who’s put up with my drunken ramblings about my Professor from another world.”
She stands on tiptoe to plant a kiss I never expected to receive on lips that can only ache as hers withdraw; then she is gone.
I notice that the can from the vending machine went with her and smile in the knowledge that we won’t be apart for much longer.
