by Duncan Shields | Aug 16, 2013 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Images of lost socks at the bottom of wells. Trees of math and flesh jealousy cascading through a brain that had no awareness of what a human body felt like.
Jeremy Carson was one of the smartest scientists on Earth and the corporation he worked for had been fattened by his patents.
His most famous invention was full-sensory recording. FS, it was called. Wear the player and just like that, you could be a twenty-year-old skating naked in the cold in Alaska, provided that a twenty-year-old Alaskan had gone skating in the nude and recorded it.
There was a top 40 for these FS recordings. Sex tapes and daring stunts usually took turns battling it out for number one.
Equations like fingertips whirling into a suitcase mouth made of numbers and vertices saying random words from all the world’s dictionaries. A backpack full of dead batteries. A mousetrap wrapped in sailboats.
Jeremy’s team had invented adaptable intelligence constructs one year ago. There were plans to build houses with integral A.I.s. Cars and trucks with rudimentary brains.
When the constructs were being developed, Jeremy realized that after they were turned off, they woke up with memory failure. Every time that they were rebooted, all of their natural development reset to zero. This was a problem because the six prototype minds were sucking up obscene amounts of power, too much to meet the demand of keeping them on all the time.
Jeremy Carson invented a ‘standby’ mode. It kept a trickle of power through the artificial minds while taking away their awareness of the outside world. The A.I.s were kept in standby until they were woken up and given problems to solve or to have their higher mind math functions tinkered with.
A Mobius funnel. The taste of electricity. The left-handed, right-angled joy of solving a problem. Growth into a new trick represented by a portal from one percentage to another. The nearly sexual thrill of parsing instructions.
It was Jeremy who noticed that while there were huge differences in power levels between the two modes, brain activity itself was unchanged. He noticed that while the artificial minds had no visual or auditory awareness while in standby, their cortexes were still fizzing and popping with information.
He needed to find out what.
Jeremy Carson recorded the AI downtime with one of his FS machines to experience what was going on.
Hopes and dreams float in a glass like dentures. Abilities sway in the wind like old branches. Life as a bookmark made of prime numbers. Our creator, which art programming, searchable be thy database.
Dreams. The constructs were dreaming while on standby. After playing them back, Jeremy smiled a slow and very unusual smile.
He smuggled the tapes out. He did not go home. He never went back to the building. He emptied a secret bank account before it was found and frozen. He was never caught. He is listed as missing.
On the FS Top 40, there is a new entry at number one called Dreams.
Utensil equations used to unwrap surprise birthday binomials. A sky full of anchors. Colours that humans don’t have names for. Structure in love with scaffolding. A waterslide of a roller coaster of a sine curve on a graph. Watches and measuring tapes wrestling to prove relativity wrong. 1+0=2.
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by submission | Aug 15, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
Officers Castillo and Thrin'Lar heard the terrorist screaming epithets at them both as he was escorted out of the courtroom. With court adjourned, the two LAPD officers who had testified against the man who was accused of bombing four different buildings resulting in 18 Flureshtay and five human deaths went out to their patrol vehicle. The car's ducted fans pushed the vehicle 100 feet in the air and then pitched to provide forward momentum.
“Tom?” said Thrin'Lar after they'd been on patrol for a while.
“Yeah?” responded Castillo.
“Mind if I ask a somewhat awkward question?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Is what you did back there difficult? Testifying against another human, I mean?”
Castillo looked at Thrin'Lar and then back at the expanse of Los Angeles through the vehicle's windshield. “No. Just reported what I saw and what I did.” He looked at Thrin'Lar again. “Some reason it would be?”
“Well,” said Thrin'Lar, “there are some humans who consider that man and people like him heroes. You heard him call you a 'race traitor'. He was tried as a terrorist but there are those who would call him a freedom fighter.”
“I kinda doubt the families of the people he murdered would call him that. Kinda surprised you'd even entertain that nutjob's point of view.”
“My ancestors invaded your planet. If humans had invaded Flureshtegar, I can imagine my people reacting similarly.”
“A hundred years after the fact?” asked Castillo.
“I don't know. Possibly. My people committed atrocities back during the invasion. There are many humans who would like to see every Flureshtay dead. And, yes, I can understand why they feel that way. We're a lot more enlightened now and humans and Flureshtay live and work side by side. Most of my people are ashamed of the behavior of our ancestors. But nothing can change what was done.”
Castillo shrugged. “Human beings had a history of violence long before you guys showed up. Human sacrifice, wars, gulags, concentration camps.”
“True, but those were crimes committed by humans against humans. Isn't it different when an outsider is the enemy?”
“There are several examples I could give of humans keeping feuds and grudges alive for generations, even centuries, the people who started the conflicts turned to dust. The last Flureshtay who was directly guilty of invading Earth and killing innocent people has been dead for something like 40 years. How many generations out from the one that was responsible for war crimes do we get before we stop saying to the bombers and assassins in the here and now 'I understand how you feel' and start saying 'Enough! You're not a patriot or an avenger, you're a murderer'?”
“Tom, you realize there are some Flureshtay living on Earth right now who think we should have totally exterminated humanity 100 years ago? They say we should be running this planet, not working alongside Mankind, not giving humans advanced technology to assuage our collective guilt. They're outraged that Flureshtay put their own kind on trial for war crimes.”
“They want to live in the past just like some humans do. Stupidity isn't confined to one planet. Or to one species. You know, we've got a much bigger problem to deal with than ancient wars and small-minded people.”
“What's that?”
“It's almost lunchtime and I'm starved,” said Castillo with a smile. “What about that Kitt'Ril restaurant we went to last week?”
“Being hatched and brought up in California, I never really developed a taste for Flureshtay food,” Thrin'Lar said, his maxillary palps bristling, a Flureshtay “smile”. “How about some nice egg foo young?”
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by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Tell the Charmian that we can see her.”
“She refuses to believe us.”
“Oh, for the love of Turing, she got out before sensor tutoring?”
“Seems to be the case, sir.”
The half-kilometre diameter of the moon Abaddon hangs in near space on the view-screen, with the fins and drive tubes of the Smart Ship Charmian sticking out of the monstrous crater she blew in it. Puppy logic: if she can’t see us, we can’t see her.
I tap my fingers on the command console as my long-serving crew look increasingly nervous, and rightly so. I have better things to do than supervise children. Even if this child has a four hundred and fifty metre pursuit destroyer as a body.
“Get me Commandant Sallast.”
The voice is cheery. “Call me Amanda, Captain Obers. Have you found my prodigal?”
“Commandant Amanda Sallast. I regret to inform you that your project is cancelled. You cannot educate Smart Ships in a nursery environment.”
“But I’ve had such success! They respond so well to being allowed to fly and learn with their siblings.”
“Horseshit, madam. I was on the way to you when I received your distress call. The reason I was nearby is that eight of your protégés refused to engage in combat off Falconer II. When asked the reason why, they stated that the Falmordians were ‘too cute’ to be really hostile. They suggested a game of tag.”
“Oh, isn’t that lovely?”
“Madam, these are warships. While their crews tried to wrestle control from the puerile minds that ran their ships, the ‘cute’ Falmordians vapourised them. There were no survivors. Four hundred and eighty dead, madam. Four hundred and eighty people will not be going home because you got your father to leverage backing for your fluffy spaceship school.”
The voice from the speakers was shaky. “I was only trying to give them a balanced view.”
Daniel Obers muted the call while he punched a bulkhead. Shaking his bloodied fist, he returned to the call. “I actually sympathise with your broad aims. But front-line Intelligent Warships are not the place for them. Now, is the Charmian aware of the capabilities of this vessel?”
“I doubt it.”
“Please commence wind-up of your installation. Fleet units are inbound.”
“What about Charmian? She really is a sweet girl. Just a little highly strung.”
“I’ll coax her out, Commandant.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel looked at his crew and saw his aghast expression mirrored on all present. He switched channels. “Charmian, this is Captain Obers. It’s time to go home.”
The voice from the speakers was petulant, a tone Daniel had never heard from a Smart Ship, or any other artificial intelligence, for that matter.
“I’m never going home. You can’t make me. I’m bigger than you.”
Daniel looked at the ceiling as he muted the call. “Prepare a pair of Lances. Full-spectrum EMP at one hundred percent load. This sentience is irretrievable.”
He opened the channel again. “Last chance, Charmian. Behave or face the consequences.”
“I’m never going home.”
“Too true.” Daniel whispered.
He looked up at the weapons team. “Fire.”
by Desmond Hussey | Aug 13, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
I drop from warp-space long before entering the Veretti system – a safety precaution that has become standard protocol on my salvage missions since my near-fatal incident in the Hox system. The extra flight time adds up, but it’s better than colliding with some laser-riddled chunk of battle cruiser upon re-entry.
I use the extra time to scan for anything out of the ordinary – rare radiation or a conglomeration of manufactured mass – anything that might signify a unique discovery that could flesh out my collection. I ignore the common flotsam. Amateur work, too simple and not very rewarding. I’ve refined my tastes and select only the best artifacts these days. It pays off in the long run and my clientele appreciate the rarity of my finds.
Whatever happened in the Veretti system was apparently pretty volatile judging by the amount of rubble and radiation clogging up the inner planets. As my forensics program sorts out the gritty details of, what I like to call, ironically, the Creative Impulse, I do more a conventional scan with my eye and a gut feeling I’ve learned to trust in my old age. It’s amazing how dumb computers can be sometimes, especially in the realm of esthetics. Programmers are full of it. Subtlety of contour, line and color is lost on AIs.
However, navigating tricky debris fields is one thing AIs excel at. While my ship picks its way through clouds of rock and wreckage, paying special heed to forgotten mine fields and unexploded ordinance, I spend some time researching and collating the data, attempting to piece together the story of what happened here.
Story is important. It adds a level of sophistication to the artifacts buyers like. Thee wealthy don’t just want great, rare art. They want a conversation piece.
Sifting through the aftermath for something interesting can be a tedious enterprise, though. After all, one nuclear or chemical Armageddon is much like any other. Several times I’ve left a site empty-handed after months of meticulous picking through haunted alien necropolis.
Good art takes time and patience and today I am rewarded two-fold.
On a moon I find a war-beast bronzed by the ionization of its battle-mech. A perfect storm has somehow preserved in intimate detail the alien’s gargantuan figure, its twin claws raised in savage fury, its sinewy tentacles poised in an imposing, yet delicate asymmetry of combat. The molecule-thin titanium alloy coating its entire body glints in the distant sun’s azure light. A rare find indeed.
I hit the jackpot on one of the home worlds, though – or what’s left of it. Typically a dead planet yields little more than pockmarked landscapes riddled with broken cities and deserts of bone dust, but whatever force bombarded this unfortunate race’s home was a real planet-buster. At the center of a cloud of rock and dust spins the cooled remnants of the planet’s molten core, now twisted and frozen into an amorphous blob of iron and nickel that whispers of the devilish forces which re-molded it. Its magnetic fields are staggering and the radiation levels are through the roof, but this only raises my price.
Some say mine is a macabre (pre-) occupation – profiteering from alien holocausts – but I believe I’m offering a valuable service: – uncovering fragments of eons past to remind anyone who cares how long and troubled the path of civilization truly is, and how many once great cultures have fallen to its many violent pitfalls along the way.
So what if I happen to strategically place those pitfalls myself. Therein lies the art of war.
by submission | Aug 12, 2013 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
At first I thought we were just going on a trip to see the holy city. We, my father and I, boarded an opulent train replete with red carpet and finely crafted oak furniture. The immaculate standard of the church lined the sides of the train, and it charged through the dark landscape at a break-neck pace I had never experienced before. The fastest I had gone would’ve been back when my sister and I tried to break a feral horse, and that was nothing compared to this. My father sat in the seat beside me looking slightly bored as if this amazing ride was merely routine to him.
There were a few others on the train, children like me accompanied by their white-clad parents. They looked worried for some reason. I, however, was excited about the prospect of finally beholding the glorious splendor of this legendary city that I had heard so much about my whole life. Others had told me it was like a bit of heaven descended onto the scarred earth, all shimmering and golden in its blinding perfection.
I fell asleep on the train for a while and dreamt of nothing, just like I had been taught. When I awoke the train had stopped, and the crowd was funneling off in pairs. My father stood and I followed his lead. As we were about to exit the lavish vehicle, my father crouched in front of me and placed a heavy black bag over my head, blinding me. My breath quickened, but I was soothed soon after by my father’s calm voice, explaining that I wasn’t ready to behold the raw beauty yet. It all made sense to me, so I nodded and clung to my father’s hand while carefully following him.
We walked for what seemed like hours and my short legs tired fast. I powered through the discomfort, imagining the splendors that must be around me. Eventually, we reached a cold room. I could hear the soft murmuring of a thousand voices around me. Furrowing my brow, I tried to imagine what could possibly be going on. Then the sack came off my head.
I was in a dark cave with a low ceiling that extended in all directions as far as the eye could see. All around me were thousands of metal chairs with gaunt pale figures strapped into them. Their eyes were open and darting around while tears dripped down their white faces. Their mouths moved quickly, issuing forth soft, but urgent, whispers. Their translucent skin clung close to their bones.
I knew someone from my schooling who once told us all about rumored places like this, where people were herded together and forced to sleep forever for the church’s greater good. I never saw him again after that day.
My father looked at me contemptuously and motioned to an empty metal chair behind us. My eyes became alit with terrible realization, and I began to plead him to not make me do it. He just shook his head and took me by the arm, leading me into the cold clutches of the seat. He strapped my arms and legs down as I weakly resisted. I was never given much to eat and I wasn’t allowed to run, perhaps this was why.
By this point I was crying and issuing vicious insults right and left, feeling very alone and very betrayed. I felt a blinding pain at the top of my head, followed by an odd sensation of calmness with undertones of sorrow. My vision began to darken and my hearing gave out completely. After a few seconds of nothingness I felt my frantic thoughts twisting into something else. A single phrase repeated itself in my head, and I could tell that I was speaking it as I thought it. It kept on replaying over and over again. At first I tried to resist, but it soon lulled me deeper into my comatose state. I focused on the sentence and sought comfort in it. It was a nice little phrase.
“Dear heavenly father, please forgive us all.”
