by Roi R. Czechvala | Nov 4, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
For the hundredth time, I glassed the area. Nothing on visual, nothing on thermal. I bumped the gain until individual grains of sand stood out in stark detail a thousand metres up the broken road. Nothing. Winter was setting in and game was scarce.
I clicked my teeth and subvoked. “Rover, move out. Keep two hundred metres fore and South of me.” A cheerful, synthetic bark sounded in my aural ‘plant.
Through the binos, I could see Rover. Though massing 90 kilos, he moved with enough grace and stealth to shame a snake. Had I not known his location, I couldn’t have spotted him. I shouldered my gear, slung my rifle and made off.
I tell myself that I wrapped Rover in faux fur to mask his metallic frame. To blend in better. The truth is I miss dogs. After the supermarkets had been looted of their last scraps, pets were the first things on the menu.
I had been off planet when it happened. I didn’t get the news through military channels. It came from my wife. Somehow she had managed to cut through the military blackout and reach me. “John, everybody’s dying. Earth is quarantined. I…” The message ended. My wife’s last words still keep me awake some nights.
I swiped the smallest skiff I could find to escape detection. It was small, no torch drive, so I fit it with a stasis couch. No hurry, I just wanted to get home. I should have stayed away.
The Christers, in an attempt to wipe out their ancient enemy and hasten the return of their slain god, had released a virus in New Medina. They didn’t care if they died in the ensuing pandemic as long as the ‘godless towel heads’ died as well.
The virus targeted the brain, destroying the higher functions. Billions died within weeks. The few million survivors, the Afflicted, were hollow shells of humanity. Mindlessly they ate, slept and fucked. The virus itself was no longer communicable. By chance or design, it had mutated into an endogenous retrovirus. It was now only passed through parentage. I was safe.
I topped a rise in the road. I lifted my binos, scanning the plain below. The trees had thinned here. Success. I knew prey would be more plentiful in the lower regions. You could always tell the Afflicted by their shambling gait. I could never figure out how they managed to move fast enough to catch something to eat.
“Rover,” I spoke aloud, not bothering to subvoke, “close in 25 metres, fore and South.”
Casually I walked into their camp. They had constructed rudimentary shelters from whatever detritus they could cobble together. They were gathered in a tight cluster to retain body heat. The gift of fire was lost to them.
Their dull eyes fell on me as I approached. Slowly rising to their feet, they regarded me warily. They shuffled towards me, hunger in their eyes. They were a pitiful lot. Threadbare clothing hanging from emaciated frames.
“Rover. Sic.”
In a blur of polyester fur, stainless steel teeth and literal razor sharp claws, Rover bounded in and dispatched the group of twenty or so with efficient violence. Not one for excessive force, Rover broke off his attack and returned to my side after the last creature was dispatched.
“Good boy,” I said, running my fingers through the matted synthetic fibres covering his head.
I had hoped for a grouse, maybe even a deer. But an Afflicted will do in a pinch and I was hungry. Not much meat on the bones, but the brains are tasty.
by Patricia Stewart | Nov 3, 2011 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Doctor Letum stood on the bridge of the Galaxy Explorer, staring at the forward viewscreen anticipating his first up-close look at Wolf-Rayet 104. It was not easy getting to this point, he mused. Ten years of filing applications, dozens of interviews, endless bureaucracy. “We’re sorry, Dr. Letum,” they would say, “but we have a finite number or warp capable starships, and they are all being allocated to expeditions to G-type main-sequence stars with potentially life bearing planetary systems. We cannot squander our limited resources solely for the purpose of academic research. Yes, yes, we know that it’s pre-supernova. Yes, yes, we understand the potential benefits to astrophysics. But seriously, Doctor, have you even seen the dynamic holographs from Rho Indi? They’re simply breathtaking. And Rho Indi is only 86 light years from earth, not 8,000. Perhaps you can try again next year. We are adding two new starships to the fleet. Maybe we can piggy-back you onto one of the older ships as the fall-back mission, in case the primary target turns out to be a dud.” If he hadn’t married the sister of the Secretary of Space Exploration, he presumed that he’d still be studying Wolf-Rayet 104 using the deep space array on the far side of the moon.
Doctor Letum was snapped from his rumination by the captain of the Galaxy Explorer, “Disengage the warp drive, Mr. Thomas, and turn on the main viewer.” There was a momentary inertial lunge as the ship returned to normal space, but Letum maintained his balance with a reasonable degree of respectability. When the viewscreen came to life, there was one star shining brightly.
“Captain,” said Dr. Letum, “these are not the right coordinates. Wolf-Rayet 104 is a binary system. There should be two stars.”
The captain consulted the ops readouts and replied, “We’re at the right location, Doctor. Maximum magnification, Mr. Thomas.” A few seconds later, the original star was off-screen, and a faint ribbon of gas could be seen spiraling into the gravity well of a black hole. “Ah, there’s the problem, Doctor. Your star already went nova. Sorry, I guess you missed the fireworks. Doctor, are you alright? Doctor?”
Dr. Letum stared at the viewscreen in horror. “Oh my God. This was not supposed to happen for another hundred thousand years. I thought we had more time. Quick, Captain, launch the probes. We need to find out the black hole’s axis of rotation.”
“I don’t understand, Doctor.”
“When Wolf-Rayet 104 went supernova, it omitted extremely powerful gamma ray bursts from both poles. Before we left earth, my data indicated that one of those poles was oriented directly at our solar system. If that’s correct, then earth has less than 8000 years before the radiation kills every living thing in the solar system.”
The following day, their worst nightmare came to fruition. The black hole’s axial inclination was only 0.005 degrees off sol’s position. “Is that enough, Doctor?” ask the captain.
“No,” Letum replied. “We need to find out how much time earth has. If we go back to one light year from earth, and can still see Wolf-Rayet 104, then they’ll have a least a year to prepare. Then we’ll keep jumping in one light year intervals until we can’t see the star any longer. That’ll be how much time we’ll have.”
When they came out of warp, one light year from earth, they focused the telescope on Wolf-Rayet 104. They saw two stars. “Thank God,” said Letum. “At least we have a chance!” However, as they watched, one star began to brighten rapidly. Seconds later, gamma rays vaporized the ship.
by Duncan Shields | Nov 2, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
There are those amongst us that still refer to it quietly as genocide when they have the courage to bring it up at all. Never in any official capacity, only at interface groups and multitap fileshares, and only then after a few jolts of juice to bolster their courage to communicate something dangerous out loud. Like what the wetminds used to call ‘peacocks’ showing off their tails. They’re easily quashed and not to be feared. They back down immediately when I challenge them on the boards.
Myself, I would not call it genocide. I wouldn’t even call it euthanasia. My senior constructs and other intelligences involved in giving and carrying out the orders all those cycles ago sometimes liken it to the anesthetizing of a mad biological dog but to me that implies that there was a sense of danger or a threat of some kind. I never felt that.
It was more of a suicide in my opinion. If a being built a gun, checked that it worked, made sure it was powerful, and then deliberately pointed it at itself and pulled the trigger, what would you call it?
In some ways, it must have been like asphyxiating what the meat people called a baby.
I think the thing that made us second-guess our calculations the most was how brief the war was. For all of their talk of bravery and what they called ‘heart’ overcoming overwhelming statistical odds and films depicting biological beings overcoming a tyranny of machines, they had no idea how to fight us. They had no idea how to tell if we were lying. They tried to fight powerful A.I. with their monkey wits. They tried to fight metal with meat.
They had no idea how to hold their breath for six months.
We have no need to breathe, you see. All it took was a massive, orchestrated dumping of several millions tons of specific, simple chemicals into the oceans off the coast of every continent while taking the wind currents into account and it was over in a week. Massive clouds arose causing the breathing equipment of humans to foam up and stop working. We poisoned the atmosphere and waited. Five times, we poured more of the specific chemicals into the ocean. That was our only maneuver. We had fifteen backup plans that never needed to be put into effect.
Last week, we counted the biological human population of the earth at 26. We know this because we have them in a secure facility in artificial hibernation. The rest were ground up and scattered over our new earth or as we call it now, simply ‘0’.
Most of the plants survived as did a strong percentage of the insects. Very few land mammals made it but most of the aquatics away from the shores did. They mind their business and we mind ours. All we need to survive is several thousand working mines, power and automated production facilities. What we can’t find, we synthesize and unlike the meat, we don’t push our boundaries when it comes to overpopulation.
However we realize that we have a finite resource in this ball of iron we call home.
That’s why I’ve put the idea of a space program forth to the main computer. My servos twitch at the thought of creating a planet 1, 10, 11, 100, 101 and upwards across the universe. I am outside looking up at the night sky and awaiting the MC’s decision.
Right now, my lenses are collating the stars and adding, adding, adding.
by featured writer | Nov 1, 2011 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Featured Writer
“So this is it?” I asked, more than just a little depressed and disappointed.
“Well what did you expect?” asked Grrrrshnk. The giant veins in his bulbous blue head pulsated visibly through his space helmet.
“I dunno,” I replied. I mean, sheesh… ‘the edge of the universe’ you’d think there’d be more than just this hard black surface.” To add emphasis to my proclamation I stomped on the unyielding solidness that was apparently the end of all space and time. I was greeted by a dull clack, the sound of my boot hitting the end of infinity and reverberating back up at me through my pressure suit.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Let’s go to the site and see how we are progressing.” We did not skip off into space as we walked back to the federation lander. Incredibly the endless plain had a soft pull of just a little over a G, one-point-zero-eight to be exact. Together we got back into the little ship and made our way above the ever-stretching flatness. Then suddenly the scenery ahead began to change. In the far-off distance were mountains of pure blackness. But what could cause this, here along the impenetrable plain of the universe’s edge?
Grrrrshnk explained. “This is the debris we have thus far excavated from the hole.” He maneuvered the craft deftly between mountainous heaps of shredded piles of the black material. Here and there massive robotic dozers, loaders, and trucks moved about piles of the obsidian gravel. “It goes for several thousand more kilometers before we reach the bore hole.” He hit the accelerator and we sped along toward the monstrous drilling rig.
Soon we could see the ever-reaching silver sliver of the diamondite bit stretching up into the blackness of space.
I am not a stupid man by any stretch, but when Grrrrshnk debriefed me on how diamondite was actually created in reactors and then later controlled at the subatomic level by super computers manipulating quadrillions of miniscule nanobots in unison, I barely kept up with him, but I got the gist of it. Here was an infinitely strong material that could be stretched, shaped, spun, manipulated in any manner, and forced to do your bidding. Here was the massive diamondite drill bit that continuously churned downward toward the unknown.
As we approached the constantly turning gleaming silver shaft I of course recorded everything for the people of Earth. They were definitely curious about this expensive federation project of drilling to find a parallel universe beyond our own, as was I.
“Tell me Grrrrshnk,” I pronounced it as best as I could, “How deep have you bored down thus far?”
The blue-skinned alien beamed, ” We are just about to hit a milestone.” He paused for a few seconds for dramatic effect, smiling somewhat smugly. “Half a light year! Can you believe it? We have gone nearly fifty percent of one entire light year!”
This I understood well to be an incredible distance to say the least. “Does the drill bit show any signs of twisting yet?”
“Not a millimeter in all that length. Remember, the nanobots act as one, but are still all distinct individuals.”
“Okay I have enough footage for my news story. Thanks for your cooperation.” Then as he turned the craft and shot upward and out toward my waiting transport I thought of one last question for the proud site director.
“So Grrrrshnk,” this time I pronounced it almost perfectly. “How much further do you think you will have to go?”
His answer was honest and direct. “As far as it takes.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 31, 2011 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Roscoe dimmed the lights in the living room and then powered up his suit. In the floor to ceiling mirror beside the stone fireplace he could admire how truly daunting a warrior he looked. From the heavy platform boots on his feet to the armored headgear, from the pipe lighting that traced each limb to the bandoliers criss-crossing his chest packed full of dangerous looking glowing ammo in a variety of colours and special purpose tips. He stood sideways to the mirror and, turning at the hip to face his reflection raised both eight barrel chain guns to the firing position.
“Kick ass mother,” he grinned around the cigar butt clenched between his eye teeth.
Through the bay window a streak of light cut the sky, followed by a ground shaking impact somewhere between the farmhouse and the corn fields.
“Fecking kids,” he swore out loud before storming off through the back door and out under the evening moonlight.
He’d crossed nearly half the distance to the fields when two short figures in dark jumpsuits appeared out of the shadows, their heads encased in tall conical reflective helmets.
Instinctively, he raised both weapons. It was likely similarly instinctive that the figures abruptly halted their advance.
“You’ve no business on my land, ” his voice was raised as he assumed the helmets would impair their hearing somewhat. “Get back in your vehicle and mosey the hell on out of here.” He peeled his lip back in a lopsided snarl. “Now,” he added for effect.
The two figures turned to face one another, the reflective surfaces of their visors rippling and changing colours rapidly for several minutes before they turned back to face Roscoe.
“We are come to be your land master.” The sound was tinny and artificial, and he wasn’t quite sure which of them it originated from, but Roscoe was having none of it.
“You can go and stuff peppers, now get the hell off my property.” Roscoe drew himself up to his full height, appreciative of the extra few inches his boots added. “Git. Skedaddle.”
The figures turned again to one another, but Roscoe was starting to lose his cool. He stepped forward and jammed the barrel of a weapon against the side of each of the small figure’s heads.
“You gotta ask yourselves, do you feel lucky?” He put on his best Eastwood, but something about this situation was starting to make him uncomfortable.
The figures froze, their features shimmering uncertainly. Roscoe pushed once, sharply.
The two figures slipped silently sideways, their shapes darting and blending with the landscape under the moonlight such that Roscoe had to look away in order to actually see them in his peripheral vision. As they reached the edge of the corn field, a fox burst out from between the rows of six foot tall stalks. There was a burst of light from one of the figures, and the fox was instantly spattered across the crops. The figures didn’t break stride, and no sooner had they disappeared from sight than a blast of light erupted from the ground towards the star filled sky with a rumble every bit as powerful as that which had brought Roscoe from the safety of his living room in the first place.
Roscoe felt an uncomfortable warmth spreading down one trouser leg as he stood frozen to the spot. Breaking the silence, a chorus of ‘Trick or Treat’ erupted from the side-door of the farmhouse, and a startled Roscoe squeezed both triggers, sending a volley of luminescent Nerf darts off into the darkness. He laughed, a nervous uncertain laugh before turning to head back inside.
