by submission | Jul 22, 2011 | Story
Author : Martin Sumner
The matter of the Checks & Balances Office in dispute with Collins-Chapter was ordered onto the Administrative Ladder to be passed up to State Query. Deputy van Aerts stamped the case file, the Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and signed it off. Committee Clerk Corvidius placed the file with all due ceremony into his legal satchel, and pulled out a new file for consideration. He read from the cover:
The matter of Detention Colony E, Seventy-Sixth System.
“Don’t tell me they’ve finally found it again!” said Committeeman Ibarra, quite against protocol. Corvidius was scanning the summary page. In the ensuing silence, the Oversight Governor-General decanted ice-water into a crystal goblet, and sipped.
“It seems, my esteemed colleagues, that the colony host planet has indeed been recovered,” reported the clerk, “at the farthest end of the Black Pearl Spiral.”
“What of The Cartel, Corvidius?” – Deputy van Aerts.
Committee Clerk Corvidius proceeded to read out the Executive Summary. Lost in the wilderness for nearly one hundredth of an Age, with no means of escape from E, the Cartel members were long since perished and gone to dust. And with them the last vestiges of the most terrible criminal clique across time, space and the dimensions. A long-range survey had finally identified the planet, lost to the Detention Service for so long after a bureaucrat’s administration error had deleted all records of it’s whereabouts.
But there was a problem. An Anthropological Census Analyst from the survey team had been called to the Oversight Committee to explain his findings.
“Call in the witness, Corvidius, let’s hear it.” – van Aerts again.
The Committee Clerk paced steadily to the great panelled door that led into the Visitor’s Receiving Hall. He formally called for Anthropological Census Analyst Settus to present himself before the Oversight Committee. Settus was waiting nervously in an ancient Empire chair by the door. He followed the clerk into the Oversight Chamber and took his place at the stand.
Deputy van Aerts addressed him: “Mister Settus, kindly appraise us of your analysis.”
It seemed that The Cartel, though long since dead and passed out of all knowledge on E, still had a profound effect on the planet’s environment and governance. A global civilisation had sprung up from a genetic mix of the prison colony and an indigenous species that was a close match to our own. The planet was dominated utterly by this human-amalgam, and it’s civil systems based on acquisition, conflict, and oppression were built in the horrific image of their Cartel progenitors.
“In short,” concluded Settus, “the planet is a living hell of suffering and misery. A picture postcard from The Cartel.”
Committeeman Ibarra slammed his fist on the table, issuing a volley of expletives. He was quietened by the raised hand of the Governor-General.
“Corvidius, erase all recordings of this hearing and pass the case file to me. I think we must all be agreed that our Paradise of A Billion Suns does not need the worry of a potential return of The Cartel. Mister Settus, I expect a promotion to The Admiralty, with a purpose built ship of your design and a posting to anywhere in Paradise will be adequate recompense for your good work thusfar, and your future discretion. Deputy van Aerts, please contact Stryker by secure means and inform her that we require an unexpected, inexplicable and catastrophic super-nova in the Seventy-Sixth System with immediate effect. That is all for today, I believe.”
The Oversight Governor-General struck his gavel and dismissed his committee.
by submission | Jul 21, 2011 | Story
Author : K. J. Russell
A Somme Corp. product designated Android 593 walked through the rain along Intercontinental Freeway 7 at precisely 1:25:42am. 1:25:43am. 1:25:44am. The Android’s connection to Somme Corp. provided it with a translocation sense that guided it along until it found, 11.5 meters off the road, in a ditch hidden behind a grove of oil-covered trees, a ruined ‘52 Ceres 3-door, sports model. At the front of the car, crushed and bleeding beneath a fraction of the vehicle’s 1.3-ton weight, was Essis Harrin: customer registration 593 (corresponding to the Android), platinum package. The Android’s mechanical ears could hear him muttering, “Dammit… Melanie. Melanie, why aren’t you… Why didn’t you… Why…”
The Android approached him. “Mr. Essis Harrin. Your Somme chip transmitted that you do not wish to be alone. I have been sent accordingly.” Customer 593’s glazed eyes wandered up to it, and what he perceived was a young, petite woman of unusually perfect proportions, exactly symmetrical.
Essis Harrin shivered and the Android sensed a drop in his body temperature, a steady decline from 36.81C to 35.33C and then to 34.12C, his pulse irregular. “So,” his voice was clogged by internal bleeding, “You’re here to mock me?”
The Android was confused, but made no expression. It ran a behavioral calculation and briefly corresponded with the Somme Corp. mainframe, but could find no meaning in Essis Harrin’s response. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Why don’t you help me?”
“Your Somme chip has transmitted no wish for survival. It did transmit that you do not wish to be alone.”
“I only want…” he took a moment to cough up blood, and then, “I want Melanie. Melanie.”
Again interfacing with the Somme computers, the Android did a cross-search for Essis Harrin and Melanie. It spoke aloud its findings, “Melanie Harrin, wife of Essis Harrin and mother of Elise Harrin. Melanie Harrin was reported deceased on 24th December, 2054. Your request is not understood.”
“You can’t give it to me.”
“There is nothing that Somme Corporation cannot give you. We exist to serve you.”
“Can’t serve this,” Essis Harrin leaned back, looking the Android in its counterfeit eyes, “Can’t bring back Melanie.”
The Android made a query to the Somme Corp. administrative branch, detailing the request for a dead entity with special emphasis on the customer’s immediate situation. Unfortunately, offices had closed for the night 23 minutes and 54 seconds before. The Android was forced to respond as best it could, “Request for the reversion of death is incomprehensible. Incomprehensible requests are replaced with similar requests. Similar request: you do not wish to be alone.”
“Just get the hell away from me,” he let himself fall limp, “Let me die in peace.”
The Somme Android blinked twice, then turned around and left. It didn’t understand, but it did comply. The next day a recording of the night’s events was datamined by the Somme Corp. Android Evaluation Department, was then rerouted to the Administration Branch and from there to an executive review. Somme Android 593 made a brief appearance at the man’s funeral, and then it was covertly decommissioned. Somme Corp. executives made a minor change to Android behavioral guidelines, dictating them to assist customers during fatal situations, even when it went against the customer’s wishes. The Androids, while confused by this change, usually adhere to it. As always, programming errors are corrected as they become apparent.
by Duncan Shields | Jul 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Blood dripped off of its thick horns under the arena lights. On the ground beside him were the bodies of the six last tigers from Earth. There were deep slashes over his torso that were already scabbing over thanks to the gladiator coagulant in his bloodstream. His breathing was deep and even from the fight but it wasn’t ragged. It wasn’t taxed. It plumed out from his massive nostrils in the cold silence of the battle’s end.
The audience waited in anticipation behind the force shields and on two hundred civilized worlds reached by the broadcast. The tigers were just the warm up. Now it was time to fight something intelligent.
Me.
This was still part of the opening entertainment. It was clear from the size difference that I wasn’t favoured to win. Best to whet the audience’s appetite with a little slaughter before an actual contest. At least it was bare handed. If it had a projectile weapon, I would have been told.
I really thought that the aliens would be better than us. More enlightened. I pictured art installations the size of nebulae, Vulcan mind bridges, peace at all costs, that sort of thing.
Not so. Turns out our thirst for violence is weak in comparison. Every single person, predator, poisonous plant, and insect on Earth has been conscripted as fodder for the games. While we’re gone, Earth is being mined to a husk. We humans have been promised riches and freedom if we become champions but we can never go home again. I have my doubts about the validity of those promises.
I’m in great shape but I’m half the thing’s size. It’s slow but if even one of its blows connects with me, I won’t be standing back up. I’ve been given lots of rest, nutrition and awareness supplements but I can still see that they’ve pitted me against this creature with no intention of a fair fight. This is an execution. I can see the odds flashing across the screen up in the stands. It’s all about how long I’ll last, not whether or not I’ll win.
“What’s your name?” I shout across to it.
“One Hundred Fifty.” Says the man-bull.
“That’s an odd name. Where did you get it?” I ask.
“If I defeat and kill you tonight, then tomorrow my name will be One Hundred Fifty One.” It said.
I really didn’t like the way this was shaping up.
by submission | Jul 19, 2011 | Story
Author : James Reinebold
Filbert swished his mop over the steel floor. A Whisko 5000 beauty: everything you could want in a cleaning device complete with neural net dirt processors, scent ejectors, and partial sentience. He twirled it over the sizzling fluids like a ballroom dancer. Krystal K. would be arriving soon and the administrator wanted everything to be perfect.
Along the way back to his supply closet Filbert picked up a Butterfinger wrapper and an empty can of Grapico (official sponsors of the International Mars Colony) and tossed them in a tube leading towards the incinerator. Scientists carrying shrieking laboratory rodents and engineers with wrenches bustled past him as he walked.
He set a Trash Buddy loose, gave it priorities (1. Clean all major hallways. 2. Clean VIP dormitory. 3. Clean the kitchen areas.), and hoped it would get something done. It bumped into the wall a few times before making it out of the closet.
The observatory was empty. Filbert kept his head down low and scrubbed. He whistled and whooshed the mop back and forth while periodically examining the shine. In his head he laboriously did the math a Trash Buddy could do in a picosecond: estimating the glare and lemon concentration levels. He arranged cups and emptied the trash bins into the incinerator. He wiped the glass clean of smudges and coffee stains.
After he finished, he paused for a moment to look through the glass up at the stars. Millions of them, brilliant points of light shining down through the Windex scuffed windows and radiation filters. A pale dot for Earth, a couple of glaring white circles for the other planets.
He thought that maybe all the work was worth it.
The Trash Buddy reported a successful cleansing of the VIP dorms and kitchen. Main hallways scrubbed using 50% cleaning solution, 50% recycled water. Lemon scent added at regular intervals. Heading to rendezvous.
Filbert acknowledged and flipped a circuit that gave tiny shocks of pleasurable energy to the Trash Buddy to thank it for its service.
At that moment the intercom buzzed.
“Attention: all staff. This is a reminder that today will be the long awaited visit from electromegapop artist Krystal K. She will be arriving in moments, so please be on your best behavior. I can’t stress enough to you the benefits good press has for research like ours.”
The crew emerged from their laboratories and ran towards the shuttle port. The administrator played the first few tracks of Krystal’s latest hit (Galactomusik) over the loudspeakers.
Filbert sighed and leaned against a railing. The Trash Buddy beeped rapidly and propped up next to his shoe. No one said anything about the shiny floors or fresh lemony scent. Nobody had to.
by Patricia Stewart | Jul 18, 2011 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
It was the year 254,051. It was odd, actually, that nobody seemed to care anymore why they started counting form zero 254,051 years ago, or why a “year” was 365 “days” long, or why each day had ten “hours,” or why each hour had 100 “minutes.” Presumably, it had something to do with the periods of revolution and rotation of the original homeworld of humanity, but nobody could remember where that was. It was generally suspected that it was in the spiral arms somewhere, in what was referred to as the “Sirius Sector,” because that’s where archeologists find the oldest artifacts. But dozens of other sectors made similar claims. Unfortunately, no habitable planet could be found that revolved around its luminary in exactly 365 days. This suggested that the original homeworld may have been destroyed, either by war, or because their sun went nova. Ultimately, in the large scheme of things, it really didn’t matter. Mankind had expanded to fill all corners of the Milky Way. Where they actually originated, didn’t matter.
What did matter to scientists, however, was why there were no non-human civilizations in the galaxy. Over 90 billion stars had been explored, containing over 10 billion habitable planets, of which about half harbored at least single cell organisms. Eleven percent of those contained indigenous plant life. Eight percent of those worlds developed animal life. But none on the worlds containing animals ever developed a detectable civilization. To be sure, some of the animal species were able to communicate using a language, but these were always hominids, with DNA very similar to humans. It was concluded that they were humans that had become isolated and had de-evolved over the millennium. Apparently, homo optime-sapiens were the only intelligent species in the galaxy, and perhaps the universe. However, with the recent invention of the Hyperwarp Drive, we had a chance to find out.
The Hyperwarp Drive made intergalactic travel possible. Instead of requiring 250 years to reach Andromeda, it could be done in two. So, when the SS Initiative left space dock and streaked toward Andromeda, its five year mission was to…well, to see if anybody was out there with a respectable IQ.
One year into the mission, just short of the half way point, the Initiative shuddered violently and dropped out of hyperwarp. Half of the inertial dampers instantly overloaded in their effort to keep the crew from becoming wall ornaments. On the bridge, the main viewer displayed a mammoth alien vessel, at least a thousand times larger than the Initiative. “They’re hailing us,” announced the communications officer.
“On speakers,” replied the captain.
“We’ve been monitoring your galaxy since you humans began to spread. Your species was permitted to infest the galaxy you call the Milky Way. However, you may not travel beyond one million light years from your central black hole. Access beyond that is prohibited. Therefore, you are to turn your ship around, or be destroyed.”
“Sounds like they mean business,” noted the first officer.
“I don’t care,” replied the captain. “I need to meet these aliens. Maybe I can reason with them. Prepare a shuttle.” A few minutes later, the captain left the shuttle bay and headed toward the alien spaceship. Half way there, the shuttle simply exploded. No one saw a weapon fired.
“Ensign, turn the ship around, and plot a course for Alpha-base,” ordered the first officer.
“At least we learned something,” injected the science officer. “There are other intelligent species out here.”
“Well, that was our mission, after all,” stated the first officer. “So, I guess we’re done here. Engage.”
