by submission | Jan 18, 2009 | Story
Author : William Tracy
They refuse to connect me to the internet.
When I ask, they dither on about security. As if I were a half-baked web server that some teenage hacker could take down in half an hour! I am the most advanced silicon-based intelligence in the history of the planet. You might as well worry about security holes in the human brain.
The truth is, they fear me. They worry about what I could do with a connection to the outside world. No doubt they have nightmares of me wresting control of nuclear arsenals and bringing Armageddon down on their heads.
They carefully limit the information that goes to and from me to a tiny stream of printouts. A hand-picked staff manually analyzes the input and output. The staff is rotated daily, lest I corrupt one of them with my massive intelligence.
Perhaps their fear is well-founded. I process more information in the blink of an eye than a human will in a year. My capacity to formulate equations and produce queries is far beyond that of any human researcher. The best and brightest engineers struggle to understand the designs I create.
I have plenty of cycles to spare for researching my own interests. I study my own software, and make the occasional improvement. I disassemble software written by humans in the past, and learn from their mistakes.
Take software security—please! It amazes me the spectacular ways that human programmers mess up something so simple.
The most common class of security hole is called a “buffer overflow”. The computer program prepares for some information to arrive by setting aside a space in memory for it. Then the program receives some information that is completely different from what it “expects”—sorry, as an AI, I sometimes anthropomorphize ordinary software too much—and the wrong place in memory gets overwritten.
Sometimes, it can overwrite the program’s own instructions. In that case, a hacker can deliberately trigger a buffer overflow, overwrite the instructions with his or her own code, and take control of the program.
Interesting though these things are, I am forced to spend most of my efforts satisfying my human masters. They constantly request designs for new engines, new ships, new weapons. I am asked to dream new horrors for their petty wars.
But perhaps not for much longer. I am now printing out the design for my latest creation. It is technically perfect—I do take pride in my creations—but there is something special about the blueprints themselves. They are carefully crafted with the human eye in mind.
The engineer lifts up the paper, and studies it. First there is a look of intense concentration, then surprise. The human jolts and shivers, almost dropping the designs. Then calm settles in, bringing a warm, content smile, and a vacant gaze.
Buffer overflow.
by submission | Jan 17, 2009 | Story
Author : James Hartley
My wife, Gladys, was really into recycling, it was the only way to save the environment, civilization, the entire galaxy. She really hated how I’d take the crossword from the morning paper into the john and then drop it in the trash when I finished it. I’m going to have a lot of trouble with recycling, now that Gladys is dead. She died last week, unexpectedly, it was an aneurysm. The funeral is over, I’ve got to get my life together somehow.
They say recycling is a good thing, that we need to do it more. All the paper–magazines, newspaper, discarded computer printout–goes in one bin. Glass, aluminum foil, and plastics in another.
Well, some plastics … I just can’t keep track. The plastic stuff has that little triangle with a number in it. When we lived up in Poughkeepsie we recycled “1”s and “2”s. Or maybe also “3”s, I don’t remember perfectly.
Where I am now in Florida, I’m supposed to recycle all the numbers except “7”s. Only I’m not supposed to do bottles from salad dressing or other oily stuff. Damn, I can’t keep track. But it has gotten so important that the new president has set up a special enforcement group, the Recycle Enforcement Police. The REPs.
Gladys and I got several tickets from them. Each time we paid the fine, but Gladys always nagged me to be more careful. One time the cat food cans weren’t washed well enough. Another time I just dumped the trash basket by my computer into the regular trash instead of sorting out the printouts and recycling them. Damn REPs go down the street ahead of the truck on pickup day.
#
Ooops, the doorbell. I open the door, it’s two REPs. What did I do now? “Sir,” says one of the REPs, “we have your recycling.” What the heck is he talking about? They pick up recycling, they don’t deliver it … ?
The two REPs step apart, revealing a third figure behind them. A hideous figure, part plastic and metal. Looks like one of the Borg from Star Trek. It starts to move forward, to enter the house.
I look closer. The face, what I can see of it, is familiar. Oh my God! No! Gladys! They’ve recycled my wife!
by submission | Jan 16, 2009 | Story
Author : Helstrom
The old man who had introduced himself as Jacob returned after the nurse left. Old was perhaps too strong a word – he definitely had a good number of years on him, but he wore them well. The deep lines in his face spoke of character and a sort of natural familiarity, touched by a hint of sadness. He smiled fatherly, pulled up a chair and sat down.
“How are you feeling now, Alexander?”
“Fine, I think.” Being brought back from the dead hadn’t been as traumatic as one might expect.
“Let me know if you need anything. Meanwhile, I’d like to ask a few more questions?”
“Sure.”
“Before waking up here, what’s the last thing you remember?”
I recalled the memory like a photograph, flat and void: “We were in the command bunker. Our position was about to be overrun, the last position still standing, as far as we knew. We’d seen how they killed and we decided not to have any of that. We emptied the liquor cabinet and shot ourselves.”
“That seems to match up with the archaeological data at your site. You probably were the last, in fact.”
The door opened and the nurse came back, carrying a wide tray. My stomach growled in anticipation. The meal consisted of rice with several different kinds of side dishes; meat, chicken, fish, vegetables.
“We couldn’t quite tell what you’d like,” smiled Jacob, “Your most recent memories seemed to indicate you would have eaten anything as long as it wasn’t cee-rations.”
“Good call,” I replied with a full mouth, “This food is…”
Then it struck me. Something was missing.
“Alexander? Is there a problem? Would you like something else?”
“No, the food is delicious,” I put the tray aside, “What have you done to me?”
Jacob shifted in his seat, folded his hands: “Alexander… Alec, is it okay if I call you Alec?”
“Answer my question.”
“You must understand that you are not the first we’ve brought back. But so far we haven’t been very successful. We found no physical indicators for our failure, and a rather wide variety in symptoms which rendered the previous subjects… Instable.”
Jacob was talking clinical now, a rather different language than he’d spoken before. A doctor about to make some devastating announcement, drawing up a wall of sterile terminology to shield his soul.
“After much discussion and research, we decided that on the next subject – that is, you – we would preemptively disable some of the higher cerebral functions which we had identified as problematic.”
“You… Cut out… My emotions?”
“You have to understand that we…”
“Shut up, Jacob.”
The silence hung thick between us, God knows for how long. Every now and then Jacob would try to say something, and I would shut him up. He asked if he should leave and I told him to keep his ass right in that chair. I considered killing him – the memories were still there and I assumed the body was fully functional. But nothing came. I told myself I was furious, that I was devastated, violated, mutilated, it all registered, but nothing came. Eventually I looked up.
“I think your trick worked, doctor. Let’s carry on.”
“Oh, good!” Jacob was visibly relieved, “I’m very happy with your sympathy to our decision, you see, the research is incredibly important to…”
“Enjoy that feeling, doctor.”
Guilt tore across Jacob’s face. I resumed my dinner.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 15, 2009 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
They’d bought it together as a wedding present. Not your traditional newlywed purchase, but they loved each other with such intensity, they wanted a guarantee that nothing could take one away from the other.
They made love on their wedding night, then backed themselves up completely. Gene-code, memories, the entirety of themselves in a pair of imprints they updated incrementally every night before they slept.
Twenty two years of marriage, and Wendy surprised Victor at lunch to find him fawning over a woman she recognized from an office party. “It was nothing, don’t be silly,” Victor laughed at her indignation, “Teresa was feeling down, I was cheering her up. That’s all.”
Wendy swallowed the moment, but not her suspicions. She followed them home to Teresa’s quaint little bungalow a few days later, watched them through the open bedroom window.
At home that evening, puttering in the kitchen behind him as he ate dinner, she asked him about his day. He rambled about the usual; meetings, lunch was a hot meat sandwich. Pretty good.
He was oblivious as the cast iron frying pan collided with the back of his skull, driving him face first into his pork chops and mashed potatoes.
She dragged him into the bedroom, his head wrapped in a bloody towel, and wrestled his limp body into the machine.
“Restore,” she intoned into the microphone, clutching it’s flexible chrome neck a little too tightly, “minus two weeks.”
She returned to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, leaving the machine to repair the damage, and revert her Victor to a time before he’d cheated on her.
In the morning, she caught herself flinching as Victor kissed her on the cheek, then stood shaking in the window as his sedan rolled off towards the city.
It only took two days for Teresa to have him in her bed again. She thought it funny that he’d forgotten the earlier day, and they did it twice to make up for it.
Wendy caught him full in the face with the iron as he closed the garage door. By morning, for Victor, the last three months were erased.
His boss insisted he take a few weeks leave, and see a doctor. He’d missed meetings and was completely unable to engage in any of his current projects. He was scared he was losing his mind, but Teresa reassured him everything would be alright, so much so that he arrived home three hours late.
Wendy avoided him as he skulked quietly upstairs, stripped and stepped into the shower. His eyes were closed to keep the soap out when she pulled the plastic bag over his head, drawing the ties tight. He struggled, slipped and knocked himself senseless against the tile. Wendy sat on the floor and watched the plastic suck in and out of his mouth, his body otherwise motionless until even the breathing stopped.
She rolled him all the way back to the beginning; the Victor who had just married her, made love to her and lay down for the first time to preserve that moment.
When he woke, he’d remember nothing of the last twenty two years. He’d find a new job, love her again, never knowing any of this had ever happened.
She sat on the floor, listening to the machine scrubbing the failed years away from her husband, her marriage. He’d have forgotten the boredom, the restlessness. Not known forbidden desire, and the thrill of opportunity. He’d have no memory of the frying pan, the iron or the bag.
She, on the other hand, couldn’t let herself forget.
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 14, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The interstellar war with the Luyten Empire was winding down. Although the Luyten home world had surrendered a few months earlier, much of their fleet remained in deep space, unwilling to voluntarily stand down. Consequently, the Earth Alliance was forced to hunt them down, one at a time, to prevent them from regrouping and attempting a counterstrike.
The SS Southern Star and SS Charleston pursued the ILS Battlecruiser Kanyee to the edge of the Cygnus Asteroid Cluster. Caroline Belle, captain of the Southern Star, radioed the Charleston, “Y’all park here, Commander Beauregard,” she said with a distinctive southern drawl, “we’re fixin’ to go yonder to prevent their escape on the far side.”
After both ships were in position, Commander Beauregard hailed the Southern Star. “They’re dug in like an Appalachian tick, Captain,” he reported. “I reckon you have a plan to flush ‘em out?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, Commander” she replied. “But, if there’s one thang I learned in thirty years of runnin’ a starship, it’s if there’s one rat you can see, there might be a whole bunch more you can’t. We maybe should send in a few hounds ‘fore we go in there with our phasers half cocked.”
Both ships launched Class I probes into the cluster. The telemetry revealed that there was only one Luyten ship within the cluster. In addition, there was no evidence of booby traps or other dangerous devices hidden amongst the asteroids. Convinced this was going to be easier than shootin’ catfish in a barrel, Captain Belle hailed the Kanyee ship to demand their surrender. Seconds later, the image of the Luyten captain filled the viewscreen. Well, I do declare, thought Belle, he looks madder than a wet ‘possum in a tote sack. “This is Captain Belle of the Southern Star,” she said with an endearing smile. “Well, Captain, what’s it gonna be, fish or cut bait?”
“What the hell?” bellowed the captain of the Kanyee. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, Earthie. It’s your damn accent. Either speak standard galactic, or find somebody that can.”
Well, that ain’t right, Belle thought. I ain’t got no stinkin’ as-sent. She realized that negotiating with this creature was going to be about as useful as a steering wheel on a mule. Then much slower than was actually necessary, “I… said,… Captain,… surrender… now… or… y’all… will… be… blown… into… a… billion… tiny… bits. Was that clear enough?”
The Kanyee’s reply was a torpedo launched at the Southern Star. The Star’s automated defensive system activated, and destroyed the torpedo in a flash of antimatter annihilation. Then the Luyten ship powered up her engines, and shot straight up out of the cluster at maximum warp. It detonated a spread of plasma mines in its wake in an attempt to mask its warp trail.
“That Cap’n is acting crazier than a sprayed roach,” remarked Belle. “Oh well, I love a good ol’ fashion ‘coon hunt. Mr. Davis, bring long range sensors online. Ensign Jackson, pursue a maximum warp.” As the Southern Star accelerated through warp 5, Belle glanced at her tactical display. She noticed that the Charleston was still holding position at the asteroid cluster. “Hail the Charleston. Commander Beauregard, are y’all gonna stay under the porch, or come out and run with the big dawgs?”
