by Julian Miles | May 31, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The moonlight is cut off by drifting clouds as I hurdle the wall and drop into the shadowed mess that comprises the unfinished foundations of what will be the Chibakan headquarters when they finally find some new backers.
Behind me I hear the too-rapid crunching of my pursuers using assault speed, trying and failing to get me before I disappear down below and their advantages shrink again.
“There’s no use running, you little puke! Flesh can’t outrun cyber!”
Nice mister cyberpsychosis is technically correct, but all the adverts show hapless escapees running through open malls and down streets. Of course they get taken down by the cheetah-like cybergoons.
I used infra-dense smoke to waste their heatsight and pepper-fleck to trash their sensors. Personally I thought the ten litres of used motor oil was a genius touch on the fire escape, but the screaming profanities as they skidded and in some cases failed to stop before the eight storey drop let me know my talents were unappreciated yet again.
I scoot down the unfinished stairwell and drop further into darkness, sticking another infrasmoke bomb to the crossbeam I pass just before I land. Its little beep as it sets itself for massed circuitry is reassuring. I run left and drop off another ledge into what I presume will be the sub-sub-basement and grab the aerosol I left behind a couple of days ago.
I spray the freespace-rated instabond generously across where they have to land, then do the nearest uprights and scaffolding too. Never know when someone’s going to brace themselves to get the ultraglue off their shiny cyberfeet or boots. As the crashing above indicates my fan club has arrived, I orient myself, take three steps backwards and jump up into the ducting that starts here and extends all the way to the storm drains on the other side. I leave a bodyheat radiator in there, swing out and grab the scaffolding as a pop and a hiss tells me the first winner is about to land.
Climbing the poles in pitch darkness validates my weeks of practice. At the top is a workman’s sling and I wrap myself completely in the totastealth sheet before settling for a doze. Nothing to do until the cybersupermen discover they’re not so super after all.
The shouting and yelling lulls me into a light, refreshing sleep. The silence wakes me.
Sticking my arm out I scan for life using the specialised sensor built into my gauntlet; nothing.
The cyber and nano crazies have their uses, but the archtyptural ‘street samurai’ are a joke. While cybertech has advanced beyond belief, battery technology and similar energy sources have not. Most cybergoons have solar charger pads integrated into their armour and even their tattoos. Put them in the dark and make them angry enough to believe their own hype and they will literally kill themselves as the technology overwhelms the body’s ability to power it when stored energy is exhausted. It’s actually a very short time from out of juice to out of body potentials.
Half an hour later I have a floatrolley loaded with fifty kilos of tech and ten kilos of organs. The scavengers are already gathering beyond the circle of my guardfield.
By tomorrow I’ll be set for another couple of months and Chibakan will be down another four idiots. I’m doing them a favour and they pay me handsome scrap values for weeding out the fools.
by submission | May 30, 2013 | Story |
Author : W Hunter
“Where is everybody?” Enrico Fermi, 1950
The enormous space craft slid out of the hyper-dimensional matrix in the orbit of one of the gas-giant planets. It gravitated towards the inner planets smoothly, gathering data by the millisecond. Within a short time the thousands of remote detectors had transmitted a gargantuan amount of data to a massive computer network. The data was immediately analysed and collated into a report which was then arranged and organised into an executive report by an Assessment Officer.
Commander Xent was deeply engrossed in Interthought when Assessment Officer Hettel entered the chart room.
“Excuse my interruption, sir, but I need your opinion on my analysis of this planet.
It took a fraction of a minute for the Commander to adjust his attention. “I’m sorry Hettel, I was engrossed in an intriguing exploration of 11 dimensional topographies with two time dimensions with the Chent brothers.
“Sorry to intrude” said Hettel.
“Not at all, my Command duties take priority. How can I help?”
“Well,” said Hettel, “I have completed my analysis of the third planet in this system and I need your opinion on my conclusion. I will upload my report onto your Thoughtscreen now. May I talk you through it?”
“Go ahead” said the Commander.
Hettel resolved to be brief and to the point. ”As you see, we have a 96 % conformity with our own preferred physical environment: Atmosphere: 80 % Nitrogen, 20% oxygen, traces of carbon dioxide and Helium. Surface: Large areas of saline water and a variety of land masses, some extensive fresh water areas and tributaries. Suitable temperature zones. Biologically: Mammalian species, dominated by intelligent bipeds, somewhat aggressive but not dangerously so. Warm blooded avian species and numerous cold blooded reptiles etc. No surprises here”.
The Commander nodded.
“Cell nuclei contain coding molecules similar to ours, same bases, phosphate bridges and sugars only slightly different. Amino acids same or near identical with ours, two less in number. General conformity 97%.
Micro organisms of the single cell variety, coding chemistry types 2 and 3. Large variety of molecular cell invaders. Overall similarity rating 89%.
That’s more or less it, sir, unless you require more information?”
The Commander turned his penetrating gaze on Hettel. “So what’s your recommendation?”
Hettel was confident. “I had high hopes for the suitability of this planet when we made our long distance assessment. Now that we have this detailed data I have no hesitation in rejecting contact totally.”
“I agree entirely” said the Commander. Far too close a match. Early contact with planets like this were disastrous- invasion of all our life systems by micro organisms, nothing on the planet digestible, 100% mortality.”
“I find it quite depressing. We seem to be stuck with finding planets with barely developed life forms, very different from ours and then completely sterilising them before colonisation. Co-existence with other species would be so stimulating if we could just find the right non-invasive systems.”
“I share your sentiments” said Hettel, morosely.
“OK, then” said the Commander heavily, “I’ll direct that we leave this system forthwith and continue our exploration on the planned route. For the record, Hettel, what does the intelligent species call their planet?”
“They call it Earth, sir” said Hettel.
by submission | May 28, 2013 | Story |
Author : Ray Daley
The Misthkthos had been on Earth over a year when I talked to my first one. They’d come in peace, landed in a quiet region and strolled out of their ship into the night to check out our planet.
Easy enough to spot them as aliens you’d think? Then you’d be thinking wrong because they look just like me and you. Admittedly with subtle differences but you could have sex with one of them and never know it. Don’t worry, no chance of them getting you pregnant or leaving you with a nasty alien STD. Our blood chemistry differed slightly.
But that slight difference was enough to mean we couldn’t catch their diseases and they couldn’t catch ours.
So how did I spot him?
Sitting at a table in the truck stop diner wearing a faded red plaid shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. He looked like every other wanna-be cowboy in the joint.
“Mind if I sit here?” I asked, gesturing to the empty seats opposite him.
“Help yourself, free country or at least that’s what they say.” He had the twang of the accent and the world-weary cynicism down to a tee.
I started eating my burger and fries. “Damn good food here.” I said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” he replied “I always stop in here when I’m in these parts.”
He hadn’t blinked, his poker face was near perfect. His one mistake, the subtle tell that gave him away.
I figured I’d see if I was right.
I lowered my voice. “Hello Space Boy.”
He said nothing. He took another gulp of his coffee with his right hand.
“Tell me I’m wrong then.” I said quietly.
Again he said nothing.
I fixed him with a gaze. “I could repeat it, only louder if you want? Or you can tell me I’m wrong?”
He put his coffee cup down onto the table and looked me right in the eyes. “What was it?”
“What gave you away, you mean?” I said.
“Yeah. I thought I had this whole routine perfected. No-one ever noticed before.” he said.
I glanced toward at his left hand. “Pass me the salt.”
He was probably unaware he’d been fiddling with the salt cellar from the moment I’d walked in and almost certainly from the second he’d taken his seat.
His people had a glut of many of things on their planet. Salt however was in very short supply. They’d seen our oceans full of the stuff and made their way across the stars to trade with us. But as they’d learnt our many languages from TV and radio transmissions they thought they had a good idea how visiting aliens were received.
IE:- very badly and with deadly force.
So they’d chosen to hide amongst us until the time to trade was right.
“Damn. Was it that obvious?” he asked me nervously.
“Only if you know what to look for. And I did.” I replied.
“So what’s it going to cost me to keep you quiet? You know we hate violence. I’ve got plenty of great technology I can trade?” he asked me.
I smiled at him. “I guess that ship of yours is pretty well hidden?”
He nodded.
“Good,” I replied “then you can give me a lift home. I’ve been stuck here ever since I crashed in Roswell a few decades back. I promise I won’t tell if you don’t?”
He smiled at me. “When do you want to leave?” he asked.
I looked over to the counter and called to our waitress. “Miss, can I have this to go please? I think I just got a ride home.”
by Duncan Shields | May 27, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I’m with the XIA. The Xenomorph Intelligence Agency. I’m undercover. This is a soft war; more of an intelligence-gathering mission to discover weak points and destabilization technique hypotheses in case they’re needed.
It’s the pin-striped skin that’s hard on the eyes. What works as camouflage on their world stands out on ours. They’re roughly humanoid in appearance. That makes it a little easier to accept them. Some of our teenagers have been getting full-body tattoos to look like them. Idiots.
The aliens from Karnasis have sixty tiny, bright pink eyes spaced around their heads like seeds on a strawberry. That creeps me out, both the lack of pupils and the 360-degree vision. Somewhere between insectile and mammalian and I can’t decide which. And the eyes are spaced randomly, differing from Karnian to Karnian like Rorschach blots, like a paintbrush-flick of glittering pink nail polish. It’s part of how they recognize each other. They have thick, furred hides like zebras.
The other disturbing thing is that they’re a very direct race with no sense of downtime or relaxation. Their evolutionary path seems to have lasted about ten thousand years compared to our millions. If this keeps up they’ll ‘pass’ us on the evolutionary race track sometime in the next few centuries. We’ve made friends with them because of this.
They have no art. That’s also disturbing to me.
They have five-partner sexual relationships that we’re still trying to figure out. There are encyclopedias about the ‘non-mating versus viably fertile’ hookups between their five sexes that contribute to social strata and byzantine caste system etiquette. There seems to be no enjoyment in what they get up to sexually, though. It’s instinct-driven but not in the same lust-crazy way ours is.
There are some long-term strategies in my department for dealing with the eventuality that there might be a battle between our races. Recently, however there has been a new social trend popping up with them that gives us hope.
The Karnians are fascinated by the concept of ‘fun’. Laughter and playing are totally insane activities to them. They want to understand these things and they’re impressionable. Like logical, curious children. It’s the younger ones that are picking it up fastest. It’s a fad that is sweeping through their adolescents. They have ‘earth parties’ where the whole point is to ‘enjoy’ time without doing anything.
It’s a little creepy. They’re adopting all of the affectations of having a good time without actually having a good time. Their laughs sound recorded. Their teenage rebellions seem empty. They’re starting to have orgies but all they’re doing is robotically parroting the actions of porn films. It should be hot but it’s like watching mannequins get it on. Creepy and soulless. I can’t tell if ‘fun’ is there.
Most of our recreational drugs don’t work with them but we’re trying to synthesize ones that do. I’m helping with that research as well. Every party I go to, I bring something new.
If this trend catches on, it could slow down their whole society to our speed. By teaching them to relax and have fun, we could quadruple the time it would take them to surpass us in terms of developing higher intelligence and cognitive skills. Lucky we caught them when we did.
Hopefully, all we’ll have to do is party with them for a few generations to stick a pole through their evolutionary wheel spokes.
I’m going to one of their parties now. I’m bringing some Absinthe and the Kama Sutra.
I’ll see what kind of trouble I can get into.
by submission | May 26, 2013 | Story |
Author : Robin de Graaf
Bartleby pushed open the heavy pub door. A bell jangled and a handful of pub patrons gave him a quick look-see. Realizing that they had no idea who he was, they quickly returned to their pints. Bartleby looked around, until he saw who he was looking for. He took off his hat and walked towards one of many tables.
“Good evening, John, glad you could make it.” He said, taking off his heavy coat. The man sitting at the table smiled and raised his glass.
“Anything for a friend. Please, sit.”
The man signaled one of the servers for two more glasses of gin.
“I’m sorry to have called upon you at such short notice,” Bartleby said, “but as you know, my life has been rather more… exciting than is customary lately.” He swallowed slowly.
“Are you referring to your courtship of Elizabeth?”
“Among other things. You know I’ve been seeing her for quite some time. And it’s been going quite well.”
The server came up to the table with two glasses perched on a heavy platter. “Two gin for the gentlemen,” he said with a nod.
“Thank you.” Bartleby said and grabbed a glass, draining it in one gulp.
“Bring me another, would you?”
“Certainly,” the server said with a friendly smile.
“Bartleby, I don’t mean to rush you, but what’s gotten you so spooked?” John said, leaning over a little.
Bartleby fidgeted with the empty glass, seemingly uneasy. He didn’t actually speak until his second gin had arrived, which he sipped rather than drained.
“Like I said, things seemed to be going well between Elizabeth and myself, but things have taken an… unexpected turn.”
“How do you mean..?” John asked.
“Last week we went to the theater, to see The Family Reunion, and in general, it was a fine night. After the play, she had agreed to accompany me for a drink at mine, if I promised to have her home before midnight.”
John grinned and nodded approvingly.
“Please don’t. Wait until you’ve heard the entire story.” Bartleby said, looking at John with a stern look.
“I apologize. Do continue…”
“So we arrive at mine, and as you know, I’m something of an inventor. In my spare time, at least. Having mentioned this to her before, she took the opportunity to ask whether she could see my current project.”
John laughed, “THAT thing? Waste of time, my friend, I’ve told you before and I’ll gladly repeat it!”
“Perhaps you won’t. We had been joking back and forth the entire evening, so when she said that she was going to be the first person to use it, I thought nothing of it. I should have.”
“She… Turned it on?” John said, sounding much less jovial than he’d sounded before.
Bartleby rummaged through his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph.
“I’ve been looking for proof, any evidence, for an entire week. Today, I finally found it.”
He handed the photograph to John, who studied it carefully. It was a picture of a group of women, dressed in Victorian fashion, smiling contentedly at the camera. One of the women in the picture made John look a little closer.
“Is that Elizabeth?” he asked.
“It is. Turn it over. Read the back.”
As he did, he noticed, in beautiful handwriting, that it said ‘1839, the girls in Green Park, London.’
A silence fell as John tried to collect his thoughts.
“This must be a fake. This isn’t possible.” He said eventually.
“It isn’t. That photograph was taken exactly 100 years ago.”
