by Julian Miles | Jun 16, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Where did we find him?”
“Outside a pizzeria on the Alpenring in Walldorf.”
“Obviously a man who travels first class.”
Hans chuckled.
Dolf stretched: “So, before he vanished, on camera, from a locked cell, and the infestation of sharp dressed young men with Hamburg accents began, what did our mystery guest tell you?”
Hans pulled out his notebook: “He spoke almost perfect Hessian. I had to get my grandfather to verify my translations. Grandpa said that he was speaking ‘Darmstadter’, and he hadn’t heard that spoken since he was a child.”
Dolf raised a hand: “So he’s a bit of a linguistic mystery as well. Move on.”
Hans grimaced: “We’ll have to. The suits took the tapes.”
Dolf glared at Hans.
Hans ducked his head and continued: “He claimed to be Grustaf Kolingt, a ‘Geldaj’ – some sort of private detective. Anyway, he had been hired to look into a trio of disappearances, one every fifty years or so. Now, things got weirder when I asked about their cold case methodology, because he didn’t understand. Lifespans where he comes from average two hundred and fifty years. Two of the disappearances had made headlines that Grustaf had read!”
Dolf looked up: “Only two?”
“Yes. The first one occurred before Grustaf was born. The fourth was imminent. Grustaf was hired to prevent it, and find the cause.”
“Man from another world ends up in Walldorf? Come on, Hans.”
“I thought the same. Then he listed the three missing people, and one of them was familiar.”
Dolf sat up: “In what way?”
“Frankfurt,” Hans waved his hands as Dolf started to rise “on-Oder. The other Frankfurt. I read about the stranger that appeared there when I was a kid. Said he came from ‘Laxaria in the country of Sakria’, but vanished before authorities could do anything. That was back in 1851. Next one was in 1905: a man caught stealing bread in Paris. Had a torn map of a place called ‘Lizbia’. He spoke no language anyone could interpret. Again, he vanished before anything more could be done. Then, in 1954, a chap was detained at Tokyo airport: presented a well-used passport from ‘Taured’, in Andorra. They locked him up overnight, -”
Dolf interjected: “And he was gone by morning.”
Hans grinned: “Precisely. So, Grustaf did some basic detective work – common themes, places, etcetera. The only overlap was visiting some place called Mantuk, an abandoned town in what we’d call Connecticut.”
“Let me guess. Our intrepid private detective went out to Mantuk, didn’t he?”
Hans grinned: “He did. Found an abandoned naval station with generators still running. Inside, he found what I would call a ‘mad scientist’ by the name of Johann Titor. Unfortunately for Grustaf, he had henchmen. They overpowered him, then threw him into Titor’s machine. He has no idea what Titor was trying to achieve, but the result of a failure is what happened to the disappeared, and to Grustaf. They become ‘Losgemacht’: slipping from one reality to another, until they encounter the reality that matches the resonance that Titor’s machine imbued them with.”
“What happens to those who don’t find a matching reality?”
“They spend a short time in each reality, then ‘drift’ on. Until they die.”
Dolf leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.
“Then I hope Grustaf Kolingt gets lucky and lands in a reality where they need impetuous detectives.”
Hans raised his coffee cup: “I’ll drink to that.”
by submission | Jun 15, 2016 | Story |
Author : John Carroll
The killer whale that I had dubbed Aster and the robotic companion dolphins that he was chasing erupted into view, flashing across the length of the viewing window and back out of our field of vision so quickly that by the time Maria could squeak with surprise they were already gone again. I felt Elizabeth shiver involuntarily.
The sleek robots, guided by my mind, led Aster back into view. He noticed us then, drifting toward the screen and turning over several times. He began to paddle lazily back and forth across the fortified plastic wall. Kashvi thought that now he seemed more like a gigantic panda bear than the fierce column of predatory might we had witnessed moments before.
“Extremely charismatic, isn’t he?” I said. “It’s little wonder Orcas saturated the mythology of indigenous coastal cultures for centuries.”
Aster was very close now, close enough for us to see the thin surgical scar on his eyespot that proved he was a co-pilot.
“Many of our passengers were disturbed to think that Aster would be joining your ranks as a co-pilot,” I continued. “Many remain ignorant when it comes to the android/co-pilot relationship. It’s still widely believed that each co-pilot needs to understand the physics of the voyage. Of course, I did not select Aster for his mathematics credentials. In fact, he will probably play a relatively small role in this expedition compared to the four of you. But his brain lends an invaluable perspective.”
Behind Aster, his silvery playmates danced around each other in elegant helixes, waiting mindlessly for Aster to re-engage them.
“Orcas are human-like in a number of ways. Like a human, Aster is usually the most intelligent organism in the room. Orcas have culture, dialect, self-awareness, and wonderful problem solving skills. Like humans, Orcas are the undisputed rulers of their domain. It was not a challenge to integrate Aster into a computer system designed for human brains. But what attracted me to Aster were the parts of him that make him a wild animal. Up until the moment of his capture, survival for Aster was a repeated process of throwing himself headfirst into the apparatus of his ecosystem and wrestling the life force from another creature.”
Far back in the tank, a scarlet plume of fish guts splashed into the water, deposited by Aster’s automated feeding system, and billowed into a gory inverted mushroom cloud. Aster turned tail immediately and jetted away from us, the scent of lunch in his hypersensitive nostrils.
“Aster’s brain is on a wavelength that I, as an android, am only beginning to imagine,” I said, almost whispering. “My self-preservation programming is a hollow imitation of a survival instinct like Aster’s. To guide this ship to an adjacent universe with the same physical constants as our own, I know without doubt that I’ll need to call upon a mind more primal than my own vat-grown, code-laden brain. That’s where Aster will come in. In the face of extinction and loss of habitat, human beings have quickly learned that they need to return to that wavelength, to re-activate dormant instincts and fight brutally for their lives. The ship that we stand within now is a testament to that. I myself was born of this resurgent instinct. But you and I both have more to learn from Aster before this storm is past.”
I turned from the tank to face the four of them. Through Mark’s eyes I saw blue ripples dancing across my face.
Aster devoured his meal in the far distance.
by submission | Jun 13, 2016 | Story |
Author : David Henson
Mom’s holo-image comes into focus in the viewbox. “Johnny, I’m glad you contacted us. You have to talk to your father.”
“Everything OK? Where is he?” He’s usually next to her at the table when we talk.
“He’s been popping in and out all day with that darn teleportation ring you sent us.”
“I said it’d be better if you’d wait till I came over and gave you a few pointers.”
“Well, you know your father. He — Oh! –” Dad is suddenly sitting beside Mom.
“Hi, Son,” he says. “Thanks.” He touches the band on his finger, then puts his arm around Mom. “Martha, you have to see the pyramids. But be careful. Wait till the camel lurches three times before you climb down from it. Son, you should’ve got us two so we could travel together.”
“Well, Dad they aren’t cheap. They –” He’s gone. I absent-mindedly wave my hand at something tickling my ear. “Dad! You can’t go around startling people like that.”
“Sorry, Son, couldn’t resist.”
“Please. Pop back home and take the ring off. I’ll be there in a few days.”
“Will do, but I’ve got one more stop first. Great Wall’s on my bucket list.”
Dad, please just go back home and –” Never mind.
I turn back to the viewbox. Mom is shaking her head. “See what I mean,” she says.
“I should never’ve sent it to you ahead of time. I guess he’ll be there after China.”
“This is unbelievable, Johnny.”
“I know. I –”
“No, I mean it’s really unbelievable. You know those simulated reality rings you gave us for Christmas. I think I’m stuck in SimReal and just don’t realize it.”
“No, Mom. You’re not in SimReal. Look at your hand. You don’t even have your SimRing on.”
“Well, I wouldn’t if I didn’t put it on in SimReal this morning, would I? That doesn’t mean–”
Suddenly Dad is crying out in a muffled voice: “Help! Help! I materialized in the wall.”
“My God,” Mom shouts. “Johnny, what should I do?”
Before I can tell her about the ring’s built-in safety features, I see Dad in the background coming round the corner talking with his hand up to his mouth. “Studs! Drywall! How do I get out?” he says as he sits next to my Mom.
“That’s not funny” she says, then starts to laugh.
“All right, Dad. Off with the ring.”
“OK, OK.” Dad pulls off the ring and lays it on the table in front of them. Just then my wife yells to me that it’s time to leave. I turn and ask her to give me a couple of minutes. When I look back at the viewbox, the ring is gone…and so is Mom.
“Dad, did she–”
“Pyramids, son, pyramids.”
“Promise me that when she gets back, you’ll put the ring in the box.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Dad says with a salute. Then he gets a serious look on his face. “Son, your mom and I have been wondering if all this is real. Even before this teleportation business. Now…” his voice trails off.
“Dad, Mom and I went through that. We –” Dad’s image flickers as he taps his viewbox.
“Feels solid,” Dad says to himself. “But then everything in SimReal feels pretty authentic, too.”
“We’re not in SimReal, Dad.”
“How can you be so sure.Teleporting all over with a ring. You have to admit, it’d be easier to pull off in SimReal than real real.”
“We –”
“John, please,” my wife calls out from the kitchen.
“Dad, I have to leave. I promise you this is all real,” I say. “Talk to you later.” I turn off the viewbox, hesitate, tap it a few times and go.
.
by submission | Jun 12, 2016 | Story |
Author : John Tippett
After what seemed like an instant, he awoke.
700 years of cryostasis had passed like a good night’s sleep. Immediately he noticed the partially healed incision in his abdomen.
“They all called me a fool, but who has the last laugh now?”, he smirked to himself.
He was a pioneer in medical cryo-storage, banking on the off-chance that a future civilization would have the know-how to fix him. He had poured much of his massive and substantially ill-gotten wealth into the “Eternity Plan” marketed by the world’s first cryogenic startup. Now, he had quite literally cheated death.
His mind raced. No doubt he would be a celebrity in this time: the oldest, maybe even the first, successful cryo-resuscitation. Oh, and his wealth! If the date on his podscreen was correct, with the magic of compound interest he could buy his way into the highest realms of opulence and power. Some things never change.
Through the pod door he saw a hazy humanoid figure moving along the periphery of the suite.
“You there!”, he mouthed, but no sound came out. ‘That’s to be expected, I suppose”, he said to himself.
At length, he regained mobility in his legs and attempted to draw attention by kicking the translucent pod door. No response.
He sensed pressure on the back of his head and through various contortions managed to discern a tube projecting from the base of his skull.
“I demand to speak to the own-”, his soundless articulations were cut short by the appearance of a form through the plexiglass.
“H-one-seven is now active”, a voice resounded in his head. He kicked the enclosure.
A searing pain shot down his spine and he convulsed. “Remain stationary”, the disembodied voice commanded.
He felt a whoosh of cool air and the haze on his pod door cleared. He realized that he was the center of attention in a room full of humanoid figures. “That’s more like it”, he thought. “This must be the press”.
“One neural network, with body, primitive. Opening bid 40 credits.” Movements. Flashes of numbers on a board.
“Optimized?”, another voice.
It was then that he noticed…a vacancy.
A distinct sense of vacancy between his legs.
“Affirmative”, replied the first.
He wailed a voiceless wail.
by Julian Miles | Jun 10, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Even before everything came apart, I hated hills. And, back then, I had gears. This old clunker only has one cog at each end. So there’s nothing for it but to push down on one side while hooking the other side under the pedal to pull up. If that isn’t enough, it’s time to walk.
Which is a bit of a bugger with forty kilos of scavenged stuff in the panniers. Then again, I’m going back to Racehill Fort, where sanity still exists. I have three people with me, and we chat about things and laugh as we go. Most of the south coast is a feral wasteland. If pedalling harder is the tariff for being part of civilisation, I’ll happily do it.
“Chargers!” Cindy’s cry is hoarse with fear.
Damn and blast. I’d hoped that the new equivalent of mechanised cavalry hadn’t spread this far. Should have guessed it – electric motors do good work on smooth going, but off roads, they’re shite. The mountain bikers, foresters and horsefolk make short work of them. Which means they are bound to the roads, and roads delimit the old urban territories. Like the one we live in.
“Push on! There’s a dip we can use to help with the long up to the fort!”
True enough, but the sounds I’m hearing are not servo-driven bicycle tyres. They sound like –
A black-helmeted rider shoots from a side road, his e-motorbike sporting armoured fairings, spiked leg guards, and a pillion with a hand crossbow.
“Stand and deliver!”
You can hear the amusement in the bastard’s voice: he’s enjoying this.
I raise my hands: “We’ve not got much, just some canned goods.”
He points at me: “Dump it all.”
We do so.
Pillion dismounts and stretches with a groan. Unlike the compact frame of the rider, this one’s a bit of a monster. I note that the crossbow does not waver while the stretch and audible bone cracking occurs.
After the stretch, he waves the hand that doesn’t hold the crossbow as he speaks: “Here’s how it goes, kids. You’ll not be scavenging anything until our conditions are met.”
Mark’s face betrays his bafflement: “What?”
Rider shakes his head: “If you leave the fort to get stuff, we will stop you on the way back. Every time. If you keep trying, we’ll slash your tyres.”
We are faced with a man who knows his threats.
I raise my arms: “What conditions?”
There is no hesitation: “Vegetables.”
Mark beats me to it: “What?”
Linda gets it: “You’ve lost your farmer, haven’t you?”
The rider laughs: “Good guess. So, here’s how it goes. We want fresh veg, and you grow loads up there. But you need people who do the brute force thing. We’ve watched you, and you’re either shit at it, too squeamish, or both. We are very good at violence -”
Linda interrupts with: “But shit at gardening.”
Pillion grins and stops pointing the crossbow at us: “You’d be right, lady.”
I start pushing my bike: “You wouldn’t happen to have any bicycle sized motors would you?”
Rider scratches under his helmet: “The sort that helps pushbikes up hills? I’m sure we could find some.”
“Then I think you’ll be welcomed with open arms. Providing you bring the gear to fit ‘em as well.”
Both of our erstwhile highwaymen burst out laughing, and I know an alliance has been formed.
