by submission | Aug 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Merklinger
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
There was nothing really aesthetic about it—exceptional, remarkable really, but nothing aesthetic.
“Hello,” I said.
It had arms and legs like I did, a neck as well, and a head, a spine, and entrails too if you think about it.
“Hello,” it said.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“What is your name?”
“I am called Anthony.”
I extended my arm and flattened my hand.
“Touch it.”
It extended its arm and placed its hand on mine.
“Feel,” I said.
“98 BPM. Temperature 97.4 degrees Fahrenheit, Anthony. .2 degrees lower than yesterday.”
I retracted, and it mimicked.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“I can process the vibrations in your speech, Anthony.”
“Can you see me?”
“I can process visible light, Anthony.”
I wrapped the blanket that draped across my shoulders closer to my chest.
“Who is my wife?” I asked.
“Your wife is called Regina. Born May 11, 1998. Died July 23, 2080.”
“Who are my children?”
“You are surpassed by two children, Anthony. Andrew Thomas, born June 17, 2029, and Matthew Tyler, born July 3, 2031.”
There was nothing really aesthetic about it.
The nurse entered.
“How are you feeling today, Anthony?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Is Regina home yet?”
“Not yet, Anthony.”
She pressed the blanket closer to my chest and left me.
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“And what do I do?”
“You exist.”
“Hmm.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A soft breeze brushed against my face. Padded shoes beat against the floor. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder.
“It’s almost time,” she said.
It’s almost time.
A second breeze brushed against my face. It was colder this time. More shoes beat against the floor. It was fainter this time. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder. It was softer this time.
“How long?” a gentleman asked.
“Soon,” she said.
“Everything has been downloaded. You’ll be able to take it home tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Dad?”
“It’s almost time, Andrew,” it said.
Andrew Tyler, born June 3, 2021.
Gears wound. Metal pressed against the floor.
“Anthony,” it said. “You once asked me if I could love.”
You are called Anthony.
“Goodbye, friend.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 4, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles
I’m sitting on a rock on Hezbolla XIV. It’s a damn comfortable rock, overlooking an expanse of tundra without salient feature between me and the horizon in all directions. This is why I chose it. After four months of headlong flight, I can stop and have a cup of tea.
A rock situated at the remotest point of the least-inhabited planet of the furthest and most anti-Dominion star system at the distant edge of the outer rim, which is on the far side of the frontier systems.
They said I’d never escape. They said that eluding them was impossible. She said that even if I ran, I would be my own downfall.
A phone rings.
After I land from the jump that hurls me and my tea from the rock, I look about frantically. There is nobody in sight, no vessels in the skies.
The phone rings again.
I creep forward and peer under the edge of the rock. In a little depression, there’s a Nanga Starcom. Tucked into the survival bag next to it is a Leroo Rothfruit bar. I straighten up with the bag in my hand and a sigh gusting from my lips as they curve into a smile.
The phone rings for a third time.
“Yes?”
“Hello Curtis. You certainly got there faster than I expected.”
“How did you find me, Gloria?”
“You’re OCD, darling man. You couldn’t just hide. You had to hide at the exact point that is furthest from Dominion influence.”
There wasn’t really an answer I can give to that.
“So here’s the deal. I know you’re there. No-one else does. When you get bored, give me a call.”
“Why?”
“Well, firstly to have someone to talk to. Secondly, I may have a job offer. Either covert, or things may have changed. You were right, after all.”
“If I was right, why am I hiding by a rock over a million light years from home?”
“You’re always right. You always notice things. But, darling, you have the most appalling timing and no discretion at all.”
I’ve got no answer to that one either.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, Gloria.”
“Do you have – no, of course you have everything you need. That would have been a silly question.”
“I have a question.”
“Go on then.”
“What if they find me?”
“They could only do that if they – oh, damn. Scrambled comms but unscrambled office.”
“Gloria, my love. I brought a two-man envirodome.”
“But they know where you are.”
“Leave now. Leave fast. Head for the last place that I stopped at before I came to this planet.”
“How can I be sure where that was?”
I grin: “Because I’m OCD, attentive, indiscrete and right. Move, woman.” I close the connection. She’s lovely. Scatty at times, but lovely. It’ll be good to share my cave with her.
Cave? Yes. The rock was only a stopover. Because I knew that they knew that I’m a little bit fixated.
by submission | Aug 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Robert King
My grandfather warned me. I never listened. I always thought he was stuck in the past. A remnant of the McCarthy era — illegal FBI surveillance and all that. I’d say to him, “I don’t really care if they listen in. I’m not doing anything wrong.” He’d give me that look of sad resignation, and walk away.
When it became public knowledge years later, that the government was indeed monitoring the communications of every, single, citizen in the country, as well as those of many nations around the globe, I was complicit. That’s right, complicit. I, and everyone else that did nothing about it, are somehow to blame. I remember the feeling at the time though. What could I do? What could anyone do? Who was doing the listening? Who was really in control? I don’t think anyone really knew. The masses just blamed this or that political party, never seeing the deeper truth. But I knew. There were others who knew: The politicians were merely puppets.
Power was nameless. Power was faceless. So how does one organize against an invisible force? We felt hopeless.
There weren’t enough of us at the time do anything, assuming there was anything to be done. The majority of the population had been conditioned from day one to mindlessly consume. They were taught that they needed this or that material thing to experience life; for life could not be experienced to the fullest — experienced directly, without these material objects. To enjoy nature, you needed to take pictures of it with the newest cell phone, and have your experience validated by sharing it on your social networks. The more likes the better. You couldn’t raise a family without choosing the right bank. Yes, you heard me right. Somehow your chosen bank would influence the satisfaction and success of raising a family. And that happy family would only be possible in the newest automobile.
Years passed, and still I did nothing. Still I said nothing.
Political campaigns at this point were entirely decided by private donors. The population had been disenfranchised from what was still believed by most to be a democratic process. The wealth disparity had become extreme. And somehow, the majority was oblivious, having been conditioned into loving their servitude. Not only loving it, but even arguing for its cause. Slaves arguing the case for slavery.
And all the while, the consumption conditioning continued. Increasingly though, the people could no longer afford those items which would bring them happiness and a good life. They blamed the political party of the day. Formed grass roots opposition movements, opposing what was only the illusion of their problems.
It was becoming clearer to some during this time who was pulling the strings. They were the conditioners; they were the lawmakers. Some of us began to organize. And in time, our numbers grew. We began to unplug from the grid, forming communities, and even small towns outside of their consumption. We had their attention. But they had our names.
I was raised by my grandfather. My mother and father died in a plane crash when I was four. That’s what I was told anyway. I wish I would have listened to my grandfather all those years ago. Perhaps I would not be sitting here in this cell, a prisoner in a dissident camp. Perhaps if we all would have listened to our elders, before this thing got out of hand, we’d still be living as free men and women. But we’ve been disappeared. Let the cycle continue.
by submission | Aug 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Nathan Witkin
“So, pushing this button will cause the entire universe to collapse?” the politician asks, still struggling with the situation.
With a benevolent smile, the scientist nods.
Wiping sweat from his brow, despite the growing chill of entropy, the politician continues. “So, tell me again why I should push it.”
“Because the collapse should trigger an explosion that will reignite matter into existence. And because, if you do not push it,” the scientist breaks her unblinking gaze to examine the countdown, “in one hundred seconds, entropy will have expanded the universe past the gravitational reaches of the potential collapse, and the expansion will continue until all energy wanes into oblivion, ending the universe forever.”
“But we just got this whole Universal Governance established,” the politician whines, adding this to a tedious list of increasingly-pathetic complaints.
The scientist nods with pursed lips, her sympathy dulling with each excuse.
Universal Governance had been an eons-long triumph over leaders who wanted to vaporize existence with the push of a button. Considering the herculean nature of this effort, the politician concludes that—based on his regretfully-short experience in managing it—this biting irony is the unmistakable way of the universe.
“Think of you and I as parents of the reignited universe,” the scientist suggests, running a gentle caress over the doomsday machine. “Think about the sacrifices of parenthood—what you risk and give up to produce offspring. This is how life has persisted since its inception.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the politician harrumphs, “I’ve been thinking constantly of what my parents suffered to elevate me to a position where I could make the decision to flush away trillions of lives.”
As her less-than-willing conversation partner looks off despondently, the scientist glances at the timer to the impassable anti-event horizon. Sixty seconds.
Clearly stalling, the politician sighs, “Why me?”
“Our team of philosophers concluded that the representative of sentient life should be the one to make the choice: either allowing a mortal universe to continue or ending it for the sake of regeneration.”
The politician scowls. Philosophers are just politicians who don’t have to make decisions or run for reelection. With a spark of determination, he presses on. “Are we absolutely certain it will work?”
“Despite our most thorough efforts, we cannot guarantee anything,” the scientist admits but then probes further, “If you are looking for proof, all indications are that our own universe was created by the very event that you would be triggering—that pushing this button gave birth to this universe we have dwelled in for billennia.”
“How can my future actions cause something that already happened?”
“Because, logically, time can only exist in a loop,” the scientist’s pace quickens. “Something cannot come from nothing, so linear time presupposes a creator. But, any creator or outside reality containing the physical universe must be, itself, bordered at the outer edge by infinite nothingness (which, by the way, will begin to irreversibly consume us in thirty seconds). In the same way, the temporal universe must also be creatorless, each point in time linked to the moments before and after.”
“When did it begin?”
“There is no beginning. The first moment must be preceded by the last. The fact that time marks an expansion of the physical universe from an initial point can only mean that the universe must collapse back into that point. But the movement of time allows for choice, so here we are…”
As the light sets over the anti-event horizon, the politician ponders, “We are, indeed, here.”
“See you next time,” the scientist exhales as the politician reaches for the flashing disk.
by Julian Miles | Jul 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“That’s impossible!”
“Previously thought to be. Think what this does to current thinking!”
“We’re going to be famous!”
The two figures sat side by side on a ledge, far up on the side of the Rock of Gibraltar. At their backs was the entrance to the cave system they had scrambled from a few minutes before, desperate for air, sun and a chance to discuss their findings with less hysteria.
Duncan smiled as he racked up the list on his fingers as he spoke: “Correct me if I am wrong: what we have found and verified by scanning is the fossilised remains of a mammoth. In the Rock. Not only is it thousands of miles from where it could conceivably be found; evidence of extreme freezing damage is traceable throughout its visible area. A Siberian flash freeze casualty on Gibraltar.”
Susan nodded: “That would cover it. Something that rewrites ice-age extent and possibly mammoth distribution theories.”
They regarded each other with the excitement of shared passion and allowed themselves the luxury of a lingering kiss. Which is why the blow that hurled them both off their perch to plunge, screaming, hundreds of feet to their deaths caught them unawares.
“Perfect.”
The figure in worn hiking gear settled into the cave entrance and activated the lozenge-shaped device loop-affixed to his left ear.
“This is Purson. Have located and erased traces of Specimen NF24953. This completes the retrieval activities for Thurutar’s Bay Eight.”
“Acknowledged, Nero. Query: we see a two sentient demise increase on the temporal telemetry?”
“Two clever types out to erroneously rewrite history. Simple climbing accident; I have erased the data on their equipment.”
“Acknowledged. Will you be paragliding to rendezvous with the Nastar?”
“Negative. Two bodies plunging from on-high followed by an unauthorised jump-glider? That would attract attention.”
“Accepted. Fixing you position now. Passing 5D to the Nastar. Standby.”
Nero Purson held his breath as the spinning grey void closed about him. With a soft exhalation, he appeared on the Nastar’s deck.
“Welcome aboard, Ser Purs’n.” The tailless Alsatian analogue was a Nikoro time chief.
“Dark the clock, Ch’if.”
The faux-canine with the IQ of 200 shook itself: “Less dark thanks to you and yours. Where are we taking you?”
“Louisiana, 1851. Seems one of the megacrocs survived.”
“Who could have predicted that the Thurutar would explode across four dimensions?”
Nero looked up into the blazing Mediterranean sunlight: “Someone should have. If a vessel can travel along an axis, it would follow, to me anyway, that wreckage of same can hurtle along it too.”
It shook its head sadly: “Oversight accusations are no doubt occurring uptime. Let us enjoy the luxury of only having to flit and kill across a few millennia to clear up the mess.”
Nero grinned: “And enjoy the weather. I’m due a couple of days. Can the Nastar remain on station with me, Ch’if?”
The Nikoro’s face split vertically into a stained, sawtooth smile before it slumped sideways to lie on a sunny part of the deck: “I was hoping you’d ask for that. Get me a drink on your way back from the shower, Purs’n.”
