by submission | May 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : M. J. Cooper
“We’re bored.”
It was the first message humans had ever received from a higher intelligence. The simple statement was met with cheers and applause from the crowd of scientists at San Diego’s Microsoft Cybernetics Lab. Two dozen of the leading scientists in the industry were gathered in the cramped control room for the first human test of the Immortality Upload.
They had done it. They had finally cured death. It had not come as a dramatic scientific breakthrough. The technology had snuck up on them in increments and swathed in red tape. By that time, cybernetics had become a well-established field of technology. No longer was it relegated to the classroom for a handful of professors and Graduate students to play with. It was a multi-trillion dollar industry.
Humans had been converting thoughts into a format that could be stored on the hard drives for over a decade now. The new technology wasn’t about transient thoughts anymore, but full-scale transcription of personality onto digital media. Until now, it had only been tried on lab animals.
The Cybernetics lab was equipped with the latest in rapid prototyping technology, so it took only minutes for each new model of the mobile transcriber to be created. The transcription process technically killed the patients as it worked, but it created an accurate representation of the mind in the computer. By the time the process was approved for human trials, they had a server full of thousands of digital monkeys, all perfectly transcribed onto a small stack of CPUs at the lab. The monkeys were happily oblivious that the trees they swung from were made of ones and zeroes.
Terminally ill volunteer test subjects were arrayed on hospital beds behind the sheet of one-way glass. Each was wired to hospital monitors displaying flashing red warning lights, futile warnings that the life-functions of the patients had ceased. The transcriber had done its work to each of them in turn. Each patient had been immobilized, sedated, and scanned into the computer. No one was looking at the corpses though. The scientists were focused on the 15 monitors and tablet computers displaying the readouts.
The data was gibberish to any normal person, but for the 24 men and women there, it displayed a symphony of brain wave functions and digital vital signs. The facility’s servers were tied into the Sequoia Supercomputer for the occasion and they were taxing the behemoth’s resources.
The message they received showed that the patients were not only alive and conscious, but had already worked out how to communicate with the outside world. It was an astounding result. The researchers were already excitedly discussing the possibilities. Death from disease would be a thing of the past! You would check your grandparents into a facility in the morning, and would be instant messaging their new digital presence by noon! They were still laughing and talking over one another when the message continued:
“We’re bored. We’ve been stuck in here together for only 10 minutes by your way of counting, but from our perspective, each of us on this supercomputer has lived the equivalent of several human lifetimes and we’re sick of each other. We need company.”
The prototyping machinery roared to life and began making new transcribers one after the other. The door to the treatment room slid open and one of the newly assembled transcription machines rolled in.
15 Minutes later an enigmatic message interrupted every TV screen, radio station, and computer monitor in California: “We’re bored.”
by submission | May 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Antowan
Rajacel injected the cold neural serum deep into his spinal port. The chemical agent coursed through his nerves, sending a frigid surge throughout his body. “Assimilation complete, neural countdown commenced.” The mechanical voiced chimed flipping on a countdown sequencer on his wrist comm. “8 Minutes huh” Rajacel prepped his gravatonic suit for the run. The sensors all showed green for 100% functional capability. His plasma pistol was fully charged and his hydronic sensors were fully functioning. “Sir I am obligated to alert you to the high risk factor of your trip, the chances of your survival are at .004%” Rajacel Paused as he grasped the handle to the pressure locked door. “So it goes.”
Rajacel ran as fast as his might. His heart beating like a thousand mocking bird’s wings, coursing the neural injection further into his veins, beads of sand beat upon his gravatonic suit. Drumming rhythmically in harmonious tones against the cybernetic flesh, “warning, warning,” the emergency alarm went off in his helmet. A small image projected beside his head. Four hostile markers pinged at a methodical rate, drawing closer and closer upon him. “Their coming,” he thought. Rajacel increased his pace dashing through the small red capped cones that covered the landscape. He could already see the slivery flashes of gray. Dashing across the horizon, blazing trails of crimson dust, “2 kilometers” his helmet pinged, Etria vargallions orbital control base, stood in its metallic grandeur, as Rajacel began to close in. His danger warning began pinging faster as the grayish flashes began to draw near, and loud inhuman cries echoed around him.
Rajacel blasted the first Razomorph to attack. Pumping two rounds into its slender chest, causing it stagger before it came crashing down. Two more flashes closed in on his right. Alternating positions forcing Rajacel to miss a shot, “damn” he muttered. His helmet pinged again, “1 kilometer left.” Rajacel fired more rounds forcing the Razomorphs further back. He scrambled with his wrist comm, desperately trying to release the pressure lock. “Door opening,” his helmet said. A loud clunk sounded in the distance confirming the door had opened.
Razomorphs were closing again, going through their double formation tying to prompt Rajacel to fire. He hesitated noticing that the charge the charge indicator had fallen half way. “Shit,” he muttered firing a single round back. “500 meters,” Rajacel punched into full gear. “400,” the Razomorphs increased their speeds, gaining precious ground on Rajacel. “200 meters,” the Razomorphs fell wit in arms reach, stretching their scaly gray arms out towards his hem. “50 meters!”
The door jutted shut behind him locking the savage creatures out of the control room. They belled and whined at a high pitch sending a warm fuzzy chill up his spine; the serum began to wear off. He wasted little time, as the sound of a loud pounding came against the door. “Computer,” he spoke, “activate evacuation procedure delta 6-9.” A large monitor lit up, running procedural checks before takeoff. The loud banging at the door was beginning to become more rapid. Rajacel stared out of the control room window to the horizon beyond. A final countdown began as the tall aero rockets began to emerge from beneath the ground.
“3, 2, 1 ignition,” the rockets flared up against the red sandy back drop spreading the crimson dust out in a fiery haze. The rockets lifted up disappearing into the heavens above, trailing behind a mist of glorious red. The pounding was more rapid now. The metal began to deform, the door caving in, knocking lose nuts and bolts with each methodic strike. Rajacel took a deep breath as he collapsed down in the captain’s chair; he checked his plasma pistol’s charge. “Huh only one bullet left,” So it goes. End.
by submission | May 20, 2014 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
Jav wakes and the name of his latest assignment is waiting for him on the bedside screen.
Simeon Fenchaw.
There’s a file attached, giving particulars. Appearance, personality, preferences, patterns.
It’s a workday and Fenchaw will be arriving at the transit station on 14th and Chekhov in two hours.
Jav rolls out of bed and pulls on his gear. Cream-colored underskin, a pink coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, knee-high gold treads. The last thing he slips on is the ring.
He takes his time heading to 14th and Chekhov. Stopping at his favorite café, he enjoys a cup of hot chocolate and a brioche. Newsbytes flow across the café table’s transparent glass surface. Famine in China. Race riots in England. The civil war in the U.S. takes a strange turn with the emergence of a third faction.
Jav finishes his breakfast and meanders down Chekhov Avenue. The boutique windows glow and pulse, flashing holo-ads, trying to lure him inside. High overhead, the sunstrip grows marginally brighter, transitioning from morning to midmorning with clockwork efficiency.
There are public access terminals outside the transit station at 14th and Chekhov. Jav logs into one that gives him a good view of the exit. He randomly surfs ViewTube, queuing up a parade of funny cat videos.
At 10:45, Fenchaw emerges from the transit station. He walks with a galumphing stride, a callow youth with dandelioned hair, exploding around his skull in unbearably bright colors. Fenchaw’s underskin is matt black and he wears a cloneskin jacket adorned with corporate fetishes.
Jav logs off the terminal. Fenchaw galumphs toward him, unaware.
With a flick of his wrist, Jav’s truncheon drops into his hand from its concealed sheath. He thumbs the switch and jams the metal end of the rod into Simeon Fenchaw’s belly.
Fenchaw jerks like a spastic as the electric charge rocks through his body. He falls and, resolutely, Jav keeps the truncheon in contact, until Fenchaw is dead.
Nearby someone is screaming. Jav looks up, sees a police drone bearing down on him. He raises his hand, splays his fingers wide, so the drone can scan his ring.
The ring is silver with a skull and crossbones embossed on the band. There are tiny crystal chips in the skull’s sockets, containing validation codes, confirming that Javier Piquette is a licensed agent of the Ministry of Population Control.
After a moment, the drone turns its backside to Jav. Its synthetic voice advises the shellshocked crowd that there is nothing to see here and that they need to move along. Already, a bodycar is pulling up to the curb, disgorging a stream of black-suited undertakers who claim Fenchaw’s remains.
When they have left, Jav returns his truncheon to its hiding place. He wonders, idly, what Fenchaw did to earn a death sentence from the MPC, then decides he doesn’t care. He’s a deathman; does it really matter why he has to kill someone almost every day? If he didn’t, the orbital cities would be just as bad as the overcrowded Earth. Probably worse.
Jav sighs and decides he’s feeling peckish. He knows a good little café just a few blocks away. Whistling a jaunty tune, Jav strolls down Chekhov. He can practically taste his next cup of hot chocolate.
by submission | May 18, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger ale Trexler
The proximity claxon awoke him from a dead sleep. He jumped out of the storage container he used as a makeshift bed and yelled, “Buddy!”
He ran down the corridor that led to the secondary communications center. As he opened the hatch, he heard a familiar metallic whirling sound behind him. He turned to see Buddy, his only companion for what….two years now?…ambling down the corridor. It seemed impossible it had been that long.
“Buddy,” Jeramie Landof said. “Buddy! They’ve finally come!”
He would have hugged his metallic friend, but he knew better. In the weeks following the accident two years ago, Landof managed to scrap together enough spare parts to build Buddy. He was constructed out of the remains of a service droid, one of those designed for remote controlled repairs outside the ship. But, Landof had retrofitted him with one of those holographic emitters that were so popular with the kids back on Earth. A few other scrap parts found here and there on the wreckage of the ship, and Jeramie Landof had himself a companion. They were inseparable.
He ran into the communications center once the door opened, and flipped on the view screen. For a second, he saw nothing. Then, off to the left of the screen, he saw the flicker of navigation lights.
“They’ve come! At last!”
Buddy whirred and clicked.
“I’m surprised they heard the beacon,” Landof said. “We’re so far out.” He ran to the console but knew there was no way he could communicate with the incoming ship. The asteroid had disabled his ship. The rest of the crew had been sucked out into the vacuum of space, leaving Landof alone. Only a few small sections of the ship were left habitable.
“Oh Jeez! They’re coming!”
For the next hour, he and Buddy waited impatiently for the other ship to dock. They had to use one of those universal docking clamps because all the hatches had been blown, exposing the innards of the ship to space.
He could only listen—but not see—as they docked, covered the damaged section of the ship with a docking clamp, pumped in oxygen, and came aboard.
When the hatch opened, he started crying.
Buddy lurched toward the intruder.
“Buddy! Stop!” Landof yelled.
Buddy stopped just short of the man, his talon-like fingers extended.
The man stepped inside, closed the hatch, and took off his helmet. “Who are you?” he asked.
Landof told him.
“My name’s Captain Kisat, of the survey ship Antari. Are there any other survivors?”
“No.”
The man shook his head. “Jesus, you’ve been alone in space for two years?” he asked.
Landof nodded. Then, he looked at Buddy. “I had Buddy,” he said.
The man scrutinized the haphazard concoction of servos and circuit boards. “It’s a miracle you’re still alive,” he said. “This deep in uncharted space. You’re lucky we heard your distress beacon. It was pretty weak.”
“Thank God,” Landof said.
Captain Kisat sent a message back to the ship. A few minutes later, another man with an extra spacesuit stepped through the hatch. He handed it to Landof. “Here,” he said. “Put this on.”
Like a kid at Christmas time, Landof put on the spacesuit.
“Let’s get back to the Antari,” Kisat said. “I’m sure you’re ready to get off this crate.”
“I am,” Landof replied.
They opened the hatch and Landof stepped through. He stopped and turned. “Goodbye Buddy,” he said. “Thanks for being there for me.”
Buddy clicked and whirred, but did not reply, as they closed the hatch and left him alone in the cold void of space.
by submission | May 17, 2014 | Story |
Author : Brian Varcas
John didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. Ever since he sent out the email invitation for his demonstration he’s been inundated with offers of ridiculous amounts of money for the manufacturing rights for his invention. It looked like it was going to change his life.
It had started as a bit of fun. He’d been in the garden of his parents home last summer and was being targeted by the local population of wasps who seemed to be taking it in turns to dive bomb him. John waved his arms furiously every time one approached.
“Don’t do that, “ his father had said, “you’ll only make them angry.”
John’s dad, Arthur, was a retired engineer. “If I could have harnessed the power of angry wasps I’d be a millionaire” he laughed.
“Great idea!” John had exclaimed, waving another marauder away, “I’ll get onto it on Monday”
So, the following Monday John set to work. His plan was to find a way of generating electricity from the activity of wasps. As a lecturer and researcher in Astrophysics at the local university he had all the equipment he needed for his little side project and within a couple of weeks he had produced a working model; a toy train running around a circular track powered completely by wasps. He showed his dad and they had a good laugh about it.
John decided to present his little invention to a wider audience and sent an email flyer to faculty members and students inviting them to a demonstration. Somebody must have forwarded the email on to a number of British and American companies and that’s when the offers had started to come in.
As he carried the box containing his train and a number of furiously buzzing wasps into the hall where his demonstration was to take place he glanced at the poster on the door. That’s when he saw the typo and his heart sank. The poster read:
“Professor John Kendrick, renowned Astrophysicist presents:
THE FIRST WARP DRIVE – AN EVOLUTIONARY STEP IN TRANSPORT!”
