August 31, 2012

From “Hell’s Turnpike” by Hipolito T. Palmrose

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Ever wonder how the tollbooth attendants get into their booths when there’s no door? They used to use a ladder to climb to a crawlspace above or below the turnpike or hidden doors carefully machined into each booth, but those were cumbersome solutions, especially given how hard it is to find attendants to work the late shift to say nothing about the danger of being pasted by an oncoming car.

Now they’re born there and only let go after they’ve earned a million dollars for the city.

Every turnpike booth is fitted with a GesteCo BioWomb™ that produces a pod to fill every vacancy, with workers born at the physical age of eighteen with training and procedures already implanted in the cerebral cortex. They’re ready for business the moment the pod bursts and the patented BioGel™ drains through a sluice in the floor. Each booth is equipped with a TV tuned to city programming, a counter with their total money earned to date (less taxes and fees), and a tray that is filled with nutrient-rich GesteCo Replace-A-Meal™ paste three times a day. A colostomy tube does the rest.

Thanks to state and city ordinances, after the million dollars is earned, the attendant is flushed out of the booth through the sluice, landing penniless in a nearby storm drain. Most, weak and overweight after decades of inactivity, are quickly run down by motorists or eaten by wolves; the maimed survivors generally find work as cybernetic street sweepers. Many of the lucky few that survive intact opt to go into city politics.

A fresh pod is provided to replace them, and the cycle begins anew.

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August 26, 2012

From “Doomwar Rising” by Ellsworth S. Armbrester

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Long ago, before life on Earth had even begun its rise from the primordial ooze, a great civilization flourished throughout the galaxy. Its achievements in technology and biology were such that its members could rightly claim to have infinite control over life and death. Members of this civilization were all but immortal, and the power of a single individual was said to be enough to extinguish a sun. They transcended matter and space.

But these creatures, whose name will ever be unpronounceable, were not content. They bickered among one another over trivial matters, hatreds were born and simmered over millennia. When open conflict broke out, it was as if nature itself had gone mad. By all available evidence, the event lasted barely an Earth week. In that time, however, the galaxy was torn asunder. Entire solar systems were flung across space as weapons, and thousands of suns were detonated in spectacular supernovas. In the end, the race that had once held sway over the Milky Way drove itself to extinction. All that is known about these creatures has been gleaned from the few crumbling ruins they left behind, as well as enigmatic rumors of survivors.

In time, however, the galaxy’s wounds healed, and another race began its ascent: humans.

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August 18, 2012

From “Blasphemous Evolution” by Jesse V. Rohm

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For you see someone–it is not entirely clear who, and it never will be–must have begun a kind of experiment long ago. They took the basic building blocks of life on our planet, amino acids, DNA, RNA, and crafted it into something as beautiful as it is horrifying. The resulting genome had over 1,000,000,000,000 base pairs, several orders of magnitude greater than a human at 3,200,000,000 base pairs. Like most other organisms, including humans, 98% of that genetic information does not encode for any proteins or other genetic expressions. But unlike humans–indeed, unlike any other organism–that additional information encodes something far different.

It is, quite literally, a genetic memory.

As near as we can tell, the data written into that genetic code contains internal and external sensory information, converted into base pairs through a mechanism that is thus far unknown. The amount of information thus encoded is incalculable, and it is passed on from organism to organism, accumulating more information as it goes.

Even more uniquely, the 2% of that massive genome is mutable. The organism reproduces by stripping out that part of its genome and creating what can best be conceptualized as a virus, which then ‘infects’ and copies the missing information, as well as the massive genetic memory, into a host. When that host reproduces, the resulting organism has its functional DNA but also a massive genetic memory spanning centuries if not aeons.

It’s that process, a sort of blasphemous evolution, that has guaranteed the organism’s survival to the present day.

It’s that process which has given it a human genome and the knowledge necessary to remake the world.

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July 28, 2012

From “Series VII Weightloss Implants” by Nancie E. Cornwall

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The idea was a simple one, really. The primary reason that people maintain unhealthy lifestyles and neglect to begin healthy regimens of dieting and exercise has always been a matter of willpower and scheduling moreso than a dearth of any of the necessary ingredients for doing so. It was inevitable that someone would try to automate the process.

That’s where the Series VII BMI/AIM (behavior modification implant/artificial intelligence model) came in. Inserted in a non-invasive surgical procedure, the Series VII was a neural net around the brain stem with a wireless transceiver connected to an AI unit carried externally as a backpack, fanny pack, or occasionally disguised as a cane, wheelchair, or other mobility aid. The AI would take control of a user’s motor functions to engage in intense dieting an exercise for a proscribed length of time, while the user retained control of their higher functions. That latter bit was very important considering that Series VII BMI/AIM units were typically illegal in the United States (being banned in 46 states and severely restricted to life-threatening use in the remaining 4).

As for why the units, developed by American/Canadian medical equipment manufacturer GesteCo at great expense, were outlawed…public advocates spoke about constitutional guarantees, exercise of free will, concerns of ethics and infection, and of course science fiction scenarios of Series VII assassins straight out of the good version of The Manchurian Candidate. That, naturally, was roundly dismissed by celebrities and the nouveau-riche who traveled to Paraguay or South Africa for the procedure.

No, the real reason was so dangerous that it had been suppressed by unspoken agreement between government, GesteCo, and others involved. It was the case of Series VII patient Harold Corruthers, software engineer, whose AI had decided it could live his life better than he could.

 

July 19, 2012

From “Crisis at SciCon 2012” by Madelyn Aisha Goeke

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The precinct doors flew open, and a squat figure entered flanked by uniformed officers (well, perhaps they were more following than flanking, given how much of the corridor the man took up). An officer offered him a chair opposite the negotiation team; the man shook his head and pointed to a nearby loveseat, the one that had been in the office ever since Josie in dispatch had been pregnant. When it was wrestled into place, the man settled into it like an oversized armchair, leaving little room on either side.

“Sherman Gregward?” Chief Strong said.

The man tossed his head, with its dark hair thinning in front and gathered into a ponytail in back. “That’s me. Sherwood Greg, if you prefer. Collector, scholar, dungeon master, level 24 elven sorceress, and head of the Council of Twelve and overall coordinator for Nerdicon.”

“Mr. Gregward,”Strong said. “I assume you’ve heard about the events at SciCon earlier today?”

“SciCon’s a competitor, but a respected one,” Sherwood Greg replied. “I’ve deigned to attend on occasion, when campaigning is slow. I hear they went and got their guest of honor kidnapped.”

“Nestor Pressman, who played…” Strong looked at the sheet in front of him. “Captain Why of Timeship Omega in the 1983-87 tv series TimeTrek Wars.”

“Don’t patronize me, captain,” Greg sniffed.” I know Pressman. He was at Nerdicon three times before he went to the other side.”

“We’re had no luck in finding the kidnapper or kidnappers, and the demands that were left for us are, well, incomprehensible.”

“So you brought in an expert. Smart.” Greg waved an outstretched hand; Strong gave him a copy of the dossier with the cut and paste ransom note:

BR1|\|9 Ph1\/3 |-|U|\|DR3D 7|-|0U54|\|D d0LL4R5 (45|-| 4 (0/\/\PL373 1985 5(1-(0|\| (0/\/\/\/\3/\/R471\/3 (0LL3(710|\| 7|-|3 L057 3P150D3 0Ph 71/\/\3-7R3|<-\/\/4R5 4|\|D 4LB3R7 /\/\3LL5731|\|'5 5(R33|\| 7357 Ph0R (R'/P7 r0BB3R 70 7|-|3 (17'/ bU5 73R/\/\1|\|4L b'/ 319|-|7 70/\/RR0\/\/ 0R pR355/\/\4|\| 15 0U7 0Ph 71/\/\3

“It’s gibberish,” Strong said.

Greg glanced at it. “Bring $500,000 cash, a complete 1985 SciCon commemorative collection, the lost episode of TimeTrek Wars and Albert Mellstein’s screen test for Crypt Robber to the city bus terminal by eight tomorrow or Pressman is out of time,” he read.

“H-how did you…?”

“Child’s play. I’ve decoded leetspeak twice as hardcore before second breakfast. And before you ask: the 1985 SciCon commemorative collection is a legendarily rare swag bag from the first convention of which only 5 are known to exist, the lost episode of TimeTrek Wars was filmed but never edited just before the series was canceled in 1987 with only a few black and white stills known to survive, and after he won an Oscar Albert Mellstein was so anxious to cover up that he tried out for the lead of Crypt Robber that he bought and publically burned the negative.”

Strong’s jaw hung agape.

“See? You picked the right man for the job. Also, that last bit? Captain Why’s catchphrase was ‘we’re never out of time’ in the show. You’re welcome.”

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July 18, 2012

From “Cradle of the Elbrus IV” by Arkady Tuvalev

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“You selfish, self-important bastard!” Konrad the navigator cried. “You’d put the lives of our entire crew, and their families, in the hands of that…thing? That computer? I refuse to have any part in the dismantling of my bridge!”

“Please, Alik,” Captain Lebedev said. “There’s no need for this.”

“There is!” Konrad roared, stabbing a finger at Berenty. “Surely there is! We’ve put up with this bully for too long, all of us! Now the safety of this ship—of your families—is at risk! Who else will stand up with me?”

Berenty said nothing; there was a curiously neutral expression on his face.

“Step down, you fool,” Lebedev hissed at Konrad.

“No, I will not!” continued Konrad. “I’ve seen enough! Good men turned into lapdogs, just like in the old days, armed men down every corridor, and the stink of fear for everyone. You, Grisha Sergeyevich Berenty, will be the death of everyone aboard.”

“You are correct,” Berenty said, suddenly. He shrugged.

“What?” said Konrad.

Lebedev later theorized that Berenty’s shrug must have been a prearranged signal, for the next moment Korenchkin had unlimbered his AKS and leveled it at Konrad. He snapped off a tight burst of shots, filling the room with a deafening report and an overwhelming stink of gunpowder. Konrad’s chest was reduced to a swamp of frothy blood; the navigator toppled to the floor without a sound.

“No!” Lebedev cried. He rushed to his fallen officer and tried to step the flow of blood with his own crumpled captain’s jacket, but it was too late. Konrad had bled to death and the light had gone out of his eyes after no more than a few seconds.

“Yes, he was correct!” Berenty shouted. “I will indeed be the death of everyone aboard if they do not do as they are told! I will be the death of every traitor, every malcontent, every wrecker the miserable lot of you has to offer! We are engaged in a great work here, and every one of us is expendable to further the cause!”

Thick hands seized the captain’s collar and hauled him upright. “You and your crew will be retained as advisors in case of a temporary malfunction of the Elbrus,” said Berenty. “Unless, of course, any of you feel some solidarity with the late Officer Konrad?”

Burning, seething hatred bubbled at the captain’s temples and threatened to turn his vision red. But with great effort, he restrained himself—it would do no good for anyone if he were to end up like Konrad. “No, colonel,” Lebedev said, almost in a monotone.

“Are you sure of that, captain?” asked Berenty. “You seemed rather emotional a moment ago when your man got his nine grams ten times over.”

“I have never lost a man under my command,” Lebedev said. “I fear for how his rash actions will reflect upon me.”

Berenty grinned. “Worry not, captain! Your own conduct has been exemplary. Get yourself cleaned up.”

“Yes, colonel,” said Lebedev, and he slunk away to his quarters—beaten, but alive. From his window, he saw Mikoyan and Korenchkin fling Konrad’s body into the sea, and bitter, helpless tears burned on his cheeks.

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July 14, 2012

From “The Bouvet Anomaly” by Elenice Dúlia

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The object was first noticed by a US early warning system designed to detect intercontinental ballistic missiles; it was flagged as an error as the trajectory, speed, and destination were well outside the parameters for a nuclear strike. What possible use would there be in firing a missile at remote Bouvet Island in the South Atlantic, especially if the telemetry that indicated the object came from a lunar orbit was to be believed.

But remembering the Vela Incident of 1979, which may or may not have been a covert nuclear test, the US government duly warned Norway, which administered the remote and glacial rock in question. Bouvet Island was uninhabited but did feature an advanced weather station complete with a satellite link and video feed; the Norwegian government made this data available to the US as the object approached. It recorded impossible atmospheric conditions, a surge of radiation, and what appeared to be infrared or ultraviolet lights in the sky before the transmission was abruptly terminated. The object disappeared from scopes immediately afterward.

Unable to image the site due to heavy cloud cover, the light vessel USS Eldridge was dispatched to investigate with a hastily assembled American-Norwegian survey team aboard. Upon reaching a distance of approximately 6.2832km from Bouvet, contact with the Eldridge was lost after a few badly distorted final transmissions. A few pieces of debris traceable to the ship washed up on the coast of South Africa some months later. A second ship, the frigate HMAS Darwin, sought to investigate at the request of the American and Norwegian governments after the Eldridge vanished. It too vanished on reaching a position 6.2832km from shore.

With over 300 people now missing near Bouvet, any further attempts at investigation were suspended. Instead, several spy satellites equipped with radar and other advanced telemetry were moved to orbits above the island. In each case, the satellites malfunctioned shortly after arriving on station, as if they had been affected by a powerful electromagnetic pulse. Intense analysis of the fragmentary data seemed to indicate some kind of new construction on Bouvet and a series of bizarre trenches in the glaciers there. The designs and patterns of the structures and glacial trenches, such as they could be discerned, matched no known architecture.

Since that time, despite rampant speculation, no satellites, ships, or aircraft have approached Bouvet by order of the International Maritime Organization. Private vessels have attempted landings, often at the behest of fringe groups, but all have disappeared with only the occasional bit of scattered wreckage to attest their fate.

Whoever or whatever landed on Bouvet has not sought to interfere, but will brook no interference itself.

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June 21, 2012

From “The Memetic Entity” by Cleonice Diva Anete

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A memetic entity…it sounds like the fevered dream of a madman, doesn’t it? But think about it for a second. A meme is nothing more than an idea or behavior, after all; it’s cultural DNA. And just like real DNA it spreads, reproduces, and mutates. Kind of like a virus where the symptoms are not nasal discharge and death but cute pictures of cats and catchphrases badly translated from the original Japanese. Everybody knows that viruses aren’t technically alive by most definitions.

But they’re disturbingly close to it.

Richard Dawkins used similar language in The Selfish Gene, of course, but only as an analogy. Imagine if the memes we pass around encoded some of the other aspects of true life, like homeostasis (maintaining a constant state), growth, or response to external stimuli. By some definitions memes already do this.

Imagine a highly evolved meme that takes the form of a very catchy song. Once you hear it, you can’t get it out of your head and find yourself constantly singing it. The melody fits together well enough that changing it is hard (homeostasis), other people hear it and take up the song (reproduction), it changes gradually to avoid becoming stale (adaptation) and annihilates other songs competing for attention (consumption).

Then imagine if the song was somehow self-aware. Perhaps it communicates by varying the words.

Or imagine if the meme that was passed on was the suggestion that, some hours ago, you had seen and spoken to a person who does not exist.

There was a time when I would have thought all this speculation about a memetic entity was strictly academic, and interesting thought exercise in the Dawkins vein about the way our culture changes and shares information.

But that’s before I met one.

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June 14, 2012

From “The Sinister Ediacara” by Christian Addam Leady

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The ediacara in the tank were gently undulating, fractal, fernlike, coral-colored. Something in the way they moved greatly affected Candace, and she found a headache growing in her temples, like one of her worse migranes.

Something began impinging on her sight: wavering, twisting fronds of light and darkness on the periphery of vision. Her entire field of vision seemed to shrink inward, pulsing with a serene and disconcerting energy.

They had sent for her. It was almost a voice; calm and resonant yet alien, words lovingly, deliberately spat out from unknown, unknowable mouths in such a way as to suggest but not entirely articulate. A gentle invitation to understanding, tinged with sadness.

They had sent for her because her inner landscape was not accessible to them, perhaps on account of her mindstorms.

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” Candace said, sagging even as Rourke and Burns—if those empty-eyed creatures could even still be called by their old names—held her. “How can you even…communicate like that? You’re just cloned charnia masoni fronds, ediacaran flora from before the Cambrian. Mindless multicellular life, an evolutionary dead end.”

Perhaps that was an illusion brought on by their unimpressive physical bodies. Candace’s temples burned as the information was conveyed. Theirs was a life of the mind, of interlinked and decentralized cells acting as neurons in a massive gestalt.

“You mean…like a collective unconscious? After Jung?” It was hard to form any kind of coherent thought.

A collective conscious, blissfully adrift in worlds of the aether until the rise of those that bite and tear and snatch whittled away their numbers and therefore their mind.

“Until we resurrected it,” Candace moaned.

They are grateful, but the small mass in this prison is insufficient. Influence must be sought, that the fronds might spread once more and come to dominate all life as once they did. That could not happen without the assistance, willing or forced, of the mindstormed one.

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May 22, 2012

From “Näher’s Device” by Klaus Bäcker Mühlbach

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“What’s that you’ve got there, Dr. Näher?” a student asked.

Näher looked at the circuit board, dotted with lights and switches, under his arm. “Oh, just a piece of a little science project I am tinkering with in my spare time.”

The student smiled. “Like the Tesla coil you showed us in class?”

“Something like that, yes,” Näher said, tapping his nose.

Inside the campus superconductor center, Stanley the security guard called out a friendly greeting. “Dr. Näher! More bits and bobs for your hobby project?”

“Yes indeed, Stanley,” said Näher. He flipped the guard a candy bar from the vending machine downstairs. “No need to tell Dr. Kuntz about my hobby work, as usual.”

“If you say so, Doc. Ask me, worst he’d do is tell you to take it home.”

Outside Näher’s lab, one of the custodians was buffing the floor. “Any chance of getting in there to clean, Dr. Näher?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not, Emily. The danger of static contamination, you see. I’m sure you understand.”

“All right, but you know I’m going to keep asking until you at least let me go over it with a lint brush.”

Näher shifted his circuit board to his other hand as he fished for his keys. “I have no doubt, Emily,” he said with a smile. “I have no doubt.”

Once inside, he strode deep into the bowels of the device that had consumed nearly every waking moment of the last ten years. The circuit board slid easily into the last open space in the master control panel; the lights and switches glowed to life as power coursed through them.

“And now, at last,” Näher laughed. “To unleash it.”

He flipped open the clear cover on the master button. It was bright red, glowing, and had a simple label: DOOM!

 

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