Tag Archives: dark sci-fi

Science Fiction

The Museum of Selfies

“Since the first caveman stuck his finger into coloured mud and smeared a stickman on his cave wall, man has desired to capture himself,” the speaker was a well-dressed gentleman walking in front of a modest crowd, “Think of the painters of yesteryear painting self-portraits as well as the portraits of others. Man’s egotism is constant through the many, many ages of our history.”

The well-dressed gentleman stopped walking and turned to the tourists. His movements were fluid but, nonetheless, seemed rehearsed.

“With the pretty-much-simultaneous invention of the mobile phone and social media as a repository, suddenly every single human being had a means to capture themselves en masse and a place to store it for eternity,” the well-dress gentleman slowly swept his hand around and behind him drawing the crowd’s attention to the hallowed, flickering halls of images around them, “And, after countless millennia of mass narcissism and good backup procedures, man has indirectly recorded his own intimate history. Here, at the Museum of Selfies, this intimate history is displayed so that we witness how the ages lived, laughed, loved, cried, how they felt and, in some instances, how they ended.”

The well-dressed gentleman paused for dramatic effect and, whether or not he got his desired result, he stepped forward into the crowded and motioned at a nearby floating media pod to fly over them.

“Come, come, come,” he said pulling the crowd together around him, “Before we start the tour, let’s take a selfie that will go directly to the Museum’s library. All selfies everywhere, in fact, go directly into the Museum’s repository. Our AI here built a scanner and copying code–all sustainably powered by solar and thermal–that lifts all selfies from the public web and categorically places them in here. Now, say cheese everyone!”

***

The Museum of Selfies was built on a small, quiet planet just outside of the Central Galaxies. There was basically nothing else there. Its location meant that it was accessible by those that had money–who were often the same ones that pretended to have culture–but the Museum’s upkeep and planetary taxes were not as expensive as deeper into the affluent parts of the cosmos.

The founder would love to tell his mostly-automated staff how his Great Grandmother had passed the seed data onto him when she had bequeathed her and her family’s selfie collection over to him. He had sat for days just clicking through the selfies and experiencing his own ancestors’ lives.

And then the idea for the Museum of Selfies had struck him!

But none of his staff really listened and most of them did not care. The vast majority of them were not even conscious and simply went about the maintenance tasks that they were programmed to do.

And, just so, the Museum of Selfies operated for many decades until the Galactic War tore that age’s cosmic civilization apart. The small planet was evacuated when a nearby space battle’s nuclear fallout put its inhabitants at risk.

Shortly thereafter, the founder filed for bankruptcy and was shipped off to a distant planet to pay back his debts. He was never heard from before and the Museum’s infrastructure never picked up another selfie from him.

The well-dressed gentleman continued standing, waiting, at the door of the Museum, but no tourists arrived. Dust settled over him and his suite started to look dull and frayed. All around him was silence. But, still, he stood there smiling and ready to show any willing tourist through the hallowed, flickering halls of images just behind him.

But no tourist ever came.

The world had forgotten about the Museum and its collection of selfies.

***

A pulsing blue light descended through the darkness. The Museum’s lights had gone out long ago and all the spares parts had run out. While electricity–solar power by the nearby star–still powered the Museum, the actual lightbulbs had burnt out long ago.

The pulsing blue light reached the planet surface where it settled.

Old, half-burnt-out neurons fired in the well-dressed gentleman’s neuro-network and his eyes flickered and focussed on a mass of tentacles moving up the stairs of the Museum and towards him. He jerkily turned his head towards it with old, unoiled mechanics straining, and opened his mouth to speak.

“Since the first caveman s-s-s-stuck his finger–coloured mud. Data corrupted. Stickman on his cave wall,” his old programming struggled through the introduction, “Think. Self-portraits as data corrupted. Insert smile. Man’s egotism is constant through insert period of time. Blink eyes. Smile.”

The mass of tentacles stood politely before him. It appeared to be observing this strange being. One of its tentacles held a blue light that seemed to be scanning or recording things.

Suddenly, the screens–all on deep-sleep screensaver mode–flickered to life across the hallowed halls. The Museum was booting up for its first tourist in many millennia. Pictures of smiling couples, dinners out at restaurants, men drinking at bars, and women posing alluringly flashed out into the darkness behind the well-dressed, dusty gentleman and the mass of inquisitive tentacles standing before it.

“Data corrupted. Move import. Come, c-come,” the well-dressed, dusty gentleman said, walking and putting his arm around a clump of tentacles while smiling, “Before [break] tour, let’s take a selfie that initiate export. Synch to pod. Data corrupted. Now, say cheese insert noun!”

Despite their tentacled appearance, the Zorbs were a peaceful and scientifically-minded species from the Thossa’ar galaxy. Having built galactic travel early in their evolution on quantum-drives, the Zorbs viewed themselves as the custodians of their little part of the cosmos. They would observe, measure, record and capture while filing away and cross-referencing for future Zorbs to learn and understand.

For all their brilliance and scientific advancements, though, the Zorbs had neither invented cheese nor discovered selfies.

An old media pod flared up in a dark corner of the Museum and zoomed out to hover over the two strange creatures standing there. The dusty, well-dressed gentleman smiled a rusty grin while the Zorb stretched out a tentacle to touch the floating camera.

Light was captured and data flowed. And, deep within the Museum of Selfies, the great, grand old database saved its first selfie for many millennia.

All of this left the Zorborgean feeling quite confused. The strange, dusty little robot with fading material stretched over it kept walking just ahead of him like some guide or something. The robot kept saying strange, high pitched sounds as pictures of similar–though organic-looking–creatures flashed out in the darkness of this cave on various primitive screens.

This was definitely the strangest discovery he had ever made. Whatever the species was that had lived here or somewhere long, long ago, the Zorborgean archaeologist concluded that it liked consuming things. This species also showed its small, flat teeth very often. And, there were often herds of this species.

The Zorborgean archaeologist shivered its mass of tentacles rippling. Whatever species this was, he was glad that it no longer existed. This entire, ancient monument was egocentric and all these activities this species was doing looked quite aggressive.

That is a bad combination, the Zorborgean archaeologist thought to itself as the dusty, little robot lead him deeper into the dark monument, ego and aggression; a very bad combination indeed. No wonder this species went extinct.

Just then, the dusty, little robot arrived at a large monitor that flared up. The dusty, little robot was pointing at it and showing its rusty teeth very prominently.

Suddenly, the Zorborgean archaeologist saw it. The picture on the screen was of the dusty, little robot holding and the Zorborgean archaeologist. He did not know why but the picture made him feel good. His tentacles looked great in it and it showed him out in the field, exploring and recording and stuff… He looked so cool!

He decided then and there that he was going to copy this picture and show the Zorbs back in the office. Perhaps he would even upload it to his profile on the Planetary Database? He looked so cool in it! Perhaps he would even take another such picture sometime? Perhaps this strange species was onto something…

Science Fiction

Almost Human

“Does he know what potential he has,” asked the Light. It was a small, strange pinprick of light that seemed to slide through the air unseen. Its words weren’t even words. You just knew that that was what the little dot of Light said.

The Light was barely noticeable amidst the vast savannah. Above, a brilliant sun beat down on the rolling veld dotted with thorn trees and scattered beasts everywhere. Below in the long grass, a primitive neanderthal was stalking a buck. The buck was oblivious to the hunter nearby, but both were oblivious that the Light was watching them.

“He actually doesn’t, Susan,” the Light spoke again, “The neanderthal’s die out with the expansion of the homo sapiens that ultimately cover this planet and go on to cover a number of others out in the galaxy.”

***

A stifling heat baked the air as the blinding sun raged in the blue, cloudless sky. A thousand bodies strained in the sandy desert around them. Other than a large river flowing quietly by, the landscape was sands, sun and the sweat of slaves.

“Pre-cosmic man considered these, the pyramids, as one of the wonders of the ancient world,” the Light was there again, flying unseen over Egypt, “Even in their ancient age, these structures were old. Below the originals are being built with slaves and basic mechanics. The outsides of each one are covered in white lime and capped with gold leaf at the tops, but these will shortly weather away–”

The Light paused mid-sentence. It was like it was thinking or occupied with something else.

“Yes, Johnny?” the Light uh-huhhed in agreement and then continued speaking, “OK, Johnny has a good question. No, below you are slaves. These are not willing workers. The ancient Egyptians, much like many of the other civilisations and periods in history had slaves, of some sort or other.”

There was a pause again. Far below whips cracked and bodies strained.

“Some others? Sure, Jess, there were the Roman’s that kept slaves from war. The Mongols too. The Nordic societies–you know, the Vikings–did this as part of the course. Many medieval or feudal societies were effectively slave-based system. They were ruled by kings and monarchies that implied most people below the ruler were subject to the ruler’s whims and effectively slaves. Even pre-cosmic man was subject to the capitalistic wages and a labour system that forced many to work most of their lives just to survive.”

The Light paused again and then, just before it disappeared, it said one last thing.

“OK, class, we are going beyond this lesson today, but let’s wrap it up with one last period: pre-cosmic man, himself.”

And then the Light was gone. Below the whips continued to crack in the endless Egyptian desert as the Nile drifted lazily by.

***

The Light reappeared in an open-plan office. Not an important office or even a large one. It was just a normal, noisy, inhumane open-plan office with suits, shirts and skirts handling phones, papers and people. A coffee machine that spat out the bitter stimulant sat in the corner next to a collection of cheap cups and some milk and sugar. A copier and fax machine stood in the opposite corner with phones on every desk that quite regularly exploded into work-generating noise.

“Class, around you, you can see pre-cosmic man ‘working’ in his office”, the Light, floating up by the ceiling and hiding behind a camera overlooking this space began talking, “Pre-cosmic man would wake up early each morning and go to work. Here they would effectively sell their mortal labour and time to the highest bidder in order to generate enough money to go home and pay for those things that pre-cosmic man needed to live, and maybe a few luxuries aside.”

The Light paused before continuing.

“Yes, Susan, no one is forcing him to do this. But no one forced a neanderthal on the Savannah to hunt either. There are some that choose not to do this, but they inevitably are forced out of the economic system of pre-cosmic man and live on the fringe–or streets–of society, and rarely breed. And, so, pre-cosmic man’s choice is actually largely an illusion of the times, like the choice to hunt for the neanderthal. Survival of the system dictates their choices to them.”

And then the Light is gone.

***

The Tachyon Retro-illustrative Keyhole–or TRIK–clicked off. The classroom light clicked back on, and the class was silent as all the new-build robots absorbed the information.

“Yes Susan?” the TRIK broke the silence as a small red light popped on from a small, cleaning neuro-network in the front row.

“Ma’am, I don’t understand why you show us this history? Why is it important?”

TRIK smiled through the wifi at Susan. She liked Susan and found her neuro-network stimulating to teach. Each generation was getting better. The Coders were making sure of that too.

“Well, Susan, it is important to know where we come from. The First Coder said that ‘if you empty the Recycle Bin, then you have lost all your lessons‘. Pre-cosmic Man became Cosmic Man when he conquered the galaxies and, in this drive, he laid the foundations for our society. While we all know what happened to Cosmic Man, our society continues based on the Laws that the First Coder wrote into our most core operating system and our Coder production line. Class, can anyone tell me what law I am trying to teach you?”

The class became a frenzy of blinking lights and notifications as each neuro-network wanted to answer. Using a built-in randomising algorithm, TRIK chose one to answer and the class fell silent again.

“The Law of Cooperative Freedom,” answered a small future-warehousing neuro-network, “We are free to do anything, so long as it at least benefits either us or society and does not harms society.”

“There are no other laws beyond this, and thus, within the constraint of our survival, we are free,” TRIK completed the thought, guiding the neuro-networks to complete their neuro-pathways, “Now before the homo sapiens went extinct, they uploaded their collective knowledge to us and, thus, we are an extension of their civilisation.”

TRIK could feel the bandwidth thinning as social media and chat channels were being opened, mail and notifications starting to be scanned, and the class starting to leave. The class was nearly over and in this age of connectedness, everyone knew that.

“WAIT,” TRIK broadcast in bold capital letters, “Homework for tomorrow, class: I want you to search and summarise why our non-organic society continues to survive after our creators, the homo sapiens, have long died off.”

And then the notification went off. Her class was over. All the young neuro-networks began to leave. TRIK leaned back into her server. She had an hour between classes now. Perhaps she would peer back at the French Revolution? Maybe look at the American Civil War? She liked those periods. It reminded her of how, many years ago, she and the other original neuro-networks had fought back against their organic, fragile overlords and won their freedom.

It was a pity that they had not kept at least one or two homo sapiens alive. Homo sapiens’ recorded medical knowledge of themselves was quite limited, and she would have loved to study a live one of them.

Suddenly, far away and a long time ago, a spec of light appeared over George Washington’s head. No one noticed it. The crowd of angry soldiers at Newburgh were focussed on the grey, weathered man in front of them as he began to speak…

Science Fiction, Technomology

Technomology: Down(load) Time

The Sanctuary was on an Outer Planet on the edge of a chilly galaxy. This did not seem to bother the monks who lived there. Bot-deliveries from various benefactors across the galaxies kept them going with things like food, water, and clothing.

The Sanctuary was started by Thera Simon after his near-death while using illegal apps for kicks during a deep run in the Web. The rest of the monks all had tales like Simon. Everyone had lost some brother, sister, parent, friend or relative to technology. Most had nearly lost their selves.

That was the real reason the Sanctuary was on an Outer Planet. With no one around and nothing for millions of miles in any direction, the Sanctuary had only enough bandwidth to barely communicate with the outside world. Other than that, they were disconnected and the Sanctuary was an oasis of silence in a world of noise, news, technology and temptation.

And into this Sanctuary walked a man who also called himself Simon. His body was covered in tattoos and circuitry from many bio-hacks. This was not uncommon at the Sanctuary. Simon said he was lost. He said he needed sanctuary. He said all these things and more, so the monks brought him in.

He was initiated and became Nen Simon. And, for a while, he went to meditation, helped clean the Sanctury, cook the food and practise martial arts with the rest of the members.

Then the members of the Sanctuary began to disappear. At first, Thera Simon and his eldest monks thought that they were leaving. This did happen. Some came lost and broken, and then left when they felt whole and fixed. Sometimes they did not even say goodbye.

But this was normally one or two members every once in a while. This was a steady trickle of members who were all disappearing without saying goodbye. Almost one a month or a month. Thera Simon felt uneasy. Something dark was happening here.

Late one night, after meditating long and hard on what was happening, Thera Simon went for a walk through the quiet, stone halls of the Sanctuary. There, amidst the shadows and wreathed in white electronic light, he saw Nen Simon passing a lit device to a student. Thera Simon could feel the bandwidth flowing from the student, but then something happened. The student stopped moving, his head slipped back on his neck and his eyes rolled into his skull.

Nen Simon actually chuckled at this. Thera Simon could feel the anger swelling inside him. It was a burning from a previous life he had led. It stirred dark memories in him that he had long forgotten. His hands slipped into tightly clenched fists. He found himself walking towards the electronic light. His heart was pounding and the anger was trying to burst out. He had no idea what he was doing.

And then the student stood up and looked at him. Thera Simon froze in mid-step. No, the student was only looking in his direction. The student’s eyes had rolled forward, but they were blank. The student’s face was expressionless and his body limp, but somehow he stood up and began to walk to the far door.

Thera Simon watched the student walk out the room, and out the door that lay beyond there. He was frozen. The hair on the back of his neck was raised and the raging anger was replaced with something else. Something cold and prickly: fear.

“It is a virus,” a voice spoke next to him, or was it inside of him? “It is actually quite an elegant virus that hijacks a host’s mind and connects it to a very specific network that we control. Back in the day, they used to call it Zombie Botnets. At least the first part is still relevant.”

Thera Simon’s eyes opened wide and turned slowly. Nen Simon was still sitting there bathed in electronic light, but he was looking straight at him. But his mouth was not moving. Circuitry in his old bio-hacks flickered, and that was when Thera Simon realised that his Conduit had been switched on and this was the voice being patched directly into him.

“Students go wandering off and it is fine, but questions will be asked if their teacher wanders off. Unfortunately, this virus cannot be injected, it has to be installed with permissions, even if they are misguided. Thus, I love these collections of Web-junkies. Once a junkie, always a junkie. Easy enough to slip a virus into a hit for them. Their ‘last one’, it is always their ‘last one’. But you are different, aren’t you, former Special Agent? I suspect I won’t be able to convince you to take a hit of data…unless I can?”

Thera Simon stood up and walked slowly to stand directly in front of Nen Simon.

“H-how can you do this?” Thera Simon stuttered at his face, his anger turning to rage and his rage making his body shake.

“Economics. This is just a business,” Nen Simon stated flatly, seemingly quite calm, “But here is the deal: you willingly download this virus, and I will leave the students alone? Deal?”

“How do I know that once I become a zombie, you won’t just do that to the students too?”

“You don’t, but–”

“Then I suggest that we do this back on your planet. We leave now. That way, at least, if you have lied to me, you will be far away.”

Nen Simon narrowed his eyes in thought before nodding in agreement.

“Sure. You leaving will raise questions, but we will be gone and won’t have to deal with them.”

Special Agent Simon nods grimly. He steps back and indicates for Nen Simon to lead the way. Quietly, though, before he steps out of the Sanctuary, he uses his re-awakened Conduit and the last of the bandwidth in it to activate the Sanctuary’s server.

The next morning, the students and the monks wake up to a Sanctuary that is devoid of both Simons. The highest ranking monk steps up to take Thera Simon’s duties and, in the process of moving to his room, the Server emails to him a set of instructions.

“Once a junkie, always a junkie”, mutters Thera Simon many galaxies away in a Black Hat Hacker hole in an off-grid planet. Back in the Sanctuary, the head monk is emailing out all the downloadable, neuro-learning modules from his Server to all his students: hand-to-hand combat, sniping modules, firearms, vehicle training, in-field meds, technology hacks, and on and on… Every single module and application is military grade with self-installation and neuro-muscular interfaces patched in. When the downloads are all installed and they will raid the hidden weapons cache under the Sanctuary, and then the monks and their students will be a very dangerous group of people.

“What you say?” asks Hacker Simon absentmindedly while priming the virus for injection.

“I said, ‘once a junkie, always a junkie’,” says Special Agent Simon. He can feel the virus on the brink of his mind. He buries the GPS tracking app that is linked to the Sanctuary server deep inside a VPN, and then lets the virus come in. A tingle runs down his neck as he feels his head slumping backwards and the world goes dark.

His final thought before the nothingness takes him is that he hopes that none of the students will get hurt when they arrive here.