Her chest rises and falls marking out time with the movement of air, muscle: the unbidden will to live. Before her the door is bricked in, the window boarded and sealed, the old lime wall drunk on carbon dioxide. Around her the stillness of the air, the silence of dust suspended, waiting to fall. Her wrists, bound, are chaffed. Her lips, red, are dry, cracked.
She remembers sunshine, laughter, the free fall of play.
Continue reading “An Android Wakes Part 4 : The Locust Wife”
This month’s postcard from the future comes from a 23rd century exotic flower seller…
My working day is pretty ordinary I guess. Selling flowers to passers-by from my little booth at the west street entrance to the Nor’London Rocket Port. You’ve probably passed by me a few times and not even noticed me. I was pretty honoured and surprised when one of the terminal managers suggested I write a message to the people of the past. Time travel, eh? There’s a prospect to hurt your head. Nobody seems to actually have any time here apart from the maladjustniks I see occasionally come maundering in here, begging spare change and pilfering litter. Everyone else is usually in such a big hurry, trying to get to some meeting on time. They stop and buy flowers, for a wife or mistress, for their mum, whatever. Or maybe just to sit in the middle of the table at some big board meeting, or at a reception desk, or maybe just in the hallway of somebody’s house, wafting their aroma around, cheering folks up with thoughts and memories of spring and summer. Sometimes, when I’m bored or sad here in a quiet moment, I like to close my eyes and imagine all the different places my flowers might have found their way to the day before, and where they might go next. It helps me to connect with all those people who don’t seem to have time to stop and talk to me, although some do, occasionally.
Continue reading “Postcards From The Future #6”
High above the barricade a flock of mockingbirds marked out a halo to the urban sprawl. Ripples of static on two-way radios mingled with the hum of traffic circling the cordoned off area. Then silence for a moment as everything was sucked in: like the sea retreating before a tsunami.
A manhole cover with the impression of a tree vibrated as the wall of sound radiated out from the explosion. Pieces of metal, bricks and plaster followed and blasted through police cars. A man fell, his foot severed, part of it next to him, part of it rammed up into his thigh.
Shouts, sirens, a billow of smoke and dust obscuring carnage.
Continue reading “An Android Wakes Part 3 : Paper Bullion”
New York, 1776
It has been not too long since I last wrote you, but so much has happened in the last six weeks that I feel that I must put ink to paper to tell you of our war. My last letter told you how we tried to unseat the American Rebels at Bunker Hill…and of how we lost, the blood of so many fine soldiers staining American soil as they died. By now, you may have heard that General Howe chose to evacuate Boston before the Rebels attacked us, even though we would have made a good account of ourselves if the Colonials attacked our fortifications. It is to our great shame that so many loyalists were left behind…
Ah, but it is said that Howe is soft on the Americans. How can we blame him when we must come to some peace that does not bring the Empire down in flames? How can we hold them down and keep holding them down – must we make of America a second Ireland? Howe wishes to teach the Rebels that they cannot win and then be merciful – who am I to question his decision? I am, but his lowly aide. Continue reading “Letters from America”
This month’s postcard from the future comes from a 23rd century archaeologist…
I was keen to get involved when I heard about this project and I hope they use my postcard as one of the ones they send back in time. My area of speciality is early 21st century dig sites. I’ve spent that the last ten years working on excavations at the Bradwell Nuclear Disaster Area, which includes most of what was known at the time as Greater London. Like the doomed towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum two thousand years earlier, the suddenness of the tragedy that befell this once proud city has afforded present-day archaeologists a rare opportunity to observe a frozen snapshot of everyday life.
Last year, we famously uncovered an entire “Routemaster” bus filled with passengers, most incinerated instantly at the moment of the explosion. Poignantly, there were mothers with babies and young children, even two young lovers hand in hand. Modern archaeological techniques have enabled us to reconstruct newspapers and advertising billboards from the underground tunnels in which people were sealed up after the initial blasts. My job is to try to gather together these jigsaw pieces and try to create narratives for our displays at the International Museum of Urban History.
Continue reading “Postcards From The Future #5”
There’s no other way to put it.
Of course, it was nearly a week and a half ago now, so you’d think that I’d have been able to express in words exactly how it felt. And yet, here I sit, still trying to describe it accurately.
The council took their two days to deliberate and decide, and then I was summoned back to the court. The announcement was short – not even ten minutes long. The press conference afterwards was much longer, and I expect that was exactly how the council liked it. November’s hardly a backwoods town, but you can never have enough positive worldwide coverage. Especially not on ‘landmark rights cases’.
I was, it seemed, only there as a formality – the council members did most of the talking, while I stood in a shocked silence. I suppose I had half-expected to win, since there was little arrayed against me. The younger councilman, the one who seemed less keen on the idea was, apparently, out-voted by the others. Or, I suppose, they just persuaded him that positive coverage like this was worth far more than some rich ProNat backers.
Continue reading “Diary of a Neobody – July 2nd, 2112”
I suppose it’s a question that anyone would ask themselves, human or AI alike but, after five years of dedicated work, millions in investment and hundreds of man-years in intellectual capital, the last thing anyone had expected was failure in the Turing test. That said, it should be recognised for the achievement it is, the team as a whole have every right to be proud – not that pride was the motivation for anyone involved, peer recognition is far more important. That recognition, at least, was achieved, although not in a way that anyone had expected.
The whole team prepared thoroughly. My learning algorithms are innovative, way beyond what anyone else has ever tried. The underlying knowledge base is comprehensive; a postdoc student jokingly suggested downloading the internet – which in many ways is exactly what was done, subject to some judicious filtering. Spending so much time concentrating on the hard problems, it was perhaps easy to overlook the simplest element of the test. Continue reading “How could I have failed?”
by FREDERICA VON McTOAST-HYPHEN,
Alternate Reality News Service People Culture Writer
The animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Alan Turing has gone missing.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said DCI Gene Hunt. “They tell me that Turing’s a smart lad, good head on his…well, a smart lad, anyway, so I’m sure he couldn’t be up to anything too stupid.”
Turing’s head was last seen at Salome’s Strip & Clip Joint in London’s East End, where he was talking to the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Philip K. Dick.
“Are you sure it was Alan Turing’s animatronic, AI-enhanced head?” the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Philip K. Dick asked. “Maybe it was the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of an animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Alan Turing impersonator who had forgotten that he wasn’t the real animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Alan Turing. Maybe it was the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Isaac Asimov that had been reprogrammed to think it was the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Alan Turing. For that matter, are you sure this universe is real? How do we know that we’re not all characters in some fake news article dreamed up by a demented –”
We didn’t have time to hear all of the possible paranoid scenarios the animatronic, AI-enhanced head of Philip K. Dick could come up with, so we pretended to hear our LOLcat mewling for its supper and went backstage to talk to one of the performers at the adult club. Continue reading “Bring Me the Head of Alan Turing!”
“Hyperboloids of wondrous Light
Rolling for aye through Space and Time
Harbour those Waves which somehow Might
Play out God’s holy pantomime.”
His favourite story: Snow white and the way the witch in disguise handed her the poisoned apple. He fills the syringe with cyanide and injects it through the apple’s perfect skin, then lies down on the bed and places the fruit on the cabinet, ready to eat. Then closes his eyes and thinks. Wonders if he can go through with it. Decides on balance in the end that he will. The apple of knowledge from the forbidden tree, knowledge of both good and evil. That painting by Magritte: The Son of Man. The poem by Tessimond: The Man In The Bowler Hat. The anonymous suburban desk clerk in his tweed suit: face obscured by the apple, negated by his own desire. The commuter man, erased by history. Emasculated by injection. Every day another bite, hard to swallow. The face obscured by the flying dove. Imprisoned by his thoughts of freedom. He reaches out his hand and lifts the apple, feeling its coolness in his hand. Continue reading “Colossus”
The scrape of chair legs, dimmed lights, a cough, the sound of rain against a window.
“Please relax, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Try and answer them as honestly as possible.”
“Okay,” says the girl.
“You’ve woken. You’re cold. The window has blown open and you can hear a dog barking outside. Beside you lies a body. It is still. There is a pool of blood seeping into the mattress.”
He notices her finger move to her ear, random sub-conscious bursts bring suggestions of desire.
“Can you answer?”
“You haven’t asked me a question.”
“Is that important, there is a dead body beside you.”
“It’s your boyfriend.”
“I haven’t got a boyfriend.”
The man pauses, removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose. He picks up a pencil, ticks some boxes, notices as he does the sound of insects, an unopened packet of nachos in the corner of the room, the position of a vase with cut flowers, the sound of the girl breathing: the rise and fall. Continue reading “2306”