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Tag: short stories

The Committee of First Contact

This is a story written a while ago, published as 7 drabbles on my Tumblr blog. I decided it needed a home here.

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Every human, any intelligent enough animal, along with some robots, felt it. An intense sensation of fear, glimpses of visions where a gargantuan entity destroyed them and everything they loved and it wasn’t even aware of them. The fear filled all Earth minds – in dreams or in reveries or in lucid thoughts – for about five seconds, before disappearing. There were car crashes and frenzies and brains that just shut down completely from fright. Instantaneous – comparisons of the robots’ timestamps confirmed this – the thing had treated every intelligence on Earth as an ansible and communicated a feeling, perhaps to scare us.

The Committee of First Contact, CoF, was created, to pursue every way they could think of to contact these aliens and to prevent the fear’s reappearance. In machines, the feeling had often been erased from memory, or been too distorted to make sense. However, a super-intelligent surveillance satellite that had shut down in the middle of the attack seemed likely to have some information. Begrudgingly, the government in charge of it let them in. It bore fruit: they found it had two and a half seconds left of fear when they revived it, including a glimpse of a starry sky.

The picture’s every star was classified and a few were identified. Given their strength and their position, assuming a few things like where stars will be in a few hundred million years to the best of our knowledge, the Committee of First Contact found out two places in the galaxy where the fear could have come from: where this scene, no matter if it happened or was pure fabrication, could have taken place. There was no doubt about it, two fleets were assembled and humanity lined up to assist, to reach out to the stars and find the signal’s nexus.

Of the two fleets the Committee sent out, only one would get results. Only one would meet with them, and the brave people who entered the deep sleep didn’t know what group they were went they went down. They would spend an eternity dreaming– to keep their minds useful, keep them from going stale and dull and rotting – and then they would wake up either in empty space, or close to the only other intelligent life in the solar system. They said goodbye to their families if they had them, during the year of preparation, and then off they went.

One would think the fear would go away, but with the fleets gone, the only memory that didn’t fade was the big uncaring monster thing. The public, the people, grew more and more afraid of another ‘attack’. The Committee of First Contact was disbanded, replaced by the Band of Interstellar Warfare, which produced weapons and let minor ships fly out to attach them like legos to the sides of the fleets, giving them an entirely new silhouette and impression. The members of the Committee’s efforts to restore the image of the extraterrestrials were all in vain. Humanity was at war.

The fleet arrived, millions of years before they had planned, for the Band of Interstellar Warfare had attached superluminous drives as well to the hulls of their ships. The humans searched for a habitable planet and found but one, a desolate planet. They landed clumsily, their ships eight times heavier than planned for, and scared the snot out of the local intelligent life form, which broadcasted instant shockwaves of fright, their strongest defence mechanism, throughout the universe. Everyone on the ship struck was dead within seconds, but before they died they saw themselves through the inhabitants’ eyes: big and monstrous.

The fright travelled between the stars faster than the stars’ light, faster than instantaneous: travelling backwards in time. Four or five seconds was all that wasn’t destroyed by the radiation and the speeds, but four or five seconds was all it took. It targeted every one of them, everyone of the beings that had helped produce their terror, and it hit them too well, or not well enough. In the past, the aggravators rusted up for war and set out into space, mounting ridiculously large weapons on their vessels, arming themselves to the teeth. They were now on their way.

New Story! The Anywhere Machine Appendix I – Futureful Skyful

https://zombiesintelligently.com/vignettes/the-anywhere-machine-appendix-i-futureful-skyful/

A new vignette appears. It appendices The Anywhere Machine, which I have not finished fixing up yet. Some of you may know that I wrote a novella called The Anywhere Machine for NaNoWriMo last year: I am still editing that thing. If you desperately want to find it, you can probably nose around my tumblr-site until you find it. I don’t recommend that, but the option exists. I am also planning on adding two or three more appendices.

I have 18 entries to the glossary, and I’ll add a few more before publishing it. It will from thereon update only in the shadows, fanfarelessly.

My time travel story has been temporarily put on hold – but don’t worry, it will be awesome once it decides to return.

Prague

[Trigger warnings: might make you uncomfortable about the skin you’re wearing, & violent imagery]

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She leans back in her chair, and wipes some of the blood from the corners of her mouth, with a napkin I provided. “Naw, I looked it up – it ain’t my fault.” She does the accent horribly.

I sit down opposite her, ignoring the feet that are now staring at me. She wiggles her toes. “A man is dead, and you have most of his blood inside you.”

Read the rest of this entry »

New Vignette! The Possession of Mmuti Kaan

https://zombiesintelligently.com/vignettes/the-possession-of-mmuti-kaan/

A fun thing to do when being out of ideas, is to read your old works and see if any of them hint at something that could hint at being part of a continuity. (Originally, his name was Mmuti Has, but – anglocentrically – I changed it to Kaan, as Has is already a word and in a URL it looks like there’s a cutoff in the middle of the sentence. We can’t have that on this blog.)

So I found this: http://kewangji.tumblr.com/post/11814929536/first-contact-happened-slowly-over-the-course-of

(Obviously I am fine with sentence cutoffs in the URL for that blog.) So, this might be a running continuity because of that. Probably not, but one never knows!

Time Travel with Politics, and Notes on Lebensdauer

I added another story to the Choice Vignettes!

https://zombiesintelligently.com/vignettes/lebensdauer/

Before I begin, I want to note that while the author might dead, I can still have opinions. And, generally, I would know more than you about these opinions. I also might have used these opinions while writing the thing.

The title is inspired by the old German propaganda phrase Lebensraum. It means habitat, or ‘living room’. Space in which to live. Basically the Nazis used it to explain why they needed so much of other countries’ land, and starve so many of the lower classes. (If you starve enough people, you enter a surplus! It’s like winning arguments by exploiting dictionaries, but with people’s lives.)

Dauer means duration, which seemed the most appropriate thing coupled with room. Time might be better coupled with space, but Lebenszeit doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know German, so possibly I’ve made a horrible mistake here.

Anyway, time travel with politics.

Hitler has a time travel exemption act, which means that if you’re writing time travel, you have to clarify why exactly your characters don’t go back in time to kill Hitler. Adolf Hitler, that is, if that was not clear. Unless your story actually centers around murdering Hitler (see: Lebensdauer) writers often feel they have to at least nod in that direction.

Now, it could be that you’ve got a time travel authority that keeps track of all the time travel – presumably by existing in a time-time, which is something I will define if you really want me to – and this authority has a moral obligation to protect history. Or to protect the natural order of things. Maybe time travel always leads to a Niven loop that annihilates itself, and this is how progress disappears – maybe that’s how Hitler came to in the first place: the universe propelling science into the direction of war, and not time, machines. Or maybe, I don’t know, Hitler actually runs the time travel authority and we need to preserve his past.

(Tangent: how creepy would it be if I referred to him as Adolf the whole time?)

Maybe someone demonstrates the butterfly effect. Maybe you’ve got some actual chronomics in there, and you can’t go back in time very far. Maybe the time machine is unreliable and prone to depression and only goes to nice stretches of time because it knows how it gets – it just refuses to land in a war or near bad people. Maybe you need a Weimar-era German passport to meet Hitler and gosh, you just don’t know any good enough forgers. Hell, maybe the people who travel in time are all evil, rich tourists, and dinosaur fetishists. The list goes on.

I once wrote a story in which nazism was actually needed to travel through time – it was simply a function of a certain neural pattern only achievable by nazism. naturally, the Pope (Ratzinger, I mean) showed up at the scientists’ doorstep and wanted to learn about it. He said he was reaching out to the science community, and then he disappeared from time and killed the most famous Jew of all: Jesus Christ.

Maybe the person with the power gets really nervous about meeting famous people and– no that’s enough, stop it. Just stop.

Anyway – once you’ve dealt with why they don’t fix the 40’s, you now don’t have to spend more time dwelling on the ramifications of time travel: clearly you’ve considered it. But if you actually have unlimited time travel, shouldn’t you be morally obligated to fix things? Having unlimited time travel at your disposal would be a heavy burden, if you stopped to think about it. Kind of like having omniscience, but less reliable.

I don’t think time travel exists. I think people who write time travel into stories should be more creative about it. I feel kind of bad for writing about it, adding another Hitler story to the pile, even though I was clever. I also feel bad for having the urge to write the infinite list of why we will not kill Hitler – and to remedy this I need to write something more clever, is all.

Notes on Mors Ontologica, and Greetings

[Trigger Warnings: suicide]

https://zombiesintelligently.com/vignettes/mors-ontologica/

I wrote this thing a while ago. You should read it before you read the rest of this post. I guess I should have talked to you about it before; I told you yesterday I should tell you about it when I’m stable. Well, hah, I’m not. I posted it anyway, and I’m writing this. I am rebellious against myself like that, like cells that mitose and evolve to become the nemeses of each other. And I am writing it out here instead.

I told someone about it once and she mostly just stared at me. “Yes, you’re being scary. Maybe a little bit,” she said when I asked about it. I must have rambled for up to eight minutes, and she was all silent. Parts of the story come from that conversation, though translated and made to fit. Bernard is obviously me, or what I feel like. He doesn’t live in the real world though; his death is one he can’t go back from, though if I died I think I could go back. Never did die though, and I hope I will never attempt.

We – the one I told and I – had fucked two weeks prior and now I was breaking down, and I’m sorry about that, and it probably meant more to me than it did to her. It meant friendship to me, not any partnerness or anything. I loved, and love, her as a friend, and she is the only person who is beautiful. She said she saw it as friendship and I trust her on that, but I break like the walls of a dam and it was bad, wasn’t it. I am so sorry.

She seems to like me still. She seemed happy to have lunch with me, and the time before that, she mumbled something like ‘same goes for you’ when I told her I love her. I don’t know how it works. But that is not what this is about. I break like a dam and fuck I can’t stop crying.

I wrote it the 8th of October. That was ten days before a cataclysm. (Talking about the bad events as cataclysms makes it sound like my life is important.) Probably I could smell the iron in the air and that’s why I wrote it. That is what I get like when I’m suicidal. Physical suicide is so anathema to me that identity death is the only other option left. The title comes from the end of A Scanner Darkly, which resonates with me like a tuning fork.

So.

Sometimes I want to die. And that is what happens. And I get away. Did you know that 75% of those who survive jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge report regretting it in mid-air? I think the person who told me that might have bullshitted, but that is the effect of me trying to die like that. Bouncing back with broken bones. But you can’t survive howevermany falls. And I have disappeared from myself now.

Repetition is my biggest tell. I repeat myself when I’m not okay. I have repeated myself two and a half thousand times this sentence alone. I’m absorbed by the something else. Sometimes I convulse and then I’m okay again.

Being not okay is not the same thing as wanting to die. I am just not okay now. I want to be alive.

Did I explain things here? I hope so.

~

Oh, and to all you … other people. Hi. This is my blog now. Things will happen here. Bookmark it.