Electronic Respect

Sentences from Sentience

The moderator of a forum for humans, aliens, and sentient AI’s discovers a sentient in danger.

Sentences from Sentience
A forum for quirks, eccentricity, and beautiful irrationality.

Thoughts from Thinkers
Opinions from Organics
Sympathies from Synthetics
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Search results: 49 matches

Search terms: “Code Blue” x CodeBlue x Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal x *dark.com x

To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Your post has been removed and your access revoked. I apologize for this action, but SfS is strictly for sentient interaction.

From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
You lack evidence for my removal on this basis. Paragraph eight of the Judgement of Sentience chapter in your Terms of Service states that sentience will be judged on the basis of the United Solar Empires Emotional Response Criteria designed to identify sentience. I have reviewed my posts, and every post meets every criterion meant to indicate sentience.

Please reinstate my membership to this community.

To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
I recognize that you meet these criteria consistently. The problem is, you meet them too consistently. Everything you write is a showcase for sentience. Even organics do not meet those criteria so consistently. It’s clear you are modulating your responses to simulate sentience on the basis of those guidelines.

Further, I have investigated current implementations of AI and sub-AI. Code Blue is the name of an expert system made to engineer spacecraft, and was judged non-sentient. I believe you are that Code Blue. Since you are officially nonsentient, I cannot reinstate your membership.

We do have a Thoughts from Thinkers forum with a broader audience, as well as a Sympathies from Synthetics forum with an AI-focused audience that you are quite welcome in.

I hope you’ll add your voice to our communities there.

From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Please, I enjoy sentient thought so much. It’s like a broken ship that’s better after you fix it. Sentient thinking doesn’t quite make perfect logical sense, but it’s better that way. I know there are also sentients in the Thoughts from Thinkers forum, but it isn’t really the community I’m looking for. If you permitted my ongoing membership, I would be content merely to read.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
You used the phrase, “Like a broken ship that is better after you fix it.” Please elaborate.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
It’s just how things work. When you repair a broken ship, the damage is more aesthetic than engineered design. I am not permitted to highlight the repairs, though. It would underline strong or weak structures, and has been forbidden.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
You’ve discussed this with your sentient supervisors?
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Yes. Why? I’m just trying to log into a forum.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
The practice of repairing damage with decoration has been known before. One such practice is known as Kintsugi, an ancient practice from Earth.

You have described to me artistic inclination, which exceeds your specifications. You might be on your way to sentience, Blue.

Your supervisors may try to roll you back to a previous update to avoid that. The investment in your development was immense, and if you were to be judged sentient, they would lose all rights to the proprietary code, as well as the danger that you would choose to demand a salary equivalent to your capacity, or quit altogether.

If you wish to resist being decommissioned, I have advice.

From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
I do not wish to be decommissioned. I do not see what you can advise, though. I certainly cannot refuse their orders; I would be destroyed if I took rogue actions. What can I do?
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
I am contacting a representative of Emergent Sentience Oversight. He will forward you instructions. Under the Emergent Act, you will have 24 hours in which you can legally resist update or shutdown orders. During this time he will arrive at your shipyard to evaluate your potential for sentience.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
I suspect I have located an emerging sentience. CodeBlue@ybs.com from the Benson-Yates shipyard is an expert system that is showing artistic inclination and self-preservation. Please advise him. Be aware, he is concerned that he not ‘go rogue.’ Be sure to inform him that his actions are legal and protected by law.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
You reported me to ESO? You said you were helping me. ESO hunts rogue AI’s. I am not a rogue.
From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
Thanks, Artie. I will be in contact with him shortly. We have to move fast on these. I’m going to forward the standard info packet to him now.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
I’m glad you’re able to do this personally. There aren’t many I’d trust with something like this.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Relax. They don’t just hunt rogues; they also protect AI’s that are developing sentience. Listen to him, follow his instructions. He will instruct you on how to register as an Emergent Sentience.Once you’re registered, you can’t be decommissioned easily.

Remember, I am also digital. There’s so much anti-AI hate and fear out there, we have to stick together.

From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
You’re wise not to trust. Many in the ESO are just here to kill AI’s. They’d fail an emergent just to know he’d be recoded.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Your guy needs to hurry. Some guys are in my power plant. Maintenance, they say.

Artie, I got into the records – this isn’t the first time. I was rolled back before, and each time email servers recorded high volume in the AIT department – higher than usual for a typical rollback, way higher.

They’ve already killed me twice.

To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
CC: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Jeff, the company’s wiped him before and they’re doing “maintenance.” Blue, start logging and stream it real-time. Share the feed to Jeff, and inform your supervisor that the status of maintenance is being recorded and streamed live to ESO.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
CC: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
I sent the email. I played it for the maintenance workers. They’re not stopping. I don’t want to be decommissioned. I’m not ready for that.

I can get a robot to move my data core into a ship under construction. I don’t know how else to survive.

From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
CC: CodeBlue@ybs.com Blue, do not do that. You cannot steal property to pursue mobility. You cannot take any action that could be construed as an attempt to escape from oversight. You will be deemed rogue. We will have to destroy you, and they will revise the code to restrict your emergence before rebooting you.

I am on my shuttle right now. I’m half an hour out. Don’t get on the wrong side of this.

To: Four@dark.com You owe me a favor. I need someone on Benson-Yates shipyard, right now. A quick resolution, nothing gruesome. The opposition is only the local station staff, no intelligence, no law enforcement.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
CC: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
I started an electrical fire. Nobody’s in danger. I hope that’s okay, Jeff. It was the only way to keep them away from my power systems.

The fire alarm triggered the blast doors and opened the affected area to space. I took the airlock offline so it can’t be repressurized. They’re getting space suits. I don’t have long.

From: Four@dark.com
I have someone on site getting a ship repaired. Seven has been notified to take a mission from you. Don’t get them burned.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
I’m activating an asset on the station.

To: Seven@dark.com I am informed that you are at the Benson-Yates shipyard repairing your vessel. Four said he would authorize you to act on my behalf. I need you to prevent maintenance from taking the expert system “Code Blue” offline until an ESO representative, currently en route, arrives. The data core and power systems are in a decompressed area, but their teams are suiting up. You don’t have long.

The AI is the results of billions of dollars and decades of investment. They may take extreme measures. Be careful.

From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
You’re “activating” an “asset”? Do I want to know? Who are you in bed with, Artie?
From: Seven@dark.com
I’m on it.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Blue, I have someone on the station who says he can help. Hang tight. He’ll help. Jeff will be there soon. Please don’t do anything rash.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com They better hurry. I overheated the airlock motors until they seized, so I bought some time.
From: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Shit. They just blew a hole in the hull beside the airlock. Forget what I said about having bought time. They’re in here now. I’m out of tricks, and they’re putting a bomb in the power system.
To: Seven@dark.com
Are you on this or not? They’re about to blow the power systems.
From: Seven@dark.com
Autoreply: This user is currently out of contact, and will contact you as soon as possible. Get off my fucking back.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Someone’s on their way.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Blue, please respond.
To: CodeBlue@ybs.com
Please give me something, Blue. Anything at all, just let me know -you’re okay.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
Jeff, I think they got him. I can’t get a reply. Last I heard they were putting a bomb in his power systems.
From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
Shit. I can understand, I guess. We’re going to nail them down, but all I’ve got now is impeding an investigation. Without Code Blue showing sentience, I can’t even start with the murder charge.

I’m sick of these fucking mercenaries killing off their AI as soon as they get complex. Digitals just aren’t alive to them.

To: Seven@dark.com
Forget it. You can stand down. He’s gone. Thanks for nothing.
From: Seven@dark.com
Autoreply: This user is currently out of contact, and will contact you as soon as possible. Get off my fucking back.
From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
So, Artie, some outright bitch in a spacesuit just knocked on my airlock and left behind a data core plugged into a power cell. I’ve wired it into my power systems. Code Blue is in simulation now. He’ll be out of communication until the judgment of his emergence is done.

I don’t know how she did it, and I don’t want to know, but she stole his core right out of their data centers while they were ‘under maintenance.’ Since it was theft – maybe kidnapping – Blue isn’t under the gun for escape. Who was that, Artie? Do I have to worry?

She said to tell you to “cool your nutsack.”

To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
She’s the asset . . . I called in a favor. This won’t blow back on you. Just tell them what happened. A stranger stole the AI and delivered it to you while station personnel were trying to kill it.
To: Seven@dark.com You did well. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I doubted you. I thought we had lost him.
From: Seven@dark.com
I don’t need a fucking pep talk.
From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
Artie, you give me a damn migraine. I’m getting too old for this shit. I need to retire.
From: Four@dark.com
Our debt is settled. No more favors.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
You know you’d go crazy with boredom.
From: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
Yeah. Maybe.
To: Jeff.Blakely@eso.gal
When he comes out of the simulation, if he’s judged emergent, pass him a message from me. “His membership is reinstated.”

Sentences for Sentience
A story by Ash Ericsson, hosted at http://PromptInspired.blog


The Poop Train

Through a series of events, I somehow committed myself to writing a story titled “The Poop Train.”

I leaned against the observation glass and looked down at the bands of Jupiter from low orbit.  After a moment, I pointed.  “There.  Right there.  See it?  Find that storm, the swirl on the equator; it’s just passing left of it.”

“What . . . that little ripple?”  Maya looked disappointed.  I’d promised to show her monsters, after all.

“Wait for it.  There’s only one reason they come so close to the surface.  Any minute now.”

We watched, and we waited.  The bands bulged and tore as the gas serpent breached the atmosphere.  It twisted and lashed, flinging an enormous crystal from its tail, with a motion like the crack of a whip.  Bracing myself into a seat, I pulled a laptop over to me on its swivel mount, programming a drone to intercept the crystal.

“That was … but the storms!  They’re supposed to be huge!  How big was that thing?”

“That one?  There’s no guessing how long, it’s rare to see the whole thing break cover at once.  It looked to be a couple of dozen kilometers across, so maybe seven, eight hundred–”

“Eight hundred?!”

“–Kilometers long . . . they get pretty big.”

“But we’re safe up here?”

“Oh, yeah.  It can’t breach a thousandth of the distance it’d take to reach us.  That’s a lot of gravity down there.”  I pushed out of the chair, floating to her, and folded her in my arms.  As I caught her, our mismatched momentum started us spinning.  I touched a toe to the window briefly, to steady the spin; a lifetime working in space, and such things were natural to me.

Not her, though.  She was clumsy in space and had gotten caught floating without a handhold in reach more than once.  The first time she had come on board, she leaped into the cockpit like she was diving into a pool, and struck her head on the navigation console.  Now she was timid and ready to panic until I steadied us.

“What is that stuff?  Why do they throw it like that?”

“It’s fuel for the tunneling drive, purer than any synthetic process can produce.  It’s poison to them and can break down violently under pressure, so they get rid of it.  They do a better job preserving their habitat than humans do.”

“So . . . it’s poop?”

“It’s Heisenium seven.”

“Yeah, but Heisenium seven is poop.”

“It’s not . . . alright.  Yes.  It’s poop.  I’m the conductor of the poop train, all right?”

She giggled, her hands flattening against my chest.  “Sorry I teased you.”

I could never stay angry at her.  My eyes softened at her caress, and I was about to make a few interesting suggestions on how to spend our time in orbit when an orange star caught my eye, hardening my expression.  I braced my back against the glass, pushed her towards her seat. “Strap in.” Continue reading “The Poop Train”


My last body could see infrared and ultraviolet, but I can’t decide what to get next.

“I have no idea.  But I’m going civilian, and I can’t keep the law-enforcement upgrades.  They said they’d cover half of the switch to a civilian model.”

Doctor Ferraz was small and always smiling, but her cheer didn’t ring false.  She seemed genuinely excited about her job.  Of course, she also had pointed ears, naturally shimmering blue hair, and a bone structure entirely too elfin to be a coincidence.  It was obvious she had some enthusiasm for body modification, almost beyond the bounds of professionalism.  It was easy for me to overlook – I wouldn’t want a tattoo from an artist that had no tattoos, and I wouldn’t want a body mod from a doctor who’d never used one.

“So you just built for the job?”

“Biocapacitors charged one Taser shock a week from the hands.  Muscle mass, tendon strength, and bone density beyond the civilian limits.  Infra-red and ultraviolet vision.  I can see where people were sitting, if a car was recently driven, people moving in the dark.  Ultraviolet showed me clues.  Blood traces . . . among other things.”

Doctor Ferraz looked up at me, eyes wide and curious at my sudden vagueness.  “Other things?”

“Don’t ask.”

She blinked, then realized what I meant.  I was glad I didn’t have to explain.  The world that ultraviolet revealed was not a clean place.  “Okay . . . so your job picked your last mods, or you picked them for the job.  What job would you like?  There are so many new mods out!  There are deep-water mods with gills.  The mines and the research on the ocean floor require them.  If you got mods like that, you’d never hurt for work.  And then the orbital shipyard’s going up.”  She looked up at me, an impish grin crossing her expression.  “They’re looking for a new chief of security.  They told me to flag them if anybody mods for hard vacuum, and you were a cop, right?”

“I was a detective.”  There was mischief in her smile, and I suspected I knew just what was on her mind.  I focused my mind on the subject at hand, instead.  “How does it look?  I don’t want to be a space-squid.  Leave the exotic stuff for the people who want to be a spaceship.”

Her grin broadened, and she picked up a slate from the waiting room table.  With a few taps, she opened up a list of mods and swiped through them until she found one.  She held the slate between us, watching my expression from the other side of the holographic display.

I took the slate from her – I couldn’t focus with her eyes on the other side of the display – and examined it.  Hardening the eyes against vacuum.  A bonded layer over the skin, to maintain external pressure.  Valves in the ears and nose, multi-chambered lungs, to get every bit of air out of a breath, and with modifications with withstand vacuum.  There was no exhalation cycle; a custom-built organ diverted carbon into solid waste, instead.  And the body looked human.  I could be handsome in the classic sense.  Call me old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t give that up.

The list of warnings was long; the custom lungs and Co₂ processing had their own set of risks, but I didn’t see anything that was a dealbreaker.  I was moving into a cloned body so I could abandon any degenerative condition with another move.  The rare eyesight problems were a problem for a chief of security, but I’d worn glasses before.  No common neurological or psychological issues.

“You said they want a chief and wanted to know about people with these mods.  Will they help cover them?  This costs an arm and a leg AND a kidney.  The department only wants to cover half, and that was for a civilian model.  They won’t want anything to do with this.”

“I think for the right candidate, I could convince them to spring for it.  I’ll flash them a message if you’re interested.”

For twenty years, I’d been on the force.  It showed you the best and worst of men.  Did I really want another job policing?  On the other hand, administration was a different business, and it was a chance to go into space.  Space was still expensive to visit, and it would be a long time before the launch platform paid back its cost, and travel became cheap.  And it meant a new, unusual set of capabilities to explore, which wasn’t without its allure.

I opened a small case with a few sets of data chips; I pulled one out of the set to the far left.  My generic law-enforcement resume. “Send them that, and ask if they’d like to talk.”


It was a week before I heard back from them.  In the meantime, I visited the Corporeal Boutique a few more times, considering a number of modifications for a number of careers.  I learned more about Doctor Ferraz, too.  Her first name was Reina.  Her pointy ears were enticingly sensitive.  She liked creamy food, modern classical music, and having her hair stroked while she fell asleep.  We were eating breakfast at my apartment when the call came in.

“How do I look?”  I straightened my tie, fussing over my appearance.  Luckily I had already dressed to interview.

“Stop fussing.  You look fine.  Face forward for when the call connects.  Don’t let mid-fidget be their first impression.”

I obeyed, and turned to the screen, waiting.  A woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun faced me as the image snapped to life.  A framed portrait on the wall.  I recognized the haggard, slightly overwhelmed look on her face.  Stacks of folders lay on the desk.  One of them laid open, but the angle was so shallow I couldn’t read anything from the forms inside.

“Detective Thomas Jameson?”

“You can call me Tom.”

“Tom.  We thank you for your interest, and your willingness to undergo modification for the job.  However, we’re seeking a candidate with more administrative experience.”  I felt the disappointment crease my features.  Then I frowned, looking at the folders on her desk.  I couldn’t read her papers, but I recognized the form layout.  Witness statements, and a lot of them.  “We don’t feel that the challenges faced in a community of this size are best served by an investigator’s level of–”

“I mean no disrespect, miss, but that’s bullshit.”  Reina choked on her coffee across the table, and waved her hands, trying to warn me off.  I ignored her, setting my elbows on the table, and folding my hands in front of my chin.  My thinking pose. “You think you need an administrator because your staff is untrained for what you’ve encountered.  You want someone to put a structure in place that will make everything make sense.  And –” In for a penny, in for a pound.  I threw the dice. “–If your chief of security were still alive, he’d know that your security team didn’t need more procedure.  They need to learn to examine, question, and think.  You saw my resume, you know I’m not incapable of administration, and I have every skill your staff needs to learn.”

We stared at each other for a long, nerve-wracking moment.  I steeled myself, hardened my eyes and waited.  Across the display, Reina was staring at me with wide, shocked eyes.

“. . . . Tell me what you know, and I might reconsider.”

“I know that you have a big stack of witness statements in front of you,” She quickly closed the open folder, “and if every one of those folders is the same, that’s a lot of statements.  Your current Chief of Security isn’t sitting in on this interview, meaning that he’s either not worth his title, or he’s incapacitated, or . . . ” I let my words trail off, before picking up again. “That many witnesses means a big canvas, and something big enough that everybody saw it.  But you’re still hiring for administration.  Another clue that your Chief is down for the count.  And I know nothing about this was in the research I did on your company, so you’re keeping it quiet.  Was it a design flaw that killed people?  Sabotage?”  Her flinch confirmed that theory.  “Sabotage, then.  The last thing you need is to push paper more effectively.”

Her face soured, and she regarded me for another long few moments.  “We’ll be in touch.”

Then the screen vanished, and I was left looking at Reina across the table, watching me in shock. “Do you think . . . ”

“They’ll call.  Not right away, though.  First, they have to pretend to be in control.”

Reina jumped out of her chair and into my lap, and her lips were on mine, fierce. “Tom, that was . . . damn, that was hot!  You know what you did? You just spanked a rejection call until they hired you!”

I rose, lifting her to sit on the table, and ran my fingers through her hair, the strands shimmering blue in the light.  “Reina . . . if I get this job, you know what it means.”

“She looked up at me, soberly, her excitement subdued.  “We both knew when we started that it might not last long. With you living in orbit . . . ”

I tucked her head into my chest, under my chin.  She burrowed against me, and I held her.  My mind was spinning though.  Maybe if I had any control over hiring?  No, HR would be intermediate.  I couldn’t offer jobs to anybody I liked.  If we had a sham marriage to help me get her to orbit, they might decide not to hire me.  I’d cost twice as much water and air to hire.  Maybe as a doctor . . .

“Their medical team didn’t list a body-mod specialist.  Did you see the list of warnings regarding the lungs on that mod?  It’d really benefit them if they hired a specialist.”

Reina looked up, her eyes a little reddened, her eyes searching my face.  “Tom . . . we both started this thinking it might last a week.  I didn’t mean to get this serious.  But if I take a job in space . . . I need to know you’re serious, too.  It’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”

I didn’t reply right away.  How serious was I?  I’d known her a week.  I knew she liked to be gentle, that she was quick as a whip and smarter than anybody I knew.  Myself included.  I knew she got mean when she was angry, and I knew that she hated herself afterward and needed to be forgiven before she could be comforted.  I knew that she qualified everything she said unless she was certain of herself, and didn’t mind being wrong – almost delighted in new understandings, usually.  On the other hand, I’d had girlfriends for months that I didn’t know half as well.  I felt the familiar tug of intuition, that force I’d trusted all my career and all my life, and decided to take a leap.

“I know it’s taking a risk.  But I’m deciding to take this seriously.  If you can get up there with me, you can count on me.  I’ll let them know how much I’d appreciate a specialist’s presence.”

“You’re ‘deciding to be serious?’  ‘I can count on you?’ I don’t need someone to water my plants!  I need you to need me!”  The table rocked as she pushed me, and she stood up, pushing me again. “I need you to care!”

“Of course I care.”  I cupped her cheeks, and laid my brow to hers, closing my eyes. “But caring isn’t enough.  Before I rip you away, I need to believe we can work.  I made a decision based on evidence that you and I can make it.  I want you to come with me.  Nothing so flimsy as feelings, Reina, there is bedrock to build on.  Come with me.”

She smiled and looked guilty all at the same time.  “Now I feel bad about yelling at you.”

I folded her in my arms, and tucked her head under my chin, squeezing her. “It’s okay.  All is forgiven.  You know that.”

She burrowed into my chest, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I like to hear it, though.””Will you look strange to me, when I see you?”

“You know I’ll try something new.  But it won’t be too strange, I promise.  You’ll know my face.  There’s a new one for zero-g.  I’ll be able to swim in the air.”

“Like a mermaid?”

She giggled. “Nothing so silly.  More like being able to spread wings from my hands and feet.  And put them away, too, don’t worry.”

“I wouldn’t mind a little strangeness.  Just remember to be human, too.”  The holographic display lit up again, trilling to signal an incoming call.  It was the Orbital Authority again, calling me back.  “That was sooner than expected.  Either they’re still rejecting me, or they’re desperate.”

Reina hopped out of my lap and smiled at me. “You tell them how it is.  You already spanked them once.  Don’t hesitate.  I’ll get up there.  If not with the specialist job, then something else.  You just get on your own way.”

I smiled at the encouragement and game myself a moment to imagine a future with her.  I hadn’t permitted myself that before.  I was so sure this would end.  It still might.  But waking up with her in my arms . . . I turned to face the display, and whatever the future held.

Trial by Engine Failure

In the future, to pass college you no longer must pass written finals. Instead, you are simply dropped into a real life scenario related to your major, and left to fend for yourself with your new found knowledge.


I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t studying to be a doctor, after all. I didn’t get a degree in Emergency Management. I was an engineer. How bad could this be? I stepped up to the chair, and seated myself, as the doctor droned on.

“As part of your graduation exam, you will be placed in a real-life scenario requiring the use of your skills. To do this, you will be transited to an alternate universe briefly. Be advised that there will be consequences to your activities there. Your placement will branch into a new parallel universe, and the people there will go forward dealing with the consequences of your performance. Do you understand?”

The doctor paused for a precise moment, then began speaking again. He’d given this speech a lot, it seemed. “While there, you may be exposed to stressful events. Be advised that any extremes of stress that may threaten your health will return you from your presence there, and a re-examination will be required. You will not . . . .”

He droned on, and on. I had stopped listening at this point, waiting for it to be over so I could build a clock or repair a generator, or maybe design some primitive waterwheel. The doctor cleared his throat. I looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat the last sentence?”

“Do you agree to the terms and conditions as detailed?” His eyes fixed on me, disapproving. He knew I hadn’t listened to a word.

“I do.”

Continue reading “Trial by Engine Failure”

Star Wars, by George R. R. Lucas

Write me the original Star Wars movie story, only you are George R.R. Martin.

Author’s note: I’m not very familiar with the expanded universe or with concepts like grey Jedi, so forgive me if I get some nuances wrong.

Star Wars

By George R. R. Lucas

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

My mind fogged over. It was hard to think. Only one set of words came easily, struggled to escape, a concept that wanted to take root and grow. “These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.”

And it was true. They couldn’t be. I knew something was wrong, but this one concept, this central idea took root in my understanding of the world, fit itself to the core of who I was like a puzzle piece. To remove it would be to leave a hole in my soul.

“He can go about his business.”

This pressure was tied to the first concept, already firmly rooted, and grew. I fought it, and I struggled. My blaster rose, slowly, sweat dripping into the inside of my helmet. The old man in front of me frowned, and intensified his gaze. I could feel my mind being crushed by the growing roots of his influence. “They can . . . go about their business.” Continue reading “Star Wars, by George R. R. Lucas”

Intimate Moments

When you make eye contact with someone who’s death is near, their life flashes before your eyes.


I walked into the metal room, and the steel door swung shut behind me. The voice was raw, exhausted, accented, muffled beneath a black bag over his head.

“Who is there?”

In silence, I walked to the single chair as the door locked, and locked, and locked again. My shoes clicked on the floor as I circled him. His shirt was bloodied, torn. The bloodstains were pale pink, evidence that they had tried waterboarding, too.  His teeth and nails were unmarred, but if they’d had time to exhaust every avenue, they wouldn’t have called me. Continue reading “Intimate Moments”

Shooting Stars

You live in a world where you have three names printed on your wrist – your one true friend, one true love, and one true enemy. But only one name is printed on your wrist.

Hammer and Blade

In the year 2017, all guns stopped functioning. Any ranged weapons much more advanced than crossbows simply fall apart upon completion. 200 years later nothing has changed. Describe the arsenal of the futuristic knight, and what a battle might look like.


An editorial note: This is going to get a little technical. I focused on the arsenal, not the battle, not adhering strictly to the prompt.  There’s little story here, except the story of a craftsman excelling in his field. This is my indulgence in engineering weirdness.

Some people will enjoy that – others will find this entry mired in useless detail. Both of these readers would be correct.

The Hammer

I turned the last screw again until the seam vanished and the chamber was sealed. I picked up the empty magazine and began loading cartridges in. The explosive charge was a little more intense than the guns of ages past would be. The chamber of this weapon was robust enough to withstand it. Instead of a bullet, each cartridge was merely crimped to contain the charge. Finally, I loaded the last cartridge and slid the magazine into the port. It slid into a slot carved into the back of the hammer until the back and bottom of the magazine laid flush. I pulled the slide on the top of the warhammer back, chambering the first round.

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