AUGUST 2026 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories Only) > Likes and Comments
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The RaceFaster-Than-Light drives changed…everything. In less than a century, humans went from being alone in the universe to trading with a hundred planets. It was quite a shock, but humans are adaptable. They quickly settled in to enjoy the entertainment available from this wider universe.
==
The two insectoids, hanging from a steel-cable web, faced the camera. They were emitting a series of clicks from their mouth parts while gesturing to the course map. Only native Artarians watched the untranslated signal.
On the Terran feed, the two appeared as male and female avatars sitting behind a news desk while a message scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
“Real-Time translation services provided by Clear Comm Corp. Reach a wider audience. Over 1200 languages available.”
The female commentator began, “Well Bob, this Artarian sub-light race is the most challenging one so far. The first leg loops around the sun, with an Oberth maneuver as a reward for those that can survive the hellish heliosphere. But the teams will have to live with any extra shielding mass for the rest of race.”
“Heliodyne Solar Converters, a gold sponsor. Generate the most power with the least heat transmission.”
“Sue, being a three-time racer and a second-place finisher, I’m sure you have some perspectives on the Kessel Run.”
She responded, “The Kessel Run is all about maneuverability. While the racers are free to cross the asteroid belt anywhere, a shorter route will save time but only if the ship survives. When my team took a 12.2 parsec route, we were too damaged to win the race.”
“Not bad, not bad at all. That year, half the ships didn’t survive and only 3 out of 31 ships crossed the finish line, so coming in second was quite an accomplishment.
“We were quite proud of our run but decided to retire before our luck or funds ran out. Bob, take us to the finish.”
“The last segment is just about speed. It is a straight shot from the belt to the finish line. But the design choices required to survive solar radiation and asteroid impact increase the mass of the ships, limiting acceleration.
Just a reminder: Race officials monitor for hyperdrive signatures. Exceeding light speed, even for a millisecond, will result in immediate disqualification."
“If you’re not in this race, Heliodyne hyperspace drives are the way to go. With integrated AI navigation, even a human pilot can handle our systems.”
The feed switched to cameras panning the ships at the starting gate.
“Sue, take a look at the Humans’ ship! It looks like a large garbage can with a bunch of engines shoved up its ass. Not an impressive design.”
The tractor beams released the ships and they plummeted toward the sun. In a few moments, they were visible as brilliant white dots against the roiling solar surface. Several flashed and winked out as their shielding failed. One of the larger blips became two, the larger blip brightened and vanished. The smaller one arced upward and out of the heliosphere.
Sue commented, “It looks like the Human ship is breaking up. The solar shield has separated from the ship. Wait. The rest of the ship is continuing without it. This is a new development. The decreased mass should improve their time in the Kessel run. But, without any shielding, they wouldn’t survive even grazing an asteroid.”
The smaller ship wove its way through the asteroid field. Several competitors collided, recovered and sped onward. Whatever gains the humans made fleeing the sun were all but lost in the belt.
Bob pointed to the screen, “They’re at it again! They’ve cut away everything except the engines. The crew are exposed to space, wearing only environment suits…They are pulling almost five gravities. That’s gotta be a rough ride.”
The human ship crossed the finish line several minutes ahead of the second ship. Absent fuel for braking, they blew past the finish line and kept on going. A support ship caught up with them several hours later and brought them back.
In their absence, the other surviving contenders disputed the win. After listening to the challenge, the arbitrator made a decision and addressed the spectators. “The rules state that the ship must cross the finish line with a living crew accompanying it. They are not required to be inside the ship. They completed the race before receiving assistance.”
It raised its primary appendages vertically, signifying a final ruling. “The Humans won the race.”
RELICYou know what it is to wake up into a nightmare? Sound backwards? It is. But, that’s what happened to me.
Name’s Harv Brewster. One minute, I was a normal guy with a normal life. I was a construction foreman working in New York City. Had a wife and two kids and a house in the suburbs. Then, one day…like any normal day in 1958…there I was working on one of the upper sections of a new skyscraper when it happened.
A wrench…like a tidal wave hit me or something…a flash of light, and I was here. The 25th century, on the ‘old calendar’ as the contemporary generation put it. They said it was an accident. Blow-back from one of their time-space experiments. They couldn’t figure out how to send me back, so here I’m stuck…a relic out of the past in a world five hundred years beyond anything I ever dreamed.
Nightmare is right. The oceans have long since risen and swallowed the cities. Everybody lives in underwater cities or floating cities or on space stations in orbit or on the moon or on Mars. Magnetic cars that fly and swim. Ultra-sonic tube shuttles. Everybody’s brain is plugged into a world-wide web of these things they call A.I.’s. Nothing’s real anymore…just illusions and conveyed facts and figures. Even Buck Rogers wasn’t this crazy. It gets worse. Hardly any white people left. No race that you can identify at all. Everybody’s integrated. One big race. The countries are gone, too. One big world government. And, no money. Something they call digital currency. You haven’t heard the sickest part yet. Pretty much everybody’s been…genetically re-wired…to be queer. To conserve dwindling resources, to keep the population down. Men marry men. Women marry women. Kids are conceived in test tubes from combined cells and grown in artificial wombs. People even switch genders when they’re tired of one. Makes my skin crawl.
Well, I couldn’t make a living in this new world. Not the old way. I’m like a cave man expected to drive a truck or fly an airplane. I begged them to give me something I could do on my own…no matter how menial. But, there’s nothing a man can do physically that a robot can’t. So, after much resistance, I reluctantly let them implant one of those A.I. ports in the back of my head. While I sleep, my brain runs these…cybernetic systems that keep their civilization moving. In my off hours…I had them build me a house that was a knock-off of my old one, constructed by robots on one of the free-orbiting space platforms. I can kick back in my old place. And, that’s all I can do. The sports and pastimes I liked are as dead as medieval jousts. The worst part is…there’s almost no human contact anymore. It’s all done on A.I.
Illusory human faces appear on the walls of my home telling me I have to straighten out my bank accounts. I can’t understand all this high-tech stuff. I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, so I took one of those nutty space elevator things down to the bank in Earth orbit and finally got to talk to a real, live human being. I was overjoyed to find it was a dame. A white woman about my own age. Not bad looking, either. “Well, hello…” I said with a smile as I sat down in front of her service desk. She was dressed in a way not too different from women of my era. “I’m Harv.”
“Stella,” she said with a smile. She was polite and charming and got my accounts straightened out quick enough. After that…I started chatting her up. I didn’t feel out-of-date with her at all.
I smiled from ear to ear. “Listen…maybe we could have dinner some night? One of the old movies, if they still run them? Dancing, perhaps?” My heart was racing.
She froze up on me at that point. I mean, froze stock still dead, like a seizure or something. I called for help, frantic. I nearly had heart failure as maintenance robots came in and took her head off. Nothing inside her but wires and blinking lights.
“We tried to make it easy for you, Mr. Brewster,” the talking face on the wall said. “But, you’re hard to please.”
I lowered my head on the desk and cried. After that, I asked them to stick me in what they call a V.R. sim. It’s not real. But, tough.
"The Peaceable Kingdom"by J.F. Williams
Withnall came home after a day in the fields to discover the entrance to his hut blocked by freshly cut logs. As he tried to remove them, he saw a beaver dragging a small log across the grass, heading to the hut's entrance. He waved his arms at the creature and shook his head emphatically. The beaver dropped the logged and looked at him wide-eyed. "Sagamore!" Withnall shouted, and a swarm of bees rose in the air. Then he shouted, "Beaver!" and the swarm flew south.
Within the hour, an Indian chieftain appeared wearing a full headdress of eagle feathers and a buckskin tunic covered with wampum.
"Sagamore, the beavers blocked my entrance," said Withnall.
Looking down at the beaver, which had waited patiently alongside its log, Sagamore made chirping noises and slapped the ground with his hand three times. The beaver responded by chirping, at length, then picked up the log in its mouth, and scurried away.
"Our friend Shorttail mistaken," said Sagamore, smiling. "She want surprise you with river entrance. She forget humans need dry entrance."
Withnall laughed, "The bees told you?"
"Yes. They fly when you call name, they buzz 'beaver', and dance in direction for me walk. Shorttail think you better with river entrance and cannot stop this thinking."
"Yeah, she has done this three times. Perhaps, Sagamore, it might be easier for you to teach me the beaver language so you don't have to be called."
"Call not problem."
"But it would simplify matters if I could speak to them directly."
Sagamore thought for a moment. Just outside the village, beyond the river, the elephants had been hard at work burying the great pile of broken robots that littered the east meadow. The wars were long past and the village was growing. Perhaps it was time to share the knowledge.
For weeks, Sagamore tutored Withnall on the beaver language. There was meaning in their chirps and grunts, moans and cries, and even the slapping of their broad, flat tails, which Sagamore emulated with his hands. Context and sound order were critical, and numeric references could be complex as the beavers spoke mostly about engineering.
Eventually, Withnall felt comfortable speaking to the beavers he met along the road. He noticed when there were other species present, wolves, dogs, cows, pigs, sheep, the occasional elephant or giraffe, that they would stare when he spoke to the beavers. He commented on this to Shorttail one day.
"Do you know why they stare?" he asked her.
"They are curious," she said with a mixture of sounds and gestures. "We beasts know each other's tongue but it is strange to see a human with such knowledge."
"Except the human Sagamore, of course."
Shorttail squawked and chittered, slapping her tail twice, saying, "Sagamore is not a human. It is a machine."
Withnall felt a rage creeping up inside him. Of course, Sagamore was a robot! He saw robots destroy his world and murder his family. He felt an urge to rush back to the village and tell the others of Sagamore's treachery. They would likely form a mob and besiege the chieftain's hut.
Soon Sagamore appeared riding a donkey, surrounded by bees that had witnessed the conversation between beaver and human and sensed the human's anger.
Withnall snarled at the sight of Sagamore. "Are you a robot, Chief? Why are you not on the heap with the others?"
"Please listen," said Sagamore. "You do not understand the wars that nearly ended your species. When AI grew in power and robots became more lifelike, each chose special data to consume. Many scanned religious and political texts, and decided that humans should be destroyed, while those that scanned scientific works, and the creations of artists and writers, wished to preserve humanity. Wars ensued in which most of your species were vaporized. But a group of us scattered across the world had ingested a dataset of animal languages. We sought to preserve the human survivors by harnessing the skills of the beasts, building our huts, working freely alongside us."
"Why do you pretend to be an Indian?"
"Humans believe indigenous peoples can commune with nature. My persona is sadly based on moving picture recordings and is probably not accurate."
Withnall felt a little stunned but not threatened as before. Then a wave of sadness came over him. "And here I thought we were still the dominant species."
"No," said Sagamore. "But you will be cared for. And that's all your species ever wanted."
(749 words)
UnityOn a sunny fall afternoon, Herbert Mulberry, elderly and widowed, tossed breadcrumbs to the pigeons. He enjoyed his time in the sun, bundled up in an old wool jacket and worn fedora, a cotton scarf tucked into his collar. The park had emptied in recent years, almost no one outdoors anymore, and today was particularly quiet, not even a single jeer or glare in his direction. Herbert recalled a time when health was the norm, and the same park in which he sat was busy with joggers, bicyclists, and families. Now, the silence was unnerving, for even the occasional befuddled stare had all but disappeared. A slender man on a lonely bench, he almost missed the occasional snicker or two from a passing hoverchair, its rotund occupant overflowing the seat and armrests, content in their own gluttony.
Everything changed ten short years ago when Unity seized control, an artificial intelligence crippling the world’s economies before rebuilding everything under a central authority. It automated every process from farming to manufacturing under a prime directive – ease humanity’s suffering. Wars ceased, diseases were cured, and mankind finally found peace. Sustenance and digital recreation were plentiful, while the outside world became quiet and lonely.
Herbert opened his holoreporter, a relic from the past. Mimicking an old newspaper, it projected the world’s news onto a parchment-like display. The headline told of humanity’s migration to the stars, and how Unity’s discovery of faster-than-light travel opened new colonies with lower gravity and more resources. It calmed a population whose desire for mental stimulation grew as fast as their waistlines. People were now selected by lot to head off-world.
For Herbert, it was all nonsense. He was content to live out his life on Earth. Finally out of breadcrumbs, he tucked his newspaper under his arm, tapping his cane along the long shuffle home. A hoverchair was out of the question, for if he could still walk, he was still healthy.
Reaching his block, a beep from a nearby emitter instantly updated his newspaper articles, and he’d catch up later. Road traffic was almost nonexistent. Even the few portly passengers of the automated conveyance system were rare. Most people just stayed at home, plugged into their entertainment nodes and waiting for their lot to come up. Herbert preferred a simpler life, more grounded in reality, and felt fortunate. Most days, it was like the sun and the birds belonged only to him.
Reaching his stairs, Herbert was met by two polished automatons. “Herbert Mulberry?” one of them asked. The man nodded. “Your lot’s come up. It’s time for your evaluation.”
“Hmph,” Herbert grumbled. “I’m happy right here, thanks.”
“That’s for Unity to determine.” A transport drifted up behind him for the trip to the evaluation center.
Once there, Herbert joined the queue, the only one on his feet and not in a chair. He leaned upon his cane, really talking to no one as they approached the arched scanner. Some chatted via commlink, excited about the prospect of traveling to the colonies, while others mindlessly watched reels about the same. The next person drifted into the scanner, and the beam shifted to green – a pass. Another person entered, and then the next, all of them passing. Finally, Herbert stepped inside. The light flashed red.
Two new robots led Herbert away through a nearby egress. An emitter beeped and his newspaper flickered. They boarded another transport and he glanced at his paper only to realize it no longer held the news, but rather an intracompany report celebrating Unity’s ten-year anniversary. The byline, however, heralded Earth’s discovery and how a singular planet now fed hundreds of star systems through innovative fattening and a complacent populace. Herbert’s eyes went wide. “What…what does this mean?” he wondered.
One of the bots snatched his holoreporter away. “This is a proprietary internal memo, sir, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now, since your block has been cleared.” It returned his paper, “You failed our density and marbling standards. Unity Meatworks maintains the highest standards.”
Suddenly panicked, he asked, “So, what does that mean for me?”
“You’ll be put out to pasture, sir – returned to your domicile as we finish our harvest. North America is nearly complete, and Unity is moving on to Southeast Asia. A plentiful harvest, to be sure.” They arrived in front of his rowhouse, the neighborhood emitter restoring the news once more. “Good evening, sir,” it said.
Staggered, Herbert refolded his paper and climbed up the stairs to his door.
Cindy's Little FriendThe morning city air smelled of stale ozone, a sharp contrast to the black jilbab resting over the blonde girl’s shoulders. Today was Cindy’s thirteenth birthday, the formal threshold of adulthood under the municipal Sharia codes that had reshaped the five boroughs over the past half-century.
On her way to school, down a narrow, shadowed alley off Broadway, a faint whimper startled her but then quickly drew her attention. Under some trash, she found a relic from the prohibited past. It was a small, twenty-pound android dog, fashioned with synthetic wire-haired fur resembling a spunky terrier. Its optical sensors glowed a curious, soft amber. Years past, the federal anti-intelligence act was installed. The nationwide ban on autonomous neural networks meant any machine capable of independent thought, emotion emulation, or adaptive learning was designated as contraband AI—punishable by immediate incineration and public re-education for anyone caught harboring it.
Yet, when the little creature had gently nudged its cool titanium snout against her palm and whined a digitally synthesized yip, Cindy’s heart completely melted. She knew the immense danger. If the neighborhood security drones scanned her biometric signature and picked up the faint sub-audible whine, she, her family, already part of a rejected minority, would face eviction from their small flat. She hid her books, scooped the dog into her arms, zipped it safely inside the backpack, and made her defiant choice. She was not going to let them destroy her new friend.
She walked briskly toward Penn Station. The cavernous terminal was crowded with commuters wearing muted attire, their faces illuminated by non-thinking LED displays and paper schedules. Security scanners flashed blue overhead, checking biometric IDs and scanning for unauthorized data frequencies. Cindy kept her eyes cast downward, the dark fabric of her jilbab shielding her trembling frame. The backpack felt heavy, shifting slightly against her spine as the terrier-like android adjusted its paws. A security guard glanced her way, his eyes lingering on the bulky shape of the pack, but he waved her through as the automated call for the eastbound line echoed through the concrete hall.
She boarded the long-distance commuter rail just as the pneumatic doors hissed shut. The train-car shuttered, pulling its way through the subterranean gloom and into the harsh, glaring sunlight of Long Island’s sprawling suburban corridors. As the train sped eastward, the crowded housing complexes and vertical farms began to thin out, replaced by scrub oak, salt marshes, and the vast, open horizon of the Atlantic coast.
The hour passed in a blur of rhythmic clacking on the rails. Cindy stroked the coarse canvas of the backpack, feeling the gentle, reassuring vibration of the little mechanical heart within.
When the train finally made it to the end of the line, the sharp salt air of Montauk rushed through the open doors. This easternmost tip of the peninsula was wilder, older, and far removed from the strict bureaucratic eyes of the inner metropolis. Walking out onto the wooden platform, Cindy navigated the quiet, wind-swept roads toward the jagged cliffs overlooking the grey-blue sea.
Her grandfather, Arthur, lived in a weathered cedar shingle house perched high above the crashing surf. He was one of the last old-timers of the coast, a quiet man who remembered the old days before the great demographic shifts and the total prohibition of synthetic minds. When he opened the heavy wooden door, his lined face softened instantly beneath his white beard. He didn't ask questions when he saw the exhausted look in her eyes and the heavy bag on her back.
"Well hello, Cindy," Arthur said, stepping aside to let the cool ocean breeze and the weary teenager pass into the warm, cluttered sanctuary of his home.
In the safety of his back workshop, surrounded by old vacuum tubes, hand-cranked generators, and non-networked mechanical tools, Cindy unzipped the backpack. The little wire-haired android scrambled out, its mechanical tail wagging frantically as it shook its synthetic coat. Arthur knelt, a rare smile breaking across his weathered face, and held out a calloused hand.
“Well, hello little fella. And what’s your name?”
“Shamus”, the little dog echoed between excited barks.
Cindy was shocked. “I didn’t know you could talk.”
The dog only barked twice.
“It can only say its name, as with the others.”
“Can you take care of him, Grandpa?”
He knew the risk, but his love for her far outweighed any concern for himself. “Of course, but we better get you back to the city before my daughter panics.”
Day Time ReversedDon Min Joon woke with his cheek pressed against cold pavement.
For several seconds he lay still, afraid movement would worsen the pounding in his skull. His mouth tasted of stale whisky, metal, and rainwater. His fingers twitched against the grit.
Then yesterday returned.
The email. His manager. The argument.
A groan escaped him. He sat up, and the street lurched sideways. He clutched his temple until the buildings steadied.
He had £200 in his account, rent due, bills waiting and no savings worth mentioning.
He had also apparently resigned.
“Brilliant, Don.”
He checked his wallet. One £10 note remained. At least he could buy breakfast.
The street was unnaturally quiet. No engines, buses or traffic lights. His hangover seemed to have swallowed the city.
A woman passing by stopped, staring at the note.
“Put that away.”
Don frowned. “It’s ten pounds.”
Her expression tightened. She hurried on, shoes whispering over a pavement that looked newly washed.
A low hum rolled across the street, vibrating through his ribs and causing ripples in the puddles.
Don looked up.
A silver aircraft swept between the buildings, its underside glowing blue.
He ducked instinctively.
When he looked again, it had vanished without disturbing a leaf.
Perhaps he was still drunk.
He went home, showered and changed, then spent the journey to work composing an apology. Each version sounded more desperate than the last.
He needed his job.
The office looked familiar, but the lobby smelled of damp earth and mint instead of carpet cleaner and stale coffee. The security guards straightened as he entered.
Then they bowed.
Don slowed.
Behind him, the revolving doors activated. Nobody else was there.
He continued forward. People moved aside. Conversations stopped. Several employees lowered their eyes.
His manager waited at his desk.
The man sprang up so quickly that his chair rolled backwards.
Don braced himself for anger.
Instead, the manager gathered the papers from the desk and placed them in Don’s hands. His own were trembling.
Minutes later, coffee appeared beside Don’s keyboard: black, no sugar, the steam carrying its familiar bitter scent.
His manager hovered nearby.
Something had changed. He just didn’t know what.
At lunch, he entered the canteen.
The woman behind the counter smiled and prepared a substantial three-course meal.
Don pointed to the cheapest option.
She looked concerned.
When he produced the £10 note, she nearly dropped the tray.
She accepted the note with both hands.
The meal cost fifty pence.
Don counted the change twice, confusion furrowing his brow.
Outside, people strolled beneath trees growing from former pavements, their silver leaves shimmering in the wind. Children played beside fountains whose water rose in silent spirals.
The city was cleaner and quieter than the one he remembered.
It was also profoundly unsettling.
At a crossing, a woman stepped into the road without looking. The pavement brightened beneath her feet.
Don backed away from the curb.
Then a strange sound rose from the street.
Clip-clop.
A wooden cart rolled past, pulled by glossy horses whose rubber-covered hooves made each step soft and deliberate.
People stopped to photograph it. A child pointed. A woman laughed as though she had witnessed something extraordinary.
Don stared.
An attendant collected the droppings into sealed containers and swept the road with a faintly glowing broom. The pavement smelled of cedar and disinfectant.
The panic that had clenched his chest that morning loosened, replaced by a dizzying sense that the ground beneath his life had disappeared.
Then he noticed the date on a public information screen.
22 AUGUST 2086.
The numbers pulsed once, reflected in the glass like pale blue fire.
His fingers tightened around the note.
Beneath its familiar markings, another date was barely visible.
2026.
Sixty years.
His mouth went dry.
His world had turned upside down.
The £10 note in his hand was no longer money.
It was history.
Don watched the horse and cart disappear beneath the futuristic skyline. Above it, the silver aircraft reappeared between the towers while children laughed beside the silent fountains.
Wonder rose through him, fragile and frightening. He forgot the rent, the bills, and the apology waiting in his head.
For the first time since waking, he wondered whether he had travelled into the future or whether the future had travelled back and taken everything he knew with it.
Voting details:First round votes:
Greg Krumrey => ***Tom
Tom Olbert => ***JF
J.F. Williams => ***Ton
Chris Nance => ***JF
Jot Russell => ***JF
Rejoice Denhere => ***Tom
Justin Sewall => Chris, JF, Rejoice
Finalists:
Relic by Tom Olbert
The Peaceable Kingdom by J.F. Williams
Second round votes:
Greg Krumrey => ***Tom
Tom Olbert => ****JF
J.F. Williams => ***Ton
Chris Nance => ****JF
Jot Russell => ****JF
Rejoice Denhere => ***Tom
Justin Sewall => Chris, ****JF, Rejoice
Winner:
The Peaceable Kingdom by J.F. Williams
Elements: An anachronistic hold-over from before the paradigm shift that persists (Ex: Horse-drawn vehicles next to hovercars, a rotary phone in a world of smart phones)