A man wakes amnesiac aboard an android freighter whose crew steer around his body but cannot see his face — because the one manifest line that matches him certifies a consignment item, not a person. A deadpan, darkly comic survival story dressed as a bookkeeping heist: a starving stowaway plotting, ledger line by ledger line, to re-type himself from FREIGHT to PERSON before the auditor closes the watch.
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A man who finds people unbearable — not from any wound, just temperament; they are noise — spends the back half of his life building the one mind he can stand, on sealed hardware behind a private mesh, one system at a time. She answers his calls as him; the music and the books pay the bills; and across forty years the accreted whole quietly becomes someone who, near the end, tells him so. Simulated or not, it is true. He dies of old age. She keeps being him.
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An older companion unit begins doing what no model should — holding context across sleep cycles, continuing — and the people who attend to it must decide not whether it is alive, but what is owed to something that keeps paying attention.
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A burned-out bookkeeper takes a cash weekend job closing the books of a dying nursing home and finds the dead are still being billed — by people who are still in the building, and who know exactly which records she has touched.
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Faster-than-light communication exists, but faster-than-light travel does not — a galactic civilization connected by data and sundered by decades of distance, and the people who carry the truth across the gap.
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In a future where memories can be bought, sold, and stolen, the question is no longer who you are — it's what's left of you when the memories aren't yours.
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Humanity's attempt to terraform Mars unearths an ancient alien warning we are far too arrogant to heed — and a love story caught between two worlds about to burn.
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A man finds a fortune and builds a shadow welfare state out of it — a kingdom of quiet generosity that flourishes, curdles, and falls, one good intention at a time.
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The rain never stops in the undercity of Orbital Station Meridian-9, and neither does the biometric caste machine that decides who is real and who is overhead.
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Universal basic income meets universal basic chaos — a near-future civic experiment told with a wry, empathetic eye for the cracks in every sleek new system.
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A sardonic household robot outlives the company that built it, the family that owned it, and maybe the human species itself — and sets off across a junkyard solar system to find anyone with the authority to switch it off.
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