by Patricia Stewart | Jan 16, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Astronaut Lazo Hora drove his rover down the sloping interior walls of the 3.6 billion year old Shackleton Crater near the moon’s South Pole. As his headlights probed into the perpetual night of the crater floor, he spotted a saucer-like object in the distance. Hora raced toward the object and confirmed his wildest expectations, it was artificial. But it looked ancient; its surface eroded with millions of micrometeorite impacts. He climbed out of the rover and upholstered his isotope-ratio mass spectrometer and touched its sensor onto the surface of the object. The results had to be wrong. According to the readout, the object was more that 16.3 billion years old; billions of years older than the known universe.
Hora walked around the object and discovered an apparent hatch. When he pushed against it, it swung open. Cautiously, he entered. Seconds later, lights, with no apparent source, illuminated the interior. Across the room he saw four spacesuited humanoid bodies laying side-by-side on the floor. Each one was wearing a Goddard-class spacesuit exactly like his own, except they weren’t wearing helmets. Their desiccated faces were unrecognizable. As he took a few steps toward the bodies, he let go of the hatch, and it slammed closed. When he turned to look back, he noticed two things: There was no apparent way to open the hatch from the inside, and there was a fifth spacesuited individual sitting Indian style next to the hatch. This fifth dead individual, who was still wearing a helmet, was holding his suit’s recorder/transmitter in his lap. The transmitter was attached to wires emanating from an access panel along the floor. Hora picked up the transmitter and pressed the play button. He was shocked to hear his own voice speaking through his earpiece.
“Hello, Lazo Hora Number 6,” the voice announced. “I’m Lazo Hora Number 5. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but when you entered this damnable time machine, you signed your own death warrant. But don’t sulk too long, my brother, for we don’t have the luxury. Listen closely, for you only have a few hours of oxygen left, and there are things you need to do if Lazo Hora Number 7 is to survive. Let me explain. When Lazo Hora Number 1 first entered this death trap exactly as we all did, he was transported back in time three billion years. It happens automatically. It happened to all of us, and it just happened to you. Lazo Number 1 died of hypoxia trying to translate the alien controls in a futile attempt to return to our time. He failed. Three billion years later, Lazo Number 2 entered this sarcophagus, and was also sent back three billions years. He wasted his time beating on the hatch. Lazo Number 3 tried a new approach. He felt that if he could destroy the power source for the time saucer, the next Lazo Hora wouldn’t trigger the transport when he entered in another three billion years. He concluded the source was behind the port wall, but he couldn’t break through before he died. Three billion years later, Lazo Number 4 wasted too much time figuring out what was going on, so he decided to use his time to tap into this ship’s infinite power supply to leave the next us a recorded message on the plan. We don’t have any tools, so we’ve been using the helmets of the previous Lazos as hammers. I almost made it through this time. I’m really sorry that I couldn’t save your life, but it’s your job to save Lazo Number 7. Please, take my helmet and break through that damn bulkhead and short out the power supply, and put an end to this Godforsaken loop.”
by submission | Jan 15, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The members of the Galactic Security Council watched on the viewscreen as the bipedal alien in its bulky, white spacesuit erected a rod with a rectangle of cloth into the regolith of its planet’s satellite. The starred and striped flag, the computer noted, represented the planet’s predominant nation-state. The council members exchanged concerned glances.
“Am I to understand,” asked the violet-colored gelatinous being representing the Upsilon Andromedae star system, “that this is the same species that just a few years ago had yet to discover electricity and employed animals for transportation?”
As soon as the Upsilon Andromedaen’s gutteral language was translated for the various other council members, an insect-like creature from the Mu Arae system responded. “That’s correct. These aliens went from agriculturalism to industrialism to the beginnings of interplanetary travel in the shortest span of time ever observed.” The insectoid’s antennae moved in a pattern indicating astonishment, the dance of the appendages stirred the green chlorine atmosphere inside the Mu Araen’s sealed chamber.
“But this is fantastic!” exclaimed an aquatic council member representing the Zeta Reticuli system, its carapace involuntarily opacifying due to the creature’s excitement. Somewhat embarrassed, the being quickly composed itself, returned its carapace to a more dignified translucency, and went on: “We must move to admit these — what are they called? ‘humans’? — into the Galactic Security Council. They’ll be a galactic power within a few centuries. Better to start grooming them into a decent and responsible galactic civilization now.”
“But look at their history!” said the cyborg council member from Psi Serpentis whose organic components consisted of plant tissue. “They recently developed nuclear fission and then adapted the technology into a weapon. Two cities on their planet were devastated by fission bombs.”
“They created nuclear weapons?” asked the Tau Ceti representative. No other intelligent species in the Milky Way had ever conceived of such a thing, let alone done it. The squid-like creature added, “They must be contained. Or, failing that…” He let the sentence trail off.
A silence fell over the chamber. What could be done with these humans? Brilliant, but savage. Enlightened, but violent. Not other civilization had ever demonstrated such a paradoxical combination.
“We could dumb them down,” came a voice across the translators. It was the oldest council member, a shapeless field of high energy plasma from the HE 1523-0901 star system, who had spoken.
“You mean, make them mindless primitives?” asked the Mu Araen.
“Nothing so gross,” responded the flickering particle field. “Just imagine if we used nanomachines introduced into their brains to subtly blunt the human intellect. For example, what if their politicians became gradually inept, their business leaders incompetent, their art and entertainment coarse and tawdry. Nothing dramatic at first, just a nudge here and there.”
The council members considered the suggestion. A silicate being from Beta Canum Venaticorum asked, “How would we know if such a plan worked?”
“Industry would deteriorate. Economies would stagnate. Over time, their governments would become increasingly inefficient and malignant. Culture would become vapid and moronic. Rational thinking and commonsense would be impaired. Human expansion into space, the odd robotic probe or tiny planetside space station aside, would stall,” replied the plasma being. “They wouldn’t expand out any further than their moon. It’s conceivable they might even lose that capability.”
Ultimately, the Galactic Security Council implemented the suggestion of the old plasmatic from HE 1523-0901. They monitored Earth’s television and radio signals. They soon learned they’d succeeded beyond their wildest expectations and that the galaxy was quite safe from mankind.
by Duncan Shields | Jan 14, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
It started, as these things always do, with a kiss.
Advice is useless to the young. That is their curse and their strength. They have no idea that some of the things that they attempt are impossible. That’s why an alarmingly high percentage of them succeed.
Like Jonas Brigand, sitting in a cheap metal chair in a prison cube waiting room, starting at his watch, currently waiting for his girlfriend to get out of prison.
“Times are tough in the colonies” goes the song. Young men and women were subject to the same set of laws as the adults. With the ability to breed came responsibility. It was too harsh a world to even consider doing it otherwise.
Once society had been set up, once the terraforming tents were a memory and the world was green, the new generations would be fat and slow on the world that the hardpack settlers like Jonas Brigand and his girlfriend had made for them.
The scars on his hands stared mutely back at him. He was fourteen. His girl, Jayley Cordsmith, was sixteen. Her body was just as strong and scarred as his.
She was pulling six days for drunk and disorderly. Six days of pay gone. She have to work a month of doubles to get that back. She’d do it, too.
Jonas had the beginnings of a manbeard. His flat nose was the result of beatings from the ones that reared him and a life of never backing down.
Jayley had the short dreads of a hullpatcher and was missing a pinky on her left hand. Jonas thought of her working with her hammer belt in the hot sun. She’d be seventeen in Quadrember but he’d be sixteen two months earlier. For two months, they’d be the same age.
For two months, their drinking, mating, and eating privileges would be equal. They’d both have one ‘drop the charges’ card each to use as they saw fit. They could do anything that didn’t result in a loss of life or the damage of company property.
Jonas usually punched a supervisor. It was a popular choice.
Now Jonas wasn’t sure there would be any more cards or privileges for Jayley at all.
Jayley had decided that she was unhappy with the system and stopped going to work. They’d thrown her in the clink almost immediately.
Strike was a forbidden action. It couldn’t be tolerated. There were always one or two people that started the talk once the project neared completion but that was a decade off. Besides, Jayley loved to work.
The door at the end of the hall clicked and hissed. The hatchratchet spun and the door creaked open.
Jayley ran through. Jonas stood up and caught her in his arms.
She was missing a tooth and she had a black eye but her eyes shimmered with the usual angry light.
“We have to take them down, Jonas. We have to make this place ours.” She said.
They hadn’t even come close to breaking her.
Then she kissed him.
by submission | Jan 13, 2013 | Story |
Author : Katrina Johnston
Within the Caves of Lozac under jagged vaulted ceilings, Razie Tay ventures eastward. Explosions crack like gunshot. ‘Sharding’ echoes bounce. Razie adjusts her helmet, snugs it tightly. Razor stalactites loom high above and sharp. Mineral icicles cleave and report reverberations through the distant mother rock. Plunging daggers fall. Then, directly above her, a claw-like structure groans, detaches – rockets down. She ducks, hoping the helmet provides adequate deflection. Slivers of stone ricochet from her head, showering, falling before her face. If she is knocked cold here, death ensues. No rescue – none. She’s too far deep.
Globular udder-like formations encrust the walls. She pushes beyond rock portals, ignores the wet. She skitters over protruding remnants of razed stalagmites, chunks left-over after pulverization by the Steckman robotic grinder. Mineral-rich liquids bounce like hail. She scrapes by a dripping barricade, enters the saturated open space and stands to her Limited height, reaching inside the Royal Chamber.
“Best chance,” she says. “No one dares to gash this deep. I claim.”
Earlier, at crimson dawn, her overseer, the normal-sized Prasha Dah, had gathered his band of LImited for the morning’s instructions. He chanted as was custom. “The time of leniency is finished,” he sang in monotone. “Failure means you’re finished. Look, understand: Five craiguns by shift-side nigh. Obligation. I follow the Dealers and the Traders. If you fail, my little dollies, you will be traded to another hextant where you could better serve. Or, you could be ….” He stopped.
“Exterminated,” Razie said.” Silence brooded. No one sang.
Pasha stroked his long red beard and towered over them. He saluted to mark his finish. “Chom!” He said. “Back to work.” He slipped away.
A young neophyte, a Limited named Falia Dos, tapped Razie on the shoulder. “Well, what do you think of that old sola?” she said. “He’s Mr. tall and nasty. Spreads his chant like sooth.”
Razie shrugged away. ”Leave off! Don’t bother me.”
Inside the Royal Chamber, Razie stretches to her Limited height, one meter – the standard genetic modification for her kind – all she’s ever known. In here, she wishes she were normal-sized; the ceiling spreads thick and unreachable at the apex, presenting a forest of razors. “The craigun-clusters will prosper here,” she says. “Rife – a whole stone family.” Sulphuric gases roil. She gags, then spits.
A ‘Limited.’ She speaks again: “Owned and enslaved by the overseer. I’m forced to mine within the caves where the normal-sized won’t dare.”
She’s estimates the magnitude of her gash, lifting her oversized and freakishly strong hands. She assigns the standard grid, employs the methodology to locate the lumps of calcium carbonate known as craiguns that cluster like cancerous rock nodules amongst the sharpest stalactites. Inside each nodule, a rare gem – Kalide. Mysterious and not yet understood, Kalide is the reason for her presence. Gemstone or drug of choice? Elaborate debates ensue. Razie decides she doesn’t give a damn.
She locks her fingers onto a craigun and yanks it free.
by submission | Jan 12, 2013 | Story |
Author : Ray Daley
It’d been a great day in Red Zone. We’d been first to apply for passes since it was classified safe.
800 years is a long time. Even then, it was ‘droids doing the rad sweeps. Residuals had dropped below the safe limit so The Council lifted the blockade. When we reached the barricade, troopers were waiting to process those crazy enough to want to be first to enter Red Zone.
“Okay Citizens. You signed waivers so you know the risks. Laws of Salvage apply within Red Zone but everything returning through this checkpoint will be scrutinized. It will be manned until 23:59 when it will close until 06:00 tomorrow. Science Division highly advises not staying after dark.”
As the timer above the checkpoint rolled over to 06:00 the troopers opened the barrier and started checking the groups through.
Rule #1: You may only enter Red Zone in a group of two or more.
“Here’s your detector, Citizen.”
Rule #2: Rad detectors must be worn in plain sight at all times.
We walked the mile into the outskirts of the old city. The more cautious carried hand detectors which remained silent. I felt safe enough, my research had trawled up a few useful points from some of the oldest databases. Most thought the old dirty Nukes had been used in the Conflict. My findings said otherwise. Red Zones environs had been hit by what they used to call “Smart Bombs”, weapons that killed people but left buildings and infrastructure intact.
They had minimal fallout and the shortest half-life of any bomb. The danger had been gone for well over 700 years. Ignorance and fear kept Red Zone closed. That and propaganda.
We left the group, heading down a side alley off the main streets. We’d found a few maps so had some points of reference. Most of the people we left behind hung around for up to an hour. They were lookey-loos, just there to say they had been.
Some snagged small souvenirs, we were here for bigger game.
Just before noon when we found what we were looking for, the building clearly marked, its function carved into the stone facing. We knew we didn’t have long to gather much, the journey back to the checkpoint would take us as long to do and we didn’t want to be stuck in here overnight.
There was no specific target in here, everything was equally important. I filled my bag and started on a second when the voice behind me reminded me “We can only carry one bag each.” Jax, dependable and logical.
“Attention! Five minute warning!” I’d programmed the chrono as our only safeguard.
“Jax, time to go!” I called to him.
“I only half filled the bag!” he replied.
I threw him the second bag I’d started, hoping what he’d gathered plus my enthusiasm would equal the Salvage limit.
We were running now, back through Red Zone. No time to enjoy the beautiful old architecture. We ran hard for the first hour then had to slow to a fast walk, all the time keeping to the reverse of our outbound route.
Our headlamps lit the way through the last few dark blocks, the checkpoint visible in the distance. Another hard run to beat the clock.
The troopers scanned us, checking the bags. “At weight.”
We’d keep our booty.
“Open the bag”. Time to see if our risk had been worth it.
“Anything on the forbidden list? What are these?” asked the Trooper.
“Just books.” I said.
“Never heard of them. Salvage passed.” replied the Trooper.
Treasure. And more waiting.
