by submission | Nov 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Curtis Brown
“What was that?” The Sheriff turned his head to one of his deputies after they heard a low rumble somewhere outside.
“Deputy, go check that out, I will handle this.” The Sheriff turned his head back to his prize: a short young man with a burnt-orange full length trench coat, spiked brown hair, and a pair of black goggles on his forehead. He sat across from the Sheriff in the tiny bright interrogation room with a little smirk on his face, and checked his watch.
“What, you got plans, kid? No, you don’t. Not anymore.” The Sheriff went on, smugly. “Stowing away on an interplanetary transport is one thing, but the Federation of Space Faring Nations does not tolerate theft aboard its ships.”
The Sheriff thought he hid his excitement well. On this space station, there was never this kind of action. He would hold the kid captive here, along with the evidence, to await the FSFN Marshals while the transport went on to its destination. The Sheriff would get a bonus for sure for his assistance in this, and if he got the kid to talk and spill something else, maybe even a promotion. The kid made it too easy. He still had that stupid smirk on his face. He would have almost felt sorry if it wasn’t for that smirk.
“You never had a chance kid. Even if you successfully grabbed the nano-processors there was no way off the transport. What were you thinking?” The Sheriff asked, probing for information.
“I was thinking, Sheriff, that it would be much easier to retrieve the nano-processors out of the evidence hold on a two-bit space station than off of a federal transport.” The kid stood up.
BOOM!
They heard a small explosion, seemingly just down the hall. The kids smirk turned into a full fledged smile, and the Sheriff stood up to face the kid.
“What was that? Where do you think you are going?” The Sheriff asked as the kid stepped towards the door,now confused and angry.
“That, my very perceptive Sheriff, is my ride. I’m leaving this piece of junk you call a space station.” The kid responded. The Sheriff was not pleased, but he heard the door open and was relieved.
“Deputy, cuff this kid, and take him to a cell.” The Sheriff commanded confidently.
“Excuse me?” Asked a rough voice.
The Sheriff turned toward the door and saw a portly man, dressed similarly to the kid, except balding and without goggles. The Sheriff did not know what to say.
“Its about time, Finley. You’re late. This guy almost cracked me.” The kid said as he pointed to his watch.
“The transport lingered. Come, the others have the cargo, lets go kid.” Finley lifted a pistol to the Sheriff’s face and smiled. “I trust you won’t mind letting our friend here go? Good, thats what I thought.”
The kid and Finley left the room. The Sheriff stood dumbfounded, and the only thing he could say, to no one in particular, was, “Well, there goes my bonus.”
by submission | Nov 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
The day’s outlook was bright as my father woke me up with a smile on his facing, saying that it was finally time to visit the holy city. So it was that we hastily underwent our morning rhythm with a great deal of fevered haste. We, my father and I, boarded the luxurious royal train replete with yellow carpet and finely crafted oak furniture emblazoned with crushed velvet. Everything was decorated with faint translucency, almost as if nearly invisible substructures sat underneath the surface of every material on the immaculate train. It was a wonder to behold, a creation of the church’s most revered officials.
There were others on the train, taking the same pilgrimage as us. Like me, they were children accompanied by their white-clad parents. An odd pall of worry had settled over a few of the church officials that patrolled the train’s various cars. I, however, was excited for the prospect of finally beholding the glorious splendor of this legendary city that had been put on a pedestal of perfection for my whole life. Others had told me it was as if a segment of heaven had descended down to bless the scorched human reality below. The city shimmered gold as its rich banners snapped in the cold, infectious wind.
I gazed to my side, looking out the window and at the field of decay beyond. The train cut a clean path through the tract of ruined vegetation, leaving a billowing trail of searing heat in its wake. We passed by partially melted deserts, calcified remains of sea creatures from an evaporated ocean, and great prairies dotted with massive impact craters. Tooth-like metal structure jutted out of the purpled ground, too geometric to be natural but too marred to be recognizable. It too was a wonder to behold.
The voyage was progressing as it did everyday for a different set of inductees, but something was wrong. The firmament wasn’t obscured by the haze of smog that plagued the world. The sky was clear, sharp, and tinged with natural color. I marveled up at the wide plain of blue that seemed to bubble and swirl with life. Puffy wisps of radioactive material roiled as they dissipated into nothingness.
My father leaned over my seat and glanced out the window, his expression a mask of fear and confusion. A sharp cry echoed through the train as the lead engineer slammed on the brakes. The unpleasant noise of metal grating on metal sent tremors of discomfort through the bright-eyed pilgrims. Something odd was happening.
The train system was broken from its endless routine as the massive chugging machinery of the church faltered in response to the looming anomaly that descended from the heavens to meet the cowering people below. I covered my ears as a side door opened, letting in a rush of sickeningly clean air. Never before had I breathed such purity so deeply. My lungs were unfamiliar with the untainted oxygen, causing me to cough violently as my troubled father rose to his feet.
Gradually, we funneled out of the train and onto the landscape beyond. This marked the first time I had stepped foot in a realm not constructed by man. The ground was soft and flexile, almost as if it had been assembled by the almighty hand of randomness instead of the cold calculation of the church’s machine efficiency.
My father gripped my shoulders and tried to push me back into the train as we heard the voice rumble across the terrain and permeate our very psyches. I resisted, knowing that this was important. This was what we had been waiting for. The church officials collapsed to the ground in reverence, smelling the sweet rot of the irradiated landscape as the fresh air released its toxins into the burning atmosphere.
The other children and I remained standing, gazing up into the lacerated firmament where he reached down from his holy realm. For the first time, our eyes truly opened and we saw the being that our whole lives had been devoted to. The church cried out in terror as their synthetic prophet manifested into reality, breaking their widespread reign of endless paranoid prayer.
by Clint Wilson | Nov 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Flaktar entered the great senate hall dressed in his Fuztonian best. His entourage followed close behind, their own attire mimicking yet not exceeding his outfit’s grandeur. His fat grey slimy head stuck out from his tight collar, which was decorated with a series of interwoven squares and triangles. The same pattern ran down in stripes on the sides of his cloak. On his forehead was fastened the glorious gold star, a flat three pointed symbol of utmost importance in their culture, designed by one of their planet’s greatest artists. It signified his wealth and station. He trotted forward in his squishy brown boots, each adorned with more squares and triangles. His entourage squished along behind him in their own fancy, yet slightly less decorated, footwear.
Suddenly the diplomatic envoy from the recently accepted and assimilated planet, Earth entered the hall from behind them and with great fanfare. The Fuztonians spun around to see the humans approaching fast. The Earthlings all wore wide smiles. Not one of the grey headed aliens from Fuztone could speak a word. They had never seen such art as this.
The entire senate hall buzzed with excitement as dozens of species marvelled at the appearance of the human race. Until now the Fuztonians had been the most artistically creative beings known to the galactic collective. Until now.
The twelve representatives of humankind were only adorned in their own latest fashion, and might only be defined back on Earth as being dressed “business contemporary” at best.
The leader stepped forward, her intricately decorated red leather suit shining and creaking as she moved, the silver zippers and clasps tinkling lightly like beautiful gossamer chains. Around her half meter tall snow white mohawk her tanned head and face were covered in a maze of beautifully tattooed filagree. She extended a tanned and gloriously tattooed hand in greeting, every finger adorned with a heavily decorated ring. As she spoke in galactic common her voice was like music.
“The people of Earth thank you for accepting us into your collective. Please join us at the bar for a drink.”
Behind her the other humans stepped forward, all of them as beautifully adorned and garishly decorated as their spokesperson. They all held forward heavily tattooed and ring fingered hands in friendly greeting.
Slowly the fat grey Fuztonians shrugged their wide shoulders and began squishing along beside their beautiful hosts. They would go to the bar and drink with these amazing beings. And as they made their way, bringing up the rear, one Fuztonian turned to another and whispered, “It is apparent that we are no longer the masters of the galaxy.”
by submission | Nov 27, 2014 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
“So anyway, do you want to go out Saturday night?”
I asked the question abruptly, after an uncomfortable amount of small talk. Stacey’s eyes darted away from my own, looking across the park where we’d agreed to meet. I told her I just wanted to discuss our latest exam, but she saw right through me. Together, we’d endured the awkward conversation, the unbearably plutonic walk along the garden trail, and now the lingering silence that followed the true reason for our meeting. She would say no. I knew she would say no. I was prepared for it. And still it stung.
“No,” she said, offering little explanation. The answer was direct and blunt.
“Okay,” I said, sighing despite myself. I was prepared for this. “I’ll just try again tomorrow.”
“Really, John?” Stacey asked, watching as I pulled a small device my pocket.
“Really,” I said, pressing the large button in the center of the device. As soon as I pressed the button, her beautiful face faded from my sight, the sunlight went dim, and I felt a falling sensation as I awoke in my bed once again. It was 6:00 am, the same morning, and now I had a second chance at asking her out. I whistled along each step of my morning routine, readying myself for tackling the day once again. I showered. I shaved. I took extra care of my appearance, making some minute changes from the day before, wondering what would increase the odds of Stacey saying yes to a date.
As I slipped out the door a few hours later, on my way to the park where we were scheduled to meet, I picked the device up off the coffee table and read the meter on the back.
3-6-4, it read. Three hundred, sixty-four more attempts.
My second attempt went just as badly as the first. I fumbled through the same conversation again, trying entirely too hard to be likable and charming. In the end, she said no even faster than she had the day before. But, as the days stretched on and the numbers on the back of the dial ticked down, my performance with Stacey slowly improved. At day 3-2-5, she actually took some time to think before telling me no. At day 2-9-4, she actually managed to offer an excuse, rather than deny me outright. But it wasn’t until day 2-4-1 that I had a breakthrough.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, and inside I cheered. I waited all day by the phone, but she never called. I eyed the device at my side warily. If she didn’t say yes before the original 24 hours were up, the device would be useless, and it had taken me two years to save up to buy this one. What if she said no? After over an hour of internal argument, I finally snatched the device from my bedside and slammed my finger on the reset button. I proceeded to completely botch the next eight days’ worth of attempts, simply trying to recapture the magic of 2-4-1.
Finally, after over 150 attempts, I started to relax. I took the time to get to know her, to do research, to learn about who she was. This is what girls really wanted in the first place, if you believe what the movies say. On day 1-6-9 I learned about how her father had passed, leaving her family a small fortune. I didn’t quite care about the fortune so much as the emotional damage. Perhaps she was afraid to get close to anyone? On day 1-1-2, I learned about how she’d broken her arm as a girl, and how the pain reminded her of how her father used to mend her every bump and bruise. Finally, on day 6-8, she told me exactly what kind of guy she wanted to marry, feeding me exactly the information I would need to make the next two months of attempts worthwhile. Getting her to open up like this took time and patience, and I only had a handful of weeks to go.
Eventually, I dwindled myself down to the last week. My research was done. I knew her better than anyone I’d known in my entire life. I loved her, I truly did. I left myself the week to just enjoy her company, knowing I could make her say yes. Knowing that she would love me back.
When day zero finally arrived, I performed my role perfectly. It had become who I was. I spoke just the right words, said just the right things. I brought her flowers, which she found bold. I professed my affection, which showed honesty. I talked about my life and asked her to share nothing in return. I knew it all already, and I knew she found my earlier days’ pressings too invasive. I’d have all the time in the world relearn about her life.
When at last the day was done, and I asked her the question I’d been meaning to ask, there was only one thing she could say.
“Yes,” she said, and my heart skipped a thousand beats. I beamed at her, and my hand went instinctively to the device in my pocket. It had done so much for me, I wished I could give it some kind of thanks. But then Stacey’s eyes caught my own, they darted from my face to the hand in my pocket. “Did you…?” she asked.
The guilt was already on my face. She knew.
“I’m sorry, John,” she said, pulling a duplicate, all too familiar device from her pocket. “But I have to know if this was real.”
“No!” was all I could say before my vision faded, and I disappeared into nothingness, a remnant of a lost time.
by submission | Nov 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
Bruen looked out the viewport into nothing but darkness. Utter, barren blackness.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
Behind him, a voice said: “Watch this.”
Slowly, the lights in the room faded out. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of the room and he turned once again to the blackness of the void ahead. A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped.
“Sorry,” Amos Galton said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not afraid,” Bruen said.
Galton chuckled. “I know,” he said. “You wouldn’t have volunteered for this mission if you were.” Bruen barely saw a hand reach out and point. “Look over there,” Galton said.
Bruen looked….and he saw. In the distance, less than the size of a credit chip, he saw light.
“That’s the Andromeda galaxy,” Galton said. “That’s where you are going.”
I know,” he replied. “Do you think we’ll make it?”
Galton nodded. “We’re humans,” he said. “We persevere. We’ll make it, all right.” He grinned. “In a hundred years or so, that is.”
Bruen looked out the portal and spied the distant, alien galaxy. The message had been received two years ago. A strange, alien transmission of intelligent origin foretelling of their sun’s imminent death. Scientists were still deciphering the message, but what they had deciphered already told them of a civilization not unlike man. It was a cry for help from a dying civilization, and Bruen’s was to be a part of the rescue team.
“We’ll be dead before we get there,” Bruen said.
“Yup,” said Ganton. “Dead and given a burial in the cold, hard void of intergalactic space. But, our ancestors will make it. They’ll make it there and they’ll help that race whose sun is going supernova. They’re damn lucky we received their message when we did, you know?’
He knew.
“Maybe someone will get to them first?”
“And maybe they won’t,” replied Ganton. “Nothing’s assured in this life, my friend….except death and the tax man.”
He smiled again.
“Won’t be a tax man where we’re going,” Bruen said.
“Nope….and that’s as good a reason to go on this adventure as any,” he said as he reached over and turned the light on again.
Bruen’s eyes adjusted to the new light. He shook his head to ward off the darkness.
Ganton let out a chuckle. He patted Bruen on the back and said: “Have another drink, but do it quickly. We leave for Andromeda in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” Bruen said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” replied Ganton. “Where we’re going, a lot of things are going to change.”
He smiled again, nodded courteously, then turned and walked out of the spaceport bar.
Bruen turned back and looked at the portal. With the lights on, he could see nothing. Everyone else was already onboard ship, working like a colony of ants to make the void ship ready. His mission to navigate them across the great black void was forthcoming.
He ordered another drink.
He did not hear the hydraulic door hiss open and was startled when a familiar voice said, “you ready?”
He turned and looked into Commander Tori Ennis’s beautiful blue eyes. They are a galaxy unto themselves, he thought.
She smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She let out a soft laugh and smiled wider. “Then come along, sailor,” she said. “We’ve got a galaxy to cross.”
He downed the last of his drink and, as they walked away, he hoped that Tori would be his mate for this long, lonely voyage, and that their children would complete their mission.
