by submission | May 29, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Looking through the illuminated magnifier, Herbert soldered the finishing touches to the miniature mechanical bee. He carried it to the garden where his young son, Drew, waited.
“It looks too little to accomplish anything,” his son commented.
His father sighed. “Once we had organic bees. Real bees to pollinate flowers. Thanks to—well, we’re not sure if it was over-use of pesticides, or herbicides, or the vagaries of climate change here on Earth, or a combination of factors—the little creatures died off.”
Herbert opened his palm and raised his hand up towards the sun. “I created this little worker,” he continued, “for pollinating.”
“I thought people pollinated flowers by hand,” Drew countered. “I’ve seen old pictures of farmers with paint-brushes, and—”
“My bees,” his father interrupted, “are also self-replicating. This single bee in my hand will make four to six more before the season is over. So in our little garden, we only need to use one. They’re quite the labor-saving drones.”
“If they work as well as I think they will,” Herbert continued, “then we’ll use them in the last phase of terraforming a new world. Something you’ll see in your lifetime.” Herbert then added to himself, but not in mine.
Now warmed and solar-powered, the bee stirred and quickly flew away towards the squash blossoms in the family garden.
“Goes to work right away,” Herbert laughed softly. “Unlike my son.” He affectionately slapped Drew on the shoulder. “Now get in the house and start your chores.”
* * *
One Martian sunrise decades later, an adult Drew zipped up his jumpsuit and strolled outside. The air was thinner than Earth’s, but serviceable and getting better. The terraforming project was coming along as well as hoped, and had now entered the final stage.
He made his way up the ridge on the edge of the colony to look over the vast field before him. An explosion of color greeted him: various shades of blue, yellow, and pink, dappled with spots of white.
As Drew walked into the field of wild flowers dozens of tiny humming mechanical bees swarmed about him. He laughed and waved them away. They went back to work as he picked enough flowers to build two bouquets. One he would leave beneath the engraved brass plaque naming the field after his father. The other for his pregnant wife.
by submission | May 28, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Carter travelled to the end of the line purely by accident. After drinking with friends he had fallen asleep on the last train. He awoke in the early hours of the morning, cocooned in his overcoat. The lighting in the carriage had dropped to an energy saving low level, but thankfully when he hit the button the doors slid open.
As he stepped onto the platform Carter could tell instantly that something was different. As he walked along he tried to make sense of the place he had suddenly become a part of. Carter struggled to find a word with which to describe it and the best he could manage was an ‘approximation’. It was, he decided, an approximation, and for the first time in years Carter realised that he felt unburdened and light on his feet. He imagined he was an extra on a film set being filmed from above, a series of long shots, necessary to drive the narrative but not really important to it.
When he reached the Station House, Carter spotted a vending machine standing in front of the chain link fence. As he moved closer, he noticed there was no key pad or coin slot and he suspected there weren’t any drinks or snacks inside the machine. Surprisingly he wasn’t hungry or thirsty and did not have the expected hangover.
For the first time Carter glanced up at the sign above the Ticket Booth and again he was baffled. It was merely a jumble of letters thrown together haphazardly and was indecipherable. Carter turned his attention to the posters on the walls and the maps and information on the notice boards, and all of it was gobbledygook and not intended to be read, for someone to stand up close and study it. Carter couldn’t help himself and started to laugh. He sat on one of the benches, facing the line and, gazing up at the sky, Carter thought about those who were watching. Carter supposed he was little more than a speck to them and wondered what, if anything, they could learn from him? What would they determine? Was his behaviour typical? Had the others also lingered, reluctant to leave?
Eventually Carter stood and moved across the platform and when he pushed against the barrier it began to move but he wasn’t ready to leave, not just yet. Carter intended to stay for as long as it was possible.
by submission | May 27, 2026 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
You can practically hear the metal creaking, the knocking of lost air-locks and forgotten corridors, as you pass through the graveyard. It’s the Cemetery; replete with hulks, a collection of battle-blasted wrecked vehicles on the dull edge of the nebula. People have conflicting accounts of whether it was a battlefield or simply a place that different authorities agreed to dump the dreadnoughts they didn’t want to keep. Perhaps ships that flew under different flags simply wound-up here, lost, or maybe they were lured here, killed together by some frightening and unknown power. I venture no comment; other than I find it inherently uncomfortable.
Now, our last salvage run— it was different.
Usually we go to places all the salvagers, rust-pickers, and artefact-hunters collectively agree are safe enough. The Cemetery is so far away, and so unsettling, that it’s considered bizarre if not insane to journey there. My captain— I’m her navigator— was paid a substantial sum by a peculiar trio to take them there, and to look for something specific. A ship with a white underside with decompression damage. Its shape, if intact enough for one, was that of a cigar tube. We murmured when she told us, and all felt the same cold shudders, but it was too tempting to decline.
We were up on the deck, a little bulbous tear on top of the vessel, the passengers practically touching the glass. So many shattered bodies hung in the space around us, huge torn pieces of metal jaggedly hanging in the void. Perhaps there were bodies still in some of the craft. By now they’d be husks, entombed in this uncanny flotsam. There’s something about it, species irrelevant, a forcible imagining of ghost-breath and inexplicable activity.
The trio were, as I said, interesting. An old fellow, bent and gnarled with age, gazed out from his tinted mask. I think he must have been a Gosporan, unable to breathe anything other than his planet’s heavy atmosphere, unless mediated through such a respirator. We’d warred with them before. A tall, upright Human had a sad but proud expression, and his clothes spoke of military service, real wool. He seemed adrift with thought. Then the young Human, who’d clearly seen her fair share of space travel. A scar on her neck, a glint in her eye. She held a satchel with her. We gave them space, not out of dislike, but of some unspoken respect or sympathy.
Suddenly, I saw it— a pale glint from between two massive cruisers, the damaged cigar-shaped vessel. I gave a cry, and rang the bell. My captain turned to the three, who nodded. The military man wiped a tear, and the young woman was flushed burgundy. The old Gosporan seemed awestruck. As we neared the devastated craft, the young star-traveller took something wrapped in silk out from the satchel, and placed it into our jettison tube. I pressed the button, and out from it shot, unwrapped in the void, a wreath of flowers. It made contact with the vessel, and lodged there through an attached magnet.
The Gosporan turned to me, and said in his deep rumble:
“They tried to warn our two peoples, and then tried to save both cruisers when disaster struck. They stayed to give each sailor aboard a chance. Their sacrifice brought the wars to an end. I served on the left, my friend on the right. Her father was a young man who refused to evacuate on the third, our saviour-ship. This is our memorial.”
Suddenly the universe seemed so small, the wrecks glittered. The creaking now had a mournful edge.
by submission | May 26, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Say you run into the creature from the Black Lagoon in a Costco parking lot on a bright sunny afternoon. The creature is just sitting by a massive tangle of blackberry surrounding a brackish drainage pond.
I mean, it’s still the scaly fish-faced, web-hand-and-toed biped meant to scare 1950s movie theater audiences, but it’s just sitting by the curb where your car is parked, looking like it might try to bum a few bucks off you.
Do you sprint screaming back into the store?
Or pull out two cans of Bodhisattva IPA from the case in your shopping cart and offer one to your down-and-out fellow creature?
Even twelve-year-old me knew that answer when I saw “Creature from the Black Lagoon” for the first time. The 1954 horror film was intended to foster fear of the primal unknown and its monstrous threats. Instead, it made me want to explore the densest jungles and dark backwaters to learn about life we had no idea existed.
You see, I don’t think the studio executives who signed off on that 3-D monster movie could ever have imagined it would help save our planet. But it did.
Because a kid like me was more interested in sharing a beer with a freak of nature than shooting it. Before the term was ever coined, I became a self-taught xenologist, searching for and studying life forms seemingly so alien that few believed they could or should arise on earth. I began to study extremophiles: creatures that find ways to thrive in the harshest environments: molten heat, arctic cold, toxic waste, dire radiation, etc.
And I found that I wasn’t alone. From microscopic one-celled protists like solarion arienae to towering 400 million-year-old prototaxite fungal fossils, more and more researchers were documenting thousands of new species each year in biology labs, in crusty museum collections, and in the field. I did my part. I went to earth’s far corners. I collected. I classified. I catalogued.
I collapsed.
It was too much for too few. I lost my breath in the frantic race to identify and preserve species before they were lost, before we could even understand what we were losing, when the total number of species and their potential benefits on our planet is poorly known.
So poorly known.
And I should know. Because, when I broke down, I had a breakthrough. I’d retreated to a little used research cabin deep in the North Cascades to hole up, hibernate and rejuvenate. As autumn turned to winter, as the cold and snow took hold, the routine of rugged living became restorative. Then it became a revelation.
One clear, crisp morning when foraging through an outer storage shed that had been half crushed by a fallen tree, I didn’t quite find the creature from the black lagoon sitting there (though maybe a very very distant relative) feasting on the detritus of the shed’s abundant plastic storage containers. It looked to be a kind of lichen, a colony of cyanobacteria I’d never encountered before.
And it was flourishing. Not just on the piles of plastic it was munching and mulching, but even old gear waterproofed with PFAS forever chemicals were on its diet. It didn’t take long for me and colleagues I shared the discovery with to understand the implications of a microorganism that could consume plastics and PFAS in almost any climate or condition. With a nod to the film that started me on my journey to know what was poorly known, I named the discovery obscurus lacuna.
It’s been a game changer for ridding our environment of persistent waste and toxins. And it’s made me hopeful. Hopeful that we’re finally learning how much richer our world is when our knowledge of it is not so poor.
by submission | May 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
What a time to be alive!
Count Nicolas, as he’d been known for a while now, exited the flitter the way he did everything: elegantly. A casual wave, and the vehicle gullwinged closed behind him, taking itself off to a loiterzone as he walked away. The great thing about modern technology, he mused, was that servants were unnecessary, but he still didn’t have to expend any effort on the little conveniences he appreciated – there were machines and automatons for everything!
Standing at the grand entrance to Founders’ Hall, he smiled in anticipation. Melissa Azikiwe, head of the City Council’s opposition bloc, would attend tonight’s Civic Ball, and he planned to use the occasion to take their relationship to the next level. This one was special; she made him feel young again – which given his actual age was quite the achievement. And she was quite unlike the vast majority of the herd, who were thoroughly predictable, and therefore boring.
But how the world had changed! Rejuvenation treatments were accessible to even the lower classes, and it was unlikely anyone would be curious about his persistently youthful good looks, however long they’d known him. And if the uncouth asked where he had his work done, he could simply maintain the discreet silence expected of a gentleman, and cut them dead socially should they cross paths again.
During his lifetime, body modifications had come in and out of fashion, too, and while he presently had no need to hide physical oddities like his long canines, he appreciated the enhancements available to a man of means. His emerald eye lenses, for example, were not only fashionable, but fed him information on the body temperatures of those nearby – handy when adaptive makeup could otherwise hide those sudden, telltale flushes.
She’d evidently been waiting for him, as he was hardly inside when stepped up and slipped her arm through his.
“My dear Melissa, are we going public?” he murmured.
“Absolutely,” she smiled back. And going on tiptoe to bring her mouth close to his ear, whispered, “I know what you are.”
He wasn’t often caught by surprise, but his step nearly faltered. “Do you?” he replied calmly.
“Oh Nicolas, yes. At university, I took a minor in anthropology, with a focus on Eastern European folklore. Just for fun. So I do know the signs.”
“I see.” They walked on through the fashionable crowd, making polite nods as they went. “And you aren’t afraid?” he asked softly.
“I know what I want. It’s why I’m a politician. And I very definitely want you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a very attractive man, and I’m sure you’re very skilled after all this time. Very animal of me, I know. But I don’t want you just to turn me on tonight, I want you to turn me. Imagine all that we could achieve together; we could this make this city ours. Forever.” Her eyes sparkled.
“You know you’re taking a risk. I could just turn on you.”
“But you won’t. Because we go well together. Because I can help you hide your true nature in a world where the State knows almost everything already, and will soon know more. Because I think you’d enjoy a new challenge. But most of all… because it would be fun!”
He looked down at her in astonishment, and she laughed prettily. “Am I wrong?”
“No. No you are not.” It really was a chance worth taking, so he smiled back, and with mutual understanding they stepped out to face the long, long future together. What a time to be alive, indeed.
