by submission | Oct 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“What you mean, we can’t land?” The Captain looked about, bewildered.
The flatscreens and yellowing presskeys of the Pilgrim’s bridge were from a bygone age. People stepped forward one at a time, shy, yet proud of their empty titles. Shaking hands seemed to be important. This one called herself Captain. The man with hair on his face was the Navigator.
Seven wouldn’t have trusted them to operate a toaster. No one apologised for the smell. As if the walls of the slowboat reeked of failure.
They stared open-mouthed at Nike.
The Chief Engineer took Nike’s polyalloy hand, supple and shiny as water. “It’s warm!” he exclaimed.
Introductions had caused confusion, because Nike and Seven had exchanged names, an affectation once, but increasingly common with mixed-sentience couples. Her mother had chosen the name Nike in a sponsorship deal. Seven’s serial number ended in that digit.
Nike had explained about the planet below, how its unique lifeforms were copyrighted by SolarPharm. There had been consternation when told they could not land.
“But what can we do?” pleaded the Captain.
Nike shrugged, a complex liquid ripple. It had been practicing its gestures to please Seven. “We’re here to decide that.” They had bought sole access rights to the Pilgrim, hoping for a quick profit.
Seven brushed at her nose. It was the recycling. At launch, no one could have known how Pilgrim would fare; it should have been called Long Shot. There must be organisations interested in this centuries-long experiment with closed-loop living and its effects on those trapped inside. She pinged off circulars.
“What about rituals?” Nike consulted a virtual checklist. “You still practice democracy.” There was no market for watching people queue up to vote. “Does it ever get violent?”
This was something the couple disagreed about. Seven didn’t think tourism was a solution. There was the smell, and frankly, they were unattractive yokels with depressing lives. This moment in the spotlight needed to be seized by the throat. Maybe a gritty virtuality about their voyage, each episode, a crisis they never had.
“Orbit’s free,” Nike was saying.
“Stay in here you mean?” The Captain was aghast. “There’d be riots! What about Earth?”
“Well, hardly.”
There had been issues with slowboats before, out-of-timers disturbing Earth’s compliant consumer ecology. Besides, who would pay for transport?
The Pilgrim people talked it over, occasionally glancing round at Nike and Seven.
Nike had recently bought a sensory upgrade. More sensitive vision and hearing, and of course, tactile.
“Did you see?” Nike had heard the Navigator whisper. “They was cuddling.”
Finally the Captain spoke up. “We’ll need a vote, but seems we got no choice but going on. If you can find us a world no person claimed yet.”
“A habitable world,” added the Navigator.
Even cutting corners, refuelling and restocking would cost. These slowboat deals were always a gamble.
“Gets them off our hands,” Nike murmured.
These people were outliers in terms of social structure and psychology. Market research companies might be interested. Offset the outlay by selling limited access. Buy now while stocks last. A time-honoured ploy.
Nike searched star catalogues for a moment. “Here’s one. About two hundred years away. You set foot on it you own it.”
As the couple were leaving, the Captain shook her head. “What kind of world is this?”
They supposed she meant the new destination.
“What if one of the new c-ships gets there first?” Seven said to Nike afterwards.
Pilgrim’s request was on record. The Captain should have taken legal advice.
Nike’s shrug needed work, Seven thought.
by submission | Oct 24, 2020 | Story |
Author: Gwynne Weir
We looked at each other; the native and the alien. She (‘it’ didn’t seem like a polite way to refer to the creature, even in my own head) kept her eyes locked on mine, her whole body taut. I didn’t blame her; I’d come crashing into her life – quite literally. It was important to show her that I wasn’t hostile, but I’ve had the first-contact training; facial expressions aren’t universal. Keeping my teeth covered, I smiled and tried to project an aura of peace. Her eyes, a peculiar purple, seemed to soften but then her gaze flitted over my shoulder towards the flattened foliage behind me. I glanced back too and winced as I spotted the side of my vessel resting on what remained of the tall structures I found myself calling trees, for want of a better word. I had made an unfortunate miscalculation in the landing. As her posture hardened again, I tried to convey sorrow: hands out, I looked up. Her eyes narrowed, their brightness flattening. She moved her limbs – the four that she wasn’t standing on – in a series of gestures. There was probably meaning to them, but they were too fast to follow. She repeated the waving, more vigorous this time, then seemed to realise I couldn’t understand her. She pulled her limbs in, coiling them about her torso as her whole being twitched.
“Hello,” my words were quiet but clear.
I watched carefully for any response, but there was none that I could interpret.
I reached for the bag from over my shoulder and she backed up, a flurry of limbs. Holding out one hand, I eased the other into my bag and withdrew the pad and pencil I kept there. Carefully, in large letters, I wrote my name: M-A-X . Holding the paper facing her, I pointed at myself and said my name.
At first, she just looked. Then she rolled forward. I forced myself not to flinch as her strange, pinky-purple mass got nearer. She seemed to use all limbs for everything. Her motions reminded me of an Earth cephalopod. I breathed deeply to calm my racing heart. She reached out with one limb and traced the letters. I repeated the name, pointing to myself again. She wouldn’t be able to form the same sound – she clearly didn’t have any comparable biology. I showed her the pencil, running it down the side of the page so that she could see how it left a mark. Turning the page, I placed the pad and pencil on the ground and stepped back.
She picked up the pencil in the coil of one limb and brought it closer, turning it around. Then she reached it out and ran it down the paper, mirroring my demonstration. As it left a mark, her limbs quivered and her torso glowed. She looked up, eyes shining. Leaning back over the pad, she drew a series of marks; circles and lines that started in the middle of the page and spiralled out. She pointed at it, then at herself as she looked at me.
A weight lifted from my shoulders: this must be her way of writing.
This was going to work.
by submission | Oct 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Moriah Geer-Hardwick
It was early morning when the impact woke her. Although muted by distance, there was still enough force to send an ominous tremor through the center of her chest. She clutched at the spot, even before her eyes opened. Patiently, she waited for the darkness to ease reluctantly into the sulking gray of dawn. The instant sunlight spilled in through her window she was outside, padding barefoot up the path towards the perimeter. She slipped past the rabbit hutches, up the hill between the potato fields, and then into the cool depth of the bamboo groves. When she broke through to the other side she saw the other children, all facing intently away from her. Hector was there too, like always. None of the other adults ever went out with the children to watch, but Hector came every time. He stood off to the side, his wiry frame tired and sagging. She went over, reaching out to take his gnarled hand in hers. She followed his gaze past the perimeter fences, to the hulking form of the aberration.
Ponderously, it heaved itself across the horizon, so far away it looked faded, grayish blue, almost translucent. It rippled and flowed more than walked, carried forward on massive, ever-changing tendrils. A seething billow of dust and debris poured out from behind it as it moved.
“Do you think…” she began, then stopped. Hector turned his pale, watery eyes down to her and said nothing. She tried again. “Do you think one of them will ever…”
“Ever cross into the perimeter?” he finished for her. He pushed his lower lip upwards into the scraggly bristles of his mustache. “No, child. I don’t think they will.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I asked momma, and she said they never will, ‘cause they never have. She doesn’t like it when I ask questions.”
The old man tilted his grizzled toward her. “Your momma wasn’t even old as you when them things first come. While she was growing up, a billion people got gobbled up every year. At first, folks tried to figure out what they was, where they come from, what they’d do next. But the more and more was destroyed, the less and less them questions seemed to matter. When folks found this spot, figured out it was the one place in the world where them things wouldn’t go, nobody asked why. They just went to living here, happy to leave all the dying behind. Happy to leave the questions too. Maybe afraid asking too much might break the spell.”
Carefully, she scanned his face. “Spell? Like, magic? That’s why they don’t come here?”
Hector’s eyes crinkled almost closed. “Could be, child. Could be.”
She glanced past him, back at the bamboo grove. “Momma says there’s plenty for everyone inside the perimeter. She says it’s better in here than it ever was outside.”
Thoughtfully, the old man drew in a heavy breath. “Back in the early days, folks straight away went to fighting over who got what, who was in charge, behaving like they did before, out there. But the first time one of them things dropped in close enough to blow dust over them, they sobered up. Like, little pigs huddling together when the wolf rattles the door.”
“Little pigs?”
“Yeah, little pigs. You don’t know that story?”
“Momma doesn’t like telling me stories.”
“Well, I’ll tell you that one sometime. Maybe after we watch that big bad thing huff and puff out there for awhile.”
Together, they watched as the aberration shuddered and shifted their way. Hector gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
by submission | Oct 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: William Gray
Look, we don’t have much time here, okay? Corporate really cut corners on these new spacesuits. That ripping sound is not reassuring…I’m pretty sure I’ll get a view of Earthrise before….well…
This all began years ago. After earning an expensive, useless University degree, I found myself sitting at a desk, typing away in a claustrophobic cubicle. A slave to The Screen.
For all intents and purposes, I was flushing my life down the fucking toilet.
I signed up with Lunar Mining Expeditions, Inc. Their motto was “Work a little, ride for free. Work a lot, make some money”. Perfect! I could feed myself and, at the same time, do work that wouldn’t turn me into a damn screen zombie.
So, here I am. If Earthlings are looking up at the sky right now, gazing upon the moon, they’re looking at me. If they’re not envious, they should be. Mother Nature has been a rotting corpse for over a millennium now. I might be in a spacesuit, kicking lunar dust around with anti-gravity boots, but at least I’m not on Earth, walking along a fetid shoreline, industrial-polluted muck squished between my toes!
My time is running out but I will say briefly that I worked a LONG shift today. I wanted to do some exploring far away from the mines. It’s forbidden, but who the fuck is gonna stop me? Anyway, I made it to these highlands. A bit of a climb, with a tiny slip on my way up, but I made it to the top. What an amazing view!
Are you familiar with Baily’s Beads? No? Ever seen a lunar eclipse, or even a picture of one? You’ll notice the corona is never a flawless circle. That’s due to inconsistencies on the moon’s surface. I am standing on one right now. I’d love to continue educating you on eclipses, one of my favorite subjects, but that ripping sound….it’s not getting any quieter…
The problem? That tiny slip. A sharp rock tore the leg of my suit. It happens all the time, usually not a problem. The vacuum of space suctions the skin up into the rip, causing it to bleed. The blood coagulates and seals off the leak. You get a “space hickey” but no big deal.
This time, though, the rip was rather large.
My entire leg is swelling. Why? Intravascular pressure differential, relative to lunar atmosphere, causes vein engorgement. It’s a fascinating process, but I really, REALLY have NO time for a lecture right now.
As the suit unzippers around the swelling, it feels like a mosquito bite, then a bee sting, then a knife cut, as the skin separates along the ripline. Soon the entire suit will be compromised.
Let’s get this over with. I’m removing my helmet.
There it is-Earthrise! So beautiful! I must be the first person ever to gaze upon it directly, eyes unprotected. I still have about ten seconds, but I REALLY want to get this over with. I hold my breath.
Pressure builds up in my chest. My pulmonary lobes, three on the right and two on the left, explode in rapid succession, one after the other, according to size, like bubble wrap popping in my thoracic cavity.
Why didn’t they all pop simultaneously? I would explain the delicate interplay between lunar atmospheric physics and pulmonary pathophysiology…if only I had the time…
by submission | Oct 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
When earth passed through the Great Inter-dimensional Anomalous Wave, everything went blurry. After things cleared up 56 hours later, it was a different world.
Great Grandpappy Goose was one of the last to remember when the world had three spatial dimensions. He said everything about living in 2D was hard to get used to — having height and width but no depth, needing to hop over things rather than go around them, the impossibility of knots. It all seems normal to me, but then I’ve never known anything other than our 2D existence.
I’ve read about 3D life in the history sheets— books as they were called back then when there was thickness — whatever that was. But much as I try, I can’t visualize a third dimension. Was it curled above? twisted below? wrapped inside? Where did it go when a person moved about? Did they pull it behind them like a chain?
Some artists are inspired by the concept of three dimensions. They paint their visions of 3D trees, horses, nudes. I find it all a bit creepy. Scientists have described a 3D reality using endless formulas and equations only they can understand. I once saw an engineer’s conceptual blueprint of a three-dimensional bridge and got dizzy just looking at the drawing.
I hadn’t thought about the whole 3D thing for a long time till I saw Great Grandpappy Goose a few weeks ago. He was especially agitated trying to make me understand how things used to be. Maybe he sensed his end was near, and that he wouldn’t have another chance. He showed me his front, which narrowed till he disappeared for an instant before his back widened into view. Then he reversed the process till he was facing me again.
“And,” I said. “what’s your point?”
Grandpappy held up his hands as if I were aiming a flatshot at him. “Try to imagine, son. There used to be more to us than length and width. We also went from front to back, like this.” Grandpappy moved his arm up and down. “No, not like that, like this.” Up and down again. “Drat … Depth, son. Everyone had it. Everything. It was so much better. Please tell me you understand.” His voice quivered.
I thought for a moment. “Yes, Great Grandpappy Goose, I do.” I didn’t really understand, still couldn’t get my head on three dimensions. But Great Grandpappy’s passion had convinced me that having length and width without depth diminished our world.
I miss Great Grandpappy Goose, but am thankful to still have Granny Gander. I’m visiting her tomorrow. Granny Gander never lived in a 3D world but does remember other things that disappeared before I was born. I’m certain she’ll lament how the world’s worse off now that there’s yes and no without something called maybe, black and white without gray, right and wrong without doubt. This time when Granny Gander starts reminiscing, I’m going to put down my flatgame.
