by submission | Dec 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I hear the sound of alarms in the distance. An ambulance? A firetruck? No, the sound isn’t that. An alarm clock? The sounds get louder. Recognition hits me like a blast of cold air. I pick individual alerts out from the symphony of klaxons. Atmospheric pressure warning. Power failure. Radiation alert.
I open my eyes. It takes several seconds for the image to focus. The glare from the blue sun in the sky pours in through the cracked windows coloring the flight deck with a surreal light. Most of the ship’s displays are dark; the few still operating tell me the diverse ways in which my starship is dying. I hit the silence buzzer control. The cacophony of alarms is replaced by the sound of air hissing out of the ship from various points. Since the vessel’s life support readout is inoperable, I resort to my suit’s environmental display. Atmospheric pressure is 300 millibars and dropping. Less than the pressure at the top of Mount Everest.
I try the quantum spin radio. It doesn’t work. Not that it matters. Even if the spinrad were operational, there are no other ships in the vicinity of Alpha Leonis. The closest help would be in the 88 Leonis system and it would take eight weeks to get here under maximum FTL drive.
My spacesuit’s heads-up display informs me that my suit’s oxygen tanks are depleted. In addition, I have already absorbed near-lethal amounts of radiation. I think back to the centuries-old science fiction movies and TV programs I’ve watched, a not uncommon hobby for my profession. In those stupidly optimistic turn-of-the-millenium entertainments almost every planet in the galaxy was imagined to be Earth-like. The Australian outback or northern Canada are more inhospitable than most alien planets according to the first two or three hundred years of sci fi. I guess dying alone and pathetically on some dead rock of a world with no villain to heroically defeat wouldn’t have made for an interesting story.
I tap on the controls on my suit’s left forearm and issue the various voice commands required to initiate the spacesuit’s suicide protocol. I feel a needle slip into each of my antecubital veins. After a couple of minutes, I begin getting drowsy.
It’s tragic, but not uncommon. An old spacer once told me that for every planet or moon that’s been successfully colonized, there are at least two whose only inhabitants are dead crews. Or a single dead explorer. There are more extrasolar cemeteries than extrasolar cities, he’d said.
The alarms again fade into the distance as drugs and oxygen deprivation cloud my consciousness. My vision fades to blackness darker than the void between the stars.
by submission | Dec 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
Before NASA’s panelists were even introduced, a reporter shouted at a scientist known for his off the cuff statements.
“Dr. Worful, why did Jupiter blow up?”
Nervously, “Well, for starters, Jupiter didn’t ‘blow up.’ There’s no energy emissions, no shock waves, no gas clouds — no indications of an explosion. The planet simply disappeared.”
“But planets don’t just ‘disappear,’ do they Dr. Worful?”
Softly, “No, they don’t.”
“What do you think happened to it?
“I think it was…” leaning into the microphone, “taken.”
Commotion ensued until, “I am Dr. Ralph Payne, NASA Administrator.” Glaring at Worful, “It’s premature to advance theories about what happened to Jupiter. When we have something to announce, we will hold another press conference. But today we must share with you what the consequences of this event are likely to be. ”
He nodded to a female panelist, “Dr. West.”
On that day and in subsequent weeks, Dr. West was a media omnipresence, NASA’s ideal spokesperson. Well groomed and well spoken, authoritative but low key, she delivered information that should have frightened her audience in a way that most could accept as matter-of-fact realities of life. Life after Jupiter.
She explained that the orbits of Uranus and Neptune might be perturbed enough to send them careening through the solar system. Jupiter’s moons, no longer captives, could also go wandering. Jupiter would no longer vacuum up comets and asteroids passing its way, leaving their path toward the Sun and its inner planets uninterrupted. And the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter would be destabilized. She made it all seem like an interesting science experiment. Life after Jupiter.
Through it all, she deflected questions about Dr. Worful’s conjecture. These and other theories, she said, would be discussed in due time. Meanwhile, Worful seemingly joined Jupiter in disappearing. “Jupiter taken by aliens” headlines gave way to “Where’s Worful?” and eventually to “Life after Jupiter” articles featuring West’s talking points. Astronomers all over the world tracking thousands of objects, big and small, in the solar system, found three sizable asteroids on courses that would bring them near Earth, but impacts were not predicted.
“This honeymoon can’t go on forever, Ellen,” said Dr. Worful to Dr. West.
Pulling the sheet to her neck, “I don’t recall our getting married.”
“You know what I mean, the honeymoon with the press. You can keep me captive in your apartment — really, you can keep me captive — but you know there are others who share my theory about Jupiter.”
“Yes, Max, I am one of them. But what good would it do…”
She answered the phone.
“Payne wants us both in his office at noon.”
West and Worful joined several fellow scientists in the NASA Administrator’s office.
“Astronomers from the Keck and European Southern observatories announced this morning that Jupiter was just the latest in a series of planet disappearances — exoplanets that is. I don’t think we’ve lost any others in our solar system, but I didn’t count them this morning.”
In the weeks to follow, Worful and his colleagues plotted disappearances in time and space, noting that all were gas giants rather than rocky planets, all seemingly on routes to and from the Cygnus constellation. Gaps in plots were in solar systems where a planet might have been taken before discovery by Earth astronomers.
At long last Dr. Worful faced the press and, blessed by Payne, presented their theory that aliens were sucking up gas planets.
“But why would they do that?” asked a reporter.
“Haven’t you ever been on a long trip and needed to stop for gas?”
by submission | Dec 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bruce L. Priddy
The fish rolled its four goat-like eyes, gnashed its human-like teeth and bleated obscenities as Kendal pulled it from the river. June, his wife, gasped at the sight of the mutant.
“Must have swam up from near the city,” Kendal said. “The others have been fine.” He nodded toward the day’s catch – three bass and a catfish – strung up beside them on the boulder-strewn bank.
“We’re still safe here, right?” June asked, looking back at the RV parked on the golden and ruddy tree-line a dozen yards away, their children inside.
The fish grew louder, shouting curses at both husband and wife.
“Sure,” Kendal said. “Miles of forest in front of us, a rough river to our back. We might as well have the world to ourselves. This is the worst we’ll see. Still, might not want to let the kids play in the water.”
June pushed a smile through her concern. “Good.” She stood from the flat boulder she shared with him and started back to the RV to check on the kids. “Shut that thing up, will you?”
Kendal took the fish by the tail, bashed it against the rock until its head ruptured and the vulgarities died.
Night came. Far removed from the remains of civilization and the monsters, Kendal felt comfortable enough to build a fire. For the first time since the things-disguised-as-stars fell upon the earth and the cities collapsed and life warped and twisted, the family ate a meal that wasn’t from cold cans. The fish were sparse on meat, but the meal was warm, and the family was happy.
After dinner, Kendal read from a copy of Moby Dick pillaged from a second-hand shop after the family fled the city. Leigh, his daughter, sat in his lap while his son, Mikey, leaned against Kendal. Both were too young to understand the way the words fit together, only wanting to hear their father read to them. It was a luxury missing since the world fell apart. Kendal wondered how many months it had been since the kids had a bedtime story. He didn’t want to count
June excused herself to the RV, returning a few minutes later, her jeans and sweater replaced with a sundress. It was shorthand, carried over from before the end-of-it-all, though neither could remember how the tradition started. It was getting harder to remember there were times before. Autumn chill played across her exposed legs and shoulders, the gooseflesh pulling Kendal’s eyes from the book again and again.
He read until the fire shrank to nothing but a soft red glow in the logs. Mother and father each carried a child to the RV, placing them in sleeping bags adorned with cartoon characters that would not keep out the coming winter’s cold. But that was a concern for another day.
Then, husband and wife walked into the forest holding hands, not far, RV still in view. In the shadows they had at each other once again.
Above them, stars broke loose of their moorings and drifted down, down, ever closer to the family.
by submission | Dec 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Burke Lerch
Alan always visited the same diner on the same date, at the same time. 7:43 P.M. Ten minutes after he first ordered the patty melt and fries, and one minute before he stood up from his table to step into the bathroom.
With a loud pop he was back in the same stall, the second one from the door. It was the best patty melt he’d ever had. Arguably the best patty melt anyone had ever had, unless someone else out there was so inspired by a sandwich that they had also built a time machine just to eat the same patty melt again, again, and yet again. Alan wasn’t an unreasonable man. He’d tried to take the mundane route and order the same meal. It was never the same. The toasted and buttered bread was never quite as greasy, or the fries were just a little stale. No, it had been worth it. There were those that would chastise him for using something as remarkable as time travel just to grab a bite to eat, but then they hadn’t eaten that patty melt.
He stepped out of the stall and pushed the bathroom door open. Perfect, yet again. Lacy was just setting the plate down at Alan’s table
“Right on time, Alan!” Lacy gave him the same lopsided smile as the last 246 times he’d made the trip.
“Better believe it.” He’d gotten the timing down to perfection on trip seventeen.
Alan slid into his booth, mouth already salivating at the sight of that beautiful sandwich. He reached out to slide the plate closer to him, but then stopped. He stopped, frozen, and staring at the plate that had sat before him so very many times.
A chip. There was a chip in the plate. There had never been a chip before. Where did the chip come from? How could there be a chip? He frantically began counting his fries. Thirty-one, thirty-two… Thirty-three?
This was bad.
This was very bad. What did it mean? Alan dreaded the answer, so much so that he missed 7:46 PM, the first bite. He quickly snatched the sandwich off the plate and sank his teeth into it. Stop. Was it different? He couldn’t tell. A part of his mind was begging him to just continue eating as if nothing unusual had happened. Oh, and he tried. He tried with every fiber of his being, but the reliably delicious meat now had the taste of unpalatable paradox.
Madness. It was madness! The world had gone mad for poor Alan. The trustworthy ticking and tocking of time had betrayed him, just when he least expected it. In that outdated diner with its tiled floors, a man’s world was falling to pieces.
“Is everything alright, Alan?” It was Lacy. The despair written on Alan’s face must have been screaming for some $3.50/hr concern.
“Alright?” he screamed, exploding from his stupor in a storm of condiments and curly fries. “The laws of time and space are failing around us, and you ask if I’m alright?”
Lacy was alarmed, but in a detached manner. Alan wasn’t the first to fall off his rocker in a two-dollar diner on a Saturday night.
“Don’t you understand what this means?” Alan shouted. “The universe is going to…”
His words were replaced by one puff of dusty air before he collapsed to the floor. Not eating the patty melt this time meant he’d never eaten the patty melt, and so he hadn’t eaten in months. The police reported the death as starvation, as much as it vexed them to do so. Paradox was a funny thing.
by submission | Dec 21, 2014 | Story |
Author : Emily Stupar
“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”
A long sigh echoed through the phone, followed by a man’s carefully snipped words. “All. Manual. Commands. Have been. Disabled.”
“Yes,” the technician replied. “But maybe a reboot-”
“It’s locked us in a fucking supply closet!”
There was a fumbling and scraping, followed by a woman’s muffled voice. “Getting upset won’t help us, Glenn.” And then clearly through the speaker, “Hello? Are you still there IT?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Claudia. Your name is Leslie?”
“That’s right. Listen, ma’am-”
“Leslie, I need you to let me talk to Paul. Last time our building’s computer intelligence started acting up, Paul helped us.”
“I’m sorry, but Paul isn’t available. But if you could describe to me-”
“Arynn, then? I think I talked to someone named Arynn once.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s just me. I’m sure we can figure out why your computer’s security systems are malfunctioning if we just-”
“Security? No! Are you even listening? Your product [i]told[/i] us it would [i]prefer[/i] to analyze Holst rather than take commands. Listen.” There was a beat of silence and then the tinny notes of “Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age” from beyond the closet door. “We knew the computer had a few…quirks, but it’s never taken physical action against us before. Understand, Leslie? Now, we’re locked in, and we don’t know if it’s going to let us out. You need to help.”
Scratching, and then Glenn came back on. “IT! I think I know what the problem is!”
“Oh, not this again,” Claudia groaned in the background.
Glenn continued on, unabated. “You guys must have sold hundreds, thousands, of these units to companies across the world, right? Have you received any complaints regarding abnormal energy consumption?”
“Sir, I’m not sure I-”
“I’ve looked into it and, right before these little…discrepancies with the computer, there’s always a spike in energy consumption from our building. I wasn’t sure what the cause was, but I think it’s the computer intelligence. It’s like it’s [i]eating[/i] more energy than usual, understand?”
Silence from the phone.
“The computer likes it. It gets all cheery and performance jumps. And then this: a crash and it starts to lose sight of its operational parameters. It performs unnecessary duties and ignores directives. It’s just never been quite this bad before.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir. You think it gets some kind of boost and then drops to a low point?”
“Exactly! It gets high, or drunk, or whatever, and then after it… sobers up, there’s always this period of odd behavior.”
Claudia’s voice: “That’s ridiculous. Our computer is not an addict.”
The technician began to speak but Glenn cut in. “Hold on, I think it’s the power company calling back on the other line. Finally.”
Silence, and then his voice came back on a much quieter line. “They cut power to the building. The music’s stopped. The computer’s shut down, so I guess we don’t need your help anym-”
Claudia’s voice cut in, quick and tense. “Do you hear that?”
“Oh, God, it must be the back-up generator.”
The three people sat in silence, waiting.
Through light static, the technician heard the music return as the computer intelligence came slowly back online. The notes of “Mars, the Bringer of War” rumbled through the phone.
