by submission | Mar 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: W.F. Peate
A child’s doll sat in the deserted street pockmarked with missile craters. Little orphan Tara tugged away from our hands and reached for the doll.
“Booby trap,” shouted a military man. Quick as a cobra he pushed me, Tara and my grandfather behind him so he could take the force of the blast.
The bomb-doll burned a blinding red then fizzled. A dud.
“You would have given your life to save us?”
Military Man stuck out his hand. “I’m Colonel John Carter. I’m looking for the Honey Bee Museum for help. A swarm of bees took over our vehicle. My soldiers are fearless, but no one will come near a bee.”
“My granddaughter Dejah and I converted the museum into a shelter for war refugees who have been made homeless by this horrible invasion.”
Tara ran inside the museum where women and men shouldered bundles. Their eyes were dazed and minds in shatters from the ruin and struggle. Deafened half paralyzed wounded were bandaged like mummies.
Carter led us to his olive drab vehicle which had a buzzing black beard of bees.
Gramps danced a bee-waggle and the bees rumbled away like dump trucks.
Carter did a double take, “You talk to bees and they follow directions?”
Gramps explained, “Karl von Frisch got the Nobel prize for translating bee talk, the waggle dance, that bees used to communicate. My granddaughter Dejah and I trained bees to listen to humans doing the waggle dance. Just like sheepherders trained dogs to herd sheep by following human whistling.”
I said, “I used AI to record bee communication. Gramps and I created a Bee-to-English Dictionary using a time share on the college’s quantum computer.”
“I thought bees were dumb bugs.”
Gramps snorted. “One bee brain is the size of a grain of sand, but honeybees live in a super-organism. Their brains together make them sentient geniuses. Bees use consensus to choose a new home or get rid of bad queens.”
Carter held up his smart phone. “A smart bee?”
Gramps laughed. “We’re changing the future so bees and humans work more closely just like bees and flowers collaborate.”
“We’re spending billions. Losing thousands of soldiers,” said Carter with a grim tone. “I need a flying assassin to kill Sledgehammer, the dictator that caused this war. A weapon that can’t be discovered by metal detector or radar.”
“Bees,” Gramps and I said in unison.
We agreed to work with Carter. I clicked on an image of Sledgehammer on a computer screen I’d installed at the hive entrance.
The bees buzzed at him like mini-jack hammers. “Bees recognize human faces. I’ve used sugar water to train them to recognize Sledgehammer as an intruder. Bees kill intruders by making a bee-ball around the intruders nostrils and mouth that cuts off oxygen.”
The next day Carter got me a second floor hotel room above the parade for Sledgehammer and world leaders who were attending a summit meeting.
I released the bees. They flew inside Sledgehammer’s sleek black limousine. The limo swerved and crashed.
The next morning Carter pounded on my door. “Read this. ‘After the first death, three more world leaders died at the summit.’” His voice rose. “This one says ‘Autopsy shows dead bees in windpipe of the prime minister.’”
“Isn’t the prime minister a wife beater?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Who were the other two who died?”
“Evil dictators who should be in prison.”
The bees were getting rid of bad queens — bad humans. Bees were improving humans. And I thought we were improving them.
by submission | Mar 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You’re mad!”
The humming stopped. “Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.”
“You’re mad.”
“Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.” The humming returned.
Major Biers turned to his non-com. “Corporal, can we have this thing shot?”
Corporal Khopar frowned. “On what charge, sir?”
“Gross disobedience. Gross negligence. Gross anything, everything. It’s beyond gross. Beyond disgusting.” Major Briers kicked at the innards which festooned brightly from YRMAD’s shredded core, pooling at his feet.
“Sir, respectfully, I don’t think we can charge a soldier for bleeding.”
“Is this thing really a soldier, Corporal? Look at it. It’s creepy beyond belief. Can’t you see that?”
Images from the operation that morning flooded Corporal Khopar’s mind: a sparse and rocky hillside, a make-shift bunker above the shantytown, civilians fleeing down the steep ravine, fighters dug in above, a denuded slope that offered little cover, a blazing sun that promised no mercy.
The scene set for the banal acronyms of battle: RPG, HEIAP, ABM, IED, SPM, EFP, UAV, GPMG, SAW, LRAR. The secret alphabet of carnage. But then an unfamiliar vehicle arrived. YRMAD stepped out. An untested acronym, creating an uncanny valley of suspicion and skepticism among the officers. But there were orders. And those orders were set to establish a new order: YRMAD.
Not until the violence of the day was over did anyone hear a sound from YRMAD other than its precisely calculated gunfire as it strategically advanced up the hillside. Only after routing the enemy, only after noticing that it was losing its innards, YRMAD had begun to quietly hum.
Major Biers had not liked that. Especially what it was humming: Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you.
The scene had deeply affected Corporal Khopar, and he couldn’t begin to explain to his commanding officer why he felt so protective of this strange wounded creature who had fought bravely and skillfully with his unit. So, he offered the bare minimum. “YRMAD did its duty, sir. Charged and dislodged the combatants’ position under heavy fire. Definitely saved our outfit some grief.”
Major Biers had no answer. Knew there was no answer. “Dismissed.” He turned and walked away, shaking his fist up at some imagined heavenly HQ. “Insanity. Bio-mech warfare. All of you are mad, mad, mad.”
The humming stopped. “Yes, sir! I’m YRMAD.”
Corporal Khopar smiled. “Yes, you are. Let’s get you cleaned up, soldier.”
by submission | Mar 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Charles Ta
“We’re sorry,” the alien said in a thousand echoing voices, “but your species has been deemed ineligible for membership into the Galactic Confederation.” It stared at me, the Ambassador of Humankind, with eyes that glowed like its bioluminescent trilateral body in the gurgling darkness of its mothership.
I shifted nervously in my seat on the other side of our floating metallic conference table.
“I don’t follow,” I broached. “It was my understanding that, after we’d made first contact, we’d be welcomed into the wider galactic community.”
“That was the case,” the colonial cnidarian replied, “until the Raithians received new information about your species’ past that forced us to… reevaluate our initial assessments.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We mean,” the Raithian responded, “that your species has demonstrated to the galaxy its inability to coexist with itself and the cosmos peacefully. You annihilated your home solar system a century ago, and your colonies would have triggered an intergalactic war without our intervention. In simple terms, flesh-thing, humanity is unworthy of integration. Despite its technological advancements, it has remained primitive. Belligerent. Foolish. Ungovernable. That is why we brought you here: to discuss the Confederation’s intentions with your accursed breed, for the sake of all life.”
I stood up from my seat, anger rising within me. “If you’re planning what I think you are, humanity will defend itself to the bitter end.” I retorted, glaring at the astral siphonophore before me with contempt. “You have no right to come to our systems and destroy us simply because your Confederation deems it necessary. We humans are far from perfect, and yes, we have committed terrible atrocities in the past. But we have also aided your kind, learned from our mistakes, and strived to curb our violent tendencies as much as possible. Let me remind you that our last war was with your sworn enemies, the Undari Empire, and that since then, we’ve dismantled many of our most destructive weapons in accordance with the Confederation’s existing non-proliferation treaties. What more, then, do you want from us?”
The transparent spacefarer remained silent as it listened intently.
“If you’re going to eliminate us,” I argued, “at least give us one last chance to prove ourselves. To redeem ourselves. It’d be a shame to exterminate one out of the six spacefaring species you’ve discovered after eight billion years of searching. Life this advanced is scarce, I’ve been told, and has almost no chance of arising elsewhere. Plus, the Vorroh absolutely love our music, and they’re deaf, only able to feel vibrations through their frills.”
I held my breath as the phantom star jelly pondered on my defense, electricity coursing through the zooids that formed its dozen tentacles. Eventually, it too rose from its seat, looming tall as it hovered towards me.
“Very well, hominid,” the creature of many minds conceded, its ghostly voices now low and uncanny. “Though we remain committed to the Confederation, you’ve persuaded us to… challenge its ruling, or even delay its enforcement. Perhaps we were wrong about you.”
“Thank you,” I said, secretly relieved as I smiled, then respectfully bowed down to the alien delegate–or rather, delegates merged as one being–facing me. As I turned to leave the mothership, however, I froze upon hearing the Raithian’s haunting last words.
“You have fifty years until we return,” it warned. “Don’t disappoint us again.”
by submission | Mar 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Stephen Price
The stranger arrives at the community hall dance early, before the doors open. No one else is there. He stands outside and waits. Cars soon begin to pull into the parking lot. They are much wider and longer than the ones he is used to. He watches young men and women step out of the vehicles, some only teenagers, talking over each other exuberantly and laughing as they climb the stairs and enter the hall. They buy tickets and put out their hands to be stamped.
The 19-years old woman he has travelled to meet is dropped off by the man he recognizes as her father. She and her friend leap from the backseat of the sedan. They charge up the stairs, laughing and chatting, peering about at the others starting to stream in. He knows her name is Paula Francis. His heart lurches when he sees David Williams, also only 19 years old, approaching with a group of friends, loud and boisterous in the way young men are when they have had a few drinks. It is crucial that Williams does not meet Paula.
The stranger does not waste any time. He strides up the stairs, buys a ticket, gets his hand stamped and looks about for Paula. He finds her and introduces himself. He is tall and good looking. A few years older, he is able to easily charm her. They spend most of the evening together, dancing to the band and getting to know each other.
“Do you know what’s interesting about your name?” she asks him at one point, when they are getting some air to cool down from all the dancing.
“What?”
“I always thought that if I had a son, I would name him Damian. After St. Damian.”
“He was known for his compassion.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Saints fascinate me.”
He is about to tell her that his mother also studied the saints, but before he can get a word out, she squeals, “I love this song.”
She grabs his hand and leads him back to the dance floor.
The stranger manages to keep her apart from David Williams, who he monitors closely and sees that he is enjoying himself with other young women on the opposite side of the hall. He is also good looking and charming.
As the evening winds down, the stranger asks Paula if he can walk her home.
“My father is picking me up,” she tells him. She agrees to give him her phone number.
When her father pulls up, he opens the back door and lets Paula and her friend slip in. He promises to call and closes the door when they are safe inside. He watches David Williams and his buddies running off, callow and drunk, in the opposite direction.
“Oh my God,” Paula’s friend whispers, wide-eyed. “You spent the whole night with that guy. He’s so cute.”
Paula giggles and looks back to wave at him as her father pulls away, but he is gone. Nowhere to be seen. It is as if he disappeared. Vanished. Like he was never there.
Later, she will be disappointed that the stranger does not call. She will not let it get her down. She is young and pretty and there are plenty of young men who want to dance with her.
by submission | Mar 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
Mrs Bellingham frowned at her cat Chester. Chester stared back. The two had had this confrontation every morning at 6:30 for the past seven years.
Mrs Bellingham, her bathrobe draped over her spindly frame, her arms folded, looked down at her persnickety orange tabby.
“Where have you been?”
Nothing.
“You woke me up at 3:00 this morning to be let out. I expected you back in a timely manner.”
Silence.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Chester—you have things to do, places to go. I understand. Don’t think I don’t appreciate that.”
Chester’s expression did not change.
“How do you expect me to go back to bed and sleep soundly when you’re off somewhere in the middle of the night. You can understand my position, can’t you?”
He didn’t indicate he could.
“Harrumph. I suppose you want some breakfast.” She produced a can of Fancy Feast Savory Salmon. Chester serpentined between her slipper-covered feet. Mrs Bellingham rolled her eyes at the performance, sighed, but went to get his plate just the same.
She placed his food on the laminated placemat with crayon drawing of a lobster by her grandson, she heard a loud mechanical sound from outside, like the din of an auto repair shop, a minute of metal grinding, compression, then silence.
“What do you make of that, Chester?”
He couldn’t say.
She opened the front door. The suburban street was quiet, no passing cars or sirens. Only the Michelson’s house, a tan split level colonial with blue shutters she never particularly liked, was replaced by a new house, one made of a gleaming silver metal and no windows. Mrs Bellingham frowned.
She dressed quickly, her light blue cardigan, gray skirt, and pearls. She grabbed a fruitcake from the freezer, always prepared, and coerced Chester into his stroller.
Mrs Bellingham looked both ways and crossed the street, her Mary Jane flats clopped on the pavement. Along the neighbor’s driveway, she noticed the new house floated about a foot off the earth. She bristled and knocked on the door.
She waited for someone to answer. She had errands to run, a luncheon at the senior center, and some knitting to do.
The door arose silently revealing a small woman, not unlike Mrs Bellingham. Her glasses were larger with darker frames, and her sweater was a crew neck with sparkles and a picture resembling a two-headed cow.
“Hello. I’m Marion Bellingham. I live across the way at 2720. I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She paused a moment and ceremoniously presented the fruitcake.
The stranger accepted the gift, cautiously, sniffing at the foil wrap and appreciating the green ribbon. She hoped this wouldn’t take long. She had to finish disposing of the Michelsons, arrange a meeting with her fellow adjutants, and catch up on her needlepoint.
“This is Chester. He’s a friendly cat, mostly. He’s goes outdoors but you should’t expect any trouble from him.”
The stranger certainly hoped not. She was still getting caught up on native practices. She found the practice of a furry domesticated animal in a stroller sized for a small child confusing. Perhaps it was a small child and would lose its fur as it grew.
“Well, I won’t take any more of your time,” said Mrs Bellingham, gathering her cat’s stroller. “Let me know if you have any questions about churches, hair salons, and so forth, I would be happy to help.”
The stranger nodded.
“I hope you enjoyed eating the Michelsons,” said Mrs Bellingham. “My kind arrived decades ago and we’ve feasted on human flesh ever since.”
