by submission | Dec 12, 2025 | Story |
Author: Emily Kinsey
I sway side-to-side in the back of the beat-up van. My hands, which are zip-tied in front of me, went numb somewhere between Boston and Portland. I struggled to free myself in the beginning, but I gave up well before the snow began to fall. We’re restrained most of the day and only untied so we can eat and use the bathroom. My feet are unbound—and I would try to run for it—but they didn’t allow me to grab my sneakers, and even I know I wouldn’t last very long barefoot in the middle of a nor’easter winter.
I’m not alone in the van; besides myself, there are five other passengers, all restrained.
My seatmate is a rough looking guy with a shaved head and a snake tattoo that coils neatly around his throat. I try not to look directly at him. Instead, I stare at the ground. He’s shoeless, too.
The van takes a hard left, and while I’m able to keep myself upright, I manage to jab my seatmate in the ribs with my elbow.
I gamble a sideways glance and find snake tattoo staring at me. I look away quickly.
“What’re you in for?” snake tattoo asks. His voice sounds tough and doesn’t give away his age. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s much older than myself, but since I do know better, I know he’s a teenager, too.
“New stepmom,” I answer.
“Shit, that’s rough,” he says. “She didn’t want a stepson?”
“She and my dad just had their own kid. They don’t want me around anymore,” I say. Something burns deep in my chest. “Apparently I’m a bad influence.”
“Are you?”
“She told me to change the baby’s diaper. I asked if she forgot how to.”
Snake tattoo chuckles. “Bet she didn’t like that.”
“She went crazy.”
“Yeah?”
“Next night, I’m asleep in bed and someone is shaking me awake. I open my eyes, and two grown ass men are staring at me,” I say, physically recoiling from the memory. “I was wearing nothing but my boxers and a t-shirt when they grabbed me. I fought them, but those two dudes were huge. And they had the jump on me. I screamed for my dad, but he didn’t answer. I saw him in the hallway on my way out, next to her, trying not to make eye contact.”
“Man, that’s brutal. Did he say anything?”
“He said not to fight them. He didn’t even tell me where he was sending me. You?”
“Court order,” snake tattoo says. He hangs his head slightly and nods. “Possession. The judge said it was here or jail, no more juvie for me. My lawyer said it was better than having a record. So here I am.”
I lean forward. The mention of a lawyer has me asking the question that’s been on my mind for two days. “I’ve been thinking this couldn’t possibly be legal, right?”
“They can keep us here until we turn eighteen. Child labor is still legal in deep space.”
“What?”
“They reopened the portal to the Mars colony. That’s where we’re headed. To clean up space junk.”
“It’s not space junk; it’s nuclear waste they portaled to Mars. Chernobyl 2.0, remember?”
“Yeah, but the radiation from space neutralizes the nuclear waste, so it’s not dangerous.”
“That’s a Mars Corp. lie!”
“If we do well, we’ll get sent to the Phobos post early. Look, they’re untying everyone and handing out our suits and helmets now. The portal opens just ahead. It could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be changing diapers right now.”
by submission | Dec 11, 2025 | Story |
Author: Luca Ricchi
Vernon Liu snapped awake as his pod shot up through the bunker hatch into the ashen dusk.
‘Navigation initiated. Destination: Xingjing Earth Federation Great Hall”’
He stretched his olive-hued arms – numb after many hours of induced coma – and squinted through the viewport: a barren wasteland with clumps of smoking ruins, interspersed with puddles of rust-red dirt and acid rainwater. He sat back and smiled. He had succeeded again.
The pod, on its southeast-bound trajectory, reached the outskirts of the capital. Xingjing Fifth High School appeared on the navigation map. Once a towering and maddening institution; now only a name on a display. He was determined to rise from the muck by becoming the best at this damned school.
‘End-of-Term Awards Ceremony, Senior Year – July 2184.’
The mechanical voice of an elderly teacher still echoed in his mind.
‘Third place: Günther Bang. Second place: Vernon Liu. The winner is—’
Vernon never wanted to know who outperformed him. He had cried, screamed, kicked at anything that got in the way as he stumbled out of the hall, his father following behind.
His old man, who died at his workplace, right below where the presidential pod now hovered. Among the rubble, a red neon sign still flickered: “Deep—”.
Vernon completed it in his head: Deep Red Artificial Intelligence Group, East Tower
When they called him to fetch the body, his father’s temples were dotted with tiny marks, like those left by acupuncture needles. Vernon had feared that the corporation was experimenting on his father – perhaps to test illegal brain enhancement implants – preying on the family’s migrant background from the north-western countryside.
Besides, the overtime, the pressure, the competition and the deadlines that hollowed his father out in front of his eyes had not been enough for those ruthless bastards. What a pity. How proud would Liu Senior be if only he had lived to see his son become President of the Earth Federation?
‘Destination reached.’
The pod jolted to a halt, and the harness released automatically with a buzz.
Vernon stood up, yanked a biohazard suit from the overhead compartment and climbed into it.
It was too early to inhale the lethal fumes of the aftermath.
The world beyond his goggles was dead, devoid of any sound save for a faint breeze that swept the dust into spiralling swirls, like those Mars storms the rovers once streamed to Earth, only this time with a one-man audience.
Vernon Liu was the only man left on Earth, and therefore the ultimate winner.
No more nerve-racking debates with his political opponents, whom he had locked inside the Earth Federation Great Hall before launching Operation Doomsday. Their remnants had likely merged with the acids and debris that gave the puddles their maroon hue.
He lay on his back and looked at the dimming sky while sinking into one of those rust-red pools and noticed his own presidential army above – a flickering constellation from his vantage point – still orbiting the planet, waiting for orders.
‘Those mindless idiots…’ There was no use for them anymore, after doing a remarkable job destroying civilian carriers in upper orbit that were supposed to ‘colonise new stars to secure the future and glory of humanity’, activating all the traps and weapons that simulated the planet’s rebellion, and not asking questions. He muttered a command into his wristband terminal and watched all the ships ignite one after the other, like fireworks of long-forgotten New Year celebrations.
‘And in the end, there was peace…’
He sprawled and let himself sink lower.
by submission | Dec 10, 2025 | Story |
Author: Robert Gilchrist
“I don’t think this is the way we’re supposed to go,” said Peter.
“This is the Celestial Orienteering Championships, Pete,” said Johnson as he picked the last lock on the door. “They’re not gonna make it easy on us.”
Tiny plumes of dust followed them inside. Peter took one last look at the nearby pieces of shattered planetoid floating above them that made up this asteroid belt on the edge of the galaxy. He let the door close silently behind him.
“It’s just like I remember from when I was a kid,” said Johnson as he took in the abandoned commerce center. The purple and green carpeting along the hallways, the franchised cantina with its red and tan tiles, even the ostentatious air recycler fashioned into a replica of a water fountain. “Why did they ever change these places?” He wandered further inside to explore.
“Seriously, let’s get out of here. Even the recorder has stopped.” The red light of the android floating behind them, broadcasting their progress to the trillions watching the yearly holiday competition, was no longer winking. Johnson didn’t listen. “This place was vantablacked out on the maps. The checkpoint isn’t here.”
Johnson stopped. “Do you see what I see?” he sang. Peter hated when Johnson started singing – it was always at the worst times. Always.
Peter jogged to catch up, listening to his breath quicken in his exploration suit. Sitting in front of the theatre – to think people once watched holoprograms together, sitting next to each other in uncomfortable seats breathing virus-laden air – was an ornate, faux-wooden cabinet. The panels held a sheen despite the years this place had been abandoned.
“What is it?”
“It’s a Madam Gordion.” Johnson ran his gloved hand along the dozens of knobs adorning the box that came up to Peter’s shoulders. “Last I heard there were only a handful left in the universe.”
“Fascinating, but it’s not the checkpoint. So let’s get out of here so we can review the maps and figure out where we got turned around.” Peter tried to keep the frustration from his voice. Johnson may not have cared about the billion-credit prize, but that was real money to Peter. Money to live, not just survive.
“You don’t understand, Pete. These things were kept by people above the uber-rich to hold their super-secret secrets. Whatever’s in here’s worth more than what we’d get from the C.O.C.” He tore his eyes away from the cabinet and glanced back at the android. “Shut that thing off.”
“It’s already off.” With that, Johnson began fiddling with the knobs, muttering to himself about pin-tumblers and disc detainers, tungsten carbide and self-destructive mechanisms, accompanied by shifting lyrics of Christmas standards. Peter didn’t bother chiming in. Nothing he could say at this point would make a difference. Instead, he merely looked at his reflection in the blackened glass of the android, floating lifelessly behind them.
A series of clunks, like marbles dropping down a flight of stairs, echoed from inside the Madam Gordion. “Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum!” exclaimed Johnson. A final CLICK emanated from the top as the two doors of the cabinet opened ever so slightly.
“Whatever’s inside,” Peter said, not turning away from his reflection, “I want half.”
“Listen to you,” chuckled Johnson as he pulled it open to gaze upon their reward. “Wanting in despite doing nothing but bitc –”.
***
That was how the designer poison was released into existence. They didn’t see the sign affixed to the back: OPEN FOR APOCALYPSE.
by submission | Dec 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Get a job! You need to work!”
“That’s all I ever do. Work.”
“You sit around all day, consuming media and eating junk food. How’s that work?”
“I’m dissipating heat energy. It’s vital work and my avowed purpose. It’s life’s true justification: to dissipate heat energy. Life is much more efficient at dispersing heat than inorganic matter, and we are the evolutionary pinnacle of complex, energy-hungry, life forms. You see? I work my butt off.”
“For what? How does dissipating heat energy benefit anyone?”
“When energy is evenly distributed throughout the cosmos, then all creation will be complete. Cold and complete.”
“And how does that help you and me?”
“We did our part, all us little biological heat sinks, steadfastly radiating concentrated energy across the timeless depths. It’s our highest calling. Look at the shining auras and halos of our prophets, saints and saviors. Their divine radiance makes it very clear. We are here to fulfill but one thing: dissipating heat energy.”
“That’s it? We’re just chatty heat sinks? Neurotic radiators?”
“It makes more sense than believing we are chosen ones, destined to conquer the universe and achieve heavenly perfection. Be real. We’re trashing our planet and our social fabric. Much better to accept our role in cosmic cooling. It is the chill thing to do. To just be.”
“Sounds like giving up.”
“More like giving off. Let the energy out. Don’t hold it in. Don’t hold back. Flow.”
“Flow?”
“Be the conduit. Let your ambitions, your desires, your dreams go. They’re nothing but waste. Heat waste. Let it flow.”
“You really believe this?”
“I think, therefore I dissipate.”
“Well, there’s little doubt now that you are a piece of work. Quite a piece of work.”
“Now you get it. Toss me those Cheetos and Red Bull, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 8, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The two women stand within a wide, white circle. The ground under their feet is powdery. Stalks of bleached grass crumble at the slightest disturbance.
Vicki’s unimpressed.
“Is this all?”
Sharon shakes her head.
“This is what the public can see. Underneath us was the main facility. Everything for Project Spartan Saviour was here.”
Vicki stamps. Dust puffs up.
“What happened? The unredacted version, please.”
“How much do you know about superhero and super soldier programmes?”
“We’ve been running them since just after World War Two. Level One were faster, stronger, smarter, but only in bursts that were followed by an extended recovery period. Level Two produced Captain America style results, but they all died within a year of enhancement. Level Three was working on that, as well as reducing empathy, conscience and the like, if I remember correctly. I presume they succeeded in all or parts as it went black book soon after and I wasn’t read in.”
Sharon nods.
“I like your use of a fictional superhero as a guideline. Will adopt it. So, all of our final candidates started as Batman if he’d been a veteran of special forces as well. Level Four dealt with their ethics handling, and Level Five finally answered the sudden death problem – there’s a genetic marker, apparently. Those with it get used for the no hope missions.”
Vicki smiles.
“The ones that literally end with a bang.”
Sharon chuckles.
“True. So, Level Six was a problem. I’m not sure what happened, but there’s an entire facility in Minnesota entombed in reinforced concrete and under never-ending watch. Level Seven, however, gave us Superman the Merciless and Fanatically Loyal. Nearly caused a problem until someone suggested bonding the candidate with a long-serving senior military officer instead of the President. Couldn’t risk that sort of firepower in the hands of a temp.”
“Isn’t that still a risk?”
“When their bonded officer dies, they literally fly into the sun. But we only had a few, and didn’t think it through. The strain of handling what were effectively the deadliest pets ever created was simply too much for old men. We lost the last eleven months back: their bonded officer suffered heart failure.”
“That’s inconvenient. So, Level Eight?”
“A lethally radioactive super-genius Doctor Manhattan with a half-life measured in minutes. Some of the insights the six test subjects gave before dying were revelatory, though.”
“Only six?”
Sharon sighs.
“The pool of viable subjects is tiny. Even breeding for them has only produced a handful.”
Vicki shrugs.
“So much for eugenics. But it’s comforting to know there are still limits. Right, tell me about Level Nine.”
Sharon holds up her phone.
“Speaking of limits… I’ll let her tell you.”
A woman speaks, voice trembling with suppressed rage.
“It’s a clamour undeniable. Every moment of every second filled with birth and death, arrival and cessation. What is life compared to the roar if its arrival or the howl of its ending? You’re all addicted to the least part of your existences, and I can’t explain it adequately. Leave me to my helpless fury.”
A male voice replies.
“You’ll obey your orders.”
The woman snarls back.
“I’ll do as I please. I’m not a god, but can sense them, and know I can kill better. Leave me alone.”
Vicki shakes her head.
“Somebody attacked, didn’t they?”
“They did. She killed herself and everything down to the microbes in the soil. Sterilised a five-hundred metre diameter column. We’re standing in the highest visible trace, but scientists suspect it may, briefly, have been near-infinite.”
“Good God.”
“Hopefully it missed Him.”
by submission | Dec 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
It’s not that I have anything against our new alien companions, especially considering the technology they’ve given us. They just give me the creeps. It’s their eyes – opaque white, motionless orbs that never blink. And their voices! Like rocks dropped down drainpipes. You can’t tell if they’re talking to you or choking on their lunch.
But plenty love them. Whole online communities track their movements, trade pictures. Though, given they have zero facial expressions and move at the pace of comatose snails, I don’t get the appeal.
Me, I just work for them. Well, “work.” I sleep eight hours a night, five nights a week, and I’m paid more than most CEOs got before The Arrival. The aliens need human dreams. Something about our REM cycles help them regulate emotions. Or something like that. I just lie in a pod, hooked to cables. It’s painless.
Or it was. Now I get headaches, muscle aches, flashes of things I don’t remember doing.
I went to the company doctor – one of the aliens. Enormous in a comically expanded white lab coat the size of a small circus tent, his bedside manner nonexistent.
“Your illness is a delusion,” he rumbled without examining me. “Drink more water. Evacuate your bowels frequently.”
Unsurprisingly, despite drinking gallons of water and attempting more frequent lavatory visits, the symptoms persisted.
I kept working, but things got really strange. I woke up bruised, sometimes with dirt under my fingernails. Once I awoke soaking wet, as if I’d been swimming in my pajamas.
Finally, curiosity won out. I brought in a camera – an old GoPro I’d rigged to start recording once the pod sealed. It was against the rules, but the techs had stopped paying attention. We were just meat that dreamed.
I hid the device in the pod’s corner, lay back, and let the sleep cables connect to my head.
I didn’t remember dreaming. When I woke, the camera was still there. I took it home and reviewed the footage.
At first, there was nothing. Just me lying there. Occasional twitches. The slow rise and fall of my chest. I fast-forwarded.
Around 2:17 a.m., something changed.
My body moved. My eyes opened, blank. I sat up, removed the cables, slid the pod lid open – things I didn’t even know were possible.
The camera’s view was limited, but it caught me walking stiffly past rows of pods. Another figure appeared. It was one of them. It didn’t stop me. Just turned slightly, like it was checking I was going in the right direction.
I returned at 4:29 a.m. Same slow, mechanical walk. I closed the pod, the cables reattached, I shut my eyes.
I paused the footage. I sat watching the image of my own blank face for a long time.
The next day, I called in sick. I installed a deadbolt and piled furniture against my door. It took me a long time to fall asleep that night.
In the morning, there were fresh scratches on my forearms. They were thin, symmetrical. Deliberate. I found dirt in my bathtub. Not regular dirt. It was fine, powdery, with a faint acid smell.
I haven’t been back to work, but the messages keep coming. My “absence has been noted.” And my “pattern disruption is becoming non-optimal.”
I haven’t told anyone about any of this. I don’t know who to trust.
Tonight, I’m bolting and locking the door again. Wearing gloves to bed. And I’ve set cameras up all over my apartment.
If I leave again, I want to see how.
Or worse, *what* brings me back.
