by B. York | Sep 25, 2005 | Story |
The officer approached, hands clasped behind his back, staring unabashedly at the young astronaut, raising his slender brow in cynical awareness of the situation. He reached across the stark white table and clicked the record button on the small tape recorder. His voice was deep and disturbingly serene for the nature of the interrogation, “Why don’t you tell us that, again?”
Johnnie sighed and wiped his sweaty hands on his knees. He was nervous, but that was all relative now. “It was like I said. Routine mission, you know, standard stuff. We were unloading an empty O-2 tank to refuel at the space station. It was Bucks, Johnston and I carrying the load, out there in harsh space in our suits. And, like I said–” The military official interrupted Johnnie.
“You do know that the vacuum of space will kill a human being, don’t you?”
“That’s what we were meant to think.”
“What do you mean? Go on.”
Johnnie nodded, “I was curious, I mean… no one has ever died in space before and I really wondered how they knew. I wondered how they could possibly know what could happen. It’s like Columbus…”
“Stick to the subject.”
“I was having trouble with my girlfriend back home, things were just, I don’t know… bland. So I did it.”
The interrogator sat forward, “Did what?”
“I took the suit off.”
“That’s impossible. I just told you the physics of it all. No air, no moisture, hell, let’s not forget the hard radiation from direct exposure.”
The young astronaut had the look of frustration on his face, “I already told you this! I took it off and I floated around. There is no air but you don’t need it up there. There’s no radiation because, I don’t know, because you don’t need to believe in it. I floated around and laughed. The others guys were panicking but they kept asking me how I felt. So I told them… it felt great.”
A fist slammed onto the table, the white room seemed to vibrate with the anger now resonating from the eyes of the interrogator. “You’re either covering up for something or you’re just trying to be famous. Either way, we’re going to find out. You do understand that you will go to jail.”
“I was floating above heaven; I think that’s why nothing made sense.”
“Do you hear yourself? You’re not making any sense!”
“I know, it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you, the only reason we didn’t know is because we brought it with us.”
“What?” His fists had unclenched he was interested again.
Johnnie just smiled, ” Earth.”
There was a long pause, the interrogation had to have a break, and the officer just paced the room looking around, thinking hard, as one does when given a paradox of their reality. He turned, curious as ever, and began again. “Why did you do it, then? Why would anyone do it, Johnnie?”
Johnnie just shrugged and grinned, as he was prone to do since he got back. “Because we can.”
by Jared Axelrod | Sep 24, 2005 | Story |
Slug eased himself onto the barstool, a lazy grin on his face. His hair had been professionally tussled that evening, and with his new hologreather jacket, he was confident in his irresistibility.
“Start me up a tab, barkeep,†Slug said, withdrawing his credit card and inebriation license. With a movement made automatic by constant practice, he placed both cards in the bartender’s hand while not losing eye-contact with the azure-coifed beauty across the room. No point in wasting time, Slug thought. “Gimmie a Mai Tai and send one over to that girl with the blue hair.â€
“I’m sorry, sir,†the bartender said. “But there aren’t enough points on your license for a single Mai Tai, much less two.â€
Slug scowled, and forced himself to look at the bartender. “You’re sure?â€
“Positive.â€
“How about a gin and tonic?â€
“I’m very sorry, but you don’t have enough points for that either.â€
“How many do I have?â€
“For alcohol? None.â€
“What? How can that be?â€
“Let’s see…it says here that three days ago you apparently called three ex-girlfriends while under the influence of alcohol, causing a deduction. There was a bar-fight last Thursday that you participated in—no, I’m sorry, instigated. And then there was your sister’s wedding—â€
“I know what I did at Shelia’s wedding.†At least, Slug knew what they said he did at his sister’s wedding. It was all sort of a blur.
“That poor flower girl…†said the bartender, scanning the report.
“Forget alcohol,†Slug said. “How about some cocaine?â€
“Not after your last misadventure with it. I wouldn’t go back to that aquarium anytime soon, either.â€
“Ecstasy?â€
“Nope.†The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “Forty poodles? All of them?â€
“I don’t want to talk about it.†The blue-haired girl was now deep in conversation with a guy sporting leopard-print facial stubble. Slug pinched his nose in frustration. “What can I get?â€
The bartender placed two pill capsules in front of him. Slug looked at the bartender’s grin in askance.
“Diet pills and ginseng, sir. The finest in the house!â€
Slug weighed his options. It didn’t take very long. “I’ll take ‘em.â€
“Excellent, sir. Shall I send some over to the young lady?â€
“You know what? I think I’ll just take these to go. Think I’m gonna spend the night in.â€
by J.R. Blackwell | Sep 23, 2005 | Story
“What I want to know, really, is where we are.” Lee was aggravated, partly at himself, for following Jason’s directions, and partly at Jason, for being a dick.
“Where we are my friend, is in grave danger.”
Lee looked around. “We are in grave danger in a toy store?”
“This is just the evidence of the danger Lee, not the danger itself.” Jason was in one of his moods. He had probably stopped taking his medication again. Lee tried to think patient thoughts.
“Jason, we are late to the party. Lets ask for directions and get going.”
“No, there is something I need to show you.”
“What? Jason, did you mean to take me here to this toy store? You told me you were lost!”
“No, YOU were lost Lee, I have always known the way.”
“No. You told me you had a shortcut and then you said you were lost. You lied to me!”
“This is important.”
“It is important to me that you tell me where the fuck we are.”
Jason pointed above Lee’s head. There was a yellow digital banner that read in shining digital letters: NJ Toy Emporium, Largest on the East Coast.
“We are in New Jersey.” Jason said.
“I can see that.” Lee wondered how many of their mutual friends he would upset if he punched Jason in the eye.
“I have to show you something.” Jason began running wildly into the maze of giant displays. Lee followed him, despairing.
Jason sprung from behind a pyramid of boxes. “What, exactly, is THIS!” He was holding a grotesque orange globular oozing toy. Lee had seen the nasty things before on DTV.
Lee sighed. “It’s a Bubbit.”
“And what exactly is a Bubbit?”
“Jason, this is stupid.”
Jason glared menacingly at his friend. Lee shook his head and read the package. “A Bubbit is a “˜Interactive Puppet for Aggressive Play! Bubbits will change shape to entertain and amaze! Scare your friends and learn new ways to beat the Bubbit Blue.”
“Beat the Bubbit Blue.” Repeated Jason reverently. “It’s a training device.”
“For ages four to ten?”
“Lee, the situation is dire. We are clearly preparing for Epic Hegemonic Warfare.”
Lee realized that there was no way of getting out of this argument but through it. “Jason, that’s impossible. Other than peacekeeping police actions by the UN there are no military conflicts. The world’s nations have finally done with it. Jason, this is the greatest time of peace since humanity came down from the trees.”
“And you don’t find that suspicious.”
“No Jason, I don’t. People want peace and besides, even if we tried to fight we are all so economically interdependent that it wouldn’t be feasible.”
Jason smiled then, his terrible glinting smile. “Oh Lee, then you finally see it.”
Lee shrugged. “See what?” Jason grabbed Lee’s shoulders and shook him.
“Lee! Do you mean that you can see all that but you can’t see to the next level? The very next logical conclusion!” People were staring.
“Keep your voice down.” Jason grabbed Lee by the elbow and started pulling.
“Do you remember when Ziggy-Stiggy changed voices?”
“I remember a time when my friend Jason wasn’t a lunatic.”
“It was a corporate takeover. Ziggy-Stiggy was popular and totally non-violent. The creator of Ziggy-Stiggy refused to voice the part after the government ruled that the hostile takeover of Ziggy Inc by Brascow was legit. Brascow is highly subsidized by the government, a pawn of the executive branch itself. And what was the first thing that happened to Ziggy-Stiggy when he changed hands?”
“I don’t know, what?”
“He started hunting mushroom people. What does that tell you?”
Lee rolled his eyes. “That the government is preparing us for war?”
“Not us, the children.”
“Why the children?”
“Because something is coming, from very far away. Far enough that the children today will be the ones fighting it.”
“Aliens?”
“Aliens.”
“Jason, if that’s true, then we are the last generation that will have peace. If you are right, shouldn’t we enjoy this while we can?”
“You just want to go to the party.”
“Yes. I want to go to the party. Because the aliens are coming.”
by B. York | Sep 22, 2005 | Story
Radiation Levels: Acceptable. “Okay, lads, we’re good. Let’s not mosh this up, right?” Lars, encased in a plastisteel suit, stepped his near-weightless form through the breached opening of the hull. The three stripes indicative of a mission commander on his right bicep stood out against the off-white hue of his shell. He glanced back at the three others behind him; his accompaniment on this rubbish of a mission.
The Mir space station had been a pillar of international space relations for decades. It was the meeting place for any mission consisting of combined efforts from more than fifteen countries. Now it was a decayed shell of an old empire. Science couldn’t explain the station’s rapid decay in the recent years past, only that a hull breach had killed the remaining officers, and put to rest a monument of space-exploration. Rumors would still persist that the ghosts of the crew haunted the wreckage, and the reasons why it hadn’t yet been salvaged after fifteen years.
Lars could feel the chill running up his spine as he hooked up the feed-line to the wreckage. He waved his squad in, taking the time to tug his own floating form inside. The dank, bleak interior washed over him. The luminescent-application on his arm glowed like a night-light, illuminating a floating beverage package, and a few loose wires. The rest of the corridors remained encased in shadow.
“Commander, I’m getting an infrared read off this puppy.” The American, Dotson was always scared of naked space missions.
Lars rolled his eyes and just spoke into the com, “Are you sure ’bout that, private? We are in a vacuum. Best to check your readings, again.”
Dotson pulled himself up closer to Lars, “No, not heat sir… I’m picking up a fluctuating, moving cold.” The scanner he held was showing the appropriate readings.
Lars would rub his chin, but that bulky suit made his common tics impossible. “Hm, take Rustokov and Feugo with you to the core room, I’ll check the science panels around here.”
Private Dotson nodded and was off with the others, three glowing bulbs of arm-light floating down a corridor into the depths of darkness. Lars was left alone. That’s how he preferred to operate, though the hair standing up on the back of his neck was telling him that man should not tread here. The astromarine commander saw a panel up ahead on the right, and began his trek towards it. A low rumble came from around him. The hull seemed to still be collapsing slowly, even after the initial wreckage and ten years of dormancy. “Lads, keep your coms on the ready, I want us out of here in 15, Command Out.” Better safe than sorry, he thought.
Tapping the panel to life, Commander Lars Gallows floated in the center of a tunnel, watching the green menu of a boot-up system.
>>>Mir Core System Reboot
>>>System Functioning at 32%
>>>Enter Authorization Key…
Usually his crew wasn’t this quiet. But Lars was too transfixed to notice they hadn’t come back with anything and were sure to have reached the core room by now. Entering an old military key, the screen came to life with documentation of science research and files damaged from the system shock. His brows came together. He’d hardly realized now that the emergency lights had flickered out.
>>>Science File 0042: We’ve discovered an anomoly on tbrrrrrr zzzzz##%%$^^&. The readings are faulty, we will check them again tomorrow.
The feed-line silently became unlatched, and his craft floated off towards Earth. Lars’ crew had gone missing, and Lars was soon to follow.
>>>Science Files 0101: We’ve been fooled! We have to get out of here! It’s all around us, it seeps in through the hulls and tries to make us kill one-another. We’re staring out into a .. a ghost. My God… it haunts existence. We hav—ddhhfffffggggg@@@###$$$ FILE ERROR
“Private! Dotson! Get your arses back here, on the double, lads. We’re aborting this mission!” There was no answer, only the hull creaking again. Lars looked down the corridor, and was horrified. Space was creeping in, the blackness from it was seeping down the corridor towards him. His eyes could only widen in horror, as the truth became abundantly clear to him, and the world would go on… blissfully ignorant.
by Kathy Kachelries | Sep 21, 2005 | Story |
They are not awake.
They have been asleep for days, years. They lie sprawled across train platforms, clutching cellphones, notebooks, and mp3 players. Their hearts barely beat, drowsy with decreased metabolism. Their fingernails have grown long, curling under. They are pristine white from lack of use.
Dr. Sarah Rosencrantz had not expected this result.
Now, bored and alone in a city of sleep, Sarah walked down empty streets where the streetlights changed indifferently with an echoing thud. She no longer bleached her hair. In the summer, she often went without clothing, her skin gleaming white as she stood on Wall Street, knee-deep in a sea of business-suited bodies that inhaled and exhaled like the tide.
She continued her research, though she wasn’t sure why.
The generators continued to run. Water continued to flow. Everything was computerized, fueled by reserves that would last a hundred years. Worst-case scenario, they had said, pointing at color-coded maps as they stockpiled.
In a grocery store, a woman slept in the produce aisle, her hand folded around the blackened pit of a peach.
Trees continued to grow, and, unpruned, they arched over the sidewalks, nudging cement with timid roots. Sarah pondered, sometimes, what would happen when she died, when everyone died. The machines would remain awake, grumbling, until they too ran empty and the power ceased.
I95, streetlights blinking off one by one over the rusted carcasses of automobiles.
This war will destroy everyone, she had said when summoned to testify before the UN. She had meant to stop it. But not like this.
