by submission | Oct 21, 2007 | Story
Author : Simon Petrie
Afar contemplates lifting something small, a souvenir, but is distracted by the conversation at the next table:
“…forgot our anniversary, so I’m sending flowers back.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“You kidding? It’s just one day. Not going to affect anything, except avoid an argument.”
“Still don’t see why they allow it. Bloody dangerous, you ask me.”
“Na, we’re protected by paradox. Anyone wanted to change the past, badly, far enough back, things shift so that person didn’t exist, or time travel hadn’t been invented. Then that action wouldn’t have occurred; past doesn’t change. Machine just seizes, briefly, if someone tries that. But anyhow … you reckon roses or daffs?”
“Why ask me? She’s your wife.”
Afar stands up and leaves. Hopes he still looks inconspicuous, though it really doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not possible to grab a souvenir: salt cellar, spoon, whatever. Not simply disallowed, not possible. There’ll be memories, at most, even if he survives. It’s a pity. He’s learnt much of this culture over the past months. His intended actions are necessary, he knows; yet he feels remorse, frustration at the cost in time, sheer uncertainty. Stage fright. Nerves.
Down the street, he passes a kiosk. They’re everywhere, time travel has blossomed. Natural-disaster fatalities are rare now; missed appointments a thing of the past. (There is talk, even, of grandiose new pathways in spaceflight: install a kiosk on a spaceship; send crew, equipment, and braking fuel ahead to just before arrival.) The kiosks are busy, heavily policed.
Afar, also, has time travel business today, but what he intends won’t work on any other time machine in the world. He’s brought his own device, folded in his heavy briefcase.
He reaches the park. A cold day, overcast, easy enough to find a deserted spot. He opens the case, assembles his machine. Nobody here is going to recognise it as a time machine. It resembles an easel.
The case contains also six dull metal globes, the size of croquet balls, but heavier, and cold. Antimatter, painstakingly contained. Payload. He aligns them along the machine’s waist-high tray, locks them in position, loads coordinates.
It’s taken him months to prepare: the orbital mechanics require incredible precision. Pin-point accuracy, within a few kilometres’ depth, across a six-million-year gulf. He’s aiming for twelve kilometres down: six antimatter grapefruit, evenly spaced along the fault underlying the rift valley from which he’s chosen his alias. Afar. Ethiopia. Home of the proto-hominids. It should go almost magnitude 10. But the volcanic follow-through will be the real killer.
He looks around. In the distance, there’s a couple sitting on a bench; a woman dog-walking; a man and his daughter exploring the playground. Further afield, cars, sporadic aircraft, the bustling city. People going about their daily lives, wondering whether to go with roses or daffodils. As if it mattered.
He regrets the necessity to obliterate, to kill: he has deep respect for life. But life will continue, after his interruption; merely without one particular species and its invasive civilization. Probably be better for it.
He laughs a little. The man from the café would say Afar’s plan wouldn’t work. Nobody on Earth could use a time machine to retrospectively erase humanity, because that’s a paradox. And he’s right; but he’s also wrong. Nobody from earth.
Afar? He’s from Alpha Centauri, here to eliminate a potential threat to his homeworld.
He throws the switch and waits for the world to reorder itself.
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by submission | Oct 20, 2007 | Story
Author : Beth Mathison
She knew it was a bad idea when the man dropped dead in front of her.
She had seen death before, when she had lived on the streets. But that had been long ago, almost a different life. The suddenness of this man’s death had caught her off guard.
“Cari, we go now,†Chin told her, tugging on her leather jacket. “We leave this place.â€
Chin’s cool reaction told her that he had most likely seen death before, too.
She carried the data within her right wrist, a tiny bump of skin the only indication that she was a courier. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, she knew. Lugging data in the surgically designed port on the underside of her right arm. It paid the bills. She could work when she wanted.
This job was unexpected, with her friend Chin suggesting they make a run together with a courier named Duncan. Chin introduced them as they ported at the origin site, their three arms stretched across the company’s mainframe. The tech was using some kind of new transfer cable and software, and it burned her skin as the data flowed into her. Cari thought that Duncan was handsome in a rugged, country way, his blue eyes intense. As they waited for the data to fill their respective ports, Duncan’s gaze settled on the logo stitched across her shirt for just a moment too long. He looked back up, and she had held his gaze.
Now he was dead, his eyes fixed towards the dirty metro terminal’s ceiling. A thin trickle of blood streamed out of his nose.
Chin was pulling her along now, Duncan’s body lost in the crowd. The station was packed, as usual, and Cari found herself shoved into a car, Chin barely making it as the doors swished closed. They hung onto a thick metal pole, swaying as the bullet train strained forward.
The three of them had been headed north to the city’s edge to deliver the data. Chin had changed directions, pulling them into a car heading downtown.
Chin was pale under his dark skin, and she reached out and gently lifted his left hand. Turning it over, she saw that his port site was red. She wondered if Duncan’s had looked the same before he fell.
She knew where they were going, down to see Izzy, the black market’s master data miner. She and Chin had about sixty minutes before the chip in the data alerted the authorities that they were rogue. Izzy would know how to reverse the software and remove the data.
“Cari,†Chin whispered, leaning into her. “You must hurry if I fall.†His eyes were closed.
The car slipped under the river, and the world outside turned a frantic shade of blue and black. She closed her own eyes and thought of herself as a piece of data, flowing along some long, complicated logic stream.
Her wrist burned now, her head filling with a bright light and buzzing sound that made her nauseous.
She wondered about the data in her wrist, what new technology had gone viral and decided to terminate its hosts. She had just wanted an easy job, to carry data from overly cautious clients eagerly protecting their data. She felt Chin’s arm relax in her hand, falling away from her.
Opening her eyes, she watched as the train exploded out from under the river into the bright sunlight. The city gleaming above them like some precious jewel as they headed for the station.
The radiance filled her then, the data working throughout her fragile body. And she let herself go, allowing the light to take her.
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by submission | Oct 19, 2007 | Story
Author : Debbie Mac Rory
The thing shrieked like a badly tuned violin.
“It’s been making those sounds for days nowâ€, the woman said. The white-robed man nodded absentmindedly; he was unable to tear his eyes away from the creature on the examining table.
A lumpy looking creature with gray-brown skin which was strangely cold and gravelly to the touch lay there, three of its six legs pushed weakly against the stainless steel surface of the examining table.
“I… em… well, you see… eh…â€
The woman nodded her understanding and bent down to speak to the young boy at her side, whose attention had been given solely to the animal before him.
“Peter, why don’t you step outside for a moment? Mommy and the animal doctor need to talk about grown-up thingsâ€.
The small boy nodded his head slowly, and reached out to stroke the small creature. His mother gave him a moment or two, then ushered him out into the waiting room. Taking a deep breath, Will prepared to explain what he could.
“You see, Mrs. Langdon, it’s just.. I can’t really do anything. I’m not a vet, I’m a xenobiologist-â€
“Oh I knowâ€, Mrs. Langdon interrupted. “But we’d already tried our zone doctor, and she was the one who suggested we come to youâ€.
Will nodded, letting his gaze stray back to the animal for a moment. He could swear that some of the spots of its back were turned towards him, listening as he condemned it to leave once more without aid.
“Mrs. Langdon, there is nothing I can do. To be honest, I was surprised when we heard the announcement telling us that the base was going to be accepting colonists and even family units, so early in its launch. We’re just not equipped yet to deal with it all. That†he swung an arm to point at the table, “is not even something I’ve encountered before, and my whole purpose of being here is to catalogue the native faunaâ€.
Mrs. Langdon nodded. “I just don’t know what I’m going to tell Peter, he’s gotten so attached to the wee thing. I.. I don’t suppose I could say that you’ve kept it in for tests? Maybe that’d give his father a chance to catch another oneâ€.
“Certainly, Mrs. Langdon, that’s no problem at allâ€
Will shook Mrs. Langdon’s hand, and showed her to the door, closing it again on the beginning of her explanations on “special tests†that Spot – he shuddered, he simply wasn’t able to think of that thing as a pet, especially not one that shared a name with a dog he’d long since left behind – was going to need.
Returning to the table, he stood looking down at the animal. With a speed and agility that belied both its shape and apparent illness, the animal lunged for Will’s hand. Will leaped back, clutching the hand that had only barely retained all its fingers to his chest.
“Vicious little bugger…â€
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by J.R. Blackwell | Oct 18, 2007 | Story
Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer
Lucias XI, the Star Prince, son of Byron II, the Merchant King, threw open the double doors to the marble war room. His demeanor was fierce, his face chiseled, displaying no emotion. His wiry body was tense, coiled. He pointed as he stomped into the room, his heels clicking against the marble.
“Minister Holt, please explain the meaning of this!” He waved his hand, and in his palm there appeared a miniature version of the emerald robed Minister.
Holt’s voice was smooth in the recording. “The Prince has, not a wife, but a monster, their union an abomination-” The Prince closed his palm, his breath coming hard.
Holt bowed. “Has the Parliament revoked the freedom of safe expression act, my Lord? ”
“I expect that my enemies will attack my personal life Minister, but from my friends-”
“Nothing of your life is personal my Lord, nothing.”
“My marriage was a public arrangement, my enjoyment of my wife’s company is private.”
“Not when that enjoyment endangers your life!”
The Prince whirled, turning to the assembled Generals. “You are dismissed. Minister Holt and I are about to have words.” The Generals filed out. The Prince calmed his breathing, his gloved hand unclenching slowly. A strand of purple hair, royal purple, the symbol of his royalty fell over his hazel eyes. Tall and slim, he stood a foot taller than Holt.
The Prince looked down at the Minster through thick violet lashes. “Xixor would never hurt me.”
“There is scar on your chest, your Excellency, that says otherwise.”
“An accident.”
“Your life cannot afford accident, my lord. You are a precious resource, a finely tuned genetic triumph, your code idealized to the standards we require, as was your father and thousand mothers. Nobility obliges my Lord; you are not allowed to play dice with your life. I have only said aloud what the populace already mutters. You did not see what we saw lord, for you were unconscious, but the four world saw your limp, bleeding body in the arms of a black oily beast, claws streaked with your blood, that’s what the people saw, and we must answer to their concerns.”
“My wife, Minister. She is my wife.”
“An alien monster.”
“I won’t hear your xenophobia.”
“Then you will not hear the words of your people.”
“I married her so there would be understanding between our people and hers.”
“The understanding, my Lord, is that she will someday eat you. You, who we have worked so hard to design.”
The Star Prince leaned against the wall, his head resting against the marble. “I love her Holt.” He ran a hand across his chest. “What she did, that was how she shows her affection toward me. I was built to be a prince of reason, of diplomacy.”
Holt hung his head. “We built you too well.”
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by submission | Oct 17, 2007 | Story
Author : Steven Holland
You awake; the familiar smell of synthetic, processed food greets you. The pneumatic tube has delivered three packages of food. They contain artificial eggs, sausage, and pancakes today, just like every day. You, Stackhouse, and Sergeant Zimmerman begin your breakfast. It’s the three of you today, just like everyday.
As you eat, it never occurs to you that you can’t remember a time when you didn’t live in this room, eating the same food with the same two men. You never question why you are being kept in this large, featureless room. The room houses bunk beds, exercise equipment, several couches, two ping pong tables, and one locked door. The dozen bunk beds, coupled with the large size of the room, suggest that 24 men could be housed here comfortably. You have often wondered why only three men need such a large room. You never once suspect that you might be being held prisoner in here. Instead, you know with confidence that you live in this room; you have always lived in this room.
The door opens at 0930 hours, just like usual. In walk four men clothed completely in white hazmat suits. They take Sergeant Zimmerman and half walk, half drag him out of the room. One of the four men mumbles something about taking him for some tests and not to be worried. They can rest easy; you’re not worried. They always take him for tests at exactly this time every day. The door closes after them with a familiar metallic hiss. This sound always triggers you to look down at your left arm. You do so as is your custom. You wonder, as always, why the half dozen needle marks peppering your upper shoulder never heal. They look exactly the same as they always have. You don’t think to ask what was injected into you. You could care less; a warm, fuzzy, and detached feeling swirls around and in your brain. This is the way you feel; this is the way you have always felt.
The rest of the day passes without incidence, exactly as it always does. You and Stackhouse entertain yourselves by lifting weights, playing ping pong, and trying to guess the exact moment when the quiet hiss of air from the pneumatic tube will announce the next meal. Lunch and dinner arrive promptly on time, each meal composed of the exact same food as the day before. The two of you don’t talk much, for there is not much to talk about. Nothing ever changes in the room. At 2200 hours, the lights shut off. You are already in bed and fall asleep immediately.
You awake; the familiar smell of synthetic, processed food greets you. The pneumatic tube has delivered two packages of food. They contain artificial hash browns, french toast, and glazed ham today, just like every day. You and Stackhouse begin your breakfast. It’s the two of you today, just like everyday.
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