by Duncan Shields | Oct 21, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“Hey baby, how are you?” I replied to the phone.
I had told my wife that I had gone to Earth for business.
Angela lay, limbs spread wide and gloriously naked on the bed behind me, a beatific smile on her face. We’d been hedonistically wasting the hours of our romantic getaway. The scenery on this moon of Jupiter was supposed to be amazing but all we did was stay in the hotel room, order room service, and fuck. It was magnificent.
We had spouses, of course, back on our home planets. This was an affair.
“Oh my god, are you okay? I haven’t been able to get through until now.” my wife asked on the phone.
She was in a panic. I figure that she’d found a receipt or that one of my friends had squealed or that, hell, maybe she’d just pieced it together. I was relaxed. More lies. My wife was gullible. It wouldn’t be a problem.
“Things are great, hon. I’m in New Hampshire right now. The boys and I just went to see a movie and have a few drinks. They have a nice office. How are you?” I replied, the untruths slipping effortlessly from my lips with no twinge of conscience.
Her voice was confused and shrill. “Oh thank god. Are you sure? Did you manage to get away in time? When did you go the movie? Are you talking about yesterday? Where are you?”
I calmed her down. “Baby, baby, listen. It’s fine. I’m in my hotel room in New Hampshire on Earth, just like I said. I’m thinking of you. Don’t be crazy. Everything’s cool.”
There was an icy pause. When her voice came back, it had hardened. A dark place in the back of my head opened up a flower. Something was horribly wrong. I was missing a big piece of the puzzle in this conversation.
“Turn on the news.” She said in a flat voice. I reached over and thumbed the wall unit to life.
Every station said the same thing. Earth had been destroyed four hours ago in a civil war. Reports were still coming in concerning who started it. Our homeworld had become a husk. There were no survivors.
Angela screamed on the bed, gathering the blankets to her amazing breasts and staring wide-eyed at the screen. Her husband was an Earth senator.
My wife didn’t even question the sound of a woman’s voice in the background. She knew. I’d been caught.
“My lawyers will contact you tomorrow.” My wife said and turned off the connection.
Busted.
by submission | Oct 20, 2008 | Story
Author : Rob Burton
Dear Victim,
I am writing to you to tell you that, in a short while, you are going to be arrested for killing the Prime Minister. You didn’t do it, right? Wrong. Here at MI6, when we want to kill someone and say that you did it, you can be sure that we’ve made sure that you did.
I picked you for several reasons. Firstly, you have an interest in world affairs and have spent time on the internet researching terrorism. Now, I know that you are going to say, ‘but I wasn’t researching how to be a terrorist, I’m just concerned’. Well the courts won’t see it that way now that I’ve altered the list. Secondly, you have annoyed a few people over the years – some of them really hate you, you know – and so we got them to write their opinions on you on ‘mebook’. The press will look you up, and it will help us a lot if nobody likes you. Thirdly, you have short, dark hair, a heavy brow and a facial scar, which makes a conviction 18% more likely. Fourthly you are a liberal who is known to disagree with recent government policy – this gives you motive, and we like to eliminate as many threats as we can with one action. It’s more elegant. Lastly I picked you because, of all the many people who fit the profile, I don’t like the look of you.
According to your psychological profile, upon finishing this email you will attempt to run away – I hope you do, as it will further incriminate you – and that telling you this will not dissuade you. A few words of advice: Do not take your car, we can track it. Similarly, do not steal or borrow anyone else’s car. We can also track your mobile, PDA and laptop, and use them as listening devices. Do not go through any major urban areas; the cameras can pick up your ID using face recognition. Do not go anywhere near an airport or port either, for the same reason. Follow these simple rules and I give you six hours.
Thanks to the national DNA and biometric database, and a quick search through your bins, we have planted enough evidence around the site to easily convict you. Juries believe that DNA and biometric evidence is a rubber stamp for conviction. It is not, but they watch too much crime drama to be convinced otherwise. Also, we have hacked the new brain scan lie detector that Juries love so much, so it will show that you are feeling as guilty as a priest at a bondage party.
We thought that you might want to know why. Well, as you know, the current government has increased our budget and power exponentially over the last few terms. Now, it seems, the Prime Minister may be regretting a few of those choices. We cannot allow that, so we have killed him, demonstrating to his replacement (who is now guaranteed to win the next election) that we are not to be trifled with. This means that we can get whatever we want, which is more of the same, actually. Longer detention periods, fewer rights and greater surveillance. More power for us to play.
And why am I telling you this like some idiotic bond villain? Because it makes no difference to your fate, and because my boss and I think it’s hilarious.
This message will delete itself, leaving absolutely no trace, in two seconds.
Trust me. I know your reading speed.
by submission | Oct 19, 2008 | Story
Author : Denni schnapp
Oil painted rainbows on the pavement. Franklin coughed as he dragged Chrissy behind him.
“Keep your mask up,” he rasped, holding his own to his mouth with his free hand. The fumes made his eyes sting.
He paused, squinting. “Not–” Deep breath “Far. Now.”
His daughter remained silent, holding his hand as he resumed at a gentler pace.
The wind picked up, clearing some of the smog to reveal the silhouette of the Outer Settlement. There would be people, and air clean enough to breathe.
A sudden glare made him stop, Chrissy colliding with the heavy cloth of his coat. He pulled her behind him.
“Who are you? Where are you going?” a metallic voice rang out.
“Franklin Howards and my daughter Chrissy. Please–the bombs…”
The bombs had killed almost everyone before going on to poison the land.
“There’s no room! Leave the kid.” The latter an afterthought.
Chrissy clung tightly to his arm.
#
The bombs hadn’t killed her mother; cancer had seen to that. At another time there might have been kindly relatives, perhaps help from the government, but with millions struggling all that remained for Franklin was to return to the refinery, taking his daughter to live in one of the prefabs with their thin walls barely keeping out the noise and smell.
There had once been a forest, cut down during the building work. Only a few patches of shaggy grass remained. The kids had to play indoors. Not that there were many: another girl and two boys, all with wheezy coughs. Franklin couldn’t remember their names; he saw little of his daughter, let alone the other kids. By the age of twelve, they would be sent away to school-workcamp.
When the bombs fell, Chrissy had just turned eleven.
#
“Please, we’re just passing through!” Franklin fought for breath, inhaling deeply so that he could speak with a loud and confident voice. Don’t let them hear us wheeze.
“You people are always passing through.”
“We’re on our way to the harbour.”
“Ha! And where, pray, would you go from there?”
Franklin winced. Not in front of Chrissy. But his daughter gave no indication that she had understood, her eyes wide as she stared at the light.
“Give us the kid if you want, but you make your own luck.”
For a heartbeat time stood still. The school-workcamp was in the Outer Settlement. Chrissy would be better off there, with kids her own age.
“Leave the kid and go.”
Chrissy seemed to come to her senses. She tugged at his sleeve and Franklin stumbled back. After a few paces the beam cut off. They had rejoined the twilight zone and were of no further interest.
The sky was streaked with gold up where the soot couldn’t reach. The light settled on his daughter’s face. Franklin crouched.
“Chrissy, I want you to be safe…”
“Daddy, don’t go!” The mask distorted her voice.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Don’t you want to see–,” dammit, what was the boy’s name? “–Ollie again?”
“Ali,” she sniffled. Good, she was listening.
“I meant Ali. And the other kids that have left for school?” Workcamp.
Chrissy blinked and nodded. Brave girl.
“Come with me, Daddy!” She was keening.
There was no point trying to make her understand. If she was to have any future, he had no choice. He rose abruptly, holding her so tightly that it hurt him, but what hurt most was that she did not try to struggle.
The glare returned as he stepped over the perimeter. They stood motionless, waiting for the patrol to pick her up.
by submission | Oct 18, 2008 | Story
Author : Bill Richman
Bobby had always been a little different. His family felt it. So did the neighborhood children. His friends would have felt it too, if he’d had any. Of course, the other kids were quick to pick up on his oddities and use them to taunt him. He was used to that. Still, why did he have to hide what he felt? His longing to be accepted made him easy prey for those adults who knew what to look for and weren’t afraid to exploit it. Frank Martin was no exception. As a grounds keeper at the park, Frank saw a lot of kids every day, but his interests were very specific. As soon as he saw Bobby, he knew they were alike. It was only a matter of showing a little interest and acting a little bit friendly. Not too friendly, because that was dangerous. Just enough to pique the boy’s curiosity and draw him nearer.
“Hi!” Frank called to the boy, smiling and waving invitingly. “I’ve seen you around, and you look like maybe you could use someone to talk to.”
“M…me…?” stammered Bobby, looking around as though he expected the man to be addressing someone else.
“Yeah, you,” Frank chuckled nervously, glancing around to make sure no one was taking notice of them. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen the way you act. I know what you’re feeling. Do you want to come over to my house on Saturday? I think you’ll like it,” Frank blurted, knowing that he was going way too fast, but desperately afraid that he’d lose his nerve otherwise. “Of course, it’ll have to be our little secret,” he whispered, almost pleading.
“Um… well… I guess so…” Bobby mumbled, so stunned by the attention that it never occurred to him to wonder why someone like Frank would take so much interest in a boy like him.
“G…good…” stammered Frank, suddenly scared to death at what he’d just set in motion. “H…here’s my address. P…please don’t t…t…tell anyone wh…where you’re going.” With a trembling hand, he gave Bobby a small scrap of paper.
The lazy silence of Saturday afternoon was broken by a loud pounding and an angry voice shouting, “Police! Open the door!” Before Frank could do more than stand up and turn around, the door was thrown open, and an officer lunged into the room, followed closely by Bobby’s parents.
“What are you doing with my son?!?” screamed Bobby’s mother.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” shouted his father.
The officer pushed Frank roughly aside, revealing Bobby and another boy sprawled in full view on the couch, leaving little doubt as to what had been going on.
“Bobby!! What has he done to you?!?” wailed his mother.
“M…m…mom…? D…dad? It’s not his f…f…fault. I…I’ve felt this way for a long t…t…time now. Mu..mis… mister Martin is my f…friend.”
“Bobby? What the hell are you talking about, son? We raised you better than that!” moaned his father.
“D…d…dad? I… I’m s…sorry, bu..but it’s t…t…true,” Bobby sobbed. “I… I’m… a… a… r…r…READER!”
“Mister Martin, I’m placing you under arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, possession of illegal materials, and teaching without a license. You’ll have to come with me,” snapped the officer, reaching for his handcuffs.
The well-worn copy of “Tom Sawyer” hit the floor with a crack like a judge’s gavel.
by submission | Oct 17, 2008 | Story
Author : Chis Sharkey
The sign read:
P.B. FARNSWORTH’S TRAVELLING CIRCUS PRESENTS:
THE MYSTERIOUS HOVER-CAT
WITNESS THIS MYSTICAL CREATURE OF GRAVITY-DEFYING MAJESTY
THREE NIGHTS ONLY
OCT. 5TH, 6TH, AND 8TH
Special Agent Smith studied it intently. The font was, of course, overly dramatic and flourished across the paper. The sign included an artist’s rendition of “Hover-Cat”, depicting a tabby hovering over a podium, surrounded by an orange glow. Down at the bottom, in small lettering was the disclaimer :”Tickets not refundable”. Smith activated his mouthpiece hidden in his shirt cuff.
“Control this looks like the place. Request permission to proceed.”
“Permission granted,” chirped the voice in his ear piece, “Remember Agent Smith, this mission is recon only. Apprehension is not authorized at this time.”
“Roger that.”
Smith approached the smiling young woman at the ticket booth.
“One, please,” he said with a smile.
“That’ll be six dollars,” the ticket lady replied.
Smith took his ticket and proceeded into the tent where the show was to be held. It was fairly empty. That was good, it allowed Smith to get a front row seat, making a bio-scan more accurate.
Taking a seat, Smith pulled the bio-scanner, cleverly disguised as a pair of glasses, from his jacket pocket and put it on. The readout, visible only to Smith, displayed in front of him. Scanner Active. Smith touched his watch, remotely activating the scanner. He waited a few seconds, and a new display popped up in view. Scan Complete, No Signs of Alien Lifeforms.
The circus tent started to fill up, and finally the show began. Smith watched intently as the emcee entered the center ring with his assistant, an attractive young woman. Between them, a cloth draped over what looked like a podium. With much flourish and build-up, the emcee finally pulled back the cloth, revealing a cat sitting a top a podium, surrounded by a glass bell. Lifting the bell, the emcee warned the audience to prepare themselves for what they were about to see.
As Smith watched, the cat lifted into the air effortlessly and started hovering towards the audience. Ignoring the “ooos” and “ahhs” as the cat flew over audience members’ heads, Smith touched his watch again, keeping his eyes intently on “Hover-Cat”. After a few moments, the display read: Scan Complete, Extra-Terrestrial Life Confirmed. Remaining calm, Smith activated his mouthpiece.
“Control, I have positive I.D. Request permission to apprehend.”
After a long pause, “We have received the results of the bio-scan. Permission to apprehend granted. Use of deadly forced is NOT authorized.”
“Roger that.”
Smith immediately stood up and walked out of the tent and around to the back, where the performers would exit after the show. He spotted the emcee about a half hour later, holding a live animal carrier.
“Halt!” he yelled, “F.B.I. I need what you have in that cage!”
The emcee took of running, cage in hand. Smith took off after him.
“Control, I have a runner headed towards rear exit, request immediate assist!” he yelled into his mouthpiece.
He followed the emcee into the rear parking lot, where five F.B.I. vehicles were already waiting. Smith saw his partner Johnson jump out of the lead SUV and tackle the runner. Smith caught up moments later.
“Good job,” Smith said.
“Thanks to you,” replied Johnson, “Confirm this is the life form?”
Smith peered into the animal carrier. He nodded.
“Confirm. Positive I.D.”
“Good,” said Johnson, “Let’s get it back to the lab.”
