by submission | Jun 5, 2010 | Story
Author : Colin Edley
Nobody likes the guy who told you so being right, especially when the three day bender you went on after the girl he said was no good meant you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed except to phone him up and ask him to cover your shift.
So here I am on the graveyard shift while the rest of humanity patted each other on the back for the same kind of stupidity that nearly saw me without a job, well happy new year one and all.
Shame we’ll never see another, it started somewhere in the south pacific. I suppose it was as good a place as any, that and its the biggest body of water on the planet. We wouldn’t have spotted it so soon if the satellites hadn’t been watching the Caroline Islands being the first place to pass into the new decade.
There have been black tides before and oil slicks, but this one was circular and reflected nothing, not even the stars or the full moon directly above it. Boats and planes went first and then Hawaii, soon the circle was getting ready to shake hands with both seaboards of the pacific. Those hands met again at GMT on the equator thirty hours later right underneath where I’m sat. The guys on luna reckon it has to be almost totally entropic, once its been there is no hot, cold, high or low just a black stain spread over the billiard ball smoothness left in its wake.
How it got to Earth I don’t know, what made it I don’t know that either, one thing I do know is that they must have been a lot like me.
The only reason anybody makes something that destroys everything it touches is if they had already got something they couldn’t get rid of any other way.
Its just about eaten through the base of the tether, so luna this skyhook is about to become a spaceship until it eats that too…
At least I can take something with me, whatever made this thing made one more mistake than I did, one they messed up bad enough in the first place they had to make it to mop up after them, two they let it get out afterwards.
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 4, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Faced with almost certain defeat, Earth Command committed 70% of its deep space fleet to a last ditch effort to conquer the Arcturian homeworld. But the Arcturians were well prepared, and Earth’s future was looking bleak as the defenders were ripping apart the attacking forces.
***
The bridge of the Starship Saratoga shook violently as an enemy torpedo plowed into its starboard bulkhead. “We’ve lost shields and weapons,” reported the tactical officer.
Reluctantly, the captain was forced to retreat, at least temporarily. “Helm, take us to the other side of the sun.” The Saratoga left formation and streaked away from the battle. And the Arcturians let her go, for now. They’d mop up the scattered remnants of Earth’s fleet when it was convenient. The captain opened the intercom, “Engineering, how long before the weapons are up? The Admiral needs every gun we can give him.”
“Sorry, Captain,” replied the chief engineer, “but he won’t be getting any of our guns. The reactor’s containment field is failing, and I cannot repair it. We only have a few minutes before the warp core explodes. We can save the crew if I jettison the core, or we can take our chances in the escape pods.”
“Based on what I’ve seen of the battle so far, Chief, I don’t think anyone will be around to rescue us, and the Arcturians don’t take prisoners.” The captain racked his brain for options, even bad ones. “Listen, Chief, I have a crazy idea. Do we still have warp drive?”
“Eye, sir, but you’re not going to get very far in 90 seconds.”
“We only need to get as far as the sun. I was thinking about creating a Corbett Prominence.”
“A Corbett Prominence? Ahhh,” replied the Chief Engineer as he realized what the captain was proposing. “Planning to go out with a flare, eh? Well, I like it. But, sir, the Corbett Prominence Theory is just that, a theory. Scientists have never been able to generate one.”
“Well, Chief, they’ve never tried to do it with a Galaxy Class Starship. Helm, put the sun directly between us and the Arcturian homeworld.” The captain rose from his command chair as the Saratoga made a gentle arc to align itself with the sun. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Let’s see if we can cook some Arcturian butt. Maximum warp, Lieutenant.”
The Saratoga leapt into warp drive. The engines became deafening trumpet blasts as the ship’s velocity raced upward. The Saratoga entered the Chromosphere at warp 7.5, and was accelerating past warp 9 when it entered the photosphere. Seconds later, it vaporized, just as it was entering the sun’s core. However, the warp bubble maintained its integrity for a few additional seconds as it burst out the far side of the sun. In the wake of the collapsing bubble, an enormous solar prominence erupted from the surface, its arc extending millions of miles into space. Then, the super prominence snapped, releasing a quintillion tons of plasma in a conical plum headed toward the Arcturian homeworld at nearly the speed of light.
Ten minutes later, the coronal mass ejection impacted the planet, bathing the sunlit side with a lethal dose of ultrahard radiation that instantly exterminated every living thing it its path. Although the Arcturians on the night side of the planet escaped the onslaught of radiation, they helplessly clutched their throats as the fiery plasma blasted their atmosphere into space.
by submission | Jun 3, 2010 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
The music for News Night faded from the surround-sound speakers. Robert waggled an outstretched finger towards the sensor on the TV and, on the second attempt, dragged the window containing the security camera feed to one side.
“Tonight,” the interviewer intoned, “we are speaking to the controversial Home Office Minister, John Simmons about recent legislation…”
Robert let his mind wander, watching the three figures, hoodies obscuring their faces, who stood in view of the camera that overlooked the front gate.
“But Mr. Simmons,” the interviewer sneered, “the Prisoners’ Rights Group is up in arms about this.”
“This is not about prisoners, is it?” countered the Minister. “The very name of the organisation shows that they are out of touch, both with our policy and public opinion.”
Robert was distracted again: one of the men at the front gate pointed directly into the camera, then at the control panel for the gate; he was saying something to his companions, but the security system did not carry audio.
Robert turned his attention back to the Minister.
“There is no longer room in our country’s prisons to hold every person convicted of a crime. Nor do the police have time to protect every scumbag, mugger or rapist…”
“Please, Minister, can we restrain the emotive language,” the interviewer interjected.
“This is an old solution to an old problem.” the Minister stated, calming himself. “Placing repeat criminals outside the protection of the law allows the public to protect themselves, the police to do their job and the treasury to save taxpayers’ money.”
“And they can no longer claim benefits or access health care?” the interviewer queried.
“Did you know that 80% of attacks on nurses are carried out by known offenders?” The Minister thumped his fist on the desk for emphasis.
Robert looked around the room, at the top of the range 110” television, at the Rembrandt sketch in the gold leaf frame and at the latest auto-barista. Then he looked back at the camera feed: one of the men was stabbing a finger at the screen of his mobile. Did he imagine that another, half in shadow, was cocking a gun?
On the TV, the interview continued.
“A citizen’s status is visible on any console,” the Minister justified. “There is no reason innocent people should become involved.”
Unconsciously Robert checked his own status in the bottom left of the display.
“Still green and clean,” he mumbled to himself.
“And how do you respond to accusations that this is a criminals’ charter;” the interviewer asked, “that it allows career criminals to target those already convicted without any fear of reprisal.”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” the Minister said emphatically. “Would you rather they targeted law abiding citizens?”
Outside, Robert noted, a man was now hunched over the gate’s control console, hands moving in quick, precise motions.
On the TV the interviewer was now holding up a copy of the Times, showing today’s headline: “CRIME BOSS CALLAGHAN TO BE SENTENCED”. Even though he’d been waiting for this, Robert was no longer listening; in the bottom left hand corner of the screen his status had changed from green to red.
Then the power cut, the TV was silent and everything was illuminated by the soft, red glow of the emergency lights.
Robert Callaghan stood, lifted the pump action shotgun from the table and cocked it.
But the whole time he stared at the now-blank screen, stared at where a single yellow word had been, block capitals on the red background of his status box. That word had been OUTLAW.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jun 2, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
The leaves of the overhanging canopy cast a restless pattern of light and dark on the forest floor. The soft trill of flying animals and the occasional flutter of branches as some unseen creature passed on it’s arboreal thoroughfare were the only sounds to intrude upon the tomblike solemnity of the forest.
Moving silently below, a group of black clad men made their way, careful not to disturb a single twig. Inaudible within their armoured helmets, the men still spoke quietly into their com-links.
“It came from this direction,” Sergeant Sakharov’s hushed voice rasped over the net.
“What the hell was it,” PFC Josten asked, the flow of adrenalin evident in his voice. Growing up during the early years of the Martian Rebellion, Mark Joston was a born soldier.
“Judging by the size of these tracks, whatever it is, it’s big.” Corporal Schmidt remarked with a casual air. He was Earth born, and lived in a world a little more rarefied than the other six men of the strike group. Such things were barely within his sphere of concern. He had joined the Corps on a whim “for the adventure“. Something to tell the boys back home of his days among “the little people”.
The ravages of the rebellion had escaped the confines of the Martian atmosphere and spread to the rest of the colonies in the system. Mother Earth had been spared the carnage. Partially due to her position as the cradle of humanity, but more notably for her impenetrable string of Planetary Defense Satellites, the PleiaDeS, and her massive swarms of HK ships, bristling with plasma cannons and nova clusters. So, with no where else to turn, the next phase of the ongoing war had spread to the Morning Star. Venus.
“What do you think it is? Some sort of Allied secret weapon?” Pvt. Zalar was green, fresh from boot. The seasoned marines laughed derisively, concealing their own fears.
“Nah,” replied Sgt. Sakharov testily, “if there were any slopes around I’d smell ‘em. Even through the scrubbers. Whatever it is, it ain’t Allied.” Fatigued by the heat, and the weight of the cumbersome armour, Sakharov called a halt.
The men were exhausted, sweltering in the early morning sun despite the cooling mechanisms of their armour. The men walked in a staggered “V” pattern, invisible to each other through the dense foliage, though separated by mere meters. Their locations, as well as a 360* view of their environs was projected directly into their eyes by the opaque faceless helms.
Lcpl Pohl on point, squealed sharply. “Hey, there’s something directly on our twelve… something big.”
Sgt. Sakharov spoke up. “Where? There’s nothing on my scan… Oh shit…” His voice trailed into silence.
A thunderous bellow blasted through the trees. The heavy dampening effect of the lush undergrowth did nothing to squelch the deafening explosion of sound. The birdlike creatures and the scurrying denizens of the upper branches scattered like leaves before a hurricane.
Rising above them on legs thicker than any surrounding tree stood a beast resembling a nightmare predating mans very existence. Without an order given, or necessary, all seven men simultaneously opened fire with their blasters. Seven individual tongues of green plasma bathed the beast with little noticeable affect.
Stunned into immobility, the men stood and stared as the monster reared back to take a massive lungful of air, and swiftly stooped down showering the men with a sticky gel like substance that ignited instantly upon contact with air.
The anguished cries of the par broiled men were silenced as the dragon bowed to devour his prey.
by Duncan Shields | Jun 1, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Our server’s arm whined with steam driven pistons as she set our drinks down. This was body modification on a new level. She must’ve been on eleven different kinds of immunosuppressants. She probably had a biotechnician on call to handle emergencies when her body started to reject the parts she’d shoved in. Her skin looked inflamed around the insertions. The itching alone must have driven her crazy.
I was trying to figure how much mods like that cost and how she could afford them on a waitress’s wage when Trucker sat down across from me.
Trucker was a strong man with a lisp. The hissing of his sibilants had made him a big target and a vicious fighter. He had eyes like blue marbles punched into a face made from dough. This was not a man you wanted to have angry at you.
So naturally I wanted to piss him off. The drugs hummed in my veins, giving me confidence.
I casually reached into the pocket of my short coat and thumbed back the safety on the pocket Mauser. It was coded to follow my line of sight. I kept staring at Trucker’s left eye.
This was the industrial district. The stink of diesel wafted through the bar here along with the smell of burning pork, cigarettes, rubber, and wet brick.
“Hello” said Trucker. His voice was surprisingly high for such a big man. “My money.” He said, avoiding sibilants that would highlight his lisp.
“Yeah.” I said. “Funny story, actually. True story. It’s not here.”
Trucker squinted at me with his glittering piglet eyes, confused at my suicidal attitude. He was smart enough to realize that I wouldn’t be this arrogant unless I had some insurance so he waited.
“Where ith it?” he asked, accidentally exposing his lisp. He immediately pursed his lips together and reddened. His eyes glittered spider-like in his embarrassment. I knew I didn’t have long before his anger overrode his caution.
“Seriously, sir, it’s being sent somewhere secret so that I can be assured of safe passage outside the city soon.” I drawled, loading as many s-words into my speech as possible. I giggled through a light drug sweat, my heart thudding out confidence.
Trucker became a statue across from me. He was as still as a lion watching an antelope get closer. I’d crossed a line. I’d signed my own death warrant. Good. I had his attention.
“And where might that be?” asked Trucker, back in control and disturbingly calm.
“I sent it to your sister. She’ll receive it by Sunday morning. That’s six hours from now. I’m going to leave now, Trucker. If your sister doesn’t have it by Sunday, come and get me. If you take your hands off the table in the next two minutes, I’ll blow your head off.” I said calmly and stood up.
“I have a lot of people, kid. Everywhere. You’re a dead man whether I get the money or not. Have a good night.” Trucker said to me. It even sounded cordial.
I backed out of the diner feeling stupid. He watched me the whole way. I was counting on Trucker to be less patient. Maybe I played this wrong. I could feel the drugs wearing off and panic starting to seep in. All I knew was that I needed to run as far as possible in the next six hours.
