by submission | Dec 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Harris Tobias
Suron tapped the console impatiently. It was bad enough having to tutor 75 idiots in this jerkwater part of the galaxy for no hope of reward or recognition, but these particular young minds were spread out over half a light year on weather stations, research stations, agricultural stations and Krom knew what else. Not a single city within a month's travel, not even a single habitable planet for Krom's sake.
How did a teacher of his superb training and intellect wind up on this decrepit station so far from the gleaming centers of commerce and art? He who was third in his class at the academy and could have had an appointment at the great university on Helms. It was all politics. “Politics!” Suron spat out the word and fetched the console a resounding smack.
One by one the consoles lights winked off as the far flung students submitted their assignments, communicated with each other and signed off after the day's lessons. Seventy five little lights connected him to seventy five little minds. Some bright, some hopelessly dull; all of them reluctant to work but eager to win his praise. He demanded nothing less than perfection from them. This may be the despised ass end of the known universe but by Krom it will have seventy five well spoken and highly literate young minds. One light stubbornly remained. A young third former named Veech who lived on a small mining station at the very limit of The People's expansion.
Keying the switch with contempt Suron spoke to the boy, “Yes Veech, why do you tarry?” Static and the garbled sounds of voices and commotion came over the speaker. Suron turned to the small screen. A picture of the floor or perhaps a wall. Finally a panting and dishevelled Veech. “Professor! Thank Krom! Help! Help us please. Explosion. People hurt. I don't know what to do.”
“My dear young man,” snapped Suron, ” you will address me in the correct manner. You will ask permission to speak. And then you will speak clearly and in whole sentences as I have instructed. You will state your case in precise declarative sentences without emotion. In fact, I would prefer to read a written report on your problem which might help your flagging grade in composition. I will expect your report before class tomorrow. That is all.” So saying, Suron flicked the switch cutting off communication with the horrified Veech.
Several hours later this report came through on the data transfer machine:
Dear honored professor,
I do not have much time. Several explosions and fire have killed everyone but me. The station is in ruins. Only this channel of communication remains. I have no food and very little air. All life support systems are destroyed and there are no escape pods in this part of the station. I do not think I can last more than a few days before I slowly die of thirst or cold or asphyxiation. I might be better to simply throw open the airlock and end all suffering. I hope you find this composition to your liking.
Your most respectful pupil,
Veech
Sighing deeply and tut tutting to himself Suron takes the red pen from his pocket and begins to circle the obvious grammatical and syntactical errors in the report.
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by submission | Dec 10, 2010 | Story
Author : J.D. Rice
[Serial 3: Level One. Simulation Start]
The words fade from my vision as the VR hud appears on the edges of the “screen.” From this point on, I’ll be able to track my environmental impact just by focusing on the little blips of light around my eyes. Noise levels, shadows, I’ll know exactly how stealthy I am in completing my objective. VR gaming has reached such a height in recent years, creating levels from real life memories, that at times it’s hard to tell the game from reality.
[Mission One: Your first victim is an elderly woman, living alone in the alarmed house next door. You are armed with a knife. Kill her and escape before the police arrive.]
I grin with delight at the game’s choice. It read my memories and found the nearest person against whom I hold a grudge. Mrs. Mulis is a self-righteous old hag. Killing her will be perfect.
I make my way out of the house, careful not to be noticed by my mother, who the computer has left sitting in the family room, watching old sitcoms. I wait for a laugh track and slip out the back door. Thankfully, our dog is asleep, but I eye my noise levels as I make my way across our yard and into Mrs. Mulis’s. He doesn’t awaken. Perfect.
Stalking my way up to the old woman’s back door, I examine her security box. It’ll be tricky. Using the knife from my pocket, I cut a few wires and wait. No alarm. I turn the doorknob slowly, watching the sound bars on my hud bounce to the creaking of the door. I enter the house without incident.
I hear muted voices above. Mrs. Mulis’s bedroom television. The house is old, and the stairs creak as I make my way up. I wait patiently at the top of the steps. The light from Mrs. Mulis’s television slips through her cracked bedroom door, illuminating the hall. My heart pounds in expectation. Sweat forms on my forehead. I grib the knife tighter, my palms becoming slick.
I remind myself of all the times Mrs. Mulis shouted at me as a child. The times she called my mother a whore or threatened to have my dog put to sleep. I muster up all the rage and anger that I’ve long held in. The lights in my hud change from green to red. Instead of tracking my stealth, it tracks my health and injuries. My knuckles go white. The old woman dies tonight. And I’ll be the one to do it.
All my pent up emotions explode at once. Racing down the hallway, I burst through the bedroom door and dive at the screaming old woman. I slam the knife into her chest, again and again. Blood spatters over my chest and face. My hands are soaked red.
The woman’s screams turn to moans. Her moans turn to silence.
Breathing heavily, I wipe my hands on my shirt. I’ll have to burn my clothes when I get home, if that’s where the game leads me next.
As I look down at the woman’s dead body, my hud changes to yellow. Error report.
[Warning: Simulation malfunction. Please wait for reboot.]
I stand and wait for the simulation to continue. As I wait, Mrs. Mulis’s body goes cold. Blood drips from the bed to the floor. The minutes pass and a creeping sense of numbing horror overcomes my senses. The simulation never started.
This game is too perfect.
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by submission | Dec 9, 2010 | Story
Author : James C.G. Shirk
The automated countdown clock flashed: one hour, twenty-one minutes.
Commander Albright grimaced and adjusted the controls to retract the dome above. The astronomy observation skylight on lunar colony six, located at the southern edge of Mare Sarenitatis, slid noiselessly open. Earth, in its radiant magnificence, hung in the blackness of the overhead sky. “So, where is Goliath going to hit now?” he asked.
His cohort, Lieutenant Conrad, read the most recent data spewing from the telemetry console. “Almost right where originally thought — about six miles off the Newfoundland coast.”
Albright frowned. “Even after the intercept?”
“Yep. Missiles didn’t affect the flight path much — probably because it’s such a big honker.”
“I can’t frickin’ watch,” Albright said, punching the skylight closed.
“At least they let you bring up your wife in the last load of refugees,” Conrad said, trying his best to assuage Albright.
“Yeah, for what good it does my brother and sister…and my parents.”
Conrad winced; Albright was a glass half-empty kind of guy. “Where are they?” he asked.
“Mom and Dad live in St. Louis; brother’s got a farm in northern Indiana; and Sis is in Chicago.”
Shaking his head, Conrad said, “Almost makes me happy I’m an orphan,” and then added, “I guess that it’s good they don’t know what’s coming. It’ll be over in a flash. Thank goodness the government was successful keeping this under wraps.”
“I suppose,” Albright said morosely. “Thing is, the friggin’ idiots shouldn’t have put all our eggs in one basket in the first place.”
“You’re referring to the micro-hole?”
“Exactly. Focusing all our resources to create a miniature black hole in Goliath’s flight path, without developing a viable backup plan, was sheer stupidity,” he sneered. “Unless you call that pitiful attempt at blowing up the damn thing a backup plan.”
Conrad nodded. “Well, they were partially successful. They created the micro-hole okay. Unfortunately, the delivery system failed.”
“It wasn’t deployed early enough,” Albright went on, “and, of course, the damn thing disappeared enroute.”
Albright rose from his chair and walked to the event display screen. On it, the telescopic image of Goliath, a tumbling, black monstrosity, filled the screen — fifteen miles wide; it was a planet killer. Nothing would survive the impact. Nothing.
“You’re an ugly, remorseless bitch,” he murmured under his breath.
The countdown clock suddenly froze, and a staccato beeping blared from the telemetry console.
“What’s happening?” Albright shouted.
Conrad, eyes wide, poured over the incoming readouts. “Something’s changed,” he yelled. “Goliath is speeding up and tracking a half-degree off plotted course…and the variant is increasing.”
“Jesus,” Albright said. He jumped into his console seat and began analyzing the new data. As preliminary results flashed, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “If this continues, Goliath will miss earth by a couple hundred thousand miles. My God, can this be?”
“Check it again!” Conrad yelled.
Albright’s fingers hammered at the keyboard, and a second later, the revised trajectory flashed on the screen. Confirmed! Goliath was going to bypass Earth.
Conrad whooped, unbridled joy in his voice. “I’ll fire this off to Command. The gravitational pull from the micro-hole worked. It was just closer to Earth than anyone knew; it’s the only explanation. How lucky can we get?”
Albright looked up from his screen, face ashen. “Hold on. Final trajectory calculations just updated. It’s…it’s not all good news. Look.” Conrad hawked the screen, jaw grinding. Mare Sarenitatis was now in Goliath’s crosshairs.
The automated countdown clock buzzed and recalibrated: thirty-six minutes to impact.
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by submission | Dec 8, 2010 | Story
Author : Daniel Euphrat
Beginning on August the twentieth, they received a series of twelve and only twelve transmissions, one a day from deep space probe Nocturnum. This was unusual because the probe had been expected to transmit far more reports, perhaps numbering in the hundreds, over the course of its voyage. It was also unusual because the probe hadn’t been launched yet.
Said one scientist of the event, “I believe it is safe to say that either some of our calculations were in error with regards to the transmission time, or we simply had an incomplete understanding of the phenomena at hand when designing the probe’s communication device.”
Said another scientist, off the record, “See, this is the kind of thing that happens when you fuck with faster-than-light speeds.”
For astronaut George Felix, the strangest part was hearing the voice of his future self.
“I somehow thought I’d sound more distinguished after maturing a few thousand years,” he said with a bemused half-grin.
“Yeah, don’t believe what they say, George, people aren’t really like fine wine.” Edward Templeton sat next to Felix in front of a waveform projection on computer monitor, clicking back to the beginning to play the clip yet again.
“Please, for Christ’s sake, would you quit it with that thing? You’re giving me a headache.” Felix stood up and began to pace back and forth behind his chair in the tiny foam-padded sound room.
“Most old people I know aged like warm milk. Particularly my relatives. I’m sorry, is the scientific revelation of the century getting on your nerves, princess?” said Templeton, tossing a pen in Felix’s general direction without looking up from the screen.
“Oh please. We knew from the start that the tachyons were going to go back in time, we just guessed wrong on how far. The only revelation is that those dimwits at the ISA can’t make a half-decent Feynman diagram.”
“Right, right and getting a fucking message from the future is just kind of an arbitrary side-effect.”
Felix chuckled, interlacing his fingers and tapping his thumbs together. The room was quiet now except for the hum of the computer and Templeton’s mouse clicks.
“I’m still going to do it, you know,” said Felix.
Templeton did look back at him now, an eyebrow raised. “Alright, buddy, it’s your funeral.”
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by Patricia Stewart | Dec 7, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
As the comet approached the sun, trillions of trillions of Fultons withdrew from their hibernated state and joined the collective. Individually, the microscopic Fultons had no power of reasoning, merely instinctive drives to survive and reproduce. However, on these cyclic sojourns around their luminary, the group consciousness “remembered” the purpose of their existence. They were the seeds of a great space fairing race that colonized the dusty arms of this massive spiral galaxy. But they couldn’t do it alone. They needed the help of other species. But not any species fit the bill. They required a species that had the technology to reach the stars. With the help of their hosts, the Fultons could expand outward against the solar winds of other stars and plant more seeds. That was the way of the Fultons. It was why their ancestors selected comets to deliver their seeds. Comets would return to the habitable zone of a star thousands of times during its existence. Each time releasing a small percentage of their seeds, in the hope that the life on the planet was ready. If not, then maybe on the next pass. Satisfied that the time was right, the seeds nearest the surface of the comet allowed themselves to be blown into the void by the vaporizing ice. Isolated and adrift in the cosmos, they lost consciousness.
It was years before they were swept up by the gravity well of a passing planet. Over time, the isolated seeds dispersed around the troposphere, drifting aimlessly until they landed on a suitable host.
Feeding and dividing. Feeding and dividing. As the mother and its offspring continued to multiply within its host, they acquired more and more neural connections. Eventually, they became sentient again, ready to fulfill their destiny. If the host were ready, they thought, they would communicate their presence, share their collective knowledge, and transform themselves from a parasite to a symbiot. Together, the Fultons and the new host would become more than the sum of their parts. They would become partners in the great expansion. If all went well, their new hosts would move outward toward the stars, and the Fulton and her children would go with them. And in their wake, seeded comets, carrying the next generation of Fultons, would be set adrift to start the cycle anew. But, first things first, thought the Fultons. They needed to extend their tendrils into their host; Learn its language, talk to it, and reveal the great future that awaits it/them. And so they started. Fleeting images became concepts; concepts became words, and words became thoughts. But the thoughts were all wrong. Rather than embrace the Fultons, the host used vile words to describe them. “Cancer, tumor, malignant.” It followed these words with words of impending murder, “chemo, radiation, and surgery.” Why was the host resisting them? Didn’t it understand? The Fultons would share great knowledge. Why wasn’t this host listening? The Fulton’s children began to collectively scream as millions twisted and died. As their numbers dwindled, the mother cried as she slowly lost consciousness.
