In Good Times and in Bad, Er, Never Mind

by | Jan 2, 2012 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer

“Receiving a distress call, Captain,” reported the communications officer of the SS Diciotti. “It’s coming from Lavello III.”

“Lavello III?” repeated Captain Campbell. “What idiot would land on Lavello III? It’s a death trap.”

“Captain,” said the science officer after consulting his monitor. “According to the ship’s transponder code, it’s a rental. The manifest lists a Mr. and Mrs. Balordo. Married a week ago. No mention of Lavello III on their registered flight plan. Looks like the honeymooners got more than they bargained for.”

“Okay, let’s investigate,” replied the captain. “Helmsman, best speed to Lavello III.”

As the Diciotti came out of warp, a featureless gray planet filled the center of the forward viewscreen. Although all terrestrial planets appear spherical from space, Lavello III was the closest thing in the universe to it. The difference between the top of the highest mountain and the bottom of the lowest valley was a little less than three centimeters. Scientist attributed this unique characteristic to a gravitational instability in the planet’s core. Every five hours, the core emits rhythmic graviton waves that cause the planet’s diameter to grow by almost 30 meters. These gravity quakes last about two minutes, and then the planet settles down to its original diameter. The net effect of billions of years to expanding and contracting is the pulverization of the crust and mantel. Mountains were leveled; boulders were crushed to rocks, rocks to pebbles, pebbles to grains. Over the eons, the denser fragments settled toward the planet’s core, and the lighter pumas-like material drifted toward the surface. As a result, the density of the surface ‘sand’ was 0.95 grams per cubic centimeter, or a little less than the density of water. During the five hours of dormancy, a person could walk along the surface of Lavello III, but during a gravity quake, the liquefaction of the surface meant that anything more dense than 0.95 grams per cubic centimeter would sink below the surface. In other words, the surface of the planet became quick sand.

“Any sensor readings?” asked the captain.

“Aye, Captain. Their ship is already fifty meters below the surface. However, I’m reading two life signs near the surface. I can’t tell if they are still on top, or just below the surface. The next quake will occur in approximately three hours. If they are not completely under now, they will be soon.”

“Have a maintenance team meet me in the shuttle bay,” ordered the captain.

An hour later, the shuttlecraft landed near the two partially buried newlyweds. The ground crunched under the weight of Campbell’s boots as she walked up to the protruding heads of Mr. and Mrs. Balordo. They were both buried up to their mouths, with only their blinking eyes confirming that they were still alive. Captain Campbell knelt down and scooped the sand away from the woman’s jaw, making it easier for her to breathe. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” asked Campbell.

“Yes,” sputtered Mrs. Balordo after spitting out a mouthful of sand. “He did it to win a bet. He’s a moron. Please, dig me out first. I want to use his head for a soccer ball.”

Campbell checked her chronometer and motioned to the maintenance crew to start digging the woman from her would-be grave. Then she moved over to the husband and asked, “Did you sign up for the additional insurance for the rental ship?”

Mr. Balordo closed his eyes and moved his head back and forth very slightly.

“Well then,” said Campbell with a grin, “I guess it’s not a good day to be you.”

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Fame

by | Jan 1, 2012 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

My entire celebrity life is online for people.

There are over a million people looking out through my eyes, breathing in time with me, feeling my exhilaration as six months of rehearsal come to a head and I perform my number-one hits to a crowd of fifty thousand people in a Barcelona arena. My body is taut with the proportions of a goddess thanks to Olympic trainers and amazing surgeons. The online population’s hearts are racing along with mine. They’re smelling the air of a packed coliseum and tasting my Evian in between songs. Women and men both are dialed in behind my eyes and being me.

Each one of them is paying six hundred dollars to experience it. In my peripherals, the ones that have kicked in an extra hundred are chattering to each other and sending me messages. Scrolls of text run up either side of my vision that I have trained myself to ignore.

My encores end with a massive fireworks discharge and the stage goes dark. The crowd screams my name as I strut backstage along with my backup dancers and band.

A swath of names in my peripheral vision pops and fades. Their tickets have expired.

The half a million that are left have paid a thousand dollars each for the backstage experience. My body’s vital signs pump through the optical cables all over the world to wherever they are. Other celebrities are backstage crowding me for smiles and handshakes. Fans with real-world passes are there. There’s one girl with cancer who got her ticket as a last wish. I pose for pictures with her and I nearly cry. All over the world, five hundred thousand people nearly cry with me.

That lasts a half hour. I say a prayer with my fellow performers, we talk about how good tomorrow night is going to be in Los Angeles, and I head down to my dressing room. As I walk down the stairs, many of the names in my field of vision wink out.

There are a thousand people left in my field of vision. The super rich who can afford to be at this level at most of my concerts and a bunch of lucky strangers who have scraped together ten thousand dollars each to get this far.

Once in my dressing room, I undress slowly in front of the mirror and let them stare at my toned, sweaty body. Then I climb into the shower for a long, long time. Even when I close my eyes, I can see the names in my peripheral talk to each other about how amazing this is.

As soon as I reach for my towel, most of the names wink out. There are sixteen left and they have each paid a million to still be here. There are four new names but the rest are familiar to me, almost old friends at this point.

The door to my room opens and my lover enters with that famous smile. His body is also perfect. He won another Oscar last year. Behind his eyes, people lean forward in their sense chairs, aching with the knowledge that they are about to have sex with one of the best-selling pop musicians on the planet. Behind my eyes, sixteen people brace themselves , ready to athletically fornicate with a dreamy leading man.

The only time we’re alone is when we are asleep or going to the bathroom.

He touches my shoulder, going in for a full, hungry kiss, and my towel dramatically slips off of me and onto the floor.

 

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