by Clint Wilson | May 21, 2013 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The piles of scrap starship parts stretched off toward the horizon in every direction. I’d lived on the junk planet for almost five years now, but my escape was imminent.
I wound up here like so many others, stranded in orbit with a broken ship, unable to pay the outrageous prices the thieving proprietors of this wasteland demanded. Finally I had crashed, and by the letter of the law my damaged ship had become their property. Fortunately the same laws also forced them to grant me refugee status.
They had chased me, as they did all other refugees, into Zone 470, a place where the junk was extremely old and deteriorated, and of little value. Yet my small band and I clung to life here, making valuable reconnaissance runs into other zones. Now finally we had our warp drive.
I stood back with Zeptag the three foot tall Rodachian. “What do you think?” he asked me in broken common.
“I think it looks like a pile of garbage,” and then added, “And I think it looks like freedom.”
With our limited resources one of the biggest challenges had been to put together a craft large enough to hold all of us. Zeptag’s genius with fluidics had been our savior as he had been responsible for bringing a two-century-old hover crane back to life. Without it we would have never been able to assemble the heaviest pieces.
My old maintenance robot Freddy was putting the finishing touches on some welds and the others were busily loading our meager supplies. I shook my head as I gazed upon a Croanthan freighter cockpit scabbed onto a Zachtarian troop transport hold. You could tell it was Zachtarian by the faded remnants of the yellow patterns they seemed to paint on all their ships, save for the dull gray side heat shields pillaged from an old Hoolyichie battle bird, of course heavily modified to fit. But what really scared me was the thruster cluster on the underbelly. It had been everything our old hover crane could do to bring the heavy Tenzonite engines across miles of terrain under the cover of darkness. But they were ancient, and even with Freddy’s reinforcements I wondered if they would hold together long enough to get us off the ground.
If we could only make it into orbit we would be safe. The warp drive, still with half-charged batteries, was our biggest prize. It was Rodachian, pillaged from Zeptag’s old ship at incredible risk.
Now we all piled aboard. I crossed the rusty deck plates and took the captain’s chair. All lights were green, save for the rear escape hatch alarm, but I knew it was faulty and welded up tight by Freddy so no risk there. I flipped the ignition toggles and ran my hand over the screen. “Here we go kids, it’s now or never.”
The old Tenzonite engines belched to life and every fastener in our makeshift craft tried to rattle apart, still she seemed to be holding together, for now.
Freddy warned, “Here they come, over the south ridge.”
The dust rose in the distance as the junk planet proprietors raced toward us. I increased the lift and surprisingly, as she shuddered once more, even harder than before, our makeshift tub began to slowly rise into the air. Now our pursuers were close enough to see, and they were setting up an ion cannon. I shoved the thruster lever forward and as the hull strained and old metal shrieked in protest I closed my eyes and uttered, “Come on baby, you can do it.”
by Desmond Hussey | May 20, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
I’s down at Calhoon’s Saloon washin’ the day’s grit outta my mouth with belts of sour mash. Was hotter’n a cat-house on nickel night with nothin’ to jaw on but leathery yarns told too many times.
Sudden-like, I feels a cold wind ‘cross my arm n’ the room goes graveyard-hush. So I turns my head ‘round, reeeea-l slow – n’there he was. The Stranger. Lookin’ right stumped.
An odd stick to look at. Outlandish digs – some sorta ashy, one-piece get-up fulla pockets n’whatnot. No granger, fer certain, but he weren’t no city-slicker, neither. Mighta taken ‘em fer a fancy gunslinger, but din’t see no shooter on ‘em.
Everybody was all bug-eyed like he’s a rattler, or juss walked through the wall er sumthin’. Then I re’lized, he was right next to me n’ there ain’t no way he coulda crost the room without me seein’ ‘em.
Real casual-like – like he done it a hunnerd times, he says, “Bar Tender. Two large, uncooked potatoes, please.” Then he says, “And a bottle of your finest whisky for the house.” Def’nit’ly a for’ner, but his anglish was al’right, I guess. Then he lays a chunk o’gold the size of my fist on the counter.
Well, that bar went from lynch mob to hootin’ fandago in two seconds flat n’ that Stranger becamed everybody’s bestest friend. I ain’t never seen ol’Calhoon move so fast. Lickety-split, he laid out two of Gramma’ Wilkes’ finest russets.
Then, the Stranger laid a black thingamajig on the counter n’ tugged two metal rods with wires outta the side n’ stuck ‘em into them taters. A red doohickey started a-blinkin’ on it. He was real anxious ‘bout sumthin’.
“You look like a man in a predicament,” I said gravely as Calhoon carefully measured our shots.
The Stranger scanned me with Chinaman eyes, but bigger n’ bluer. Bluest eyes I ever seen.
“Yeah, could say that.” His jaw tightened n’ he hobbled his lip.
Normally, I’da hobbled mine too, but I’s curious ‘bout this feller.
“Where you from, Stranger?”
“You should ask, ‘When you from?’ since, geographically, I haven’t moved.” Had me stumped.
“I’m from the forty-second century.”
“That near Cincinnati?”
“No.”
We knocked our shots back. – mmmmm – Fine as cream gravy!
After that, he minded his contraption n’ I minded my own damn business, while everyone else got right roostered up.
Sumthin’s squawked like a turkey inna rainstorm.
“Damn! Found me.” He packed his plunder then whispered in my ear, “Word of advice, friend. Close your eyes. Count to a hundred.”
A green light blinked on his thingamajig, real fast. “And invest in the railroad.” His finger jabbed his whats-it n’ he juss vanished. Poof.
Well, I ain’t no idjit. I shut my peepers. If’n I hadn’t? Wouldn’t be able to tell y’all this tale. I’da fergot, juss like them others.
See, with my eyes closed, I heard some thangs, strange thangs. Thangs ain’t no words to describe. Sumbody, er sumthang came into Calhoon’s – lookin’ fer the Stranger, I s’pect. Who, er what, couldn’t tell. All’s I know is, when I finally peeked out my oculars, everybody was pee-tree-fied, not movin’ er breathin’.
Then suddenly, they’s carryin’ on s’if nothin’ happened.
Calhoon snaps out of it n’ spots the lump o’ gold n’ his eyes growed wide with ‘mazement. “Gerald,” he asks, “You finally hit it big with that dried up claim o’yours?”
He din’t remember nothin’.
Nobody did, ‘cept me.
I know opp’rtunity when I see’s it. I wrapped my paws ‘round that nugget with joyful relish. “Yessiree, Calhoon. I done did hit it big!”
by submission | May 19, 2013 | Story |
Author : Mark Tremble
The gravel road leading to the dumping ground is the colour of washed bone in the moonlight. Nothing moves except the leaves of ironbark trees when the night breeze comes. Inside the caretaker’s trailer, which is parked closer to the piles of industrial waste and away from the thick stench of rot and decay, Ted Murray wakes to begin his night’s work.
Ted takes his mug of tea over to his workshop, a big iron shed really, annexed to his trailer. He flicks on a single light and sits on the stool behind a long bench. He takes a rectangular box from under the bench, checks its contents and closes the lid. He goes to the shelves on the wall behind him and begins sorting through the various tools and stacked containers. The objects within look like rejects from a mad scientists’ fair.
Outside, despite the moonlight, another illumination, much brighter, flashes in the sky. A sound, like a single deep note from cello strings, can be heard but, at this hour, so many miles from the town and its adjacent mine there is no one but Ted to hear it. An accompanying gust of wind sends a flurry of white dust across the shed’s corrugated tin walls but Ted continues to rattle about behind his workbench.
From outside the locked door comes the sound of faint scratching in the gravel. Ted stops mid-lift, a box in one hand, turns his head. The scratching grows louder and comes closer to the shed. Ted replaces the box and paces quietly toward the door.
He stops, holds a breath, because the noises have ceased. Ted moves a half-step closer to the door handle. An outstretched hand shudders. He is sure he can hear someone, or something, breathing. Ted shakes his head and takes a full stride to the door, flicks the lock and wrenches the door open.
On the other side stands a creature half his height. Its skin-like covering is a faint purple. It looks up at Ted with a quizzical countenance. In its small right-side appendage is a battered metal object.
“Geez Namon, what’s with the sneaking up? Just knock next time!” Ted says to the creature.
“Didn’t know if you were open or not,” Namon replies in pretty good Earthspeak, his long arms held wide. “I just flew 57 light years to get here!”
“Well, you could always fly on to Centauri and get yourself a bargain there,” Ted counters, eyebrows raised.
“Those pirates?” Namon asks.
“Come in. Whattya need?”
“A new velodrive interchanger. This one’s had it. On my account?”
“Account?”
“I’m a loyal customer,” Namon says.
“And I’m trying to run a business here. I can’t give credit to every creature in the galaxy, can I? Especially you.”
Soon, Ted finds the same thing Namon has brought; only Ted’s is polished and new-looking. The pair exchanges goods for legal tender. Ted catches the little creature’s despondency when the last of the money drops into his lockbox. Ted opens the lid again and returns a single note.
“Get something for the little one,” Ted says and tries not to smile when Namon’s pond-like eyes brighten.
“Ted, you’re the kindest human being I know,” the alien says.
“I’m the only human being you know,” Ted replies. Namon nods, turns and opens the door to the shop. Another creature, even shorter than Namon, waits on the stoop, object in claw.
“Alright, who’s next? Gronsil? What’ve you broken this time?”
by submission | May 18, 2013 | Story |
Author : Dawn Napier
Six year old Jacob found the marble under his bed, behind a grey bin filled with army vehicles. It was bright blue and glowed faintly in the dusty darkness.
Jacob picked up the marble—then dropped it again. It was hot, so hot that it burned his hand. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, and the pain faded. The blue glow flared a little brighter as it bounced on the carpet.
He inched forward until his nose was almost touching it. It glowed, but there was no heat coming off it. To the tip of his nose it could be any of the marbles decorating the bottom of his toy chest. There were little while specks and streaks moving around in there. He wanted to touch it again. He didn’t want to be burned again. He put his hand out—then withdrew. But his curiosity deepened until it was a burning itch in the back of his head. He picked it up again.
This time the marble was pleasantly warm. He squeezed it in his fist and took it downstairs to show his mother.
“What’s that, punk?” Mom asked. She looked up from her laptop.
“Gotta marble.” Jacob held it up, but not too close. He didn’t want his mother to touch it. He was still a little afraid of it.
Mom peered at it. “I don’t remember buying you any marbles that color. The house’s old owners must have left it.”
“Where’s Dad? I wanna show him.”
“He’s still at work. He’ll be back for dinner.” Mom was typing at her laptop again.
“I wanna show him this marble. I think it’s a universe.”
Mom closed the laptop very hard and looked at Jacob. “What did you say?”
“I think it’s a universe. Dad told me the whole entire universe was big as a marble, then God made the Big Bang happen and it all exploded everywhere.”
“Some say that God did it.” Mom made a funny frown. “Nobody knows for sure, though.”
“Well that’s Dad’s hypo-fesis. That God did it.”
Mom laughed and hugged him. “You sure are a smart cookie.”
“I’m not a cookie!” Jacob squirmed away and ran back upstairs. When he reached the top of the staircase, he threw the marble down the steps and yelled, “Big bang!”
“Jacob please don’t throw—”
The universe exploded.
by Julian Miles | May 17, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I look at the disc embedded in the tree by my head. I’ve just avoided the embarrassment of being beheaded by the greatest hits of the 1990s. The slotgun is an innovation that embodies the creed of the scrappers, using society’s discards to provide their needs. While I agree with the theory, the inevitably parasitic nature of the scrapper way is something they choose to ignore. If they achieve their goal of toppling the ‘military-industrial complex’, they will have no discards to live off.
Another near miss returns me to the situation at hand. Media discs with sharpened edges travelling at a couple of hundred kph are not something you should daydream around.
Lucy skids into my cover, pursued by a hail of crap music, redundant software and C-movies.
“The buggers have upped the rate again.”
I point at the tree. “Yup. The edging machines have been improved too.”
Clicking my handset to the speaker channel, my attempted call for reasonable behaviour emerges as feedback, crackle and hum. Our speaker shields have been shredded.
“Damn fools. They seem determined to force our hand. Do they really want to face armed response?”
I shake my head. “They haven’t thought that far. In America they’d be using and facing machine guns. Thanks to our firearms laws, they can get away with this idiocy.”
“So what do we do, boss? I have kin in there. Last thing I want is Special Patrol Group or Domestic Army blitzkrieging rioters and civvies alike.”
The ground shakes and Lucy looks about frantically, expecting to see the telltale smoke column of an improvised bomb.
“Easy, corporal. It’s just my cunning plan moving up.”
The building on the corner crumbles as a Metro Police blue chunk of Stillbrew armour over a wide segmented track crashes into view. The firing stops as everyone pauses to gasp at the four metre long barrel that traverses through the ruined first floor of the crumbling building. I see the demolition has scratched the paintwork, letting the urban camo show through. But the effect is not reduced. The scrappers were smugly chopping up our patrol cars and us. Now they’re looking down at the word ‘POLICE’ written in half-metre high lettering across the front armour of a long obsolete but still terrifying Chieftain tank.
I grin at Lucy. “Remember Sergeant Evans who retired last year? He collects militaria. Spent his end of service lump sum on that Mark Eleven. I’ve hired it for a week, paid for the Metro colour scheme and for putting it back to original state.”
Lucy shook her head. “Doesn’t matter if it’s out of service. It’s still a frackin’ tank. The scrappers have nothing that can keep it out or take it on.”
I nod. “Precisely. I think relations will improve now they realise we finally have the means to back the will to tear their house of cards down.”
“Clever wheeze, boss. How did you come up with it?”
I look over toward the gates as the sally port opens and the scrapper chiefs come out with a parley flag raised.
“Scrapper creed: ‘Use what others have abandoned’. Seemed appropriate.”
