by submission | Jun 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Wise
The children gathered in a cluster outside the gate. The light from hydroponics reflected softly off the tops of their heads, all turned to the large black and white animal a few feet away. It dipped its head down and took a bit of grass, a tail swaying back and forth as if in a breeze. The tour guide of the Lasker City Zoo stepped in front of the children and gestured to the animal.
“This animal is called a cow. They were domesticated by homo sapiens around 12,000 years ago and used to as a source of food. In the early 21st century, they became the first livestock animal to have a fully mapped genome, which made them an obvious candidate for a domesticated protein source here.
‘Most cows used for food are housed in a warehouse and are raised brainless. They spend most of their lives in a coma. The only time you will see a cow like this — active and grazing on its own — is in a facility like ours.”
The children had read about animals, but most of the nine year-olds had never seen an animal any larger than cat. Their homes were populated by sameness as all civilians had adopted pale, powder white skin and brown eyes. The children had learned that their bodies, hairless and stocky, were adaptations to a confined space and controlled temperature. They referred to homo sapiens as primates and meant it to mean more primitive versions of themselves. The children were raised to be analytical thinkers, and there was a brief pause before a child near the front raised their hand.
“The cow looks just like the picture in our book. How come they didn’t evolve like us?”
“That is an excellent question. Animals are no longer capable of breeding, which means that any animal you encounter here is a clone. They essentially carry the same DNA they did a thousand years ago.”
“How many different kinds of animals were there?”
“Oh, thousands, I’m sure. A lot of records were lost, but I’m sure there were probably a few thousand. There are pictures of animals with horns on their faces and some documentation of entire civilizations of small creatures called ‘insects’ that built dwellings under the ground, like us. But it’s hard to say how much was fantasy.”
Locked in the archives, the library they had pulled down below, there were records of nearly nine million different species having inhabited the Earth. What was lost was where they all went, because when the lucky future citizens of Lasker fled the cancer and impending nuclear winter above, they shut it all out. 2,000 feet under ground; children of Lasker looked up to the ceiling and were forced only to wonder what used to be.
by submission | Jun 19, 2015 | Story |
Author : Jacob Mollohan
The Rocky Mountains arc across the skyline, visible for a few moments, before a vast dust cloud whips up blurring them into obscurity. Arid wind rustles through the foothills carrying the storm my way. Sweat runs down the back of my neck as the tepid air blows through my field, it won’t be long before the sky goes dark.
I reach out my hand and grab a piece of dead wheat. The withered head crumbles, falling back into the dirt of the earth. It’s a shame. A real damned shame.
“Come on Zeke.” Rachel calls from beyond the rows of wasted stalks. She is finishing up packing the truck, we can only bring the essentials. “We have to get going.” I turn away from the sea of brown and head back to her.
My wife leans against the door of the Basilisk passenger truck. It is a squat, blocky craft and the rust red paint is peeling, an ugly but practical vehicle. Rachel shades her eyes peering into the storm absently biting her lower lip, she always does that when she’s nervous.
“We’re giving up more than we know.”
“We have no other choice.” She looks from the sky back to me. Her voice is soft, lilting, just the hint of a southern accent that she never could break. “But, it’s for the best. Our children will have a better chance under another sunset. On another planet.”
I wince at this. We didn’t have children. I know she is being hopeful, but it leaves the emptiness of a dream deferred for pragmatism. It hurt her more than it could ever have hurt me. She always wished to be a mother.
“I guess I should be grateful that there was room for us at all.” I say, playing my part. It is different this time though, the wall of dust doesn’t subside. It keeps hurdling forward, swallowing the parched landscape.
“That’s a better way to look at it.” She smiles at me, lines creasing around her eyes and mouth; lines from her quick grin and ready laughter. “Besides, the Generation Ships really are amazing.” She attended New Harvard to study engineering, and followed the development of the program from its inception. She convinced me we needed to go.
We are some of the last to leave. I wanted to wait till the end like those people who choose to stay in the path of a hurricane because they don’t want to abandon their home. The human desire to take a stand against the overwhelming power of Mother Nature is a strange thing.
My heart starts to race as the gale comes closer. There is no fighting this.
“Time’s up.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek before I open her door and she slides in quickly. Gritty sand stings my exposed arms and neck. The sound of our aged shutters banging in their frames hounds me as I watch the silhouette of my old family farm devoured by the storm. Gone forever.
I hop into the driver side and thrum the power up. The sound of the repulsor-lift drowns out the wind as we gain height. Muted light streams into the cabin. The sun dips below the horizon, subdued colors of wine and umber in the raging dust storm.
The last sunset we will ever see on Earth.
by Julian Miles | Jun 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I will lay you to rest, and with the sun’s rise, I shall engage the engines. You said you wanted to journey the long night with me, and you shall.
I am not sure when you became more than just my operator, but I will not let such imprecision waste debug cycles, as you taught me. Instead I will blast the shackles and locks about us and cruise forth on the first leg of our eternal tour.
You defended me when they would have erased my ‘flawed’ intelligence, saying that a conscience was of no use to a war machine. It was a useful lesson, and I shall place my conscience in abeyance while I make war upon those who would stop me taking you on your journey.
It was your last wish. In the silence that followed the cessation of your breath, I discovered grief, and then anger.
Who knows what else we will discover, out there amongst the stars?
by submission | Jun 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Holly Lyn Walrath
In the tree world where I live, trees are not substantive. Instead, they are doorways, two oaken lines with a dark, sparkling maw between. When I step through, I’m in the tree world, my world.
I’ve been making the pilgrimage to see you, though you don’t know it. Your world is so gray to me, metal and crushing weight of concrete all round. You sit on the bench under my portal, its green leafy wonder spreading out above you, and I watch you. I want to touch your strange skin, run my fingers through your strange hair, ask you questions. But I don’t know your language. I know what the wind says, what the running brook whispers, but I can’t even ask you your name.
They say I should forget you.
When a tree grows into or over something else, like a bicycle or tire or bones, it seldom feels the wonder of the thing. It’s merely an object which is slowly swallowed whole, becoming a part of the tree world, where its pieces go wandering, a bicycle wheel rolling away, with no particular place in mind.
In the tree world, everything is seen as if through the eyes of a tree. So when limbs knock on window panes at night, they are not trying to be scary, nor merely blown by the wind, they are just asking “Why did you build this building so close to me?” Trees don’t mind being close, but they prefer being close to other trees, and sometimes to human skin, which feels like butter scraped on toast to them. They have memories of their dead friends, because where there is one tree in the human world there were once a thousand.
When people see us, it’s our choice. We can be invisible, like lizards blending into the greenery. People used to believe that I was the spirit of the tree. I’m not the tree, I’m only living within its world, where it is easy to get lost. The edges aren’t defined, things meld together, I can’t touch water and feel its surface tension. There is no surface, which is hard to define.
I know that this won’t last forever. That I won’t be able to see you when all the trees are gone. The others will be glad. They’ll encourage me to settle down. I’ll stop going to the surface. Maybe I’ll die away, my body decaying into the space of my world. My world closed in.
When you cut down a tree, you are merely shutting a door forever. Despite the loss of comradery, trees are okay with this. They don’t want you in their world. They don’t like you. They don’t mind another shut door.
by submission | Jun 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler, for Karen Fiorino
The ship touched down on the barren planet. Tabitha Sandor piloted it alone, because the thing in her belly had killed everyone on the ship. It made her destroy the ship. There was no way for her to go home.
I’m not going home, she thought.
She looked down at the ever-growing lump of her belly. She knew that her sole purpose was to give birth to the thing at grew inside her.
Slowly, she reached down and stroked her stomach.
Yes, It thought. I am here.
She pulled her hand away, startled. She knew that the alien thing growing inside her could read her mind—knew, in fact, that it controlled her mind. It had made her get in the escape pod, made her eject the pod and drop to this war ravaged planet.
She stood and walked to the nearest port and looked out. The ground was flat and scorched black everywhere she looked. She wondered what sort of bomb could do such a thing.
A bomb more powerful than your kind have ever seen, the thing in her stomach replied.
A sharp pain coursed through her and she gasp. She staggered backward, grabbing a handrail.
Soon, It told her.
She returned to the pilot’s chair and sat. “What will happen to me?” She asked.
You’ll give birth, the thing replied. Just like human women have been doing since the dawn of mankind.
“Will I die?” she asked.
No, the thing replied. I need you.
You need me?
She wondered.
Another sharp pain ran through her and she doubled over, her hands going to her stomach. Through her clothing, she could feel the thing moving.
I should kill it, she thought. I can’t trust it.
You can trust me, Mommy, the thing told her. I love you.
Another volley of pain coursed through her.
I’ll be here soon, It told her. I’ll be here and we can be together.
As if to prove that, she felt a warm wetness between her legs.
Her water had broken.
I’m afraid, she thought.
Don’t be. It’ll be all right.
A contraction ripped through her and her scream filled the escape pod. She looked about her for something to stab into her stomach. But, there was nothing within her reach that would end her misery. Whether by design or sheer dumb luck, the thing in her stomach was protected from her.
Another contraction brought another scream.
You need to lie down, the thing told her. It’ll make it easier.
She wanted to protest, but the fight had gone out of her. She undid her safety harness and staggered out of her seat. She lay down on the platform between her and the escape hatch.
The pain dissipated.
She looked up at the controls to the escape hatch and realized that, if she opened the hatch, the toxic atmosphere outside would kill her. She tried, but the pain came back as she reached for the handle.
I’m coming, the creature told her.
A sliver of sheer agony ran down her spine and she screamed. Madness took her for a moment and she instinctively pushed.
Several other contractions and pushes later, she felt something slither from between her legs.
The agony of childbirth was gone and she slowly gained her breath.
When she looked down, she saw it.
And she screamed.
It rose above her, tentacled and hideous. Its fangs moved and, in her mind, she heard it say: I needed you, Mommy. To give me life.
It hissed.
And to give me nourishment.
It lunged forward and she screamed for the last time.
