Author: Rick Tobin
Pressing slick walls within Perri’s briefing center opened gigantic multi-verse mapping systems across a great briefing hall aboard Haven’s interstellar spacecraft. The Order’s enclosure pulsated with its anthem, rising to crescendos oscillating beneath gathered crews’ blue slippers. White-robed acolytes raised covered heads to view Perri’s guidance for their next voyage.
“We will traverse Channel Aluhayo near Braxis Egua. It is tricky, but our passenger has little time. It is the essence of our charge to bring each seeker to final rest. We must submit ourselves to any challenge to support their trust in Haven.”
“May Haven await us all,” a confirmation returned in one voice from the Order, resting in their robes upon red floor cushions.
“With our pilot’s blessing, may we bring this being to ultimate contentment and joy. Mahuya Ho.”
“Mahuya Ho,” echoed the audience, just before standing and leaving for assigned posts. One remained to address Perri privately.
“You are Jardin Co, are you not?” Perri asked, surprised at an unscheduled conversation.
“Yes, Father, I have that honor of my House.” Jardin Co bowed in respect before speaking.
“Proceed.” Perri waved one of his many arms indicating consent.
“May Haven find us all, dear Father…but I have concerns about repercussions for returning Crax to Haven when its planet’s government warned us away. If Crax is a terrorist, do we risk initiating a conflict on this world? Does that create an imbalance in our core belief in Haven?”
“Your youth speaks loudly, Jardin Co. Let me explain.” Perri displayed no facial indications of anger or retribution. His golden robes continued to glisten under lights above the dais where he stood elevated over Jardin Co.
“I did not mean to offend,” Jardin Co replied, flustered.
“It’s a fair question for one new to our Order. Let my experience provide evidence that we are honorable in our cause. Every being has an inherent right to pass to their judgment while in the Haven of their home world– to touch their native soil, drink liquids of their home and dine on foods that return memories of youth long forgotten. Their passing, through our provision, prepares them for the greater journey beyond. It is our deepest calling to bring them to Haven.”
“But threats of war…the balance of our creed?” Jardin Co stared down as he dared question.
“Surprising… such considerations from youth. But, you have asked, and we maintain that all your questions be addressed. Crax is near death, posing no threat to this colony. War has been their way for millennia. Its presence will not change their ill-tempered breed. Our only focus is for a creature’s soul to journey peacefully beyond. We offer a bridge, no matter a species history, to their origination before ending life’s moments. Nothing is more frightening than taking one’s first step from the physical world while exploring voids of space, away from one’s like species and familiar surroundings. The Order has existed beyond time to serve all requests to seek Haven when nearing transition, especially for those at untold distances from their roots. Haven means something to them all, no matter their faults or glory, so we submit to this quest, regardless of threats from those who misunderstand this primal derivation of existence.”
“Have I acted poorly in my concern, Father?”
“No, Jardin Co. All who serve Haven are free to know by asking…and blessed to serve in trust. Our only continuance price is a client offering one offspring to our order. Your previous father’s house honored us with you. You will now serve honorably with the issue of Crax.”
Author: Rick Tobin
“He’s on edge again. It’s intolerable when he tears into our crew like this. Makes me itch all over.” D-7 moved away from overheated control panels. He heard sputtering of wiring insulation against conduit. Corrosive effervescence from singed plastic revealed damage others still missed, but his reports were ignored. Their limitations–his curse.
“Relax, D. Besides, you’re always itching. You need your fur treated. Remember how you messed up on the last cargo run? You caught those changosa ticks after heading for a whiz in the bushes. You could’ve waited. And lay off L-2. How’d you like to have the Captain’s lizard scales, with psoriasis to boot? ” C-23 felt hull vibrations on her whiskers–perhaps a warning of a meteor storm. She activated ship perimeter sensors.
“Hey, you use a stupid box for your dumps. I have more pride than that. Everyone on board hears you scratching your litter. Do you even wash your hands? Drop your potty comments. Inappropriate.” D-7 shifted, giving his tail a rest from his cramped control room chair. “Why they ever slapped two like us on the same shift baffles me,” D-7 complained.
C-23 yawned widely before responding. “Two Cs on navigation…never a problem. You should be down in engineering with your mutt buddies.”
“How about I bite off one of your arms, you useless breeder?”
“And you thought L-2 was touchy?” C-23 moved her chair a few feet away from her reluctant assistant, dragging her feline claws over metal panels, creating ear-shattering screeches. D-7 howled, covering his furry ears. “Oh, good. You can hear me. Now get this straight, bow-wow. I’m a superior officer. We cross train because we lost both pilot and co-pilot on our last escapade through this Taranus Escarpment. We almost bought it. If automatic systems had failed, we’d still be adrift, boiling in magnetic fields. We need emergency backup staff. Simple as that. So, take my lead, learn what you can, and lick your wounded ego somewhere else. Got it? There won’t be a eucatastrophe ending in your life’s story if you don’t.”
“You ca’ what? I don’t understand cats. All right, I’ll be still. My DNA makes me act rashly on occasion. I wonder why humans breed us to run their ships. They have robots. I would have been happy as a normal dog.”
“It’s risk variables. AI never mastered long-distance space travel. Animals have specialties that were not programmable…like your smell and hearing and my sensitivity to vibration. There is a reason a squirrel’s in communications, a raccoon cooks and an oxen works loading docks. Besides, it’s easier and cheaper to replace us after radiation exposure. Some die sooner. You’re only a seven for this ship…but my kind takes it harder. That’s why I enjoy my time. It’s short.”
“Not as short as R-200. He’s our intelligence officer. Those rats drop like flies. No wonder they quarter them down below in the hold.”
“We have rats? Damned rats! Where in the hold? How many?” C-23 was visibly shaken as her ears flattened, eyes widened and her shoulders pulled lower.
“Not sure. I heard in dark spaces–bilges, maybe. Pretty spooky down in that heat.”
“You take the con. I need to step out. Be back.” C-23 scampered away with no further instructions.
D-7 chuckled deeply, recalling reptile warriors below, loyal to L-2, constantly hunger driven, ensuring vicious attacks of pirates or mutineers on command. He became distracted; he focused on a tall, potted shrub C-23 had placed against an adjacent electrical panel. He ignored the ‘Out of Order’ warning sign. It was just his nature.
Author: Rick Tobin
Rotting mangoes proffer disgusting flavors like burning spittle rising into a renovator’s mouth when alien wraiths hiss, rising from charred ruins fallen untold millennia before humanity’s existence. Dearth Crenshaw stood his ground as a maniacal, mystical slaver, without concern for his acolyte, Emmaus Progo. His protégé previously accompanied haunted clearings of thirteen worlds in readiness for human colonization, but repeatedly lost his bowel control when ectoplasmic spirits of species, still haunting their abandoned civilization, swirled in fury about them, tearing at their interloper space suits and souls.
Dearth’s hands spun the vicious atmosphere about him with invisible lines of force, entwining his attackers. The whispish harpies slashed back in agony, confused and forlorn as their fates were sealed by superior skills of a dark arts master.
“Now, Dearth? Use the wand?” Emmaus extended a six-foot silvery metal rod toward the billowing murk surrounding them.
“No! I hate that technology crutch.” Dearth guillotined the discussion as strings of undetectable magnetic fields encircled his captives, binding them and finally compelling their migration into a shimmering rope of energy speeding into an irregular orange crystal suspended loosely from his neck, outside his suit. Soon, the troubled ambiance was clear of psychic turmoil. Dearth’s gemstone glowed, pulsing life force from captivated new souls waiting his processing.
“I did not mean to interfere, master. I was afraid they might overcome us. I do not have your powers, so I must use what I have.” Emmaus tried to justify his interruption during battle as the hunters later discarded their battered space suits in a change bay aboard their ship.
“You’ve soiled yourself again, Emmaus. I had hoped for more progress after two years of apprenticeship.” Dearth turned, glaring at his offensive understudy.
“Maybe this is not my rightful destiny,” replied Emmaus. “I might try a different profession. With the thousands of new Earth colonies, surely there would be a better fit. Free will cries for better.”
“Free will! Where did you hear that term?” Dearth was suddenly insistent.
“I read some historical material in our ship’s library. Isn’t happiness really what we all deserve?”
Dearth’s fingers twisted quickly into an arcane hand mudra. Remains of Emmaus fell to the metal floor; his body desiccated into small piles of debris as a puff of soul rose to be encapsulated within the orange, glistening stone about Dearth’s neck. Dearth walked deliberately to a communications panel mid-ship.
“Dearth Crenshaw. Operation successful. 29465 is completely cleared for restitution. Send mining clones. I have fresh souls to activate them. Astral memories from this unknown race will pioneer a useful human outpost. There are copious resources in this world worthy of immediate exploitation. Note…send me a new assistant to implant. I will transfer this last one’s soul into a settler once new bodies arrive. I suggest acquiring a new helper soul from an earth-bound spirit taken from shambles of New York or Chicago. Forget the suburbs. I need a servant that is pliant and barely curious. Capture something drifting about a nursing home destroyed after the last asteroid strikes. I will wait, as required, for the supply ship. Please transmit my next target planet coordinates. For my control files, record that I have sealed more sections of Earth’s ancient mythologies on my ship that are heretical.”
Author: Rick Tobin
Joshua Vergiften shuddered, strapped within his tired, bruised ship plummeting through heavy cloud cover over colony UW26, an indistinct recent colonial outreach from Earth’s solar system. His goal: fresh provisions and clean water from a source he had never strategically poisoned–his primary assignment. Most of his water source contamination on less inhabited spheres occurred remotely by drone missile strikes from low orbit. He’d lost tolerance for monitoring alien life collapsing near his defensive strike zones.
GERD retreated down his esophagus, stopping burning in his mouth and nasal passages. His waste leaked into his suit, reminding him to hit sonic showers before disembarking among people probably intolerant of his solitary traveling habits. Reentries were messy, especially after a long haul outside planetary gravity.
“Bring me something strong, whatever you have local.” Joshua let his credits scan under fluorescence reader lights striking his ‘visiting’ clothes in a crowded bar full of tired farmers, miners and several techies out whore hunting.
“All we got–UW ale. Makes you batshit crazy, stranger, like all of us.” His shabby bartender turned to retrieve brew, dragging his ragged sleeves over concrete surfaces decorated from knife fights and broken nose stains.
“And who is that thing?” Joshua asked, looking at the hind parts of a woman of some kind, kneeling, covered in dowdy rags, with her brown hair pulled up away from her shoulders into a bun so the frazzled ends wouldn’t reach the scouring she gave the bar floor, or from falling into her scrubbing bucket.
“Ah,” replied the barkeep, returning with brown fluids spewing foam over a metal cup. “That’s one we ignore. She cleans the place up and stays to herself. Her folks didn’t make it through the landings; lost quite a few, years back. She’s nothing special, trust me, but we were ordered to tolerate her and leave her be. Never found much useful work for her.”
When the woman turned, Josh skipped a breath, almost forgetting how horrible his drink tasted. Whatever he felt, she did too. She dropped her scrub brush and stared at him, mouth agape. Josh rose from his stool, walking swiftly to the kneeling woman’s side, lifting her small, fragile frame nearly off her feet.
“I can’t believe it.” He paused, carefully thinking of what to say. “Don’t be afraid, but in my lonely travels through this region, I have dreamed of you…exactly you…those dark eyes and upturned nose. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…”
“No,” she interrupted. “I’m not frightened. I’ve waited for you since I was a child. I could see you, in the stars, alone. It helped me through my isolation. You’re the well poisoner–protector from alien invasions. You destroy their water. Humans need your protection but they fear you. I don’t fear you. I’m modified to protect this colony. I carry diseases that kill only aliens, but these colonists don’t know, except for the elite. Let’s leave this place, this planet, please.”
There was no hesitation…no wondering. As they exited the bar door, into darkness, he introduced himself. “I’m Josh. And you?”
“They call me Mary.”
Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer
The bright lights seem colder, shining from tall glass towers, set against a sky made starless by clouds. Nearer are the lights that adorn the forest of Christmas trees on the plaza above. Closer still are the control boards that flicker above the six-lane carriageway at our backs. Closest are the lights we string while setting up against the two-metre fence that separates pedestrians from traffic.
The wash of passing vehicles provides ventilation for this informal market. It’s surprisingly fresh air, what with most of them being electric. The occasional waft of exhaust fumes marks a classic storming by, while a smell like grass after rain indicates the passage of a cold fusion power unit: a limousine or Domestic Army truck.
Speeding traffic draws the eye but gives nothing back: people watching at the speed of modern society – too fast to get details or gain anything from the experience.
“Got something for me?”
I know that voice. Tobin Dray, a coarse throwback in an expensive suit. He’s got that loathsome combination of sleight and skill: a white-collar worker from a lower-class background and hard teenage years, proud of the dishonesty that got him where he is today.
“You want it on ceedee, deevee, beedee, stick, or load?”
There’s no point in trying any jovial banter. He regards me as a lower class of being, tolerable only because of the vintage material I obtain. Ever since the internet statutes of the last decade, England’s become a place where even your vices are subject to tariffs and access checks. So, for those who have to have what others cannot, they come down here, down where the bleedfeeds don’t reach.
“Load. They’ve started scanning us in and out at lunch break.”
Which means portable storage media, possibly containing terrorist-aiding malware, will be viewed. For Tobin, that would be embarrassing. I know of others who could be fired or even arrested.
“Come on, I’ve still got to get lunch.”
I smile at him and retrieve a datawafer from under the counter. He likes that. The hint of getting something not for the average punter. Today, that’s true.
He drops a wad of scrip on the table and snatches it from my hand, eager to sample it. Placing it against his receiver, he grins in anticipation. As it engages, I see his face slacken and eyes widen in shock.
For some, Christmas is like a magnifying glass: a time to expand the little good you do with public demonstrations of largesse. I often wonder if those who need to do that believe it’ll expand far enough to cover their selfishness.
Tears start to run down his face.
Seven years ago, he drove a young prostitute out of town. She insisted he was the father of her daughter. Doubt was sown. Evidence tampering was never proven. Jeopardising his promising career became a justification. Forsaken, she fled. A troubled orphan, Isla spent a long while struggling to raise her daughter alone before finally seeking help.
Tonight is Christmas Eve, and Tobin came for a shot of Eighties porn. What he’s getting is his daughter, Isabella, singing Silent Night at the school Nativity play a couple of nights ago. I know she looks just like his mother at that age: the one grandmother she’ll likely never meet.
He’s crying. Maybe he can change. Christmas can do that: sometimes you get what you need, not what you want.
Hands shaking, he drops the wafer onto the table and stumbles away.
Supporting the family I have left, my granddaughter and her daughter, is my ‘career’.
Merry Christmas, you bastard.