by Clint Wilson | Dec 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The starship dropped down into the clear atmosphere of the water planet. Inside the belly bay, six surf pods awaited their launch. Each one was five meters long, known as “longboards” by current popular culture. And inside of each one of them, there eagerly awaited an anxious human enthusiast.
Connor stood rigid on the inner control board, a replica of a twentieth century longboard, once used to ride the comparatively minuscule waves of Earth. Now its general look and function were mainly for nostalgia, but the manipulations inputed by a rider’s legs, along with measurements of arms, head and torso balance, transmitted via suit sensors, would help to control the entire pod atop the massive waves of Nokium IV.
The tourism company’s vessel lowered to within three meters of a very calm azure sea. The belly bay doors opened, a klaxon sounded, and the six pods splashed into the water together. The long-haired bare-chested ship’s pilot wished them, “bodacious luck,” and immediately maneuvered the craft up and away. A few moments later he shouted into their ear pieces, “Incoming!”
Bobbing in the beautiful waters, all six pods slowly turned toward the eastern horizon, and in the distance they saw it. The fifteen hundred meter wave was still many kilometres away, but they all started engaging their forward thrusters at maximum propulsion. This was the thing that Connor had been waiting for all of his life, had spent his entire savings on, the ultimate wave. He called out to his five friends on the comm link. “Ready boys and girls? This is it! This is the big one!”
Retorts of, “Woo hoo!” and, “Yeehaw!” abounded. Then Connor keyed the musical track inside all of their helmets and the clicky clacky reverb of Mosrite guitars became apparent as the rhythmic stylings of “The Ventures” accompanied their approach to the nearly mile high wave.
Before they knew it it was upon them. And then they began to climb, and climb, and then climb some more. The powerful electric motors of the pods were pushed to their limits as the six surfers reached the crest of the wave. And then in perfect synchronization they all turned around, and began to ride the massive unstoppable behemoth.
Connor shouted with glee, “Here we go gang!” while the roar of billions of tonnes of surging water accompanied by the snazzy melodies and thumping drumbeat of “Walk Don’t Run” assaulted their ears. And they all surfed and surfed along together for many dozens of kilometres, as the monstrous wave carried them forward beneath a glorious cloudless pale blue sky. Eventually they all slipped from the roiling crest, down into the pipeline, with endless millions of litres of translucent turquoise water curling above their heads. Until at long last the massive monster slowly lost momentum and finally deposited them back down onto the planetary ocean’s calm surface, to once again bob safely beneath the warm white sun of Nokium.
And as the tourism ship returned to pick them up, cheers and congratulations could be heard all over the comm link. It had after all been indeed the most bodacious, righteous, and gnarliest of days!
by Clint Wilson | Nov 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Flaktar entered the great senate hall dressed in his Fuztonian best. His entourage followed close behind, their own attire mimicking yet not exceeding his outfit’s grandeur. His fat grey slimy head stuck out from his tight collar, which was decorated with a series of interwoven squares and triangles. The same pattern ran down in stripes on the sides of his cloak. On his forehead was fastened the glorious gold star, a flat three pointed symbol of utmost importance in their culture, designed by one of their planet’s greatest artists. It signified his wealth and station. He trotted forward in his squishy brown boots, each adorned with more squares and triangles. His entourage squished along behind him in their own fancy, yet slightly less decorated, footwear.
Suddenly the diplomatic envoy from the recently accepted and assimilated planet, Earth entered the hall from behind them and with great fanfare. The Fuztonians spun around to see the humans approaching fast. The Earthlings all wore wide smiles. Not one of the grey headed aliens from Fuztone could speak a word. They had never seen such art as this.
The entire senate hall buzzed with excitement as dozens of species marvelled at the appearance of the human race. Until now the Fuztonians had been the most artistically creative beings known to the galactic collective. Until now.
The twelve representatives of humankind were only adorned in their own latest fashion, and might only be defined back on Earth as being dressed “business contemporary” at best.
The leader stepped forward, her intricately decorated red leather suit shining and creaking as she moved, the silver zippers and clasps tinkling lightly like beautiful gossamer chains. Around her half meter tall snow white mohawk her tanned head and face were covered in a maze of beautifully tattooed filagree. She extended a tanned and gloriously tattooed hand in greeting, every finger adorned with a heavily decorated ring. As she spoke in galactic common her voice was like music.
“The people of Earth thank you for accepting us into your collective. Please join us at the bar for a drink.”
Behind her the other humans stepped forward, all of them as beautifully adorned and garishly decorated as their spokesperson. They all held forward heavily tattooed and ring fingered hands in friendly greeting.
Slowly the fat grey Fuztonians shrugged their wide shoulders and began squishing along beside their beautiful hosts. They would go to the bar and drink with these amazing beings. And as they made their way, bringing up the rear, one Fuztonian turned to another and whispered, “It is apparent that we are no longer the masters of the galaxy.”
by Clint Wilson | Oct 20, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
A stadium-sized vehicle crawled along on massive tracks to my right. I hadn’t been awarded a sleep cycle for ninety-eight kilometres and was well overdue when the klaxon finally sounded. Not slowing my pace an iota I looked up and saw a half-dozen citizens lowering themselves down the nearby ladder. They moved slowly, none of them in an hurry to reach the rocky landscape below.
One by one they dropped to the surface and automatically began marching alongside the crawler. I scanned my immediate surroundings. There were at least twice as many tired walkers as recent arrivals. Some of them had been on shift almost as long as me. I waited more than a minute. Finally, frustrated, I radioed the deck officer.
“Crawler Seven deck, this is Dawkins off the port stern. Have seen six fresh arrivals. Where’s our relief whistle?” For a moment there was nothing. I almost tried again, then suddenly,
“Dawkins hold your position for the time being.”
My response was immediate. “Hold my position? I’ve been walking for,” I checked my odometer, “almost one-hundred clicks here, what’s the deal?”
There was another long pause. Then suddenly a familiar voice, “Dawkins, you and Chambers are relieved. Welcome back aboard.” I immediately caught the sight of Pavel Chambers dropping back and cutting over across my field of vision. With my own legs turning to gelatine, I followed suit and also drifted toward the crawler. I maintained radio silence as Chambers gripped the ladder and pulled himself up. And I didn’t breathe another word until I too was slowly making my way up toward the massive travelling deck full of greenhouses and livestock pens above.
Finally I broke the silence. “Deck officer. Why do six relieve only two this shift?” There was no response. Twice more I tried. Still nothing.
As I neared the deck I saw people pulling Chambers up and then as I too reached the top a hand reached out and I looked up into the familiar face of my old friend Brendan Chow. “Is there a transmitter out? Are you guys deaf?” I asked.
The friendly smile faded as I crawled forward and then stood up face to face with Chow. He sputtered, “Keep quiet. I will tell you all I can.”
An hour later I sat, legs dangling, off the edge of the machine looking out at the distant crawlers all clambering along westward with their thousands of citizens trudging alongside. Many walked. Fewer and fewer got to ride. The sun sank slowly, but not so slowly that we could ever catch it. It was said that the Earth once turned a thousand times faster than this; that people could live in one place and as day turned into night and then back into day again it never got too hot or too cold.
I looked back toward the nearby greenhouse behind me and noted that the vegetation did appear to be thinner and browner than ever. “Okay I admit it Brendan. We’re running out of energy. But what can we do about it? You know how it is. We are cursed. We must always chase the sun!”
Brendan Chow lowered his head morosely. After a time he looked up. There was a tear in his eye. “Look at them!” He suddenly motioned with his arm.
I looked back out at the dotted landscape of machines and countless tired walking humans and asked, “How did we ever get to this point?”
Chow replied solemnly. “I really don’t know. But I am sure of one thing. Our race will not survive!”
by Clint Wilson | Aug 5, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
We had barely a minute. The ship was breaking apart. The floor dropped from beneath my feet and then crashed back into me, buckling my legs and smashing me up into the bulkhead. The captain screamed into my earpiece. “Run Ensign, run! It’s our only chance!”
Rubbing the back of my head I gathered myself and clambered forward. I was not even qualified for this. I was but a simple refrigeration mechanic, trained to maintain the Canadian built air conditioning system in the officers’ quarters and forward lounges. But apparently all the senior engineers and mechanical staff had been killed or lost with the separation of our main engine. I was now our only hope.
I burst into the upper observatory and dropped through the service hatch into the maintenance bay. Frantically I searched for the unfamiliar controls to the powerful ion lander engine. The captain’s broken screams were now incoherent as the ion shielding blocked most of the signal. But I knew the gist of what he was saying.
I scanned instructions on a massive control panel with its hundreds of lights and switches. Suddenly the captain’s words burst through the static, “…ever mind that. Just undo the side access and rip out the main switch harness… …engine will fire up itself….”
Before his words trailed off I reached into my trusty tool pouch and procured what I thought was the correct socket driver. I leaned over and spied the etched imprint on the access panel. “Made In U.S.A.” I shrugged and popped the driver over the bolt head and turned. And the wrenched skipped… I couldn’t believe it. Maybe in my haste I had pulled out the wrong driver. Lightning fast I expertly popped it back into its clip and grabbed the next size down. This one would not go on. Incredibly it was too small! Again I read the words, “Made In U.S.A.”
The captain’s screams broke through the static, “Ensign! It’s all over, we’re all…..”
I looked from my metric socket driver to the imperial bolt head on the access panel and, as the atmosphere was sucked from around me, I cursed the human race.
by Clint Wilson | Jul 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Almost everyone on board had reported seeing it here or there in the dimly lit passages of the ship. I had not yet had the pleasure. Perhaps because I usually worked the greenhouses. But I had now been reassigned for a time to engineering. They needed some strong bodies down there to help scrub out the massive carbon filters.
It was a kilometre walk from midships to the engine room. I passed no one as I clanked along the deck plates. Then suddenly as I looked up I saw it. There standing on the left side of the passageway, somewhat tucked into a dark doorway stood the entity that people had dubbed, “The Ghost”. I for one did not believe in ghosts, but I still froze in my tracks, holding my breath as my brain tried to decipher what my eyes were seeing.
It was basically human in shape, roughly the size of a child, obsidian black from head to toe, without a face, or any other discernible features. In fact, it was so utterly black that it appeared almost as if it were a human-shaped hole into another dimension. And perhaps that’s what it was. The manifestation of an unimaginable life form into human shape using a rift in space-time in order to what? Study us? More likely it would be to communicate.
I realized that it was starting to fade already into dark grey, its edges becoming blurry. And as it melted back into the shadows I had one more look into that faceless thing and I felt its sad gaze. I felt its pity for us. I felt as if our traveling at warp drive was some how perverse, or an abomination to it. The ghost was now gone. I continued to trudge forward, quietly wondering to myself what we were doing way out here anyway.
