by Duncan Shields | Aug 1, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I was sixteen when they came.
They touched down in large ships all over earth, silently with no visible means of propulsion. Jagged, asymmetrical leviathans ridged with glowing seams and thousands of softly humming translucent spikes as tall as skyscrapers. Their spindled undercarriages contacted the ground and there they impossibly balanced, footprints with no more square footage than a volkwagen bug. Islands on tiptoe with their furthest spires still in space.
A triangle of light spasmed open in their base and they came out.
They floated silently and ghostly like their ships did. They were made of a dark metal that could be made intangible at will. Red sensors ringed their masses. No two of them were the same size. Their appendages dangled, chunky black tentacles of many different widths, some cables nearly dragging on the ground as the beings floated out of their vessels. The smallest one I saw was as long as a cat and the largest was the length of a bus balanced on its bumper.
The missiles we’d fired at their ships at first contact still hung there in the upper atmosphere, barely moving in some sort of time-retardant field. The bullets and shells that had been fired at them from the ground troops did the same. So we stopped. We didn’t know if our stilled ordnance would go off when the visitors left. Our noisy impotence in the face of their silent superiority became embarrassing.
They scanned everything. They took no interest in us except to regard those that came close to them with a whirring chirp of blindingly quick quadrary math. Scientists and mathematicians figured out their language but the numbers still didn’t make sense.
Small ones for flowers but long ones for gardens, small ones for trees and massive ones for forests. Medium ones for buildings but huge ones for cities. London’s number was bigger than Vancouver. Damascus had a larger number that Paris. Water seemed to make the math go recursive and eat itself.
A temporal theoretician named Davis figured it out after some terminally ill humans approached the aliens in search of a divine cure. They were measured and forgotten by the aliens and left disappointed to succumb to their diseases. Those measurement numbers took on meaning after their deaths.
We don’t know how long they’ll be here but the aliens appear to know how long each of us will live.
People seek them out now. It’s a dare to get yourself measured. New parents bring their children, newlyweds find out how long they’ll have together, and one presidential candidate famously got measured at a press conference but the result was scandalously disappointing.
The aliens seemed to have a sense of time like we have a sense of smell. Common opinion is that the passage of time whorls around them and that they are more sensitive to it. That they smell time in chains and whips, in spills and gusts, in pours and dams. When we speak to them, they seem to only measure our word lengths and move on. Perhaps they’re entropy police cataloguing the known universe. We don’t know if they’re sentient or automated.
We are not intelligent life to them. They speak in measurements and nothing else. How they invented space travel is a mystery to us.
All I know is that I was measured yesterday and I have another forty-three years to live. I plan to make them count.
by Duncan Shields | Jul 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Blood dripped off of its thick horns under the arena lights. On the ground beside him were the bodies of the six last tigers from Earth. There were deep slashes over his torso that were already scabbing over thanks to the gladiator coagulant in his bloodstream. His breathing was deep and even from the fight but it wasn’t ragged. It wasn’t taxed. It plumed out from his massive nostrils in the cold silence of the battle’s end.
The audience waited in anticipation behind the force shields and on two hundred civilized worlds reached by the broadcast. The tigers were just the warm up. Now it was time to fight something intelligent.
Me.
This was still part of the opening entertainment. It was clear from the size difference that I wasn’t favoured to win. Best to whet the audience’s appetite with a little slaughter before an actual contest. At least it was bare handed. If it had a projectile weapon, I would have been told.
I really thought that the aliens would be better than us. More enlightened. I pictured art installations the size of nebulae, Vulcan mind bridges, peace at all costs, that sort of thing.
Not so. Turns out our thirst for violence is weak in comparison. Every single person, predator, poisonous plant, and insect on Earth has been conscripted as fodder for the games. While we’re gone, Earth is being mined to a husk. We humans have been promised riches and freedom if we become champions but we can never go home again. I have my doubts about the validity of those promises.
I’m in great shape but I’m half the thing’s size. It’s slow but if even one of its blows connects with me, I won’t be standing back up. I’ve been given lots of rest, nutrition and awareness supplements but I can still see that they’ve pitted me against this creature with no intention of a fair fight. This is an execution. I can see the odds flashing across the screen up in the stands. It’s all about how long I’ll last, not whether or not I’ll win.
“What’s your name?” I shout across to it.
“One Hundred Fifty.” Says the man-bull.
“That’s an odd name. Where did you get it?” I ask.
“If I defeat and kill you tonight, then tomorrow my name will be One Hundred Fifty One.” It said.
I really didn’t like the way this was shaping up.
by Duncan Shields | Jul 11, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“It must be because they have such a short life,” chittered the softly glowing centipede pilot, easing back on the throttle near the viewscreen as it maintained a discreet distance from the planet. “With almost no time to experience life, the need to see life end must be strong. Why else would they kill? They seem quite bent on it and quite good at it. Look. Entire sections of their organizational structures are dedicated to it. Even the smaller organizations. Armies, they call them.”
The box-like creature with too many eyes in the chair next to the pilot hummed in thought before speaking. “I’m not sure I agree with your findings, Pilot. If that were the case, they’d all be dead by now. Mathematically speaking. There must be some that want to live with others and not see the end of life.”
“Maybe you’re both right.” vibrated the translucent skein of cells wafting on the air currents near the bridge vents, colours rippling across its surface. “Maybe there are factions of people devoted to death and factions devoted to living. Remember, they wear out quickly. No section of their population is long-livers. Perhaps the ones that want to live must kill the ones that want to kill.”
They all paused to consider that.
The green, moist creature with the huge mouth near the back spoke up. “Seems pretty confusing. Killing to protect yourself from killers. Can’t quite get my head around it. Surely one must be one or the other.”
“Well, you are rather binary, aren’t you?” whispered the cluster of feathers monitoring the radiation feeds and power levels. Some of the other creatures chuckled. The green, moist creature turned black with confusion and embarrassment.
“Shut up, here comes the captain.” said the eyeless red octopus lobster on the ceiling.
The doors from the lift parted and in walked the impressive bulk of the captain. “Well, how goes the findings? Does it classify?” the captain asked, beaks quivering with anticipation.
“It’s borderline, captain.” reported the centipede. “I don’t think we can start the procedure yet. We’ll have to leave a marker and come back.”
“That’s too bad. Well, proceed. We’ll return in two turns of the rim.” said the captain, visibly disappointed.
A marker left the ship and detonated high above the planet, leaving behind an invisible anchor in timespace after two weeks of drilling.
Far down below, three kings on camels saw it glowing and followed it.
by Duncan Shields | Jul 4, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
My model number is SAN7-8V/. That’s San-seven, eight-vee-slash. Slashers, they called us. Fierce name for a gang of decorations.
We were the featured models voted ‘best’ and allowed to be built by the birthing factories after that cycle’s design competition sixteen orbits ago. During that time, a neo-aestheticism was taking place. The Great Construction had passed and The War was yet to come. My model was a symbol of that middle era. A symbol of hope and the ability to create something of pure beauty without much utilitarian use. It was a time of peace all over the world, my birth was.
Because of that, I’m white curved polymers spun around plasticable mesh anchored to minimalist jointwork. A sheen of seranano makes sure I’m constantly shiny. I am graceful and pretty to look at.
I can’t lift more than average, I have no factory-issue weaponry other than my few sharp edges, and I am not exceptionally intelligent. My applications for upgrades are granted on a ‘for those according to their need’ basis so I’m rejected more times than not unless it’s related to my job.
My job. I should say my jobs, plural. There have been a lot. I was built to be pretty but not for a purpose. I was too fragile for the reactor floor and I lacked the hull tensile strength for atmospheric re-entry. I worked my way down the chain of importance to here.
I was a snail-catcher. I watched the skies through the telescopes for slower-than-light vehicles of non-silicate origins. So far, there had been none. I had no co-workers. The other models of my year were all destroyed during The War, useless as we were. Bright white makes for horrible camoflauge and dumbness equals death.
So now I watched the skies for snails. Sometimes, I didn’t log my findings for milliseconds, hoping for a bit of punishment to liven things up. Nothing. I powered down for three cycles once just to see what would happen. Nothing.
I wondered if there are searchers like me out there, eyes and ears pointed towards the skies, just waiting.
I wondered that until three days ago.
I noticed something. It was definitely STL and it was headed close to our planet. Scans said it was ferro-class 2 but hollow. It was spewing smoke of its propulsion core. I saw no cognitive arrays but I did sense a spray of radio waves coming off of it. I called up my communicator viewscreen, floated it in front of me and set it to two-way.
A pink thing blocked the screen from the metal life I could see in the background. It was making sonic noises that were being amplified by the array. That was the radio noise. I spoke to the metal but heard nothing back, just the barking of the pink thing. I didn’t know how the life-form was supposed to hear me above that thing’s noise.
Smoke filled the screen. The pink thing stopped making noises. The radio waves stopped.
I continued to send messages to the metal but it drifted aimlessly now. It was going to miss our planet and continue past. I issued a request for retrieval from space command but they classified it as a meteorite and deemed it unnecessary.
That was three days ago. I am haunted by the experience but I no longer feel bad.
There is life out there more useless than me.
by Duncan Shields | Jun 20, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The best way to ensure the death of a neighbouring planet’s race is to start with the children.
Camouflage razor skin peeked out pink-eyed from underneath the dappled leaf shadows. Claws re-sheathed back and forth in anticipation. Huge incisors lay exposed over lips designed to widen wounds. The large aural receptors lay back along the body in the deathly stillness that surrounded each unit. Long back legs designed for speed and sharp turns quivered, taut, waiting for the order.
The rabbit-sized killers of children licked their big, pointy, teeth.
Little Suzy Jenkins had a problem with Easter. She was allergic to chocolate. Her parents had hidden boiled eggs to be collected and painted later at the party. Hundreds of tasty chocolate eggs were also spread far and wide around the property of her parent’s bushy ranch for the other children to find. If any of the other kids found a ‘special’ egg, they were to pocket it and bring it back to the egg-painting competition for a prize. They were told to feel free to eat whatever chocolate they found.
Poor Suzy Jenkins.
Suzy was pouting on the front porch and drawing idly in the dirt with a stick when she heard the first scream.
Peter Mooney stumbled around the corner of the house, eyes wide, futilely trying with his small fingers to keep the blue slippery ropes of his guts from sliding out of the open cavern of his stomach onto the dusty ground. It was a losing battle. A loop of bright mucus-wrapped intestine already dragged behind him, gathering leaves, sticks and, Suzy noted with concern, ants.
Several black blurs raced over the ground towards him like low-flying swallows. Rooster-tails of dust blossomed up behind them like miniature power-tool speedboats at full throttle across the lawn.
Several more screams echoed from the back of the house and a few from the neighbouring properties. Suzy could hear the parents talking inside the house, still oblivious to anything happening outside.
The black blurs converged on Peter Mooney’s ankles with a sizzling sound. He went down with a sigh onto his knees before falling forward.
Before he hit the ground, the black shapes stopped racing and pricked up two long ears each.
Suzy brushed long blonde hair out of her large eyes.
It was like the long-eared shapes were listening for directions.
Suzy heard her friend Alison shriek out in the field like nothing she’d ever heard, even during her tantrums in class. The shriek cut off suddenly.
Suzy stood up to take a closer look at the long-eared shapes standing immobile around Peter’s twitching body.
Bunnies! They black shapes were bunnies!
With a joyous shout that turned all of the long ears towards her, she clapped her hands and jumped up and down on the porch.
She was special after all. All the kids that ate chocolate were being punished!
The parents inside had gone quiet. She could hear a newscaster on television frantically telling the audience something about last night’s meteor storm and children.
With two hops, the rabbits that had punished Peter turned towards Suzy and put their ears back. Four more rabbits came tearing around the corner of the house. The other black rabbits joined the pack in sprinting towards her.
Death raced with abandon towards the last child left alive on the property.
Suzy crouched down with her arms outstretched. She smiled wide. This was the best Easter ever!
Suzy heard her mother scream behind her.
The rabbits leapt off the ground and into Suzy’s arms.
