by Patricia Stewart | Feb 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The two Capellians had traveled over 40 light years to collect a breeding pair of humans for the University of Xenobiology, on Capella Prime. During the trip, they also diligently recorded the various transmissions emanating from Earth in order to provide their scholars with as much cultural information about Earthmen as possible.
Satisfied that his trap was properly set, Ler’th returned to the spaceship and said, “As they say here on Earth, I am ‘clever as a coyote’, yes?”
“I believe the phrase is ‘clever as a fox’,” corrected Sefal’l. “Coyotes are stupid animals. Remember, they are the predators that are constantly being run over by ground transportation vehicles, or falling off of cliffs.”
Before Ler’th could reply, the trap alarm sounded. “Wow, that was fast,” he said as he glanced at the monitor. “We snagged one large one and one smaller one. Looks like this will be a quick trip.”
“Not so fast Ler’th. We need to make sure we have a male and female.” The Capellians left their camouflaged ship and approached the trap. “Earth humans,” asked Sefal’l, “are you a breeding couple?”
“Hell no,” snapped the slightly inebriated adult. “This is my son, Billy-Bob. We’s out here on a huntin’ trip. Looks like we got caught in y’alls snare. How’s about letting us out?”
“Not likely, human. We must take at least one of you back to our planet, along with a female.”
“What’s that? A woman you say?” inquired the now interested adult.
“Yes. And, as well as our trap appears to be working, we may be able to capture whoever you want? Would you prefer, Mary Ann Summers, Ginger Grant, Jeannie Nelson, or Mindy McConnell?”
“Holy crap,” belched the old man. “Them’s old television characters. I reckon that they must be a hundred years old by now. I ain’t agoin’ on no trip with them. Now let us out of here, or I’ll blast ya.” He waved his twelve gage threateningly.
“Don’t be absurd, human. We know how to make your projectile weapons useless.” Ler’th extended a finger and stuck it into the end of the barrel.
“Dad, don’t shoot,” pleaded the teenager. “Let me try something.” He held up his cell phone. “Listen, you scum bags, my weapon contains corbomite. You either let us out, or I’ll blow you to pieces.”
“Ooooh, noooo, not corbomite,” mocked Ler’th. “You mean the stuff Captain Kirk said would destroy the Fesarius ship. That was a bluff. See, we know more about your treachery than you think earthmen. Perhaps we should just destroy you both, and collect two new samples.”
“Don’t fret, son,” said the father as he pulled a stainless steel flask out of his back pocket. “I didn’t want to use this, but these aliens leave me no choice.”
“Hah. Look Sefal’l, he’s got a pretend phaser. Or maybe it’s a light saber, eh?” Both aliens began to make a cackling noise, which presumably, was laughter.
“Nope, my friends,” slurred the old man. “This here is an Illudium Pew-36 Explosive Space Modulator.”
Instantly, the Capellians became silent. “Whoa, hold on there Mister Earthman. There’s no need to overreact. We were just having a little fun. Look, we’re opening the trap. There, see, you’re free to go. No hard feelings.” The two aliens began backing up toward their spaceship. When they got close, they darted inside. A few seconds later, the spaceship was a distant black dot in the clear blue sky.”
The old man took a swig from the flask and smiled. “Damn aliens. Let’s go home, son. I can’t wait to tell your ma that I weren’t wastin’ my time watchin’ them cartoons after all.”
by Patricia Stewart | Feb 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Dammit Joe, it’s freakin’ freezing in here,” complained Thomas Sampati as he checked the spaceship’s thermostat.”
“We’re eight hours behind the Phoenix,” replied Joe. “We need to make a non-traditional course adjustment if we hope to win the race.”
“’Non-traditional?’ The course goes from Vesta, around the sun, past Earth, and back to Vesta. That’s 600 million miles. There’s nothing to change.”
“Officially, the course is from Vesta, around the sun, and back to Vesta. It’s just that they time the start of the race so that the Earth is positioned off to the side to give the contestants a gravitational slingshot on the way back to Vesta. The sponsors want the Earth swing-by so the spectators can see the ships up close. But we’re not ‘required’ to swing past the Earth. In fact, in ’79, the Orion accidentally flew thousand miles too close to the sun and ended up on the wrong side of the Earth, so they were decelerate, not accelerate. They finished in last place, but they weren’t disqualified. That precedent makes it legal to cut inside the Earth.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Relax. I’ve been planning this contingency for months. I figure if we fly really close to the sun, we can fly directly back toward Vesta, and shorten the trip by seventy million miles.”
“How close is ‘really close’?”
“Until today, nobody goes inside Mercury’s orbit, about 30 million miles. I plan to go as close as 5 million miles.”
“Are you nuts? They stay that far away for a reason. The sun’s kinda hot you know. We’ll be subjected to 36 times the radiation of the other ships. We’ll fry.”
“Not necessarily. I plan to deploy a Meissner shield; a thin mirror-like reflector made out of a superconductive alloy. It’s also a perfect Faraday shield. Virtually nothing will get through to the ship.”
“Virtually nothing?”
“Well, it will get a little hot in here. That’s why we need to make it as cold as possible before we start.”
“Do you also plan to change the name of the ship to ‘The Icarus’?”
“Icarus? He was the one who died.”
“That’s my point.”
“Look, Tom, either grow a pair, or get in an escape pod.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stay, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Thanks. Now, start hydrating yourself. It’s going to take twelve hours to complete the fly-by of the sun.”
As the ship began to round the sun, the thermostat started to climb. “How hot can we go before we die?” asked Sampati.
“At 100% humidity, only 105F. But I have the dehumidifier at maximum. We can probably survive to 170F, as long as our perspiration can evaporate. Keep drinking water, and take those salt tablets.”
At periapsis, they fired the main thrusters to maximize the ship’s velocity.
During the fly-by, the men were forced to endure a living hell. For the first six hours, they were worried that they would die. For the second six hours, they were wishing they would. Finally, they were heading away from the sun, and the temperature began to drop. Drenched with sweat, Joe checked the telemetry. “According to the computer, we shortened the trip by ten hours. We should be ahead. I’ll check with the officials.”
“God,” exclaimed Sampati, “That was the worst 12 hours of my life. I wouldn’t do that again, not even for first place prize money. Uh oh, what’s wrong?”
“The update just came in. Those bastards on the Phoenix did the same maneuver. They’re still eight hours in front.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 26, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Judge Roy Phantly entered his chambers and took the seat at the head of the conference table. To his right, sat Stanley Matthews, CEO of Buy Gones Inc, and his attorney. To the Judge’s left, sat Samantha Blatchford, Lead attorney for the Class Action lawsuit against Buy Gones. “Good morning everyone,” opened the Judge. “This is a preliminary hearing to determine if the civil suit against Buy Gones should be certified and allowed to proceed to trial. The plaintiffs allege that Buy Gones has violated the personal privacy of thousands of claimants. Does the defendant have an opening statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” replied Matthews’ attorney. “This claim is totally without merit. Buy Gones has been in existence for 23 years, and has a license to provide its clients with the opportunity to experience real historical events, first hand.”
“How so?” inquired the Judge.
“Well, uh, the specifics of the technology are proprietary, of course. But in essence, Buy Gones has the capability to transmit the consciousness of our clients backward in time, into the minds of historical figures. While there, they can experience, strictly as an observer, thirty minutes of that person’s life, for a fee of $1000. Hence the name of the company, Buy Gones.”
“Do you have any examples, Counselor?”
“Of course, Your Honor. Many of our clients pay to live the experience of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the surface of the moon, George Washington crossing the Delaware, or Joe Montana’s fourth quarter drive in Superbowl XXIII. Not only do our customers see the event through the eyes of the host, they hear the sounds, and feel the emotions. They literally live the experience. It’s really remarkable.”
The Judge turned toward the plaintiff’s attorney. “That doesn’t sound like it merits legal proceedings Ms. Blatchford. I don’t see that this kind of behavior can be causing damages to anybody. What’s the foundation of your lawsuit?”
“Your Honor, Buy Gones has expanded their operation to include modern individuals.”
The Judge turned back toward the defendant, “Is that true?”
“Yes, Your Honor. The police routinely enter the mind of a murder victim minutes before their death to determine the identity of the perpetrator. In divorce cases, wives have entered the minds of their husbands during previous ‘business trips’ to discover that they were in fact, having an affair. Stuff like that.”
“Again,” the Judge said to the plaintiff’s attorney, “That doesn’t seem like an inappropriate application of technology. Apprehending a dangerous criminal, or a philandering spouse for that matter, is a good thing, is it not?”
“Your Honor, Mr. Matthews’ attorney is cherry picking the evidence. Most recently, clients of Buy Gones have paid to enter the minds, and live the sexual exploits of, people such as: Hugh Hefner, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Denzel Washington, and William Shatner.”
“William Shatner?” remarked the Judge. “Are you kidding me? That’s unbelievable. But even so, these are famous people. They have no expectation of privacy.”
“Your Honor, the celebrities are not filing the lawsuit. It’s their, er, uh, partners. Perfectly innocent people who were overcome by idol worship in a moment of weakness. As a result, we’ve now become the sexual conquests of thousands of sick, pathetic losers. It’s disgusting. Our privacy has been infringed upon without our consent. Buy Gones needs to pay!”
“A valid point,” noted the Judge. “But, you, uh, make it sound…personal, Ms. Blatchford.”
“Let’s just say I’m a very enthusiastic Star Trek fan, your Honor.”
“Oooooh, I see.” The Judge turned toward the defendant. “I’d hate to be you, Mr. Matthews. We’ll start picking the jury on Monday.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 19, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
After trudging for miles through the soft, shifting red sand, I was nearly exhausted. Using all the strength that I could muster, I climbed over the lip of a crater, and ducked into the shadows. I’d be virtually invisible now. I’d be safe until Earth Force could rescue me. In the dead silence of the thin Martian atmosphere, I could hear the life support system of my environmental pack whine as it struggled to remove the excess heat, moisture, and carbon dioxide from my spacesuit. After a few minutes of studying the motionless horizon, I felt that it was safe to turn on my suit’s receiver.
“…need the modulation coil. We’ll all die if you don’t come back. Repeat, this is Base Command calling Lieutenant Thorndike. Please return to base immediately. The reactor is becoming critical. We need the modulation coil. We’ll all die if you don’t…”
I smiled as I clutched the modulation coil in the crook of my right arm. Of course you’re going to die, I thought. That was my plan. After all, it’s what you were going to do to us. I just got to you first.
“Thorndike, this is Doctor Wundt. Son, you’re sick. You’re having a breakdown. Please, come back to the infirmary. We’ll help you…”
Ah, this is interesting. First, it’s “please save us.” Then it’s, “we want to save you.” Stupid Martians.
Seconds later, a new voice crackled from his earpiece. “Honey, this is June. You need to come back home. I’m scared. Think of the children. They are worried about their daddy. Please, honey. There isn’t much time. I love you. I love you so much. Please come home. Hurry!” She began to cry.
Bastards! They’ve got June’s voice perfect. Intellectually, I knew that it couldn’t be her, because she’s on the Moon, with the kids. It would take over 20 minutes for a transmission to reach Mars. The damn Martians must have been monitoring my personal calls, and synthesized her voice. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on my anger toward these abominations. Go to hell!
“Thorndike, this is Commander Andreasen. Return to base immediately. That’s an order. I swear to God, man, if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll prosecute the Court Martial myself.”
I chuckled. Poorly played, you green monsters. You should have stayed with June. It was tough listening to her voice. It sounded so real. I almost answered. That would have been a fatal mistake. They’d have located me in instantly. Keep it together, man. Just a few more minutes.
I didn’t hear the explosion, but I saw it coming. The dust on the ground leaped upward as the concentric shockwave raced across the Martian landscape. The ground began to tremble violently, and I dropped the coil. On the horizon, I could see a semicircular dome of debris start to expand upward following the explosion of the Martian reactor. I cheered. No doubt, this was only the first salvo in the war against the Martians. But, thanks to me, it would be a crippling one. Their base held tens of thousands of people. What? No, not people, …Martians. My head started to throb. Through squinted eyes, I followed the expanding debris cloud as it began to obscure the blue-white orb of the Earth. Wait. The Earth should only be a star-like dot of light from Mars, not a large disc. What’s going on? I collapsed to my knees; my temples pounding with each heartbeat. What’s going on?
by Patricia Stewart | Jan 5, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The three scientists stood over a fully clothed skeleton. “I told Jill not to wander off by herself,” said Anthony Caroni, the mission commander. “Damn. What could have done this?”
“I don’t see any animal footprints, and there’s practically no blood,” noted Christopher Saunders, the exogeologist. “Maybe birds carried her here?”
“There aren’t any birds on Orinoco II, just plants, animals, and insects,” stated Sarah Lyman, the mission xenobiologist.
“Up until now,” retorted Saunders, “you didn’t think that there were any carnivores either.”
“Stop arguing,” snapped Caroni. “The colonists will arrive in less than three months. We need to find out what happened. Let’s gather her remains and take them back to the ship.”
***
The geology lab was turned into a makeshift morgue. Caroni and Lyman began to study the remains, but Saunders was heading out the hatch carrying a frozen ham and a phaser pistol. “Look,” he said, “I’m not a pathologist, but I’ve killed a few mountain lions in my time. You guys do what you can here; I’m going to set a trap.”
The Commander started to stop Saunders, but Lyman held up a hand and whispered, “Let him go. He’s too upset to help us here.”
After an hour of studying Jill’s remains, they were no closer to solving the mystery of her death than they were when they first found her body. “I can’t find any damage to her bones,” complained Lyman. “No teeth marks, claw marks, fractures, nothing. It was like Jill fell into a vat of acid. But it can’t be chemical; we found a dozen dead flies in her clothes that weren’t dissolved. Maybe Chris is having better luck. Give him a call.”
“I’m not having any luck either,” reported Saunders. “A couple of animals came by to smell the ham, but they walked off. I’ll be heading back soon. There’s a nasty storm cloud coming in from the east, and I need to get rain gear if I’m going to stay out here much longer.”
“Roger that,” replied Caroni. “You know Sarah,” he added as a thought struck him, “I never saw flies that didn’t lay eggs in a corpse. Maybe her flesh was consumed by maggots?”
“I didn’t see any maggots,” she stated, “but I’m about to examine the flies now.” Holding one of the flies with tweezers, she examined it under a binocular microscope. She was shocked to discover that the mouth contained two rows of tightly packed, serrated, interlocking teeth. The individual teeth appeared markedly triangular, similar to the teeth of a Piranha. “Oh my God,” she screamed. “The flies are carnivorous. Get Chris back, quickly.”
“Crap,” realized Caroni. “Our weather comes from the west, not the east.” Still holding the walkie-talkie, he ran to the hatch. “Chris, return to the ship, now. That dark cloud isn’t a storm; it’s a swarm of killer flies.”
“Repeat,” asked Saunders who couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Ouch,” he exclaimed a second later as he felt a sting on his forearm. He swatted at an insect, only to discover a rivulet of blood streaming down his arm. He was bitten twice more before he began to run back to the ship.
Caroni watched helplessly as Saunders came into view, only to be engulfed by a black cloud of death. Saunders fell, screaming and writhing. He fired his phaser in vain. Seconds later, he was motionless. Caroni slammed the hatch shut. “Quick, Sarah” he yelled, “shut all the portholes.”
As he turned from the hatch, he heard Sarah’s voice from the lab, “Ouch. Oh, damn.”
