Forget Me Not

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer

The five member crew of the ISS watched in rapt horror as 425 miles below them miniature stars blossomed upon the Earth’s surface.

This can’t be happening. It’s not real, Dr. Irena Mikhailovich whispered. Her tears failed to stream down her delicate cheek. Instead they separated with every blink of her eyes and floated before her.

Captain Roger Launius, USAF, hovered beside her watching the events unfold. There goes D.C.. New York just bought it. Well, how about that? Looks like we’re landing at Edwards. Nope, spoke too soon.

How can you be so damn cavalier? She said, turning on him angrily. Our world is destroying itself and we’re helpless to do anything about it.

He shrugged. First of all, the world is not destroying itself. Humanity is. Terra will be just fine. She’s seen far worse than this. Secondly, what can we do? They’ve bigger things on their minds. They’ve forgotten about us. Right ‘Moto?

Yoshi Moromoto pulled the comlink from behind his right ear and replied. Looks that way boss. There’s a lot of chatter down there, but so far none of it’s aimed at us.

Launius sighed. The problem is, what are we going to do? It doesn’t look like Australia has been hit. Maybe we could set down at Amberly.

The normally reticent medical officer, Carmen Espinoza, spoke softly. Do we really want to go back?

What?

Seriously, what’s there to go back to? A global dark age? No thank you.

She’s got a point, Cap. Besides, even if Amberly is available. It’s impossible to land that crate without ground guidance. We can’t even raise the Aussies let alone get landing guidance from them, said Marcus Flannery, the crew’s resident physicist.

What about the ACRV. It’s pre-programmed to return. No ground crew needed.

Firstly, the automated crew return vehicle only holds three. Do you want to pick who goes back and who stays? Secondly, it’s programmed to land in the middle of the Siberian steppes. It’s winter down there. Do you want to be stuck out there with no ride back to Baikonur? Captain Launius replied flatly.

We could use it to push the station. All eyes turned to Dr. Mikhailovich. What? Why are you looking at me like that? What are our choices? Crash the shuttle in Australia? Freeze to death in Siberia while two remain behind to starve, or stay and starve right here? If we fire the ACRV we could move into a degrading orbit and… well… it would be quick.

We may have another option. ‘Moto said looking turning away from the plasma display. I have something on radar closing fast. He checked his screen again, confused. Judging by the trajectory, it boosted from out here, in orbit. We should be able to see it in just a matter of moments.

The five astronauts raced for the cupola to catch a glimpse of the incoming object.

They haven’t forgotten us, Carmen squealed, as the object came into view.

Realization sunk in. No, they haven’t forgotten us. They never planned to forget us, Captain Launius replied.

The weapon detonated, embracing the International Space Station and her crew in the warmth of thermonuclear fire.

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Reality Games

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer

I couldn’t bear to look at the young punks sitting at the bar. A smartass kid about 21, 22 thinks he knows how the world works, and two pretty, but brainless devotchkas hanging on his every word as if it were a golden nugget of wisdom.

They don’t know shit.

“You don’t know SHIT,” I yelled at them. They gave me a disdainful look and dismissed me as a nut job.

I’ve seen it all. Battle cruisers blasting unarmed hospital ships to pieces. The sick, lame and lazy, still in their beds spilling out of the ruptured hull to suffocate in the vacuum of space.

I was on Europa when a grief crazed sergeant sentenced a virtually unarmed colony of Asiatics to a slow death by asphyxiation when he blew their Tesla Field generator.

Nobody cares, nobody gives a damn.

Nobody noticed as Joey Preston, formerly 2nd Lt. Joseph L. Preston, 3/125th, 1st Infantry Division, took a large swig of his beer, lowered his head and fell unconscious to the grimy steel floor.

John Carsten, grimaced as he jabbed the needle into his arm and thrust the plunger home. The rictus of pain was quickly replaced by the winsome smile of euphoria as he loosed the belt on his arm and allowed the blessed fluid to burn away his nightmares.

The nightmares of the impenetrable jungles of Venus. The combat was so close it often came down to hand to hand battle. A gook impaled his thigh with a screwdriver.

He reacted immediately, slashing at the dinks body with his K-Bar. The slope fell atop him, covering him with his slimy entrails and their filthy stinking contents of raw shit. He gagged and vomited. He was on his back choking on his own ejecta, triggering a second wave of nausea.

There was nobody in the cramped, filthy apartment to remove the needle from the arm of retired Gunnery Sergeant John Carsten, nor to call the medics as he drifted into a coma from which he would never wake. Above his body, thumb tacked to the wall, was a crimson banner emblazoned with a golden Eagle, Globe and Anchor.

In a secluded wooded lot, not far from Dog River, Saskatchewan, stood a makeshift lean-to “fort”, composed of logs, branches, bits of sheet metal, and whatever detritus could be lashed together to form a hide-out for young boys.

Almost simultaneously, William Hunter ( age 12), Billy to his friends and family, and Christopher “Chip” Pike, 11, pulled the leads of their Nintendo Gameboys from the sockets behind their right ears.

“Wow,” exclaimed Billy, “I was this loser alchy dick who fought in the Lunar Colony Wars.”

“That’s nothing,” Chip interjected with unbridled enthusiasm. “I played a drug sick dope head Marine after the Venusian invasion. I got extra points every time I hit the vein first try.”

“Damn,” Billy exclaimed admiringly.

Just then there was a knock on the rusted tin door. “That’s not the secret knock,” Billy said testily.

A second knock came. “Close enough,” said Chip and pushed open the door.

Chips little brother and constant pest Charles (Chucky, 9) eagerly barged in. “Guys, guys, look what I just got. I just downloaded it from the library. It’s the latest game… it’s almost like ancient history.

He held out a small box emblazoned with the name Hanoi Hilton III: The Ganja Express.

Their eyes were aglow as they smeared saline paste on their leads, slapped them into their cranial jacks and plugged into the wonderful mind numbing game.

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Trust Me

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer

“Trust me,” he said.

“Trust me.” How many times had I heard those words before, only to be followed by some horrendous disaster?

From up here, I can just make out the red smear that used to be Dave. Who’s going to tell his wife? I’m sure as hell not.

It was two weeks ago today when Dave told me he had a birthday surprise and as his best friend I had to be there. “Trust me, it’ll be great.” In the army whenever he uttered those words, they were usually preceded by beer and generally ended in tears. I seem to recall a great deal of blood as well.

“Okay, what’s the surprise,” I asked, already in a pre-emptive cringe awaiting the answer.

“We’re going skydiving.”

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t breath. I was ready for a shock, but not this.

“What?” I had to be sure I had heard what I thought I heard.

“Skydiving man. I’ve got it all set.”

“Hey Dave,” I said quietly, somewhat fearful of the deranged gleam in his eyes, “um…, we were in the 82nd, remember? We have our wings. We ARE airborne.”

“Yeah, but this is going to be different.” The gleam in his eye was a blaze now. “Meet me at Love Field, 0700, two weeks from today. You’re gonna love this, trust me.” He left me with those words echoing in my ears.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012, 0630. It’s Dave’s birthday and I was at the airport. An ancient panel truck slammed to a stop beside me. Before I could move, Dave was out of the cab and heading to the back of the truck. “Hey give me a hand will ya?”

Inside the truck, he was manhandling what looked to be two fibreglass triangles painted a brilliant black and gold. Army Colours. “What are those,” I asked, knowing full well I would not like the answer.

“Wings,” he replied.

“Shit,” I thought, as we loaded the wings onto a DeHaviland Dash 8. As the plane roared to life, I asked him what this was all about.

“Remember a few years back when that Swiss guy flew across the English Channel?”

“Yeah,” I said, with not a little trepidation.

“Well, I got to thinking…”

Shit. This was not going to be good.

“…with my engineering background I can do that too.”

“I see you made two.”

“Couldn’t leave my old battle buddy dirt side could I?”

“Hey, did it ever dawn on you that you are a civil engineer?”

“Six of one…”

He spent the next ten minutes explaining the controls. “The steering is similar to your hang glider; the throttle is in your right hand the ignition in your left. To climb, push yourself back and hit the throttle, to dive just do the opposite. Give a five count after you bail to hit the ignition. The rear hatch of the plane lowered and talk became almost impossible.

“Ready?”

“I just shit my pants,” I replied.

“It’ll be fun,” he said smiling. “Trust me.” With that he flung himself from the rear of the plane and dropped. I watched in horror as he fell, until four flames, two from each side, shot from beneath each wing.

I watched in awe as he soared off. Then I launched myself from the door. During freefall, I watched him nose straight down. “Show off,” I thought as I hit the ignition. Nothing happened. A thrill of terror swept through me scant seconds before the jets kicked in. As I zoomed away, I wondered what Dave was still doing in that dive. I didn’t wonder much longer as I lost power.

“It’ll be fun,” he had said.

“Trust me.”

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First Date

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer

Paul was nervous. His hands shook violently. Petals from the bouquet of daisies and indian paintbrush he had picked for her fell to the floor. Get hold of yourself man, he thought to himself, you’ve been talking to Lucrezia for over a year now. What about that night you spent together? He managed to control his hands, but the butterflies were still flapping like mad in his stomach.

He had met her by body proxy in a Farovian bar and soon they would meet for the first time in the flesh. His own flesh. He shivered in anticipation. Her shuttle was in orbit, waiting for glide path confirmation into Port McAuliffe. For the umpteenth time he made his way to the ticket counter and inquired about the status of her flight.

The young woman, noting his approach, sighed, rolled her eyes and affixed a plastic smile to hide her annoyance. When will flight 0968 arrive, he asked.

Sir, I’ve told you, all information is regularly updated on the board. She gestured to the information display floating above the waiting area.

Yes, I know, but I thought…

Yes Sir, if I hear anything, I will let you know. The indulgent smile had become a gruesome rictus. He thanked her, looked expectantly to the hovering display and took his seat.

Her family were an adventurous lot and had emigrated to the first planet humanity had colonized; Faroff. The name, according to history, was a witticism of one of the original survey crew. Paul was a groundhog and proud of it. His family had never left Earth and he was damned if he would.

They had met in ether. They both held a fascination for early twentieth “movies”. Their correspondence was casual at first, comments and observations on early DuoD cinema. Casa Blanca, Rashomon, Citizen Kane and The Seventh Seal were mutual favourites.

Their banter over celluloid entertainment soon gave way to personal inquiries; mutual respect became affection and inevitably blossomed into love. She wanted to meet and after long talks he agreed to meet her by body proxy. He hated the idea of using the body of another. It stank of prostitution to him. What foul loathsome individual would allow his body to be used by another. But his love for her trumped his disdain. If it was possible, their love grew stronger. He never knew what became of the proxy after he severed the link.

A blast of sound shocked him from his reverie. Flight 0968 now arriving at shuttle gate 87, was announced, blaring into his aural implants. The embittered ticket girl smiled warmly at him.

His love was easy to spot in the crush of disembarking passengers. At two and a half meters, she easily towered above the crowd. He rushed to the embrace of her many, triple jointed legs. He barely managed to get his arms halfway around her carapace. She stroked him soothingly with her antennae and exuded pleasant pheromones.

Her mouth parts moved in a seemingly disjointed fashion. Strange clicks and whistles issued forth. The translating device affixed to the hard bony plates of her abdomen spoke. Oh Paul, I am so happy.

Tears of joy ran down his face as he smiled up at her. I got us a room, he said winking.

As he climaxed and filled her gonads with his seed, he looked into her multi faceted eyes. I love you, he said happily.

And I love you; she replied. With loving tenderness, she embraced him once more and ate his head.

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Look Before You Leap

Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer

The smell of sulphur permeated his suit. His body absorbed and metabolized it, leaving a permanent foul taste in his mouth. He exuded sulphur through every pore. In short, Martin Petrov stank. This, however, was the least of his worries. His most pressing problem was Io’s corrosive atmosphere and the deleterious affect it was having on the poorly maintained seals of his bounder, a six legged contraption that leapt, rather than rolled, over Io’s undulating, ever-changing landscape.

The thin caustic atmosphere had caused a serious leak in the crew cab. It would not hold air. He had barely fifteen minutes worth of oxygen in his suit and Hera was at least a half hours leaping.

Hera, the largest of the Ionian settlements, housed over four hundred colonists. Her great domed chamber was carved deep within the silicate crust of the moons surface. The only evidence of its presence was a docking hanger for shuttles and bounders, and a large oculus at the domes apex, giving the subterranean dwellers a soul enriching view of Jupiter’s roiling cloud cover. A welcome sight of seemingly boundless expanse to lighten the effects of the self-imposed prison of the crushing hive-like collection of cells that comprised the living and working spaces.

“Well, Marty. What are you gonna do now,” he asked himself. “Think quick, boy. You don’t want to die out here.” He set his bounder for Hera and reviewed his situation.

After rejecting several, at best, very risky options, he settled on a course of action. Pretty risky still, but better than the others. Considerably better than the alternative. He clicked his teeth and made the neural connect to the bounder’s comp system.

“Okay,” he thought, “allowing for the bounder’s mass… Io’s rotation… a 42 degree angle… trajectory of… full power single push… that should do it.” He checked to ensure that his calculations were correct and mentally hammered the “execute” button down.

The bounder adjusted all six legs until it was on a 42 degree inclination to the horizon, aimed at Hera, and with a mighty heave, kicked off the surface, describing a graceful parabolic arc for home.

“This is going to hurt, but I’ll survive. If I break anything, at least my impact will alert somebody and they’ll send a team to check it out,” he thought hopefully.

Martin’s elation soon turned to dread as he looked down upon the ground rushing up to meet him. He was about to land dead centre on the oculus. It was designed to keep air pressure in, not to keep things out. It was built so that its strength was pointed inward, not to withstand the three tonne mass that was quickly bearing down on it.

Martin and his bounder plummeted through the crystal aperture, and crashed into the central common area of the colony, which had been a pleasant park with Terran plants, birds and a central waterfall that not only made a pleasant soothing roar, but imbued the otherwise dry air of the underground chamber with moisture.

With great difficulty Martin pulled himself free of the wreckage of his broken bounder and surveyed the carnage. Dozens of Herans, who previously had been enjoying themselves outside the dull claustrophobic confines of their quarters, laboratories and offices, were dying, gasping for breath as the sulphurous compounds of the outer atmosphere mixed with the moisture in the air of the dome and the colonists’ lungs. They were drowning in the acidic mush that their lung tissue had become.

Martin released a mournful sigh.

“Somehow, this is going to end up being my fault.”

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