by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 7, 2009 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
When Lieutenant Parks and a lone Private lifted off from the rooftop in the only available escape vehicle, they were painfully aware that they were leaving behind a vastly outnumbered platoon of men engaged in a firefight for their very lives.
Leaving was the only option.
Picked up by a troop transport in low orbit, they sprinted from the airlock to the cockpit, where Parks found himself face to face with the ship’s Captain.
“Find a seat in the stalls, you can pickup fresh men when we’re in high orbit and redeploy.”
“With all due respect, Sir, we’re going back. I’ve got men waiting; they need picking up.” Parks braced himself for an argument.
“You’ll find a seat, or I’ll…” the Captain stopped short as the Private hit him in the forehead with the butt end of his Ka-Bar, thrown silently over Parks right shoulder. Parks caught the man as he fell, tossing him back to the Private as he slipped into the vacant seat beside the pilot.
“Well done. Stow him, and the weapon. Make sure you’re both strapped in tight,” he called back to the retreating soldier.
“Aye sir.”
The Lieutenant turned his attention to the controls in front of him as he addressed the pilot.
“You keep this ship in good repair?”
“Sir, it’s maintained regularly, I don’t…” Parks cut him off.
“Hands off and hold on.” Parks didn’t give the pilot a chance to respond as his Private signaled the all clear. He threw the ship into a steep dive, following the vertical trail from the escape pod, before peeling off over hostile territory just above the range of their ground weapons. Locating the open end of the alley they’d only days before retreated down on foot, he swung wide, then banked a hundred and eighty degrees hard to the right, rolled the troop ship over on its back, and hurtled down between the buildings towards his embattled men. The wreckage strewn surface of the road screaming by above his head, he raced to close the distance to the tower his troops were barricaded inside.
Parks eased the stick back as the rear of the enemy battalion came into view, giving up altitude and leveling again with the startled ground troops within a half kilometer of the streaking inverted craft. He waited, gauging the distance before violently pushing the controls all the way forward, at the same time easing off on the throttle and firing the rearward lift thrusters.
The ship shuddered stem to stern as slowly the inverted nose gained altitude while the rear of the craft swung in the opposite direction. It’s engines swung in a massive arc, tearing a wide trench in the ground below, vapourizing men and equipment alike as the ship hurtled towards the end of the alley.
With barely a few hundred meters to spare, Parks had turned the ship end over end, and eased gently to rest at the base of the building where his men were pinned down. The street before him was a molten mass of men and machines. Not a single shot was fired as the troop doors were opened, and the platoon walked, carried or dragged each other into the hold.
The familiar voice of his Sergeant rose above the cacophony of the wounded and weary. “Won those wings in a card game, did you sir?”
Parks grinned as he locked the doors and pointed the bird skyward.
“Good to see you too Sergeant.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 1, 2009 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The pig carcass filled most of the stainless tub where the delivery men had laid it. Freshly slaughtered, but not butchered, it had taken four of them to lift it there. None of them spoke to Rinnovi, only pausing for him to sign for the animal before they left.
On the way to the door, one of the men pointed at the labels affixed to virtually every item in the house; black typewritten names and addresses on white shipping labels. The leader of the group nudged him and shook his head ‘no’, before hurrying him out the door.
Rinnovi poured a scotch, and turned on the kitchen vid display, his own visage peering back at him with a smile. He froze the frame, leaving the remote on the island beside the second stainless tub.
“Osiris, prepare to renew.” He spoke aloud to the empty room.
“Preparations underway.” The voice, angel soft and faintly Irish filled the room seemingly from everywhere at once. Both of the tubs began to fill with a steaming viscous liquid, spattering against the steel, and slowly enveloping the cooling pig.
In the morning, he knew he’d awake and remember nothing of this. He’d find the remote, curiosity would lead him to play the journal he’d recorded of his work over the past year.
January would be spent shipping pieces from his house, following the instructions laid out on the labels attached to them. Physical things acquired over the past year would hold no value or interest to him come morning, and so they would be gifted to those friends who stood by him.
The first of January would be Rinnovi’s forty first birthday. It would also be the twenty sixth time he’d been reborn as a forty one year old. Restored once more to a version of himself a year younger, from a pattern captured over a quarter century ago. Perhaps this time, this year, he’d get it right.
He took one last walk through the rooms of his home. In his office, laid out on screens and strewn across whiteboards and table tops, a years progress towards unlocking the gene-code of his own existence. Another years failure to solve the riddle of his hard coded untimely demise.
This year, surely, a reinvigorated him would solve the puzzle, find the key. Perhaps one day he’d see his forty second birthday.
Returning to the kitchen, preparations complete, Rinnovi placed his empty glass on the counter and paused a moment to pat the now submerged swine. However bad he felt for the animal, using a pig for genetic building blocks was much safer and easier than finding fresh human cadavers. Fewer questions; far less expensive.
“Ok Osiris, let’s try this again.”
“As you wish, I’ll re-brief you in the morning. Goodbye Rinnovi.” The voice soothing, the tone, a hint of sadness.
He poured himself another scotch, this time lacing the drink with powerful sedatives and paralytics, and dropping his bathrobe over the back of a kitchen chair, climbed into the bath of warm liquid. He downed the drink quickly, putting the glass on the counter before slowly slipping beneath the surface. He could feel the chemicals take away control, feel his lungs slowly fill with fluid as the air escaped. The lights of the room dimmed as his eyes unfocused. By the time the nano-tech started reverting to his backup, he could no longer feel anything at all.
Tomorrow, a new day, a new man, a new chance.
As his consciousness dissolved, he thought of his son, frozen beneath his home. A boy waiting for a father to undo the error of his creation.
Perhaps he could make it safe for his son to age again this year.
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 9, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Emily sat, quiet and alone in a corner, waiting for the evening’s last song to begin. She watched the immaculate boys prowling the dimly lit room, chatting up pretty girls in hope of securing companionship. No one wanted to be alone.
Emily wasn’t like those girls. She’d been beautiful once, in her own way. A rising star perhaps, soon to be debutante, but never quite comfortable in that skin. Her socialite parents, always considering their daughter more ornament than offspring, hired the finest of artisans to re-craft her after the accident. She was a masterpiece, a fine blend of flesh with fantasy; her own body augmented and elaborated upon with improbable features forged from gleaming materials. She was equal parts girl and gallery piece. She showed wonderfully in public, cleverly hiding her wounds from admiring eyes. Whole again, but no more complete.
Hands folded in her lap, she closed her eyes as the band continued to play a song she knew by heart. She imagined herself dancing with one of the immaculate boys, imagined one would truly care to do so. She’d been asked of course, as though she couldn’t see them in their groups, daring each other, sometimes so brazen as to draw straws. She knew what they were after, the bets they would have made. Curiosity. Bragging rights. A night with the freak girl.
She was glad not to be as stupid as they assumed her to be.
Someone stepped into her space, and she opened her eyes to find a young man standing before her. He started a little as she raised her eyes from well worn and polished shoes to a face nervously hopeful, her look equal parts curiosity and distrust. For a moment he looked away, then returned her gaze and held it steady.
“Can you dance?” he stammered. “Would you, I mean. With me. Would you dance with me?” He relaxed visibly, apparently relieved at having gotten the question out more or less intact. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as he awaited her response.
“I can dance,” Emily answered cooly, scanning the room for the group of boys she expected to find watching him, but finding no-one that seemed to be taking an interest.
“I’m Colin,” he put out his hand as he spoke, letting it hang awkwardly in space until she took it. Reluctantly Emily allowed herself to be coaxed from the safety of her chair.
“Emily,” she offered after a moment, as she let him lead her toward the dance floor. People were casting glances now, she could feel their eyes on them.
“I know,” Colin smiled, “I’ve watched you at all the dances. I’ve wanted to ask you forever, but I daren’t as you turn all the better boys down.”
The band began again, a lengthy familiar ballad she’d listened to from the shadows so many nights before. Colin slipped a hand around her waist to the small of her back, the other holding her one hand aloft. He was sweating, ever so slightly, and smiling. His jacket beneath her free hand was soft from too many washings, and gave off the delicate aroma of mint and coffee.
“Thank you,” he whispered into her ear as they set off, the room twirling around them in complementary orbits, “you’re so beautiful, I was scared you’d turn me down too”.
He squeezed her hand gently, guiding her gracefully around the crowded dance floor. She found herself feeling every bit as beautiful as she’d been fabricated to be, her unbreaking heart beating in time with the music, and the most beautiful boy she’d never known could exist.
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 21, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The bullet blistered past the right side of Stryker’s helmet, so close that for a good minute or so he was deaf in that ear before the pain gave way to a dull ringing.
“Stupid bastard,” he muttered under his breath.
The sniper he’d been tracking for the past few weeks was across the street, in another row of vacated low rises. Hiding in the rubble, clambering across broken rooftops and crawling through battered buildings, they were playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse.
The Sergeant, hugging the floor, crawled the length of the room and squeezed through a broken partition into an adjacent building.
It was his crew that cleared the way when they colonized this planet, before the locals decided to defy the company and separate. He’d fought hard for this rock, and he’d be damned if some dumb-ass villager with a rifle was going to stop him from keeping it under company control.
Stryker flattened himself against the back wall in the darkness, irising his goggles out full to capture every available lumen. Plucking a fist size chunk of rubble from the floor he tossed it sideways through the hole he’d just crawled through. There was the barest of whispers as a bullet split the air, but in the muffled muzzle flash he could make out the faint silhouette of the body coiled in the darkness behind it.
Very slowly he raised his weapon, pausing only to freeze and adjust the image in his heads up before squeezing off three rounds in a tight rising line.
Drop.
Breathe.
Without hesitation, Stryker crawled until he found a hole in the floor he could squeeze through, dropping silently into the room below. He ran, hurdling an empty window frame and raced across the vacant street. Slipping through a crumbling doorway he stopped. Above him, close by, he should find his wounded opponent.
It took an eternity to find a route to the second floor, and longer still to pick his way through the wreckage to the room in which the sniper had taken refuge. Stryker had shouldered his rifle in favour of a large bore handheld, the longer weapon unwieldy in close quarters. He could hear laboured breathing from outside the room, and though his weapon was at the ready, nothing could have prepared him for the child lying bleeding inside.
Only one of his shots had found its target, tearing a bloody hole in her torso. The rifle that had been so deadly accurate lay forgotten at an angle across her legs, the weapon nearly half as long as she would be tall. Her bare feet were calloused and bloody, her body lean and muscular but visibly undernourished. He couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to heft the weapon, much less kill a dozen of his unit with it.
Large tear filled eyes met his in the gloom.
He lowered his weapon, struggling over whether to try to save her, or put her out of her misery here. The lives she’d taken wouldn’t make it easy for her if she survived the trip back.
He was still undecided when he heard a round chambering beside his still ringing right ear.
“This is our rock,” the second woman stood just out of reach, face invisible beyond the gaping maw of the barrel leveled at his head, “you stupid bastard.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 14, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Street-lamps outside lit her bare flesh an iridescent blue, but he knew in the absence of light, she was chiseled obsidian, black as the sun was bright.
“It’s been a while,” her voice low and gentle, “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
Logan unrolled a soft-case on the night table beside the bed, absently fingering the half dozen syringes nestled within. It was going to be a long night.
“I could never stay away,” he read her face from where he sat on the edge of her bed, “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?”
Taking her face in his hands, he felt her hair stalks bristle beneath his palms, the beating of her hearts carried up his arms as her pulse quickened.
Her hands found flesh beneath his shirt, and holding him so tight his ribs ached beneath the pressure, she pulled him over her to leave him gasping on his back beside her. She wasted no time flaying his clothing from his body, razor sharp claws extending and retracting, slicing fabric, grazing flesh but never drawing blood. When she mounted him, it was with the fury of an animal. Her breath came in frenzied gasps. His hands guiding her hips at first before sliding across her muscled body, to her breasts, then to her face. Where he touched her, her flesh turned the colour of sun touched pink as her body mimicked his own.
Flattening herself against him she pressed her mouth against his, forcing her tongue between his lips. She bit gently, serrated teeth tearing into flesh. He felt the fire of her saliva rushing into his bloodstream. His heart begin to pound, the muscle labouring as though to burst the confines of his chest. As his body stiffened, her excitement intensified, and she sat upright, heaving against him with renewed vigor.
The sensation was exquisite; his pupils fixed and dilated, his field of view remained filled with her taught, muscular flesh seemingly lit from within. Unable to blink he watched as her own lower lids closed, her eyes now translucent yellow, staring through him for what seemed like an eternity before she squeezed the upper lids shut, crying out in pleasure. Her moans washed over him in waves, the powerful paralyzers in her saliva mixed now with endorphins as her other fluids flooded his system. She had intoxicated him completely as he came, the feeling strange with his body now completely immobile and consciousness rapidly giving way to euphoric nothingness. His heart counted off his final moments in beats, unbearable in their intensity while alarming in their diminishing frequency.
In the moment he was sure he would slip away forever, the happiest of departures, he felt a lance of pain through his chest. With a sudden intake of air, his lungs filled and his heart resumed a laboured but steady beating. One by one he felt his muscles unclench, his body gradually relaxing into the sweat soaked sheets beneath him. He had barely the energy to moan as she withdrew the needle from his chest, laying the empty syringe with the others on the night table.
“That…” he could barely move enough air to make a sound.
“Shh,” she placed a finger on his lips, “you need to rest.” She curled up beside him, placing her head on his chest. “I’m glad you came back.”
Logan closed his eyes, feeling the lingering effects of her coaxing him toward sleep.
“Loving you may kill me,” he finally breathed, “but leaving you surely would.”
