by submission | Feb 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Admiring what lay outside the glass, the vastness of space overwhelmed him. The window on the spacious observation deck was a circular aluminosilicate pane, a meter in circumference, the handles on both sides allowed him to effortlessly hold his prone body suspended in the zero-gravity environment. He didn’t like to come in here because of the smell but the view was amazing. The panorama was a plethora of stars, like twinkling glitter dust sprinkled onto a black blanket, with a resplendent orb, center point. He put his hand onto the glass as if he could touch the surface of the planet just beyond, which was… he couldn’t recall the name. It wasn’t earth, the color was different; not the blue with swirling white he barely remembered. Not Mars either, that was long gone too. This was more of a dusty beige with two huge impact craters, like a pair of cartoon eyes staring back at him. He chuffed at the image. Ah, well. All things considered; it didn’t matter which planet or moon it was.
He supposed it was the long stretch of loneliness that did this to him. Messed with his realization. Caused his head to twinge with pain, tilt off its axis just a little bit. The view wasn’t helping either, reminding him of the great emptiness that surrounded him. How big everything else was and how small he was. And how alone. Another orb floated into his view, red and gelatinous. This one he could reach out and touch, the tip of his finger coming back with a dark stain. He wiped it on his flight suit. If he just had someone to talk to it might keep his head… level.
The ship’s onboard computer spoke, snapping him out of the malaise that enveloped him. This was not who he wanted to be talking to. Not at all. The annoying voice actually made his head hurt worse. He wasn’t really listening either; something about an urgent aspect of the guidance that needed his attention. So many minutes left to make a correction or some such. He did not respond. Gazing at the nothingness on the other side of the glass, he yearned to be out there, swimming through the great void in his attempt to fly. How delightful a dream would that be, drifting and twirling through space, like a majestic eagle, the wind under his wings. As a young boy he remembered that you could make dream-wishes come true by blowing on a dandelion, but as he looked at the expanding terrain in the window, no green vegetation appeared to be down there, anywhere. A-shame. Again, the monotone speaker chirped with its warning. He barked back at the computer that he was on his way. One last, longing look at the view and he launched off the wall spinning his weightless body in the direction of the door, pushing the floating corpses out of his way as he glided towards the command deck.
by submission | Jan 31, 2025 | Story |
Author: Dart Humeston
“Two popular restaurants were closed yesterday while the city health department warned four others.”
Tisha, the television news anchor said, her luscious blonde hair framing her stunning face.
“This despite the city cutting the health department’s budget by 60%,” said Brad, Tisha’s co-anchor. His jet-black hair was short on the sides, but the top towered high like a cumulus thunderhead.
“Despite that, the health department issued 70% more citations and closed 34% more restaurants this year.” Tisha said. “We sent a reporter out to interview Charlie Woods, the director of the health department’s Food Establishment Inspection Division.”
The screen showed the reporter inside Mr. Wood’s office, which consisted of a steel desk with multiple computer screens. He was a chunky older man with bushy eyebrows and a flat nose.
The reporter asked him how with a 60% cut in budget, his division could increase inspections.
“Easy!” Said Woods. “Social media!”
“Social media?” the reporter asked.
“Yeah! After the cuts, we lost almost our entire staff, so we purchased software to assist us.”
He brought up a map of the city’s east side on one monitor.
“See this red square hovering over those streets?” He asked. “That encompasses about a five-block square area. By selecting a restaurant in the area, our software will analyze all photographs uploaded to social media within the last 30 days.
“What?” the reporter asked.
“This program searches every social media platform, and based on the date, time, and location embedded in each image, collects all the images for each establishment.” he said, laughing. “It analyzes the meals using the Cuisine Scope software package and then alerts us when it detects issues with the food.”
“So, you conduct all of your inspections via analyzing people’s photos of their food?”
“You betcha!” Woods replied. “Close to 70% of people take selfies at restaurants, pictures of their family/friends and their food.
“How does this software work?”
“The Cuisine Scope examines every image pixel by pixel to ascertain the temperature of the food and quality based on color, consistency, shape and several other highly technical methods. It also examines the backgrounds in photos analyzing restaurant tables, floors, counters and even the kitchen area for cleanliness. Cooks use social media too!”
This is accurate?”
“Sure! With the hundreds of images examined, it is easy to spot a dirty kitchen counter, a bug on the wall, dishes not being cleaned, illegal electrical connections, and rotten food. In my ten-years as director, this software has proved superior to human judgment. Not to mention restaurant owners can’t bribe the software.”
“Is this legal?” the reporter asked.
“If it is on the wide-open internet, it is legal. Plus, our software always adds five “likes” to any platform we copy the photo from.”
“So, no outside inspectors?”
“Nope.”
“And the software does it all?”
“Hell, it even issues the citations! I just turn it on in the morning.”
“Then what do you do all day?” The mystified reporter asked Woods.
“This!” He said, turning another monitor toward the reporter.
“Angry Birds!”
The reporter said, “Returning to you in the studio.”
Tisha and Brad appeared on screen. Tisha’s lips were parted, and her micro-bladed eyebrows squeezed together.
“Wow, Tisha, you eat nothing without photographing it first!” Brad chuckled. “I wonder how many restaurants you’ve put out of business. Didn’t you eat at a closed restaurant the other night?”
Tisha gave Brad an angry glare and turned back to the camera with an enormous smile, her white teeth framed by her fire engine red lipstick.
“And now, let’s go to sports!” She said.
by submission | Jan 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Tamiko Bronson
“How will they find us, Grandma?”
She smiled, pulling her paintbrush across each rice paper lantern. Velvet black ink seeped into the fibers, revealing names:
Tsuneo.
Kazuko.
Satoshi.
Our ancestors.
“Come, Kana-chan.”
We carried the lanterns to the garden. One by one, we lined the path.
“The lights will guide them.”
I slipped my hand into hers, resting my cheek against her cool, soft arm. Cicadas sang, inviting the late summer twilight. Evening dew perfumed the air. Like every year at Obon, we waited, ready to welcome our ancestor’s spirits home.
That was in the old times before stars rained down and clouds blackened the sun. We fled to the caves, but they could not protect us. Our planet poisoned, cicadas silenced, we sought refuge beyond the skies.
“Kana-chan, hurry. Board the starship.”
Grandma urged me forward.
“Can’t you come?”
“Later.”
“How will you find me?”
Lips smiling, eyes glistening, she slipped her hand into mine.
“The lights will guide me home.”
The final call echoed across the platform. A soldier pried us apart and ushered me up the boarding ramp.
Shaking my head, I bury these weathered memories once more. I gather lightpods and inscribe each with a name.
On the last:
Matsu, my grandma.
I arrange them in the habitat window, casting a faint glow on our new planet’s rocky terrain.
No garden path.
No late summer twilight.
No hand to hold.
Yet, like every year at Obon, I wait, ready to welcome my ancestor’s spirits home.
by submission | Jan 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“It’s quite impressive, really,” said Annika, leaning back in her chair. As General Overseer at Europe’s busiest spaceport, she’d worked hard to get where she was, and could afford to be relaxed.
“It’s bloody annoying, is what it is,” retorted Hans. As a Senior Processing Officer, he tended to find himself at the sharp end of policy, and was a lot less sanguine about things.
“Oh come on. Getting hold of a shipping container, fitting it out with grav plates and self-contained life support sufficient for a voyage to Earth, and then smuggling yourself off planet on a Tradeship must have taken a lot of time and effort.”
“Hmph. A lot of money and bribery, more like.”
“Well, maybe. But he’s here now.” She brought up the holofile. “Adam Iwasaki, age 69 T-years, citizen of Callipolis Prime, industrialist… seems like someone with a lot to lose. Why’d he do it?”
“He’s wants political asylum. Says the government wants to kill him.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Apparently the local oligarchs took control of the planetary government, and in his version enacted a series of sensible new labour and taxation laws.”
“Okay. So? I mean, surely he’s one of them?”
“Well, cutting taxes for the wealthy elite while forcing everyone else to work longer for less didn’t go down well with the general populace. After a few months of grumbling, the final straw was cuts to education, while making it something that everyone would have to pay for. Students protested, the security forces tried to shut them down, things got violent, and suddenly they had a full-blown revolution on their hands.”
“Hmph. Well, businessmen are usually adept at cosying up to new governments.”
“Not this time. The self-styled New Juvenocracy removed the franchise from anyone over 45, and introduced mandatory euthanasia for the over-70s.”
“What?!”
“They feel that old rich people are bad for the health of society as a whole, and decided on a radical solution.”
“You mean, if we send him back, they really will kill him?”
“As soon as he turns 70, yes. Which is in about 2 months’ time.”
Annika sat and thought about the implications for a while. Interstellar travel was still a rarity, hideously expensive, and not something done for pleasure. Meaningful communication with the Colonies was intermittent at best, commerce being conducted by massive automated freighters with no human crew, so she wasn’t surprised that no word of the takeover on Callipolis seemed to have reached the homeworld yet.
“I don’t want a corpse on my conscience,” she said eventually.
“So you want me to let him go?”
“Heavens no! Throw the book at him. Illegal entry, unsafe radioisotopes from his thermoelectric generator, foodstuff import in violation of quarantine and safety regulations, travelling without a ticket, anything and everything you can think of. I want him locked away forever.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. His little story might give people here ideas. Earth’s running out of everything, the climate’s gone mad, and we’re on a knife-edge. Mercantile Houses buy politicians just to keep things ticking over. It’s not a perfect system, but change it and chaos follows: trade collapses, we get starvation, resource wars and megadeaths. I don’t want THAT on my conscience either.”
“I see what you mean…”
“And of course, it would only get worse from there.”
“How so?”
“We’d probably lose our own jobs as a result.”
“Good point.”
“Believe it. We’ve got a good thing going here. Now sort it out.”
Hans rose. The boss was right; you didn’t need to be rich to be worried about number one. Or the greater good.
“On it, chief.”
by submission | Jan 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Cantor waited until Hazzez finished checking the airlock before asking about the Frumies.
Hazzez flashed a crooked grin revealing the eclectic range of micro-implants in his teeth. “Why do you want to know about the Frumies?”
Cantor shrugged. “Sarge said not to give them anything under any circumstances. Zilch. Nada. Why? Seems kind of overkill. On Haliburton 4, we were encouraged to give the locals our extra supplies. It was considered good practice. Keep the locals friendly.”
“Yeah, on Haliburton worlds that works. They’re in the mainstream of the Arm. Easy access worlds. But, we’re on the Fringe. Vanuata is a completely different situation,” Hazzez explained with unaccustomed patience. “The locals can be unpredictable. Like the Frumies.”
“Are they hostile?”
“No. But they’ve got an interesting belief system.”
“Religious fanatics?”
“No more than you are for wearing that Saint Christopher medal.” Hazzez poked at Cantor’s chest.
Even the slight pressure made Cantor feel the silver medallion against his skin. Hazzez and the other soldiers had ribbed him because he never took it off. “You know that’s for my mom. She thinks it’ll keep me safe on deployment.”
“Exactly,” Hazzez clicked his teeth over the com-link. He tapped at the transparent metal of the porthole to what lay beyond. “You see Vanuatu out there? Imagine you’re a local. You have no clue about a larger universe. Galaxies. Other worlds. Strange creatures arrive in amazing ships. Your world is turned upside down, but maybe in a good way. You like all the things these strange creatures bring. They have powerful tools that make your work easier. You don’t speak the strange creatures’ language—but one word sticks. The word the aliens use a lot when unloading their amazing vessels.”
Behind his faceplate, Hazzez’s green eyes brightened for a moment and then came a thick and delicious whisper. “Cargo.”
“Yeah. I get that,” Cantor said, stepping back from the airlock door unimpressed. “Natives. They like things. That’s what cargo is. Things. So, why can’t we share some with the Frumies?”
His eyes still ablaze, Hazzez cracked his crooked grin once more and opened the airlock door. “Better to show than tell.”
They tractored past numerous cave dwellings of the squat simian-like Frumies, who watched but did not approach their vehicle. It was almost an hour up the redrock canyon before they reached the structure.
Cantor was gobsmacked. Hazzez let him stare for a few minutes before he commented. “You gotta hand it to the Frumies, they know how to work with stone.”
“Why? It must’ve taken decades. Is it a religious site?” Cantor asked, growing more conscious of the Saint Christopher medal around his neck. It seemed heavier.
“They did it for cargo,” Hazzez answered.
“But it’s made of stone,” Cantor flailed. Before him stood a two hundred foot high stone replica of a much outdated landing craft. The details were stunning, down to the scarring on the lower thrusters to the delicate sensor arrays near the pinnacle of the craft. All deftly carved and recreated in stone.
Then there were the support structures. The complex infrastructure deployed from a lander on any planetary resource mission. Solar vaults, com towers, crew quarters, vehicles and command center had all been painstakingly chiseled in Vanuatu red stone. And all reverently maintained, swept and wiped down by the Frumies.
Cantor tried to grasp it. “Do they think we’re gods or something?”
“Not gods, just givers,” Hazzez answered. “Used to be routine missions to Vanuatu, but then there was an almost twenty years interruption between visits. The Frumies liked our cargo. They wanted us back. This is the way the Frumies thought they could bring us back—or at least our cargo.”
“By building stone replicas?” Cantor sounded lost.
Hazzez clicked into lecture mode. “Here’s the upshot, the Frumies confused cause and effect. Many decades ago, our spaceship and infrastructure brought the cargo, so when we didn’t come back for awhile, the Frumies thought if they replicated the ship and infrastructure, the cargo would come again.
“What a waste,” Cantor said. “Impressive, but a colossal waste.”
Hazzez chuckled. “I dunno, Cantor. We came back. We brought more cargo.”
“But not because of this,” Cantor gestured toward the monolithic structure towering above them.
“Well, then what brought us back?” Hazzez challenged him.
“I dunno,” Cantor mused. “Trade. Greed. Exploitation. Take your pick.”
Hazzez’s grin flashed behind his faceplate. “Well, then we’re not that much different than the Frumies, are we, Private Cantor?”
Cantor gazed back up at the massive stone rocket ship and felt the familiar tug of the medallion around his neck.
