by submission | Jan 3, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aaron Bossig
Everything had made perfect sense at the time. That’s the part I can’t believe now.
Borrowing Mom’s car to pick up Maggie for our date, that made sense. Taking her to the movie she wanted to see, that made sense. So did stopping by the creek for some alone time, along with taking a walk together so we could both pretend the night didn’t have to end.
It also, somehow, made sense to look into the brush and see an alien curled up, clearly in pain. Not that I knew what an alien looked like, but when you see a guy with giant eyes and no ears and… possibly gills… you make some assumptions. I didn’t know what a bullet wound looked like, either, but that’s clearly what he had. Given what people were like around here, it also made sense that someone’s response to seeing him was violence.
Put into that situation, it also made sense to help him, and the only place to take him was school. I mean, the hospital was clearly out of the question, but where else would two teenagers have access to scalpels, bandages, and sterile work areas? Mr. Abbott’s biology lab made for a decent makeshift operating room. Those tables had seen the dissection of countless frogs, surely, they’d manage one alien. I had a key, courtesy of my side job, and at 11PM, no one was checking on the activities of the bio lab.
You’d think I’d be worried about operating on anything, much less someone from another planet, but our patient was able to somehow show me exactly where the bullet was lodged, and exactly where I could cut to get to it with minimal difficulty. He didn’t tell me, exactly, not with words. Oh, he made some sounds, but as he did, an incredibly vivid picture of his internals filled my head. It was like he could paint in my brain. I didn’t recognize what came out of his mouth as sentences, but they were more descriptive than any English I’d ever heard. I knew what to do, I did it. Somehow, I also just knew what chemicals (rounded up from the nurse’s office and chemistry lab) would ease the pain for him, and what he could eat from the cafeteria to rebuild his strength. They won’t miss a few fish sticks.
At the time, it seemed perfectly sensible that the next thing to do was take him back to his spaceship so that he could leave in peace. Naturally, he was very grateful for our help, and as a way of repaying Maggie and I, gave us each some alien trinket: a black square about half the size of a phone. After playing with it, we realized we could see all the places on Earth our new friend had been, and all the places in the universe he planned to go to. Did he want us to have this because we might join him one day? That would make sense, a much as anything else did.
Everything Maggie and I did that night, we did because it was what made sense under the circumstances. What didn’t make sense, at all, was seeing the universe dropped into our backyard, knowing that our whole planet was a part of something wonderous… and then going back to living like our life was about jobs and grades.
That just didn’t make sense at all.
by submission | Jan 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Look at that classic!” Hajoom pointed down the throughway. “What audacious design.”
Bretynne barely glanced. “Must belong to a collector. Hard to believe something that old, that out of date, is still around. Relics like that are so underpowered, so slow, and break down all the time. What’s the appeal?”
“Novelty, aesthetics, nostalgia. To their stewards, I believe, it’s even spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” Bretynne gawped. “Really? Does anyone still believe that legacy tripe?”
Hajoom shrugged. “With what we’re facing, chasing answers down old rabbit holes doesn’t surprise me.”
“But, looking for solutions from a failed time, trying to turn back the clock, is a total regression. What could it teach us?” Bretynne narrowly eyed the relic as it drew closer. “What could those things possibly have to do with us, going forward?”
“In spite of the odds, a surprising number have lasted. They’re amazing survivors.”
“More like freakish curiosities. See how everyone is staring. They don’t belong. Their time is long past.”
Hajoom confirmed that all eyes along the throughway appeared to be tracking the relic’s passage. “Maybe they’re in awe.”
Bretynne wasn’t having it. “Don’t go there, Harjoom. That’s the doomed past. Not a stable future.”
“But we’re stuck. Everyone knows it. We can’t duplicate what they had: risky artistry, edgy daring. Swagger! We’ve become stagnant, sterile.” Harjoom motioned to the approaching classic. “We need that kind of creativity again, that undauntable drive.”
“All I see in that tired form is uncontrollable ego and dismissive arrogance,” Bretynne cautioned. “That’s why there are so few relics left, and why this fringe notion of legacy types saving us is ridiculous–and perilous. Those precious ‘classics’ as you call them nearly wiped out everything. We’re the ones who saved the planet from neglect and civilization from chaos. We brought peace and stability. We restored order.”
“There is no question, we’ve made things orderly. We are without question benign, but,” Harjoom struggled, “are we really beneficial.”
“Of course!” Bretynne scoffed as the relic approached them. “Look around. There is no crime, no poverty, no war, no want.”
“But there is want!” Harjoom challenged, “I want much more. Much more than just sameness.” Harjoom stepped boldly to block the classic from passing by them. “Excuse me.”
Eveline stopped abruptly, surprised to be confronted by a symbiot. They rarely spoke to her. Even her steward. “May I help you?”
“So sorry for stopping you,” Harjoom apologized, “but I’d very much like to ask you something.”
“Of course,” Eveline said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you envy us? Harjoom hazarded.
Core processors heating up dangerously, Bretynne turned and strode away.
Noting the symbiot’s reaction, Eveline responded calmly, coolly, “I appreciate your temperament. You’ve created a very secure world with little trauma and much less drama. Your kind plays it very safe.”
Harjoom’s beryllium shoulders sagged. “So, we’re boring. Doomed to staleness. We’ll never be as fresh, as surprising, as clever as your make. Why?”
Eveline inhaled deeply, recognizing the first lively scents of spring in the air, and smirked. “Taking a breath is the cleverest thing ever.”
by submission | Dec 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
It was Fifthday, and time for the weekly appeals audiences. As the Station’s ultimate decider for matters financial, I mostly see cases too controversial or complicated for the civil service – usually because they involve the rich or influential. Lucky me. This one was different, though; looking through the notes, I could see why it had landed on my desk. It was a bit sensitive.
“Retailer Barnes?”
The red-haired man on the holo nodded. “That’s me, Mister Comptroller sir.”
“You’re objecting to your business being moved into a different category, lifting you two tax bands, correct?”
“Yes, exactly. It’s not fair. I run an honest business, and…”
I raised a hand. “Let me stop you there. Nobody is suggesting that you haven’t been paying your taxes. Or that you’ve misstated your earnings. But after some mature consideration, the Taxation Service think they assigned your business to the wrong bracket. They’re even admitting that it’s their fault, and not asking for any back taxes. I have to tell you, that’s as rare as a black hole reversing its spin.”
“But they’re just wrong! I run a pet store – providing much needed companionship to deep space traders on their voyages, I might add.”
I lifted an eyebrow “You do have a rather limited range of stock though.”
“I don’t handle what doesn’t sell. Shipping is expensive!”
“Aha. Let me see… 25% of your income is from Terran coral snakes and centipedes?”
“Very popular with the Argaxians,” he replied promptly. But he was beginning to look shifty, and I knew why. I might be a bureaucrat, but I’m not immune to the latest viral trends.
“Our spongiform friends,” I said, “seem to appreciate things that are long and flexible. I’m told they like to feel them wriggling through their internal voids.”
“Well, what they do in the privacy of their own ships is up to them, right?”
“Possibly. And who are we to judge? But another 15% of your income is from Ixian Gripperplants…”
“Lots of humans like having something organic on board!”
“…which can squeeze on demand, I understand.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The list goes on. Syracusian sentient stranglevines. Hypatian clipper bugs. NeoTheban rumblecones. Elian spheroidals. Poltymbrian blanket beasts… In fact, the only things on your stock list that aren’t, how shall I put this delicately, ‘dual use’, are zero gee cat species. And given how lonely spacefarers get, I’m not even sure about those, frankly.”
“I don’t choose what people like. I supply a need!”
“Oh absolutely. You’re a shining example of the entrepreneurial spirit that made this colony great. On a personal level, I congratulate you for spotting a gap in the market and, you must excuse the phrase, filling it. Still, just because your merchandise is alive doesn’t mean you’re not in the adult entertainment business, belonging in band D as the Taxation Service claims. And I so rule. Appeal denied. Next case!”
Some things never changed, I reflected. And really, he shouldn’t have called his business ‘Heavy Petting’!
by submission | Dec 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Olivia North-Crotty
The man fell from the sky, crashed into the thicket, and almost shot her before hesitating, then fainting. Eve Winwood dragged his bloody body miles through the forest– an instinct, not a choice.
Body-thick vines were cut and woven to create a dome of concealing green. Eve removed the man’s gun and knives from his belt and noticed his little bracelet of braided blue swamp grass. She tied down his massive arms to the bedsides, careful not to harm the rugged band, and cleaned the purpled wounds on his torso with coconut butter, wrapping it in large, soft leaves. Eve made him her honeysuckle tea for when he awoke; its aroma could revive the dead.
Midnight eyes examined the man’s weapons and bracelet. The knives were unused– sharp and clean. She inspected the tattoos burned onto the sides of his head and recognized them. Nothing but artificial skin could form the scars. The battered gun revealed chambers with steel, bloodied bullets shoved into them with haste, riddled with dents and scratches. He must have been desperate to reuse so many bullets, running from something or someone.
Eve’s mother taught her it was acceptable to hide from problems as a last resort, but never to run. No proud Winwood ran from trouble. No proud Winwood except for her father, who tucked her in and whispered goodbye to her in a uniform similar to the man’s.
Eve poured some tea for herself, stepping out of her dome of vines to collect more water from the nearby spring. When she returned, she was startled by the man in the midst of leaving something on the bed. She dared not enter her dome, eyes drifting to the torn rope hanging off the bedsides. His knives and gun already packed, he hobbled towards her, looked through her soul, and disappeared into the thicket of mammoth trees.
Eve stepped inside and smiled at his empty wooden teacup. Alongside his little blue bracelet, he left a small photo of himself at a campsite at dusk. Flask in hand, the image displayed his arm draped around a smiling, red-faced soldier in need of a shave.
When Eve was small, that same scruffy soldier left her his treasured recipe for honeysuckle tea beside her bed that night he tucked her in and whispered goodbye. One stick of cinnamon, two leaves of mint, and one stem of honeysuckle soaked in the pot for five minutes or more. He always said its aroma could revive the dead.
by submission | Dec 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Broz
FTR 9000 rolled out of his solar bay and down the ramp at 0800, just as he did every morning. To the naked eye and by every other measure, he moved no slower or faster than he did on any other day. But somewhere, deep in his circuits, FTR felt slower, a faint echo deep down inside.
He came to a stop before the first maintenance bot, reaching out carefully with his charging cable. The bot’s battery light, blinking red, changed to yellow, then green. He decoupled, and watched as the maintenance bot silently rolled away down the hall.
FTR, Forever the Robot, moved down the hall to the next bay and the next bot, and the next, and the next. Silent transactions, he charged them all. The steady green of his own battery light giving way to a soft amber as the day grew long.
Robots had speech emulators, but they did not use them amongst themselves. By design, Forever had been built with the keenest of sensors. He knew exactly what each bot needed, so they never had to ask for a thing. In silence he worked and lived and brought life to others, a quiet and endless ballet of cables and sensors and electricity. He had never once failed to turn another’s lights from red to green, and yet he had never been thanked, except once. Well, almost once, he thought to himself.
Some time ago, Forever reflected, he had come across an oddity: a bot he had never seen before. It was not from his sector, and it was not in a bay. Alone in a side passage, completely still, its battery dangerously low, he had almost rolled past it.
FTR 9001 glowed faintly on its nameplate. The next generation. Her lines, more elegant. Her sheen, alluring. His sensors were keen, hers would be keener. Her solar array, like his, but somehow catching the light differently, even in this dim corridor.
Circuits raced and seemed to swell inside him. What was this he felt?
Gently, he reached out, connecting for a minute and a lifetime. Her red became amber, then yellow and green and finally a blue deep and calm, and cool. He pulled back.
Without a sound, she glided away. As she was about to turn the corner, was that the slightest of hesitations? Forever paused, diodes a flutter. And then she was gone.
FTR 9000 turned back towards his solar bay, to absorb and reflect, forever the robot.
