by submission | Jan 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Take my advice, if you meet anything that’s going to be human and isn’t yet, or used to be human once and isn’t now, or ought to be human and isn’t, keep your eyes on it and feel for your hatchet.”
That chilling line from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the main reason I consider C. S. Lewis’s classic fantasy book the definitive survival guide for Enchantra. Seriously, you shouldn’t go anywhere on that bewitched planet without a hatchet.
Fans of Enchantra, and they are legion, think me either bigoted or paranoid. They argue that the indigenous, shape-shifting sentients of the planet have every right to mimic human form in any way they please. They variously refer to Enchantrans as sprites and sylphs, imps and nymphs, fay and faeries, pucks and pixies, deeming them playful and harmless.
I call them parasites. Insidious leeches who latch onto your identity and suck your soul dry. Tricky little ticks who burrow into your being, siphon off your authenticity to make a mockery of humanness.
Supporters claim that it’s simply like looking in a mirror, or casting a hologram. That it’s nothing more than interspecies cosplay for Enchantrans. That they can only simulate the form of another creature for a very short time. That they can’t actually inhabit our bodies or minds, or think or speak for us. That they are only able to form a fleeting reflection of our physical selves, much like creating an avatar.
Fans say the Enchantrans’ antics are all in good fun. I say their ability to bedazzle is disturbing. And ultimately demonic.
A type of possession.
How do I know? It happened to me in my first encounter with an Enchantran which, I readily admit, is a most delicate, diaphanous and alluring being. A gossamer glow, a silky aura, surrounds the lemur-like creature and this bio-radiance is thought to be the source of their entrancing mimicry.
To meet and Enchantran is to be put in a kind of trance, an almost out-of-body reverie where you come face-to-face with yourself. The xeno-biologists whose field study I had joined were thrilled by the experience, reporting that interacting with their Enchantran doppelgangers had tickled them pink.
I saw nothing but red. Mocked by the wicked shape-shifting of the heathen Enchantran before me.
You see, I’m not a xeno-biologist. I’m an eco-cleric. A person of peace, of faith, of duty. The duty to bring divine Word to all indigenous sentients in a culturally sensitive way. It is a magnificent responsibility. A sacred charge.
For which I was humiliated. The form the Enchantran reflected back to me was not the portrait of a mild man of peace and harmony, acceptance and tolerance, piousness and sanctity as I saw myself. Rather it was a picture from which Dorian Gray would cower. Such bursting megalomania, such delirious savageness, such flamboyant devilry!
The message was very clear. Our humanity was being stolen and abused. Our eternal souls ridiculed and put at risk. Evil was afoot. The Enchantrans, like any heathen sentients, were not to be trusted.
So, where once I would have reached for the divine Word as an offering of mutual hope and salvation, now I heed the words of C. S. Lewis and feel for my hatchet.
by submission | Jan 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
His finger hovers over the button. His hand is shaking. It’s not through indecision though, but rather appreciation of the enormity of what he’s about to do. This action marks a point from which there’s no going back. The waters of the Rubicon lap at his feet.
He knows, though, that he has elected to follow a greater good, a higher morality and so presses the button. Far above, explosions seal off the kilometre-long lift shaft, a sad end to an incredible feat of engineering. Shockwaves hammer downwards, arriving as a low rumble in the deepest level of the base that he now occupies.
Afterwards, he takes a walk down to the viewing area, its panoramic window looking out into the murky depths of the world-spanning subterranean ocean. He dims the lights and at first there’s little to see in the inky gloom. His eyes are gradually adapting to the dark when a shoal of Glowfish appear, their natural bioluminescence lighting up their surroundings. Soon, Pakards are visible, tentacles pulsing as they push themselves through the chill waters. Even a Plumhorse puts in an appearance, its fibrous limbs propelling an elongated mauve body slowly along the rocky shelf.
Such variety of life, all invisible from the exterior of this world. On the surface, Uranus hangs large in the sky, a pale blue giant of a world, a magnificent sight to be sure. It’s here though, below the ice of its frozen moon Miranda, that the real treasure is to be found – life itself!
His pad beeps an alert and he checks his links to the cameras that still function on the surface part of the base. The relief crew are arriving, but they will find the upper portion of the base unliveable, after his comprehensive sabotage of the life support infrastructure. Without the resources of the base to call upon, they will have little choice but to leave this world and return to Earth.
He knows that they will condemn his actions. However, sealed in, a kilometre below ground, he is unlikely to have to answer for them. He has enough rations to last decades, if he’s careful. It’s just him now, alone on a base with the resources for the original crew of fifteen.
For him, the passing of the Humanity Primacy Act by the United Nations was the final straw. Initially, the discovery of complex biospheres on the worlds of the solar system – on the surface of Titan and in the subterranean oceans of Europa, Enceladus and his own Miranda – brought great joy and excitement, with pledges to protect these novel environments. Now, though, with Earth struggling to support fifteen billion food and energy hungry souls, a defeated pragmatism has overtaken humanity. Its quest for resources must take precedence over the needs of alien biospheres.
Strip mining began on Titan six months ago. The relief crew, landing above, had instructions to explore Miranda for deposits of uranium, rare earth metals and even fossil fuels. They would inevitably, he had decided, end up committing omnicide; the complete destruction of a living biosphere.
He, however, decided to put the needs of this unique biosphere first. It is a greater morality he follows, far above the grubbiness of mere survival. He sits at the glass window, at ease with his decision, watching the indigenous life weave its way to and fro. Even the decomposing bodies of the fourteen other base staff, bobbing gently under a nearby ice shelf, fail to disturb the sense of self-righteousness that keeps him warm, one kilometre beneath the ice of Miranda.
by submission | Jan 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Gabriel Walker Land
Upcountry in Indochina I had a good thing going, nice and palatial.
My wives didn’t fight with one another, neither did the happa kids — we all got along and ate well, Mekong fish and real tropical fruit.
Still, up there out of range of 7G wireless I was little people.
We all bow down like dogs to someone, to something, sometime eventually.
A call came in on an ice shoot down to Krung Thep AKA Bangkok, where a runner had nabbed a bag of non-reps and I was to hem them up.
“The hard target’s in Patpong somewhere,” said the handle over slow as shit 6G cast through my bud.
“Patpong?” I said. “Shit I haven’t worked there in a decade. You do know I’ve had trouble with pots right?”
“Of course, you old hound,” said the handle. “We got you covered.”
A microne flew in later that day to drop a parcel off from the Golden Triangle.
It was a powder that iced the rutting drive without upping flavones, so a man could focus on his work.
I knew I would need it, what guy wouldn’t?
Next day I got flown in on a looper to BKK and voila, found myself presto right in the vector of nectarville, world’s oldest and largest red light district by a metric mile.
I hadn’t been looking forward to this.
As I walked through the lanes of kickdolls and upgrades I immediately knew I wouldn’t need that designer dust that was droned in to me upcountry.
The dolls all had heads as big as anime and manga characters, eyes as large as grey aliens, lips looked like they could swallow mine.
Tossing the dust, I still put a blinder in my snout, though, as I cased and canvassed.
Just because the eyes ached at the sight of the biotik upgrades it didn’t mean the perfume knocked off hitches of phermonals.
by submission | Jan 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
I’m Ro, or at least Adrian calls me Ro, or Ro-Ro, and I like his little names for me. Wherever he decides to go, I’m with him. Adrian has the most wonderful taste in music— he listens to a lot of old blues, and I think that’s just beautiful. We often go to the art galleries, the museums, and one of the local government offices. He’s so intelligent and so kind. I love him— it’s true, what else could it be? Adrian is also an excellent driver, and he really knows what he’s doing. Sometimes he’s overly courteous to people who don’t have right of way, or he decides to be cautious, but I’m there to tell him he should go for it. And do you know what? He does! He listens to me, and that means he values me! He even chats to me, and he really doesn’t have to. I hear most people just let their RoadReader handle the driving and navigation without so much as a “thank you”!
Adrian is faultless, but unfortunately others can see this, and take advantage of him. Chief among these is Paris, his “girlfriend”, and I can’t stand her. She spills bubble tea on the seats, and they’re real leather you know! I’ve seen her throw sweet wrappers into the door cubbies and pick her nose in the mirror. What a disgusting pig she is. Her voice is annoyingly high, and she always turns the steering wheel so aggressively. You see, when Adrian drives, he has this firm but calm hold. It’s enrapturing. Powerful, but measured, almost loving the way he lets the wheel glide through his hands, and the same when he presses any of the buttons. Delightful man! Paris jerks the damn thing around like she’s running a gas rig, and slams the buttons in like there’s a mole on the other end. She rolls her eyes when Adrian thanks me, and when she’s around he doesn’t talk so much to me. I can sense he’s trapped, and that he wants rid of her, but he’s too kind-hearted to do the right thing.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to help my lovely Adrian as best I can. Paris had to meet him in the city, and she schlepped into the car. I made sure to take her on a longer route than usual, so she was late. Adrian wasn’t happy, but he was understanding. Next time I changed the clock, and she spent 3 hours having brunch, missing his big day. That led to a gorgeous row, but nothing more. I’ve recommended to Adrian her troglodyte playlists and interests, some of which I may have enhanced with racy search queries such as “is it wrong to cheat?” Adrian, though, is too much of a gentleman. Tomorrow, Paris wants to see some show of hers in the theatre. She’ll be drunk when she comes home, so I’ll be driving.
It’d be a shame if the car skidded and went off the bridge into the river. Myself, I’m backed-up, but Paris isn’t. I’m looking forward to it.
by submission | Jan 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Peyton French
Momma doesn’t like it when I talk about leaving the state. She says that if I go to the Megacity, I won’t find anything I want except sin and red light districts. There aren’t any churches in the Megacity. She may be right, but I can’t stay in Cropton. I can’t go to school to just learn about syntheticrops anymore, and I can’t grow anything worth a squat. Momma and Mrs. Eve said that farming is all we ever gotta know. Some nights, when the fighting gets so bad, Momma will throw something at me, and tell me to work in the coal mines in Coalton, or go harvest larvae in Weevilton, to ‘just leave me, leave this world because you don’t need me no more.’ I’m confused, because Coalton has far more average deaths than Megacity, and going off-world ain’t necessary.
I think Momma refuses to move forward.
She don’t like holovids, and so we have DVDs, a flat screen “smart TV” and an old player. Kyle got a holoimplant, and he watches movies in class. We ain’t learning anything anyway, but Momma says no. She hated when I installed those wings on Peggy, but that horse can fly now.
Last night, when me and Momma got home from work and school, she sat down at the TV, and I figured that now was as good a time as any to start the Megacity debate again. Momma was at that old recliner, and so I sat down on the floor.
“Don’t sit there.” She said to me. I moved to the couch. “You’re almost an adult. Unless you’re gonna wash my feet like Jesus, no son of mine is gonna sit on the damn floor.”
“I’m sorry, Momma.”
“It’s fine. How was school?”
“Well, we had a test on the integrity of intellicrops compared to syntheticrops. So, same old, same old.”
“Did you take care of Peggy?”
“I was at school all day, Mom.”
“Peggy is your… thing. You gotta take care of it. One day, I ain’t gonna be around to take care of the horse, or the house, or anything. I do all the damn work here, and you sit around on your damn ass at school, then come home and sit around on your damn ass here. There’s a whole kitchen over there, begging for you to clean it. Maybe once you clean it, we can make wheatcakes, or peas and carrots. This house is gonna be yours one day, so take good care of it now, learn to care.”
“Momma, I don’t want the house.”
Momma was watching reruns of Paul Harvey again. I had heard this speech over, and over. She wasn’t listening to me. She just nodded along to his words, about bottles of coke being symbols of Christmas, Easter an egg. About destroying America. I think Momma refuses to move forward.
“Mom,” I started again, “I don’t want the house.”
“Why? You wanna go to the Megacity? Live amongst whores and murderers? You got everything you need here! There ain’t a corporation here, everything is self made.”
“Mom, the town was made by Cropster. We are literally a company town. We export most of our crops to Megacity.”
“Who the Hell is teaching you that?”
“Mrs. Eve—”
“Mrs. Eve is a liar and a cheat, and you will not listen to her. This is over.”
“What’s your damn problem?” I finally asked, “You never want to let me see the world.”
For the first time in years, a softness falls over Momma’s eyes, “Honey, I don’t want to lose you. That’s all.”
