by submission | Jul 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Excellency, the Chair of the Preservist department is here as requested.”
“Very good, send him in.” The Chair of the The Preservist Department, formally The Office for the Preservation and Purity of Galactic Standard Language, floated in, his formal saffron and scarlet robes billowing behind him. The Galactic University High Chancellor smiled. Just the cleaning costs for those pompous threads alone would cripple a normal citizens budget anywhere in the Empire. Last terms budget cut to the Preservist Department was the first in nearly a thousand years and the delusion that it was temporary, kept the department as arrogant as ever. In fact, after a nearly 2,000 years of language hegemony, the Preservist Chair was about to have his “come to Jesus moment.” Indeed, it was a perfect metaphor. An alien catch phrase that once understood symbolized the predicament perfectly.
Before the High Chancellor could speak the Chair cut him off. “Where is my dais?” The High Chancelor nodded. The platform that by tradition elevated the Preservist department head above all other academics.
The High Chancellor managed to keep a straight face. “Ah, yes. Well, it was taking up too much floor space in my office so I had it removed.” The Preservist department head made an involuntary wince. He looked around and took a seat opposite the High Chancellor, who had not moved from behind his desk. The High Chancellor took a seat. The Preservist department head took a fan from within the folds of his robes and began fanning himself.” The High Chancellor leaned back in his chair.
“I asked you here today to clarify your position within the University. Now that conflict with the humans has been resolved, and trade has been re-established-“
The Preservist Chair beamed “Thank the 12 goddesses! Now we can bring some much needed clarity to human space. When will the Emperor restore our funds? I hope he realizes that we would need even more to establish Preservist Offices and Schools in Human space. The humans have a lot of catching up to do! They may be fine as scientists, merchants, and warriors but they can’t speak Galactic to, ah, um…”
“Save their souls?”
“Curious expression High Chancellor. Is it 3rd or 5th reign Galactic?”
“Neither. It’s a human idiom.”
“What?”
“A human saying. They are, sweeping though Galactic popular culture at an exponential rate, and now that human and Empire scientists have nearly perfected the real-time universal translator…well, human speech is becoming preferred for merchant contracts, inter species co-operative ventures and docking instructions between tower and pilots. Even our own diplomatic core has moved over to using human speech- especially when the real-time translators can’t be used for one reason or another.”
“Absurd! Preposterous! Does the Emperor know this? I must seek an audience with him immediately before the Galaxy unravels!”
The High Chancellor sighed. “Ah, yes, well the BLUF is…”
“Excuse me? BLUF?”
“Another human expression. BLUF-Bottom Line Up Front. The Emperor himself and his High Council, as part of our treaty with the humans, have dropped mandatory use of Galactic standard. Times are changing and I suggest you and your department prepare for the worst. At best you will be absorbed by the History Department, and at worst, well, totally defunded.”
The Chair of the Office for the Preservation and Purity of Galactic Standard stood up in rage. “As we say in Galactic Standard, ‘Te to bon arbodum lana hrp tor brrrrrrrt la-‘“
The High Chancellor held up his hand and cut him off. “The humans have a better way to say it: ‘Go fuck yourself.’”
by submission | Jul 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mina
ALENA’S ADOPTED MOTHER, CAROL:
We consider ourselves blessed with our adopted daughter. It hasn’t always been easy – we had to teach her not to stand out. It’s hard to dim your light, but she understood by the age of three that she would be taken away from us if her gifts were noticed. She did her best, but we did have to move on from time to time, to avoid unwanted attention. It’s hard to describe the joy and warmth she has brought to our lives. When my husband George’s hereditary heart defect disappeared, that was one of the times we had to move in a hurry, losing all his medical records along the way. Another time was after our Polish neighbour called Alena her “anyow”.
KRYSTYNA KASZA, A NEIGHBOUR OF THE FAMILY:
They weren’t our neighbours for long, maybe a year. It was when I got pancreatic cancer and the prognosis wasn’t good. I was sick as a dog during my third stab at chemo. Their daughter, Alena, came to see me every day. She’d hold my hand and tell me stories about the twins, Luke and Ben, and their dog, Rasputin (how he ended up being called that was the best story). Making sure they didn’t come to any harm was her most important job, she said. I remember her eyes, this almost impossibly blue colour; her smile that could have graced the statue of an angel. She must have been my good luck charm because I beat that cancer – the doctors called it a miracle.
MR ANDREWS, RETIRED TEACHER:
Alena was the best student I ever had. She should have been in a different school, a fast-track programme of some kind. Maths and science were like languages she was already fluent in. When I wanted to put her forward as genius-level, she flat out refused. She said her family came first. I gave her a lift home one day after drama club when one of the boys ran in front of us, chasing the family dog. I swerved and braked, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. She put her hand on the dashboard and I swear it’s as if the car got given a push and swerved harder and faster. We crashed into a parked car instead and, apart from a few dents to both cars, no damage was done. As she hugged her hysterical brother, I couldn’t tell you which twin it was, she put her hand on me as if she could feel my distress. I have never felt such peace before or since.
RENNET OF RUEL:
There are very few of us left; our planet of origin is long gone, and we live our whole lives on vast spaceships. We need to commingle with other species to reproduce. On Earth, we might be compared to your cuckoos: we find a safe nest for our young. I watched the girl with interest from afar, waiting for her eighteenth year so I could introduce her to her full heritage. When I finally spoke to her, I was astonished to discover that she did not yet want to leave the primitive backwater of her birth. She told me that it had become her home and her family. I told her she would outlive all those she cared for.
ALENA:
Krystyna called me her “anioł”, you know, which is “angel” in Polish. I’m far from that. But I am truly loved here and I have so much love to give back. Come back for me in a century or two – I have a lot to do here first.
by submission | Jul 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: Daniel Aceituna
The new AI phone app used the latest research in non-linear regression to predict the future. Local data combined with GPS and relevant global data was all it took to give a remarkably accurate prediction of what would happen within the next minute.
One billion downloads occurred in the first week alone. Paul couldn’t wait to try it out. He set the app to ‘Imminent Danger,’ instead of the more thrilling ‘I feel lucky today’. Then he jumped in the car to run some errands.
A few minutes later, while Paul was waiting at the light on Fifth and Main, the app gave him his first warning. He looked at his phone. It said ‘Fire truck.’ Seconds later he heard a faint siren growing in the distance. This is so cool, he thought.
On his way into the bank, he received another warning that said, ‘Possible bank robbery.’ He ran back to the car and smiled as he rushed away from the scene. He made abrupt changes to his plans three more times that day. He got a little annoyed at having to avoid getting an ice cream cone, but he reasoned that it was worth it, if it meant staying safe.
The next morning Paul was late to work when he avoided taking interstate, due to a ‘Potential pile-up’ warning. During the noon hour, he avoided leaving the office and instead ate a dry sandwich from the break room vending machine. That night he had to cancel a date. He saw his girlfriend only twice that week. Some of the reasons came from her end; she had the app also.
As more of his friends used their app, they got together less. Within a matter of weeks, Paul felt physically isolated. He panicked one morning when he was two blocks from home and realized he had forgotten his phone. He parked the car and had to find someone with the app who happened to be walking back toward his apartment.
Paul started longing for the days before the app. How did I get by back then, he thought. He started wondering if the app was really keeping him safe. What if some of the warnings were false alarms? What if all of them were? So Paul decided that he would ignore the next warning and proceed anyway.
Days later only Paul’s grandmother was brave enough to attend his funeral; she hadn’t downloaded the app.
by submission | Jul 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
Maggie’s been gone for a while now. But not into a black hole this time. Normally she’d discorporate into the metaphysical unknown but this time, she’s just been…
…happily traveling.
I miss her, like a solar system misses it’s rogue planetoid, flung out beyond and returning every 4,000 years as a flickering comet to be seen in the sky for one night only, like she was just taking a nostalgia tour of her long lost friends, just to wink with a genuine grin and say,
“Goodbye, catch you next time!”
I suppose time has no meaning to the genuinely inspired, I suppose pretenders can’t hold a candle to the beautifully estranged, the independent and courageous. She wasn’t always that way, she was just receptive, and I was a constant output of absurdity, like the two-slit experiment personified, perpetually in two different states, though I thought they were the same. I must’ve been so confusing.
Maggie, I won’t ask where you’ve been this time because, well, I’ve actually been busy. Busy with the inspiration that you, and so many, have left me. I’m not building anymore, I’m just happily being, creating, ruminating. I’m more of a particle than a wave these days, and the waves around me don’t much appreciate the wake I leave behind, interrupting their tides.
But I suppose that’s what got her attention in the first place.
by submission | Jul 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
THIS IS NOT A DRILL! REPEAT: THIS IS NOT A DRILL!
Lieutenant-Commander Rane had received the warning minutes before the alarm sounded. The destiny that nobody wanted was hers. It was happening on her watch.
Eight distinct generations of ‘peacekeepers’ had been trained and deployed at Station 48 without any sign of hostility. Each individual knew that eventually the post would come under attack, and so they lived their lives one day at a time in a heightened state of artificial readiness. Nobody wanted to be the one whose negligence allowed the defences of the human race to breached, overrun and, in the worst of all the scenarios outlined by the government, rendered extinct. That was the kind of fame – albeit brief – that you could certainly do without.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, time passed slowly at Station 48. The whole period – what was it, two hundred years? – had gone by in a breeze. But the daily lives of the inhabitants, the conscripts and the volunteers, were characterised by their monotony. And this was wholly by the design of World07. It provided the latest gaming systems, feeds and links to every event that could feasibly be of interest, as well as outlets for the crew members to rid themselves of excess energy or desire. Intrinsically, though, it suited the pan-continental government to create standardisation and engender boredom in its various outposts. Distractions of any but the most basic kind were unwelcome.
Most of the thousands of guards who’d occupied their posts over the years, as well as those officers who’d overseen them, had never given any of this tedium a second or, at most, third thought. That was just the way it was. But Lieutenant-Commander Rane was of a newer type. A newer mentality. Time went deep with her. It was more than just a superficial entity that needed to be dissipated. She used it to find out as much about her species, and about the potential invaders, as she could possibly access. And the conclusions she formed were not entirely favourable to her own race.
It was said they were coming for resources. It was said they were coming to drain humanity of life. Or, perhaps, just for some act of nihilistic pleasure. World07 had it all covered.
Rane inferred from the various sources she managed to locate that perhaps those ‘enemies of the world’ were operating out of a not unjustifiable sense of revenge. Was it not they who’d had their resources depleted? Weren’t they the ones who were now effectively homeless or, rather, planetless?
She suspected that the ‘designated preparations’ would be useless in the face of the sheer numbers of craft that were currently on the way to Station 48. What she knew as a Commander, and what the majority of her force didn’t, was that it had been underpowered for years and was more or less just a sacrificial offering that would allow the Taskforce to gain time and protect its nearer and more strategically valuable stations.
So, as she judged that one way or another everything was broken, Rane decided to shatter protocol by standing down her defences and broadcasting a message to the invaders. A message, in essence, of welcome, but which could also be construed as surrender.
Not for the first time, several of Rane’s leadership group questioned whether she was the right person for the job. However, a Station Commander was invested with supreme authority and any insubordination was punishable by death. But wasn’t death guaranteed now anyway?
