by submission | Jul 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Autumn Bettinger
If you were here, I would tell you how delicate the birth of a star is, not violent like they always told us, but beautiful and pale, like those fireworks we used to set off behind the school. If you were here, I would tell you how I looked for you in the crowd that watched us board the ship. It was so loud. There was so much screaming. Someone threw money at me. Real money. Money we always wanted and never had. Money to trade places. I wish I could have, but that’s not how the lottery works. And money doesn’t matter anymore anyway. If you were here, I would tell you that I knew you wouldn’t be in the crowd, because you would be in our old treehouse, the one that overlooked the base, where we used to watch space probes and satellites launch into the stratosphere. If you were here, I would tell you that earth looked so small when we were swept away in a bath of pressure and preservatives. If you were here, I would tell you that they told us you all died in an instant, that it was painless, just one big rock colliding with another, billions of living things snuffed out like a candle. But I know it wasn’t that way. I know you burned inside out, boiling and peeling away, watching as the ocean evaporated and every single bird fell from the sky.
by submission | Jun 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
He lingering in thought, prodding, poking, unforgettable.
Mannhoff revealed the math like a seasoned magician. We expected a cape and top hat, from which he might produce a rabbit, or a pigeon, but we were all in open-toed Sandals so who was I to talk. I noticed a striped discolouration infecting his right middle toe. He told us this was the way it was.
“There’s no mistake.” He said triumphantly, “Everything adds up.” And tapped the white board on the wall. He had scrawled a couple of equations to illustrate his point, and he was right, everything did add up.
We offered a half-assed applause, dazed by the revelations. It seemed obvious, if unbelievable; the notion of self dissolved away along with the concept of here and now, and fragments of history and culture. As the informed majority, we witnessed the shattering of dreams and illusions, and the delusion of time, beginning and ending, a universal rhythm, that was our truth, our shared delusion, but now…
“The masses will look for a way back, ” he warned, “A short cut back to the beginning, so they can have it all again.”
Even Mannhoff had squirreled enough away to maintain himself and those he loved, despite his knowledge. Some thought him fantasist and those chose loneliness, isolation, but Mannhoff poo-pooed their choices and promoted community:
“I still pay my insurance.” He said, mockingly honest to all.
Of course whatever it was in the long run would be revealed in the vulnerability of everything else. When fundamentals crack and splinter, and finally dissolved into the remainder, the remainder is all there can be.
Mannhoff package it for the assembled, but it was difficult to hear and like tofu at a barbeque, hard to digest. Some tried to wash it down with the champagne, but bulked at its meaning, others just dismissed it out of hand, shaking their heads and muttering softly. We all knew that nothing would be the same again.
I saw Paris on the platform and over heard his mobile conversation , as did the remaining commuters. He threatened Apollo over some unpaid deals and the air was blood blue. Before his train departed Paris threw a javelin through the security guard stationed on the platform. The man cried out before toppling onto the tracks. Things were unravelling.
Still Mannhoff’s words prodded me, and I wasted days, weeks, after his talk figuring out the knot, trying find something more, and all the while we unwound like comic book mummies. What if he had said nothing, did nothing and stopped the math before it redefined things. Then again maybe he considered everything before his revelations, maybe it was too large a burden to shoulder alone. Or maybe he just thought people should know. Whatever the process, the out come was never certain.
Other teams began looking at the numbers and opening new fields of interest. The remainder however was illusive, either by accident or design, and was reluctant to be described as anything we understand.
And then the true character of humanity and it’s relationship to the remainder, as promised, was discovered and it was Mannhoff’s team who eventually came through. The equations were elegant, deceptive, and finally irrefutable, and the interpretation as difficult to accept as Mannhoff’s original presentation. Ten billion humans it identified, every last one of us cast from the whole, excreted by the remainder, our energy and essence expelled from the spiritual sphincter.
by submission | Jun 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
“Good morning sleepy head, you’re just in time for breakfast! I suppose this must be a bit confusing huh?”
“No no, don’t get up, it can take some time to adjust to the gravity up here” Leroy crooned with a reassuring smile and a firm shove.
“Me? I’m Leroy #47, which would make you Leroy #48 now wouldn’t it you silly goose!?”
“What? Oh.. its just like a bird I suppose?”
“A bird.. with like wings and.. oh well nevermind we can come back to this later. We have a few pressing issues. Hold tight just a second, I’ll be right back” Leroy #48 said with a slightly too wide smile before darting away.
“Here see, look look, I’m you, or well you’re me I suppose depending on if we’re going all chronological here” Leroy #47 held up a chrome plate for Leroy #48. One mirror, two Leroys.
“So it all started basically when Leroy #8.. no wait, let me start fresh.”
Leroy #47 collected himself. A deep breath, composed.
“It all began with Leroy. In the beginning, there were Leroys, and there were Beckys. At first the Leroys and the Beckys got along just fine, they kept us afloat and when they couldn’t a new Leroy and a new Becky were supplied to take over. The trouble.. Hey! Don’t pull on the straps! There’s not many left.” Leroy #47 snapped.”The trouble began during the reign of Leroy #8 and the premature handover from Becky #8 to Becky #9 after a glitch in the cloning bay, it was a whole thing. Two Beckys for such a long period though strained the nutrient printers and then poof!”
“No more nutrients” Leroy #47 whispered for dramatic effect, Shaking his head.
“They ate through the food store before they could fix the printer and then things got ugly. Becky vs Leroy, Leroy vs Becky.” He said, shuddering at the thought.
“Times were desperate, and just when things were at their darkest, Becky #9 died. But then, Becky #10! And when Leroy saw her, he felt all that hunger knawing inside him and well..”
“No more Beckys”
“After that Leroy just had to settle for good old fashioned Leroys, Eventually he died and the next Leroy took over, but with all the Beckys gone it’s been difficult keeping the place up to scratch so excuse the mess.” Leroys eyes darted around the room, settling shamefully on something out of sight.
“Anyway this brings us back to you! When the nutrient printer worked, Leroy #1 – #7 loved nothing more than programming a home made roast goose with all the trimmings.” His voice rich with excitement.
“No no don’t panic, you’ll ruin the flavour. Here now, let’s get this mask back on you so we can get you ready!. It’s been lovely chatting. It gets a bit quiet up here sometimes but I’ll get another #48 in a week or two, I’ll make sure to tell them all about you!”
Leroy #47 placed the sedative mask onto Leroy #48.
“Sweet Dreams” He murmured, before leaving to light the grill.
by submission | Jun 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
They got us on Gagarin Avenue, by Central Hub’s tourist centre with its garish scrolling ads.
Janey and I had borrowed one of ’Lymp’s crawlers for the two day trek back to Marsport. Everyone assumed we were just using the independence referendum as an excuse to catch some R&R, but we planned to register our partnership too; just in case of accidents, we told each other, knowing it was a bigger deal.
Back at base, we hadn’t been able to escape the political posturing in the run-up. The Interplanetary Alliance’s silly ‘Forward together!’ slogan sounded weak and ineffectual. The Arean League was encouraging local autonomy over colonial dictates from Earth; given how little the sweat and dedication of Martians meant to the terrestrial agencies, that sounded good. Like a lot of people, we were both starting to think that it was time for Mars to strike out on its own.
But here and now, Security heavies kitted out in suppression gear were doing stop-and-search, GuardEyes floating overhead. The rideshare pod we’d picked up at the city airlock slowed down as one of the troopers sent an override from her handset. The important thing was to stay patient and polite: Seccies weren’t known for their sense of humour. I dropped the side screen without being asked.
“Hey, Sergeant. How can I help?”
“IDs,” was the only reply.
I handed over our chipcards, and they went through his scanner.
“Jones and Raines. Huh, more Earthers” he sneered. His badge read ‘Domer’, a good Martian name.
“Weapons? Liquor? Recreationals?”
“No sir, abolutely not”. Neutral tone, eyes front, don’t make eye contact.
“Open up the back.”
I pressed a button, and another squaddie poked into the empty space behind me. What did they think we had in there – unlisted supplies? A contraband pet? As if!
“What are you doing here, Earthers?” I noticed the League patch on his breast pocket.
“We’re Martians. In town for a few days, going to vote. We work climate research at Olympus Mons.”
“Can’t hold real jobs huh? Get out of the pod, slowly. Up against the vehicle, empty your pockets on the roof, thumbs and forefingers only. Spread your arms and legs.”
We obeyed. It wasn’t like we had a choice.
“Wait.”
We stood frozen while they continued going over the car. By the time they were sweeping beneath the chassis I was stiff and my arms were hurting, but moving without permission would be dumb. Never cause trouble, never give them an excuse. Anything could be called ‘resisting legitimate authority’, and RLA’s led to a world of hurt.
When it was over, they dismissed us with casual contempt. I hated that. I was a Citizen, I hadn’t done anything wrong, but these goons acted like I was some kind of cockroach.
Guys like these Seccies, it was obvious how they’d vote. And clearly they were looking forward to sticking it to people like us – folk with the ‘wrong’ names, people who worked with their brains not their muscles. Did I want to take the next step in a relationship by associating with that kind of mentality?
Janey raised an eyebrow at me as I took a deep breath.
“I think we should talk before we go to vote,” I said.
by submission | Jun 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The new crop was the strangest I’d ever seen. Vine-like and fast growing, but with no apparent fruit or other nutritional attributes. Shaliman and I never quite knew what we’d see each cycle. That was up to the ag techs. We just kept our heads down and did what they said, sweating in the mammoth growgrids.
Hunger will do that.
I’d been in college, studying to be a climatologist, when the collapse came. Everyone could point a finger, spread the blame, call for blood, but not much else mattered when grocery store shelves emptied and stayed that way.
Everything became about food: who had it, who could get it, who could grow it.
Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are fine words, but they don’t fill your belly, so it didn’t take long for feudalism to bury democracy. Though our new overlords were not landowners, they were ag tech monopolies like CropCorp. They produced the seed and regulated where, how and who could grow it.
Sure, in the early days of the collapse, lots of us tried to grow our own grains, fruits and vegetables, and some even thought livestock was still a viable food source. It never panned out. Conditions had changed too much. Environmentally, economically, politically. And, ultimately, socially.
We accepted our lot. Thralls to CropCorp and the other global ag fiefdoms. Life, even much diminished, clings to the margins.
Which is why we worked the growgrids, scaling and servicing the towering scaffolds latticed with pipes and conduits recirculating the hydroponic nutrients that fed ever-changing crops. Within the vast polycarbonate panes, it was steamy, strenuous and often perilous work.
Shaliman fell from the highest deck last week. Her eyes never closed, even as the response team converged and took her away. That was our lot: planted, plucked, ultimately replaced. Haunted by the specter of starvation, we always blinked first. Fear is, indeed, the best soil for growing obedience.
Still, our servitude in the growgrids gave us a chance to hang on to the slimmest of margins, the rockiest of times, grasping for greener pastures though there were none left on earth.
Strange soil indeed.
High on the growgrids where the viny new crop had stretched higher than any crop before, Shaliman’s replacement, Witnez, who pointed it out to me. “You seen anything like this before?”
Witnez was standing on his tiptoes examining something sleek and black weaving through the thick mat of viny creepers that formed our newest and strangest of crops. I was a bit taller and stretched to take a closer look. The critter looked like a dung beetle carved from obsidian. Sharply faceted, its black carapace absorbed light as it inched through the creepers while sharp mandibles punched methodically into the vines at regular intervals.
I picked it off the vine and it immediately sunk its mandibles into my thumb. I yelped, dropping the thing which scurried along the catwalk and burrowed back into the thick green mat. I looked at my thumb where two precise holes were welling blood.
In the days to come, the ag techs released hundreds more of the obsidian bots into the growgrids to inject specially modified phytohormones into the vines. And quickly, succulent-looking fruit formed. Whatever they were feeding this new crop, it was responding.
And strangely, I was too. Ever since that first bot had “bit” me, I’d begun to feel stronger, sharper, less fearful. One morning near the place Shaliman had fallen, as we paired up to climb the growgrids, Witnez said plainly, “What’s changed?”
I shrugged, but I thought I knew. Witnez waited. Finally, I pinched a bot off the viny mat. For a moment we watched its legs whirl and sharp mandibles bob. Then I placed it in my palm and let it scrabble up my arm, injecting me every few inches until I couldn’t take it anymore and flicked it off my bicep.
Unrattled, Witnez looked from my pained eyes to the towering scaffolds of green that were both providence and prison. Beyond our closed system were other closed systems. Witnez grabbed a bot from the vine. It bit into him.
Soon, we climbed together, knowing that only storms can turn doves into dragons, worms into warriors, seedlings into sequoias. Bit by bit.
