by submission | Dec 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: J.D. Rice
The cracks on the planet’s surface grow slowly at first, and silently. From the safety of my spacecraft, I suppose even the most violent of eruptions would be silent.
It doesn’t take long before the magma begins to appear, bubbling up from the surface, erupting into great plumes. But as the cracks continue to spread, like the tendrils of some great beast trying to consume the planet, the lava dips back below the surface. The atmosphere is similarly thrown into chaos, blown away by the force of the eruption one minute, then sucked back in as the cracks deepen.
I hold the detonator in my hand, my knuckles white.
The gravity bomb is doing its work.
In mere minutes, the surface of the planet is completely obscured. Water vapor and volcanic ash swirl and mix and hide the crumbling surface from view. The cities are surely all destroyed by now, the people wiped out in a sudden, unexpected cataclysm. I know I cannot hear their screams, but their voices echo in my imagination all the same.
I watch in numb horror, in morbid fascination, in terror at my own actions, as the entire event plays out. The planet soon to be replaced by a quiet, dark singularity. Same matter, same gravity, but not a remnant of the planet and its people remaining.
It takes less than an hour.
When all is finally still, I try to take a deep breath. The best I can manage is a short gasp, as if my body has forgotten how to breathe. Each breath that comes after is labored, forced in and out by a body that knows it must live, but with a mind that cannot possibly function after witnessing such destruction. It’s a burden a rational mind should never have to bear, a decision that I know I will regret for the rest of my life.
And still. . . I’d do it again.
I wasn’t driven to this choice by madness, but by reason. A clear, logical choice.
It was them or us.
Deep in the belly of this ship, locked behind a thousand security measures designed to prevent tampering or sabotage, is a device – the Temporal Observation Matrix, or Tom, as my fellow scientists have called it. It took our thinktank decades to develop, years to test, and for me. . . only a few short minutes to reveal the horrible truth.
This planet, this species, they would be our undoing. In a few short years, we would come into conflict – an unavoidable, unspeakable conflict. And they would win. They would destroy our homeworld. Not in a sudden, brilliant collapse. But slowly. Haphazardly. In the name of ending the war and winning the peace, they would gradually end us. With as much unintended suffering and good intentions as you can imagine. Slow and painful. The opposite of the death I just granted them.
What else could I have done? It was them or us.
I tell myself this same mantra, over and over, even as I suppress the urge to hurl the detonator against the wall. Even as my body twitches, every neuron screaming for me to run before this goes any further. But I know I must continue.
There are still the colonies to consider.
My hands move, urged on by the part of my brain that is still able to isolate itself from my emotions, and I begin pulling up the local charts for this star system.
Yes, there will be colonies. There will be research labs, satellites, biospheres, colony ships, little nests of resistance where this species can survive, regrow, and come back for revenge.
I have to do it again.
And again.
And again.
As many times as necessary.
My chest feels tight as I let my hands do their work, charting a course all across the system to snuff out each and every one of them. My FTL drive will get me there before the light of the planet even disappears from their satellites. And I’ll end them. Quickly. Methodically. Without suffering or pain.
Tom has shown me the only path to survival.
Even as I hesitate to ignite my engines and make for my next target, Tom is down there. Gathering the data. Reading the future. Assuring me of the rightness of my actions.
It was them or us.
But somewhere, in a part of my mind I won’t acknowledge, I know the second half of that terrible platitude.
Maybe it should have been us.
by submission | Dec 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You are suffering from all the hallmarks of pycnodysostosis: fragile bones, short stature, large head, weak chin. Were you never examined for this as a child, Mr. Monfa?”
“No, Doctor Durand. Medical resources were few in my youth. I was always unwell. A very vulnerable child.”
“That is unfortunate. Growth hormones might have provided some benefit in your early years.”
“Would they help me now?”
“That is unlikely as the disease has progressed and,” the doctor broke off eye contact, “you now have other underlying conditions that are compromising your health.”
“You mean, my methods of self-medication?” Mr. Monfa laughed. “Come, doctor, Paris is the best medicine. A very strong medicine, but with its side effects: syphilis, alcoholism. To fight pain with pain and pleasure with pleasure is the French way.”
“As you say. But at this point, I cannot offer you much more in the way of treatment, Mr. Monfa.”
“Are you so sure, doctor? I have sought you out over many, many years.”
“Why is that?”
“I have heard that you are…curious. Adventurous. Connected. You know people doing interesting, under-the-table treatments with experimental gene therapies that command the utmost discretion. And the utmost compensation.”
The doctor studied the diminutive patient’s dour face, unkempt beard, thin mustache, and very affected bowler hat and monocle. He remained silent.
“May I?” Mr. Monfa motioned to the sizable satchel he’d placed next to a nearby chair with his cane and overcoat.
After a careful moment, Doctor Durand nodded.
Mr. Monfa unlatched the worn leather case and withdrew a largish rectangular object neatly wrapped in white cloth which he handed to the doctor. “Please,” he offered.
The doctor unwrapped the cloth. He studied the unbelievable painting beneath. He studied Mr. Monfa. He studied his watch. “Am I to believe?”
“As I am. That there can be a namesake cure for a namesake disease.”
“It will take time,” the doctor explained.
“I can return.”
“How is that possible?”
“The universe dances. If you watch closely enough, showing proper appreciation and respect, Time is a willing partner.”
The doctor turned to his window and the vibrant Parisian skyline where past and present were lit in colors so like the painting he’d been offered. “I think we must try, Mr. Monfa.”
“Please, call me Henri,” the most patient patient said, reaching for his cane. He gave the ornate handle a practiced twist and lifted it off. A prescient scent of aniseed, fennel and wormwood filled spacetime.
by submission | Dec 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Barry Yedvobnick
The jury stares at me like they don’t believe any of it, and how can I blame them? A year ago, I felt confused too. I knew nothing about olfactory receptors underlying the prowess of a dog’s nose. My husband, Jack, was sold by the surgeon’s pitch, and I trusted Jack’s decision.
I look at my lawyer, Barlow, and he provides a reassuring smile. He was Jack’s closest friend, and he convinced me to file the lawsuit right after Jack’s funeral. Barlow said the surgeon used Jack like a lab rat.
I pick a juror and focus on them, like we rehearsed. “Dr. Robinson told us he developed a surgery that would make Jack the best private investigator ever. He promised the operation would give Jack the same sense of smell as a dog.”
Barlow faces the jury. “So, Teresa, Dr. Robinson claimed having the surgery would make Jack into some sort of super PI. Like a bloodhound.”
“Yes, apparently people sweat more when they lie, and they give off molecules called volatiles. Since dogs have such a keen sense of smell, they can detect the volatiles. Dr. Robinson said after the procedure, Jack would detect them too. He’d know when people lied, and that’s important during investigations.”
“How did he give your husband a dog-like sense of smell?”
“With a canine stem-cell transplant into his nose. Those cells developed into olfactory receptors normally found in dogs. The procedure wasn’t approved for humans yet, but Dr. Robinson said it was safe.”
“Did the transplant work well?”
“Extremely well. Jack could smell when people lied during questioning, and he started solving cases very quickly. But then his behavior changed.”
“How did he change, Teresa?”
“I first noticed something during dinners. Jack started pointing his nose up in the air when I cooked. He also wanted the house cooler. When it got warm, he stuck his tongue out.”
“Like a dog,” Barlow says, raising his voice.
“Exactly like a dog. Including the drool. And when he thought I wasn’t looking, he’d lick himself.”
Barlow shakes his head and approaches the jury. “Were there other disturbing behaviors?”
“Well, there was one in particular. He started sniffing people, especially strangers. It upset me, but he couldn’t control it. They arrested him for this once.”
Barlow walks towards me. “It’s clear you both suffered as a result of Dr. Robinson’s actions, and eventually his careless surgery led to Jack’s death. Please describe the circumstances.”
“We were having a cookout in our yard with some friends. Jack suddenly ran into the road and a car hit him.”
“Why did he run into the road?”
“He was chasing a neighbor’s cat.”
Barlow turns to the jury and sighs. “No further questions.”
by submission | Dec 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: J.B. Draper
The clanking of the elephantine chain binding Eru to Atria didn’t startle Gorman.
But as Eru passed through a rough bit of sea, causing it to sway, and in turn, making Gorman’s door thump, he bolted upright from his slumber. His chest heaved.
“There’s no one there,” he said, so tired of hearing his own voice. “No one, of course.”
In 2264, when the indefatigable destruction of the world could no longer be denied, humanity surrendered the myth of saving the world, and began to survive it. Using gluttonous amounts of the remaining resources, three islands were carved out of Africa: Eru, Atriah, and Sikora. They were named for the chief scientists who made the islands possible.
The great chain Whistler held the three islands together.
Gorman trekked to Sikora, whistling as he went. He’d tidied so much of the space, but there was much still to go. The bodies on Sikora were hardly more than bone, and much easier to toss into the sea than those he had years ago.
“I don’t know why I tidy. Doesn’t bother me if there’s rotten wood on Sikora. I live on Eru,” said Gorman.
“What if we have visitors?” asked Gorman.
Gorman paused for a moment, considering what he meant. “Don’t say that.” He carried on dumping debris into the ocean. He caught sight of himself in a dusty mirror and nearly had a conniption.
Life on the islands was prosperous for half a century. With so few colonies across the three micro-countries, there was relative peace. Everything was great. The crops took. The husbandry flourished.
Anyone who could accurately recall what caused the collapse of the nascent society was long dead. But something on the islands killed everyone, destroyed entire buildings.
Gorman retired to his shack on Eru. It had never been much, tucked away on the far side of the island near the reactors. But he never felt right about moving into the opulent apartments on Atriah. “Too small for a start,” he mumbled.
A good day’s cleaning used to mean eight hours and half an island to Gorman, back when he was a sprightly man, sailing off with the new world. These days, it was lucky to be half of one building.
As he was settling himself into bed, cursing his aching joints, Eru rocked and Gorman’s wooden door bumped against the jamb. Knock knock.
Not much scared Gorman. Even the encroaching threat of death couldn’t disquiet him.
But at night, the sound of the door scared him. Knock knock, it went. And Gorman could never convince himself one way or another whether it was the wind or the rocking waves or… something else that caused the door to thump.
After all these years of listening to solely his own voice, he longed for conversation. But he’d seen the bodies on Atriah and Sikora. He knew they were all gone. He hoped.
Knock knock.
by submission | Dec 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Jorge looked at himself in he mirror. His mother was right. He was badly in need of a haircut. He set up an appointment with Shelby’s Salon.
Upon arriving Shelby’s, Jorge selected two services: A trim and a scalp massage. The reception kiosk immediately directed him to chair number three. This pleased him, since this meant there was no wait.
The chair for station number three was a new one. Very cushy. Jorge liked it. He plopped down and before long a salon bot rolled up silently behind him. He noted it had three appendages: one for brushing, one with scissors, and one with an electric razor.
The screen on top of the bot began to glow, and soon a woman’s face appeared. She was gorgeous, in a way that only an AI generated face can be. Flawless skin, perfect features, young but not too young.
“Hi, Jorge,” the image chirped. “I’m Talulah. I’m your stylist today. How are you?”
Jorge smiled. Was he supposed to make small talk with a bot? He was never clear on the protocol. “I want a trim and a scalp massage.”
On screen, Talulah smiled and nodded. With a loud click, manacles popped out of the chair’s arms to wrap around Jorge’s wrists. His neck and legs were also shackled in place by the chair.
“Hey! What’s this for?” Jorge panicked.
“New federal safety regulation,” Talulah replied. “Now, about your selection,” she continued as her eyes rolled back in her head. The screen blinked off. In a few seconds, it flicked back on. Jorge wondered if it just reboot itself.
Back on screen, Talulah said sternly, “Time to get you shipshape.” The electric razor buzzed.
“What? No! I just want a trim.” Jorge attempted to struggle, but the manacles held tight. The razor coursed over his head until all his hair was gone.
“I’m gonna sue this salon into oblivion!” He hissed.
The salon bot rolled away, leaving Jorge strapped in the chair. When it returned, it had replaced its scissor appendage with a tattoo needle. Without comment, it began to tattoo—something—into Jorge’s scalp on the back of his head.
“What are you doing? I did NOT order a tattoo!”
The beautiful face on the screen smiled coldly and continued working. “There,” it said when it finished. “All done.”
“What did you put on my head?” It would take months to grow out his hair long enough to hide that tattoo. And to find a new salon, perhaps an old-fashioned one still employing human stylists.
“It’s your serial number,” the bot answered. “According to government files, you turned 18 yesterday, and that automatically enlists you in the draft.” It flickered off again.
“What?!”
In answer, the screen came back to life. Instead of the attractive AI stylist, he saw the face of a severe looking military man. Before Jorge could ask what was going on, the sergeant on the screen began his programmed rant.
“Listen up! You’ve been drafted to serve as a foot soldier in the Intergalactic War of Alien Attrition. Operation Freedom Rings. You ship out for basic training immediately. Your family will be duly notified of your change in status.”
The bot then raised its hair-brush appendage, and touched the brush to the topmost right corner of its screen in a crude parody of a salute. “Congratulations.”
