by submission | Apr 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Nystrom 6 is a heavily altered planet- by what or whom was why we were there. On its surface is a 100-meter-wide glass smooth band of an unknown substance. It circumnavigates the globe at the equator and pole to pole. We had dozens of scientific survey teams studying it…until the first accident. I was there the day it happened.
There was no warning. No rush of wind, color shift, vibration, or sound. Just Stacy, Bree, and Mack trying to sample what we were calling ‘the track’ and then they exploded. The only thing we found that didn’t look like shredded meat was Bree’s arm which landed off to one side of the track. There were not enough other remains to autopsy. The pathologist ruled summarily death by high energy blunt force trauma. All told we lost twelve survey crews before we figured out to stay off the track.
The first family that received “compensation” were the next-of-kin to the original three that were killed. Each member received from the aliens by methods unknown, bricks of superconductor material worth billions. Our government squashed news about that as long as they could. The next person who received compensation was, well, me. It was given for the trauma caused when I witnessed my co-workers reduced to sheds of flesh. I received a scroll with a diagram. By handling the scroll, basic instructions were downloaded into my brain. I gathered the materials, placed them on the scroll where indicated and watched with fascination as the elements assembled themselves into a machine. Shortly after that, all the next of kin and witnesses to track deaths received either bricks of semiconductor material or some kind of precious metal or crystal. The wealth received by the remaining next of kin actually destabilized our economy for a bit, but soon enough things got back to mostly normal. Oddly, I was the only one who was gifted with a machine.
Of course, word of the compensation eventually came to public attention, and between desperate individuals, organized crime, scam artists, the odd bribed government official, and “suicide event planners”, the planet has been finally declared off limits to all but researchers (like me.) Our military has an armada in orbit around the planet, all to stop what is being called “suicide gold diggers.” Hypocritically, the government is quietly contacting terminally ill individuals to work out a 50-50 deal. Half to their family, and half to the government. All for filthy lucre.
My compensation, my machine? I’ve kept it quiet. When picked up, it tells the story of the people who built the track. Beings so far advanced we are on the level of cats and dogs compared to them. The track is nothing more than a switching station on the most mundane transportation route they have to go from one galaxy to another. The machine also tells me our species, in due time, will evolve into higher beings ourselves. It is quite uplifting. But the real value of my compensation is it has given me a blueprint to be the first to ascend and start our species’ evolution. Part of that gift is a deep wisdom that has expanded my consciousness.
Now I am standing on the track holding the machine given to me as compensation hoping that my end will come soon. I’ve managed to contact these beings and let them know to stop all “compensations” including any to be given after my death. If I’ve learned anything from all this it’s abundantly clear, to the core of my being, we are not yet worthy.
by submission | Apr 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
“I hate them. I hate them so fucking much,” she said, looking through her rangefinder. She had been there on the roof of the house – or what was left of it – for most of the night. She was tired, hungry, and grubby, but this was no different than any other night. She reached into her pack, pulled out a small object wrapped in a rag, unwrapped it, and snapped off a piece from a hard, rectangular bar. She turned to the woman next to her, also crouched down on the roof, wearing the same tactical uniform as she did, and motioned for her to take it. That person paused, looked at it, and nodded negatively.
“I’m not eating that crap.”
“Why the hell not? It’s all we got and all we’re likely to get for the next two days.” She motioned for her to take it again.
“It’s like eating bark.”
“Would you rather eat bark or not eat at all?”
“Fine,” she said, taking the piece and reluctantly popping it into her mouth. Lt. Adams had always been a picky eater growing up. That was a whole different world back then, she thought, chewing on the dense, chalky ration. Back then, she turned up her nose at the slightest perceived issue with whatever meal was in front of her. It didn’t matter if it was made by her Dad (who was, admittedly, a pretty good cook) or Nana or at a restaurant. She would inspect it skeptically first, using her fork or whatever utensil was available to probe parts of it, looking for anything unfamiliar or yucky.
She remembered how Nana would always try to hide healthy things in every meal she made. She’d make lasagna that had ground-up mushrooms, carrots, onions, and other vegetables in it. She’d grind them all up real small, almost a puree, hoping Kelly and her little brother Mikey would notice or taste the difference. Kelly always could, then she’d promptly notify Mikey, pointing out the offending vegetables in various areas on his plate.
Pizza was the worst. Her dad would sometimes have huge chunks of tomatoes on it. He said they were diced but they clearly weren’t. Sometimes he would even put pineapple and ham on it. What kid would eat that? What kid would eat those burgers he would make – the ones with all the garlic and onions in them? Nana would tell them there were starving kids halfway across the world somewhere who would love to have a meal as good as this.
Each time, she would just push her plate away, fold her arms, and stare off across the room at the big clock her Dad made. Each time, she would refuse to eat meals, good meals, made by people who loved her. Now, she’d trample someone without a thought if it meant she could have another piece of Nana’s lasagna. A whole different world.
She motioned with her hand to have another piece of the ration. “Hand me the binos, too,” she said.
“Oh, so now you’re ok with eating these?”
“No. Definitely not ok with it. But…” she motioned again.
Captain Tomaz handed her another chunk of the brittle, tasteless ration, along with the binoculars. Adams had only recently joined her unit but seemed reliable enough, she thought. Most of her unit was new, formed out of remnants of other ones decimated by the initial wave. Adams, and others like her, were barely trained for this. They came from Logistics, Analytics, and the supply depots. Hell, at least two came directly from a mess hall. They came from anywhere and everywhere – particularly once the coasts fell and we were pushed with our backs up against the Rockies on one side and the Appalachians on the other. They all stood up when it looked like we were screwed, she thought. We still might be screwed. That fight in Lansing definitely did not go our way, she thought.
The last eight months had been different, she thought. We tricked those fuckers into thinking they were worse off than they really were, got into their command codes (somehow!) then started working around the edges when they got complacent. A chunk of them were dead or deactivated now, including almost all of that goddamn Nightmare Scythe airborne wing. That thing was fucking terrifying. Watching it finally drop out of the sky was nothing less than exhilarating.
Who would’ve thought the big battles – the decisive ones – would be in the Midwest? All those comics she read as a kid had aliens invading New York, zombies attacking LA, and stuff like that. Nothing ever happened here in the comics. No one ever attacked Aurora, Illinois, or Bowling Green, Ohio. Or any of the other Bowling Greens, she thought. The Midwest was one of the only places to go after they hit both coasts and wiped out our Navy. Even then, it wasn’t ever really safe. Some of the most horrible shit she’d ever seen was in Columbus, in Fort Wayne. In Hersey. That fight in Chillicothe – against that gruesome fucking Mobile Garroting Unit or whatever the hell it was – was just plain evil. It was her and two other units down there, helping get a bunch of Amish families to safety. (Or, was it Mennonite, she thought? She never could remember the difference.) They were on schedule, mostly, until what seemed like the whole world exploded. Fire and ash were everywhere. We could barely breathe or see, then they were on us. These were once manufacturing robots, like for auto parts and stuff, repurposed and rebuilt. They were retrofitted with armor, giant batteries, and solar panels harvested from the former factories they worked in. They waded through us like we weren’t even there.
Now it’s our turn, she thought, smiling slightly as she chewed her rations.
by submission | Apr 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Cold steel from a small revolver in his sweaty palms gave little comfort to Jack Chase, sitting alone amidst feral wheat still struggling in an abandoned field near his grandfather’s rotting farmhouse, long since left to crumble after the 2024 financial collapse. There was no sacred family ground left for a wandering empath, unfit for a corrupt, war-mongering society. No one would notice a misfit who never managed to find a companion or create children. His hands shook while he closed his eyes, the setting sun behind him providing its warmth, messaging his bare neck a final time as the moist soil pushed chills up his spine.
Jack was unaware of a sudden flash of light behind him, hidden within the sun’s diminishing rays. He thought the whoosh of fresh wind was the empty prairie whispering goodbye. Light footsteps escaped him as his weapon pressed his right temple.
“No, Jack. We can’t have that.” A soft feminine voice surprised him near his left ear as a powerful hand twisted his gun from his grasp. He twisted, resisting, finding large, blues eyes and thick, silky blonde hair filling his view. He froze as his intruder tossed the gun.
“Not today, my love. There is much to live for. We waited for you.”
“Waited?” He mumbled. “You’re a hallucination. I had this once before. Am I dead?”
She smiled, calmly. “Not yet. You don’t remember that night? You tried this before, out in the rocky outcrops of Sedona. Did you die from drugs then?”
Jack rubbed his eyes, and then slapped his face.
“I’m real enough, dear Jack.” She pinched his reddened cheeks. “Get on your feet to meet someone to change your life.”
“Who are you? I don’t remember…not your name.”
“We don’t have names. That is your species’ waste of time. We recognize each other in full awareness. Now pay attention.” She was suddenly insistent. “Here is someone anticipating meeting you.”
Jack obeyed, still stunned at the bizarre events. The tall woman moved aside allowing him a full view of a silvery saucer craft. In front of it, moving toward him was a female teenager, also dressed in a shiny one-piece suit like her companion. The blonde visitor held his arm, urging him forward.
“This is ours…our mating.”
Chase’s knees buckled. Vague memories rose from his depression—many nightmares and hypnogogic dreams watching a child mature under orange skies surrounded by unrecognizable forests. They came irregularly. He would wake covered in a cold sweat, fearing for his sanity.
“She…she can’t be.”
“Oh, indeed, she is. For your comfort, I will introduce her as Oneha, meaning an explorer.”
“Why…I…this is too much!” Jack pushed his hands hard into his throbbing temples.
“Perhaps you’re in shock. Come, Oneha, and meet Jack, your father.” The blonde alien drew Jack closer as Oneha reached out, touching his forehead, providing relief and calm. He looked at her hard in the dimming light, scanning her youthful redhead beauty—a doppelganger for his Irish grandmother Elise.
“Time to get on board, Jack. Things are moving quickly. Earth’s magnetic field is changing drastically. Please come along. You’ll be treated well in your new home.”
“I can’t just…just leave, without…”
“Really,” she replied, smiling. “You were about to do that as we landed. There is nothing here for you.”
Jack turned, staring at the farmhouse ruins. He shuddered, reaching for Oneha’s hand and his tall partner’s arm. They walked swiftly into the craft, then zipped past the atmosphere as the ground below them heaved, swallowing the remains of an abandoned homestead.
by submission | Apr 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Gerri Brightwell
We travelled for years before finding a habitable planet. Its one continent would be enough—to the south volcanoes let out wisps of smoke, to the north winds tore across deserts, but between lay a fertile land of easy rivers, and plains creased by the roads of a lost civilisation.
We settled amongst that civilisation’s ruins. Our ships were designed to be taken apart, and from them we built our homes, our schools, our storehouses. Our ships’ machinery we adapted to clear fields long grown wild, while the systems that had protected us in space—the scanners, the alarms, the weapons—we converted to watch over us on this new world. Powering it all was simple enough when we could use the very fuel that had carried us here.
That fuel—in the end, what was spent would need to lie undisturbed for millennia. We scouted sites far from our settlements, far from fault lines and volcanoes, far from the hungry ocean. On the whole continent there was only one such place: beneath a vast northern mountain. To tunnel into it would take years.
By the time the tunnel was almost finished, we had picked clean the hulks of our ships. Children had been born who knew nothing of the dangers of space, and the rest of us gave barely a thought to the sirens perched high on their posts around our settlements. But one autumn afternoon when a cold northern wind was blowing, those sirens screeched to life. It was harvest time and we stood amongst our crops, gazing at the blank skies, at the empty horizon.
It took us too long to understand what that wind was carrying: the toxic decay of a vanished civilisation’s waste, buried deep in the one place it should have lain safe forever.
by submission | Apr 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
Eighty lights is a long way to go for a party, but Prosperina Station orbits Dis, the rogue gas giant PSO J318.5-22, and where there’s no sun, the nightlife never stops. More importantly, the Company had decided that I was due a good time, and they were footing the bill to get me there.
Why? Because I’d just landed the contract to supply exotic fuels for a new fleet of starliners. Without semi-biological gas derivatives, you’re just not leaving the Solar System, and we’re a big player in a cut-throat market. This was a big deal in every sense.
The congratulations came on my first office day back after a mandatory medical. “You’ve got the right stuff, Marty!” said CHRIS, the Corporate Human Resources Intelligence System. “Time we got you out beyond warp!”. An all expenses paid trip to a high class playground where most terrestrial laws don’t apply? How could I say no?
Two weeks later, I stepped off the transit liner Magellan, and settled in for a vacation to remember. Which it turned out to be, if not for the reasons I’d expected.
It started, of course, with a girl. Well okay, several, but this one stood out. No facepaint, which I liked: it was a fad I could do without. None of the obvious sensory implants favoured by the ostentatiously kinky, either; also good, I was still getting my bearings and wasn’t ready to experiment yet.
We ended up making out on a couch in a half-lit lounge with an amazing view of the luminous planetary bands. She scratched my neck in a moment of passion… and then I woke up under harsh ceiling lights, strapped down, with tubes inserted in my arms and unmentionables.
“Welcome back, loverboy,” said a honey-sweet voice in my ear. As she walked to the foot of the recliner that held me, I saw she’d swapped her party outfit for a white lab coat.
“What? Where…?”
“Welcome aboard the gas dredger Cerberus.”
“Not Prosperina?”
She laughed. “No, you’re taking a private cruise, courtesy of your employer.”
I started to get a sinking feeling. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like this. Those exotic fuels you sell? Making them needs catalysts – specifically, blood antigens. Really rare ones. We can synthesise them, but we need to calibrate the process regularly using fresh samples. And guess what? You’re one in ten million, so management signed you up for the donation crew!”
“Empty space! You could have just asked.”
“You might have said no. Or worse, demanded a bonus. That’s not how things work.” She winked.
“So here’s the choice. You can yell and complain, in which case I’ll sedate you for a week, take the necessary anyway, and send you home. Or you go “okay ’Seph”, and I hook you up to the VR so you can have fun for a few days while we draw what we need. That way you get the tail end of your holiday. Or,” she leaned in closer, “you say “Yes please, Miss Persephone”, in which case I slip some of my personal content into the VR, reschedule you for a later flight back, and then show you what Prosperina really has to offer. Your call.” She smiled.
Well I mean, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, right? I’ve already volunteered to go back and donate again next year. It would be irresponsible not to. After all, like HR said, I’m made of the right stuff.
