by submission | May 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Stuart Watson
Overtime became mandatory. The “client” (no one knew who, whether nation or corporation or social medium) had insisted that they move their original deadline forward. Something about a solution to climate change.
Ben told Phil and the others about the “product rush.”
“Home time is canceled,” he said. “Sleep under your desks.”
Phil supervised five N-Bs (“NoBodies” they joked). He had a boss, who had a boss, and so on. He called his wife.
Sarah started to cry. “Use your toy,” he said.
They needed to deliver their drones in a week. They believed in their mission, worked as if possessed, shipped two days early. Ben called Phil to his office.
“Great work,” he said. “The client is elated. They’ve ordered thousands more.”
But there was a problem. The strain had prompted three second-level bosses to quit. Just quit. Stood up and walked out. No exit interview, no notice, nada, zip, zilch.
Phil saw a chance to move up. Ben agreed that Phil deserved promotion. But his boss hadn’t authorized direct hires or advancements. The pressure had forced several team leaders like Phil to quit. In a perverse bureaucratic twist, Ben was authorized to hire the quitters back as higher-level bosses.
“You’re shitting me,” Phil said. “You can’t just promote me? I have to quit so you can rehire me to supervise my replacement?”
“You really deserve it,” Ben said. “Think about it.”
So Phil quit. Two days later, he called Ben.
“Can I apply?”
“Sorry, but H.R. says all those positions have been euthanized,” Ben said.
Phil sat at his desk, holding his head. He could hear his pulse. A buzzing circled his inner skull, like motorcycles on a banked motordrome.
Phil realized the buzzing came from outside, like rain from above, a sprinkle to a downpour. As it did, the midday sun started to fade. He looked out the window. Overhead, the sky had shrunk to an oval pool of light, darkness doming downward toward the horizon.
The pool grew smaller.
A swarm of drones blanketed the sky, drawing tight the horizons, like the purse string on a fishing seine, slowly cutting off escape. Less and less sunlight leaked through. Temperatures dropped. Global warming came to a halt, slipped slowly into reverse.
Phil felt himself grow faint, struggling to take in his shrunken share. Beneath the drone canopy, no sunlight, no photosynthesis, no oxygen.
He went looking for his wife. She was in bed.
He lay near her. The buzzing grew louder. Not outside. Inside, beneath the blanket. He waited until his wife finished with her toy, then reached for her.
by submission | May 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
“And so, we commit their earthly remains to the vastness of space and we ask and pray that their brave souls be granted the peace and tranquillity that they so richly deserve. Amen.”
The two astronauts, standing in the open airlock, pushed the sealed body-bags out into space. Captain Jennings and the rest of the crew, standing on the bridge in solemn silence, watched events on one of the ship’s monitors.
Jennings turned to face the small video camera held by Patterson.
“And now, myself and the crew need some time alone to mourn the loss of our colleagues, our friends,” he said. “This is Neriene One, signing off.”
Jennings continued to stare at the camera, a dignified look etched on his face, until Patterson confirmed “That’s the live-stream cut. We’re clear!”
Letting out a deep breath, Jennings crumpled into a nearby seat. For a moment he looked so old and tired, but then he sat up straight and recovered his air of authority.
“Jim, make sure Imran and Cheryl get in safely,” he ordered, “We can’t afford any more losses at this point.”
“Roger that!” mumbled Jim Patterson. He headed off down the corridor towards the aft airlock.
Jennings turned to Danielle Brooks, the ship’s doctor.
“Danny, do you know what you have to do?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “Mission Control’s briefing was quite comprehensive. I should have no physical problem doing what’s needed. I’ve done autopsies before. This won’t be much different.”
“And emotionally?” Jennings asked, “I know you and Stephen were close.”
Danny grimaced.
“Nothing that ten years of therapy won’t sort out once we get home!”
“Okay. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
Danny shook her head, slowly, deliberately.
“If I do it myself, then that’s less trauma for everyone else to deal with. Anyway, in space, no-one can hear you retch!”
Jennings gave a tight smile in response.
Danny moved off and Jennings took a moment out to centre himself. Three months ago he’d made history as the first human to set foot on Mars. The mission had gone flawlessly and they were now two months into their return voyage. It seemed that all they had to do was coast home and pick up their medals.
The meteor shower had other ideas. Little pieces of rock, small enough to sit in the palm of your hand. Twenty-four hours ago they’d cut through the ship like a hail of bullets. Four dead crew. A tragedy, but survivable. The damage to the greenhouse and their food stores though – that was a catastrophe.
Their return journey would take five months. Even with a reduced crew on starvation rations, they now only had food for three months. The ship would return to Earth orbit as their mausoleum.
Then some ghoul at Mission Control came up with an idea. From a movie, of all places. It would still be tight, but the extra protein should ensure their survival. Jennings watched the monitor, still tracking the fading body-bags. The body-bags filled with the ship’s trash. Mission Control was clear. No one would ever know. The whole thing would be classified Top Secret.
They would start with their next meal. Just a little, to get them ‘psychologically acclimatised’ to the idea as quickly as possible. Jennings hated the whole situation, but their very survival was at stake. He shook his head in disgust. What sort of idiot comes up with an idea like this? What kind of sick individual would watch a movie called “Attack of the Martian Cannibals” anyway?
by submission | May 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Chana Kohl
With my blade’s edge poised and a steady hand, I watched a decade of locs fall into the sink. A military uniform, once diligently maintained, hung lifeless in a closet. A soft tunic slid across my clean-shaven head, worn over jute trousers, and cinched, not by a tactical belt, but with a long, violet sash of Tasserian worm silk.
Afterward I gazed at my reflection in the rain-slickened window, searching for someone I recognized.
After war ripped the planet to shreds, citizens on both sides scrambled for haven. From my duplex balcony, squinting past the murky hills outside the Capital, I saw lights from the orbital tower pierce the night sky.
I hoped to escape this ravaged rock altogether.
A few kilometers past Capital walls, piles of vehicles smoldered. A last line of resistance, the fortress of charred metal and burning rubber seemed a fitting symbol for the Cause, a movement my father, a staunch Capital loyalist, vehemently believed in.
Until he was executed by the Roenthosi.
My mother was Roenthosi. When the Capital tried to execute global dominance, her people fought them like Shihavian devils, eventually winning control of the planet’s major roads and ports, including the launch ring. Cut from vital resources, the Capital folded.
Then it crumbled.
The only thing that stood between me and freedom’s promise on a new world was to pass the crucible that was once my homeland—while avoiding any connection with the Capital.
I packed a modest bag, my maternal family’s documents and, under the cover of night, I snuck past city walls. I never looked back.
On the maglev outside Pirclav, I sat across from an elderly Roenthosi woman and a small boy— I forced myself not to stare— how much she reminded me of my grandmother! Despite any actions I took performing my duty to the Capital, however distasteful… it was understandably, I would argue, in the name of survival. I never once believed the Roenthosi were my enemy.
Some of my happiest memories from childhood, like bittersweet wine, were bottled and corked in Roenthos.
I asked the woman, in my mother tongue, if I could give the boy some fruit and a chocolate. She smiled and he ate gratefully.
When the shuttle reached the orbital tower, a patrolman checked my documentation. The lines of his face flattened, then tightened as he pulled me aside.
“Your chip confirms your birthplace as ‘Rantos’, yet you were educated in the Capital, Mr… Ryogi?” He scrutinized my features as if to ascertain my ancestry.
“My mother’s family is from Roenthos,” I said, clearly correcting his, most likely, deliberate mispronunciation. “My father… was a diplomat.”
“Of course,” he didn’t sound convinced. “You’re alone?”
I ignored the cold heat prickling my face and neck and instinct grabbed hold, “See, over there?” I pointed to the elderly woman and child at the elevator gate. I mustered every artifice I could construct, every convincing demeanor, “That’s my aunt and nephew.” Then I casually smiled and waved across the hub.
They waved and smiled back.
“OK, then,” his smile, wry and cold, “If it’s as you say, what’s the safest road from Roenthos?”
Of course, I didn’t know there were no roads from Roenthos. At least not anymore. The only way in or out of the fragmented city was through the old sewer tunnels. But all I could think of were the picnics spent in my youth with my grandmother, and the memory of a forever winding road that skirted the edge of a serene sea.
It’s what I think of now, as I await my execution.
by submission | May 15, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Henson
I motion toward the two interns. “You can all come in now.” Unpronounceable frowns at me. “I mean, both of you,” I say. The three enter my office.
The two students leave after I give them their assignments. “You need to be more careful,” Unpronounceable says.
“They just think I’m an absent-minded professor. They’ve no idea you’re shadowing me. For all I know, other Triplorians are studying them, too.” I search Unpronounceable’s face for a clue as to whether I’m right, but he learned well from observing one of my poker nights.
Unpronounceable appears as a human to me, but no one else can see him. At first, I thought I was losing my mind. So did everyone I told about him. The more he reveals about what he’s doing on earth, and the more I try to warn people, the crazier they think I am. You’d think someone else who’s being shadowed would come forward and support me.
“I’d like to go to a laundromat this evening,” Unpronounceable says.
“What on earth for … pardon the pun.” I chuckle.
“I want to go to the laundromat because it’s part of the human experience. I don’t want to stick out like a dirty shirt the first time on my own. Pardon the pun.” He chuckles.
“You could ask someone there for help. It’s a good way to meet people.”
Unpronounceable strides to the bookcase in my office and pulls out a volume by Ray Bradbury. “I read this last night while you were sleeping, which, I must say, is a waste of time I’m not looking forward to. This fellow was prescient.” He slides the book back. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he says. “There are only two of us here. My wife and I.”
Unpronounceable already had explained that he’d learned much about human behavior from remote research and, when he finished studying me first hand, he’d take on a human identity. “Given your mission,” I say, “I assumed there were countless other Triplorians here. There’s just two of you?” I raise my eyebrows and turn my palms upward.
“Two per world is all we can spare. We have billions of planets to populate after all. And we’re a patient people. My wife and I will have a large family, fertile and virile. Our DNA, as you call it, is quite dominant so after many generations, when I’m long dead and buried, everyone on earth will be predominantly Triplorian. Understand?” He raises his eyebrows and turns his palms upward.
“You’re being optimistic. I’m afraid we might destroy the place first.” I squeeze my lips together and shake my head.
“Our simulations suggest you folks will turn things around. This could be a lovely place one day. Eventually, with our help, Triploearth can be a paradise.” He squeezes his lips together and shakes his head.
“Uh … That’s for something bad, not … oh, never mind.”
One morning I wake up, and Unpronounceable is gone. Has he moved on to the next phase of his mission? Have new simulations caused it to be abandoned? Or was it all my imagination?
A couple months later, I’m about to place an order in my favorite cafe when the fellow beside me asks for two peppermint chocolate mochas. He gives his name — Adam — and says “My wife and I love these.” Then he squeezes his lips together and shakes his head.
Adam? That inappropriate gesture? Could it be? I watch as he turns toward a table behind us. “Betty, honey,” he says “I forgot my wallet. Can you come pay?”
by submission | May 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Alfred C. Airone
I awoke in completely unfamiliar surroundings, not remembering having gone to sleep.
There was someone else in the bed with me. I turned and saw her: cropped copper-red hair, perfect face, lips slightly parted, still asleep. I recognized her immediately: Rho Rondella, the fictional owner and captain of the equally fictional interstellar spacecraft Furious.
It worked, I thought, and into my silent jubilation there came a sound: the noise of all the scornful criticisms of my theories crashing to the floor like broken glassware. I had traveled to the future – a future that I had made real. A future that had previously existed only in a science-fiction novel I had read and re-read many times. A future I had created by hard science and uncertain devices coupled with ten thousand acts of choosing. A future plucked from among the Hydra-headed Potential, the not yet real.
I let her sleep. We were obviously already well acquainted.
