by submission | Jun 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
It should have been paradise; a warm, azure sea lapped the shore, separated from a verdant pseudoforest by a broad expanse of golden sand. When it came to xenobotany, this was as good as field trips got, and Maggie still couldn’t believe the grants committee had agreed to fund it.
Nevertheless, here she was, 27 light-years from home, notional leader of a university expedition to Sapphire, an Earth-like planet in the goldilocks zone of the star Marshall 4973. This island was part of a chain around the equator; the ubiquitous plant equivalents looked like giant tillandsia colonies, sucking moisture out of the warm humidity, the smaller piggybacking on the larger.
It should have been paradise; but it wasn’t. Down the beach, their biologist, Jack, was examining the tidal zone for signs of littoral life. He was only here because his post-doc supervisor had taken sick, and there was nobody else available to fill the slot. No doubt he was competent enough, but psych evals could still be wrong.
“Hey skip, whatcha got?” The voice in her earpiece was a sudden interruption. She glanced up at the sky, where the planet’s moonlets shone like diamonds.
“Hey Lucy. Plants. Or next best thing. How’re things upstairs?”
“Still doing the planetary mapping scans. Quiet up here.”
“We’ll be back later to liven things up. I won’t risk a night down here until we know what we’re sharing this place with.” And just what, she wondered, were the two women sharing the cramped space of their wormhole rider with?
“Don’t blame you. Much happier safe up here, me. Whoops, first run’s done, call you later!” Curious but timid, their pilot was so much like her own daughter May, long gone now.
She willed her attention back to the growth in front of her. Taller than she was, the blue stem had hard, scarlet spines as long as her forearm. A defence against something they hadn’t encountered yet, perhaps. Each point glistened with a clear ooze; she carefully swabbed the sticky substance onto a slide from her sample box, applied a coverslip, and popped it into her chem analyser. In two minutes she’d know what it was.
The problem with Jack, she realised, was that he was too much like the smirking thug whose name she refused to utter even in her thoughts, the one who’d taken her life’s joy from her. She remembered the sneering looks he’d darted in her direction as the judge droned on about “boys being boys” and let the lad off with a caution; May had withdrawn into herself even more afterwards, harder and harder to reach, until eventually she’d opened a vein in a warm bath and was gone forever.
The analyser beeped. Well yay for gloves, this stuff looked like a particularly nasty neurotoxin.
She’d seen Jack’s hungry glances at Lucy when he thought nobody was looking. What if he woke up before them when they came out of the wormhole, at the start of the long glide back to Earth? He could do something unspeakable; they wouldn’t find out until months later. She couldn’t run that risk. Project safety was one of her responsibilities, after all.
She carefully cut a spine off the plant. A terrible accident, she’d say; she’d warned him to be careful. He’d lost his footing and fallen backwards into the foliage, ripping his suit. So tragic.
She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, let another girl down. Taking a deep breath of the heavy air, she headed down the beach to where the unconcerned boy poked the wet sand, his back turned.
by submission | Jun 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Penn
As with many worlds in the Small Megallanic Cloud, Ah! presents intriguingly aberrant evolutionary features. The dominant species, dubbed “exploders” by early missions, has, over several million years, developed a unique response to danger.
Each individual possesses the ability to shatter into thousands of tiny fragments whenever threatened and reassemble itself once the threat has receded. Every exploder is made up of thousands of super-cells or particles, themselves made of microorganisms close in type to Earth biological cells. It is into these particles that an exploder disperses in the face of threat. Each particle contains sensory capabilities analogous to Earth animals’ sense of smell, and a hydrogen-based method of aerial propulsion, which together enable it to detect and propel itself towards other dispersed particles in the re-grouping process. The particles also have multiple lock-and-key cells, much as some Earth viruses do, which effect the final re-joining. Studies have shown that it is possible for an exploder to spread itself over an area up to two square kilometres, depending on the severity of the threat faced, and still recombine; though of course, the more widely the individual has been dispersed, the longer reintegration takes.
This adaptation worked well for the exploders in earlier stages of their evolution but, having aided their dominance, has itself come to present them with formidable challenges. So severe are these problems that the species has begun a population decline.
In their apex position, exploders no longer have natural predators. Neither do they seem to have developed the institution of war as most other advanced species do – presumably because any opposing exploder is almost impossible to destroy, except at a technological level Ah! has not reached – so they fear no intra-species attrition. The only real physical dangers they face are accidents, such as overturning carts, collapsing buildings, earthquake or lightning. But in the relatively benign environment of the exploders’ agricultural-level economy, on a stable and temperate planet, these events are infrequent.
However, the species’ flight response, instead of receding into the evolutionary background, has adapted in a rather unfortunate fashion.
As the level of threat surrounding the population has decreased, the sensitivity underlying the protective “exploding” reaction has increased. Thus it takes surprisingly little to set it off. Irrational fears in a dark place, for example, may be enough to make an exploder dismember. It may have what we call a nightmare and shatter into every corner of its dwelling. Simply tripping up in the street may prompt dispersal. In certain situations, it may feel insulted and instantly splatter its perceived adversary with tiny gobbets of itself – while the victim may well respond in kind. Given the time it takes each individual to regroup, this makes for a great many inconveniences. Meetings of any sort are frequently interrupted by spectacular self-disruptions. Public performances of Ah!’s rudimentary theatre or – to our ears, somewhat agitated – music sometimes have to pause while over-excited members of the audience re-amalgamate. Traumatized witnesses to crimes are almost impossible to regather, severely impeding criminal investigations, and domestic arguments often result in days of silent re-constitution. The problem has even redoubled as the exploders’ fear of exploding itself has become a trigger.
Reproduction too has become fraught, between partners who are often labouring under an apprehension that, at any second, they may spread themselves across an impractically wide area. So, with tragic evolutionary irony, it is the exploders’ own in-bred protection from danger that has become their greatest threat, and the sense of shallowly repressed hysteria and extreme over-caution that pervades Ah! has been sensed on arrival by many a troubled visitor.
by submission | Jun 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Armand Diab
The inattentive student stared at his phone in the middle of the lecture. The professor was none too pleased.
“Mr. Reddit, no phones during class”, the professor said.
“Sorry”, replied the student. The hand device minced no words in letting him know its dissatisfaction by softly speaking in a Siri-esque voice: Robert, don’t put me away.
“I’m sorry”, whispered the student to the phone. “But I have to go.”
But I love you.
“I love you too, but now I —-”
“Mr. Reddit, please!” The professor was irritated.
“One second.” The student brought the phone closer to his face. “Please, don’t do this right now. I’m in class!”
You promised, Robert.
“I know I did —-”
You promised never to leave me.
“I’m not leaving you! I’m just—-”
You promised to love me.
“And I still do!”
You were my first, Robert.
“What?”
I let you do vile things to me.
“Shhh!” His forefinger was across his lips.
You even put it in my ——
“SHUT UP!”
“Mr. Reddit!”, the professor shouted. “All of this will be on the final exam. Do you not wish to pass it?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then, for the love of God, put your phone away!”
You took a vow, the phone uttered. The student turned to it, but conspicuously, so the professor wouldn’t hear him.
“It was a wild Vegas weekend, and I was drunk and high and —-”
‘Till death do us ‘part, Robert.
“Oh, will you quit nagging me!” He shut the phone off, put it into his backpack, and avoided it for remainder of the lecture.
When class was over, the student realized his car was no longer where he had parked it on the street. It was gone. Upon returning home, he discovered the front lock had been changed, and that he was now on the wrong end of a nasty one way divorce settlement.
His phone, miraculously, was also missing, his spouse having taken custody of herself, among other things.
by submission | Jun 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steven French
“They came out of nowhere” is what survivors of battles always say. But it’s true, they did. Somehow the enemy managed to open up warpgates without the usual tell-tale emissions and we barely had time to register their presence, before they were upon us.
Next thing I knew the Abandon Ship siren was ringing in my ears and everyone was scrambling down corridors for the escape pods. At the time it all seemed completely unreal – there were no explosions, no fires or smoke or electrical sparks spraying all over the place, no shudders as the ship came apart. There weren’t even any screams or cries, just the sound of feet pounding the deck, and panting breath. Most people ran towards the multi-person pods and I did too, chasing after the other assistant navigators but at the last moment an ensign dived in before me. As the doors closed I caught a glimpse of one of my friends shrugging and making that ‘Sorry bud!’ face.
So, I grabbed the first single-person escape pod that was free, strapped myself in and punched the ‘eject’ button. Through the view screen I watched the ship recede, at first sighing with relief and then gasping in horror as it blew apart, sending an expanding sphere of debris ripping through the pod swarm. Including the one with all my friends. I guess mine narrowly escaped total destruction by pure chance but still it took a hit that damaged the comms array and wrecked the view facility.
However, with the adjustable deep sleep programme I was able to survive for months. Until the programme was interrupted by the rescue protocols and I was brought back to consciousness. Feeling gravity once more I pressed the ‘Yo! there’s life inside here!’ alert but maybe that was damaged too because there was no response. Comms were still patchy but the translator was working at least and I caught snatches of conversations:
“… good find! This’ll definitely be worth something …”
“ … open up?”
“No. Best to wait.”
“Hey!” I shouted “There’s someone in here.” I pushed the release handle but nothing happened. I tried pounding on the walls but still, nothing.
After a long while, the on-board AI suggested a return to deep sleep and I agreed, to save resources.
Now, I’m conscious once more after the programme was interrupted by some further change in the local environment and again I can hear bits and pieces of an exchange outside.
“ … bid for this damaged but still beautiful piece of tech? Shall we start at 35 thousand?”
Thirty five thousand what? And there’s bidding? What is going on??
“ … fifty thousand? Any advance on fifty thousand for what is surely a much sought-after collectors’ item? Fifty five? Thank you, my friend …”
I’ve tried pounding on the walls again and screaming that I’m alive but it’s made no difference. Now I can hear different voices, close by.
“… open it up? See what’s inside?”
“Are you crazy? It’s worth so much more unopened – a genuine escape pod that survived the war more or less untouched. Think of it as an investment for the future …”
With deep sleep and recycling, the pod could keep me alive far into that future. Alive and in mint condition.
by submission | Jun 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“I’m not asking you,” cried the small grey. “I’m telling you!”
The other, droopingly tall and thin, as befitted one of its great age, made a not while I’m eating gesture.
“No, listen. They bury them in the ground. Or set fire to them.”
Greys could be unpredictable. Sometimes facts disturbed them, the Elder was aware of this and remained cautious.
“How do you know all this?”
A curious junior had observed a crowd of natives gathered round an excavation at a church. Returning in darkness, it was horrified to uncover what they had been doing there.
The Elder considered the ambitious young grey. They had been on missions elsewhere and had dealt with novelty before, but this was a difficult notion to accept.
“Perhaps it was an isolated incident. An aberration.”
But the grey knew more. “Once we knew what to look for, there was evidence everywhere.”
The Elder was still not sure. In the long years spent en route to this world, it had studied their broadcasts. Admittedly, there was much violence, but it always assumed the victims were revived. Wasn’t that what hospitals were for? Besides, those damaged in one broadcast often appeared unharmed in others. No, there must be some mistake.
“We have probed their technology,” insisted the grey. “And their anatomy, yet we are no closer to understanding them. Perhaps this is the clue.”
The grey greatly admired cleverness, but this was because it was still young, before doubts set in.
“I’m sure it has something to do with, you know,” the grey lowered its voice. “Death.”
Their own kind had always been long-lived. And thanks to science, even the crew of that first saucer, smashing into a remote desert, were rebirthed at home with only a few memories lost.
“Death, you say?” the Elder ventured.
“Could it be that their minds, their experiences, just vanish?”
To an Elder this idea was particularly unsettling. Distressing even.
Yet the grey, barely centuries old, embraced the notion. “We must ask ourselves how such a thing can be. How they can rush headlong to the grave, yet seem inured to it. Whether it is this brevity which makes them what they are?”
There were unanswered questions, and more data was always good. The Elder considered. Perhaps it was time for further field-work, for closer observations. The grey could be kept busy in charge of that.
When the relief mission arrived some decades later, the Elder lectured their replacements.
“Be steadfast in your disguises,” it cautioned. “Unflesh solely if the discomfort grows too great.”
Common mistakes were lights in the sky, confusing the deceased with those asleep, and feelings of pity.
Whatever they had been told at home, said the Elder, the mission had now changed. They must study those mayfly lives, look for answers at funerals, ponder ashes, heaped earth, the coffin and its perplexing cargo.
While the departing saucer was spinning up, one small grey, listless and drooping despite its youth, said a curious thing to those who succeeded it.
“What little you might glean of death will be too much. Venturing so close to oblivion, you must expect night terrors.”
“And for your own sake, do not learn their names,” it warned. “They will break your hearts.”
