by submission | Jun 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: Chana Kohl
When my ship touched down on the small moon of E’lyrvst III, nothing struck me particularly outside the ordinary. Host to the largest salvage yard in the sector, V’hara, the proprietor, was known across the explored galaxy for her business acumen and political influence. Visitors could anticipate technological expertise, unrivaled hospitality, and lively entertainment, all while buffered from the palpable heat of an unending desert landscape.
And I needed spare parts.
Her establishment looked much like the caravanserai of Old Earth. An oasis by day, courtyards and alleyways hummed with the bustle of traders and merchants. But as the sun dipped lower, I felt the atmosphere change: hand drummers thumped ancient rhythms as patrons placed their bets. Tellers behind impenetrable windows took wagers from over thirty worlds. Something of importance was taking place and the entire sector was invested.
“Captain Roiz,” V’hara greeted me graciously, “I’m glad you agreed to spend the night planet side while your order is prepared. You’ll find the waiting less terribly dull.” Her eyes glinted like almandine jewels.
After a round of drinks and a light repast, the open courtyard dimmed. A circle of torches kindled, and a ring announcer’s voice boomed, “Distinguished guests, spectators from across this system and beyond, welcome to the match you’ve all been waiting for!”
The stomping of feet by viewers in the stands reverberated like a herd of wildebeests.
“To my right, the emperor of Talsya IV, the tenth-generation successor to the throne,” raising his hand towards the balding, heavy-set man next to him. “Perhaps after tonight, the Talsyans will need to crown the eleventh!”
“And on my left, President Ulrysus Aixt. After 72 consecutive years in elected office, he has served planet Lexuros with distinction. Unfortunately, tonight might be his permanent retirement!”
“Is this for real?” I glanced at my hostess in disbelief. She simply popped an hors d’oeuvre and smiled, “Did you place your bet?”
A brass gong resounded, and the Emperor made the opening move, lunging for the President. The older man, more spry than I first gave him credit for, dodged in time. Both fists came down hard between his opponent’s shoulder blades. The emperor fell to his knees.
“I’m sorry,” my concerns finally found their voice. “What exactly am I watching right now??”
“In our sector, whenever two worlds cannot resolve their disagreements through civil negotiation, the leaders of those worlds must resolve it here, in a fight to the death. It’s the law,” she added, “by popular vote.”
“And you condone this, this…” I reached for the right word. “Brutality?”
“Condone it? I lobbied for it myself! More than half of this sector’s population are of fighting age, likely to be drafted at the whim of any given autocrat. ‘Why can’t everyone get the chance to grow old and fat?’ I asked myself.
“Getting the legislation passed was a piece of cake,” she continued. “The maternal demographic is what did it, actually. Once mothers realized they no longer had to send their daughters and sons to war anymore, the corpus politicus didn’t stand a chance.”
The President had the Emperor in a camel clutch, gnawing at his ear. “C’mon!’ I shot her serious side-eye. “That’s legal??”
A sudden, awful crunch of cartilage and bone echoed through the arena. The Emperor was face down, arms spread defenseless, one leg akimbo. An eerie hush fell, then the crowd roared approval.
“This is barbaric!” I told her. “There’s absolutely no place for something like this in civilized society.”
“Maybe,” she answered, taking a long draw from a gold-plated hookah, “But the ratings are through the roof!”
by submission | Jun 11, 2022 | Story |
Author: Fatemah Albader
The only certainty in life is that it will eventually come to an end.
But what if there was a way to know exactly, with 100-percent certainty, when your life will end? Would you want to know?
If you said yes, I’d rethink that if I were you.
Consider Pete. He was one of the first to go through The Program. He got his death date three years ago when it was still in beta testing. Back then, you wouldn’t know the exact date, just the day of the week. Pete got Wednesday. Every week, he follows the same routine. He arrives at Mercy Hospital on Tuesday evening, and, by early morning on Thursday, he checks himself out. I wondered if that was Pete’s way of cheating death. Then again, Pete didn’t know how he’d die, just when. Yet, being at the hospital on Wednesdays seemed to bring Pete some comfort, at least that’s what it looked like to me.
And the problem is, once you go through The Program, you cannot go through it again. Even though it has changed drastically since it first began, Pete’s stuck with knowing that his death date will fall on a Wednesday, and never the exact day.
Then there’s Emily. She won the lottery and got her death date six months ago, back when going through The Program was still a choice. Ever since, she’s been too afraid to leave her home. She was told that her death date would take place between 40 and 45. She’s 43 now.
And one mustn’t forget about Leah. She didn’t want her newborn to go through The Program. But they came for him about a month ago, on the day that he was born, now that it’s the law. It’s considered necessary for the efficient use of each person and his role in society. Her kid Noah was given a death date of seven years from now. Deemed untrainable, he was taken from Leah and sent to live out the rest of his days in The Group Home for Untrainables.
As for me, I have no qualms of retaliation from The Program for writing this short. My death date is tomorrow.
And sooner or later, you’re next. And when death calls, you’ll have no choice but to answer.
by submission | Jun 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rosie Oliver
An idealised woman never existed. She is an imagined blend of traits in a single glorious perfection, a beautiful Frankenstein of personalities. Not one considered as part of the crowd or an asset to be used or abused by another, but a woman who stands out for her learning, physique, skills and above all, bravery in the face of threats and worse.
She has a virtue for every occasion. There is the courage of Saint Catherine who faced the might of Rome to stay true to her faith. Here is practicality of Saint Dorothea who fled with nothing but the clothes on her back from a brutal marriage. Over there is the independent-thinking Hypatia, martyred because she dared to speak the truth to rulers. All these lived and died in ancient Alexandria. Think what a melding of these women could have done for ancient civilisation.
We want someone like this now to stop the worldwide eco-destabilisation, supply failures and fear-engendered riots. Who would have thought this could happen in 3,222 when we control so much? We even have designer genes to fit us into our environment no matter where we are in our Solar System. Maybe we have made our souls too simplistic. Who knows?
The expanse of our history produced so few who come anywhere close to the nurturing leader we need. One such is Artemisia Gentileschi. Her self-portrait as Saint Catherine shows signs of her vitality, common sense and empathy. She faced her own ordeals, but put the horror of her rape and consequent trial with its torture by thumbscrews behind her. As a prolific court painter, her art demonstrated verve and energy. A loophole in the law of the day let her paint live model nudes when men could not, giving her portraits the cultural edge. She understood Galileo’s discoveries in science and maths well enough to include his results in her pictures like ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’.
We need an inspiring leader to plan, explain what needs to be done and do so in a nuanced way to satisfy all politicians. Artemisia with her progressive depiction, delicate shading and perspective promises much for this profile. She is a good a starting point.
I did my best to reconstruct her genome using the DNA of distant relatives. There were gaps, some blank, others with choices. Her history helped me estimate how environmental factors would shape her gene expression. Known leadership genes plugged many gaps and I edited out her weaknesses, a lot were shrewd guesses.
We inserted this genome into a ‘blank’ clone. The result looks viable and so like her. Her pale skin has touches of pink where the blood flows near its surface. Her arched eyebrows and short fuzz of hair are brown. Her long fingers are developed for delicate work. She is ready to come out of her induced coma and lead us away from insanity.
I, a woman, give the order to waken Artemisia’s ghost, more like her shadow made into a superlative leader.
by submission | Jun 9, 2022 | Story |
Author: Maryfaith Ocampo
I authorize the usage, study, and replication of my gametic cells.
I grant the genetic clinics permission to edit my Genetically Modified Human (GMH) as they deem fit. I understand that there are unknown risks of experimentation with newer sequences and synthesized proteins.
I confirm that the financial information I provided is correct. The genetic clinics are not responsible for money lost after transferring is complete (please allow 3 to 5 business days for this transaction).
Due to the extreme changes in the environment, I understand that scientists will prioritize survival over aesthetics. These traits may include, but are not limited to, the production of toxic substances, intolerance to certain temperatures, and vulnerability to certain food. If I cannot provide care that meets these demands, I will return my GMH to the nearest gene clinic.
If I am in immediate danger due to my GMH’s genetic modifications, I am obligated to trigger “Total Apoptosis” with the fob provided. I understand that this will permanently scramble the modified sequences of my GMH and cause the cells responsible for the expression of genetically modified traits to self-destruct. Possible side effects of “Total Apoptosis” include, but are not limited to, increased vulnerability to environmental changes (extreme temperature, acidity, air quality, etc.) and death. If I do not trigger “Total Apoptosis” I risk endangering myself and those around me.
The genetic clinics who created my GMH are not responsible for destruction of property or loss of human life caused by it.
by submission | Jun 8, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Meds failed Jeremy Paloo, leaving him restless, sweating under the ship’s ventilation over his bunk. Newbie deep space fever—no crime struggling with it during maiden voyages outside the solar system, but embarrassing for executive officers. He felt something crawling, inching over his fevered chest in the cabin darkness. Jeremy scrambled, terrified, calling out for lights, then springing off his soaked mattress.
“What the hell!” he swore, watching a tiny, indistinct iridescent bug skittle across the floor, then disappear through the solid metal hull. “I can’t take this anymore. Hallucinations—can’t have them on duty. Melissa,” he commanded the monitor system, “Is Clemson up? I need her in my quarters.”
A soft, gentle voice replied, “Yes, Lieutenant. Would you like me to request her visit now?”
“Yes, and tell her it’s urgent.”
Paloo splashed water over his sweltering face while awaiting the arrival of the ship’s doctor. He noticed small itchy red spots on his chest. No imagination there. Probably a med side effect rash.
His doorway request bell rang. “Enter,” Paloo yelled, catching his overreaction too late.
Clemson’s petite blond figure left a black outline against the hall lighting as she moved cautiously inside. “Still no luck on the sleep, Jeremy?”
“None, Doc, and worse. Now the crazies got me. Bad enough with fever and sweats, but now I’m seeing creepy crawlies. I’ve got drug rashes on my chest. See, look.”
“Sit down over here for a sec.” She pointed for them to move to his visitor seating area. Clemson pressed on the red dots and shook her head slightly. “Time has come to brief you, Jeremy. We aren’t supposed to until necessary. You’ve got a case of the iddy-biddies.”
Jeremy had no mood for jokes, giving the middle-aged woman a hard stare. “I’d didn’t call for humor in the middle of my sleep shift. I’ve got to perform the next shift. I’m a wreck. I’m seeing…”
“The tiny life form that goes through walls, right?”
Paloo sat upright, wide-eyed. “Don’t even tell me that thing was…no way.”
She touched his shoulder lightly. “It’s a top-secret that only those on interstellar flights know about. It’s forbidden to tell anyone but the crew. Wonder how we won the war against those bastards from Orion?”
“What’s that got to do with my…am I going nuts?”
“No, Lieutenant. The children onboard our early deep space missions were the first contacts. Parents thought they were having invisible friend issues until little red spots appeared occasionally…not enough blood loss to cause harm, but irritating without treatment gel. Here, rub this on those marks. The children called them iddy-biddies. It stuck. We adapted to them.”
“Now who needs medication, Doc?”
She chuckled. “We beat the Orions because of advanced heat-shield modifications offered by the alien council for our early explorations. We knew it was something our allies collected in the sun’s chromospheres, but we didn’t know it was alive. Their technology wove these small beings into hull shielding so we could survive incredible temperatures and magnetic anomalies of deep space. That’s how our fighters survived Orion weapons. These sun spirits reverted enemy plasma blasts, sending them directly back at attackers. We had no idea. We kept it under wraps, never giving the iddy-biddies credit.”
“Are you expecting me to believe we’re letting miniature vampires live off our crew for our ship’s protection?”
“Yes. They’re drawn to heat…especially fever and children’s high metabolism when we’re in cold space.”
“I’ll be damned. What next?”
“Well, you’re cured. No more space sickness. Their bites treat it. Consider it a blessing.”
