by submission | Jun 15, 2022 | Story |
Author: D. I. Dean
Room 2248 was quiet, save for the distant hum of the starship engines. She held Sarai’s good fingers in her hand, unsure if he even knew that she was there, but this was the least she could do; take up space next to him, watching the stuttering rise and fall of his chest.
She found the fingers of her free hand running along the warm glass of the bedside table. The sensation was a welcomed distraction. It was almost soothing, the way that the tips of her fingers prickled and cooled as she pulled – because it felt like she was pulling – frost to the glass beneath her palms. It traced where her fingers went along the surface, leaving intricate crystalline patterns behind.
She hadn’t told anyone about it yet. She wanted to know more about what this was before that, though she knew The Sodality would find out eventually. Their sigil branded everything in the room; the light-barrier entrance, the viewport window, the slowing heart rate monitor…
She cooled the glass again. It was cold where she had touched it, sure, but she didn’t feel cold. Her fingers felt frosty but not frost-bitten. Not like Sarai’s. She held the frost longer. She held it until her hand cramped and ached, and her fingers burned. No matter what she felt, her skin never turned purple. If she took her focus from the frost, then she knew her hand would feel normal again too.
She didn’t want this. She would give it up in a heartbeat if it meant saving Sarai. Maybe there was time. She could go to the Ministry of Science. They could study it, figure out something, and then- and then what? The heat of the room sent sweat rolling down her back and did nothing to stop the purple blisters creeping over Sarai’s chest. If she went to The Ministry’s marble chambers, part of her knew that she would never leave. And Sarai would still be dead by morning.
Despite the machines around them, the room remained eerily quiet. She looked at the monitors just to make sure they were still working. Lines and numbers that she didn’t understand still appeared on the screen, however useless they might be. Not just the machines, no, she was useless too. If such a strange ability were to show up in her life now, then why couldn’t it be useful? Healing?
Why couldn’t whatever was taking Sarai take her too? Maybe it would. After cold blisters started forming along the first doctor’s arms, the rest of them refused to even step foot in the room. It had spread quickly, but they took oaths of discovery, didn’t they? How could they cower floors away when Sarai needed them here?
Nothing covered her arms, save for cracks from the dry heat. Maybe there was a delay for her. Maybe that would be for the better. Her throat tightened. He wouldn’t want this for her. She doubted that he would wish it on anyone. She played with the frost on the tabletop again/ She could be here with Sarai when everyone else feared trying. She wanted him back, moons she wanted him back, but if that wasn’t possible then she was going to be here beside him. She would pretend to know how he felt.
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.
