by submission | May 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: K. A. Williams
It was hunting season on Kreegat. Beasts were imported from neighboring planets to designated areas on this small world. My section now had a furry, yellow hindosen.
The animal had been released hours ago, but the shuttle was late. The rain plummeted down as the two guests disembarked. My partner, Rocdon, and I quickly introduced ourselves as we stowed their gear in our hovercraft.
“You were supposed to be here this morning. I’ll have different guests in two days. Make your choice – sit before a fire tonight, or go hunting in the rain. Which is it going to be?”
Kolash and Synka decided to hunt in the rain.
***
When we reached the forest, we left the hovercraft and split up. Rocdon took Synka off to the left, Kolash and I continued forward.
My weatherproof gear was above standard issue, but I still hated supervising a hunt in this weather. On the plus side though, as we slipped and slid through the forest, nothing could hear us over the rain.
“Did you see that?” Kolash asked.
The underbrush was moving, it could just be the wind. He pulled something from his jacket pocket, and I only had time to see that it was a projectile weapon before he fired into the bush.
I heard a howl of pain and then silence.
“You idiot! Put that away! These animals are expensive. Didn’t you read the rules of the hunt? Non lethal weapons are to be used.”
“What rules? It’s a hunt. I even had the shuttle pilot go back because I’d forgotten to bring this gun.”
“That’s why you were late?!”
“Well, yeah.”
I called Rocdon on my communicator. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Kolash shot the beast with a projectile weapon.”
“Is it dead?”
“I don’t know yet, I’m checking. Take Synka back to the hovercraft and wait for me.”
“Stay here,” I told Kolash, and parted the bushes. The animal wasn’t there. It had forced itself onward.
“Have you found it?”
“Shut up. Just stay there and wait. And don’t speak to me again. It’s wounded and our voices might frighten it.”
When I found the hindosen, it lay still. I moved closer, my headlamp shining on the bloody wound. The first aid kit in my backpack came with everything I needed. I used the electronic scalpel to remove the metal object and heal the wound. Then I injected the beast with a mixture of antibiotics and vitamins. I’d done all I could. I covered its body with my jacket, and went back to Kolash.
***
The atmosphere in the lodge was gloomy, like the weather. We had changed clothes and were sitting in chairs before a roaring fire, waiting for supper.
I pulled out my communication device, and looked up the contract agreement. Just what I thought. I called the shuttle pilot, with everyone listening to the conversation on speaker.
“Kolash shot the hindosen with an illegal weapon. According to our contract, I have the right to cancel their trip. Come back in the morning, and pick them up,” I said.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Kolash argued.
“Read this.” I showed him a copy of the contract they had both signed and pointed to the prohibited weapon’s clause. “And if the beast dies, you’ll reimburse our company for it.”
by submission | May 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Carew Bartley
After the dusty, scorching heat of the Via Flaminia, I looked forward to the cool silence of the tomb I had read so much about before my trip. Originally buried in a Central Italian necropolis, the tomb had been assiduously reconstructed in the basement of Rome’s National Etruscan museum, a trove of ancient art and artifacts housed in a sumptuous Renaissance palace. It was the highlight of the collection, Frommer’s Guidebook to Rome proclaimed: it must not be missed.
When I arrived at the museum, I was enthralled by the rustic yet sophisticated charm of the Etruscans, Rome’s peninsular predecessors. But as I drifted through the soaring galleries, my attention was wrested away by an unusual object amongst the ceramics and coins. It was a grave artifact unlike that of any civilization I had ever encountered: a figurine, hand molded from some pliable metal rather than ceramic or bronze. It resembled a human, but it had six arms ending in barbs rather than hands. Its skull was insect-like, with sharp mandibles and gaping eye holes. And in place of a navel, it bore a rough hewn oval of yellow quartz. I glanced at the plaque that ought to describe its origin, but there was no text, only a ghostly white swirl.
I soon found other alien creations: insect warriors armed with curved knives grinning madly through protruding fangs, insect charioteers palled by straining snakes or birds, insect priests presiding over altars strewn with animal viscera. All were inset with chunks of milky yellow quartz and labeled only with white swirls. Themes emerged: violence, submission, sacrifice; an unknown, otherworldly religion being rendered tangible.
Pulled deeper and deeper into the bowels of the museum by the sinister magnetism of these objects, I reached the entrance to a rough basement that appeared to have been carved out long ago. I hesitated at the top step, wondering for the first time how long I had been here and where the other visitors and employees had gone. But looking down, I saw a white line on the floor leading down the steps into the dim hole. I followed it into the earth.
The tomb was lit by candlelight from each corner. Shimmering streamers of metal like that comprising the figurines hung from the walls. The white line entered from the steps and spiraled like a whirlpool around a stone dais bearing a heavy knife and a large log. I drew inexorably forward, grasped the knife, and set to work. After an unknown time, I knelt before the altar that now bore an insectoid idol hacked and carved from the wood. But it was not done. His blank eyes told me what must lay on His altar. I pulled myself onto the dais in the center of the white swirl and set to work with the knife once more.
The following year’s edition of Frommer’s Guidebook to Rome made no mention of the tomb under the museum.
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.
