by submission | Jul 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: Ell Rodman
I spent most of Monday morning awake in bed, staring at a clock that reads three hundred and eighty two. Its set into a wall of deep green steel tainted by orange rust. Or did the clock stare at me? I could never tell where the cameras were. Next to me, Missy Mae slept silently. Her alabaster skin was covered in matted blonde hair, blank eyes framed by blue eye shadow that was beginning to smear.
I’d have to fix that later.
With a sigh, I descended the stairs. They were carpeted with a series of emergency blankets stashed in the back of the local commissary. There was nothing worse in the early morning than feeling cold steel on one’s bare feet. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and plopped down onto a barstool by the counter. While the walls and ceilings were the same cramped, rusted green as my room, the furniture had some personality; rickety stools were made of real warm wood, the counters a cracked white plaster, the sink – if you could believe this – actual earth-sourced marble. To outside eyes, it may have looked like just another stack of shipping containers. Inside, however, it was home.
I coughed. Unfortunately, it was hard to find unoccupied housing in this area. Our roommate Frankie stood in front of the oven, intently watching a baking loaf. She liked to lounge about our shared apartment in her nightrobe, a short silky number that clung to her hips and barely concealed her considerable form. We have a history, I’m ashamed to say. It’s something Missy doesn’t know about, and I’m damned lucky the two don’t speak very often.
“I had a bad dream this morning,” I said meekly. I’d talk about my relationship with my mother if it meant not being entranced by those thick legs again. “It was about my case. It wasn’t right, y’know? Wasn’t fair.” Frankie gave no indication she heard me, which was not uncommon. The woman had sex appeal like you wouldn’t believe, but all the conversational talent of a cat’s asshole.
The oven timer went off. She made no move to open it or speak to me. Frustrated, I walked to the oven, ignored the slight flutters in my stomach as my hand brushed by where that silky robe clung to her hip. I cut myself a slice of the loaf and walked out the door. I may have stammered a goodbye, an apology, or a “don’t tell Missy”, but whichever it was fell on deaf ears.
It was dark outside – our daytime simulation had been buggy all Autumn. Two halves of a splintered moon sparkled like a stripper’s glitter in the sky. I walked to my daily, clocked in, and sat on a synthetic tire. It had three hundred and eighty-two marks on it, and I added another before rolling it towards Jeff. I knew he was a melancholy type, but I didn’t know he was fragile.
The tire burst through his legs, shattering them to pieces. His blank face reflected nothing of the pain I just put him through. Why would it? He was a department store mannequin. The only difference between him and Missy or Frankie were poorly lubricated silicone parts I’d glued between the latter’s legs. My shaky hand brought a cigarette to my lips. Fixed to my wrist, a chrome shackle displayed a red number: 2,537. The number of days I had left in isolation in this prison box on the edge of the galaxy.
I watched through tears as the tire spun itself to the ground.
by submission | Jul 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Elysia Rourke
The meteoroid hurtles towards Pioneer’s cockpit every time you close your eyes. Alarms scream—you scream—and slam the controls.
All for nothing.
Today, your calculations have worn your last pencil to the eraser. That’s why you’re mixing urine and red drink powder, gathering the paste on the tip of a flimsy pipet.
Andy,
( )
Love,
You haven’t written your name since the catastrophe. 249 days. It’s almost impossible to write through the tremors. The hunger, the thirst.
But Andy will understand the brackets. You’ve kissed every passed note since high school biology. The brackets make the kisses easier to find.
You sift through the research module. Spilled mineral samples litter the ground, victims of your frustration. A plastic test tube will work. You slip the note inside.
You crawl past your bunk and the useless engine. The meteoroid obliterated the thrust chamber, leaving not a single screw to reconstruct. You’ve tried.
Priming the lavatory flush vent, you thank heaven the tube fits in the plumbing. The toilet hisses and flings your message into the expanse.
Back in the cockpit, you prop your feet on the useless controls. The display is a familiar fireworks show of warning lights. It usually makes you anxious, but tonight it reminds you of home.
A jellyfish nebula sparkles beyond the fused silica glass window, blue and pink tentacles twisting among the star field. It’s the gravesite of a supernova. One day, its glowing gases will knot together and birth a new star.
A promise you’ve clung to since the accident.
Celestial bodies twinkle light years away. Andy’s on one of them, searching, grieving, moving on. Loneliness offers half-hearted chest compressions; you’re fighting dry tears.
“I love you,” you whisper, as though somehow Andy might hear.
It’s alright. You’re waiting to move on too.
by submission | Jul 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It’s a bummer, but whenever you try to cram too much into too small a space, black holes inevitably form. That’s the danger of trying to imagine the largest of numbers.
Huge numbers contain a lot of information, and information has weight. Ten trillion gigabytes of data weighs about as much as a speck of dust. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you’re dealing with the size of numbers that I do you have to be careful that your head doesn’t explode.
Or, more precisely, implode.
A thing most folks like to avoid. I did for most of my life. But when the Extrasolar War began and Earth was dealt a punishing blow, I got called in by the top brass. I’d once been a government mathematician that specialized in very large numbers–Avogadro’s number, the Eddington number, Googolplex, Graham’s number, TREE(3)–until those weighty numbers crushed me.
Broke me.
If you let those numbers get inside your head, they don’t resolve. They’re finite, containable, but wildly opportunistic. They’ll always always follow the fool’s path to infinity, and there’s only one end to that: black hole head death.
It can happen. Calculating the largest of numbers in your brain is equivalent to ten billion trillion trillion trillion trillion gigabytes of information. That’s a lot of very localized weight. Enough to form a black hole with the same radius of a typical human head. It makes for a rather singular singularity. A very catastrophic one.
That’s why the generals wanted me. There was no way our hastily cobbled defense forces were going to beat a foe that had mastered interstellar travel. The only thing sparing Earth from a full scale invasion was the invaders’ very sensible caution. They weren’t entirely sure what they were dealing with. I mean, we haven’t exactly figured our species out either, so they had to be wondering: What makes us tick? Could they subjugate us? Should they annihilate us?
Right after their initial salvo to demonstrate their superior might, the invaders pulled back. Went dark. Went sinister. Went hunting.
A diverse cross section of humans of various ages, races, and professions went mysteriously missing. This rattled the populace even more than the initial attack from orbit, but, as the pattern of abductions became clearer, the top brass saw an opportunity to strike back at our extraterrestrial foes.
They called the top secret operation Beavis and Black Hole which seemed fitting since the idea was diabolically asinine. Along with other numerical savants, I was trained and then put in a more likely position to be abducted. Why?
Suicide bombers are better off not asking why.
If abducted I was to continue calculating Graham’s number as I had been trained to do until the crush of information in my head reached criticality and formed a black hole. A formidable weapon against any enemy.
Now as bait, I wait. Counting not just the hours, but the near infinity of the finite, because my days are absolutely numbered.
by submission | Jul 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bob Brussack
On the planet Janus there are two advanced species: the Narses and the Nerses. It’s taken for granted by both species that the Narses are good-looking and the Nerses are smart. Be that as it may, and there’s reason for an off-worlder to question both stereotypes, the twin bits of conventional wisdom have shaped the species’ shared culture in profound ways, including politics.
Before the modern era on Janus, voters routinely elected Narses to legislative office, and few Nerses enjoyed electoral success. (Notably, the Narses candidates proved as popular among the Nerses as among the Narses.)
But the consequences of the near-universal preference proved suboptimal in terms of sound governance, as the Narses seemed disinclined to exert themselves in office, preoccupied instead with matters of personal grooming. The legislative chambers were fitted, in fact, with individual mirrors, and the Narses solons sometimes became so distracted by the perceived imperfections of their hair or makeup or knots of their ties that they neglected to cast votes, despite the urgings of their Nerses staffers.
At first, this dysfunction seemed to make little difference to the electorate, as a fair percentage of the voters actually preferred, or thought they preferred, that nothing happen in the planet’s legislature. Over time, however, as the consequences of the practical absence of legislative initiatives eroded the quality of life of both species, a consensus emerged that something had to be done.
After the usual ruckus, common to politics in so many galactic cultures, a way forward was found. Henceforth, and this is the current state of affairs, no single individual could serve in any legislative office. All offices had to be held jointly, by a pair: one Narses and one Nerses (cf. Sparta, Galactic Encyclopedia).
The Narses of the pairs handle all ceremonial duties, including speeches, interviews on media, and the like, and the Nerses do the reading, writing, and making of decisions. It is understood that anything said by a Narses can be “taken with a grain of salt,” as the phrase is translated into Galactic Standard. Nothing can be regarded as definitive other than a written statement signed by the Nerses of a pair.
The arrangement has worked well enough on Janus. The author is unaware of any other galactic civilization that has adopted it.
by submission | Jul 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Henson
“Hello, this is Claire Rains with Now You Don’t Enterprises, maker of the Light Bender Extraordinaire. Whom do I have the pleasure of assisting?”
“Claude Wells. I’m having problems with my new invisibility cloak. I —”
“I’m here to help, Mr. Claude. Let’s make your troubles …” — fingers snap — “disappear. Tell me: How do you know your cloak isn’t working properly?”
“Well, when I’m wearing the cloak, I can sort of see myself in the mirror. I’m not invisible. More like I’m wrapped in foggy plastic wrap.”
“We call that a phantom image, Mr. Claude. Your mind reconstructs —”
“No psychobabble, please. I’ve heard it all. Are you going to assist me or not?”
“Sorry, Mr. Claude. Let’s do some troubleshooting. Ready?”
“Yes, please, get on with it. I was counting on this thing to allow me to get out more.”
“Did you hang your cloak overnight when you first unwrapped it? Many people are so anxious to disappear, they skip this step. One wrinkle can screw up the photonics and adaptive camouflage dynamics of the whole cloak.”
“I did that. I promise you there isn’t a single wrinkle, crinkle, crimp or crease.”
“Excellent, Mr. Claude. Secondly, are you certain you’re not wearing the cloak inside out? That sounds silly, but it’s easy to do with an invisibility garment. It’s two-way, you understand. You can see out, but—”
“I’m certain. The thing doesn’t work. Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I have to admit, Mr. Claude, I’m stumped so I’m going to elevate your case to second level support. Don’t go away, I’ll stay on the line. This shouldn’t take long. Our experts have seen it all. Except of course, when they shouldn’t.” She chuckles.
“Very funny. I just need the cloak to perform as promised. I’m so tired of people staring at me. You know in school, the other kids called me … I can’t say it.”
“So sorry to hear that, Mr. Claude. Have you — hold on. I’ve a message from second level support … We need to go to video call. Can you do that?”
“… I’ve accepted your invite. But wait til I put on the—”
“Oh … there you are.”
As Ms. Rains stares at him, Claude freezes then drops to his knees out of sight. “You saw me. Now you understand why I need to be invisible. I’m hideous.”
“Mr. Claude, I don’t think you’re—”
“Stop pandering.”
“Why do think you’re hideous? Sorry, that’s not what I’m here for. Please put your cloak on and stand so I can see you.”
Claude does as the agent asks.
“It’s as you said, Mr. Claude. You’re blurry but not invisible. You look like … a ghost. That’s a first. Creepy. Must be a flaw in the weave. Now that I’ve seen for myself, I can approve a return. Would you like a replacement or refund?”
“Like a ghost, eh? On second thought, I think I’ll keep it.”
“You … what? Your choice, Mr. Claude, but I’d think about. People are used to invisibles, but you might freak out people in that. It’s been my pleasure assisting you. And, truly, I don’t know why you think you’re…” Her voice trails off. “Please hold for a brief survey.”
Claude exits the video call, goes into the bedroom and looks at his spectral image in the dresser mirror. He decides to haunt the night wearing the cloak. Pay a visit to the old neighborhood.
