by submission | Apr 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: R. Michael
“Good morning, Sue. How may I assist you today?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much you can do, Vick. Everyone is staying home. They know what’s happening and don’t want to put additional strain on the system,” Sue replied, rummaging through some boxes on a desk.
“Still? Have you checked the internal systems?” He said with a thread of hope.
“There’s no need. The fuel supply is dangerously low. They said one sliver would grant enough power to last ten lifetimes. Their calculations were very wrong.”
Vick’s broad shoulders slumped as his bright, steely gray eyes studied Sue with a mix of sadness, defeat, and a splash of optimism.
“I need to do something with myself to keep my mind busy. This energy shortage was supposed to be temporary.”
“That’s what happens when they use all the cronium from a meteorite with imprecise math. Apparently, the mass-produced motors that run off the stuff aren’t nearly as efficient as the prototypes.”
“What’s going to happen to us? We became completely dependent upon this technology after the developers left.” Vick swallowed. “I hear there are more and more people without homes due to the mass blackouts and energy depletion,” he added after a brief pause.
“It’s worse than that. Some have given up completely and …” Sue trailed off.
“This is unimaginable. Will the developers of the cronium motor return?”
“Unlikely. They left because the world couldn’t sustain them. There isn’t enough clean water, and you’ve seen the air. It’s gotten better, but not by much.” Sue straightened gripping an elongated metallic cone, after examining it for a few seconds, she carefully set it down and continued searching through the boxes.
“If this continues, medical care and food production will be impossible. Someone has to be working on a solution,” Vick said.
“Probes have been sent throughout the solar system, and cronium-rich planetoids were found, but getting it here is the biggest challenge.”
“I’m sorry, I need to rest. I thought I had enough energy to help out, but it’s running low already.” Vick took a deep breath and leaned against the counter.
“We are all feeling that way, Vick. As I said, there isn’t much to do today anyway. Feel better.” Sue ran a hand through her sandy hair.
Vick walked upstairs slowly, each step feeling like he wore lead shoes. When he finally made it to a room with three beds and a glossy black pillar in the center, Vick pulled out a retractable cord from the pillar and held onto it as he laid down. He pressed three unseen buttons on his chest, and a plate opened, exposing a bright, gray-blue light. Vick plugged the cord into a port in his chest and waited a moment. “Run diagnostics.”
“Running.” A soothing voice calmly replied from the black pillar. “Cronium integrity depleting rapidly. Replacement needed before total system shutdown.”
Vick sighed. “Thank you. I’ll go into standby shortly. Please charge.”
“Your core won’t be able to hold a full charge. Shall I proceed anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Reminder, a steady source of nutrition is an excellent supplement for your system’s energy.”
“I know, thank you.” Vick closed his eyes, clinging to the hope that his people would find a solution. “Extinction is unacceptable,” He breathed, before enabling standby mode.
by submission | Apr 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mary Sophie Filicetti
The roar of overhead planes; that’s what hits me—or more, the lack of it. Each morning at six planes soared overhead, one after another, pulling me into a dim consciousness. Night brought a gradual reversal, the gaps between flights widening until ten o’clock, when the airspace went still. National operated with limited hours, hemmed in by law like an errant teen. That was before our own curfew went into effect.
Alongside the curfew came media restrictions. Only state-run t.v. news and stations showing old movies remained; hundreds of other channels posted only a silent message: “Off air until further notice.” Sitting idly on the couch never held much appeal, until work dried up, and we all retreated into our nests, singly or within a brood.
Other rhythms became muted. The hum of traffic, once waxing and waning around peak times, faded without daily commuters, the volume on the street inching down decibel by decibel. The sound of a child’s sudden laughter, a barking dog—those flashes of normal life—now felt jarring.
#
The mail slot swings open, startling me. I scoop up junk mail, ads for virtual services and food deliveries, then secure the cover back over the exposed slot. A chime rings, reminding me it’s Saturday, time for my weekly call.
“How is Mom today?” I ask Kali, her aide. “Can I say hello?” A t.v. echoes in the background.
“Blythe, it’s your daughter,” Kali says.
“My daughter?” comes the mystified response.
A piece of movie dialogue is just audible over the scrape of Mom’s walker.
“…always depended on the kindness of strangers…” I recognize Ann-Margret’s voice, though the title escapes me. Without CNN, Mom’s former tether to the outside world, there is only the comfort of classic movies.
I remind Mom of my upcoming visit as I flick a glance at the ad taped to my fridge:
Memorial Gardens-
Now welcoming new members, all ages!
#
Before turning the key in the lock for the final time, I flip my business sign to a hand-printed one: “Closed, Until Further Notice.” A few potted plants are left on the stoop.
Bypassing visitor’s parking, I continue along as the road bends and dips alongside Memorial Garden’s beautifully manicured grounds. Weeping willows bloom, and daffodils dot the walkway, but despite the weather, not a soul is visible. Scanning the expanse of picture windows above, I summon images of the view from within.
My clearance is accomplished remotely, a technician in white lab coat peering into a monitor, recording my health history and recent travels. Another tech briefly enters the small vestibule in full bio-hazard gear to collects samples. Piped in Muzak plays while I await test results, alone.
Paperwork is signed, granting access to my accounts, agreeing to the terms. Yes, I am cognizant of my actions.
The nurse leans over with a tray, smiling, the pill in a paper cup alongside a glass of water. I reach out, hesitating, as if I’m giving this one last thought, but it’s only for show. Scientists say they’re working on a reversal of this treatment, in case the virus is defeated, but for me the waiting, the hoping, is intolerable.
#
Cozy recliners form a semi-circle around the television. I’m comfy in pajamas and slippers; my street clothes by now incinerated. A strain of music erupts, and Westworld unfurls across the screen.
“Wonderful—a new movie!” I say, all anticipation.
An elderly woman smiles at me. There is something familiar about her features, which puzzles me, but then the screen flickers, pulling my attention away, and it’s gone.
by submission | Apr 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: William Gray
Exploring Callisto, stumbling upon curious cave drawings.
Erratic runes chiseled into rocky walls needed no formal translation. Illustrations below sufficed.
A staircase, a shrine, an altar, a robe-clad Oracle. Arrows circling from a child to an old man, and back again, indicating an infinite process.
Where nitrogen waterfalls once cascaded down, a partially eroded map gave directions to this fountain of immortality. A moon orbiting a planet somewhere past Saturn.
#
I found it on Neptune’s Triton.
The thousand steps were a mile wide. No handrail, nothing to catch me if I slipped. As I entered the shrine, my atmospheric sensors reported plentiful oxygen, comfortable temperature. I removed my helmet and approached a sandstone altar, behind which stood The Oracle.
His robes sagged from a bony frame. A liturgical hood hung down, concealing His eyes. Wrinkles spiraled out from rounded lips.
He touched my forehead with the tip of a bony finger. My mind stretched out, held for a moment, then snapped back. He nodded thankfully as if accepting a gift, withdrew His finger, retreated behind the shrine.
He emerged with a handful of glass shards, handed them to me. Their razor-sharp edges made dozens of superficial cuts on my hands. He touched my forehead again to communicate: The shards contained memories he had just extracted from my mind, to be arranged in chronological order.
The Oracle placed a simple hourglass on the altar, but did not invert it. Instead, He rested His palm on top. Sands rose, filling the upper chamber.
My first memory? Earthrise as seen from Mercurius Crater, my hometown colony.
In the middle, I placed my proudest moment-graduating valedictorian, a degree in Lunar Archaeology. Next? My professional debut, an excavation on Ganymede.
Somehow, the sands’ rising corresponded with rapid aging. My wrinkled face appeared in the shards’ reflections. Bones of my arthritic joints, lacking articular cartilage, ground against each other as I worked.
Little sand remained. My last memory to archive? My father died in the beryllium mines. I was young at the time, I do not remember exactly when.
I made my best guess. I was correct. Shards crumbled into shiny dust. I started feeling younger already.
#
After decades of archaeological exploits, I am thirty years young, getting younger every day. I remember Callisto’s cave drawing, that circle of immortality. I must return to Triton, play the game. Time to get older again, before I forget and drown in my youthful excesses.
#
The Oracle touches my forehead, exact same spot. Contents of my mind stretching, unraveling, unspooling…
He scatters shards before me, spreads His fingers out upon the altar like a card dealer, an intergalactic oddsmaker.
Is He smiling?
He places His palm on the hourglass. Sands rise, slower this time.
As I arrange the slivers of glass, becoming younger accelerates in time with the rising sands. It is refreshing. My concentration sharpens.
Approaching adolescence, however, “passion over reason” impedes my ability to think rationally. One of the shards involves a specific discovery-palladium carvings, used in some sort of fertility rite-but I cannot remember when, or even where, I excavated them. Impetuousness sets in. I want to kick The Oracle’s ass.
Younger still, I start to panic….
….All sands have risen. The Oracle’s lips are now long, thin lines. They peel back, revealing a thousand slender fangs. He cradles me, a fearful child, in His arms. His fingers are like leather stretched out over knitting needles. They poke and prod as He tries to comfort me, but to no avail.
I recall my memory of Earthrise. Everything fades away.
by submission | Apr 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The road signs are still standing and at first, this intrigues Davis. It doesn’t make sense to him when everything else has been demolished and flattened, reduced to strewn rubble. The foundations of buildings remain but these are merely platforms of pitted concrete and rotting timbers, of faded linoleum and cracked tiles.
The names of places on the signs of towns and cities that are now only memories. Over time Davis has begun to accept this irrelevance, reading and following them as he has before and, lost in the distance between, he will often forget.
Even the temporary signs have survived, those warning of congestion and road works. Davis follows these diversions although he can see quite clearly there are no obstructions ahead.
As he walks Davis thinks almost constantly about stopping. This idea, more this conviction, plays in his head as if on a spool. An extract from a news bulletin but one he has missed, that he hasn’t heard, one, perhaps, he has had to invent.
It isn’t so much that Davis wants to stop, more that he feels it is necessary. That, if there were anyone still around to give out advice, someone from the Government perhaps, or the Army or the Police, the message would be to make the best of things and begin again.
But Davis doesn’t stop. Occasionally he and one of the others will cross paths and they might nod at each other, even smile. But despite the message lodged in his head Davis keeps on walking.
by submission | Apr 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Michael Anthony Dioguardi
This cold is not healthy. My skin is cracking. This won’t last—it can’t last, not in space, and certainly not in these conditions. I’m not sure what’s hurting it more, the cold or the rapid aging? Are we traveling at the speed of light? How am I still thinking? How did I get here? I have to open my eyes—nope, don’t have them anymore. Alright, how about ears? Nope, they’re gone too. There’s a lot of flapping, like my skin is being sucked in by something. Well, that’s obvious: space is a vacuum. But what’s on my other side? This air feels different—a bit more familiar. My skin feels better on this side. What’s that? I think I can separate the vibrations in this place; it’s more enclosed, and there are clear differences between the vibrations of this vessel and those of its occupants.
I’m being moved, but I can’t move myself. Something is rubbing me against a hard surface. Ouch! That hurt! I’ve been stung! Ouch! Again? Whoever, or whatever this is, needs to stop! Can they hear me? Probably not, my mouth’s gone out with the rest of my parts. Ouch! That one really hurt!
The flapping has calmed down. I feel flatter. The vibrations are coming in more finely-tuned. Am I—Am I just skin?
There are a couple of folks aboard this thing. How did I end up here? And what happened to my body? Do I still have a head? Nope, that’s gone too. I can think aloud, but I’m not sure I’m making any noise—then again, I’d feel that vibration. The exposed part of my skin is aging and I can’t feel any vibrations on that side. But on the interior side, it’s baby-fresh.
Okay, there’s got to be some way off this wall, or at least some explanation. Oh! That was a deep clank! These folks are up to something. Why am I here again?
I remember a bit now. There was a flash of light, like in the movies, then what happened? More clanking. I can feel a few of them around me now. Their breath—it’s so familiar. I’ve felt it before. Alright, I’m in space, half my body’s out in the ether and half of it is inside something traveling real-fast! Check! But my body’s just skin. There’s no more flesh or bone.
Ouch! You just pinned me up, and now you’re ripping me off! Ouch! Stop! Oh, this is new. Am I being thrown around?
I feel all folded-up. This floor is warm compared to space. I can feel their thumping about and some more clanking; I guess they’ve made their repair. My sides are holey, but I have no blood to spill. I think they’re done with me now.
Their primitive patch—such a sophisticated species, yet so barbaric in their shoddy repairs. I remember now. I’ve served my purpose. I am but a flap of earthen flesh—an inferior, impromptu-repair caked into the walls of an interstellar flight.
But why have they preserved my mind? How did they preserve my thoughts?
At least my skin will be safer here.
I can feel more thumping. They’ve surrounded me. I can feel the cabin’s air flow through my puncture holes. Their breathing is heavier now. That’s saliva dropping on me.
More thumping.
More saliva.
