by submission | Jul 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Beck Dacus
He lowered the faceplate of his emergency spacesuit’s helmet, sealing it under his chin. In his ear, a voice suddenly said, “Hello, Commander. I’ve set your suit to play this recording approximately when you’ve crossed the event horizon of your life.”
He froze in the middle of the hallway, startled. The tremor of a distant explosion brought him back to the present. He followed the signs on the walls at a sprint.
“You don’t know me. I’m one– no. I was one of many engineers that worked on your ship. In particular, I was among the POWs you forced into cooperation with your killing. Keeping the village-burning hawkships and planet-killing battlecruisers in ‘ship-shape.’”
There it was: the airlock. His fingers punched in the code on muscle memory, opening the internal door, which automatically sealed behind him. He broke a glass compartment on the wall and hammered the external vent button, quickly pumping the airlock’s atmosphere outside rather than into the ship’s reserve tanks.
“As much as I hate this life, I wish you had given my family the same chance you gave me. Children can be surprisingly resilient, and they would have given me a reason other than the tardy alarm to get up in the morning.”
After an eternity, the external door opened; on the other side was the curved limb of the planet below, shining in reflected sunlight against the inky sky. Tongues of translucent red flickered across the threshold– the ship was entering atmosphere. He activated the flickering Mach shield on his forearm, held it in front of him, and jumped.
“You might be wondering what I mean by ‘event horizon of your life.’ I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations on this ship’s antimatter reactor, as well as a little research into the specs of your jetpack. There is a certain point where no amount of thrust it can give you will let you escape the detonation of the Pax Romana’s reactor; if I got the numbers right, you’re well past it.”
Once his freefall stabilized, he engaged the airbreathing turbine mounted to his back, putting as much distance between himself and the ship as possible. The Pax fell like a stone, nosing into the thick air, seeking the alien surface.
“The explosion will take out this hemisphere of the planet, along with you. Even if flying supersonic with your Mach shield behind you, protecting you from the blast rather than the wind, didn’t tear you apart, its power cells would explode trying to shed the energy it was absorbing. And the shield is transparent to gamma radiation anyway.
“I want you to know what it was like, Commander. I want you to feel what my children felt, waiting to go in front of the firing squad. I want to give you time to think about how you die. No jetpack malfunction, no early reactor breach, no suit leak. I want you to know that, even though you still have all your toys and your tricks, you’re a mortal like the rest of us. Your flesh is made of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen.
“And in the fire, it will burn.”
Through his Mach shield, he could see the sun setting upon the curve of this world. He sighed, turning off his turbine, then his shield. He let himself fall.
The Pax touched down, a new sunrise igniting this planet between one instant and the next. But not fast enough.
The darkness took him first.
by submission | Jul 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Sara Jordan-Heintz
I found myself gasping for air, awakening on the loveseat in the sitting room of my rented beach house, my heart thumping in my chest, with the same sensation drumming a discordant beat in my ears.
I could hear the waves thrashing against the shore, the moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling of the bungalow. I don’t know if I could exactly describe it as singing; perhaps more of a humming, murmuring sound, the kind a woman makes while she’s stirring a pot on the stove, lost in reverie without a clue as to what the actual words are to the song.
Wrapping a robe around my sweaty, shaky frame, I quietly opened the back screen door and headed down to the beach. Sand flooded the openings of my sandals, coating my feet in soft, shiny light brown grit. I lost my footing in the blasted flip flops, my kneecap colliding with a behemoth conch shell, half buried in a sand dune. A thin stream of blood oozed from the raw wound — nothing a little warm salt breeze wouldn’t cleanse.
My aunt Greta used to say if you picked up one of those shells and held it to your ear, you could hear the whirling sounds of the ocean, in some kind of audiological illusion. Humpf. The scientific explanation is that surrounding environmental noises resonate within the cavity of the shell.
I picked up the large former dwelling of some nameless sea creature, brushing sand off the body as best I could, as not to rub any of it into the windswept locks of my long, auburn hair. A cool wind danced through the humid night air, colliding with that same sense of dread I’d felt coursing through my organs and veins upon rousing from my slumber. As I angled it towards my right hear, two tinny-sounding words reverberated through the shell’s cavity: “help me.” Scurrying back to the beach house, I dropped the shell along the walkway. Pausing, I picked it up again, and with all my strength, hurled it into the Atlantic.
Trudging back to my residence, I entered the same way I’d come, locked the door, turned the knob on a tabletop lamp, and caught my breath. Walking to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, I chugged the beverage, holding the cold glass to my damp nightgown.
That sound again. Low, guttural mutterings. I pivoted to return to my makeshift sleeping quarters in the sitting room, its ceiling fan swirling air throughout the suffocating room, when I saw the conch shell, resting on the coffee table. As though suspended in time, I inched closer to the table, ready to reach for the shell with a tremulous hand. Slowly. Slowly. Two steps to go.
I put the shell up to my ear as I had done at the beach. What I heard next made me run for the tiny, airless bedroom, throw all my personal effects into my luggage, grab the keys to my rental car, shift into drive and tear down the bumpy, deserted lane, headed for the other side of the island and the barge that will return me to the mainland. I don’t think I even shut the front door, much less locked it, behind me.
I know without unzipping the duffel bag situated next to me on the passenger seat, I’ll find that damn shell nestled peaceably in between tank tops, magazines, and suntan lotion.
by submission | Jul 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
Stoyan looks down at the broken glass.
“You would be this awkward if you had six legs,” he says.
And I probably would be. No matter what else, this host-an-alien program is proving a way to expand perceptions. I am learning oh so much. Stoyan is teaching me all about awkward. He wouldn’t say clumsy, oh self-consciously no, but he would admit awkward.
Mina two doors down is hosting a gas-based visitor. Most of the day he spends swirling about in his translucent orb, tapping out short messages, emitting revelations about the universe he seems to think Mina would love to know. At night, he lets himself out, is sustained in the ambient air pressure as a string of glittering vapor. He quietly had been having sex with Mina in her sleep for two weeks before she knew it, if you want to call what he does with her sex. Now that she knows, she hasn’t attempted to stop him. She doesn’t quite yet know how she can, or whether she should.
Stroyan is waiting for me to sweep up the glass. This is the second breakage this week. All the while, Mina and I and others in the guest program catalog what each visiting alien species can and cannot do, which bends and folds they cannot accomplish, what corners befuddle them, what passions drive them. When they finally get comfortable, settle into an accommodating niche, that will be our time to strike.
by submission | Jul 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Nick Carter
Blackness. Brilliant light. Twinkling suns. It was beautiful. He had never seen anything like it. Even from the starship, it wasn’t like this. There, he was held back by man-made metals and alloys. “Barriers,” he thought. Barriers holding him back from the true beauty of the world. The universe. No more. Almost. He still had a spacesuit keeping him at bay. He was so close to being free, free from the restraints of an artificial existence. No longer would he be held accountable for trivial responsibilities. No more checklists, long shifts, or drama from other crew members. He gazed out towards one of the smaller stars in his view. So much potential, unparalleled, really. So much possibility for great civilizations, monumental accomplishments. It was all probably happening right now. New life sprouting upon thousands, millions of planets. Old life continuing to grow and develop an understanding of their world, or about to die out, like a soft breath over a flame. And he wouldn’t see it. He would not get to witness any of it. Which was the objective of his mission? Was. It was no longer his mission. He did not have to carry it out anymore. It was someone else’s job. This gave him no comfort. He wanted this mission. This was his mission. No more. He looked at his oxygen levels. Very low. Two minutes until depletion. He looked on this in sorrow. He floated in serenity for what seemed like hours. No thinking, just feeling. Feeling his gloves, his boots. The warmth they provided. He could also feel the cold. The cold from the outside. The cold from the universe. He could feel its touch. He welcomed it. One minute. He listened, but could only hear his breathing. Thirty seconds. He did not want this, but where would be a better place to perish? Twenty seconds. He was among the stars. Ten seconds. He took off his helmet, the last barrier, and felt the cold embrace of the cosmos. He was home.
by submission | Jul 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Brian Maycock
Free drinks for life.
I was nineteen when I said yes.
The machine announces its intentions with a gentle hum. A can is dispensed.
I feel dizzy, nauseous.
I’ve hardly slept for the last week. We’re going to lose the Mitchell account and it’s my fault. I could lose my job. This morning’s meeting is my last chance to get things back on track.
I look at the can. Its logo: the smiling face at its centre.
I can’t do this. Not today. Not right now.
The train station’s exit is right in front of me. If I can just get outside. I hurry towards the door.
There is another hum, the clank of another can landing in a dispenser.
I increase my pace. There is a third vending machine by the exit doors.
I pass it. Hum. Clank. The automatic doors remain closed. I look at my watch. I’ve got twenty minutes to get to the meeting. I can’t be late.
I take the new can from the dispenser, click it open and begin to drink it.
The doors slide open with a sigh which, the can now empty, I echo.
A contented sigh is the reaction that’s required, and the doors remain open while I put the can in the recycling box that accompanies each vending machine. I walk out into the street. My stomach cramps and burns.
I was nineteen. I am thirty-seven now. I am diabetic and medically defined as morbidly obese. The chip embedded in my spinal cord is less than a millimetre in circumference. They let me hold it in its sterile wrapper as I lay in bed in the clinic while the anaesthetic kicked in.
It is all about the best deal these days. Competition. Incentives. Choice. I’m the only Lifer I know.
Which isn’t saying much. Since my wife left me two years ago I don’t get out. My life revolves around my job at the advertising agency.
I am sweating badly by the time I reach the hotel. A conference room on the sixth floor has been booked, where I will present my vision for moving forwards.
Crap.
There is a vending machine by the elevator. I am close enough for my chip to activate the vending process.
Nowadays it is everyday to top up your chip with credit for twenty cans. For a dozen energy bars. A four-pack of masks. You can cancel, change, you are in charge. And all the while your chip and the vending machines are sharing so that they know you as well as you know yourself, if not better.
I have a prototype inside me. Because of the health issues associated with my weight, I have been told that taking it out is too dangerous.
A can rolls into the dispenser. I can’t walk up six floors and the elevator won’t admit me until the vending process is complete. I gulp down the sweet liquid as quickly as I can and feel the pain and heat begin to build inside me once more.
The sweat is falling into my eyes and I can barely see the elevator button as I press it. The doors oblige. I take deep breaths. As long as I can make it to a bathroom to wash and try and smarten up before I go into the meeting it will be fine.
When I stagger through the door, the vending machine in the bathroom greets me with a can, smile side up. I begin to weep.
