by submission | Dec 18, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Lt. John Peters tosses a foam ball to his son, Petey. The boy giggles when it goes through his hands and bumps him on the nose. Lt. Peters lies back on the gurney. Norene sits, legs crossed, anxiety like a current of electricity twitching her foot.
At the direction of Capt. Spencer, a man in a lab coat places a metal cap on the lieutenant’s head and slides probes into numerous ports that have been inserted in his body. The cap and probes connect to a tubular machine that resembles an elongated CT scanner.
“We’re ready, folks,” Capt. Spencer says. “Corporal Lindor, escort Mrs. Peters and the boy to level three.” The captain nods at the white-coated man.
Mrs. Peters takes her husband’s hand. “John, are you sure about this?”
“It’s perfectly safe,” the captain says. “We’ve already teleported objects and small animals. In fact,” — the captain walks to Petey, tousles his hair and takes the ball from his hands — “we teleported this very ball from here to our lab across town.”
“But never a person,” Mrs. Peters says.
Lt. Peters sits up. “Somebody has to be first, Honey.”
“You’ll be famous, lieutenant,” Captain Spencer says. “A book deal and movie rights. In the history books. Now, up to level three you go,” he says to Mrs. Peters and tousles Petey’s hair again.
***
The captain hands Lt. Peters blindfolds and earplugs, then wheels him into the machine. Even with senses masked, the lieutenant cringes at the clanging and can see the inside of his eyelids from the bright light. After a few minutes, everything is quiet and dark, and Lt. Peters feels as if he’s floating. So this is what teleportation is like, he thinks. Nice. Then he feels someone shaking him by the shoulder.
Lt. Peters removes the blindfolds and earplugs then sits on the edge of the gurney and looks around the room. “Where’s Norene? Where’s Petey?”
“Up on level three, lieutenant,” Capt. Spencer says.
“The teleportation didn’t work?”
The captains flips a switch, and a large screen on the far wall shows Norene hugging someone who appears to be Lt. Peters. Behind them is a machine like the one the lieutenant was in.
“What? Who?”
“You see, Peters, although we haven’t achieved true teleportation yet, we can approximate it with the advances in 3D printing and quantum computing. In fact, we’ve had the technology to do so for some time. But not the guts … so to speak,” he chuckles.
Lt. Peters feels the room spinning and squeezes the gurney with his legs. “What will you do with … it?” He points toward his double on the screen.
“He will be rich and famous and provide a wonderful life for your family.”
“That’s crazy. Norene will realize it’s not me.”
“He is you. Down to the last strand of DNA and every memory you had prior to me wheeling you out of the machine a moment ago. And he’s fashioned from reconstituted human … stuff … we found lying around so to speak.”
Lt. Peters bolts for the door. When he opens it, two guards hustle him back to the gurney.
Capt. Spencer holds up a hypodermic.
“What are you going to do?”
“We need raw material. I’m afraid there’s some grinding involved, but you won’t feel a thing after this little prick.” The captain puts the syringe to Lt. Peters’ neck.
As darkness closes in on the lieutenant, he stares at the screen and sees his dancing replica twirl Norene then toss the foam ball to Petey, who giggles when it bumps him on the nose.
by submission | Dec 17, 2019 | Story |
Author: Stephen C. Curro
The air is sour with smoke. Emergency sirens shriek in the distance. All around me the world is burning.
My four arms cut through the haze. I stumble over the rubble, hardly able to believe that this was a busy plaza moments ago.
“Mal’ven?” I call out. “Where are you?”
“Soo’so?”
My three hearts quicken at the sound of my mate’s voice. My stilt-like legs nearly trip as I climb over the carcass of the building. “I’m coming, my love!”
I see her now. She’s straining to push a chunk of stone off her abdomen. It breaks my hearts to see her battered and blue with blood. I’m crying with grief…oh, Holy Spirits; I haven’t wept like this in years.
I lower my body and cradle her in my arms. The embrace she returns is weak. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “We’re getting off this planet.”
“Soo’so,” she groans. She’s in shock. I must free her immediately.
I grasp the debris and strain to lift it. With a grunt I flip the slab of concrete and metal over, freeing my mate. I help her to her feet and we hobble together down the ruined street, toward the embassy.
People are stirring in the ruins as we pass by. Some human, others alien. There are bloody bodies half-exposed in the rubble that do not move. All for what? For fanatics to express how much they detest our presence?
May the Spirits forgive me; this is my fault.
I was the one who insisted we take our holiday here on Earth. “We must show that our race holds no animosity”, I said. “After all, the war was so long ago. Earth is a civilized world again.”
We have paid for my naivety. Too many humans feel that “revenge” must be sought. There is no word for “revenge” in my people’s language; it is a strange, violent concept that has driven humans mad long before my people ever landed on Earth.
I’m burning with an anger that is almost as hot as the fires around me. I cannot comprehend how these humans are incapable of forgiveness. A century has passed since the war ended.
My people have absolved humanity for the crimes of the old war, and still the radicals persist in their violence. They are under the delusion that killing innocent aliens (who were not even born during the war!) is an act of justice. They bomb restaurants, and assault hotels, and gun down pedestrians on the street. They even strike against humans who are accepting of visitors from other worlds. Spirits above, they kill their own people!
I was wrong. Perhaps eventually humanity will come of age, but I fear that day will not arrive anytime soon.
I have wasted enough time musing about human nature. The important thing is we survived, and I will atone for my foolishness by getting us home.
I can see the embassy in the distance. Just a little farther…
I have seen what civilization looks like. It does not exist on this planet.
by submission | Dec 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Brenda Anderson
The Little Time Machine got tired of ferrying passengers back and forth in space-time. He wrote a polite letter of resignation to his employers, Time Taxis, and fled to the 18th century.
Here he discovered a life of culture, refinement and music. Time Taxis eventually caught up with him at the back of a baroque concert. They seized him, brought him home and began a complete overhaul.
“Life isn’t about constant movement,” he protested. “Seriously, guys, I’ve found another way. Music. Enlightenment. I can explain.”
One mechanic rolled his eyes. “Ooh, I can’t wait.”
His mate laughed. “What a wally.”
The third mechanic looked thoughtful. “He’ll contaminate the others. Let’s lock him up.”
That night Wally broke free from the Time Out locker and dragged himself up a nearby hill. Below lay an orchard. The trees looked so peaceful he longed to join them, and started down the slope towards them. Unfortunately, lacking steering skills, he lost control, sped down the slope and crashed into a tree.
A pear fell on his head.
Data flooded through him. Disoriented, Wally tried to assess the level of damage. Who knew that pears packed such a punch? One dot point flashed on and off: 72% of humans who bit into a pear claimed to be transported back to their childhood. It was a light bulb moment: time travel and pears, inextricably woven together.
Still, he had to admit that he couldn’t function properly. “I can beat this,” Wally mused. “I think I can, I know I can. I’ll find something to focus on, something to give me motivation.” Finally, it hit him. “I’ll go to work in the trauma wards of hospitals, and give everyone –especially children—back their happy childhoods.”
His plan worked, for a while. He pretended to be an encore act, straight after the therapy clowns. The staff welcomed him. “Such an original idea: a Time Machine that can spin stories to keep even the sickest children spellbound. He even looks funny. All those dents and scrapes.” But once again Time Taxis caught up with him and this time they sent him to scrap.
“I’m a pear, I am, I am,” murmured Wally. “I can give you back your childhood. Just bite into me.”
A machine with a large circular saw rolled towards him, its metal teeth spinning.
Only then did Wally realise that, even in the world of semi-retired time machines, things often go pear shaped. But he fought back. With a huge effort he time-jumped and crashed into the same pear tree. “I knew I could. I knew I could!”
Pears showered down on him.
The Little Time Machine couldn’t believe it. He was back where he’d started from, in a forest, with not a machine in sight. He buried himself in the soft soil. Maybe I’ll turn into some sort of seed, and spring up in some new, glorious body.
A pear, perhaps?
He activated hibernation mode and went to sleep, utterly confident of a glorious renaissance.
by submission | Dec 14, 2019 | Story |
Author: Emma K. Leadley
Karl twitched in his sleep. He dreamed of tomatoes. Fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes with their firm texture, sweet innards and tantalising smell. He twisted one from its stem and bit into it, juice and seeds running down his chin and–
The hub lights came on, his alarm beeping.
“Dammit, just when it was getting good,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes and stretching. Morning ablutions done and suited up, he entered the mess area and nodded to his colleagues. Grabbing a coffee with its stale, recycled-water taste, he thought back to the tomatoes again, mouth watering.
Moving on to the biodome he looked over the growth data. The legumes were fine; they were growing up their supports, albeit slower than calculations predicted. The alliums had overtaken their growth curve. Fresh garlic proved a hit with the crew. But the nightshades were more difficult. The last crop of potatoes had grown but reached a size limit beyond which nothing could coax them to expand. Everyone compared eating them to chewing on cardboard, worse than the ration packs. They weren’t enough to sustain the calorie requirements of a hungry crew, let alone keep them happy with texture and taste. At least the chilli peppers weren’t looking too bad.
He’d dropped the idea of eggplants; they weren’t calorie dense enough for the space they took to grow. But the tomatoes should have been easy. Only he couldn’t even get them to flower, let alone grow their fruit. He thought back to his last meal on Earth. The whole family crammed round the table, heaped spaghetti bolognese onto their plates and shouting over each other, as ever. Light years away now. He took off his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes. Semi-blinded, he knocked his coffee mug onto a batch of tomato seedlings.
Two months later, they started flowering.
by submission | Dec 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
The leather-wrapped handle of his dual-edged battle-axe was slick in his clenching fists. The snow-coated everything of Sverre’s including his helmet, beard, massive bare arms, and boots. He was in the seventh or the tenth line of men, he really couldn’t count that well. All his kinship was collected around him in sporadic rows holding their own axes and swords and spears. Some of them had cloaks or furs draped across their shoulders which they would shrug off as soon as the word was given but Sverre was not cold. He had battle lust pumping through his veins. They all shuffled from one foot to another in anticipation of the attack. There were legions of men, most on the ground but the richer ones mounted on horseback. They had come together, putting aside regional squabbles, in a combined force against this new adversary.
Before them, on the hill, the enemy waited. Snarling yawps echoed down the field frightening none of his folk. They were itching for a skirmish and they had these devil beasts outnumbered by a large margin. Yes, they were huge, half again as big as a man and twice the girth, hideous spawns of some dragon bitch mother. Gristly hides and gnarled backs, black gleaming eyes and clawed hands. But they would bleed into the snow like any other creature under the slashing of Sverre’s axe blade. Some of his brethren would perish for certain but their success as a triumphant army was determined.
Their catapults would begin firing as soon as the battle commenced and the stone missiles would cut through the gargoyle’s ranks ahead of their mounted charge up the mountain. They would come together in a clash, spill the guts of this dastardly enemy and cherish the taste of victory.
As long as they could avoid the monster’s weapons; crossbows of a fashion that were rumored to unleash bolts of fire. And once the fiends were destroyed, they would take the magical castle, made up of a thousand thousand twisted swords and burning with multi-colored swirling torches, that had descended from the clouds. And once again Sverre’s people would hold dominion over these sacred lands.
The flags were dropped, the projectiles released and Sverre surged forward with his comrades, a bellow on his lips, as the onslaught erupted. The melee had begun.
