by submission | Jun 21, 2019 | Story |
Author: Joshua Alexander
Disaster.
Hacklett wheezes in my grip. His face is slicked with sweat, his eyes ringed and dark. He’s dying.
Our research on the station has been for nothing. One containment breach and it’s all gone to hell. I drag Dr. Hacklett along the red-lit corridor to the escape pods. The fungi’s advance will be suppressed by the lights for a short time, but I don’t mean to just suppress them. The pathogens are free-floating, the worst of them anyway, spores dust everything, and the pods are the only hope.
But it’s the fungus I’m worried about.
I lodged an official ethical protest when the board cleared the newly-discovered cordyceps-like fungus for Schedule II experimentation. It should have been left on the hell-hole world we found it on, but the pharmaceuticals boom is an unforgiving mistress. When it was cleared, I volunteered for the project with my old doctoral advisor, Dr. Hacklett. If I couldn’t stop it, I’d at least make sure it was done right.
That’s almost funny now.
They called it cordyceps-like after several entomopathogenic fungi that affect certain arthropods back on Earth. We were going to call it Pseudocordyceps Hacklettii. That almost seems funny now, too. The main difference between Earth’s fungus and this one was a much shorter incubation period.
Hacklett groans beside the console as I initiate the sterilization protocol. He needs help, help I can’t give him, and time is running out.
After the incubation period, much like the Earth fungus, a fruiting body erupts from the host. But this one is much larger than even the biggest cordyceps fruiting bodies and erupts with a speed unheard of among macroscopic lifeforms. Once the pseudocordyceps spores entered the ventilation system, each of our non-fungal test subjects became ticking time bombs. Literally. Hence the now-broken containment vessels.
He hoped to extract extremely promising compounds from the fungus. Immunosuppressants, cancer drugs, even one compound that regrew damaged brain tissue in mice. We would have been immortalized in pharmacology.
I step over the orange spikes of fungus anchored to the floor. The husks of beetles and grasshoppers were buried beneath the bases of the “small” ones, some foot and a half long, but the mice produced fruiting bodies as big as a man. Dragging Hacklett to the pod, I’m now intensely aware of the weight of a full-grown man. I never want to see the fruiting body that would make.
And I won’t. Technically speaking.
I open the pod door and shove Hacklett inside. It knows where to go. The decontamination process inside will at least clear the spores. His rescuers won’t be contaminated. The other pathogens, well…
But me? I’m done for. When the door slides shut, I turn to a nearby console. If I can’t stop it, I’ll at least make sure it’s done right.
FULL STERILIZATION IN 10…9…8…
I quickly type in commands, and the pods all jettison. Tight-beam couldn’t compress our data before the sequence ended, so our research parishes with me. Well and good.
7…6…
The fever is intense. No time. I can feel it growing.
5…4…
I shut down the cameras. A deep breath. Nobody needs to see this.
3…2…1…
by submission | Jun 20, 2019 | Story |
Author: John F Keane
‘Envision a world,’ said the guide, ‘where photography was discovered much later than it was. Imagine no ancient discovery of light-sensitive chemicals, no early Greek photographers like Hilo of Tarsus. Imagine, if you can, a world where photography only emerged in the nineteenth century – a world where all visual representations prior to that were by draftsmen and painters. What kind of reality would have resulted? What kind of world would we live in now?’
Selema shivered. The cave was cold and the darkness troubled her. From somewhere distant she could hear the sound of dripping water.
‘In our world,’ the guide continued, ‘the existence of photographic representation has probably repressed the cults of personality required for religion to develop. Most mystics were bald, fat old men with dirty beards and missing teeth, to judge from the photographic evidence; consider the Buddha or Moses. But imagine a world where artists cloaked these men in veils of dream and legend, where reality never impinged on high ideals. Transformed into stately patriarchs, these unimposing figures would soon acquire semi-divine status.’
Selema found such a thing very hard to envision. Yet in a curious way, the guide’s words made sense. She shivered again as he resumed his talk.
‘Similarly, war in such a world would probably be far more commonplace. For us, major international conflicts are rare, occurring once every few centuries. But a world where no cameras recorded the rotting dead of Issus, Cannae or Hastings might well cloak violence in false ideals of heroism and chivalry. With vast resources being expended on war and religion, science and technology might develop far more slowly.
‘And that reality – a reality quite different from ours – could very easily have happened. If the Greeks had not been inspired to find light-sensitive media to capture pinhole images, such an unfeasibly different world might well have occurred. But what inspired the Greeks? What do we have, that such a world does not? Simple, we have… these!’
The guide flicked on his infrared lamp. The crowd gasped as the famous Photos Culture images leapt from the cave walls. Though inverted, the ancient Cro-Magnons in each scene were clearly visible, waving and grinning with spears and clubs held aloft. In one they posed before a slaughtered woolly rhinoceros, its wounds still bleeding. How astonishing that people from thirty-thousand years ago could still be seen, immortal in light! And even more astonishing how such primitive people made such images, all eighteen of them.
‘By sheer chance,’ the guide continued,’ these caves contained a light-sensitive fungus named photus clavatus. These people noticed their shadow imprints forming on the walls whenever they lit a fire. By trial and error, they learned to produce real photographs using holes in the cave walls, fixing these exposures using salt water.’
The guide made a sweeping gesture with his glittering arm.
‘These amazing images are the result. Some historians believe they represent the very foundation of our world; for, without them, we might be living in a totally different place. Of course, that is pure conjecture. These images might have had little effect on historical events. Still, it’s interesting to speculate what effect their non-existence might have had on Tlon, Mervek and the other great nations of the Earth: not to mention our colonies on Mars and Venus.’
Interesting indeed, thought Selema, checking her holographic timepiece: 14.28 on September the third, 1858. The gold transponder behind her ear chirped but she let her neural avatar handle the call, still feasting her eyes on those wonderful images.
by submission | Jun 19, 2019 | Story |
Author: Elaine Thomas
Somewhere, in a forest, lightning strikes a tree.
Elsewhere, in a cabin, a man tosses a log onto the fire. Startled, the man jumps backward, then laughs at himself. He knows any slight moisture left in wood as it cures can emit a high-pitched whistle when flames lick at it. He has heard the sound many times. Still, this one sounded almost like a scream. He shakes his head at his own silliness, adds more wood to the now roaring fire, warms his hands holding the palms forward in the glow, then turns both body and mind back to other ordinary tasks.
The crackling blaze and radiant heat of an open hearth keep the dark and the cold at bay. Thus has it been since the earliest primitive residents of this planet discovered fire, millions and millions of flames ago, a powerful and comforting presence through the centuries.
Smoke crawls up the chimney and surfaces into the air, where it dissipates, although not really. Instead Smoke hangs above the roof, spreading, waiting, knowing more will come. So, too, has it been since the earliest residents on this planet discovered fire.
Once free and floating there, Smoke evaluates its situation. There is no loneliness here. It knows other trees in other forests in other lands all around the planet will replicate its being, are replicating it. It knows new forms based on mass production and chemicals will join it. It knows the process will move across the universe, planet by planet, from caves to cabins to corporations. Smoke will not be alone long, at least not as it understands time. Such is progress, Smoke reflects, in a manner of thought as diffuse and unsubstantial as its very being.
More and more Smoke continues to be released and spread, joining all that has already been set free, over eons covering the surface of the world. As it slowly blocks any warmth and light from above, the planet’s residents respond just as Smoke knew they would. They struggle to control their environment. They seek their own benefit. They light more fires, burn more logs, destroy more forests and other resources in order to create warmth and light from below.
As Smoke accumulates in the air, the process speeds up. Residents of the planet cease to see the sun burning in the heavens, yet heat becomes trapped and magnified by Smoke. No one sleeps well as light breaks boundaries between night and day. Forest fires rage. Polar bears starve as habitats change. Choked plant life withers. Water and wetlands recede. Food becomes more and more difficult to grow or obtain, then impossible. Generation by generation, the planet grows dark and lifeless, enshrouded in Smoke.
In the mythology of the planet’s residents, the creator they pretended to worship once destroyed life through drowning, then promised on a rainbow that would never again happen. It would be fire next time, they prophesied, but they forgot that where there is fire there is Smoke. And after the fire Smoke remains.
by submission | Jun 16, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
The days were all the same like links on a chain. I had to break free. Then came a flash in the middle of another toss-and-turn night. I got to the window in time to see a beam of light retracting into the sky. In the yard was a shape — glowing white, irregular with sharp edges and about the size of a person.
I went outside and circled the form, which appeared to be two-dimensional. When I pushed a stick into the shape, the stick disappeared and reappeared when I retracted it. I posted online several photos and a video of the vanishing stick. I eventually sat in a lawn chair beside the shape and fell asleep.
My first thought when dawn woke me was that it had all been a dream. But there was the form twinkling in the sunlight. I checked my postings and saw they’d gone viral. I went inside to clean up and was surprised the shape drifted along behind me.
I called in sick, uploaded more images and videos and spent hours watching the number of views explode.
A few days later, a local TV station sent a crew to interview me. I hesitated at first, concerned my boss might see I wasn’t really sick. But I didn’t like my number-crunching job anyway.
When the reporter swept a stick, it disappeared as it passed through the form. “What’s the trick? Mirrors? Projectors?” I assured her it was real. She decided, fake or not, it was a good story. My shape and I got five minutes on the news. I also got fired.
The broadcast snagged the attention of a physicist at the university. He asked me to bring the shape to his lab. I realized his tests might make for some good posts.
The scientist reached a startling conclusion: The shape was comprised of nothing. No electrons, photons, quarks or even quantum vacuum fluctuations. It was Absolutely. Nothing.
I uploaded a video of the physicist describing the miraculous form and launched my own website dedicated to Nothing. I posted images of Nothing in a flower bed, by the kitchen sink, with a puppy. Nothing became an internet sensation. I monetized my website and thought I’d never have to work again.
One evening, I was out back admiring the night sky. Nothing, as always, was beside me. At the sight of a shooting star, I disappeared a finger into Nothing. “I wish you could talk,” I sighed.
Next morning when I awoke, Nothing was gone and a beautiful woman was in its place. “I’m the answer to your wish,” the woman said.
I thought this was a good thing. But when I uploaded a video of the woman explaining how she used to be Nothing, the views slowed to a trickle. Then came the comments — “Boring” … “Who Cares?” … “Fraud.”
If that wasn’t bad enough, the woman thought I should get a job as a website designer. She wanted us to start a family. She wanted a puppy. My head whirled. “I wish you could go back to the way you were,” I said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
I deleted the video of the woman and promised my followers that the next day I would do the unthinkable: Stick my head into the shape.
That night I could hardly sleep knowing I would have Nothing to live for again. Sometime after midnight, there was a bright flash out back. I ran to the window just in time to see a beam of light pulling Nothing into the sky.
by submission | Jun 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Phoebe Wagner
The saplings haven’t grown. This is expected.
We are prepped on day one—you will not see progress. Expect none. For this reason, the deployments are for three years. The generational weight was too much for the initial ten-year rotations.
We brag and boast—we could do it, plant the tiny green bursts for weeks, months, years, a decade. We know we don’t plant for our children or grandchildren. We plant for the millennia—and the next.
We walk the dusty loam in deerhide slippers, heavy skin bags slung across out shoulders, hefting found metal tools, fire-hardened wooden shovels, and spades.
The first month, we ache with the weight of roots.
Now, our moods lightning with the saplings bags until a starscape of green stretches behind.
Sometimes, we unearth a stump. According to the elders, the sequoias were some of the last to be harvested, but when whole cities died of the cold, when no materials remained to build storm shelters, when another hurricane was swirling inland—they came for majesty.
People died for the trees. Chained themselves, defended with guns, committed mass suicide. The trees became gods to some, ghosts to others, and survival for many.
We’ve never seen a live one, just the stumps unearthed from the loam and dust the roots once held in place.
The stumps were hacked to spindles. Sometimes, a hallowed, blackened center speaks to final fires in the California winters that never should have grown so cold.
The stumps tell a story of time. As we shed our bags and scoop away the dirt, it is a broken map appearing between our fingers. A maze of promises past—of breath and shade and all that shade breeds, of moss and leaves turning to hummus and leaves eaten from stems by insects now lost.
Each ring is a word in a poem, and as we shoulder our bags, as we scoop holes and ease in the saplings’ roots, we record the first line.
