by submission | Aug 27, 2020 | Story |
Author: William Norberg
Dreams. Were they pleasant? I can’t remember… Sleep used to come easily in the darkness of the night. But now I trudge endlessly through choking shadows. Where neither sleep nor death will come to me mercifully. Naked, cold, starving.
A sickly dark green sky dimly paints these barren rocky lands, where nothing grows and nothing chirps. High up above stalks a maddening pitch black sun. Dark as a punctured hole in the sky. Looking into its abysmal gap I can’t help but ask: “Is this a dream?”
Was life a dream before this? I can’t remember… But deep within my well of faint memories, I know that it was not such a torturous fate as this. For if I close my eyes pictures dance across my blackened mind:
Golden fields and shimmering blue rivers. Luscious green carpets of trees lining towering mountains. Warm and cozy houses filled with jolly… Creatures? What were these creatures called? They were people. They were men, women, and children. I’m a part of these beings, yet I can’t remember our names… It’s long lost and forgotten. Washed away in the eternity spent roaming these dark and sinister wastelands.
Did we deserve this? YES, a memory whispers within me. We found something which we should have left alone. Something which came from the stars, from the outer reaches of the black gulfs of the cosmos. It was sleeping. It was dreaming.
I vaguely remember that day. The day we landed on the red planet.
I…I can’t remember much of what happened. Perhaps my mind has spared me from the horror? I remember the sight of a strange black rock deep within a cavern of the planet.
It was not natural, not from this world. Its shape was perfectly round and showed no sign of damage or markings. It looked untouched. It consisted of something abysmal and pitch black. It absorbed all light reflected on it, appearing as a hole in existence. We had observed it in a variety of ways, and data showed that within it was an unconscious stream of thought. We knew something was slumbering within.
We opened it. Burned through its shell which melted into a seemingly magmatic liquid which upon contact with the red ground vaporized into thick black smoke.
I remember seeing a dark shape crawling out, slithering out. Then it’s all a blur… My eyelids grew heavy as lead, colors faded to nothing but grey, then black. Out from that choking darkness came a monstrous voice whispering in my ear. It spoke in an unknown tongue. A terrible, deep, and ancient tongue: “Fhtagn…Fhtagn… Nglhu’gh afla’nglui ai’f… Mglw’nafh fhtagn ee’ghui zhro ai’f…”
The words twisted and squirmed within my fading mind, as if alive. They began to speak from within me, translating a fraction of its meaning: “Dreaming…Dreaming…Stars aligned at last…”
Dreams. I can’t remember their beauty or meaning… All I know is that I’ve roamed these lands of shadows for eternity. My ears hurt from the cries and moans echoing between the barren cliffs. Naked boney figures cling to the rocks, desperately seeking a dark crevice to crawl into. To hide from the demonic voice rumbling in the sky where a black sun hangs.
No sign of day. Only eternal night looms over these accursed lands. Soon I’ll go mad myself, and cry out and chant with these insane creatures:
In the dreadful dream, he waits,
Laughing at our eternal fates,
Grinning cause it’s way too late,
We peeked into the cosmic gate,
Never shall we ever awake…
It was sleeping. It was dreaming… And we awoke it…
by submission | Aug 26, 2020 | Story |
Author: Samuel Stapleton
We work with law enforcement often, but we’re not cops. We work with business beings from every populated system, but we’re not economists. We work with medical professionals, but we’re not even versed in basic first aid. In our cheapest job, we paid our client. In our most lucrative job, we matched the yearly GDP of Thebe in a few hours. Whether you’re impressed or not is up to you, but hopefully we have your attention…
My name is Verun Lapzuli, and my robotic partner is RemmyIII, or RIII for short. Welcome to the Translation Offices of Asteroid 47.
We have one rule. You trust our interpretation, or you hire someone else. And…well, we kind of have a second rule. All parties involved hire us, or nobody hires us. So, two rules. Look, we do language not mathematics okay?
My partner and I don’t just translate words though; we translate context, we translate body language, we translate intentions, we translate emotion, or the lack of any or all of those things and more. In short, we translate meaning.
When you’re a colonial Martian speaking with an asteroid-mining redneck American who just ended a conceptual explanation with a haughty Capiche, Amigo? via holodeck…you don’t need an app. You need us. Click here for client testimonials.
When you’re a Nagrandilari refugee being interviewed by System Authority and they’re firing common speak at you faster than the pulse beams the terrorists and ‘good guys’ were shooting…you don’t need an app. You need us. Click here for client testimonials.
When you’re conducting business with an Illythianwrack near the celebration of Kabadule and they say ‘Normundi’ in quiet agreement at then end of negotiations surrounding specific terms of a deal…any app can tell you they said, ‘we agree to these terms until death unbinds us from them.’ But you would need us to inform you that the relaxed posture, quiet tone, and soft smile indicate that your terms are so offensive the Illythianwrack have just implied your imminent, mysterious, and overly-unconcerning death. If you choose not to believe our translation, that’s your choice. Click here for client testimonial.
If you missed it…please carefully re-read that last example until it clicks. If it still doesn’t click…you should definitely hire us.
The last System Census peaked at 10,318 spoken languages. But nobody knows how many body languages, dialects, accents, cultural references, contextual clues, etc, exist. An AI tried to calculate the number once. We would print you the number the AI came up with for the estimate of how many misunderstandings occur during each business day, but the number requires over six hundred Standard System Datapages (SSDs). We just can’t fit that on our holocard.
We appreciate you taking the time to access our advertisement in your preferred language. Feel free to look at any of our 9,876 other language options. Before you go, please remember…you trust our interpretation, or you hire someone else. Unaelewa?
Disclaimer 1 of 53: The Translation Offices of Asteroid 47™ will not be hired for cases involving: open criminal proceedings, communication between spouses, or ex-spouses. Any case involving politicians (because we can’t understand you), or any children under the galactic age of 3 (baby-talk is not a recognized language according to the supreme court ruling from 2089 (Harry vs Blrupppzzs-mammlm)). The Translation Offices of Asteroid 47™ retain the right to deny contracts for reasons other than those listed*.
by submission | Aug 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Nondescript gray gruel drifted over the worn stainless spoon stirring in a prisoner’s brown wooden bowl. Two ragged, worn men sat facing each other, heads bent down toward a stained wooden picnic bench, one lifting a metal water cup to dilute rancid flavors from his throat.
“Miguel. Quietly,” the larger man whispered across the meal. “They’re listening. Two months. News from the Brazilian?” Anderson pulled his drifting, greasy locks past his eyes while making brief hand gestures on the table, indicating where guards were standing. Miguel put one finger out, tapping it lightly.
“La sangre,” he whispered. Miguel pulled his worn sleeve back, exposing his scars from constant IVs.
“You mean, blood?” Anderson’s eyes widened as he pointed, slowly, to his heart.
“Si, es la verdad, sangre oro.”
“Maybe to make sure those women aren’t infecting us. God knows why they force us on them. Get that fat kiwi broad again?” Anderson choked back some stew, thinking about cramped mating pens with guards prodding, forcing coupling.
“Muy horrible…you call…nightmare?” Miguel rubbed his neck, rolled back his shirt collar, exposing bite marks.
Anderson sat back quickly, as if struck by an invisible hand. “You said oro…you mean gold…like golden blood?”
“Si, Anderson. I have the golden blood. You?”
“For God’s sake, that’s it. They took us because we have no antigens. Why…why would they?”
His questioning stopped as guards descended on them. Soon, a feeding area door opened to exude a man in a doctor’s uniform with military epaulets.
“So, Anderson, always the curious one. We’ve watched you. If this one figured it out,” he pointed at Miguel, “It won’t be long before everyone knows, even the women. You can let them go, guards.” The doctor waved thugs off two seated men.
“Explain, asshole!” Anderson turned. A machine gun barrel pushed into his face.
“No, we can’t have that, sergeant. Step back. They’ll settle down. I’m Doctor Evans of Space Command. You, and Mr. Hernandez, are some of our treasured guests. You’ve guessed half the reason, but not all.”
“Treasured guests?” Anderson growled.
“I assure you; my superiors ordered these Spartan conditions after our failures with genetic alterations and artificial insemination. Your kind has complicated reproduction issues. We couldn’t afford to lose a single rare golden blood donor, so…this last alternative. Those pitiful women are just like you—here against their will. We need offspring with dominant genes, ensuring a continual breeding stock.”
“You Nazi bastard…” Anderson reached out before a baton slapped his hands.
“This is about species, not race, Anderson. You see, gentlemen, we have a narrow six-year window. We’re moving an army to Mars to neutralize recent Chinese incursions. Dominance battles are coming. Casualties need universal donor blood supplies from available healthy sources on Mars… babies you’ll make. There are only fifty of you left on Earth. We can’t have that resource wasted.”
“There’s no pit in hell deep enough for what you’re doing…and those women!” Anderson spit at Evans.
“Really? Such bravado. Consider your eventual benefits. Apophis is a planet killer. That asteroid got close last pass, then changed course, so we stepped up Mars migrations. If you aren’t on Mars by 2036, you’ll die. Be assured, you assets will continue mating there, and eventually be crowned heroes. For now, get used to that bitch from Auckland. We need her. She tends toward twins.”
by submission | Aug 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
So what: a fleet of alien starcraft sets down in Ohio and lets us know we are not alone in the Universe. Okay. Our rent is still due. The last of that special jam we bought at the farm store just over the state line has soured. You still prop yourself up on one pillow to say that if I am to be done so quickly, maybe I shouldn’t start at all. Yes, I am curious to see what they look like. Yes, I wonder what they came here for. But, as far as anything else – technology transfer, minerals trade, the philosophy of space travel – someone at a higher pay grade than mine will decide all that. My focus is on keeping my lousy job, and when engaged with you in the spearpoint of passion remembering I am not alone. We will get back out to that farm store – it is only a twenty mile mostly straight-line drive down a tourist trap road. We could go next time I have a weekday off. Be angry with me if you like. You know I will make it up to you. Or try. But just now, let’s turn on the television and see if they are interviewing those new aliens yet. I am spear-point curious as to what they could possibly want with us, why we are interesting to them. I would think they would want something and not come so far just to visit.
by submission | Aug 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
A sudden rash of volcanoes, spewing poisonous smoke and ash; any closer and rock lofted by the eruptions would be raining from the clouds.
So we fled underground, a move not without risk. Sometimes with eruptions come more quakes and roof-falls, but we have learned that those who hide are never survived by the ones who stay in the open.
The slowest of us, the aged and the injured, were the last to limp into the caves. I turned to take in the baleful red glow to the south. Like the end of the world; though we already knew what the end of the world looked like.
It would be a cold and hungry time for we old ones.
The Chief’s men came to do the count, and one stood over the old woman we called the Nurse, huddled in a corner like a heap of rags.
The man called for help with her, though she must be light as a bird. It wasn’t that he couldn’t drag her on his own, but he wanted to share the guilt.
I stepped forward. “She’s not dead.”
“Soon will be. Who’ll take her outside?”
“I will. When the time comes.”
He looked dubious, then shrugged big shoulders. Breeders and Hunters got fed when food was scarce.
Later, they sent someone to remember the Nurse’s words, preserving the past, the way we hold onto knowledge that was common once but is precious now. Our future depends on knowing more than our rivals.
The girl they sent was not a Survivor – what we old ones call ourselves – but from the generations after. She shrugged when I asked her age. Thirteen, fourteen? Hard to guess, though her hips were still too narrow for childbirth.
She had a spiral tattoo on her brow and the top joint of the little finger on her left hand was missing. These were marks of affiliation, of ownership perhaps. The young have secret lives.
Together, the girl and I roused the Nurse with water, and some scraps I had kept back for harder times.
Perhaps the girl expected to hear secret tricks of healing, but the Nurse had already passed on what she could.
“Out of nowhere,” she mumbled. “Like a thing bobbing up from underwater. Big as the moon.”
She clutched at the girl, searching her face for comprehension. Still trying to make sense of what befell us after all this time.
It had surfaced with a surge and suck of gravity that made the Earth flex in torment. It was fleeing the wavefront of some unspecified catastrophe, but sniffing a waterworld like ours, and with true sentience in the cosmos so precious, it snatched at the passing chance of rescue.
Days later, with the saved safe inside the belly of the behemoth, it vanished in a splash of physics that blew every lightbulb on the planet. Whether it was some sort of living starship, or a vast leviathan of the interstellar deeps we never knew.
The girl shot me a bitter glance. This was the creation myth of her world.
“No room for everybody, so some was saved and some was left. That what she say?”
Perhaps anger and resentment would nourish them through hard lives. When my time comes, I shall not add to their burden with the truth.
We scientists didn’t understand at first, as quakes and tsunamis grew increasingly violent, as we scanned the heavens for a catastrophe that seemed already here. It was a while before we realised all the whales were gone.
