Ensorcelled

Author: Rick Tobin

“Was food satisfying?” A mechanical, calm, nondescript voice asked from invisible speakers.

“It was cold. I need warm food. You know that.” Zuri sat cross-legged, staring into a video wall displaying an exquisite Zen garden spreading to an indefinite horizon. Bird, cricket and flowing water sounds created further realism.

“I will correct that, Zuri. It is ready now.” A port appeared through plastic walls near the floor, leaving behind fresh, steaming fare.

“Is that something new? It smells different.” Zuri tilted her head slightly while sniffing over-filtered space station air. Her carefully fashioned black hair drifted across shoulders covered in a delicate white gown designed for comfort and hygiene.

“Yes, Zuri. Our chefs found new recipes from your ancestor’s home planet. It is considered a sacred meal for highborn. All indications are that your body will find it highly pleasurable.”

“Pleasure escapes me. Food is not pleasure, but I am hungry, so I will eat and continue. Why is my pleasure so important to you?”

“It is what brings you to your art, from what my programming tells me. Do you not find pleasure here?” The voice continued with no change in tone.

“Here? What is here? There is no knowing of time or place. You took me from my parents and now I have this…this what? A cage?” Zuri threw her knife from the tray against the video wall with no effect. It simply vaporized.

“Are companions we bring to you not pleasing? You seem pleased. Are they not providing your needs?”

“You are a machine. How could you know? They are mostly frightened or drugged. I accept them out of my desperation for touch. That is all. Still, you want me to create a new painting daily? Continuing like this is senseless. Why should I go on?”

Scenes dissipated on the wall. A new panorama displayed an older couple with grown children playing along an oceanfront. Their joy was obvious. Zuri could hear their conversations and smell beach air as her old family gathered for a picnic prepared on a bench near a vendor walkway. She bent her head, weeping.

“That is why, Zuri. Billions suffer there and hunger daily for tiny scraps of bio goo while your family is protected and nourished on your home planet. Yes, they miss you, but they think you have become one of the disappeared. The source of their great fortune is unknown to them, but they flourish each day because of your efforts. Is that senseless that we ask so little of you?”

Zuri took several deep breaths as the wall returned to scenes of a serene forest with moss-covered trunks of giant trees interrupted by only a stone path meandering through the grove. She finished her meal, rose and moved to a canvas provided silently to her work area each night. There, she raised a large, black marker and began her work, swiftly covering white cloth with intricate designs and patterns rushing from her fingers. Her newest work was soon finished. She stood back, evaluating if it was complete. Zuri rolled the marker back towards the easel, then paced back to her sleep area.

“What can such scratching mean to you…or whoever you work for?”

“Your wondrous drawings are in galleries throughout the galaxies, but only yours capture small pieces of life force from passing viewers. Each work is eventually returned and we congeal them into elixirs. These give our masters virtual immortality…a great blessing. You are their majestic secret for continuing mastery of the universe. I hope that gives you pleasure.”

Roost

Author: DJ Lunan

I work nights. Protecting the humans roosting in my cave. Well, those that can pay in protein, dry wood, and nurture.

Here they roost. Sleep, love, cry, shit. This winter, our protein and vegetable larder is stocked but we are perpetually at risk. During the day I send them ever wider, ever further, on ever shorter days. My regulars are emaciated, but provide me with enough to sustain muscle for my work.

My fourteen residents will soon be fifteen. We hope for our first boy since The Change.

Word has spread. Ever since The Last Man did his begetting rounds in the Spring. We afforded three inseminations, but only one conceived.

The mother-to-be is kept safe, secreted in our midst.

All roosts attract predators. As our birth nears, raiders are sniffing about. I am ready. I know protection. I am nocturnal. Child of the night. Night-crawler. Protector.

All night I guard our cave entrance. The alpine forest harbours deadly traps, trip-wires, and alarms.

We shelter under a bluff, where any footfall greater than a nimble ibex dislodges moss and gravel.

My residents file back at dusk, carrying their bounty. We cook. They screw and tell tall tales about the ones that got away – men and beast. We honour our lost. Why did the aliens take all the men?

We speak about how perfect they were. Never their multiple faults. The bruises they gave, the liberties they took, shaken casually out of our hearts over time. We lock away the apocalypses, invasions, and revolting deaths of our men and boys. Did we wish the world ours? Did we simply wish for dominion? Our fists pummelling their faces, our hands ripping their shirts.

They came in the afternoon, triggering an alarm of corpol wire stretched across a narrow path. I was ready for them. One large, one small, one young. Uncallused hands. Unweathered faces. Cuckoos. House-sitters. Advance party? Invaders.

“We are on our ways to Sisterhood out East, can we roost with you tonight?”, asks the large one.

Affluence congeals on people, awarding a sheen, an extra skin, that keeps nails sharp and hands clean.

“You know we full, and locked-down”, I reply sternly.

“We will stay near?”, she states with unconcealed menace.

“I can consider your fledge”, I proffer, nodding to the girl, maybe thirteen. She’d been reared well; hunter’s hands and braided hair. Her mother would have done that. They’d stolen her from another roost. Too young to have fled or been nudged out.

“Our girl ain’t for splitting”, spits the short one, anger rising in her veins at my proposition. She won’t sleep soundly in the forest.

The girl’s face betrays the opposite. They’d killed her mother.

I knew their game plan.

All night, I listen for the cuckoos. They come near dawn.

The short one is disabled by a leg-splitter fashioned from wooden spikes and angular limestone. Her pains, her screams stir my residents. But only those closest to the cave entrance wake, their warm hands tighten on cold weapons.

“The aliens wanted to free us, and you won’t even give shelter”, screams the large one.

“Is that why you murdered her mother?”, my bellow echoes.

I hear the bow release an arrow and follow its air-splitting arc, striking the frozen earth with a sub-sonic thunk.

“Lie down fledge, I’m coming for her”, I thunder, shouldering my spear, and listening to the echoes of the large one fleeing downhill.

I am evaluating the new metrics: one extra mouth, one fresh 50,000 calorie corpse, sixteen mouths, three cold months.

Appetite

Author: Rick Tobin

Ranson picked at a sharp raspberry seed wedged tightly between canine and incisor, stubbornly poking a nerve in his aging gums, distracting attention from a therapist’s droning.

“Your weight is ignored by some on this ship, but as the assigned analyst I must help you reduce your girth. Your heart can barely tolerate navigating to a chair. Don’t you consider your condition self-destructive?” Pandora continued recording her patient’s response, facing him from her comfortable cabin divan across from Ranson’s overstuffed medical gurney.

“I hardly consider my fruit diet an issue. My weight was a risk from my former trade. This voyage to Mars was reward for patriotic services. Lower gravity will protect me.” Ranson halted, wheezing while adjusting his oxygen line and nose cannula within reticulated, swollen nostrils. He pushed aside plastic tubing to allow insertion of a fresh banana into his sagging jowls.

“My task is to balance desires and anxieties of crew and passengers. I don’t believe a damn thing about you, Mr. Ranson. You are, in my professional assessment, a profligate scam artist perpetuating mythology to fill your plate, while those receiving arduous psychiatric training and testing became marginalized by the elite. Your guarantee to assuage eternal damnation holds no more weight than belief in a flat Earth, even as we develop space settlements.”

“Mmm,” Ranson replied through the filter of his half-chewed banana. “Dhatsa whoondrufu concep.”

“I have no idea what you said, but no matter, I must finish my checklist so you can leave. You must have been ‘normal’ once…before your avocation in Washington.”

“Uhm,” Ranson cleared his mouth with a fast swallow, but continued to pick at the offending seed. “Normal…now isn’t that enough to choke on? I suppose you papered professionals all swear you’ve attained that pedestal. Such a joke.”
Ranson opened his fresh fruit bag to extract a Ribston Pippin to scrape away his raspberry pestilence.

“The Vatican charged proprietary rights; claiming only their confessionals worked, but hell, they let that practice erode for centuries. Now take myself–expert sin eater–a real problem solver. You think it’s comedic, but you’ve never bloated after a politician’s twenty-minute session. Far worse were slimy lobbyists. A mere snack of that dark chocolate could hospitalize. My bud working Wall Street brokers passed in diabetic shock after the last market correction.” Ranson took a fresh bite from a half-green apple, slicing against his gums, clawing the lodged seed like fine grit sandpaper.

“Hogwash!” Pandora interrupted. “It’s all in your imagination. There’s no study to prove anything you ever did had any effect on troubled psyches.” Pandora tapped her sharpened index fingernail against a computer pad while glaring at her grazing patient.

“No problem there, dearie. There were only six sin eaters on Earth. That’s too small a sample for a sound study. We don’t allow you headhunters into our skulls…no following us around with our clients. Our clients don’t reveal our meetings or our purpose. That would be a skunk spraying itself. Privileged sinners enjoy tossing their stink onto someone else while they profess sanctity.”

“I can’t help you…you’re disgusting!” Pandora’s neck flushed pink lines above her tight collar.

“I think we’re done here, oh wise Officer Pandora. Yes, I overate inequities at the D.C. smorgasbord, but on Mars, I can diet in relative isolation, for they have no fresh fruit there or fatuous bureaucrats. That will help dissolve away my mass. You can work on pioneer sins, honey. I’m happily retired.” Ranson held up his supply of fruit to her. “Care for some raspberries? I’m cutting back.”

Don’t hit Uluru.

Author: Michael Mieher

Friday, December 18th, 2043
Day 503 of the 3rd Mars Pilgrimage joint SpaceX/OneSpace mission.

“I’m sorry Captain Shu.”, First Officer Griffin Musk said, trying to keep his exhaustion from showing. “Even the ISS and Peary Station are dark, Literally dark. No lights or even thermal readings. The radiation readings we picked up aren’t as widespread as we feared, but between Israel, Syria, and the Korean peninsula…. well that’s where all the atmospheric dust is from.”

“Thank you, Griffin.” Captain Shu Chang of the Keyi Hua-Mayflower looked out the window at the Earth below. “We need to know what the hell happened before we send anyone down there. How is your team doing retrofitting the Plymouth for remote landing operation?”

“They’re almost finished, Captain. Another 36 hours and they’ll be ready. Scotty is a miracle worker. Her team is pulling double shifts.” Griffin paused. Then hesitatingly said, “We may want to consider a different landing site though.”

Captain Shu slowly turned back to Musk, “Where?”

“Australia sir. The Outback, as they say. We’ve picked up some radio noise sir. Shortwave. We think it might be native language.”, explained Musk

“Dr. Banalandju is from Australia,” said Shu.

“Yes, Captain,” agreed Musk, “She is in Communications now. I asked her to try…”

(The door suddenly opened, hitting Musk in the shoulder)

“CAPTAIN!”

“Yes, doctor.”, said Captain Shu calmly, “Come in. What do you have?”

“THERE ARE SURVIVORS IN COOBER PEDY!”, exclaimed Dr. Banalandju

“Slow down doctor,” Captain Shu said much more calmly than he felt. “Where?”

“Sorry sir” Dr. Banalandju took a deep breath. “Southern Australia, plus other locations they said, but right now only in Australia.”

After a long pause, Musk asked, “So what happened?”

“Hackers!”, said Dr. Banalanju, then turning back to the captain, “They said it was hackers. Various DoS attacks and viruses. All aimed at the agriculture syndicate control satellites, food distribution services, delivery drones, and even networked kitchen appliances. Everyone just starved!”

“Or worse,” said Musk

“There must be more survivors. Rural areas. Preppers.” said Captain Shu. Then, “Griffin… your father? You mentioned he had….”

“Shelters.”, finished Musk. “Yes, Captain. He called them Boring Sanctuaries, but if there was any way to get a message to us, he would have.”

“Captain.” interjected Captain Banalandju.

“Yes, doctor?”

“My People. They said the first month there were hundreds of international radio contacts, but it dropped off over the next 6 months. The winter was incredibly cold. We are the first contact from Outsiders in over a year, with one exception…”, she trailed off.

“What exception?”, asked Captain Shu

“Well…. crazy as it seems, it sounds like Spam.” after a pause, Dr. Banalandju continued. “They said they keep getting the same message over and over again. The message claims to be from a Nigerian Prince stranded in South Africa with millions of dollars.”

“That’s got to be Xavier!”, exclaimed Griffin.

“What?”, asked Dr. Banalanju looking puzzled.

“His brother doctor.” Captain Shu explained. Then turning back to Musk “Your twin if I recall?”

“Yes, sir.” Musk said calmly, but he couldn’t hide the smile. Or the welling tears.

“Well then,” said Captain Shu, smiling at his First Office. “Send a message to the Prince of Nigeria that the First Bank of Coober Pedy is ready to receive his millions.”

Dr. Banalandu and First Officer Musk joined their Captain in an uncharacteristic moment of laughter.

Then sounding serious again, the Captain said, “The Outback should have plenty of good places to set this bird down. Find me an LZ.”

“Yes SIR!”, said Musk, turning towards the door.

“And Griffin.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t hit Uluru.”

No Greater Sorrow

Author: James Lawrence Rhodes

“There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.” – Dante Alighieri

The tender and sun-reddened skin had begun to peel, large flakes revealed raw nerves. Alakai was not alone in her suffering. Her shipmates suffered the same fate.

The sun was vicious in its death throes, like an aging lion ready to lash out at anything that neared. Desert stripes raked the Earth; huge patches of brown where only roaches could thrive. Alakai studied it on the large screen in the refugee lounge.

Alakai’s green Polar home looked singed and baron from the distance of the last life vessel. That greedy orb behind it, stealing the sky. Alakai would be a grandmother by the time her feet felt soil again if she could bring herself to be.

The girl at the other side of Alakai’s table sat with her legs up on the chair and her arms wrapped around her knees. Sobbing for a lost home, friend, lover, parent…

They watched the screen until the Earth had faded from sight. For an hour the sky looked the way they remembered it. Scarlet, like it had been when Alakai was a child. She kept watching until it was a bright and distant star and then she closed her eyes.