by submission | Jun 30, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
Pillars of flame smothered the Trac’s windows as it descended swiftly through outer atmosphere. The craft’s accommodations were quite decadent: cushioned seats, masseuses, and gleaming trays of food and liquor crowded to the edges of the heat-blasted view screen. In the main concourse, passengers mingled and drank, occasionally glancing out at the massive carbon chainlinks pulling them to the surface.
Yuma turned to his son with an upheld hand. “Shiro, watch a trick.” He pumped his bionic-assisted grip twice, taking pleasure in the child’s wide-eyed amazement. The gloved hand rotated palms-up and revealed a paper crane, cradled by fingers of titanium spindle.
“Again! Again!” the boy cried.
A nearby man had noticed the scene and rose from his seat.
“Hello, little traveler,” he began, stooped over the boy, “what brings you through these parts?”
Yuma smiled in return. “Just taking my son along on some university business.”
“Ah, an academic!” He extended a hand. “The name is Kor-tel.”
“It looks like you’re packing some serious hardware,” Yuma said, nodding towards his black weapon sack.
The man’s smile widened. “Oh, the native stock can be quite dangerous, even capable of some primitive tool use. Although I’m sure you’re already familiar.” He pulled a flask from an inside pocket and took a swig. “They have a natural talent for slinging projectiles.”
“Well, I don’t expect any surprises,” Yuma said, lifting his son onto the seat beside him, “just a boring research trip. And what’s your business here?”
“Me? I intend to track a buck, an alpha male.” Kor-tel pantomimed raising a rifle with his right arm, eagerly taking aim down invisible crosshairs and activating the trigger with his free hand. “A good challenge for a man my age.”
Yuma whistled, impressed. “A private leisure license! It must have set you back. But personally, I’d pass on the hunt.”
Kor-tel was preparing to mount a defense when their discussion was tabled by an approaching servant.
“Would you gentlemen like anything else before we dock at the surface?” Her voice was friendly enough but an octave higher than standard due to vocal mods.
Kor-tel raised a hand. “No thank you, dear. I’ll need my full wits about me soon.” Yuma also declined.
The woman bowed slightly. “Very well.”
As the ragged surface rose to greet them, passengers began milling back to their seats to collect luggage. Yuma had forgotten the incredible speed of the Carbon-Trac system–only a few hours drive down from orbit. It was an expensive trip for a private citizen, but of course, the university had covered his costs. One of the many perks of the scientific life.
“Professor, I bid you farewell,” Kor-tel chimed, swinging his sack over a shoulder. “Next time surface-side, you must visit my quarters. And bring the little one too.” He winked goodbye to Shiro.
“That would be lovely.”
Yuma retrieved his own bag and stood the boy beside himself on the landing platform, hand held tight. “Ready, Shi?”
They stepped off the iron grate and set foot on Earth. The docking crater’s pulverized gravel crunched pleasantly under his boot as Yuma turned his gaze skyward. Those grey clouds of fallout had thinned noticeably since his last trip; a hopeful sign for the native H. sapiens he had spent his career studying. Shiro tugged on the fabric stretched taut across his father’s thigh.
“Is this where the bad thing happened?” he asked, his eyes moist little orbs.
Yuma knelt and cupped his gloves gently around the boy’s shoulders.
“Yes. We make mistakes, but then we fix them. It’s only human.”
by submission | Jun 29, 2018 | Story |
Author: Robin
The silence in my ears woke me. I lay there, ocean rocking the docked boat, and mentally rewind to the beginning of the album. I couldn’t think of anything else to listen to. This is the only one of Isakov’s albums that are still preserved, and, of course, music’s much too expensive to create these days. For some reason, stories (especially those with notes attached), cost more than pictures. Hundreds of years ago, people would say a picture was worth a thousand words, but nowadays, it’s a word which is worth… at current market prices, 67 abstract pictures.
I couldn’t think of anything to do with my time. I was aware that I would be forced to vacate the cruise ship within a few hours and I decided to leave rather than experience boredom. The porter, on duty even before the first hint of molten gold had begun its relentless assault on the obsidian sky, was tipped a full half-portrait, the suggested fee for a Level 4 Assistance in The Handbook of Non-Arbitrary Numbers. As I turned away, I saw him consume the pill almost immediately. Poor fool. He couldn’t have been older than 15, too young to develop a resistance, too young to control himself, too young to learn not to enjoy the sensation that rolled his eyes back into his head and made him want to break the deathly silence with a song.
On my way home, I began to grow more agitated, more shaken than usual at the ecstasy on the boy’s face. I shivered in the cold night air, not from the below-freezing temperatures in C4802, but from the view into the clear night sky. The stars were back for the first time in living memory.
The Handbook of Non-Arbitrary Numbers says the stars were the number one cause of the creative-type suicidal epidemic of the 23rd century, causing 67,891 deaths in 2287 alone.
My neck began to ache as I stared at the one thing that still made people believe a God could exist. I told myself I was only questioning my sudden ability to see them. Perhaps the fog machines meant to keep the suicides in check had malfunctioned, I said, pretending I couldn’t feel the tears or taste the salt. What a mystery, my wandering soliloquy continued, beginning to stumble. I’d never know.
I’ll never know because as soon as I reached home, I withdrew my entire life savings – just over one abstract, and ingested it immediately in a rare moment of passion. As I write this, I can already feel it taking effect, the unique flash of inspiration – words bubbling forth as my blood follows suit.
The Handbook of Non-Arbitrary Numbers says I have 119 minutes left to live, based on the time of ingestion and the severity of the overdose. I’ve already wasted too long writing this. I must begin my work. My life will end like a star – in a bright flash of glory that spreads through the cosmos, blue fire scorching worlds light-years away.
In my mind’s eye, I can already see a bemused police chief unlocking my door to discover the reason for my absence. He is walking, cautiously, through each room. Now, he has found my body, but before he radios it in, something on the wall catches his eye. My supernova. He takes a step back and a breath in, staring at my magnum opus, the camera in his eye already spreading it across the worlds.
And it will be beautiful.
by submission | Jun 28, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Deuteronomy 28:41 Thou shalt beget sons and daughters, but thou shalt not enjoy them; for they shall go into captivity.
Just a toe. That’s all. Just her pointed phalanx appears. No more, at first. She plays me like a fly cast trout. She can’t be real, but I’m pulled in, helpless and gasping.
San Francisco rents: ninety square feet for a grand a month for one bed and a bath. Neighbor’s sneezes scatter roaches we deny on Balboa Street, but we all have them. They like fog. My lease didn’t warn me about my microscopic closet facing north. Her light came under the uneven door frame that first night, eroding my rest. I’ve slept with eyes open all my life. No one knows why. When light flares underneath, there’s no relief…as if she would allow it.
First, I was sure Nevada had fried my brains from Burning Man festivities. I took three tabs one night. Stars ate my soul. I wandered out from camp, alone. Next day deputies found me walking naked outside the park with killer sunburns, mumbling, half-mad and dehydrated. Dad got me out of the Winnemucca Mental Health Center’s holding tank for crazies or I’d still be there. Sometimes flashbacks eat my lunch. Not now. I’d take those instead of every closet cursing me since Balboa. She’s real and she has me.
My mistake, calling Sherm—trusted, faithful and gay friend. Not like my other gay contacts. We were close since grade school, even though I’m straight. Sherm was iconic. Nobody liked him, not in San Fran. A total monk—even though he would tap at me occasionally to verify which bench I was still warming. Didn’t matter. We shared all our fears, hopes, doubts and dreams. Doesn’t happen often enough in a life, but he was my go to. I had to tell him about her and what happened every night after I moved into that dump. He laughed until I convinced him to stay over, just once. He took it the wrong way and jumped at it, thinking ‘the closet’ was my code word for coming out, but then he got caught in her net. He was just as mesmerized by her shining skin and glowing face. Shockingly, she took us both, without our permission, until we were whimpering husks curled up in my tiny Murphy bed.
Sherm left before I woke. He refused calls and wouldn’t answer email or doorbells. I wasn’t sure what he thought I’d done; maybe drugged him for an escort. Anyway, for the first time in fifteen years, I lost my confidant.
Then, two weeks later, I get a call at work. He’s shaky like I’ve never heard. I empathize because I’m also enervated. Still, he apologizes and then asks forgiveness. I ask why. All he says is that two of them are in his closet. He can’t take it anymore. So that’s it. My cry for help contaminated him. A week later, cops found his corpse in the Bay. I tried to make police inquiries, but they still treat homosexuals like yesterday’s trash. To them, another dead one is a blessing.
Sherm’s price was my fault. I’ve moved six times—left the Coast to hide in Iowa. No dice. Three of them now exit closets nightly demanding servicing. I’m a mere shell of a man. Whatever happened in that desert sealed my fate. Somewhere in the cosmos, I may be worshiped as a pater gentis, but here I’m a lost soul who will soon pass in my sleep from unknown causes.
by submission | Jun 27, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
I needed a big brother, so I disguised myself and went back in time to become him. I’d lived all this before, as my kid self, so it was pretty easy. I just had to remember the details along the way.
First was a mustache like the Village People. Then long hair like Jesus. I’d have to remember to buy 8-track tapes and wear sandals. I’d need a Camaro and some iron-on patches for my jeans.
I didn’t need to be there right from the day I was born — the kid me, I mean. He wouldn’t remember that far back anyway. I could drop in when he was four years old, say 1972, and no harm done. He’d just assume I’d been his big brother all his life.
What you have to understand is that we build the past we want to remember, so it changes all the time. I had to be the big brother my kid-self expected, or nothing would work out right in my life.
I showed up and started throwing together what I needed. The most important thing was the comic book collection. I had to picture my big brother self as a kid, traveling thrice weekly to the city newsstands within walking distance, purchasing for twelve cents all the newest Marvel Comics that week. 1961. Where Stan Lee’s universe all began.
Okay then. I had a comic book collection spanning a decade of the Silver Age. I quit college and took a construction job for the money. I played golf and softball. I bowled and shot darts. I watched all the Star Trek reruns. Little brother, here I come.
Holy cow! I almost forgot my high school sweetheart, Nora Elvert. Let’s give her a matching Camaro and an engagement ring for after graduation.
Earliest childhood memory: sitting on the trunk of the Camaro where it was parked blocking the narrow dirt alley across the street. Elton John on the radio. Cut-off shorts and twin popsicles. Twilight, with the kitchen light shining out through the screen door.
Just like that, I’m in. I’m the big brother my kid-self expects me to be. The first couple of years run smooth. Lots of miniature golf. Then off to Long Island to see NHL games. The Islanders are gearing up for an epic Stanley Cup run to begin the next decade. But this is only the bicentennial summer when “Afternoon Delight” plays every five minutes on the radio. I wear cool sunglasses with a see-through fluorescent visor.
The kid worships me. I buy him every Mego super-hero doll that comes out. We play Stratego all the time. He never wins.
It’s getting close now to enough — enough to imprint upon him, for a lifetime, how great big brothers are. 1977 should just about do it.
“Let’s go to the movies,” I say. Then a downpour hits. Then we run out of gas. I hike down the road to fill a gas can then hike back. I look like a cool hero to my little brother. We arrive late at the movie and stick around till the next show to see the beginning we missed.
The name of the movie is Star Wars.
Now I’m set. It’s all in place. I played out the crucial years. Later I become an executive, and who needs that?
All my dreams are set to go. My innocence shall remain lifelong intact. Nothing can ever truly hurt or discourage me.
So let’s go save the world!
by submission | Jun 26, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
Major Tom Valence knew it was a one-way trip yet he felt at peace, euphoric even. Soon he would be with them again – Liv and Susie. He sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Tetrad. The agony of the absence of his wife and daughter had left him hollow – Susie had been only eight. An emptiness he had filled with a nearly fanatical purpose – to open a passage through the Net.
As they left Estia’s atmosphere behind, he set a course for the Gemini moons and let the autodrive take over. He had a good hour before he would have to begin entering the manual adjustments to the course set. The Institute had calculated the weakest point in the Net. The Roda had not fully taken into account the disturbance caused by two moons in such close orbits. They should have made sure the Net passed beyond both moons and not between them.
It had been more than three centuries since Estia had been trapped inside the Net, as the Suvernal Forcefields were more commonly called. The Roda had placed it there to stop the Estians spreading like roaches they said. But nothing had been heard of the Roda for almost a century, so the Estians had dared to look for a way out. Desperation had fuelled and funded the research needed. A desperation born of the Unrests caused by overpopulation and scarce resources. Estia was mostly water with only one continental mass. It had been meant to be the home of a colony of three million, not twelve million. Liv and Susie had been among the victims of the Unrests – a Meronite suicide bomber who killed forty civilians.
Major Tom planned to be the ultimate suicide bomber, but instead of innocent lives, he planned to blast a hole through the Net. Then the Estians would be free to populate a new world, maybe several worlds. The sonic wave catalyst needed to be detonated at the Net’s weakest spot, that slight wear in the fabric caused at the point where the moons’ orbits were at their closest in their dance across the heavens. The Net wreaked havoc on the navigation system of any ship when you got too close to it though, so constant manual adjustments would have to be made to reach the weak spot.
A light flashed again on the console. There was a problem with the sensors in the ship’s tiny galley. Not that it really mattered at this point, but it would kill the time nicely to repair it. As he moved towards the galley, the door slid open and Lieutenant Atticus Rokes limped out. Two prosthetic legs in small confines was a recipe for stiffness.
– Atticus, what the fuck are you doing here?
– Well, I’m pleased to see you too!
– Atticus have you gone crazy?
– Maybe. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you alone up here at the end.
– But there’s no sense two of us dying for a gamble!
– What makes your life less worthy of living than mine?
– You know I haven’t been the same since I lost my girls. I’ve been leading a shadow life at best.
– My life hasn’t been the same either since I woke up with three prosthetic limbs, and a synthetic stomach and liver. I don’t hate my life, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling of living on borrowed time. Anyway, I brought us the most expensive fire brandy I could find. The orometer tells me we still have fifty-six minutes in which to savour it.
– You beautiful, stubborn piece of shit.
Tom moved forward and hugged Atticus fiercely.
– I guess I can risk a small glass of that fire brandy…. You remember that time…
***
PLAQUE IN ESTIA’S CENTRAL DISTRICT:
In memory of Major Tom Valence who gave his life for our freedom. The planet of Valentia was named after him to honour his sacrifice.
Also in memory of Lieutenant Atticus Rokes who refused to let a friend die alone. “But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side, To the gallows-foot – and after!” – Unknown Terran poet.
