by submission | Mar 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
The spokesman for the Nui, Jesús the Giant, considered me with a foreboding and weakly threatening glare. “I have negotiated successfully with races on twenty planets. I know you have something to tell me, Gloria.”
“It’s the ostriches.” I blurted honestly, with an exasperated undertone that I had been practicing in the VR unit for the past month.
Jesús shook his head resignedly, “What happened, Gloria?”
“Ecuador and Colombia teamed-up, raided Peru for their fertilizer reserves, unleashing scorched earth tactics on the coastal ostrich farming towns. 15 million birds, around 1 million humans perished in the chemical fires. It will take us around 3 months to re-establish the supply chain with Nui Island”.
“Doubtless supplied from the aggressor nations. Spoils of war” speculated Jesús, shaking his head.
“They are re-establishing ostrich farms along the Colombian coast….” I replied trying to be factual but not drawn into taking sides.
“Just as I was beginning to enjoy this place” interjected Jesús, springing soundlessly to his feet and striding across the room towards me extending his hand to shake. At 20 feet tall and weighing two tonnes, Jesús was truly a gentle giant and a fair one during our negotiations over the past 3 years. His bulk moved air in new ways, like a charging but tame elephant. His proffered hand the size of an armchair, rough and hewn from rock. I did my best to return his handshake.
Jesús towered before me, uttered a long-suffering sigh which howled through me. “We always hope each new race we deal with will be able to integrate our regenerative technology without resorting to wars and economic disobedience. Frankly, we expected better of you humans, you’ve invented paradox travel, host and regularly assimilate innumerable alien races including those refugees annexed by their own solar systems. Yet barely 1000 of your Earth days trading with us on this new small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean….and you can’t deliver winged protein to sustain us.
“Embarrassing.
“Regretfully we must agree to end all trade.”
As the sole negotiator for the human race, I was rattled. I’d been expecting tension but not cessation. Previous supply challenges had been met with concord, laughter and brainstorming on solutions. We’d swapped crocodilian meat for ostrich, corn flour for wheat flour. But this time, the Nui were stonewalling. Time to slash prices.
“We are indeed embarrassed, Jesús.” I began, hoping my mind would catch-up with my mouth, “Land is our only comparative advantage and we are willing to demonstrate goodwill in our trade and harmony with the Nui, by forgoing this month’s supply of your crystal fertilizer. You will be getting a month for free.”
Jesús’ half-smile coyly portending his answer, “A good deal, Gloria. Under normal circumstances. But we are beyond paltry trading economics. We need some land, so we shall create some. With a little home-tech, we can grow land and herds of hoof and winged protein in a matter of weeks. We shall become self-sufficient quickly.”
“Surely you need something from us?” I implored.
“We learn all the answers we need about a planet’s potential from its commercial capabilities”
“Answers to what?”
“Which cuckoo will thrive in your nest – prisoners or pensioners?”
“That’s the choice?!” I hollered with protocol-busting frustration.
“Our decision is largely irrelevant to you. Since it is our law to withhold all of our regenerative technology from your race. We will cloak this island, which will become our future continent, from your spies in the sky and on the sea. You will not hear from us again.”
by submission | Mar 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Beck Dacus
Perhaps the most famous planet in the colonized Galaxy– aside from Earth, of course– Centauri B Prime may have the highest standard of living in the Milky Way. It is a center for scientific innovation, has borne some of our most accomplished artists, and has had a pivotal role in all of human galactic history. After the disappointing discovery that Proxima B, like many planets in dwarf star habitable zones, was an airless rock, Centauri B Prime reignited hope and astronomical interest. The more we learned about it, the more we fell in love with it. It turned out to be a so-called “superhabitable planet” orbiting Alpha Centauri B, a star slightly smaller than our Sun in the Alpha Centauri System. Its size gives the star an extended natural lifetime, meaning its crown jewel planet will still be livable when Earth has been turned to ash. Its gravity is also higher than Earth’s, reducing variation in altitude, making many of the seas shallow and conducive to life. This also improved the immune systems of the first settlers, making it a safe haven for the refugees from the Plague of 2344 and giving the inhabitants one of the longest average lifespans of anywhere in the Human Confederacy.
When we began earnest industrialization, we found that the crust of the world was rich in heavy metals. Alpha Centauri A had gravitationally kicked Cen. B’s asteroid field into a closer orbit during the system’s youth, and Centauri B Prime was caught in the path. These asteroids deposited platinum-group metals all around the surface of the planet, on top of which an extensive biosphere grew. With it, we built towering cities, great fusion reactors, and a second-generation colonization fleet. Dozens of worlds were born from just this one, humanity’s first true colony. And that was even before the planet saw the birth of Antessa Reilir, inventor of the faster-than-light Reilir Drive.
One would not be remiss in saying many of us would not be here if it had not been for Centauri B Prime. However, in the time you have been reading this, you may have noticed its one flaw: the cumbersome name. Clearly we need to consider coming up with a new label for this world, one that can be used easily in conversation without depreciating the value of the world to our history and our society over the centuries. We here at the International Astronomical Union have thought on the issue: we have considered the contributions that the people of the planet have made to our scientific understanding; we have noted the value of the planet’s own properties in advancing such fields as geology and life science; and we have acknowledged the quality of life that the world has afforded its inhabitants and those in need. The planet holds a special place in our hearts, and even after its star has torn it to pieces, we will be sure to remember it. It is for all these reasons that we propose changing its official name to Planet Hawking in our databases, to commemorate the scientist with a grand world, and to honor the world with the name of a great scientist. I think the Confederate citizens will agree that the two would get along quite well.
by submission | Mar 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Michele Roger
I make the coffee in the French press like I do every morning. Then, I regret it by the time I reach the City Freezing Works. A doubled edged elixir, the coffee rouses me from my bed and then inspires uninhibited vomiting by the time I reach downtown. I can’t blame it all on the coffee. The Freezing Works is a place of immeasurable hope and devastating despair. I want to find him. Yet, I pray that I will never come face to face with his waxy stare.
As I walk the six blocks downtown, I think of myself at his age and the comics that consumed me. The technicolor, paper end of the world glowed with an intense inferno of nuclear devastation. Who could have predicted that the actual apocalypse would have been so silent, lethal? Plausible deniability enrobes governments in a blanket of stoicism while they all point the finger at one another. It doesn’t matter who released the virus-infused nanotechnology. Humanity is dying in new and confounded ways.
There is a sound of suction as I push open the doors. The one-time car factory is now another world encased in ice. A light precipitation falls gently like snow from the ceiling as I show my ID to the guard. While his movements confirm that he’s alive, this place, this frozen hell shows the toll it has taken on his soul. His eyes are as lifeless as the bodies inside. The sound of him flicking the switch makes my stomach lurch again. I swallow the juices erupting to the top of my throat and the water flooding my mouth. This factory that once built a shining city and carried a nation befittingly showcases its dead. Just like dolls, its citizen’s faces frozen in time.
Wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to physically hold myself together, I enter the side conveyor labeled the children’s section. I tremble from cold and fear as I gaze into each little face. I want to brush back the tattered hair in their eyes. I want to tell them their mother is coming. I want to lie to them and say it will all be okay. One by one, I confirm none of the milky eyes that stare up at me resemble my own. A part of me exhales. He’s out there, hiding like a good boy.
At the end of the month, the factory will re-route the factory conveyor belt. The line will not return to the industrial freezer. Instead, the corpses will travel to the other end of the building where the City has installed an incinerator. I wonder when I too will join the line. Who will be left to claim me? What will the nano-bots feast upon when none of us are left?
by submission | Mar 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
It’s the lack of sleep that’s the worst. I can live with the brutal beatings, the agony of untreated broken bones, the drugs that fuck with your head, the insidious cold, the gnawing hunger, the burning thirst and the routine rape, but I would literally kill to sleep. We’ve all been trained in withstanding torture and interrogation techniques, but nothing really prepares you for not being allowed to sleep for six days straight.
And I hate feeling dirty. I know that’s the least of my worries, but it’s a symbol of everything I have been stripped of. Not just my freedom but also the smallest of dignities.
Only one of the five interrogators is into rape and I’m hoping he’ll be rotated in soon. My notion of time is rather sketchy, but they seem to do six-hour shifts. I’ve been able to read from him that rape is discouraged by his superiors, which is why he switches the monitors off when he wants to scratch that itch. I’ve been biding my time until I was able to sift the security access codes from the minds of our captors. I have them all now. I’m not normally this slow, but pain has a habit of getting in the way of your focus. And I’m very weak now. It needs to be soon or I won’t be able to see it through.
Yes! He’s been rotated in. We go through an hour of him slapping me around. I make sure to show the pain, as I know he gets off on it. I’m hoping he’ll soon be turned on enough to switch off his brain.
Ok. We’re there. He’s switching off the monitors and removing my restraints so that he has full access to my body. As he shoves me face first into the wall, I grasp the hand pulling my head back by my hair and rip into his mind.
His scream is most satisfying. I hold nothing back and within minutes he’s a jabbering wreck on the floor. He’ll be lucky if he ever remembers his own name.
For a moment, there are black spots in front of my eyes and I sway. No! I can’t pass out now. I punch the wall and the fresh pain cuts through the fog.
I reach out to the guard I sense on the other side of the wall and fry his circuits too. It takes me a bit longer this time.
God, my kingdom for a bed.
Stumbling to the door, I key in the code that slides it open. I take the guard’s weapon and do a shuffling run. I’ll be on their monitors now and even destroying them as I pass them (I got the schematics from the mind of one of the guards), I have to move as fast as I can.
I’ve used the last six days to also locate the minds of the three other survivors from our raiding party. Luckily, one is our pilot. I kill the guards and interrogators the old-fashioned way, with their own weapons.
Apart from the lead interrogator. I allow myself to enjoy his death too. I sweep through his mind like a wrecking ball in slow motion, letting him feel the collapse of his higher motor functions before I erase the rest of him.
His last coherent thought is “no, you can’t exist, you’re just a myth!”
by submission | Mar 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Jules Jensen
Things are changing. The line in the sand is gone, washed away by changing tides that everyone saw coming but not this fast. In his eyes, I see the difference. I see the tech.
“You have no idea how good this feels.” He says, smiling, and I bite back the comment that he used to feel good all the time, and he doesn’t need the tech to do that. We used to have fun all the time until he started to obsess over the latest trend in self-augmentation.
He focuses on something in the distance, the lenses in his pupils narrowing in on something so far away that no normal person would be able to see it.
Actually, most normal people probably can see it, since I’m one of the only ones that didn’t think shoving tech into my eyeballs was considered an upgrade. He catches the look I have on my face, and suddenly he frowns.
“Don’t be all high and mighty. You have a hearing aid, don’t you? How is this any different?”
His words hang in the air. I think of losing most of my hearing as a teenager, and now that I’m in my thirties I finally did something about it and got the hearing aid. Did he feel the same way that I did when he got his lenses put in, the intense hit of emotion when I realized my life was going to be better?
“There was nothing wrong with your eyes,” I say finally, defiance and guilt battling for supremacy within me.
“People all over the world do lots of things to make themselves better. They go to school, they get training, they work out. This is just how I’m choosing to better myself.”
My contempt of the tech is starting to wane. He looks very unimpressed with me when I say nothing, and he walks off. We don’t see each other or talk for days, and I fear losing my friend, but I don’t have the guts to say sorry and make amends. A different kind of guilt gnaws at me, a curse that darkens my days and keeps me awake at night. I feel bad for not expressing how much I care and worry about him, for not saying sorry, and for not being more open-minded.
A week later, it happens. To this day, I’m not sure what started it. Some say solar flare, some say aliens, some say weapons testing, some even say it was divine intervention. I say it doesn’t matter; the outcome is the same.
People stumbling blind or deaf or not stumbling at all because they had tech in their spines to make them stronger and now its toast, cars not starting, radios broken, every piece of tech non-functioning and burnt up. I find the friend that stopped talking to me because of mutual ignorance, slumped in his home, cowering and crying. My hearing aid is gone, but my ear that can sort of hear on its own catches his shaky apologies. I feel guilty all over again, not because I had anything to do with the EMP blast that rocked the world, but because I wasn’t there for him when it happened.
I tell him that I’m sorry, that it’s okay, we‘ll get through this together and I’m there for him because this is what friends are for.
