by submission | Jun 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Allen Etter was stranded in deep space. The propulsors of his small hypercraft had exploded, and he was thrown off course. His initial hope had been to make geostationary orbit in the gravity field of the nearby artificial planetoid Beta until the autonomous rescue vessels there arrived, but that was no longer an option.
His electrostatic radiation shields were down, and he knew that overexposed, he would be susceptible to the high-energy emissions that swept through the soundless emptiness. An apparition of smoke expanded and dissipated from the end of the craft. He sent out a distress message:
“Gamma, Contrast, Alpha, this is Navigator. Wolfdog has hyperbolic propulsor failure. Do you read me? Over.”
There was no response. He suspected the transceiver was not transmitting, yet he could not reconcile himself to sit helplessly. He had to do something, and that was to go outside with his manual ion thruster to generate counter-momentum for the craft to move in the direction of Beta.
He laughed at himself and secured his white helmet, green spacesuit, and yellow oxygen tank. The craft door opened. He turned on his illuminators and, with a tether, floated aft in the breathless darkness. A charred distortion of mangled metal and melted plastic came to his view.
The illumined surface was extremely hot, he thought. Still, he considered where he could position himself. As he hung weightlessly over a fractured propulsor chamber, an invisible blast of magnetic repulsion suddenly struck him like a tidal wave.
He was in a daze, not knowing exactly what had happened, and then he realized with a shudder that his craft was gone, his tether was broken, and his ion thruster was lost. He was drifting. A stern agony attacked him, and his heart grew sick. He panicked and struggled instinctively, lashing his arms and legs around ineffectually in the frictionless void. He grew tired, and after regaining his calm, a pensive quietness fell upon him. He spoke into his helmet transceiver:
“Gamma, Contrast, Alpha, this is Navigator. I am overboard and drifting at unknown velocity. Wolfdog is somewhere in the radius of 0.31 astronomical units from Beta. My suit locator is activated. Over.”
He looked at his flow meter and gauge. He had consumed a generous amount of oxygen in his panic, but with a small auxiliary supply and a rebreather fitted into his spacesuit to recycle the exhaled air, he was not particularly worried. His more pressing concern was the space radiation, which the softness of his suit could not withstand indefinitely.
He drifted for ten hours and, growing weary and lightheaded, decided to ingest a liquid sedative through one of the feeder tubes inside his helmet. His eyes closed, and his breathing slowed.
As he sank into a torpor of semi-awareness, his mind mused freely on thoughts of his wife Kristi, his two sons Zack and Max, the tribes of his kin, and his blood-brother Haig, and unconsciously, he wondered if, in the flight of all his years as an independent navigator, he was now destined to make his last bed in the shroud of the great solitude stretching between Andromeda and the Milky Way.
He drifted deeper into the expanse. His individual being retired. A long train of nothing passed.
“Navigator Allen Etter,” a mild voice called out, “this is autonomous rescue vessel Gamma. Contrast and Alpha have retrieved hypercraft Wolfdog. I have identified your position and am approaching. Stand by for rescue. Over.”
His eyes opened thinly, and he saw the illuminators of the vessel. The wobble of the light was like a phantom in a dream.
by submission | Jun 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“May I speak frankly?” Preston Daniels stood before Secretariat Chrisom, ruler straight, staring at the Marscape beyond his superior’s office windows.
“With care, Preston. You always have delicate propositions, often nothing to do with our mission: input, output, and throughput. So if it doesn’t have to deal with those three, step lightly.” Chrisom’s crest of graying hair topped his lanky, weathered face and chiseled frame. Fat was an annoyance he never tolerated.
Daniels cleared his throat while noticing Chrisom rest his palms down on his imposing chair, covering arms like eagle talons. Chrisom’s knuckles squeezed tight. Daniels felt like prey.
“The Union should carefully reconsider moving deeper into Cassini crater in Arabia Terra. A continued movement of crop development there is driving indigenous life forms to migrate into agricultural outposts. Cerra Cordova was nearly decimated by Strongian mites two months ago. Survivors are still being treated. We’ve just removed the pestilence from soybean crops. That was a major output loss, sir.”
“Yes, yes…history. We’ve managed it. Get to the point. Do you need funds for more spraying? Those funds are tight this time of year, but if needed…”
“No, sir,” Preston interrupted. “It is far more serious. If we push into Cassini we’ll encroach deeper into breeding grounds of the Talus Worms. Those monsters…just one bite on the ankle. Many would perish without the antidote from Berthold. People say he lives in Cassini.”
“Berthold! Berthold! How many times must I remind you to not mention his name here? For six months, I’ve pulled this planet together, while all I’ve heard is that ridiculous myth—a phantom that cures field workers and then disappears. Rubbish! And then I receive a message that he is demanding reparations for ill peasants working in advancing territories. I’ll tell you, Daniels, it’s the beginning of another worker uprising. They’re using this imaginary fairy tale to extort company profits. Well, I won’t have it!”
Chrisom leaned forward, slamming his fists on the red stone table. Just then, his administrative support popped her head around the meeting room door.
“Sorry,” she whispered lightly, fearful of her new boss’s temper. “Your wife’s called several times in the last ten minutes. She says it’s an emergency.”
“Damn her, anyway,” Chrisom snapped. “I told you not to interrupt me! You’ll learn. It’s always an emergency for her. She hates this place, new garden of the cosmos or not. Should have left her and my daughter to sweat out the summer in Canada. Tell her I’ll get to her in a few minutes…now go!” He twisted back to pounce while glaring at Preston.
“I’m sorry for the imposition, sir,” Preston continued, “but my research shows that Berthold descended from The Thirty. If that’s true, and he’s alive, using our clearing weapons on Cassini could kill him. Our Mars Charter specifically protects his genetic line for all time. Besides, his secret worm anti-venom would die with him. Those creatures are reportedly already burrowing through our strongest walls, invading the central city. If Xanthe became infested, none of us could survive.”
“What thirty colonists did three-hundred years ago is of no concern to me. I don’t care. Engage the clearing weapons. There will be no more discussion. Do you hear me? Keep quiet about Berthold, The Thirty and those stinking worms. I don’t need any rumors reaching Earth.” He pointed to the door.
“All right, sir.” Preston pushed a button on his arm computer. “Done. Drones have started bombardments.” Chrisom’s distressed assistant rushed past Preston as he cleared the doorway.
“Secretariat Chrisom, please contact her. Something serious has happened to your daughter.”
by submission | Jun 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Helena Hypercube
‘Ndrea pressed herself into the blood-soaked ground and swore under her breath. She had never had a peace-brokering mission go this badly wrong before. Someone in the Central Office had severely underestimated the volatility of the situation, and she was the one left trying to stay out of the crossfire until the two groups of sentients either got tired of shooting or killed each other off. And all this, over the mining rights to two moons that nobody had cared about until some new substance was discovered on them.
She relaxed slightly as the whine of laser bolts died down. Keep calm, she reminded herself. You cannot broker peace if there is no peace in your heart. The platitude sounded hollow today. She had been patient, calm, considerate, and understanding, right up until it became necessary to hit the ground. Now her famous reserve was beginning to fray. The calmer she stayed, the more agitated the delegates had seemed to become. It was time for a new tactic.
‘Ndrea heard the field command officer in front of her order his troops to secure their weapons, and a few seconds later, the field command officer behind her gave the same order.
She bounced to her feet. “HEY!” she bellowed, anger clear in her voice. The officers turned to gape at her in surprise. “DO YOU KNOW WHY I’M HERE?”
The top negotiators turned and picked their way toward her, avoiding the bodies and parts of bodies littering the ground. When they were close enough for easy conversation, the Balikanti leader stated, “I thought you were here because the Central Office sent you to try to prevent a war.”
“That’s why they sent me. I came because I can stand to see the results of beings throwing grenades at each other, but I DON’T LIKE IT!” she snapped. “I hate seeing beings suffer unnecessarily.”
“You are angry.” The Balikanti leader sounded surprised, and pleased. “I did not think a Central Office Peace Broker was capable of caring enough about a pair of minor feuding groups to become angry. Or are you only angry at the failure of your mission?”
“I haven’t failed, yet. Admittedly this will not look good in my report, but by the Central Office’s criteria, this situation can still be satisfactorily resolved. At least, it can if you are willing to resume talking.”
The Balikanti leader looked at his Itnakila counterpart and nodded. “I believe so, if we are permitted to yell properly.”
“The Central Office Peace Brokering Manual states that belligerent groups should be discouraged from violence in any form, including speech, but if you wish to amend the Code of Conduct for this negotiation, I am more than willing.”
“Good. How else can we communicate the depth of the words, except by using the full range of possible expression?”
“Well, then, yelling shall be permitted in these circumstances. What about name-calling?”
“Of course. Shall we proceed?” The Balikanti leader looked at the Itnakila leader again, who made a majestic gesture of assent. “My aides will find us a more pleasant place to meet, while the medics tend to the wounded and the priests tend to the dead. And I must remember to have someone extend a formal invitation for you to participate in our next Shouting Match. My people have never heard a Peace Broker yell before. I think you have a very good chance of winning.”
by submission | Jun 12, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
As I take in the barren, alien landscape in orange and tan, I notice someone at the top of a steep rise not far away. I shout for help, wave one of the crutches I’ve fashioned from a landing strut. The figure disappears over the hill. I struggle back inside my wreck of a ship.
The next day the figure reappears, approaches. A female. Similar overall body proportions to mine, but eyes a bit large, nose elongated, lips thin. We stare at each other. I need help, I say, touch my stomach and mouth, motion toward my crushed leg. Come closer. Can you help me? As I speak, I raise my voice, and she lifts her arm to her eyes. She says something I can’t understand, leaves.
***
I lean against a boulder, watch the rise. Here she comes. Help me, I say softly and nod at my leg. When she starts to reach toward it, I brace myself, but she draws back. I touch the rock. Sit by me, I whisper. She leaves.
***
I don’t bother going back inside the ship anymore. There’s nothing left, and the stench is overwhelming.
***
Are there others? Where are you from? I sweep my hand around the horizon. She points toward the sky, stomps her foot. How do you survive? I point to my mouth. She touches hers then holds up something small and blue. I grab at her hand, but she pulls it away and drops the morsel. I pick it up and start to take a bite, but she snatches it away. Why did you bring it then? I shout. She averts her eyes, points to the sky and leaves.
***
Watching me sleep, she sings, and streaks of maroon appear in the dark sky. The next morning I can’t be sure it was a dream.
***
She brings a morsel again. Pure white. She tosses it at my feet. I can’t reach it, I lie, motion for her to hand it to me. When she doesn’t, I pick it up before she can slap it away. It’s bitter, juicy. I feel stronger immediately. Do you have more? She turns and retreats back up the rise. At the top, she faces me and holds out her arms, palms down, up, toward me. Does it mean she’ll be back? Goodbye? I balance myself on my crutches and mimic her gestures best I can.
***
I have the impression of sunrise, warmth on my face. I open my eyes. She’s back and holding out another white morsel. I eat it immediately. Come closer, I whisper. She leans forward. I muster all my strength, reach up and pull her to me. Finally.
***
I look down at her, at my broken body. She stares up at me and screams — her cries, flashes that hurt my eyes.
I turn and head up the rise, savoring the strength of her legs. Then I become aware of music all around. The turquoise of the sky sounds like a soft whistle while the tan underfoot strums a deeper tone. I hear every color in harmony. A soft breeze tastes sweet. I stop and look back at her in wonder.
She’s struggled to her feet, but, with the crushed leg, can’t manage the hill any more than I could. A pang of guilt feels like flames crackling on my shoulders. She shakes a crutch at me. It was you or me, I shout, my words bright red. You or me. I resume the climb. The fiery pain subsides, but a sickening smell of burnt flesh remains. I’ll have to learn to live with it.
by submission | Jun 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Barber
In the darkened room, snores come from the bed.
The dim figure in the doorway is noiseless on bare feet, except when its toenails, two inches long and yellow as piss, scrape the polished floorboards.
There it is now, silhouetted against the embers in the grate as it creeps nearer, avoiding obstacles like a true creature of the night. It reaches out a hand to the man in the bed.
“Mr. Wells…”
Who squeals like an Eloi seized from sleep, huddling against the headboard, dragging the sheets with him, like a child still trusting in the protection of bedclothes.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Wells. History confirms that plump white flesh will not be tasted this night.”
Now the man is groping for the matchbox and candle on the bedside table.
“And put down that Lucifer. It would stab at eyes bred to the dark.”
Clumsy with sleep, he only manages to brush the box onto the floor in a patter of matchsticks.
“First things first. Some titles to get you started.”
The shade empties a sack, tumbling one volume after another onto the bed.
“Take them, Mr. Wells. The Shape of Dr. Moreau, The Invisible War, The Machine of the Worlds, The Time Sleepers.”
All the jumbled notions that plague the hours at his writing desk. The man squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. Still, there is someone in the room.
“So many tropes from one pen! Take them I say, else remain a footnote to the novels of social realism.”
The man mumbles that he must be dreaming.
“No, this is not a dream, though it is about one. Consider how just predicting a thing makes it more likely as if talk of war encourages the slaughter. We fashion you so you may fashion us in turn.”
The bedroom curtains hang narrowly parted and a slice of moonlight reveals the midnight visitor, small and muscular, more like a troll than a man.
“We strive to make your vision of Morlock and Eloi real, but what has failed before and what will succeed this time are tangled.” The creature shakes his head. “The knot grows tighter the more we struggle.”
It is the book the man is trying to write. The mention of time explains the lucidity of this dream. Often on waking, he finds himself troubled by storylines as if his sleeping brain plotted without him.
The mind, he says aloud, the mind is a curious thing.
“Do not concern yourself with detail, Mr. Wells,” interrupts the creature. “Overnight the time machine stood by the Sphinx and we employ it to ensure our birth.”
The creature looms so close the man catches the gleam of its big square teeth, bared in a brutal smile, and his nostrils fill with the unwholesome damps of the grave.
“Ironic that we cannot make our own machine, since its workings are pure imagination, and we have none.”
With a queasy fascination, the man ventures a question.
“Yes, that is blood.” The creature seems reluctant to speak of it. “I brought the Eloi, Weena, to tempt you, but grew thirsty. Do not look at me so. After all, we are the creatures of Man, or will be, if history goes to plan.”
Confident of success, the Morlock already feels more real, though it still has to slink back across London, to the hidden time machine, perhaps through the dank alleyways of Whitechapel with its loitering women…
It wonders about sunrise and whether there will be time to feed.
