by submission | Feb 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Kate Runnels
Tan sighed as he turned course, with the gimbaled piloting stick, following the search pattern. They needed to find a flux field. Even a flux point. That would take them somewhere. Somewhere not here. They were running short of, well, of everything.
They needed a complete flush of the CO2 scrub system, needed food, water and oxygen they could process at any rocky planetary system. But flux fields were found near systems. They were out beyond the Oort clouds, in deep space. And right now they were drifting between systems near the Medusa Nebula.
Alone.
Just the two of them in their ship. So far out from any colonized planet, deep space station and flux points! The flux gave them the means to colonize more planets and big corporations and planetary governments paid huge prices for undiscovered flux fields.
Reese shook her head from the other seat. “I don’t know.” Her long dirty blonde hair was tied back in a tail as she scowled down at the information on her sensor screen. “This area should have a Flux. No, a Flux field. The data are known and it should be here!”
“Then I’ll keep to the pattern.” Tan stayed on the course they had plotted to get the best sensor sweep of the area.
#
Hunger gnawed at him, along his bones, twisting his stomach in ways he never imagined. Reese was sleeping at her controls. Seat back almost flat. Hunger had taken its toll on her too. They had counted on finding a flux here. The deep dark space between systems, not just two systems, but eleven. There had to be one here.
He clenched his jaw to keep the yell of frustration inside. But he pounded his fit on the metal console.
A light began blinking, as he blinked away the pain. “Oh, thank god.”
A flux. They were almost on top of it. He steered the ship that direction, inputting the coordinates of the nearest inhabited flux system. There would be a station there. They could eat. Sell the coordinates to this site and be rich.
He grinned at his sleeping partner. She’d want to upgrade the sensors and do this all over again. As the Flux took hold of the ship, he knew he’d complain all the while, but head back out here into the dark with her.
by submission | Feb 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Jules Jensen
Rock sat in a cool café, taking a respite from the punishing hot summer heat that filled the dusty small town. She was sure she was heinously offending the patrons there by putting her booted feet up on the table, but she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, they could go fornicate themselves.
She smirked sourly. She hated censorship. And she knew that the people around her were at least annoyed with it, but they weren‘t openly complaining. Their chips were upgraded recently, she could tell, because there was a lot of strange phrases swirling around the room. A couple sitting near her were the loudest, their chips not quite holding back their frustration to prevent them from ‘making a scene’.
“-and then this glorious middle started yesterday morning-”
“Glorious middle?”
“I meant giant midge. No, migraine!”
“Oakley. I mean, okay.”
Another conversation had a couple of men with red faces looking quite angry but talking in a methodically calm manner.
“-the carpet hit the lyre-”
“-my cart got the rebuked-”
“-I mean the carpet caught on fire!”
“-my cat got the pukes-”
There was something a little extra messed-up going on here with the auto-correct, and it angered Rock. Someone was screwing around with the innocent people in the café.
“This is bullshit!” Rock exclaimed quite loudly, and suddenly the whole café went quiet. She sighed in exasperation, let her feet thud to the floor, then she stood up with exaggerated slowness. She resettled her knee-length leather duster over her shoulders and tugged her hat lower.
“What kind of society have we become that you’re not all strangling each other with this auto-correct bullshit spewing from your pie-holes?” As she spoke, Rock looked around, trying to find the culprit. Everyone was staring at her in open-mouthed horror that she’d dare say anything that could be offensive. “And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am censoring myself, because I’m not a complete ass, but at least I have a choice.”
In the back of the café, someone started to quietly leave, and Rock smirked. She pointed at the scrawny teenage boy.
“Hold it right there, four-eyes.”
“That’s a hurtful term!” Someone else complained pitifully.
“Shut up.” Rock snarled and then stepped closer to the scrawny kid, who looked ready to ruin his underwear at the prospect that someone might actually invade his personal space. “Don’t ya’ll give a damn that this guy has been hacking into all your chips and screwing with your auto-correct parameters?”
“We know he’s doing it. We reported him to the authorities.” Someone said.
“But you’re all just sitting here, ignoring him, as if that’ll make him go away.” Rock came right up to the hacker. “See, I’m old-fashioned. I believe that when someone is doing me wrong, I tell them exactly what I think of their cowardly, selfish, childish, moronic death-wish!”
“Death-wish?” The hacker asked in a squeaky voice, his whole body trembling.
“Because if they keep it up, I’m going to start beating the crap out of them.” And with that, Rock grabbed his laptop and threw it to the floor, where the startling sound caused people to scream, and probably would make them require therapy, but she didn’t care. She stomped on the device hard enough to make the case crack, and then she turned on the spot and strode to the swinging doors of the café. She paused and looked at the stunned crowd. “Did I insult your thin-skinned, weak-kneed, politically correct feelings? I’m so fucking sorry.”
by submission | Feb 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
Ron had some time before the cartoon was over. He saw Dan the cameraman who glanced at his Timex and silently signaled, “three minutes.”
Ron remained in the wings, enjoying the animation and the rich taste of his Chesterfield. Say Hey, if they were good enough for Willie Mays they were good enough for him. He’d have given his right arm to be half as good as Mays, but hey, things turned out pretty well for him. He had picked himself up after a bum knee ruined a chance in the big leagues and turned that around into a TV role covering sports here in Chicago, then news, and now his own show. Not that the irony of this show was ever lost on him. He could never have imagined this life growing up; like another world, so to speak.
Betty from makeup gave him some touchup for his nose and forehead. Boy, these studios were hot. Ron was given the high sign from Bill the stage manager. Ron left his smoke going in the ashtray and marched to the x marking center stage. As the credits rolled and the music faded, the lights came up on Ron in his red, polyester, one-piece suit with yellow epaulets and plastic gun by his side. He smiled at the audience, mere shadows from the glare.
“Hi, Rocketeers!” he hollered.
“Hi, Captain Blast!” they hollered back.
“Wow, we’ve had a lot of fun today! And now it’s Captain Blast’s favorite part of the show! When Captain Blast takes a moment to take questions from you! What do we say, boys and girls?”
“Zoom forever!”
“That’s right,” said Captain Blast, “Let’s see what some of our friends here in the studio have to say.” Kids desperately flailed their arms to be chosen. The Captain selected a thin boy near the front in overalls and a faded White Sox cap.
“Captain Blast,” the boy asked nervously, “My friends and I, we love the Captain Blast comic books. We want to know who the toughest villain is you’ve ever faced?”
“Hmm,” thought the beloved space hero, “there were two tough fights recently where I thought I was through. You all remember I had my hands full fighting the Venusians,” the kids concurred. “7-foot tall and covered in green fur, they’re a tough bunch. Then, General Zag from Star Quadrant 9; one minute you’re fighting him toe-to-toe, mano-a-mano; the next he disappears and reappears behind you as someone else.”
The boy nodded in agreement.
“But they’re nothing like the battle coming up,” continued Captain Blast. “Next week, the Earth will be in trouble and I’ll need your help, Rocketeers! So,” Captain Blast leveled his arm and forefinger at the camera, “tune in next Saturday morning for the…”
The kids screamed with him, “Captain Blast Super TV Show!! Zoom forever!!”
************************
A half-hour later, Ron was in his dressing room hanging his Captain Blast uniform up. A knock at the door brought a pale, slender man.
“Mister Brundage,” said the man in a suit.
“Mister Brundage was my dad, Darren. It’s Ron to my friends” said the host, “or Captain Blast to my fans.”
“Mister Brundage,” continued the man, removing a file from his briefcase. “The President and the Head of the Bureau of Skyward Affairs have indicated we are need of your people’s services again.”
“What people, Darren?” Ron asked coyly. “People who are tall? People who like baseball? People named Ron.”
“No, Mister Brundage,” the man paused, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “People from your planet.”
by submission | Feb 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
CROSS PATCH
Merike caught him out the usual way. Why were cheating spouses so unoriginal? She’d wondered who he was messaging non-stop on his wrist com, so she’d hacked it. She was angry, of course, that he was screwing the doc’s assistant, but that wasn’t what caused her anger to grow into a fury that froze the very depths of her soul. No, it was that a lot of their com messages were about ridiculing her.
Hannes regularly made fun of what he called her autistic traits. Her shy awkwardness that she had believed he found endearing, her near photographic memory, her attention to detail – all a source of cruel parody and scathing dismissal. He was so sure his cerebral coms wife had no idea he was playing around with Yuta. His wife who could read at barely three and had memorised her book of 500 Rhymes from Around the Universe. She still recited them in the shower. She might have several doctorates and be able to hack or repair any coms system known to man, but she had no imagination, no finesse.
DRAW THE LATCH
Merike had soon discovered that their favourite bonking ground was Escape Pod 2D-497. She’d set the stage by claiming she needed to work overnight on a coms project. She had sealed the pod – literally – the carbon dioxide was no longer evacuated but re-circulated.
SIT BY THE FIRE AND SPIN
She’d hacked into Yuta’s com system and spent weeks planting false log entries. Entries that would serve to demonstrate Yuta’s fixation on Hannes, who couldn’t leave his wife for her. After all, you don’t leave the daughter of the man running the conglomerate that owns the space station you are managing. Merike had fun with creating entries that would demonstrate an unraveling psyche and a deadly obsession to keep her lover forever. One that would lead to a murder-suicide. A muricide?
TAKE A CUP AND DRINK IT UP
As a last touch, Merike added a glitch to the ventilation system so that the build-up in carbon dioxide was tripled. The coup de grace was that all adjustments were recorded as having been made from Yuta’s com system. Then she made a large pot of Earl Grey which she sipped slowly in her favourite bone china mug. They would die well fucked – not a bad way to go really. Her observations through the escape pod systems showed that Hannes possessed a sexual creativity she would never have credited him with. She looked forward to experimenting with the technician in engineering level four who had indicated he would be “up for it” if she ever felt so inclined.
THEN LET YOUR NEIGHBOURS IN
In the morning, she would return to her quarters and be surprised that she couldn’t find Hannes. She would be worried that the system did not show his life signs and that his wrist com appeared, strangely, to be in an escape pod. A convincing picture of panic, Merike would sound the alarm.
But, till then, there was time for another pot of tea.
by submission | Feb 11, 2018 | Story |
Author: Patrick Hueller
Peter cinches his only tie, pushes the bathroom door open, and there Laine is: standing in their bedroom, trembling with excitement.
He’s never gotten used to seeing her tremble. He’s never gotten tired of it, either.
For a moment they stand there, together, beaming at one another.
Then her trembles turn to shudders. To spasms. Her body convulses; her hair whips every which way. There’s a grinding sound, an acrid smell. Peter grabs her shoulders, reaches behind her neck. With his thumb, he flips open the flesh-colored power hatch and flicks the switch.
Laine’s body slumps against his shoulder.
He checks his watch. 7:18. If he doesn’t leave right now, he’s going to be late to the restaurant. Laine—the real, non-robotic Laine—will be less than pleased.
He grabs a pair of pliers and reaches for the robot.
#
“Where are you going?” Laine asks. “You just got here.”
“I’m not doing this anymore.” Peter flips the brochure back at her. It lands on the Caesar salad.
“What? Take classes? I just thought that digital media arts might be a good fit.”
“My current job is a good fit.”
“Fine. If you really want to spend the rest of your life fixing mechanical pirates and bears, go ahead.”
“I’m glad you’re fine with it.”
“Don’t make me sound like I’m being overbearing just for wanting more for you.”
“You mean more for you.”
“How about for us? Isn’t that why we’re here? To figure out if we can make us work again? The way you’re looking at me—sometimes I wonder if you even remember us.”
“I remember,” Peter says. “I’m not the one who forgot.”
#
He opens the door to his apartment, and there she is, just as he remembers her.
“Don’t go,” Laine says.
Her voice and movements are triggered by a motion detector. Every time the door opens, the same words come out of her mouth. Then she stands on her tiptoes and gives him a peck on the mouth. The movement makes a mechanical noise, akin to a copy machine when you put paper on the tray.
He looks at his watch. 8:42. Too early for bed. But maybe he’ll go to the bedroom anyway. All he has to do is open the door, and Laine will be there, quivering. Just like that, Peter won’t be in the bedroom anymore. Through the force of his own will he’ll be back in front of Laine’s old dormitory—only it will be her new dormitory, just as it was five years ago. That was the first time she trembled happily at the sight of him. It was inexplicable, really—absurd. There was no way he deserved that much affection. But it was also undeniably true. She really was that overjoyed to see him.
They’d only known each other a few months at the time. Happy Rails—that’s where they’d met: the amusement park. It’s where they’d had summer jobs. Anyway, it’s where she’d had a summer job; his turned out to be permanent. She went off to college and Peter visited her that first weekend. He found her standing in front of her dorm, hands and shoulders and head vibrating.
“Don’t go,” the Laine in front of him says again, after Peter releases the door and lets it close behind him. She raises up and presses her lips to his.
“I’m not,” Peter says. He scans his eyes across the apartment. In every room, in every corner, in every nook and cranny: Laine is literally there, waiting to be activated. “I’m not leaving any of you.”
