by submission | Jan 30, 2018 | Story |
Author: Leanne A. Styles
Tim spat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, but the metallic tang of blood lingered. The memory of the hot crimson spray, spurting into his mouth, flashed in his mind. He glanced down at his shirt, suddenly aware of the damp chill down his front. He was drenched in sweat and blood, which explained the horrified looks on the shoppers’ faces as he tore past.
The tracking sirens wailed above him as the facial recognition was triggered on the cameras. He could hear the thunderous pounding of the hit squad’s boots, gaining, gaining. He was clutching the plastic bag so tightly he’d lost the feeling in his fingers. He’d abandoned hope of getting away with the packet as soon as the first siren had sounded; after he and Jake had fought over how to split its contents.
Now, all he could do was find a spot ‒ a hiding place to snatch the last few moments alone with his prize.
He headed for the food court. The diners had all fled, the sound of their screams echoing through the atriums. Diving under a table next to the fountain that marked the centre of the court, he ripped open the packet and gazed down on the glorious caramel dust inside.
He licked his finger and was just about to dip it into the granules when he heard: “Come out from under the table and give me the packet.”
He looked up. A hit squad officer, wearing a shiny black helmet and aiming a rifle at Tim’s head, was standing a few feet away.
Tim froze, his fingertip hovering above the grains. Beyond the officer with the rifle, more were moving in.
“We just wanted to try it,” Tim said. “It was Jake’s idea…” At the sound of his brother’s name, he started to cry. “I never meant—”
“I know,” the officer said, creeping closer. “Just give me the packet, and it will all be over.”
“It’s already over!” Tim cried. “I killed my brother over…”
“A bag of sugar.”
“It’s not even the good shit.” Tim forced a pained chuckle. “We couldn’t get the white stuff.”
“Unrefined cane sugar,” the officer said. “Evil stuff, highly addictive, and just as illegal… I hear it tastes like heaven.”
Tim frowned and peered through the officer’s visor. A sinister smile spread across his face, a goading smile as if he were daring Tim to taste the sugar.
Tim looked to the other officers. They were all grinning, the excitement in their eyes heightening as they inched in closer.
The message was clear.
“Make it count,” the officer said, and Tim drove his finger into the sugar.
He slid his finger into his mouth and the world, like the granules on his tongue, dissolved.
The sugar hit, the sweet rush of endorphins seeping into every fibre, cell, and sinew, and he lost all feeling in his limbs, the floor seeming to sink away. The muffled sound of a thousand beating drums rang out, somewhere, far away it felt…
Then the pain came. And he was burning, the blaze racing outwards, spreading from deep inside his gut. He tried to scream, to cry, breathe, but his lungs were dead, charred by the fire.
The memory of Jake, cheering and high-fiving him when he’d pulled the packet out of his school bag, returned.
Followed by the taste of blood.
THE END.
by submission | Jan 28, 2018 | Story |
Author: Kim Kneen
Recently I have taken to sitting at portholes. I angle myself so I can see my reflection; reach out as if to clutch a hand or stroke a cheek. I choose remote locations where Gala can’t find me and remain as long as I dare.
My eyes ache from focusing on glass rather than the void beyond.
Gala has picked up on my discomfort.
‘Impaired function of the extra-ocular muscles.’ Her soothing tone is a welcome feature of the v.IX. ‘Common in middle-aged humans.’
I concur, pleased to have deceived the bot, and in the spirit of co-operation suggest she adjust the resolution on my screens.
Deprived of the companionship of my reflection I watch the old propaganda films. The splinter of stone as earth ground to a halt. The lengthening days. Broken children hurling rocks at the camera before retreating on all fours shrieking like monkeys.
“Your child deserves a better life.” I mouth the words in perfect time with the narrator. I must have watched this film a thousand times. When I was six, broadcasts like this persuaded my parents to move to a camp, like the one on the film. The race was on to find The Bridge; a child with the attributes required to reach old age.
The morning the army came, Mum tied a bright scarf to the door of our tent. She ran alongside the truck for as long as she could, shouting, “When you get back, Lena, look for the yellow.”
My results were so promising I made the shortlist with six other children.
I never went back.
“Congratulations, Lena.” Sally, our tutor, crouched by my desk. “You’re going to save mankind.”
I never saw Immy again, or Dai, or any of the other four Select. I often wonder if they were returned to their families, to the tattered tents on what was once the ocean floor.
It was the first time I’d been above ground in three years. This time I wasn’t bundled in the back of a truck but seated up-front, next to Sally, at the head of the convoy.
The Core rode in the vehicles behind. One hundred strangers I had pledged to maintain on the journey to Hydrax. They would lie dormant. It was my job to ensure their survival, to bridge the seventy-three years between this world and the next.
A gate opened in the perimeter fence. The ship hovered above the bedrock, edges undulating in the heat.
Sally described how the launch site had once offered rich pickings for redshanks; the shellfish that used to live in the mudflats and sustain the migrating birds now long gone.
“Safe trip, Lena.”
I succumbed on my birthday, seven years after Comms ceased.
The Core slept silently; the tranquillity broken only by the occasional drip of condensation that fell from their respiration tubes. I whispered their details.
“Daria, nineteen, Triage Nurse. Samuel, thirty-six, Architect.”
I bent over Samuel and probed the transparent wrap that clung to his face; the need for human contact overwhelming. I hooked my index finger beneath a crease and pulled, slid a finger inside the hole I’d created. His skin was cold and rough. Disappointed, I breathed warm air against his cheek, pressed my lips to the pink that bloomed on his skin.
When Samuel opened his eyes, I stayed calm. I couldn’t risk him waking the others. I hooked my finger around his respiration tube and squeezed.
Still nine years from Hydrax, I keep up the pretence of maintaining The Core. They’re almost all dead, of course, eased gently by me into the next world rather than the new world.
I resolve to stay away from portholes. If Gala found out about my on-going struggle with loneliness she wouldn’t hesitate to initiate behaviour mod. My state of mind is her priority after all.
For I am The Bridge.
by submission | Jan 27, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ajith S Nair
It was a Friday and in Saudi Arabia, Friday is a holiday for most people. I just got home after finishing the night shift. I am not supposed to be back for work until Monday night. Though I was tired sleep eluded me. I turned the TV on to see if there was something interesting on.
The TV was not working. The screen was showing a white background. I changed the channel, nothing happened.I turned the TV off unplugged everything, plugged everything back and turned the TV on.No change. The white screen mockingly stared at me.
I absentmindedly picked up my phone. Maybe I will stream something on the phone. And the phone also was showing a white screen. This sometimes happened with my phone but what are the odds of it happening to my phone and TV at the same time?
I turned the TV off and went to the kitchen. I needed some tea. While making tea I noticed that something was running down my face. I rubbed my cheeks and was astonished to see blood on my fingers. I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I was weeping blood. But there was no pain. My eyes looked the same but this was obviously something serious. Maybe I had an internal injury or a tumour?? I was panicking.
There was something else. A part of my mind was impassively observing these things. That part of me was not alarmed but rather amused. I found a large towel and kept it pressed against my face. I needed to get to a hospital. On the way out I couldn’t help but glance at the TV. There were parallel red lines all over the screen now. For a moment I forgot my bloody eyes and I walked towards it. My fingers touched the red lines. It felt like I was touching something which had life. My vision became blurry and I lost consciousness.
.
When I came to I was in the bathroom removing my eyeballs with a screwdriver. I felt no pain but could hear inhuman screams escaping from my mouth. The impassive observer in my mind was devising things now. Even without eyes, I could see where everything was. After finishing I covered my empty eye sockets with the towel which soon turned crimson.
On the way outside I had no difficulty anywhere. Everything around me was white like the TV screen. But I could sense everything around me and navigate accordingly. There were others like me. I could sense it.
The folks whose eyes were not opened came for us. Their attacks did not affect us. They were so few in number and we are so many. Soon they were extinct.
Soon we all heard the call. Something was coming to free us.
I lied down and removed the towel covering my eyes. The sky was blood red. There were white lines in the red sky which appeared to be flowing. Slowly the whiteness engulfed the sky and we all were no more. We are the whiteness…
by submission | Jan 26, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
I don’t know how I came to be. I only know that I am the only one here now. Immortality is not all it’s cut out to be. Not when you are alone in the vastness of space and time. The others like me have chosen to travel beyond my reach – either by disappearing down a black hole to explore new universes or by choosing voluntary annihilation. We are so indestructible that we can only cease to exist if we are in the vicinity of an exploding star. I choose to stay here because I’ve literally seen it all before – why move on to new galaxies when it’s same old, same old? And I must admit I am afraid of non-existence, empty as this existence feels at times, especially since I lost Him.
When my “siblings” (this language leaves me no other way to describe them, even though we have no gender, not even a physical form) were in this galaxy, we played games. Quite childish games, really. We were young and enjoyed tricking little humans into thinking we were gods – they built intricate mythologies around us and called us names like Enki, Inanna, Anubis, Isis, Odin, Thor, Freyja, Zeus, and Poseidon. It didn’t matter how contrary or contradictory our behaviour was, they still burned sacrifices for us. I can’t say it bothered us much, the carnage carried out in our names.
But then, gradually, my siblings left and I found myself with just my thoughts. I’m not sure if it was boredom or frustration (can I even lay claim to those emotions?), but I decided to create a religion with one God (myself of course). It was a resounding success, even with all the tantrums and the smiting. I must admit I was feeling rather dissatisfied with it all after a while (how can it keep your interest when you always know how things will turn out?) when He came.
He changed me in ways I cannot describe. He was a mere puny mortal, but the first who could hear my voice. He would spend hours arguing against what He considered my crushing sense of superiority, my cruel indifference to the fate of what to me were transient ants. I cannot claim that I guided or influenced Him in any way. In fact, He would usually do the opposite of anything I suggested. He told me He loved me. As proof of that love, He said, He would change the religion I started as a game into a shining tribute to me. I’m not sure I understood the love He offered. All I know is that I did not stop His fellow ants from nailing Him to a cross, merely out of spite after one of our many disagreements. And then He was gone. And I knew desolation for the first time in my existence.
My tribute to Him is that I have done nothing to change what He created. Not even when it has been repeatedly and wilfully misunderstood by so many. It is all I have left of Him.
I still fear non-existence but I am considering it. There’s a nearby star set to go nova in the next millennium. I’m hoping that, by then, I will have found the courage to see if there is another existence beyond this one, in which I can find Him again.
I miss our talks.
by submission | Jan 25, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
The table is still set, and one of the plates is untouched— baked cod, peas, potatoes. Cold. Ruined. I was so upset at work, I forgot to call and tell Helen I wouldn’t be home for dinner.
I hurry upstairs and find the bedroom door locked. “Helen, I’m sorry. Helen?” Shit. Looks like the couch. Again.
Next morning, the door is still locked. “Helen, don’t be mad…. OK, see you this evening. Love you.” I hesitate at the door a few seconds then leave for work.
***
I’d always enjoyed my job at SETI, had been totally dedicated to it. Too much so in hindsight. But lately it’s making me miserable. Since we’d developed a breakthrough signal processing algorithm based on quantum gravity waves, progress had accelerated exponentially. In fact, during the first 60 years, my predecessors searched a portion of the universe equal to a glass of water in the ocean. In the 10 years since, we’ve drunk the whole ocean. Now I think we’re about to make a huge mistake.
***
“I’ve taken what I need. I won’t be back.” I crumple the note and run upstairs. Helen’s side of the closet is practically empty. I go back downstairs and smooth out the paper on the kitchen counter and read it again. Simple and elegant, just as the universe prefers. Just as Occam’s Razor would — Simpson, you fool. I’ve just learned my wife’s gone, and my mind’s reflecting on scientific philosophy. No wonder she left me.
***
I don’t know how much I’ve had by the time I stagger outside. The sky is bursting at the seams with stars. Bursting at the seams. How’s that for technical accuracy? I lose my balance, fall flat on my back, and stare at the Big Dipper. “Fill’er up,” I laugh, stretching open my mouth.
***
I take a couple more aspirin and chug another bottle of water. “Sally, has management made a final decision?”
“Yes, Stan. Are you OK? That’s the third time you’ve asked me.”
“What about the ripple in the fractal pattern?”
“Mr. Quinnipen said, and I quote, ‘Tell Simpson that sometimes a fractal pattern ripple is just a fractal pattern ripple.’ Then he said something about a cigar and laughed. Seriously, boss, we’ve studied this to death.”
“So that’s it? We’re going to tell the world tomorrow that there’s no sign of intelligent life anywhere else in the universe? That we’re all alone and giving up the search? This isn’t helping my headache.”
“I’ve got my resume up to date,” Sally says.
***
People reacted more or less as we expected. Many rejected the findings. Some “rejoiced.” Most chattered about it a few days, then turned attention to the upcoming Global Trophy competition.
As for me, I’ve started my own small research group, and we’re studying the fractal pattern ripple in the data. I still don’t think the anomaly is natural, but we haven’t been able to prove it. Yet.
I’m also trying to adjust to coming home to an empty house. Well, not completely empty. I have a cat now. I take her out back with me on starry nights, always leaving the door open so I might hear in case Helen returns. Tabby sits on my lap, and I scratch behind her ear. It’s silly, I know, but I pretend she’s really an envoy from a planetary system that somehow has escaped our prying algorithms. When I ask about her home world, she looks right at me, and, sometimes, in the sparkle of her eyes, I swear I can see a galaxy, hidden and waiting.
