by submission | Dec 17, 2017 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The new doctor mangles my name. “What is that, Iranian? Arabic?”
I have learned to be still while their thoughts congeal into language. To slow the movements they mistook for nervous tics.
“Is this part of the review?”
Speak slowly, so they can understand. This one reeks of nicotine and burned animal flesh. They have no idea how much they offend.
The doctor has been tasked to cut long-stay numbers by a quarter. Each patient gets ten minutes. He turns pages in a folder that lists the potions they put such faith in; documents my unusual resistance to drugs. The doctor blinks at the doses of Thorazine.
“Hmm. Says you were found wandering round Malmstrom Air Force Base. What were you doing there?”
“The silos hold missiles.”
A contest to see who can suffer silence the longest. He correctly suspects he achieves nothing worthwhile here, that his skills have the same pedigree as blood-letting and trepanation.
“Hmm. You say you’re from the future. Tell me about that.”
“I was given the chance to go back and see the Treasure of the Kut.”
“Kut, what’s that?”
“You are the Kut. It is what you are called in my time. What is the word for two people who repeatedly shoot each other?”
He takes off his glass prosthetics and rubs his eyes. They display their disabilities, their sores and blemishes openly. Unashamedly. Without nanoflora I would be crawling with their parasites.
“I don’t think there is a word for that.”
“Kut. Feel free to use it.”
This one is an improvement on the female doctor, who casually flaunted bare limbs. A wonder they don’t just copulate in public.
“In my time, archaeologists uncovered the ruins of missile sites. Robbed out long ago of course, but they were the wonder of your age. Those few missiles alone could kill tens of millions. Each crammed with a fabulous wealth of transuranics and beautifully crafted electronics; all brought together in devices of baroque complexity and lethal purpose.”
He purses his lips. I am not yet sure how he will decide about my release from this place.
“As you might feel about cathedrals of an earlier age,” I add. “Or the tombs of the Pharaohs.”
“But the military thought you were a spy?”
“I told them the truth. Eventually, they decided I was mad.”
“And you ended up here. That was in…” He flicks pages. “Hmm, you don’t look that old.”
“Something went wrong. My visit was supposed to go unnoticed. But the time engine will retrieve me, I need only wait.”
Exploring a delusional construct has no therapeutic value, yet many of my doctors have done so. This one has long exceeded my allotted time. I intrigue him more than the florid schizophrenics and catatonics filling this Bedlam.
“No futuristic gadgets?”
“You would not even recognise our technology.”
“How about predicting the future then? Our future, I mean. Your past.”
“Who remembers current affairs in Babylon?”
In my first years here, there was a doctor who played chess. The natural procrastination of the game disguised the slowness of his mind. It was almost like confronting an equal.
“If discharged, what would you do?”
“Return to the silos where they will come for me.”
The doctor scribbles something. I’m sorry, he says. “I’m not recommending you for release.”
You are the Kut, it is what we call you. I have experienced the world beyond these walls and it is a vast reeking abattoir inhabited by savages. I must continue to manipulate you until rescue arrives, sheltering here while the Kut remain safely locked outside.
by submission | Dec 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Lewis Richards
Today is my 456th birthday.
Growing up everyone is made to think space is a dangerous place full of Alien space pirates and impending doom, ( I’m looking at you, Sigourney Weaver). But as it happens, space is just empty. The majority of problems come from us just not being as ready as we thought for the great beyond. Take me for example, nothing says adventure like signing up to travel billions of miles to a new planet, all in the ‘ Luxury comfort of our new cutting edge Hibernation Chambers’ great sales pitch there.
This is where I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a pickle. Apparently, in some very rare cases, Suspended Animation entails that while your body is completely, and I mean completely dormant, you may or may not remain aware of every – single – second – that ticks by. To put this in perspective, there are 259,200 seconds in 3 days. And I have been in suspension for 158,410 days. I know right. What a time to be alive.
Fortunately, I’m pretty sure we’ve started to decelerate, which should mean I have a paltry 3 weeks left until we begin orbiting and somebody gets around to waking the rest of me up. Of course, I could be way off the mark here, I’m basing this thoroughly well thought out assumption on the fact the tingle that was on my left leg for the past few hundred years is now on my right arm. Because what else have I got to do but think about thrust dynamics.
Given my current predicament, I think it might be fair to say I’m going to be writing a strongly worded letter to the geniuses who put this machine together, because honestly while it is comfy, which I suspect the quite wonderful mixture of drugs that have stopped me from aging ( yay!) and kept me physically paralyzed ( boo!) for the past 4 centuries has a fair bit to do with. Even if it does take another thousand years to get a reply.
I haven’t even mentioned the worst (and most pressing) part of this whole journey yet. It is heavily recommended that you excuse yourself to the little boy’s room before you get into the chambers. I, however, decided to join a few of my fellow Hibernatees, now blissfully unaware, in a last quick celebratory Beer before we went to sleep.
Bad Move past me. Bad move. I’ve needed to pee for 400 years.
by submission | Dec 15, 2017 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Get out of here, now!” Telerman yelled into his beleaguered colleagues’ faces over blaring dance music inside Omnia, as lights flashed around them, from above, over a vast dance floor of writhing partygoers.
“Chill pill, Telerman,” Sheila Barsted interrupted, pointing red fingernails onto Telerman’s nose, over his beard.
“Screw that!” Telerman screamed, grabbing her wrist.
“Hey, buddy,” slurred Roscoe Peterson, as he rose to defend his companion. “We got our first R&R in five years from the Ranch and terrific comps for rooms, food and alcohol from that tight-ass Project Manager. What the hell’s wrong with you? You got number crunching eating your butt, or what? Ain’t Caesars great?” Roscoe swirled his hand at its ambiance.
“Roscoe, get your shit together. There a black light room in here?” Telerman’s powerful grip pulled his smaller laboratory companions upright.
“What the hell? You crazy? Yeah, back behind us on the left. Hey, you can’t grab us like this, asshole!”
Josh Telerman ignored their antics. He dragged both Barsted, a top zoologist, and Roscoe, a talented microbiologist, out from their booth and into the Zoom Room, where swirling colors from semi-pornographic paintings glowed around them. Telerman’s captives stopped struggling after he pointed out yellow splotches covering their bodies. Telerman ignored yellow handprints over Sheila’s front and Roscoe’s crotch.
“Remember when we added fluorescence to scorpions for our cancer tests? That’s their damn sex pheromones all over us. Worse, I was responsible for not only increasing their size, but increasing metal concentrations in their aculeus.”
Roscoe’s shock cleared away his first two drinks. “Accu what?”
“Their stinger, putz. Scorpions use metal. You never asked questions about what we’re doing. Didn’t you wonder why we’re supposed to develop huge blue scorpions?”
“Geez, Telerman,” Barsted interrupted, “they just want to get more venom for cancer trials. They can’t synthesize it yet. Wrangling small herds is a hassle. We quadruple their size and drug tests get cheaper. So, what…and what is their crap doing all over us? How the hell did you know?”
“So there, smart ass,” Roscoe slurred. “Old Mr. DNA, always asking questions. The Ranch doesn’t like that. Didn’t you learn anything at Lawrence Livermore?”
Telerman pulled them both close to his face. “I should leave you both, but I can’t. We’re expendable. I smelled a rat when we got this free ride. Do you remember anything after we got off the bus and hit our rooms?”
“Who cares?” Roscoe complained, trying to push away from Telerman’s bear grip. “Fell asleep. Guess all those uppers we took to meet schedules for months must have worn off.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Sheila piped in, her long blonde hair draping back over her slinky dress as she looked up at Telerman’s growl.
“Probably only thing that saved us. We weren’t supposed to wake up after those free bus drinks.”
Telerman yanked them toward an exit door. Roscoe pulled away, sitting down. “Where the hell is Cynthia? She’ll fire your ass for this. You aren’t team lead.” Roscoe pointed both middle fingers at Telerman.
“She’s dead, you jerk. Go ahead, sit there, and they’ll find you torn to shreds and desiccated like her. I was just at her room. Cops found a foot-long stinger that went right through that bull-rider belt buckle she always wore. That’s what we developed, you saps. Somebody else was using our research. They made gigantic assassin weapons that make no sound and leave no prints. ”
Three terrified researchers rushed in drunken haste to find a cab as small arms fire echoed through Omnia.
by submission | Dec 14, 2017 | Story |
Author: Marcel Barker
Rrrtx class destroyer Ssstnbrx hung high over Earth’s southern pole, invisible and silent. Commander Tttx read from the onyx screen in front of him.
10 Facts About Bananas Doctors Don’t Want You To Know
Beneath the English text, the display conveniently translated to Krgg ideograms.
Mother Theresa’s Dark Legacy
Why You’ve Been Eating Bananas Wrong This Whole Time
“What’s a banana?” Tttx asked.
Vvvtx, Tttx’s second-in-command, gestured with two pseudopods. The screen showed an image of a long yellow fruit.
“Earth food. The exterior is inedible and peeled off in strips before consuming the soft interior.”
“Ugh. It looks just like an Yyyrg larva. So how have they been eaten wrong ‘this whole time’?”
“Wwwrn has written an article suggesting they should be eaten upside-down instead.”
“I see.” Tttx said. His mottled blue skin coloration indicated that he did not. “Show me the other ones.”
Is Banana Toast the New Avocado Toast?
“Wwwrn seems to have developed a bit of a fondness for them,” Tttx observed.
Vvvtx made a noncommittal gesture. For a moment there was silence.
Finally, Tttx sighed, sending ochre waves undulating down his dorsal polyps.
“This makes little sense to me, Vvvtx. Our mission is to conquer this backward planet, harvest the Earthling’s life-forces. We have one million face-huggers, three orbital phaser platform, and two million shock troops ready to deploy. Why waste our time and resources on these bananas? I have been patient with you, Vvvtx, but now it’s time to end… whatever you call this project.”
“I call it Weaponized Iconoclasm.” Vvvtx’s outer membrane grew stiff and angular. “It’s about planting doubt. In the first phase of my plan, we tell them that their medical professionals don’t want them to know about bananas, that the history they’ve been told is wrong. We tell them even the simplest things they have always done are being done incorrectly. We make them question everything.”
Tttx began to speak, but Vvvtx continued.
“And it’s working! We’ve helped the Earthlings establish a group to spread the idea that their planet is completely flat.”
“What?” Tttx pointed out the viewport. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Exactly. They are convinced that their space program is lying to them about how gravity works. Once Earthlings are confused enough and have learned to doubt everything, then we begin the second phase of the plan. We’ve begun influencing their leaders, having them make erratic and destructive choices.”
“To what end?”
“How will they be able to trust themselves enough to choose their own leaders? Instead of having to fight them, they will celebrate the Krgg for taking control! Furthermore, we’ve required only a few hundred propagandists; Earth already has an infrastructure for this sort of thing that we’ve been able to use directly.”
“Wait.” Tttx’s colouring turned a dark, deep crimson. “We have been leaving this strategy in the hands of the enemy?”
“You’re missing the point, sir. We can conquer these Earthlings with minimum effort. With no loss of troops! Besides, what could they possibly do with it?”
Tttx faded. Vvvtx had a valid point.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, and motioned Vvvtx out of the room.
When he was finally alone, Tttx melted into a thoughtful iridescent puddle. Could Vvvtx be right?
He poured a decanter of nutrient fluid, turned on his personal console, updated ship operations. Status nominal.
Tttx switched to the Krgg news feed, skimming article synopses as they scrolled by.
Then Tttx stopped. Scrolled back. Stared at the screen, blanching.
The Weird Trick for Consuming Life-Force High Council Doesn’t Want You To Know
by submission | Dec 13, 2017 | Story |
Author: Kevin P Michaels
George Tompkins hated almost everything. He hated buildings for being too tall, he hated cars for being too loud, he hated animals for being wild, and most of all he hated people for being . . . people.
George yearned for a time when things were less complicated and the world was a bit smaller. Most of all he yearned for peace and quiet, a silencing to the pointless yammering of all people.
The one thing George Tompkins did like was flying. The speed, the view, the freedom, but most of all he loved the solitude. Up in the sky away from everyone and everything George Tompkins found peace.
The flight was wonderful at first, white clouds above, stretching green fields leading into dense forests below. George’s troubles were finally beginning to fade when air traffic control radioed, instructing him to drop a few thousand feet to safely avoid an oncoming plane.
Lowering his altitude George found himself level with the city, the sight of which brought back his anxieties. Oh how he wished to be in a different time when man was not so complicated and annoying, a time when people respected one another and called each other neighbor, a time when technology served a purpose rather than as a distraction.
So lost in his own thoughts George is caught off guard as his plane enters a dark cloud. Thunder rumbles as hard rain pelts his windshield. A bolt of lightning strikes the plane. George fears it will explode. Instead an electric blue glow wraps around the plane. The glow fades away as George’s plane exits the dark cloud back to clearer skies.
Exhausted from all the excitement George turns toward home. Flying back he notices something strange, the city is regressing through time. Buildings and the surrounding landscapes grow younger with every passing moment. Time is reversing, everything within view is changing, the new replacing the old.
George, giddy with excitement at the sight of his dreams coming true, fails to notice the subtle changes happening around him. The gauges in the cockpit are first, regressing through time changing as the years past. Next his steering yolk regresses, constantly changing to earlier versions, as does everything else in the plane.
George’s clothes change as well. Now his clothing consists of an aviator hat and goggles, a leather coat, and a white scarf around his neck.
George ponders what life will be like in a different time until the steering yolk in his hand fades away. He watches with surprise as pieces of the plane disappear: gauges, buttons, seats, and so forth fade from existence until the entire plane vanishes completely, leaving poor George Tompkins free falling toward the Earth.
Luckily George always wears a parachute. He grabs the ripcord, yanking with all his might.
. . . Nothing happens.
George watches the ripcord in his hand fade away, realizing he has traveled back to a time before parachutes were created.
Plummeting toward the ground George thinks, “Perhaps if I fall long enough I’ll travel back to a time before the Earth existed and not hit the ground.”
He had no such luck.
