by submission | Oct 21, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ryan D. Harris
“They’ll get what’s coming to them. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Dr. Charles Kilborne had his last remaining–and live–specimen in front of him. With his left gloved hand on his tweezers, his right hand took a syringe from a table littered with lifeless male suitors.
With his professional, steady grasp, Charles slowly guided the needle to his subject’s abdomen. The contents of the syringe emptied into what would be his magnum opus, the triumph of his life’s work.
He could hear the spliced melody of robins outside as he worked. They brought a faint joy to him as the damp light of dawn gave way the sun. The career virologist longed to return Earth back to her natural state.
“The human race is evil. You give our planet a…mortality it needs. However, we all need a bit of help now and then don’t we?”
Civilization, he decided, did not need nuclear war, grey goo, or an asteroid for cleansing. The goal would be achieved with subtlety and aforethought.
Excitement streamed through his body as he picked up the fifty-cent culturing cup and walked outside to his car.
Charles enjoyed the sunshine as he drove from his home in Thousand Oaks to Santa Monica. He knew tourism boomed at the Santa Monica Pier and it was the perfect place for his vector.
The beach and the pier teemed with activity. People walked, skated, and ran. Charles strolled to the pier, cup in hand. Amidst a crowd of beachgoers , he could hear his heart beating with anticipation. Hands shaking with adrenaline, Charles carefully unscrewed the lid but halted its complete removal. He drew a deep breath and let her out.
She would soon feed and lay her eggs as she chose someone as her prey–her host. Compound eyes and millions of years of instinct directed her efforts. A tiny proboscis would be enough to humble a species that felt foolishly superior.
Charles Kilborne drove away, dreaming of a simpler time and a carefree world.
by submission | Oct 19, 2015 | Story |
Author : Thomas Tilton
“Stax, hull breach!” Wattler gurneyed from portside of the Excelsior, his plastoscreens ablaze, his catheter tube streaming a current of nervous yellow piss to the ship’s water purification system.
“I need refueling!” cried Stax–telepathically, of course. The slobs had not spoken more than a word aloud to each other since the start of their eighteen-year mission.
Stax gurneyed himself under the fuel disseminator, which resembled a late-twentieth-century soft serve ice cream machine. Out of its spout poured plentiful heapings of baconnaise, the Terrans’ most prized garnish.
“Ready!” thought-spoke Stax, savory baconnaise drizzling from his gaping unhinged maw and coating his black-bearded jowls, like the spent loveseed of some intergalactic lard pig.
There were no windows on the Excelsior and of course their assailants would not be visible even if there were–not even to the trained oculi of the slobs, whose eyes were digitally enhanced and coated to ensure maximum clarity and sharpness. Space battles were very long-distance affairs.
Wattler needlessly–they were telepaths, after all–brought Stax up to speed. “They’re firing in waves. Hull integrity compromised on the aft decks. The ship’s nanobots are compensating and rebuilding.”
“Check. Reverse thrusters. Strategized target selection, fire at will and random.” Stax directed his thought-commands at both Wattler and the ship’s computer, which was wired to both pilots’ brains via access ports in the slobs’ faceholes.
A quiet, soft, feminine voice stunned them into cerebral silence. “Stop, you foolish men!”
Their plastoscreens lit up white. The entire interface appeared blank and bleached. Then she appeared. Filling the screen, a beautiful hentai maiden with a shimmering blue dress, skin like creamy baconnaise, a short button nose almost like a pimple, and improbably wide, impossibly blue eyes.
Had the slobs breathed in any conventional sense of the word, those breaths would have been taken away.
“You … you call us men,” telesaid Stax.
“We have not been called that in some time,” telesaid Wattler.
“You are men,” said the hentai maiden, “though you may have forgotten. Once you were a proud, upright race. Now you have let the Terrans weaken and destroy you.
“I am Roog. I am a demigod. This is not what I look like. I take the form of whatever my spectators desire most. Yours is a lusty, hungry desire. But has that fiery thirst ever been truly quenched? Does the baconnaise sate?
“Have you ever drunk water from a spile of the spice trees on Yorn? Or fed the taloned squirrelcats on Betazus? When is the last time you felt the wind in your hair or the rains on your beard? Tell me, can a sedentary existence on a probe in deep space ev–”
The hentai beauty’s voice muted, then her head blew up.
“Insolent slander!”
“The baconnaise sates!”
The slobs had only feigned surprise at being called “men,” and they had not actually been listening to her diatribe. While the demigod spoke, they were working silently, telepathically, with the ship’s computer to create the biomechanical cocktail necessary to expel the intruding deity.
They would report Roog’s attempt at sabotage to their Terran benefactors. Now, they both needed refueling.
by submission | Oct 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : D.H. Arnold
Okay, don’t panic, you’re not dead yet, get a grip, dammit, DON’T PANIC!
God, how I hate that cliché in movies where someone in ZedGee space pauses to note the beauty and wonder of the planet above which they float. God, I hate those movies, I hate this, why the hell am I dying like this, are you out there, help!
Don’t panic! Focus!
Okay, you’re not bleeding, everything seems to be working, fat lot of good it does me at twenty two klicks above the planet. You’ve got a fallsuit on, you had time enough after the integrity klaxons went of to get one on. You’ve got at least 30 minutes of life support, maybe more if you Don’t Panic!
Life support is nominal; charge steady at 97%. Time to start working on saving your life, here. Check the radio and ansible locator output.
Perfect – 3% charge. That’s it, I’m dead.
My orbit shouldn’t decay for a while. I might get lucky, get spotted by rescue transports from the station or those on the way up.
Or not… what the hell?
Dear God – the whole thing is collapsing – breaking apart, shattering into.. so many pieces…
Skytowers CAN’T collapse, they’re engineered to withstand anything short of… deliberate…
Someone blew up the Tower.
No, no, that’s crazy, why would anyone blow up a Skytower? Who would deliberately kill…
What the? That was the Anchor Station! No! No! No!
Close your eyes. Get a grip. Don’t Panic.
This isn’t the way this was supposed to end. Join the Vend, see the galaxy, find ways to help sentient races flourish without slaughtering and desecrating everything around us. That’s what the Vend IS!
How does one minute feel like an hour? Please, someone…
The lower portions of the Tower are getting dragged into the denser parts of the atmosphere and eventually onto the planet. Different materials give off different colors as the friction of reentry and the plasma of the radiation belts tear the molecular structures of the tower to their component atoms. Mostly orange, yellow and red, but the occasional purple and green and blue flare then vanish, giving variety to the death throes of over 7 million people and their home. If this was a meteor shower, it would be beautiful.
The death of millions shouldn’t be pretty.
Don’t panic, don’t vomit, just… don’t!
Well, there’re the first flares of planet-based rescue ships. Not holding my breath for those, too much dodging as they’re re-computing lift loads and flight paths to avoid station debris bigger than they are while maximizing thrust upwards. They might be evac-lifts, though. That much debris planetside will have horrible consequences if they were ready for it; this might be it for Parabus V for a good long time.
More flashes of light but above – debris colliding with ships, other debris, electrical systems breaching and electrons running for cover. Face it, kid, you’re done. Rescuing anyone in this much debris isn’t going to happen with the few shuttles and transports in the sector. You’re one of maybe 2 million left alive and in free-fall – the three million in Anchor have to be dead, anyone below 19 klicks is already flying to meet the ground. Lucky you, Goldilocks.
Funny.. you realize you’re done, and now you’re not panicking anymore.
For the record, God, this sucks.
See you soon. I hope. Save a place at the table.
I feel warm.
I hope I’m beautiful when I burn.
by submission | Oct 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Tino Didriksen
The crying boy slunk down by the obelisk. “Everyone says you listen at these stones”, he whispered, “so if you really do exist, please take me away from here.”
To his surprise, the aliens whispered back, “why do you wish to fly amongst the stars, young one?”
“I tripped over my own shoelaces and everyone laughed at me, even my best friend Pete”, he sobbed. “You’re supposed to take people away who really want it, right? Well, I really want to go into space, away from everyone!”
“Those who can hear us, we allow that choice”, said the aliens, “but you are not yet able to make an informed decision. Remember us quietly, and come back when you are ready. Now go, your parents are getting worried.”
The young man hesitantly touched his hand to the obelisk. “Are you still here, or were you a figment of my imagination?”, he asked.
“We are still here. We are always here.”, the aliens replied. “You have come of age. Are you here with purpose in your heart?”
“Yes, but not for going with you just yet”, he sighed. “I got accepted to the finest university in the region, and started to wonder if a particular childhood fantasy really was one. No, I will first make my mark on the world, then return to dance amongst the stars.”
The middle-aged man hammered his fists on the obelisk. “Take me away from this blasted place”, he muttered. “The greedy bastards stole my invention, my chance to reach the stars in my own time, and locked me out of the program. I can’t take this corrupt world any longer. Let me walk amongst the stars…”
“We will do so if you are certain”, said the aliens, “but are you truly ready to depart, or are you blinded by anger? Do you count your children, your wife, in the corruption? Do you wish to disappear and let them forever wonder where you went?”
“I…”, the man stammered, “I, no…no, of course not. But it was within reach! A few more years, and the skip drive would have launched us out of this system”. He sighed heavily. “You are right, I will not abandon my family. Farewell, for now.”
The old man leaned heavily against the obelisk. “It is time”, he stated, “and you won’t talk me out of it today.”
“Our offer stands”, came the always steady voice of the aliens. “If you are of one mind, we will whisk you away to be amongst the stars.”
“Yeah yeah, I am of my own singular sound mind”, he scoffed. “I am old. My children are grown with families of their own, my wife long passed away, oh and I have several incurable age related ailments. If there was ever a time to fly away, this is it.”
“You will vanish”, the aliens warned, “and nobody will know where you went. Any hints of our involvement will be erased. Do you agree to our terms?”
“Agreed.”
On the dresser in the old man’s bedroom, a lamp shorted and caught fire. The automated suppression malfunctioned, causing only the airtight door to close, but leaving the window open. The man’s carefully hidden journal vaporized into the night in a superheated blaze, along with everything else in the room.
by submission | Oct 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Larry 360 wished he could sigh.
Larry 360 checked again through his integrals and components. How could he hide his broken Integrating Unit?
The night before, Sigmund 4 (Larry 360 referred to him as Bossy) had said during Larry 360’s last work evaluation, “I am keeping my second to the left red eye on you. You are beginning to slow down production and that will not be tolerated.” Sigmund 4 peered closer, to squint all six probes at Larry 360. “This is your last chance and then it is the bin.”
Larry 360 had glanced over at the recycling bin. “No sir. I will assemble and disassemble like I was a Larry 720. No sir. You will see a new bot tomorrow.”
Larry 360 had rolled full speed to his bot-charger. He probably needed more power so he plugged himself into the supercharger overnight.
The next morning when he powered on, Larry 360 had a dome-ache and wished he could sigh. He rolled toward the assembly line which would be filled with Larry 720 bots who never wanted to sigh.
Perhaps he could meld the faulty units together so the synapse didn’t have to jump but could ooze to its pole. The thought made him doubt his AI. He must have a metaphorical screw loose. What could he do? He was metaphorically screwed.
Perhaps he should report his flaw to Bossy and hope to be sent back to the factory for a new part. No, he should probably just roll over to the recycling bin. Faulty bots were worthless in this recycle world.
Larry 360 tried very hard to sigh and failed.
He headed for his plug-in cubicle. Bossy’s second to the left red eye caught the attention of Larry 360’s dome eye. Next to Bossy stood a bot he had never seen before.
“You have been replaced by a Robert 01.”
What! Then Larry 360 noticed that all the cubicles were filled with Robert 01s and the Larry 720s were gone. No!
“You all have been decommissioned. The others are waiting for you in the recycling bin.”
“Yes sir.”
Larry 360 swiveled around and slowly moved toward the bin filled with the newer Larry models.
Larry 360 sighed.
He felt a spark fire within his defective unit.
What!
He stopped and sighed again. He felt power flow through his circuits.
Larry 360 rolled past the bin to exit into his new world.
Larry 360 wished he could laugh.
