by submission | Jul 27, 2013 | Story
Author : Townsend Wright
When the mostly human crew of the starship Bastar VII found a derelict ion-powered eco-ship in the middle of deep space, they were surprised. When they found that the ship was heavy with life signs, they were shocked. When the ship contacted them in two distinctly odd accents of an ancient dialect of modern standard, they were stupefied. And when a visual contact was established and the crew saw the side-by-side faces of what appeared to be a very roughly humanoid cat and dog, you could have built a small cottage out of the bricks they all shat.
“Greeeeaaatingsssss, oolde oneesssssss,” said the cat-like-thing in a sing-songy, meowing voice. “Weeee haaveee beeen exssspecting your returrrrrrrrrrn.”
“Res,” added the dog in a concise syllable “We, wer be-ge-nin to won-da iff da stah-res wer tru.”
The captain promptly made a signal for one of the AIs to cut the transmission. As the screen went dark she asked her co-captain “What the Hell was that?!”
“That was a cat and a dog, sir,” he replied.
“I get that much, but why were we just talking to them in old English?!”
“Well, sir, one of the AIs has identified the craft as the first ship to leave the Sol system heading for the Inocci system, or Alpha Centauri as it was known at the time. It left the Sol system in approximately 46 B1C. It was lost shortly after.”
“Early Technological Earth, fits the language. But are we supposed to believe that in just 44,000 revolutions the people on that ship evolved into cats and dogs?”
“No, sir, the people on that ship died. Ten years into the thirty-year journey, one of the crew went mad and murdered every human there. The ship went off course and no one has heard from it until now.”
“Then who were they?!”
“Cats and Dogs, sir.”
“We’ve been over this, sir.”
“No, sir, they are in fact the descendants of the cats and dogs that the people brought onto the ship.”
“That much evolution in just 44,000 years is impossible.”
“Not necessarily, sir. With all humans gone, domestic animals, which relied heavily on humans, would be forced to rapidly adapt. Those with the intelligence and the dexterity to access the food and help humans would have given them would be more likely to survive. The ship was designed with an ecosystem and technology meant to last a long time without maintenance. Eventually the two species developed the anatomy to work the human devices, the intelligence to understand them, and the lingual skills needed to interact with the ship’s primitive AI, which is where they learned English.”
“So…What do we do now?”
“Official policy is to contact any and all intelligent life forms and introduce them into galactic society. This should be fairly simple in this case, given these races’ close similarities to an already established race.”
“Alright, but first, Mr. Fjoyk,” the Captain turned to the scanner technician, a trilaterally symmetrical reptilian. “I don’t know if you can detect this from here, but…They can pick up their own shit by now can they not?”
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by submission | Jul 26, 2013 | Story
Author : C.T. Jackman
The late-evening wind wasn’t the only thing that threatened to pull Derek from the building’s roof. A car screamed through the air in front of him, forcing the bounty hunter to stagger his stance for balance and spin his arms, even almost dropping his sub-machine gun as he tried to maintain his position on the roof’s raised edge. He wasn’t in any serious danger; if he had fallen, he would’ve been able to activate his jump-pack and prevent any serious injury, but doing so would blow his cover wide open.
“There’s lanes for a reason!” he shouted at the departing vehicle, but it paid him no heed. It continued to fly in the space between its counterparts in the air and those lesser machines confined the ground, eventually disappearing out of sight as it recklessly turned a corner.
“That was smooth,” his robot companion commented below him. Benny’s voice was the perfect imitation of a human’s, but Derek could still tell the difference between a voice-box and vocal cords.
“Can it, bucket-brain.”
“So we’re resorting to slurs now, are we? Professional. I hope your wild display of ineptitude didn’t draw the attention of our target.”
Derek ignored the comment and pushed a button on the side of his helmet to zoom in on the man they were after. The marauding arms dealer was still dining at a table outside the restaurant with his two alien clients, and they gave no indication that any of them had witnessed a hover-craft almost tearing Derek from his perch.
The contract stated that their target was to be taken dead or alive, and anything else was secondary. The Inter-Galactic Justice Commission put Mr. Bradford’s warrant out three months ago, and Derek and Benny quickly jumped at the opportunity.
The bounty hunter dropped back below the edge of the roof and raised his face mask so Benny could look him in the eyes. He knew the robot appreciated being able to analyze his facial micro expressions and compare them to the audible fluctuations in his voice. Benny claimed that it was good practice for when they had to determine the truth in a target’s words.
“I still say we should have brought a rifle so we could pick him off from here,” Derek said.
“I already told you. I calculated that the likelihood of them utilizing personal energy shields is roughly 70.28%.”
“And such shields are designed to deflect a shot made from this distance, I know, I know. That’s why we have these,” the bounty hunter said, and raised his sub-machine gun.
“Correct. We’ve tracked him across three different star systems; I think you can handle making the leap across a street.”
“Maybe. Why don’t we find out? I’m tired of waiting; let’s go take this bastard out before he completes the deal and hands over the weapons.”
A chuckle emitted from Benny’s voice box. “Derek, after all these years, are you beginning to fancy yourself a hero?” it asked. The robot barely registered the gleam in the corner of the human’s eye before the helmet’s face mask slid down and Benny was looking at its own reflection.
“I consider it more of a civic duty,” Derek said, double checking the scope on his gun one last time. “I am licensed, after all.”
“Would that really affect whether or not you would continue to pursue this line of work?”
Derek thought for a moment, then powered up his jump-pack. “No,” he said, his smile hidden. “It’s too much fun.”
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by submission | Jul 24, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
“T-minus two minutes.”
That's the mission control computer. That's how long I have to back out. One second after that is one second too late. But I'm not going to back out. I don't have any real ties to this era. My whole life I've felt I was born centuries later than I should have been. Temperamentally, I'm well-suited to time travel.
I've read some of the old time travel science fiction. Quaint ideas about time machines being compact little vehicles that magically drop you off to whatever calendar date you like. That's a much nicer narrative device than having to find the right kind of black hole orbiting the right kind of star and then build a machine around both of them.
“T-minus one minute, forty-five seconds.”
And in the old stories, you could travel into the future, too. In reality, you can only travel to the past. The closer to the present you want to travel to, the more power it takes. In terms of energy, it's far easier to travel 100 years into the past than it would be to travel ten seconds into the past. To travel even one nanosecond into the future would require infinite energy.
“T-minus one minute, thirty seconds.”
And once you're in the past, forget about preventing your grandparents from ever meeting each other or killing Hitler or any other causality violation-type tampering. Laws of physics won't allow it. Novikov self-consistency principle. Go back in time to kill your mom before she gives birth to you and on your way to commit matricide, you'll trip and break a leg. Or get killed yourself in a car accident. Something will prevent you from violating causality. Nature abhors a paradox.
“T-minus one minute.”
Did I mention it's a one-way trip? Like I said, you can't travel to the future. And when you arrive in the “past,” that becomes the “present.” The time you traveled back from is forever inaccessible. Once you're in the past, your job is to observe and document. And after you've recorded the history you were assigned to investigate, you take everything you've documented to the designated recovery location and let your recording machine dig itself into the ground. It'll burrow deep enough into the Earth's crust to remain undisturbed for centuries. They'll locate it and dig it up the same day you were sent back in time, centuries after you're dead.
“T-minus forty-five seconds.”
Speaking of death, you may not live very long after you've time traveled to the past. All matter that gets sent into the past including living tissue gets hit with ionizing radiation. You'll have at least two or three forms of cancer shortly after you arrive. That may not sound like a serious problem, but cancer used to be a debilitating and even deadly disease. Depending how far back in time you go, the medical science may not be advanced enough to treat it. Your cell repair machines may be able to fix the damage but all that nanotech in your cells gets hit with radiation, too. It may not function properly. Statistically, you've got a less than fifty percent chance of making it five years after your arrival.
“T-minus thirty seconds.”
Still, for all the problems, time travel is worth it. Data mining history is a calling, almost like a religion. We can't know who we are or what we can become if we don't know how we arrived here. Dying 700 years before you were born is a small price to pay.
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by submission | Jul 21, 2013 | Story
Author : Holly Jennings
They came for me when I was fifteen.
“The kid can hit a target 250 yards out,” they'd said. “Doesn’t even have training.”
I figured they wanted me for the army, some kind of special ops maybe.
I was wrong.
The girl was school-aged. Barely. Five years old, maybe six. Black hair, almond-shaped eyes. A white fur coat. She stood with her parents in front of a parliament building. Red carpet beneath their feet, velvet ropes to hold back the masses. Cameras flashed in the crowd. A miniature movie star, if I hadn’t known better.
The only daughter of a powerful political family. In twenty years, she would become a vital leader in the Far East. Why had the Oracle told me the girl's fate?
I focused down the scope on target. Less than 100 feet. An easy shot. She wouldn't even feel it.
Adjust for wind.
Overhead, the country's flag fluttered in the heavy breeze. The sound rippled through the air like an erratic heartbeat. Or was that mine?
The girl stepped sideways and the crosshairs centered over her heart.
My mouth went dry.
Why couldn't it wait until she was an adult? Hell, even a teenager? At least until she loved and lost a little, laughed and cried over something more than Barbie dolls.
I watched her parents wave goodbye to the crowd of cameras. They led the girl up the concrete stairs of the building.
Take the shot.
She smiled. Dimples filled her cheeks.
Just another target.
I took a breath and held it.
Shoot.
My finger trembled on the trigger.
You're stronger than this, old man.
She jumped to the top step, laughing, hand-in-hand with her mother.
Last chance.
Teddy bear barrettes. Pink fingernails.
A female leader. Didn't that mean something?
They disappeared inside.
I stared down the scope long after they were gone. The Oracle who'd sent me would be pissed, if she even had any emotion left.
The trigger locked, I'd tell her. Someone stepped into my line of sight. Could she see through lies the way she saw through time?
Back at the agency, I took a knee before her, but the words wouldn't form in my mouth.
“I couldn’t…” I looked down at the ground and crushed my knuckles against it, unable to face her.
The Oracle sat limp on her throne, strung up like a marionette, cords draping from her arms, neck and temples. Each led to a different computer screen portraying the varying timelines of futures that still existed. One featured the girl, alive and well, dimples nestled in her cheeks.
The Oracle stood and walked down the steps to me, cords stretching behind her like tentacles. She took my head in her hands and tilted it up until I met her eyes.
“It's ok, Richard,” she said, soothing tone, angel voice. “I couldn't have done it either.”
Her words went straight through my heart. “You knew this would happen?”
“I wouldn't be much of a psychic if I didn't.”
“Then why send me? What benefit to humanity did it serve?”
She smiled. “To prove that some of it still exists within you.”
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by submission | Jul 20, 2013 | Story
Author : Marie DesJardin
The Chevy wagon rattled down the narrow road, its twin beams lighting the underside of the leafy branches that hugged the highway like a mossy cave. Dot blinked in the passenger seat, her gaze idly following the yellow centerline that snaked beyond the range of the headlights. David's eyelids were heavy, but his knuckles whitened on the wheel each time the car plowed through a patch of bumper-high mist.
Random shapes loomed up periodically by the roadside. Retreads. Possum. Shoe. A red trail pointing to a dark mound off the shoulder. Dot's brain logged it sleepily: turtle. Poor thing. The headlights passed over it.
Something shaggy burst from the woods at their right and dashed across the road.
Dot jumped in her seat. “Watch out!”
David swerved frantically, but the thing doubled back in front of them. With a bang, the Chevy connected. The engine raced as the transmission jumped into neutral.
“Cripes!” David braked to a stop. Dot looked out the rear window. The red glow of the taillights illuminated a lumpy stain near the centerline. Tendrils of mist curled over it.
David sounded breathless. “It ran right out in front of me.”
“I know. You couldn't have avoided it.” Dot bit her lip. “Oh, David, I feel awful!”
Frowning, David tested the shifter. “Honey, whatever I hit, it's dead.”
Dot was firm. “We have to make sure.”
“Oh, all right.” He put the car in reverse. “Just watch out it doesn't bite you— in case it isn't dead.”
The gravel on the shoulder crunched as they approached the blotchy kill site. “Whatever that was didn't hold together very well.” The car drew even with the thing, started to pass it. “Where are you going?”
“If you're going to look at it, you’ll need some light.” David stopped the car far enough back so the lights clearly illuminated the casualty. For a moment the couple simply sat there, the car's engine panting like a dog over its kill. Then Dot said, “David, it's green.”
David stared. “Maybe I hit a bush.”
“Yes. Lots of those running into the road.” Dot opened her door.
David looked startled. “Where are you going?”
“To look at the bush.”
“Get back here!”
Dot slammed shut her door, then walked through the beam of headlights. She circled the flattened object slowly.
“So, what is it?” David called through his window.
“I don't know. I can't find its head.”
With a sigh, David stopped the engine and stepped out. “Phew!” He checked the pavement to make sure he wasn't getting anything on his shoes. “The Chevy really smeared this thing.”
“I can't figure out what it is. It looks like gooey grass clippings.” Dot nudged a sticky edge with a toe. “It sure looks dead, though.”
David straightened, relieved. “Okay, you've done your duty. I'll check the car and—”
Dot heard a whine behind them. Glancing back, her eyes opened wide. “David, duck!”
#
“Watch out!”
There was a bump, and something dark splashed over the rounded hood of the propulsion unit.
“Ew, nailed it.”
“Both of them.” The grassy blob twisted around in the passenger seat to look out the rear viewscreen. The vehicle continued to speed silently down the center of the road about four feet off the ground. “Aren't you going to stop?”
“Not until we find Junior,” said the shrub-like object behind the steering device. “These big hairy-headed things are all over the place tonight.”
“Well, I hope Junior stays away from them.” The grass clippings quivered its eyestalks. “Look at the stuff they left on our hood. It's red.”
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