by submission | Jan 27, 2014 | Story |
Author : Liz Shannon Miller
When she opens her eyes, she expects…
Well.
She doesn’t expect to be in space.
At first she’s floating, adrift, the starlight from far away galaxies flickering into her view as she waves her fingers across the void.
She fell asleep so normally. Well, abnormal for her, because it actually meant sleep. Real sleep, head on the pillow before 3 AM, not worried about the heart palpitations she’d experienced a few weeks before. Not worried about the hundred problems that haunted her, the other hundred things that she used to distract herself from those problems.
As she’d fallen asleep in her bed, for a rare moment, she’d felt peace, escape from the mental disorders and medications she used.
And now, she was here.
It takes her a while to wonder if she’s naked, but when she decides to check, she discovers she’s not. She can’t really focus, though, on what she wears — at one moment, it’s red and black spandex, then baggy orange comfort, then black skintight leather. She shifts, in and out, echoing so many things she’s loved. So many things she hasn’t left behind.
It doesn’t surprise her that the prism through which she saw this experience was the science fiction she loved, because that prism was a prescription engrained into her glasses. But that was simply how she saw the world. The corrective features almost secondary.
Eventually, a framework coalesces around her. A ship. She’d never been the best driver, or maintainer of automobiles. But she pilots this ship like a pro as the cockpit comes together, as she finds herself gripping the wheel. She’s a fabulist, she knows that a spaceship wouldn’t drive like a car would. But she’s at the helm, and she’s ready to go.
Through the stars, she soars. She never expected to be in heaven.
But she is.
by submission | Jan 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Eric Spery
The starship’s Captain stood in the causeway between the dining module and the guest berths. As he stared at the observation port, one of the guests came through from the berths.
The captain knew every passenger he carried on the two month run between Sol and Betelgeuse. This passenger was an old retired military officer from Terra. Just a few years older than himself.
He stopped and stood beside the Captain and stared through the glass at the tapestry of unmoving stars.
“They’re so much more beautiful here,” he said with a slight trace of an accent that the Captain couldn’t place.
“What are?”
“The stars. I’ve never been outside the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve spent my adult life in cold foxholes looking up at the twinkling stars through the smoke of battle, praying I would live long enough to see the stars again the next night. Praying some day I might leave for good. Leave for the stars and never return.”
“Are they everything you hoped for, sir?”
“They are, Captain. I thank you for taking me on my last journey. To stars that no longer twinkle.”
The old soldier solemnly shook the Captain’s hand and then continued on towards the dining module.
After the portal closed, the Captain turned back to the observation port. How long had it been since he’d noticed the
stars outside? The only thing he saw anymore was his own reflection: old, tired and ready to go home. Hoping to never look again at stars that didn’t twinkle. To go home and never return.
by submission | Jan 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jedd Cole
The hours have become mere tick tocks of clock hands since Lonny flipped ahead on his desk calendar this morning, noting with some surprise that the pages stop tomorrow with the End of the World.
He eats his bowl of wheat puffs contemplatively. On his commute across town, he calls his mother, waking her up. They talk about the year since he saw her last, and Lonnyâs breakup with Veronica last week, and his sister Fawn’s new baby. Thereâs a car accident that holds up traffic. He wants to ask her if sheâs looked at the calendar, but doesnât. He arrives and has to hang up.
The stack of forms on his desk is taller than it was yesterday, and he gets to work, sipping coffee. He imagines himself throwing the coffee all over the paper and laughing maniacally and jumping out of windows and running naked through the domed city.
At lunch, he listens to Greg from Marketing while eating his peanut butter sandwich and looking out the window at the dome and the orange sky on the other side. Greg goes on and on about his dogs, how Jupiter snuggles with him in bed, how Smoky pees on the carpet, how Dakota jumps through sprinklers and humps the neighbors. Lonny wants to ask Greg about the End of the World, but the guy won’t stop talking.
Thereâs still a stack in Lonnyâs inbox by five-thirty. The elevator down is full of silent people who donât look at each other. In the car, Lonny calls his sister Fawn. They talk about the End of the World a little before the topic of her children comes up, and she canât get off it. The drive back is slow, and he passes two accidents.
When Lonny gets home, itâs six-thirty. Time for Hours of Their Lives on channel four. He turns the screen on and heats up a frozen dinner of fettuccine alfredo.
He feels like he should call somebody else, but canât think of anyone. The show is over at seven, and he throws away the empty foil container. The next show is Extreme Starbase Makeover and he turns it off. He spends the next hour on the net, browsing the updates, and thinking about the End of the World.
At eight-thirty, a knock on the door wakes him up. He had fallen asleep at his desk, and probably has a red spot on his forehead. Lonny opens the door and sees that itâs Veronica. They say hi, and she asks if she can come in and talk with him. Tenderly, they apologize for the fight last week and settle down with some vanilla ice cream. They watch a movie about promiscuous city people falling in love, and laugh a little at the funny parts.
By midnight, Veronica is asleep, and Lonny is thinking about the End of the World. He checks his watch. Only a few more hours. Looking out the window at Earthâs bright spot in the sky, he decides to step outside to sit in a lawn chair and observe. It happens about three in the morning, and he starts to get tired before it’s over. He reflects on the loss of sleep, but then remembers it’s a long weekend, and tells himself not to worry.
by submission | Jan 21, 2014 | Story |
Author : Haydn Kane
The Sergeant sat down across the table from me.
âCommencing interview with Daniel Ambrose,â he said to the room in general and then to me, âyou are a resident of Mars?â
âYes, Olympus City.â
âAh yes, capital of the North, North Eastern Accordâ he said, demonstrating more impressive Wikipedia skills than geographic knowledge. âDo you have any family here?â
âIn England? No. But I have a distant cousin in Szechwan.â
âYour passport tells me you are here on holiday.â
âThatâs right. Iâve always wanted to visit charming old London.â
âVery well. The arresting officer informs me you committed multiple word thefts this evening in the Shepard and Flock, at 9:33, 9:35 and again at 9:57.â
âI still have no idea what the problem is. All I was talking about was cotton shirts.â
âYes, you then proceeded to say âitâs so hard to get hold of cotton in Olympusâ, followed a few minutes later by âI was discussing cotton shirts officerâ to the arresting officerâ.
âI am none the wiser,â I said, shaking my head.
âMr Ambrose, I will summon the avatar for ExcellentWear.â
A young woman dressed in an ensemble emblazoned with the companyâs logo appeared on a wall display.
âHello Mr Ambrose, I am the Legal Resolutions App for ExcellentWear,â she said. âYou used one of our copyrighted words three times without permission. Would you like to pay the fine now? Thereâs a ten percent discount for immediate payment.â
âI think I misunderstand â you want me to pay for saying âshirtâ?
âNo, not shirt; cotton Mr Ambrose. Cotton is an important ExcellentWear trademark. You have no usage arrangement with us, or with any Speech Broker.â
I said nothing but stared at the avatar for several seconds. It must have deduced I was bewildered.
âYou may wish to re-read your Visa terms and conditions provided to you at Customs. Nevertheless, I recommend paying the fine if you want to avoid jail. Then I suggest subscribing to a Speech Broker â just in case you slip up again.â
I laughed, struggling to grasp the problem.
âIs that likely?â I said.
âThere are sixteen thousand words and phrases that belong to various organizations,â the Avatar said, âAt the very least stick to using public domain language from now on.â
âMy God!â
âMister Ambrose,â the Sergeant interrupted, âbe glad youâre in the privacy of a custody room. The Church charges very highly for one of its more valued words.â
I turned back to the Legal App.
âHow much is this fine?â
â6000 Martian dollars. We accept all methods of paymentâ the avatar said, a rainbow of payment symbols hovering over her head.
It was more than the cost of a shuttle flight to Earth and back. I had the money, but it was a terrific amount to throw away. I was planning on continuing my tour of ancient cities, but perhaps it would be best to catch the next shuttle to Phobos.
âVery well. In which case Iâd like to pay later please.â I said, standing up.
âMister Ambrose, you must pay before you leave police custody.â The avatar said.
I sat back down again.
âAlright, and ten percent off?â I asked, opening my bank account.
âIâm sorry, the immediate payment discount expired thirty seconds ago.â
by submission | Jan 20, 2014 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
âWhatâs wrong?â she asks, dialing her emotion control implant down to âconcern.â I watch as her brow furrows and her mouth turns from a smile to a frown. The shift is gradual, like a water droplet running down a window.
âThe damn thingâs broken,â the words sound wrong coming from my smiling mouth.
âStuck on happy?â she giggles, dialing up to a playful tone. She loves that setting.
âNo, I want to be happy,â I explain. âBut I know the damn thingâs broken.â I flick the wrist monitor with my finger. Not in annoyance. I canât feel annoyed right now. I can only feel boyish restlessness and a bubbly feeling in my chest. Joy. Rapture. Emptiness.
âYou seem happy enough to me,â she says, playing with the hair on my neck. âWe could try another setting, if this one doesnât do it for you.â
I know what sheâs going to do before she does it. Sure enough, while one hand remains in my hair, the other moves to the implant on my wrist. But Iâm not really in the. . . mood? I place my hand on hers.
âIâll take it to the shop. Get it repaired.â
Her hands go back to her own dial and pause there. Perhaps she doesnât know what emotion is appropriate. I donât watch to see which emotion she chooses, but she sounds less playful when she speaks again.
âMaybe you should just be sad for a while, if thatâs what you want.â
Annoyance.
âNo one ever wants to be sad,â I sigh, gazing at her dreamily. âBeing happy is wonderful. No worries. No stress. Thatâs why we all carry these things around on our wrists.â Somewhere inside me I know this explanation wonât convince her, not when I refuse to change my setting to match hers. But I canât let go of this happiness, this optimism. Itâs what I need right now. What I so desperately want.
âWhatever, Iâll see what Bobbyâs up to,â she says, standing abruptly. Sheâs moved on to anger. I swear, sometimes I donât even see her hands move to her own implant. âOr maybe you could stop being paranoid, switch yourself over to jealousy for a while, and stop me.â
I sit in silence while she stands over me, eyes directed at my wrist. Weâve had this battle before. She wants an emotion from me, and normally, I would give it. Emotional adjustment is practically the only thing that keeps us together anymore. Without it, our relationship would fizzle out like a shorted circuit. Do I really want to risk her leaving me, her hooking up with someone else who I know is interested, just so I can keep an emotional setting that I donât think is working properly in the first place?
In the end I just keep grinning up at her like an idiot, saying nothing. I choose to let her storm off, her fingers ready to change her implant to whatever emotional state she thinks will most convince Bobby to sleep with her. Itâs funny, really. A simple switch over to horny for both of them would remove the need for such pleasantries. For whatever reason, the image of them both just flipping a switch and ravaging each other amuses more than anything else that entire day, and despite myself, I start to laugh.
I canât help it. I laugh until my sides hurt. I laugh, despite having just lost one of the only good things left in my life. I laugh, even as the tears begin to roll down my face.
