by submission | Sep 9, 2012 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
There are three types of people who become FTL-pilots: crazies, masochists and sad sacks.
I’m the last.
At least, that’s what my boss would tell you. That I’m one of those sad bastards who can’t let go of the past. Then he’d probably tell you what a fine pilot I am because he doesn’t want to risk alienating a good FTL-pilot.
Today’s run is just a short hop, from New Mars to the colony on Weaver’s World. The cargo bay is jammed with stasis pods, loaded with replacement workers. It’ll take sixteen hours to get to Weaver’s World. That’s just long enough for a nice chat.
As soon as I’ve got clearance from traffic control, I flip the switch. All the hairs on the back of my hands stand on end as we transition to FTL-space.
Three hours into the flight, Grandma Peg appears. She doesn’t look like I remember her at the end, careworn and sick. This is grandma as a young woman, in her twenties, wearing her engineer’s coveralls, ready to kick ass and take names.
“Hello, Charlie,” she says, taking the copilot’s seat.
“Hello, Grandma. How are you?”
“Still dead. And yourself?”
“Still not dead,” I say, cheerfully.
She laughs and we settle into comfortable silence. After a little while, some of the others show up. My dad, who died in the Newt War, and my sister, Caroline, who bled out in the delivery room because of a faulty auto-doc.
They’re hungry for news of the living. Especially Caroline. She wants to know all about the daughter she died giving birth to.
“She’s thinking of becoming a pilot.”
My dead sister’s face lights up. “Really?”
“If she does, she won’t stay,” I warn. “She doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
Dad laughs. “Another rationalist. If I only knew then, what I know now.”
Lots of people don’t believe you can interact with the dead in FTL-space. This, despite the evidence to the contrary. Most of the doubters think ‘the dead’ are just some type of FTL-space life-form with telepathic abilities. None of the doubters have been able to explain why aliens would appear as our dead and I don’t believe it anyway.
At the halfway mark to Weaver’s World, Allison arrives. My wife looks as lovely as ever. The rest of the family fades away, to give us our privacy.
We talk. I tell her about my life and she tells me about her existence. You can’t touch the dead, so we can’t dance. Not properly. I still cue up the music and we shadow dance with each other, swaying back and forth.
At the deceleration point, a chime rings. I turn to the controls, but Allison calls my name and, smiling, takes my hand. Her fingers are warm and solid.
“Oh God,” I say. “When did it happen?”
“A few minutes ago,” she says.
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
I decide it doesn’t. My dead wife takes my hand and we dance into eternity.
by submission | Sep 8, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sean A. Murphy
“I would first like to thank you all for your time and consideration, but I have to open this session with an apology.
I do not have any easy solutions to offer you, nor even any that may ask you all for some tremendous investment. I know many of you expected and were fully prepared to put the considerable resources of your peoples to work. In fact I expect that if I asked this gathering, expenditure greater than the full sum of all prior human accomplishment could be attained. Unfortunately a proposal is not what I come to you with. Rather what I have is a prospect, an idea which I feel it is now our duty to explore.
Human history is riddled with tales of beings of intelligence beyond the familiar. From the titans and gods of old to the Hollywood movies and popular culture of today, our collective culture is fraught with tales of life beyond our own. These ideas may have a myriad of inspirations and most if not all are undoubtedly mere imaginings, but the current of belief since the dawn of man has maintained that, however distant, we are not alone in the universe. I ask you now, esteemed representatives, if you are prepared, if we are prepared, to be right.
I have found a structure in the silence of the stars. My experiments and the issue of the day have led me to look into space as no other has before me and I tell you I have found something. The data is here. It has been poured over and confirmed by the greatest minds of our generation. It is indisputable. The conclusions I draw from it may offend you but this is not something we can afford to ignore.
This design presented now behind me, gentlemen, is a system of interconnected and communicating nodes, as I have so far mapped them out. As yet I cannot offer you a translation of what they say but I assure you all the foremost data and linguistics analysts have showed beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they are both nonrandom, and not naturally occurring. Not only that, but in my detecting of them they have also detected me. Even as we speak several of these nodes have turned, from as best I can tell, a listening ear to our lonely planet.
I can understand your outrage gentlemen but I assure you I have not taken any unilateral action on this planets behalf, they became aware of me the moment I began my experiments, as you yourselves obliged me to. I realize these are not the results you were hoping for, but this may be our only option, indeed our only salvation.
Said as plainly as possible I put this statement before the General Assembly. There is nothing we can do about our sun; we simply do not have the technology. But they might.”
-Excerpt from Dr. Wilkos Bradshaw’s address to The General Assembly of the United Nations, September 20th 2047
by submission | Sep 6, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
Ensign Morecock felt ashamed when he returned from shore leave, but only moderately so. He knew his actions could quite possibly get him discharged from Space Fleet, but it was well worth it.
Since first contact with the Sybaris, progress toward mutually beneficial intergalactic commerce and trade were exceeding even the most conservative estimates. Morecock’s ship, the USV Horizon had been selected for the first human delegation ever to visit an alien planet. A Sybaris delegation was likewise bound for Earth.
Six months later, Horizon’s arrival at Sibaria was greeted with much fanfare by their magnanimous hosts.
The Sybaris were a semi-aquatic, technologically advanced race of ancient space explorers. Those who had first-hand experience with them often commented on their flirtatious nature (by human standards), but so much was still misunderstood about their culture and physiology. It was clear, however, that they were a passionate species, being very casual about public displays of affection, even towards humans. Sybaris ambassadors claimed that they had abolished war over five thousand years earlier and had devoted their resources exclusively to two things; space exploration and pleasure seeking. Earth, with its massive oceans, was a tantalizing tropical paradise to them and they were most keen to make contact with the local inhabitants.
Morecock slunk into his quarters and breathed a guilty sigh of relief. He felt certain no one had spotted him slip into one of the many pleasure houses on Sibaria. Everyone was so preoccupied with the breathtaking, exotic architectures and landscapes of the planet that it was easy to steal away for an hour and claim he simply got lost in the labyrinthine canal system of the capital city.
As the USV Horizon sped back home to share the news and bounty of its historic cultural union, Morecock lay on his bunk and fantasized about his own illicit cultural exchange. He was ridiculously proud to have been the first human to copulate with an alien and fell asleep to erotic memories of hedonistic tentacles, prehensile orifices and copious amounts of saline fluid.
In the morning, it hurt when he peed.
In the afternoon, it hurt when he breathed.
By evening, it hurt to move and his tongue had swollen to the size of a large egg.
The ship’s doctor took blood samples, gave Morecock a shot for the pain and held him in strict quarantine. Extensive steps had been taken by both races to rule out any possible exchange of harmful pathogens, but the doctor wasn’t willing to take any chances.
For twelve weeks Morecock lay on top of his sheets, pale and wan, sweating copiously. On week thirteen he watched helplessly as his skin began a slow, agonizing boil, like thick porridge. Fat bubbles swelled all over his body, and then deflated with a release of crimson hued steam and an audible “fthh” sound. For another week, puce ooze seeped from the resulting holes. Morecock had long become delirious and was kept sedated with a powerful soporific.
Forty-two weeks later the doctor led Captain Krup into the observation room adjacent to Morecock’s cell. The two men stared in horror.
“How many have been affected?” the captain asked, obviously shaken.
“Sixty-nine, sir. Male and female.”
“How?”
“We believe it was via some form of sexual contact.”
Behind the tinted glass, what was left of Morecock’s body had become a cradle for a squirming infant Sybaris. Wanton, sensuous tentacles probed Morecock’s gooey remains for sustenance as the tiny cephalopod cooed gleefully.
Back on Earth, the awaiting human population eagerly welcomed the Sybaris delegation with open arms.
by submission | Sep 3, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
“Twenty-five quid”, the androgynous doorkeeper said, looking bored despite the deafening beats and boisterous atmosphere in the club behind him/her. I waved my hand over the ID scanner/ electronic debit transfer and hoped I had enough cash left for tonight’s shenanigans.
The bouncer was practically a wall of muscle and eyed me with impassive scrutiny. Even his eyeballs looked like they spent time on a universal gym. Guys like him were bred in test tubes, raised on steroids, protein and barbells and hired out to places like this by private security companies. What a life.
I slipped past him into the humid, smoky, inferno. My ears naturally adjusted to the volume, filtering out the damaging frequencies as my eyes compensated for the darkness, smoke and ultraviolet light.
I scanned the gyrating crowd. The usual suspects were here. Dougal stood out like a sore thumb. At nine feet, he towered over the other patrons and his mane of platinum hair glowed vividly in the black lights. Lennix was prowling. Her lithe figure moved with feline grace as she shamelessly seduced an obviously blitzed out emo-infant sucking a blinking soother. I wondered what his parents were thinking when they ordered that particular mod for their unborn. There was simply no accounting for taste. Tabitha was all breasts and hips, as usual, flashing her excessive cleavage to all who cared. Someone told me her gene mod included ample back support. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least.
I couldn’t see my chums, so I elbowed my way through the twisting, spinning, bobbing, slithering dancers, aiming for the bar. Someone caught my arm.
“Oiy, Maggie!” Damian squealed, his forked tongue darting salaciously across his thin lips.
“Hello, Damian. Long time no see.”
“Felicia’s looking for you.”
I nodded and let the crowd push us apart. I didn’t like being too close to Damian. Something about his pupil-less red eyes gave me shivers.
“There’s a ghirl what makes me horny”, a musky satyr slurred in Scottish brogue as I sidled up to the bar. His furry legs were obviously fake, but the horns and hooves looked real enough, as were the overpowering pheromones radiating off him like waves. “Cannae I buy you a drink, pett?”
I ordered a triple scotch. I was anything but a cheap drunk. My mother’s work, I’m sure. My mods included a ridiculously high metabolism and resistance to alcohol, which usually sucked, but at times like this it was a blessing. You take what you’re born with, I guess.
Thirty quid later he was less impressed by my womanly charms, but his pheromones were starting to affect me. I was grateful when Felicia tapped me on the shoulder and broke the aroused trance I was settling into.
Felicia’s unique epidermal mod was fascinating and beautiful. I don’t know how they did it, but the constantly changing melanin patterns were truly breathtaking. I kissed her long and hard, releasing my mounting desire triggered by the Satyr’s chemical excretions.
“Care for a third?” goat man crooned when we finally broke apart.
“Toss off, Puck.” Felicia said as she led me toward an empty booth, arm around my waist. “I’ve got wonderful news”, she whispered in my ear.
“What is it?” I asked as we cuddled in the shadows.
She patted her belly and grinned coyly.
I knew immediately what she meant. After six attempts, our in vitro transgenic hybrid had finally taken root in her womb. I smiled. Extensive gene mods had left us, like most people, infertile, but with enough cash and skilled doctors anything was possible.
We were having a baby!
by submission | Sep 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sierra Corsetti
He’s late again, which is becoming the norm. Unless he decided to jump off a high-rise on Level Three without his parachute again, I have no reason to worry.
I’m on Level Twelve in a bar that stinks of vomit and cheap liquor. Like Rex’s lateness, that’s not unusual either. Toilets don’t flush up, and when you’re at the bottom of a twelve-story city, you’re fresh out of luck.
I strum a few more notes on my guitar and unplug from the amplifier. Nobody’s listening and I’m not getting paid, so what’s the use?
They finally want me up top. The Dean sent a nice little note this morning saying if I come up, I’ll have all my training paid for and my mom will get the best care they can give her. And I’ll have a job where I can get a view of something more than gutters. But…
Rex shows up and throws back the rest of my drink before I realize what he’s doing.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
I sling my guitar across my back, toss some money to the bartender, and follow him outside. We step onto his hoverboard, me with my arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and take off.
He smells like fuel and grease, with a hint of the soap he uses to try and scrub the grime off. It’s all familiar to me, a part of me that I can’t imagine living without. I reach up for a moment to ruffle his hair, and know from the way his head tilts that he’s smiling.
The ride takes an hour, with transfer stations and all, but we finally set down on the top of the med center on Level One. We can see the sunset from here, but I suspect Rex chose here tonight because he knows something’s up. When I called him, I told him I wanted to talk. We both know that’s never a good thing.
“You could have all this,” he says after a long silence, and sweeps his arm to indicate the horizon. The honey-red sky lights the reflective windows of the tall buildings on fire, nearly blinding us if we look at them from the wrong angle.
“You could help people,” he presses when I don’t reply. “Sick people. Like your mom.”
But nobody can help my mom’s ALS. Even with all the prosthetics and drugs that enhance liver performance and muscle tone and eyesight and whatever else a person can possibly want.
“I could give her nurses and painkillers, nothing more.”
“It’s better than nothing.” Which is what she has right now, but he doesn’t say that.
And what would I have? More money than I’d know what to do with, a posh apartment, glamorous clothes, and people calling me Doctor Allie instead of ‘hey you.’
“But I wouldn’t have you,” I say, and turn to face him.
The look in his eyes could kill me, I swear.
“You’d make do,” he manages.
“And would you?” But he can’t answer that, and neither can I.
The sun’s nearly set now, and we’ve both begun to shiver in the growing dark. We’ll have to leave soon before the night security force comes out, but we can wait a little longer.
