by submission | Sep 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Mickey Hunt
“Welcome to the edge of the universe,” I said cheerfully. “The very edge.”
The clutch of tourists easing into my parent’s store seemed overawed. At night, part of our sky is lit with nebulae, pulsars, galaxy clusters, and all sorts of stuff, but the rest of the sky is black, pitch black. As far as anyone knows, no electromagnetic phenomena, gravity, or nothing ever emanates from out there.
“We’re stocked with souvenirs, snacks, drinks, contraband cigarettes, and camping supplies at wallet gouging prices,” I said as the customers fanned out among the aisles. “Hot showers cost a fortune per minute.”
“Excuse me, young fellow. Postcards?” the sweet little grandma asked.
I stepped around the counter to show her the rack for our best seller: a jet black card with the caption ‘Beyond the Horizon’.
“I’d like a dozen,” she murmured to herself.
Tourists. I don’t figure what they’ve come to see, but they know how to spend.
“Where’s the hotel?” a man in a sweater and shorts asked.
“Our planet doesn’t have hotels, sir, since it’s a park, except for the few concessionaires like us. If you want a room, you’ll have to stay a parsec or two closer toward the Center.”
“That’s too bad,” he said. “We’ve come so far already.”
“We have plenty of camping spaces,” I said. “Campers bring lawn chairs, extra blankets, and sit up all night staring into the dark void.”
“Do you rent gear?”
“Whatever you need.”
#
Early in the offseason, two of my school buddies thought we should take an adventure. Dad owns a junker Galaxship that once carried the mail, so my friends and I took it apart, cleaned everything, recharged the quantum cells, put it back together with the safeties disabled, and loaded up all the canned beans, frozen steak, citrus concentrate, and beer it could hold. We charted a course directly away from the Center and launched.
At first it was fun. I mean, because even scientists never attempt this. Before long it got boring, but honestly, when we weren’t lifting weights and watching movies, or playing video games, we slept. Outside, absolutely everywhere was black, black, black as we traveled four years as close to c² as we dared.
Then one of my buddies, Janos, said, “We should stop.” So we did, and other than the ship not rattling and shaking, we’d have hardly known. We looked homeward to find that the universe had shrunk to an infinitesimal spark of light.
“Holy Higgs Boson!” Janos said. “We flew faster than we thought.”
I took a picture.
A quiet minute afterwards, my other buddy, Rasper, said, “I’m scared. Let’s go back now.” So, we did. The tiny dot of the universe grew until four years later (minus a month) our planet emerged into view.
When I walked into the store, Mom asked, “How was it?”
“Okay. I’m glad to be home. It’s not so bad here.”
“That’s how I felt,” Dad said. “You’re just in time. The tourist crush begins this weekend.”
Anyway, that picture I took of our infinitesimal spark? We couldn’t decide on a caption, but we make a ton of money from the new postcard regardless. Maybe, just maybe I can now afford to go someplace really fantastic and astonishing.
by submission | Sep 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : C.L. Guerrieri
I sat at the monitoring bay as he stood there, roughened hands folded calmly behind his stained, dark brown overcoat. His receded cheeks mostly hidden by a thin, graying beard and a matted ponytail, the captain smiled as his thinned eyes squinted out the front bridge window, glazing deeply at the ice asteroid field in front of him. The lasers burned into the pale blue ice as our tractor modules hauled them back into our cargo bay, emitting soft pings for every completed cycle.
My daydreaming was interrupted by soft words I almost didn’t hear.
“Please, speak your mind. Silence can only bring miscommunication,” he said.
He knew I was worried about being the only ones out here.
“Well, sir, it’s just—You know how our scouts can’t find cloaked ships. Being alone in null-sec doesn’t worry you?” I asked.
He maintained his gaze at me before shaking his head.
“Not in the slightest.”
This seemed like a horrible lack of planning, but I decided not to press. He always had a plan.
As if on divine cue, a half dozen dark beige shapes popped into view above the belt only a half-kilometer away. Their dark, spiny tips, typical of missile-loaded gunboats and stealth bombers, meant only one thing:
Pirates.
We were far too late for warp, but the crew did as usual, setting a warp course for a nearby planet. A warning light popped on in my panel, indicating that the worst of my fears had come true.
“They’ve scrambled our drives. Webbed our ignition too. We can’t escape.” I murmured.
“Not to worry,” came the calm response.
The main comm screen popped on, the static clearing to reveal a tanned, well-groomed, dark-haired head sneering at us with a hollow grin.
After no words from the captain, he began:
“You know how this goes down. We—“
The captain interrupted, holding up his hand, silencing the man at once.
“Glad you could join us, at last,” the captain calmly stated. “Today was becoming quite dull.”
The captain hit a small black button on the front dashboard of the bridge and, a moment later, numerous faded-blue Orion-class laser and missle gunboats warped in around us with dull thwumps.
The pirate’s face contorted and drained of color.
“FIRE!” the pirate screamed.
Their missiles released, but it was too late. The blue gunboats fired their lasers and missiles, detonating the pirate missiles prematurely as missiles ripped through the pirate hulls with bright-orange blooms, sending dull booms of pressure waves cascading over our hull.
As the blue ships realigned for another warp, the captain turned, sensing my anger at him.
“They,” pointing to the destroyed ships, “are, or were, experts at hiding. They needed something to draw them out. Besides, I don’t like to quit.”
“Please resume cycling whenever you are ready, Erin,” he said as he turned back toward the front viewing panel. I pressed a few buttons on my display as the dull hum picked up, casting the green arcs of light back out to the rocks. After what felt like too long, he turned and looked at me.
“You must be tired. Feel free to go rest.”
Grateful, I nodded and made my way towards the back of the bridge and turned as I walked out. He was still standing there, facing the asteroids, hands behind his back. He began humming a verse from a tune, an old naval song every miner knew as a rite of passage. I sang the verse in time with his humming in my head as I headed out.
Now the moral of this story is
As plain as plain can be,
Don’t ever trust a sailor
An inch above your knee.
by submission | Sep 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Timothy Marshal-Nichols
Dearest, Humblest and most Obedient Sir,
Please be informed, as agreed in mutual undertaking, that yourself named Mutch, first name, Alfred, are contracted to duty and that the lease of said duty is due forthwith to expire. Thus upon the thirtieth inst of this month, September, of this year, twenty-thousand-and-thirteen, upon such time, thus the hour before midday, you are required, as per contract, to be attendant upon your place of known residence. This residence to be within the road of Hartington Drive, within the city of Liverpool, within the county of Merseyside, within the country of England, such house, a three story residence, bearing the number upon said road to be twenty-seven. For upon said date, for upon said time, attending upon said place, upon morrow, whereupon you shall die.
It is not for you, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, to dispute said contract. May I remind you of the sanctity of such contract, founded within law and custom, thus approved by legal council upon this land and freely entered into by yourself in full knowledge of the right and proper consequence thus of said contract becoming requisite and thereupon enacted. Your request for an appeal is void and otherwise inapplicable. There is no higher court with which to request stay of enactment. There can be no council or appeal, no committee to hear such case, the time has come, you must die forthwith.
For Mr R.M. businessman, pillar of the realm, philanthropist to the poor and needy, noble and honourable sir, doer of many charitable works, benefactor of the destitute, has declared use thereof of various of your body’s natural organs, not here specified, and claims thereof there use within his person. Thus your great and illustrious benefactor has need of your body, various parts of, to improve his welfare, appearance and comfort. Whereas yourself, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, miserable wretch that you are, worm that you are, scum that you are, lived by the goodwill, grace, favour and means of Mr R.M. Therefore you posses no right to exercise such ingratitude, forbearance or obstruction as to deny Mr R.M. his legal right and your eligible duty. You have no alternate but to, with immediate effect, die.
It was some twenty-one years ago that you signed and was witnessed this contract with our company. Whereby we established, through suitable tests and medical procedure, your compatibility with Mr R.M. as to body, blood and temper and found the perfect compatibility. Thereby on contract your good self was genitally tagged, as your person shall be well aware, and thus there can become no escapement or abatement, we, the executors of said contract, shall always know the whereabouts of your force. Thence always have the performance to enact the substance of said declaration. Since contract date you have received the payments upon the declaration without let or hindrance upon our part. Each month you have received such agreed sum that our presence within the contract has been accomplished without any complaint or dispute on your part. Now whereupon it is time to exercise our utilization upon this agreement. Thus for legally agreed harvesting to proceed your death must be enacted.
May I finally remind you to attend your abode upon this morrow, as agreed. You can be assured that, commiserate with quality of harvesting, your death will be as painless as assets and practicality should allow.
Your Obedient Servant, D.
The Harvester of Human Organs.
by submission | Aug 31, 2013 | Story |
It was my lunch break. I was eating my turkey on rye on the roof of the Jefferson Bank Building in downtown Spartanburg just like I had every day for the last fifteen years. That sandwich needed the South Carolina humidity and roofing-tar smell or it just didn’t taste right.
I’d never seen another soul up there, so I almost choked when I heard footsteps. A young man in grey suit with sharp creases cut across my field of vision. The new guy in compliance. Rick. He was walking along the ledge, looking purposefully down at the sidewalk twelve stories away after every few steps. A white canvas laundry bag hung from his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said without turning to look at me. “Could you hold this for me?”
Then, before I could finish chewing or grunt out a reply, he closed the distance with me in a few quick strides, fished the end of a black nylon rope out of his bag, and shoved it into my free hand. In surprise, I made a defensive gesture with my sandwich-hand, but he leapt away from me and darted for the ledge before I had a chance to do anything more than wave my turkey and rye at the empty air and squeak out a little gasp of protest.
The length of rope shrugged off the laundry bag as it uncoiled and as Rick leapt over the edge I saw that one end was looped around his waist. A jolt of shock and panic hit me as my gaze snapped down to the black rope lying limply against my left palm.
My fingers clamped down on the rope and I cringed with my whole body. I didn’t even think to drop my sandwich or get another hand on the rope before it snapped taught with a sound like a whip. I heard a muffled “oof” from over the ledge and the section of roof beneath my feet whined like a tree in the wind. The rope end in my left hand vibrated with tension.
The metal access door right behind me clanged open and my boss stepped out puffing and red-faced.
“Mike,” he said to my back, “you’re not going to believe this. The new kid in compliance just tried to get you fired. Says you’re a cyborg, that you’ve been hiding in plain sight all these years. I told him I’d be filing false accusation charges on your behalf and that his career…”
He trailed off as he walked up beside me. I took another bite of my sandwich and we both stood in silence looking down at the rope in my hand. A few stories below us, I heard Rick groan.
“Sir,” I said swallowing, “could you do me a favor?”
He met my eyes, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“Would you mind holding this for me,” I asked.
He never responded.
by submission | Aug 29, 2013 | Story |
Author : Lindsey McLeod
“Good afternoon!” The teller chirped happily as Nagano sat down at the first available desk. “Welcome to FilmScape! What may I help you with today?”
“I’d like to cancel my account,” he said, sliding his card across the counter.
The robot picked up the card. “You are a valued customer, sir!” it piped happily. “We will do whatever it takes to retain you, sir!”
“Yes but you see,” Nagano said, “I don’t actually use my subscription anymore.”
The robot turned to the machine on the counter beside it, and inserted what could loosely be called a finger.
“You last used your account 412 days ago, sir!” it burbled. “How may FilmScape improve your service?”
“I don’t want you to improve it,” Nagano said patiently. “I don’t use it. You can’t improve on something that isn’t actually being used.”
The robot processed this statement. “You are a valued customer, ” it said eventually.
“I want,” Nagano said, as calmly as he could manage, “To Cancel. My Subscription. Please.”
The robot tilted its head slightly. “Did you not enjoy your subscription, sir? You rated many of our services very highly.”
“Well, yes,” Nagano said, “but the thing is, I’m not using them anymore, am I?” He realised he was crushing his cigaretto packet in his fist.
The robot narrowed its eyes. “Are you switching to another provider?”
“What?”
“It’s another provider, isn’t it?” the robot barked. “Networld or Cinefare or one of those other -” it actually seemed to sneer, “-peasant quality film services. Admit it!”
“No!” Nagano said desperately. “It’s just – I’ve got to a point in my life – I’m so busy all the time, with work… Look, I just don’t have time. It’s not you, it’s me. Honestly.”
“I see,” the robot said. The disapproval in its tone could have carved a glacier in the Mountain of Shame. “You might have thought about that before you took out such a long subscription. FilmScape was under the impression you wanted a stable contract for security and comfort.”
“I did, at the time,” Nagano said weakly. “But things change. People cha- I mean, er, things change,” he corrected hastily.
If possible, the robot looked even more disapproving. “I see,” it said crisply. It turned back to the machine on the desk, inserted another small whirring part of its anatomy, and produced a huge pile of coloured papers. “You’ll have to fill out these forms.”
“What, all of them?” Nagano said in horror, as they thudded heavily onto the desk in front of him.
“Yes,” said the robot. “In triplicate.”
Nagano stared at the robot. The robot stared back.
“Some of them are double-sided,” it added smugly.
“Couldn’t I just-” he began.
“No,” it said simply, and with finality. “Here is a pen.” A small blue biro was propelled slowly, maddeningly, across the counter towards him. Nagano fought a sudden, murderous urge to stab.
“You know,” the robot said after a few moments, leaning what could loosely be called its elbows on the counter. “Your subscription is one of the cheaper packages. I could always discount that a little further for you. As a valued customer, sir. Perhaps even a couple of months…. free.” This last was suggested in a low, back-alley whisper.
Nagano looked deep into the beady eyes of the robot teller. They flickered minutely for a moment. Was that triumph?
“Fine,” he said resentfully, throwing the pen back across the counter. “Discount me. I’ll be back in a few months to cancel the damn thing again.”
The robot leaned closer. “Persistence is key,” it said quietly. “Have a nice day, sir.”
Outside, Nagano lit a worse-for-wear cigaretto with hands that trembled in frustration.
A small automatron waddled up to him, holding out a little red leaflet. “Would sir like to consider the possibility of opening a Cinefare account?”
The cigaretto, in obeyance of the laws of gravity, hit the pavement a second after Nagano broke into a run.
