by submission | Feb 25, 2013 | Story |
Author : Jonathan Pigno
There were weapons stashed in the Frigidaire. Alien toys. Things Elaine kept nestled under her dress for safekeeping when company arrived.
But her house-guests didn’t know it.
They remained unsuspecting and silent as she leaned in to reach for the cola bottles.
“So tell me again why you’ve come to Boise, gentleman?”
The suits looked up from their plates and stared at the middle-aged housewife. She was as inconspicuous as any Midwestern beauty queen – chestnut hair curled ever so gently over the base her shoulders, sparkling green eyes that matched the lawn outside.
Her polka dot dress looked like something off the newsstands. A perfect cover for Wink magazine. Things that drove the jukebox crowd wild.
Inside the oven, a pie was cooking. The strangers wondered if the recipe was secret, something only she had knowledge of and concealed ever so well.
But that was exactly what they had come looking for.
They gazed at the woman once more. Something told them she was an atom bomb. A nuclear explosion waiting to blow. But the fallout wasn’t caustic. It was historic.
The mystery men shook it off.
She smiled, placing the beverages onto the linoleum tabletop. She pulled out a seat and reclined next to them.
Both visitors looked at one another.
“We came to talk about your husband, miss. There has been investigations lately by the local law enforcement concerning the lights that were seen over this community. Our division has given us clearance to search the house for government property.”
She uncrossed her legs and straightened herself in the chair.
“My husband is a senior ranking official in the United States military, gentleman. His business is most certainly not mine…”
She pushed her bra up, narrowing her eyes and pursing her mouth. The red lipstick glistened. Her male guests soaked in the sight of her cleavage. The woman breathed in.
Underneath the table, Elaine heard a click.
“You fella’s are looking for the hard way, now am I correct?”
She clenched the holster tucked inside her black garter. She could feel the nose of the weapon against the darkened nylon stretched over her thighs.
The trio traded stares. That’s when the oven timer went off.
Elaine drew her gun and fired. It was a liberating bliss, a revolutionary kind of spark. She saw it in the smoking crater where her former guests smoldered.
Things were changing in Boise.
The housewife stood up and brushed soot off her clothing. Walking over to the window, she lit a cigarette and smiled into the dusk. She wanted to disprove it all, the misconceptions of who she was.
“I’m packing heat like Friedan’s publishing books.”
Elaine heard the screen door out back.
“Since when you get home?”
Her husband trotted over, still in uniform, and kissed the side of her face.
“I took the spaceship for a spin. Ran some tests at the hangar.”
Distracted, he turned to the pile of ash where his breakfast nook used to sit.
“They said the commies might show up.”
He paused.
Elaine was always different. The killing wasn’t the problem. She’d become a new woman. Right around the time he’d trusted her with weapons even he didn’t comprehend.
“So…how those ray guns work out?”
A distinct cocktail of fear and envy brewed in the room. The couple lingered in stillness.
She knew what needed to be said.
Some moments couldn’t be understood knowingly. They had to be explained.
Elaine opened the oven door and stared at the finished pie.
“Well. Let’s just say…you fucking men will never understand. Not for a long time.”
by submission | Feb 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : David Barber
The pale young woman had a tap in her wrist. The time-traveller asked for a glass and we watched her fill it with blood.
“Bring her salt water.”
“Salt.. like sea water?”
“If you have that.”
There were isotonic sports drinks somewhere in the back, but I didn’t turn away quick enough. He raised the glass and I saw his throat throb as he drank.
I’d shut the Chronos Tavern during the riots. My wife said I shouldn’t open today. In fact she’d said it was pig-headed and reckless.
She worked at the Canaveral Timeport before all the trouble. She’s been stuck at home a while now, looking for jobs, and she’s been kind of short-tempered. Lot of anger about time travel these days.
Perhaps you have to be married to understand how I ended up in the Chronos, giving the place a furious mopping, when the time-travellers came in.
“I smell your worry,” The morlock bared brutal teeth. “But you are safe.”
I asked the pale woman if she wanted another drink but she didn’t even lift her eyes.
“Is it your scientists causing this trouble?”
“Scientists?” My foolish grin faded. Predators don’t need to make jokes. “No, nothing like that.”
After time travellers arrived, the notion had escaped that lives were like films you could fast-forward to see how they end. Choices were inevitable. Or irrelevant. The idea just wouldn’t flush away. Emptiness, unrest and dismay hung in the air like carrion crow.
The blood-stained glass still stood empty on the bar when the three men walked in.
“Sorry guys, we’re closed.” The Timeport was always off-limits to the public.
“Those two look like customers to me,” said the tall one.
“Just friends.”
“Look like travellers,” he insisted.
We all needed to stay calm, to keep talking. He held a Saturday-night special against his leg.
“I want to know who invited their sort here. From the future.”
The morlock was blindingly fast. I heard an arm-bone crack before the gun fired into the floor. The morlock stood frozen over the whimpering man while the other two backed outside.
“They threatened,” he explained. I realised he was giving them a head start. Then with a terrible cry he was gone, and the door banged shut.
The woman still sat at the bar.
“You should get down here with me.”
She made no move, and shamed, I went to see to the man. He was cradling his arm and moaning.
“Never touch the prey,” she warned with the voice of a child. I stalled with indecision.
“They do not share, there would be violence.”
“Are you his wife?”
“His eloi. Hide if you ever see one without an eloi.”
Brief shrieks came from outside. I almost picked up the gun.
“He is considered very enlightened. Other morlocks are more… aggressive in their feeding. I am fortunate.”
My wife would say I was being sensible. I hadn’t realised I was a such a coward.
“He did not treat you like prey,” she called, as I eased the door open. “But if you interfere…”
Under a streetlight, the men lay amongst their own entrails.
“Your age is an Eden,” said the morlock. “Still, best to go now.”
“What…”
“Yes, send her out.”
I whispered to her that our laws would protect her, but she only asked if I wanted her blood.
“Then what use am I?”
I dialled an ambulance, then threw the glass away. Beginning to tremble, I called home.
My wife answered and I didn’t let her get a word in. I had a lot of things to apologise for.
by submission | Feb 23, 2013 | Story |
Author : Lisa Play
Daphne scared me when I saw her take the stairs to the catwalk this morning. The way she moved, I wouldn’t have given her a second glance. That was a problem. Normally there was a slight tick that gave her type away, something stiff in the knees or the elbows. Her steps were so effortless, it made me think she must be new, fresh from Development. Her skin was taut yet supple, not a blemish or a scar anywhere. The Mast Laboratory Natural ASUORI Line was finally beginning to look, well, natural. This was better for hospice work, sure, since the androids don’t need to eat or sleep and can be constant companions for dying, their voices (male or female) calibrated to a soothing pitch, their movements finally powerful yet fluid after six developmental generations of testing.
We didn’t need to make the ASUORIs as strong or good-looking as they turned out to be. They had to look convincingly human and they had to be efficient. ASUORIs are for the dying, they needed a face like a mother’s, friendly and nourishing and gentle. Hands that would stay at human body temperature so that the patients would not be reminded of the chill of death as Nancy (or Jill or Anne or whatever) gave them a sponge bath or changed their clothes. It was very considered. We were designing farewell bots, not to be worn down by the emotional toll of their work, to be a comfort to the survivors.
Corporate was only contrary on one point: “Moms don’t sell, guys. It’s not going to look good in the catalog. Can we have a little more Sofia Loren and less Susan Sarandon?” It wasn’t a suggestion. So the skin tightened up, the waist came in, and the bustline perked up a bit. The softness of the face fell away to reveal intense cheekbones. The features we had designed to mellow the beholder were overtaken by those that would intrigue, excite. We, my development team, considered ASUORIs differently after their redesign, worrying if our patients’ families would regard the technology less seriously because the androids looked closer to Victoria’s Secret models. But they did sell, regardless. We expanded into a “male” line as well, endowing them with biceps sculpted enough to imply strength without brutality and a gentle jawline. The face of death was becoming a pleasant one.
by submission | Feb 22, 2013 | Story |
Author : Matthew Wells
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Aden’s chains struck the floor like bursts from a lazy pulsar. The voices from the other side of the clear partition, chaotic and full of rage, were strangely mute. He saw the crowd without really seeing it, and he knew only the sounds of his chains.
Upon some unseen signal, the inflamed gathering reluctantly took a seat while he was fixed to a steel chair.
As he looked, two faces in the front row stood out. He knew the family. They had testified at his trial. Thru a fluke, they were the only ones to have directly survived the disaster. Today, a young man with black hair sat between them.
Members of the gathering, a small selection of families of victims, took turns lashing threats and oaths, rebukes and rancor into the microphone.
To be fair, while the accident was a devastating catastrophe—a colossal failure, it was wholly unintentional. He had set fire to a star. The Deep-well Boson Cascade, his experimental magnum opus, had burned a solar system to ash.
After the poisonous words ebbed, he was given the chance to speak. Instead, he hung his head and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” came the soft reply.
Aden looked up, surprised to see the young man with black hair standing at the microphone. The crowd behind him watched dourly. His father looked baffled. The young man observed Aden without malice.
“You survived the blast too, didn’t you?” Aden said.
“Yes. My name is Bo,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t mean to do it.” No one challenged the young man. As the only survivors, his family held a unique status among the families of the victims.
“No, I didn’t. But, it was my fault.” The entire project board was indicted and the corporation assets seized, but he naturally took the fall. And, he embraced it.
Bo looked down at his shoes, then up again at the prisoner. “May what happens next be a reminder. Though, I believe this guilt is too much for one man.” There was a meaningful pause, then, “I forgive you.”
An angry murmur arose in the room as Bo returned to his seat. His father looked anxiously about the livid faces; his mother had gone white.
Aden’s heart had paused for a full second following those words. Emotion washed through him. Forgiveness had seemed unimaginable. Yet, here it was.
The chair began to swivel and the wall behind him opened. A stiff, ocean breeze shook the plank as it extended over fitful waters a thousand feet below. The sea was red under the coral sun. He wobbled involuntarily. The wall closed behind him, but they would be watching, millions of them, as they had twice before over the past decade.
His breath held and his heart quickened. He sensed the moment was now. In the brightness of full day, a brilliant flash filled the sky—his star, annihilated all over again. His arms pulled against the chains, his neck strained until he vomited over the rocks below.
It was some time before his pulse slowed and those imagined cries grew quieter. In silence, he gazed upon the shining suns. He would be left on the plank for days while the light faded. But, it no longer mattered. Near the pain, a renewed sense of purpose began to grow. What would it take to build a memorial the size of a star? Over the next seven decades, as he was taken from world to world to relive this event again and again, he would find a way.
by submission | Feb 17, 2013 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
“You’re a cheat!” Eb shouted, tossing his cards as he rose to his full, imposing height. Money would have meant nothing to Eb on a planet with little left to spend it on, but he was playing for information. And Pierre was beating him, badly.
The pod was tense and silent as Pierre rose to his feet. “No one calls me a cheat.” Men started slipping out of the door. Rose ducked low behind her bar.
“There are other men here that you’ve cheated before,” Eb continued.
Pierre and Eb stared at each other in silence. Pierre’s dark eyes smoldered. He’d won too many hands in this colony to let the hangers on write him off as a cheat. He’d be stabbed in his sleeping furs, and die with his boots on. But what if he drew? How good a shot was Eb Kelly? How fast could he draw that blaster hanging low at his side?
Eb broke the silence. “See, you all? He doesn’t deny anything!” This last taunt was more than Pierre could stand. He reached for his blaster, but Eb’s was out first and flashed fire. Pierre’s shoulder jerked, like an unseen hand had shoved him, and he fell. Rose screamed, leapt over the bar and dropped to her knees by the fallen man.
“Dead?” Eb asked, replacing his blaster in its holster.
“No,” said Rose, rising quickly. “But you are.” She jabbed the cold, hard barrell of Pierre’s blaster into Eb’s ribs. “Get out of my pod, the rest of you!” she yelled. The nervous remnants scrambled out.
“Rose — I don’t understand — why?”
“‘Cause a girl’s gotta make a living, Eb, however she can. And that old son-of-a-bitch Harte would pay through the nose to have his daughter back.”
“Pierre was working — for you!” Eb said, incredulously.
Suddenly, a voice outside called, “Everything alright in there, Rose?” Surprised, she glanced toward the door. That momentary distraction saved Eb’s neck. He smacked his forehead down quick and hard on the crown of Rose’s head, and she staggered and fell over stunned.
Eb bolted through the pod door. Swirls of purple dust wisped through the air amidst the ever-twilight of fading twin suns. Oblong pods of varying capacity were scattered helter-skelter, scarcely moved from where they landed in The Big Drop. Added to the ranks of Rose’s ousted customers were a few colonists who struggled on to make a meager living after the mining companies had moved on to more fertile worlds. Mostly men, they stood scratching at the ground with their boots, and saying nothing.
“Well, where is she?” Eb asked. “Where’s Blythe?”
“Don’t know nothin’, Eb,” someone muttered, avoiding his eyes.
A gray-bearded old-timer caught Eb’s attention with a twitch of his head subtly toward a small, derelict storage pod. No one tried to stop Eb as he pushed through the crowd. Two solid strikes with his shoulder was sufficient to bust the latch, revealing rusty, discarded mining tools and spare parts from an old atmosphere generator. In a dark corner lay a bound young girl, gagged with an oily cloth, eyes wide.
He jerked out his knife and ripped her bonds asunder. “Eb?” she gasped. “You’re still alive!”
“Glad to find you in the same condition.”
They hurried toward his lander, Eb with blaster drawn and ready, but no one interfered. “Where are we heading, Eb? Where’s there left to go?”
“Anywhere but here,” he said, sliding her into the cockpit and squeezing in beside her. He threw the thrust into full and the lander tore up into the alien sky.
