Fading

Author : Cosmo

Every day I am losing more of my sight. Every night, the edge of the moon blurs a little more. I can no longer see the stars. In its way, this slow drift into obscurity comforts me. It reminds me of my mortality.

The city streams by several thousand feet below as the zepp glides through the night. Rock and metal flow together, become a light-specked river, as above a cold wind snaps through the zepp’s mainsail. I lean over the railing, trying to make out individual buildings, and try my best to ignore the scraping of talons against the elevator wing and the following thunk as Aryan lands upon the deck.

The HARPY joins me at the rail, c-fiber wings retracting soundlessly into his back. For a few minutes we stand and say nothing. I can almost hear his eye shutters irising as he tries to infer my line of sight.

“I don’t understand,” he says at last, rotating his head towards me. “Every night you come out here. What do you expect to see?”

“Nothing,” I reply, trying to keep everything out of my voice. My hand rises, almost unconsciously, to feel the silver cross that rests beneath my shirt. Aryan knows about it, and I know it irritates him. He has taken it from me once before, but sees no harm in me keeping it.

“Your body is failing. We offer you treatment.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You are going to let yourself die?”

“Death is natural,” I reply.

In the ensuing silence I can feel him contemplating forcing the surgery upon me. But he knows that I would escape it afterwards. “I see,” he says. “Why do you wear that cross?”

“Who were you?” I ask. “I mean, before?”

For a moment, I think he is going to respond. Perhaps this time I have caught him off guard. Perhaps, somewhere deep within that network of wires and nanotech, he retains a vague recollection of his past. “I don’t remember,” Aryan finally says. “It is not important.”

“It’s the most important thing there is,” I respond. “It’s why you will never understand.”

Something changes about him. Aryan shifts his weight uncomfortably from talon to talon, then suddenly throws himself over the railing. I watch moonlight spark from his body as he plummets towards the earth. I can hardly see him when he opens his wings and veers left.

Below, the city streams by. Through this long journey, I have been keeping track of the latitudes and longitudes. Somewhere ahead of us, the city breaks against the Dead Sea. Somewhere below, the ruins of Jerusalem lie, sinking slowly beneath wave after wave of metal.

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Taxcelon

Author : Jacqueline Rochow

Private Collins remained at attention as the guard ran the scanner over him. Satisfied that he carried no electronic devices, the guard left him alone with Sergeant Peters.

“At ease, private. Take a seat, will you?”

Nervously, Collins did as he was told. “Sir?”

“You’re here because you ticked certain consent boxes when you joined us seven years ago. Particularly, an automatic consent to top secret missions. I’m a fair man, private, and I know a lot can change in seven years, so I’m going to give you the chance to walk out of this room now. If you don’t, the only way you’re leaving is in the cockpit of a one-man craft with some top secret orders. Understand?”

“Y… yes. “

Peters stared idly at his fingers for several seconds, then looked up to see that Collins was still there. “Good man. Tell me, have you ever heard of Taxcelon?”

Collins racked his memory. “Weren’t there old folk tales about… some hugely powerful immortal entity? Destroyed whole planets before just disappearing one day? That was –”

“A long time ago, yes. The official story was mysterious disappearance; in actuality, we caught it.”

“How?”

“Tricked it. Some genius engineers rigged up a device that imprisons it inside a material body. Such a form severely limited its abilities. It was only as smart as the brain it was inside, couldn’t do much beyond move material objects. No idea how the thing works, but that doesn’t matter; the important thing is, what the hell could be done with it then? Killing its host would cause it to automatically take another, and we were worried that over time it would figure out how to control that. An enemy with no mercy, a huge grudge and the ability to possess anyone? Not a good thing. A prison doesn’t work as a prison if the inmate can suddenly become one of the guards, does it?”

“So… what happened?”

“We built a guardless prison from scratch. A shell, if you will.” Peters slid a small star map across the table. “You know how the entire Alpha Centauri area has been a no fly zone for as long as anyone can remember?”

“Yes…”

“That’s because of this nearby star, here. We picked a planet and seeded the entire thing with single-celled life, left the entity’s poor host there and took off.”

“Oh! So if it dies –”

“Taxcelon reincarnates into bacteria indefinitely. That was the plan. The no-fly zone is to avoid the remote possibility of it hitching a lift off the planet, but in bacteria it shouldn’t be able to remember what it is or think at all anyway.”

“And there’s a problem?”

“The thing about life is that it doesn’t stay the same for long. That planet, see, now has intelligent life. Smart enough that, assuming Taxcelon is inside one of ‘em, it should be able to remember some stuff, possibly even work a little of its old power. And that species is inventing space travel.”

“So you want me to kill them.”

“From a distance. Make sure you get everything intelligent but leave some bacteria or something, enough to ensure that life will continue. Mission details are in your ship. Get going.”

“Yes sir.” Collins’ salute and stride were purposeful. He had a very important mission.

Once he was alone, Peters remotely checked the condition of the explosive charges hidden in Collins’ ship. It was a pity about the kid, but they couldn’t risk him bringing Taxcelon back by accident.

“That’ll buy us a few billion more years,” he muttered to himself.

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Sacrifice

Author : Geoff Revere

“I’m resigning. That’s it. I’m done!” Doctor Holmes spouted, pacing back and forth before the commandant’s desk, his hands shaking. “The boy was eighteen Michael, eighteen!”

“You’re referring to Private Loman?” the commandant asked.

“You know damn well who I’m referring to!” Holmes spat, clearly forgetting to whom he was speaking. “How could you let this happen? There were supposed to be rules, protocols! This is unacceptable!” With a gentle hum, automated climate controls lowered the temperature and humidity in the room, doing nothing to cool the doctor’s temper.

“Unacceptable? The boy understood the risk. He knew about the food shortage experiment before he allowed himself to be plugged into the Hive. Can we be blamed if it was him the collective chose to sacrifice?”

“Sacrifice? You call what they did to him sacrifice?”

“THEY didn’t do anything to him. The Hive is one mind. Every action and decision is checked and approved by the collective. In a very real sense, Loman chose this for himself, for the good of the Hive.”

“I refuse to believe that. He could never have chosen this. Did you read his file? Did you even talk to the boy before you plugged him in? He was the only candidate, the only person who ever really wanted to be part of the Hive. He actually thought the collective consciousness was a desirable way to live. No arguments. No conflict. I tried to explain the uncertainties, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care that we’ve never proven if the Hive makes decisions based on unanimity or majority rule!”

The commandant eyed Holmes coldly. That was the crux of his argument, then. Was the boy for or against the decision to sacrifice members of the Hive? True, they couldn’t prove how the hive mind really worked. The technology had been stumbled upon by a start-up networking company and quickly snatched by the government. It was just as likely the boy had been murdered as he had been a willing volunteer.

“Say something,” Holmes demanded.

The man behind the desk sneered. “The Hive is the future of the military. They work as one, coordinating effortlessly. Exacting. Efficient. Sacrificing a soldier was the best choice, strategically, in that situation. The only question was whether the Hive would do what was moral or what was best. Now we know.”

The commandant hadn’t addressed the chief concern. Seconds ticked by. The climate controls lowered the temperature another few degrees. Realizing he would never get the concession he wanted, the doctor finally sat down.

“They didn’t just let the boy starve, you know,” Holmes sighed, his head in his hands.

“Your resignation is noted in my logs.”

“They could have at least shot him. But I suppose that would have been a waste of ammunition, right?”

“You understand you can never talk to anyone about this project. To do so would be to forfeit your freedom, as per your contract.”

“Did you know what they would do? Did any of the other behavioral specialists predict this outcome?”

“I expect your office to cleared by the end of the day. You’ll receive reassignment orders in a few weeks. You’re dismissed.”

Holmes looked up into the commandant’s eyes, half expecting some show of pity or remorse. He was met instead by the harsh blackness of years of military service. Exacting. Efficient. He would find no sympathy here. At last the doctor stood to leave.

“They ate him, Michael. They fucking ate him. And when it gets out, it’ll be on your head, not mine.”

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Non Fiction

Author : Helstrom

The blank page seems to stare at me – it always does. It’s an anachronism. I am of an older generation of writers. I like the feel of keys submitting to my fingertips, the facsimile of a sheet of paper presented on a luminescent screen. It is the only light in the room now. On the desk, a full glass of scotch, and a threateningly empty bottle beside it. Smoke curling up from the ashtray. The little wooden Komodo dragon I bought in Indonesia once.

A bit further off, more anachronisms. Books, lined up sternly on a set of shelves. I don’t have mine for nostalgic flair, I actually read the damn things. Something about the touch of paper, the smell of ink, the actual turning of a page. Writers are supposed to be like that, I guess. I’m not that much older, really, that’s bullshit. I just like the taste of it – “an older generation of writers”.

I think about the tens of thousands of words I have committed to this blank page, only to be erased and forgotten forever. Times like these, I wish I could call them back somehow. There must have been something good in there. Something I could salvage now. Jesus Christ, anything to get this blank page to fill up. Blank pages seem to fill up by themselves once you get them started – getting them started being the trick, of course.

Chasey stirs on the bed, the dim blue of the screen shining on her curves. Chasey? Stacy? Maybe she’s called Charlie, even. It’ll be short for Charlotte but I’ve always been a sucker for girls with boys’ names. Like Charlie or Sam or Alex. There might be some bi-curiosity in that. Given the night we just had, though, I think Charlie would beg to differ. Maybe I should write something about her.

A few words come out but they’re pretty vulgar. Not bad, per sé, but more like something you would start off a racy novel with. The kind they sell at gas stations. The cursor backs over them quickly. I’ll hang myself before I start writing dreck like that. Or at least I’ll stop paying the rent.

I light up another and take a sip of scotch, which I know I’ll regret once the glass is empty and the bottle gives out nothing but fumes. Charlie mumbles in her sleep and rolls over, two soft blue crescents highlighting her butt. I turn away and stare back at the blank page again, hoping it wi—

— Getting back in your own head is a little disorienting at first, but you get used to it —

“Hey man,” I say, tossing the chip on the counter, “What soft shit you call this?”

“You wanted something long.” Says the dude.

“Yeah, something long-time. Fuck is this?”

“It’s good stuff. Don’t worry, has sex too.”

“Right, just after I write the great American novel? Give me something else.”

“Philistine.”

The dude takes the chip back, hands me another from the regular box. I slip it in and right before it starts, I notice he’s tapping at an antique laptop. Idio—

—I’m on a circular bed, must be at least ten feet across. Mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice. Two Asian girls in platform heels, nothing else, walking up to me. This is better.

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Gilded Cage

Author : Clint Wilson

After eight long years in his lush prison Martin finally woke up one day to something new.

A woman for god sake, the bugheads had actually brought him a woman! She wasn’t exactly sexy by his old standards, short cropped hair and quite plain looking, but after this long without setting eyes on another human being she was the best damn thing he had ever seen.

She cowered on the floor beside one of the sofas near the outer window, hugging a cushion to her body. He hopped down off the bed and moved toward her, “Hello,” he said.

She made a startled sound and looked at him as if she had just noticed him there for the first time. Her voice came out weak and shaky, “Who… who are you? What is this place?”

“You don’t remember much do you hon? It’s okay; I remember when the bugheads first grabbed me. It was, and still is the most traumatic thing I’ve ever experienced. And the sad thing is, we aint ever getting out of here.” Martin ventured a little closer to her but she instinctively pulled back as close to the wall as she could. “It’s not all that horrible you know. We’re pretty well cared for.”

She continued to peer at him from behind the cushion, eyes wide and darting. He held out a reassuring hand. “Stand up, look out the window behind you.”

She hesitated for nearly a minute but he waited patiently, his outstretched hand never wavering. And then finally she tentatively got to her feet, refusing his hand, and turned around.

Together they looked out at the bughead home world. They were over a hundred stories in the air and had a fantastic view of lush green swamps stretching to the horizon where an orange sun was creeping up into an early morning sky.

After a time she finally allowed him to show her around the posh accommodations their alien captors had provided. “The best I can figure is we have about ten thousand square feet of living space here, including the gymnasium and swimming pool upstairs. The bugheads haven’t forgotten anything as far as comforts go.”

“But why? Why have they brought us here?”

“Come on,” he said as he led her to the inner window.

There they looked out into the shaft and it was evident to the frightened, bewildered woman that this massive building was a circular tower with a hollow center. And the inside was lined, as far up and down as could be seen, with windows like the one they were now looking through. Then she gasped as she realized what was behind all those other windows.

Martin pointed at a group of green slouching bipeds a couple stories up, “I call those guys the lizard gang.” Then referring to a pair of large, horned, red quadrupeds directly across from them he said, “Morning Mr. and Mrs. Buffalo.” Then he continued for some time to tell her his own pet names for creatures and beasts of nearly unlimited design and description. And as he said, “That fellow down there? I just call him Mr. Ugly,” She suddenly grabbed him and spun him toward her. “We’re part of a fucking zoo?”

“Zoo, collection, call it what you want. At any rate,” he hesitated, sizing her up for a second, “I guess they thought I needed a mate.”

“Sorry,” she said pulling back firmly. “They should have done their research a little better.”

And he suddenly knew exactly what she was going to say next.

“I’m gay.”

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