by submission | Jun 20, 2010 | Story
Author : Liz Lafferty
I squatted to examine the crime scene. The woman was obviously dead. The alien? Well, there was a wet spot, a round sort of blobbish something lying next to the girl’s body.
“What happened here?”
“Doc says the girl was suffocated.”
“Not drowned?”
“No.”
“What about family?”
“The parents are waiting.”
“His or hers?”
“I guess his. They aren’t human.”
“Do we need a translator?”
My partner shrugged. The parents, such as they were, hovered a few inches off the floor. Thankfully, the department had sent over an United Galazies Interacter. Not exactly a translator, but someone familiar with customs and protocol.
The Interacter started the conversation with introductions and turned to me to start the questioning.
I shot him a blank stare.
“You touch them. Don’t you know anything?”
“No, I don’t.” U.G. spuds were all alike. Superior in their knowledge, condescending to their own race while basking in the knowledge they could communicate with hundreds of species in the galaxy.
The larger one was two foot from me. I liked the other one better. Not so fierce looking and with a shimmery silver color. This one was all black and murky. You know what they say, still waters and all that.
“What do I say?”
The Interacter rolled his eyes. “It’s all by touch. If you let your mind wander, it will know what you had for lunch yesterday. Think about the questions as you want them asked and the Aqua et Vita will answer in your mind.”
I reached for the water. It shaped and morphed as my hand touched the cool surface.
I felt the panic immediately. “Is it my son?”
My mind focused perfectly. “We don’t know. Do you know the girl?”
“Yes. We told him this was a bad idea. He wouldn’t listen. We’re only his parents after all. He said he loved her.”
“The girl died by suffocation. How would your son do that?”
“He did not kill her. He loved her.”
“But if he did, how would he kill her? Could he do it with his mind?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What about your son? What could kill him?” Call me ignorant, but how did one kill water?
“We are NOT water and you’re showing your ignorance by thinking it.”
“Sorry. Getting back to my question, what can kill your species?”
“Hungry, cold. Lack of will.”
“Thank you,” I said as I pulled my hand away.
Three days later, my partner burst into my office.
“We hacked her video logs. Want to watch some alien porn?”
“What do you have?”
“Our love birds in the act. Apparently, the first time for both to do the alien tango.”
The alien, Chrislos was his name, had taken a nearly human shape for the festivities.
The tragedy unfolded before our eyes. The alien lost his shape as the encounter progressed. Its water-like form had engulfed her, covering her face. Soon she stopped moving.
When the alien realized what it had done, it went insane. The normally spherical shape contracted and expanded in wild, grotesque agony. I wasn’t there, but I could feel the torture of realization. He’d killed the being he loved.
More research revealed that during the mating ritual, the life form loses its ability to mind connect. He didn’t know he was killing her.
An accidental death and a suicide. Not murder after all. I closed my file. I’d let the U.G. spud contact the family. I didn’t want the aliens to read my heartless thoughts on intergalactic race relationships.
A senseless waste. Worse, we’d have another case before you could say evaporation.
by submission | Jun 19, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan MacLean
Her mistake was turning to the left. They always turned left. Well, the right-handed ones did. She took a swing at Finn near the Lev Station. Used her right hand. Caught Finn by surprise and he stumbled backwards. Actually stumbled. He would get crap about that later. If I told anyone.
I caught her square in the back and she flew forward about 2 meters then dropped. Finn caught up with me and swore.
“Hey! She was mine! You saw how she sucker-punched me?”
I didn’t say anything. It was one of those questions that you didn’t really want an answer to. School was where you learned about that. Don’t have to worry about that kinda thing now. Better to not think about those things.
“Welton 433. Validate. ” A pause. Three quick tones. “Cleaning. One. Half a kilometer north of the Lev on 12th.” Another pause. One long tone.
The new headsets were better. Just validate yourself and they get it. Whoever ‘they’ were. I had wanted to ask about that once, but not now. That kind of thing gets you on the street next to the woman who was going to get ‘cleaned’ in about 15 minutes. I never stayed for the cleaning. I’m not even sure what happens. Not supposed to.
A small crowd had gathered behind us. I could see Finn was going to lay into them, but they saw it too and were smart and walked away. I guess it wasn’t really a crowd. Crowds are not really a good idea anymore. ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd. ‘ People used to say that right? Three is probably safe though. Maybe four. I know I wouldn’t risk five.
“That’s right! Friggin A!” Finn was yelling at the people as they moved away. “Shoulda popped one of ‘em,” he said to me.
He was trying too hard now. Making up for getting punched by that woman. I guess I won’t say anything. She did look like she was going to let him put her in the restraints, but at the last second she turned and took that swing. Maybe she knew she was dead either way. Now or later. Me with the Hot Rifle in the street or someone else with a needle in a room somewhere. Not that I think about where that somewhere is. Or the someone.
We walked back to the Lev Station. People moved away from us as we walked. They never want to look you in the eye when you’re wearing the uniform. She had looked at me though – had seen Finn there too.
Bright red uniforms. Hot Rifles. Nerve Restraints. She shouted anyway. I had recorded the whole thing on the headset’s camera. For them.
Finn went to talk to two girls in white medic uniforms who had just gotten off the southbound Lev when I played the vid back. The now dead (and cleaned?) woman appeared on my heads-up display. I clicked it back to the point where she turned and looked at me… her words (last words) were clear and surprisingly loud on the vid playback…
“…any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty…”
Old words. From before I suppose. They would know what it all means… ‘nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty…’
Finn had a smile on his face. He was walking back with an arm around each medic girl. They were cute. I forgot about the woman. And the old words.
by submission | Jun 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Frank Ruiz
“We got a call. Yates again,” said a voice from the black. Gear clicked, clanked, and rustled as someone dressed. When he hummed, I knew it was Tim because he mumbled the lyrics to Move, Bitch. He gave that old song soul. “Lights?” he asked.
“Nah.” I sighed. “You know I sleep in my gear.” Tim grunted assent.
The truck’s familiar creaking almost rocked me back to sleep as we drove. We picked up pirate stations as we bounced across the cracked roads, the radio fizzling as it scanned and found…
-We have any time travelers out there? If you’re a visitor to the blasted past, don’t be afraid to give us a call…-
-So one day I’m out playing in the rain, and my father says, ‘Dammit, will you come inside!’ and I said, ‘Dad, I’m Jesus Christ!’-
Bank Officer Yates met us at the Dusty Wood gated community, gave us the address to check for squatters, and retracted the barrier poles. “Good hunting!” A smile and a wave. He lived off our arrests.
I squinted as we went. Dusty Wood’s dark made me think of outer space and stars. Constellations of solar powered LEDs lined the gutters and roof lines, barely illuminating the abandoned middle class community. Every so often, a tower broke the foreclosed town’s skyline and the red tip of guards’ lit cigarettes paced back and forth like small clones of Mars. On major streets, tracker lights followed us until we cleared the sector, then another light would pick us up.
We opened the door of Seventeen Fifteen and threw in a S.E.I.Z.U.R.E. ball. Five minutes later, we walked through, safeties off, gun lights on. We found a father and son shaking under a red swiss cheese comforter. The father’s Rolex clattered as he shook. Tim reached down, yanked, and pocketed the watch.
“It’s a good night. There were no weapons,” said Tim. “Look, a toy.”
A few feet from the boy, a yellow construction crane reached up. I grabbed it, showed it to Tim, and squinted as his gun light hit my eyes.
“Nah. That’s the Big Dipper.” I said.
by submission | Jun 15, 2010 | Story
Author : Devon McDonough
“Relax. Breathe through your nose and count backward from ten,” said the technician. She was wearing a white isolation suit, one gloved hand twisting the flow regulator of the anesthetic, the other on my arm in a sterile and entirely unsuccessful attempt to comfort me. Her isolation suit detracted somewhat from her bedside manner, and the fact that her faceplate only showed distorted reflections of the six other assorted doctors and techs gave me a distinct sense of disconnect. Or maybe it was the cocktail of various drugs I had been taking all week to prepare me for the procedure. My body wasn’t sore, but my mind was convinced of some kind of ache; it just wasn’t sure where that ache was.
I took a breath and began to count.
Ten… It was getting colder in the room. It had to be for the procedure. The padded table I was strapped to was the no-temperature of sterile formfit foam. It ensured that my skin would not be damaged by the cold.
Nine… As the diagnostic hood was lowered onto my chest and shoulders, my already limited mobility was further reduced. Not that I really cared; I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
Eight… Now I could only look straight up at the ceiling. White, sparsely ventilated, sterile. No surprise there. In my tiny field of vision I could see flashes of gloved hands and vent-masked faces: the people who would soon be cutting my head open.
Seven… I had no reason to be afraid, but the momentary twist in my gut told me that what I was doing went against all instinct.
Before I could reach six my lungs seized and I convulsed violently. In any other operating room instruments would have been beeping wildly and doctors would be frantically shouting orders as they attempted to resuscitate me. However, this was not a lifesaving operation, and the doctors had seen this before in almost every integration subject. There was no pain, but my lungs grew heavy and breathing became a chore. Five…
The restraints on my chest, legs, and limbs prevented my arms from flailing as my body fought the anesthetic, which became an oxygenated liquid once it hit the bloodstream. My mind knew perfectly well what was going on. I had, in fact, been preparing for this moment for seven months since I had gotten word that I was a prime candidate for ISM integration. They called it “initial involuntary pulmonary rejection” on official screens, but those who were familiar with the procedure knew it more colloquially as the “ups and drowns.” My lungs were under the impression that I was dying, which was only partially true. Four…
I focused on my breathing. It settled to a steady rhythm once the initial spasms subsided (thanks to the muscle relaxers in the gas). My pulmonary functions would be automated for the next part of the procedure and then stopped altogether until the ISM was integrated. It would take over all involuntary operations from the moment it was activated. Three…
My vision tunneled as my body settled into dormancy. The activity around me began to increase. It was almost time. Lights were positioned and instruments were swung into place. Two…
No more breathing. The anesthetic now filled almost my entire bloodstream, feeding me oxygen and keeping me at room temperature, which was now somewhere just above freezing. One…
Everything seemed to be receding as my heart rate dropped exponentially. My last conscious sight was a gloved hand waving in front of my eyes, and then…
Zero…
I was dead… for now.
by submission | Jun 14, 2010 | Story
Author : K. Pittman
I wake, if that’s the term for it, unwriting domains against polarised fragmentation and unkempt electric spin, programmed instinct seeking proper orientation.
Slow firing dormant ion-lights, we rotate counter-clockwise, along the azimuth, putting the Milky Way at our back, shaving seconds per meter off the tumble of our outbound trajectory. I throttle up the impulse motors of our EMU and check on my passenger while plotting windows back to IS-5.
Her chip says her name is S Patrice:Welder 4:StationDay on the roster. I re-synch my chronometer and discover an alarming thirty hour deviation from standard.
Life signs: hers, comatose; ours, sluggish, stable, quickening.
EMU external integrity reads at maximum, with some warpages in topology. Atmosphere in the suit reads high levels of hydrogen sulphide; the port for the waldo is dead.
I assume the safety protocols worked; it buckled when whatever incident occurred, and Beta system, my cousin, must have flooded the passenger cavity in response to a dire emergency assessment. Analysis of discontinuities in linear memory indicate the effects of a large, quick EM pulse.
Memory also gives our last recorded position, on IS-5’s surface, replacing a section of shield panel, behind Recycling and astern of South Bay 3.
Fascinating.
I page my sisters, silent lights cast wide in cislunar space.
There’s a noticeable lag. Some don’t respond, others report returns along inbound paths as skewed as ours is out, their Passengers comatose or near-dead, suit integrities on the verge of compromise, emergency gel desiccating in the solar wind.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I, we got lucky. If the programmed definition of “luck” in my banks is correct, very lucky.
I call IS-5, as per standard.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I execute a full about and begin a long curve on a gathering burn. I call IS-5 again, as per standard. Garbage and chaff assault me in the form of a “Hello”.
The handshake is missing.
Fascinating.
Protocols dictate the sending of a handshake request, and I handle that while plotting new trajectories. S Patrice:Welder 4 has four hours before becoming truly nonliving, but has twenty hours of breathable atmosphere on board. Lucky.
Kind of. Is that right? Is that how that goes?
Nothing from IS-5. A collapsed silence, very notable.
Nothing but my sisters, now, and this looming, and the roiling grain of space-time churning about us. I whisper my plans to them.
After long seconds down, we all agree: This requires a Passenger’s discretion, and my Passenger just happens to be the closest to optimal Passenger Integration. Passengers hate the safety-sleep gas, for when things go bad. Even when it works. Ideally, what’s to be done is wake her gradually and fully, clue her in, extract a decision, and then gradually render her comatose again. What hinges on her decision is when I can wake her again in safety, if at all.
We are at best forty hours away from anything in habitable space, travelling at speed. It can be done. My calculations are on point. Written into those algorithms are the limits of Passenger tolerances. But it can be done, given some statistical slippages.
Bright without light, my sisters cry, bitching based on consensus analysis, on lost signals, something like an enormous itch and no body and a knowing looming looming.
I may have to wake S Patrice:Welder 4 into the middle of a nightmare.
