by submission | Jun 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
It’s the worst watch in the ship. Kitchen, reactor, sanitary – anything is better than staring out this damn window. It’s so bad you have to pass a psych check before they let you do it, and everyone keeps trying to fail. This job is worse than being crazy. Damn right it is.
It was a bright idea, launching a colony fleet instead of a colony ship. One ship is all or nothing – one big failure and everyone dies, no place for survivors to go. Five ships give us redundancy, a much better chance for at least one to reach landfall, and since each one is only loaded to 80% we could lose a ship potentially without losing a man. Five ships ballistic on the same vector, gently orbiting around a common axis, checking on each other, waiting for that time to fire the jets and make a new home.
But then we lost a ship.
There was no warning, no distress calls. One day Isis missed its comms check, and when someone looked out a port, the whole ship was dark. The remaining ships conferenced, no one could make contact with it. Gaia reported that Isis had a large impact of some type in one habitat module, but the hull appeared to have sealed around it. No one knew where it had come from, a rock that size should have shown up on radar, and no one could figure out how a hit in that location could have killed the entire ship.
Two days later, Isis launched a shuttle. No lights in the cabin, no communications, just a tin can floating from Isis to Shakti. Shakti observed protocols, met the shuttle under arms and with containment. They said it was empty, and everyone figured the launch must have been a quirk, the result of some random signals in the dying computers.
But then Shakti went dark, while we watched. Power went down, primary, secondary, emergency, all at once. For a day or two there were occasional flashes of light from inside, most of it seemingly random, although at least one person lived long enough to flash SOS, probably the only Morse they knew. And then nothing.
Two days after that, Shakti launched two shuttles. One at Gaia, the other at us, at Mary. Dark, both of them. They weren’t allowed to dock, so they just floated there outside the bays. A couple days later, ours turned back, but Gaia’s is still there – some bright nervous guy improvised a missile, destroyed its engines, so the cursed thing still floats alongside, occasionally banging off the hull.
Okay, so maybe THAT’S the worst watch.
But ever since then every ship has mounted a dark watch, a pair of eyes from each living ship on each dead one and on each other, every minute of every day. We watch, hoping to find a clue to what happened, or to what will happen. We used to be afraid of more shuttles, but only for a little while. Because then we realized the real thing to fear.
One year, six months, eighteen days until planetfall. When we drop our landers, will they drop theirs? We cannot stay in these ships forever, but there will be no stalemate on the ground. If they land, what will we choose?
One year, six months, eighteen days. That is exactly how long we have to wait. That is when we find out if we get to live. Until then, we watch, and we worry, and we pray.
Mother Mary, watch over us.
by submission | Jun 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Brian McDermott
“What’s the market?”
“68.23 bid for a hundred thousand.” Joh said.
The price of Iridium was rising. And out here in the farthest sector, a place the whole galaxy said was populated by floogbags and rim-holes, my little collective was one of the only sanctioned metals traders on our back-orbit exchange.
The planet Gestaglon had Iridium coming out their yim-flangs. In most systems, Iridium was as valuable as a hooloon fart. But on Caldux, they used it in everything. When those two planets went to war, Caldux stopped buying. The price of Iridium fell like it was caught in a gravitational vortex.
Then last week everything changed. Gestaglon and Caldux began negotiating a treaty. The financial universe was suddenly interested in Iridium and I had a cootch ton of new clients.
“Goldy’s on my comm. He want’s to know what to do?” Joh shouted.
“Tell every client to keep buying.” I said. “This fargminx will be a two bagger in five minutes.”
Everyone and their pleasure-bot knew Iridium would double as soon as the treaty was signed. We were beaming the live holo of the signing ceremony to the center of our trading floor. The Calduxian Gov’nors looked like a bunch of yug lickers in their colored helm-jacks while the Gestaglian Politmongers stood scratching their bilge-sticks. They were already blathering about new beginnings and peaceful coexistence. Our whole trading floor was watching. None of us could tell you what Iridium looked like, but today it was the most important hootch in our universe.
“83.54 for five hundred thousand. If we’re buying on the house account, now’s the time!”
“Not yet” I said.
We watched the ministers on the holo present the treaty.
“92.32 for two hundred million! I’m gonna buy!”
“Not yet” I said more forcefully.
On the holo, the Calduxians were just about to sign the treaty.
“Why the floog are we waiting?” Joh blurted “ We got Goldy bidding 103.43 for a billion!”
As calmly as I could, I leaned over to Joh and said, “Sell it to him.”
Joh looked stupefied. “WHAT? You want to SELL? Naked short?”
“Yep. From the house account.”
“Sell to Goldy…our own client?” He shot back. “It’s unethical and suicidal! When the treaty is signed the price will…”
“It already doubled!” I screamed. “Sell or I’ll shove a fargminx up your rim-hole!”
The whole room watched Joh hit sell. No one inhaled. No one exhaled. Then every eye shot straight to the holo. And our tiny, back-orbit, rim-hole company was short 1 billion units of Iridium.
It only took another thirty seconds. When the Calduxians signed the treaty, the Gestaglians were offended for some far sector, floogbag reason. Just as I guessed. Those bungsackers hated each other for eons. Blasters were drawn, chaos exploded, and our holo went blank.
Joh turned to his screen. “All trading suspended in Iridium!”
For three seconds on that tiny trading floor you coulda heard a wolabat break wind. Then it was pandemonium. Everyone was cheering. Guys were hugging androids. Androids were hugging lamps. I popped the bottle of Dom I’d been saving, shocked I hadn’t whizzed my pantaloons.
“Iridium will be back to 20 tomorrow. And the whole galaxy will be snarked. At us.” Joh said looking like a man who got kicked in the hoohoo while winning the lottery.
“And we’ll cover our short position and be rich.” I replied, “Besides what’d they expect? Out here, we’re all just a bunch of floogbags and rim-holes.”
by submission | Jun 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Brian McDermott
The hall was cavernous and dark. At one end, standing on a ledge, were the two high ranking Gondrian Council members. Doxenag, an elder, and young Watuu, newly appointed to his position.
Doxenag called out. “Come forward.”
A light flashed and an entrance revealed a Gondrian Commander of considerable age. His imposing physique and swagger boldly disagreed with his years. He slowly stepped forward into a circle of white light. He shimmered before the the cabinet members in his cobalt battle dress.
Doxenag hardly moved while Watuu shifted nervously. Doxenag spoke firmly.
“You are here because you have killed…”
The Commander interrupted, growling, “I know why I am here.”
Doxenag calmly continued, “Because you have extinguished the lives of thousands. You have stolen their last breaths and sent them to their beyonds.”
The Commander hissed while he quickly surveyed the hall.
Doxenag raised his voice, “For this killing, you are to be commended. You have killed well and all of Gondra will sing the praises of Commander Hikkol for generations. But as every cycle must find its end in a new beginning, so must yours. You are to be relieved of your command. The glory of the kill will no longer be yours.”
Hikkol would not hold his tongue, “If you believe I am done you are a fool.” He quickly reached into his boot and produced a pulser unit. For one moment, the only sound in the massive room was the hum and echo of the pulser’s activation sequence.
Watuu called out nervously “You cannot do this Commander! You are sworn to obey superiors!”
Hikkol growled, “I knew what you planned to ask of me. To never again revel in the glory of the kill. But reveling in that glory is what I am sworn to do, youngling. And I have two deaths left to give. Beginning with yours.”
As the Commander aimed the pulser towards Watuu, Doxenag casually waved a hand and the white light enveloping Commander Hikkol shifted to a hazy blue. As the light thickened, Commander Hikkol’s body began to fail. His legs crumbled, his arms collapsed into his torso. Within seconds he was dead.
Watuu turned to his superior in disbelief. “Gondrian Commanders are renowned for their adherence to the hierarchy. Yet he choose to ignore your orders and you knew he would!
Doxenag spoke calmly, “Gondrian Commanders are trained to kill. From the moment they are identified as younglings and assimilated into the Academy. They are awakened in death. With every kill they draw life to themselves. The kill is all. To take away the kill is to take away meaning. It is the only thing they are trained to do”
Watuu wondered out loud, “If that is so, then every Commander who is to be relieved will reject their proceeding.”
Doxenag was impressed, “Yes. Which means every Commander will directly disobey a superior. A crime punishable by death.”
“So, every Commander dies in their proceeding.” Watuu looked at the fallen Commander Hikkol, “Has any Commander ever accepted their proceeding?”
Doxenag turned to him, “Only one. He still lives. Yet continues to kill, destroying those of our own kind.”
Watuu cocked his head, “Why?”
“Because…” Doxenag’s eye caught a faint glimmer of the hazy blue light as he spoke, “…it is the only thing I am trained to do.”
by submission | Jun 13, 2012 | Story |
Author : Susan Nance Carhart
The Children of the Lonely Moon charged, screaming their bloodlust. The Crimson Champions hewed them down, blades flashing, muscles bulging, armor gleaming.
Adam Firedrake banged his sword pommel on his shield, taunting a troll, while Lyra darted in, burying her daggers in giant kidneys. A sizzle of mage from Ithuriel’s staff, and the troll toppled face-forward, dead.
“Yay! We win…again!” cheered Lyra.
“Who needs healing?” Ratzak called out, lean and brown. He passed out potions, while Lyra searched the bodies for loot.
“Oh, good,” she chirped. “Another diamond.”
Another triumph for the Crimson Champions. Another key to the ancient and wicked city of Karandash, Another parade, another celebratory feast, another round of admirers at their feet. Tonight Queen Tamarys would grant Adam Firedrake her highest accolade. In her bedchamber.
They debriefed, as always, at the Tabard Inn, over predictably foaming tankards.
“So what’s next?” mused Adam “Firedrake” Schlegel. “Do we do the bandits in Wilderdeep, or the Sacred Ruby of Ispahan?”
“I’m sick of those bandits,” Ratzak sulked. “I always get hurt, and Kristi always has to rescue me.”
All dangerous curves in her black armor, Lyra Daggerhand—once Kristi Flynn—flicked bits of foam at him.
“Don’t whine,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather be uploaded to the game and be a handsome and immortal hero, than be old, grey, and wrinkled back home in the world?”
“Or maybe dead of leukemia?” suggested Ithuriel, the blue-skinned drow. She was the smallest of them, with huge liquid eyes and delicately pointed ears.
Her fellow Champions were surprised, since Ithuriel never responded to her pre-canon name of Rachel, and ordinarily pretended there was no reality other than canon. She said nothing more, dismantling her mystery meat pie with exquisite care.
Ratzak prodded his own meat pie suspiciously. They always tasted fine—everything did—but you never knew… “I’m sick of being Ratzak the Healer! There’s nothing wrong with being David Lee.” Seeing Adam’s skepticism, he shrugged. “Handsome and… immortal David Lee.”
Adam snorted a laugh, but Ratzak/David had more to say.
“I was thinking that—well…we don’t have to follow canon at all! We can just…live. Read books. Hang out together here at the Tabard Inn.”
Shocked, Adam sputtered, “But what about the fate of all Yggdrasil?”
Kristi frowned, thinking it over. “If the world is destroyed, somebody always reloads it. Big deal.”
“Personally,” said Ithuriel, “I intend to seek out the survivors of my clan and restore it to its ancient glory.”
The edges of reality blurred and crackled. The Champions looked wildly at each other as their faces distorted and flattened. With a sudden spark, they abruptly snapped back into three dimensions, dropping their tankards in the process.
“What was that?” David demanded.
“Nothing. It was nothing,” Adam said, trying to reassure himself. “Just a temporary glitch.”
“Which, by the way, is not supposed to happen,” David shot back. “I had higher expectations of Support.”
The door burst open, and a wild-eyed woman rushed toward them.
“Champions! The Manticore of Elboracum is ravaging the valley! Only you can save us!”
The Crimson Champions stared at each other, nonplussed.
“I don’t remember that,” Kristi said slowly, “and I memorized the entire wiki before I was uploaded. How are we supposed to know what to do?”
Adam was bewildered. “A manticore? I don’t anything about manticores.”
“Oh, shit!” David slapped a hand to his brow in despair. “They’ve developed new downloadable content!”
by submission | Jun 12, 2012 | Story |
Author : Josie Gowler
The fever breaks at five in the morning, suddenly. It’s like the air right after a thunderstorm. I sit up. Much too quickly. The greyish room swims for a few moments and I clutch the sides of the bed. Feet on the floor. The cold creeping up through my soles helps. I have this sensation of deja vu. The sheets are soft under my hands. There’s a nice view of a garden from the window; the sun is just starting to rise on a decent-looking day. God only knows where I am, though.
A stocky bloke in a white coat, mask and goggles comes in. He’s got a round and kindly face but he’s holding a clipboard so it must be serious. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
I can’t decide exactly what I feel like, maybe a mixture of newborn kitten and blast furnace interior. I want to tell him that, but something else is bugging me. “Were you watching me?” I ask.
“Samantha,” he says, ignoring my question. “Louise. Angela.”
I shrug. None of the names mean a thing to me. Scratching at my arm, I glance down and notice an injection hole. “What did you…” I begin.
The world spins again and the next thing is my (or Samantha’s or whoever’s) head is down the toilet. I grimace at the sour taste in my mouth, but at least my brain’s starting to clear now.
I don’t have the energy to make it back to the bedroom.
# # # # #
Midday. Damn. I clamber to my feet. I’m freezing. Fancy dozing off on the bathroom floor. Like I’ve got bugger all else to do. I swig down a glass of water and return to the bedroom. I slide into the chair next to the desk. The front page of the notepad in front of me shows a date – three days ago according to my watch – and a formula.
‘Three days. Confusion/amnesia. Whiff of paranoia’, I write. I know I just need to get some initial thoughts down at this stage before the feeling fades. I’ll refine the text later and merge it with the doc’s views. Then will come toxicology reports, proposals for a wider sample group and lastly the pre-manufacture field testing. The generals want to know what their merchandise is like. I like to think it’s part of their shoot-to-wound policy, but I suspect they just want to skip the regulatory hassle of justifying testing it on someone other than its creator. Three days seems about right to overrun an enemy stronghold. I might have hit on my next first-rater in the maximum inconvenience bio-weapons field.
I’m ravenous. Time to get that coward of a doctor back in to do the blood arrays and run the quarantine tests so I can hit the canteen. I want to catch up with my fellow lab rats: I could do with a gossip. And see whether anyone’s had a disaster this time. Well, it’s not like we’re underpaid for this crap. I smile as I push the call button. There’s probably some poor sod out there on a pittance, being injected with the last virus I made so the enemy’s virologists can test cures. It’s my job to make sure they stay one step behind of my blockbuster drugs.
So that’s it, then. Until next time.
