by submission | May 9, 2010 | Story
Author : John Williams
Gas and Sag had clear orders to destroy all life on the planet. Their leader, The Gnik, was concerned that the violence portrayed on its radio and television was setting a very bad example to the rest of the Universe. The exact manner of destruction was left to them. Their Gnik failed to see the irony of destroying a planet because of its output of violent transmissions.
“During the five-year trip from the planet htrae in Proxima Centauri, you’ll have ample time to agree on the optimum method,” instructed The Gink. On htrae, it was policy to make decisions at the lowest practical level.
Of course, they didn‘t agree: If Gas said fire then Sag said water.
The arguments went back and forth. Their leader, The Gnik, was beginning to think it had been a mistake to send a couple on this mission. Perhaps, Professor Stranglelove was correct when he or she advocated the elimination of one gender as a means to promote galactic harmony and to make the monarch’s life easier.
It was rumoured that the good professor had taken the precaution to adapt his own or her own body to qualify for either gender – a sacrifice willingly made in the name of science.
“Can’t I use my atomic blaster?” implored Sag as she reached for the holster on her hip.
“What about my headaches? It’s bound to make a terrible noise.”
“If you really loved me, then you’ll do it my way,” countered Sag. Gas checked to see what brain his partner was using.
Sag drew herself up to her full 2ft 6inches and turned her purple faces to her silent partner.
“I’m older so I should decide.” Her mouths forming distinct sulks.
“But you decided last time. It must be my turn.”
Their attention was caught by a message from mission control asking their position.
“Are we there yet?” asked Sag.
“E.T.A. in five minutes,” sighed Gas and vowed to save the most beautiful planet in the cosmos. He looked aghast at the temperature sensing device, the planet must be the coldest inhabited one in the known universe. A plan was beginning to form in his thinking head.
“So what are we going to do?”
All the time, Gas was pondering on the irony of destroying a planet because it was too violent. Of course, he knew that countless envoys had been sent to warn the leaders of the Earthmen. He had seen the record of how they had been cruelly treated, their bodies bombarded with radiation, and then dissected. Gas switched off his feeling head and engaged his other brain. A light illuminated the dark interior of the flying saucer as he came to the realization of how to save the blue planet.
“We’ll toss a coin. Heads or tails?” he said casually.
Sag agreed and called tails.
The coin landed heads side up.
“Shit!” yelled Sag, “ I can never win an argument with you. “ She glared down at the Sirian Dollar.
Gas smiled up at her, “I thought we may introduce a little carbon dioxide into their atmosphere just to warm it up a bit. Then, it would make an ideal holiday destination.”
Sag allowed smiles to soften her mouths.
Gas quickly picked up the double-headed coin and began releasing the stored carbon dioxide they had exhaled during their voyage, venting it into the atmosphere of the blue planet. Their ship lurched upward and Gas struggled to right the craft but Sag wrenched the controls from his grasp.
Observers saw the craft stall and crash into a field on the outskirts of Copenhagen. The ship’s video log, after examination, was hurried to climate change conference. Gas and Sag, still engaged in a furious argument, were taken away for counselling and an afternoon in a hot tub.
by submission | May 8, 2010 | Story
Author : D. Wang
His wings were polyaramid leather woven over carbon bones and monofilament tendon, his gaze the piercing thousand-yard stare of a man who could see through stone, his talons X-ray lasers so powerful their waste heat violated Second Kyoto with every shot. In his time, he’d been God’s own fury and brave men had worn charms lest he notice they still lived. Now he queued up outside Lane’s placement office with the amputees and the lepers.
“Name?” Lane asked.
“ZX7122NGF99OU.”
“First, or last?”
“I guess if the last name is the family name then that’d be Azrael, so—”
“First, then. Here you are. Two years in the western theatre, retired this January?”
“Is that Earth time?”
“What else, Jovian Separatist Daylight-Savings?”
“We’re on Mars, I thought—”
Lane guffawed like a man who hadn’t laughed in too long. “Earth Force runs on Earth time, son. Martian! That’s a good one. Sit down, I’ll be right back.” He stomped down the hall until he found a small child huddled under a chair. Then he knelt down, and bellowed, “You there, boy! See that sign?”
The child whispered, “Cannot read, sir.”
Lane’s voice softened. “It says, ‘ECM strictly prohibited in waiting rooms.’ Aww, I’m not mad. I’ve got one like you at home. Here, have a sucker. You stay offline and there’ll be another in my office. Deal?” He let the boy stare at his pinky a moment, then grunted and stumped back.
“Where was I? Right, Martian time. That’s a good one. You want to be a comedian, son?”
“I thought, something leveraging my talents…” Azrael flexed his cannon. “Surely someone must want something done about someplace?”
“Private work?” Lane sucked his teeth. “You’re almost three years off the line, though. What did you do in the service?”
“Search and destroy, recon, anti-material, harassment, close air support. They were going to tap me for assassinations and deep insertions, real behind-the-lines work, but I didn’t fit the psych profile.”
“Trouble with independent operations?”
“Oh, no! I’m fully autonomic. Used to be a child molester, see. Still am, though since the operation I’ve been lacking in the wherewithal, if you take my meaning. Point being, I’m not one of those silly AI jobs that sees a kid bringing his da the RPG and starts throwing TypeError exceptions.”
“Ah. Well, no, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” Lane rubbed his eyes, good cheer gone again. “Well, Azrael, I don’t recommend this often, because it’s not an easy job, or a glamorous one, but it needs doing and I think you’ve got what it takes.” Lane motioned Azrael close and whispered, “Sheep herding.”
“Sheep herding!”
“Sheep herding.” Lane gestured expansively. “Just you, ten thousand tonnes of mutton, and the great wide plains of Australia. Some can’t take the loneliness, just go crazy, but that’s not a problem for you, eh?”
“You can trust me. I’m as stable as anything. Rest of my squadron needed counselling, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but—”
“It’s settled. Sheep herding. Next!”
by submission | May 6, 2010 | Story
Author : K Clarke
As if crashing on this stupid planet wasn’t enough. Pad paced the cell, glaring through the one transparent wall at the creatures on the other side. As if having to survive for three months on this stupid planet wasn’t enough. I just had to get myself caught by the Space Invaders from the Black Lagoon. They probably think I’m the local wildlife. A mechanical arm came out of one wall, scanned up and down his body, and retracted.
I’m not edible, I promise you. I’ve got sticky bones, you’ll choke. The two aliens poked at their banks of electronics, chittering over a film one of the machines spit out. One of them left the room, carrying the film.
Ok, test results. You better not be planning to eat me. Pad rested his forehead on the window that separated the rooms. You got here in spaceships. You’re ugly as sin, but clearly you’re intelligent. Well, I am too. How do I show you I am too? The remaining alien leaned on the other side, looking towards the door. A claw tapped a slow tempo against the glass. Pad thought he recognized a pattern, and, on impulse, tapped it back.
The alien froze, then turned to peer at him. It tapped a more complex rhythm and Pad repeated it.
Yes, Lobster-face, I’m copying you. I’m smart. Come on, please. After a few more tries Lobster-face lost interest.
Not enough. I’m just imitating, parrots can imitate. I’m smarter than a bird. Ok, you’ve got patterns, you must have numbers. He tapped once, waited. Twice. Come on. Three. Four. Lobster-face tapped five. Yes. Six. Give me seven… Seven. All right, back and forth. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Yep, we’re counting. How high do you want to go?
Lobster-face called something out the door. Hey, I’m more interesting than that! Really yell, get some people in here. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Still not enough. All right, math, don’t fail me now. Pad tapped three, five, seven. Lobster-face jumped in and tapped nine. No! Pad slammed a fist on the glass. Well, odd numbers, close. You get points for trying. But we’re going for something bigger here.
Three. Five. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Please recognize primes. Please recognize primes. Lobster-face tapped a hesitant nineteen. Pad gave it twenty-three. It leapt to one of the masses of electronics and began squawking into it.
That’s right. You’re going to be famous, Lobster-face. You can write a book. How I Made First Contact with Humanity. A group of aliens rushed into the room, clicking at each other and pressing up to the glass to stare at Pad. And maybe you could do a sequel, How I Then Went on to Not Eat My First Contact with Humanity. I’d like that.
by submission | May 5, 2010 | Story
Author : Jacqueline Rochow
Den paced outside the library, the swaying of her tail betraying her unease. Gil merely stood silently, eyes tracking his boss’ movement.
“He’ll come out soon,” Den said. Gil nodded in reply; he knew his input wouldn’t affect her musing much. “He’ll see we’re right. It’s undeniable.”
It was another hour before Lord Chara came out, sheet of notes in one hand.
“My Lord?”
Chara handed the notes to Den. “Here are my questions and observations. Many discrepencies in your research need to be tidied up, but… you make a convincing argument. Your research is… extremely thorough. Most projects would have gone to print with a quarter of this. From a regulatory standpoint, the chances of any reputable academy refusing this are negligible.”
Den bowed. “Thank – ”
“However, from a practical standpoint, I question the wisdom of going ahead with this.”
“Uh… excuse me, my Lord,” Gil cut in, “are you saying that we shouldn’t go public with this?”
“Young man, think about the situation. We are God’s chosen, a species that rose from the dust to hold dominion over our home planet and colonise the stars. You are trying to tell people that we were created by primates.”
“It’s the truth!” Den’s lack of manners was met only by Chara’s glare.
“That remains to be seen, but it is not the issue here. The notion is absurd. No matter how much evidence you have, people won’t like it. You’re asking them to turn from our most deeply held tenets and accept that we’re the lab experiments of a bunch of monkeys?”
“It explains our dissimilarity to all other life perfectly! They had all the necessary information, and the timing – ”
“I know, I just spent four days reading your files, remember? But try thinking about what you’re saying not from the perspective of a scientist or historian, but a member of the public. The species you speak of showed signs of mild intelligence, rudimentary tool usage and language abilities. They showed signs of basic scientific and engineering potential before wiping themselves out within a couple of million years. The only organisms in existence now that we even suspect to be descended from them can barely handle differential calculus and show only the vaguest signs of sentience, and frankly I think the evidence that they were descended from bonobos to be more compelling. You want to tell people that they are, in effect, our god? You would both be assassinated within a year. You would start holy wars. The theocratic Lordship system would either be overturned or have to kill millions of dissenters; you would be destroying civilisation as we know it. We’re just not ready for this sort of information. Is that a price you’re willing to pay?”
“Are you saying that you won’t authorise this?”
Chara hesitated. “I… cannot in good conscience refuse a line of enquiry that meets all technical specifications just because of my personal morals. But I strongly advise you not to pursue this nevertheless.”
After he left, Gil turned to Den. “What should we do?”
He didn’t need to ask, of course. Den was a scientist. They all were. The imperative ran deep; it was in their very genes, and Den couldn’t refuse it any more than Chara could.
“Start contacting academies. I’ll put the finishing touches on our introductory paper.”
Den made a mental note to buy herself a gun and some body armour before their articles went to print.
by submission | May 4, 2010 | Story
Author : Glenn Blakeslee
I first saw the torso during my commute down the interhighway. It lay against the concrete median, looking so much like trash that at first I didn’t recognize it. The car was going fast enough that later I thought I’d imagined the outstretched arms and rather noble head, so I tagged the location and set a reminder to watch for it the next day.
When the reminder beeped the following morning I started recording video on the left side of the car. Traffic was heavy and I didn’t want to take the car off its automation, so I looked ahead down the median while glancing at the locator on the windshield display.
The torso was still there. It had traveled three meters from its location, either on its own or via the blast of air from passing cargo-haulers. The arms were still stretched out from the trunk, as if it was grasping, and I caught a glimpse of tangled dirty black hair.
Later I watched the video. The torso was female. Black hair fluttered, tangled, down past a beautifully sculpted face, the tip of its aquiline nose rubbed raw from the concrete, slim abraded shoulders still draped with remnants of a black blouse, synthetic breasts angled and squashed into the grooved median boundary. The torso ended near the lower back, where hydraulics and control lines snaked out onto grimy concrete. Slow-motion video replay showed its hands and fingers moving.
It looked like a high-level courtesan or attaché. I couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there, perhaps dropped from a pedestrian walkway a quarter-kilometer back. I couldn’t understand how maintenance vehicles hadn’t swept it up. I couldn’t believe it was still alive.
The third day I watched the locator for the torso’s location. I reached out and gripped the steering control with a half-kilometer to go, switched off automation, then disabled the cars chiming manual control alarm. I’d never driven at these speeds, so when I took control the car swerved across two lanes. In the next lane a huge cargo-hauler swerved to compensate, and as I pulled the control to slow I saw its operator, hands in the air, glaring at me through the perspex side-window. As my car slowed the hauler re-compensated, pushed into my lane, and nosed into the median.
The snake-line of cargo pods followed, whipping against the median and then out again. I yanked the control back, slowing further, my heart beating as the hauler again compensated, the connected pods jerked against the median and flailed out into the lane. Two end pods, wheels stuttering and screeching, tipped to the side, and the shock traversed the interlink and pushed the cab over on its side, grinding against the median.
I brought the car to a complete stop, a hundred meters from where the torso had last been. The hauler had come to a stop, too. A thick blue liquid spilled from its forward pods, and smoke rose in wisps from the cab. I unbuckled my restraint and rose on shaky legs from the car, ran down the lane as cars and haulers screamed past on the open lanes. The operator crawled from the overturned cab and systems squelched the fire, so I ran past, through where the blue goo pushed and flowed against the median, and I searched for the torso.
It wasn’t there. I might have miscalculated, or the blue plastic might have engulfed it, but all I saw were the deep scratches and grooves rising in the median —where the torso had clawed its way to freedom.
