Author : Clifford Hebner
They met at the Imperial Academy, her slight and boyish, the youngest woman ever admitted, and he old, with the face and toothy grin of an ape. They were outcast, too young or old to be useful to anyone, but by the time she accepted her first commission, serving as ensign on a tiny scout ship, their legend had already started to grow. When she was promoted to the Captaincy, and given her own battleship, it was his ancient Admiralâ€™s hands that pressed the pin to her breast and drew the ceremonial drops of blood, said to seal sailor to Emperor forever.
History, in its wisdom, called the rebellion inevitable, the Emperorâ€™s arrogance and madness driving fully a third of his armies from him in desperate revolt. The rebels, outmanned and outgunned, were hounded across space, until, at a worthless piece of rock called Martinâ€™s Folly, the ape-faced former Admiral marshaled what forces were left to stand and die. The Imperial fleet came on and the first thousand ships flamed and died in the embrace of minefields and artillery orbiting The Folly; but she, who had been both student and lover, held her third back, and when they fell from hyperspace and in among the rebel ships it was with the whispered voice of Death.
In the end the Admiral, his ship crippled and burning, ordered all power to the engines and forward shields, seeking to lance the flagship, and it was without the thought of tears that she maneuvered around and sent him to a death in fire and a grave in the void they both loved so deeply.
She gathered up what ships were left to her, after the old ape had ambushed them so mercilessly, and limped on home with her men singing celebration and feast-day songs. She sailed through an infinity of stars and into the heartworld of a grateful empire, and then through an ocean of courtiers to the Emperorâ€™s audience chamber. He, in his lust, and his madness, came down from his throne, where no man could kill him, and sought her embrace; and she, with her loverâ€™s ugly face first in her mind, drove seven inches of the finest Imperial steel into his blackened heart, stilling it on the spot.
She left the Emperor on the floor, dead and discarded, and with him all the names and honorifics she had ever been given. She walked back to her ship, and the armies followed her once more, back out into the infinite ocean, always seeking new conquest. From that day forward she was called only Victory, and her name was battle-hymn and funeral-hymn on the lips of her men, who loved her- but she, who had killed both her lover and her God-King? Haunted by the memory of an ape-faced old Admiral, she loved nothing at all.
Author : Patricia Stewart
March 26, 2167. It was the best of days; it was the worst of days (if you permit me to paraphrase Charles Dickens). At 8:00 EMT (Earth mean time), I accepted delivery of the Galaxy-Clipper. Although named for the nineteenth century sailing ship, it was not made to cruse Earth’s watery seas. No, it was made to dart around the solar system at one half the speed of light. It’s a four passenger, forty foot diameter, gleaming metal saucer, powered by a Rolls-Royce 427 terawatt antimatter engine, and 32 ion-drive plasma guidance reaction jets. Man, she’s pure supernova. It set me back two years salary, but there isn’t a better babe gravity-well on the market. Surely, the best of days.
However, in hindsight I should have been satisfied with the Clipper’s standard equipment package. But my dim-witted, testosterone blind buddies convinced me to take her “off pathâ€ to get the underbelly coated with a mono-layer of promethium-deuterium-phosphate, otherwise known as PDP. For those of you unfamiliar with PDP, it’s a catalytic coating that promotes the fusion of hydrogen into helium. Under the right conditions, you can cause rarified hydrogen gas to spontaneously fuse into helium, liberating a substantial quantity of energy. As it turns out, those “right conditionsâ€ are the temperatures and pressures generated by the hull of a sleek new spacecraft as it skims across the upper atmosphere of a gas giant; say Saturn. It’s called nuclear wake surfing. It’s illegal, but fun as hell. I assume you can see where this is going. At 11:45, I was docked outside Bubba’s Astro Parts and Body Station in Mars orbit. At 14:00, me and three of my idiot friends (that’s four idiots total) were streaking toward Saturn at 0.499c (the ship was new, so I didn’t peg the throttle). Nine hundred million miles and three hours later (not counting time dilation), we were in geosynchronous orbit over Saturn.
We spent the next two hours calculating the required velocity and angle of inclination. Too steep and you burn up; too shallow and you bounce off the atmosphere. At 19:00 we caught our first ride. Man, what a thrill. From 25,327 miles per hour to 0.1c in millisecond bursts. Uncontrolled nine gee pitch, roll, and yaw buffeting. The most exciting 20 seconds of my life. When we pulled around for a second run, part of Saturn’s northern hemisphere was on fire. We didn’t hang around to figure out what happened, but my guess is that Bubba’s PDP was defective and broke loose while we were surfing. Since the dispersed particles are just catalysts (i.e., they are not consumed) the nuclear fusion reaction became self-sustaining.
By now (21:30), the fusion reaction has undoubtedly spread throughout the entire planet, and the rings have probably dissipated. Although we cannot see Saturn, I’m sure the view of your new mini-star is quite spectacular from Earth, especially at night. For the unforeseeable future, my buddies and I are fugitives hiding deep within a crevice of an unnamed asteroid while the Spaceforce hunts us down. Clearly, the worst of days.
Author : Adam Zabell
In one of those rare moments of unity, the nation sits in stunned silence at the scene laid out before them. A few short seconds from now three different wild howls of exclamation will be broadcast from two billion different voices.
A third of those voices will be shrill with anger, proclaiming to their chosen Gods how vile that scene was, how crude, wrong and immoral. In time, prayers will be spoken and letters written to politicians and newsfeeds about how Something Must Be Done. Some of these folk will demand retribution; a pound of flesh that must be extracted from those who brought this terror to their homes, their families and their children.
Another third will be aghast with despair, certain that yet another pointless and fruitless war is about to be waged. A war filled with violent rhetoric that will prove nothing and divide the people ever further into the camps of the extremists. Most of these folk will hunker down in their shelters, intellectualizing what they saw and afraid to act for what they see as the path towards a greater good.
The final third, the youngest third, are probably the most profoundly affected. They know what is supposed to happen, and where, and know what they saw today totally flies in the face of those rules. Deep in their souls they know that what they saw today has changed, will change their life forever. And they will be the ones who cry out the loudest, their voices from chuckle and chortle to bray and bellow. And all the inevitable conversations on their electronic chatspaces and in their personal stomping grounds will boil down to a single, visceral sentence.
“Dude, can you even say ‘fuck’ on hypercast?!”
Author : Gabrielle Kinsman
The transport completed its descent and settled onto the ground. The landing gear clamped to the landing pad, like a bug latching onto a leaf. The hatch opened and people started filing out almost before it touched ground. There were scores of people; many of them were specialists, workers for the newly-terraformed planet Arian. Another large portion were business men; both rich and poor, looking to start anew or create another branch to their prospering business. But the bulk of the people were ordinary folk, settlers who had volunteered (or been volunteered) to populate the new colony.
Samantha Headford was among the ordinary colonists. Her swollen belly differentiated her from the other passengers; she was just under the maximum length pregnancy allowed on the trip, and well over the recommended length. She had been worried, but she couldn’t stay where she had been before. She wasn’t safe there, and neither was the baby.
The baby’s father walked next to her, gripping her hand. Grant was three inches taller than her, had the same sandy blond hair as she, and was currently suffering from a broken nose. It would heal up in a day or two — they couldn’t afford the treatment that would heal it within hours — but in the meantime he wore an unsightly bandage over the middle of his face.
She stood off to the side and waited for him while he retrieved information on their assigned living quarters. Mothers with their children gave her knowing smiles when they passed by; she smiled back, a little wary, but happy. None of these people knew who she was. All they saw was a pregnant woman waiting for her husband.
One overly friendly woman walked up to her and smiled at the little package. “Oh, how far along are you, dearie?”
“Uh, five months,” Sam said.
“Ooh, he’s coming along soon, isn’t he?” The woman grinned at her.
“She,” Sam said, her smile growing.
“Oh, pardon. Hard to tell from out here, you know.”
Sam laughed. “Do you have any of your own?”
“Ah, yes, but they’re all grown up.” Sam noticed the gray strands in the woman’s hair. “Angry at me for adventuring out into the great black unknown again, likely. Oh, pardon, I’ve forgotten all about my manners. Name’s Haley.” She offered her hand; Sam shook it.
“Such a pretty name. Do you know where you’ll be staying?”
“Thank you. Um, not yet, my, the baby’s father is finding out right now.” Sam gestured towards where Grant was staring at a screen.
“Ah, I see.” Haley winked at her. “You ever need any help with that little one, you let me know. I have a bit of experience under my belt, raising little ones in far off places.”
“I will, thank you.” The women smiled at each other, and Haley left her alone.
Grant returned, grinning, took her hand and led her away.
“We’re on the east side,” he told her. “The sun rises in the east here, just like on Earth. You’re going to love the view.”
The walk wasn’t very long, but it seemed much longer to her tired body. At the moment she didn’t much care about the view; she was more interested in the bed, and how much sleeping she would get done in it.
Her ambivalence remained until they were in the living room, and Grant hit a button next to the opaque windows, making them clear. She’d never realized that people meant the word ‘breathtaking’ literally; for a moment she really did forget how to breathe.
“See? Told you.” He grinned at her, like a boy at Christmas. “It’s as beautiful as you are.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop.”
He came up and hugged her from the side. “We’re going to be okay here.” He put his hand over her belly. “We’ll be safe.”
She leaned into him and smiled. “Yes.” She put her hand over her brother’s and said, “No one knows who we are.”
Author : Michael “Freeman” Herbaugh
â€œThis skull has been carbon dated at being 3 million years old. Yet, clearly it is the skull of a 20th century homo-sapiens. Youâ€™ve been trained for the last five years because of the discovery of THIS skull.â€
Cartwright listened to the director of The Program as he spoke solemnly. The skull had indeed been found five years later at an archeological site in Brazil. It took quite a bit of doing but the US government had managed to keep it relatively quiet. Because of the skull, they learned that time travel was indeed possible, at least into the past. Someone had done it, though it cost his or her life. The US was determined to be the ones to discover the secret and launched â€œThe Programâ€.
Assembled here was Cartwrightâ€™s team, being let in for the first time on the biggest secret known to man. They had known they were being trained for a trip that was far from ordinary but had no idea until today just how far they would have to go. The three women and two men would be the first to use the monstrous time machine that had been assembled to send them back three million years.
As the director finished explaining the discovery and motivation of the US government to the team, Cartwright could see the shock and realization come over their faces. By the time the briefing was done, he would swear Summerâ€™s face had an expression of pure joy on it, juxtaposed with Leonâ€™s look of solemn fear.
â€œThatâ€™s all, people,â€ finished the director. â€œYou launch in 48 hours. Cartwright, as team leader I need you to stay behind for a final briefing. The rest of you dismissed. Enjoy your day of leave, then back here.â€
As Cartwright settled into a chair opposite the directorâ€™s desk, the director’s tone changed, becoming soft. â€œThere is one last objective for this mission, which is why a soldier like you was chosen to lead it,â€ he said. â€œThis is not easy to say nor will it be easy for you to carry out. The scientists studying the skull have finally matched dental records as of last year. The teamâ€™s botanist, Gloria Hartigan–this skull is hers.â€
The director took a pistol from his desk. â€œMake sure she doesnâ€™t come back.â€