by submission | Apr 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Ellie’s leg was broken. They couldn’t run any more.
Andre gently eased her up against a grimy brick wall, trying to ignore the grimace of pain cracking across her porcelain face. “It’s going to be alright, love,” he whispered. “It’s going to be alright.”
He could hear the hooting, the hollaring, the screaming of the bugs behind them. There was sporadic gunfire, but not for long. Andre glanced up at the sky – it was a deep green, almost black. There was no sun today.
“Andre,” Ellie whimpered. “You need to keep going. Don’t stay here just because I can’t keep going.” She was crying, the tears gliding down to dangle desperately on the tip of her nose.
Andre grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I’m not going to just leave you here,” he told her. Where could he run to, anyways? The last ships off were leaving any minute.
There was a distant roar of massive rockets engaging. A stale, warm wind began blowing down the alleyway. They were leaving now. There really was nowhere to go.
Andre slid down the wall next to Ellie and idly rubbed his thumb along her fingers as she squeezed his hand. He let out a long, deep breath. This was it, he realized. There would be no more running, no more laughing and playing, no more love under the cover of night, no more Ellie, no more Andre… There would be no more anything.
And it was going to hurt more than anything else. Bugs liked to torture.
Ellie leaned over and rested her head on Andre’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She was getting cold. Shock was a side-effect of a double compound fracture, it seemed. The air was beginning to reek of blood.
“Ellie,” he said. “Ellie. Do you remember the time we were at your sister’s house making whipped cream?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. A smile crept across her lips.
He laughed softly. It was hollow and empty, but she couldn’t tell. It was for her benefit. “We had that big huge bowl of it, it must have been eight liters of the stuff. And then you accidentally bumped it, and down it went!”
“Right onto the cat,” she murmured.
“Right onto the cat,” he agreed. “And that cat sped off through the house covered in whipped cream, hissing and mewing while your sister ran on after it yelling, ‘no, get back here, get back here!’”
Ellie giggled softly. “She was cleaning whipped cream off of things for an hour.”
Andre quietly pulled an old revolver from his pocket. “Right. And the sun was shining through the windows and your mother was going off again about how they don’t do things like they used to.” He checked the cylinder. One round left. “And I said to you, ‘So, how would you feel about marrying a bum like me?’”
She poked him gently in the side. “You just think you’re funny.”
The bugs were getting louder. They were getting closer.
“I was so nervous that you would say no.” He could hear their skittering. Their time was up. Andre ran a hand through Ellie’s hair. “I love you so much. So, so much.”
“I love you too. You make me so happy,” she replied.
The gunshot was like a peal of thunder, her mind and personality sprayed across the wall like so much red paint.
The bugs found him quickly after that. They made him scream until he couldn’t remember her name.
by submission | Apr 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Daniel M. Bensen
Flaming debris rained over Warsaw.
“We got another one,” Specialist first rank Donaldson sat back in his chair and sighed happily at the red fireball against the blue sky. “Its over non-US territory, but we shot it before the Russians, so we’ll get first dibs on the goodies.”
“If the Russians play fair,” said Specialist Fourth Rank Nuñoz, “which they won’t.”
“Then we just need to beat them to the debris site.” Even now, priceless high tech junk would be cracking windows, splashing into rivers, pocking farmyard dirt. “Wheeg, get the Nationals on the horn.”
Wheeg, the translator gave a thumbs-up. She was already talking rapid-fire Polish into the telepathy sticker on the back of her hand. One of the first alien devices to find military application.
“Well that’s it then,” Donaldson said. “Nuñoz, break out the champagne. We get the rest of the day off, and then we’re back to watching the skies tomorrow.”
Nuñoz placed a fluted glass in Donaldson’s hand. “Cheers, sir.”
“Cheers.” Donaldson squeezed and the glass immediately frosted. Formerly tepid Brut sparkled.
“What’s that look?” Donaldson said, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing sir. It just feels” Nuñoz sipped from his self-cooling glass. “Bad?”
“Bad how? The aliens don’t respond to our communications. They don’t move or slow down. If one of those ships of theirs hits the earth, it would be a catastrophe worse than the one that killed the dinosaurs. And that’s assuming they don’t start vomiting alien death-soldiers. Even if they were the friendliest little green men in the universe, their diseases might still bring about the end of human civilization. This,” Donaldson passed a hand through the virtual workstation floating in the air in front of him, “is much safer.”
“For us, maybe.”
“Who else should we be worried about? Tell you what.” Donaldson downed his drink. “Next time you hit one, I’ll get you out on the ground searching for goodies that come out.”
by submission | Apr 18, 2012 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill, of 14
The crimson clothed hunter stood leaning against a large boulder smoking a cigar lazily, his pointed brown fedora angled towards the ground to ward off any unnecessary light. His outfit was a mismatched black and red military formal with large collars and buttons, it gave him quite a distinct look.
“Oi, there’s one.” came the soft voice of his partner, Alexander Flynn.
The hunter nodded slowly and brought his rusted metal and wooden rifle up. Quite an old bolt-action firearm, but he was proud of it. He had even named it the Norbrück. Peering at the sky he looked for what Alexander had indicated, and finally found it. A singular long squid-like entity floated loftily through clouds, looking around lazily with a single wide eye. It had a thin, almost invisible, chain anchoring it to the ground. These creatures were called the Avial by the locals, magnificent beasts said to keep the planet from falling into the vast void of nothingness known as space.
Shouldering his antiquated rifle the hunter peered through the slightly offset scope. “Probably a five, maybe even six hundred pounder.” he said quietly and did a quick mental calculation. “That would fetch around 10,000 credits with the Keitl.”
“By all means, shoot it.” said Alexander excitedly, looking at the squid in anticipation.
“I plan to, son.” replied the hunter evenly.
The Avial traced lazy circles in the sky ponderously, it was a wonder they even managed to stay afloat.
After a few seconds of steadying his rifle and controlling his breathing patterns the hunter let loose a single round. The bullet sailed through the air in a minor arch and eventually impacted the squid-like creature directly in the side, sending it spiraling out of control. The Avial folded in upon its self and careened towards the ground. After many seconds of falling the squid contacted the ground with a sickening thud, the two men surged towards it to claim their prize. Stepping over rocks and leaping across crevasses the hunter and his partner located the gelatinous body of the dead creature with its thin chain trailing off into the distance.
“Good shot.” said Alexander, crouching beside the Avial with wide eyes.
“Easy shot.” the hunter amended. “Get that thing compressed and packed up, I want to make it back to the Hinterlands before night to bag a couple of snow whales.”
With a brief nod Alexander set to work at storing and preserving the game.
The hunter cycled the bolt and chambered another round in his rifle, peering up at the sky which had grown ominously dark.
“How big do these things get, Alex?”
“I dunno. There were some stories from this planet’s mythology that spoke of some many miles wide.” he replied in a bored tone still working on the Avial.
A huge chain with impossibly vast links appeared on the horizon, spiraling up into space and eventually connecting to an enormous blue spear-like blotch which was descending quickly towards the surface.
“How much do you think that one would fetch on the Keitl market?” asked the hunter in a queer tone.
Alexander looked up slowly, searching for another of the squid. His eyes finally widened in understanding.
Soon enough the giant Avial blocked out the whole sky, extending long tendrils of electricity towards the hunter and his partner.
“I think I’m going to need a larger caliber.” said the hunter matter-of-factly.
by submission | Apr 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jason Frank
Breikf was heading back with a fresh beer and he looked over where they had the lead space man all trussed up so anybody wanted could get a kick in. Everybody got in a bunch, looked like. Breikf sure had, but just then something in the cool of the evening and the beers got him thinking. He set down by the space man.
“You understand me?” he asked.
“I do,” the space man said.
“You know this is all your fault, right? All this that just happened and all that that’s going to happen now is your fault.”
“I most assuredly do not know that. We simply came here_”
“We weren’t always this hard. It was you all made us this way.”
“We have had very little contact with your people.” the space man said.
“You know what a dog is, right? I’d call my pup on over to show you up close but he’d damn likely try to get his share of you.”
“We are familiar with your companion species.”
“That’s good, you being familiar and all. That helps me get this story across. See, my dad always said there was one sure way to turn a dog mean. You start with a free dog, one can go anywhere any time and do what it wants. You make that free dog a chained dog, twenty foot of chain. Make that twenty foot chained dog a fifteen foot chained dog. Make that fifteen foot chained dog a ten foot chained dog. Make that ten foot chained dog a five foot chained dog and that five foot chained dog’s a mean one, no doubt about it. Now see, what you all done, what you started on long before you came down here, was cut down and cut down how much we could get around. You blocked us off at the end of the old Milky and then pushed us back till we just had this solar system. And now you come on in here? That was a mistake. Didn’t work out too well for you, did it? You ain’t dealt with dogs as mean as us.”
The bound and bruised alien said nothing.
“And now you see over there, you see that big ship of yours, biggest we ever seen? See that taking off? Well we stuffed that ship wall to wall with the meanest dogs we got. Now they’re heading back to whatever kind of fleet you got out there with their distress signals all on blast. We’ll see what happens up there now. Dog will hunt.”
Breikf set a short spell but didn’t talk more. He finished up his beer and got up to get another. The captive didn’t talk either. He imagined the fleet’s reactions. It was likely that their plan would succeed. Little preparation had been done for situations like these. No standard responses to unreasonable barbarian advance had been formulated. He thought about this wild horde tearing out across the civilized systems he had loved so well. These images did what a hundred some steel toed boots couldn’t; the space man quivered with weeping.
by submission | Apr 15, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
A thin cloud of red dust trailed behind Orton’s motorcycle. I’m running out of time, he thought to himself as he rode across Cydonia Mensae. The temperature was already down to -40 degrees Celsius and continued steadily dropping. The sun would be setting in less than an hour and it wouldn’t be safe to be outside after dark. Even after almost two decades of economic malaise, political disintegration, and finally open warfare, Orton had a hard time believing how seriously the situation on Mars had deteriorated.
It hadn’t always been that way. After the Nanotech Revolution of the twenty-eighties, space travel finally became cheap, fast, and safe, and while habitats in Earth orbit and on the surface of the Moon had their appeal, Mars was the true frontier. The cycle from flags and footprints missions to destination for wealthy adventurers to scientific outposts to genuine communities had progressed quickly, catalyzed by inexpensive and reliable space technology and the promise of a new beginning.
Orton slowed his motorcycle to a crawl and looked behind him. No sign of pursuit, he thought. A sensor sweep would have been much more accurate and comprehensive, of course. But a scan would have given his position away instantly. Even with the motorcycle’s stealth devices operating, it was a miracle he had eluded detection this long. He could just make out the dome in the distance. It would be so easy to simply upload the information he was carrying. It would be equally easy for any number of rival factions to intercept, decode, and quickly act on that information. He thumbed the accelerator and made for the dome.
A United Mars, he thought as he cruised across the rough terrain. That had been the dream. A global republic? A confederation of domed city-states? A true and literal democracy? It was strange how the past’s vision of the future seemed so unforgivably naive. As the sun descended deeper into the horizon, Orton noticed tiny flashes in the distance. In the thin Martian air, nearly microscopic machines were surveilling and, when opportunity presented itself, attacking. All the major factions had fleets of these innumerable, artificially intelligent drones. The flashes were drones being destroyed by a rival’s countermeasures. This microscopic, airborne war raged round the clock, as the tiny, flying robots fought, were destroyed, and were replaced minutes later by new models with revisions and upgrades based on their predecessors’ failure. It was this front in the vast, internecine conflict and not the engagements of men and their bulky vehicles and weapons, some argued, that would determine the outcome of the war.
Arriving at last, Orton piloted the motorcycle into the dome’s narrow airlock and breathed a sigh of relief. In ten minutes time, the data he carried would be scrutinized by military intelligence. Would it make any difference? Time would tell. The interior door of the airlock opened with a click. Orton stepped through. The atmosphere was only marginally different from that outside the dome. He took off his respirator and inhaled tenuous air into lungs engineered to extract oxygen directly from carbon dioxide. He withdrew the translucent, nictitating membrane from his eyes and hurried to deliver his report.
