by submission | Oct 28, 2009 | Story
Author : Michelle Keeley
Frank stared impassively as the Floridian dawn crept silently across his bedroom, the line of accolades on his antique dresser cast long, foreboding shadows onto the elegant wallpaper. The day had come.
He showered as usual. He dressed as usual. Even the drive to mission control was now routine.
As he pulled up at security the nod from the guard was replaced by an earnest yet supportive ‘All the best Commander’. He parked up and entered, the automatic doors sliding silently open to reveal the soaring atrium beyond. Passing through, his stride was broken by an over-emotional receptionist planting a good luck kiss on his cheek, although appreciating the sentiment his discomfort was obvious.
Inside the debriefing room he took a seat alongside his crew as he fought the desire to run a thousand miles in the opposite direction. His exterior belied nothing, he was still ice cool Frank, top graduate in his year, the automatic choice, you could always count on Frank.
After some final words, the four headed across the launch site to suit-up, attire that had been almost as long in development as the shuttle itself. Each crew member had their personal fitter or space tailor as Frank used to call them.
He was surprised but slightly relieved to find no sign of his fitter as he perched on the edge of the grey tub chair in the kit room, his body too rigid to sit back. Joel entered moments later accompanied by some final items of kit and an oppressive silence.
Self consciously Frank stripped off his outer clothes and stepped into his pearlescent suit, its cumbersome nature soon leaving him in need of a second pair of hands. Frank tucked each arm in as Joel pulled from the waist before fastening the front, their close proximity thickened the air in a way that seemed inconceivable a few weeks ago.
They had practiced this procedure so often they completed it without a word. Glancing at the clock, Frank was well enough versed in the timetable to realise the next few minutes were allocated to family goodbyes. He made for the door, gaze firmly fixed floor wards and despite his broad stature, the strength to break the tension eluded him. The desire to apologise, to confess his feelings and admit his fear of intolerance were buried too deep. He left, closing the door behind him.
Two small children ran towards the crew as they appeared in the lounge doorway, a toddling girl and an older boy. Two of the crew hoisted their children into the air prompting fits of giggles, the third embraced his wife as best he could around her prominent bump.
A silver haired gentleman strode enthusiastically towards Frank, his Navy uniform resplendent with medals. ‘We’re so proud of you son’. ‘Thanks Dad’ Frank replied with a weak smile, his mother simpered quietly. After a few minutes small talk the klaxon sounded and the last goodbyes were said.
‘Right men, time to go’ Frank boomed, momentarily recharged with his Father’s praise.
The four walked across the pad and took their positions in the shuttle. As the countdown began tears welled up behind Franks visor, the roar of the engine masked the sob he could no longer contain.
by submission | Oct 27, 2009 | Story
Author : Martin Berka
Clawed front feet scrape rock away to the sides, while the back ones push forward. A sensor in the brain judges that the distance traveled is satisfactory. A thought — no, a feeling— is released: too little air. The ascent begins.
It has copious amounts of blood. Normal ground would have enough air to support one of its genus. But it is deep down, in bedrock, and irregular. Genetically, its size and strength have been greatly increased, also raising the amount of air required. Worse, a heavy, useless object has replaced much of its lower torso.
As it digs up into a mix of rock and soil, it steers slightly to one side, devouring a pair of deep-dwelling beetles. Food is sparse this far below the surface, and the lone traveler has not eaten in some time. Its energy is running out. Higher up, there will be nourishment.
The beetles are quickly chewed and transferred to what was once a stomach. There, they are gradually incinerated, powering motors in the titanium feet.
Several hours, the creature continues up. Air quality is improving, and so is the quantity of food available. Then, the claws brush a hard surface. Hard, but not too difficult for something that has spent days tunneling through solid stone. Deeper grooves appear in the concrete with each attack by the front feet. Eventually, it drags itself up through the new hole, into a different environment. Here, stagnant air sits all around. The only solids are the floor below and a concrete ceiling above.
Too much air. The mole is about to retreat, but the chip in its brain releases a brief pulse of electricity, which becomes a physical need (a strange one for a mole): go up — see light. The digger’s modified hind legs support it as it reaches for and carves open the ceiling. Up, into a place full of air and light, the mole struggles. Its underdeveloped eyes are partly blinded, and it staggers sideways, crashing out through the building’s wall. Humans scurry around it, shocked at the giant creature/machine. The intense light of the sun enters the mole’s eyes, activating a final signal in the brain. The huge object in its torso activates.
The mole ends first, followed a split-second later by the spectators and several square miles of the surrounding city. Even the safest residents of the metropolis can see the mushroom cloud in the sky.
In his secured office, the mayor receives a priority message:
City,
Years ago, you and others like you destroyed the national government, believing your populations and technology made you invincible and independent. All because of your idealogical disagreements, your unwillingness to be part of one nation. Your isolation makes you weak. We have a weapon that none of your air defense systems or walls can stop. Start rebuilding this country now, or lose everything.
The Committee to Recreate the Government
by submission | Oct 25, 2009 | Story
Author : Ali Simpson
“Sew him up…and we’ll see what happens.”
The letters were crunchy and a distinct scent of Fritos wafted from them. Dr. Paul Marshall’s name tag would go great with bean dip, Leroy thought. He smacked his dry lips and squinted against the bright light hanging above the operating table. A dull pain pulsed slowly on the top of his melon, but otherwise, he felt fine.
“Can I have my 500 dollars now?” Leroy slurred at the watery figures standing above him. Someone was having a hell of a barbeque nearby. “And some chicken?”
One of the figures flapped his arms like an ungainly seagull, fat on scraps from Coney Island. “It worked! We’ve got one, sir. We’ve–”
Dr. Marshall shushed him. He put a hand on Leroy’s shoulder as he struggled to sit up. Leroy grasped Dr. Marshall’s nametag and sniffed. He scratched his stubble and stuck his gray tongue out to taste. The doctor swatted him away and grumbled about the fat one’s exuberance. He motioned to his fat colleague.
Leroy slapped his hand over a sudden sharp pain on his head. He felt fresh stitches. Tastes rolled over his tongue in tangy waves and a thousand smells swirled in his nostrils, tickling every oily nose hair. Ms. Lamar at the Italian ice stand, strawberries. Annoying kids in the park where he slept, spray paint. Bongo player on the A train 23 years ago, chives and pine and concrete. Wednesday was booze, last Saturday was copper. Leroy groaned, when he looked up, the doctor and his colleague were gone. He slid off the table and shuffled out of the operating room. Leroy concluded that the abandoned warehouse he was in was not a hospital. He had been scammed.
Cages holding lumps in ratty jackets lined the opposite wall. People like him were trapped in there. They were drooling and vacant like they had been lobotomized by damn dirty apes. They smelled like barbeque. Pork. Leroy picked up a rusty piece of scrap metal from the floor and crept toward the nearest door. From the same door, Dr. Marshall emerged carrying a clipboard.
“We thought you would be our breakthrough.” He scanned the clipboard, “Mr. Leroy…Vonnegut IV… Sadly, extreme synesthesia was not achieved, you’re no manmade savant.”
Leroy glanced at the caged veggies and pork chops. “Neither are they. And I’m going to sue your balls off man. There was nothing about brain surgery on that form and my nose feels weird.”
Dr. Marshall was still and gave him a cool glance. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Leroy’s nose tingled. The fat colleague in a white lab coat flapped behind him with heavy chains in hand. Leroy tangled them with the scrap metal and fled, bowling over Dr. Marshall.
He ran through a dark hallway, out a dark door, into the outside. The smell of the New York summer pumped through him with each dusty gasp.
by submission | Oct 24, 2009 | Story
Author : Sam Davis
Personal Log of Dr. Marcus Milton
163 Years After, Archeological dig site 10.
This room was different from the last six. In fact, this room was different from anything either John or I had encountered. It took quite some time to even open the door, so well had this person sealed himself in. Inside we found a treasure trove of artifacts from Before. It was fantastic; we knew that we would get to spend months working on the categorization.
The Klien counters barely went off in this room and the dust was almost imperceptible. Whoever lived here had been prepared. Probably some sort of survivalist nut worried about…well who knows actually. One of the documentations we found was an audio account about a war with zombies. Our analysts later concluded that it was fiction, however it could have been exactly what this person was afraid of, why he lived so long.
The fear that had apparently dominated his life (I say his because the skeletal shape is larger indicating what we believe to be a dominance in development built to protect the child bearer) had also encouraged him to gather a large amount of canned goods as well as a projectile weapon of some sort, and presumably munitions though much of what we suspected he had stockpiled was now spent. Such a combination probably allowed him to survive just long enough to decide that the situation was hopeless, which lead to his suicide.
Shame really, because from what we’ve been able to gather from his rather primitive journal type device, assuming of course that it was at all accurate, had he stayed alive another few months the Sweepers would have been through and picked him up and he might have been able to explain everything. He could have stopped the war and everything that came after. He could have saved so many lives. Damn shame.
Apart from the one moment, every detail is completely sharp and totally inconsequential–the brand of beans and the color of the blanket in which he was wrapped–all unimportant in light of what we actually discovered there. Our philosophers were oh so pleased that we actually brought back a relic that could be analyzed and understood. What’s more is that we knew it must be important for this lone “survivor” to keep it with him through the three relocations that he mentioned in his journal.
John and I were given honors for our discovery. That was six months before the translation was finished and about a year before the first signs of dissent cropped up. We thought we were kings and we lived like it. Pity he became a Calvinist. He and the other heretics of Fev’n were eliminated three months after the war became official.
I remember now, John almost lost it due to his excitement and touched it. We didn’t know what book it was. Hell, we didn’t even know that it was a book at the time. That it was The Book. The Book that made all of us think, that made all of us make a choice: Calvin or Hobbes?
by submission | Oct 23, 2009 | Story
Author : Lillian Cohen-Moore
My marriage was a good idea while it lasted.
I know my more romantic neighbors, the idealistic journalists who wanted interviews–they all said The Dillinger Act was what ended it. Legally, it’s not untrue to say that. Mikaela and I ceased to be united in legal terms when the Act passed; Mikaela was deported the same day as all the other non-citizen spouses. December 25th, 2085.
I’ve been called a lot of nasty names, by the pro-homeworld faction. I’ve betrayed homeworld by marrying an off-worlder, an off-worlder whose planet broke from ours, broke from our government. We offered them protection and advancement, scientific marvels and astounding mathematical insights.
But Earth didn’t want to be under our thumb, and made noises. Earth broke the Galay Accord, and we came down on them every way we could.
And we came down on everyone who supported Earth: starting with the forced annulment of every marriage between someone from homeworld and a citizen of Earth.
A week before they passed the Dillinger Act, Mikaela told me she’d been sleeping with one of my students. She said the ‘fire’ had gone out of our marriage and she was bored. I started drinking too much, after that. She acted like a truant child, difficult and prickly at home, when she was home at all. It was an entire academic cycle, spent in that holding pattern, before the deportation day arrived. She came back long enough to pack and tell me she’d never really enjoyed the sex, before they took her away to the docks.
I watched the live feed of the deportations. I know her. It wasn’t because she loved me anymore. She knocked that official in the face on the way off planet out of spite.
Mikaela had always fought like that—if she couldn’t win the argument, she’d at least try and look as if she didn’t deserve it. I’ve sat up late, drinking and watching her on the news, on the evening shows. She always wanted to be famous–though, as much as I love her, I have to say that she looked pretty wretched on the last newscast. I never realized how brassy her last hair colour was till I saw her on the news.
It was in principal, that I was wronged by my government, when they punished me for taking an alien wife. But privately, I acknowledge the truth: that my alien wife wronged me just as much, in a far more personal fashion.
