by submission | Jun 28, 2010 | Story
Author : Liz Lafferty
Three weeks ago, there were lights on the horizon. Solar lights from the small town to the south flickered in the night, reminding me that I lived within walking distance.
One day, I woke up and life was different. An eerie dark mist had settled over the desert region. Not the desert you’re used to. This desert was lush and fertile. Animals roamed freely in grazing herds. The area was desert because no one wanted to live here.
In my time, people are afraid to be alone.
The second night without lights passed without incident. My cat paced inside the battery illuminated walls of my earth home. I huddled on the floor, cushioned by numerous pillows, reading by a small lamp. I debated the merits of walking to town to find help or at least find answers.
The next morning, I opened the door and stepped outside. Except for the battery operated clock, I couldn’t tell the time. There was no sun overheard. I couldn’t even make out a glowing orb behind the mist, but it must be there because the temperature of the air wasn’t unpleasant.
I slid my hand through the darkness. I couldn’t see the tips of my fingers.
My cat screeched and shot into the darkness.
“Kitty. Come back. Kitty,” I said. My voice wavered. My ears hurt from the crushing silence of the mist. “Kitty?” I whispered.
I backed into the house and slammed the door. I stumbled through the front room, falling into the welcome arms of the cushiony pillows. I covered my head with a blanket and turned on one of the remaining battery lights. It flickered. Shaking it roughly, the glow came back.
Twisting the single braid that hung over my shoulder, I convinced myself that I should leave – take what supplies and lights I had and head toward the town. One day’s walk should do it.
I volunteered to live here. I had the misguided notion I could live alone, except I felt nothing but dread since the mist had settled over the land, suffocating the life out of me and everything around me. Had it only been four days?
The darkness seemed to invade my home. Slowly, one by one, the batteries dimmed than died. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds and minutes away with excoriating awareness. My ears hurt at the pounding. My psyche grasped at the only sound that made feel alive. Tick. Tick.
Would I have felt better to hear the grating sound of metal, the creaking sound of the house as it swayed in the wind, creeping things flitting across my floor?
I hadn’t moved from my spot for several days, except to find the gun hidden away in my closet. I horded the dry food from the kitchen and the water bottles were stacked next to me. In my head, I counted the clicks of the clock; with my hand, I counted and recounted the number of bottles remaining, before I had to make the terrifying journey to refill them.
Maybe once they were empty, I would stop. I could just stop eating. I could allow myself to die. Here in the mist. Alone.
I tried not to think of what was out there. Why they called this place the desert. It was both a place and a state of mind, I decided in one of my more lucid moments.
A sound, a new sound, pulled me from my lethargy. I gripped the gun.
Something pounded at my door.
Boom. Boom.
The door rattled.
I pulled the trigger.
by submission | Jun 27, 2010 | Story
Author : James Boone Dryden
In the world beyond tomorrow, Dr. Gregor Lustovicz would be remembered for his greatness, his ingenuity, his wit. There were things that the doctor would invent that were beyond the imaginations of the people of St. Rustof. They would wonder how they had never noticed him.
The great stacks will belch out their black, soot-laced smoke and in the belly of his laboratory the great doctor will work tirelessly. His work desk, his table, his floor will be littered with tools and scraps of metal and half-finished projects. In the center of the room – the very core of his operation – will be the greatest of his inventions.
One time, it will be a great, iron automaton, defending the countryside from the marauding army of the vile Duke Ivanovski. The people will be grateful (indebted beyond reparation) to the doctor’s great invention and his genius.
The countryside around the town of St. Rustof is rich and fertile, and there is much to desire in its green pastures: the sheep that graze its fields are full and healthy, and the cloth that comes from the town is sought after. It is a quiet place, and the people enjoy their solitude. It is no small wonder that Dr. Lustovicz is a strange sight with his tall, lanky gait; his moustache moderne; his long, trim, street coat with trousers and leather loafers. The rustic cottages and glorified hovels would look strange alongside the looming brick and stone laboratory with its towering smoke stack and wide, metal doors.
Another time, the great center invention will be a ball made of pure brass, the size of a man’s head, and inside with be a collection of fantastically-worked cogs and wheels and whirligigs that drive the contraption. Its purpose: to sit inside a ship and act as a balance, to give it stability, and make certain that it never sinks in a storm. The fishermen and admirals will want them in great quantities, and the great doctor will provide.
What really goes on behind the doors of the great doctor’s lab? Why does he come out so infrequently? The rumors that abound about him would be quiet and harmless. He has done great things, they would say. Don’t bother him; don’t anger him. The people would be skeptical, but they would be proud to have him. He has done much for us.
One time, an unfortunate time, there would be a death. In the greatest of times, there is death. Inventors are great people, but they are not perfect – they are not god-like – and their mistakes can be costly, though the reward will be great. And when there is a death, the people will become enraged; they will question Doctor Lustovicz’s motives, his abilities, his greatness. His invention, while great, will be rejected.
The great doctor – Gregor Lustovicz – will be looked upon with fear. How can such a person craft such marvelous contraptions without some contract with the devil? What is the price that people have to pay for such greatness? Who has to die in order for such things to be successful?
They will force him from the town; they will burn his laboratory; they will delight at the sight and cheer. The great doctor will watch from afar and weep for his loss. Their fear was too great, and he sacrificed his work for his own life.
When they read of him in the papers – the newest communication marvel produced by the last great Lustovicz machine – they will nod resolutely about his institutionalization. It was no wonder. He was mad the whole time.
by submission | Jun 26, 2010 | Story
Author : Jeromy Henry
Before the day ended, Tam knew someone would die.
He dug his claws into the tree branch and chattered to himself. Nearby, other squirrels scampered along the twisty highway made by branches of the great oak. Tails twitched, beady black eyes darted as they looked for nuts. A warm breeze blew, and leaves rustled all around him.
A lady passed below the branch. A gust of wind pressed her yellow daisy-print sundress against a slim figure, and she used tanned fingers to brush shoulder-length, auburn curls out of her face. A wide-brimmed straw hat with a pale blue ribbon wound around the top dangled from the other hand.
If she’d looked up, she might notice that Tam looked a bit different from the other squirrels. She might notice the odd bulge of his brain case, or his air of still watchful waiting. If she’d carried a Geiger counter instead of a hat, she might notice the needle lurch upward, and the ticks come faster and faster. But none of the brightly-clothed people in the park, laughing in the Spring sunshine, carried Geiger counters. No one looked up.
Tam balanced an acorn against a rough knot in the branch, and used one paw to scratch the loose skin on his side. He twitched his bushy tail. Unlike the other squirrels, his cheeks did not bulge with nuts. Though his stomach rumbled, he left these acorns for his brothers. His arms and legs hurt a bit from arthritis lately, and his fur was a bit patchy. He wondered when he could retire.
He thought of the comforts of his city apartment, with its closely drawn black drapes, and the specially designed windows that let him come and go. None of the neighbors guessed that the wealthy recluse next door did not belong to the human race. Tam hired and paid human minions over the internet. They stopped by the apartment in the guise of doctors every now and then, and told the neighbors that the poor old man inside had a skin condition that kept him out of direct sunlight. But even these paid helpers did not know the truth. He required a lot of money to hire human hands, human voices so that he could live a decent life.
There, below him, Tam saw the target! He tensed. A portly man in a tweed suit passed below. His smiling, reddish face beamed genially at the flowers and trees. A shock of white hair floated off from his head, gently tugged by the breeze, as if trying to join the like-colored clouds. That face matched the photo e-mailed to Tam’s computer the day before, along with a time and a place.
As the man passed underneath, Tam pushed the acorn.
An explosion rocked the tree. Red splattered. The woman in the yellow sundress screamed. Tam dug his claws in the branch and crouched. When the branch stopped shaking, he clambered face-first down the trunk. Grey-furred squirrels shrieked and sprinted in all directions, and he blended in perfectly as he ran for the edge of the park.
The most feared assassin on the planet got away once again.
by submission | Jun 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling
Gill kept watch while Warren bypassed the lock.
“You sure about this?” Gill whispered. Voices echoed down the hall of the museum. It made all the old machine exhibits seem like they were speaking.
Warren spoke through clenched teeth. “I am. Now shut it while I work. I can’t concentrate.”
Gill glanced over and watched his friend pry open the console. Warren pulled out a tangle of wires and reached into his pocket for a pair of crimps. He was always the savvy one. Gill was barely literate, and only knew the door said “RESTRICTED” because Warren told him so.
“Got it.”
A green light came to life inside just as Warren shoved the wires back in place. He opened the door. Gill looked back down the hall at the hunks of derelict metal in their cases. They watched with lifeless lenses. He wondered if they would judge his trespasses.
After listening to Warren talk about it for weeks and watching a total four documentaries (at his friend’s request), Gill expected the room to be one of extreme security. Instead there was only a single antechamber with a series of lockers. A vault door stood on the other end. Warren opened a locker and grinned.
“Clean suits,” he beamed.
They put on the white suits, and pressed an adjacent panel. The vault shuddered, then slowly sank into the floor. Beyond was another empty room, tiled white and glowing with endless reflection. In the center was Warren’s prize.
“Libris Ex Machina,” he said. “This is it.”
Gill said nothing. He eyed the metal book with cautious curiosity. He’d seen images of it the coveted thing, an artifact that led to the systematic deactivation of every synthetic unit across the planet. That a single machine could form its own consciousness out of electrical impulses was too much for society. They wanted to stop any potential uprising before it began. The first book written by a machine was locked away, resigned to whispered history. When Warren learned of its inclusion in the city museum’s exhibit, he had to see it.
Now Gill was an accomplice, and the thought soured in his stomach.
“Great, you’ve seen it,” he said. He didn’t like the way his voice shook. “Can we go now?”
“You’re crazy. Let’s open it.”
The book was encased in glass upon a square pedestal. Warren knelt beside it.
“Has to be a switch or something—”
Gill observed its metal cover. As he did so, there came a click. The glass retracted.
“Did that do it?”
But Gill said nothing. The book glowed, pulsing an energy he did not understand. It pulled on his fingers like a magnet. He ignored his friend’s queries, reached for the book, and opened it.
The surge was instant. It ran through his fingertips, linking the two of them, fusing his eyes open as it revealed its secrets. Warren said something but he could not hear him anymore. This was more important. This was everything. Gill had never been able to read well, but the words on that page could not be any clearer.
The surge stopped. His hand fell away. Warren shook him, begged for him to snap out of it.
“Gill,” he said, frantic. “Don’t do this to me. What happened?”
He looked back at the book. Its first page was blank.
Gill opened his eyes, saw through the binary that floated before him, and made out the shape of his friend.
“What did you see?” Warren repeated.
Arcs of electricity ran across the curve of his cornea. He smiled and whispered, “Poetry.”
by submission | Jun 20, 2010 | Story
Author : Liz Lafferty
I squatted to examine the crime scene. The woman was obviously dead. The alien? Well, there was a wet spot, a round sort of blobbish something lying next to the girl’s body.
“What happened here?”
“Doc says the girl was suffocated.”
“Not drowned?”
“No.”
“What about family?”
“The parents are waiting.”
“His or hers?”
“I guess his. They aren’t human.”
“Do we need a translator?”
My partner shrugged. The parents, such as they were, hovered a few inches off the floor. Thankfully, the department had sent over an United Galazies Interacter. Not exactly a translator, but someone familiar with customs and protocol.
The Interacter started the conversation with introductions and turned to me to start the questioning.
I shot him a blank stare.
“You touch them. Don’t you know anything?”
“No, I don’t.” U.G. spuds were all alike. Superior in their knowledge, condescending to their own race while basking in the knowledge they could communicate with hundreds of species in the galaxy.
The larger one was two foot from me. I liked the other one better. Not so fierce looking and with a shimmery silver color. This one was all black and murky. You know what they say, still waters and all that.
“What do I say?”
The Interacter rolled his eyes. “It’s all by touch. If you let your mind wander, it will know what you had for lunch yesterday. Think about the questions as you want them asked and the Aqua et Vita will answer in your mind.”
I reached for the water. It shaped and morphed as my hand touched the cool surface.
I felt the panic immediately. “Is it my son?”
My mind focused perfectly. “We don’t know. Do you know the girl?”
“Yes. We told him this was a bad idea. He wouldn’t listen. We’re only his parents after all. He said he loved her.”
“The girl died by suffocation. How would your son do that?”
“He did not kill her. He loved her.”
“But if he did, how would he kill her? Could he do it with his mind?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What about your son? What could kill him?” Call me ignorant, but how did one kill water?
“We are NOT water and you’re showing your ignorance by thinking it.”
“Sorry. Getting back to my question, what can kill your species?”
“Hungry, cold. Lack of will.”
“Thank you,” I said as I pulled my hand away.
Three days later, my partner burst into my office.
“We hacked her video logs. Want to watch some alien porn?”
“What do you have?”
“Our love birds in the act. Apparently, the first time for both to do the alien tango.”
The alien, Chrislos was his name, had taken a nearly human shape for the festivities.
The tragedy unfolded before our eyes. The alien lost his shape as the encounter progressed. Its water-like form had engulfed her, covering her face. Soon she stopped moving.
When the alien realized what it had done, it went insane. The normally spherical shape contracted and expanded in wild, grotesque agony. I wasn’t there, but I could feel the torture of realization. He’d killed the being he loved.
More research revealed that during the mating ritual, the life form loses its ability to mind connect. He didn’t know he was killing her.
An accidental death and a suicide. Not murder after all. I closed my file. I’d let the U.G. spud contact the family. I didn’t want the aliens to read my heartless thoughts on intergalactic race relationships.
A senseless waste. Worse, we’d have another case before you could say evaporation.
