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.
by submission | Jun 19, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan MacLean
Her mistake was turning to the left. They always turned left. Well, the right-handed ones did. She took a swing at Finn near the Lev Station. Used her right hand. Caught Finn by surprise and he stumbled backwards. Actually stumbled. He would get crap about that later. If I told anyone.
I caught her square in the back and she flew forward about 2 meters then dropped. Finn caught up with me and swore.
“Hey! She was mine! You saw how she sucker-punched me?”
I didn’t say anything. It was one of those questions that you didn’t really want an answer to. School was where you learned about that. Don’t have to worry about that kinda thing now. Better to not think about those things.
“Welton 433. Validate. ” A pause. Three quick tones. “Cleaning. One. Half a kilometer north of the Lev on 12th.” Another pause. One long tone.
The new headsets were better. Just validate yourself and they get it. Whoever ‘they’ were. I had wanted to ask about that once, but not now. That kind of thing gets you on the street next to the woman who was going to get ‘cleaned’ in about 15 minutes. I never stayed for the cleaning. I’m not even sure what happens. Not supposed to.
A small crowd had gathered behind us. I could see Finn was going to lay into them, but they saw it too and were smart and walked away. I guess it wasn’t really a crowd. Crowds are not really a good idea anymore. ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd. ‘ People used to say that right? Three is probably safe though. Maybe four. I know I wouldn’t risk five.
“That’s right! Friggin A!” Finn was yelling at the people as they moved away. “Shoulda popped one of ‘em,” he said to me.
He was trying too hard now. Making up for getting punched by that woman. I guess I won’t say anything. She did look like she was going to let him put her in the restraints, but at the last second she turned and took that swing. Maybe she knew she was dead either way. Now or later. Me with the Hot Rifle in the street or someone else with a needle in a room somewhere. Not that I think about where that somewhere is. Or the someone.
We walked back to the Lev Station. People moved away from us as we walked. They never want to look you in the eye when you’re wearing the uniform. She had looked at me though – had seen Finn there too.
Bright red uniforms. Hot Rifles. Nerve Restraints. She shouted anyway. I had recorded the whole thing on the headset’s camera. For them.
Finn went to talk to two girls in white medic uniforms who had just gotten off the southbound Lev when I played the vid back. The now dead (and cleaned?) woman appeared on my heads-up display. I clicked it back to the point where she turned and looked at me… her words (last words) were clear and surprisingly loud on the vid playback…
“…any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty…”
Old words. From before I suppose. They would know what it all means… ‘nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty…’
Finn had a smile on his face. He was walking back with an arm around each medic girl. They were cute. I forgot about the woman. And the old words.
by submission | Jun 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Frank Ruiz
“We got a call. Yates again,” said a voice from the black. Gear clicked, clanked, and rustled as someone dressed. When he hummed, I knew it was Tim because he mumbled the lyrics to Move, Bitch. He gave that old song soul. “Lights?” he asked.
“Nah.” I sighed. “You know I sleep in my gear.” Tim grunted assent.
The truck’s familiar creaking almost rocked me back to sleep as we drove. We picked up pirate stations as we bounced across the cracked roads, the radio fizzling as it scanned and found…
-We have any time travelers out there? If you’re a visitor to the blasted past, don’t be afraid to give us a call…-
-So one day I’m out playing in the rain, and my father says, ‘Dammit, will you come inside!’ and I said, ‘Dad, I’m Jesus Christ!’-
Bank Officer Yates met us at the Dusty Wood gated community, gave us the address to check for squatters, and retracted the barrier poles. “Good hunting!” A smile and a wave. He lived off our arrests.
I squinted as we went. Dusty Wood’s dark made me think of outer space and stars. Constellations of solar powered LEDs lined the gutters and roof lines, barely illuminating the abandoned middle class community. Every so often, a tower broke the foreclosed town’s skyline and the red tip of guards’ lit cigarettes paced back and forth like small clones of Mars. On major streets, tracker lights followed us until we cleared the sector, then another light would pick us up.
We opened the door of Seventeen Fifteen and threw in a S.E.I.Z.U.R.E. ball. Five minutes later, we walked through, safeties off, gun lights on. We found a father and son shaking under a red swiss cheese comforter. The father’s Rolex clattered as he shook. Tim reached down, yanked, and pocketed the watch.
“It’s a good night. There were no weapons,” said Tim. “Look, a toy.”
A few feet from the boy, a yellow construction crane reached up. I grabbed it, showed it to Tim, and squinted as his gun light hit my eyes.
“Nah. That’s the Big Dipper.” I said.
