by submission | Mar 1, 2008 | Story
Author : Lucas Atkinson
In my dream I am wandering through Babylon. Prostitutes linger on every street, thieves wait at every corner. Barefoot children look at me as I pass; shopkeepers watch me too, from shadowed doorways, behind flags and tables piled with weapons and fruit. In the distance buildings rise – the courts, full of judges with grins and thick expensive robes; their eyes narrow as they smile, the markets with a subtle finger cheating every scale , the temples with their rows and rows of idols shaped like writhing snakes or women with many breasts or birds with teeth and human hands. The Babylon of my dream is also the New York of my childhood – the pickpockets dressed in rags mingle with gangs implanted with flashing fluorescent tattoos. As I pass them, their smiles are them same.
Every night, I wander through those streets again. On the ship, the narrow corridors seem lonely, and I am afraid the next turn will lead me there, to that place, and the scrubbed metal will give way to the mud, the brick, the littered streets. Sometimes I think I can smell the city – perhaps, behind the sweat of the crew and the scent of engine oil, might that be the faintest hint of the city’s open sewer? Of sun-baked stone? Of sour incense?
I can see it in the eyes of the crew as well. They are dreaming of the city too. They too are afraid that they will turn a corner and find themselves in the market, or one of the many shadowed alleys. When we eat meals together, the crew does not converse. The city is our other cargo, an unwanted twin to the one in our hull.
When we first met them they only farmed. They could not transport food more than a few miles; none of their villages numbered more than a few hundred. When we gave them what we knew – techniques, know-how, theory – their villages moved, changed, conglomerated. The largest was not far from where the ship landed. “We call the city Babylon,” they tell me in fluting voices. They pause. They are smart; they can read human faces already. “Is this a name you know?”
In the dream, behind the markets and the temples, there is a great structure. It was a tower once; now it is collapsed. Its form against the blue sky is ragged, like a wound.
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by submission | Feb 29, 2008 | Story
Author : Scott E Meyer
“Some of what you are about to read you will think is science fiction, ” said the front of the dust jacket, “But I assure you, dear reader, that it is not. It is based on sound scientific principles with which we are all familiar.” Edgar skipped on. The book looked dry, windy and boring, but Edgar liked dry, windy and boring. He amused himself, picking out the long words to see if he could pronounce them, words like “supersymmetry,” “quantum fluctuations,” and “unified field theory.” For a minute, he allowed himself to be absorbed by what this Dr. Ledbetter had to say. He imagined the world as Ledbetter imagined, a world of free energy, travel to the stars, transmutation of matter and all the dreams he had ever had coming true.
Edgar looked up, curious as to which section of the bookstore he had stumbled into. To the left were Bigfoot Sightings, UFO’s, and the Loch Ness Monster. To the right were alien abductions and government conspiricies. Not an auspicious place to find the missing secrets of the universe. He flipped to the back of the dust jacket, the author’s biography. It seems this Dr. Ledbetter had been laughed off stages and out of seminars for years before finally vanishing only a few years ago. He had only published one book, the very book Edgar held in his hands.
Edgar frowned. As much as he wanted to believe, wanted to be caught in the mystery and play with the secrets Ledbetter claimed to reveal, he couldn’t bring himself to take the man seriously when the entire scientific community had already laughed him into obscurity. He placed the book back on the shelf, determined to find something of value in this bookstore.
The secrets of the universe would have to wait for another generation.
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by submission | Feb 27, 2008 | Story
Author : Catherine Preddle
Wheeze.
I struggle to snatch a breath, wondering with each one if I’ll get the chance to have another. Life’s never felt so fleeting and basic as I fight with its raw elements, breathing and trying to keep the blood pumping round my withered body.
Wheeze.
Another tortuous intake of vital air and another rasping death rattle from my sunken chest. So this is it, my last moments of life. My mind is foggy with the pain, I can’t remember how old I am, but I know I’m only middle-aged. I’ve had a full life, but it’s been cut short; I haven’t finished yet. There is so much more to accomplish, experience and appreciate. Like seeing my children have children, like watching the sun setting behind the pyramids in Egypt, like catching the new Bond movie due out on Friday. Panic sets in – “I haven’t finished,†I shout out inwardly, “I haven’t finished yet!â€
Wheeze.
I look up into the worried faces of the visitors clustered around my bed. All going through their own personal anguish: shame at how they treated me sometimes in life, guilt about things unsaid, anxiety about one day meeting the same fate that confronts them in this hospital bed.
Wheeze.
Another thought pops up, something that’s been niggling for a while. A craving that never dies. I could kill for a fag right now, one last drag. The sweet relief of that first inhale; the slow release of smoke and stress on the exhale. Oh, the irony of dying for a cigarette, literally dying for the sake of cigarettes …
Time stands still as I wait for my next heaving breath, but it doesn’t come. Instead my chest tightens and my eyes flicker round the room at all the people I’m leaving behind. My hand clutches my throat as I try to splutter some last words that will never be spoken. “No,†I scream inside, “I’m not ready … wait!â€
***
There is a brilliant white light so bright that it burns into the back of my eyes. My head is spinning and I feel as nauseous as hell, but I’m alive, I’m alive!!
“Please, Mr Benson, lie still. Disorientation will wear off in a few moments.â€
Suddenly, like the flash from a plasma rifle, my memories return. I know who I am and why I am here. I’m also vaguely aware that the technician is still talking to me … “What did you think, Mr Benson? Quite an old memory that one, back when Aversion Therapy Ltd was just starting out. An English male, 52, died in late 2006.â€
But I’m not listening as I flee from that little sterile room, ripping out the wires still connecting me to the treatment computer as I go. I’m too desperate to escape from the most frightening and intense experience of my life.
“Hey! There are other memories we can access. There are thousands to choose from – lung cancer is only one way to go, you know. Remember, you have to want to give up, Mr Benson …â€
There’s only one thing I want to do right now – need to do to calm down. Squeezing through the automatic doors of the clinic, I fumble inside my jacket pocket and with shaking hands retrieve the crumbled packet and my trusty lighter.
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by submission | Feb 25, 2008 | Story
Author : Paul Starkey
Vivienne awoke after nine, but lazed in bed for another hour before finally getting up and padding to the window.
The curtains drawn she had a perfect view of the garden, the tree branches hung with golden leaves, a carpet of leaves coating the ground, seeming to burn in the sunlight.
It was February, but here it was always autumn.
Her gaze lifted over the treetops to Nottingham castle, perched high on a huge outcrop of grey rock. Today being Monday the castle was in its modern incarnation, an Italianate palace built where the original castle had stood. Tomorrow it would be remoulded to reflect its 13th century heyday.
On Wednesday there would be no castle at all, just bare rock.
Vivienne had lived here for two years, the exact amount of time that she had been Vivienne in fact.
She was a willowy brunette in her mid twenties, with the big brown eyes and pout of a famous old movie star, but forty years ago she’d been born Andrew John.
The view bored her; she turned and looked at the bed, the white sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Marc was long gone, off to work for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Nobody needed to work anymore.
She felt hollow inside. They’d been together two years but what did she really know about him? She didn’t know why he still worked, let alone who he’d been before Marc, anymore than he knew who she’d been.
It was time to move on. She’d put it off for weeks now, but the boredom wasn’t lifting.
She dressed simply; jeans, plimsolls and a sweatshirt, and then she left the bedroom for the last time.
She didn’t pack, didn’t take a thing. What would be the point?
In the kitchen she put a clod of earth into the Molecular Shuffler, set the controls and slammed the door. Thirty seconds later she was sat at the table drinking coffee while she pondered how to move on.
It didn’t matter. MSP- the Molecular Shuffle Process- had eradicated poverty thirty years ago, and along with it greed and crime. Everything you ever wanted could be yours so what was the point in covetousness? Eaten too much and put on weight? No worries, MSP will trim the fat. Getting old? Don’t fret, MSP will peel the years away. Always wanted to be taller? A boy? A Girl? Black instead of white?
In 2097 imagination was the only limit humanity had left.
She left the mug on the table; Marc would clear it away when he came home. If he came home.
She didn’t care. She was moving on.
* * *
It was two years later and Douglas was stood at the window of his 59th street apartment, staring down at Central Park.
It was July but the park was covered in a crisp coating of snow. It was beautiful but he barely noticed anymore.
He laid a palm against the glass, enjoying the contrast of his dark skin against the whiteness, if only for a moment before the boredom returned.
Amber had left two days before. Douglas had gone to the theatre but she’d stayed behind complaining of a headache. When he returned her clothes were still in the wardrobe, her papers still on the desk, but she was gone, and he knew she wouldn’t be back.
He sighed. It was time again, the hollowness was returning as it always did. Steven, Vivienne, Douglas. Baghdad, Nottingham, New York. It didn’t matter.
He put some dirt in the Molecular Shuffler and wondered how to move on…
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by submission | Feb 24, 2008 | Story
Author : Neil Griffith
Allan sighed and took a deep breath.
“I’m from the Olympus Mons colony, I was a kid when it happened.â€
‘It’ didn’t require any explanation, all the worlds knew of Olympus Mons. With over 3000 people tragically killed, it was the greatest disaster ever to happen to humanity off of the surface of the Earth. The event was the Titanic of its era, it even had a classic twist of the folly of man, building a colony in the base of a giant mountain, said to be indestructible by an infamous quote from the colony’s founder. “Whatever disaster may beset the face of Mars, people may seek shelter at Olympus. No home is safer than the home of the Gods.†The largest habitat ever built at the time, no one attempted to equal its scale for a decade.
Because of the thousands of hours of surviving electronic footage, Olympus Mons was also one of the greatest documented disasters of all time. Despite that fact there remained one mystery, as much as was known about the events immediately following the disaster, very little was known of the actual cause. Many conflicting tales of what caused the east side of the mountain to collapse onto the superstructure of the colony cropped up over the years. The Mars government said there was an earthquake from rare tectonic stress causing a landslide. The survivors, however, always gave a very different tale.
“Did you want to talk about it?†asked the attractive woman Allan had just met.
Allan smiled and swirled his drink a little. He was used to this.
“It was an accident,†said Allan.
“How do you know?†asked the woman.
“My family remained inside the colony for almost an hour after it happened,†said Allan, “We were in a part of the structure furthest away from the collapse. My father took his EVAC suit and climbed into the wreckage in the upper part of the superstructure to rescue people. But if someone wasn’t wearing an EVAC suit when all the outer walls get ripped open, there wouldn’t be anyone alive to find.â€
“Did your father find what caused it to happen?†asked the woman.
Allan shook his head yes and said, “Him and about a dozen others looking for survivors stood right in front of it. There was a drill rig still standing there, right at the highest point they reached in the mountainside above where the land broke away. He said you could easily see where a giant sheet of rock must have split from where they were drilling and it caused a landslide right into the superstructure. The guy operating the rig must have been standing on the rock when it broke away and rode it all the way down.â€
The intriguing charm slightly faded from the woman’s eyes and she had the typical look of shock and bewilderment Allan had known too well, then she asked why she never read about the real cause.
“Nobody in space wants to read about accidents,†explained Allan, “Specifically ones caused by man. When you live in an environment where you count so desperately on people to keep you alive it always has to be a million in one fluke, God’s will, or something else’s fault, but not man. People cannot face the reality their lives are constantly at the mercy of somebody else’s incompetence. It’s too much of a horror to deal with. So blame it on the mountain, tectonic stress or some such nonsense. It has nothing to do with the arrogance of man pushing too far and reaching too high.â€
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