by submission | Nov 8, 2007 | Story
Author : Andy Bolt
I am in a hole. It is a filthy place in a bad neighborhood in Bucharest, surrounded by government troops who are about to evilly stomp their way in here. They are having some trouble getting past my photon tent. It creates an alternating series of forty-two hundred force fields that borrow from the energy matrices of forty-two hundred non-parallel dimensions not yet tapped by physical probes. I enjoy these powerful, swirling forces, several of which have bizarre and horrible effects when introduced to our universe.
And yet, they will be through my shield soon. Already, I can sense the cold boxes creating a localized zone of absolute zero. This will disrupt the functioning of all but a dozen of the alternating fields. Of those remaining, all but two have well-developed counter measures. Those two will simply be shot until they overload. I can feel the bombardment starting.
I am watching reruns of “Guess What’s in Your Mouth†and buzzcasting doctored images of the Eastern European governor, Milt Sill, committing obscene and illegal acts with obscene and illegal entities. They have tried to cut me off, but there’s just too much information in the air these days. Gel phone frequencies and omninet signals. Quantum vision and mindblower wavelengths. Extradimensional routers and redigitizer stations and retro-radio transmissions. You can’t get them all. So my buzzcasts go out and they try to break in and libelous pictures of Sill get passed around campuses and electronic office parks and meanwhile, my storewell gets nondescriptly dumped into Gabrielle Denizen’s system in Managua.
There are only twenty-six of us officially involved in the Mythical Revolution against Worldgov, including me, Dither Todd. They are panicked enough to send two hundred shock troops and eighty million dollars worth of heavy artillery to kill me, a guy in his basement watching shitty reruns. We are very good with computers. We know things they do not want us to know. We say them very loudly.
I am surrounded by angry men with guns who wish me harm. I let them have a glimpse of me, all ruffled blue hair and black glasses. Then I’m gone. “Dither Todd†is a collection of digital information and optical rewriters. I am an invisible ball of data programs and consciousness frequencies with the tools necessary to physiologically manipulate a bio-optic system into “seeing†a physical body that isn’t there. I am an imaginary form of life.
My dataself dissolves and goes out a dozen different ways. They can’t block them all. I’ve gotten enough on Sill, of the gross legal and ethical variety, that he’ll be forcibly removed from office within a few days. He was a high-up in Worldgov, third in line for Man Prime. Eastern Europe will be in chaos for months, but hopefully, they’ll learn something from this.
It’ll take years for my dataself to coagulate back to the point where I’m capable of having a coherent thought. I welcome the rest. Let Gabby change the world for a while.
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by submission | Nov 6, 2007 | Story
Author : Viktor Kuprin
March Air Force Base, California.
“These are the rules,” instructed Major Diehl, the public affairs officer. “Report your observations. Tell them what you saw, but if they ask for your personal opinions about little green men, the press conference is over. Understood?”
The security policemen nodded in understanding.
“Take your seats. I’ll call you up front when it’s time,” said the Major. “How many guests, Bob?”
The old Lieutenant Colonel peeked through the conference room’s double doors. “Forty, at least,” he said.
The reporters quickly filled the room, colliding with each other and the creaky government-issue metal chairs.
Diehl stepped to the lectern. “Good morning, everyone. First, I’d like to present Airman McAlhaney and Sergeant Brandum from our Security Police Squadron. Both were on duty last night. Both witnessed the incident. Go ahead, Airman McAlhaney.”
The nervous young man stood. “At 0245 I was on guard duty at the Alert Facility, walking patrol.”
The LA Times reporter waved his hand. “That’s where a group of B-52s and in-flight refuelers are kept ready for takeoff, right?”
“That’s correct, sir. At that time I saw two very unusual aircraft approaching the flightline at a high rate of speed, on an east-to-west track. They looked like black triangles and, uh, they were glowing blue.”
A lady reporter from Riverside’s Press-Enterprise newspaper called out, “What did you do?”
McAlhaney looked questioningly towards Major Diehl, who nodded to show approval.
“I reported it to my supervisor, m’am, by radio,” McAlhaney continued. “He confirmed my report. He saw them. Then the base went on full security alert.”
The Orange County Register reporter held up his hand. “Major, did your air-traffic controllers track these UFOs?”
“Yes. They were tracked visually,” Diehl answered. “I have no information about any radar contacts.”
The reporters began grumbling incredulously.
“Thank you, Airman McAlhaney,” said Diehl. “If you please, Sargeant Brandum will give his statement.”
Brandum took a deep breath and began. “I was in the weapons storage area when the alert sounded. By the time I got outside, the, uh, objects were directly overhead. Both had blue contrails …”
A young man from an alternative newspaper shouted, “Do you think alien invaders are preparing to attack your base?!”
Major Diehl flew out of his seat. “I think we need to stop here. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentleman.” The reporters yelled and complained as they were ushered from the room.
As the two security policemen walked toward the exit, Airman McAlhaney wondered, “Think we’re the first base they’ve buzzed?”
Behind them a voice said, “No. I’ve seen them before.”
It was Bob, the near-retirement Lieutenant Colonel. “In North Dakota, Germany, even Greenland. And they always, always fly over the nuclear weapons storage areas.”
Both men stared at the old officer. “Sir, what do you think it means?” asked Sargeant Brandum.
Colonel Bob smiled. “Well, if you thought the kids might be playing with matches, wouldn’t you check on them now and then?”
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by submission | Nov 4, 2007 | Story
Author : Kyle DeBruhl
“Oh man…†Jeremy sighed as he stared out the window. “The old man’s at it again.†He pulled himself out of the chair and lumbered to the front door, seizing an rain slicker from the coat rack as he went. Thunder crackled in the distance and he peered out the embedded front door window with hesitation. He’s going to catch friggin’ pneumonia. He turned the handle and the door swung open with a bang, carried in full circle by the howling wind.
The lawn had been transformed since the afternoon. What was earlier a large green blanket with the occasional wildflower or misplaced stone, had become a filthy mess, a deep marsh that soaked the toes of even the toughest tennis shoes.
“Hey Murray!†Jeremy shouted hoping to catch the man’s non-existent attention. The frail figure across the street did nothing. Jeremy took his last step through the water and opened his front gate, all the while keeping his eyes on the man across the way. A quick jog across the street and Jeremy was now at the opposite gate which he cleared with a short jump. The old man could now be seen clearly; sickly white columns of flesh surrounded by red Bermuda shorts stood atop a lawn table. The open t-shirt showed an array of exotic fruits and ukulele prints and was barely hiding the pale, almost skeletal chest it adorned..
“Hey man, I think you ought to get back inside, it’s cold and I’m not sure you’ve got the, err… shorts for it.†Murray had never stood on the table before. He apparently was getting wise to the ease with which Jeremy could force him back into the house.
“I’m gonna pull you down man…†Jeremy thought it sounded confident enough, but he was having a hard time with the physics. The last thing he wanted was to harm the old guy; the neighbors would throw a conniption fit.
With as much strength as Jeremy could muster, he eased the old man off of the table and onto his back, taking care not to contort his cargo on the way down. Murray kept his back straight, and the void expression on his face remained. In the end youth won out and the old man was pushed (gently) back into his home. Jeremy walked quickly back to his own piece of Churchill street and regaled in the good work of a good man.
Somewhere deep inside of 143 Churchill Street a silent voice spoke. It spoke to the electrons in Murray Feckleson’s brain. It seethed as an ocean and whispered as a child. It burned. So thirsty, It thought. What a thick, brainless, species. Can’t he see that we are thirsty? Murray nodded mechanically as the voice carried on. Can’t he see that we are dry? Can’t he see? Suddenly the TV burst to life and the light’s soft colors soothed it’s “mindâ€. Murray? Be a doll and draw up a bath for us would you?
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by submission | Nov 3, 2007 | Story
Author : Anthony R. Elmore
William rode the Green Line, making the passengers hostage to his presence. Here, they couldn’t walk away, far. They could only avoid his glare, his insistence at existence. The train stops at Parkway Station and a pretty teenage girl with soft brown hair enters the train. She glances at the only empty seat next to him, and walks toward it. The train moves and the air shifts forward and she shudders like a gazelle that caught a lion’s scent creeping upwind. She moves toward the gangway, glancing backward at possible danger.
“But he lied…†he wants to cry at her, at the world.
Attention starved little…
The train rattles to a halt at Memorial Park and many people in bright summer shorts and carrying lawn chairs and coolers disembark. A weekend street fair is happening topside, but he’s not invited. Facial recognition cams on lampposts would alert the police and they will escort him away. So he rides the train, staying in motion.
But he lied…
The trains stops at Chamblee station and a horrible, fecal smell enters as a covey of passengers leave. The bum is layers of filthy, mismatching coats and shirts and shoulders a rucksack. The passengers’ noses curls and some gag and comment to others. Newspapers and handkerchiefs rise to their faces to block the stench. The bum drops into an empty seat and he feigns sleep. At the next stop, everyone leaves the car except William.
The odor disgusts him but he wonders if Pheremonic Shunning caused the bum’s state and this is what awaited him.
No more overcrowded prisons, chip tracking and dedicated surveillance, they said. Shunning put offenders in an open air prison with their own skin and guilt for a cell.
After his trial, state doctors injected him with a solution that changed his pheremonic signature that broadcasted “Danger, Stay Away.†messages.
But he lied. He misunderstood my touch. It wasn’t like that.
The stinking bum was his future, his present, he thought. Six months into a five year sentence, he would never again teach and would die on the dole. This was his family. Guilty or not, they were a confraternity of the shunned.
He approached the bum, crossing through the fog of stench. “Did they shun you?†he asked.
The bum looked at him through a camouflage of dirt, his beard nitted with food bits a dried mucus. He moaned and leaned over and slapped the side of his head with both hands, rocking back and forth.
He didn’t see the shiv lance his gut or the bum draw it. He only saw the betrayal of snared animal fear in the bum’s eyes. The train bucked and slowed and his legs gave way and he fell. From the wrong angled view from the floor he saw the bum shuffle through the crowd of arriving passengers, parting the crowd with his stench.
“Do you see me now?†he sputtered to their shocked faces. I exist. Then he didn’t.
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by submission | Oct 31, 2007 | Story
Author : J. S. Kachelries
Officer Gannon of the Washington DC Police was clandestinely peeking around the trunk of a large maple tree next to the curb. A patrol car pulled up behind him and turned off its headlights. Sergeant Jose Viernes climbed out. “Hey, Bill, dispatch said you requested backup. What’s going on?”
Gannon whispered, “See those two trick or treaters that look like aliens from another planet? Well, they’re acting very suspiciously. They only go to the houses of Senators and Congressmen. They just walked four blocks, from Congressman Bartlett’s house to Senator Mikulski’s house, but didn’t stop anywhere in between.”
“Maybe they give out the best candy.”
“No, there’s more than that. Once they enter a house, they stay for over five minutes. No normal kid would do that.”
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to say that you think they’re terrorists?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saying that I think they are aliens from another planet. It’s a perfect cover. They can walk around all night and nobody would notice. They must be collecting intelligence.”
“Intelligence? From democrats? Now who’s being ridiculous?”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Well, I don’t care what you think. I’m confronting them when they come out. You just watch my back.”
When the two little “aliens” reached the sidewalk, officer Gannon drew his gun, “Freeze right there,” he barked. The two aliens dropped their candy bags and put their hands in the air. Their arms were visibly trembling. “I’m on to you guys,” he continued. “This charade is over. You’re coming with me.” He reached over and grabbed one of the alien’s antennas and pulled him toward the patrol car. His rubber mask popped off, revealing a small, petrified, blond haired, blue eyed boy. The child dropped to his knees and covered his head with his rubber alien hands, “Please don’t shoot me,” he pleaded.
Sergeant Viernes broke into laughter. “Nice going, Bill. Now he’ll have nightmares ’till Christmas. It’s OK son,” he said as he attempted to comfort the boy, “he was only kidding. You know, just a little joke on Halloween. Now, go ahead and pick up your bags and have fun.” Viernes walked past the children and gingerly removed the gun from Gannon’s numb grip, and handed the alien mask back to the child. “Com’on Bill, lets get you some donuts. I think your blood sugar is out of whack.”
The moment the patrol car was out of sight, the two kids took off in the opposite direction. They cut through a dense hedge, and stopped in the back yard of an abandoned house. One of the children pressed a button on his belt, and their spaceship decloaked and lowered a ramp. The two aliens scampered inside and reactivated the cloak. “Tuomita kadotukseen, that was close,” said Taa-Lol. “I thought he was going to look into our bags and find our mind-suckers. I’m so glad the High Council recommended that we use nested costumes, in case we got confronted. Those guys are geniuses.”
Fee-Kak disagreed. “The High Council are idiots,” he remarked. “How are we supposed to gather intelligence, if we can only operate one day a year? At this rate, we won’t be ready to invade for a century.” He began removing his costumes, “You know,” he said, “tonight’s scare gives me an idea. Get the High Council on the hyper-space radio.”
Starting November 1, 2007, the advanced scouts of the Lalande Imperial Invasion Fleet began collecting intelligence 365 days a year, disguised as children.
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