Threshold

by submission | Apr 9, 2007 | Story

Author : Kenny R. Brown

Our research ship; the Threshold, hovered about 800,000 kilometers from the event horizon. We could’ve taken better readings by moving closer, but then even the most powerful engines ever designed wouldn’t have been able to hold us back from the intense pull of gravity generated by our test subject.

Though our shielding was sufficient to protect us from the intense X-ray radiation, there was something unnerving about looking at the black hole with the naked eye. Some compared it to staring down the barrel of a weapon. I felt more like a projectile; about to be forced through the barrel at inconceivable speed.

We were on the final leg of our mission, examining the black hole known as subject K14-683. For the last three days, it has been business as usual for us; taking readings and performing tests.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Caruthers shouted; “Positive contact in optical.”

“What’ve we got?” I asked.

“It looks like a vessel of some kind, holding station about 12 kilometers from the event horizon; spherical, 6 meters in diameter.”

“Analysis?”

The Lieutenant scowled as he examined the various displays arrayed at his station.

“Unknown, it seems to have no source of propulsion. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I ordered a routine scan of the object, probing the object in a wide range of spectra and frequencies.

Ensign Michaels began shouting, bypassing the usual chain of command. “The unknown is moving. It’s on a collision course!”

Lieutenant Caruthers hit the collision alarm. “Time to intercept; 25 seconds.”

The expected impact never came; the unknown vessel stopped 10 meters off of our bow. Then our engines went dead.

“Main engine shutdown! We’re being pulled in.” The Lieutenant paused a moment, then continued; “40 seconds to event horizon.”

There was nothing left to do, every member of the crew knew there was no hope; the bridge was silent as we each prepared to meet death. The unknown kept its position off our bow, exactly matching our acceleration. We reached the event horizon, but instead of being destroyed; we suddenly found ourselves in normal space once again.

The silence was finally broken by Lieutenant Caruthers; “Ensign Michaels; report.”

“The unknown is still off the bow; engines operating at station keeping.”

“What’s our position?” I asked.

Lieutenant Caruthers consulted his stellar maps. Finally; he responded; “Position… uncharted.”

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Resuscitation

by submission | Apr 4, 2007 | Story

Author : Josh Romond

The neurosurgical tech Andrew Asher clutched his overcoat tight over his scrubs and tried to concentrate on the National Guardsman eying him across the barricade. Overhead the city’s kilometer-long support pylons reverberated like infernal gongs, torqued by the psychic eruption. Columns of refugees spilled around the dirty plastic barrier propelled by its unnatural, cold wind.

From behind her silvered faceplate the Guardsman said, “Buddy, we’re here to get people OUT, not let you IN.”

Andrew shuffled his feet, impatient and cold. “This has to be the last of them.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re not getting in.”

Andrew bit back his retort as, ‘TAKING TOO LONG,’ appeared inside his contact lens. He glanced back at the tractor trailer idling in the tide of refugees.

“Give me a minute,” he subvocalized.

‘30 SECS.’

Andrew turned back and through gritted teeth said, “We won’t get in the way, we’ll be gone in an hour.”

The Guardsman drummed her fingers on her rifle. “Turn that thing around and get out of here.”

‘ERUPTION WAVEFRONT DEGRADING…’

Andrew sighed. “Limit?” he subvocalized.

There was a pause, Andrew imagined the Doctor querying their client, then, ‘NONE.’

“How about five thousand each?” Andrew shouted so the other Guardsmen could hear. Several heads turned.

After a pause the commander’s faceplate hissed up revealing bloodshot and sunken eyes. “Ten.”

Andrew shrugged and pulled blank bills from his pocket, thumbing ten thousand into each.

The commander verified them one by one then motioned over her shoulder. Two Guardsmen began beating back the crowd with their batons while the others dragged the barricade to the sidewalk. People screamed. One man caught a baton across the temple. He jerked like a cut marionette and toppled to the sidewalk.

Andrew turned and trudged to the rear of the trailer amid swirling litter. He heaved open the doors and slipped inside.

The Doctor stood before the pMRI holograph in the trailer’s instrument bank clutching his keypad. Beaded sweat stood out on his forehead.

Seated in back beside the small, brain-dead boy in the bed was the Widow, staring off at nothing. She gripped the boy’s hands so tight her knuckles stood out like little white marbles. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic cycling of the boy’s ventilator.

Andrew said, “We’re good.”

The Doctor nodded and tapped the go ahead on his keypad. The truck lurched forward. Andrew imagined the refugees parting in their flight from the psychic eruption, the warp in space-time, birthed by the city’s sheer crush of consciousness, into which they rushed headlong.

He dropped onto a stool beside the boy, examining the ring of cables extending from the boy’s shaved and sutured head. They led to an antenna on the trailer’s roof.

The Widow’s gaze slid to the back of the Doctor’s head. “This WILL work,” she said.

The pylons’ groaning whalesong reverberated through the trailer. Andrew rubbed his throbbing temples, they were approaching the outer regions of the eruption.

“Oh yes,” the Doctor said, nodding vigorously, “Yes of course.”

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