by Sam Clough | Oct 24, 2008 | Story
Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer
Out of the inhabitants of the world, Conrad was the trend-setter. He’d sparked off the craze for playing as gods when he’d discovered a cache of ancient texts. He’d painstakingly recovered audio platters from the less senile databanks in the cities. The six cities provided everyone with the power to create and destroy, to reshape the land according to their whims. No-one understood them, and most were rightly afraid at hastening their slow decay. Conrad, however, enjoyed prospecting for information.
Conrad casually adjusted his eyes to see into the infra-red. He was in one of the vaults underneath the southwest segment of the city of Suberesk. This segment had been dead for years: vault after vault of quiet, inscrutable machinery. Some seemed pristine, whilst others appeared to have started decomposing. Conrad had even found one vault full of natural florae growing quietly underneath an artificial light source.
In the next room, something caught his eye. A old-style holographic display was flickering in one corner, displaying the same fraction-of-a-second of animation over and over again. The projection was an abstracted human head, spasmodically twitching in a sort of half-nod. Conrad took the first action that seemed natural – he kicked the projection unit.
The animation sputtered through a few more frames, then began to play smoothly.
“Integrator online. On the next tone, it will be beat six hundred and six, subinterval twelve of interval sixty-two thousand. There are two messages waiting, marked for the attention of any and all citizens. Would you like to view them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The first message was received forty-eight thousand, six hundred and twelve intervals ago. It has been altered for language, tone and content.”
The abstract head shrank into one corner of the display, and a second head appeared. Reptilian in appearence, it spoke in a series of choking hisses. The integrator spoke over it in a smooth voice.
“We have grown impatient, city-dwellers. Your cities have stalled our solarsystem and many others. You waste energy in a ridiculous and profligate manner. Your actions threaten the stars themselves. If you do not halt your activities, we will be forced to destroy you, even if it means destroying ourselves in the process.”
The reptilian head faded, and the integrator once more occupied the whole display.
“The second message was broadcast forty-eight thousand, six hundred and eleven intervals ago by Doctor Aki Munroe at Ichioresk. It is presented verbatim, but carries a strong/disturbing content warning. Do you wish to view it?”
“Of course!” Conrad almost shouted, captivated by the artefact.
Again, the integrator’s head shrank to one corner of the display. A young woman’s face appeared. She looked worried, and she stumbled over some of the words, as if choking on them.
“After long contemplation, the unified response to the coalition’s threats is relocation. This shift will take place at the beginning of interval one-three-three-eight-ten. We’re going to attempt to use the cities to project a frameshift field around the world. This’ll isolate us from the universe at large. Existence effectively ‘out of time’ will allow the city grids to tap any major source of energy in this universe or any other. From any point of time. If this project succeeds, we’ll have guaranteed our survival. Possibly at the cost of our culture, since and isolated world is doomed to stagnate. But we must try this. The alternatives are too horrific to contemplate.”
by Patricia Stewart | Oct 23, 2008 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Meteorologists, you can’t live with ‘em, and you can’t vaporize ‘em. That’s what I always say,” bellowed Jose Vargas, Prime Minister of The United Countries of Earth. The large dark skinned Brazilian reached across his antique mahogany desk and grabbed a Cuban Cohiba from a hand carved cherry-wood humidor. He stuck one end imperceptibly into the desktop disintegrator then offered it to his guest, who waved a polite no thanks. “First of all,” he continued as he put the ‘guillotined’ end of the cigar into his mouth and lit the other end with a plasma lighter, “you guys figured out how to control upper level wind shear, and you eliminated all of the Atlantic and Gulf hurricanes. Without the hurricanes to draw out the excess heat from the tropical waters, the Gulf of Mexico heated up to over 130 degrees. That killed all the plankton and fish. Not to mention devastating the resort areas along the gulf coast.”
Professor Ichabod Palmitter, a slim, balding, middle-aged man squirmed in his oversized chair, which incidentally, had legs that were three inches shorter than Vargas’s chair, “Uh, with all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, that’s not an accurate representation…”
Vargas cut him off in mid-sentence. “And then you created that mid-west weather grid in North America to disperse all of the supercell thunderstorms, so there wouldn’t be any more tornadoes. That idea was a winner. Lightning discharges decreased by 80 percent. Without lightning to convert gaseous nitrogen into nitrates, the soil became sterile. I’ll bet over a million people died of starvation because of that little brain fart.” He drew in a lungful of aromatic smoke and blew several smoke rings toward his office skylight. “And let’s not forget that ‘global warming’ fix you guys came up with. You took so much carbon dioxide and methane out of the atmosphere that you triggered a freakin’ ice age. New York City is still buried under a thousand foot thick glacier. So, Doc, tell me, what hair brained idea did you come up with this time?”
Palmitter nervously cleared his throat. “Uh, well, sir…ah…we think the best way to end the ice age is to release 50 million tons of chlorofluorocarbons into the atmosphere. They will destroy those pesky ozone molecules that block the sun’s ultraviolet light. The more energy we get to reach the Earth’s surface, the quicker we’ll begin to warm up.” He folded his hands in his lap, and grinned proudly.
Using his tongue and teeth, Vargas rolled the end of the cigar around in his mouth. The lit end emitted a corkscrew of smoke as it circled in the air. Vargas plucked the cigar out of his mouth using his thumb and middle finger. Then, he pointed his plump index finger directly toward Palmitter’s chest. His lips pulled back to produce an exaggerated, toothy smile. “Why… you… dirty… DAWG,” he roared. “I can’t believe it. Man, I guess I owe you guys an apology. That idea is absolutely brilliant.” Vargas glanced over at the organization chart on the far wall of his office and focused his eyes on the name of Alexander Roge, the Secretary of Global Environment. Hidden sensors interpreted his desire and opened a comm link. “Hey, Al,” he said as he lifted his large feet onto the corner of his desk, and crossed his legs at the ankles, “Get in here pronto. And bring your check padd.”
by submission | Oct 22, 2008 | Story
Author : Mark Ingram
He toyed with the hunting knife as he daydreamed; it gave his hands something to do. He was not much of a thinker, but tonight, he allowed his eyes to shift out of focus and his mind to wander . . .
What would we do if aliens came to Earth? Would they come in peace or war; would they already know all that we could teach them; would they want to help us advance our technology; would they get us off this mediocre, blue-green rock . . . ? Start at the beginning: war or peace? The result of war is obvious. We have barely set foot on the moon; they have traveled a gagillion miles to get here. Their technology is far superior to ours.
We would be crushed.
Depressing thought.
He lit another cigarette. He was on his third pack since sitting down, and his five-o’clock-shadow had turned into a three-in-the-morning-overcast. He scratched it and went back to his musings.
Suppose they come in peace? That would be astounding—and very un-humanlike of them. Let’s assume that—after all the formal greetings between the human and alien nations—no one side offended the other. Highly unlikely, but that too would be a breath of fresh air. If they did insult each other (which would be almost a certainty due to both parties’ ignorance of the other’s probably radically different culture), there would be bad blood. Bad blood leads to distrust, leads to prejudice, leads to discrimination, leads to bloodshed . . .
We would be crushed.
Right, anyway, so if they came in peace and we didn’t piss them off, there might be talks . . . or something akin. The world would know of them. Some people would welcome our allies, some would stay at a cautious distance, some would be afraid; it’s inevitable. But there would never be uniformity of opinions among humans. Some groups would always fear the aliens. Even among humans, hatred has lasted between nations so long that they fight each other because they always have. Palestinians versus Israelis. Chinese versus Japanese versus Koreans. Northern Irish versus Britons. No matter how tolerant a culture claims to be, someone—some nation, some state, some planet—will hold prejudice against what’s different. And some subset of that will act on it. Whether the reason is that they don’t like the way the newcomers look or dress, are upset by the visitors’ ignorant disrespect of a specific human culture, feel threatened by them, or have their own way of thinking—perhaps even their own theology—challenged by the aliens’ presence, some people will act out. It might be minutes or days or years after contact. Hard to pacify the entire world’s concerns forever. Violence will ensue. And violence leads to bad blood . . . leads to bloodshed . . .
We would be crushed.
May they never know.
And with that, he thrust his knife deep into the writhing mass on the table in front of him until it went limp.
by Duncan Shields | Oct 21, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“Hey baby, how are you?” I replied to the phone.
I had told my wife that I had gone to Earth for business.
Angela lay, limbs spread wide and gloriously naked on the bed behind me, a beatific smile on her face. We’d been hedonistically wasting the hours of our romantic getaway. The scenery on this moon of Jupiter was supposed to be amazing but all we did was stay in the hotel room, order room service, and fuck. It was magnificent.
We had spouses, of course, back on our home planets. This was an affair.
“Oh my god, are you okay? I haven’t been able to get through until now.” my wife asked on the phone.
She was in a panic. I figure that she’d found a receipt or that one of my friends had squealed or that, hell, maybe she’d just pieced it together. I was relaxed. More lies. My wife was gullible. It wouldn’t be a problem.
“Things are great, hon. I’m in New Hampshire right now. The boys and I just went to see a movie and have a few drinks. They have a nice office. How are you?” I replied, the untruths slipping effortlessly from my lips with no twinge of conscience.
Her voice was confused and shrill. “Oh thank god. Are you sure? Did you manage to get away in time? When did you go the movie? Are you talking about yesterday? Where are you?”
I calmed her down. “Baby, baby, listen. It’s fine. I’m in my hotel room in New Hampshire on Earth, just like I said. I’m thinking of you. Don’t be crazy. Everything’s cool.”
There was an icy pause. When her voice came back, it had hardened. A dark place in the back of my head opened up a flower. Something was horribly wrong. I was missing a big piece of the puzzle in this conversation.
“Turn on the news.” She said in a flat voice. I reached over and thumbed the wall unit to life.
Every station said the same thing. Earth had been destroyed four hours ago in a civil war. Reports were still coming in concerning who started it. Our homeworld had become a husk. There were no survivors.
Angela screamed on the bed, gathering the blankets to her amazing breasts and staring wide-eyed at the screen. Her husband was an Earth senator.
My wife didn’t even question the sound of a woman’s voice in the background. She knew. I’d been caught.
“My lawyers will contact you tomorrow.” My wife said and turned off the connection.
Busted.
by submission | Oct 20, 2008 | Story
Author : Rob Burton
Dear Victim,
I am writing to you to tell you that, in a short while, you are going to be arrested for killing the Prime Minister. You didn’t do it, right? Wrong. Here at MI6, when we want to kill someone and say that you did it, you can be sure that we’ve made sure that you did.
I picked you for several reasons. Firstly, you have an interest in world affairs and have spent time on the internet researching terrorism. Now, I know that you are going to say, ‘but I wasn’t researching how to be a terrorist, I’m just concerned’. Well the courts won’t see it that way now that I’ve altered the list. Secondly, you have annoyed a few people over the years – some of them really hate you, you know – and so we got them to write their opinions on you on ‘mebook’. The press will look you up, and it will help us a lot if nobody likes you. Thirdly, you have short, dark hair, a heavy brow and a facial scar, which makes a conviction 18% more likely. Fourthly you are a liberal who is known to disagree with recent government policy – this gives you motive, and we like to eliminate as many threats as we can with one action. It’s more elegant. Lastly I picked you because, of all the many people who fit the profile, I don’t like the look of you.
According to your psychological profile, upon finishing this email you will attempt to run away – I hope you do, as it will further incriminate you – and that telling you this will not dissuade you. A few words of advice: Do not take your car, we can track it. Similarly, do not steal or borrow anyone else’s car. We can also track your mobile, PDA and laptop, and use them as listening devices. Do not go through any major urban areas; the cameras can pick up your ID using face recognition. Do not go anywhere near an airport or port either, for the same reason. Follow these simple rules and I give you six hours.
Thanks to the national DNA and biometric database, and a quick search through your bins, we have planted enough evidence around the site to easily convict you. Juries believe that DNA and biometric evidence is a rubber stamp for conviction. It is not, but they watch too much crime drama to be convinced otherwise. Also, we have hacked the new brain scan lie detector that Juries love so much, so it will show that you are feeling as guilty as a priest at a bondage party.
We thought that you might want to know why. Well, as you know, the current government has increased our budget and power exponentially over the last few terms. Now, it seems, the Prime Minister may be regretting a few of those choices. We cannot allow that, so we have killed him, demonstrating to his replacement (who is now guaranteed to win the next election) that we are not to be trifled with. This means that we can get whatever we want, which is more of the same, actually. Longer detention periods, fewer rights and greater surveillance. More power for us to play.
And why am I telling you this like some idiotic bond villain? Because it makes no difference to your fate, and because my boss and I think it’s hilarious.
This message will delete itself, leaving absolutely no trace, in two seconds.
Trust me. I know your reading speed.
by submission | Oct 19, 2008 | Story
Author : Denni schnapp
Oil painted rainbows on the pavement. Franklin coughed as he dragged Chrissy behind him.
“Keep your mask up,” he rasped, holding his own to his mouth with his free hand. The fumes made his eyes sting.
He paused, squinting. “Not–” Deep breath “Far. Now.”
His daughter remained silent, holding his hand as he resumed at a gentler pace.
The wind picked up, clearing some of the smog to reveal the silhouette of the Outer Settlement. There would be people, and air clean enough to breathe.
A sudden glare made him stop, Chrissy colliding with the heavy cloth of his coat. He pulled her behind him.
“Who are you? Where are you going?” a metallic voice rang out.
“Franklin Howards and my daughter Chrissy. Please–the bombs…”
The bombs had killed almost everyone before going on to poison the land.
“There’s no room! Leave the kid.” The latter an afterthought.
Chrissy clung tightly to his arm.
#
The bombs hadn’t killed her mother; cancer had seen to that. At another time there might have been kindly relatives, perhaps help from the government, but with millions struggling all that remained for Franklin was to return to the refinery, taking his daughter to live in one of the prefabs with their thin walls barely keeping out the noise and smell.
There had once been a forest, cut down during the building work. Only a few patches of shaggy grass remained. The kids had to play indoors. Not that there were many: another girl and two boys, all with wheezy coughs. Franklin couldn’t remember their names; he saw little of his daughter, let alone the other kids. By the age of twelve, they would be sent away to school-workcamp.
When the bombs fell, Chrissy had just turned eleven.
#
“Please, we’re just passing through!” Franklin fought for breath, inhaling deeply so that he could speak with a loud and confident voice. Don’t let them hear us wheeze.
“You people are always passing through.”
“We’re on our way to the harbour.”
“Ha! And where, pray, would you go from there?”
Franklin winced. Not in front of Chrissy. But his daughter gave no indication that she had understood, her eyes wide as she stared at the light.
“Give us the kid if you want, but you make your own luck.”
For a heartbeat time stood still. The school-workcamp was in the Outer Settlement. Chrissy would be better off there, with kids her own age.
“Leave the kid and go.”
Chrissy seemed to come to her senses. She tugged at his sleeve and Franklin stumbled back. After a few paces the beam cut off. They had rejoined the twilight zone and were of no further interest.
The sky was streaked with gold up where the soot couldn’t reach. The light settled on his daughter’s face. Franklin crouched.
“Chrissy, I want you to be safe…”
“Daddy, don’t go!” The mask distorted her voice.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Don’t you want to see–,” dammit, what was the boy’s name? “–Ollie again?”
“Ali,” she sniffled. Good, she was listening.
“I meant Ali. And the other kids that have left for school?” Workcamp.
Chrissy blinked and nodded. Brave girl.
“Come with me, Daddy!” She was keening.
There was no point trying to make her understand. If she was to have any future, he had no choice. He rose abruptly, holding her so tightly that it hurt him, but what hurt most was that she did not try to struggle.
The glare returned as he stepped over the perimeter. They stood motionless, waiting for the patrol to pick her up.
