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 Duncan Shields | Nov 7, 2007 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The new planet’s soupy air made twin blue plumes out of his suit’s exhalations when the carbon dioxide reacted with the unbreathable atmosphere. It turned into blue rust flakes that scattered around him like snow.
He walked over the rocky service in a grav suit that would have looked right at home on the ocean floor in the 1760s back on Earth. Bulky, slow and primitive looking.
He looked like a train pretending to be human blasting out powder-blue fairy dust.
His face peeked out of a circular faceplate inset into a large spherical metal helmet. It amplified his breathing as well as the creaking of the servos helping him to walk across the high-gravity shale. It was like living inside a bell.
He could see the bright blue plumes coming out of his co-researcher’s suits all down the line if he turned his head.
It was actually quite beautiful.
He’d appreciate it a lot more if they all weren’t currently looking for their ship.
He’d left the ship second-to-last in the queue so he would run out of air second-to-last as well. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to.
Already, a suit with the number 28 painted on the shoulder down the line was starting to slow down. Its blue gusts of CO2 were becoming yellower as the combination started to change. It was Yolanda.
We’d only gone a few steps out. We’d left the ships sentry programs on. I suppose it was folly of us to desert the ship entirely but no one wanted to be left behind for the first walk.
There was no life detected in the area. It had seemed safe.
Then our tracking devices stopped working properly. And our directional qualifiers.
We had no points of references. The atmosphere was a fog that gave us thirty feet of visibility. It ended in a starless ceiling above us as well. The ground was scattered rock.
We were lost. The ship, according to our scanners, was in twenty-seven places around us.
We’d turned around one hundred and eighty degrees and started walking back towards the ship, following our own blue rusted trails of encrusted CO2 flakes.
We should have been there by now.
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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 Patricia Stewart | Nov 5, 2007 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
It was the one thousandth anniversary since Victor Kent first traveled backward in time. Of course, humans had been traveled forward in time for a thousand years before that. But, forward is easy. No paradoxes to deal with. After all, in the future, you can’t kill your father before he met your mother.
The first company to develop time travel technology was Epoca Inc. In the early days they’d only travel a few weeks into the future to see how some key experiment went. Then they’d return to the present to modify the experiment so it would work better. Of course, this action changed that future, but what difference does that make? Epoca would be more prosperous in the new future. With this philosophy, Epoca perfected time travel in short order. Another side benefit is that Epoca could peek into the future to keep track of any potential competitors, and take whatever steps were necessary in the present (legally or illegally) to make sure their competition was unsuccessful. It’s so easy to determine the future when you control time.
Anyway, on the one thousandth anniversary of negative time travel, Epoca decided to expand the time envelope exponentially. They decided to send me and twelve other scientists backwards in time thirty billion years. That’s 15.5 billion years before the Big Bang. Epoca considered it “an acceptable risk” because astrophysicists had proven that the universe is “closed” (i.e., it explodes, expands, stops, and collapses again, repeatedly for all eternity). They call the collapse “The Big Crunch.” Epoca figured that if they could send us into the previous cycle, we could learn new “inconceivable” science from whatever life forms existed then, bring it back to our cycle, and make gobs and gobs of money. A simple plan, right? Well, not really. I asked Epoca to look a few years into the future to see if we made it back OK. They did, but said we weren’t there because we had crossed the “barrier” (whatever that meant) and would not exist in our continuum until we physically returned. They called it the “Sagan Principle,” after some scientist who lived eons and eons ago. They also said that when theya looked at the instant the ship left, I was on it, so I needed to go because I had already gone. Did I mention that time travel arguments make my head hurt? Anyway, who was I to question Epoca? After all, they could prevent my parents from meeting. So, I climbed into the ship.
As I watched through the view port, the stars began to turn bluish. I guessed it was the opposite of red-shift as my universe collapsed backward toward the Big Bang. It got so bright at T=1,000,000,000 that we had to close the iris. I held my breath as we shot through T=0. At T=-1,000,000,000 we opened the iris to see a reddish universe expand backward. Well I’ll be damned, I thought, the astrophysicists were right. At T=-15,500,000,000 the ship came to a stop. With the universe no longer expanding, the shields began to sparkle like a thousand fireflies. Every alarm on the ship began to go off, including the one labeled “Danger: Lethal Radiation Detected.”
As I was thinking, “Well, this sucks,” I heard one of the other scientist yell, “Quick, get us back, and hurry!”
The pilot replied, “It will take 40 minutes to re-charge the temporal coils. I c’not change the laws of physics.”
“Then we’re screwed,” said the scientist, “because this universe is composed of anti-matter.”
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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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