by submission | Apr 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Tanner had always managed to navigate his way through life unnoticed. He became acutely aware of this when he first began his work as an Eraser. Ordinary looking and extremely reserved, even as a young man Tanner realised that this did not fully account for the uncanny ability he had for melting into the background, for making himself all but invisible.
There was something inside of him, an innate skill, a gift even, albeit one he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t sure that he wanted. He realised also that, given the line of work he had chosen, if he were to hone his skill and nurture this gift it could be very useful.
It seemed apt to Tanner that he, whose job was the disappearing of others, could move around unnoticed, was an invisible man as it were. But whenever Tanner glanced in a mirror nowadays he was shocked by what he saw. He was a little man, short and hunched, the pallor of his skin matching the grey clothes he always wore. His thinning hair was white and his face was deeply creased and lined. He was a ghoul, his was a face that featured in nightmares, that appeared toward the end, just before dawn.
When tracking a suspect Tanner was always diligent; recording everything, scrawling it in a little notebook, all he observed and managed to overhear, no matter how mundane or insignificant it might seem. He believed the details mattered, that they were important, a part of it.
Alone in his apartment, Tanner transcribed from his notebooks, painstakingly filling journal after journal with these details. Over the years he had come to realise that a radical’s routine wasn’t so very different from his own, yet he still persevered, determined not to miss out anything, however trivial.
He always included the date and the time. Time, he felt, was crucial. The time in between, the time spent at a place of employment for instance or visiting a friend. Or simply sitting and reading a newspaper, whether it be on a park bench or in a busy cafeteria. He even made a note of what his suspects ate and, of course, where and when.
Tanner hadn’t ever witnessed one of them stepping guiltily out into the light. Caught anyone in the act, as it were, but all had been found guilty. They had been enemies of the system but Tanner hadn’t yet destroyed their journals and the minutia listed and labelled within was all that remained.
by submission | Apr 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Nystrom 6 is a heavily altered planet- by what or whom was why we were there. On its surface is a 100-meter-wide glass smooth band of an unknown substance. It circumnavigates the globe at the equator and pole to pole. We had dozens of scientific survey teams studying it…until the first accident. I was there the day it happened.
There was no warning. No rush of wind, color shift, vibration, or sound. Just Stacy, Bree, and Mack trying to sample what we were calling ‘the track’ and then they exploded. The only thing we found that didn’t look like shredded meat was Bree’s arm which landed off to one side of the track. There were not enough other remains to autopsy. The pathologist ruled summarily death by high energy blunt force trauma. All told we lost twelve survey crews before we figured out to stay off the track.
The first family that received “compensation” were the next-of-kin to the original three that were killed. Each member received from the aliens by methods unknown, bricks of superconductor material worth billions. Our government squashed news about that as long as they could. The next person who received compensation was, well, me. It was given for the trauma caused when I witnessed my co-workers reduced to sheds of flesh. I received a scroll with a diagram. By handling the scroll, basic instructions were downloaded into my brain. I gathered the materials, placed them on the scroll where indicated and watched with fascination as the elements assembled themselves into a machine. Shortly after that, all the next of kin and witnesses to track deaths received either bricks of semiconductor material or some kind of precious metal or crystal. The wealth received by the remaining next of kin actually destabilized our economy for a bit, but soon enough things got back to mostly normal. Oddly, I was the only one who was gifted with a machine.
Of course, word of the compensation eventually came to public attention, and between desperate individuals, organized crime, scam artists, the odd bribed government official, and “suicide event planners”, the planet has been finally declared off limits to all but researchers (like me.) Our military has an armada in orbit around the planet, all to stop what is being called “suicide gold diggers.” Hypocritically, the government is quietly contacting terminally ill individuals to work out a 50-50 deal. Half to their family, and half to the government. All for filthy lucre.
My compensation, my machine? I’ve kept it quiet. When picked up, it tells the story of the people who built the track. Beings so far advanced we are on the level of cats and dogs compared to them. The track is nothing more than a switching station on the most mundane transportation route they have to go from one galaxy to another. The machine also tells me our species, in due time, will evolve into higher beings ourselves. It is quite uplifting. But the real value of my compensation is it has given me a blueprint to be the first to ascend and start our species’ evolution. Part of that gift is a deep wisdom that has expanded my consciousness.
Now I am standing on the track holding the machine given to me as compensation hoping that my end will come soon. I’ve managed to contact these beings and let them know to stop all “compensations” including any to be given after my death. If I’ve learned anything from all this it’s abundantly clear, to the core of my being, we are not yet worthy.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Rachel scrolled through what passed for news on her phone, coffee slowly cooling on the kitchen table. Malcolm would already be at work, leaving her in peace for this precious little time before she herself had to get dressed and head to the office.
She looked up as the kitchen light flickered and went out, and when she looked back Malcolm was seated across from her at the table. She jumped at his unexpected appearance.
“What the…,” she started, then froze.
She could clearly see the flowery wallpaper of the far kitchen wall through Malcom’s shirt, a shirt she didn’t recognize, and he’d somehow managed to grow the better part of a beard since he’d kissed her in bed that morning.
“Hey sweetheart,” he said, his voice tinny, flat, “sorry if I startled you.”
She looked around the kitchen for the telltale sign of a projector, assuming that this was some kind of practical joke.
“Rachel,” he waited until he had her attention again, “this isn’t a trick. We’ll talk about this after when I get home, and I won’t know what you’re talking about. I built this machine in your future, I wanted to see if I could come back to this moment and talk to you. I wasn’t sure if this would work, but I hoped it would.”
She studied his face and searched for something in his expression that might give away the joke, but she knew him well enough to realize he was serious.
“How far in the future?”
“It doesn’t matter, just the future.”
“I don’t understand,” she started turning her coffee cup as she spoke, thoughts racing through her head, “What’s it like there, or then I suppose.” She laughed, and he smiled, face full of emotion.
“It’s much the same, you know, nothing much I can say without risking changing things, you know how the paradox rules go.”
She nodded. “So what can you tell me? You look good, though I’m not sure about the beard, I can’t imagine me letting you get away with growing that damn thing, but clearly, I’ve softened. Any stock tips? Do the Leafs ever win the cup?” She laughed again, that dig never getting old with her.
“I’m not sure I should have done this,” he ignored her questions, “I wasn’t sure I could, locking onto a time, and a point in space that’s so far away from where I am right now, I didn’t dare to hope, but…”
He paused, studying every line, every curve, every freckle on her face, committing it once again to memory.
“But I missed you.”
And with that, Rachel found herself alone in her kitchen once more.
by Julian Miles | Apr 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m about to tear the end off another sachet when a voice sounds in my mind.
“Go easy on the sugar. Too much of it makes me ache.”
I look about. There’s nobody else except for the two staff. It’s not a busy period: early in the morning at the all-night café round the back of the shops in Crawley.
Returning to my task, I rip and tip, then stir.
“Is it really necessary to have six sugars?”
Same voice. Still nobody nearby, no visible artificial speakers, either.
It’s 06:00 at the arse end of Sussex. Okay, I’ll go along with it. But in whispers. No need to get carted off as a nutter just yet.
“You haven’t tried the coffee here.”
“I haven’t tried the coffee anywhere. I’ve often been coffee, though. Tea, too. Quite honestly, I’d rather be something carbonated. Better still, champagne. Bubbles are fascinating.”
“Not water?”
“No texture unless it’s too cloudy to see anything in.”
I’ll admit to being curious.
“Texture?”
“The threads that comprise things. Waves, strings, and more that you have no words for.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t see or feel them, and as your sciences don’t predict them, you won’t look.”
Hold the phone…
“‘Our’ sciences?”
“Yes. Yours. I don’t need science. I already am.”
“You’re what?”
“Best word you have is ‘god’.”
I look about. Still no sign of tricksters: not that being unable to see them means a whole damn lot, these days.
“So you’re a god. I have divine coffee this morning.”
“Don’t be silly. How can a cup of warm fluid be a power? In size terms for this reality, I’m about the size of a lepton.”
“Is that like an atom?”
“Smaller.”
I remember a teacher talking about subatomic particles. Very small, then.
“You’re a bit small to be a god, aren’t you?”
“For your universe, yes. For my universe, no.”
“Your universe?”
“Size is only relative within a single reality. Thus, here, I am represented as a tiny particle. In my reality, I am the all. Right now, your reality could be part of a grain of sugar plummeting towards a cup of tea in another reality. We’re all part of a gigantic moving pattern.”
My head hurts. But…
“It’s a dance?”
“Yes. A more appropriate term in some ways, too.”
“So, before this grain we’re in hits the other-reality tea, answer me one thing: why am I talking to my coffee?”
“Just because the sugar we’re part of dissolves, it doesn’t mean we do. Conservation of energy and a few other things prevent that. Why are we talking? Because I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“Why did your god give you free will? I haven’t given my sentients any, and things are a lot simpler.”
No, wait… What?
“I have no idea. Why on Earth would you expect me to be able to answer?”
A woman’s voice cuts in.
“Because he knew I’d be nearby. Gods are like that. We tend to know when and where the more powerful ones are.”
I look up to meet the regard of sparkling pink eyes.
“To answer the question: I willed it. The alternatives are too tedious. Despite nearly resetting creation a couple of times when humans drove me to despair, they continue to display flashes of beauty, insight, and creativity far beyond my imagining. It gives me hope. You should try it.”
“I’ll consider it.”
She sighs.
“Do that somewhere else. Leave. Now.”
My coffee bubbles violently. I watch it.
She chuckles.
“You should get a fresh one. That one’s gone off.”
I look up.
There’s no-one there.
by submission | Apr 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
“I hate them. I hate them so fucking much,” she said, looking through her rangefinder. She had been there on the roof of the house – or what was left of it – for most of the night. She was tired, hungry, and grubby, but this was no different than any other night. She reached into her pack, pulled out a small object wrapped in a rag, unwrapped it, and snapped off a piece from a hard, rectangular bar. She turned to the woman next to her, also crouched down on the roof, wearing the same tactical uniform as she did, and motioned for her to take it. That person paused, looked at it, and nodded negatively.
“I’m not eating that crap.”
“Why the hell not? It’s all we got and all we’re likely to get for the next two days.” She motioned for her to take it again.
“It’s like eating bark.”
“Would you rather eat bark or not eat at all?”
“Fine,” she said, taking the piece and reluctantly popping it into her mouth. Lt. Adams had always been a picky eater growing up. That was a whole different world back then, she thought, chewing on the dense, chalky ration. Back then, she turned up her nose at the slightest perceived issue with whatever meal was in front of her. It didn’t matter if it was made by her Dad (who was, admittedly, a pretty good cook) or Nana or at a restaurant. She would inspect it skeptically first, using her fork or whatever utensil was available to probe parts of it, looking for anything unfamiliar or yucky.
She remembered how Nana would always try to hide healthy things in every meal she made. She’d make lasagna that had ground-up mushrooms, carrots, onions, and other vegetables in it. She’d grind them all up real small, almost a puree, hoping Kelly and her little brother Mikey would notice or taste the difference. Kelly always could, then she’d promptly notify Mikey, pointing out the offending vegetables in various areas on his plate.
Pizza was the worst. Her dad would sometimes have huge chunks of tomatoes on it. He said they were diced but they clearly weren’t. Sometimes he would even put pineapple and ham on it. What kid would eat that? What kid would eat those burgers he would make – the ones with all the garlic and onions in them? Nana would tell them there were starving kids halfway across the world somewhere who would love to have a meal as good as this.
Each time, she would just push her plate away, fold her arms, and stare off across the room at the big clock her Dad made. Each time, she would refuse to eat meals, good meals, made by people who loved her. Now, she’d trample someone without a thought if it meant she could have another piece of Nana’s lasagna. A whole different world.
She motioned with her hand to have another piece of the ration. “Hand me the binos, too,” she said.
“Oh, so now you’re ok with eating these?”
“No. Definitely not ok with it. But…” she motioned again.
Captain Tomaz handed her another chunk of the brittle, tasteless ration, along with the binoculars. Adams had only recently joined her unit but seemed reliable enough, she thought. Most of her unit was new, formed out of remnants of other ones decimated by the initial wave. Adams, and others like her, were barely trained for this. They came from Logistics, Analytics, and the supply depots. Hell, at least two came directly from a mess hall. They came from anywhere and everywhere – particularly once the coasts fell and we were pushed with our backs up against the Rockies on one side and the Appalachians on the other. They all stood up when it looked like we were screwed, she thought. We still might be screwed. That fight in Lansing definitely did not go our way, she thought.
The last eight months had been different, she thought. We tricked those fuckers into thinking they were worse off than they really were, got into their command codes (somehow!) then started working around the edges when they got complacent. A chunk of them were dead or deactivated now, including almost all of that goddamn Nightmare Scythe airborne wing. That thing was fucking terrifying. Watching it finally drop out of the sky was nothing less than exhilarating.
Who would’ve thought the big battles – the decisive ones – would be in the Midwest? All those comics she read as a kid had aliens invading New York, zombies attacking LA, and stuff like that. Nothing ever happened here in the comics. No one ever attacked Aurora, Illinois, or Bowling Green, Ohio. Or any of the other Bowling Greens, she thought. The Midwest was one of the only places to go after they hit both coasts and wiped out our Navy. Even then, it wasn’t ever really safe. Some of the most horrible shit she’d ever seen was in Columbus, in Fort Wayne. In Hersey. That fight in Chillicothe – against that gruesome fucking Mobile Garroting Unit or whatever the hell it was – was just plain evil. It was her and two other units down there, helping get a bunch of Amish families to safety. (Or, was it Mennonite, she thought? She never could remember the difference.) They were on schedule, mostly, until what seemed like the whole world exploded. Fire and ash were everywhere. We could barely breathe or see, then they were on us. These were once manufacturing robots, like for auto parts and stuff, repurposed and rebuilt. They were retrofitted with armor, giant batteries, and solar panels harvested from the former factories they worked in. They waded through us like we weren’t even there.
Now it’s our turn, she thought, smiling slightly as she chewed her rations.
by submission | Apr 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Cold steel from a small revolver in his sweaty palms gave little comfort to Jack Chase, sitting alone amidst feral wheat still struggling in an abandoned field near his grandfather’s rotting farmhouse, long since left to crumble after the 2024 financial collapse. There was no sacred family ground left for a wandering empath, unfit for a corrupt, war-mongering society. No one would notice a misfit who never managed to find a companion or create children. His hands shook while he closed his eyes, the setting sun behind him providing its warmth, messaging his bare neck a final time as the moist soil pushed chills up his spine.
Jack was unaware of a sudden flash of light behind him, hidden within the sun’s diminishing rays. He thought the whoosh of fresh wind was the empty prairie whispering goodbye. Light footsteps escaped him as his weapon pressed his right temple.
“No, Jack. We can’t have that.” A soft feminine voice surprised him near his left ear as a powerful hand twisted his gun from his grasp. He twisted, resisting, finding large, blues eyes and thick, silky blonde hair filling his view. He froze as his intruder tossed the gun.
“Not today, my love. There is much to live for. We waited for you.”
“Waited?” He mumbled. “You’re a hallucination. I had this once before. Am I dead?”
She smiled, calmly. “Not yet. You don’t remember that night? You tried this before, out in the rocky outcrops of Sedona. Did you die from drugs then?”
Jack rubbed his eyes, and then slapped his face.
“I’m real enough, dear Jack.” She pinched his reddened cheeks. “Get on your feet to meet someone to change your life.”
“Who are you? I don’t remember…not your name.”
“We don’t have names. That is your species’ waste of time. We recognize each other in full awareness. Now pay attention.” She was suddenly insistent. “Here is someone anticipating meeting you.”
Jack obeyed, still stunned at the bizarre events. The tall woman moved aside allowing him a full view of a silvery saucer craft. In front of it, moving toward him was a female teenager, also dressed in a shiny one-piece suit like her companion. The blonde visitor held his arm, urging him forward.
“This is ours…our mating.”
Chase’s knees buckled. Vague memories rose from his depression—many nightmares and hypnogogic dreams watching a child mature under orange skies surrounded by unrecognizable forests. They came irregularly. He would wake covered in a cold sweat, fearing for his sanity.
“She…she can’t be.”
“Oh, indeed, she is. For your comfort, I will introduce her as Oneha, meaning an explorer.”
“Why…I…this is too much!” Jack pushed his hands hard into his throbbing temples.
“Perhaps you’re in shock. Come, Oneha, and meet Jack, your father.” The blonde alien drew Jack closer as Oneha reached out, touching his forehead, providing relief and calm. He looked at her hard in the dimming light, scanning her youthful redhead beauty—a doppelganger for his Irish grandmother Elise.
“Time to get on board, Jack. Things are moving quickly. Earth’s magnetic field is changing drastically. Please come along. You’ll be treated well in your new home.”
“I can’t just…just leave, without…”
“Really,” she replied, smiling. “You were about to do that as we landed. There is nothing here for you.”
Jack turned, staring at the farmhouse ruins. He shuddered, reaching for Oneha’s hand and his tall partner’s arm. They walked swiftly into the craft, then zipped past the atmosphere as the ground below them heaved, swallowing the remains of an abandoned homestead.
