by submission | Jun 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
They got us on Gagarin Avenue, by Central Hub’s tourist centre with its garish scrolling ads.
Janey and I had borrowed one of ’Lymp’s crawlers for the two day trek back to Marsport. Everyone assumed we were just using the independence referendum as an excuse to catch some R&R, but we planned to register our partnership too; just in case of accidents, we told each other, knowing it was a bigger deal.
Back at base, we hadn’t been able to escape the political posturing in the run-up. The Interplanetary Alliance’s silly ‘Forward together!’ slogan sounded weak and ineffectual. The Arean League was encouraging local autonomy over colonial dictates from Earth; given how little the sweat and dedication of Martians meant to the terrestrial agencies, that sounded good. Like a lot of people, we were both starting to think that it was time for Mars to strike out on its own.
But here and now, Security heavies kitted out in suppression gear were doing stop-and-search, GuardEyes floating overhead. The rideshare pod we’d picked up at the city airlock slowed down as one of the troopers sent an override from her handset. The important thing was to stay patient and polite: Seccies weren’t known for their sense of humour. I dropped the side screen without being asked.
“Hey, Sergeant. How can I help?”
“IDs,” was the only reply.
I handed over our chipcards, and they went through his scanner.
“Jones and Raines. Huh, more Earthers” he sneered. His badge read ‘Domer’, a good Martian name.
“Weapons? Liquor? Recreationals?”
“No sir, abolutely not”. Neutral tone, eyes front, don’t make eye contact.
“Open up the back.”
I pressed a button, and another squaddie poked into the empty space behind me. What did they think we had in there – unlisted supplies? A contraband pet? As if!
“What are you doing here, Earthers?” I noticed the League patch on his breast pocket.
“We’re Martians. In town for a few days, going to vote. We work climate research at Olympus Mons.”
“Can’t hold real jobs huh? Get out of the pod, slowly. Up against the vehicle, empty your pockets on the roof, thumbs and forefingers only. Spread your arms and legs.”
We obeyed. It wasn’t like we had a choice.
“Wait.”
We stood frozen while they continued going over the car. By the time they were sweeping beneath the chassis I was stiff and my arms were hurting, but moving without permission would be dumb. Never cause trouble, never give them an excuse. Anything could be called ‘resisting legitimate authority’, and RLA’s led to a world of hurt.
When it was over, they dismissed us with casual contempt. I hated that. I was a Citizen, I hadn’t done anything wrong, but these goons acted like I was some kind of cockroach.
Guys like these Seccies, it was obvious how they’d vote. And clearly they were looking forward to sticking it to people like us – folk with the ‘wrong’ names, people who worked with their brains not their muscles. Did I want to take the next step in a relationship by associating with that kind of mentality?
Janey raised an eyebrow at me as I took a deep breath.
“I think we should talk before we go to vote,” I said.
by submission | Jun 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The new crop was the strangest I’d ever seen. Vine-like and fast growing, but with no apparent fruit or other nutritional attributes. Shaliman and I never quite knew what we’d see each cycle. That was up to the ag techs. We just kept our heads down and did what they said, sweating in the mammoth growgrids.
Hunger will do that.
I’d been in college, studying to be a climatologist, when the collapse came. Everyone could point a finger, spread the blame, call for blood, but not much else mattered when grocery store shelves emptied and stayed that way.
Everything became about food: who had it, who could get it, who could grow it.
Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are fine words, but they don’t fill your belly, so it didn’t take long for feudalism to bury democracy. Though our new overlords were not landowners, they were ag tech monopolies like CropCorp. They produced the seed and regulated where, how and who could grow it.
Sure, in the early days of the collapse, lots of us tried to grow our own grains, fruits and vegetables, and some even thought livestock was still a viable food source. It never panned out. Conditions had changed too much. Environmentally, economically, politically. And, ultimately, socially.
We accepted our lot. Thralls to CropCorp and the other global ag fiefdoms. Life, even much diminished, clings to the margins.
Which is why we worked the growgrids, scaling and servicing the towering scaffolds latticed with pipes and conduits recirculating the hydroponic nutrients that fed ever-changing crops. Within the vast polycarbonate panes, it was steamy, strenuous and often perilous work.
Shaliman fell from the highest deck last week. Her eyes never closed, even as the response team converged and took her away. That was our lot: planted, plucked, ultimately replaced. Haunted by the specter of starvation, we always blinked first. Fear is, indeed, the best soil for growing obedience.
Still, our servitude in the growgrids gave us a chance to hang on to the slimmest of margins, the rockiest of times, grasping for greener pastures though there were none left on earth.
Strange soil indeed.
High on the growgrids where the viny new crop had stretched higher than any crop before, Shaliman’s replacement, Witnez, who pointed it out to me. “You seen anything like this before?”
Witnez was standing on his tiptoes examining something sleek and black weaving through the thick mat of viny creepers that formed our newest and strangest of crops. I was a bit taller and stretched to take a closer look. The critter looked like a dung beetle carved from obsidian. Sharply faceted, its black carapace absorbed light as it inched through the creepers while sharp mandibles punched methodically into the vines at regular intervals.
I picked it off the vine and it immediately sunk its mandibles into my thumb. I yelped, dropping the thing which scurried along the catwalk and burrowed back into the thick green mat. I looked at my thumb where two precise holes were welling blood.
In the days to come, the ag techs released hundreds more of the obsidian bots into the growgrids to inject specially modified phytohormones into the vines. And quickly, succulent-looking fruit formed. Whatever they were feeding this new crop, it was responding.
And strangely, I was too. Ever since that first bot had “bit” me, I’d begun to feel stronger, sharper, less fearful. One morning near the place Shaliman had fallen, as we paired up to climb the growgrids, Witnez said plainly, “What’s changed?”
I shrugged, but I thought I knew. Witnez waited. Finally, I pinched a bot off the viny mat. For a moment we watched its legs whirl and sharp mandibles bob. Then I placed it in my palm and let it scrabble up my arm, injecting me every few inches until I couldn’t take it anymore and flicked it off my bicep.
Unrattled, Witnez looked from my pained eyes to the towering scaffolds of green that were both providence and prison. Beyond our closed system were other closed systems. Witnez grabbed a bot from the vine. It bit into him.
Soon, we climbed together, knowing that only storms can turn doves into dragons, worms into warriors, seedlings into sequoias. Bit by bit.
by Julian Miles | Jun 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sensation of having no legs is new, and I’m not liking it. Being unable to connect to the in-ship stream is worrying. At least I was able to reach the emergency button. Right on cue, the door panel slides back to admit-
A ghost in black.
“You’re dead!”
She smiles. Another one that doesn’t warm her eyes.
“Nearly, Miles. I called it a good effort.”
My mind flashes back to that day on the Eventide. We stood at either ends of the shuddering evacuation room, atmosphere venting about us, she in the ballgown I gave her, me in the environment suit I’d changed into before the bomb I planted killed her along with the ship. Her eyes went wide, I pulled the trigger. She went over back-
No.
She rose up before she went backwards when the beam hit.
“You tip-toed! Took it through the face instead of the brain.”
Callisto smiles. This one reaches her eyes.
“Your recall is good as ever, but still needs prompting to work properly. That arrogant surety versus actual attention to detail never changes. I’ve watched you, on and off, ever since I got out of rebod.”
She always loved to have every angle covered. Which is why a lover’s betrayal was the only thing that – judging from the evidence before me – only nearly caught her out.
“How’s the new bod?”
There’s a grimace in reply.
“This is the second. Emergency relief was pushed, trying to save all the worthy from the Eventide after you cracked it open. The go-bod I ended up with wasn’t optimal. I had to live with seizures for a year until I could get a me-bod printed and have myself cut across to it.” She smiles. This one makes her eyes flash. “I kept going by knowing we’d meet this way: you paralysed, and me standing over you.”
I wave my arms.
“Partially paralysed. You’re slipping, Callisto. Getting sloppy.”
Her quickdraw is flawless. The dart gets me centre-mass. Got to admit, had our situations been reversed, I’d have waited before taking the shot. Gloating has always been a weakness of mine.
I slump back. Fast-acting, major muscle groups only. I can still roll my eyes.
“Better, sweetie?”
When I flick my eyes from side to side, doing the closest thing to a nod I can manage, she laughs properly. I’ve missed that… Surprisingly true, and a realisation too late – again.
Callisto holsters the weapon as she steps closer to stare me in the eyes.
“The crew are sleeping in the lifeboat they’re headed away on. They didn’t know their wealthy client is a double-crossing interstellar thug.”
She straightens up.
“The other lifeboat is mine, because I’m not leaving here in the fresh produce container I arrived in.”
So that’s how she got on board.
With a move I don’t quite follow, she stabs me low in the side. The drug cocktail she used is very good: pain receptors aren’t affected at all.
Crouching next to me, cerametal dagger cradled idly in her offhand, she gives me a smile like she used to when we were in love. Well, she was. I was in lust while getting paid a fortune for revelling in it.
“I’m not sure if the overloaded drive core exploding, the decompression it causes, or the blood loss will kill you, but a little variety never hurt anyone, did it?” She chuckles, quoting one of my favourite pre-kill phrases.
“Bye.”
She gets up and leaves. Just like that. I’d definitely have gloated. Such a beautiful set-piece. Shame it’s me in it.
by submission | Jun 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jess Chua
[24 June 1975]
“You don’t have to worry. The results will change your life.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Stevenson was awash with hope and relief.
“It’s all going according to God’s plan and decision.”
“Praise Him!” The Stevensons raised their palms to the sterile bright ceiling.
Dr. Abraham left the room to retrieve Mr. Stevenson’s analyzed sample from the small office next door. He thought of his accolades and his brand new Mercedes waiting for him outside. The luxury sedan was white, spotless and pure—just how women were meant to be.
He leaned back against his chair, beginning the process that had enabled so many of his patients to have their dream miracle children. He didn’t have the heart to tell the couple that Mr. Stevenson had a low sperm count. It was unbecoming for a man to know. On the other hand, Dr. Abraham had intelligence, good looks, and good breeding. His seed was of a better stock and quality than most of his female patients’ husbands. He was doing *them* a favor.
“Praise Him,” they’d still proclaim when he was back with his sample.
Dr. Abraham was always there to perform his moral duty as a righteous man: to ensure that life won, to ensure that earthen vessels bore fruit.
[24 June 2005]
It troubled Dr. Abraham that people didn’t know where they went when they died.
He was leaving his legacy through a premier crisis pregnancy center. He had also dutifully multiplied during his time on earth.
Sure, there was Heaven for the worthy souls.
But was there something else? What if human beings could use technology to delay death forever?
He wrestled with it for decades, whether to condemn or fully embrace technology.
Cloning and cryogenic preservation were really an insurance against the unknown.
He signed the papers.
[24 June 2084]
His eyelids slowly opened to a clean and brightly lit room.
A throng of poreless beauties ambled around. They were lithe and strong, models of health and natural athleticism. Two of them were monitoring his vital signs.
*Abraham…* he heard an inner voice in his mind.
His heart began to slowly thaw as it gave its first pumps. Recollections returned as the digital upload of his memory bank began to process.
“What year is it?” he asked. He stared at one of the female beings through the domed chamber he was locked in. She looked back at him with piercing green eyes but said nothing.
The wording on the screen changed, this time to an image of a small fetus in utero. Dr. Abraham smiled as he thought back on his previous life’s work.
The fetus on the screen suddenly took on a grotesque reptilian form before morphing back to a more benign human presence.
“Behold!” proclaimed the green-eyed woman, gesturing over the doctor’s abdomen. “This is how we’ll be saved. Like the best of our hosts, we’ll adapt for we are strong and brave.”
Dr. Abraham screamed into the echoless chamber, powerless to abort the mission he had been forced into, as the perfect beings gathered around him to sing:
“Praise Him!”
by submission | Jun 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Transmissions from the Heaven Probe sizzled with white noise. In a moment of high drama, a shadowy figure had approached the lens, speaking in tones both measured and incomprehensible.
Dr Helen Forster smiled for the media. “Here is that first image from Heaven, cleaned up.”
Bishop Vaughan interrupted. This had always been his moment.
“We prefer the term deistic space.”
Did we expect angels to look human?
The discovery of deistic space has seen theology expand from its theoretical beginnings to the experimental discipline it is today. Observations suggest our universe is the shadow cast by that numinous dimension.
Compared to the worship-contaminated environment of Earth, the Mare Orientalis on the moon’s far side has proved a superior site for astrotheological observatories, and staffed by atheists, is entirely litany-free.
“This is Professor Jamshidi,” said Helen Forster afterwards.
Bishop Vaughan inclined his head.
“The Iranian linguist,” she added. Off-camera, her smile was perfunctory. Under the makeup, her eyes were bruised by long hours and ambition.
The bishop took Dr Forster aside. “A Muslim—”
“The only scholar with the necessary expertise.”
The bishop turned and held out his hand. “Welcome, Professor.”
Neurons in the human cortex form a unique fractal array, and without the distraction of a heartbeat, it opens to the universe like an aerial. Before being brutally awoken by doctors, those who undergo Near Death Experiences sense this.
Modelled on the brain, the Large Prayon Array will let us overhear the primordial divine Word commanding the Big Bang. Soon it will be too late for God to have secrets.
“I watch like everybody else,” said Professor Jamshidi. “I hear the voice and I think, I know this.”
He took the bishop’s silence as scepticism. “Aramaic is my study. At the University of Tehran for thirty years.”
“They speak Aramaic in Heaven… in deistic space?”
Jamshidi shrugged. “Perhaps they think we still speak it here.”
On the laptop video, the angel stared, its eyes much too large.
“First, it announes itself with the honorific, Morning Star.”
Jamshidi paused the video. “You will say Aramaic lacked this word. But the prefix royal, added to fight?”
The bishop cleared his throat.
“Translates as war,” concluded Jamshidi. “It says the war in heaven goes badly.”
Supported by a counterweight in geostationary orbit, Project Babel was to extend beyond the atmosphere. Cutting-edge theology would unite nations in this colossal enterprise, searching for the prayon, the smallest, indivisible word of God.
Sadly, Big Theology overreached itself. Cost overruns, unnoticed differences in units of measurement, and mistranslation of the word hubris, halted construction.
Dr Forster shepherded Jamshidi to the rear of the building. The bishop thought the involvement of Muslims needn’t be advertised.
“Your cab, Professor,” said Dr Forster, her thoughts already elsewhere.
Jamshidi was not one of the fanatics. He overlooked the fact that Dr Forster flaunted herself like an immodest woman. He knew it was her, not the appalling clergyman he must convince.
As his ride pulled away, he looked back, but she had already gone.
There were subtleties only a scholar able as himself could appreciate, how in Aramaic, the word losing could imply falling, as a coin is lost falling from a purse.
How the one calling itself Lucifer warned they would soon be falling from Heaven.
A host of high-divinity sources have been detected approaching Earth. Attempts to make contact are under way, despite those who say we should not be meddling with god-like entities we do not understand.
Before astrotheology, such attitudes were common, but if we were meant to remain ignorant of Him, God would have made us all atheists.
by submission | Jun 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jackson Lanzer
Screens illuminate my face as the names of the damned dance to a symphony of crimson letters atop a digital stage. I will give each name justice. It is what they deserve.
My forearms are strong. It takes strength to push a button that snuffs out another man’s flame.
One name amongst the crowd of traitors catches my eye.
James. Accused by his neighbor of harboring a personal telephone. Guilty. Espionage against social order. Death.
The screen changes from the crimson names to a colorless, bleak cell. John sits on a chair, and tears rip themselves from his closed eyes. He knows his fate.
My fingers hunger for justice, and I set them rampant, leaping toward the button. My index finger hits plastic, and a guillotine slices through the room.
Thud.
The screen is doused in color: scarlet death.
Darkness conquers the screen momentarily before another name is dragged before me.
Sara. She taught her daughters about Susan B. Anthony. Guilty. An attempt to destabilize gender order. Death.
Again my mighty forearms grasp the button, bearing the weight of Sara’s fate. I think of her children as I press the button, and I smile as I free them from lies.
Again, a wave of scarlet purifies the screen. The truth remains eternal.
A third name arises on my screen. Only I know this name.
I knew this day would come.
“Comrades, it is not enough to bring justice to our enemies,” the glorious leaders would say. “We must bring justice to ourselves. Revolutions are built on sacrifice.”
So my arm reaches towards the button as the screen shows a young revolutionary at his desk.
I watch the revolutionary. He stares at a screen, contemplating a man’s fate, and his arm inches toward a button.
I take a deep breath and press the button just as the revolutionary presses a button of his own.
As the blade rips through our body, I don’t scream or cry like the others.
I simply wear the proud smile of revolution.
