by submission | Apr 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Earth Two went missing. You’d think the reaction would have been shock and awe. It was more like “shucks” and “aaah.”
Generally, the Sol populace exhibited a collective disinterest. The exo-insurers decidedly did not, and I was called in. Planets did go missing. Usually, not ones as high profile as Earth Two, but when identifying and cataloging worlds on the close-to-curdling reaches of the Milky Way, funky stuff happened: supernovas, planetary collisions, gamma ray bursts, wave function collapses, accounting blunders.
As an interplanetary pencil pusher, I had to deal with the finer points of Earth Two being a corporate “rounding error.” When I dug into the case, it became crystal clear that someone had cleverly muddied the waters to make them appear deep. Major tomfoolery was afoot,
What I mean by that is Earth Two never seems to have existed at all. For over two centuries, some entity had inserted bogus interstellar surveying data into the galactic archive and somehow corrupted the cosmic ledger, backfilling the blockchain with convoluted legalities that read like the devil’s own End User Licensing Agreement.
A real cluster. Maybe not Virgo Supercluster-sized, but still a monumental mess to sort out. Luckily and literally, I had time on my side. The inside pocket of my jacket held a freejacked chrono-dowser. This was not strictly legal, but it was certainly efficient when tracking down anomalous activity far in the past, and my ever-tyrannical boss, Amalee La Terre, favored efficacy over ethics.
Through some closely guarded quantum divination, the device could hone in on inflection points in the past. In essence, the chrono-dowser could rewind time.
With a few critical caveats: Rewind Only–no spying into the future, only the past was in play. Read Only–no physically traveling back in time, only peeking into the past. Sheer Events Only–no retro-stalking or prurient pursuits, only past incidents severely rattling spacetime and creating massive branching in cosmic timelines were locatable.
But probably the most important thing to know about the chrono-dowser: it was unfailingly ironic.
Think I’m kidding?
Okay. Here’s where the Earth Two investigation led me: to the small town of Bend, Oregon, USA on March 7, 2019.
Why there and then?
On that day, Earth Two was both saved and doomed, because the last Blockbuster Video store in existence sold a very battered VCR tape of a way-below B-movie. A low budget clunker of a sci-fi flick about humanity screwing up our world and having to colonize a newly discovered exoplanet to survive.
The title: Earth Two.
A super forgettable film. Except to the kid that bought that old videotape. A kid who still used a VCR player. A kid who dreamed and eventually schemed cosmic things. A kid whose great great granddaughter became Amalee La Terre, the current presidium of Magellan Enterprises, the largest exoplanetary expediter in the galaxy. My boss.
In my jacket pocket, on my chrono-dowser, I had all the evidence I needed to expose the juiciest real estate scam in galactic history and lay low the biggest corporation in the cosmos.
So, why did I hesitate?
On that day of March 7, 2019 in that very last Blockbuster Video in Bend, Oregon, you should’ve seen the look on that kid’s face holding that ancient videotape with the lame title and cheesy sci-fi graphics. You should’ve seen that kid’s eyes light up with possibilities. It was like being at the very start of creation. A Big Bang moment. That kid held the future in his hands and in a very real sense did discover Earth Two.
Who was I to take that away from any of us?
Be kind. Sometimes, don’t rewind.
by submission | Apr 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
“There is pain when functional activity is insufficient, but excessive activity produces the same effect.” -Emile Durkheim, The Division of Labor In Society
Jerrold Davis Ph.D. (c) had a problem. He was such an astute student that he had assimilated the language of his discipline of sociology to the point that he no longer could speak in words and phrases of his own making.
Ever since Davis had begun his journey to become a professional sociologist, he had worked to master the language, the lingo of his field. He parroted the things his professors said, and he could recite, chapter and verse, the works of masters like Durkheim, Parsons, Weber, Marx, and more recent luminaries like Skocpol. Davis dazzled his professors by making his points in ways they would make. He was such a good student that he earned several A+ grades in his course work and passed his comprehensive exams (comps) with distinction. Everyone said Davis had a brilliant career ahead of him. All he needed to do was produce articles for publication in academic journals, and he would be assured a postdoctoral fellowship (a “post doc”). No one doubted that his dissertation would be brilliant.
But then something happened Davis could not explain. And when I say could not explain, he literally could not explain it.
One morning, two weeks after Davis defended his dissertation proposal, he woke up unable to speak. When a roommate asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, Davis could not respond. He was mute. Davis had to nod vigorously so his roommate would hand him a cup. His entire morning was like this, having to pantomime his intentions. That is until he arrived at the Sociology Department where, much to his relief, he found he could again speak.
“Jerrold, here is a copy of your proposal with your advisor’s notes,” one of the secretaries told him.
“________________________________________. ________________________. _____, _________.” Davis replied.
“What?” the secretary asked.
“______________. ______,_____. _____! ___.”
She shook her head, unable to make sense of what Davis had said. In fact, he had been quoting from White Collar by C. Wright Mills. But since that work is copyright protected, I cannot repeat it here.
Davis left the main office and walked to the Teaching Assistant cubicles down the hall. Instead of asking himself why the secretary couldn’t understand him and settling on the answer that she didn’t know her Mills, he told himself, “_______________________. _____,________;_________;________________._____;_____________;________________;____________;__________,” which was a passage from Weber’s essay, “Bureaucracy.”
In the office, a peer congratulated Davis on the success of his dissertation proposal. Davis responded by quoting Marx on “each according to his ability” rather than simply saying, “Thank you.” The grad student shook his head and thought again that Davis “couldn’t ever turn it off.’”
By now, Davis was growing concerned. When he tried to ask a question of someone, even a simple question like, “Does anyone want coffee?” he would quote from an article on food deserts in major urban centers. Increasingly desperate, he tried to use dialogue from some of the pulp detective novels he read in his spare time. But it was impossible to do this. All Davis could do was speak in a sociological language.
To get through the day, Davis tried composing a note explaining that he had laryngitis and had lost his voice. But when he tried to write this on paper, he could not. Davis could not print the pronoun I. What he could do was reproduce a passage from Kevin White’s An Introduction to the Sociology of Health and Illness, 3rd edition. For the first time in his life, Davis could not speak up.
He shouted,“____________,_______________” from The Division of
Labor in Society by Durkheim. What he had meant to say was the word “shit,” but his voice would not allow it. No sociologist he had read had used that expletive in their writings.
Still, Davis had a reason for hope. He had just downloaded an AI App for his phone and asked it what he could do to speak to his colleagues. The App suggested using a speech-to-text device, but Davis had to tell the App this would not work because laryngitis had cost him his voice. The App said he should see a doctor, but if he lacked health insurance, he might consult a friend who could speak for him by reading messages that Davis wrote on a tablet. In disgust, Davis closed the App. He tried typing his thoughts into a text-to-speech program, but once again, he could only put down the words of others. Desperate, Davis decided the only option left was to see his dissertation advisor and somehow get him to say things that Davis could repeat. If he could get the man to say, “I have lost my voice. Please provide guesses as to what my needs are from my body language,” then Davis might be able to have someone assist him with his condition. But when he went to his advisor’s office, it was vacant even though his advisor was supposed to be there for office hours. Davis sat and waited in vain all afternoon.
On his way home, a mugger accosted Davis. The man pulled a knife and demanded his wallet. Davis had left home with nothing but his keys and some loose change but could not explain this to the mugger. He did not bother trying to speak. The only thing Davis could do was turn out his pockets to show his poverty. But when he reached into them, the mugger assumed he was going for a weapon, so he stabbed him.
Davis fell to the sidewalk, bleeding from his stomach. The mugger searched him and, finding nothing, ran off. Davis tried calling out for help, but the only thing he could muster was, Au Secour! Au Secour! Because it had appeared in a French article on social determinants of health. But Davis did not live in a French-speaking neighborhood, so he lay on the pavement experiencing an increasing loss of consciousness for which he had no words.
by submission | Mar 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bryce Paradis
“Please hold still.”
Why am I here, in this machine? The dim tunnel enveloping me sings crazy, electric birdsong. It twangs like a guitar, screeches like a klaxon, hisses like radio static, and screeches again.
“We’re establishing your baseline. Please try to think of as little as possible.”
I think of nothing except thinking about nothing, which will have to be good enough.
“Okay, now we need you to focus on a poorly performing memory. Something that doesn’t come easy. Anything that feels confusing or hard to grasp.”
When I was a child, I had a church dress that I hated wearing. On my wedding day, I wore a strapless dress that my mother disapproved of. I married Derrek, whom she didn’t approve of, either. We have two daughters. Their names are … The eldest … She’s twenty-five? Is she married, or is that me in the strapless dress? She must be married, I’ve seen her with her husband. She has gray hairs now, little strands of silver amid the auburn. Only, it’s 2055 … We just celebrated our twelfth anniversary. None of this should be possible.
“We’re building the bridge now.”
Precious light blooms inside my head, warming my body and illuminating the world. The year is 2091. My daughters are Melody and Amelia. They are fifty-two and forty-nine years old. Melody has the most beautiful grandchildren, two boys and a girl. Little Skyler is already in high school, and he’s so tall! Amelia’s paintings, oh … Suns rising out of oceans, white-spotted deer in the trees. And Derrek is here! He’s in the other room. They got him to come!
The machine twangs. It screeches.
“Good job, Alice. We got a nice map. We’re going to try a different bridge now.”
…
I’m in a tunnel, why are they saying it’s a bridge? My hands are cold. Why are there such terrible sounds? Humming and squawking … An electric bird? A snapping guitar? Why am I alone? Where’s Derrek? I want to see my mother. Why did they take me away from my mother?
The light blooms inside my head. My hands warm. I take a deep, calming breath.
“How’s that, Alice?”
“Very good, thank you.”
This rickety brain of mine, it’s done me wrong. Too many poisoned neurons, too many dead wires and frayed connections. It’s been so long now, more than half my life. Everyone has worked so hard to get me here, inside this tunnel, inside this MRI that can talk to nanomachines. It’s such a wild gamble, such a desperate attempt, and so expensive! Then again, Derrek’s paying with his money, so that’s fair. If you don’t stay, the least you can do is pay.
Maybe that’s too harsh. I wasn’t entirely there, either.
“This all looks very promising, Alice. We’re taking you down to baseline.”
The light fades. I’m cold.
These terrible sounds … like a klaxon, like a bird gone mad …
Why am I here, trapped in this machine?
by submission | Mar 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Faye Zhang
Warm sand on the beach. The remnants of dead volcanoes, smooth and sharp all at once. Rows of the shadowed silhouettes of pine trees, jutting up into a blushing evening sky. Her house, shaky on stilts, bleached bone white by ocean sun. Home.
The tinfoil craft begins to shake and sputter. The low fuel light blinks persistently in the corner of her vision. She looks up from the faded photograph, clutched tight between trembling fingertips. She swallows down the fragile understanding of a landing sometime in the very near future, and holds on to the metal rails that encase her more fragile body.
Soon, she will step out into a world newer than new. She will find moss green lakes or perhaps scarlet sky. Perhaps wasteland mountains, rocks stripped bare of life, a world raining dust instead of water. Perhaps.
A pink light floods the window of the spacecraft. To be the first. That thought drives an insatiable, cavernous hunger that threatens to swallow the space between her ribs. She focuses on the dark, blurred horizon that begins to come into view. Begins to take shape and line, begins to resemble rows of jagged teeth.
The first, she thinks, and maybe the last. Her fingers curl tighter around the cold metal of the bars. The thought leaves her breathless. Eager, maybe. Scared, almost. Her eyes flutter shut. She can feel the pull of the land beneath the craft. A new gravity, a stronger gravity, drawing her in, daring her down.
She waits for the painful jolt and anticipates the sudden stillness. She gets what she waits for.
Her tongue darts out, licking the dryness of her lips, tasting the salt of her sweat. Her grip loosens. In, out. In. Her lungs are full to bursting.
The door clicks open.
Warm sand. Rows of pine. A pink light so bright it threatens to blind.
Dozens of stilts snapped in half, edges rough and splintered like broken toothpicks, forgotten stakes driven deep into the ground.
She steps out into a world newer than new.
by submission | Mar 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: Nickola Anne Walker
We sat waiting for him in the kitchen for several hours. Father called everyone, looking for his son. Many of my brother’s friends came and left. He remained seated, his face tired, while he listened. Listening. There was so much to say. Why had they fought over such a trivial thing? Why had he left? Had he taken his girlfriend? Where did they go? Now, father just listened – for maybe the first time ever – his legs quivering in both anger and fear. Guilt was written all over his face. His son was gone. Nobody knew where.
Only after everyone had left did mother turn to father. “You know what he did, don’t you?”
“No. He was angry. He didn’t tell me where he was going to. I have my suspicions. But they are only that. Suspicions.”
“You finally drove him away. He is gone.” Her face was resolute.
“Then his is probably gone.”
“How could you be so terrible?” she stormed off, crying.
“You have made a horrible mistake Father.” I blurted out. “He will leave, and we will never see him again.”
“Everyone comes of age. Everyone must find their own way in this universe.” Trying to sound callous, he just looked small and sad. His son. Gone. Never to return. I had never known my father to show regret but it was written all over his face.
With a tiny bit of pride, he was certain his son would survive where many failed. Together, they’d built heat shields to protect against solar and ultraviolet radiation. Without these, any chances of survival would be burned down and destroyed. But he had helped Brother with his school project. Interplanetary travel. Geological starships. Make a spore that can tolerate the low temperatures and dangerous conditions. Then plunge into space, hoping you eventually hit something. Something that allowed for life. They worked together on it. He knew his son would survive.
The neighbors came. They were crying. Their daughter was nowhere to be found. Clearly, they had run off together. Young lovers. They both yelled at Father; they would never forgive him for splitting up their family. They threatened some sort of judicial something or other. Father just nodded.
“He’s gone.” Father looked tired. He went to comfort Mother.
___________________________________________________________
“After many studies of the Ryugu asteroid, Japanese scientists now believe the origin of life here on Earth might have been brought by an asteroid.”
by submission | Mar 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
“What about her, Joey?”
Dickie and I watch an old lady shuffle slowly down the sidewalk near the park. She looks ancient. Dickie comments that she must be at least eighty years old. I’d peg her as older. She looks as wrinkled as a prune. I don’t have to get close to her to know that she’s probably wearing some stinky old-lady perfume. Somethin’ about old ladies that makes them want to smell sweet. Maybe their noses don’t work right when they get old, I don’t know. She’s wearing a red winter coat despite the fact that it’s a warm spring day. I reckon she’s probably sweating like a pig. The real object of our attention, however, is the oversized handbag she’s holding in the crook of her arm. The strap is hanging loose
Good. An easy mark.
“We’ll probably have to spend five minutes just going through all of the junk in her bag to get at her wallet,” I say.
“Hey, that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”
I shrug my shoulders. Dickie’s probably right.
I check the sidewalk in both directions, and across the street. There are no pedestrians in sight, other than some guy a block down the street walking away from us.
“The coast is clear,” I say. “Ready?”
“Sure. Let’s do this!”
We approach the woman quickly. When we’re about ten feet away, she notices us. She’s defensive. Her hands stiffen around the handbag.
She may be an old fossil but she’s no fool.
“Hey, lady—hand over the purse and you won’t get hurt!” says Dickie.
For a few seconds, there’s no reaction from her. Finally she scowls. Then she asks us, “What would your mothers think of you right now?”
Dickie chuckles and gestures at me. “I don’t know about his mother, but my ma is doin’ five- to ten’ upstate for forging checks. I reckon she’d be proud of me for carrying on the family tradition.”
The woman turns to me. As her gaze meets mine, I suddenly feel embarrassed and ashamed. I look down at my feet.
“Com’on! Hurry it up! Hand over the purse and we’ll leave you alone. If you don’t …”
Dickie uses his most intimidating voice. He lets his words trail off. The hunched woman draws herself straight as she reacts to Dickie’s latest threat.
“If I give you my wallet, will you agree to let me keep my purse?”
Dickie and I are suddenly thinking the same thought. There must be something else in that bag that’s valuable!
Dickie lunges at the purse, but the woman hangs on. She’s surprisingly strong. A tug-of-war ensues. Try as he might, Dickie is unable to dislodge the purse from her grasp.
“Give it here, you old bag!” shouts Dickie. He turns to me. “A little help here, please!”
I step forward and reach out with my hand to grab the purse.
“Stop!” She looks at us with a defiant expression.
“I’ll give you the purse. But first, you have to let me show you what’s inside.”
Dickie seems satisfied with her response.
“Okay. But no tricks. If you try somethin’, I’ll land you flat on this sidewalk. I know martial arts.”
The woman nods. She slowly opens the purse as wide as it will go and shows it to Dickie. He stares in. He’s immediately mesmerized by some kind of bright light shining from inside. My best friend and cohort in crime wears a look of surprise and terror.
I’m getting anxious, too. Just when I’m about to tell Dickie we should leave, an unbelievable thing happens—like we’re in some sort of cartoon. Dickie is suddenly transformed into something resembling a human balloon with all the air escaping! In a matter of seconds, he shrivels itty-bitty. Dickie’s remains fly up in the air then they land smack dab in the woman’s purse.
The woman snaps her purse shut. She seems pleased with the new prize she’s acquired. She smiles at me. I’m frozen by fear.
“Have a nice day now.”
She continues to shuffle slowly down the sidewalk toward the park.
