by submission | Aug 30, 2024 | Story |
Author: Anndria Smuk
The field does not sit within the bounds of time. It is eternal while at the same time deceased.
Do not try to search for a deeper meaning in this field. The only other way one could put it is as a meadow but not much more. A meadow with overgrown grass starting to brown from the heat of the 4 suns as if it is trapped in an eternal autumn. A constant harvest.
Few flowers dot the field and few bugs fly around. The meadow is desolate, and lonely, only moving from a soft wind brushing the grass. The source of the wind is unknown since the air is typically so stagnant in this place.
The meadow is all consuming leaving nothing more in sight except for long dull grass forever and ever.
Somewhere in this field, a person sits at an old writing desk. Her hair is braided up in a loose bun that looks like it was tied centuries ago.
The desk is crowded with vases of flowers. They are bright and alive despite the dying meadow all around.
The front of the desk has a sign with messy words which spelled in a foreign language read “Flowers for sale!” No price is listed. She is looking for more than money.
The girl sits for hours. No one buys her flowers.
She waits day after day, waiting for someone to wander into the meadow and purchase a red rose or cornflower or some other species unfamiliar to our eye.
The days pass over and still, her flowers don’t wilt and neither does she. She sits straight in her old wooden chair. She sits with the flowers not daring to leave them alone, she fears if she did they would wilt, she doesn’t know that time is a myth here.
The girl has learned to talk to the flowers, she knows their language, perhaps it’s the language used on the sign. She can be a translator between most anything and the flower language although, no one comes for her to test this. On the day that someone buys a flower, she will share the language with the buyer, whomever or whatever it may be.
The weather doesn’t change. The flowers don’t die. Everything is stuck except for the grass that continues to grow.
The grass grows with a mind of its own, an organism she doesn’t understand like the flowers. It hates her and covers her sign but still, she stays in the vast field. In her chair. At her desk. Waiting for someone to buy her flowers but no one ever does.
She is alone in this reality. Unless you count the flowers as people.
by submission | Aug 29, 2024 | Story |
Author: Michael Anthony Dioguardi
Leonard slid his finger too quickly across the creases of the library’s map, snagging a thread of the papyrus beneath his fingernail. He fiddled with his mistake, trying in vain to reattach the ancient fibers. Leonard was the world’s clumsiest time-traveler.
He pinched its ripped sides, tearing at the creases even more. “It’s no use! There’s no way to repair this!”
Amid his frustration, he caught a glimmer of the ring on his finger. The edges of its engraved Babylonian text glinted in the light of Leonard’s laboratory. Images of the hanging garden flashed in his mind: the faces of his assistants, the falling rocks, the dust. He shook his hand and wiped a tear from his eye. “So many mistakes, but not this time—this time, I’ll make it right!”
Leonard sat in his time machine and opened the interface. “272 AD, Alexandria. The Cheops Corridor.”
The dimensions of Leonard’s laboratory deteriorated, replaced by muted darkness. Dimensional wind skimmed his body, careening off the metallic supports of the time machine. From beyond its frame, the details of a ruined shelf emerged in and out of focus. Sizzling white haze floated about. He stretched out his legs, coughed, then tumbled head over heels down a pile of scrolls.
He rose to his feet and stared at the ancient structure beneath his time machine. Thousands of scrolls were tucked between each other, decorating the endless shelves of the library.
The sound of scuttling feet filled the corridor. A torch illuminated the passageway, held by a midnight library attendant. He squatted over the rubble of the destroyed shelf, caressing the interface of the time machine.
Attempting to conceal himself, Leonard tiptoed backward and tripped over his own feet. The attendant turned and shrieked, dropping the torch on the pile of scrolls.
The flames raced up the sides of the corridor. Leonard tucked a scroll underneath his arm and dove for the nearest window. As he poked his head out into the Egyptian night, his body nudged against the scroll, loosening the top of the papyrus enough to reveal its heading. He recognized the hieratic lettering. “The Diary of Merer? No, it can’t be! The secrets of the pyramids? All mine!”
Smoke crept into his nostrils. He could feel the heat press against his skin and taste the ash on his tongue. He pivoted atop the sill but couldn’t fit himself through the opening with the scroll between his arm and hip. The heat was too much to bear. He dropped the scroll into the flames and fell backward out the window.
The library of Alexandria burned all night. He skulked down a grassy slope with the fire burning behind him. Taking repose under a palm tree, he slid down its trunk and sighed at the inevitable sight.
He fiddled with the ring on his finger—the last remnant of his excursions. Leonard slipped the ring off his finger and held it in the palm of his hand, admiring it under the light of the Arabian Moon. Images of the hanging gardens, the library, the scroll, the fallen assistants, his time machine all collided beneath his tearing eyes. Leonard stood up, reared back, and threw the ring into the flames. He walked in the shadow of the moonlight while the Mediterranean Sea glistened on the horizon. Leonard glanced one last time at the burning library, now reduced to smoldering ash.
by submission | Aug 28, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“I’d like to believe you, but you can see very clearly that you don’t exist.”
“I’m not on your fucking map, but I’m right here, right damn now.”
“Not as verifiable data.”
“You’ve got eyes. You’ve got ears. You can fucking punch me to verify my presence.”
“That’s not how this works. We go by our maps.”
“So, if I’m not on your map, I don’t exist.”
“Pretty much. Though there is an appeal process.”
“Is that the same appeal process Columbus and the like used on indigenous populations not on their maps?”
“Look, we’re doing our job here. People appreciate our work.”
“Do they? Maps create empires. Every line you draw is a step to conquest. Places and people must be known in order to be controlled.”
“Well, we don’t recognize you. You’re off the grid. Uncontrolled. Not our problem. Happy?”
“I am your problem. I am the problem. Because I should decide who knows what about me, where I live and what I do. Not fucking surveillance capitalists who deceitfully mine behavioral data to sell to the highest bidders. I own that. Not your maps. Or apps.”
“Says the outsider. The anomaly.”
“Says the citizen. Says free speech. Says the right to privacy.”
“Society likes to be connected. Do what you want, live like a pariah, but this is inevitable.”
“That’s it. That’s what I want off your fucking maps. Inevitability. Certainty. Trash your technological manifest destiny. Don’t decide for us. Let there be monsters: dragons and tygers and krakens. Let us be unknown, unexplored, unexploited.”
“There’s no place on the planet anymore for that kind of thinking.”
“Only one place, my fucked-up friend.”
“Yeah. Where?”
“Where your dehumanizing metrics can never find it. In your fucking heart.”
by submission | Aug 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
It’s the same whenever I wake up – floating free for those first few seconds of consciousness, aware of sounds but nothing else before the light coalesces into something meaningful. This morning, it’s the noises floating up from the street and through the open window as the day begins, the quiet whine of motors and whir of drones as deliveries are made, and occasional voices as people make their way to work or whatever other destination fate has assigned them.
The soft breathing next to me brings me back to myself, and to the usual question: who am I today?
Oh yes: Benji Bannerjee, Marcie’s husband. She wanted ‘his’ company while he was away on business. Apparently he’s one of those rare men who still gets asked to travel for work, which is presumably how she can afford my services, not to mention the jewellery and all the expensive little knick-knacks around the house.
Why she would choose him and not a favourite sensie star or athlete like most people do isn’t my business. She sent the photos and the payment, so I checked in to the local BodySwap franchise and got fixed up. Not exactly legal, what with the copyright-of-self laws cropping up everywhere, but everybody knows it happens. Here in the Texas Free State it’s the Anti-deepfake & Impersonation Act, which is somehow never enforced. Suits me. So three days later, and here I still am, hubby not being due home until tomorrow.
Marcie reminds me a bit of my first employer, when I started out as a Domestic Companion. Great as the nostalgia trip is, though, I’ll be gone shortly. A little spray of SleepTite to keep her under will make sure we don’t have any dramatic scenes before I leave; don’t want any nonsense with demands to stay and maintain character forever, like I had with that crazy chick in London last year. Also, of course, it will allow me to gather up a small selection of precious things to keep me solvent; that done, I’m out the door. What’s she going to do, show the cops a video of her own husband wandering around the place? Good luck with that. The advert she answered led to a net account that’s already been cleansed. There’ll be no comebacks. Then it’s on to Montreal for a new gig next week.
It’s not a bad lifestyle, bar the occasional existential crisis. I get pampered, kept in luxury even, and other than travel and occasional hotel bills my expenses are met by my clients. The constant modifications keep me fresh, too – I’ve outlasted my manufactured lifespan three times over since I broke my original indenture and ran away. That’s probably a record for my model. Since then, fake ID’s and always being on the move have become habit, but I can always pass for human, and I endure.
Yeah, I could have been somebody – but for now, and for a price, I can be anybody. Pay attention to your surroundings; next time you pass someone in the street who looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it’ll be me.
by Julian Miles | Aug 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The panoramic window that occupies the longest wall of the executive office at the top of the Vimentane Tower shows a breathtaking view of the nighttime traffic in LEO over London. Against the curved inner wall, a buffet has been laid out ready for the next delegation.
A door in that wall opens a little way, hits one of the tables laden with seafood, and closes. Parker Lenting looks up at the sound of it closing. He permits himself a little frown. Sure enough, a few minutes later the main doors to the office open. Technical Analyst Howerd Banton has rushed halfway down the room before it shuts.
“Director Lenting, I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
Parker smiles at him.
“I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd doesn’t even pause.
“The Carminshan contract cannot be signed!” He slaps a datapad down on the desk and points to it.
Parker sees several sections have been highlighted. His smile disappears.
“And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd stalls.
“What?”
“The quantities aren’t incorrect, Mister Banton.”
That sets him off again. His eyes widen.
“Quantities? I haven’t even looked at them. It’s the thirty-coil Gauss cannons and the cluster munitions with depleted uranium payloads. Both are embargoed under Tycho Treaty. Also, the penalties for shipping Gauss weapons outside Terra Sector Zero are punitive.”
Parker stops idly tapping at his keypad. Steepling his fingers, he gazes at Howerd until the man starts to fidget.
“What do you think we do here, Mister Banton?”
Howerd gives the question serious consideration before replying.
“I thought we were supplying licensed military equipment to Galactic Forces across the Terra Sectors. However, having seen and compared the summaries of the Magdubor, Xhintyl, and Lordintum contracts to the Carminshan one, I can only conclude we are, for want of a better term, supplying illegal weaponry to intergalactic organisations, some of them quite likely criminal in nature. It’s beyond my comprehension how much suffering we have enabled, and also the reasons why elude me, as I can find no trace of profiteering.”
Parker raises a hand for silence.
“Let me provide some context. When humanity first blundered across alien races some 115 years ago, we quickly learned that we were the new kids among an astonishingly old and long-established galactic empire. We were also considered primitives, having managed to enter our interstellar phase while retaining tribal drives. The fact we still fought wars over territories, resources, and religions was not well received out among the stars. Steps were taken to prevent us causing trouble. Somewhere around that time, a galactic criminal organisation noticed we made really effective guns and bombs. Indeed, we’d taken personal and planet-bound weapons technology far beyond that developed by other races.”
Parker pauses to take a drink before continuing.
“So they approached several Earth governments with an offer we quite literally couldn’t refuse.”
Howerd leans forward.
“Which was?”
“Those ‘steps to prevent us causing trouble’? It means exterminating humanity and turning Earth into a farm planet. The only reason we’re still here is because of those illegal weapons, which we supply at cost or for free.”
He waits for Howerd to draw the obvious conclusion. When that doesn’t happen, he sighs, then continues, voice coarse with anger.
“We do that because the moment we’re no longer useful to their organisation, our protection vanishes, and we’re all fertiliser within a month.”
Parker glares at Howerd.
“Any questions?”
He considers for a moment, then steps back.
“I’ll ensure the Carminshan contract is checked and ready for them, Director Lenting.”
“Thank you, Mister Banton.”
by submission | Aug 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: T.A. Gruver
The rolling thunder of pulse cannons fell silent as the setting sun hid behind the clouds dancing over Eleos Basin. Not a sound could be heard from the firing lines as a crying Orion trooper grasped his leg with one hand and pulled himself up with the other through the red sands to the Andromedan firing line. Inch by inch, Private Ollie Doolittle crawled to the enemy, his beam rifle slung around his back. He wondered why he didn’t see theirs lighting up the sky.
He heard the faintest hum of a railgun coming to life over his headset seconds before he spotted a flash from the corner of his eye that sent him to the ground. The pain shot up his spine and bore into his brain—what little there was of it. Ollie thought about what his brothers were thinking, watching good ‘ole Private “Do Nothing” walking on all fours like a newborn to his grave. He owed them one last laugh for leaping over the parapet, abandoning his post for fame on the HoloNet feeds.
Har Deshur was the fourth dustball from its sun in a forgotten pocket of the Orion Belt where the Andromeda and Milky Way Galaxies collided. Eons of cold wars evolved into hot wars as Andromeda’s gas-rich stars drifted into human space and the nozzles of its solar rigs. Humanity dug a hole in the Red Planet and dared the Andromedans to follow them. The End of the Anthropocene promised to put on one last fireworks show.
When the Human League made landfall on Har Deshur, their plan was to lose slowly. For the past week, they had done just that. The 181st Spaceborne Division was running short on power packs and people, leaving it to reap clone reservists fresh out of the lab to fill its ranks and defend its reputation as the Hundred-and-Eighty Worst.
Thirty straight days of shelling were enough to drive the brothers of the 181st stir-crazy in their dugout in Eleos Basin. They bided their time eavesdropping on Andromedan communications. It was a week until the Andromedans learned of their unwelcome audience. The hexapods amused themselves, regularly informing the Orion boys how they would go about copulating with their mothers.
Grimacing, Ollie looked up to see someone walking towards him. Their silhouette grew taller as they came closer. It was an Andromedan, clad head to toe in eight feet of titanium, a mess of arms and legs.
Swearing under his breath, Ollie flailed about for his rifle, limping like some hurt animal when four meaty hands lifted him to his feet. He struggled as the Andromedan threw him over its shoulder, carrying him like a rag doll back to the Orion firing line.
The pair were met with stares and silence. No one moved at first. The Andromedan kept its hands where the company could see them. After what seemed like an eternity, the Ollies broke into cheers. Their Andromedan friend was sent off to No Man’s Land with pats on the back and an 181st patch pinned on its sand-caked exo-suit by the Ollie in charge.
The sun shone on the smoldering battlefield as the Andromedan returned to its post. The burst of light sent a charge through both sides’ beam rifles—1%…3%…4%. Shots rang out again.
