by submission | Aug 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Brian C. Mahon
“How hopes and dreams vanish when the Maker decides to lower the curtain,” Clarissa Dochenal, Countess of the Third Tier, chided herself. Even the confines of a Zakiche war-corsair failed to guarantee safety when the gods warred. The Maker, the False Sun, the Void Avatar, the Slaver, and the Half-mortal feuded for the right to galactic dominance, and when the Maker called its blessed followers to battle, the Zakiche answered.
The Third Tier held the devoted responsibility of ensuring the Maker’s will reached the spearpoint driving into the weakening flank of the Half-mortal’s Sagatarum sector stronghold. But an errant outrunner of the Half-Mortal’s vanguard found her first. The explosion propelled a spearpoint made of a splintered crossbeam of one nanosecond-offset Godsteel to pin the countess off her feet to a bulkhead.
An Inker, a chronicler drone, navigated the debris-rife corridor to find her in the control room, to rest a narrow band of light on her shoulder, and it intoned in a flat, electronic voice, “Will you to add to knowledge, Countess?”
She wiped away the rivulet of blood trickling from her mouth. Her mono-suit injected another dose of numbing agents, effective for pain but keeping the countess wholly exposed to mortality’s palpable reality.
“I have,” she said weakly, wiping again, “my last revelation, Inker.”
It floated to meet her eye, vertically panning her stuck form with its thin spotlight. “Please Countess. Go ahead.”
“I learned- ah!” A muscle spasm forced her to lurch along the jagged shaft, and she shrieked out to the Inker, “I learned! The folly!”
The Inker’s robotic eyelid clapped shut, then open. “What is the folly, Countess?”
Countess Dochenal hissed through clenched teeth, “Perception. We see ourselves unique, on a march through time… each generation the master of the world, each, ah, AHH!” She convulsed, and a trio of needle-tipped tentacles whipped from her neckline, stabbed, and retreated. “Each generation euphoric in its exquisite existence, informed by our earliest books to set our species as masters of th- “
She stopped, her hand shaking uncontrollably.
A soft white vaporous halo surrounded the Inker, and its voice, still clear and present among the groans of bending structural beams and tinny alarms, commanded, “Continue, Countess. Death is near.”
“-of, of the world writ large.” She swallowed a bitter mouthful. “We limit our concerns to the framework of our lives. What affects us, how we affect first order contacts, no further.”
The Inker skimmed closer.
“We believe we are… so unique.”
“Already recorded, Countess.”
The flesh loosened a little more, and more the dark stream flowed, taking with it the ease of breath and clarity of mind. “… we never understood our people’s history as a singular event. In the gods’ wars, we perceived… ourselves elevated servants, special avatars of our lord’s faith… and fury, against enemy deities and their idolaters.” Her lips slacked as she bowed her head, smeared red in crimson flashing lights.
“Countess Dochenal. You must continue.”
A tremble set into her weakened voice, but she went on, “Our entire history is… an indiscernible moment to the gods, and our generations… slivers of their panorama. We incorrectly relish our importance, misunderstand our meaning in the universe. Short-sighted… we refuse the landscape. We are… a calculated move in the Maker’s plan… the evolution of life from microbes to us star farers… our world, not a special miracle flouting universal constants, no, it is… engineered, one move on the board. Ascendancy? Anthropocentric… foolishness.”
A blue scanning beam crossed her forehead. “You are becoming colder, Countess.”
No hint of recognition twitched across her lips or in her eyes. “To gods, what is a planet, a world? A thought, instantaneous and forgettable. If… if the universe is alive, we its sentient thoughts, ephemeral synaptic… firings… then we, Inker… we serve emotions… at war.”
Countess Clarissa Dochenal’s chin lowered, and the image of sanguine life trickling from her tattered mono-suit was the last her quieting mind took in, as she grew still among undulating hazard lights and acrid air. The Inker, alone, glided through the haze and debris to find a chronicler jettison tube and make course for Zakiche, a long journey, but one it was designed and burdened to make. In the Maker’s Compendium, the timeless library, the drone will pen her final rebuke in the undying records so that the countess may see eternity.
by submission | Aug 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The toy soldier guarded the corner of the commander’s makeshift field desk. The faded tin sentry with chipped red jacket, high peaked cap and bent bayonet stood upon the order.
Especially in the age of cyberwar, such an order was on paper. Hand written. Delivered by flesh and blood. A reminder of what was real and what was to be spilled.
The commander concentrated on the little toy. Its eyes fixed and sure. A plaything of the past, a steadfast harbinger of battles to come. War made fast in the hands of children. It changed little. An order given. Received. A decision needed. A sacrifice demanded.
His tactical screens displayed the grids under current assault. A counterassault had been ordered: a hype and wipe. Jacking systems beyond their breaking points, then a massive takedown of security redundancies and fail-safes.
Homes, hospitals, schools, critical infrastructure and industrial sites would implode, explode. Many would suffer.
Though not the commander. Not his soldiers.
What were soldiers anymore?
In cyberwar there was only the enemy. The other side. Imaginary lines within which the ordinary comforts of modern life—all manner of integrated systems, machinery, devices, appliances, transport—were turned against any and all. Faces pressed into pillows or pushed out windows. Silent and fraught.
That was the commander’s charge: take it down, take them down.
Them.
He imagined them. No different than himself. So much like the teenage daughter he’d lost to them. A casualty of an attack intended to jack fleets of spy-and-die drones. High on a mountain pass in winter, her autonomobile’s systems were collaterally blitzed. Her vehicle accelerated wildly and plunged into a deep ravine. Lost in snow and ice, she froze. He did not know how slowly.
He picked up the toy soldier from his desk, from atop the order. He held it lightly in his bare hand. Felt the chill of metal. A shiver of recognition.
The commander gave his command. There might have been other ways, but he did not know them. There might have been some who did not need to pay, but he did not owe them.
He put the toy soldier back in place. Upon the desk. Atop the order. In the middle of war unlike any other. Still child’s play.
by submission | Aug 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
The project began as deep space exploration. All that was found was uninhabitable, far flung planetoids and asteroids, space, and more space. And finally, the edge of space, that was the most salient discovery we made and a puzzling phenomena. We found that space was moving into a metaphysical oblivion, that space was a material of sorts, a thing in and of itself. We started sending probe drones into that metaphysical oblivion. We programmed them with coordinates to return and land on earth if they were to survive… whatever lay beyond the universe.
None of the probe drones returned, it least not in the way we expected. When we sent them through they immedietely registered as though they’d already returned to earth. ‘Had to be a malfunction’, we thought…
Then Dr. Niard suggested something totally absurd. If they’d already arrived on earth, why not look for them here? In fact, why not look for them at the Research, Launch and Logistics center we worked at every day.
“What like in the drone hangars? Or the supply rooms? They’re lightyears away, how could they be here?”, I said,
“No”, he said,
“Underground. Buried.” A few eyebrows raised, bewildered expressions were hard to hide, but he was insistent that we at least give it a shot.
So we contacted the local university’s archeology department, asking them to do a deep metal detection for a specific type of alloy used in the construction of the probe drones, Erisium, an alloy that was truly immune to corrosion and entropy. They inquired as to why and Dr. Niard replied,
“Honestly, the less you know, the better.”
Much to our surprise and, apparently, Dr. Niard’s chagrin, the archeological team detected Erisium buried just outside the Research, Launch and Logistics center’s foundation. They began digging and a day later dug up the first drone probe we’d sent through, affectionately named “Helldiver-1”
We all turned to Dr. Niard, looking for some explanation.
Dr. Niard shook his head grimly,
“I’ve always carried a sort of delusional paranoia with me, that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been myself before. That moments of stark deja vu are actually recollections of an elementary similarity of a time I’d been myself before…”
“Uh… what?!”
“Don’t you see? The drone probe we sent through that metaphysical abyss, that unknowable emptiness, we sent it one, or many universes’ ago, and it recycled into a new universe. The Erisium enabled the probe to survive the harsh conditions of the early universe and it waited, waited until our solar system formed and familiar landmass developed at its programmed coordinates. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found another Helldiver-1, or multiples of Helldiver-2’s and 3’s.”
It was a horrible implication, that the universe, reality as we know it, perpetually recycled, and that fate is a very real and terrible possibility.
by submission | Aug 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
Sitting there in a car waiting for my date to come out, it had caught my eye, standing still like the sail of a ship in a dead calm sea, trying to blend with a hedgerow in the dying light of dusk. My eyes were fixed on it, made out the details, like how it flexed its fingers in anxiety of having been spotted. Movement caught my attention, pulled me away for the barest moment and it was off, dashing across the street. I tracked it as it entered a column of light cast by an old mercury vapor lamp, it faded until it was a silvery blur, barely there, then began to rematerialize as it left the blue-green glow, sprinting across a lawn, taking a moment to glance back at me and finally disappearing behind a house.
The shadow became my obsession, even though I would never see it again. I came back to the spot over and over, long after the girl and I called it quits, even after she had moved, and some other family settled in. I came back so many times that the family finally got a restraining order and barred me from coming back. As I grew older, I kept an eye on real estate listings and when the house came to market I pounced on it. Fate foiled me. The day before settlement the house burned down. Months later a developer bought up all the land in the area and turned it into a mall. Some speculated that it was the developer that set the fire, but I know better. The shadow was toying with me.
When the mall came I was excited. The restraining order didn’t hold anymore, but I found that the spot was now in the middle of parking lot, ablaze even in the dead of night under thousand-watt bulbs that no self-respecting shadow would hang around in. Even worse, as I grew older, and the taint of years crept over me compounded by the construction I lost the sense of where the moment happened. Was it there in aisle 21B outside the Orange Julius or over there in 14 J near the salt dump?
It was with a bit of relief that I began to notice the little things recently. My razor blade moved from one side of the sink to the other, the milk carton placed in the cabinet with the cereal, the shed door left open overnight. I know it’s him, I feel him coming closer. All these years I thought I was the one in pursuit.
Maybe shadows hold grudges. All those years ago I caught him where he shouldn’t be. I take some measure of comfort in thinking that he has been as obsessed with me as I have been with him.
I know he is here. I can feel his presence, hear his labored breath mimic mine as I scramble up the steps. But the joke will be on him, I am waiting. I am ready. Make your move and we will see who is the hunter and who is the hunted.
by submission | Aug 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: E. S. Foster
The weeds along the pathway clung to my IMRA uniform. The High Witch glared at me as I stumbled over diamond-patterned sticks. “We have no cause for your people here,” she repeated. Her staff—a branch braided with moss and who knew what else—swung toward my head.
I reeled backward, almost tripping over a row of wilted flowers. These people were worse than I thought. After IMRA had sent my colleague, Winston, last month, I wasn’t keen on visiting. But now it was my turn to do the convincing.
“Be gone, lest a curse fall upon you!”
“Ma’am, believe me, IMRA and I only have the best interest of humanity at heart. But the last of the federally mandated rockets are being launched within the next year. Earth isn’t sustainable for humanity anymore. We must relocate.”
I finished my speech with a grunt, a puff of air fogging up my mask. If this High Witch struggled for air, she didn’t show it.
I turned to the orange sky. Through the empty branches, streaks of black clung to the horizon. I tried distinguishing the rotting, empty buildings of the Upper East Side. As if on cue, a soft rumbling rose from miles away.
Several cultist members suddenly leaped out of the park rocks. Their potato-sack robes were sewn with oak branches and acorns, making it easy to blend into the trees. They barreled toward me, some with even larger sticks. I bit my lip.
“We’re reclaiming the earth!”
“This is our home!”
“That’ll be another IMRA rocket!” I shouted over the noise. “Our New York division has one more available in August.”
The High Witch scowled at me.
“Please, I have the information packets—we can provide supplies in the meantime—”
The High Witch threw up a calloused hand. The group forming behind her quieted in a breath. I glanced at each one. Most were older, wearing the tattered hoodies and scarves from their homeless days. Others were more like the “earthers,” as we called them. Some of the many hundreds who refused to leave their farms, villages, and homes. IMRA welcomed them, but they made it clear that they’d rather brave earth’s harsh elements than whatever lay beyond.
“They can send whatever agents they like, even the less experienced ones like you. But we won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
I was more impatient than intended, but the High Witch only shook her head.
“We said this to the last one. The trees are dying, it’s true. Yet they still speak. They seek our help. As we become one with nature, we speak for them. If you are to take the coward’s way out, fine. We will speak for nature and build from the ground up.”
I sighed, lingering on her words. “Can I at least offer you some blankets?”
***
*International Martian Relocation Association, Rocket 8674, prepare for launch.*
I stood on the slick front deck of the ship, gazing out the window at the sea of brown. Behind me, the aisles of seats trembled.
Please locate your designated seat.
Winston turned to me as we strapped ourselves in. “A record of five thousand plus. Have any luck with those Upper East Side earthers?”
“No.” I tossed my head back.
We stared at the fiery smog underneath the long window. “Hopefully the last few come to their senses. Nothing but insanity down there now,” Winston remarked.
I remembered the High Witch’s words.
“No,” I murmured. “There’s some hope.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room used to be part of a well-appointed apartment. Under the ravages of damp and neglect, it looks like it was abandoned hurriedly. If you peer through the grimy windows and look down, you’ll see waves breaking against ruined shopfronts, and seagulls perched upon tide-tossed vehicles.
In one corner there’s a desk. On the open leaf lies an old personal datapad, one of the first generation of ‘long life’ mobile devices that arose after the technological excesses of the early twenty-first century were outlawed.
A gloved hand disconnects a rapid charge pack and pockets it.
The datapad screen glows faintly, almost obscured on the upper half where the accumulated muck hasn’t been wiped away.
It finishes starting up. A single notification flashes slowly: ‘194 unopened messages’.
There’s a soft sigh, like someone had been holding their breath.
“Play most recent.”
There’s a moment’s silence. The notification changes to ‘Message left 71:06:21:35 ago’, then displays a ‘No Image’ banner.
The voice is hoarse, the sentences broken up like the speaker is concentrating on doing something else.
“Hey, Helen. Must be a couple of months since I last called. Don’t know why I keep doing this, but I never get a decline or a bounce, so I guess that pad I bought you is lying in a drawer somewhere, long forgotten. Anyway, here I am over the United States of Australia, flying something that should’ve been scrapped last century, on the way to somewhere I can’t say to deliver something I can’t tell you about.”
The speaker stops, mutters unintelligibly, then continues.
“Okay, I’ll keep this brief as getting distracted like that again will end me and my latest glorious career. Like I said: I’m not sure why I keep leaving messages for you. But, hey, at least I’ve stopped pouring my stupid heart out. You’re off doing whatever you were doing when we collided and fell in love. I’d like to think it was roving journalist like you told me, but, if I’m honest – and if I can’t be honest while effectively talking to myself, what’s the point? – I think you were lying. Still don’t understand why I’m so sure of that, but there you go. I’d guess it’s a part of me looking for a bigger reason than you just not loving me as much as I loved you.”
A second soft sigh turns into a sob.
“Funny, that. Sad, too. Of all the things I could hold onto as a surety, I’m convinced you lied to me. Which, in the end, explains why you left: I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”
The speaker swears. There’s a distant sound of autocannon firing in short bursts.
“Right, this episode of my irregular confessional’s going to have to end early as it looks like these arseholes won’t leave me alone until I make them. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I wish you well.”
The pause is filled with the roar of powerful engines. It ends with a throaty chuckle.
“Actually, I wish I was with you, and not just because it’s a mugs game I’m playing out here. Best wishes, lady. Sorry for not being who you expected.”
The message ends.
The single notification flashes: ‘193 unopened messages’.
The datapad is picked up and brushed off.
“Shutdown device: mypad.”
The notification changes to ‘Shutting down’.
Another sigh. The gloved hand trembles, then crams the datapad in with the rapid charge pack.
“Sorry for not being who you thought I was. Love you, Phil. Maybe, one day…”
The voice trails off. A door closes.
