by submission | Feb 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: A. C. Weaver
The Franz Josef Glacier has a smoky flavor and a granular texture. The Mendenhall glacier is gamey, with notes of musk and vetiver. The Greenland Ice Sheet has a powdery sweetness to it, like fine sugar. Ice of the Baltoro Glacier — which I enjoyed cubed in a Macallan single-malt — has a subtle, earthy bouquet. I have a close personal friend with access to an extensive cold storage facility in Svalbard; he often invites me there to indulge in rare or extinct ice. He chipped me off a serving of his collection from the Cook Ice Cap. It was the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, bluer than you could possibly imagine, you would weep to see it. We glutted on it, had it straight, shaved into shards to melt on the tongue.
The highly praised Perito Moreno Glacier has cores of bright green and even purple ice. But in color and flavor, I find them gauche. Very popular with the influencer crowd, and unfortunately, easily faked.
An acquaintance of mine, who happens to be a food journalist for the Times, took me out to dinner on the roof of the Hotel Angelique for a rare indulgence in rough-cut core of the Antarctic Shackleton Ice Shelf — one of the last places you can get it, outside of private collections — , on a bed of heather and garnished with arctic thyme. Exquisite, pure as water.
by submission | Feb 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Brooks C. Mendell
Victoria remembered when, as a girl, she walked through Wellington Wood with her father. They listened to woodpeckers banging their heads for bugs and looked for promising oak trees to climb. The arrival of the Grafters and their technological efficiencies changed work and this way of life.
“They will try to replace us,” said Father, following an orientation session. “But it will be difficult.”
Wellington Wood, the vast forest covering half of the continent, had long supplied natural resources to families and businesses: wood for lumber, furniture and fuel; animals for food and leather; roots and plants for medicine and spices. While the Governors bickered over taxes and boundary lines, they faithfully observed the Wellington Wood tradition of sustainable rule: balance harvest with growth.
The Grafters arrived on gleaming metal ships that hovered across the water. Their representatives, dressed in collarless uniforms, visited the Governors and proposed new arrangements to increase production and revenues.
After the signing of Pact, the Grafters sent the massive, dull industrial ships loaded with equipment and their humanoid Fortechs.
“We have no interest in replacing the human workers,” said a Fortech, “but to make your work safer. This will increase our efficiency metrics.”
During weekly orientation sessions, Fortechs introduced new processes to increase volume and improve quality. The goals centered on numbers agreed to by the Grafters and our Governors. Each month, Father came home with less energy, less humor, less patience. He stooped.
Bit by bit, the Grafters bought the lawmakers and the courts and reporters. Our lives became less about walking in the woods and more about supplying energy and labor to the economic machines of our overlords.
The days of Victoria climbing in the woods with friends and family were no more. Now, she lived in a barrack with a nutrition muzzle strapped to her head and a fecal harness strapped to her hips that piped waste to the fertilizer distributors.
Humans always have a use.
by submission | Feb 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Igor Dyachishin
More than thirty years have passed since we were made sure that we were not alone in the universe.
Aliens appeared unexpectedly in Jupiter’s orbit. Huge space fleet with unknown intentions.
Our governments, of course, did not immediately tell us about this. But they could not remain silent for a long time in principle.
Then the aliens contacted us.
Messages in several world languages were sent on different radio frequencies.
They said they would not harm us.
They said they would leave after a while.
And most importantly, they said:
“Please don’t interfere with us.”
As if we could do much!
“YOU ARE NOT INTERESTING TO US.”
That was all.
Of course, people are people. The sensation was accompanied by the fuss of politicians, covered by the media. Not without loud statements, of course:
“Aliens are preparing for an invasion!”
“The government is secretly negotiating with the aliens!”
Funny.
We were simply shown our place.
They even said something to us. I would say they showed remarkable generosity.
The fleet moved around the solar system for three decades. During this time, they managed to recycle Jupiter’s moon, Europa, and many main belt asteroids. Then they headed straight for the sun.
We were afraid. We trembled. We had our hopes.
And so they just disappeared, taking the resources they needed.
But the talking heads in the media and various interpreters have not calmed down so far.
It is so difficult for many of us to accept the truth.
We invented fairy tales in which kind aliens help humanity. We made up horror stories about invasion, enslavement, or destruction. We considered ourselves worthy of close attention. But the real aliens just glimpsed at us. What a blow to human pride!
My father was one of those who hoped. He had a reputation for being eccentric even before the aliens came. With the first news, he firmly believed that the aliens would save us. I remember he did not show even a shadow of fear, which was very strange. Personally, I was afraid. And not only me: probably, most of the population of Earth, who did not know what to expect, was at least somewhat afraid of the terrible scenarios drawn by the imagination.
Dad always, for as long as I can remember, took the suffering of humankind to heart. And he sincerely hoped aliens would help us.
But space travelers destroyed all illusions with their messages, and he could not live as before. He could not live anymore at all.
The night after the messages, he left home. Later, it turned out that he climbed to the fifteenth floor of an unfinished building and jumped out of the window.
Indeed, he was a strange man. He worried about humanity but did not think about loved ones. How many were like him on this planet?
Most of my life took place during the stay of aliens in the solar system.
Scientists have achieved little in their research (we are told so, at least). They say alien technologies are simply unimaginable for us.
Aliens just left.
A final shot to the head. The second blow to our ego.
They did not find anything interesting in us. If they were looking for it at all, of course.
by submission | Feb 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Melissa Kobrin
The first step of unLeveling is to dial down my Sense-thizer. Have to maximize my time to adjust to unsensethized bio senses. Caleb, set it to zero.
Strings of code slide through the mixed flesh and machine of my brain. The world runs away while staying still. My eyes dart around, instinctively trying to bring it back, as suddenly my focus decreases to only a portion of my vision. Everything other than that spot isn’t fully seen, and my natural bio subroutines seem to flag only motion in the dull areas. They won’t even run an analysis until I shift my painfully small focus spot. Peripheral vision, Coach calls it. And what are those noises? I should know, the input data is the same. But now they’re just sounds without meaning. No Sense-thizer to analyze and compare audio files. The difference in smell always hits me last. Instead of distinct interwoven strands, each one neatly labeled in my head, there’s now only one mushed together scent.
Next year, when I finally hit 5’9’’ and I stop growing, I’ll be eligible for augmented senses. Definitely want at least sight, even though it’s expensive. $1,299.99 for EagleEyeIII’s, Caleb says. Part of me is in no hurry to get to that Level though. Augmented is a huge adjustment. Going from sensethized to bio is bad enough. Not looking forward to augmented sensethized to bio.
The second step is to disconnect from the Net. First I quickly check my messages. One last peek, in case there’s something new. Nothing I haven’t replied to, good. Caleb, any important updates? Noelle Tyler’s new album has reached #1 on the billboards, Congress is debating another amendment to the genegineered pet bill, there’s an 87% chance Sam and Rene will break up tonight, and your grandma just posted a cute picture of her dog, Caleb says. Well, that can all wait until after practice. Caleb, turn off my Net connection.
Systems are logged off and shut down in a flickering cascade. With disorienting suddenness my connection to the rest of the world is gone and my brain goes dark. Information subroutines running in the back of my mind stutter to a halt with no new input. Caleb and I are limited to the data downloaded in my head. Anything could happen, anyone could try to tell me something. I won’t know until I log back on and reemerge in two hours.
Next step. Look down and check the telltales on my shoes. The uniform came from the team, and it’s deadclothes. But I’m wearing my own shoes, and I don’t want the nullifier around the court to damage them. They feel dead; my toes are a little cold and my steps plop instead of spring. The small light on the tongue is dark, nothing to worry about, they’re turned off.
You have thirty seconds, Caleb reminds me. That’s fine, I’m almost done anyway. Just one last step.
Caleb, go to inactive mode.
My senses are dull, my brain is dark, my clothes are dead, and I’m alone in my mind. Completely unLeveled.
Coach jogs into the gym, already blowing his whistle. My teammates and I jump up from the bench and run onto the court. There’s no program to help regulate my breathing during warmups. I have to think about it, do it on my own. Deep even breaths. As we start drills the sound of basketballs fills the air. Why are they called basketballs? Caleb should tell me automatically, as soon as the question runs through my mind.
Caleb isn’t here. Just me.
by submission | Jan 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Inspector Morrisey stood between the empty easy chair and the ancient cathode-ray television. He withdrew a pen and a small notepad from the inside pocket of his wrinkled trench coat. “Tell me again Mrs. Kittle, what happened.”
“My husband was sitting right there, arguing with me over what to watch on TV tonight, then suddenly,” she said haltingly, “in mid-sentence, he was gone.”
“Uh huh,” the inspector said, scribbling notes.
With a pink tissue, Mrs. Kittle dabbed the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “I walked to the bar cart for a drink, and when I turned—he was gone.” She waved her arms for emphasis. “Just gone! He waspjasih shjvdoi sj hp aryknyt!”
As her speech rapidly dissolved into gibberish, Morrisey shook his head sadly. He’d seen this many times before, when denizens of his little town became emotionally traumatized. Usually after house fires, or swimming pool tragedies. He nodded to one of his officers, and the young man gently led her away.
“So, watcha think?” McEwan, the rookie inspector, asked. “Did the old geezer just walk away from his marriage? Did his wife knock him off, then plant him under a rose bush in the backyard? Spontaneous human combustion?”
Inspector Morrisey looked at the chair, at the deep indention in the cushion where Mr. Kittle once sat. His gaze then rose to the ceiling.
“There’s no smoke damage,” he said, pointing to the clean white plaster overhead. He looked back down.“No neat pyramid of ash in the chair.” He sniffed the air. “No residual barbecue aroma. And,” he added sagely, “no ghost wandering about.”
“So . . .?” McEwan pressed.
“I’m thinking this is more like spontaneous human—” he snapped his pad shut and shoved it back into his coat pocket, “teleportation.”
* * *
“The old man didn’t just vanish,” Morrisey, now back at his office, theorized, “He’s out there somewhere. We just don’t know where.” He propped his feet up on his desk. “Might be in a closet, might be in a neighbor’s pool, might be—”
“An alien abduction!” McEwan said breathlessly, pacing in front of Morrisey. “Or snatched by a mad scientist for experimentation! Or he’s a victim of evil wizardly!”
“No, no, and no.”
“If this is spontaneous human teleportation, then he’s who knows where,” McEwan frowned.
“It’s perplexing.” Morrisey snorted. “What’s worse, folks have disappeared like this before.” He slid his notepad across the desk. “Type that up and turn it in to the captain.”
“Awww,” McEwan protested.
“You need the practice,” Morrisey added patiently, “if you want to be promoted.” The kid’s new to this game, Morrisey added to himself, but he’ll learn and—
The world went dark.
* * *
“I’m so bored with this town, with these people,” the boy moaned. “I put these characters in weird or dangerous situations, just to make things interesting, and their responses are entirely predictable!” He tossed his controller aside.“I should complain to the developer.”
“So change them,” his mom suggested. “Retire the dull ones, or tweak them. Or entirely delete them, then—”
“I did already,” her son pouted. “Got rid of the ones I’d had around for freakin’ ever. Left some in a pool without a ladder,” he said with a nefarious giggle.“Even burned down a few houses.”
“And? I hope you made better new ones.” The boy shrugged. His mom prompted, “What do I always say? If you aren’t having fun, then it’s time to stop.” Spontaneously, she leaned over and switched off the gaming console. “Now go outside and play.”
by submission | Jan 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Now then, Mr. Klatubowski, what is it I can do for you?”
Jerome sat across from the unremarkable little man in a billowy black rain jacket and fedora. He looked very out of place in Jerome’s ultra modern office of modular metals and arid glass. In Hollywood, it was never about comfort, all about show.
“Forgive inarticulateness. English difficult. No proximate parallels.” Mr. Klatubowski held up his two small, almost plastically smooth hands and moved them mechanically in and out from his chest. “Vast media. Aural, optical, tactile. Need acquire.”
As ViaDishFlix’s director of sales, Jerome had worked with some pretty interesting types, but the little man gave off a vibe that was beyond eccentric. “Could you be more specific? VDF has a massive slate of media offerings.”
The doll-like hands moved in and out as Mr. Klaruboski answered, “All. Entirety.”
Jerome blinked. He almost never blinked. “Let me make sure I’m clear on what you are asking. You’d like to purchase our entire media catalogue?”
The shiny hands moved faster. “Absoluteness. All.”
Jerome swiveled in his chair, so that he could give the impression he was deeply considering Mr. Klatubowski’s last remark. Really, though, he was observing the strange little man out of the corner of his eye and wondering if he posed a threat. His request was absurd. The catalogue holdings of VDF encompassed two-thirds of the world-wide media produced in the past hundred years.
He swiveled back to face Mr. Klatubowski. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is impossible. No outside entity is equipped to handle the extent of our content library, nor afford that kind of access. Whoever set up this meeting,” Jerome smiled thinly knowing that individual would be looking for work tomorrow, “led you astray, and I am very sorry for that, but I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands moved more slowly as he responded. “Forgive inarticulateness. Clumsy doppelganger.” Mr. Klatubowski’s eyes glowed brightly blue. “See. See.”
And Jerome was gone. Or Mr. Klatubowski was gone. Or his whole damn office vanished.
In its place, vibrant media surrounded and supported Jerome. His body surfed through a sea of utterly alien representations. He felt them with a close and curious kinship, experiencing each sensual stimulation as poignant, ridiculous, hilarious, demanding, depraved, and on and on. The sheer volume and foreignness of the representations saturated his brain until he thought he might entirely trip out and go mad.
Then as quickly as the onslaught to his senses had arrived, it departed. He was back at his desk with Mr. Klatubowski.
“Apologies. Countenance alarmed. No harm. Perception needed. See?”
Jerome rubbed at his eyes. “What happened? What did I see?”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands spread expansively. “All. All universal content.”
“You mean Universal Studios?”
The little hands clapped together with a hollow ping. “Mistaken. All universe. Galactic story trade. Buy content production. Must acquire.”
Finally sussing the depth of this beyond-Hollywood weirdness, Jerome’s business instincts perked up. “Are you saying, you represent beings beyond our world who want to trade?”
“Absoluteness. Extra-planetary broker. Acquire content. Universal commodity.”
“Universal commodity? You want trade, but not our technology or natural resources, just our media content?”
“Archives. Chronicles. All stories.”
“But what is special about earth’s stories. What makes them remarkable?”
“Unremarkable. Unusual. Freakish.” Mr. Klatubowski’s petite hands circled upwards. “Newness. Surprise. Astonishment. Stale universe. Earth fresh.”
That was a concept Jerome understood well. Fresh content. If alien races weren’t interested in our micro-circuitry, our abundant water or our tasty flesh, then why not I Love Lucy, Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Bay City Rollers, Edward Bulwer-Lyton. Where else were you going to find that novelty on the seventh moon of Vega on a Friday night?
“Yes, I do see: content’s the thing, content is king. I think we have an understanding, Mr. Klatubowski. Shall we shake on it?”
Jerome extended his hand and enveloped, Mr. Klatubowski’s tiny ones. A trill of energy raced up Jerome’s arms and his eyes flashed an impossible blue. Together the two brokers raced through VDF’s catalogue.
“Satisfied?” Jerome asked.
“Absoluteness.” Mr. Klatubowski’s discarded hands rested on the table. No longer needed, they looked so much bigger in comparison to the nodes that now extended beyond his sleeves. “Now then. We begin.”
