by submission | Jan 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“It’s quite impressive, really,” said Annika, leaning back in her chair. As General Overseer at Europe’s busiest spaceport, she’d worked hard to get where she was, and could afford to be relaxed.
“It’s bloody annoying, is what it is,” retorted Hans. As a Senior Processing Officer, he tended to find himself at the sharp end of policy, and was a lot less sanguine about things.
“Oh come on. Getting hold of a shipping container, fitting it out with grav plates and self-contained life support sufficient for a voyage to Earth, and then smuggling yourself off planet on a Tradeship must have taken a lot of time and effort.”
“Hmph. A lot of money and bribery, more like.”
“Well, maybe. But he’s here now.” She brought up the holofile. “Adam Iwasaki, age 69 T-years, citizen of Callipolis Prime, industrialist… seems like someone with a lot to lose. Why’d he do it?”
“He’s wants political asylum. Says the government wants to kill him.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Apparently the local oligarchs took control of the planetary government, and in his version enacted a series of sensible new labour and taxation laws.”
“Okay. So? I mean, surely he’s one of them?”
“Well, cutting taxes for the wealthy elite while forcing everyone else to work longer for less didn’t go down well with the general populace. After a few months of grumbling, the final straw was cuts to education, while making it something that everyone would have to pay for. Students protested, the security forces tried to shut them down, things got violent, and suddenly they had a full-blown revolution on their hands.”
“Hmph. Well, businessmen are usually adept at cosying up to new governments.”
“Not this time. The self-styled New Juvenocracy removed the franchise from anyone over 45, and introduced mandatory euthanasia for the over-70s.”
“What?!”
“They feel that old rich people are bad for the health of society as a whole, and decided on a radical solution.”
“You mean, if we send him back, they really will kill him?”
“As soon as he turns 70, yes. Which is in about 2 months’ time.”
Annika sat and thought about the implications for a while. Interstellar travel was still a rarity, hideously expensive, and not something done for pleasure. Meaningful communication with the Colonies was intermittent at best, commerce being conducted by massive automated freighters with no human crew, so she wasn’t surprised that no word of the takeover on Callipolis seemed to have reached the homeworld yet.
“I don’t want a corpse on my conscience,” she said eventually.
“So you want me to let him go?”
“Heavens no! Throw the book at him. Illegal entry, unsafe radioisotopes from his thermoelectric generator, foodstuff import in violation of quarantine and safety regulations, travelling without a ticket, anything and everything you can think of. I want him locked away forever.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. His little story might give people here ideas. Earth’s running out of everything, the climate’s gone mad, and we’re on a knife-edge. Mercantile Houses buy politicians just to keep things ticking over. It’s not a perfect system, but change it and chaos follows: trade collapses, we get starvation, resource wars and megadeaths. I don’t want THAT on my conscience either.”
“I see what you mean…”
“And of course, it would only get worse from there.”
“How so?”
“We’d probably lose our own jobs as a result.”
“Good point.”
“Believe it. We’ve got a good thing going here. Now sort it out.”
Hans rose. The boss was right; you didn’t need to be rich to be worried about number one. Or the greater good.
“On it, chief.”
by submission | Jan 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Cantor waited until Hazzez finished checking the airlock before asking about the Frumies.
Hazzez flashed a crooked grin revealing the eclectic range of micro-implants in his teeth. “Why do you want to know about the Frumies?”
Cantor shrugged. “Sarge said not to give them anything under any circumstances. Zilch. Nada. Why? Seems kind of overkill. On Haliburton 4, we were encouraged to give the locals our extra supplies. It was considered good practice. Keep the locals friendly.”
“Yeah, on Haliburton worlds that works. They’re in the mainstream of the Arm. Easy access worlds. But, we’re on the Fringe. Vanuata is a completely different situation,” Hazzez explained with unaccustomed patience. “The locals can be unpredictable. Like the Frumies.”
“Are they hostile?”
“No. But they’ve got an interesting belief system.”
“Religious fanatics?”
“No more than you are for wearing that Saint Christopher medal.” Hazzez poked at Cantor’s chest.
Even the slight pressure made Cantor feel the silver medallion against his skin. Hazzez and the other soldiers had ribbed him because he never took it off. “You know that’s for my mom. She thinks it’ll keep me safe on deployment.”
“Exactly,” Hazzez clicked his teeth over the com-link. He tapped at the transparent metal of the porthole to what lay beyond. “You see Vanuatu out there? Imagine you’re a local. You have no clue about a larger universe. Galaxies. Other worlds. Strange creatures arrive in amazing ships. Your world is turned upside down, but maybe in a good way. You like all the things these strange creatures bring. They have powerful tools that make your work easier. You don’t speak the strange creatures’ language—but one word sticks. The word the aliens use a lot when unloading their amazing vessels.”
Behind his faceplate, Hazzez’s green eyes brightened for a moment and then came a thick and delicious whisper. “Cargo.”
“Yeah. I get that,” Cantor said, stepping back from the airlock door unimpressed. “Natives. They like things. That’s what cargo is. Things. So, why can’t we share some with the Frumies?”
His eyes still ablaze, Hazzez cracked his crooked grin once more and opened the airlock door. “Better to show than tell.”
They tractored past numerous cave dwellings of the squat simian-like Frumies, who watched but did not approach their vehicle. It was almost an hour up the redrock canyon before they reached the structure.
Cantor was gobsmacked. Hazzez let him stare for a few minutes before he commented. “You gotta hand it to the Frumies, they know how to work with stone.”
“Why? It must’ve taken decades. Is it a religious site?” Cantor asked, growing more conscious of the Saint Christopher medal around his neck. It seemed heavier.
“They did it for cargo,” Hazzez answered.
“But it’s made of stone,” Cantor flailed. Before him stood a two hundred foot high stone replica of a much outdated landing craft. The details were stunning, down to the scarring on the lower thrusters to the delicate sensor arrays near the pinnacle of the craft. All deftly carved and recreated in stone.
Then there were the support structures. The complex infrastructure deployed from a lander on any planetary resource mission. Solar vaults, com towers, crew quarters, vehicles and command center had all been painstakingly chiseled in Vanuatu red stone. And all reverently maintained, swept and wiped down by the Frumies.
Cantor tried to grasp it. “Do they think we’re gods or something?”
“Not gods, just givers,” Hazzez answered. “Used to be routine missions to Vanuatu, but then there was an almost twenty years interruption between visits. The Frumies liked our cargo. They wanted us back. This is the way the Frumies thought they could bring us back—or at least our cargo.”
“By building stone replicas?” Cantor sounded lost.
Hazzez clicked into lecture mode. “Here’s the upshot, the Frumies confused cause and effect. Many decades ago, our spaceship and infrastructure brought the cargo, so when we didn’t come back for awhile, the Frumies thought if they replicated the ship and infrastructure, the cargo would come again.
“What a waste,” Cantor said. “Impressive, but a colossal waste.”
Hazzez chuckled. “I dunno, Cantor. We came back. We brought more cargo.”
“But not because of this,” Cantor gestured toward the monolithic structure towering above them.
“Well, then what brought us back?” Hazzez challenged him.
“I dunno,” Cantor mused. “Trade. Greed. Exploitation. Take your pick.”
Hazzez’s grin flashed behind his faceplate. “Well, then we’re not that much different than the Frumies, are we, Private Cantor?”
Cantor gazed back up at the massive stone rocket ship and felt the familiar tug of the medallion around his neck.
by Julian Miles | Jan 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Does it ever end?”
Bruce rises slightly and turns to stare at Lilimya.
“If you don’t pay attention, it’ll end sooner than y-”
He explodes from the waist up, a wave of heat momentarily turning snowflakes to steam.
Lilimya is blown backwards, splinters of bone peppering her armour amidst a spray of blood.
She lies there looking up at the stars, wisps of breath rising from her respirator vents. High above, she sees the flickering light of a spacecraft manoeuvring in HEO, probably a drone hunting enemy machines. Combat outside the atmosphere has been automated for many years, just like fighting underwater. If the same had happened on land, Bruce would still…
She whispers.
“Sorry, captain.”
Then again, he hadn’t needed to face her to reply. She caught him off guard. He responded incorrectly. It goes round and round. They’ve chatted and even argued while in battle before. This time was just the time the big scythe in the sky swung too close to survive. With a sigh, she wonders who’ll be his replacement, and if there’s anything left to replace him in. Most likely, she’ll be transferred to another battalion.
Something grinds against a kerb outside. Lilimya powers down her suit. She grins. Start the clock: eighteen minutes to suffocation.
“Scan-far show-no fight-ers.”
The voice is loud and obviously mechanical, but the tone gives her the mental image of her family dog looking back at her while out walking.
“Good work, Arcady Twelve. Move to next zone and assist Unit 24.”
“Thank-you. Mo-ving. Un-it. Two-four.”
The something grinds against a lot more kerb, then crushes what sounds like a vehicle, before crashing and grinding off into the distance.
Somebody sighs loudly.
“Op Sight, this is Arcady Actual. Nobody spotted they had meat in this zone?”
Smug enough to chat with externals still on…
The reply is so cheerful it makes her wince.
“Sorry about that, boss Arcady. Been busy rolling up France and Germany. It’s not like you’re in danger over there, especially from what was likely a non-combatant.”
Lilimya boots her suit into ambush mode. We’ll see about non-combatant, you pricks.
“Op Sight, there are valid arguments for this country having developed the fundamentals of modern warfare. ‘That sort of potential never leaves a population, merely goes dormant’.”
“Arcady Actual, quoting our revered Thought Leader is said – by himself – to be a non-argument. If you want to debate, do so in your own words.”
Lilimya comes up with her Custerson-Daeschler combi shouldered and aiming where she’s looking. The fire selector is set to ‘Everything’. Seeing a bulky form with whiplash antennas rising from helm and backpack, she blips her targeting once. Nothing between this prize prick and the chunky ping that must be Arcady Twelve.
Bracing herself against the wall behind, she pulls the triggers all the way back.
“Boo.”
The combi roars as it unloads three magnum rounds, a ten-gauge sabot, an incendiary grenade, and an anti-vehicle minimissile.
The armoured suit staggers under impacts as fire blossoms across its side and back, then the minimissile drives through and explodes inside the wearer. As black smoke erupts from it’s respirator vents, the suit falls.
Lilimya straightens up from where the recoil knocked her back regardless of her bracing. Her shots hadn’t hit dead centre because of that, but an untidy kill is still a kill.
She grins, then switches her suit from ambush mode to silent running mode. A callsign like Arcady Twelve hints at there being at least eleven other dangerous automata prowling about. It’d be embarrassing to get killed on the way home.
by submission | Jan 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Diego Lama, Translated: Rose Facchini
Lucio has smelled of piss and shit for more than twenty years, ever since his mother died suddenly and he started sleeping in the park. That night, however, he couldn’t fall asleep. It was the stars’ fault. Lucio didn’t wonder if there was life out there, as many others would have, nor did he ask himself why or how the universe existed, or other bullshit like that. He just wanted to turn them off, all those stars, because they were too bright and really bothered him. For fuck’s sake.
All of a sudden, he heard a booming voice that seemed to come from the dark center of the galaxy.
“You have been chosen,” thundered the voice. “Unto you will the supreme knowledge be bestowed, o Man! Your only task will be to disseminate it.”
Lucio let the newspapers slide to the ground and sat up on the bench.
“Some two thousand years ago, we did the same with a skinny, ascetic, bearded associate of yours,” the thundering voice continued. “But too much time has passed. The moment to upgrade has arrived. Are you ready?”
Lucio looked at the stars, then yawned.
“First, we shall explain to you how the magical whorl of time, space, life, and the universe works. Wisdom is like rain,” said the booming voice. “It falls and makes things grow, but then it evaporates, because only by evaporating can it fall and make things grow once more. And so on…”
The voice continued to speak.
It taught Lucio how to see with his eyes closed, how to listen by touching, how to live and travel without ever moving, breathing with his thoughts, loving with his memories. It taught him how to speak to the spirit that floats within every person and never to their minds, to embrace and enter the souls of women, as well as their bodies. Then it explained to him what was at the end of the universe and what there was before the Big Bang, but also what there was—and what there will always be—at the end of time. Then it made him understand, in great detail and depth, the absolute and relative meaning of his life, and of all the lives in the universe, and of the universe itself. And then it showed him what was right to do and what should absolutely not be done anymore—social media, for example, or talent shows, to name just two. And, from that moment forth, it was permissible to mate in groups, regardless of age or species, and it was no longer forbidden to kill, since life and death were part of the same stew, as it were.
“The old program is obsolete,” thundered the voice at last. “You must delete the previous version and replace it with what you have just received. Do you understand? Are you ready, o Man?”
Lucio nodded, then rose from the bench and wearily walked towards the central walkway of the park, where dawn lingered among the plane trees.
It was up to him to spread the word, for fuck’s sake.
by submission | Jan 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Michelle Wilson
It wasn’t their fault. My parents were good and kind, with the best intentions; their only “flaws” were an inability to conceive and the wish for a family of their own. When the technology came, and they saw the digital models of how I would appear (an uncanny visual likeness of them both), who could blame them for jumping at the chance?
Their only condition was forgoing the ‘passive’ designer-gene route offered, the elimination of what the latest science considered unsavory human traits; they wanted a child with all the idiosyncrasies and surprises that came with being closer to human. If I couldn’t be an exact replica of them both, alternatively, they wanted the closest thing to real.
Friends warned them. What if it grows up to be a criminal, a serial murderer?
They were adamant. You couldn’t eliminate one possibility without nixing all the rest. Every roll of the dice carried its own beautiful risks. Anyway, criminality was a result of bad parenting; they would provide a loving home.
Born through a surrogate, I arrived healthy and by all appearances a near union of them both. A rambunctious child, I kept them on their toes, delighting them, as I grew, with reflections of their own quirks, talents, and mannerisms. Though at times, my temper tantrums taxed them, my uniquely stubborn streak exasperated, they stood by their decision to embrace all of me—the good and bad. They had no regrets.
Not even when the bullying in grade school began, the name calling and shunning.
“She’s different,” my teachers would say. “Her circumstances are unusual.”
Undeterred, my parents remained focused in their goal to provide a loving home. They doubled their hugs, emphasized my talents, and schooled me themselves, shielding me from harm while giving me an education that far surpassed the public school system.
Yet the more I understood how different I was, the more my tantrums grew. Determined as they were, when therapists suggested that I may, indeed, have a triggered predisposition for deviance, rather than be derailed by disappointment, my parents loved me more.
Others insisted I should be grateful for their endless patience. For my parents remained tolerant, forgiving, and kind, never shouting back, never raising their voices. But the therapists’ diagnosis only deepened my feelings of inadequacy, and my parents’ refusal to fight back fanned my fury. I wanted them to react, to feel my pain. Alone in my suffering, I wanted them to be more like me. But they always insisted on being the opposite: reasonable, stable, and supportive. Their cheerful, loving natures full of hope never diminished. Their kind, patient faces never broke down nor cried.
Most maddening of all, when, in frustration and anger, I threw my human body against theirs, my parents’ perfectly wired bodies, warm and electric, never bled.
by submission | Jan 24, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Shantytowns sprang up around every Jirt hiveship, infamous marketplaces of greed and filth. This must be the opinion of the Jirt, because without warning they sometimes reduced them to sterile white ash.
Surely no one would risk living in the volcano’s shadow, but time passed and always the humans came creeping back.
This solitary Jirt was a drone, and therefore idle and curious, with wealth to squander, though his glittering isolation field protected him from the grubby attention of human peddlers.
The drone halted, as if studying the word Clinic above a door, though he had no need to puzzle over human script, since that was the function of the translator-bug that clung to his thorax. No one had yet decided what function humans might serve.
Close up, the human medic was soft and pulpy as prejudice claimed. Humans reminded some Jirt of newly-hatched larvae, which must be why they were not swept away, their world cleansed like a diseased hive.
Reluctantly, the drone began to explain. An itch between the maxillary palps, also some soreness and discharge from the proboscis. Of course this was easily remedied by Jirt technologies, but the Queen and Court was bound hear and the drone could not bear to be gossiped about.
Dropping the isolation field left the drone exposed and vulnerable. It was a difficult moment.
While the human busied itself obtaining samples, it gave a tiresome lecture on germs. Humans were obsessed with these invisible entities and the drone buzzed his vestigial wings with impatience. How much simpler to be sterile inside and out!
The white-coated medic shook his head. “Was it a rubbish tip? A cess pit? Or perhaps road kill?”
A million years ago the ancestors of the Jirt had indeed looked for food and mates in such places, but civilisation changes everything.
The medic was extolling the virtues of penicillin, though the drone had stopped listening. Perhaps these incantations encouraged belief in their potions.
Hurrying to open the door for its customer, the human offered uncalled-for advice. The honoured one should be more careful in future, faecal matter was not the sterile food paste that the Jirt were used to.
“You are far from home and perhaps the primitive has awoken ancient instincts.”
Outside was the marketplace, where one might find amusing gifts for the Queen, though the drone headed deeper into the shantytown, abloom with colours and overripe smells, buzzing with raucous noises and disorder, the source of all that was vile, polluted and rank.
Only later, with a thrill of disgust, did the drone realise he had not rebooted his isolation field.
Waiting on the Queen the next day, the drone remarked he had visited the human market and was appalled. The disgusting place needed to be cleansed.
Only afterwards was the drone embarrassed to discover a whiff of corruption he had noticed was coming from himself.
It was the consensus of the Court that tidying up shantytowns was unlikely to impress Her Majesty, so there was consternation when the Queen summoned the drone to mate with Her.
But while the drone should have been concentrating on the mechanics of this honour, instead, he found himself recalling the tantalising odours of filth borne on the foetid air of the human quarter.
Few copulations in this modern age finish with the roused Queen biting off and consuming the drone’s head, and perhaps it was for this reason that the Queen declared it to have been one of the most satisfactory matings for many cycles.
