by submission | Jan 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Deborah Coy
Clarise thumbed through the thick album on her lap. Her mother, sitting next to her, pointed to a rampant unicorn just like the one glowing a proud blue on her wrist.
“Wouldn’t it be awesome if we had legacy tats?”
Clarise didn’t answer but quickly turned the page and paused over, “The Evil Eye”.
“No,” she thought, “a cliche.” Probably three students in her homeroom had that one.
“My little baby is growing up,” her mother prattled. “How about this heart? When I was a kid, everyone was getting hearts.”
Clarise refused to acknowledge her mother but noticed that her mother’s tattoo was turning a sickly maroon. Clarise knew she should pretend to listen.
The door of the clinic opened. Someone from Clarise’s school walked out. She couldn’t remember her name. A new tattoo, a bright red book with the word “truth” written on it.
“Just like a nerd to have a book. What was that snail reader trying to communicate?” Clarise thought. The girl glowered at her and everyone in the waiting room, her tattoo pulsing redder by the moment.
“Why do I have to do this?” Clarise whined.
“When I was your age, everyone wanted a mood tattoo.”
“Now, everyone has one. Thanks to that ridiculous law. It isn’t so crazy now, is it?”
Clarise looked down and saw the tattoo she wanted. She put her finger in the book to hold her place and closed it. She put a fake smile on her face, the last she would ever be able to pull off.
Suddenly Clarise heard her name called. “Let’s get this over with,” she sighed.
Clarise walked back into the waiting room. Her mother, whose tattoo was an anxious lavender, rushed to see Clarise’s choice.
Clarise held out her right wrist. A red pair of dice rested there like doom. Snake eyes!
Out of habit her mother asked, “Aren’t you happy to finally be grown up?”
Clarise answered, “Sure.”
The new tattoo turned liar yellow.
by submission | Jan 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jackson Lanzer
A man is silhouetted by a sunset, the heavenly light decorating him in immaculate golden armor and a tattered cape of shadows. His rusty hair flows in the wind, and his oak eyes stare into the celestial abyss.
“Just me, alone, suffering in paradise,” he mutters to himself, the only man in a tropical universe devoid of humanity.
A tear falls down the man’s face, a drop of golden ambrosia in the light.
As stars overtake the sky, the man’s knees shake, and he stumbles to the sandy ground. The beach is his bed, and he cradles seaweed as the evening fog cradles him. It reminds him of all he lost: his love, his life, and his happiness.
“I’ve been trapped on this Island for 8 years,” he tells the seaweed every day, but she never truly listens.
“I prayed to the sky to bring me to paradise. I’d kneel beneath the stars and plead my message before the gods: ‘save us from this apocalypse and bring your loyal herd to salvation.’
“But those creatures only took me. My family is still stuck, alone, suffocating on Earth’s fumes.”
The man trembles.
“I suppose, thanks to aliens, I have the luxury of ‘paradise’ for the rest of my years.”
He laughs. It is a laugh laced with pain.
“But can a man truly be happy when he is alone?”
He waits for the seaweed to answer.
Silence.
“Exactly. No one ever answers my questions. The gods, aliens, whatever they are, never truly return my pleas.”
Eventually, the gentle sound of falling tears lulls him to sleep.
Sleep is his only respite from the nightmare of paradise. Only in sleep can he glimpse his love again, his arms wrapping around the seaweed, imagining it is her soft skin.
And during the dream, he cries once more: fleeting tears of joy.
by submission | Jan 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
*Influence of the stars,* Breezy Hicks answered her daughter.
The teenager looked at her curiously. *The stars? Why would anyone think the the flu originated there?*
Breezy smiled. *They were literally medieval. Plagues. Pestilence. Why not blame the heavens? In an astrological sense, that is. Kind of miasma theory on a cosmological scale. It fit the logic of the time–and the poetry.*
*Well, I’d feel better knowing this pandemic was some space import rather than our own monumental stupidity.*
*How do you know it’s not?*
*From space? How could it be?*
*Meteorite. Asteroid, comet, moon, or Mars samples that probes have brought back here. Lots of possibilities for viral contamination. Always possibilities.*
Her daughter’s eyes narrowed. *You know something, mama?*
*Lots of things, my girl. I know lots of things.*
*Well, what are we gonna do? This bug is messing things up fast.*
*Drift and shift, baby. We’re gonna drift and shift. Just like this virus.*
Her daughter cocked her head and scrunched her lips and waited for the explanation.
*Antigenic drift is when a virus undergoes small incremental changes. Tiny mutations of the surface proteins to prevent an immune response from the host. Antigenic shift is a major change in the virus producing new proteins capable of infecting a wider variety of hosts. Nudges and leaps. Nudges and leaps.*
*So, what does that mean for us?*
Breezy Hicks’ eyes twinkled. *Adjustments.*
*Upgrades?* Her daughter pressed.
*If we can get to the lab. I can’t kludge this.*
*You’re the queen of biomech. Since when can’t Breezy Hicks just macgyver her way out of any mess?*
*When the stars send us a viral double whammy, attacking both our bio and mech systems, making our augs a liability. So we’ve got to start adapting. As in right now.*
Her daughter cleared her throat, the words coming out thick and croaky, “You mean like this?”
For the first time in weeks, Breezy Hicks answered her daughter out loud. “Good girl. Feels a bit clunky after subvocalization. But our implants are susceptible. Better to go old school. Besides, you have a sweet voice, my girl.”
“I sound like a frog.”
“You’ll turn into a princess. Give it time.”
“Aren’t we racing time, mama?”
“Always. Always. But that doesn’t mean we don’t ever slow down. Like the tide, like the wind. Drift and shift.”
“Well, mama, I guess I’ll have to be a lot more Breezy.”
“Thatta girl. Let’s blow.”
by submission | Jan 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Elizabeth Hoyle
“Virtual breakfast with President Mahlers is at 8:30 followed by a joint press conference with the heads of NASA, Earth Only, and The Time Organization at 9:45—”
“Who invited those idiots from the T.O? All they want is to keep their rich investors young forever.”
“Don’t forget that they’ve invested heavily in you, too.” Perkins, my assistant, sighed. The sound echoed in my isolation chamber like a wave crashing against the seashore. “Final preparations begin at 10:30 with the test run scheduled to start at exactly 11 o’clock.”
“Then I can finally eat something other than this nutrogarbage!” I grabbed some of the nearby foil-wrapped pouches and threw them up in the air. Perkins chuckled.
“I’ll have a bucket of fried chicken and a bottle of champagne ready when you are cleared to come out of isolation. Now, about the press conference—”
“They’ll all ask variations of the same five questions. They always do.”
“Nevertheless, we need to be prepared. You’ll have the world’s eyes on you. The future and the past will be in your hands if everything goes well.”
My heart sped up at his words. He was telling the truth, though I wish he weren’t. “All I did was design a machine and do all I could to ensure it worked. I didn’t want to change the world or build a business. I wanted to see if I could make what was in my head a reality.”
“You did it! You made the world’s first time machine! Whatever your reasons, this is a paradigm-altering achievement. Everyone will want to know all about it. As I said, you hold the future.”
Perkins kept talking but I couldn’t hear him. My blood rushed through my ears like the gusts that herald a hurricane. I looked down at my hands. They shook. I slammed the “End Call” button and Perkins’ face vanished. I had about two minutes if I was lucky before he would remotely lock the isolation chamber’s doors so I couldn’t get into my adjoining workshop.
I grabbed as many nutropacks as I could and shoved them into the pockets of my shorts and hurried into my biohazard suit. The workshop door whooshed open after I keyed in the code. I pressed the lock code then hurried inside. The machine took my breath away even now. My mother would have laughed at my vainglory but she would have been even prouder than I was. I smiled. I knew where I could go.
I turned on the machine, set the date, time, and place, stepped on the transport pad, and squeezed my eyes shut. Everything worked perfectly because, even through my suit, I could suddenly smell the distinct mothball-and-paper scent of my mother’s attic. I opened my eyes. Everything looked slightly less dusty than it would two years from now, when Mom would force me up here to do some long-neglected cleaning.
The rushing in my ears gradually fell silent. My mother was singing downstairs. She had done that often when she finished teaching her virtual classes for the day. My gut ached with the wish that I could remove my helmet so I could hear her better. I wandered to the corner, where a dusty couch lurked. I sat down. There was a big box of my old childhood books next to it. I opened the box, clumsily picked up the top book, and started reading, memory after memory returning as I did so. I settled back, my shoulders relaxing for the first time in ages. The future could wait a little longer.
by Julian Miles | Jan 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Another street carpeted in things once considered essential. I wait. Nothing moves. Picking up a can of beans, I swing my arm back, then stop. Put the beans in my backpack. Spotting a can of prunes, I throw that instead.
It lands hard and skids into a discarded suitcase. The collision makes a good, loud noise. I wait. Still nothing moving. Probably safe to head on in.
Looks like this way’s been scoured hard already. Whoever dropped the cans must have been a latecomer. Dried blood and personal items reveal stories of families fighting for their integrity in the face of situations they never thought would happen to them.
A teddy bear sits upright against a parked car like someone tenderly set it down. It’s grey, but the eyes are clear blue. In what little light remains, they stand out. Like someone’s abandoned pet, watching without comprehension, waiting for someone to console it.
I pick it up and tuck it under one of the straps on my backpack.
“You got my six, grey bear?”
With a grin, I take a step, then stop. Now I can see there’s a small body under a blanket on the rear seat of the car.
I put the bear back down.
“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t spot you were already on duty.”
Fleeing people quickly discover just how far they’ll go to live a little longer. Morals and civilisation mean nothing when there’s eight people after one bottle of water. The winner might shed a tear or two, but they’ll survive regardless.
Not being one for people since I got out of the service, the end of civilisation stalked in with me watching in disbelief. The sentinels online, the worthy causes, the petitions, the speeches – dear gods, the speeches. Mum would have called it purple prose.
When it all went down, despite the years of warnings, ninety percent of the world got caught with their collective knickers down.
The first week was all sirens, alarms, screeching tyres, screaming, and running battles. I didn’t bother to check the sides involved. People desperate enough to fight? I’ll be off to the side, in cover, and waiting for the ones like me. Only met five so far. Got three from concealment with a pellet crossbow, took one down with a brick, and had a right ruck with the fifth, but he only cut me shallow. I left his guts on the ground. Got good gear from all of them.
Second week was quieter. Towards the end of it, the remaining holdouts quit because of the smell. A city full of rotting corpses reeks. I went through a pot of vapour rub that week.
Back to the water thing: only one group I’ve come across shared their last bottle: they used it to down cocktails from the pharmacy they’d just looted. I found them sprawled in a circle about a fire. They’d clearly made a party of it, then passed a bowl full of poisons around along with the bottle.
Fuck that.
I can understand the reasoning, but reject the acceptance. If the end wants me, it’ll have to come and take me.
A crossroads. Well, now. I look back towards the car with the grey bear. He’d been looking south before I disturbed him. Question is: hopefully or warily?
No matter. I don’t think echoes of intuition coloured with emotion can really help. I was heading west. I’ll keep going. That said, I give the bear a salute before I go. Good luck to both of us, buddy.
by submission | Jan 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
Anonymous hotels on dusty roads close to chaotic ports wasn’t Nick’s favorite part of being an independent fidget. It was worse when the ship he was contracted to meet was three days late, the desk clerk he was bribing told him adherents of the latest junta had been asking about foreigners renting rooms, and it was all on his own dime until he could work.
Kaori often asked him why he didn’t work for a company, a subsidiary of a space cargo firm that ran its own fleet to recover rocket boosters from leased blocks of ocean. Companies like those rotated their fidgets two weeks at sea, two weeks at home, which Kaori felt was what she and Nick needed. Hell, if he’d taken a job with one of the sub-contractors smaller space firms hired, that would have been better than cutting his own contracts with freelancer captains in exchange for three-percent of the take. Three-percent could be a windfall of pittance.
Either way, he never had an answer for Kaori when she dropped him off at the San Diego airport. Somehow the answer always came when he saw his latest ship, even if days late and this time an old frigate, lumbering into port with a half-dozen rocket boosters lashed down aft. Forward of the bridge, a low flight deck was grafted on to pillars and underneath, shipping containers welded together to comprise his work spaces for the next four months. His answer was tied up in that and the rush he felt seeing it—the idea of being on his own, the gamble of making big money—but he couldn’t think of a way to explain that to Kaori.
Nick shoved his things into his duffle, raced down tile-decorated stairs to check out of the hotel, before jogging under a searing son toward port where bedraggled hands on either side of mooring lines were tying the old ship alongside. The captain motioned him aboard once a gangway was craned into place.
“See all that aft?” The captain said on the ship’s bridge. “We’ll make good money off that.”
Nick nodded. Booster rockets freelancers recovered from the ocean were bought up in hardscrabble ports, and repurposed into dozens of things. Nose cones became makeshift satellite dishes, livestock feeders, saltwater evaporation plates, and hut roofs. Rocket bodies in whole formed the walls of grain silos, in part they served as foundations for solar panels, and windmill blades.
“I expect we’ll find enough of that to pay you and the crew.” The captain groused. “Understand. What I want is a Deimos-5.”
Nick was confused. A Deimos-5? The Deimos series of boosters was at version 11, maybe 12. Smugglers were the only ones that still shot 5’s into the sky.
“Deimos-5.” The captain asserted. “You’ll find five drones stowed. I’ll leave it between you and the bosun for deck hands to launch and recover them. But I expect you fly them everyday.”
Nick nodded.
“You’re dismissed to find your bunk and work spaces.” The captain decided.
Nick started to move but was caught off-guard by the Bosun who had slipped silently into the bridge.
“I’ve got two hands waiting to take the fidget to quarters,” the Bosun said, “should we take his cell phone?”
Nick bolted upright in his chair.
“He’s a member of the crew for now,” the captain sneered, “so he can keep his phone.”
Nick eased out of his chair, wondering what he’d gambled himself into when he could’ve been with Kaori back home in San Diego.
