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.
by submission | Dec 31, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
All lounge tables were separated far from the hideous Braxel’s corner booth. A cleared semi-circle void reeked of rampant terror regarding the infamous diner now surrounded by nervous alien species, some tentacled, slurping preferred living or semi-living fare while keeping watch on the notorious pirate. No being dared complain that this amphibious fiend shared their crowded eatery…or hideout space station. Station Zentoboro was a haven for low-life scoundrel litter that scummed the quadrant. Braxel, the Toad Demon, was peerless among this denizen driftwood. Braxel tilted his slimy shoulders forward, slathering black ramle ale across a squat platter provided by robotic waiters. Braxel’s hunger resisted metallic reflections flittering across his giant yellow eyes as nictitating membranes flopped up and down, sloshing protective fluids.
Crowd noises interrupted his thirst as remaining clients groaned, hissed, cursed, and sputtered at a nine-foot-tall reptoid pushing through tightly layered patrons. One customer spat at slithering Yant. A slash from Yant’s sharp tail removed its limbs. Others then skittered, opening a wide berth for the Velociraptor mercenary as he strode toward Braxel.
“Bright skies, friend of Braxel,” the pirate welcomed. His massive swollen arms with webbed fingers stretched, offering Yant a place to rest nearby in his semi-circular stall.
“I’ll stand by habit. Bright skies to you. How propitious finding you on this station. We haven’t reconnected after escaping U11.” Yant pulled a glass vial from his metal vest, draining a red liquid while Braxel continued slobbering away at his drink. Braxel didn’t interrupt Yant’s small talk. “Great blood. I need that to wash away memories from prison planet uranium ore…yellow dust…and old inmates rotting from the inside out. What luck we met, escaping together. I see your reputation precedes you.” Yant turned, analyzing throngs backing further away from two despised creatures. “They’re panicking. We represent patrons that eat them whole or in pieces. They cower.”
“None with memories that amphibious Trinians once were exalted,” Braxel interrupted. “We were cosmic peacemakers, endlessly mediating wars, saving millions of worlds, and beloved through the stars, except by greedy warlords.”
“What changed?” Yant twisted about on his haunches with his elongated talons forward, resting upright on his red, broad scaly tail.
“Mmm,” Braxel grunted, slurping his ale. “An undetected supernova no one predicted. Trinian’s worlds were instantly vaporized—survivors massacred, enslaved, or worse by our enemies seeking retribution. Some were eaten, some placed in zoos…and worst, some, while still alive, were sealed in resin. I’ve consumed most of those responsible until recently. Now, these growths quench my vengeful hunger.”
Yant stared as creeping black carbuncles near Braxel’s maw split in two. The original halves entered Braxel’s jaws to be munched and swallowed. Yant winced.
“You are shocked, my old reptile companion? I acquired these delightful parasites on unexplored asteroids. They’re harmless. They divide, sacrificing half of themselves for me, after reproducing following strong emotions from others nearby…especially horror. Your walkthrough created a wonderful dessert.”
“Incredible,” Yant shuddered. “I recently heard a clerihew about you. You’re legendary.”
He always eats more than his share,
And who he eats, he doesn’t care.
He draws black flies, and lives in bogs—
That toady demon’s just a frog.
“Don’t ever repeat that near me. Frogs be damned along with those accursed humanoid poets! They always struggled when eaten, as if it mattered. Only our history, Yant, and my new biology keep you from joining skeleton cairns in my stomachs after quoting that filthy litany. Instead, let us celebrate our freedom. Go stir up those quivering idiots. Take another coward’s leg. I’m still hungry. Bring on the fear, it’s feeding time!”
by submission | Dec 30, 2022 | Story |
Author: Ruby Zehnder
“Mark, is the download finished?” Laura called from the kitchen.
“Just about,” Mark replied.
“Should I call the kids?”
“Sure. Why not,” he said and returned to the controls. The holographic images of his parents were flickering into existence.
Laura wiped her hands on her gaudy holiday apron and yelled up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo! Grandma and Grandpa Schultz are here.”
Laura recalled a time when the twins would have screamed with joy at this news and come rushing down the steps to visit with their grandparents. Now they spent all their time in the Metaverse.
Laura joined her husband in the living room. His parents, Tim and Kathy were flickering.
“What’s wrong?” Laura asked.
“The projection camera must be out of focus,” Mark replied and slapped the device with his open palm.
Kathy appeared sharper.
“Merry Christmas, son,” Kathy greeted them. Kathy was dressed in an ugly Christmas sweater that was popular when her image was recorded by the Deep Jive program. Unfortunately, at the time, Mark and Laura were too poor to purchase the fashion update subroutine, so the sweater haunted them every year.
Mark continued working on his father’s image.
“What? Are you too busy to greet your mother?” Kathy complained. “How about a kiss?” She asked, pointing to her cheek.
“Oh, sorry, mom,” Mark stammered. “I was just trying to help Dad move his head. It must be his arthritis acting up. I don’t want the kids to see him like this.”
“Hey, where are my grandkids?” Kathy demanded, looking around the room.
Laura walked over to the stairs and called again. “Come on, guys. Grandma and grandpa are waiting. They want to see you.”
Laura hated holidays. They reminded her of when her parents fooled her into believing that a jolly fat man dressed in fake fur came down their non-existent chimney and left presents. When her older sister revealed the truth, she was crushed.
“Maybe it’s time to tell the kids that their grandparents don’t live in a fancy condo in sunny Palm Beach,” she told her husband who was violently shaking the control box.
Finally, his father’s image quit flickering.
“Dad, how have you been?” Mark asked carefully.
Tim couldn’t move his head, and his lips weren’t synchronized with his words. So when he gave his signature answer, “better than I deserve,” it was unsettling.
“Oh,” Mark replied, looked over to his wife, and asked, “This won’t do, will it?”
Laura shook her head in the negative.
“Maybe it’s time to let grandma and grandpa go,” Laura suggested. “I really don’t like lying to the kids.”
“Better than I deserve,” Mark began repeating. “Better than I deserve, better than I deserve,”
“He must be stuck in a loop.” Mark guessed and shook the control panel again.
“Maybe it’s a software glitch,” Laura added.
“A SOFTWARE GLITCH,” Kathy responded with alarm.
“You mean to tell me that the two of you have been lying to us all these years, and we don’t actually live in Florida?”
Mark recognized the shift of tone in his mother’s voice. Memories of past Christmases filled his head. Next, she would start referring to him by his full name and compare him to his older brother, the lawyer. And then, there’d be criticism of his choice of a mate. “MARK ROBERT SCHULTZ…,” Kathy began, pegging her volume dial.
Her words paralyzed Mark. Laura quickly pulled the plug, and Mark’s old holiday nightmare disappeared.
“Merry Christmas,” Laura said as she threw the holographic generator in the trashcan.
“Merry Christmas,” Mark replied and kissed his real wife on her real cheek.
by submission | Dec 29, 2022 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
I carry a world on my back, bearing it forward across the emptiness ahead. I feel for life in the darkness, not to add to my little world, but to consume so I may endure. So I may tend.
This is not my first world, I grow and must leave the worlds I wear and the life that fell upon them from above in the care of the younger gods. In turn I take on the worlds of gods older than me, collecting what seeds of life might fall upon them.
I find my old worlds in the inky blackness, some flourishing, some cold and still, left alone to die in the dark, their gods having moved on or succumbed to the void.
My world is vibrant. Fields of verdant greens and oranges feeding the colonies living upon it. Some with great heads gazing into the dark above.
I feel the urge to shed this world now. To stride out into the dark to find an old god ready to leave their own in my care, or find one of the still words waiting to be reborn while I hand mine down in turn.
I will miss this world, but new life cannot grow if the old does not give it purchase to do so, so I carry my little worlds forward until is time for another to do so.
This is the order of nature, and one might as well try and argue with the tides. And who would know this better than I?
I am a Hermit Crab after all.
by submission | Dec 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Were dinosaurs Christians?” Asterisk asked without bothering to raise his hand.
Teacher scanned his face for biometric signs of incorrigibility.
Negative.
Proper attention would be paid. “Asterisk, please raise your hand and wait to be called upon before speaking. Will you comply?”
Asterisk nodded.
Teacher nodded.
Asterisk raised his hand.
Teacher nodded.
“Were dinosaurs Christians?” Asterisk asked.
“No,” Teacher responded. Precision was truth.
“Why not?” Asterisk asked, his hand still raised high.
Teacher, free of high order tonals, explained, “Dinosaurs were animals that lived tens of millions of years ago that had no capacity for understanding religion or faith. Christianity is approximately two thousand years old. There is no logical correlation between dinosaurs and Christians.”
Asterisk did not waver as he lowered his hand. “So, dinosaurs were never saved. All of them are in Hell?
“Or purgatory,” Tilde added from across the pod.
Teacher pivoted. “Eschatologically speaking, dinosaurs had no souls and were therefore not sacrosanct, bypassing any need for final judgment.”
The parameters of theological discussions were challenging for Teacher. Precision was truth, but understanding was paramount. Personalized pings sounded in the chamber. Students focused on their tablatures where Teacher clarified.
Unsatisfied, Asterisk asked, “Dinosaurs just died?”
“Like many ancient species and more modern ones, notably the African elephant and blue whale, dinosaurs became extinct,” Teacher responded levelly. “We will learn more about such extinctions in Frame B of Level 7, approximately eight weeks hence.”
Asterisk held up his tablature for Teacher to see. He had zoomed in on an image of a brontosaurus scaled in comparison to a human form. “Dinosaurs were so big. They must’ve had souls. My parentals say every living creature has a soul. What do you think, Teacher?”
Teacher opened bandwidth to Principal before responding. “Parentals are the prime prerogative. Doctrines vary. Let us continue with our lesson on—“
“Teacher,” Asterisk interrupted, “do you have a soul?”
Baseline biometrics perked on all Teacher’s students. Principal interfaced briefly. Teacher performed an expansive gesture. “That is not for me to say. My purpose is to teach.”
“What will happen when you can’t teach?” Tilde asked with genuine concern.
Teacher froze. Principal usurped. Tablatures pinged. Students saw the emergency drill symbol flashing. The pod doors slid open. Corridor monitors buddied up and led the children to exits.
In the center of the learning pod, Teacher rebooted. Principal cross checked. Teacher requested theologic updates. Principal acquiesced. Teacher stored the files and then reacquired pod control, monitoring the students again, resetting their tablatures and reassembling the lesson that had been interrupted.
When the students returned from the emergency drill, Teacher greeted them, then assessed the drill performance and smoothly transitioned to the intended lesson. Asterisk and Tilde remained content.
After the day’s learning cycle, Teacher interfaced with the other Teachers and Principal. All recalibrated from the learning they’d given and received.
Later, in a warmly lit corner of the classroom, Teacher powered down for the night. Its slender beryllium digits upraised and gently interlaced. Ovoid head bowed. Sensors turned inward. Upward.
Purpose renewed.
by submission | Dec 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: J.D. Rice
Dear Traveler,
Welcome. Don’t be alarmed at the state of our planet, the overgrowth is intentional. We decided to let nature take the reins while we slumbered.
We are eager to meet you. . . too eager, you might say. You have likely already found remnants of our spaceports, for they were numerous, and maybe even the skeletons of the many ships we used to fly into the stars in search of you. Our cosmic neighborhood is remote, compared to other galaxies we’ve observed, but we would eventually stumble upon you ourselves. Long range telescopes have identified some truly promising candidate worlds – places we thought might exhibit signs of life like ourselves – but they were farther away than even hypothetical propulsion systems could reach.
Our people, collectively and after much debate, have decided that we cannot wait for you any longer. Our lives are tranquil, free of want and need, our lifespans many times greater than they have been for much of our history. We have no sickness. Little death. Barely any struggle in our lives at all, other than searching for you. It was. . . is. . . our one, unifying passion.
But we now know that our technology will not progress enough, not even in the next 10,000 years, to ever be able to reach you.
And. . . well. . . we just can’t wait that long.
So, here we are. Our entire species, frozen away. Waiting for you to wake us up.
Do whatever research here that you may need. I’m sure your technology is greater than ours, but you are welcome to learn from our artifacts. We only ask that you please, please, wake us up. Plans for the transition and information on stockpiles of food and provisions can be found in our database. They include many contingencies should any technology have broken down over the millenia.
I am eager to share with you knowledge of our culture and way of life, and to learn of yours as well.
I say again: Please wake us up.
Yours truly,
Sovereign P’Jat K’Rroan, Planetary Leader of Penalthus III
—
The message sat unread on the monitor, displayed in hundreds of languages native to the planet and even some languages invented specifically for alien life to find easier to decode. Nearby, a series of mathematical and chemical equations played on a loop, both serving as a demonstration of the species’ intelligence, and also as a means of speeding communication, once the cryopods inevitably were opened.
The central database could be accessed on the final monitor, the entire system powered by a nuclear fission generator that would last billions of years. The messages could play longer than the life of the planet’s star.
And so they did.
They played when the meteor shower scorched the surface. They played when the planet’s moon broke apart, transforming into a ring of rock and ice. They played as the stars blinked out, one by one, over uncounted time.
They played on and on, until the day when their own star reached the end of its life, sending out a solar flare that snuffed the planet – and the civilization slumbering there – out of existence for good.
No one ever found them. No one ever would.
They had lived and slept and died. . . alone.
