by Julian Miles | May 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A quiet Thursday night, working away on the laptop. Actually doing nothing of any substance. Too many opinions to agree with, laugh at, or marvel over. So many people being misguided. So many of them seemingly wanting to be, as an alternative to having to face the realities of their assorted situations.
The music fills the lack of companionship, a mix of Mendelssohn’s works reminding me of summers at home before my parents separated, and of long evenings studying with friends who’d been so close for such a short time.
A movement catches my attention. It’s not the first I’ve seen in my peripheral vision today, but this is the one where I have no doubt: something did actually move.
With that thought comes the waving of insectile limbs and something like a freakishly large spider climbs into view over the furthest arm of my sofa.
“Prepare to die.”
It launches itself at me! I throw myself from the chair and scrabble frantically across the floor. It hits the chair back, swings for a moment making curiously cheerful noises, then backflips to land on my laptop.
“Your suicide note will be a literary masterpiece.”
Suicide? Not likely.
I start to reach under the bed, then glance into the shadows there. Did something move?
The multi-legged maniac springs my way. Without thinking I pick up a copy of Gersten’s ‘An Initial Study of the Chreeskakt’ and swat the threat away. For good measure, I throw the book after it. It pancakes the creature. There’s a screech, and what sounds like swearing.
Springing up, I grab kitchen knife and cutting board. Wish I had a sword and shield, but residential permits for actual weapons are impossible to get without good reason or bribery.
“Ha! Now we’ll see who gets an obituary.”
The creature drags itself from under the bound volume, apparently taking a moment to read the spine.
“Flattened by a treatise on my people. Not sure if that’s apt or ironic.”
The voice has changed. Become familiar.
It waves a foreleg at me and chuckles!
“Before we demolish more of your home, shall we move to the dojo, or can we call it quits and go to Servalan’s for steak and sorbet?”
Spawn of a…
“Ralbatmakt? Thanks for the fright! When did you complete renewal, and why chose that arachnid horror as a new form?”
“While we soldiered on Sarvis, you told me about your Doctor Anonymous and the Eight Legs from Three. Something about them fascinated me. So, for this cycle, I’ve chosen to be one – or as near as my research in human archives allows. I didn’t know you had intergalactic guardians who had such amazing adventures. Are there any left? I’d like to meet one.”
I slide down the wall to sit on the floor.
“Do you remember the conversation we had about the human imagining form called ‘fiction’?”
I’ve never seen a proto-spider wilt in disappointment before.
“The universe is a much more interesting place in your collective imaginations, Gan. What we have is positively mundane.”
“Says the talking dinosaur who chose to come back as a giant spider for his next lifecycle. How many more of them do you get?”
Ralbatmakt picks itself up and wanders over to me, eight-legged gait occasionally uneven.
“Extra limbs always confuse me for a while.”
It places a foreleg on my thigh.
“This is the last, Gan. My millennium is up. But for this cycle I can hitch a ride on your back. We can have adventures, yes?”
How can I resist?
“That we can.”
by submission | May 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: E. O’Neill
Cyrus Bellini handed a deposit receipt and club membership card to the teller and watched as she punched in the numbers.
“There you are, Mr. Bellini”, she said, sliding the card across the counter. “Your new total is fifteen thousand and sixty credits.”
“That has to be enough”, he thought before asking, “Which way to the redemption center?”
“Stay left at the customer service kiosk, and through the double doors”, she replied.
As he strode across the lobby, Cyrus tucked the membership card into his shirt pocket, all the way counting the days, weeks, and months that he spent collecting credits anyway, and anyplace that he could. It was rarely easy and never pleasant. But he knew it was a task that had to be seen through to the end.
Pushing the heavy glass door, Cyrus entered the redemption center showroom. He passed the small appliance display, as well as the golf clubs and tennis rackets. When he reached the far end of the patio furniture and garden care tools, he spotted the redemption agent’s window.
Stepping up to the window, Cyrus pulled the card from his pocket and slid it across the counter. The agent took the card and scanned it. “Mr. Bellini, how are you today?”, she asked, never looking away from her terminal.
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Good. It says here that you have fifteen thousand and sixty credits in your account. Would you like to redeem any or all of them today?”, the agent asked, never looking up.
“I would.”
“What can we get for you today?”
Cyrus cleared his throat before speaking. “It’s really for my wife. She’s wanted it for a while. She deserves it. I want it too.”
“Okay. Do you have an item number?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Bellini. What can we get for you and your wife today?”,still not looking up.
Cyrus’s response was low and unintelligible.
“I’m sorry Mr. Bellini. Can you please repeat that?”
Cyrus cleared his throat again. “Justice”, he said softly.
The agent looked up to see the tears welling in the customer’s eyes. “I don’t understand, Mr. Bellini.”
Cyrus struggled to speak. “It’s for my wife. She needs this. I need it too. But it’s really for my Gina. My precious angel Gina”. Tears ran freely.
A tone of sympathy tinged the agent’s voice now. “I’m sorry sir. Who is Gina?”
Cyrus spoke. “My only child. Our angel. The sweetest soul. Eleven years old for eternity because some son-of-a-bitch had bad aim. My wife. My poor wife. She cries every day.”
“I’m so sorry Mr. Bellini, but what brings you here?”
“I have over fifteen thousand credits in my account. I want to redeem them for justice. My wife needs it. Gina deserves it.”
The agent leaned in as close as she could and softly said, “Sir, this is a Thoughts and Prayers account. I’m afraid you can’t redeem thoughts and prayers for justice. Justice is a concept. You can only exchange your Thoughts and Prayers credits for the household furnishings you see behind you.”
by submission | May 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: K. A. Williams
It was hunting season on Kreegat. Beasts were imported from neighboring planets to designated areas on this small world. My section now had a furry, yellow hindosen.
The animal had been released hours ago, but the shuttle was late. The rain plummeted down as the two guests disembarked. My partner, Rocdon, and I quickly introduced ourselves as we stowed their gear in our hovercraft.
“You were supposed to be here this morning. I’ll have different guests in two days. Make your choice – sit before a fire tonight, or go hunting in the rain. Which is it going to be?”
Kolash and Synka decided to hunt in the rain.
***
When we reached the forest, we left the hovercraft and split up. Rocdon took Synka off to the left, Kolash and I continued forward.
My weatherproof gear was above standard issue, but I still hated supervising a hunt in this weather. On the plus side though, as we slipped and slid through the forest, nothing could hear us over the rain.
“Did you see that?” Kolash asked.
The underbrush was moving, it could just be the wind. He pulled something from his jacket pocket, and I only had time to see that it was a projectile weapon before he fired into the bush.
I heard a howl of pain and then silence.
“You idiot! Put that away! These animals are expensive. Didn’t you read the rules of the hunt? Non lethal weapons are to be used.”
“What rules? It’s a hunt. I even had the shuttle pilot go back because I’d forgotten to bring this gun.”
“That’s why you were late?!”
“Well, yeah.”
I called Rocdon on my communicator. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Kolash shot the beast with a projectile weapon.”
“Is it dead?”
“I don’t know yet, I’m checking. Take Synka back to the hovercraft and wait for me.”
“Stay here,” I told Kolash, and parted the bushes. The animal wasn’t there. It had forced itself onward.
“Have you found it?”
“Shut up. Just stay there and wait. And don’t speak to me again. It’s wounded and our voices might frighten it.”
When I found the hindosen, it lay still. I moved closer, my headlamp shining on the bloody wound. The first aid kit in my backpack came with everything I needed. I used the electronic scalpel to remove the metal object and heal the wound. Then I injected the beast with a mixture of antibiotics and vitamins. I’d done all I could. I covered its body with my jacket, and went back to Kolash.
***
The atmosphere in the lodge was gloomy, like the weather. We had changed clothes and were sitting in chairs before a roaring fire, waiting for supper.
I pulled out my communication device, and looked up the contract agreement. Just what I thought. I called the shuttle pilot, with everyone listening to the conversation on speaker.
“Kolash shot the hindosen with an illegal weapon. According to our contract, I have the right to cancel their trip. Come back in the morning, and pick them up,” I said.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Kolash argued.
“Read this.” I showed him a copy of the contract they had both signed and pointed to the prohibited weapon’s clause. “And if the beast dies, you’ll reimburse our company for it.”
by submission | May 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Carew Bartley
After the dusty, scorching heat of the Via Flaminia, I looked forward to the cool silence of the tomb I had read so much about before my trip. Originally buried in a Central Italian necropolis, the tomb had been assiduously reconstructed in the basement of Rome’s National Etruscan museum, a trove of ancient art and artifacts housed in a sumptuous Renaissance palace. It was the highlight of the collection, Frommer’s Guidebook to Rome proclaimed: it must not be missed.
When I arrived at the museum, I was enthralled by the rustic yet sophisticated charm of the Etruscans, Rome’s peninsular predecessors. But as I drifted through the soaring galleries, my attention was wrested away by an unusual object amongst the ceramics and coins. It was a grave artifact unlike that of any civilization I had ever encountered: a figurine, hand molded from some pliable metal rather than ceramic or bronze. It resembled a human, but it had six arms ending in barbs rather than hands. Its skull was insect-like, with sharp mandibles and gaping eye holes. And in place of a navel, it bore a rough hewn oval of yellow quartz. I glanced at the plaque that ought to describe its origin, but there was no text, only a ghostly white swirl.
I soon found other alien creations: insect warriors armed with curved knives grinning madly through protruding fangs, insect charioteers palled by straining snakes or birds, insect priests presiding over altars strewn with animal viscera. All were inset with chunks of milky yellow quartz and labeled only with white swirls. Themes emerged: violence, submission, sacrifice; an unknown, otherworldly religion being rendered tangible.
Pulled deeper and deeper into the bowels of the museum by the sinister magnetism of these objects, I reached the entrance to a rough basement that appeared to have been carved out long ago. I hesitated at the top step, wondering for the first time how long I had been here and where the other visitors and employees had gone. But looking down, I saw a white line on the floor leading down the steps into the dim hole. I followed it into the earth.
The tomb was lit by candlelight from each corner. Shimmering streamers of metal like that comprising the figurines hung from the walls. The white line entered from the steps and spiraled like a whirlpool around a stone dais bearing a heavy knife and a large log. I drew inexorably forward, grasped the knife, and set to work. After an unknown time, I knelt before the altar that now bore an insectoid idol hacked and carved from the wood. But it was not done. His blank eyes told me what must lay on His altar. I pulled myself onto the dais in the center of the white swirl and set to work with the knife once more.
The following year’s edition of Frommer’s Guidebook to Rome made no mention of the tomb under the museum.
by submission | May 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Stuart Watson
Overtime became mandatory. The “client” (no one knew who, whether nation or corporation or social medium) had insisted that they move their original deadline forward. Something about a solution to climate change.
Ben told Phil and the others about the “product rush.”
“Home time is canceled,” he said. “Sleep under your desks.”
Phil supervised five N-Bs (“NoBodies” they joked). He had a boss, who had a boss, and so on. He called his wife.
Sarah started to cry. “Use your toy,” he said.
They needed to deliver their drones in a week. They believed in their mission, worked as if possessed, shipped two days early. Ben called Phil to his office.
“Great work,” he said. “The client is elated. They’ve ordered thousands more.”
But there was a problem. The strain had prompted three second-level bosses to quit. Just quit. Stood up and walked out. No exit interview, no notice, nada, zip, zilch.
Phil saw a chance to move up. Ben agreed that Phil deserved promotion. But his boss hadn’t authorized direct hires or advancements. The pressure had forced several team leaders like Phil to quit. In a perverse bureaucratic twist, Ben was authorized to hire the quitters back as higher-level bosses.
“You’re shitting me,” Phil said. “You can’t just promote me? I have to quit so you can rehire me to supervise my replacement?”
“You really deserve it,” Ben said. “Think about it.”
So Phil quit. Two days later, he called Ben.
“Can I apply?”
“Sorry, but H.R. says all those positions have been euthanized,” Ben said.
Phil sat at his desk, holding his head. He could hear his pulse. A buzzing circled his inner skull, like motorcycles on a banked motordrome.
Phil realized the buzzing came from outside, like rain from above, a sprinkle to a downpour. As it did, the midday sun started to fade. He looked out the window. Overhead, the sky had shrunk to an oval pool of light, darkness doming downward toward the horizon.
The pool grew smaller.
A swarm of drones blanketed the sky, drawing tight the horizons, like the purse string on a fishing seine, slowly cutting off escape. Less and less sunlight leaked through. Temperatures dropped. Global warming came to a halt, slipped slowly into reverse.
Phil felt himself grow faint, struggling to take in his shrunken share. Beneath the drone canopy, no sunlight, no photosynthesis, no oxygen.
He went looking for his wife. She was in bed.
He lay near her. The buzzing grew louder. Not outside. Inside, beneath the blanket. He waited until his wife finished with her toy, then reached for her.
by submission | May 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
“And so, we commit their earthly remains to the vastness of space and we ask and pray that their brave souls be granted the peace and tranquillity that they so richly deserve. Amen.”
The two astronauts, standing in the open airlock, pushed the sealed body-bags out into space. Captain Jennings and the rest of the crew, standing on the bridge in solemn silence, watched events on one of the ship’s monitors.
Jennings turned to face the small video camera held by Patterson.
“And now, myself and the crew need some time alone to mourn the loss of our colleagues, our friends,” he said. “This is Neriene One, signing off.”
Jennings continued to stare at the camera, a dignified look etched on his face, until Patterson confirmed “That’s the live-stream cut. We’re clear!”
Letting out a deep breath, Jennings crumpled into a nearby seat. For a moment he looked so old and tired, but then he sat up straight and recovered his air of authority.
“Jim, make sure Imran and Cheryl get in safely,” he ordered, “We can’t afford any more losses at this point.”
“Roger that!” mumbled Jim Patterson. He headed off down the corridor towards the aft airlock.
Jennings turned to Danielle Brooks, the ship’s doctor.
“Danny, do you know what you have to do?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “Mission Control’s briefing was quite comprehensive. I should have no physical problem doing what’s needed. I’ve done autopsies before. This won’t be much different.”
“And emotionally?” Jennings asked, “I know you and Stephen were close.”
Danny grimaced.
“Nothing that ten years of therapy won’t sort out once we get home!”
“Okay. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
Danny shook her head, slowly, deliberately.
“If I do it myself, then that’s less trauma for everyone else to deal with. Anyway, in space, no-one can hear you retch!”
Jennings gave a tight smile in response.
Danny moved off and Jennings took a moment out to centre himself. Three months ago he’d made history as the first human to set foot on Mars. The mission had gone flawlessly and they were now two months into their return voyage. It seemed that all they had to do was coast home and pick up their medals.
The meteor shower had other ideas. Little pieces of rock, small enough to sit in the palm of your hand. Twenty-four hours ago they’d cut through the ship like a hail of bullets. Four dead crew. A tragedy, but survivable. The damage to the greenhouse and their food stores though – that was a catastrophe.
Their return journey would take five months. Even with a reduced crew on starvation rations, they now only had food for three months. The ship would return to Earth orbit as their mausoleum.
Then some ghoul at Mission Control came up with an idea. From a movie, of all places. It would still be tight, but the extra protein should ensure their survival. Jennings watched the monitor, still tracking the fading body-bags. The body-bags filled with the ship’s trash. Mission Control was clear. No one would ever know. The whole thing would be classified Top Secret.
They would start with their next meal. Just a little, to get them ‘psychologically acclimatised’ to the idea as quickly as possible. Jennings hated the whole situation, but their very survival was at stake. He shook his head in disgust. What sort of idiot comes up with an idea like this? What kind of sick individual would watch a movie called “Attack of the Martian Cannibals” anyway?
