by submission | Apr 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Deborah Shrimplin
“Dr. Bessot, welcome to Planet Chaldea. I hope your journey from Earth was a pleasant one. Please, do have a seat,” President Seints said as he gestured toward the chair next to him. He searched Dr. Bessot’s face for physical signs of the brilliant mind behind his blue eyes.
“It was pleasant, thank you. Your reports are quite fascinating. I am anxious to verify what I perceive as the reason for the strange behavior of the citizens of New Prague.”
“The administration is seeing an increasing number of people expressing this strange behavior. We hope you can diagnose and prevent it from spreading.”
“I will do my best,” the doctor said as he brushed his salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead. “If it is what I think, I shouldn’t need much time. Your staff reported the problem was first noted in the New Prague settlement. I’d like to start there.”
Two hours later, Dr. Bessot and the President arrived at the New Prague town square. It was an exact replica of the Old Town Square in the ancient city of Prague in the Czech Republic. People were strolling through the shops and cafes. A small group stood watching the famous clock as its figures came to life, the bells, chimes, and the elaborate mechanism turned the dials and clock face.
“The original settlers wanted to create a feel reminiscent of Europe. I think they succeeded. President Seints, this will do nicely. Please, let me out here. I can proceed on my own.”
The doctor began his interviews in the candy shop. After complimenting the clerk and ordering some sweets, he asked the clerk what life was like in the settlement.
The old woman replied, “It makes me happy to live here. Every day I swim in the ocean, play in the waves and collect shells.”
The doctor nodded. There were no oceans on this planet. He thanked the woman and left the shop.
Next, he entered the bookstore. After reading a few titles, he asked the salesman what life was like in the settlement.
The middle-aged man replied, “It makes me happy to live here. I look through my telescope at the stars. My father studies the stars with me.”
The doctor nodded and left the shop. The planet’s atmosphere was too thick to view the stars.
Dr. Bessot entered the shoe shop, looked at the gravity boots, and asked the clerk what life was like in the settlement.
The gray-haired clerk said, “It makes me happy. Every day I climb the hill with my best friend. We fly our kites, laugh, and dream.”
The doctor nodded and left the shop. There was no wind on the planet.
The doctor joined the crowd standing in front of the Old Town Clock. Then, he returned to the car and smiled at the President.
“Your reports are true. I can confirm what I suspected.”
“What do you suspect? How do you explain all the strange comments?”
“They are not strange. Time has placed in each person’s mind a moment in their life when they were the happiest. Every day they are reliving that special moment. I wouldn’t want to take that away from them.”
As they drove past the Old World Clock in New Prague on the Planet Chaldea, the brilliant doctor remembered the moment he found the cure for cancer. He smiled.
by submission | Apr 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
Bardumel floated in zero gravity on the ship’s bridge, watching the final descent. The asteroid, the Horned Skull of the Great Herd, crashed through the atmosphere, causing the white clouds to part like the petals of a Soona flower. Two seconds later the giant rock impacted on the surface, causing an explosion the likes of which hadn’t been seen on this world since the formation of its moon. With this simple exercise of introducing mass into the gravity well of Planet Three, the war against the Reptiloids had been won.
He listened to the grunts of satisfaction and pride from the ship’s herd. The musky odour of triumph permeated the bridge as the shockwave from the Horned Skull travelled at supersonic speeds around the planet, destroying all traces of the global civilisation below. Bardumel understood the necessity of eliminating a competitor species, certainly one as predatory and cunning as the Reptiloids. However, he wondered, did interplanetary contact always have to end thus? Were war and genocide the inevitable outcomes of contact between intelligent species?
Twice now, the Great Herd had encountered intelligence in the open plains of the solar system and twice now they had been forced into stampeding violence. The world of the Chutati, second from the Sun, had been driven into a super-heated state by conflict millennia previously. Now, the third planet from the star had its civilisation destroyed by bombardment from space.
His musings were interrupted by the scent of alarm from one of the bridge herd. It was from the young bull tasked with communication with Homeworld.
“My Captain,” the bull said, a look of shock on his face, “We have received an urgent communication from the Great Herd. Something is happening on Homeworld. What we thought were Reptiloid surveillance probes were actually armed. They have deployed a molecular nano-technology cloud into Homeworld’s atmosphere. It has destroyed all life on the Northern Continent, reducing it to red dust. The continent is now a wasteland!”
There was stunned silence on the bridge and the air was heavy with the scent of distress. Bardumel pictured his home on the Northern Continent, nestled in the crystal forests of Harzoon. It was incomprehensible that such beauty had been reduced to sand and powder.
“My Captain,” the young bull continued, “We are to return home immediately. The Southern Lands are also threatened by this attack. We are required to aid in the mitigation and rescue efforts.”
Bardumel gave the orders almost without thought, feeling the vibration of the engines through the deck plates, like the rumble of so many hooves, as they broke free from their orbit of the Reptiloid’s devastated world. The thrust of their engines pushed him back into his crash couch and he breathed in the grief of his ship’s herd and joined in with their howls of lamentation. Their course would take them out, away from the harsh brightness of the inner worlds and back to Planet Four, there to witness the final fate of the Great Herd.
by submission | Apr 20, 2022 | Story |
Author: Tina Mullane
Through the grid of the window in the lab, I view the much-hailed apparatus. It seemed to glow with shiny promises of freedom from the heavy cloak of medical tyranny. I misinterpret the glint of fluorescent light bouncing off the small metal tag, which I note to be screwed in slightly askew, with its engraved serial number, as my dear mother beaming down proudly upon my adventurous spirit.
A white-coated lab technician hands me a form and welcomes me to the test group. Excitedly, I check off the boxes to every hypochondriac’s dream needed lab and DNA values.
As I enter the room, feeling an odd and assured belief that my results of over 100 lab values, as promised, will be interpreted accurately and without bias, I hear the hermetically sealed door hiss shut.
Unencumbered, I take a closer look at the faded black box with its absence of congruent corners and its boxed window presumptuously devoid and empty of any apparent software. I feel that, with its multitude of plastic and metal parts, and its puffy promises of unraveling DNA absent of Darwinian prejudices, the box seems proud and self-assured.
I search for an obvious button to push while simultaneously listening for gears to unwind, and I find my hand reaching out instinctively to the clear plastic side pocket, hoping for operating instructions…a pamphlet. I imagine a small alpha smearing of letters folded up neatly in an elixir of languages…Fold box a flap into flap c.
I realize on the right-hand corner of the plastic siding, there appears to be a silhouette of the image of a drop of blood. Eureka!! I glance about the room and notice a small box of lancets. I poke my finger, and with shaking hands, I lay the blood drop on the etched blood image.
The box’s window remains devoid of sounds, pictures, or prompts, which seems to reflect the empty promises of multiple and accurate interpretations.
Over the intercom system, I hear “thank you for participating, your results will be processed, and you will be notified shortly”. As I slouch forward and exit the room, I take one last glance back through the window at my now nemesis. I notice it appears to have lost its grandeur and stands almost obstinate and sullen in its failing.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“Traffic’s wild tonight,” the driver offered, making brief eye contact in the rearview mirror.
She gave him a thin smile but didn’t respond. She caught her reflection in the Plexi partition and wondered if he noticed her eyes. Wondered if this disguise would survive the evening.
She reapplied lipstick and steadied her nerve. She could hold it together a little while longer.
On arrival, the driver was paid without a word, a cash transaction and an unremarkable tip. She wondered if he’d even remember her in the sea of faces and fares on just another California evening.
The security seemed laid back and lax, but there were familiar bulges under loose-fitting jackets that spoke of imminent violence should the need arise.
The gentleman receiver scanned her invitation and checked against the guest list.
“Weather’s mild tonight,” he spoke without looking up, “you’re all set. Welcome, I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
She smiled a practiced cocktail smile and drifted past him without a word.
Did he suspect? Surely not, or he would have stopped her there at the gate, where she could have been dealt with out of view of the other guests.
She breathed the salt from the breeze off the ocean, composed herself, and walked the ground-lit pathway towards the polite cacophony emanating from the expansive grounds where the party was in full swing.
A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, and she helped herself, sipping the cold martini while in flight, sucking the fat olive from the skewer, feeling the flesh tear between her teeth. She’d never cease to enjoy that sensation.
She drained the glass and exchanged it for a fresh one before slipping into the sea of suits and low-cut cocktail dresses, her senses aroused, she was hunting now.
For hours she drifted from pocket to pocket of vapid socialites, nodding and smiling at the talk of fashion, of celebrity, the latest jaunt to the South of France, or Monaco. She observed the object of her interest make his way among the crowd as well, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. She orbited the space opposite him, catching his occasional glance, but never allowing him to close the distance between him.
When everyone was starting to sway a little, when the voices got a bit loud, the laughter overly pronounced, she slipped away and into the house. She made her way toward the bedrooms, avoiding confrontation with anyone, but staying in plain sight of the cameras.
He’d be on notice and would follow. The low cut of her dress and his masculine drive to seek out in earnest that which had eluded him all evening guaranteed it.
She waited in his bedroom, sat in the highback armchair under the window, and clocked the passing time.
He wasted none of it.
“You’re not supposed to be here, you know that, don’t you?” The question in a mock-serious tone.
She crossed the room to meet him, held out both arms, wrists up, submissive.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Her tone was coy, inviting.
He put his hands atop hers, slid them towards her, and wrapped his fingers around her wrists, so delicate that his fingers touched easily.
She did the same, her fingers closed around his wrists, and then continued wrapping, snakelike, coiling around and around his arms.
She locked her eyes with his, and he found he couldn’t move.
She entered him, then, through the flesh of his wrists, puncturing the bone to the very marrow, feeling the flesh part for her as she exited her spent shell for this new one.
She’d never cease to enjoy this sensation.
They broke eye contact from this new point of view, the flesh of their previous host sublimating before them, the dress settling to the floor atop a pair of heels and a clutch that would be easily disposed of in the morning.
He adjusted his cuffs as he rejoined the perimeter of the party and motioned to security.
“Get them all the fuck out of my house.”
Climbing the social ladder was exhausting, and he very much needed to sleep.
by Julian Miles | Apr 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I come through the doors at a run, dodging consoles and furniture while trying to figure out how they got past our drone hunters.
“Give me the casualty count first.”
Might as well get the worst out of the way. Then I can focus on catching the clever bastards.
“Two. One dead, one with serious injuries to their hands.”
“Only two? What were they firing from the drone? Fireworks? While we’re on the topic, how did it slip past our watch? We’re meant to have the best drone screening in the world.”
There’s silence. Nervous side-glances are exchanged.
“Come on, people. Now’s not the time to get shy about a cock-up in the detector net.”
Michael steps away from the group. I point at him.
“You’re the winner. Tell me.”
“They used a sword. A medieval longsword, to be precise. Early examination indicates it might be the real thing, too.”
I take a huge breath and lean against a desk while I recalibrate my expectations.
“They dropped a sword from a drone and hit two people?”
He shakes his head.
“Hit one and killed him. The injuries were caused to his partner when they tried to pull the sword out of him. They hadn’t noticed it had gone clean through and driven into the pavement. Emergency services had to use a sledgehammer to free it.”
One of the operators swings away, hand going to her headset. She turns back, face ashen.
“A Met armed response vehicle got a sword through it’s roof. Killed the driver. Car went off the road, then through a café. There are multiple casualties.”
Another operator ducks and turns to take a call. He raises a hand as he turns back.
“Got a report of a tanker going off the M25 into an industrial estate. Motorway surveillance shows something falling from the sky onto the cab moments before the tanker swerved.”
“How bad is it?”
He grimaces.
“Tanker blew up. There’s a lot of fires. Emergency crews are still arriving. They’re expecting multiple fatalities.”
Good God. We build the finest explosive and bioweapon detection system on earth and they make it look idiotic by flying through with drones carrying swords?
“Get the programmers working on some suitable metal-spotting routines for the detector nets. I’m not too fussed if we get a few false hits to start with. Let’s stop the attacks first, then refine if needs be.”
Swords. Impractical, but the emotional impact is huge. They could have used bricks or hammers – even spears – but a weighty sword? The extra penetration offsets the few misses or flat-of-the-blade hits.
“Get me the PM and prepare a briefing pack for PCCs, DMC&Ps, and Chief Constables. We’re going to need to raise the alert level, and recall personnel UK-wide. I also want our raptors up. Scramble the drone pilots – or whatever the right word is to make them get their toys in the air immediately. If they can’t interdict enough of them, we’ll have to jam the control frequencies and live with the late delivery chaos it’ll cause while we get on top of this.”
This is going to be a nightmare. I need coffee.
by submission | Apr 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“We’re humans. Earthlings. Terrans. We are not Kludge!”
“You are to us. You’ve been Kludge for eons. Get over it,” the platypus-like creature said dismissively from its anti-grav sedan chair. It belched lustily, exhaling the unmistakable stench of Corn Nuts which it ate incessantly.
In his private office, Kin Kin Tram Wah, the Secretary General of the United Nations, reddened to the point of apoplexy. His aide fanned him with the document the Ambassador From Beyond had presented only a short time before to the General Assembly.
Tram Wah waved his aide away, took a breath and sat down at his desk near which the Ambassador’s golden sedan chair hovered, spinning idly in circles.
“Ambassador,” Tram Wah began calmly, “you have taken us by surprise. We have much to learn from your kind, but I must insist that you not refer to us as Kludge. It is demeaning.”
“Not at all, Kin Kin. Kludge is perfectly apt for your species. My race calls it like we see it. Your kind is kludge. You’re a workaround. A quick and dirty fix to a nasty little problem we inadvertently created. We needed you to keep an invasive species in check, and you’ve handled that superbly. Now, this planet is once again habitable for our kind From Beyond.” A deep gong sounded from the Ambassador’s sedan chair.
The Secretary General lost patience again. “Must you do that, Ambassador? It makes our proceedings cheap and theatrical. I mean, you won’t even reveal where From Beyond is to our astronomers. You treat us like sub-intelligent mutts. I feel like I’ve become Arthur Dent from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
“Possibly if more of your race had read and heeded that illustrious historian, then you’d have a better appreciation for your place in the cosmos,” the Ambassador responded snootily. “But it makes no matter. You are Kludge and we really have no need of you anymore.”
“But we are an intelligent race?”
“Says who?”
“We have spacecraft. We have computers. We have language and culture.” The Secretary General’s voice sharpened. “We have Corn Nuts.”
“That’s about all,” the Ambassador conceded. “Come, come. This is getting weary. You are Kludge, and Kludge have their uses. We gave you the limited neural capacity to dispose of our dolphin enemy, but do you think we would give you real intellect? Why would we create more competition?”
“We do not need to compete. We can cooperate and both benefit,” the Secretary General pleaded.
“So said the ant to the elephant.” The Ambassador From Beyond’s hovering sedan chair stopped spinning. “Look, Kin Kin, it’s done. You’ve served your purpose, and now you Kludge are on the verge of becoming an invasive species. We don’t need that kind of ecological nuisance in this galactic arm. Your species either boards the transports in six days in an orderly manner or we dissemble humanity’s DNA.” The Ambassador belched again heartily. “A Kludge, by its very nature, is a stop-gap. Face it, you’re all expendable temps, and it’s time you clocked out.”
Tram Wah raised his hands in supplication. “Please, Ambassador, consider our contributions. Humans have a higher purpose. Have mercy.”
“Higher purpose? Mercy? That’s what got you Kludge this gig in the first place: compassion for those sycophantic bottlenosed finbacks and their cloying, proud, ambitious brethren.” It snapped its padded forefingers in finality. “Six days.”
The Ambassador From Beyond and its golden sedan chair vanished with a flash and final melodramatic gong. The smothering smell of Corn Nuts all that remained.
