by submission | Jun 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
498.72 meters down in Olkiluoto, off the southwest coast of Finland, the digging stopped abruptly. That’s when they called me.
Why officials at the Onkalo Repository intended to deep-store spent nuclear reactor rods would call me was, at first, more peculiar than troubling. They said they had unearthed an artifact and needed my expertise before they could resume excavating.
My expertise. Strange. Very strange. Because I’m a philologist.
What did these roughnecks at one of the most ambitious and contentious construction projects in Scandinavia need from someone who teaches and studies the history of languages? Had they unearthed some kind of Nordic Rosetta Stone?
The situation became muddier when I was briefed at the Onkalo site, and my liaison, Herv, nervously confided that the first expert they’d contacted, a paleontologist, had quit on them.
A paleontologist? I was taking the place of a paleontologist? That sat funny with me, scary funny, so as we descended the central shaft with Herv blitzing me about safety protocols, I asked, “Why did the paleontologist bail?”
“She thought we were pranking her?”
Fitfully, the elevator jangled downward. I waited.
“We showed her the artifact we’d unearthed, and she said it was impossible, preposterous. Complete tomfoolery.”
A philologist can appreciate a word like ‘tomfoolery.’ Like this shaft, its roots were deep: from King Lear to the jester of Muncaster Castle. The promise of tomfoolery almost 500 meters down in what was to be a nuclear waste storage site seemed more the province of Loki than a small university philologist still struggling to get tenure. But who wouldn’t be drawn to that dare?
Our elevator cage juddered to a stop, and Herv waved me along a side tunnel explaining, “As part of our safety array, we excavate parallel passages from the central shaft to the escape shaft at intervals of fifty meters. This passage is where we found the artifact.”
Up ahead I could see that the passage widened into a large semi-circular chamber lit very brightly. No one else appeared to be there.
“Just us?” I asked.
Herv hesitated. “And the artifact.”
I nodded because what else do you do with that kind of foreshadowing? You’re committed in a way that only skydivers really understand. I entered the bright lights of the chamber and was immediately struck by the immense size of the artifact, then hit with an uncomfortable familiarity, and then slapped with a clarity as to why they’d first contacted a paleontologist.
A colossal skeleton stretched deep into the chamber. More a cavern than an excavated space, it appeared natural, in a very unnatural way. It was not only the enormous bones spooking me, but across these cavern walls were clear, sharp regular markings. Even an untrained brain would only think of them as symbols, as lettering. As ancient intention.
To his credit, Herv let me disbelieve for some minutes before he led me along the hulking creature and wall markings to the end of the cavern where it terminated in what? A door? A vault? A billboard?
There before me embedded in rock was a massive circular, metallic panel, engraved with two large, deep marks surrounded by radiating lines. Bold, striking and clearly a message. To me a forbidding one.
At the foot of the panel, nested the great skull of the creature. A skull of monstrous simplicity. Above a sawtooth jaw a single empty socket opened into a capacious cranium.
Tomfoolery. Oh, I wished it so.
But, no, Herv’s eyes directed me to what the creature grasped. In its thick, hooked finger bones were a collection of metallic discs with markings like on the door? vault? billboard? Though much smaller and hinged. Bound together. Like a book.
A book.
A book it did not take me long to suss, though I didn’t know the language, didn’t know the culture. It was the same message, the same warning. Here five hundred meters down, where we were endeavoring to store our nuclear tomfoolery which would lay waste to the green and blue earth above, a much much earlier monstrous race had done the same.
Like us.
So like us.
The monsters from before.
by Julian Miles | Jun 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch Nona and Paul walk away, then drop back down. Nothing to do for a while. My next workday is Thursday, so I’m free for the next five days. I wonder if Wanda… No, she’s off with Eber doing resistance stuff. I couldn’t do that. Wearing one of those heavy respirators and sleeping in pressurised tents? No. To be honest, I don’t see what they’re resisting. I mean, there hasn’t been a war in ten years. Can’t remember the last time I witnessed a fight. Haven’t heard of any, either.
Eber and the die-hards say we’ve been conquered and our proud heritage demands we should strive for our freedom from the aliens with every breath, every drop of blood. That whole ‘never surrender’ thing.
Which is where he and I parted ways. I asked one question: “Why should we fight to get back to a situation far worse?”
He hit me. Called me a defeatist. He called me a lot of other things, too. But it doesn’t matter – another thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
The alien race have a name that sounds like ‘Bangarstom’. Somebody called them Bangers, and that was the end of the naming discussion.
Technically, they didn’t invade. Fifteen years ago, an unexpected meteor shower lit the skies for a week. Unusually, many of them survived the burn and landed. By the time the authorities realised the scale of the problem, it was already out of hand. Vena advena is what the scientists called it – a majority decision after weeks of wrangling gave way before the effects of what the rest of the world had come to call Peace Weed.
It spread fast. Where meteorites landed in urban areas, the response was able to contain the effects with only a few accidents. Those only occurred after the authorities realised burning the alien plant released a smoke that acted like a concentrated dose of the chemicals given off by the living plants. So they experimented sloppily, killing an unknown number of people and animals, then settled on a couple of forms of hard radiation. Which also killed things, but not immediately, and nowhere near as quickly as it killed Peace Weed.
When it became clear that huge tracts of wilderness had become infested with Peace Weed, several governments proposed the use of methods that ranged from nuclear weapons down to radioactive crop spraying. None of the options were adopted. The amount of land that would be sterilised would spell the end of civilisation. Scientists noted Peace Weed was a non-competing species, and that it had become effectively established worldwide in record time.
The results of the chemicals given off by the weed were never properly categorised, because nobody cared. Science, like everything else, moved to providing solutions for the ills and deficiencies that had plagued humanity for decades. Nobody wanted to compete anymore. Many wanted to co-operate. The rest wanted to just live their lives without hunger or pain.
Then the Bangers arrived, asking politely if they could set up a few towns on the understanding they would share non-military technology without reserve. Everybody agreed it would be a good idea, as we hadn’t quite sorted out the transition from capitalism to where we’d arrived without warning.
That was twelve years ago. Between us all we sorted the final details of becoming a ‘quiet planet’, and have been that for ten years.
We are, at last, at peace.
Wanda flops down next to me.
“Why is Eber determined to return to a dystopia?”
“Fear, probably. You done with them?”
She kisses me.
“Yup.”
by submission | Jun 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Moony stepped back to eye his handiwork. He called to his assistant. “Get over here and tell me what you think.”
Rollo rolled up beside him. “It’s sublime! The coloration, the fine detail. Especially the eyes—they’re so life-life! It’s sure to fool the other—”
“Ducks,” Moony finished for him. “We call them ducks.” Brush in hand, he walked up to his latest decoy to put the finishing touches on its plum-tinted lips.
* * *
Like most denizens of this over-crowded city, Sebastian kept his head down and avoided eye-contact with strangers—and he was surrounded by nothing but strangers. Exiting the subway, he waded against the flow of commuters rushing in like a river of oblivious bodies, rudely shoving and malodorous.
This evening ritual exasperated Sebastian, wore him down—until he bumped into one particularly clean and moderately attractive body. Their crash caused her to drop her book. Sebastian dived to the grimy concrete floor to retrieve it.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. He glanced at the book’s title: ‘Whittling Wooden Decoys.’ How refreshing, he thought, here’s somebody with an uncommon, quirky hobby. Wonder if she’d like to get coffee, and discuss decoys.
He handed her the book. Their hands touched briefly, and the hard, protective shield covering Sebastian’s tender heart cracked. “Say, would you like to grab a cappuccino?” The stranger smiled, bobbing her head. The shield fell away, bit by bit, and by the time they were sitting in a java joint, Sebastian’s exposed heart warmed to the point of glowing through his shirt.
“Luminous,” the woman commented. “Good sign.” She raised her cooling mocha latte to her plum-tinted lips, but didn’t drink. Instead she blew bubbles.
Sebastian nervously chattered like an old dot-matrix printer, noticing she rarely spoke. A good listener! He happily noted. Maybe she’ll come back to my apartment with me. . .
He laughed awkwardly. “By the way, my name’s Sebastian . . and you are?”
“Scaup,” she declared. “From New Zealand.” In his burgeoning infatuation, he didn’t notice she had no accent. “Go to my place,” she stated, her round, dark eyes glistening.
Exiting the shop, Sebastian couldn’t help but notice how Scaup wiggled her tail and tossed back her feathered hair. A sure sign of excitement!
Her place turned out to be an alleyway dead-end. This can’t be right, he worried. She must be new to the city. She’s lost.
With a surprisingly firm grip, Scaup grabbed his hand to lead him into a cone of light shining down from . . . That’s no streetlight, Sebastian panicked, looking up into the dark sky. He dropped his to-go cup of coffee. That’s a—
* * *
“She’s lured an excellent specimen,” Moony gloated. “As I knew she would! Scaup’s one of my finest decoys.” He gently wiped the dried mocha latte foam from Scaup’s plum-tinted lips before placing her in storage for recharging.
“He’ll make a fine addition to any collection,” Rollo piped up. He rotated the stasis case; inside, Sebastian was frozen in mid-yell, eyes clenched tightly shut. “A prime example of a healthy young Earth male. No scarring, no unnecessary markings, disease-free.”
Rollo turned to his boss. “Will this ‘duck’ be exhibited live, or stuffed?”
“That depends on the vote of the Society,” Moony replied, then added wistfully, “But he’s so perfect, I might just keep him for myself.”
by submission | Jun 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: James A Brown III
Seismic activity had gotten stronger over the last couple of weeks, along with random power drops. It all started when a hole was punched through the center of the moon to take samples for mining.
Dex was taking a breather, looking out a window across the moonscape to the gas giant they orbited. It was odd how this one also had an eye, like Jupiter, and that eye was facing them like the behemoth was watching.
The strange thing about this was there were definite patterns to the quakes and power drains. The drill laser also encountered various levels of resistance as it bored to the moon’s center. Analysis showed harder parts of the moon than other parts, meaning the moon must have formed quickly.
The word had been given, so Dex and the forty-seven other Mining Recons were packing up, as being out in space was probably safer. He had been the first one packed and was doing more analysis while the big ship was being prepped.
There was something below that caught his eye and he studied it some more. It was about half a mile down and seemed to be a chunk of metal a couple of hundred feet long, bent in a perfect ninety angle in the middle. It was a very odd find for what seemed a standard moon.
Another quake started up. Dex paused to wait for it to stop. It didn’t. It got stronger.
An alarm sounded, evacuation. It was time to go.
He collected up his data pads, shoved them into his pack, and ran down the hallway toward his room. After five near-collisions, he made it and put on his spacesuit.
The whole base lurched to one side, violently. Dex ran for the hatch near him, one that went straight to the ship.
As he rounded a corner, he plowed right into a couple of others who were standing still. He pushed past them to see what was happening.
What he saw was the emergency force field holding in their air. What should have been the tube to the ship ended a few feet away and in its place was a deep cavern that disappeared into darkness. The ship was gone as well.
The whole base lurched and exploded, tossing him and everyone around him out into space.
As he sped over the moon’s surface, rising away from it, he saw the strangest sight he had ever seen. The surface of the moon was cracking and folding as if many doors were opening. He had a few minutes of propulsion, and having located the ship, intact and at a safe distance, he aimed himself at it and shot out, joined by the few others who had shared his foresight, and the bodies of those who hadn’t.
Once he had the right momentum, he spun around to look back.
The moon was opening like a puzzle sphere and from this distance, he could see there was a large central construct.
Lights flickered on and holographic projections appeared in the space around the moon. It reminded Dex of an amusement park.
Then came a voice in his mind, using his language.
“Welcome to the resting place of Emperor Jolas Strack IV. By our calculations, it has been … sixty-seven thousand, two hundred and twelve years since anyone visited our fine establishment. Please forgive our cleaning efforts as we were forced to go into dormant mode until we could recharge our systems. Have a nice visit!”
Dex watched the ancient mausoleum continuing to open as pieces of the colony traveled with him.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I’d never dreamed before, at least not that I could remember.
Sure, a lifetime in that chair, I’d hoped for things, but that’s different. Sleep was always empty, vacant. Dreamless.
Ever since I’ve become a retread, the visions have been relentless. This reclaimed meatsuit must have been saturated in deeply emotional experiences, and when they bleached it, some of them didn’t wash out.
Most of these meatsuits come from habitual offenders; death row inmates, the irredeemable dregs of society. Their family gets a payout, they get off the hook early, and people like me born with a body broken in all the wrong places get another chance.
Retread.
I don’t know where this meatsuit came from, and the plastics work had all been done before I moved in, so I can’t even track down the history by likeness, but there’s something about these fragments that I see when I close my eyes that are undeniable, unavoidable, unnerving.
Standing here, now, at this intersection, I can understand why.
The wreaths are still wired to the guardrail, and the crosses, while leaning, remain stuck in the dirt.
Despite all efforts to wash it away – wind, rain, time – the evidence remains. Undeniable. Unavoidable.
If I close my eyes, the road, the railing, her eyes. It’s all so clear to me now.
I understand how someone could want not to relive these memories, be prepared to not inhabit this body anymore to be free of them.
I don’t blame them.
In time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay in here with them either.
by submission | Jun 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
Den leaned back in his chair, wishing he were someplace else. The sole lightbulb in his “office” flickered defiantly, daring him to try to fix it. He looked up at the bulb but didn’t budge. He’d much rather be home with his wife and his son. Their dog. Those were simpler times, he thought. Back then, my biggest problem was trying to figure out why the sprinkler system wasn’t working, he thought. My big To-Do list – that somehow occupied my weekends – was maybe going to the lumber store, maybe mowing the lawn. Grilling. Real first-world problems, he thought, shaking his head.
He remembered actually getting upset with his son about him forgetting to wipe his shoes before he entered the house. Seriously. Admittedly, most of that was a show for his wife. If it was important to her, it was important to him by default. Still, he actually made a big deal out of something as utterly trivial as that. We were complacent as hell back then, he thought.
Entitled. Pampered, even.
Now, his wife was gone. Almost certainly dead, like nearly everyone he knew. Their house was gone, as was most of their town. That lumber store? Gone. His son – like all other able-bodied males 13 and older – was enlisted and doing his part to help save the world. He wondered if he was still stationed in New Mexico, or if that had fallen, too. He hadn’t heard any chatter from there in weeks, but that wasn’t necessarily atypical for regions that far apart. Each remaining division was almost an island now, cut off from all but the most local communications.
No Internet anymore. No cell towers. No satellite phones. No functioning GPS that he was aware of. Strictly shortwave now, and maybe forever. But how much longer is “forever” now? A year or two? Months? Weeks?
And I got mad. Because he forgot to wipe. His shoes…
