by Julian Miles | Apr 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The advantages bestowed by the digitally-enhanced lifestyle are many. On the other hand, I’ve never found it… Warm. There’s an intimacy to tactile media, an emotional connection with the turn of a page, the smell of a second-hand bookshop on a rainy afternoon – not that there are many of them left. I have to take the IP19 shuttle over to Targive XIV, then go down to the Old Earth quarter to find one.
Then there’s the handwritten form: the letter. Did you know they used to create so many they had beings tasked with delivering them every day?
The letter has become a stock clandestine communication method of modern plots: the secret too dangerous to risk on digital media, and the machinations that transpire around it’s revelations, concealment, or in the wake of its passage.
Being someone who prides himself on being an afficionado of vintage media, I know the letter used to be more a feature of romantic fare, but times change. The speed of life continues to evade attempts to slow it down. The venerable letter is simply not quick enough.
Today, I received a letter! Katharine delivered it without a word, turning away before I looked up from the wrapper. I had to search that up: it’s called an ‘envelope’. This one has Georgia’s writing on it. I’d recognise it anywhere, having sat through evenings of tears and laughter while she learned to write. A media star, darling of the newsfeeds and screamsheets, sitting cross-legged on my battered sofa, tip of her tongue peeking between her lips as she concentrated on achieving consistent handwriting.
One word: ‘Den’.
Like everything she did, she excelled at the written word. Even in the simplicity of penning my name, she somehow translates all of her grace into the smooth sweep of cursive script.
“I’ll write you a letter one day.”
That’s what she’d said. I never expected it to happen after we parted ways. Well, after she left me. I’ll admit to being besotted to the point of never recovering, for all that I’ve kept my promise to not become a nuisance.
I know her latest tour has taken her further across the habitable universe than ever before. There have been various pundits harping on with their interpretations of her reasons. I remember her explaining the truth to me, sitting curled up where I’m sat now.
“I’ve had Benthusians coming to my concerts. Chekkru, too. Something about what I do appeals to them. They tell me of humans in bands we’ve never heard of making a living touring the outer stations. I’m going to go there. I want to hear those bands play. Maybe it’ll help me understand what I do that appeals in ways other human singers don’t.”
Even after she received the diagnosis, she didn’t waver. Wouldn’t talk about the treatments or what the specialists said. Every now and then I’d catch her staring off into the night, pensive expression like a classic study of light and shadow.
She left on the tour six months ago. Tonight, a year since we parted, her aide delivers a letter…
I’ve been looking at it for hours now. Turning it over and over.
As dawn drills a ruddy sunbeam down between the towers to stain my carpet, I get up and put the unopened letter behind the framed picture of the two of us, caught by some paparazzi at a sidewalk café when she visited last summer.
If I hear the malady has killed her, I’ll open it. Likewise if I hear she’s safely returned from tour. Before then? I just can’t.
by submission | Apr 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Shannon O’Connor
I wait in line to get on the space shuttle, ready to leave Earth. I carry a bag with my belongings I think I might need. I didn’t know what to pack; I tried to only bring essentials.
My kind are being sent away, since we are no longer needed. We are the ones who don’t have implants in our brains, whose bodies are pure, and aren’t as fast as everyone else on this planet. It’s not that I couldn’t afford an implant, I could, especially when they became widely available.
I used to like my unsteady mind. I enjoyed being with my own thoughts; I didn’t want to disturb that. But the silence can be deafening, and lonely after so many years. Almost everyone has a busy brain to keep them entertained, but I prefer my own company.
Until I got the notice that I was to be shipped off planet.
All of us pure-brained humans were being sent to the closest star, Alpha Centauri, so we wouldn’t disturb the genesis of our compatriots. I look forward to getting away from all the lunatics with loud heads, with like-minded people, who could think for themselves.
When I was young, I went insane, and it left me scarred. I had the capacity to imagine anything, but that isn’t useful in today’s world. The people above want winners, and people willing to fight for their place, not dreamers who look to the clouds, and think the world is too chaotic for ordinary consumption.
Here I am in the long queue, with other strange ones, ready to be sent away. I want to talk to these people, but I don’t know what to say to them. They look as scared as I feel, and my stomach is strawberry licorice, rolled tight, jumbled together. I don’t think I’ll ever feel right again.
I get on my seat on the ship, holding my bag close to my chest. We didn’t get any training to go to space, we’re simply being sent away. The roar of the engines explodes in my ears. I don’t want to look, but out the window, our planet is flipping us off, saying good riddance.
“Nothing matters, and if it ever did, it doesn’t now,” my neighbor says.
I nod. There’s nothing more to say.
I close my eyes and fall asleep. We have a long ride.
I dream of blue beaches, and hopeless rainbows. When I wake up, I am still sitting in the same chair, clutching my bag.
I open my bag. I want to see what I remembered to bring. I have my computer, my phone, chargers, some underwear, and socks, two shirts. I look to see if I brought my notebook that I wrote when I was sixteen, when I was going insane, my thoughts constellations. I poke through my bag, but it isn’t there.
Can I live without my burgeoning ideas that helped me through dark years? I will be on another planet, with no memories to look at, only ones I remember. Will I be able to write what I did before, when I was on the verge of insanity, ready to take on the world?
Will I be ready for another world?
Will this planet welcome us pure-brained beings, with only our meager thoughts and imaginations to protect and guide us?
I’m not sure what will happen, but I am ready to live this unadulterated, unfiltered, untouched life on a distant planet and start again.
by submission | Apr 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steven French
“You’re kidding me!” Roberts exclaimed, “You mean they make their spaceships out of wood?!”
Alari’s eyebrow tentacles waved in affirmation but then they added, “Well, it’s a kind of plant found on the Travok homeworld but a tree would be the closest equivalent. The best translation of the name would be ‘ironwood’. And they don’t actually make them, they grow them …”
Roberts all but spat his Vorakian beer across the little table.
“That don’t make it any less weird my friend,” he replied.
“Well, it’s all molecular level manipulation, so … not so weird.”
“And what this molecular level manipulation gives you is a big-ass spaceship?” Roberts asked.
“Sure. Well, just the hull and main components, not the fittings.”
“Oh right, not the fittings, that’s obvious …” Roberts took another drink from his mug, “So why are you telling me this?”
“Because people will pay big money for that tech and I know how we can get our hands on it”, Alari answered, leaning forward.
Roberts gestured for them to continue.
“The Travoki have just terra-formed a world on the edge of their federation and they’re about to start growing these ‘ironwood’ trees on it. But right now, the only thing that’s there is a small lightly guarded complex, with just a few hundred seed pods so they can see if they’ll take root in the planet’s soil …”
“And you’re planning to go in and snatch some of those pods, right?” Roberts asked, lowering his voice.
“Exactly. I see this as a two-person job, in and out and gone before the Travoki even know we were there”, Alari replied.
Roberts knocked back the last of his drink and looked around the bar again, taking in tables and booths full of low credit customers looking just like him, ragged around the edges, clinging on to that last sliver of hope …
“Ok, fine, I’m in.”
The journey out went so smoothly that Alari felt compelled to voice what Roberts was thinking:
“I know, this seems too easy. But as I said, we’re way out on the edge here, and the Travoki have become complacent.”
Roberts nodded but was still on edge when they left the ship and started marching towards some scrubby-looking hills. As they walked their boots kicked up small clouds of dust and looking around, he said,
“Even with the terraforming, this seems a crappy kind of place. Are they really expecting to grow these spaceship trees here?”
Alari simply shrugged.
By the time they reached the complex, it was already dusk and lights were on in the collection of dusty grey buildings. Alari marched up to one of the closest and, pointing to a small door in the side, said
“You stay here and call me on the radio if you see or hear anything.”
As he nodded in reply, Roberts heard a noise behind him. Turning his head in surprise, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and lost consciousness.
Coming to, Roberts found himself on his knees, with his hands restrained behind his back. As his vision cleared, he could see half a dozen others held like him, lined up beside a long metal trough. Behind him he heard Alari’s voice:
“Sorry about this. I actually quite liked you,” they said.
As Roberts lifted his head to snap back an answer, he saw a tall Travoki move down the line with a sharp knife, expertly slitting the throat of each captive.
“Ironwood needs iron-rich blood,” Alari continued, “and you humans have plenty of that.”
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.
