by submission | Sep 15, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The children were higgledy piggledy spread across the rolling field. Ms. Fuentes knew they were there to be citizen scientists. She also knew they were there to be enjoying the spring air and sunshine after a long winter.
For eleven years she’d been bringing her class here in order to gather data on the local flora and fauna. The municipality had rehabbed this site, a long-abandoned amusement park, to restore it to the verdant meadow it had once been. Native species had been reintroduced and most were flourishing. Every spring, Ms. Fuentes and her students collected the data to show the meadow’s progress. And the parks department staff posted the results of her students’ efforts.
The kids loved it. And it was real field science. Authentic learning–and on a sunny day, too. With the help of a cadre of loyal parent chaperones, Ms. Fuentes’s students were fanned out and, in their roundabout fifth grade way, diligently tallying their assigned native species.
Except Atul.
Atul. Atul. Atul was her challenge this year. In her nineteen years teaching, she’d never had a student quite like Atul. He was as good natured a young soul as could be imagined, but Ms. Fuentes couldn’t for the life of her figure out how his surprising mind worked.
She approached Atul sitting cross-legged in the tall grass. His arms flung out, his palms brushing the tall, lush grass, his eyes shut, his brow slightly furrowed.
Ms. Fuentes had seen his brow crinkled on a daily basis. It meant he was concentrating on some problem he would eventually share with her. The question was whether she should inquire. She’d learned that it was impossible to predict what Atul’s unique mind was poking at. Out here on this glorious spring day, she wondered if she should ask him.
She didn’t have to.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of it, Ms. Fuentes,” he said softly without opening his eyes. “Even if it means no more recess.”
Ms. Fuentes squatted down across from him. “Tell me more about that, Atul,” she said. One thing she’d learned was that Atul would always tell her more.
His eyes popped open. Soft brown eyes, so loamy rich they could nurture acres of fantastic ideas.
“You brought us here to observe and count things, right?”
“Yes. To observe. To count. To collect our data on native species. Do you have a question about that?”
Bringing his small hands together in his lap, Atul said, “I have a concern.”
“Tell me about your concern.”
“I don’t think we’re observing the right things.”
Ms. Fuentes waited. She knew to wait on her students. To let them process their thinking. Especially Atul.
“We aren’t going far enough down,” Atul finally said.
Patting the ground beside her, Ms. Fuentes asked, “Do you mean we should be taking soil samples? That we should dig into the ground and find out what insects and mircro-organisms are established here? That is thinking like a biologist, Atul. That is great.”
Atul closed his eyes again. “No, Ms. Fuentes. We need to go deeper. We should be charting the field that makes all of this possible.”
“That’s what we are doing, Atul,” Ms. Fuentes reassured him. “Collecting data on the flora and fauna here in this field, so we can put it in a spreadsheet for the parks department, and they can…”
“Field you say,” Atul interrupted with a Yoda-like lilt, opening his eyes and gesturing at the meadow around them. “A field this is not.” He cupped his hands. “Magnetic. Gravitational. Electric. Real fields those are. Observing those fields, using those fields, are what we should be doing.”
Ms. Fuentes had watched Atul imitate Yoda many times before. She suspected it was his way of helping mentor her and his classmates into his unique mind, showing them his way of seeing the world. As always, she respected it. “How can we do that, Atul? Tell me more.”
Atul met her eyes and held them. “Mistake not the waves for the ocean, Ms. Fuentes. Feel your way past organisms, you must. Past particles. To the very bottom of it all. To the ether of the field. You must.”
Atul extended his hands towards her. The sun glared suddenly brighter. Feeling strangely light-headed, Ms. Fuentes sat down across from Atul. She closed her eyes.
“Feel it now, do you?” Atul coached.
She didn’t know what she was feeling, but something was tugging at her. A something. A force. A field.
An impossibility.
If Ms. Fuentes could have only opened her eyes, she’d have seen all her fifth-graders chasing her and Atul as they floated cross-legged across the meadow.
All the while, Atul telling her more.
by Julian Miles | Sep 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wenza waves a tentacle towards the screen.
“A pretty planet. All those blues and greens. What’s the white at top and bottom?”
Bintol smiles.
“Sub-zero territories. What you’re seeing is accumulated snow and ice.”
“What’s snow?”
“Frozen water that falls as uniquely shaped crystals. It drifts somewhat like sand, according to a report from a Ratturten expedition.”
“That sounds wonderful. Will we see some?”
“No. This is merely a stopover at our base on the dark side of their moon.”
“Why aren’t we- Hold hard. Ratturten haven’t been spacefarers for over a century! They renounced spaceflight completely after losing the Gendiflade War.”
“They were the last race to enter the atmosphere of this planet. Apparently they were playing their ‘catch me if you can’ games with the inhabitants.”
“Why hasn’t anyone visited more recently?”
“Wait until we’ve docked. A demonstration has been arranged.”
The luxury cruiser has been docked for only a short while when Bintol escorts Wenza and retinue into the viewing gallery. After making sure they’re settled, he steps in front of the wide viewport.
“Welcome to closed planet Terufon. It was known to its inhabitants as ‘Earth’, ‘World’, or ‘Global’. The exact etymology around that trio of names is unknown. Shortly before the dominant civilisation collapsed, they reached what is regarded by many of us more knowledgeable races as the unfortunate pinnacle of automated warfare: they created a genuine SPASOAN: self-perpetuating, artificially sentient, orbital aggressor network.”
He gestures to one side. One of the crew presses a button that launches a small cargo pod towards the planet. As it accelerates away, Bintol resumes.
“Watch, please. Note that it is entirely unarmed and devoid of personnel – organic or otherwise.”
The pod travels quickly until it reaches high orbit, whereupon they see several bright beams illuminate it.
“Coming fast from the left.”
The object he pointed out hits the pod, the impact tearing it in half. The object wobbles as plumes of exhaust indicate fierce deceleration.
“What you’ve just witnessed is an Orbital Interception Object defined as a ‘Type One’. The largest we’ve seen is Type Ten. Anything bigger than Type Six doesn’t decelerate. They are moving at sufficient speed for the impact to be mutually destructive. Also, they are only the first line of defence. They occasionally miss. The energy weapons of the next line never do.”
He indicates the many darker patches scattered across the view.
“You see these? They’re debris rejected by the scavengers that find materials for use in nanorepair of the interceptors. Originally from wasteful space exploration techniques, then warfare, and most recently from vessels destroyed by the SPASOAN. By most recently, I mean the last two hundred years. That’s when all access to this planet ended. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. The cost in materials and vessels to remove the SPASOAN is deemed too high, especially as it is likely its core resides somewhere down on the planet itself.”
Wenza raises a tentacle.
“What of the inhabitants?”
Bintol shrugs.
“A very good question. Observations in the twelfth year after access was closed indicated an extensive conflict that ended in the use of thermonuclear weapons. We could have helped, but their deadly servant wouldn’t let us. It refused every appeal. What they’re doing down there is unknown. However, the atmosphere stabilised ten years ago. It’s hoped to eventually observe indications of life.”
Wenza gestures to the Type One that’s being towed away by a smaller object.
“I would venture a study of the SPASOAN is warranted. How many have survived two hundred years?”
Bintol bows.
“None, and we are already doing so.”
by submission | Sep 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Chris Krechowiecki-Shaw
The tricks we pull to dodge tax are ridiculous. It would make a lot more sense to pay up than to dive into a supermassive black hole’s crushing depths, but then again keeping proper accounts is not good for smugglers.
I should explain. I figured I’d earned a break, so I’m sipping my Earl Grey Tea, savouring the delicate dance of lemon and bergamot, watching the chaotic dance of binary systems. I’m on dark mode, slingshotting a tight course past galactic centre – a void cloaked in the smeared light of regurgitated star systems. A jolt whips my vertebrae, hammers my eardrums. Fingers scalded, tea everywhere. A sizzling crackle, the choking thick stench of burning plastic. Felt like plasma packets – GalacTax enforcers’ arms of choice. Check shields: 75%. I need drastic action. Fire impulse engine, skim event horizon, hope I can handle a hundred g’s. Pressure. Sinuses flood with the clingy purple taste of brain compressing, liquid fire sears my capillaries. Causality flickers electric blue. Then I’m out. Not clear – highly elliptic orbit.
Thump. My tongue coats in liquid tin. Shields 50%. Readout – ‘magnetic pulse 50 GigaTeslas’. Straight through a flare. Should shake them, but no – enforcers holding tight on my tail! I’m past the orbit’s apex, back towards the glowering vantablack pearl, that hole in the tightly-spilled stars. Ears – ringing a pulsar symphony. Stomach – scrambling for an ‘up’ to throw. A plasma packet flashes past, purple-green shadows on my retina.
Lucky – but not for long.
Crash. Shields 25%. Death inevitable, I choose insanity, swerve inwards. It’s a threecore spinning mass: not three former stars but three proto-galaxies, crushed down to a point. I might whipsaw between roiling singularities – one in a trillion chance. Light bleeds out. Acrid, spicy tang of gamma radiation. Skull filled with metallic rise – whummm – and fall of unfathomable magnetic fields. Elemental agony. Looming enormity distorts me – time peels, stretches into blistering kaleidoscope tunnels, whirling and boiling. Infinite density squeezing all I am into brutal white silence.
Then shapes. Shades. Texture. A pearlescent sphere resolves, silver on white.
Sniff. The burnt chocolate aroma of coffee tickles my nostrils. Questionable choice, but preferable to oblivion, I guess. Things might be looking up.
“Welcome to the transcendent dimension, mortal! Please wait while we conduct regularisation checks. We will begin with a tax audit!”
Tax audit? Damnit!
by submission | Sep 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: George Bancroft
“Well, Dr. Tygan, this committee finds no evidence of wrongdoing,” the committee chair declared. “Your records and the testimony of your staff refute the allegations of fabricated patient interviews and fraudulent test results.”
Larry Tygan exhaled deeply. While he had no reason to doubt that he would be exonerated, he was relieved to have the inquiry conclude. The research integrity committee had initiated this hearing following a complaint filed by a disgruntled former student.
“I must acknowledge, professor, that your productivity is quite prodigious,” the chair continued. “Even your most accomplished molecular biology colleagues have published substantially fewer papers. I feel compelled to ask you one question: how are you able to accomplish so much?”
Tygan gave him a half-smile and hesitated a moment before answering.
“I have spent many a sleepless night pursuing my research, sir,” Tygan responded. “I use AI, like most of my colleagues, but always in accordance with university guidelines. As you know, I have research assistants and students who take part in my research as well.”
“Very well,” the chair said. “I declare this inquiry adjourned and no further action is to be taken. Good luck to you with your research, professor.”
Tygan’s car crawled through rush hour traffic and arrived home just after seven. He was eager to resume work on his clandestine project. After descending the stairs into the basement he opened the laboratory refrigerator and removed a small glass vial. Then he drew a small dose of the compound into a sterile syringe and injected it under the skin on his abdomen. The injections started as an audacious experiment but had now evolved into a quotidian routine.
The professor climbed the stairs and walked to his office, turning on his computer. He spent the next eight hours refining his models and analyzing data. The compound he had developed reduced his sleep requirement from seven hours to two. He had no intention of publishing his findings on the injectable treatment.
His work now focused on developing a gene therapy that would enable his body to produce the same protein, obviating the need for nightly injections. Only a few adjustments remained before he could begin testing. He intended to publish the results in four years, immediately before retirement. He saw no reason to surrender this advantage before his career ended.
by submission | Sep 11, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mahati Vaidyanathan
Maahi hated the scientists.
*I’m sorry,* Mahath transmitted through their link for the thirtieth time that morning. The buzz of his nervous caffeine sizzled across her mind. But nothing could change the fact that Maahi was on a plane to the other side of the planet surrounded by cold scientists while Mahath got to sit huddled together with sweet Mumma in the safety of home.
“What did he say?” asked the blue-haired scientist next to her. She held the TV remote looking device connected to the itchy monitoring patch that dug into Maahi’s skull.
“He apologized again,” Maahi grunted. The scientist across from her recorded the data with a flourish.
*Get me out of here,* Maahi transmitted back. Instead, her twin responded with a flurry of images of his own scientists, sitting in an arc around the worn couch she loved.
*You’re still luckier than me.*
*I know. I’m sorry.*
She snorted and lied to the scientists that he sent pictures of strawberries. They called to confirm with Mahath’s team, but the joke was on them because the twins created the lie in their collective subconscious, and in their subconscious the silky sweet burst of strawberries was always the lie.
Maahi pulled her strawberry red coat around her, and she sensed Mahath wrapping his own around himself. It was starting to smell like airplane juice, but she would never drop it in the dank laundry chute she knew she would have access to at their next stop. She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent hot tears from spilling over.
*I hate them, I hate you, I hate this,* and she ignored the scientists’ next few questions until they gave up.
“Why are we flying so far?” asked a snotty voice that Maahi recognized as the intern’s. The team called him “young scientist,” but the twins called him Flatman because everything from his flat hair, to his squished nose, to his idiot ideas, was as flat as a map.
“Look at this,” the blue-haired scientist said. Maahi opened one eye lazily, discreetly to see what ‘this’ was.
Blue-hair held up a piece of red string that belonged on a detective’s board, not a stupid science project that was ruining Maahi’s life. She ached for Mumma, for Mahath, even for stupid school because at least it was familiar.
“This,” Blue-hair said, pinching one end of the string, “is subject F.” A.K.A Maahi. She pinched the other end. “This is subject M.” She placed the frayed ends together, then pulled them apart slowly. “We’re testing the strength of their connection at various distances.” She suddenly pulled the string taut and it snapped. Then, lowering her voice, “We’ll see if there’s a distance when their connection disappears.” Except their connection wasn’t a fickle string. “Any ideas, young scientist?”
“We should send her to the moon,” Flatman said, giddy.
*Flatman is killing me,* Maahi groaned in their shared space.
*Flatwoman too,* Mahath referred to the intern on his team, and Maahi felt the grin spreading across his face. *They were only chosen for their twinliness. Our twinliness is better.*
*Yeah.*
*I really am sorry.*
And it wasn’t his fault, so, *I forgive you.*
“Not a terrible idea, young scientist.”
God, Maahi hated these scientists. But she hated Mahath for a different reason. So she let the shakiness exhale, wrapped her warm, sweet coat around her, and let her teary eye flutter shut in hope she could strangle hug him in her dreams.
by submission | Sep 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Jakob had been remiss. He attempted to laugh but all he could manage was a gurgle and he spat blood onto his already bloody shirt front. He had collected fuel for the fire, dry grass and twigs and fallen branches, but he had not carried them out into the open. Instead he had built the bonfire under the oak, in the shade, where he was more comfortable.
After setting it ablaze, Jakob had drifted off almost instantly. He awoke with a start, the vermin already on him, piercing his skin with their tiny incisors. Jakob shook them off in a violent frenzy that shocked him. Was it, he wondered, already happening? But no, the vermin were done with him, had taken enough of him and were ready to back off.
They gathered at the edge of the tree line, just a few metres from Jakob. Scurrying excitedly in apprehension, waiting and watching. He had seen this many times with other victims, the vermin seemed to relish in it, taking as much nourishment and sustenance from the witnessing of it, as they would eventually when they fell and fed upon his corpse.
Jakob had been walking for weeks and he was weary. He was making excuses but they were pointless of course, but he hadn’t seen any vermin in days. He reached behind himself and grabbed his rucksack. It was filled with the medical supplies he had been tasked with collecting. Jakob pulled it close and hugged it. The excursion had been successful. Or almost.
He glanced down at his legs, the blood soaking into his jeans. He was riddled with wounds and Jakob wondered if they would be enough to kill him. Had the vermin been too greedy, over-zealous, had they taken too much from him? Would he be spared the brief but rapid and violent afterlife? But Jakob was all too aware that he was not dying, at least not yet. He could feel his strength returning despite the blood loss. Soon he would be up on his feet again, flailing and lashing out at nothing, and everything. Jakob wondered how long he would be locked in to this uncontrollable rage. He could take some solace at least in the knowledge his bones would rest here in the shade and not bleach in the sun, out on open the plain.
