by submission | Jan 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: Donna J. W. Munro
“The most intelligent creature wasn’t some begging dog or the hump crazy dolphins,” Randal said to Sophie as they walked the perimeter of the bowl valley waste they guarded. “It’s crows.”
In the distance, a crow laughed at the sky and landed on a gnarled branch that grew from the cracked-up river wash, dry now for fifty years.
Sophie nodded. She’d heard it before. She shifted the rifle further back on her shoulders and glanced through the binoculars to where the crow hopped from the branch onto the ground, picking through pebbles.
“Why, if crows ran the world, we’d probably all be better off,” Randal said, probably for the millionth time.
Not a lot to do out in the wastes of Ohio. Maybe in Manitoba there were green things that grew, but here there was just grit and wind to guard. Still, Sophie didn’t complain. They had it worse down south, living underground because of heat. The interfilms whispered about cannibalism in the caves.
If Randal wasn’t such an idiot, he might have tried to eat her when she’d stumbled across the ragged mountains begging for water from his evaptank. He took her in. Made her his little sister. Back in the old world, they’d have called Randal an imbecile or a retard or some other awful thing. But in this world, he thrived. Things made sense to him and he became the protector of this bit of land.
He collected up living things and protected them in his hill cabin, a buried fortress of shipping containers lined with the flotsam of the old world. No one came here because… there was nothing here. But Randal managed to find the occasional rabbit, worms, a stray cat, and even some little green things he sheltered and grew inside the hill. He’d found her. Any other guy might have mauled her, raped her, killed her for meat. Randal didn’t eat meat. He couldn’t hurt a fly. And the raping? He wasn’t interested in it.
Just a big strong kid with a good heart here at the end of the world.
“Randal, why do you like crows so much?”
He smiled rolling the shovel he carried across the ridge of his shoulder.
“I dream about crows all the time. When I do, the evaptank gets more water and we find plots of fat earthworms to eat. They bring me good luck. Beside you, they’re the only things left around here that talk. Caw-Caw!”
Sophie nodded, pulling her feathery, black skirt up to step over a branch.
“What if I told you that you were the only person left on earth, Randal, and that the crows are taking care of you as best they can. They make up all those stories about other places. Other people. To keep you happy. For old time sake. What if I told you that you are their special pet?”
Randal twisted his mouth as he did when he thought deeper than his pool allowed. “There’s worse things, right Sophie? I’d rather be a crow’s pet than some monster eating babies like they say on the interfilms. But wait… what you say can’t be true, because you’re here. You are a person like me. Don’t be so silly, Sophie.”
She smiled and leaned in toward him, pecking him on the cheek.
“Right, right, Randal. Even so, you’re right. Let’s get back and eat. I bet the rabbits are hungry, too.”
He laughed and as he walked away, muttering happily about the rabbits and the plants in his burrow under the hill, Sophie walked a few steps behind. Parts of her broke off, black and feathery, and flew away, messengers carrying back word of Randal’s needs to the kingdom of crows. The flock of Sophie would keep him alive for as long as they could, for old times’ sake, but after him the whole world would be made up of crows.
by submission | Jan 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Outrageous! Don’t you dare degrade my mother, you monster! She will never love you.” Pearl pushed her finger at Jake Rosetter’s dark, greasy, pockmarked forehead only half-visible behind his helmet’s face shield in the ready room near exit hatches for scheduled spacewalk repairs. He leaned back hard against blue steel lockers before slamming shut his cabinet.
“Back off, Tindal! What would you know? You haven’t seen her for twenty years. You’ve only got memories. We’ll make our own.” Rosetter yanked his underwear-lining zipper, quickly concealing a slender, four-inch wide, narrow ceramic ingot sealed within dull-gray metal welded to his thin aluminum safety lanyard. His necklace matched dented lieutenant bars on his spacesuit hanging on the adjacent wall. He finished dressing, pushing arms past inner suit linings, exposing silvery warmth gloves emerging through sleeves of his orange work suit.
“I don’t care what kind of pull you have with the Captain. You can’t take her out there. She never liked space. She never entered the void. She lived on Titan, discovering critical methane pools for your struggling Earth, dedicating her life for billions facing death from Earth’s glaciation, but they never knew her sacrifices. How dare you dishonor her legacy playing this damnable charade of passion? It’s not just heresy…it’s insanity.” Pearl pulled Rosetter’s arm as he reached for his outer space suit, delaying his exit.
“Claws off, civi! You know the punishment for grabbing elites?” With that, he pushed Pearl out of arm’s reach. “I won’t press charges, but you touch me again and even your mother’s love won’t protect you…not on this cargo ship.” He stiffened as he pulled the lower half of his exit suit off the mag hangar to a final dressing bench. Soiled outer sleeves and two repaired puncture marks portrayed dangers from off-world ship maintenance where micrometeorites rocketed around Saturn’s gravity. Rosetter pushed Pearl back further against adjacent lockers, hard enough to bang the petite black laborer’s head against metal frames. She came charging back.
“She forfeited her life for your kind, and this is your gratitude—imaginary love, keeping her DNA over your heart? After she died with her team caught in that Sotra volcanic ice blow, her shredded remains were congealed into that pendant. It’s our respect for lost miners. Her shield of dignity was sealed in Pallas City’s temple of high honor. You stole her essence to defile her in your disgusting indulgence.”
“Excuse me if I don’t get it. You’re a Titanese worshipper, as she was, so her soul is somewhere else in some heavenly dimension? Isn’t that what you call it?”
Pearl squinted, pulling her lips back in a snarl. “So what?”
“Cargo engs have no progeny to remember us. We have no legacy. We’re sterile as my suit. That’s the price we rejects from Earth’s declining gene pool pay to preserve their dwindling herd. All I’ll ever have for company in my brief life is one reconstituted clone made from some departed’s cells, but she’ll only survive for two years. I picked your mother for her honesty and loyalty, not some frivolous empty-headed celebrity.”
“I forbid it.”
“You’ll never see us together. The rule is “Never where they lived.” My one-time companion will only know me within this ship’s cramped quarters. I will honor your mother’s memory, as no one else can. Ghosting is reparation for those dying young while traversing deadly radiation belts. Maybe cloning isn’t ethical to you, but it’s legal. It’s the only love I’ll ever have. You had hers once. Now let me have mine.”
by submission | Jan 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Claire Fitzpatrick
The street was long and empty, silent, save for the gentle sounds of dead branches underfoot, out of sync with the steady rhythm of Ginny’s steps. Here, the pavement was littered with fallen leaves, and she stepped around it, careful not to crush it underfoot. When she reached the end of her parent’s street she heard the familiar blare of the broadcast from the telegraph pole loudspeakers and looked over her shoulder. The televisions turned on one by one, swift and precise, like lighting out a candle. She looked down at her watch. She hadn’t noticed it at first – it had crept up on them, sneaky and unobtrusive. One day the news started at nine AM, then at a quarter to. The following week it was eight-thirty, and then a quarter to seven. Now it started at six. Her mother brushed it off. “It’s always been six, Ginny. You’ve such an imagination!”
She walked on, pausing at the intersection where the road turned off to the motorway. In a few hours the bitumen would be alive with the thunderous roar of horns and spluttering exhausts, a noxious perfume of benzene and diesel filling the air. But now, all Ginny could smell was the beach nestled behind her house. She inhaled the decay and regeneration, and lingered in the faint memory of roses in the gusts of coastal winds.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!”
Ginny froze and raised her hands. The enforcement officer hurried across the street. He pulled a gun from his holster and pointed it at her head.
“What’s your name?”
“Ginny MacDougal.”
“Where is your uniform, Miss MacDougal?”
“I don’t have one.”
“So you’re not a sidewalk officer?”
“No.”
“So where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You have a television in your house?”
“I do.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
Ginny glanced at her watch. “Quarter to six.”
“The news will start in fifteen minutes. Do you live far?”
Ginny pointed to the end of the street. “Down there. Small white house with the red car.”
“What if something happened and you didn’t make it?”
“Like this interaction?”
“Don’t get smart!”
“I was getting some fresh air.”
“Is there air in your house?”
“Of course.”
“Well, there’s no reason for you to be outside at this time.” The officer returned the gun to its holster, pulled off a ticket from the machine strapped to his utility belt, and handed it to her. She took it quickly and stuffed it in her pocket. It was her second one this week. One more and she’d face a disciplinary hearing.
“You’re lucky I stopped you, you know. My partner would have set you straight to the Facility.”
Ginny swallowed a lump in her throat. The speculum left red rings around her uncle’s eyes that remained for weeks. Now he never left the lounge-room in case he missed the news. Her aunt had even purchased a bedpan. “Is that so?”
The officer nodded. “Know anyone in there?”
“No.”
“Well, you don’t want to. Now go home, Miss MacDougal.”
Ginny nodded and hurried off towards her house. Once inside, she slid the chain across the door, made herself comfortable on the lounge, and stared at the empty space where the television had been. She thought of her parents, propped up on their recliners, dinner trays on their laps, the technicolour lights bouncing of their slack faces, entombed within their lounge room. Tomorrow, she’d walk the long way home.
by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures meet outside the Ship o’ the Line tavern on Marquis III.
“No, no. You sit there. I’m more comfortable when I can see the ways in and out of any place I’m stopped in.”
The reply is a flicker of tentacles and a telepathic acceptance. After the slight visitor is seated, food and drinks are ordered from the hovering ovoid of a serving ‘bot.
Tentacles wave and a thought is sent.
“A revelation from my centuries amongst humans?”
A callused hand scratches at the stubble on his chin, then waves towards the spaceships standing amid the towers of the spaceport.
“The uncanny resemblance, come evening, between a harbour full of tall ships with their rigging and lines going hither and yon, and the spectacle of a free worlds spaceport filled with rocketships all festooned in stabilisers, conduits, and cabling.”
The tentacles ripple, then curl tightly as a more piercing question is communicated.
There’s a bark of laughter that trails away to a deep chuckle.
“No. We are, by nature, solitary wanderers. By the time we truly understand our longevity, we have forgotten our origins. Near death experiences take memories from us. Some of us seek that oblivion, spending lives as the most extreme daredevils or warriors for whatever cause offers the greatest danger. Others seek to avoid it, clutching memories like a miser hoarding money. I daresay an unknown number of us die after shockingly short – by our standard – life spans. Those who fall we never know. The fervid stories of our intergalactic powerplays and control of humanity are nothing but childish nightmare tales dressed in adult trappings. Your kind know our telepathic abilities to be rudimentary. No doubt you have encountered absolute refusals to believe that from some human groups.”
The slight figure nods slowly, then takes a quick sip of a luminous yellow beverage, the glow from which illuminates the quartet of dark vertical slots where it’s eyes should be. As it savours the drink, another question is silently asked.
“You need not worry. I’ve booked passage out of here on several ships. I’ll be gone, and damnably difficult to follow, by the time you compile and release the documentary. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to depart a place due to risk of discovery, but it’s nice to be able to do so with a modicum of grace for once.”
The next query prompts a snort of derision.
“We came to a tacit agreement with the authorities ages ago. Our potential for causing long term harm far outweighs any advantages we could provide. On top of that, there are superstitious criminal groups and religions with legends and traditions that predate the current ruling classes. We can bring a fearsome amount of grief down upon any who test us. That is not bluster, either. It has been proven several times.”
Tentacles flick again while food that looks like charred seaweed is consumed with gusto.
“I have no idea. I have been around long enough to develop a surety that whatever divinities might be attendant upon the drama called human existence have no great scheme for my kind, nor for humankind, be that of any relevance. We are, the universes are, and so the great and colourful dance goes on. And with that, so must I.”
The slight figure gestures towards passers-by, presaging a final question.
“I stopped wondering about that over 3000 years ago. Wasting too much time on something you can’t answer is a bad habit. Good evening to you.”
The figure strides away and disappears into the passing crowd.
by submission | Jan 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Chana Kohl
Chelsea Roberts walked up the hill to work, a hot cappuccino and bag of bakery-fresh rugelach in her hand. In a few, short minutes she’d savor the warmth of tender pastries in her mouth while browsing her morning feed. Her life was all about the simple pleasures.
Like storm clouds gathering, a crowd collected outside her office complex, their protest led by someone Chelsea instantly recognized. She watched as Styx N Stones, a popular podcast journalist, notorious conspiracist, and all-around provocateur, shouted over his live stream, “MegaCorp! Stop the Chip! Leave our brains alone!”
“Aw, hell” she whispered at yet another backlash from her employer’s bid to develop the first human-machine interface. Ever since news broke about the Microchip Pilot Study, her work had become the center of a PR nightmare.
Chelsea swung her long braids behind one shoulder and marched defiantly through the crowd, but Stones blocked her path.
“Are you the one responsible for jabbing people’s brains with poisonous metal?”
“I just run data,” Chelsea pivoted just in time for a security guard to escort her away from Stones and his minions.
Once inside her office, she dropped the bag of hardened crescents on her desk. Heartbeat racing, she messaged her boss.
Paul Wesley waited inside a sun-bright office, hands clasped behind his back, a clear view of the agitated crowd below. He turned around, his hair neatly cut but tousled, as if he’d just returned from sailing his Catalina.
“Sorry to bother you. I thought we should go over the latest numbers,” she hesitated, “given everything going on.”
“No bother, Chelsea. Relax. Have a seat.”
His facial lines, softened by fillers, remained motionless as Chelsea ran down the alarming number of adverse effects documented. Complaints ranged from the usual headaches, rash or nausea, to things clearly unexpected: hearing loss, disequilibrium, even claims of hormonal changes. A dubious number of positive side effects were reported as well.
“Although evidence suggests most of these are due to illusory pattern perceptions, I think we should halt the study to investigate.”
“We will investigate, but we’re not stopping the study. No one received a microchip. The only thing volunteers received was topical anesthesia and a cheap, plastic prosthetic.”
Chelsea’s almond eyes narrowed in confusion, “I…don’t understand.”
“We’re studying the placebo effect: the human brain’s capacity for self-fulfilling prophecy. The power of suggestion is the next big frontier in social enterprise.
“I want you to scour health-monitoring databases for volunteers who, miraculously, are faring better, and all those confirmed doing worse, then cross-reference for any bio-markers both groups share in common.”
“But what about Stones?”
“We pay him well—-along with all the other Astroturfers trolling the Internet—-to stir the pot.”
Chelsea felt a surge of queasiness, followed by a streak of cold, like after that questionable sashimi platter from SuSu Sushi-o.
“I can’t…this can’t be ethical. Doesn’t this violate informed consent?”
“Read the fine print again.
“No one is being harmed.” He reached for a manila envelope on his desk and handed it to her, “Look, I know you’ve been searching senior living options for your mom. Take some time to think about the big picture.”
After the protestors drifted away and only the scattered remnants of litter remained, Chelsea walked home. Beneath the cold veil of night, she contemplated life as a whistleblower. It wasn’t until she was back in her tiny apartment that she read the contents of the envelope.
Stock options.
Years later, whenever MegaCorp’s VP of Product Development taped a studio interview, she always requested cappuccino and fresh rugelach from her favorite bakery.
They never quite tasted the way she remembered.
by submission | Jan 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Another blow in.”
I think the foreman would’ve spit, if he hadn’t been in an enviro suit. It’s kinda self-defeating to spit in a sealed system. Still, I think he was tempted just to be sure he registered his utter contempt for me.
“Where you from, blow in?”
“Here,” I said to irritate the prick. A mooner would never accept that. To them, if you weren’t born on the moon, you were a blow in. Didn’t matter if you arrived a month after you were born, you were a blow in.
And the term “blow in” is crazy when you consider the moon. Yeah, I get that the Irish once said that of anyone not of Mother Eire. Not in a condescending way, but the way a cubic zirconium is not a diamond. Still, there are no indigenous mooners. It’s an immigrant world. Why the hell do humans export this crap everywhere we settle? Seems like an awful burden to bring along.
Didn’t matter to this guy. I was new on his crew and he was going to assert his dominance. The rest of his crew enjoyed the show. Expected it.
“Here? Here, blow in?” The foreman flung me a shovel. (Yes, there are lots of shovels on the moon. That regolith doesn’t move itself.) “Here, dig yourself another hole.” He gestured towards the relay station where the new communications towers were going in.
I took the shovel—and the bait. “Sure, Mr. Mooner. Someday I hope to be one-sixth the man you are.”
Of course he jumped me. He was waiting to all along. Make an example of the blow in. The forever outsider. Problem was, he forgot he’d just given me a shovel. Reflexively, I swung it and the blade opened his enviro suit from belly to shoulder. The sudden decompression dropped him.
The crew was all trained to respond to enviro suit punctures and rips, but this was a catastrophic breach. Panicked, the other crew started applying their emergency patches, but there weren’t enough. The foreman would suffocate in about forty seconds unless the breach was sealed and new oxygen was pumped in fast. My fault. His bloodless death on my blow in hands.
I pushed the others away. Stuffed my glove and sleeve into the gash still remaining in the foreman’s suit. It plugged the gap. “Patch around my arm. Around my arm,” I yelled into our shared com channel.
They did. They got it. As they sealed my arm into his suit. I worked with my other hand to grab my wrist seal now embedded in the foreman’s suit. I had to pinch the release tab hard and twist painfully to get the glove to unseal.
With a pop my glove in the foreman’s suit finally released and oxygen from my suit whooshed into his. The crew and I held our breath. The emergency patches flexed. And held.
Slowly, the foreman came round. Disoriented, he stared directly into my faceplate since we were bound tightly together. I tapped my faceplate against his. There were no hard feelings on my part. I jiggled my arm inside his enviro suit where my oxygen was flowing to him and whispered through his com, “How’s this blow in working for you now?”
