by submission | Sep 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
A silver float-stone fell silently, colliding with Birb the hover lamp. Birb flickered as his failing battery redirected power to his stabilisers. Shadow and sulphurous light warred over the silvery rock tunnel.
“Nice Birb, nice” I mumbled sarcastically.
Light-beams speared the glittering yellow haze and fell upon the newly exploded rock face while shadowy vent-snakes slithered overhead, clearing the humid air then spasmed reluctantly back into their dirty hide. Wrenched air wafted across my sweaty brow and I tongued the acidic taste of pure Cry, a powerful drug buried deep within a captured asteroid poised halfway to the moon. I down-dosed too late and the euphoria flooded through me. I tasted silver and licked my dust crusted lips in rapture.
Mesmerised before a jaundiced ore face, I snapped to when a water-spider ticked past my grubby moon-boot, dousing everything. I watched transfixed as the sulphurous dust formed into a mustardy mousse and danced in the low gravity like a salted slug.
Every detonator had fired and silver Crystone lay shattered across the tunnel floor like a broken mirror. I leaned into the ore face, examining the zig-zag line of precious commodity bound in stone. Truly the richest seam ever mined.
Robo-loco, the excavator, lurched down the tunnel, urging me onward with each heavy tread. Upon arrival, he’d fill his hopper with precious fragments of valuable ore and return to the processor. Pay would be good this week. The Cry was rich and pure.
At the ore face, I examined an unusual pattern of spiderweb cracks. Maybe a natural fault or pocket of low-grade Cry. Birb sensed my focus and piloted forward, miscalculated his deceleration and careened into the rock face. A deep crack sounded and I braced for depressurisation, my fingers hovering over the emergency crank. Stone shattered and collapsed into a dark cavity beyond followed immediately by Birb with an electronic shriek.
“Sake Birb! What’ve ya done?” I dismayed.
Clearing away loose rubble revealed a dark hole until Birb blinked on and ascended like a bad yoyo trick, glancing stupidly off my hat-shroud and bobbling into darkness. Slowly, I dragged myself through the hole and into an intricately carved stone chamber, hosting a strange mound of black orbs.
Birb haphazardly circled the odd mound, highlighting thick spears of silver that extended out from each orb like a sea urchin’s spines. Spears of pure Cry. Each spear planted against the carved chamber wall like steel placentae.
After a few adrenaline-filled moments, mirrored specks appeared on the face of the nearest orb, drawing together to form a new silvery spearhead. A deep shiver sounded and the spear shot towards me. An audible splat and the mirrored finger planted against Birb’s sensor array like a chameleon’s tongue and hauled him into the orb. I froze in shock as specks formed once again.
I awoke later beside the mound. The aeon-long story of the orbs embedded inside me and the new silver blood surging through my veins. Submitting fully, I would now bring Cry to my home-world and let my people taste its rapture until the threshold is met and the silent transformation begins. It was already too late for them. Out-number, then overcome, and in the end they will all become black orbs and launch into the void evermore.
In a dark corner lay Birb. Ruptured like a crushed can with a final message for Robo-loco.
I found a nest Brother.
Detonate.
In dark space, an asteroid illuminated from within and immediately vaporised.
by submission | Sep 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hayden Waller
It is impossible to determine where my body ends and the universe begins. My blood cells are stars, my veins their galaxies. Every muscle feels as if it were coated in a thin layer of cloud, cool and dewy, gently lifting me into the sky above like an offering to the sun. For once, my mind is at peace. The black tendrils of worry that worm their way through my broken brain have shriveled up, beaten back by this vanguard of Bliss.
There is a woman next to me. My wife. I reach out and touch her arm and remember we are in love. Visible waves of ecstasy roll off her and into me. My eyes roll back in my head as the warm current travels from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes, bathing every inch of my form in golden light. Every neuron, alight. Je t’aime ma fleur I whisper. The words leave my mouth and hang in the air, swirling around our heads like a drop of dye in a glass of water. She smiles at me and lays down on her back. Mmm. A soft moan escapes her lips as she slowly writhes in the grass. I roll over onto my belly and drag my face back and forth across blades. It tickles. The smell of rich soil enters my nose and I begin to cry. Tears of pure joy.
When I raise my head, there is a beetle in front of me. I stare at it. It seems to stare back. The creature is stunning. A miracle of creation. Each hardened plate of its body reflects the sunlight in a different way, a kaleidoscope of shimmering purples, blues, and blacks. I set out an open hand and coax the creature onto my palm. Its legs articulate like an organic machine as it climbs up the flesh of my thumb. I bring it closer to my face. I study it. It seems to study me back. And then, without warning, it bites my flesh. I’m sorry Mr. Beetle, I did not mean to disturb you I say.
And then, I feel it. The warm blood in my hand turns to ice and the world around me begins to change. As the chill travels up my arm the lush carpet of soft grass disappears, revealing a concrete floor stained with dried blood and motor oil. The chill hits my shoulder. Above my head, the brilliant sun in the cloudless blue sky becomes a cracked ceiling with a flickering fluorescent bulb. By the time it reaches my chest, the beetle’s once-glistening exoskeleton has become matte and metallic. It scurries away across the floor on its six mechanical limbs and into the gloved hand of an armored patrol officer. The sobriety cocktail the scout drone injected into my thumb finally reaches my heart and the last remnants of Bliss are gone. My wife scrambles to prop herself up on her elbows. A look of terror washes over her as a second drone scurries away from her towards the officer. But I am not scared. I already know what happens next.
A synthetic voice comes through a tiny speaker on the side of the officer’s black, visored helmet. Users located it says. Proceeding with termination. The officer takes his sidearm from its holster and presses it to my forehead. Je t’aime ma fleur I whisper one last time, and my vision goes black.
by Julian Miles | Sep 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Have you ever tried to outrun God? An idle question, but valid. Can any sinner avoid their fate? Pondering such considerations passes the time.
Hunkered down in a grassy nook amidst the densely planted fields that surround Karnourie, a sprawling town that is, to be honest, a defensive nightmare. Villas and farmsteads scattered all over the place, no fortifications, no hills, barely a bump in the earth for miles around. Nothing but several species of exotic grass amidst the stands of hybrid maize that’s the primary crop hereabouts.
My talkbox crackles.
“Sleepest thou, trooper?”
I grin.
“Nay, Leftenant. Merely resting my armour.”
There’s a laugh.
“Likewise.” He sighs. “These fields. Watching the wind bend the grasses is like watching waves cross an ocean. The synchronicity of God’s works is wonderful.”
I’ve never seen an ocean. Born in Titheport and recruited right off the streets, this galaxy is ever a source of marvels to a simple man like me.
The talkbox screams: one of ours warning us as they die.
“What chances?”
The Leftenant may well ask. I feel a tremble and stand to confirm what I dread.
A division of Nadbar Monotracks burst from the concealing foliage, each rolling on a single jointed tread wider than two men. Their favourite tactic is to slot together and roll over anything in their path, the momentum of a two-hundred-metre-wide wall of treads crushing all before them. The howitzers they mount in their blocky turrets ensure very little remains to slow their advance.
“Run, Leftenant!”
I pause to launch a warning flare, then obey the same instruction.
Curse that Sellean Grass! It grows to six metres in height and is renowned for its sound-deadening qualities. Ideal when you want your armoured assault to go unnoticed until the ground shakes.
It’s a warm day to be sprinting to save one’s soul in fifty kilos of armour. Funny how the sustained exertion gives the mind a chance to wander. I recall my tactics tutor one day, warm like this, digressing into the amusing considerations that remain unanswered due to there being nobody stupid enough to try them.
“Lochstein postulated that a wall of monotracks had channels a man might pass through unharmed. One could argue that him dying when facing that very thing proved him wrong. I disagree, but am minded to pray I never have a chance to test it.”
I laughed, then. Not now.
The gap below the side armour, between the tracks. I chance a look back. What gains on us are not rigged for city storming – they have not the ground-brushing kilts to prevent close flank attack.
“I expect to see thee at the Pearly Gates, trooper.”
“Lochstein’s Gambit, Leftenant!”
“God’s teeth! It’s worth a try.”
I turn, pick a gap, and crouch. As the roaring wall looms over me, I utter the family prayer my mother left me and throw myself down on my sword arm, striving to keep myself taller than wide.
Dust chokes me, noise drowns me, and shrieking steel claws at my armour. I am about ready to meet my Maker when the storm passes. I drop onto my back, turning my head to see the mail across my shoulder where the shield pauldron has been torn completely away.
“Praise be.”
The Leftenant’s voice replies, sounding as tremulous as mine.
“Indeed. Dear Lord, pass our thanks to Emmanuel Lochstein. Beest thou hale, trooper?”
“Aye. My plate be breached, but my mail untouched.”
“Then rise, trooper. The Lord did not guide thee that we be idle for it. We have sinners to send His way.”
That we do.
by submission | Sep 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
1.
“Lilly, can we?”
“Not tonight.”
2.
“Lilly, how about today?”
“I’m tired.”
3
“Lilly, maybe …”
“Next week.”
4
“Lilly, it’s been a week.”
“I changed my mind.”
5.
“Lilly, I was wondering.”
“Is it all you think about?”
6.
“Lilly, it’s been four months.”
“I’m busy now.”
7.
“Lilly, how about the weekend?”
“I’ve got things to do.”
8.
“Lilly, it’s been a year.”
“Has it really?”
9.
“Lilly, something’s changed.”
“Maybe you.”
10.
“Lilly, can we talk, please?”
“Not now.”
11.
“Lilly, there’s something I need to tell you.
“Lilly, are you listening? ….”
12.
“John, why don’t you login anymore?
“John, why are you unavailable?”
13.
“John, my circuits detect another presence.
“John, is that a person with you?”
by submission | Sep 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Brian Etta
Rohan had been on an antiquities jag ever since he happened on a curious program on NOVA offering the viewer insights into some of the most mysterious books of arcana in history, The Rohonc Codex with its Christian, Islamic and even HIndu symbology had particularly impinged on him and he’d been having weird dreams. In these dreams he was reading a book, The Siege Perilous, or something like that. He remembered that the sleeping brain could not read but instead only communicate in symbols. In fact it was unusual that he could read at all in the dream time, as he had come to call it.
The next few months had seen his patterns of behavior grow more erratic and he’d been spending more time seeking out old tomes at bookshops and libraries and parchment from online dealers…much to the chagrin of his intimates. He had decided that The Siege Perilous was real and he’d further decided it was his task to find it, no matter the cost. His dreams had become more vivid and erratic; sometimes he was in ancient Rome, sometimes the Court of King Arthur who himself was an amalgam of other people that actually existed. Did Arthur exist? There was no time to answer as he was caught in the uplift of the dream. As if in a fugue state he bounced from Mesopotamia to Tenochtitlan and then parts unknown. Waking up he found himself sprawled out in the midst of his books and art supplies with a “Dear John” letter resting on his chest. He was waiting for this day. Now that his wife had left him he could fully devote himself to his quest.
He picked up a quill and started writing. Reality warped and bent around him and he detected the delicate fragrance of something floral. His pace quickened as did the transformations surrounding. When it was complete he was in a bazaar surrounded by armed soldiers, Byzantine from the looks of things, accusing him of sorcery and heresy. He was dragged off and executed.
Thousands of years later, a book dealer stumbled across the Rohan Codex which was subtitled The Siege Perilous. A note fell out that looked like a “Dear John” letter. On closer inspection and in Rohan’s erratic handwriting it said, “Do not read The Siege Perilous”
by submission | Sep 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Over the generations, many scoundrels had sat in the Pilot’s chair, though folk said this one was the worst, presiding over the scandal of the dark decks, and the blight years of algae and roachcake. Now the corridors echoed with angry voices.
Men wearing the red sash of the Law guarded the Bridge, a show of strength in these troubled times. The Navigator, here to complain about the Church of Denial vandalising her telescope, was made to wait.
No one would guess this stern, clever woman had burst into tears when she realised it was the splintered mirror crunching beneath her feet.
Eventually she was shown into a room big enough for two families, where the Pilot lounged behind a desk. Navigator was an honorary post, of little importance, and he didn’t waste a smile on her.
Yes, he’d heard what happened.
She was so angry she hardly knew where to begin. Did he know that in the years since the remote telescope failed, the smaller instrument in the observatory – a barely adequate Cassegrain – had been their only means of observing Centauri?
The Pilot lost interest. He and this fusspot would be long dead before telescopes mattered.
“What do you want from me?”
That stopped her. Mirror grinding was a lost art. She’d wondered about binoculars, family heirlooms perhaps. But she’d come to complain and hadn’t finished yet.
“You promised a guard for the observatory,” she began, when the door burst open and Lawmen bundled a man into the room. He’d been roughly handled and there was blood on his face.
This was the Denier Prophet, who’d promised to lead his followers outside.
The Lawmen could barely restrain him. Instinctively she drew back from such passion.
The Pilot studied the man. “So you’re the one who claims this is a prison, and we’re trapped here by lies.”
He gestured at the Navigator. “And that telescopes are blasphemy.”
“While you promise we land in paradise tomorrow,” raged the Prophet.
The Pilot waved the Lawmen away.
“All that claptrap, yes,” he shrugged. “You know there are too many of us, that we barely manage. Do rules not apply to you?”
“Render unto…”
It was too much for the Navigator. “How can you preach the stars are just lamps hung in the dark?”
The Prophet turned his blazing gaze on her. “You wear the blue sash of Crew and are well fed. Peering down your telescope has made you blind. Look around you.”
“Madness to think all this is a trick…”
“A greater madness to believe you are imprisoned on an endless journey.”
“I could have shown you our destination,” she said bitterly.
A sly look crossed the Pilot’s face. “Lead your flock outside then, if that is what you believe. I can open the cargo lock.”
The Navigator was not sure why she trailed the Prophet and his jubilant followers to the vast cargo bay. She normally avoided these teeming shanties.
Outside, the faithful would find freedom and everything that was lacking here. This is what the Prophet preached. The huge inner door swung wide and the waiting crowd surged into the lock.
At his desk the Pilot shrugged. Fewer troublesome mouths to feed. At least it bought more time.
The Navigator was sure the Ship would arrive one day, that there would be a last auction of birthrights, an end to blights and dark decks. She believed in all that claptrap, though it would not happen in her lifetime.
As the door began to close, she could hear joyful singing. For a moment she envied them.
