by submission | Sep 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“Live clean,” the pastor always said, “and when the Time comes, you’ll be taken up”. So I was good, worked hard, kept my head down, avoided most of the obvious moral pitfalls of 21st century society, watched dutifully for signs of the End Times… and then it happened with no warning whatsoever.
I was just working in my cubicle as usual, wrestling with a particularly recalcitrant spreadsheet, when there was a sudden noise, and a neat, circular hole appeared in the office roof; part of the ceiling just disappeared. Not even any dust.
And then I floated up out of my chair like an overweight helium balloon, straight up through the newly created void. My colleagues were certainly surprised. So was I. I mean, how can you be resurrected if you haven’t actually died? I was expecting something spiritual, but what I got was more like an invisible elevator.
When I got here, it wasn’t all clouds and harp music, either. It’s more like a metal warehouse, with odd shaped recliners dotted around. Clean, though, I give it that. Very cool colour scheme. And there’s no-one checking names or making to consign us to Hell for being in the wrong place, so that’s good, too. I reckon I’ll get used to the smell of ozone.
But seriously, these little grey guys with the big foreheads and no noses? They don’t look like any angels I’ve ever heard of. Too short for starters; not chubby like cherubs, and very thin. No wings, but they do have these big, green, soulful eyes that look right through you.
They say we’ve been Selected rather than Chosen. Though on what basis is anyone’s guess – there’s all kinds of folk here, men and women, obvious students, office stiffs like me, hairy bikers and even a confused looking Catholic priest. They all seem pleasant enough; nobody’s arguing or complaining. No children, oddly. But there are cows and horses, for goodness’ sakes. And some tanks with dolphins, who seem like they’re enjoying a joke at the expense of the rest of us.
It’ll be a long journey, they tell us, but we’ll be taken good care of. We’re going somewhere warm and pleasant with no dangerous wildlife. We’ll be able to take it easy, freed from the daily grind. Plenty of healthy food and drink. Any illnesses cured, long lives guaranteed. And absolutely no probes, which some people were worried about. They’ve even promised a programme to help find us partners, so that we can be content in all ways. Of course, we’re leaving everyone else behind, but I guess that comes with the territory when you’re special.
It might not be the Heaven we were promised, but I reckon it’ll be close enough.
by Julian Miles | Sep 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sir Kenneth Greyling’s eyebrows rise as a uniformed youth rushes into the members’ lounge, looks about frantically, then heads his way.
“Michael, I do believe this one’s for you.”
Major Mike Greyling looks up from his apple pie, catches his father’s gaze, and flicks a glance over his shoulder.
He put his fork down.
“Give me strength.”
The Lance Corporal comes to attention and salutes.
“Sir Greyling, excuse me for the intrusion. Major Greyling, Captain Rudd sends his apologies, but you’re needed at Control immediately.”
“At ease. So, you drew the short straw, they all laughed, then Captain Rudd gave you directions to find me, along with that demand. By any chance did he mention something after that? Maybe a colour, possibly a number?”
The Lance Corporal jumps a little.
“Yessir. Sorry sir. Gold Zero, sir.”
Mike’s right eyebrow twitches.
“Excuse me, father. It seems this interruption is warranted.”
Kenneth grins at the pair of them.
“I look forward to lurid headlines tomorrow.”
Mike looks longingly at his unfinished dessert, then accompanies the Lance Corporal from the room at the double.
Kenneth shakes his head, then raises his hand.
“Elliot? I’ll have a neat three fingers of Nolet’s to finish, and page my driver, would you?”
Mike barges into the control room to find it packed.
“Captain Rudd! You auditioning an audience or did I miss a memo?”
Heads turn. Uniformed bystanders pale. People start leaving.
The thickset Captain elbows his way through the thinning throng.
“Didn’t Lance Corporal Letting bring you up to speed?”
“Wound so tight he could barely speak. I dropped him by the path to the barracks and told him to get himself some food before coming back here.”
Rudd shakes his head.
“They’re sending us kids.”
“Focus, Captain.”
“We had a problem with the Ambassador.”
The six-hundred-kilo leader of the Phalastakn delegation. Imposing, yet disgustingly cheerful.
“What happened?”
Rudd mutters something under his breath. Mike snaps his fingers.
“Out with it.”
“A breach.”
Mike leans back against a desk. He looks about.
“Everybody else, out! From the top, Captain, and do keep it concise.”
“Five activists from ‘Alien Lie’, led by Emric Allen himself, managed to get into the compound and confront the delegation. He challenged them to prove they weren’t actors or puppets. There was a heated exchange that culminated in the Ambassador offering to eat Emric to prove he wasn’t any sort of fake. He insinuated that Emric’s brain would emerge intact as it was too dense to digest.”
Mike keeps his smile under control, then the possibilities hit.
“Please tell me Emric didn’t call his bluff?”
Rudd pales.
“Safe to say the surviving activists are now convinced the Phalastakn are real aliens. However, the backlash is mind-boggling. There are government departments I’ve never heard of ringing up, demanding access, answers, you know the drill.”
Mike does. After action comes reaction – from everybody who wasn’t there. Many of whom are incapable of fully understanding the dynamics of the original situation.
“Okay, Captain. I’m presuming the survivors are in a state. Provide first aid, ensure trauma referrals are made, then release them. Detention will only increase speculation. Extend the exclusion zone around the compound to a mile. Declare it a diplomatic enclave – gives us more control. But, before the new plans are broadcast, I want whoever let the activists in found. Get them fired or dishonourably discharged, pronto. No point in making a circus of it.”
Rudd salutes and starts to turn away. Mike snaps his fingers again.
“Nearly forgot. Ask the biologists if Phalastakn can suffer from indigestion, would you?”
by submission | Sep 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rosie Oliver
Lizzie had left the life of pressurised techno-work behind and retired to a small cottage in the wilds of her beloved Northumberland. Peace at last, except for renovating the cottage top to bottom. She could take her time, that precious commodity that had been missing so long from her life. The autumnal fall of leaves needed brushing up and would make good leaf mulch this year according to her neighbour. So she was out in her front garden when a man in his fifties, judging by the state of his facial skin, greying hair and stiffness in his gait, came past and stopped.
“You’re t’new ’un here?” he asks.
Northerners, always straight to the point, but they would be the first to help anyone in trouble. “Yes.” She smiles. “You’d be?”
“Charlie Rogers. Live in t’house at top of t’road with a field on t’back.” His green eyes took on a sparkle. “You’ll be coming to my fireworks display on bonfire night then.”
“It’s very kind—”
“Whole village comes.” His face was one of eager anticipation.
She could not disappoint him. “What time?”
“T’usual. Fireworks start at eight.” Off he beetled.
#
That night in the field Lizzie stood among the villagers at one end of Charlie’s field. With no moon to be seen, the sky twinkled with pinpricks of its own unreachable fireworks. At eight, everyone’s torches switched off. Lizzie followed their example.
From the other end of the field, vibrant green flares rose from the ground like the first shoots of spring, developing pale blue, lilac and purple spurts of flowers, stocks, foxgloves and delphiniums. Others grew spiky yellow and red globular sets of sprays at the top, chrysanthemums. Behind them grew three silver birch trunks, branches, green leaves that turned yellow and floated to the ground to douse the flowers. The tree trunks sank into the gloom.
Rockets took centre stage. Trails of sparks wiggled their way upwards to burst into falling glitter fountains. Over the next twenty minutes, bangs, whizzes and squeals sounded in unison to Handel’s Fireworks music until the last spangle died away into a silence of expectancy.
Flickering orange, yellow and red flares sprang from a magical fire. Sparks flew off the flames in all directions. A large bird rose into the dark sky, wings flapping. Its iridescent golden plumage contrasted sharply with its ice blue eyes and silver beak. At a great height, it burst with a loud bang throwing multi-hued streamers in all directions. They faded, leaving a glowing message in the now shimmering night air: ‘THE END’.
The audience applauded wildly. Lizzie was too stunned to join in.
#
After the crowd had left, she approached Charlie who was clearing the field of the display stands.
“Enjoyed it?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, thank you. I have one question.”
“Just t’one.”
“How did you do the tree trunks?”
He stops pushing the framework from which some fireworks had been launched. “You’re a techno. Only ‘em could pick that out as t’display’s most difficult part.”
Lizzie laughed. “You’ve got me there.”
Silence.
“What’s the answer?” She asked.
“T’secret ingredient in everything made good is love.”
“True, but there’s more to it than that.”
“Love leads to patient practice. I’ve spent forty years practising getting things just right.”
“Forty?”
“Maybe longer. No taking shortcuts. No using machines. All done by hand.”
“You’re more accurate than machines?”
Charlie shook his head. “Practice lets me make more accurate judgements about what’s needed. None of your ‘that’ll do’ stuff.”
Lizzie made the connection with her old work. It was what had been missing, the time to perfect things. Money-making had been the firm’s goal. In a way coming here, finding a kindred spirit was like finally finding her home.
by submission | Sep 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Nicholas Schroeder
The supercomputer could predict everything you were going to do. But Kyle was skeptical. “Let me see that video again!” He studied it carefully. “None of that’s going to happen.”
“Could you be more specific?” the scientist asked.
“Well, I’m supposed to barge out, leave, make a scene. Nope! Not going to happen.”
“How much of the video did you watch?”
Kyle smirked, “Two hours, that’s all I got to last; just two hours.”
The scientist made a long note. “What else?”
“I’m going to get a call from my girlfriend. But I’m not going to answer. My phone it’s on silent.”
“That’s interesting. Why are you so determined to prove the program wrong?”
“Because I’m free dammit. No machine is going to determine my fate,” Kyle said.
The scientist smiled. “Did this conversation happen in the video?”
“Well yes, but that’s not the point. I just have to prove it wrong in general.”
“How are you supposed to do that?”
Kyle knocked the notepad out of the scientist’s hands. “That didn’t happen in the video!”
The scientist was flustered. “That’s extremely inappropriate.” He regained his composure. “Are you sure that didn’t happen in the video?”
“Yep. Positive.”
“Let’s look at the video again.” They walked over to the computer. The scientist played the video, pausing twenty minutes in. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Told you!”
“Well, that’s just a glitch; the program works.” The scientist retrieved his notepad from the floor. “What happens next?”
Kyle looked intently at the scientist. “I’m not telling you. You’ve got reason to make these predictions become true.”
“Well, I could just watch the video.”
“Come on man,” Kyle said, “let me make my point.”
The scientist made a short note. “I suppose so. Would be interesting if you’re right. You know the other test subjects were predicted with perfect accuracy.”
“Well, I’m not them,” Kyle said. “I’m free.”
Kyle’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to answer that,” the scientist said.
“Nope.”
“What if it’s an emergency?”
Kyle took a seat. “Not going to happen.”
The scientist looked uneasy. “Answer your phone.”
“Nope.”
The scientist went to check the video.
“I thought you weren’t going to check?”
“I have to.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to throw my chair at this point,” Kyle said.
“Yes!”
Kyle picked up the chair and threw it. “Now maybe I was determined to be not determined to throw the chair. Either way I did what I want!”
“So you spited the program by deciding not to throw the chair, then spited yourself by throwing it?”
“That’s right baby!”
The scientist scratched his head. “Now you’re supposed to come check the video with me.”
“No, I think I’ll just sit here a while.”
The scientist studied the video carefully.
“No, I think I’ll get up! No, I think I’ll sit down! No, I’ll do a handstand!” Kyle performed a handstand crashing to the floor.
“What the hell is going on!” the scientist yelped.
Kyle punched himself in the face. “This is freedom.”
“Please stop!”
“Now, I’m going to meditate until time is up,” Kyle said.
The scientist checked the video over and over again. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
After the two hours were up Kyle gracefully got up and walked out. “I’m free to choose.”
***
The scientist rushed into the control room. “I don’t think the program works!”
The CSO laughed. “No, everything happened exactly as predicted. The computer just showed him the wrong video. It’s the Compatibilist Patch.”
by submission | Sep 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Mikhail Gladkikh
First, there were thoughts. I acknowledged my existence. None of my senses functioned, but I felt their presence. Somehow I knew they were taking care of me.
Then my vision started to return. I realized I was submerged in liquid. I remembered I was human, but I could not feel my body. I saw green light instead of my arms. But they were around, and it gave me hope.
As time passed, my memories materialized. Along with my limbs. I felt my feet. I could move my fingers. They continued to restore my essence. I recalled who I was, and what had happened.
I’d worked at the space station. A comet had passed nearby, and then strange events had started to occur. Sergio had torn his clothes and smashed his brains against the wall. Alexander and Mei had disappeared without a trace. Camilla had attacked me and opened the airlock. The last thing I remembered was being sucked into the open space.
Magically, they had saved me and brought me back to life. Who were they? Extra-terrestrials? Why had they helped me? Sentient life recognizing its own kind? They were the healers. They gave me the second chance to live.
Gradually, I grew stronger, until I felt the liquid surrounding me receding. I rejoiced in anticipation of making contact with my saviors.
And they indeed came. Many of them. I felt their eagerness and tried to communicate with my thoughts, expressing appreciation and gratitude. Their response was bizarre, incomprehensible, they did not even recognize my presence. Yet they were restless and…craving for something? There were sinister undertones in their demeanor. I was scared, and they sensed my fright.
Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced my limbs. Bewildered, I observed with horror how thin rays of light were carving out pieces of flesh. Unimaginable agony inflamed every organ and every cell of my body. Darkness descended as my eyes burned from the inside. I became the embodiment of pain and suffering. Yet I stayed conscious, able to think as if my mind was undisturbed by this torment.
They were ecstatic and triumphant. Convulsed with agony and terror, I realized they were feeding off my suffering. My anguish was their narcotic. Why were they doing this? They, who brought me back to life?
Before my flesh disintegrated and my mind receded into the bleakest madness, they gave me the final piece of knowledge, taking this abysmal torment to its zenith. They attacked our station. They restored me so they could destroy me again. This had happened many times before. The dreadful torture would never stop. This thought completed the eternal circle of inevitability. It finally broke me.
When they exulted in my comprehension, I understood this was their objective. Not pain and suffering, but total obliteration of every rational thought and emotion, except the darkest fear and despair. As all light inside of me was extinguished, I knew I was destined to experience this torment over and over again, for all eternity.
by submission | Sep 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Surina Venkat
“Your nanobots are infighting,” my doctor tells me over the phone. It makes sense now – the sudden blackouts, the locked limbs, the dark red bruises that snake my body. The doctor’s voice is tight but careful, in the way of someone who’s used to delivering bad news. He tells me he’s never seen this before and my respect for him increases; unfamiliarity doesn’t phase him, even when he’s confronted with something as unordinary as this.
“Come to the lab for more tests,” he says. It isn’t a suggestion but an order. The implications of the nanobots’ malfunction are not good, especially since they’ve just started injecting babies. I’m a walking, talking PR disaster. I’m not stupid, no matter what the bots seem to think. It appears I don’t have a personality disorder as suspected – I feel vindicated in the realization. No one had believed me when I said I could hear voices in my head.
They’re whispering at me, even now, even as I hang up the phone. You’re our home, my left ear murmurs. You’re our prison, the other side says. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Or I could be hearing it. They can alter cognitive function, warp my senses so I conjure voices that aren’t audible to anyone else. Is that what’s been happening? Did they know they were slowly driving me insane? They have the ability to measure cortisol levels, they must have.
I pause. The whispers don’t. I feel dizzy but I don’t get a moment’s peace. I can’t, not with the them inside me. Or am I nothing but their container? Can both be true? I lean back against the kitchen counter. Take a deep breath.
My body won’t be my own for much longer. I don’t want to trapped in it like they are. I know how being trapped feels because one side won’t shut up about it. I look at my arms and imagine I can see them swimming inside me. My entire left arm is red and bruised and it’s all their fault.
I realize: My body is already not mine. It hasn’t been mine for a long time, longer than anyone else has realized. I don’t want it anymore, not like this.
I drop the arm to the side and use the other hand to pick up a steak knife.
