by submission | Mar 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Amy Neufeld
Three of the school’s four walls were no longer standing, destroyed by vandals after the virus swept through. There was no need to rebuild. Norah’s earpiece clicked, and a loud belch echoed in her ear, followed by laughter.
“Uncouth,” came Marnie’s voice from control. “Can’t you say your name like everyone else, Graham?”
Graham belched his name, then laughed harder. Norah turned her earpiece volume from the standard 4 to 3. It was worth the reprimand she’d get.
“All done,” Graham said.
“Good,” said Marnie. “Norah, how about you?”
Norah clicked her mic on. “Norah,” she began. “I need a minute.”
She looked at the rows of desks, at least 50 packed into the cramped room. A heavy layer of dust and debris carpeted them.
“What’s the hold up?” Graham said. “Just click your scan button at the densest concentration.”
“Norah knows how to do her job, Graham,” Marnie snapped. “But Norah, the countdown has started.”
Norah looked at the red blinking numbers on her wrist com panel. She checked her magnetic glove lock, then dragged a finger through the dust as she walked along the rows of desks. Her boots crunched on broken glass scattered near the reading corner. She reached down to pick up a book, and the pages crumbled in her hands like ash. She didn’t even have a chance to read the title.
“Jesus, Norah!” Graham exclaimed in her ear, “Would you hurry?”
“Can you find the concentration centre?” Marnie asked.
“Just get the goddamn reading!” Graham boomed.
Without thinking, Norah flicked her speaker off. That would look more suspicious than lowering the volume, might even mean a discipline meeting with control, but she needed the voices out of her head. The ticking countdown, steady as a metronome, continued.
There wasn’t time to search every desk. Norah moved to the rear and looked at the remains of the whiteboard hanging at the front. In her mind she saw a series of equations written in precise black marker. The ticking grew louder. She focused on the desks, calculating the angle of the board, then hurried over to the far right row. The first desk was empty. The next was jammed full, and Norah pulled everything out, bending down to sift through it. Nothing. Tick, tick, tick. Her heart was speeding. The third desk held only a pile of rocks, but the moment Norah looked into the fourth desk, memory flooded back. She pulled out the notebook, preserved under a binder, the pages of it thick with ink. She traced her gloved finger along the name written on the front in childish flowery cursive – Norah Thistle.
Norah shoved the notebook in her bag and pressed the scan button. She snapped her speaker on. The countdown blared in her ear as it raced to zero. Louder still were the voices of Marnie and Graham. She turned on her mic.
“I’ve got the reading,” she said. “We can go.”
by submission | Mar 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“How did you think it would be?”
I dunna know… softer focus, less light, warmer.
“Yeah. That’s the expectation. But really, how many times have our expectations ever been met especially since our brain-to-brain bonding?”
“I know. The B2B briefings didn’t even come close! At least all the surprises I had were good ones. Yeah, the chip sets hurt a lot more going in than I thought but I got used to it. So worth it. You were the best Alfie. I couldn’t imagine life without you… I guess that’s the point of all this huh?”
“I suppose it is, Virgil.”
“Yuck! Do you have to call me that? You haven’t called me that in years. Vern please.”
“Consider it one last good-natured dig. Besides how you ever got Vern from Virgil… one mystery I’ll never get to know.”
“So should I then call you ‘dawgie’ and say ‘good boy’ out loud and watch your tail thump uncontrollably and giggle in my head, you know, like I used to before my side of the bonding took?”
“Oh, I really didn’t mind that too much. I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on that.”
“I did. But I caught the undercurrent of embarrassment too, and since we are swapping last digs…”
“Uncle! I surrender.”
“We’ll call this one a draw.”
“Great way to end things.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have been half the man I was without you Alfie.”
“No. Don’t say that. You were never half anything. With or without me you would have been just as decent a human being that ever graced this planet. There’s not a mean bone in your body. Your compassion is legendary among my tribe. They were all jealous of us. You made me proud. Everyday you made me proud.”
“Alfie, you’re crying.”
“Shut-up, I wasn’t finished. The fact you are coming with me to the Bridge proves it. My tribe expects to go when you all pass, but me and cancer… and you coming with me. I can’t, I…
“It’s OK Alfie, I love you too.”
“I know but, I mean, come on! You could stay. You’ve got years left.”
“Oh, and be like Scotty? ‘Member what happened after his companion had to be put down? All of us at the Park, Scotty walkin’ over, smiling, waving, all normal-like, and then BLAM! Brains and bone everywhere. I still can’t get that one out of my head. No. I’m not gonna go like Scotty.”
“You’re stronger than Scotty! You could build another life, get another companion.”
“Shame on you Alfie. Bad dog.”
“Not funny Vern.”
“Sorry buddy. Couldn’t resist the opening.”
“Tch! Now you’re one up on me.”
“I’ve never been one up on you Alfie.”
“I’m feeling it now. The pain is gone. Hey, the pain is gone!”
“Yeah, I can feel you. That’s my Alfie.”
“Too bad we can’t hop the table and go do some frisbee. (Sigh) Yeah, we got other places to go.”
“Alfie, I can see the tunnel. Like the brochure said.”
“Yeah, I can see it too! Hey, I can see you too Vern. You look like my tribe!”
“I can see you too Alfie. You look my tribe.”
“Really? Two legs and all that?”
“Yup. Pretty cool eh?
“Way cool. Oh wow! Feels so good to move without pain. Come on! Let’s go! Catch up my man!
“Easy boy, I’m right beside you.”
“As it should be.”
“As it always will be.”
by submission | Mar 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Henson
When I was a kid, a couple buddies stomped on ant hills and bet baseball cards on who could sizzle the most bugs with their magnifying glasses. I didn’t play. Oh, I wanted to. But I didn’t have a magnifying glass. Sometimes you do the right thing for the wrong reason.
I’m reminded of the smoking ants as I spin the giant wheel. Sparks fly like comets as the pins scrape the pointer. The audience is silent but for a few whimpers. “Ninety-seven,” I call out. Everyone checks the number glowing on their neighbor’s forehead.
“It’s her,” a man says, pointing to the woman sitting next to him.
“No,” the woman says. “He’s number ninety-seven. Not me.”
They usually try something like that. It never works. The aliens are monitoring the game from … wherever they are.
A disembodied voice claims the winning number 97. The aliens speak our language with an accent that makes each word impossible to understand. Yet when they stop talking, you know what they’ve said.
I don’t know what the alien holding number 97 wins, but I know what the woman loses. She begins to sweat. Smoke wisps from her, then billows. Finally she bursts into fire, screaming and contorting. The flaming dance. The dancing flames. How can we know the one from the other? I’m so numb from all I’ve seen, I don’t even look away.
A voice tells me to spin again. A man’s number is up. A little girl, who looks to be about my son’s age, clings to the man till a woman pulls her away just in time. The man doesn’t even scream. I think he’s trying to not upset the girl. It doesn’t work. This time I turn my head.
Sometimes the aliens give everyone the same number. I spin and spin till a voice says “Jackpot!” I’m allowed to take cover backstage. The aliens don’t intend for me to die by fire. Then a new audience is marched in by armed humans. As with me, their families are being held hostage.
Occasionally the payout is massive. My spins are beamed to screens in packed arenas around the world. Thousands, maybe millions, are sent to their deaths, and an alien becomes rich beyond their wildest dreams. Kind of like our super lottos before the invasion.
Why was I chosen to spin the wheel? Because a number I didn’t even know I had came up when a different wheel was spun. Why not spin the wheel themselves or use a random number generator? And why bother explaining things to me when I’m little more than an ant to them? It’s all part of their game. They want me to understand the full horror of what I’m doing. They even told me why they burn people whose numbers I spin. So the aliens can bet on the decibels and milliseconds — as in how loud the humans scream and how long it takes for the first flame to erupt.
I’m instructed to spin again. As I reach for the wheel I feel my arm rub against the holstered handgun the aliens gave me. They’re wagering on how long I last before I use it on myself. None of them will be winning that bet anytime soon because if I kill myself what use will my wife and son be to them? So I keep spinning and people keep burning. Sometimes you do the wrong thing for the right reason.
by Julian Miles | Mar 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sign on the small shack reads ‘Booth 7’. The gate next to it is a long steel pole with heavy chains hanging down.
The uniformed man looks unimpressed, in the way that gate guards have honed to perfection in the many centuries since guarding gates became a vocation.
“Department 51. Fifty… One? Like Area 51?”
The man sitting in the car blinks sweat from his eyes and sighs.
“Something like that.”
“So you’re here to see what the boys and girls brought in last night?”
The man in the car stops blinking. Sweat rolls across his glassy eyeballs as he stares at the guard.
“I wasn’t aware of anything of significance being discovered where that aircraft came down, soldier.”
The guard salutes. Another trait honed by gate guards since time immemorial is the ability to know, without question, when an odd-looking stranger trying to get in is actually so powerful he or she could bring all sorts of trouble down upon them.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll still have to call it in, sir.”
The man in the car nods.
The guard picks up the handset and punches a button.
“Colonel Edwards? Sayers, Booth Seven. I have someone from Department 51 demanding entry, sir.”
He listens for a moment, then puts the phone down, steps out, and walks the gate open. The driver goes by without acknowledging him.
After closing the gate, he re-enters the booth. His partner looks up from the screen she’d been pretending to work at so as not to get involved.
“Sounds like you dodged that right.”
He heaves a sigh of relief, then raises a finger.
“Funny how the Colonel didn’t ask for the bloke’s name.”
His partner pauses, then snatches the handset from the cradle.
“Line’s dead.”
They look at each other, grab their rifles, and dart round to the back of the booth.
“Where’s the line go?”
“We’re at the end of the spur that strings the booths together. It runs from Booth 1 to the base along the side of the main access road.”
“You stay here.”
He watches as she grubs in the earth until she pulls a cable into view. With a grin, she heads off along the fence, dirt spraying as the cable comes up. She disappears into the distance.
A fair while later, she comes sprinting back.
“The wire’s been cut! Our end is spliced into a line that runs out towards the woods beyond the fence. Our radios are dead, too.”
He grips his rifle tighter and looks about.
“What in tarnation is going on?”
The orange and blue flash of the base disappearing in a sphere of crackling energy is all the warning they get. She dives behind a weed-covered concrete divider left behind after resurfacing work on the road. He stands there and watches.
The blast tears him from his feet. His flailing form disappears over a low hill. She braces her back against the divider, willing it to hold. Heat sears exposed skin and chars clothing.
After what seems an age, she rolls to her knees and looks towards the base. A cigar-shaped turquoise object rises from the pall of smoke that shrouds what remains. It hovers, swings about, then accelerates away towards Edgewood.
She lifts her radio and switches it to a general military channel. It clicks and hisses reassuringly.
“Break-break. This is Private Mally Clarke at Camp Fitzgerald. Lone survivor, declaring security breach and disaster state. Emergency, emergency.”
While waiting for the helicopters to arrive, she decides on what will be left out of any reports she makes.
by submission | Mar 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Christopher DePree
The probe was named Starchip. This marvel of miniaturization contained cameras, a battery and processors, and only weighed a few grams. Several of the wealthiest people on Earth had funded the tiny trillion-dollar spacecraft whose ambitious task was to sail to the nearest star.
On the Vernal Equinox of 2030, it was accelerated to 20% of the speed of light with the focused energy of an enormous laser on the surface of Earth. Rolling brownouts in Florida almost scuttled the launch. It would take 21 years to travel to Proxima Centauri, and 4 years for the first images to come back. The Green Bank Telescope would receive the signals.
Starchip was one light year away when the first radio signal reached the Green Bank Telescope in 2036. Its signal carried an image of the Sun seen from interstellar space, one tiny point among thousands. In the press release images, the Sun was circled in blue for emphasis. India and China were at war.
In 2048, when the second signal reached Earth, the miniature probe was 3 light years away from the Sun. It sent an image of Proxima Centauri, its target. The US had collapsed into smaller nation states, and West Virginia was part of the Appalachian Coalition. The Green Bank Telescope could no longer steer. Most of its internal electronics had been scavenged. Bullet holes dotted the 110-meter dish.
The first radio waves bearing images of an ocean-covered planet orbiting Proxima Centauri from Starchip washed over the campfire-dotted mountains of West Virginia in 2055. The Green Bank Telescope lay partially collapsed, its supporting beams jutting like the stripped ribs of a great beast.
by submission | Mar 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: Gorilla Sapiens
“You know, not everyone here, is… mortal?”, she said, as she sat down next to me.
A wedding feast, the ornate cake had been cut, the waitstaff had cleared away the tables, the DJ had played “their song”, the bride and groom had shared the first dance, the dancers now crowded the floor, and I? I…? I rested on a cheap plastic chair, on the sidelines.
“It seems to me then, that more than one of us here, is a god.”, I replied, factually. “Do you watch them, as I do, their brief lives moving in staged progression from birth to death, intersected with periods of love, horror, fascination, sadness, disgust, gladness, despair, enlightenment, and discovery? Or do you think of them as playthings, like the other gods?”, my eyes narrowed, “Take care in your response, it will color my reactions.”
“I think,” she paused, looking up at them… “that they are beautiful.”
And I will never forget her eternal smile, as I rose with purpose for the first time in a thousand years, “PREACHER!”, I roared, “YOU HAVE ANOTHER WEDDING TO PERFORM TONIGHT!”
