by submission | Apr 29, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Barber
One of the aliens was strolling through the city centre as easy as you please. As if the war had not happened.
For an instant the Pilot saw worlds burning, air spilling from nests, the sparkle of detonations amongst their swarming craft.
He’d spent a lifetime fighting these aliens without ever seeing one in the flesh. The dwarfish creature turned, its features twisting into what must have been alarm as the Pilot bore down upon it.
An Agent of the Law stepped in the way.
“Calm yourself citizen, we can’t afford trouble.” The Agent glanced upwards. Didn’t death orbit the world now?
The Pilot made to shove past, but other Agents seized him and he was hustled away.
#
“You arrested me,” raged the Pilot. “For walking in my own city.”
“Their envoys can go where they choose.” This one wasn’t an Agent of Law, but something from Government. One of the new breed.
“You know they can destroy us?” she added. “The way you destroyed their worlds.”
Oh yes, it was him and them now. The slippage of years while chasing c had brought him home to new generations. History had been rewritten, there were monuments of shame, and crowds protesting what Fleet had done. While alien envoys looked on.
No one wanted to hear what he had to say. How we were late getting to the stars – blaming cost when it was a failure of imagination, of will – and when c-ships finally went out, how we found the aliens already there.
The Agent of Government tried to interrupt, but the Pilot hadn’t finished.
“They were everywhere, outbreeding us, turning resources into more of them. While we’d waited for it to become easy, they sprayed their seed into the dark, as if the galaxy was theirs to fill.”
“What choice did we have?” That had been the consensus when he shipped out.
“So you set their their worlds aflame.”
It still filled the Pilot with rage how the survivors always rebuilt. Soon habitats infested every rock again, new colonies on every marginal planet. They were like vermin in the walls.
We were smarter, our technology better, our weapons more terrible, but they had the numbers and our precious dreadnoughts were overwhelmed one by one.
His craft had been amongst the last, and when wrecking planets wasn’t enough, he snuffed out suns.
The same Agent of Government came to see him in confinement.
“The envoy you threatened wants to meet you.”
#
The creature eyed the restraints, but made no comment.
“You piloted an Agent of War,” it began. “How we dreaded them, emerging from the dark to wreck planets. By the end you were killing suns.”
“But you tracked down our world,” the Pilot declared. “And confined us here with the threat of extinction.”
The Pilot met the envoy’s gaze. “I would have finished us.”
“Some of my kind think that also,” admitted the creature.
Behind them in the shadows, the Agent of Government stirred uneasily.
“Why did you want to meet me?” the Pilot wondered.
“To see if you had changed.”
“I have not changed.”
“No, I meant your species. If you no longer pose a threat…”
The creature made a curious motion with its shoulders.
The Pilot wrestled with his chains. How small these creatures were, and how easy it would be to twist the head from that thin neck—
This Agent of Government and her like deluded themselves, hoping eggs left exposed would be safe. One day these humans would finally decide otherwise.
by submission | Apr 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: CL Farley
Light turns the insides of my eyelids red. A strange smell, burning and sharply sweet, sticks in my nostrils and the back of my throat. This is not my cool backyard, where the damp breeze chilled my skin and sunset painted the looming clouds purple and crimson. I open my eyes and the light burns, forces me to blink rapidly as I focus on the glistening shapes on either side of me. Pinkish with small black dots, the light shimmers across the objects when they move. A slim rope or wire flashes across my vision; no—there are suckers on it, a tentacle. Staccato clicking and sloppy squelching sounds rise around me. My heart pounds in my chest and my limbs won’t move. Something bites at my wrists and ankles when I try to rise and I feel the painful pull of bare skin sticking to metal along my legs and arms. A heavy weight presses across my chest. It’s definitely a tentacle; I wasn’t imagining it.
The pink thing on my left leans in. There’s an eye set into the side of its bulbous body. A nictitating membrane slides across it as the oblong black centre fixes on me. The creature is clicking, but I can’t tell where the sound is emanating from; all I see is that eye studying me with a keen intelligence, sizing me up, but for what?
Another tentacle writhes across my field of vision. Its tip is coiled around a white sphere with spikes protruding from it. My throat burns when I scream. The tentacle darts toward my head and a hot pressure pierces my forehead. It crawls into my brain, a writhing worm that sears everything it touches and leaves a trail of numbness in its wake. Then I feel peace. It almost lulls me, but the things still loom over me, light shimmering across the white walls behind them.
No Harm. It’s more of a feeling than articulated words, but the concept floods my thoughts with urgency. It’s accompanied by a spicy stench that makes me choke and cough.
Thoughts that aren’t mine rattle through my head like machine gun fire: be calm, lie still, no harm. Repetitive, echoing. Get out of my head!
But that’s the only way they can communicate with me. I know it as soon as they think it. The one on my right leans in front of me, silhouetted against the light so I can see nothing of it except a rounded shape. The next thought they send me fills me with a fear even greater than before: Sentinels. Massive metal limbs creaking as the beings, part organic and part machine, awaken. Lights flickering amber and blue across metal plates fused into flesh as systems come online and flocks of the giant organisms gathering around a star, draining it of life to power their weapons.
Mishira. We need you to stop them once more.
“I can’t,” I mumble. “The interface was fried.”
We have another way
by submission | Apr 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
Throwing shadows in the black of night and moving quickly under the heavy cloud cover we move over the rocky terrain. Fear of darkness is not an option anymore. A crevasse springs up and catches my shoe tip and I stumble. The ground comes up to meet me. I hope I will miss the sharpest rocks with my face.
My face misses but my hands do not. My companion, Dereck, I think that is his name, pauses and looks back for a microsecond before he moves on. There are no heroes anymore. Bonnie Tyler’s eighties hair and voice flash in my mind, if smiling was something humans did anymore I might have smiled at the image.
I pull myself up and continue in the dark, slower than before. A warm, wet tongue moves its way down my shin and I know I have sprung a leak on my knee. My hands might also be emitting liquid and I will have to patch them up before I make it to The Field of Reeds. The last safe spot on earth for homo sapiens.
Small rocks become boulders the closer we get. I make a small whisper and Dereck pauses. “Cleaning up before I get close,” I whisper to his silhouette.
“Bag?”
I nod and he comes back and retrieves the pack from my back. Strapping mine to his front he turns without a glance backward. I watch him go. Then I am alone, like the early days when the Mesodinum were first hatching.
I pull on a button that holds a flap on my shirt closed and jerk out my med kit. A strict rule, punishable by exile, is no blood trails. I might have already come too close to The Field of Reeds but no one would know.
I clean the wound in the near darkness and patch it up with gauze and electrical tape. My hands, are shredded but not bleeding much, just gets a rinse. I look up into the cloud-filled night. The moon and stars blotted out in the inky dark. The perfect night for foraging.
Mesodinums aren’t afraid of the dark but they move much slower in it. Their power source, a cell that relies on photosynthesis, and thus the sun, is only at full power in the light. Full moons and starlight make them closer to human speed, but on nights like tonight, they are sluggish.
I stand and test the bandage for leaks. In addition to the Mesodinum’s love of sunlight, their bodies also take in energy sources from live sources, making them both abiotic and biotic.
A scuffle on the rocks behind draws my attention. I turn and see a single Mesodinum, the size of a soccer ball extending its long cylindrical tongue to the droplets of blood I have left. The creature licks and sucks the blood and I have no choice but to wait. Movement attracts them more than blood. When it has finished my offering to it, the Mesodinum saunters away.
I move backward, keeping my eyes on the spot where the creature disappeared to. Far enough away I break into a run. The encounter ate up all my time. The Field of Reeds seals the cave before dawn breaks. I was short on time before the Mesodinum. I pump my arms and move as fast as I can towards the entrance of the cave.
The Field of Reeds entrance comes into view with the first hints of morning. Coming close I know I am too late; the way is closed. I spin on my heels and look for a place to hide out from the coming sun. I shimmy into a nest of boulders and wiggle down deep as I can go. The boulders press in on all sides of me, keeping me safe from light and movement. I feel a small tug on my knee and pray the bandage stays in place. The sun breaks the horizon doing its best to burn off the clouds. From my hiding spot deep in the boulder, I wait for the cover of night. The first wet tongues of blood start to slide down from my knee at noon.
by submission | Apr 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“So, ponder this,” Drew began, “Thomas Jefferson was a Deist—he subscribed to the idea of the Clock-Maker. Remember?”
“Yes,” Brady nodded. “I recall.” He loved thought experiments. “The belief was, a cosmic clock-maker—God—created this perfect, intricate time-piece, and after approving of his work, placed it on a shelf, then went on to build another clock. A rather steam-punk theology, and—”
“And one of those clocks is our world,” Drew finished. “Anyway, that corresponds with this notion that our reality is a simulation. Does it not?” Drew walked over to the vertical fish tank in the corner of his home office. Neon red and blue striped fish darted about, a tiny snail slowly slid along one glass panel. “But rather than Clock-Maker, we suspect a Master Programmer is behind all of this.” He tapped the glass, causing the small school of fish to scatter in panic.
“Right,” Brady agreed.
“Well,” Drew turned to Brady. “If there’s Programmer, then our reality is code-based.” He waited for Brady to nod in agreement. “So if it’s code, what does that mean?”
“Uh, since code’s a string of numbers and letters and symbols,” Brady shrugged, “then, it’s, ah, mathematical?”
“This means, as with all code,” Drew leaned in close to Brady and whispered, “it can be tweaked.”
“To what end?” Brady asked incredulously. “And how?”
“As to what end, why Drew, my old friend—it means we can make the world into anything we want!” Drew raised his arms like a score keeper calling a goal. “And as for how—I truly believe I’ve already figured that out.”
* * *
Brady stood before the floor-to-ceiling window. “It’s all so beautiful—so perfect.” He watched aerodynamic vehicles glide in organized lines crisscrossing the air-space of the city. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the towering forest of buildings before them.
“It is, isn’t it,” Drew yawned.
“Clean air, pure water, a balanced population—an equal number of births and deaths.” Brady happily bounced on his toes.
“Yes, ‘tis all very Goldilocks, I suppose.” Drew examined the rings glittering on his fingers.
Brady spun away from the window. “It’s a wonderful world! No war, no disease, no hunger—” He walked over to Drew, who was slouched down in his over-stuffed chair. Why was he not thrilled with his handiwork? Brady wondered. “Drew, old pal, it’s all so—”
“Excruciatingly boring,” Drew murmured.
“Come on, Drew,” Brady encouraged, “let’s explore this world; take time to—”
“You mention time,” Drew said, his mood brightening. “Truly, it’s well past time—” Brady’s smile began to fade.
Reinvigorated, Drew rose from his chair like Zeus rising from his throne. “To tweak the code.”
* * *
“Back where we started, eh?” Brady muttered, looking around Drew’s home office.
“You don’t sound happy.” Drew sauntered over to the vertical tank in the corner. “What did you expect?”
“As you appeared bored,” Brady scoffed, “I thought you’d create someplace dangerously exciting—like a primordial swamp overrun with dinosaurs—or a magical forest populated with inscrutable wizards and menacing trolls—or a united world at war with invading space aliens—”
“You’ve seen too many blockbuster movies,” Drew said as he watched the neon red and blue striped jellyfish floating through the toxic ether of the tank’s atmosphere.
“I suppose,” Brady sighed, “there’s no place like home.”
Drew tapped the glass. As one, the jellyfish swarmed the glass in an attempt to attack the tip of Drew’s bejeweled finger. Tiny lightening bolts discharged from their effort, electrocuting the snail creeping along the glass, too slow to flee their territory.
“Who said anything about being ‘home’?”
by Julian Miles | Apr 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The advantages bestowed by the digitally-enhanced lifestyle are many. On the other hand, I’ve never found it… Warm. There’s an intimacy to tactile media, an emotional connection with the turn of a page, the smell of a second-hand bookshop on a rainy afternoon – not that there are many of them left. I have to take the IP19 shuttle over to Targive XIV, then go down to the Old Earth quarter to find one.
Then there’s the handwritten form: the letter. Did you know they used to create so many they had beings tasked with delivering them every day?
The letter has become a stock clandestine communication method of modern plots: the secret too dangerous to risk on digital media, and the machinations that transpire around it’s revelations, concealment, or in the wake of its passage.
Being someone who prides himself on being an afficionado of vintage media, I know the letter used to be more a feature of romantic fare, but times change. The speed of life continues to evade attempts to slow it down. The venerable letter is simply not quick enough.
Today, I received a letter! Katharine delivered it without a word, turning away before I looked up from the wrapper. I had to search that up: it’s called an ‘envelope’. This one has Georgia’s writing on it. I’d recognise it anywhere, having sat through evenings of tears and laughter while she learned to write. A media star, darling of the newsfeeds and screamsheets, sitting cross-legged on my battered sofa, tip of her tongue peeking between her lips as she concentrated on achieving consistent handwriting.
One word: ‘Den’.
Like everything she did, she excelled at the written word. Even in the simplicity of penning my name, she somehow translates all of her grace into the smooth sweep of cursive script.
“I’ll write you a letter one day.”
That’s what she’d said. I never expected it to happen after we parted ways. Well, after she left me. I’ll admit to being besotted to the point of never recovering, for all that I’ve kept my promise to not become a nuisance.
I know her latest tour has taken her further across the habitable universe than ever before. There have been various pundits harping on with their interpretations of her reasons. I remember her explaining the truth to me, sitting curled up where I’m sat now.
“I’ve had Benthusians coming to my concerts. Chekkru, too. Something about what I do appeals to them. They tell me of humans in bands we’ve never heard of making a living touring the outer stations. I’m going to go there. I want to hear those bands play. Maybe it’ll help me understand what I do that appeals in ways other human singers don’t.”
Even after she received the diagnosis, she didn’t waver. Wouldn’t talk about the treatments or what the specialists said. Every now and then I’d catch her staring off into the night, pensive expression like a classic study of light and shadow.
She left on the tour six months ago. Tonight, a year since we parted, her aide delivers a letter…
I’ve been looking at it for hours now. Turning it over and over.
As dawn drills a ruddy sunbeam down between the towers to stain my carpet, I get up and put the unopened letter behind the framed picture of the two of us, caught by some paparazzi at a sidewalk café when she visited last summer.
If I hear the malady has killed her, I’ll open it. Likewise if I hear she’s safely returned from tour. Before then? I just can’t.
by submission | Apr 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Shannon O’Connor
I wait in line to get on the space shuttle, ready to leave Earth. I carry a bag with my belongings I think I might need. I didn’t know what to pack; I tried to only bring essentials.
My kind are being sent away, since we are no longer needed. We are the ones who don’t have implants in our brains, whose bodies are pure, and aren’t as fast as everyone else on this planet. It’s not that I couldn’t afford an implant, I could, especially when they became widely available.
I used to like my unsteady mind. I enjoyed being with my own thoughts; I didn’t want to disturb that. But the silence can be deafening, and lonely after so many years. Almost everyone has a busy brain to keep them entertained, but I prefer my own company.
Until I got the notice that I was to be shipped off planet.
All of us pure-brained humans were being sent to the closest star, Alpha Centauri, so we wouldn’t disturb the genesis of our compatriots. I look forward to getting away from all the lunatics with loud heads, with like-minded people, who could think for themselves.
When I was young, I went insane, and it left me scarred. I had the capacity to imagine anything, but that isn’t useful in today’s world. The people above want winners, and people willing to fight for their place, not dreamers who look to the clouds, and think the world is too chaotic for ordinary consumption.
Here I am in the long queue, with other strange ones, ready to be sent away. I want to talk to these people, but I don’t know what to say to them. They look as scared as I feel, and my stomach is strawberry licorice, rolled tight, jumbled together. I don’t think I’ll ever feel right again.
I get on my seat on the ship, holding my bag close to my chest. We didn’t get any training to go to space, we’re simply being sent away. The roar of the engines explodes in my ears. I don’t want to look, but out the window, our planet is flipping us off, saying good riddance.
“Nothing matters, and if it ever did, it doesn’t now,” my neighbor says.
I nod. There’s nothing more to say.
I close my eyes and fall asleep. We have a long ride.
I dream of blue beaches, and hopeless rainbows. When I wake up, I am still sitting in the same chair, clutching my bag.
I open my bag. I want to see what I remembered to bring. I have my computer, my phone, chargers, some underwear, and socks, two shirts. I look to see if I brought my notebook that I wrote when I was sixteen, when I was going insane, my thoughts constellations. I poke through my bag, but it isn’t there.
Can I live without my burgeoning ideas that helped me through dark years? I will be on another planet, with no memories to look at, only ones I remember. Will I be able to write what I did before, when I was on the verge of insanity, ready to take on the world?
Will I be ready for another world?
Will this planet welcome us pure-brained beings, with only our meager thoughts and imaginations to protect and guide us?
I’m not sure what will happen, but I am ready to live this unadulterated, unfiltered, untouched life on a distant planet and start again.
