by submission | Apr 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Cold rain was falling. A man in a worn jacket entered a private clinic. He put his broken umbrella in a stand by the door. The young receptionist at the front desk asked if he had an appointment. She handed him a form and asked him to wait. He sat on a bench and stared vacantly. The receptionist said the psychiatrist was available. The man got up and entered the office. The psychiatrist told him to take a seat.
“I’m having a dream,” the man said.
“Would you tell me about it?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Everything around me is pitch black, and there is a sound, a deep, loud wind sound like accelerating rotator blades.”
“What happens next?”
“I look up before me, and there is a massive floating ball of solid blue light twice as high as me, and encircling the upper fourth of it is a rapid, glowing red line, the source of the sound.”
“Is anything else there?”
“Nothing else is there except the orb, the sound, and me,” the man said.
“How do you feel in the dream?”
“I don’t know how to get out. I’m fixed in place, mesmerized by the sight, and then I wake up. But every time I awaken, it’s harder to get out of the dream.”
“Why do you think that is?” the psychiatrist asked.
“It’s as if I’m being pulled into the dream.”
“When did you first have the dream?”
“It started in mid-April, and it has returned many times. I drew a picture of the orb. I can show it to you.”
“I would like to see it,” the psychiatrist said.
The man brought out a rumpled piece of paper from his pant pocket. He gave the paper to the psychiatrist.
“The orb is like a giant machine,” the man said, “a machine from somewhere I don’t know, that has entered deep into my mind and wants to absorb me and erase me.”
“Do you try to run away?” the psychiatrist asked.
“I can’t move or scream or do anything, only stare at the orb and hear the sound.”
“Can you imitate the sound?”
“That sound—whuh-whuh-whuh-whuh-whuh-whUH-whUH-whUH-whUH-whUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH—that deep, loud wind sound like accelerating rotator blades.”
“What do you see next?”
“Everything around me is pitch black. I’m having the dream again, and I can’t get out. I can’t get out.”
…
“The dream is a symptom of anxiety psychosis,” the psychiatrist started. “Something in your life is beyond your control, and the neurotransmitters in your brain are generating feelings of fear and powerlessness.”
The man was quiet.
“I recommend four weekly consultations and 20 mg of phenothiazine in four divided doses daily,” the psychiatrist said. “If you could wait outside, the receptionist will prepare your prescription and our next appointment.”
The man got up, paid at the front desk, and never returned.
* * *
Cold rain was falling. The young receptionist arrived early at the private clinic. She put her small umbrella in the stand by the door, went to the front desk, and sorted papers. There between, she brought out her smartphone and read a very short story, a strange tale about a synaptic portal that materialized in the brain of a man in a worn jacket, transporting him from within into the void of inter-solar space.
by submission | Apr 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Chadwick
He lays his hand upon the lever, the cold metal sinking into his palm as his fingers slowly wrap around the handle, feeling as though the rigor mortis was already settling in. Thoughts swirl and smash inside his skull reminding him of the mechanized calamity he unleashed upon existence – invention born ignorant of bone and flesh.
Everyone, no, everything that he knew…
“The reality of what I’ve done…I cannot- No, will not, survive with its constant torment.”, he thought.
His arm slams forward, squeezing a fist around the contraption, feeling it engage and lock into its place. Behind him, in its man-made metal womb, he hears the machine sputter and spur. A sporadic buzzing of programmed hate, awakening inside the cold, copper vessel.
A deep breath, and a moment to accept the moment, passes when he finally turns around to face his companion. Its dimly-lit visage was mostly blank, save for a pair of dull lamps behind clouded, amber-stained portholes. Never did he think that this familiar face will be the last he sees.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” He asked firmly.
Seconds after his inquiry, the automaton lurched forward, as if it was breaking free from ice. Its right knee bent with a mechanical screeching stutter and clomped its foot down upon the metal floor of the bunker. Then, methodically repeating the motions with the left leg as it took its first step of “life” out of the shroud where its creator prepared it for animation.
Another step, complete with a symphony of metallic friction as alloy joints scraped upon each other followed by the thud as each foot contacted the floor, seemingly shaking the room. This second step led the golem to a distance where the cables connected to its head and limbs drew taught and disconnected forcefully from its metallic body, causing them to swing back under the hooded platform where it previously stood.
Now, only feet from him, he stared into the yellow lamps that existed as its eyes, the only relatable part of its anatomy that resembled a human. It gazed back soullessly, the only noise to be heard was the humming of the reactor core within its torso.
He closed his eyes and tried wetting his mouth though it was as dry as the scorched landscape of the surface above.
“Do it..” He muttered in a deep exhale.
The creature’s arms rose in a jerking manner accompanied by a loud whir. Its hands outstretched in a clasping pose, it lurched forward.
He inhaled sharply as the cold, metal claws of his creation made contact with his skin, enfolding around his neck. The pressure increased as they tightened with a high-pitched buzz.
Then it stopped – hands frozen in place. For some reason unknown to him, it ceased its murderous grasp.
“My God…” he thought. “It’s refusing its order. It’s rethinking its decision – No, it’s making a decision!”
“I can fix this.”, he whispered, looking into its glowing eyes. “I can fix it all.”
He pulled his arms up and laid his hands upon the golem’s arms, still frozen in place, stretched out with its hands around his neck. Just as he had done so, the motors within its gripping hands began to buzz again, continuing to tighten.
Struggling in panic, he drew one more breath, “No, wait!”
by submission | Apr 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Kei Lynnette
“Is it just me or do power and tea go just wonderfully together?” The Empress’s companion laughed and replied, “It’s just you Empress, and if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come into so much power?” The Empress only smiled. “Don’t tell me it’s because of your ‘sunny disposition’.” her closest companion said with a sarcastic smirk. The Empress looked out to the spectacular view of her empire and sighed contentedly. “You could say that it was a happy coincidence.”
The fancy hotel room was a cleaning service’s nightmare. Soiled sheets lay twisted in large heaps and what used to be a comfy bed was now of no use. The culprit of this mess stood on the defeated bed with her arms crossed and her face the picture of anger. Lennon Walter was understandably upset about being kidnapped, and by aliens no less. “This stupid room is of no use to me anymore! Show me a better one now!” Lenny yelled loudly.
Her captors showed Lenny to a larger room with an even larger TV. The girl didn’t hesitate to power the TV on. Promptly, Sunday morning cartoons started playing in full volume. Lenny cackled at the stupidity of the characters and was surprised to hear soulless laughing coming from behind her. “That’s new,” Lenny says, these creatures had not shown any emotion until now. Lenny and the aliens watched poorly animated cartoons for about an hour until she turned off the television so as to order the aliens to get snacks. She was not expecting the group of aliens to turn on her angrily. “Oh crap, sorry! Sorry -” she clicked the show back on. ” – look it’s back.” The aliens turned back towards the screen as though nothing happened.
Like everyone else that watched cable TV, these aliens despised commercial breaks. It was during one that Lenny yawned and said sleepily “You fellows had an extreme lack of dopamine.” the aliens only gave her confused looks. Her eyes widened “I thought beings from space were eggheads, you don’t know what that is?” When no one answered, she sighed, “Well, dopamine is called the happy chemical,” Lenny tried hard to remember what her teacher had said about this topic. “Dopamine helps humans, and you guys, plan while also helping us find things interesting.” She stares pointedly at the TV “Like funny tv shows for example.”
The aliens nodded, but before they could go back to watching, the TV powered off. Lenny ignored their cries and calmly but firmly said, “I’m going to need some answers before we continue. Why did you capture me?” she smiled slyly. “No answers, no TV” The aliens hurried to explain that they had come to Earth after discovering that an heir for their empire was there. Lennon was that heir because her great-great-great-grandfather had bought a star that eventually became their small empire. The aliens had taken Lenny from her boarding school in hopes of convincing her to lead their failing empire and make it as powerful as it was in centuries past.
The young Empress continued her story “Of course I accepted their offer, what do you take me for? We hopped on the nearest space bus and blew that popsicle stand. Only painful memories and a troubled past were on Earth. But that’s another story for another time.” She glanced around as if thinking an invisible enemy was around before leaning in close with her friend and saying “There are other heirs you know, the leaders of other empires.” she gave her trademark sly smile “I think that needs to change very soon.”
End of Step 1
by submission | Apr 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: Germain M. C.
I’m meeting Tili’s assistant tonight. Tili’s too busy to meet me herself, but I don’t mind—her celebrity, her beauty would eclipse me anyway.
Headlights approach my vehicle in the dim, empty parking lot. They crawl up beside me as the driver’s window cracks open. Faint dashboard lights illuminate a figure inside.
“Are you Gina?” she whispers.
“Yes. You’re her assistant?”
“Look, you’re not going to do anything to Tili, right? You’re not some stalker or obsessed fan?”
“Do you have it?”
“This is just some sexual thing, right?”
“It’s just a passing kink. Nothing more.” I hand over an envelope filled with six months’ salary.
The assistant hesitates, then flings a package at me. I caress the paper-wrapped box while she speeds off.
Alone, I explore the contents: dirty socks, a toothbrush, a used collagen facial mask.
***
Footsteps echo in the hallway and interrupt my work. Fortunately, I’m done injecting myself and only need to hide the equipment I’ve unplugged.
Jonathan rushes into the laboratory. “Oh. Late night, Dr. Gina?”
“Research directors don’t get time off.” I finish prepping the chromosomal editors and check the facial mask’s DNA sequencing: 85% of Tili’s DNA retrieved. To confirm it’s her, I scan the genome. I see her blue eyes, her full lips, her rare “elastic skin” caused by Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.
“Cramming it all in before your vacation next week?” He looks about for the missing equipment. “Something happen here?”
“I’m having the equipment tested before I go. Don’t want you all bothering me while I’m tanning.”
“Oh, thanks. Sorry, but can I copy some data?”
“Give me your flash drive.” I minimize my work on the screen while searching for Jonathan’s files.
“Those please.” Jonathan points, taking a seat next to me. He notices the nanoparticle condenser. “You’re making chromosomal editors?”
“Yes. A pet project.”
“Speaking of, what ever happened to your mice? Did you switch any phenotypes?”
“I did: fur color, ear width, nose length.
“Incredible. You practically switched them from one genus to another.”
“Almost, yes.” I hand the flash drive back.
“Oh, thanks. I’ll get go-” Jonathan smacks into a table corner. “Christ, maybe someday we can edit out my clumsiness. Replace it with some gymnast genes.”
“Maybe.”
***
There’s only one picture of Tili in my remote cabin. It dominates a quarter of the vanity mirror where I sit, scribbled with lines and dimensions for reference. Tangles of wires litter the floor around me, connected to stolen analyzers, while a mountain of Tili’s “Tasty” branded clothes clutter the bed; bought just to support her career.
My phone vibrates. Work demands to know where the laboratory equipment is, demands my return from a vacation I never plan to end. They don’t understand the old Gina is eroding.
I study—stroke—Tili’s symmetrical face; you could almost hate her. Blonde, with a tinge of pink, is her preferred look, so I carefully mix the proper ratio of hair dyes before me. While it rests, I take a tape measure and note my cheekbones, chin, eyebrows. I compare the numbers to the notes on Tili’s picture. There’s an average difference of 3%, down from yesterday’s 3.2%.
Phone vibrates again.
The nanoparticle condenser beeps; chromosomal editors are done. I inject them into my bloodstream and feel the particles clip my misappropriated DNA, replacing it with the bit of Tili they carry. In time, they’ll dilute me completely.
If providence didn’t see fit to bless me as they did Tili, perfect Tili, I’ll do it myself.
But editors aren’t enough.
To evaporate Gina, inside and out, I’ll need a blood sample.
by Julian Miles | Apr 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Slowly revolving like Christmas decorations, sparkling under the spotlights of the Seacole.
The barbarism of those we face brought an old quote back to me: ‘An honest soldier will regard the battlefield as dawn breaks across it on the morn after the battle. He will take in the awful beauty revealed. Set against the death-dealing evidenced by that vista, something he knows full well, having oft dealt such, he must acknowledge the sacrifices made. He should then give thanks unto God for his survival, no matter it be by the fortunes of war or the vicissitudes of rank.’
Every time I come to a field like this, I start by looking at it unfiltered, admitting my relief at not being part of it.
“When you’re ready, Jackie.”
We call the enemy ‘Triclaws’. Not much is known. They’re secretive, ruthless, and never ones for what humanity considers a ‘fair fight’. Merciless, overwhelming force is their trademark. We have some basic descriptions: at least two metres tall, two clawed arms on one side, a giant pincer on the other. There may be other limbs, because they can use our keyboards and the like. They never leave their dead, and delight in taunting us. Every atrocity is capped with some disgusting trophy display. When it comes to space battles, they leave only wings and fins.
“Seacole, I’m going in.”
We search every site. The first clue we got was from a lone tech on an isolated orbital station. She took one of them out. Had to use herself as bait, and kill herself, to manage it. Left us a description and some clues. Since then, re-investigations have revealed many supposed accidents as likely Triclaw attacks.
They aren’t infallible. Horrifically good, hinting at long practice, but not perfect. Their advantage is in leaving so little of themselves behind. One fine day we’ll bury them. Painstaking efforts like this are how it’ll come to pass.
“What are you thinking, Jackie?”
“That we should change our parameters. The Triclaws obviously use heat sensors. I’d guess movement detection too. For anyone to survive a post-battle purge, they would need to be cold and still. Everybody knows, so anyone with the skills and materials would have to be fast.”
“And lucky?”
“Only if we find them alive.”
“True. We reckon whatever they came up with would be of diminishing effectiveness, too.”
So, my theoretical survivor is hiding in plain sight – or inside plain sight.
“Seacole, give me a 3D map of the debris field. Highlight all remains with an internal volume over a square metre.”
This search would be nonsensical if the Triclaws hadn’t taken everything but the wings. My grid fills with coloured debris.
“How long since the battle, do we reckon?”
“Twenty hours.”
“I’m heading towards the nearest. Scan the others for raised temperature. There’s no way to hide body heat for that long without prepared containment.”
Please. I want to prove they’re not perfect killers.
“Jackie, the ventral fin from the ‘HSS Expedient’ is warm! A check of the original schematics reveals it had a manned weapons cubicle that was sealed up during a refit. It’s flashing on your grid.”
That’s a way off.
“Seacole, I’ll rendezvous there. Go get them.”
Darkness returns as the Seacole moves off.
The thing that offends me most is how pretty the wreckage looks in the light of the distant sun.
I take my time and check all the other possibles. Finding two would be a miracle, but I have to be thorough.
“He’s alive, Jackie.”
Here’s hoping he’s got information: another rivet for the Triclaws coffin.
by submission | Apr 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Davis
Bo buried their head in their hands and screamed. Fuck Jay, fuck his beautiful hair and his pretty face, fuck him, fuck him… they still really wanted to fuck him.
Angry breakup sex was supposed to be a thing, that’s what they’d been told, but when Jay had come round to collect the last of his things – his toothbrush (why couldn’t the possessive fool just buy a new one?), his watch that was always five minutes slow, and some plates whose ownership was disputed – the two of them just got angry. One of the plates had been broken.
Bo threw themself onto the bed and shoved their head in the pillow.
“Come on, dear, it’s not the end of the world,” echoed a voice that was just the wrong side of the line between soothing and aggravating.
Bo pushed their head further into the pillow. “Shut up, Mum.”
“I can’t shut up, I’m in your head,” said Mum. “And I’m right. It’ll pass. And it’s not the end of the world.”
The room shook furiously, and there was a blinding flash of light. The photo of Jay on the bedside table fell to the floor and shattered.
The light faded, and a tall, thin figure stood quite still in the centre of the room.
“Greetings, human,” he said in an eerie, soft voice. “Prepare for the end of your world.”
Breathing in and out, Bo blinked several times. “Finally, someone who gets it.”
The figure paused, clearly not ready for that reaction.
“I-I do not think you understand. This is an invasion. I am the First. Others will follow.”
He stumbled over the words, as if fluffing the lines to a long-rehearsed script.
“No, I get it,” said Bo. “Weird green man says ‘prepare for the end of your world’, what’s not to get? I’ve seen movies.”
“Movies?” asked the First.
Bo ignored him. “But frankly, threaten away. My day was crap already.”
“Your petty human concerns are nothing compared to-”
Leaping off the bed, Bo squared up to him. “Shut up! You don’t know me! You aren’t living my life!”
The two of them were standing face to face, centimetres apart, breathing in sync. A new thought started to form in Bo’s head. The First was, there was no other way to put it, an absolute snack. If anything, the scales helped. And the curve of his forehead wasn’t unlike Jay’s.
“Counter offer,” they said, softening their voice.
“We do not negotia-”
They leant in. “Kiss me.”
The First considered the offer. In truth, he had started to question the cause. And the human was not unattractive. He pulled them in and kissed them, hard.
Spinning as they kissed, Bo flung him onto the bed. Breakup sex with Jay hadn’t happened, but it seemed an ill-advised hookup with a stranger was very much on the cards. Straddling the First, they reached for his chest, and started to unfasten his spacesuit.
“Right,” they said. “First contact, here we go.”
