by submission | Oct 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
A vacuum sound like a whirlwind was booming through the shattered corridor of the third level of an orbital satellite. Sparks and debris shards were suspended in its artificial magnetic field. The single occupant, Morioka, was missing.
Commander Reynolds, whose three-person rescue vessel had investigated the location, was interrogating the last individual known to have made contact.
“You’ve got to understand,” Reynolds said, “you were the only other person there.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ampersand responded in self-defense.
“Our forensic scans picked up your suit’s molecular traces on what was left of the first two levels of the satellite, where the autonomous engines and the AI computers were. And coincidentally, the collision happened, completely destroying the third level. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit suspicious?”
“If you mean I tampered with the system so that it couldn’t detect the oncoming asteroid, so that she’d be killed, you’re wrong. I’m a space-crime psychologist. I don’t know anything about satellite computers.”
“We have here eight messages from you on her bracelet communicator,” Reynolds began, “sent for a year and a half. The bracelet was the only thing of hers left—on the second level—after the catastrophic collision occurred. Now, why would she leave something so essential behind unless you had somehow been uncomfortable to her?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ampersand retorted. “Besides, if you really read everything, you’d know she politely answered the second message, and then, with her permission, I visited to introduce myself and tell her about my work. When I tried to keep in touch, she never reciprocated.”
“Silence can provoke hatred and, sometimes, … murder.”
“Hatred for what? I’ve a lovely wife and three beautiful small children, and I’m referenced in my field. Why ever would I want to throw everything away because of one unfriendly person?”
“Maybe you’re a little too used to people paying attention to you.”
“Actually, I’m known to maintain a modest profile.”
“Tell me what happened when you went there.”
“Well,” Ampersand exhaled, “we’d scheduled the meeting a few weeks after I was stationed at the satellite here in the adjacent sector. Her profile was in the regional database, and she was also a space psychologist, not in my area. She responded to my second message. I arrived by autonomous shuttle craft, and we mutually discussed our research in her laboratory, for maybe half an hour. The meeting was cordial and pleasant. She was cheerful, jokey, even smiling. Curiously, though, the one picture she had in the room was of herself. After I left, I occasionally sent updates and visit requests, but she didn’t message me back. And now, I hear she’s missing, perhaps even dead.”
“Another question: Why’d you make the second trip?”
“I was on vacation, leisurely passing through. My shuttle craft never stopped at her satellite. You can check the travel memory yourself.”
“We did, Mr. Ampersand. You’re right. From what we gather, the missing was a recluse. And an unfortunate accident happened at an unfortunate moment. We’re sorry to have taken up your time. There’re no further questions.”
***
An autonomous shuttle craft slowed in the dark enfoldment around Orbital Satellite Chiho. The craft hatch opened, and a form in a life-support suit floated out. A handheld air-pressure gun propelled the figure toward the silent monolith. The form raised the outer sun visor of the suit helmet. In the man eyes, a seething, senseless hatred burned like scorching graves.
by Julian Miles | Oct 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Flickering light fills the clearing, reflecting in the wide eyes of five people in restraint sleeves laid out next to a pair of freight containers.
I wait until they turn their attentions to me.
“Good morning. Welcome to Dantalius Nine. The sunrise is particularly beautiful, isn’t it? The rays interact with tiny crystals in the thermosphere, providing a magnificent lightshow to start the day. It does persist, but is best seen at dawn.”
The mother is looking about. The father is going from scared to angry, and getting angrier because he’s been scared. Both daughters are quiet, the older one showing early signs of digital withdrawal. The son, youngest of the siblings, is watching his father with a look I’d not want directed at me.
I crouch down and continue in my best news presenter manner.
“Hi. Right now you’re wondering what’s happened.” I gesture to all of them except the father. “You four are here because he,” I point at the father, “is being given a chance to demonstrate his extraordinary skills at colonisation.”
All attention falls on daddy dearest.
“Milo Wilkins, I’m delighted to say your persistent efforts are being rewarded. Only last month on FNXN you commented at length in reply to the ‘Colonies Beg for Aid’ article. You insisted the colonists were bleeding Earth dry because they were ‘too damn lazy to work for their privileges’. Your revolutionary ideas regarding crop growing, medicine, hunting, and the frontier family attracted a lot of attention. I must admit I thought some of your counter-arguments a little weak, but the approbation your comments received was startling. Your loud lamentations about not being able to ‘get out there with my family and prove them scroungers wrong’ were noted.”
If his wife’s eyes get any wider, they’ll crack her skull.
“I also noticed you commiserating with your followers regarding how a ‘truly independent thinker’ who ‘refused to fall for government and media lies’ would never be allowed to emigrate. That gave me an idea. What better way to prove that opportunity and justice for all still exist in this century than to give you that very chance?”
He’s gone very still, and very pale.
“Naturally, this can’t come entirely for free. After all, the exploration and colonisation of space is meant to be a co-operative effort. To realise something from this largesse, we’ve established a network of monitors, so your ground-breaking ideas and techniques can be codified to create a new guide for future colonisation efforts.”
The oldest daughter is starting to show signs of shock, on top of her withdrawal.
“You see those two containers? They’re settler pods. Each one contains enough gear and supplies to sustain six people for twelve weeks, plus the basics to get hunting, gathering, agriculture, and your homestead started. The restraint sleeves you’re in can be used as sleeping bags after they’re relaxed, which is done by an injection to change the state of the material. That process takes about an hour to complete. I did that just before I woke you to watch the dawn.”
Milo glares at me. I shrug.
“I’ll be in orbit before you can move. Also, any form of rescue would be prohibitively expensive, but I’m looking forward to watching desperate crowdfunding attempts.”
I stand and stretch.
“The live stream starts in about two hours. I’d recommend getting the louder recriminations over with before then.”
Turning away, I give them a casual salute.
“You’re going to be famous. Not only that, but one of the outspoken commentators on your stream will provide the next object lesson. Good luck. Goodbye.”
by submission | Oct 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
The baby wailed in the woman’s embrace. Despite the infant’s slight weight, it felt heavy in her arms. It was born weak and cried constantly. It had to be one of them. She would have to take it back. Everyone knew if she raised it, it would only bring misery to their life.
The infant screamed louder, piercing her ears, and she made up her mind. She slipped on her footwear and put a shawl over her head. Grabbing a wicker basket by the slatted wooden door she placed the baby in it. This would end tonight.
Her feet made little noise in the night. The vegetation giving way under her shod feet. The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains that surrounded their small village. She knew it wasn’t safe to leave their stone home at night but she had to do it now or she would lose her nerve. The baby had not stopped crying and she worried its wails would bring beasts from the dark forest. Her mind conjured up images of wolves and demons. If she quieted the baby its real parents might not be able to hear it and it would die without being returned. This fate would be worse than being torn apart by wild beasts.
Moving quickly to the outskirts of her small village, she paused as she came to the stone bridge that gave the only passage to the dark forest beyond. The tall and aged trees loomed in the distance like great giants holding the front of a battle line. The cry of the baby became a whimper and she shook the basket to bring new screams from the infant. It couldn’t be quiet now, now that she had to draw its parents to her like a moth to a flame.
Crossing the wooden bridge, she entered the line of giants and made her way through the underbrush of ferns and decaying leaves. The moon was full and gave light to her path as she made her way to the deepest part of the forest. The small babe’s cries weakening. Not too much farther she told herself. She was looking for the ancient oak with its twisted crook to place the babe in. When it appeared in front of her she let a breath go, not noticing she had been holding it.
The large tree loomed, and as she moved closer she spied the crook she was looking for. The baby was quieting and she gave the basket another sharp shake. Cries rose and satisfied, she set the basket down and eyed the crook. She would have to climb a little to reach it. Using her shawl, she fastened a makeshift carrying pouch, it wouldn’t do to drop the baby now, for they were surely watching her.
She picked the baby from the basket and looked at its red and blotchy face. She was glad she had done this. This baby was not hers. It was weak and tearful, something her child would never be. Her heart ached for a moment as she thought about her child, living among the fairies. She knew she would never see her child again but she could at least give this one back.
Grabbing hold of the lowest limb she pushed her way up the tree. When she reached the crook not far up she gently reached out, took the baby from her makeshift carrying pouch, and placed it in the crook. The baby had stopped crying and lay relatively still there.
Climbing down she breathed out. She was done with this evil deed. She left the baby for its rightful parents, the fairies, and headed back towards the village. Her next baby would hopefully not be as perfect so as not to draw attention from the fairies and be snatched up. She had proven how smart she was by returning this baby to them. The fairies would have to be more clever next time to fool a woman like her.
by submission | Oct 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: David P Rogers
They met in the coffee shop by accident, which in itself was odd. Neither of them ever did anything unplanned. Or so Fayt thought. But even Mort had to take an occasional break, and neither of them was omniscient. They got coffee and sat by the window.
“You changed the spelling of your name,” he noted, looking at the name tag pinned to her tunic.
“I like F-A-Y-T,” she said, pronouncing the letters individually. “Seems pretentious, I know, but few choices make a difference in the outcome of things, big-picture-wise, so I figure you have your fun where you can.”
“Are you kidding?” Mort said. “You should see the people I have to deal with. Smokers with cancer and heart attacks. Drunks crashing into trees, driving off bridges. People who get stoned and play with firearms. Choices matter.”
“I do see those people.” Fayt said, tapping her name tag. “I see everybody. Did you forget? And I never said choices don’t matter. I said they don’t all change the big picture. I pay attention to fate-of-the-world choices, and I veto them, if necessary. Most of them, anyway. A few get by me. But the smokers–how many trivial decisions do they make, just on the day they die? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand? Toast or fruit. Brown shoes or black. Subway or bus. No difference. Not my concern what they do about the little stuff. I could intervene–it’s my job and my right, but I figure, let them have their fun. Either way, you’ll know where to find them when the time comes, right?”
Mort sipped and nodded. “I always do.” He paused. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” he went on. “Your department is being downsized.” An eavesdropper might have thought he said it abruptly, almost rudely. He’d been in business long enough to know there was no mercy in dragging things out.
Fayt sighed. “This little meeting was no accident, was it?
“I’m afraid not.”
“How many am I losing?”
“This time, it’s your whole department.”
“But who will guide the big decisions? The ones that have to come out a certain way in order for everything else to fall in line?”
“Higher echelons have decided to give randomness a chance. Anyway, let’s face it–you’ve been understaffed since before the Renaissance. The Protestant Reformation, humans figuring out they’re not the center of the universe, the invention of microchips and digital electronic computers, space travel–all of those came way sooner than they were supposed to.”
“Which would never have happened if my budgeting and staffing requests had been met.” Fayt added another packet of sugar to her coffee and stirred. “Yet the world continues to turn.”
“Precisely. The world spins on. That fact is the premise for some of the higher-ups to argue you are not needed at all. Humans can do well or badly without so much input from outside.” Mort caught the flash in her eye and hastily added, “I don’t agree. But, like you, I follow orders. Nobody up there cares what I say. Or think. Not as long as I do my job.”
“Your job–what about my job?” She stared at him, noted the unblinking blue-green eyes, and shifted her gaze out the window. Traffic and pedestrians went blissfully about their busy little lives, as if each were indispensable. “Oh,” she said at last. “Right. Well, I do appreciate a nice bit of irony.”
Mort nodded. “A couple of centuries ago, you’d have seen it coming and made sure to be on the other side of the planet right now.”
“Maybe I am slowing down. Remember Julius Caesar, and Napoleon’s return from exile, and the Kennedy boys? We danced our way through those, you and I. It was a perfect waltz.”
“Yep. The coordination was precise, down to the second. Nobody on either of our teams missed a beat.”
“Just . . . make it fast, okay? For old time’s sake?”
Mort nodded. He owed that much to his oldest friend.
by submission | Oct 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
“I’m outta the surveyor, Sungod.”
“Wazzit like down there, Starman?”
“The place’s green, all ’round, like a forest a’ leaf towers. There’s this noise, too. It ain’t animals. Zero showed up on my scans. It’s jus’ plants everywhere. The noise’s comin’ from the leaves. They’re hummin’.”
“How come?”
“Not sure. When I landed, the place wuz silent. As soon as I got outta the surveyor, the hummin’ started, an’ now, it’s a crescendo. I can feel the sound waves thru my suit.”
“Ya in danger?”
“Not as far as I can tell. I guess the noise’s some kinda stress response.”
“No motion or movement?”
“Nothin’. Jus’ the swayin’ from the wind. … Wait a sec. Somethin’ moved.”
“Howzit look?”
“Can’t tell. Can’t make it out. It’s green like everythin’ else.”
“Ya sure it ain’t th’ air?”
“Nah, nah. It’s movin’ ‘gainst it.—Holy spit!”
“Wha’ happened?”
“There’s more!—they’re comin’ all over the place, fallin’ from the leaves!—like spiders an’ starfish!—but they ain’t!—they ain’t animals!—they’re animate plants!—Geezus!—this geoid wuz ‘posed ta be uninhabited!—git me outta here, man!—git me outta here now!”
“Activate yer thermion flares, Starman! Activate yer thermion flares!”
“Can’t!—can’t!—they’re all over me!—holdin’ me down!—spit!—they’re wrappin’ ’round my body!—AAAARRRGH!!—my ribs!—can’t breathe!—can’t breathe—can’t ~~~~~~~~~~
***
“We lost contact, Sungod. It’s jus’ static.”
“Wha’s goin’ on down there, Stingray? Gimme visuals from the surveyor cameras.”
“Too much field in’erference, jus’ like when he landed.”
“Any life signs on Starman?”
“None. He’s gone.”
“Awright then, Stingray. Git it ready.”
“Ya sure ’bout that, Sungod? Howzabout we call SKY first ’bout Starman?”
“No time. ‘Sides, the private contract said risk ta life came with th’ expeditions. The planet’s resource rich. We got competitors also. An’ we gotta clear a patch fer the main landers.”
“Okay. … It’s set.”
“On my mark, Stingray. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—launch it!”
***
An object reminiscent of a smooth, silvered newborn emerged from a basal chamber of one of the two orbital vessels transiting Parudeesa-5731. Swiftly descending like a stoic, flaring comet through the atmospheric layers of the extrasolar jewel, the bomb made landfall. Then, a point of light flashed fluorescently at the green hypocenter, growing and growing, rapidly expanding for thousands and thousands of meters around, upward, and downward, in a symmetrically even radius, atomizing and quantumizing everything within its range, passing it all from being into nothingness. And after three minutes at the end of eternity, the glowing chromium light contracted, ebbing back toward the center, and finally faded away.
***
“Tha’s some mighty stuff, Sungod.”
“Got the job done, Stingray. Starman got a VR self on file?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. SKY’ll send a copy in memoriam ta his fam’ back home. Meantime, howza prospect lookin’?”
“It’s all shimmerin’. A hun’red-thousand meters a’ strata cleared away. The lithosphere’s solid diamond. Wha’bout th’ animate flora beyond th’ upper perimeter, Sungod? They gotta be th’ apex lifeform down there.”
“I’ll sen’ a report ’bout the diamonds an’ git more silver tickers. We’ll bomb the green spit outta ’em, an’ we’ll be as rich as fudge.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
He woke from a deep sleep, the room still dark.
Had there been a noise? It was quiet now.
He reached in the darkness and lifted his phone, the display coming to life just as the alarm sounded, the unexpected noise startling him fully awake. He thumbed the display blindly to silence the alarm.
Six am.
He hated waking right before the alarm like this, it wasn’t natural. His body clock had never been so attuned, definitely not to a minute prior to his alarm.
He sat up, found his glasses, and shuffled to the bathroom before heading down to the kitchen to make coffee.
With the coffee ground, the machine filled, he started the brew and…
Something wasn’t right. He had a cartridge coffee maker, not this…
He woke, sat bolt upright in bed, sweat beading on his brow. He looked down toward the nightstand at his phone as the alarm sounded, startling him. He reached for it, desperate to silence the racket but only managed to knock it off onto the floor.
Swearing, he turned on the light and fished in the corner to find and silence the phone.
Through bleary eyes, he could make out the time. Seven am.
Sighing, he shuffled off to the bathroom, put his contacts in, and headed down to the kitchen to make coffee.
He loaded a cartridge into the machine, placed a mug underneath the dispenser, and started the brew.
He stared at his phone for some time, before opening the alarm app and resetting the wakeup to six thirty-seven.
He held the phone in his hand, the gurgling and wheezing of the coffee machine slowly overtaking his…
The alarm sounded.
He sat on the edge of the bed in the darkness, the phone in his hand, the digits crystal clear.
Six thirty-seven.
He silenced the phone, placing it gently back on the nightstand, a tear slowly sliding down his cheek.
