by submission | Sep 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
My ex hated the spaces between terraformed colonies on Mars. “There’s nothing there. It’s all dead.” She’d complain, as we glided through thin atmosphere, a meter over unforgiving land where bioengineered chaparral was taking root. When we still loved each other, I was never snarky enough to point out Anna’s contradiction: if there was nothing out there on either side of a road defined only by flashing white strobes every fifty meters or so, how could it all be dead? Instead, I used to try and point out strength in things thriving under a distant sun, in ground so cold and dry each footstep wisped up a ghost of dust that would dance in the air if the wind allowed. That was when we still loved each other.
I’d like to think when we stopped dancing together, we stopped loving, but that would be a daydream no different than the kind that drew homesteaders out of colonies and into the back country. Empty homesteader outposts littered the Tharsis Plain.
Outpost Hyacinth had long since emptied of people. Its storehouses were empty. Greenhouses were wind-battered. Towers that once wicked moisture from ember skies stood sentinel over decaying machinery and living quarters. In Hyacinth’s center, I found an assembly hall that had long since opened its roof to the sky. Inside, twisted aluminum spars whistled unnerving melodies ghosts that never stopped loving still danced to when outsiders like me weren’t there.
I’d never been there for Anna. That was why our hearts started emptying and never filled again. I crisscrossed the red planet, colony to colony, then caught rides to the nearest inhabited outpost. Thin atmosphere left me famished. In austere diners, I was dusting bowls of nutrient-rich medium with orange and lime flavor packets, and making small talk with young, pretty women. Sometimes, what happened later filed a different sort of space in my heart that wasn’t love or lust, but something in between. At daybreak I started out, backpack heavy with enough to keep me alive for a while.
The romance of prospecting stole me from Anna. I gave up a tech job to hike among the outposts and hunt for electronics, precious alloys, or anything else of value in places like Hyacinth, or the spaces in between. There were buyers in the colonies – recyclers, collectors, the occasional eccentric. Whenever I found something especially unique, I posted an image online to cue bidding even as I kept searching. Did it make sense?
What made sense? Regular freighter runs departing Mars left columns of rocket exhaust towering like ancient columns holding up the weight of the sky. Freighter work paid good. There were good paying mining jobs in the asteroid belt too. If anything made sense it was that I was one more dreamer in a long line that hitched their fortunes to uncertain tomorrows.
And don’t tomorrows begin with todays?
A small room off the assembly hall offered enough space to set up camp on scuffed linoleum. I set up my lantern, then heater, to ward off the chill, as I unfurled my sleeping bag. I was dreaming somewhere in Hyacinth I’d find the artifact every prospector dreamed of – something so rare or full of special the bids would soar.
It all left me empty though. No matter how hard I dreamed, it never filled the empty space in my heart Anna used to fill.
by submission | Sep 9, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
The Uppers in Mazui could not understand anything Sam Tek was doing. At first, they thought the problem was cultural, but he had lived in northern Atakia for six years. Next, they thought he was inexperienced, but he had a decade of experience. Afterward, they thought he was illogical, but he was consistent, formal, and organized. Eventually, they thought he was distant, but occasionally, they saw him chatting, smiling, or laughing with others in the quadrangle. Then, they thought he was sick, but the man they knew walked straight, stood tall, and often carried a purposefully weighted sports bag.
Everything about Sam Tek was incomprehensible, and he was driving the Uppers to consternation. What was even more vexing was that Sam Tek was completely unfazed by hard looks and group pressure. He was incredibly aplomb and calm, it seemed. And he always spoke civilly, even if directly, and periodically sent courtesy messages. The whole experience was anguishing to the Uppers, but no matter what techniques they tried, Sam Tek was unruffled. He went to work, completed his hours, and went home, all the time, every time. On a few occasions, he was slow and claimed “illness” when it happened. And it was in those cases that the Uppers tried to take their revenge on him for overturning their vertical domain of obedience and command. Yet Sam Tek never buckled, and he always rebounded as if nothing had happened.
The Uppers conferred one day to urgently discuss an issue Sam Tek had suddenly been raising. He wanted to exercise his communication rights. The notion was so outlandish and bizarre to the Uppers, some of them were hyperventilating.
“Why would he think he has rights?” the First demanded.
“The Obligation says there is a right to communicate,” the Second replied.
“Yes, but that is the right of our Organic Body,” the Third said. “Sam Tek is a resident Outsider on limited-term duties.”
“That is not how he understands it,” the Fourth added. “He submitted several extensive and detailed queries citing the terms of the Obligation, seeking explanatory addenda and memoranda.”
“Unacceptable!” the First shouted. “Who does he think he is?”
“He must think he is our equal,” the Second said.
“An Outsider our equal? Outrageous!” the First declared. “The sooner we are rid of him the better!”
“But he may appeal to External if we annul our side of the Obligation,” the Fourth cautioned. “He is very purpose driven.”
“Besides,” the Second added, “has he really done anything truly wrong? If the matter is cultural as we first supposed, maybe we have been experiencing a conflict of values over the past two years and have to endure the differences for the time remaining.”
“Then what should we do about his queries to communicate?” the Third asked.
“Hard as it may be,” the Second proposed, “communicate. Have the Division parley with him until he accepts the reality.”
“Would he?” the First asked.
“In previous cases, yes,” the Fourth answered. “It was very difficult, but if we repeat ourselves over and over, he eventually resigns himself to the situation.”
“What kind of man is Sam Tek anyway?!” the First exclaimed in disbelief.
“It is the wrong question,” said the Sixth, who had been quiet all the while.
“The wrong question?” the Third remarked. “What are you saying Nbr-Ack?”
“I spend a lot of time talking with Sam Tek at my office. He is not a meanly intended person. Sam Tek is human made, and he is an android.”
by submission | Sep 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Randall Andrews
“Don, a year ago, you thought you were a robot. Literally. You’ve come a long way, but this is a big step. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m sure, Doc,” Don said, hoping it was true.
***
Five hours later, Don was sitting in the passenger’s seat of his own car. His brother, Derrick, was at the wheel.
“Am I your chauffeur now?” Derrick grumbled.
“I haven’t driven in almost a year, and I’m not ready for the interstate. And there’s nothing wrong with admitting it. I know that now.”
“Now that you’re in touch with your feelings?” Derrick said, smiling through his words.
“Derrick, please don’t.”
“Oh, come on, Donny. You can’t expect me not to poke a little fun at my baby brother. The Terminator.”
“That’s not funny,” Don said. “I was in a bad place, but I’m better now. You should be happy for me.”
“I am. I really am. And I’m glad you’re back.” A moment later, in something like an Austrian accent, he whispered, “I’ll be back.”
“Come on, bro. No robot talk, okay?”
“Well, what do you want to talk about then? Hey, check out that electric Sportster. I love that body style, but not that blue. It’s weird.”
“Dang, that is a sweet car,” Don agreed. “It’s also green.”
“You’re crazy,” Derrick said, but then immediately backpedaled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean like ‘I’m a robot‘ crazy. But you must be color blind if you think that’s green. It’s definitely blue.”
“Derrick, I know the difference between—”
“Well, apparently you don’t. Look, I’m not the one who just got released from a mental hospital. You’re probably not changing my mind on anything today. Know what I mean?”
To that, Don had no reply, and the rest of the car ride passed in silence.
***
An hour later, Don was sitting at his computer, feeling both relieved and distressed. It was good to be home, but he didn’t feel half as confident as he’d led the doctor to believe.
“You’re fine. Just don’t think about rob—”
Shaking his head, he forced his attention back to the screen. His email account had been locked after months of non-use, and he was in the process of reactivating it. He froze when a new screen popped up.
Click allow to prove you’re not a robot.
In that split second, what was left of Don’s fragile confidence crumbled. He pushed his chair back and was about to bolt when the doctor’s voice echoed in his ears. Just breathe.
“You’re okay. It’s okay. It’s a coincidence. Coincidences happen all the time. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
And just like that, he felt better again. The self-talk, the conscious breathing—they really worked.
He reached up quickly and clicked the box, anxious to be rid of the ominous message. Another new screen appeared, displaying a grid of nine squares, each containing a snapshot of a roadway.
Select all images with blue cars.
“Oh, no.”
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.
