by submission | May 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
I’ve been a junior assistant to Professor Tommy Kelp for the past five years. He’s the mathematical physicist who’s world-famous for the Kelp equation. It has something to do with converting dark energy into dark matter and vice versa, more or less, I suspect less.
Regardless, yesterday, late at night, when we were all alone in the observatory, I asked him, “Sir, do you know what happens to us when we die?”
“Yes, I do,” he replied, “and so do you.”
“My mother died three years ago, sir.”
“Your mother passed away three years ago. I know. I’m sorry.”
“I dream she’s still alive two or three times a week. I’m convinced when I’m asleep that she somehow survived her cancer and got better and wants to know if I want a sandwich with potato chips and a glass of milk or if I’d like to play a board game. She loved playing board games and was awfully good at them.
It all seems so real until I awake and realize that it was all just a dream. Sometimes I even dream that I had dreamt she was still alive many times before but that this time she really was still alive. But she’s dead and has been for three years.”
“No, you were right that your mother is alive. But you’re dead and so am I. My article on this subject will be published tomorrow. You might not understand the higher math but you should read the abstract.”
“Sir.”
He replied, “Okay, the truth of the matter is that the real core world is surrounded by a ring of bubble universes. We all begin in the core world but, when we really die, we pass on into one of those bubble universes. That’s our fate and our destiny. Then, when we pass on from a bubble universe, we return to the core world, the really-real world.
You and I are presently in a bubble universe, in an afterlife. Your mother is now waiting for you in the core world. She really is alive, but you’re not. And, who knows, she may be dreaming of you and, in her dreams, you’re in the core world and playing backgammon with her.”
by submission | May 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: William Kitcher
Following the destruction of Earth by Rigelian battlecruisers, it was difficult to find a place to play the seventh game of the World Series between the New York Mets and the Yonkers Yankees.
The Moon was ruled out because the lack of gravity meant that fly balls soared for miles and were difficult to catch, and besides, unattached to Earth, the Moon was hurtling toward the Sun, and no one wanted to take the chance of going into extra innings and getting sunburn.
Venus was too cloudy, Mars too cold, and the four-hundred mph winds on Jupiter were a little too extreme for even the best players.
Io, a satellite of Jupiter, was a good possibility, and the teams started to work out there until the Ionian condors stole all the balls and attempted to hatch them.
An offer came from the Vegans, who were inhabitants of the star system Vega and not creatures who avoided meat and dairy.
The second planet of the Vegan system turned out to be ideal for a little hardball. The weather was a constant seventy-five degrees under a clear orange sky, with a slight breeze going south to north.
A magnificent stadium was built in no time, and was large enough to accommodate all the remaining Earthlings, who docked their starjumpers at the spaceport near the stadium.
The majority of the million Earthlings weren’t baseball fans but enjoyed watching the video screens as the crowd finished entering the stadium.
As the Mets and Yankees took the field for the first inning, the gates at all the stadium entrances clanged shut. The Earthlings wondered what was happening until twenty Rigelian battlecruisers lowered onto the outfield, ramps were extended, and patrols of carnivorous Rigelians trudged into the crowd. They weren’t Vegans of any kind.
There was chaos, and the Mets, not used to being in the Series, hid in the dugout.
The Yankees were made of sterner stuff. They were going for their fortieth World Series title, and tenth in a row, and it looked like they would get it. Ten years previously, the Yankees had revealed they had unlocked supernatural forces and summoned the spirits of Yankee legends into the bodies of their current roster to achieve greatness.
This was not forbidden under the terms of the current CBA, and it was suspected that the Yankees had perfected this legend-soul transference way back in the twentieth century. Otherwise, it was difficult to explain the achievements of Aaron Boone and Bucky Dent.
But this time, the Yankees used their evil powers for good. Out of the dugout, casual as could be, strolled Murderers’ Row. Ruth led the boys, bat in one hand, hot dog in the other. He climbed into the stands, smacking Rigelian head-stalks as he went, their heads making popping/cracking sounds not unlike towering home runs. Gehrig took Rigelians out at what passed for their knees with his usual powerful slight uppercut. Lazzeri, Meusel, Koenig, Combs, and the others did their parts, spraying hits and heads everywhere. It was such a rout that a few of them took breaks, and pinch-hitters entered the fray – DiMaggio, Mantle, and Maris joined in. Whitey beaned a number of aliens. Mariano split a lot of Rigelian fingers. Jeter wasn’t invited. Reggie took three consecutive swings at Rigelian craniums, and launched all three into the Vegan dusk.
The Earthlings were victorious, and the Babe treated everyone to a few beers. After they cleaned the field of Rigelian body parts, they played the game. The Mets won 3-2.
by submission | May 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Chadwick
The seats of the auditorium were behind plexiglass material reinforced with a metal honeycomb structure. While she should have felt like she was an animal in a wildlife park expected to perform, the truth was, all of the eyes in the room were fixated on the armor she was wearing. She was simply a mannequin chosen for displaying it.
It was much lighter than the traditional plate carriers currently issued to soldiers, and she often wondered what material it was made of – some sort of advanced alloy, she concluded. Lieutenant Martinez had been briefed about the unit and the demonstration she was to participate in, but barely knew anything else about it – the type of discretion she was familiar with when it came to top secret projects.
From a side entrance, the colonel facilitating the demonstration and another man carrying a tablet device entered side by side.
The colonel then addressed the audience.
“We’ve scheduled the combat mobility and ergonomics demonstration for later this week. Today, we’re debuting the defensive capabilities of the unit. We’ll begin with melee strikes, then concussive force, and finally, ballistic countermeasures.”
He stepped off to the side next to the engineer and gave a nod. The man straightened his glasses then tapped the screen of his tablet.
Martinez felt the unit energize. It gave off a dull hum which then faded below an audible level. Though she thought it could be adrenaline, she also could’ve sworn that she now felt lighter – as if the pull of the Earth’s gravity had lessened upon her.
Thoughts started pounding in her head.
“What exactly is this thing?”
“Who really made it?”
Right on schedule, her “assistant” entered the auditorium and stepped beside her. He was a beast of a Marine, and she imagined right away the thought of him effortlessly ending an enemy combatant’s life with his bare hands. He held a collapsible baton in his right hand, and had a large machete sheathed on his back.
She braced her feet as firmly as she could on the floor and threw her arms out to the sides, allowing her assailant a clear strike. He did so promptly, and violently.
He held nothing back. Each blow from the baton seemed to make impact with an invisible force just millimeters from the surface of the armor, just to be rebounded with an equally matched intensity. Her chest, her back, her sides – he switched his attacks with the same result.
Watching forward, the Colonel inquired, “Have we ever had it operating this long?”
The engineer shook his head. “We were cautious…it’s possible the energy signature could be detected.”
In a fluid motion, the Marine threw the baton to the floor and drew his machete, chopping fiercely in hopes to inflict any damage.
Nothing – she barely flinched. The Marine ceased his assault and backed up, blade in hand, panting and sweating as if his partner had been sparring back just as brutally. He nodded to her.
Just at that moment, several muffled blasts could be heard as the rumbling made its way through the mountain facility. The room shook for a moment and the lights flickered as the auxiliary power took over.
“What’s going on?” “I haven’t given the order for the next exercise yet!”, the Colonel barked.
His eyes locked with the Lieutenant’s. She was frozen in place, still standing in the center of the floor as the light of red emergency beacons danced around the room.
He looked over at the engineer – the pigment seemed to have bled away from his skin.
“Sir, they’ve come back for it.”
by submission | May 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“Each generation the Enemy returns to our skies,” the Morale Officer had told them. “This time, Earth looks to you.”
Hari remembered all the things wrong with that speech. The Enemy craft returned every 17.4 years, which was not a generation. And even 17.4 years was only the average interval, sometimes it was more, sometimes less. Hari had wondered if it followed a Poisson distribution.
But then the veteran had stood up, studying their faces silently.
Hari’s squadron was just off shift, running interceptor simulations. Her intense gaze unsettled him.
“When I served here,” she began. “The Enemy came early. Caught us napping.”
Hari knew she did not mean this, he’d learned it was something people said about being unprepared.
The woman shook her grey head. “We let one through and it cost us India.”
India had been two cycles ago. If she was in her fifties now, she had been a teenager then. They tried all sorts over the years. First it was pilots with combat experience. Then teenagers with sharp reflexes. Then gamers.
Tests had picked up Hari at school, like the rest of his squadron. He glanced round the room. Everyone wore badges so he knew their names, though they hadn’t spoken much in the months since deployment into orbit.
Hari liked the veteran because she focused on facts.
The Enemy wasn’t like a comet with a predictable orbit. Hari nodded at this. Unpredictable, like people. Perhaps it would turn up early again, hoping to catch them asleep.
“But it’s coming soon,” she had warned. “More probable every day.”
What she told them was common knowledge, but Hari found himself leaning forward, ticking off each fact.
“The Enemy always appears beyond the orbit of the moon. It folds space, we think. If it jumped in closer, we wouldn’t stand a chance. But their tech has limits. Perhaps they can’t handle steep gravity wells.”
She’d shrugged. Perhaps hers had been the cohort of really smart people.
“And the Enemy has adapted. We got in nuclear strikes once, now it destroys missiles.”
She trailed off. “It’s down to you. And I know what happens if you get it wrong.”
The MO had hustled her away after that.
The Enemy had appeared a week later. There was 80 minutes to closest approach. Strategically placed Attack forces were already engaging the vast craft.
Hari had listened to the comms traffic. Particle beams the Enemy used to clear debris from its path had been upgraded since last cycle, whole squadrons incinerated without getting off a shot.
It seemed obvious they should disperse, and Hari fled his Defence squadron.
The new X-ray lasers had little effect on the Enemy, but the payloads it released towards Earth were vulnerable. They came in patterns Hari recognised from simulations, and it became a blur of one silent explosion after another.
Eighty two minutes later, the Enemy folded out. The last blip on Hari’s screen took two shots, already on the edges of the atmosphere.
The rest of his squadron had obeyed orders and were vaporized. There was no dodging particle beams except by being were they were not.
“We now think it’s a robot probe,” Hari began. “With payloads of nanotech to colonise worlds. It’ll keep coming back until it succeeds. Or we destroy it.”
Hard to meet the gaze of these young pilots, so he stared at the back wall. The new giant Laser Cannons were not their concern. Defence must focus on stopping payloads getting through.
They hung on his every word, this 82 minute war veteran, whose initiative had become a byword for survival.
by submission | May 4, 2021 | Story |
Author: K. A. Williams
“You’ve got to try this new restaurant called Next,” my first mate Tim had said to me this morning. “I went there last night after we docked, while you were at that corporate captains’ dinner. I’ll meet you there for lunch.”
I read the menu in the transparent glass surface of the table while I waited. When Tim never showed up I called him on my wrist communicator. “Where are you?”
A tiny image of his face appeared. “Loading supplies onto the ship. Almost done. Try their sushi. I had it last night. It’s great. Order me the sushi and iced green tea.”
“All right.”
Four identical blue-skinned humanoids with red hair spikes entered. The one in front turned to the others, said “Duf blist eck gor rak shast sed ach kak sku krig cre tonk riv sca tik,” and clicked its teeth together.
The device in my ear translated, “That human was stupid. He traded me a new translator for one of my hair spikes.”
They saw me, raised their eyebrows in unison and bowed their heads.
Must be a greeting. I did the same and they sat at the table next to mine.
The waiter finally came. No expression on his face or in his eyes. Android.
A buzzing circled my head, then stopped.
The waiter opened his mouth and something slapped the top of my head. He closed his mouth and swallowed. Alien.
“Can’t have bugs in a restaurant.”
The blue-skinned aliens clicked their teeth.
I gave him Tim’s order and asked, “What’s sushi?”
“Rice and raw seafood. It’s very popular.”
“Okay, double the order.”
The waiter returned before Tim arrived and I was hungry. He had brought our tea and a covered silver platter. I lifted the lid and something leaped onto my face. I pulled it off and waved the tiny octopus at the waiter. “Hey! I’ve changed my mind, I want this cooked.”
The waiter was heading toward me but almost got run over by a huge octopus that rushed out of the kitchen area on two tentacles, gesturing with the other six. He gargled something my translator didn’t understand.
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“Give me back my daughter, human,” the waiter translated.
“Daughter?!” I tossed the small octopus at him and she landed on his chef hat. “What was she doing on the platter?”
“Eating. She’s supposed to stay in her nursery behind the kitchen but won’t. She must have gotten inside the platter when I wasn’t watching and someone put the lid on.”
Tim arrived then. He passed the aliens at the next table who were clicking their teeth. “Why are they doing that?”
I shrugged.
He sat down and regarded the empty silver platter with a frown. “Couldn’t you have left me some?”
“I didn’t eat it, she did.” I pointed at the baby octopus sitting on top of her father’s chef hat.
The father gargled.
Tim nodded and the octopi went into the kitchen.
“You understood that?”
“Sure. Something wrong with your translator?”
“It doesn’t work on marine languages.” I planned to buy a new one at this space station.
“He said that since his daughter had eaten our sushi, he would fix us another platter and our meal was on the house, and he also thanked you for not eating her.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t want live seafood.”
by Julian Miles | May 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I used to watch the fireflies, seeing how they flitted and settled. They seemed to go everywhere, but never intruded on the air above the still waters of the mere. Just like the fireflies above that mere never strayed anywhere else.
As time went by, I noticed the fireflies of the mere were unusual in other ways: appearing all year round being the main thing. I also came to the strange certainty that there were a fixed number of them. But I found a peace like nowhere else, sitting on the shore of the mere and watching those fireflies gather near me.
Before I could follow up on the strangeness, the onset of puberty and life in general distracted me. Thus it was many years before a breakup led to a trip home and an evening of melancholy. As heartache often does, it sought nostalgia to dwell upon: my memories of the fireflies.
Which is why I found myself sitting on the shore of the mere tonight, watching as the fireflies came closer.
They seem quicker. Eager, even. But the peace is still here.
“Bertha.”
I lurch to my feet, spinning to put my back to the water. I’d prefer a wall, but this will have to do. The eerie light of my flying companions shows me very little, until he moves.
“Dunc. What are you doing here?”
I know, but I need him to acknowledge it, or confirm my worst fears – or both.
“You never brought me here. You talked about it, but never invited me. So I invited myself. You know, to be with you. To be us, in your special place.”
He comes closer.
Both, then.
“Dunc, we’re over. It wasn’t working.”
“For you! Not for me!”
He’s got a knife! Too far to anywhere from here. That’s part of the appeal. This isn’t good.
“What’s with the knife, Dunc?” Keep the tone casual.
He looks at it. Then looks at me, at the mere, and smiles.
“Thought we could go together, you know? Show them we had something special.”
His other hand dives into a pocket, emerging with a crumpled envelope.
“Did us a letter. So they’ll know. They’ll all know, those sad fucks who said I was bad for you. They’ll know and be sorry they didn’t have what we had.”
His obsessive streak appealed to me at the start. Big mistake. How do I…?
“Dunc, let’s go get a drink. We can talk about things.”
“No! The time for talking is over. You said that.”
I did.
“So it’s time for action.”
The knife comes up as he steps towards me. I back into the mere. Maybe it’s got a drop-off: I’ll disappear before he gets me.
I’m still backing up. He’s in the water too. It’s only up to my knees.
“Help.” It’s whisper, but it’s the best I can do.
Fireflies dive into the water. A glow spreads between me and Dunc, getting stronger with each bug that hits. He wades straight into the glowing patch, then stops.
He drops the knife. Reaches for me. It’s not hostile. It’s pleading. His eyes start to glow. He topples into the luminous water and sinks from view.
The fireflies come out of the water. They’re brighter. One hovers right in front of me. A gem-like body, shining wings that don’t move, and eyes like orbs of mercury.
A reedy voice. Hissing, crackling.
“Never come into the water alone. We’d have no choice.”
I sprint from the place, screaming my thanks.
It’ll still be peaceful.
But never for me.
Not now.
