by submission | Jan 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Claire Scherzinger
Before you overload the reactor, have a drink next to the pilot’s seat; make sure the gravity is still on; otherwise, you’ll have little drops of moonshine floating everywhere, like rogue planets. Take a long last look at the deck, the pale metal, and the crash couch where your heart felt like it was going to fall to your intestines near Iapetus. Before this, walk through the ship’s corridor to the kitchen where the atmo controls are. Up the oxygen content. Before it was your ship, it was your father’s ship, and before it was your father’s ship, it was his father’s too. Before Florida was submerged into the Atlantic, before the new hyperloop track down to Nicaragua was built. Reposition the atmo nozzles toward the gaps between the anodized plating, where the grates air out to the lower levels and take out all the carbon scrubbing stations. Then run the main electric line down to the cargo bay. There is the never-used rail gun mount. There are the forty-year-old VAC suits that belonged to your father and your uncle, holed up and still smelling like dried sweat. That, over there, is a tackle box for all your gear. At one time, diplomats lived here. Before leaving, make sure the airlock is saturated with oxygen. This air was scrubbed and breathed by three generations before you.
On your way out, put on your father’s old VAC suit, holes and all. Turn off the gravity and suck in as much oxygen as possible, so you’re hyperventilating, so your blood is saturated. Before doing anything else, make a wish.
After launching yourself through open space to the escape ship, call Zain up at the salvage station. After he gets on the line, tell him to come over and bring a scrapper ship or two—with a crew. There’s not much to see now, not much at all. After he asks why, tell him. Tell him how you shoved enough electricity through the line to overload the reactor. A chain of events—explain—it was a chain of events; how you used the ship’s batteries to z-pinch the plasma with that laser you took from that backwater lab on Iapetus. Anyway, after the hull kicked out, there wasn’t much anyone could have done. And after Zain asks if you would do it all over again, tell him you would. You would do it several times over if you had to. But come anyway, Zain. Tell him that for me.
by submission | Jan 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Asher Wismer
Sleeking flashing light through every little hole.
Seventy holes. Counted them. Many times.
Nothing to see outside but silver Sleeking, never-ending explosions. Shell keeps me alive. Eddo’s Star is a low-impact system and there’s still nothing out there. Nothing.
Almost nothing.
One liter of water today. Plenty of water. Battery is fine. One liter.
Plenty.
Sleeking flashing gleaming light. I plugged one up once. It didn’t matter. Even this close to a star the Sleeking explosions never end. I see them in my dreams, when I’m sober enough to dream.
“…docking at Loomish. I repeat, my shell is low and I am docking at Loomish. I repeat–”
A shell. Another person!
Loomish station is on the other side of the system. No reason for me to go there, too dangerous anyway.
Ten cycles of power before the next flare. Flare means ten layers off my asteroid while the CPU resets. Ten layers… too many, too fast.
My asteroid moves, shell expanding to surround it. The Sleeking immediately assaults my every sense, bruised silver light surrounding and enveloping.
Higher impact now but my shell holds. It’s risky — hell, it’s absolutely suicide even if I make it to Loomish. Battery vanes extended as long as I can, until the endless explosions obscure the star, cutting off my external power.
“–Loomish now. My shell is weak but holding. I repeat, I can see Loomish now. My shell–”
There’s no single point of reference anymore. Anything still alive has an innate sense of the space immediately surrounding their shell, whether filled with ripping debris or near-enough to a strong gravity well to relax and let something large, like an asteroid, take the reduced hits.
Loomish station is somewhere near the Johta Hole. It wasn’t strong enough to pull in the star when it collapsed, and they built Loomish station to establish communication with the remaining galaxy.
Back when they thought there was still inhabited galaxy to communicate with.
My shell expands more, protecting the asteroid. Its layers are too thin for my liking.
“–docking now. I repeat, I am docking now. I repeat–”
I can feel the shell from here. It’s a good one, better than I expected, which is how it survived this long. I push through the Sleeking and it curves away from me, pouring silver and nightmare into the Johta Hole.
Loomish station, right in that little crevasse between the Sleeking and Johta Hole’s event horizon.
Ohhhhhh there’s the shell. It’s charging but I don’t care. Battery vanes pierce through the sweet spot, right where its user was, and my world becomes electric. Blood but not too much, radio killed, sparking debris, all flying horizontally into the gravity well.
Then the shell is on mine and it hurts and then everything is better and the silvery Sleeking nightmare seems almost transparent, as if I could see through the wall of chaos into the larger galaxy.
As if there’s still a galaxy to see. Time to go back. Loomish station is safe but I can’t stand the gravity for a long time. My star is better. My star is safer.
“…asteroid field near Eddo’s Star. Looks like twenty, thirty asteroids, thick enough for at least a hundred cycles each. If you receive this transmission, please follow me to an asteroid field near Eddo’s Star–”
My asteroids.
More shells.
But who, and from where? Transmitting to whom?
Battery vanes retracted, shell extended. My asteroids won’t last the cycles I need if vagrants move in.
My asteroids.
Mine.
by submission | Jan 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: Abigail Hughes
“What did you think?”
“He’s nice.”
“Nice? The bar was ‘nice.’ This walk is ‘nice.’ Denver is perfect. When he told me he was single, I was absolutely floored! You don’t run into a guy like him often. Did you see the way he inhaled that live goat? That was incredible!”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not interested.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you serious!?”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“No way, we’re going to talk about it now, in the middle of the sidewalk, like adults! Denver is perfect for you!”
“Denver has twelve eyes and a gaping, toothy, hole in the center of his body.”
“I knew you were going to bring that up.”
“Yeah, it seems like something I should have known going into this.”
“He has such an electric personality, I didn’t think that it was important.”
“Electric!? Dude, we’re talking about him right now, in front of his face, and he’s not even blinking. Does he ever do anything other than roll his eyes back in his head and spew toxic waste?”
“It’s not his fault that the new plant opened a few blocks from his apartment.”
“I’m not suggesting that it is, I only meant-”
“Radioactive mutants can live totally normal and full lives. Raise families. Hold careers. Read minds. Lift over twenty times their weight. They’re just like you and I.”
“Except they’re rotten.”
“Rotting.”
“What’s the difference!? Alright, look. Denver, I had a great night. Thank you for your time. Uhh, I’m going to take that groan as some kind of affirmative response and order a ride home.”
“No you’re not! Wait here Denver, I’m going to have a word with my friend in private.”
“Let go of me! You know I hate being dragged around. Oh, great, you tore my sweatshirt. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What’s this really about?”
“It can’t be that hard for you to believe that this is “really about” the fact that you thought I would be interested in dating someone so severely mutated.”
“We’re all mutated!”
“Yeah, a little! I have a few tentacles and you have an extra mouth. Our flesh isn’t literally melting off of the bone.”
“Jennifer had a tentacle too, didn’t she? Replaced it with a robotic arm when she turned eighteen. You helped pay for it with your Burger Planet job if I remember correctly.”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“Yes it does. We both know that this is about Jennifer.”
“I’m leaving for real now.”
“She chose cybernetics, you didn’t, and she left. Big deal. It happens every day.”
“I’m not listening to you.”
“You were with her for five years. That’s a long time. It’s going to impact you.”
“Man, how hard is it to get a rideshare in this city?”
“You haven’t been the same since you two split up. The only time I have been able to contact you is on the Ether Box, and even then you don’t use your own avatar skin. You use Jens. It’s creepy.”
“Awesome, a driver is only three minutes away in a Red Hovercar.”
“You guys had a long, long, history, and that’s going to take forever to build with someone else – but it’s possible. In fact, it’s normal. It’s healthy! Nobody stays with their high school sweetheart, especially when one becomes a heartless android.”
“Do you see a Red Hovercar? Oh, there’s one! Wait, no, that’s just a Fire Bot.”
“Look at me! Jennifer is gone and the left side of her brain isn’t coming back. The minute she replaced it with a brain drive, she found you an objectively poor match. That’s just science, dude. No, don’t you dare start crying! I’m not going to let you ruin a good thing just because you can’t get your head out of your ink sack. If I did, I wouldn’t be a good friend.”
“Ah, here it is. I’m sorry, I’m just not ready. I’ll see you on the Ether- agh! Did you just push me!?”
“Only because I love you. Now stay down. If you make me kick my best friend in the face I’ll never forgive you. Robo-driver, Change the coordinates to Accutane Avenue and step on it!”
“Hold up, no! Come back! Oh, great. They’re gone. . . I guess I’ll walk home. Thanks for helping me up, Denver. You can, uh, let go of my hand now. Wait, what are you pushing out of your open stomach? That’s not – is that a miniature replica of organic rights activist Dr. Hobbs? For me? Wow. It’s gorgeous and, well, kind of sticky. It looks like it was made of ivory. Wait a minute, the goat! You made this out of that goat you ate at the bar! How did you know I was interested in organic activism? You were listening during dinner. Obviously, yeah. Ugh, I’ve been a real jerk tonight. Thank you, Denver. I had a great time. Wait, actually, you don’t have to let go of my hand. . . walk me home?”
by Julian Miles | Jan 25, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“We all call it ‘safe space’. The inventors of the concept called it ‘social distancing’. It was only two metres back then. They used it, along with increased ventilation and personal masking, to slow some respiratory epidemics. Sociologists still argue about the long-term effects on everything except health.
“But I digress. Which is something you’ll get used to it if you choose to enrol in this course.”
The scruffy woman standing by the lectern looks out at the packed hall. Standing room only. Every person verified to be in good health by the scanners at the entrance to the venue. She knows more than half of the attendees are here simply because it’s an authorised proximity gathering. They just want to feel a crowd about them.
“So, here you all are, crammed in like venues used to able to do all the time. No screens, no grids, just a mob and a speaker. I know many of you don’t really care about what I have to say.”
She sees rapid movement. The security team is pushing through the crowd towards the front. With a swift double blink she drops monitoring lenses over her eyes.
There! Third row back, next to the aisle. A seated body is already at ambient temperature.
“Okay, folks. We have a little situation and I need you to do what I say. This is a Compliance Directive for the entire Grantham Hall Complex.”
That gets their attention. CDs are instant emergency laws, applicable for no more than four hours, and only for clearly delineated areas.
“Everybody standing, please stay where you are. I know it’s going to be difficult, but please do so with a minimum of moving about.”
Liaden, the security lead, reaches the figure. He quickly checks the body, then looks her way and nods.
“Your attention, please. Looks like we’ve had a narcodeath. Please follow the instructions of our security personnel and you’ll be on your way in no time. Tonight’s presentation will be rescheduled.”
She sees accepting shrugs and resigned looks. Overdoses and poisonings from self-medication with black market pharmaceuticals are on the rise. You only get advice for free from the NHS, and dealers are always ready to peddle cheap remedies.
It’s a bitter irony. NHS sites and lines are always busy. Medical personnel in other countries contact them when they need accurate recommendations. Treatment advice that often results in deaths here frequently saves lives abroad.
Tonight, the drugs are actually beneficial. A useful cover, because a body gone cold that fast has been drained.
Pholmor have lived among human populations for millennia. After learning how to restrict their energy stealing so they didn’t grow to outlandish sizes, they just blended in, faded from history, and then from mythology.
They are the precursors of vampires, succubi, incubi, and every other legendary thing that steals life from humans. An energy transfer that only needs skin to skin contact. They can consume everything we do, but their rudimentary digestive systems extract no nutrients. They sustain themselves by bleeding energy from us. The authorities keep their existence secret, because the toll of erroneous killings that would occur should they ever be revealed is hideous to even contemplate.
For anyone weakened by illness or another condition, an unexpected loss of vitality can kill: like tonight.
A scuffle breaks out. There’s the crackle of a suppressor, followed by an inhuman scream that makes heads turn. Another Pholmor for the fenced valley below the research centre in the Scottish Highlands.
“Please stay calm and co-operate, folks. There’s no reason to get excited.”
Not tonight, anyway.
by submission | Jan 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Justin Anderson
He watches her tiny arms cast the line again. She’s already working the makeshift fishing rod with ease. She beams a proud smile up at him, one with all the warmth of a miniature sun. A foreign little star. He smiles back, and she continues fishing.
Ripples play across the water. A tug on her line elicits a happy squeal.
“Fesh! Fesh, Dabbee!”
She plants her feet, arches her back, and heaves with all of her tiny might. Triumph! A shimmering fish wriggles in the air on the end of her line. Rainbow trout. Impossible. The fish shakes and bounces, as much from her quivering arms as from its own struggle. Her feet shuffle with excitement as she waits for him.
He removes her catch from the hook, and her wide eyes watch the treasure plop into their tall reed basket. Done. That fish isn’t going anywhere.
“Daddy,” he corrects, touching his chest with his finger. “Dah. Dee.” She watches his lips, soundlessly mouthing the word along with him.
“Dah… dee.” she finally whispers.
“Good.” He tucks the rod under his arm, holding it steady to bait the hook again. The instant he takes his hand away from the reed pole, she squeaks and casts the line back into the water. She giggles happily as the warm sun plays all about them.
How old is she now? Years pass so strangely here.
“Daydee! Fesh, Daydee!”
Impossible. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that was another rainbow trout. Anybody would.
Fish comes off the hook, goes into the woven basket. He manages a numb smile. She waits for him to place another worm on the hook.
How long have they been here today? Feels like hours, but the sun’s still hanging so high above the horizon.
“Fesh!” Another beautiful catch that isn’t quite a rainbow trout. Not here. Another hook, another cast. He stares off at the mountains. This place is just like home, and yet… he knows it can’t be. He closes his eyes and hears the trees rustling, insects buzzing, his daughter’s giggles.
The giggles stop.
“Dab! Dabbee!”
“Dad. Dee. Dad-dy,” he corrects, his eyes still closed. He won’t tend her fishing pole until she gets it right.
“Dad-dee.”
“Good.” He opens his eyes.
It’s heavy for her, but she’s doing her best to hoist her latest prize: a once-white boot smeared with green algae and brown mud.
The metal fasteners are corroded, but he knows them. Knows how to attach that boot to the rest of a white Mark 6 EVA-rated spacesuit. A spacesuit from a planet orbiting a similar but very, very distant star.
His hand scratches the self-inflicted scar on his shoulder, the one covering up a tattoo of his old unit.
“Good fesh, Daddee? Feshhh?”
“No,” he shakes his head, fighting to keep his voice calm. “Bad fish.”
Her eyes water. She’s scared, about to cry. The hanging white boot dribbles muck onto her little toes.
“It’s okay,” he says, taking the pole from her little hands. “Just a bad fish. Yuck.” He pantomimes eating the boot and then clutching his belly, tongue out in playful mock anguish.
Pole and boot and tears are quickly forgotten. She proudly strains to lift the basket of not-quite-rainbow trout. “Home!” she announces and begins marching.
“Right.” He nods and looks skyward… but levels his arm instead at their shack on the hillside. “Home.”
Eventually, another villager will find his ship. Can’t stay hidden here forever.
Once she’s looking away, he hurls the white boot back into the water, as far downstream as he can.
by submission | Jan 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
I called her Jingle-jangle. I told Christiane she reminded me of the way it felt to hear the sound spare change made in my pocket whenever I was fading, and I found a machine that would take coins and give me a soda or candy bar. My hands were on the front pockets of her dungarees when I said it. I was stroking Christiane’s hips, thighs; she was giggling, straddling my waist and unbuttoning chambray. Christiane was sweeter than the scent of jasmine breezing in through the window, and we were hoping nobody heard us in the spare bedroom.
I loved Jingle-jangle.
I carried heresy in my pocket – a collection of coins minted years ago. Artifacts of better times. Coins nowadays are cardboard, bearing history on their fronts and complex designs on their backs. Steganography. Code is embedded in those designs so machines can complete a sale when the code validates, or call in drones when it doesn’t. Drones are everywhere.
Why cardboard? Fair question. We learned the hard way a bomb will turn pocketfuls of metal coins into shrapnel, so they were outlawed three years ago. The contents of my left front pocket? Barely enough to buy chewing gum at the vending machine’s price, but enough for a collector to give me a two-grand, or enough to put me away for a decade. It was risky business.
Collectors were paying big money for old coins, mules like me were hiding them in pockets behind leather wallets and cellphones. I got coins from all sorts of places. Buyers didn’t care where they came from, as long as I delivered.
Jingle-jangle would have hated me if she ever knew – she was my love, my competition. She thought I made money running 3-D printers at an artsy place downtown. I didn’t have the guts to tell her the truth.
I glimpsed Christiane through a seam in plywood nailed over an abandoned storefront. Deserted stores were good places to score old coins if you knew where to look, and Jingle-jangle knew. She was in there, orange hoodie loose on her lithe body, searching nooks and crannies dropped coins disappeared into years ago. Orange because she was an activist, part of a credentialed group that gathered old coins, and called in drones to spirt them away. Christiane was as proud of her work as I was ashamed of my own.
‘What if Christiane’s called for a drone?’ I couldn’t ignore the thought – not when the whir of propeller blades was growing louder than usual. Drones carried sensors that could hone in on things like artifact coins if enough of them were together in one spot, like my left front pocket.
I started jogging. I needed distance between me and Jingle-jangle, so the drone would find her and whatever she’d scrounged instead of me; so that if the drone’s sensors locked on me, the only girl I’d ever loved wouldn’t see me face down on pavement, busted.
The whirring was growing louder behind me. Ahead, a crowd was spilling from an underground train station on to the sidewalk as the drone activated its siren, an unnerving klaxon infomercials taught us to recognize – that wail meant explosives had been detected.
A hundred people panicked, some pushing their way back down into the subway, others darting down alleys and into building lobbies. I broke into a sprint.
‘If I can get a block down.’ It wasn’t strategy, it was desperation.
And then I was fading, ears ringing and body broken by shrapnel that jingle-jangled in my pocket, before I failed Christiane.
