by submission | Sep 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
There was a fur farm, the Edward Fur Farm, in Livingston County, about fifty minutes northwest of Detroit. When a group of city-resident foxes, whom Detroiters called “sentients,” got wind of the farm they planned to pay it a visit.
The foxes did not like being called “sentients” because that epithet only applied to a narrow band of their intelligence: the ability to understand American English. In other words, because the foxes responded with sensitivity and understanding to the human culture of Detroit, humans thought them sentient. But, of course, they understood so much more of the world.
At least since the time of European contact with the indigenous civilizations of Turtle Island, foxes were depicted by the settler culture as mechanical and non-adaptive. They were dumb animals, possessing a limited number of instinctive responses to danger. They were hunted, trapped, shot, and later farmed for their pelts. They were exploited mercilessly by those who roamed the forests and prairies of North America. The only thing foxes seemed to know how to do, according to their tormenters, was the old “fight” or “flight.” A fox would flee from trap, arrow, or rifle, or she might defy her pursuer and then die by her defiance.
But evolution is a curious thing. And what human beings considered to be a permanent condition, that is, their rule over foxes was only a historical phase.
It took the foxes of southeastern Michigan centuries to grok the words, phrases, and idioms of human speech. But they detected human contempt for their presence very quickly; this contempt fueled their interest in their new neighbors, who were now their prime enemies. The foxes learned the painful lesson that there would be no coexistence with settlers unless they could become as ferociously cunning as even the dumbest of these. Any fool could fire a weapon, but no human being could crack the mind, the paradigm of the fox. Meanwhile, the sentient foxes learned English. They trained themselves to use tools; they stole guns and knives; they prepared themselves to use them. They became urban guerillas, not unlike the Tupamaros of faraway Uruguay or The Shining Path of Peru. But the story of their terroristic exploits is for another day.
When the sentient foxes learned of the Edward Fur Farm, they determined that this would be their first mission of liberation. They studied Livingston, learning its character. It was a place of would-be hunters, of folks who liked guns, and who knew how to use traps. It was a spot where a fur farmer didn’t have to worry that the barbarity of his practices would offend his closest neighbors. Livingston was also the anti-Detroit, a community that defined itself in opposition to everything the nearby metropolis stood for or had ever represented. (And now that included sentient foxes.) County residents liked how they had plenty of trees, fences, and distances to keep neighbors blithely unaware of what happened next door. In such secrecy, the sentient foxes figured an animal liberation mission would succeed.
At the height of summer, when tree and shrub foliage was densest, the foxes set out on foot and reached the perimeter of the Edward Fur Farm quickly, making a fifty-mile journey in about twenty-four hours.
The farm sat just outside the hamlet of Parshallville, a place where any fox was considered fair game. No one in the region had any idea that there was such a thing as a fox that could, for instance, use a pair of wire cutters to slice through a barbed-wire fence. That is precisely what the sentient foxes did.
The fence around the farm stood twelve feet high, with barbed wire strung along its top between each line post. Even though the foxes could have cut a hole at the base of the fence, they made a point of showing their contempt for the farm by scaling it and vandalizing the barbed wire portion, tearing off as many wires as they could without sacrificing what little time they had for their mission on a short summer night.
Inside the farm were 30 yards of cages stacked one atop the next, covered by a metal awning. Inside each cage were minks and gray foxes, sable and even tanuki brought over from Japan. The Edward family packed every enclosure with so many animals that none could turn around.
The sentients cut the bolt on each cage. They spoke in barks to the foxes they freed, indicating their reason for their mission, and mentioned the distance they had travelled to the farm. They promised their liberated cousins a haven back in Detroit. The sentients wished to make a similar offer to the tanuki, the minks, and the sable but could only gesture with their bodies. The best they could do was to remain on all fours and strike a non-threatening pose. Since they intended no aggression, the other liberated animals followed them out of the farm.
The following morning in the nearby town of Brighton, a posse of men gathered at the corner of Main and 1st Street. The men were armed and angry. Word got out fast that someone had attacked the fur farm, depriving the Edward Family of their livelihood. The men debated whether to see the sheriff or to go on the hunt themselves.
In a coffee shop, older folks said it was PETA people who had snuck into town overnight. Anyone who claimed that animals were entitled to the same rights as humans, they said, was not just crazy, they were socialists. These liberationists were Cultural Marxists living on the coasts, people who’d never done a day’s hard work in their lives. The Deputy Mayor, who had stopped in for a cup of Joe and a cruller, told those assembled how his next-door neighbor’s daughter’s best friend had a cousin in that PETA organization.
It was an interesting day in Livingston County. For once, no one took the time to blame Detroit for something bad that had happened. Back in the city, the sentient foxes set about settling in their new neighbors and planning their next maneuvers.
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?”
