by submission | Mar 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Christopher Bresnahan
David clings to his notifier, its screen illuminating the unshaven shape of his face with implosive, blue light. He can flit to any camera screen in the world, and out of the millions of options he chose the Vishnick Ophthalmology Center.
8:32 am, and Dr. Laura Vishnick begins with a 25 milligram dose of sedative for the patient as well as eyeball analgesic.
The camera is adjusted to capture a top-down view of the patient’s eye, which stares at the light above it like some lantern-obsessed fly. David draws closer to the notifier so that his nose is pressed against the glass. For two weeks he has studied Robert Langston’s case of cortical cataracts from the confines of his apartment, and now the surgery has finally begun.
And Dr. Vishnick has made the initial incision: 6mm long, 0.3mm deep, with an AAO certified scalpel. Now for capsulorhexis, as she inserts forceps into the anterior capsule of the lens.
A grin reveals David’s plaque-plagued canines as he watches the spider fang instruments cut into Langston’s eyeball.
“Turn your volume down.”
David ignores the voice in the apartment: his girlfriend. Her elongated, yellow fingernails swipe at the notifier, attempting to adjust the volume herself. He hisses and pushes her away. She crawls to the opposite corner of the apartment and crouches over her own notifier, a carpet of unkempt hair hiding her face.
He returns to the screen. The doctor breaks the cataract into fragments, shattering the clouded veil over the eye. David’s trembling hands convulse the screen. He emits strange, erratic laughter with each savage swipe of the scalpel.
The doctor rotates the forceps to break the cataract free from the lens.
David wriggles into a dance, hunched over on the balls of his feet. A stifled, primal dance, moving his body as if he’s pulling a key out of a jammed lock. He is frustrated, excited, euphoric, and queasy, but he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t even notice; emotions pass through him like light through a window.
Dr. Vishnick irrigates the eye to reduce any swelling or lingering pain, and the procedure is finished.
A dilated pupil is all that remains, unblinking. It stares, absorbing the light shining above it, experiencing a reality no longer contorted by superficial distractions. Enlightenment. Then, the reality that has consumed David’s mind for two weeks vanishes to black: the transmission ends.
He exhales, then recoils from the stale stench of his breath. He slips his notifier into his pocket and stretches his hands, which feel odd without that familiar square of metal between them. He combs his hair with his fingers. He walks over to his girlfriend, Rachel, to apologize, but she slithers out of his embrace, entranced by a transmission.
He opens the sole window of their apartment and is flooded with the fertile scent of spring. The wind orders the hairs along his arm to stand, and the birds outside beckon him. He decides to go for a walk, to feel the rays of the sun seep into his skin once again.
The notifier rings as he ties his shoelaces: breaking news. He opens it instinctually and sees the International Auto Racing transmission. Helicopter footage of the race track, a red car mangled on the side of the road, a toxic plume of smoke billowing out of it. There hasn’t been an accident this terrible in at least ten years, he realizes. It’s fresh; the ambulances haven’t even arrived yet. He hunches over the machine and turns up the volume.
by submission | Mar 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: D Mackey
I’m setting up as the Pleiades come on shift. Like a lighthouse, their beams cut through the dark and cast long shadows over the forecourt as they turn slowly towards the Sun. Orion cycles out, and switches off one by one until it’s just the galaxy on the belt left shining. The noise of construction barely lets up as hammers strike, drills drone and saws cut; building a star, piece by piece.
A klaxon blares out as the Moon announces the start of the night shift, and the forecourt is now properly illuminated as Polaris and the Ursae turn to us. It should be Cygnus this week, but they’re having trouble with production, I hear. I brush the rime off the counter and begin putting out cutlery and napkins; soon it’s the sounds of sizzling, chopping and frying that fill our hearing, pushing away the industrial cacophony going on over our heads. Takeda over there managed to get some fish, the lucky git, so he’s chopping and filleting with the precision reserved for drug dealers, inching out every square micrometre of ammonia-laden flesh onto a bed of rice and seaweed, bulking it out with whatever vegetables he could scrounge from the bank.
He’ll get the Dog Rush when Sirius comes online, I know it, so I stop rushing and set out a couple of plastic chairs to sit and drink my coffee while I run some numbers in my head. Little does he know, but I found pork. Proper pork, too – not enough for, like, a chop or anything, but I could make a proper broth. Eke It out. I look under the counter and see the mushrooms are coming in well, so scrape a couple of layers off into a box. Should add some flavour.
Right on cue, Sirius crew starts yapping and Takeda’s throwing rolls and rice as fast as he can make them. I’m back behind the screen, boiling the broth and coercing the last scraps of miso from the jar. I’ve barely got my first bowls out by the time a crewman’s come up to take a break. She almost forgets to put her matter back on, but all I need to do is glance at the sign. “No Mass, No Meal”. She fawns apologetically and exhales a cloud of phlogiston around her hair as she takes up the noodles. I pass her the sesame grinder.
More follow; I dish up the broth, swirling and fatty, steaming in the cold light. A handful of flash-boiled noodles. Mushrooms. Onions. My last eggs, marinated in soy for what seems like decades. A pinch of garlic and chilli. The number of bowls on the counter stays almost constant at four as empty dishes replace full ones. Workers slurp on their noodles, getting them tangled in their projectors or in their helmets, splashing broth on the tools and jumpsuits. One goads their colleague into trying the jar of pickled naga I keep at the edge of the counter, and they’re soon gasping for water. The chaotic hubbub of relaxation keeps out the cold better than the moth-encrusted heat lamps.
The hours pass, and my supplies dwindle. The careless lights of Scorpio begin to chase away the Ursae, the Moon turns to its side and the horn blares out again. I start packing up. Above me, another chunk of star is riveted in place and blazes into life as it comes online. Tomorrow night I’ll be back with pancakes.
by submission | Mar 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Connor D Trulock
The Captain of the deep orbital station opened their eyes as they came back to life.
They shivered, but not from cold, the artificial thaw ensuring the entire body was nearly instantaneously and uniformly raised out of the cold near absolute zero.
After acclimation they moved forward, towards what they were resigned to see and to their one last task.
Alone they floated limp over the viewing port and despondently gazed down at the brown planet below, a planet of ashes.
Welcome Home.
***
The station was shaded on the far side of Neptune during the event.
It orbited Triton, studying the microbial life that flourished under its surface.
The Captain had laid the groundwork before the long transit and the longer sleep.
Instructions given, the ships bio lab machinery went to work, producing proper amino acids, peptides, and proteins from its databanks.
It had plenty of time to weave strands of DNA together, base pair by base pair.
Life’s genesis by machine.
***
The Captain looked with red puffy eyes at the monitor and the shots taken of a world from the sky.
The grid shape was there along with some of the place’s structure; steel and concrete still remained. Memories of a life sketched in charcoal.
The Captain turned, away from the city where they were born, where together they grew up, made a family in, where they wouldn’t see them again.
The synthesizing machines had done thier heavy lifting, the rest was up to the Captain.
Faltering only for an instant, thoughts of return to the safety of the frozen nonexistence, but though now left alone, they would do it.
For Them.
Cargo secured, trembling gloves pulled and the pod jettisoned making its final journey to the dead planet below.
***
The event seamed a cosmic fluke.
Humans rushed headlong towards a self-imposed extinction, but in the end, we were beaten there.
A star’s dying breath, a pinch with the light of a billon suns, and a singularity came into existence, exhaling a geyser of compacted light.
A gamma ray burst.
Only being glanced was still enough for a billion years of constructed information to come crashing down.
***
The Captain lay down by the sprout under whose shade they will never would.
Somewhat off-color yellow, it was making its way to healthy green.
The pod landed on the side of the planet not directly struck to afford the new life a better chance.
The Captain spread the load of synthesized organics far across the land and sea surrounding the drop site, to maximize the microorganism’s habitat, though still almost microscopic compared to the size of the desolate planet.
The majority of the seeds had failed to sprout or had died shortly afterwards, but there was power in numbers and the vastness of time.
One last bit of sustenance they could offer.
Ashes to Ashes.
The Captain shut eyes to the light of suit alarms, as cold from the medical unit ushered one final death.
Pod resources gone, the little specks of life would have to make it on their own.
Then again, they managed the planet far better than Humans ever had, just maybe without them there they could do so once more.
***
Much, Much latter, the first lieutenant of the deep orbital station opened their eyes as they came back to life.
Around them the rest of the pods were opening, crew emerging.
Together they dressed and moved forward to the main viewing port.
With small gasps and tear-filled eyes, together they look down at the green planet below.
Welcome Home.
by submission | Mar 9, 2021 | Story |
Author: Joseph Hurtgen
In his F16, Judson Steel bore down on the speedy bulwark, the alien flying fortress that had focused its heat rays on what used to be downtown Chicago and was now within range of New York City.
“Missiles away!” cried Steel.
The tank’s armor sucked in the weapon, dispersed the blast across all of its surface area. The armor shimmered blue and then once again appeared as before.
Judson made a tight turn, headed back to try a Liberator bomb on the rogue tank.
A burst of light nearly blinded Steel. The F16 disappeared and the pilot fell through empty space. His drop was arrested by a crushing force. He was drawn painfully toward the tank. “I’ll be obliterated on the alien armor!” thought Steel. But, no, he was enveloped in liquid and soon stood before a humanoid female. She had on a pair of Daisy Dukes and nothing else to cover her green skin. “Jesus! What’d they do to you?”
“They? I’m the sole proprietor of this fortress. Jessie Heart.”
“But you’re a–”
“Woman? You’re most astute…”
“Steel, Judson Steel.”
Heart held up what looked like an iPhone and pointed its camera lens at Steel. “Any last words, Steel?”
“You can’t get away with this!” He leapt at the woman. When his hands touched her green skin, a shock hit his body, knocking him to the ground.
“Nice! That’s going to get a lot of views!”
“Views?”
“I shoot civilization destruction porn.”
Steel looked at Heart’s curves.
“Not that kind of porn! I raze cities and worlds, get it all on video, and then get paid through ad money.” Heart turned the camera on herself. She posed and smiled.
“You’re going to destroy Earth for views on some alien Internet?”
“Oh, not just any alien Internet. We’re a network of 500 planets.” Heart picked up a long scimitar, tested its weight. “It’s really too bad for you that your leaders weren’t faster to throw in their lot with us. But you know, can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
“Our world is rich! We can give–.”
With a clean swipe, Jessie Heart sliced Steel’s head from body. She caught it all on video.
by Julian Miles | Mar 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room is spotless. There are clusters of four chairs, divided from each other by transparent acrylic screens. The walls are covered in posters, white letters stark against black backgrounds.
The grey-haired woman in the chunky-knit sweater clutches her hankerchief like a child grips a comforter. She gestures to the posters and turns to the younger version of herself sat on the other side of a screen.
“Just reading those makes me want to stop you going.”
Max smiles at her mom.
“They’re designed to scare. Nobody wants to be responsible for taking a disease through, so anyone going has to be fully immunised, and current with their periodic shots, plus being screened within the last week. That’s why we’re separated.”
“But they’re so ignorant. I’m worried what they’ll do.”
“Mom, over there still looks just like over here. Same shops, same streets, same people. The fact they’ve chosen to not be vaccinated makes no change to their lives, except for disease management. That’s why we don’t allow them in, but they allow us to visit. In their eyes, we’re the cowards.”
“But that’s silly! They’re the ones who are scared of science.”
“Mom, I’m not going to have this talk again. Just like you respect the beliefs of other religions, so you need to respect these people’s beliefs, even if they make no sense to you.”
“We should have made them get vaccinated.”
“Beatrice McEldary! Vaxgenics is a banned movement on both sides, just like VXH8. Both are extremist organisations that don’t help anybody with their attacks.”
The hankerchief disappears into a pocket and the other hand points at Max.
“Just because I use your full name when I tell you off doesn’t mean you can.”
“Just because you’re worried about me doesn’t mean you can be rude about people you’ve never met. Honestly, Dolores would love to meet you. The amount of cooking and knitting the two of you would get up to is frightening to contemplate.”
“She would?”
Max nods her head enthusiastically.
“They’re neighbours, mom. There’s a big fence in the way, but they’re only a few kilometres from our house.”
“Mister Oberhaus told me his mother said it was like Berlin in her youth.”
Max nods.
“Never thought of that. I’ll have to interview her.”
“How long will you be?”
“Six weeks work, then quarantine. You’re allowed to visit me during those four weeks: I sorted out the permissions.”
Beatrice looks about nervously.
“I haven’t received a card.”
“You don’t need one. Just come down to the place. Your identity is on file. All you need to bring is your face.”
Max grins as Beatrice chuckles.
“Can’t really leave that behind, now can I?”
Her expression turns serious.
“How long will you be doing this?”
“My contract ends next year. I’ll be there for spring, but the teachers I’m training will be qualified by the summer holidays. After that, I’ll probably drop back a couple of times a year to check in and visit friends.”
Beatrice looks out the window.
“Maybe, when you go to visit, if I got my boosters, I could come and meet Dolores.”
Max blinks in surprise, then gathers herself.
“You could. We need more people to see it’s just a different ideology. They haven’t become monsters.”
She nods.
“I’m guessing it does good for friendly folk to visit, too.”
A low tone sounds.
Max gets up.
“It does. Bye, mom. See you in ten.”
Beatrice watches her daughter step out onto at a street she hasn’t walked down in five years.
“Hate needles. Love you. Time to see the doc.”
by submission | Mar 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
My grandfather writes me letters. They are the old-fashioned kind, written on small sheets of paper with blue lines his calligraphy ignores. I imagine it takes him hours, maybe days, to write each one with lettering so perfect it seems a shame he only had black ink to use. It takes even longer for grandfather’s letters arrive. I’m always watching, waiting.
I told mom about grandfather’s letters once. She told me I shouldn’t talk that way, so I hid his letters in my closet and stared out the window, wondering when and how the next one would arrive.
By sparrow, raven, or mourning dove?
Grandfather explained in one of his letters that birds were the only way he and the mariners on his ship could send their words from the sea to those of us ashore. I was nodding as I read it. I knew my grandfather was a sea captain because mom kept a portrait of him on the living room wall. Mom said a famous artist painted grandfather perfectly in his starched white uniform, grey curls spilling out underneath a hat with crossed anchors, a sextant in one hand and quill in the other.
“The sextant is how sailors navigate.” Mom explained. “The quill is for log-keeping at sea. Sailors must be precise when they sail far out to sea.”
I didn’t doubt sailing required precision, but I was sure the quill wasn’t for log-books. Grandfather was dipping his quill in a jar of midnight ink when he wrote to me, telling me of places he’d seen and adventures he’d experienced journeying the seas.
But which seas?
I slumped on my bedroom floor, turning a globe in my lap, reading names assigned to oceans, lakes, and bays. There were thousands of names, and encyclopedias in the den told me many were known by more than one. There were ancient names long forgotten, indigenous names used by those who lived near waters they plied for subsistence, and nicknames for others. Grandfather’s ship could have been making way through any of them.
While I was studying the globe, grandfather finished a letter to me and dispatched it by way of a cardinal that dropped it on my path as I walked to school one morning. The letter, folded over twice and sealed by a glob of green wax, felt familiar in my hands. I was tucking it inside my jacket for safe keeping until I could read it later, alone in my bedroom, but I was impatient too – I couldn’t let grandfather’s letter languish inside a coat pocket.
I scanned the sidewalk to make sure no one saw me, then hurried into a grove of trees. I opened grandfather’s letter and started reading.
You might wonder which of the world’s many seas I sail. His letter began. I sail across the sea of light. Even as I write this, the bow of this old ship is slicing through swells that gleam as bright as diamonds, and the wake we leave behind shines like dawn.
I stopped reading and turned my head skyward, gazing up through a canopy of green and gold, finding shafts of morning streaming down through clouds. I folded grandfather’s letter, placed it inside my coat, and pressed deeper into the woods, wondering how far I would have to go until I found the spot where light touched the ground.
And if I found it, I wondered whether I could learn to write letters like grandfather did, with ink and quill, on a ship that was sailing fast on halcyon currents that shone like diamonds.
