by Julian Miles | Nov 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The viewing room is hushed as we approach the co-ordinates. Every being not on duty has gathered. For some, it’s a rite of passage. For others, a renewal of faith.
“Exiting shiftspace in three, two, one.”
Conventional space and time welcome us back with their usual indifference. As the spinning greyness streams away like impossible mist, distant stars catch our eyes. Then it becomes clear, and everything else is irrelevant.
You’ve seen the descriptions of Artaxerxes. Might even have seen a blurry image or two. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen one of the captures from the first mission. No matter how you came to be aware of it, nothing can prepare you.
At some point before life appeared on Earth, it had been a habitable planet. Now, it’s a wandering mystery.
We’ve mapped this battered sphere, can show you depictions of what it used to be like, with deep oceans and continents much like Earth was in the first millennium of man’s dominance.
Except for the chains.
Those impossible artefacts, anchored deep within opposite sides of the planet by means we’re still trying to grasp, trail back for nearly twice the planet’s diameter. One side has four links, the other five. The broken links of either side have been lost somewhere on the journey. They certainly aren’t anywhere nearby, so their loss must have happened long ago.
Not as long ago as the event that launched this world upon its lonely travels. Something so vast we struggle to imagine. What was this planet chained to? There are many theories. My favourite is that there were many worlds arranged to form a necklace around a star for reasons we’ll never work out. The one that still makes me laugh is where some gargantuan spaceship carries planets as weapons.
Our finds under the surface of Artaxerxes have only increased the mystery, whilst getting the entire project placed under a veil of secrecy.
The inhabitants of this place looked like humans! The murals we’ve found hint at a society much like nineteenth century Europe, except for a pervasive religion that more closely resembled that of Ancient Egypt. No writings have survived bar the minimal notations etched into rocks in caves far below the surface.
Artaxerxes was cast adrift so long ago that organic traces are gone. Judging by the condition of the surface, it has endured incredible heat at times along its journey. We’re sure that some survived the initial cataclysm. Most of us agree that the etchings in the rock of the deep caves were made by the last of them. Sadly, we’ve found no equivalent of the Rosetta Stone from which to make a translation.
Backtracking the course of this planet indicates an origin further towards the expanding edge of our universe. Some are convinced it’s not of this universe. I’m not one of them. Yet. We simply don’t know. That’s why I’ve lived here for decades and only return to the worlds of the Accord when I have to. Somewhere in this hurtling mystery is the clue we need. One of them must have predicted this would happen: that some other race would find the remains of their home.
“Welcome back, Professor Tessen.”
I nod to the security guard. This year’s intake of students and recruits follow me into the converted battleship that keeps pace with Artaxerxes to serve as our base.
Maybe this is the year we’ll find that clue. I don’t care if it’s not me. I just want someone here to earn their place in history while giving me a lead at last.
by submission | Nov 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: T. Thornton Gray
It’s called no man’s land. That space between the entry doors and the actual store. The sensor zone one must pass through to get in and out. I can see the drone docks overhead and the red blinking eyes of the Taser firing drones where they perch poised for action.
I’m a bit surprised not to see anyone shopping. A rare thing in a Z-Mart, even at a little after two A.M. I survey as much as I can see as I pluck a grimy basket from its rack and begin my shopping. I look for the eyes that always watch a person like me.
The only movement is from the suitcase-sized automated floor cleaner. I watch the Zamboni like machine with its strobing yellow light whirr and methodically work its way down the aisle.
The coolers hum in their florescent light as I peer into their glass-covered depths. Again, I stop to look around. Look for the evidence of another human soul. There is no one. I know from the days I used to work at Z-Mart that there was supposed to be an actual human employee on duty. Someone to monitor the systems. In a hundred thousand square foot facility there are never more than two people on any given shift. I also know that is not always the case.
I pull open the door and pull out a crisp dew-covered bottle of water. I peer into the clean clear liquid. I look for the sensors, as if I could see them. The microscopic sensors suspended in all liquids sold at Z-Mart. Added so that even if poured into another container it could be tracked at No Man’s Land and the drones dispatched if payment had not been made. I remember the protests over it. The violation of rights, the health concerns. But the FDA deemed it to be completely safe. The sensors would pass right through and be re-harvested at the water treatment plants.
My shopping complete I move to the check-out and run each purchase over the shimmering scanner. The process so much more secure since the outlawing of cash and cards. Now, everyone must have the commerce chip. Usually in the palm of one’s hand. Always in one’s body. I still laugh when I remember the news story. The one about the veteran of the Lithium wars. A multiple amputee who had it implanted in his ass cheek.
The total is displayed under the Please Pay sign.
I open my coat and withdraw the plastic bag. I pull back the bag careful not to get the blood on me. It’s mostly crusted now and the fingers of the severed hand are growing stiff. No matter, the chip still works. I collect my receipt and go.
I step into No Man’s Land and pause to look at the drones as their red lights wink at me. The doors slide open and lets me back into the night.
It’s probably time to find more funds.
by submission | Nov 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“Good morning! Welcome to McDonald’s”
It was just after 11. The young brunette, Britney, was still going strong. She’d been on counter duty since 6, the friendly gal with cat eye glasses.
There was the early rush, the gaggle of seniors, a few travelers, some straggling students, and now it was light foot traffic until noon.
She was in a good mood, keeping her station clean, greeting customers with a smile. She’d heard complaints from her co-workers about working there, but she didn’t mind. She was young, it was a job, maybe she’d stick with it and go into management.
Clarke had been traveling for so long. He couldn’t remember the last human he spoke to. Everything was robotic and pre-recorded nowadays. He was weary. A trip to Micky D’s was just what the doctor ordered; comfort food, no surprises, just a fast food stop like when he was a kid.
A recent widower, Clarke, on the back side of middle-age, sought comfort where he could. He was as blue-collar as they came, down to his tool belt and steel toe boots.
He leaned on the counter and looked above. They’d added items to the menu since his last visit. A little embarrassed, at his age, if he couldn’t figure out what to order at the Golden Arches, what hope was there?
Clarke smiled and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just need a minute.”
“Absolutely,” Britney responded with a warm nod. “Take your time.”
“You don’t have the McRib, do you?” Clarke asked.
“No, sorry,” she replied, “that’s a limited time offer. We hope to bring it back soon.”
“Got it. OK, I’ll have a Big Mac.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“Sure.”
Britney typed the order into the register. “One Big Mac and fries; and to drink?
“Coffee, black,” Clarke said.
“Big Mac, fries, and black coffee. For here?” Britney asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like to sign up for our McDonald’s Loyalty Card Program?”
“What’s that?”
“It entitles you to protection from attacks involving competing eating establishments, as well as a free coffee after four purchases from our breakfast menu.”
“I’ll pass. Is the McLobster coming back?”
“Not that I’ve heard. That was also a limited time offer.”
“OK.”
“Have you been injured recently, on the job, while traveling, or in the home?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be? Our legal offices are standing by.”
“No, thank you.”
“Did you want cloning or non-cloning while you’re here?”
Clarke paused. It wasn’t too long ago that McDonald’s only sold food. “Non-cloning is fine.”
“Virtual adult activities?”
“What does that include?”
“Your choice of sex, violence, or a combo meal of both?”
“Not today.”
“Were you interested in joining our church and learning to be one with the universe and embrace all that it has to offer?”
“Does that come with anything?”
“A sense of community, a robust appreciation of life, and a yogurt parfait.”
“Sounds good.”
“All right. As part of our value meal, would you like us to supply you with a new wife, husband, or child?
“No, I just had one. Maybe next time.”
“All right, sir. Here is your total. Did you want actual food or just the injected memory of it?”
“I am watching my weight. I’ll take just the memory.”
“That’s fine, sir.” Britney leaned forward slightly over the counter. Clarke leaned in and took the shot in the side of his neck.
A very old song played in his head… “You deserve a break today…so get up and get away…to McDonald’s!”
by submission | Nov 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Captain Stanton’s attorney calls him to the stand. I know the blurry figure is indeed the captain, but it’s my job to prove he’s a murdering imposter, a Triklorian.
Earth opened its arms to Triklorian refugees after we over-mined their planet and nearly destroyed their environment. We brought millions here. They proved to be fast-learners, which, along with their elongated heads, was threatening to many people. The Enough Is Enough movement was born and convinced the governing council to ban further Triklorians and deport those already here.
Captain Stanton is a victim of the anti-Triklorian sentiment. He’s also a victim of extreme transporter degradation. While negligible degradation occurs with every beam-up and beam-down, a transporter malfunction turned the captain into something resembling an out-of-focus photograph.
Trying to avoid a lawsuit, my employer, Highly Advanced Technological Enterprises, denies the malfunction. They assert that the being claiming to be Captain Stanton is a Triklorian. They say he killed the captain and tried to shape-shift to take his place and lead the good life on earth. It’s a lie, but plausible. The Triklorians are known to be trying to reverse-engineer earth’s shape-shifter technology. The company maintains that the defendant is a Triklorian blurred out from a failed shape-shift.
When the captain takes the stand, his lawyer asks him to state his name and rank.
“Michael Stanton, captain, Interplanetary Safety Force.” His degraded voice sounds as if he’s talking under water.
I object. “It’s unproven this is Captain Stanton.”
“Sustained,” the head of the tribunal says.
As the fingerprints, dental work, and DNA of the captain are degraded, the lawyer asks him to verify his identity by indicating his age, marital status, career highlights, and so on.
“Meaningless,” I say, beginning cross-examination. “Information just provided is available to any Triklorian.” I lean close to the defendant. “If you’re Captain Stanton, you’ll know personal details not available on Trikloria, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he glubs.
“You and your wife had a young son, correct?”
“… That’s … correct.” The words are slushy, his voice sounding more deeply submerged.
“Please describe in detail the accident that claimed the boy’s life. The tragedy the real Captain Stanton blames himself for.”
The captain’s shoulders rise and fall. He tries to speak but can only gurgle. As I suspected, his grief, guilt, and degraded state render him unable to talk about his son’s death.
“You can’t tell us about this horror from Captain Stanton’s life because you don’t know, do you?” I turn toward the tribunal. “Because he’s not the captain.” I whirl back toward the captain and sneer. “You’re a Triklorian imposter, aren’t you?” I go at the captain hard. By the time I finish, he’s an emotional puddle.
The tribunal finds Captain Stanton guilty of murder and being a Triklorian. They sentence him to life imprisonment on his home world. As he’s being led out, he breaks free and approaches his wife. She shrinks away at first then collapses into his fuzzy hug.
A representative from Highly Advanced Technological Enterprises comes over and tries to shake my hand.
“I hate this job,” I say. “You need to find someone else.”
“We’re happy with you.” She takes out a blinking disc and hovers a finger over the keypad. “You know I can reverse it.” As she speaks, the bailiff separates the Stantons. The wife sinks to her knees.
It’s more than I can bear. I approach the tribunal and ask to see them alone in chambers. I pray they’ll believe me even as I feel my head elongating.
by submission | Nov 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
Ehsan squinted through thick lenses, aged fingers working the tiniest pliers and scissors he had to complete his masterpiece. One by one he weaved threads, each no thicker than the grey on his head, to create rigging every bit as elaborate as that which adorned sailing ships of old. Ehsan felt it fitting to decorate his masterpiece that way – this ship was different than other models he’d constructed in his spare time.
“Spare time.” Ehsan huffed. That’s all there was anymore, after he’d retired from the mines.
In place of masts and sails he placed a balsa wood frame and sheathed it in white mylar to form a dirigible’s balloon. On either side there were wing-like structures with moveable flaps, manipulated using interconnected gears culled from old timepieces. A rudder was affixed aft of the balloon, controlled by thin lines that led down into the wheelhouse. The craft itself was loosely based on dhows Ehsan remembered from his childhood in Marjand.
Childhood seemed such a distant memory, as Ehsan christened his masterpiece Al-Sadiq, ‘The Friend’, and placed on her decks captain and crew whittled from birch and pine. Each sailor was painted in vibrant hues; they knew their roles – some would study charts and plot the course; others would tend lines, flaps, and rudder; a contingent would stand ready with long guns to load and fire from behind gunwales if the time came.
The only thing missing was the magic.
Ehsan rose up gingerly and steadied himself on his cane. Then, he moved slowly over tile until he reached the closet where an old shoebox waited. Ehsan removed the lid, cradled a cloth bundle from inside the box, and carried it back to his workbench.
The memento wrapped in cloth was at once an old friend, and at the same time a memory distant and far removed from the day he’d chipped it free from the moon’s interior a generation before. Back then, Ehsan and so many other young men gave up work on dhows to soar on rockets bound for the moon. They slaved deep in lunar mines digging out magic for a succession of multinational corporations to earn remittance money they sent back to loved ones in Marjand.
As hard as those years were, Ehsan couldn’t help but stare out his window at the full moon rising, feeling as though a part of him still belonged up there, so far away. It made giving the stone away even harder.
Ehsan steeled himself, “You have to old man. It’s time.”
Ehsan placed the stone inside his masterpiece’s hull. The magic in that rock began to feed off the full moon’s vitality, breathing life into the good ship and crew. Ehsan knew Al-Sadiq would rise up aloft any minute, begging to fly.
The old man shuffled on his cane, from workbench to his window, and flung it wide open. It would be up to his masterpiece to soar like rockets did so long ago, and carry his memento back home where it belonged.
by submission | Nov 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Subhravanu Das
Everyone mines for Conoptinium. I don’t mine.
My tongue is phosphorescent; it can fill any room with light. If I were to open my mouth inside a mine, my tongue would fill the mine with light. But this is one ship that can never be launched, since I only whip my tongue out when I’m alone. And if there’s one rule of mining that supersedes the rest, it’s that–you never mine alone.
The Friend mines for Conoptinium now. Whenever we meet, he talks about the old days of not mining; about days of loitering around sweat banks, about rose essence. He chides me for still not mining. The Friend has ballooned up, having embodied the transformation that is most valued down in the mines. They egg him on, while he shovels more and more pills in and more and more earth out. He’ll soon be rendered too large to fit down the mine shafts.
The Mother understands my need to not mine. She also believes I would mine better than anyone else. She has stopped mining for Conoptinium. One day, down in the mines, she took her kneecaps off and lay down to rest. She woke up to a dead torch and wasn’t able to find the kneecaps in the dark. Since then, the Mother’s legs have been too weak for her to go mining again.
The Genitor doesn’t speak to me anymore. Every day, on his way back from the mines, he stops in front of my unit and flings a helmet at my door. I let the helmets pile up. I clear them out twice every year.
The Partner cues me. She’s outside my door and I let her in. Instead of the Partner, it’s her bot who enters and immediately places two jars full of tears on the floor. The bot informs me that the Partner has suffered a fall while mining and needs an urgent motor replacement, for which the savings in her account fall short by five ks. The bot reminds me of the stipulation that anyone registering to mine for Conoptinium instantly gets paid five ks. I hold my hand out. The bot bolts out of the door.
I go to the home security tab and activate the armor. As my unit gets boxed up and buried underground, a siren goes off. The bearers will be here soon. I poke my tongue out and eclipse the darkness. I set the monitor aside, reach into the bottom drawer of my table, and retrieve the vial that the Mother had insisted I stow away. Inside, is the grey gravel that is illegal to hoard; inside, is Conoptinium. I put a pinch of the Conoptinium into an empty bowl. I bite down on my tongue, making it bleed. My tongue glows brighter and I let its blood drip into the bowl. I let my blood mix with the Conoptinium. The resulting concoction turns grey. With my tongue continuing to light the unit up, I glug the grey concoction down and immediately start coughing. I cough up black dust which is finer than the Conoptinium I just swallowed. The black dust pours out of my mouth and piles up on the table. The black dust fills my cheeks, coats my teeth, and cements my lips. The black dust plugs the pipes going down my throat. The black dust crawls into my chest, into my hands, into my fingers. My fingers begin to turn phosphorescent.
