by submission | Oct 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Maura Yzmore
I tossed and turned late into the night, being kept awake by a soft wail coming from the woods. Was it an animal in distress? A mating call?
I remembered a saying from centuries ago, that cats in heat sounded like human babies crying. Only the closest thing to a cat was the hypard, a sturdy mix of hyena and leopard that had emerged during the Great Wars. It was around the time when babies stopped crying.
No, this wasn’t the call of an amorous hypard, I was certain of it. Whatever the source was, if I wanted to sleep, I had to make it stop.
I got out of bed, grabbed a tranq gun and a solar-battery-powered lamp from my nightstand, and tiptoed into the covenant’s dark hallway. None of the Brothers appeared to be awake, so I decided to proceed alone.
I hesitated when I reached the front door. Nobody left the building at night and few did during the day. The monastery was on a cliff, with sharp drops all around. The only way in or out led through a forest filled with hypard, and I swallowed hard at the thought of their sapphire eyes and bone-crushing jaws. I steeled myself, gripping the tranq gun tight, and scanned my wristlet to exit. The heavy door creaked open.
I stepped into the heavy, moist air filled with toxins from the Great Wars. My heart raced at the thought of being without the air-filtration system, my breaths rapid and shallow.
I reached for a calming memory, as I was trained to do in times of inner turmoil. It was one of Father Catullus reading aloud from his arcane books of love poetry. Ancient words, full of emotion, reverberated through the air, surrounding me, soothing me. My breathing slowed down.
I turned on the lamp, charged the tranq gun, and set off into the forest.
The wail came from a woven sack hanging from a tree branch. I took it and slowly unwrapped it. The squirming creature within was warm, with soft brown skin.
Was this…a baby?
I was taken aback by what I saw—or didn’t see—between its legs.
Was this…a female child?
Sometimes I thought that the women in Father Catullus’s love poems never existed. That females were figments of imagination.
Everyone in the monastery was male, had come from Ancient Fathers by replicating their flesh. I was incarnation 247 of the same genetic stock as Father Catullus.
After the Great Wars, the young and healthy left for the stars, to try their luck in the worlds that weren’t poisoned. Ancient Fathers were forbidden from leaving the sacred grounds, so the monastery remained as a beacon, should the offspring of those from the stars ever wish to return.
There was no one left in the world who could bear a child.
I admired the baby’s small, fluid movements when two sapphires flashed in the corner of my eye. A hypard!
I backtracked slowly, leaving the lamp behind. Under my feet, a branch cracked—
The baby wailed, the hypard groaned, and I fired the tranq gun, again and again and again. I dropped the gun, turned around, and I ran and ran and ran, as fast as I could, certain I heard panting behind me, just ran and ran and ran, not daring to look back…
Out of breath, holding the bundle tight, I reached the monastery door. As we slid into safety, I looked at the little face grimacing in the bright light of the entryway, and my gut twisted with a new kind of fervor.
by submission | Oct 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: John Carrick
Charles had been at the station for six months now. Housed in a small assembly to the right side of the ammunition drum, the belts rattled as they cycled through their daily reseating. The heaters ignited and the cold of the evening was offset for a few hours, letting him shake the sensation that he and his partner, Marcus, had been forgotten at this god-forsaken post.
Charles stood second shift, scanning the horizon twelve hours a day, while Marc slept. Then he would enjoy his chemical coma for eleven hours, before his single hour warm-up of quiet contemplation would begin.
Six months, halfway through the tour, after the actual front lines had left him pretty ripped up. This was more of a rest and regeneration tour. While wired to the turret, his shredded limbs would be repaired, the destroyed tissue regenerated, and after his year; he’d be good as new. All he had to do was stay glued to his lenses for enemy activity in the valleys below. This was, as it had been explained, a win-win. This way he could still provide a service to the Republic.
Marcus had been at the post longer. Charles wasn’t sure how long, but he’d be relieved first. During his shifts, all he’d seen were the comings and goings of the wild creatures inhabiting the slopes below. He watched hawks and eagles hunt rabbits and mice. He watched deer graze, occasionally chased off by the coyotes and mountain lions.
A family of blue jays had nested in a nearby tree and had served as Charlie’s principal source of entertainment. He watched the parents construct their nest and tend to the eggs. He watched the baby birds develop their feathers and spread their wings for the first time. The only time he’d even come close to firing had been when a particularly ambitious fox had scaled half the tree, intent on devouring the family. Charles activated the weapon’s cleaning cycle, the clatter of the turret driving the fox away and allowing the young birds to survive.
When Charles first heard the roar of the approaching vehicle he scanned the ridgeline, but at a precipice, it was some time before the maintenance truck rolled into view. The running lights illuminated the clearing and the fire road along the ridgeline. The truck parked and Charles watched, captivated, as the vehicle doors opened and the young soldiers climbed out. These were the first people he’d seen since taking on this assignment. He and Marcus only communicated by text, over the turret’s internal systems.
The driver walked around the truck, joining his passenger, who’d left his door open. In the passenger’s window, the turret was reflected clearly. It stood tall, illuminated against the sky. Charles and Marc’s lenses were attached to the sides of the guns, which were mounted on swivels. Close to the central post, beneath the guns, were the ammo drums and the pods where Charles and Marc themselves were housed. This, in Charles’ imagination, required a large coffin-shaped compartment, where their medical rehabilitation could take place. However, the reflection illuminated metal containers the size of a small cooler.
From the back of the truck, the soldiers carried out a similar steel case; Marc’s replacement.
Charles realized; there was no new body coming for him. The only thing in the container, the only thing salvaged from his last engagement, had been his brain.
As the soldiers approached, the turret’s barrels swiveled toward them. The lenses on the scopes turned as the targets were dialed in…
by submission | Oct 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
On September 2nd, 2049 at the Prime Storage Facility, Jules Deschamps told me, “In the 12th century, the Templars, whilst looking for the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy Land, stumbled upon a three-foot diameter tungsten sphere hidden in a cave beneath a crevice near Jerusalem. They considered it a holy object and shipped it back to their headquarters where it remained until 1307.
According to the testimony of Jean de Chalons at the 1308 papal investigation of those warrior monks at Poitiers, France, their treasure was removed from the Paris Temple by Hugues de Chalons just before their mass arrest. Then Gerard de Villers and 50 knights took it to a port whereupon 18 galleys sailed westward, away from Europe.
After six previous relocations, the gold, silver and tungsten orb were finally moved in 1936 from a church crypt in Boston to the Prime Storage Facility, this enormous storage site located within a sprawling complex in a middle of a godforsaken desert. And Storage Unit #999 now contains said tungsten sphere.”
I replied, “Should you be telling me this? I just run a subsection of the joint for Prime Security, Inc.”
“Last summer, our scientists realized it was actually a quark bomb, capable of annihilating virtually all life on Earth. Apparently, our planet has been seeded with such devices, which are timed to go off tens of millions of years apart. The last one exploded 66 million years ago and exterminated the dinosaurs. And, two months ago, we learned the subatomic bomb in Storage Unit #999 was set to detonate on December 3rd, 2049.”
“That’s just three months from now.”
“Most in the Grand Master’s Council favored letting the device demolish our planet in order to renew Earth. They felt whoever put those bombs here were superior beings and knew just what they were doing and we shouldn’t interfere with Providence. The Grand Master himself said, ‘Had those fantastic beasts, the dinosaurs, not left the scene, we would never have had our glorious moment in the sun.’
Others, like me, thought we should deactivate the device. We believed those superior beings felt that, when life on our planet reached a certain stage of technological development, then that civilization could and should dismantle the bombs. So I need you to let me inspect Storage Unit #999 early tomorrow morning, alone. I can render the bomb harmless.”
I already knew Deschamps was Senior Vice President of Accounts for Prime Security, Inc. but he told me he was also a Master of the Knights Templar. Although I agreed to cooperate with him, I reported the incident to the section head.
That evening, we made our way through the scanners and past the armed guards to Storage Unit #999. After inserting cards and imputing codes into the access units on either side of the stainless steel entrance door, we entered the chamber to find stacks of gold and silver but no tungsten orb. We immediately alerted the company’s president. He swore both of us to secrecy and I wasn’t fired.
Most people remember December 3rd, 2049 as The Day of the Great and Terrible Second Sun and where they were when they saw the spectacle. But I also remember it as the day I was initiated into the Order as a non-noble sergeant and received a black robe with an embroidered red cross pattée. And what became of Jules Deschamps? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he ended his days as ballast on the private spacecraft that carried the tungsten orb safely into outer space.
by submission | Oct 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Helen Merrick
Theresa Davies wrung her hands. “It’s not been an easy decision.”
“You co-signed both contracts, agreed to the payments.”
“Yes, but circumstances have changed. Please, I have no choice.”
*
Shielding his eyes, George scoured the horizon. “I give up,” he cried, stamping his foot. “Where are you?”
“You looking for me?”
George turned to find Thomas running towards him. Disappointed, he sank to his knees and angrily swiped at the long grass.
“What’s going on?” asked Thomas, panting.
George shrugged.
“Come on, what’s up with you?”
“I hate it here,” George mumbled, his bottom lip quivering.
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Evie’s gone.”
“Gone? Like the others?”
George sniffed and shrugged again. “We were playing hide and seek and—”
“Hide and seek?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.” George glowered. “She’s not here.”
“Okay, I believe you.” Thomas surveyed the meadow with the woods, lake, and mountains beyond. Frowning, his gaze settled on the tall metal fence only metres away. “I do wish we were allowed out there, we could play hide and seek forever.” Thomas scratched his head. “Maybe Evie got out, like Joe and Aziz.”
“Maybe.” George plucked a tall grass stalk and chewed the end thoughtfully.
“I’d like to escape,” said Thomas, squatting in the grass next to his brother. “You know what, Georgie? There has to be a way.”
*
“Everything’s drawn up, Ms. Davis.” Dr. Richards hesitated. “I trust you understand the need for discretion. I’m only sanctioning this because you’re a valued client.”
“I know and thank you.”
“I just need your thumbprint.” Dr. Richards passed a tablet which Theresa took with shaking hands.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“The termination? Of course not.” Dr. Richards smiled. “We take the greatest care of our residents which, incidentally, is why there’s no alternative. As you know, our retirement plans are designed to run the full twenty-five years or until natural death.” His smile faded. “Returning residents, snatching them from the freedom of a second childhood with perfect health, no memory of responsibility would be, well… cruel.”
“I understand.” Theresa stared at the tablet, thumb poised. “I… I lost my job,” she said, tearing-up. “I’ve enough money to pay for Dad but not…”
“Ms. Davis, calm yourself.” Dr. Richards offered a tissue. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer charity.”
Theresa nodded. “And my father…”
“Will be blissfully oblivious, you have my word. Our residents’ happiness is paramount. Always.”
*
“What kind of problem?” Dr. Richards demanded.
“Some of the pods didn’t load the last updates.”
“Deletion updates?”
“Yes. There’ve been rather a lot recently and some of the pods need de-bugging.”
“So you want to delay today’s deletions?”
“I need more time.”
“Time?” Dr. Richards slammed a fist on the table. “Time is money. We have a waiting list, you know – a long one.”
The technician gaped. “We can’t delete without updating the programme. They’ll remember.”
“And cry to who? You?” Dr. Richards smirked. “We’ve done it before with no complaints.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t act all innocent. Execute the deletions and reset the pods. I want them available today. Understood?”
The technician blinked then nodded curtly. He tapped his tablet. “Hold on, this pod’s contract’s still got fifteen years to—”
“Just do it!”
*
Thomas eyed the fence. “There has to be a way over. Or under. Maybe if we—” Gasping, he clutched his chest and fell to the ground, twitching and flipping like a fish out of water.
“Thomas?” George sprang to his side but Thomas promptly vanished. “Thomas! No… don’t leave me, please!” Frantic, he cast around then, sobbing, crumpled. Hugging his knees, he rocked gently.
by submission | Oct 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Samuel Stapleton
For a long time, we have dreamed of finding our next home planet. And yes, we know the probability is that it’s out there already, but you see it’s finding them that’s the difficult part. I mean have you seen how big space is? No, you haven’t, because it’s literally, unimaginably big. Stupid big. So we came up with a better plan. We would build our next home planet.
It’s really not that complicated. Collect lots of debris and space gas containing the elemental composition you need. Do some mathematical simulations, ensure the initial bang will mimic a supernova, and then wait! The natural physical laws of the universe take care of the rest (as they tend to do in solar system formation). Then all that’s left is to, well, zoop the ingredients to an empty section of space and start the process. With a really big, bang. Bam, a nebula is born and a star or stars and other planets will form like clockwork. We’ve done it many times now.
Of course, we don’t have the time to wait around for them to form, but then again time is relative. A few superlight speed trips around the edge of the known universe and then bang, 10 billion years feels like a nap, and our solar system is done cooling!
We came back to a wonderful outcome this time. Incredibly ideal, even Goldilocks would be impressed. Everything had glued itself down into a nice little solar system. There was a main-sequence star, stable, good mass, a nice mix of terrestrial and jovian planets…with atmospheres (score – it’s more work if you have to make the planet’s atmosphere too) and some cute little moons to boot! We were ecstatic.
Only one problem. We came back just a little later than optimal. Honestly, we missed the perfect time window by about…15 million years or so. One blip. An iota. But in that little time span, a significant amount of life formed and advanced. The problem is that…they’re highly intelligent. An entire civilization. We’ve been watching them. And we honestly don’t know what to do. There’s almost 8 billion of them. We can’t wipe them out. That would be immoral. But we’re not sure they would accept us, and let us live along beside them. They are still so young and unaware.
We are running low on power, time, and materials. We could try the re-creation again. But this planet…it’s better than a dream. How can we possibly let it go and still save ourselves? This place they call Earth. Our next home. It’s almost a dream come true, if it weren’t for you.
by submission | Oct 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Justin clenched hist fists, then slowly unfurled his fingers. “See, the little finger of my right-hand sticks; it’s not as flexible, as quick, as my other fingers. These gloves are no good to me if one finger lags.”
The technician stared down at his tablet, rapidly entering data with his stylus. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Looks like your warranty has just expired. Sorry—but we can either take those gloves on discounted trade for new ones, or we can send them back to the factory for custom repair. Which will be expensive. I suggest the trade-in option.”
“Naturally.” Justin crossed his arms to tamp down his rising frustration. “Listen, I’m a working composer and I need functioning gloves—I don’t have time for repairs. Trade these busted gloves in for a pittance towards a new pair? Yeah, that sounds like a great deal, all I have to do is mortgage my piano to pay for it.” Justin turned on and stormed out.
Once home, he peeled off his gloves, and threw himself down on the sofa, looked around his tiny townhouse—what could he sell to raise money? How could he compose when his glove was busted? For the first time, he regretted buying the things. The technology behind them was brilliant, he admitted—slip on a pair of sheer, clingy smart gloves, merely think of your melodies, your harmonies, your chord progressions—and viola! your fingers danced over the keys (or strings) before you! You didn’t even have to know how to play the instrument! And the gloves recorded the music, as well, then uploaded it to your personal account in the ether.
The downside? Now everybody and their dog was a composer. Some of these ‘dabblers,’ as he called them, were good enough to compete with him for work, threatening his livelihood. How dare they! In a sudden decision, he called his cousin Morey—who was a bit shady, but would have a notion as to how to raise some quick cash.
“Yeah, Cuz, I can connect you with a guy who’s looking for a piano player at his club in Vegas—”
Vegas! Justin sniffed to himself, that white trash paradise! He took a deep, calming breath. “Okay, hook me up.”
* * *
“You start tonight,” the sweaty man in a tuxedo two sizes too small said. “Put these on.” He slapped a pair of scarlet gloves onto the bar between them.
Justin pulled them on. “I’ve not seen gloves like this before.”
“That’s because they’re, ah, custom made.”
Justin shuddered. The tuxedoed man chuckled, “Sting, don’t they?”
Justin pulled at the fingers on one hand, trying to get the glove off. “Nuh-uh, won’t happen,” the man pointed out, “not until you’re through working for me. Now, get over to that baby grand. Tonight I want to hear the great love songs of the 1970s.”
Justin sat down on the padded bench and raised his hands—which were immediately yanked down to the keyboard as if by a great magnet. He scowled. “I don’t know any love songs from the ’70s, so why don’t I—”
But he was interrupted by the movement of his own fingers gliding over the keys, playing a voluptuous version of Captain and Tennille’s “Muskrat Love.”
“Atta boy!” the tuxedoed man chortled, looming behind Justin. “Ya know, including tips, you’ll earn enough money for them fancy composer gloves in about, oh,” he straightened his back, stuck an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth, and scanned his half-full nightclub, “ten years.”
