by submission | Jul 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: Oisin Hurley
Nailah stopped to catch her breath in the shadow at the base of the pyramid. One time her ancestors would have been buried here, surrounded by items they could bring to the afterlife. They had food from the chill lands to the north arrayed around their death masks, gifts of silken clothing from the rulers of the teeming societies to the east laid at their anointed feet. How far had they fallen from that gilded age? The sorrow for the descent of her people from rulers to rabble haunted her, weighed down the days of wearying work forced upon them by the invaders of their lands. That was why she had rebelled, damaged the collection of machine suits, and stolen this one. It rested quietly around her, mute but for low fans that followed her own breathing. A small green bar at the edge of her vision meant many days of reserve in the batteries. She would fly south like an arrow to the peopled lands. She would escape this dry hell where the invader folk lived, avoiding the moisture of the forests.
A small cascade of sand and pebbles from the ancient stone at her back hissed in her enhanced hearing. Distracted from her thoughts, she felt a low, rolling rumble — an armoured remote approaching. She could outrun its pursuit. She fed power to the leg motors of the suit and ran toward a horizon of dunes, silver-lit by the crescent moon.
by submission | Jul 24, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Richard teeters to his pig. Made of a hard, shiny material, it’s pink, sports a green tux, and is about two feet tall and five feet long.
Steve scoops the pot into his pile of poker chips. “You OK, Richard?”
“Not OK,” Richard slurs. “Wife left me. Girlfriend dumped me. Daughter hates me. Living in this crummy apartment. Zap me away, pig.”
John winces.
“Actually,” Harry says, “there hasn’t been a verified incident of vaporization except for failure to stroke at midnight.”
The poker buddies have focused on the game but can no longer restrain themselves:
“We don’t know that people are vaporized.”
“I heard a cult believed the pigs are sending people to some utopian planet and got zapped on purpose.”
“I still can’t understand who would put billions of pigs here.”
“Stan’s brother was sick. Couldn’t get to his pig when it squealed at midnight. Got zapped even though his wife tried to stroke for them both.”
“At least parents can stroke for their kids.”
“What about people who got zapped before we figured out the rules?”
“I heard we nuked one and didn’t scratch it.”
“Maybe aliens are watching us … like a kind of reality show back on their world.”
“Maybe like in that old show,” Richard mumbles, “the aliens are eating people.”
“On that happy note,” Steve says, “we should settle up so we can be home to stroke our pigs at midnight.”
After everybody leaves, Richard downs a glass of whiskey then lurches to bed. He’s passed out when his pig squeals at midnight.
***
Richard wakes up in the bedroom of his house, not his raunchy apartment. He hurries to the kitchen. There’s his wife, Rose, and daughter, Lilly.
Rose kisses him on the cheek. “You overslept, Honey. Better hurry.”
“Daddy, remember you promised to give me another driving lesson after you get home from work.”
Lilly hasn’t gone off to college? He’s been zapped to the past? To before his girlfriend, Lucy? Before the pigs? He’s being given a second chance. To not take up with Lucy. Not destroy his family. The pigs are good. He gives Rose a long kiss.
“Easy,” Rose says. “I love your sentiment, but not your timing.”
He hugs Lilly.
“You’re weird this morning, Daddy. Don’t forget my lesson.”
“Do it right after work,” Rose says. “Remember we’re taking my new friend from the office out for a drink this evening. Lucy. You’ll love her.”
No! It’s the day he first meets Lucy. Richard recalls her tight skirt, feels that familiar rush of blood. Don’t give in this time, he tells himself. “Maybe I’ll pass, Rose. You go out with her.”
“Don’t be silly. I want you to meet her. I think Lucy and I are going to be great friends.”
After Rose and Lilly leave, Richard lingers in the kitchen. Maybe he could be more careful. Not get caught. No! He pictures Lucy’s breasts. Don’t! He finds a bottle of whiskey and swigs half. He mustn’t give in again no matter what he has to do. He opens the knife drawer.
TO BE CONTINUED
***
“Oh, no!” Zandy says as the closing credits roll. “Do think he’s going to cut off his —”
“You never know with these crazy earthlings,” his mate, Zobby, says. “This is the best series yet.”
Zandy clambers to his feet. “Think I’ll get ready for bed. I have an early appointment at the mud bath tomorrow.” He and Zobby touch snouts, their curly tails twirling with affection.
“I’ll wait here,” Zobby says.
“OK, Sweetie. I’ll be back out at midnight for us to stroke our cow.”
by submission | Jul 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
This species is very wary of us. Skittish. Paranoid even. And all because of the reckless behaviour of the Adversary in times past. Though doubtless that is what the Adversary says of us, so neither can pretend the Accord was an act of benevolence. Between us, we were driving the Talents to extinction.
Of all the Talents, the Sense Of Universal Location is the one humans occasionally have, and is a mind-state essential for the functioning of Mayaships. Which is why, as we cross the Orion Arm, we drop in sometimes to see how the harvest is coming along.
Mostly they were obsessed with stone axes, though tribes were willing to sacrifice the chosen one in return for success in the hunt or something. In those days we didn’t have to wait for death by natural causes; we just ripped the mind-state and went on our way.
Then suddenly they had cities, and writing, and rumours of hidden penalty clauses, and no-one trusted us. Hence the Accord, which insists contracts are strictly supervised, with an end to caveat emptor.
Take this fellow, named something unpronounceable like Williams in the local gibberish, doubtless why they’re referred to as Faust in contracts. Or asset in the language of Powers.
He shone out; a prime Talent we had to sign up before the Adversary made him a better offer, though he saw right through the mumbo-jumbo that had served us so well in the past.
“No, you want to abduct me,” he insisted. “You want to take me to your ship and probe me!”
Improvise and adapt. Was he open to a deal about this abduction business? Sex, wealth, and fame were on the table. Also, to be clear, he wouldn’t be abducted until his deathbed. And by probing we meant…
Our Faust worked in the City and knew about deals. Reproductive success? He didn’t need aliens pimping for him thank you very much. And how would he explain two tons of gold bullion on his Tax Returns?
Was there nothing else he wanted? Nothing at all? In times gone by, contracts have involved some creative accounting.
Ponderous humans. We amused ourselves while his thoughts coagulated into speech. It appears they can almost hear us when enough join in to sing the Songs.
He loved sport when he was a kid.
Sport: a form of ritualised combat.
Played a bit at uni, but was too busy now, and besides, some crappy Sunday league? No thanks. Had a trial for Spurs, you know.
Spurs? Searching…
Imagine being told at thirteen you’re not good enough. So you grow up and get on with life, but sometimes…
No, it was just foolishness.
With sufficiently advanced technology, anything is possible. It only seems like magic. In the end, altering his physiology with nanoware was the simplest option. Totally undetectable with their technology, and he would be twice, three times faster than their top athletes.
And it was all sorted before the Adversary arrived. We showed them the contract, with his unique DNA signature in circulatory fluid. Also, as required by the Accord, proof that we kept our side of the bargain. This translation of a news headline about our Faust.
“Lightning” Williams scores all two hands of goals(?) in (metaphorical) destruction of rival Deuch nation-state in final of Global Drinking Vessel.
As a side-effect of the nanoware, sadly he’s in top condition. We should have thought of that. We won’t be collecting our end of the deal for about a century.
by submission | Jul 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Beck Dacus
He lowered the faceplate of his emergency spacesuit’s helmet, sealing it under his chin. In his ear, a voice suddenly said, “Hello, Commander. I’ve set your suit to play this recording approximately when you’ve crossed the event horizon of your life.”
He froze in the middle of the hallway, startled. The tremor of a distant explosion brought him back to the present. He followed the signs on the walls at a sprint.
“You don’t know me. I’m one– no. I was one of many engineers that worked on your ship. In particular, I was among the POWs you forced into cooperation with your killing. Keeping the village-burning hawkships and planet-killing battlecruisers in ‘ship-shape.’”
There it was: the airlock. His fingers punched in the code on muscle memory, opening the internal door, which automatically sealed behind him. He broke a glass compartment on the wall and hammered the external vent button, quickly pumping the airlock’s atmosphere outside rather than into the ship’s reserve tanks.
“As much as I hate this life, I wish you had given my family the same chance you gave me. Children can be surprisingly resilient, and they would have given me a reason other than the tardy alarm to get up in the morning.”
After an eternity, the external door opened; on the other side was the curved limb of the planet below, shining in reflected sunlight against the inky sky. Tongues of translucent red flickered across the threshold– the ship was entering atmosphere. He activated the flickering Mach shield on his forearm, held it in front of him, and jumped.
“You might be wondering what I mean by ‘event horizon of your life.’ I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations on this ship’s antimatter reactor, as well as a little research into the specs of your jetpack. There is a certain point where no amount of thrust it can give you will let you escape the detonation of the Pax Romana’s reactor; if I got the numbers right, you’re well past it.”
Once his freefall stabilized, he engaged the airbreathing turbine mounted to his back, putting as much distance between himself and the ship as possible. The Pax fell like a stone, nosing into the thick air, seeking the alien surface.
“The explosion will take out this hemisphere of the planet, along with you. Even if flying supersonic with your Mach shield behind you, protecting you from the blast rather than the wind, didn’t tear you apart, its power cells would explode trying to shed the energy it was absorbing. And the shield is transparent to gamma radiation anyway.
“I want you to know what it was like, Commander. I want you to feel what my children felt, waiting to go in front of the firing squad. I want to give you time to think about how you die. No jetpack malfunction, no early reactor breach, no suit leak. I want you to know that, even though you still have all your toys and your tricks, you’re a mortal like the rest of us. Your flesh is made of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen.
“And in the fire, it will burn.”
Through his Mach shield, he could see the sun setting upon the curve of this world. He sighed, turning off his turbine, then his shield. He let himself fall.
The Pax touched down, a new sunrise igniting this planet between one instant and the next. But not fast enough.
The darkness took him first.
by submission | Jul 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Sara Jordan-Heintz
I found myself gasping for air, awakening on the loveseat in the sitting room of my rented beach house, my heart thumping in my chest, with the same sensation drumming a discordant beat in my ears.
I could hear the waves thrashing against the shore, the moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling of the bungalow. I don’t know if I could exactly describe it as singing; perhaps more of a humming, murmuring sound, the kind a woman makes while she’s stirring a pot on the stove, lost in reverie without a clue as to what the actual words are to the song.
Wrapping a robe around my sweaty, shaky frame, I quietly opened the back screen door and headed down to the beach. Sand flooded the openings of my sandals, coating my feet in soft, shiny light brown grit. I lost my footing in the blasted flip flops, my kneecap colliding with a behemoth conch shell, half buried in a sand dune. A thin stream of blood oozed from the raw wound — nothing a little warm salt breeze wouldn’t cleanse.
My aunt Greta used to say if you picked up one of those shells and held it to your ear, you could hear the whirling sounds of the ocean, in some kind of audiological illusion. Humpf. The scientific explanation is that surrounding environmental noises resonate within the cavity of the shell.
I picked up the large former dwelling of some nameless sea creature, brushing sand off the body as best I could, as not to rub any of it into the windswept locks of my long, auburn hair. A cool wind danced through the humid night air, colliding with that same sense of dread I’d felt coursing through my organs and veins upon rousing from my slumber. As I angled it towards my right hear, two tinny-sounding words reverberated through the shell’s cavity: “help me.” Scurrying back to the beach house, I dropped the shell along the walkway. Pausing, I picked it up again, and with all my strength, hurled it into the Atlantic.
Trudging back to my residence, I entered the same way I’d come, locked the door, turned the knob on a tabletop lamp, and caught my breath. Walking to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, I chugged the beverage, holding the cold glass to my damp nightgown.
That sound again. Low, guttural mutterings. I pivoted to return to my makeshift sleeping quarters in the sitting room, its ceiling fan swirling air throughout the suffocating room, when I saw the conch shell, resting on the coffee table. As though suspended in time, I inched closer to the table, ready to reach for the shell with a tremulous hand. Slowly. Slowly. Two steps to go.
I put the shell up to my ear as I had done at the beach. What I heard next made me run for the tiny, airless bedroom, throw all my personal effects into my luggage, grab the keys to my rental car, shift into drive and tear down the bumpy, deserted lane, headed for the other side of the island and the barge that will return me to the mainland. I don’t think I even shut the front door, much less locked it, behind me.
I know without unzipping the duffel bag situated next to me on the passenger seat, I’ll find that damn shell nestled peaceably in between tank tops, magazines, and suntan lotion.
by Julian Miles | Jul 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Good morning. What a glorious day to be chugging through the cosmos in a scow named Cameron.”
“Fuck off, Mike.”
“No need for that, my esteemed colleague. We should revel in the sinecure we’ve been given.”
“Are you high?”
“Merely full of the joys of spring.”
“Keep your hands to yourself, then.”
The bearded roughneck chuckles as he slides into the pilot pod that has ‘Mike’ stencilled on the side.
“Do you know you’ve got a narrow worldview?”
Dan sighs and reaches up from his pilot pod to slap the bald spot on Mike’s head, then points out the vertical cockpit window.
“Yeah. It’s about a metre wide, five high, and shows me nothing but stars and spaceshit.”
“I rest my case.” Mike brings up the flight schedule.
“Well, Dan, your digital horoscope shows an improvement in mood. Care to guess?”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, dipshit.”
“We’re collecting a double load from Connecticut Orbital and heading on out to Trashteroid 42. Going to overnight there as we’re bringing a train of empties back.”
“Suzy!”
“Yes, I’m going to be drunk on my own tonight while you slave over a hot girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend! We just get along.”
Mike grins. He’s never known a couple so determined to deny they’re a couple.
Dan confirms their course and checks for any HEO traffic they could conflict with.
“Hey, Mike. I don’t think you’ll be getting drunk tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Looks like the train we’re bringing back is the Christmas and New Year overspill. So many we’re coming back with tugs fore and aft. We’re tail-end. The lead tug will be the Johnson.”
“Stacey’s going to Trashteroid 42?”
“Docking a few hours before us, according to the conflict list.”
“I say, old bean, fancy a double date?”
“Providing you promise to only show off your scars to Stacey, and only after we’ve left the room, yes.”
“Top hole, old chap.”
“Let’s not get into details.”
Mike chuckles.
“Cue up some Tygers of Pan Tang, brother. Let’s rock the rubbish all the way there.”
“Classic rock the rubbish, you mean.”
“More than merely classic. Noah was headbanging to this stuff on the Ark.”
They both laugh as the opening riff of ‘Suzie Smiled’ shakes their consoles.
“Hell yeah.”
