by submission | Aug 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Nondescript gray gruel drifted over the worn stainless spoon stirring in a prisoner’s brown wooden bowl. Two ragged, worn men sat facing each other, heads bent down toward a stained wooden picnic bench, one lifting a metal water cup to dilute rancid flavors from his throat.
“Miguel. Quietly,” the larger man whispered across the meal. “They’re listening. Two months. News from the Brazilian?” Anderson pulled his drifting, greasy locks past his eyes while making brief hand gestures on the table, indicating where guards were standing. Miguel put one finger out, tapping it lightly.
“La sangre,” he whispered. Miguel pulled his worn sleeve back, exposing his scars from constant IVs.
“You mean, blood?” Anderson’s eyes widened as he pointed, slowly, to his heart.
“Si, es la verdad, sangre oro.”
“Maybe to make sure those women aren’t infecting us. God knows why they force us on them. Get that fat kiwi broad again?” Anderson choked back some stew, thinking about cramped mating pens with guards prodding, forcing coupling.
“Muy horrible…you call…nightmare?” Miguel rubbed his neck, rolled back his shirt collar, exposing bite marks.
Anderson sat back quickly, as if struck by an invisible hand. “You said oro…you mean gold…like golden blood?”
“Si, Anderson. I have the golden blood. You?”
“For God’s sake, that’s it. They took us because we have no antigens. Why…why would they?”
His questioning stopped as guards descended on them. Soon, a feeding area door opened to exude a man in a doctor’s uniform with military epaulets.
“So, Anderson, always the curious one. We’ve watched you. If this one figured it out,” he pointed at Miguel, “It won’t be long before everyone knows, even the women. You can let them go, guards.” The doctor waved thugs off two seated men.
“Explain, asshole!” Anderson turned. A machine gun barrel pushed into his face.
“No, we can’t have that, sergeant. Step back. They’ll settle down. I’m Doctor Evans of Space Command. You, and Mr. Hernandez, are some of our treasured guests. You’ve guessed half the reason, but not all.”
“Treasured guests?” Anderson growled.
“I assure you; my superiors ordered these Spartan conditions after our failures with genetic alterations and artificial insemination. Your kind has complicated reproduction issues. We couldn’t afford to lose a single rare golden blood donor, so…this last alternative. Those pitiful women are just like you—here against their will. We need offspring with dominant genes, ensuring a continual breeding stock.”
“You Nazi bastard…” Anderson reached out before a baton slapped his hands.
“This is about species, not race, Anderson. You see, gentlemen, we have a narrow six-year window. We’re moving an army to Mars to neutralize recent Chinese incursions. Dominance battles are coming. Casualties need universal donor blood supplies from available healthy sources on Mars… babies you’ll make. There are only fifty of you left on Earth. We can’t have that resource wasted.”
“There’s no pit in hell deep enough for what you’re doing…and those women!” Anderson spit at Evans.
“Really? Such bravado. Consider your eventual benefits. Apophis is a planet killer. That asteroid got close last pass, then changed course, so we stepped up Mars migrations. If you aren’t on Mars by 2036, you’ll die. Be assured, you assets will continue mating there, and eventually be crowned heroes. For now, get used to that bitch from Auckland. We need her. She tends toward twins.”
by submission | Aug 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
So what: a fleet of alien starcraft sets down in Ohio and lets us know we are not alone in the Universe. Okay. Our rent is still due. The last of that special jam we bought at the farm store just over the state line has soured. You still prop yourself up on one pillow to say that if I am to be done so quickly, maybe I shouldn’t start at all. Yes, I am curious to see what they look like. Yes, I wonder what they came here for. But, as far as anything else – technology transfer, minerals trade, the philosophy of space travel – someone at a higher pay grade than mine will decide all that. My focus is on keeping my lousy job, and when engaged with you in the spearpoint of passion remembering I am not alone. We will get back out to that farm store – it is only a twenty mile mostly straight-line drive down a tourist trap road. We could go next time I have a weekday off. Be angry with me if you like. You know I will make it up to you. Or try. But just now, let’s turn on the television and see if they are interviewing those new aliens yet. I am spear-point curious as to what they could possibly want with us, why we are interesting to them. I would think they would want something and not come so far just to visit.
by submission | Aug 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
A sudden rash of volcanoes, spewing poisonous smoke and ash; any closer and rock lofted by the eruptions would be raining from the clouds.
So we fled underground, a move not without risk. Sometimes with eruptions come more quakes and roof-falls, but we have learned that those who hide are never survived by the ones who stay in the open.
The slowest of us, the aged and the injured, were the last to limp into the caves. I turned to take in the baleful red glow to the south. Like the end of the world; though we already knew what the end of the world looked like.
It would be a cold and hungry time for we old ones.
The Chief’s men came to do the count, and one stood over the old woman we called the Nurse, huddled in a corner like a heap of rags.
The man called for help with her, though she must be light as a bird. It wasn’t that he couldn’t drag her on his own, but he wanted to share the guilt.
I stepped forward. “She’s not dead.”
“Soon will be. Who’ll take her outside?”
“I will. When the time comes.”
He looked dubious, then shrugged big shoulders. Breeders and Hunters got fed when food was scarce.
Later, they sent someone to remember the Nurse’s words, preserving the past, the way we hold onto knowledge that was common once but is precious now. Our future depends on knowing more than our rivals.
The girl they sent was not a Survivor – what we old ones call ourselves – but from the generations after. She shrugged when I asked her age. Thirteen, fourteen? Hard to guess, though her hips were still too narrow for childbirth.
She had a spiral tattoo on her brow and the top joint of the little finger on her left hand was missing. These were marks of affiliation, of ownership perhaps. The young have secret lives.
Together, the girl and I roused the Nurse with water, and some scraps I had kept back for harder times.
Perhaps the girl expected to hear secret tricks of healing, but the Nurse had already passed on what she could.
“Out of nowhere,” she mumbled. “Like a thing bobbing up from underwater. Big as the moon.”
She clutched at the girl, searching her face for comprehension. Still trying to make sense of what befell us after all this time.
It had surfaced with a surge and suck of gravity that made the Earth flex in torment. It was fleeing the wavefront of some unspecified catastrophe, but sniffing a waterworld like ours, and with true sentience in the cosmos so precious, it snatched at the passing chance of rescue.
Days later, with the saved safe inside the belly of the behemoth, it vanished in a splash of physics that blew every lightbulb on the planet. Whether it was some sort of living starship, or a vast leviathan of the interstellar deeps we never knew.
The girl shot me a bitter glance. This was the creation myth of her world.
“No room for everybody, so some was saved and some was left. That what she say?”
Perhaps anger and resentment would nourish them through hard lives. When my time comes, I shall not add to their burden with the truth.
We scientists didn’t understand at first, as quakes and tsunamis grew increasingly violent, as we scanned the heavens for a catastrophe that seemed already here. It was a while before we realised all the whales were gone.
by submission | Aug 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Thomas E. Simmons
That spring, the young woman we now know as V-3 crashed; purpled herself across a dead bocage of extraterrestrial mire with the proud medallions and Coat of Arms of the sovereign clipped to her lapels, while back home they made a wearisome postage stamp in her honor; to ‘stamp her with honor’ some said, in red and grey, and thereby credit her as a heroine; a martyr; the first smelt craft to reach the surface of another system’s planet, and rather dramatically at that.
The assembled bureaucrats claimed credit and sang songs of achievement.
There wasn’t much left of her (or of the medallions (or the Coat of Arms, either)) given her speed of impact, except that honor.
It wasn’t what you’d call a soft landing.
She became ejecta.
But before that, with her long passage across the chasm between two orbits behind her, she’d aimed herself steadily at her target.
She situated the vector of the second orbit in her crosshairs.
On her first attempt, her trajectory had been unfaithful to her and she’d bypassed the ragged fur of the outer atmosphere by sixty thousand kilometers or so, but the neuro-communists doggedly programmed a corrective maneuver into her temples and rammed her into the planet, they say, on the first of March.
From a ravine back home came the tuneless singing. The banal praises.
And within that singing and labyrinth of human motivations which powered her could be found ambition, allegiance, a clove or two of fealty, and some sizable cravings for creation-revelation fixes, but there was a germ in the petri dish, a minotaur in the maze, a basilisk in the nursery, against which she lacked any immunity because, you see, contemporary outer space historians have concluded (more or less in concert; a dissonant concert-choir of lovable, nerdy men who disdain contact lenses for reasons no one can identify) that the new soviets actually lost her in the cusp of her flight in mid-April – when she scalped – and that she never exuded upon a curve at all and – as a result – was devoured sideways (by dishonesty and dissembling, rather than via a heroic mashing) and that if she did (perish prematurely in a bellow of propaganda, as now seems the case), she may never be truly credited; her honor thereby dis-credited, except for the official and wholly unattractive postage stamp bearing her fissures which even the most dedicated communist-friendly philatelists deride for its stretched-homeliness; its hollow-headedness in recalling the lady’s deeds (if she achieved them, which we’ll likely never know) and a split-abdomen of slumping reflected upon a cancelled stamp and the medals rudely sutured to her before she’d taken her leave.
Such was the journey of V-3.
by submission | Aug 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Matt McHugh
We got the aliens’ first message when they were nine years out, about the distance of Neptune. It was a series of microwave pulses repeating the prime numbers between 1 and 1000 every few minutes. We replied with different sequences—squares, cubes, Fibonacci’s—until they were matched in reply and the back-and-forth was steady.
We then worked out a common language. I won’t bore you with details, except to say it was the most electrifying experience of my life. Mathematicians are not often considered sentimental, but recalling the sheer awe of the enterprise, its elegant precision, can still bring me close to tears.
Within a few months, we could communicate on technical matters. By the following year, it was downright conversational. They wanted quartz granules. Sand. Their vessel and instrumentation were based on crystalline silicates, and they’d spotted the Sahara from God-knows-how-many light-years out. They asked for about a billion cubic feet, roughly a hundred pyramids worth, and offered to barter.
The ensuing global brouhaha is well-documented, though I doubt anyone who didn’t live through it can appreciate the scope of the madness. Social, political, religious, scientific, nationalistic, psychological: every possible human reaction played out. There were conflicts and deaths, alliances formed, or dissolved. Once the panic more or less settled, we still had six years to wait before their arrival. That was when I was most anxious: wondering what else we’d do to embarrass ourselves.
After they settled into orbit, they began sending shuttles to scoop up a few tons of sand at a time. Over and over, around the clock, for nearly a year. They explained, with courteous regret, that they were unable to leave their craft or host visitors so any face-to-face meeting (they adopted our colloquialisms, since we proved incapable of grasping theirs) would be impossible.
Again, we behaved badly. Arguments and posturing. A few overt aggressions. At least one of their shuttles was shot down. They accepted our apology. A sect of lunatic zealots launched an improvised missile at them, which made it about four miles into the air before plummeting impotently in the ocean. They pretended not to notice.
After nine months, they had all they needed. They thanked the Planet Earth, sent us in return specifications for vastly improved battery technology (that’s why you only have to charge your phone two or three times a year now… it used to be every day, if you can believe it), and left. That was almost forty years ago. Astronomers still track them, gently accelerating away with propulsion we don’t understand toward destinations they declined to specify.
When I was twelve, standing at a post office counter, a handsome man asked to borrow my pen. I handed it over without a word. He signed a few things, smiled, and handed it back. Through the window I watched him get into an expensive car with a beautiful woman and drive away. For years, I dreamed about their journeys. Never once was I silly enough to hope they thought of me.
A few years ago, in a pit of drunken depression, I composed a poem for the aliens using the exquisite quaternary dialect they taught us to speak. I even beamed it off. I’m still waiting to hear back.
A generation has now grown up in a world where aliens exist. Oh, there’s still conspiracy theorists that cry hoax, and fanatics who preach about angels or demons, but most of us have come to accept the brutal truth:
We are not alone.
We are just unwelcome.
by submission | Aug 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: A. Lyn Thomson
“Mother, where are we?”
“This, my dear, is called the Male Incubatorium, and as the new Queen of our world, it is now your responsibility.”
Shock flows through my veins as we stroll through a room I have never seen before. The fact that I have never found this place before is impressive in itself. Especially since I grew up in this castle, my home during my 21 years of life.
But this room is strange in so many other ways. Glowing green, it’s filled with evenly spaced tubes, each possessing a body. A Male. How did Mother keep this a secret from me all these years? She has been training me to rule for the past decade, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of this place. Or that there are still Males in existence. Our history lessons always said they were eradicated eons ago, once the First Queen found a way to reproduce without them. Now, I’m finding out that’s a lie.
What else has she been lying to me about?
“I understand if you are confused,” Mother says, “as I was too, when I was your age. So let me enlighten you. Yes, Males do still exist, but only here, in these incubators.”
“Why? I thought we didn’t need them anymore.”
“We don’t need them for anything other than their gametes,” she explains. “This is how we collect the serum to give our citizens children. Think of it as a silo. We store them here, and collect only what we need from time to time.”
“But why? Why do we need to keep them here, like this? Why can’t they just live-”
I’m cut off by her suddenly spinning towards me. She glares at me forcefully. “Under no circumstances can they be allowed to just live.” Seeing the fear her sudden outburst caused me, she calms herself down, then continues. “Listen, you remember the history lessons I taught you. While Males were allowed to roam free, they did unspeakable things, to us and to each other. Even when the First Queen decided to enslave them, taking away their rights, they still committed one crime after the other, rebelling every day. Males are extremely dangerous, and so cannot be released from here. Do you understand, dear?”
I nod, knowing that’s what she wants me to do, and we continue walking past incubator after incubator, until she stops in front of one. I look at it and see a Male for the first time, but that’s not what surprises me.
He looks like…me!
“Yes,” Mother says, reading my facial expressions, “this is the Male whose gamete I used to make you.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“So that you don’t use him to create your own Heir. Such a thing could cause horrendous complications, both for you and the Heir.” She sighs, then takes a step back. “I’m going to get the Royal Manual, which my Mother passed down to me, and I will pass down to you now. It explains quite well how to maintain this place. Wait here.”
I do as she says, analyzing the Male in front of me. I then look down at the panel and notice a red button labelled “Open Chamber”.
I gulp and stare at it. I know what she just told me, and I understand what pressing this button could mean, especially if she were telling the truth, but…
What else is she lying to me about…?
I press the button and watch as the incubator opens and the Male blinks for the first time.
