by submission | Aug 19, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
A ship moved on the ocean. The vessel was big, and its sides were covered in salt. Young people were all over the deck, wearing fitted t-shirts and short shorts. Warm air blew gently. Some of the passengers leaned against the railings as others rested in deckchairs. Music played, and the ship kept traveling.
Daylight flattened with mist descending over the horizon. The big ship crawled into the low, colorless haze. There, the young voices grew uneasy, quieting for a while. Gradually, the brightness returned, and a distant landfall appeared. The crew steered toward their destination.
Then, closer, everyone saw it was not the right place. The land was crowded with overgrown ferns and colossal trees, and there were no docks, buildings, or people. Something came out from the tall wild grass — a massive caracal the size of a lion. The carnivore looked at the ship, tracking the vessel. More of the territorial wildcats approached the green edge of the shore in order to see. The men and women aboard understood they could not disembark.
Between human and leonine eyes, a heavy-toned announcement reported a navigation error, even though the instruments confirmed the ship had arrived at the coastline of Norfolk. The helmsman held off for an hour until the captain, second officer, and third officer decided what to do. The land sank away as the ship drifted back into the sea and the mist. Mornings and nights passed into each other.
The vessel continued on for many days, yet all designated ports and harbors were the same untamed land. Small armed launches that went to explore did not return from the tangled beachheads.
Tidal currents surged, and the music became low. Once full of sound and certainty, the young and old in their locked cabin compartments now dreamed somberly about the feral shores: wilderness, mutant air, creatures stalking in the forests, powerlessness. There was no conquest of nature here. The officers and crew murmured.
Below deck, in the central galley, the kitchen lights were dim. Ovens and grills glowed; steamers hummed; and large stock pots simmered. A cook with a ladle stirred a mixture. Inside, the softening pieces shaped like something familiar turned and slid back in. Ocean water sprayed against the hull of the ship as it cut through the deep waves.
by submission | Aug 18, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Of course it’s overrated. You knew it would be before you paid the outrageous charter fee, travelled almost a thousand parsecs, endured the too-pious passengers aboard, and stood before the worn and crumbling fortress of stone that pilgrims claimed began it all.
And by began it all, they meant, astrolgia. A longing for the galaxy as it once was. These pilgrims pined for the ancient days before space travel, terraforming, colonization, and the general gentrification of the Milky Way. A time when the night sky held myriad mysteries and endless possibilities. When destiny and fate meant something.
The final frontier was all too copacetic nowadays. So fervor for the past, for ancient beginnings, for days of yore and quests for lore spawned quite an industry. And nothing more hyped than a holopost on the etherthreads that went metaviral: Moon over the Ruined Castle.
The impact of the image wasn’t something easily explained or dismissed. It stuck. Then burrowed into the galactic psyche and became a thing unto itself. A need. A must. More and more traveled the great distance to see it for themselves. Even though there were wonders of wonders spread among the stars, this became the destination, the experience, the most sacred place.
But only when the full moon rose over the ruined castle. Only then.
You had resisted. You had scoffed. You were not going to be dragged into a fad, a ploy, a pilgrimage. Yet, you are here, one of many thousands, at the foot of the hill where the ruined castle stands. Barely.
It is not an imposing sight in the late afternoon after a long trek from the starport on a narrow path through rugged countryside. This planet is being rewilded. All because of this: crumbling stone blocks on a hill overlooking a long narrow lake that is growing black as dusk settles.
Edging towards the forest that seems to eat the remaining twilight, you move as far away from the pressing pilgrims as possible. You still cannot fully understand why you are here. Why you joined in. You are not a joiner. You are a critic. An outsider. A bastion against all that is trivial, ordinary, pedestrian. Yet, you are here.
The castle is in deep shadow now. Only a hint of history remaining. A stillness grows around you and then in you. The moon begins to rise above windswept hills on the far side of the lake. This is it. You fully expect to be disappointed and so vindicated. Sentiment, crassly packaged and sold to the masses. You are not fooled. You will not be moved by a manufactured moment. You are sure.
Nothing like that happens.
Nothing like it.
The moon rises and the castle seems to grow larger. In time. Once upon a time. You feel a heaviness in your heart, but not sadness. The immensity of being fills you. You look to the reverent host of pilgrims and understand their longing. This is humanity. A humanity spread far among the stars, but still seeking.
A place. Our place.
The moon is bright. The castle proud. The pilgrims hushed. The moment ardent. There. Then. Here.
Now. Your heart is beating wildly. Something must happen. Surely, something must happen.
And it does.
Of course it does.
by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The displays on the wall scroll through the major global news channels. They’re all showing mushroom clouds. Usually it’s the one nearest to their HQ.
Nat leaps up, pointing to the screens.
“It’s a declaration of war. Has to be!”
Allie turns from her desk to look at him.
“By who?”
“Ru- Ko- Ch- Iz- Am… Oh.”
He winds down, but doesn’t sit.
Guido applauds.
“Thank you for demonstrating the problem, sport.”
Sandy stands up so she can see round the comically high stacks of books she has on her side desk.
“There’s a problem apart from nuclear strikes on shipping bottlenecks?”
Allie raises a hand.
“You’re nearly there. Follow that line of thought.”
Sandy counts off on her fingers.
“First one was off Paraiso, followed by in the Strait of Hormuz and Great Bitter Lake, then off Malacca, and finally the one in the Strait of Dover.” She looks at Guido. “Have they confirmed whether the Channel Tunnel is damaged yet?”
Guido types a couple of quick queries.
“Yes. I’m seeing early reports and videos of seawater ingress and mass panic. Expert opinion is tending towards a breach rather than a collapse, but it’s still very grim, plus there’s the radiation hazard.”
Nat waves his arms about.
“See? It’s war!”
Allie spins round to face him.
“Shut up unless you can name the country who would start a war against everybody. With no guesses or bias. Speak or get down.”
Nat scowls and half-raises a pointing finger, then abruptly sits.
Allie nods.
“Thank you. Go on, Sandy.”
“Well, like you said, the strikes don’t seem to benefit any of the obvious factions. Five mass-casualty events that are going to render the routes inoperable for long periods: Dover and Hormuz straits will adapt first, followed by Malacca. But the two canals are going to be down for decades, and possibly won’t be usable in the current layout for centuries, depending on the yields of the weapons used. Which may have been substantial. A full-size shipping container could conceal a bomb of significant size, even allowing for shielding.”
Guido applauds again.
“Summed that up well. Now all we need to do is-”
Nat sits up.
“Follow the money – more correctly, define who benefits. For which, we need to establish the impact of this atrocity.”
Allie smiles.
“My money’s on militant accelerationists.”
Nat nods enthusiastically.
“Supply chain chaos leading to more lifestyle breakdowns for their fascist appeals to take advantage of.”
Guido rocks his hands in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ gesture.
“Not convinced. Goading governments across the world to clamp down on extremism works against violent and clandestine groups. They wouldn’t want to make themselves targets for the anti-terrorist tornado of enforcement overreach backed by knee-jerk politics that’s sure to hit everywhere soon.”
Sandy waves towards Allie.
“I think she’s nearly right, but not militants. It’s nihilistic accelerationists. They don’t care what comes next. They just want to destroy this civilisation. They think it’s degenerated beyond remedial action. The sooner it ends, and the more violently it does so, the better.”
Allie turns to stare at Sandy.
“That makes horrible sense. The clampdowns that are coming will piss people off even more. Then add climate-driven mass migration on top. Shortages will get much worse. The ultra-rich will stockpile essentials, straining things even further. Hate-mongers and rabble-rousers will cause civil wars fuelled by nationalism. Those will eventually burgeon into open warfare over resources, first locally, then nationally, then internationally.”
Guido grins.
“There’s a billionaire backer out there somewhere. Tried to be a kingmaker -”
Sandy sighs.
“Started an apocalypse instead.”
by submission | Aug 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Damon Sweeney
Jupiter, a colossus pale orange disk against the black backdrop of space, shone mellowly, its stripes standing out in faint washes of red-brown colour. Scintillating meteor trails weaved the stars together.
Olman stared in awe, rigid in his bulky white spacesuit. “It’s majestic!”
Mondon wasn’t filled with a sense of awe, he’d become all too familiar with the harshness of the Ganymedean giant and felt sick revulsion. “Not to me,” he murmured.
Olman turned to him, his brow wrinkled. “Why?” Then he said in a less passionate voice, “Oh, the Jovians.”
“They’re mysterious,” Mondon said. “After years of communicating with their species, very little has been learned. They seem unfriendly and belligerent, I think they’re hiding something!”
“You sound paranoid, my friend,” Olman said flatly. “Why take the assignment as minister of intergalactic affairs if you’re so mistrusting?”
“Trust is earned. We don’t know what’s happening on the planet’s surface or how advanced their technology is, only what they tell us.”
Olman sighed and said, “I’ve heard all the conspiracies about the Jovians. They’re unfounded, it’s sheer hysteria.”
Mondon stopped walking. “Listen to me, Olman. They’ve constructed an intricate civilization of silicates, synthetic components and force fields. All without external assistance?”
“What’re you suggesting?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve detected no intelligent life originating beyond the milky way galaxy. These fear induced delusions might sabotage our chance of long-lasting–”
“Peace? I’ll always strive for peace and prosperity,” Mondon said, “the rebellion is spreading through the dominion like a plague, it’s my job to try and nullify that.” In spite of his unwavering efforts at the Foundation’s red board meeting, he knew at this rudimentary stage in the development of the interstellar program, that the same degeneration would exist in society, the same injudicious thinking, the cultural and social disparities would still prevail. However, his belief in a distant utopia was cardinal to restoring faith among the anarchic factions.
“Their behaviour is too capricious,” Olman said bitterly, “you have as much hope of changing their moral attitudes as I do living to see humanity develop light-speed travel and colonize faraway solar systems.”
“The seed must be planted.” He smiled, starting to walk again.
Olman stepped gingerly over jagged basalt rocks, glancing around him at the valleyed, barren landscape of the moon. Staring out at the ebon gulfs of the cosmos made him uneasy. The soft glint of the stars had an almost hypnotic effect on him. He saw a bluish-purple nebula. It was beautiful and frightening.
In the distance, Mondon saw the Moonbase – a vast, oval-shaped building. Eggshell white paneling. A spherical transmission tower illuminated with green light. Crimson sensor scanners swept the moon’s surface, aiming like targeting lasers. Trepidation twisted in his gut. This mission is ill-conceived he thought glumly. He looked at Olmon, his face ashen. A disturbing notion occurred to him. What if all that lay ahead was a bloody prelude to war?
by submission | Aug 15, 2026 | Story |
Author: Melissa Kobrin
“What do you mean, you want our child to be human?”
Olivia looked guiltily into the purple eyes of the man she loved and tried to figure out how to tell him she didn’t want their baby to be like him.
“Knox, I just… there’s so few humans left, and of course there’s nothing wrong with being humanx, you know I don’t think that, but every year there’s fewer humans, and…,” she trailed off weakly, not knowing how to continue.
“I thought we agreed we wanted to give our kids every advantage we could, Livie. Why do you want to limit them to just human genes now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being human!”
“But humanx could give them so much more! We could splice their genes so they have the eyesight of a cat, the strength of a gorilla, regeneration-,”
“You know we could never afford the regeneration mod,” she interrupted without thinking, then wished she hadn’t.
Knox gripped the edge of the kitchen island with white knuckled hands. The wood crackled, and he immediately let go and crossed his arms over his chest. Olivia’s lips twitched. Even when he was mad, he was so careful with his strength. She hated that they were arguing.
“Only eight percent of people have completely human DNA, and a lot of them are elderly,” she said, striving to sound calm. “I want the future to have humans in it. I want to pass that on.”
“And this has nothing to do with your lunch with your parents yesterday, does it?”
“Knox!”
“Livie, they’re purists, and they hate me-,”
“I know. I know that, and I love you, and I need you to believe that this is coming from me and not from them.”
Knox looked at her and sighed. “I love you too. I believe you, but… but this feels like you’re asking me to hurt our kids. To take away their potential. I know there’s not a lot of humans left, but humans, humanx, we’re all people, what does it matter?”
Olivia paused and considered. “What if we had one of each?”
“We can’t have his and hers kids. That wouldn’t be fair to them. They’ll be jealous of each other, think that we love one of them more, that we wanted them to be different than how they are.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Olivia acknowledged. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We have time to figure it out,” Knox said, pulling her into his arms. “We haven’t even made our genetic consultation appointment yet. What if we talk to a counselor first?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Olivia echoed. She wrapped her arms around his waist and they held each other.
by submission | Aug 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Unable to sleep, Merl slipped out of his tiny apartment pod to walk the rainy streets outside; guilt gnawed away at his conscience like a ravenous rat. Before long he spotted a Holo-Halo booth across the street; one of hundreds positioned throughout the city by Civic Spiritual Corporation, or CSC. It’s ‘vacant’ sign glowed softly, beckoning him to enter.
The prefab booth was designed to mimic an old world confessional’s ornately carved dark wood, at once comforting and authoritative. A small calligraphed sign explained, “Only 30 credits to clear your conscience. Absolution guaranteed.” Merl pressed his credit card against the small pad beside the booth’s door.
Payment accepted, the door clicked open; as he stepped inside it closed with a soft, sure thunk. The space was just large enough for Merl to turn around and seat himself on a little bench protruding from the wall. As soon as he did, an interactive holo-pad appeared before him, while a soothing voice of indeterminate gender addressed him.
“Please choose a confessor from the following menu.”
Merl read through the list of six confessors and, not being particularly religious, chose number 6 on a whim. The Monk of the Meteoric Mysteries. As soon as he chose, the holo-pad vanished, and the booth’s wood-paneled wallpaper transitioned to a wooded mountain vista, complete with burbling stream and occasional birdsong. The hard wooden bench became a sun-warm boulder.
Mel sighed. Such a serene setting! I should’ve done this sooner, he thought. Totally worth 30 credits.
The Monk materialized before him, wearing a purple robe trimmed in gold. Shaved head, heavily tattooed. Eyes that shone like distant lanterns on a moonless night.
“State your transgression,” the Monk intoned.
“I, uh, stole from my employer,” Merl mumbled.
“In what capacity,” the Monk queried. “To what extent?”
“I work in accounting. I skimmed credits off his executive expense account.”
“Why?”
“To treat my new girlfriend to a weekend at a resort hotel.”
The Monk closed his eyes and chanted softly, repeating the same unintelligible mantra over and over. Merl suspected the Monk was searching his database for the appropriate punishment.
Abruptly, the Monk’s eyes opened. “For penance, you will reimburse your employer’s account, plus 15 percent interest. Place your palm near mine.” The Monk raised his left hand.
Merl did as instructed. He couldn’t actually touch the hologram Monk’s hand, but positioned his hand as close to it as possible. Twelve quick bursts of electricity stung Merl’s palm.
“You are absolved,” the Monk said. “Thank you for using Holo-Halo’s services.” He bowed. “You may go.”
“But there’s more,” Merle said.
“For further absolution, please deposit an additional 30 credits.” The holo-pad reappeared.
Merl swiped his card.
“Continue your confession,” the Monk stated flatly.
“My girlfriend is also my employer’s daughter.” Merl continued, “And CSC prohibits fraternization between employees.”
“Your employer is my creator,” the Monk noted. “It behooves me to report your breach of contract to CSC. Your penance will be severe.” The Monk closed his eyes and chanted before vanishing.
A scowling, hulking prison guard appeared in his stead. The serene mountain scene disappeared, replaced with the close stone walls of prison cell, complete with squealing rats scurrying across the wet floor. The warm boulder became a cold, hard iron bench.
The guard slapped a nightstick against his meaty palm.
“I want to terminate this confession!” Merl screeched. “Now!”
In the distance, Merl heard approaching sirens of CSC security. “Here comes your absolution,” the guard grinned and, raising his nightstick, flung an arc of sparks across the prison cell.
