by Julian Miles | Jan 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Mister Grumsen looks about the little interview room. Nothing’s changed since he last inspected his paltry domain, but kings have to survey no matter how trivial, I presume.
He nods at me.
“One more before lunch, I think.”
I press the admission button. The door slides open and a nervous young man almost creeps in, cap literally in hand.
Grumsen looks him up and down, then refers to the display projected onto the frosted glass by his right shoulder.
“Michael Evander Durham?”
The cap carrier nods.
“Take a seat.”
He does so, perching on the edge of the chair.
“So, Michael. Just completed college?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grumsen nods approvingly and makes a note on his tablet: “Polite. Instinctive manners are so rare these days.”
Michael smiles: “My father always-”
Grumsen raises a hand: “That was not an inferred query, Mister Durham. Please respond only to direct questions.”
Michael nods.
“Good. Now, I see your GPA was only 3.4?”
“Yes, sir. In the top ten percent of my year.”
“With a primary focus on mathematics, secondary on the sciences?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now. I think I see a bright future. Adam, who do we have for this budding salaryman?”
I look at my screen, where Michael’s details have already been circulated to every company that might be interested.
“Bayer-Boeing are the leading bidder.”
I forward the details to his display.
Grumsen looks them over, then looks back at Michael. I can see the edge of the wide smile on his face.
“Glad tidings, Mister Durham. Bayer-Boeing place your net dollar-diem at 5.28 an hour, for an annual return of 13,728. Which gives rise to their generous offer of a 205,920 donation to your family fund for your lifetime of service.”
He looks puzzled. I can see him doing mental calculations.
“Only fifteen years?”
Grumsen shakes his head: “Correct. The lifespan average for your residential area is 42 years. Current demographic data indicates the final twenty-five percent of working life for people from your background is marred by poor health, childcare crises, and similar distractions. Therefore, they flatline the remaining five years for offer purposes, but will pro-rata the dollar-diem rate quoted here on a weekly basis from the start of your sixteenth year.”
Michael shrugs: “Twenty years isn’t bad, I suppose. Better than my brother.”
I can see his brother got a five-year plus ten pro-rata offer for working as a blast miner on Mars. Died during his ninth year in a non-culpable industrial incident.
“We’ll need a decision before you leave, Mister Durham. Adam, what’s the offer on Michael’s next lowest donation?”
“186,810. Fifteen-year fixed term.”
Grumsen flashes me a sideways look of anger. He doesn’t like it when I give the candidates information beyond what he deems fit.
Michael shrugs.
“Guess I’m slaving for Bayer-Boeing, then. But, before I go: What was Adam’s offer?”
Grumsen bristles. I action acceptance processing on the Bayer-Boeing offer before replying.
“My dollar-diem offer was six-an-hour for thirty years, with optional ‘Until Death’ pro rata afterwards.”
Grumsen goes white. He spins to face me, completely ignoring Michael.
“I graduated from Harvard! How the devil did you get better than anything I’ve ever heard of?”
“I’m told to say it was my 4.0 GPA and a near-perfect family profile. As we’re in a screened room, I’m free to tell you my mother’s sister’s husband is the eldest son of the CEO of ATOX Careers.”
Grumsen mutters something under his breath, then turns back to Michael.
“Thank you, Mister Durham. We’re done.”
Michael bursts out laughing.
“I knew I was. Nice to know you were too.”
by submission | Jan 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“The cries of the people will not be drowned out by ignorance! They can’t turn their backs forever; can’t run away from a revolution.”
“Turning and running? Sounds like a misguided aerobics class. Bartender, two more, please.”
In a spaceport bar, Harmon and Stickles, two reporters were arguing again. Working for rival newsites, Harmon wrote to pull at the heartstrings on the downtrodden, depressed, and paranoid. Stickles wrote to keep his ex-wives and landlord off his back.
They sat next to one another, facing the bar with its liquor bottles and monitors showing news and sports.
“Look up,” said Harmon, pointing up to the glass dome and the galaxy. “How can Earth think, with the suffering colonies on planets and moons, like this one, they should maintain control?”
Stickles paid for the drinks, shaking his head at his dwindling credit account. “Earth paid for these colonies. They sent the people up. They made life possible. Why shouldn’t they?”
“That was a hundred years ago,” said Harmon, taking a swig and wincing at the sharp edge. “In that time, colonists have died. Corners were cut on spacecraft. Terraforming programs were slipshod. Earth let these colonies decay. Meanwhile, Earth has reaped all the benefits from mining and research. People don’t like living on scraps. They won’t take it much longer.”
“How do you cry for independence while you’re living off Mom and Dad,” said Stickles. “America, they separated from England but still wanted trade privileges. Was anyone surprised when America fell like a house of cards and had to go back a few hundred years later, hat in hand?”
The bar was filling up. Transport workers got off from their shifts and travelers sought a resting spot before their flights.
“What of the secret police?!” Harmon asked. “How many disappearances must the colonists endure, family members going away, never being heard from again?”
Stickles said, “People go away for all kinds of reasons; say the wrong thing at the wrong time!”
Harmon took another drink. “It’s the sign of a police state! Nobody is safe! Doesn’t that bother you?!”
Stickles finished his drink, got up, and put on his coat. He looked at one of the screens for winning lottery numbers, sighing; he’d lost again.“Got to go. Deadline in a few hours.” They shook hands. “Good to see you. Try not to take everything so seriously.”
Harmon watched Stickles walk away, weaving through the crowd.
Stickles went back to his apartment. He’d moved near the spaceport because he thought being at a galactic hub brought its share of stories to your door. Another poor decision.
He opened the door and found two men in uniform.
“H. Stickles? #54-057-5999?” the taller officer asked. Stickles nodded. “You were speaking today with one V. Harmon, a reporter known for spreading dangerous, radical lies?”
Stickles was stunned. “Harmon is Harmon.”
The officer continued. “Did he present you with anti-government propaganda? We could reward you financially if you help with this traitor.”
Stickles stared at the officers sitting and the torn furniture in his dank home. He thought of his debts, his problems, and his friend of many years.
He shook his head, smiling a little. “Not at all. Everything was above board.”
“That’s enough,” said a familiar voice from behind. “Failure to report dangerous remarks made about our government is an actionable offense. Bring him in for questioning.”
As the officers rose, weapons raised, Stickles didn’t turn to see who it was. He had lost another bet. It was Harmon.
by submission | Jan 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“Drugs. Alcohol. Sex.” The missionary was praising the tolerance of the Jirt. She leaned forwards. “They don’t care.”
Francisco shuffled awkwardly on the bench. A woman like her saying sex. His grandfather placed a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder without taking his gaze from the missionary.
She turned to the old man. “You remember how it was. I saw a Jirt once, being asked about the Ten Commandments, and it just did that eye-cleaning thing with its front legs – you know, like a shrug. No, the important thing is the Rolling.”
“Then she did that circle with her hand,” fumed Francisco later.
“Yes,” murmured his grandfather. “I was there.”
Francisco did a creditable impersonation.“They just did that eye-rolling thing.” The lad rolled his eyes. “You know, like we do when someone mentions holy rollers. No, the important thing is the bullsh…”
“Enough.”
The Policia had come knocking after his grandfather took Francisco out of school. A school run by Holy Rollers now.
Sheriff Pérez and Eduardo Balcázar had grown up in the same village, where Eduardo’s mother had been known as a brujo, a witch. The sheriff’s gaze kept sidling away, glancing round the room.
“Can’t risk it,” he repeated. “Look at Rome. Look at what happened in Utah. Look…”
What happened in Utah, Francisco wanted to know.
“They wouldn’t let Roller missionaries in; wanted nothing to do with the Jirt.”
“Yes, but what happened?”
“Don’t you teach him nothing Eduardo? Is why I got to bring you both in. Can’t risk it.”
Francisco watched the man’s hand coming to rest on his gun butt, then taking off again, like a wasp shooed away from something sweet.
“All gone. Just white ash.”
Their instrucción started next morning; half a dozen folk waiting uneasily. One of the teachers was the missionary from yesterday. She held the door open for a man rolling a chest-high dung ball.
Even amongst the Jirt there were differences in interpretation, she explained, different factions. Only the ultra-orthodox rolled dung wherever they went. She kept her own ball of dung safe at home, and rolled it of an evening.
The man interrupted en mal español. “We are humbled by a superior race. They tell us our God is nonsense; how their insect ancestors rolled balls of dung; that it is the correct response to an indifferent universe.”
He glared from face to face. “Who are you to question them? This is your last chance to convert.”
An old fellow stood up. “You think at my age I will join in this madness?”
He limped out the door, giving the parked dung ball a kick.
That afternoon they were two less. Francisco watched the Policia take the old fellow and his wife away. Waiting for the Holy Roller, the woman missionary sat down amongst them. “There is no choice,” she said sadly. “Jirt don’t tolerate choice. Get a ball of dung. Roll it sometimes. It is all they demand.”
The yanqui came in, preceded by his dung ball. In its travels, it had acquired a wispy halo of leaves and straw.
The woman stood and smoothed down her robe. “We were just saying, cow dung is fine, and loses its smell when dried.”
Afterward, Francisco tried to get his grandfather’s attention.
His grandfather’s gaze was very far away. He still held the handout, Caring For Your Dung Ball.
“First the Catholic priests,” he said. “Now the Jirt.”
Francisco chattered anxiously. “Perhaps we should keep one in the barn. Just roll it into town on Sundays. Is that what we should do, grandfather?”
by submission | Jan 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
The Star was rising to the Significant Angle once again. The inhabitants of Planet finished their chores and went to bed. We had to keep our celebratory noises down as they don’t take kindly to drunken songs and pointless countdowns. Some of us gathered at Bar Number 2, the second bar built on this planet and the only one built to accommodate hapless Earthlings.
This Significant Angle day was a little different. Twenty from Down-the-River was with us. Born and raised on Planet, he had never seen or heard much about other alien races until the first Earth refugees arrived.
“So you celebrate when your planet finishes a trip around your star?”
“Yes, we do.”
“And you celebrate by incapacitating yourself with alcohol?”
“Well, not all of us. Just, a lot of us.”
Twenty wasn’t drinking. Nineteen and Nineteen-Two had told him what it did when imbibed.
“And a lot of you gather and drink together? That sounds like a recital for disaster.”
His Earth Common had room for improvement.
“The word is ‘recipe’, but yes. It quite often becomes messy, but we …” I circle my finger at my mates, “drink responsibly.”
It was easy to tell that Twenty was confused by that phrase. Planet natives and Earthlings look quite similar; a fact that was instrumental in establishing diplomatic relationships, and their willingness to take in Earth refugees.
“You say Earthlings celebrate this New Year for this thing called ‘hope’, even making these… resolvents?”
“Resolutions.”
“Right. And instead of preparing to do these resolutions, you incapacitate yourself the night before?”
“Well, it’s an excuse to party.”
“Do you think that if Earthlings were truly responsible, you wouldn’t have to escape your planet?”
It suddenly felt a little suffocating. I wasn’t sure if it was the rising alcohol fumes or the tension Twenty had inadvertently dumped on us. He had been so nice to me at work that I forgot his race could be uncomfortably blunt. How the first diplomats overcame this barrier is still a mystery to me.
“Well, it’s time for bed. Work tomorrow,” said Tom.
“Yeah, we’ve had four rounds already,” said Dick.
I was left alone with Twenty, who was looking down at the spills on the table, uncharacteristically quiet.
“I said something wrong, didn’t I?”
I pushed my chair a little closer to him and asked the barkeep for a fifth.
“No, nothing about what you said was wrong, my friend. It’s just that, you know, some truths are hard for us to hear.”
“I really need you to explain it to me, Harry. I want to get along with your kind.”
“Ok…let’s see… erm… We Earthlings, like to attach meaning to things, for more than just practical reasons. Hope, you see, is a pretty big thing. It’s something we like to carry with us and it keeps us going when things look bleak. Some of us brought this hope here, to start a new life away from the evils that are plaguing our planet. Some of us stayed behind to fight them. In any form, hope is what gives us the will to move into the future. To many of us, that is what the New Year means: We don’t give up, and we are going to try again.”
The barkeep arrived with a fresh mug of ale, one of the few fine exports from Earth.
“But not before drowning our regrets.”
I pushed the mug towards Twenty. He carefully brought it towards his mouth, then took a wary sip.
“I see,” he said.
by submission | Jan 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Debra dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce. “I’m glad my folks could take the kids so we could have a quiet night in. How’s your father spending this New Year’s Eve? As if I have to ask.” The couple sat at their dining room table in a space open to the living room.
“Same as always since Mom died,” replied her husband, Richard, as he smeared mango chutney crab spread on a cracker. “He’s time-traveling back to when they went to Vienna for New Year’s Eve on their honeymoon.”
“That’s sweet, but it’s a little sad he always uses his annual temporal allowance to revisit the same time and place. I’d think since he was a science teacher for all those years, he’d like to peek over the shoulder of Newton or Einstein. Shake hands with Kryne of Euler. Even get crazy and see a T-Rex for gosh sake.”
“He misses her so much. And the day he describes sounds wonderful— Sachertorte in a Viennese cafe, seeing the Lipizzaners, waltzing to The Blue Danube at midnight… Speaking of temporal allowances, where would you like to go this year?”
“I was thinking the Globe Theater, 1610, first-ever performance of The Tempest. It would be wonderful for us and educational for the kids.”
Richard raised his champaign flute. “One of my favorites. ‘all … are melted into air, into thin air…’ It’s a date.”
Debra touched her glass to her husband’s. “I wonder if the future will ever be declassified? I’d love to take a peek.”
“Time will tell.”
Debra laughed. She loved Richard’s sense of humor. The couple spent the evening lost in conversation. A few minutes before midnight, Richard announced he had a surprise. “Computer, run New Year’s Eve program.”
A virtual stage and a tuxedoed man at a standing microphone appeared in the living room. “For Debra and Richard,” he said.
“Our song, Honey. Shall we?” Richard stood and held out his hand. Before Debra could take it, his ring began flashing. “Who’d contact me so late?” His voice was pitched with alarm. “Computer, pause program.” The crooner’s face froze in a microexpression that made him look as if he were screaming in pain.
Debra’s husband twisted his ring. “This is Richard Rinehart.”
“Mr. Rinehart, Temporal Command here. I’m afraid I have disturbing news. Your father has somehow deactivated his Paradox Prevention Buffer, gone off-script and refuses to return. Our agents are en route to perform the necessary corrections — and elimination. You should say your goodbyes.”
“What? Wait! No!”
“Richard?”
“Don’t panic, Debra. Dad’s wiley. Maybe he’ll elude the agents … at least long enough for him and Mom to …” He pointed to himself. “I —”
#
“Five minutes till midnight,” Samuel said loudly above the din of the festive jazz club. Debra forced a smile across the table. The vague sense of loss that never left her gnawed especially deep this time of year and made her reflect on her life. Her parents had thought her too young to get married all those years ago, but Samuel turned out to be a wonderful husband — smart, romantic, and someone who’d have been an excellent father if she hadn’t decided against having children.
The singer began her last set. Samuel stood and held out his hand. “I got her to do your favorite song, Honey.”
Yes, my song, Debra thought. It made her ache for some lost place and time. She’d go there with a temporal allowance — if only she knew where and when.
“Debra?”
“Sorry.” Debra tried to smile, took Samuel’s hand and danced with him into tomorrow.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Carter sat on a long low bench in the middle of the observatory and stared out into deep space. He hunted the blackness for a fleck of light, then watched it hawklike, trying to gauge its position relative to the edge of the viewport to see if it, or rather they, were moving.
“Happy New Year”, Jess appeared in his peripheral vision, an alloy mug in both hands, grinning.
“I wonder if these are really windows at all,” Carter spoke, not looking up, “I sometimes think they’re just projections, and the computer puts things on them to keep us from going insane with all the emptiness that’s really out there.” He gestured in the general direction of the window, half-heartedly.
“You’re a cheerful bugger, aren’t you?” Jess handed him one of the mugs and stood with her own outstretched toward him. “Cheers!”
Carter looked from the mug he was now holding, to hers, then up to her smiling face.
“Why are we still celebrating some arbitrary timescale based on the orbit of a planet we haven’t seen in a hundred years around a star we haven’t seen in almost as long?”
Jess withdrew her mug and sighed.
“I mean,” Carter continued, “we may as well celebrate the rotation of the plasma cores or our rotation out of cold storage.”
“Well I, for one, celebrate my rotation out of cold storage every – damn – time.” Jess cupped the drink in both hands, shifting her weight from foot to foot absently. This wasn’t the first time Carter had gotten off on a rant about a tradition or protocol he thought was stupid or outdated.
“Listen,” Jess waited until Carter looked at her directly, “we marked the first twenty years of our lives by the revolution of that planet around that star, and until we get where we’re going, that’s the calendar we’re sticking to. On a new world, with a new orbital duration around a new star, we’ll adjust, but until then, it helps out here with no visible path behind us, or ahead of us, to keep these frames of reference so that the rest of us,” she grinned, pausing to let the dig sink in, “so that the rest of us don’t lose our minds.”
Carter looked back out into space, the fleck he’d been tracking now almost gone from his field of view.
“It just seems silly, how many of these years have passed while we’ve been asleep, and how many more will pass when we sleep again?”
Jess sat down next to him, bumping him gently shoulder to shoulder.
“How many years did everyone else sleep through, before the end came?” Her tone turned solemn, “How many won’t ever get to wake up?”
She was right, and Carter knew it. Truth be told this is what he hated about these reminders, the traditions, the promises made to change, to do better, all for what?
“We’ll be asleep before the next one comes around, so let’s try to enjoy this one, while we’re here, ok?”
She raised her mug, and Carter met her halfway, the noise they made on contact some kind of permission for them to both drink.
“Happy one more revolution of the drive cores Carter.”
He laughed and bumped shoulders with her again.
“Happy one more revolution around the sun Jess, even if we’re not there to see it.”
As if on cue, a distant star crept onto the forward edge of the viewport, and they sat there in silence, sipping whiskey from alloy cups and watching as they slowly passed it by.
