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.”
by submission | Jul 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Poyner
Stoyan looks down at the broken glass.
“You would be this awkward if you had six legs,” he says.
And I probably would be. No matter what else, this host-an-alien program is proving a way to expand perceptions. I am learning oh so much. Stoyan is teaching me all about awkward. He wouldn’t say clumsy, oh self-consciously no, but he would admit awkward.
Mina two doors down is hosting a gas-based visitor. Most of the day he spends swirling about in his translucent orb, tapping out short messages, emitting revelations about the universe he seems to think Mina would love to know. At night, he lets himself out, is sustained in the ambient air pressure as a string of glittering vapor. He quietly had been having sex with Mina in her sleep for two weeks before she knew it, if you want to call what he does with her sex. Now that she knows, she hasn’t attempted to stop him. She doesn’t quite yet know how she can, or whether she should.
Stroyan is waiting for me to sweep up the glass. This is the second breakage this week. All the while, Mina and I and others in the guest program catalog what each visiting alien species can and cannot do, which bends and folds they cannot accomplish, what corners befuddle them, what passions drive them. When they finally get comfortable, settle into an accommodating niche, that will be our time to strike.
by submission | Jul 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Nick Carter
Blackness. Brilliant light. Twinkling suns. It was beautiful. He had never seen anything like it. Even from the starship, it wasn’t like this. There, he was held back by man-made metals and alloys. “Barriers,” he thought. Barriers holding him back from the true beauty of the world. The universe. No more. Almost. He still had a spacesuit keeping him at bay. He was so close to being free, free from the restraints of an artificial existence. No longer would he be held accountable for trivial responsibilities. No more checklists, long shifts, or drama from other crew members. He gazed out towards one of the smaller stars in his view. So much potential, unparalleled, really. So much possibility for great civilizations, monumental accomplishments. It was all probably happening right now. New life sprouting upon thousands, millions of planets. Old life continuing to grow and develop an understanding of their world, or about to die out, like a soft breath over a flame. And he wouldn’t see it. He would not get to witness any of it. Which was the objective of his mission? Was. It was no longer his mission. He did not have to carry it out anymore. It was someone else’s job. This gave him no comfort. He wanted this mission. This was his mission. No more. He looked at his oxygen levels. Very low. Two minutes until depletion. He looked on this in sorrow. He floated in serenity for what seemed like hours. No thinking, just feeling. Feeling his gloves, his boots. The warmth they provided. He could also feel the cold. The cold from the outside. The cold from the universe. He could feel its touch. He welcomed it. One minute. He listened, but could only hear his breathing. Thirty seconds. He did not want this, but where would be a better place to perish? Twenty seconds. He was among the stars. Ten seconds. He took off his helmet, the last barrier, and felt the cold embrace of the cosmos. He was home.
