by submission | Dec 17, 2019 | Story |
Author: Stephen C. Curro
The air is sour with smoke. Emergency sirens shriek in the distance. All around me the world is burning.
My four arms cut through the haze. I stumble over the rubble, hardly able to believe that this was a busy plaza moments ago.
“Mal’ven?” I call out. “Where are you?”
“Soo’so?”
My three hearts quicken at the sound of my mate’s voice. My stilt-like legs nearly trip as I climb over the carcass of the building. “I’m coming, my love!”
I see her now. She’s straining to push a chunk of stone off her abdomen. It breaks my hearts to see her battered and blue with blood. I’m crying with grief…oh, Holy Spirits; I haven’t wept like this in years.
I lower my body and cradle her in my arms. The embrace she returns is weak. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “We’re getting off this planet.”
“Soo’so,” she groans. She’s in shock. I must free her immediately.
I grasp the debris and strain to lift it. With a grunt I flip the slab of concrete and metal over, freeing my mate. I help her to her feet and we hobble together down the ruined street, toward the embassy.
People are stirring in the ruins as we pass by. Some human, others alien. There are bloody bodies half-exposed in the rubble that do not move. All for what? For fanatics to express how much they detest our presence?
May the Spirits forgive me; this is my fault.
I was the one who insisted we take our holiday here on Earth. “We must show that our race holds no animosity”, I said. “After all, the war was so long ago. Earth is a civilized world again.”
We have paid for my naivety. Too many humans feel that “revenge” must be sought. There is no word for “revenge” in my people’s language; it is a strange, violent concept that has driven humans mad long before my people ever landed on Earth.
I’m burning with an anger that is almost as hot as the fires around me. I cannot comprehend how these humans are incapable of forgiveness. A century has passed since the war ended.
My people have absolved humanity for the crimes of the old war, and still the radicals persist in their violence. They are under the delusion that killing innocent aliens (who were not even born during the war!) is an act of justice. They bomb restaurants, and assault hotels, and gun down pedestrians on the street. They even strike against humans who are accepting of visitors from other worlds. Spirits above, they kill their own people!
I was wrong. Perhaps eventually humanity will come of age, but I fear that day will not arrive anytime soon.
I have wasted enough time musing about human nature. The important thing is we survived, and I will atone for my foolishness by getting us home.
I can see the embassy in the distance. Just a little farther…
I have seen what civilization looks like. It does not exist on this planet.
by Julian Miles | Dec 16, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“I said I wanted soy milk, not almond.”
The lady brandishes her mug at me like it’s a talisman of doom and she’s a banespeaker. I sigh. If only it were that simple.
Taking the mug, I tip the perfectly good coffee away, then make one while she cranes her neck to follow my every move.
“Sorry about that, madam.”
She glowers at me and waves her card across the paypoint.
“Vanny! Table thirty!”
Only Bernadino, my manager, calls me that. I look across the room and see I do indeed have a customer, one who clearly has an aversion to sunlight.
“Tanya! You’re Barista Two. Vanny, go serve.”
Providence has provided early release. I don an apron, grab a tray and terminal, then head for my section. It’s a long walk over to the furthest rear corner.
“Good afternoon,” I pause to size up my client, “madam. How can Woodhouse Café satisfy you today?”
When I first saw the name, I thought it a good omen. The gods must have laughed so hard.
I glance up from the terminal to meet violet eyes that sparkle like she’s about to launch balefire. Ancestral ghost – or instinct – prompts me to drop. Blue flames cascade past to splash against the ceiling. Screaming starts behind me. I come up off the floor, snatching the Bowie knife from my ankle sheath.
“Son of Talmir, you ran far.”
She’s on me fast, sure of a quick finish. The knife is through her midriff and protruding from her back before she realises she’s failed.
“Haste will end you, witchkin.”
“My name is Maleanu. Look for me in Argnad.”
“The Nether City will never know my name, witchkin.”
I push her off my blade, draw the sign of the Unrepentant over her body, then duck as something comes in fast and near-silent. I spin into my dodge and come out blade-first, much to the dismay of Maleanu’s guardian. He tries to twist out of the way but only succeeds in turning a stabbing into a gutting.
Dropping to the floor, I end his screams, then rise and make the sign of the Unrepentant over him as well.
“Sir! Please put the knife down, then get on your knees and put your hands on your head.”
I turn to see a young policeman, one shaking palm raised toward me, the other clutching a pepper spray.
“I’m sorry, officer, but I dare not do that.”
“You believe there could be more assailants?”
He glances nervously about. The distraction lets me move in and knock him out.
“My liege, if you wanted a new guise, you had only to ask.”
I look toward the fire exit. There’s a slight figure standing in the open doorway, portal generator in one hand, a smaller replica of my Bowie knife in the other. Her pointed ears quiver and lean toward the right.
“All sorts of attention coming, my liege.”
I shuck the apron and switch scabbard from ankle to belt as I walk across the room. I can see ruby peaks and blue trees beyond the doorway.
“Told you before, there’s no need for formality. So, where now?”
“Any reality with technology seems to harbour a few of their agents. Until the court are ready to return, I think it best we be nomads roaming pre-industrial worlds.”
I smile down at her.
“Time to go, Laurenti.”
She grins: “Very well, Vantris.”
The door swings shut.
Bernadino rushes across and opens the door. Seeing nothing but bins and alleyway, he carefully closes the door and resets the locking bar before fainting.
by submission | Dec 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Brenda Anderson
The Little Time Machine got tired of ferrying passengers back and forth in space-time. He wrote a polite letter of resignation to his employers, Time Taxis, and fled to the 18th century.
Here he discovered a life of culture, refinement and music. Time Taxis eventually caught up with him at the back of a baroque concert. They seized him, brought him home and began a complete overhaul.
“Life isn’t about constant movement,” he protested. “Seriously, guys, I’ve found another way. Music. Enlightenment. I can explain.”
One mechanic rolled his eyes. “Ooh, I can’t wait.”
His mate laughed. “What a wally.”
The third mechanic looked thoughtful. “He’ll contaminate the others. Let’s lock him up.”
That night Wally broke free from the Time Out locker and dragged himself up a nearby hill. Below lay an orchard. The trees looked so peaceful he longed to join them, and started down the slope towards them. Unfortunately, lacking steering skills, he lost control, sped down the slope and crashed into a tree.
A pear fell on his head.
Data flooded through him. Disoriented, Wally tried to assess the level of damage. Who knew that pears packed such a punch? One dot point flashed on and off: 72% of humans who bit into a pear claimed to be transported back to their childhood. It was a light bulb moment: time travel and pears, inextricably woven together.
Still, he had to admit that he couldn’t function properly. “I can beat this,” Wally mused. “I think I can, I know I can. I’ll find something to focus on, something to give me motivation.” Finally, it hit him. “I’ll go to work in the trauma wards of hospitals, and give everyone –especially children—back their happy childhoods.”
His plan worked, for a while. He pretended to be an encore act, straight after the therapy clowns. The staff welcomed him. “Such an original idea: a Time Machine that can spin stories to keep even the sickest children spellbound. He even looks funny. All those dents and scrapes.” But once again Time Taxis caught up with him and this time they sent him to scrap.
“I’m a pear, I am, I am,” murmured Wally. “I can give you back your childhood. Just bite into me.”
A machine with a large circular saw rolled towards him, its metal teeth spinning.
Only then did Wally realise that, even in the world of semi-retired time machines, things often go pear shaped. But he fought back. With a huge effort he time-jumped and crashed into the same pear tree. “I knew I could. I knew I could!”
Pears showered down on him.
The Little Time Machine couldn’t believe it. He was back where he’d started from, in a forest, with not a machine in sight. He buried himself in the soft soil. Maybe I’ll turn into some sort of seed, and spring up in some new, glorious body.
A pear, perhaps?
He activated hibernation mode and went to sleep, utterly confident of a glorious renaissance.
by submission | Dec 14, 2019 | Story |
Author: Emma K. Leadley
Karl twitched in his sleep. He dreamed of tomatoes. Fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes with their firm texture, sweet innards and tantalising smell. He twisted one from its stem and bit into it, juice and seeds running down his chin and–
The hub lights came on, his alarm beeping.
“Dammit, just when it was getting good,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes and stretching. Morning ablutions done and suited up, he entered the mess area and nodded to his colleagues. Grabbing a coffee with its stale, recycled-water taste, he thought back to the tomatoes again, mouth watering.
Moving on to the biodome he looked over the growth data. The legumes were fine; they were growing up their supports, albeit slower than calculations predicted. The alliums had overtaken their growth curve. Fresh garlic proved a hit with the crew. But the nightshades were more difficult. The last crop of potatoes had grown but reached a size limit beyond which nothing could coax them to expand. Everyone compared eating them to chewing on cardboard, worse than the ration packs. They weren’t enough to sustain the calorie requirements of a hungry crew, let alone keep them happy with texture and taste. At least the chilli peppers weren’t looking too bad.
He’d dropped the idea of eggplants; they weren’t calorie dense enough for the space they took to grow. But the tomatoes should have been easy. Only he couldn’t even get them to flower, let alone grow their fruit. He thought back to his last meal on Earth. The whole family crammed round the table, heaped spaghetti bolognese onto their plates and shouting over each other, as ever. Light years away now. He took off his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes. Semi-blinded, he knocked his coffee mug onto a batch of tomato seedlings.
Two months later, they started flowering.
by submission | Dec 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
The leather-wrapped handle of his dual-edged battle-axe was slick in his clenching fists. The snow-coated everything of Sverre’s including his helmet, beard, massive bare arms, and boots. He was in the seventh or the tenth line of men, he really couldn’t count that well. All his kinship was collected around him in sporadic rows holding their own axes and swords and spears. Some of them had cloaks or furs draped across their shoulders which they would shrug off as soon as the word was given but Sverre was not cold. He had battle lust pumping through his veins. They all shuffled from one foot to another in anticipation of the attack. There were legions of men, most on the ground but the richer ones mounted on horseback. They had come together, putting aside regional squabbles, in a combined force against this new adversary.
Before them, on the hill, the enemy waited. Snarling yawps echoed down the field frightening none of his folk. They were itching for a skirmish and they had these devil beasts outnumbered by a large margin. Yes, they were huge, half again as big as a man and twice the girth, hideous spawns of some dragon bitch mother. Gristly hides and gnarled backs, black gleaming eyes and clawed hands. But they would bleed into the snow like any other creature under the slashing of Sverre’s axe blade. Some of his brethren would perish for certain but their success as a triumphant army was determined.
Their catapults would begin firing as soon as the battle commenced and the stone missiles would cut through the gargoyle’s ranks ahead of their mounted charge up the mountain. They would come together in a clash, spill the guts of this dastardly enemy and cherish the taste of victory.
As long as they could avoid the monster’s weapons; crossbows of a fashion that were rumored to unleash bolts of fire. And once the fiends were destroyed, they would take the magical castle, made up of a thousand thousand twisted swords and burning with multi-colored swirling torches, that had descended from the clouds. And once again Sverre’s people would hold dominion over these sacred lands.
The flags were dropped, the projectiles released and Sverre surged forward with his comrades, a bellow on his lips, as the onslaught erupted. The melee had begun.
by submission | Dec 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
Good evening, parents and teachers. As you all know, I was the engineer in charge of investigating the accident.
I’ll begin by recapping what was on the news. Eighteen-year-old Samantha Chen was on her phone and did not see the STOP signal for the pedestrian crossing. A self-driving car was approaching, and instead of slamming on the brakes while maintaining course, it swerved and hit the group of pedestrians waiting by the side of the road. Two people died, one of them a teacher of this school. Here’s where the news gets a little murky.
I have written programs for similar models, so I know that the car did something it was not supposed to do. For me, autonomous vehicles do not need distractions like the trolley problem. It is simple; the person who is putting their life in the care of the car must be protected. Hence, the sensible thing to do in the event of a sudden slow-moving obstacle is to slam on the brakes and not swerve lest you lose control.
When I checked the vehicle’s programming, I found there were a few additional lines of code that were added in post-production. Through further investigations, I learned the owner has a son, a smart kid; the type who learns multivariable calculus at age five. He was given the ‘Smartbrain’ software for his birthday; the one which allows children to build their very own AI. It was made to be educational and simple, but it was also controversial because it made unnecessarily powerful capabilities available to kids.
Yeah, I see some discomfort in my fellow Millennials. I threw my fair share of sheep back in the day.
Anyway, the kid got really into it and somehow made a terrifyingly competent AI that could crack our encryptions. He decided to test it out on his Dad’s car, just to probe around. That was how he accessed our codes and came across the segment labeled ‘Hazard response’, which housed the procedure I had described earlier.
He thought it was a mistake! He had heard so much about the ‘trolley problem’ when reading up on autonomous vehicles in school that he thought each car should come with its own ‘trolley protocol’. He then proceeded to do what he thought was a public service; he wrote one himself with some help from Smartbrain.
In the milliseconds before the accident, the AI did a cursory internet search and found a lot of Samantha. She is all over social media and a very popular influencer. Through her, corporations have made millions marketing to young people. She is the poster child of trendy, and there’s a good chance your kids know her.
Contrast this with the older people standing by the road, people like you and me. We have less time for social media, don’t know how to ‘full screen’ a hologram, and still think Instagram is relevant. According to that kid’s algorithm, based entirely on digital footprints, the combined worth of the law-abiding adults is less than that of a social media influencer.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that young Samantha is alright and I’m sorry for the loss of Mr. Ross. The message I want to convey today is please, talk to your kids. Have conversations with them about the consequences of their actions. Smartbrain has since been recalled but with all these regulation rollbacks, there will be more irresponsible developers. Intelligence is not wisdom; your kids may be smart but they still need you.
That’s all I have. Please, enjoy the buffet.
