by submission | Dec 5, 2019 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
Levi ducked around the corner, cowering as the teenagers closed in with their crowbars, pipes and other hard-hitting objects. He wanted to run, but his brass soles would give him away. He had no choice but to extract the soft plastic layer from his arms, which was synthesized just before the onset of the genetic revolution. He did his best to wrap it on his feet, but they could only do so much to offset the weight of his lower limbs, an amalgamation of scrap metal found in the ruins of pre-Heritage war Detroit.
Gingerly, he tip-toed towards the entrance of the waterway; the noise from the teenagers’ ruckus inadvertently helping him out.
“Your time’s up, Scrappy!” shouted one of the boys.
Levi had been called Scrappy for the past ten years, but only after last month when the anti-prosthetics won control of parliament did it amount to any real threat. Within a few days, people close to him were dismantled by roaming vigilantes, their parts used as replacements and ornaments for their macabre toys. The leader of this particular gang had Evelyn’s face tied to the front of his bike. She and Levi had had theirs synthesized from twentieth-century opera masks. Levi had chosen a cast-iron one, while she had chosen a smoother design made from porcelain. Now with the nanomachines removed, she was locked in a permanent, silent scream.
Levi grabbed the bars of the portcullis and pulled, the pistons in his forearms huffing and churning in a desperate bid to save his life. But the portcullis was too heavy, and his mechanical arms, made from the machinery of the Heritage war, gave out with a loud hiss of steam. This alerted the teenagers, and they were onto him faster than he could remove the padding on his feet. They started swinging at him, metal on metal. Levi tried to protect himself, but his arms were useless now. A crowbar connected with his face, knocking out his right eye. It was made from synthetic aqueous humor during the post-war depression; the cheap material was no match for a stomp with a boot.
The mob dragged him to their leader, a studly young man with skin smooth as silk and eyes with a yellow hue that lit up in the dark of night. He was a ‘designer baby’, the product of genetic research arising from the squalid necessities of the depression. He came from a family that could not afford even cheap prosthetics, whose only choice was to wait for gene manipulation to become widely available as welfare. His father, a victim of multiple diseases, had died before he was born.
“Witness the end of history!” shouted the leader as he raised his pole. In one superhuman stroke, he brought it down on Levi to the cheer of his underlings. The pole hit his right shoulder, forcing a sputter of oil, steam, and blood from his already damaged joints. A second stroke caved in his forehead, blowing out his remaining eye. Levi felt no pain, having had his nervous system removed years ago. He was reminiscing the days with Evelyn when the third stroke smashed through to his brain, one of the last created through natural birth.
After that night, tales spread among the frightened prosthetic community of the bike with two faces: a smile and a scream.
by submission | Dec 4, 2019 | Story |
Author: Breeze Navarro
This is it.
I remember the nights the scent of mint would gently pull me to consciousness. Our home would be lit by a single candle. You don’t want to disturb the darkness too much, mom would say. I’d sip tea. She’d sip whiskey and tell me the history of what we were about to see in hushed tones, as though someone was trying to listen in when they weren’t supposed to.
The telescope called us like a lighthouse. It stood alone, facing the phenomenon. When we stepped outside, the air revolved around us like ocean currents and invited drops of sweat. Mom would ask me to look with my bare eyes first. Mars was small and red. When I matched my eye to the telescopes it was glaring, though I don’t know at what. I knew I wanted to go. I knew I wanted to do more than see the heavens through a magnifying glass, bulbous and unreachable.
“The stars carry infinite possibilities. And we are stuck on a lonely planet,” she might say. I was standing next to her though. I was always next to her, coming to her room to say good-bye before I walked myself to school, making dinner because she didn’t seem to be able to make it herself.
She didn’t give hugs or read bedtime stories, but we were always outside to behold something you could only see “once in a lifetime.” Even if it occurred twice a year, or every 10 years, mom said you never knew when you would see it again. Maybe that was something beautiful. Even though she couldn’t be my mom, she sought rare beauties in the sky. Maybe I should have thought about those moments more, instead of how we didn’t have any others.
She knew Mars was my favorite. The night came that I didn’t fall asleep because I was waiting for the scent of mint to drift through the air but it never did. The candle wasn’t lit. She’d forgotten or perhaps she’d slept too heavily to hear her alarm. I left the next day. I went to many places but I never went back.
I sent her a letter when I applied to go to Mars. I didn’t expect to get in, which is why I didn’t go see her. But once you get an acceptance, you can’t say no. We trained for a year before the launch but she never appeared on the days families visited.
I felt the engine disrupting my heartbeat and shaking my bones. This would be my first and last journey from Earth to Mars. Once you leave, you don’t come back. I thought of the boiling pot and the melting candle and imagined her watching a streak across the sky, first with her bare eyes and then through the limiting lens of the telescope.
by submission | Dec 3, 2019 | Story |
Author: Lynn Finger
“How much to fix this glitch?” I said.
“You can’t afford it,” he tossed back.
We were suspended in our respective amplifications, parked in an enabled space elevator made from light. We were formed and holding in the black expanse, our talk focused by the radios in our helmets. I, waiting to join the mines of a meteor near V616 Mon. He, on break from whatever con he was planning next. But I’d heard he was the best.
“No–I can afford it, I will. When I start working in the mines, I’ll throw some coin your way. But I can’t go on like this. This breakdown, whatever it is, is shredding the quarks in my field.” Our eyes met over the shimmering lasers of the space elevator. Our oxygen provided by self-replicating capsules in our skin.
“For the kind of thing you’ve got going on, you’d have to bind your protons to mine, become my slave.”
“You don’t even know if you can fix this,” I said.
“I do know. Shredded quarks I do all the time. You’d be surprised how often this happens off-planet. Your coherence is off. When that goes, you go. The binary holding you together is shit.”
“It’s getting worse,” I said. “Harder to breathe, to see.”
“Your company won’t repair you?”
“My protons are chained, and they have no intention of clearing those.”
He said, “They don’t want you anymore. “
I pressed on. “I want to get out of this shredding, can you do it?”
He laughed. “Yea I could do it. I could let you go free even. But for you, you gotta pay the price.”
“So my life, bound to yours, would buy me—?”
“More time, much more time.”
“Do it,” I said.
He typed into the virtual keyboard at his side. I waited. Nothing happened. I was still being pulled apart.
.
“You didn’t clear it, I’m being torn down.”
He shrugged. “Too bad about the glitch. Guess I don’t need a servant. I’ve helped you on your way to a sooner resolution. Goodbye.”
“What did you do then?”
“I sped up the shredding process.”
“It’s catching you know,” I said. Grabbing his arm. “The shredding doesn’t stop at physical boundaries.”
His image broke momentarily.
“You didn’t ask me what I’ll be doing in the mines,” I said. “Binding protons. Can’t do it for myself, but I can ensure the shredding virus spreads to you. You liar.”
“I let you think what you wanted,” he said.
I took his arm in both my hands. “Here comes the shredders! We’ll disintegrate together.”
With his free arm, he frantically typed into his virtual board. “Shredding’s reversed,” he said.
In a moment my form became coherent, my body could uptake my oxygen easily, and I was able to suspend without a problem.
“You had no intention of helping me.”
“I didn’t need your servitude, just wanted to see how much you would give up.” He laughed.
He pulled away, began his descent down the elevator. “I’m needed on a satellite. And watch your protons. You have nothing to give if you need my help next time.”
I called after him. “I left you a souvenir, a shredder seed in your cellular structure.”
His eyes met mine with alarm as my ride to the mines pulled up. “Don’t worry, it isn’t activated. Yet.”
“I need you to fix it!” he yelled after me.
“I know,” I said, stepping into the shuttle and closing the hatch.
by Julian Miles | Dec 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They stare at me as I go by. Heart-shaped faces, pale skin, a hint of freckles, eyes like summer sky reflecting in still ponds. Every day since I got here, they stop what they’re doing to watch me go by. Still makes me uncomfortable, but it always happens, so I’m accustomed to it. The only thing I can do is keep driving.
I stop at the delicatessen, offload the shipment and back through the doors, sack wheels stacked with wicker crates up to my chin.
“Good afternoon, Caleb. You’re late today?”
I stop by the till and carefully slide the stack off the wheels.
“Sorry about that, Roy. Had to help Roy at the bakery with an oven replacement. It was so heavy even Rita had to help.”
Roy looks impressed. He raises his head and shouts: “Hey, Rita! Caleb says they got Rita to help move one of the ovens at the bakery!”
Rita bustles in from the back, a look of disbelief on her face.
“I’ll believe it when she tells me, and if she did, she’ll be telling everyone for a week.”
I laugh with them, then take my leave. I don’t know how they do it. This is Ritaroyburg. Males are Roy and females are Rita. Never seem to need more than one identifier or qualifier to work out which one of them I’m talking about.
I presume it was the same for me in Carolcalebtown – until my Carol got taken by a catamount. I lasted three days before running from the place screaming, trying to drown out the noise in my head. Started right after Carol died. After the screaming, it got much quieter, but it’s still there.
Since leaving that place, I’ve been through Juliejohnburg, Barberabobtown and a dozen other burgs and towns. Can’t seem to stay in one place for more than a season or two. Seen more of this country than any since the Iron Rain, I’m sure. I’m also sure I know how them who survived set this land up to continue: all the places are the same. All the people are the same. Only the names change. In some places, the people are much older and they barely talk, just go about tending the crops, woodlands and streams. I don’t stay long in those places.
I used to dream of the life I never had with Carol. After that, I dreamt of dusty rooms filled with the skeletons of the people who made us. The ones that knew what children were. The ones who had a plan for what came next, until they all died. Now-
“Caleb.”
She’s sitting on the front step, hair blowing in the breeze like Carol’s used to. But she’s not Carol, and that’s quite alright.
“Rita. Will Roy be standing across the road again? He was there all afternoon yesterday.”
She shakes her head.
“Roy’s in gaol. So’s Roy next door. His Rita is telling Sheriff Rita I should be the one locked up. Deputy Roy thinks you should be the one in gaol.”
I sit next to her.
“Tell me.”
“Roy said seeing me keeping company with you made him realise he liked Rita next door more than me. He asked Rita next door about it. Roy next door hit him with a skillet. They fought.”
She takes my hand.
“What do we do?”
The noise in my head stops.
“Get your things while Roy’s in jail, Rita. There’s lots of other places to see.”
“Leave? Be Rita and Caleb?”
“If you want to.”
“I do.”
by submission | Dec 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: Shon-Lueiss Harris
The dining hall offered the best view. All the brushed steel and matte finishes throughout the rest of the ship stopped at the door. Entering the kitchen felt like stepping into a new world replete with delightful aromas, vibrant colors, and sleek furniture. So much consideration for comfort and style juxtaposed by an uninterrupted view of the endless, dark expanse outside.
Samuel pressed a hand against the glass. Warmth spread into his skin in a way that felt impossibly familiar. Between his fingers shined a massive, yellow sphere in the distance.
“I heard they called it Sun.”
Samuel rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Merrick sipped his coffee, a little dribbling down onto his oil-stained jumpsuit. “When things got tough they begged a big ball of gas for help. Can you imagine?”
“Maybe the engineer was a drunk,” sighed Samuel as he traced the outline of the star with his finger. “You know a lot about Sun?”
“Ol’ Earthen legends, mostly.” Merrick grinned and took a seat next to the window. “One story goes Sun gave its only moon to protect the Earth. Only the idiots destroyed the moon treating it like some mine instead of an asteroid shield. Surprised that wasn’t the end of’em then and there.”
“I think I heard that somewhere. You know any other stories?”
A big bushy eyebrow bent into an arch high on Merrick’s forehead. “Since when do we talk? This some trick?”
“I’m interested, okay?” Samuel turned toward the window. “So, you know any or not?”
“Yeah, I know another. Actually, it’s an Ol’ Earthen saying,” Merrick teased, pausing to take another drink. “Never look at Sun. I guess people stared at Sun long enough they’d start to see things. Strange things nobody should know. Sun show’em so much that after there really wasn’t nothing left to see.”
“And then what?”
Merrick stood and shrugged. “Paradise, I suppose. Anyway, I gotta get back to it. I’ll catch you later and we can talk more.”
“Yeah, catch you later,” Samuel repeated.
His eyes flicked to Sun the moment Merrick was gone. The thick, radiation dampening glass muted the intense brightness just enough to be bearable. Once more, he laid a hand against the window. Flames danced across Sun’s surface, swirling and coiling until what looked like an open hand leaped off the surface. Samuel rubbed his eyes. He caught a glimpse of the fire dissipating in space, but that was enough. He’d seen it.
Samuel ran out of the dining hall. He heard the questions and the shouts as he bumped into all manner of the crew, be they human or droid, but he didn’t care. Didn’t apologize or so much as acknowledge them.
The airlock was empty when Samuel arrived. He slipped into the nearest suit, attached the safety line, then began work on the door. Soon enough Samuel stood in the middle of the chamber, red lights flashing, the reinforced blast door lurching aside as specs of dust and moisture from the air shot into the void and glistened like diamonds in Sun’s light. With one hand gripping the line, Samuel walked through the door into empty space.
Samuel felt warmth like never before. Vague memories of childhood, of loving arms holding him tight, of gentle whispers in his ear and soft fingers rubbing his back. Memories he could neither recall nor place in his own life. All of it rushing in as Samuel turned toward Sun. His eyes watered and one voice raised above all the whispers.
“Welcome home.”
by submission | Nov 30, 2019 | Story |
Author: Griffon Kaye
You sit on the bathroom floor to smoke, on the thin rug, back hunched up against the tub. Whatever, your back hurts anyway, twenty minutes on the hard floor isn’t going to make it any worse, you’re not that old yet.
Sit in the bathroom because it’s the only room in the tiny apartment that doesn’t have a smoke detector. It has a vent although you don’t run it because it’s goddamn loud and because you like to watch the smoke swirl up against the window in the dusk.
You were in a bad place today, did okay at work but came home early to the empty apartment and kind of slipped down. You’re getting sick of the way things are here on Earth: nothing too wrong with any one thing, but a sense that this isn’t where you want to be soaking into everything. Tired of the day job, same shit every day leaving you jumpy as hell and pissed about it. Tired of the weird weather, although you know it’s only strange compared to your home colony. Earth is a lot warmer and wetter than Mars. It leaves you sleepless, breathless some nights, sweaty and exhausted in the morning.
Funny considering how you sold your soul to the military in the first place for a shot at getting off the red-dirt space-slum, only to end up here. After discharge you finally landed in the glossy manicured suburb you used to fantasize about- trees and grass and chrome, the nine to five job with the soft, wealthy crowd who’ve only ever pulled a trigger in VR. If this was what you wanted, why does it make you want to climb out of your skin so bad?
You miss the cold you spent years cursing. Drag on the cigarette between your teeth, the end hot enough to sear, glowing gently like a thruster on slow burn. You didn’t die out there the way you thought you would. You breathe out innocent silver smoke, all cancer and tar on a molecular level, wonder if maybe you should give space one more shot at killing you. Tap the cigarette on the edge of the jar lid you’re using as an ashtray, wedge your feet up against the cabinets. Check the bandage on one heel, rubbed raw this morning while you pounded out another extra mile in your battered trainers. Got sick and dizzy after, but the physical work keeps you a little saner. You can’t stand the idea of getting soft, and anyway you don’t smoke as much as you used to, so your lungs can suck it up.
Now, though, it’s almost dark out, and you’re still sitting on the bathroom tile in a haze, your eyes starting to sting. Don’t think about how it’s only Monday, don’t think about another week of work or the bills or the phone calls you have to make, don’t think about how you’re tired and scared that this is all there is, some fucking reward for playing hero out in the endless void, getting run ragged and shot at and sent back to play house. Push yourself up, take a couple of pills to sleep because it’s looking like one of those nights and you’ve been up since five-thirty. Turn your head and catch sight of a single, bright point of light in the darkening sky, through the open blinds: a planet. Turn your head away again, smoke the last of the cigarette so quick your chest burns.
