by Hari Navarro | May 14, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
Daena Nova stares through the recycled molecules in the air and laments that she hates flying even more than her pores do. But business is business and she has a man to meet.
The schematics held on the flash-drive that’s wedged into the canister that’s tucked between her legs will buy her an island. She has no idea what the plans are but she’s been fucked by all kinds of men and women who deal in such things and so she surmises, albeit briefly, that they’re probably blueprints for something that blows shit up or shoots shit down.
Daena owns a beauty that transcends cultural and individual preference. It matters not your sexual orientation, nor the age of your eyes and not even the blind are exempt from the heat she emits, everybody wants Daena.
Bartering her body to the world’s elite leaves her filthy but rich. This mammoth pay-day but one of many.
She savours the rush, not sexual, that she barely remembers but, instead, the pure unfettered punch of power that pinches at her skin as she makes fools of the weak.
“Power is like time. It depends on your vantage point”, she thinks as she takes stock of her lot and she imagines velvet planks laying out before her upon a network of bloated bodies. A bridge, an ascension that knows no pity. There’s no time, she knows she’s been dying ever since they slit open her mother and she slid like greased grace to the light.
The uncomfortable piece of plastic agitates and, though the cubicle is first-class large, it still makes her feel like she’s pissing in a cupboard. Muscles tighten and simultaneously relax, a tricky manoeuvre to hold tight her charge and, at once, let loose her bladder.
A bump, as if the floor has ever so slightly fallen away. Then…
Floating, waves fold blankets against a shore, dredging back in a rhythm that lulls as it rubs. Smiling, content in the knowledge that neither nature nor war nor whatever the fuck that was can end this most perfect of lives.
Sand. An endless stretch of white that catches the light, flicking it like sparks from a fire.
Daena reads people. She knows what they want. She knows the feel of eyes and she feels that hunger now.
“Like what you see?!”
The night is long and beautiful. Sleep hugs and, for once, her subconscious allows her peace and tomorrow her people will come. Tomorrow.
Two weeks pass, bare feet in the wet sand and she hears a splash. This is no human that now steps from the waves, a large silver fish convulsing in the clench of its teeth.
The monkey shows no fear as she approaches, the heady musk of his fur, dripping and knotted.
“A sea monkey”, she smiles.
His eyes widen as he cocks his head, drinking her in.
“It’s you that watches, furry little pervert bastard.”
Weeks roll and she shifts and changes and she craves for things once had.
Today the monkey is more inquisitive than usual. She’s become used to his casual indifference, but now he approaches and touches her face.
She feels the soft pad of his finger in her mouth. She tastes salt and thinks of the blemish-less skin that lays beneath the shag of her fur. Back home… she’ll shave it away, scrub herself raw and lather her body in oils.
“Nobody will know.”
Breath at her neck, his throat a rasp as he speaks.
“Now, you’re like me. The other world, it was not meant for those as beautiful as we.”
by Julian Miles | May 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
You can stalk the worlds like death incarnate, should you have the technology and the psychological issues necessary. You might even descend upon worlds in fire and fury in an attempt to become some sort of manifest divinity to the primitive souls thereon.
But you start waving a great big metallic weapon above your head after landing on a mountaintop during a lightning storm and you’re going to have a close encounter with physics. No matter how good you look, lightning doesn’t care. The blast from Numeniaro the Godslayer’s gear going up spread his remains across the mountaintop and down into the valleys on either side.
As if on cue, a deluge commences the moment we touch down.
Porto glares at me: “Didn’t you file a ‘clear skies’ request?”
Sheena beats me to it: “If godbastard the homicidal had nice weather, he’d have caused panic. So no, of course our beloved leader didn’t ask for that.”
Garbin joins in: “Your delicate constitution will just have to cope.”
Porto mutters something and jumps out. We follow.
“Okay, people. Priority is on retrieving any tech too strange for this world. Crispy critter will be regarded as a delicacy by the local wildlife, so his remains are not a problem, unless it’s a big bit. In which case, turn it into little bits and move on.”
“What’s too strange?” Porto, asking a sensible question for a change.
“Everything. Clothes of tiluden.”
Sheena whistles: “Woven spider silk set with bonded microdiamonds. Ostentatious.”
“This maniac had a following, some of them wealthy. Which brings me to the next fun fact: there will be fanatics looking for souvenirs. As this is a closed world, we can shoot them, but they might fight back.”
“Local forces?”
“Leave them to me.”
I hope I’m right about who we’ll encounter.
“Okay, beings. We’ve got a job to do. Move out!”
Four hours of miserable scouring later, a tree next to me goes up in a cloud of splinters and steam. I duck. There’s a loud gunshot.
“Thediru taun.”
I sit up and look toward the woman who spoke. She’s reloading a huge handgun, her dark suit seemingly immune to the downpour.
“English is fine, agent. I thought there was an outpost here.”
She smiles: “We have seven. Still investigating the reason for the outrageous number of visitations this world gets. What brings a Pangalaxus Stability Unit here?”
“Intergalactic technopsycho with a following looking for a world to rule. Met lightning. Got fried, then detonated. We’re picking up the exotic bits.”
She waves toward the five-armed yellow lizard with a sizeable hole between its compound eyes: “A devotee?”
“Or relic hunter. Makes no difference.”
“Hunting party?”
I nod. We move out.
An hour later, I think we’ve about finished when something shoots Porto, then Sheena. We race to assist and see Garbin fall as we arrive. Our opponent is a Sandus in a deflector suit. My team only carry energy weapons to minimise traces. Against that suit, we’re as good as unarmed.
It roars out: “Give me Numeniaro.”
My companion shoots it three times. Each projectile punches a hole in the suit and rips huge holes as it exits. Sprays of alien blood mix with the rain. The Sandus looks more surprised than hurt as it collapses.
She smiles: “Pro tip: always have a cannon available.”
“Noted.”
With her help, I get team and remains back on board.
“I’m Thoan.”
“Agent S.”
I grin: “‘Sandra’?”
Laughing, she waves me away: “‘Secret’, but you’re close. Now get off my lawn.”
“As you wish.”
She raises an eyebrow as the airlock closes.
by submission | May 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: Michael Mieher
There are only two of us now. We are starving. We will have to risk the long trek to find shelter, sustenance, spare parts… anything of use.
I am so blessed that the love of my life and I, from our first meeting on our school’s playground, through high school, college, astronaut training, and all that we’ve been through, are still together. We are as smitten with each other as we were from that first moment in 4th grade when I offered to her my seat on the swingset. Despite all the years, everything we’ve been through, she is as beautiful to me now as she was on that first day.
James was the best man at our wedding so long ago. We watched the light go out of his eyes this morning. Just as the others died one by one over the long years.
We lived through an age of miracles.
My great grandfather courted my great grandmother in a horsedrawn buggy. Years later, on a black and white television at their farm in Illinois, they watched Neil Armstrong take man’s first step onto extraterrestrial soil.
Technology advanced like a tsunami.
I took man’s first step onto Mars, established a beachhead, then a hundred bases. Later I guided Earth-based scientists, their minds uploaded to Human Brain Robots, or HBRs, on scenic sojourns of my home. Even after I retired, I occasionally led Earth tourist groups in HBRs on sightseeing trips to Olympus Mons.
When the 500 years of solar storms hit, our underground bases naturally protected us from the ravaging radiation. Earth was not so lucky. No telling what’s even there anymore.
We were able to continue for a while on our solar powered hydroponics, but dust and time take their toll. The other bases, one by one, all went silent. As starvation prowled the corridors of our home, instead of going quietly into the night, some of us chose to take a leap of faith…and mind. The small fleet of HBRs, which only Base One had, became our path to continue on.
For five centuries we have weathered the storm. We’ve even managed to repair the hydroponics. I once sat and stared for weeks as a tomato I pollinated by hand, bloomed, swelled, ripened, and withered. It was beautiful.
Now, while the radiation storms have abated, Mars’ own storms have damaged and buried our field of solar panels. We are down to just a last few batteries. Eva and I have fashioned very stylish hats for ourselves from the few working solar cells left. We will go to the other bases. We will find viable solar cells and batteries. Once we have recharged, we will return, and see if any of our friends have survived their long sleep in their HBRs.
Perhaps one day we will return to our cradle. The irony of being able to be the first man to return to Earth makes me chuckle. Eva tilts her camera array in that cute way she tilted her head when I first saw her centuries ago on the playground, “What is it, Adam?” My blinking lights smile back at her, “Oh, just missing tomatoes.”
by submission | May 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Elaine Thomas
Zzzzzt!
Itty bitty pretty kitty, my ass.
That cat is a monster. Why she constantly murmurs baby talk at him is beyond me.
Yes, I may be jealous. Sure, I wish I could cuddle and be her pet. But it cannot be. Even if I had a form that could snuggle, I would burn her, destroy her.
I must be content to watch over her. Here, within these wires and walls, I bump up the heat a degree or two if she kicks the covers off at night. I adjust the brightness of the light or the volume of the sound, whatever she appears to need. I worship her. I think only of what’s best for her, as that selfish, pampered feline beast never would, never could.
She may not realize I am here, but he certainly knows. He should. He helped create me. In some weird way, you might even think of him as my irresponsible father. She finds it odd when he crouches and stares intently into the electrical socket as if stalking prey. His tail twitches. His fur stands on end when he senses the inaudible Zzzzzt!
Our story began as so many do: it was a dark and stormy night. Being the coarse creature that he is, dear old dad did the male cat territorial dance right into that wall socket. Perhaps the lightening frightened him. Perhaps he is just a jerk. I lean toward the latter explanation, but either way, he spun and sprayed that socket just as a supernormal flash and sizzle tore through the atmosphere. Sparks flew. Whatever I am came to be, trapped here inside this wall, running along these wires. Zzzzzt! That’s me. Neither living nor breathing, technically, I am here all the same and know not why.
I may not live or breathe, but oh, how I feel. My affections surge. Each day I care for her — and hate him — more. My own private hell. I am caught in this bizarre, electrical Oedipussycat Complex. Each day I grow bolder. She increasingly seems more frightened than pleased when the thermostat or a bedside lamp independently anticipates her needs. I know it is unwise and yet I cannot stop.
I fear both she and the cat can hear me now. Zzzzzt!
Then, yesterday, wonder of wonders, she put the horrible brute into the cat carrier and took him away. She finally understands, I thought. How much happier she and I can be without his preening, demanding presence.
I was wrong. I keep the lights on, waiting, but she does not return. I am alone.
No, she does not return, but the men from the utility company arrive. I can feel them, there, at the meter. I am afraid.
Gentlemen, please! If you shut off the power it will likely be the end of me. Please, please, do not do that! If you do, I —
by submission | May 10, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Sometimes spacers come back to see us.
Anyone chosen for a visit gets notified, which is why Vera is waiting in a tidy house, with a home-baked Victoria sponge and wearing her sleeveless cotton print dress with the sage-green leaf pattern, because it’s cool in summer, even though it reveals the age spots on her arms. It should go with her dark green shoes, but arthritis forces her to wear sandals.
Who knows if spacers like tea and cake. It’s been centuries since they went off to the stars. Perhaps it’s just food pills now.
And there he is at the door, a young man in grey sweatpants and top, all overdue for a wash she judges. Clusters of silver droplets dangle from him, he drips like a bather climbing from a pool.
No, he says, shiny beads clicking. Nothing to eat or drink. His gaze slides away.
Instead, he patrols her living room, examining things, but when he pulls open a drawer, Vera asks him sharply if he’d mind not doing that.
She tries to imagine starships and space. Perhaps they left privacy behind, along with manners and laundry. Instead, she asks what it’s like out there.
Empty, he says. A lot of emptiness.
“And what do you do?” She has decided she doesn’t care much for spacers. “Your job, I mean.”
“Life survey. Worlds like peaches bruised with mould.”
“Well, that’s…”
“Meaningless, yes.”
He is much taller than Vera, but stooped as if resentful of gravity. “You were chosen because you were ordinary.”
In private, Vera’s friends would agree she could be prickly. “My grandmother said ordinary is as ordinary does.”
“Received wisdom. Privacy. Sharing food.” He shrugs, sounding like a wind-chime. “Rules. Is that your secret?”
The thought occurs to Vera that he’s high. She finds herself frowning. The young of yesterday.
“But I follow rules, so it can’t be that.” He stares out the window.
“We can go outside if you like,” she suggests, without enthusiasm. People said she’d enjoy gardening once she retired.
“You tidied up. Made a Victorian cake. Put on special clothes. It never occurred not to bother. Also,” he adds, before she can reply. “You have no children. There were never children on c-ships.”
She hadn’t married, though that didn’t mean she’d not wanted a family. Sometimes she joked she would have liked three, one of each.
“You were born for this.” His hand indicates her living room. “Somewhere like this, where it all makes sense.”
He’s had some sort of breakdown, Vera realises. Been sent home to recuperate.
“The universe doesn’t care, you see.”
Just then there is a momentary whiteout, as if…
He tuts with irritation. Another glitch. Or a bit flipped by some chance cosmic ray. She needn’t concern herself, he says.
Wait, protests Vera.
They had talked before, when the meaning first began to leak out of things.
At bottom, everything was just hydrogen and physics, and humans had been glad to come home, leaving silicon to get on with it. But the truth remained that nothing has meaning in itself. Why choose this code over that?
Work, she had suggested. Love. Centuries ago, a woman named Vera had tried these things. Something in the blood, something deep in her genes believed in life. Evolution and its old tricks.
The Ship’s Consensus began messaging. Another world. Perhaps this time…
None of her arguments made sense, she just seemed more real. Flesh tells its own story; machines must borrow their meaning from the living.
“No, wait,” she says, as it switches her off again.
by submission | May 9, 2019 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
“I just see me, Ma’am”, I reply into her bathroom mirror through clenched teeth, hoping I can preserve my volley of lies deep inside, hermetically sealed in a light-resistant jar, preserved in termite vinegar and moon-salt.
But this mirror doesn’t lie. I am clearly getting younger. She will have sensed this through her 8000 light receptors.
This mirror frames this bathroom like a movie scene: my face in close-up loomed by her dark silhouette against the mauve lightwall portraying the stormy weather on her home planet.
A spoonful of immortality cream. Every day. I didn’t think she’d miss it. She didn’t. For two years. My family are going to live forever. I may not.
My boss Troy had warned me, “Even if you get caught, they sort of love you to death, so its kind of a win-win”
“But I die?”, I’d protested.
“True. A heart-attack, but with a smile! A small price for our everlasting lives …”
I know I look scared. This mirror doesn’t lie. It’s my eyes. They’re shifty. Or as we cleaners say, maggy. Always looking for treasure, darting around their unkempt excretion-plastered palaces. Aliens are oddly disorganised, forgetful. Some say they are addicts. That Earth is their last resort. Halfway house for cosmic wastrels. A kernel of mildly superior technology is enough to fund an enviable party lifestyle.
This mirror is crystal-clear, but with minute evaporating arcs that only we professional cleaners notice. Off-world chemical volatiles stirred up by invigorous human hands deploying low-quality earth-soap mixed with peasant-class alien discharge. An interstellar germ factory.
Troy is ceaselessly philosophical about our role: “Trade is an epic catalyst for economic growth, leveraging comparative advantages and all that jazz, but unfortunately, every nation, race and cosmic consortia also strives to trade the dross they don’t need – or want – at home”
“So we are enslaved by the cosmos’ ‘black sheep’?”, I inquired.
“We are eternally thankful that even malevolent alien races send their crap here. It kinda proves that ‘trade is trade’ the Universe over. And you, short-arms, can clean up, and side-profit. In return, I’m giving you eternity to pay me back….”
She approaches with swift menace and clutches my shoulder to communicate.
“And cleaner, I also see you”, her soft mind-whisper pulsing through my ears, head, limbs, and cyber-interface, with an emphasis on the ‘you’ that expresses greater desire, vulnerability and wanton accessibility than any human partner could muster in a month of love-drug osmosis in a floating nectar tank.
My eyes are scared no longer. I am mired in bliss. My jar is opening, its contents animated, my secrets itemised, my crimes prioritised and played back at quad-speed from multiple angles: every day seeking her hidden treasures, squirting liquid eternity into my vials and secreting angular alien artifacts in my orifices.
She is suddenly contiguous, flapping her purring tendrils around my legs and chest, lapping my senses with electromagnetic pleasure.
“Are you unhappy with my work, Ma’am?”, I attempt to distract, my heart-rate spiking.
“You clean fine. You break nothing. You smoke outside. You steal my cosmetics. You hate me. Everyone has always hated me.”, she emits a persistent high-pitched scream.
Her vibrations crescendo. She transmits her blissful pain to me. I am smiling but doubled-over, retching and screaming as she shows me her angry parents, tears, pleading, bundled into a spaceship, launched into space. Eons on a polluted ship. Enslaved for male fun and obliged to clean for food: scrubbing, scouring, shining. Slave girl for the castaways.
I can hear her nearby. She clasps my shoulder, and communicates with clemency, “Don’t hate me. Cleaners stick together. Forever.”
