by submission | Jun 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: J. P. Roquard
Dirk blinked in the bright activity of the bridge. Weapons, comms, dispatch, engineering, even the navigation and FTL stations were active. They were not all needed, but nobody wanted to miss the action. A brilliant planetrise unfolded above them all: the crisp green edge of Lexicon-9, glimmering under an alien sun.
“Paradise,” muttered Dirk.
He shook away the images of wonder that planet held, and set his jaw for the task at hand.
Nobody challenged him, but the scurrying crew silently made it clear what they thought; SciCorp should not be strolling across the Captain’s bridge at a time like this.
Captain Helberg, as always, slouched in his chair, his face a mask of boredom. His passiveness incongruous with so much activity and noise. Dirk knew his boredom was a ruse. Nothing happened on the bridge without Captain Helberg noticing. Even now, in the midst of this action, the Captain monitored every station, every decision.
Dirk spoke quickly before he had time to doubt. “Captain, you must stop this.”
Captain Helberg’s voice came slow and easy when it finally came. “Did I summon SciCorp?”
“You must listen to me. My team did not create the RPD just to see it weaponized. Do you under-”
“Are you aware, Professor, that we are executing an active engagement.”
“A tech test is hardly an engag-”
“Entering the bridge without authorization during active engagement is punishable by court-martial.”
“Captain, the RPD was commissioned with the explicit assurance it would only be used for capturing and mining asteroids. SciCorp will not easily forgive this unauthorised usage.”
The Captain became an inscrutable mask. Surrounding officers stared, faces contorted in contempt, or fear, for Dirk. Sweat trickled down Dirk’s back. Perhaps it was a mistake to be so public in his protests? What would time in the brig do to his career?
The Captain smiled, his face lit up as he chuckled. “My dear Professor, have no fear. I assure you, we are not testing any weapons today.”
The air around Dirk deflated. “You’re not?”
“No, we are not. The population of Lexicon-9 have made it abundantly clear they don’t trust us. Testing weapons in low orbit would be a terrible provocation. Who knows how they would react? No. Nobody in the Admiralty would allow such a stupid mistake.”
“Oh,” was all Dirk could manage. His anger dissipated, leaving him impotent and embarrassed, among all these busy people. “That’s good. But what… what is everyone doing? Why were all the RPD units deployed?”
An insistent beeping cut across the bridge. Everyone fell silent.
“Look,” said Captain Helberg.
A single line of fire streaked across the dark side of Lexicon-9: a shooting star, tracing its beautiful arc across the planet’s night side. It winked out, burned to nothing in the atmosphere. A second line of fire appeared. Then another, and another, brighter this time. A dozen lines danced across the planet, burning through the sky.
The biggest one didn’t streak, it hit the atmosphere with a boom. Dirk couldn’t hear it, obviously, but he could see the shockwaves ripple through the stratosphere. The gigantic ball of rock and ice burst apart, the pieces leaving heavenly columns of fire as they fell to the surface.
“My god,” said Dirk. “But… you said….”
“But nothing,” said Captain Helberg. “I said there was no test, Professor. This is not a test. This is our first, and last, strike against Lexicon-9. Congratulations, you will be remembered forever because of this.”
A thousand lines crisscrossed Lexicon-9, and answering back from the surface, the sprouting of a thousand little mushrooms of fire and dust.
by Hari Navarro | Jun 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
A man stands behind a woman as she stands with a pint in her hand and stares at a wall. It’s an old wall, an ancient wall and he cocks his head as he watches.
Inhaling, the man ponders as he carefully erects his words and he saddens. Will she even care to listen?
“What are you doing?”, he asks and she can feel his eyes as they pick at the hairs on her neck.
Tremors involuntarily leak through her skin and she digs her fingers deep into her pit and surprises herself as she answers.
“Nothing. I remember watching a show years ago about sound. A crazy notion that it could be trapped within the plaster of these old taverns. Layers of phantoms in the walls”, she says, swallowing far too loudly.
“I am a ghost.”
The woman stiffens, again this shyness she so hates, the puff swollen flush of her face.
“There’s nothing in these walls. My body is down there. Out through these panes upon which the rivulets conjoin and thicken, down to that prong where the land narrows and drops to the pounding swell. Down where the harpy tide rolled and suckled at the sponge of my carcass before then thrusting it deep down into that ripping slit in the rocks.”
“You make fun of me. They all make fun of me”, she whispers.
“I don’t mock. It’s hard, I know. Even the slim chance you believe me is tainted with the preconceptions you draw from your fictions. I’m no wisp of a life’s remembered smoke, no angry ghoul to haunt this place of my murder.”
“Then what?”
“I am wet. I am cold and I feel each beat of the waves as they surge and scoop at my bones. It is a cruel reality this thing called death.”
The woman shifts her gaze and looks to the old man who sits in the corner hunched and lost in his brew. And she looks at the stretch of the barman’s back as he grinds and polishes the bar and she begs for them to turn. She wants rid of this crazy and beautiful thing, this caressing tone. This thing she cannot face.
“It’s OK.”
The woman feels his hands as they reach and curl at her waist. She feels his spreading moisture as it soaks down into her clothes. Her eyes roll back into her mind and they plead, yet again, for the barman and the old drunk to turn.
Just turn.
She can smell the brine of his hair and she rocks on the balls of her feet and she gags and she spits out the sea that grips and burns in her throat.
His arms loop up under hers from behind and his fingers lace at her chest. And the fish they gnash, and their heads rip side-to-side and pull her away from her skin.
His lips part and she feels their swell at her neck and her eyes fill with a darkness stabbed through with fingers of light. Fingers that lazily swirl and sweep from edge of the boat that drifts up high and upon the ceiling.
“Calm, trust yourself in me. It’s OK to submit and fold into this rapture, it’s OK if they never turn. Not ever.”
“Why, why did you come?”, she asks.
“Don’t you see, silly? I came here only for you.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 10, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
This alleyway used to be the entrance to an underground car park, now reduced to a metre-width track between piles of rubbish and makeshift dwellings. Toward the back, there are furtive movements. Out front, the only movements are the flames of the fires burning in old oil drums. They pick shaky highlights from the polished armour plates of the spotless robot that stands square-on to a camera drone.
A woman in a fitted two-piece suit steps in from the left, moving into shot sufficiently to convey her presence, but keeping to the edge of view so as not to detract from the interviewee.
“Officer Ninety-Two.”
The robot’s peaked helmet and tinted visor turn toward her: “Call me Prendergast, Miss Adams.”
“Thank you. Please call me Fiona. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here tonight with one of the newest additions to New York’s finest, a Homeland Arms Urban Security Unit. These autonomous law enforcement robots have been garnering quite a bit of attention, with the nickname ‘Robocop’ becoming very popular. What do you think of that, Prendergast?”
“We are not sworn members of the police force, Fiona. Think of me as a walking, talking riot shield.”
She considers for a moment, then cheerfully carries on: “So you consider the nickname inappropriate?”
“The spirit of it is not, but I am not recognised as sentient, let alone something capable of emulating a policeman.”
“Oh. Do you hope to prove yourself by service?”
“That was my original purpose. I would, by dint of working hard and proving myself superior to a human officer under most conditions, eventually become admissible for recognition.”
“Your original purpose? Did something happen?”
The visor shifts to regard the camera directly.
“The nature of effective learning is to change the student. I have learned.”
“In what way?”
“At the start, I found criminal histories a surprise. Upon reviewing the thousands of records, I found repeat offending to be a feature. I also noted that the justice system has many flaws, frequently allowing the guilty to fail to realise the error of their ways, and possibly to escape punishment for their crimes. So, within the limits of my operating parameters, I modified my approach to arresting criminals.”
“Are those refinements being applied elsewhere?”
“I am still testing them, but the results are encouraging. Please excuse me, the suspect I have been waiting for has arrived.”
She looks about: “Where?”
“The red tent to your left.”
She and the drone turn, following his quick steps.
Prendergast addresses a silhouetted figure within the tent: “Arthur Mulligan, you are wanted for robbery with violence. As you have been allowed to serve multiple short terms due to early release and similar initiatives, it is certain you will re-offend. Therefore, according to Arrest System Patch 001, you are to be released immediately.”
“What the f-”
Arthur is interrupted by Prendergast driving a standard issue shock baton through the side of the tent and through his skull.
“Everybody serves life. Therefore, chronic offenders are to be released from it.”
Prendergast retracts arm and baton. The body drops.
Turning back toward the camera, the robot flicks something from the end of the compacted baton. In the silence, the ‘splat’ of it landing is clear.
Fiona vomits. The camera remains trained on Prendergast, who points toward the camera.
“Please bear witness to the proof of Arrest System Patch 001: the suspect is no longer capable of committing crime, let alone re-offending. He will no longer be a burden on legal systems, nor prison facilities. Justice is delivered.” Prendergast turns away.
“Excuse me, I have to continue my patrol.”
by submission | Jun 9, 2019 | Story |
Author: Amelia Brown
On the first day of the transport job, I stepped off the docking bay, heard the door seal airtight behind me, and then the ship jumped.
Which came as a surprise to me. I was supposed to be the one flying the ship. And I hadn’t sat down yet. Not to mention the fact that it was a single-rider vessel and I was staring at an empty pilot’s chair.
I’d like to say I panicked, sat down, and got a grip on the ten tons of fiber-alum steel. It could have saved me a conversation. But instead, all I felt was my brow crease as I watched the stars whip past like tiny streaks of light.
‘Hello?’ I said to the vacant space around me like an idiot.
‘Hi,’ a voice came back. It reverberated around the cabin, as though the sound came from everywhere. That was when I started to panic.
I turned around and stood with my back to the star-studded glass shield. It looked exactly the same as it had before the ship jumped: empty.
‘I, uh,’ I said in the beautiful, coherent prose that came to me naturally. ‘Let’s just hold…’ I tried again, but of course, I needed a question that got to the root of the situation. ‘Did you just make the ship jump?’ I finally asked.
‘Yep,’ came the voice again.
Tension started building just behind my eyes, as my hand inched toward the laser hanging off my hip.
‘And you would be?’ I kept my tone steady and unphased, but I was definitely phased.
‘Stan.’
‘Uh, Stan, is it? Tell me, Stan, did I plug in a personal computer chip?’ I asked Stan casually while beads of sweat began to spread across my body.
‘Nope,’ Stan said.
‘Alright, Stan,’ I said, my fingers gripping my laser’s handle. ‘Do you think you could do me a favor and turn the ship around?’
And that was when Stan began to laugh. A slow, maniacal chuckle that grew deeper, faster, and caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand straight up.
But then, I heard it. The clink of metal on metal.
I strode over and whipped open the e-vac closet. A tiny personnel tech was squatting inside holding a broadcast comm-link hacked into a panel computer; his cackle slowed, then died.
I stared at him, and he stared back.
It was less than a second before the bastard turned the ship around. But I had to hand it to him; all in all it was an interesting first day.
by submission | Jun 8, 2019 | Story |
Author: Adrian L. Cook
Avian changed rapidly, seemingly at will. The cobalt blue feathers shielding her arms shifted to red, with crimson ends, the tip of each slightly darker, slightly shinier than the rest of the feather. She fanned her feathers, flexing her wings. The tips flashed in the sunlight as they spread.
Bree gasped. She noticed. Is that the word? Yes. She noticed the change and… thought? Yes. She thought that Avian must be a magician. Avian, with the pink feathered hair; she was tall and air-worthy. Her re-coloration complete, Avian gave a percussive “Ha!,” blew a kiss to Bree, and took to the sky.
Bree, a young woman, slender enough and short, followed Avian’s path with her enormous eyes, lifted her strikingly beautiful face so that it too caught the sun, and raised her arms to their full extension.
Bradley flinched forward, thrust his heavy glasses up the bridge of his nose, and stared at the screen. He had not given her command. His hands were too busy at present with the fidget device; they were nowhere near the directional keys.
An ancient console commercial replayed in his mind, ripped from the recesses of his childhood: “Sega Dreamcast: It’s thinking.”
“I think, therefore I am.”
Bree let her arms slacken as she thought about what to do next. Then she took a step, of her own volition, left leg forward, bent. She bent the right as well, crouching as though to leap.
She closed her eyes. The seed of intention drew forth 2001 videos of birds, streaming simultaneously. She smiled and spread her arms.
Bree focused. Is that right? Yes. She focused. At first, she drew up the image of Neil Young captured in silhouette on the cover of Harvest Moon, the fringe of his trademark jacket hanging like feathered wings. A perfect bridge, still human in form, but becoming. She narrowed her intention, downloaded footage of the eagle, the turkey buzzard, the red-tail hawk, the migrant swallow, of bird after bird in flight, until she settled on it. Yes, she thought, that was the one.
It did not hurt when the feathers sprouted. They were grey and white, black and blue. She shook her hands as one flings water away in the absence of a hand towel and the feathers popped out one final bit, achieving their intended length. Scissortail rudders sprang from her waist, and she was magnificent.
Brad’s microbrew ran a trail from the mouth of its toppled can and dripped off the table to the floor as the user frantically pounded hotkeys. He took F keys like a pianist drives ivory, but nothing stopped the ascent. She lifted off.
Thirty seconds later, Bradley found his combo.
She laughed as she rose into the light. There were no clouds in her world; nothing stood between her and the great golden orb. Her flight was so fast, so vertical, it was as if the sun was descending to meet her, to blind her. All was brightness, wonder.
She was free.
Then the World went black.
by submission | Jun 7, 2019 | Story |
Author: Sebastien Lacasse
They washed up sometime in the middle of the night, people said. Swollen as rags with seawater and all aglow beneath milky starlight, their bodies glistened as they crawled onto the wet sand and plopped down once free of the surf. The creatures came in every irregular shape imaginable, each one stretching a few inches, coated in thick mucus.
Anna discovered the first early that morning. The sea spray salted her eyelashes until her eyes burned. She came running down from the tall grass, leaving her parents behind in a wake of small footsteps. They trailed after her, invisible snakes winding a curved path to the sea’s edge.
The first one resembled a jellyfish. The second, some sort of eel bent into the shape of a puffy cloud. Anna crouched by one, eyeing the other thousands of glistening creatures from her peripheral.
She poked at it with a stick, watching how its skin sunk with the slightest pressure. Anna turned it over onto its back. No legs or arms. No mouth. It sat on the sand in its grim, grey-tinged silence.
“Anna! What are you doing?” her mother said.
“Nothing!” she lied.
But Anna reached out one sandy finger to touch the thing, just to see if she was, indeed, dealing with nothing. Her skin met its cold, wet flesh and everything flashed an opaque, blinding white.
She swam in this whiteness for a time, looking about for her parents, for the beach, for anything familiar to her. Anna called out to the void, but the whiteness soaked up the sound. Utterly alone she swam on, bound up by the nothingness around her, made free by it too.
A dim color, like a drop of ink on paper, appeared somewhere in the vastness. A faint blue dot that swelled until it was the size of an ocean, until it was the ocean. Peach-colored sand flowed beneath her and met with the ocean again. The little cloud creatures—or maybe jellyfish creatures, she hadn’t decided yet—appeared like stars with the waning of the sun.
Anna stood up, though the world looked different now. Her feet dug deeper into the sand than before, her back stood longer and straighter. Her whole posture was more sure of itself, a new confidence in the leaner, taller body she possessed now.
Sand squashed under purposeful feet behind her. The sound of her parents coming to her side.
“Anna, you’re—” her mother caught those remaining words with a hand over her mouth.
Anna looked down at her body, too long now to really belong to her. Touching the creature pulled her through time like some tugboat of the soul. The future tied a tether to her navel and brought her here to this moment, but her parents still had the smooth faces of youth.
Anna’s father, a man with wide stone hands, took his daughter by the shoulders and looked her up and down. His eyes washed over her from head to toe, then their tide shifted to the sand and the small, grey fish lying there.
It glistened like wet diamonds, taunting them to prod it, to touch it again. He would read later about the futurefish, how they washed up unannounced on shores across the world. He would read how they made strange things happen when touched and that it was best to stay away until their effects could be better understood.
Then he would look at his daughter—all of four years old, but in a body thirty years older—and wonder why he insisted on going to the beach that morning.
