by submission | Sep 7, 2019 | Story |
Author: Palmer Caine
Something knocked on the window. I saw its form in the mirror, but no detail. Before I spoke it slid open the door and landed on the back seat. I watched it in the rear view mirror, trying to find a comfortable spot.
“Where ya off too?” I asked once it stopped wriggling.
It gurgled as it spoke, “Just get me out of this district,” it said, it’s laborious breath weighted and difficult.
“Traffics slow. That ok with you?” I wanted to be certain.
“Yeah, sure.” It gurgled, “Darken the windows back here will you.” It added with a burp. I did as it requested.
Fifteen minutes later we had left the Longmere District for the Kytori straight. I turned slightly to address my fare;
“So whereabouts do you want dropping?” I smiled broadly. My father told me it’s harder to assault someone if they are smiling.
My fare groaned and gurgled, I caught sight of a stomach wound, if Its stomach was situated as a humans’ is. Thick green blood caked the creature’s clothing. Its flesh, also caked, was a dark grey and wrinkled. There were dry patches above the wound, but the blood hadn’t stopped pumping.
“Look erm…” I began, “Where do ya want me to take you? I don’t really want you dead in my cab.” It laughed heartily, spitting dark green goo over the back over my seat.
“Do you know what I am?” it asked. I looked round and eyed it thoughtfully. Three of its six eyes blinked.
“You’re a Nix,” I said confidently.
It seemed to smile, “Well done.” It gurgled, “You’re right, I am Nix.” Then It paused and took a stilted breath, resting Its head on the back of the seat.
“But once,” It continued after a short pause, “I was much more. The Generalissimo, the Protector, the National Thought…” It gagged suddenly, each syllable gurgled green. Catching Its breath, It told me to head for the, “…Gronzia borough.” and fell silent.
Soon enough we were outside the city limits where districts become boroughs. My fare had been in and out of consciousness for a while and I was beginning to consider places to dump the body. The last thing I wanted was Official Police involvement. I was about to scout a possible disposal site when my fare addressed me, leaning forward to speak directly into my ear:
“Where are we going?” It asked, it’s stinking breath hot on my neck. “I told you Gronzia, G-Ronzia.”
“Yep,” I smiled nervously, “Th.That’s it, that’s it. Be about fifteen minutes. You re…sit back and relax…” I stumbled through the words.
My fare chortled and fell back. It pressed Its bloody print to the scanner giving the journey generous credit and me a good tip. I caught Its name, Doozkl, not a name I recognised. The way It’d spoken I thought Doozkl might be some big shot, someone in the news, someone who knew the big nasty the Grand Nix, the Generalissimo, as It had claimed. Doozkl reflection smiled at me in the mirror.
Approaching the Gronzia Borough Doozkl punched in an address code, illuminating my dash map. Minutes later we were descending into an area dense with moss, bordered by towering thickets. We landed and Doozkl proved to be surprisingly spritely, leaping out of the cab and disappearing into the thickets of moss laughing.
Cleaning the cab at the end of my shift I found a scrap of paper screwed up on the floor behind my seat. The writing was Nix, it said, ‘The King is Dead, Long Live the King.’
by submission | Sep 6, 2019 | Story |
Author: Bryce Matthews
One day, inexplicably, Henry Jacobs began to travel through time.
He wasn’t sure why. Henry was only nineteen and had accomplished an extraordinarily small amount of things in that time. Why didn’t this happen to a scientist, a historian, or even an artist? He pondered, walking aimlessly through the streets of a new Rome. Why me?
The next day Henry sat small in the sand as the Pyramids were built before his eyes. He was astonished by their size, a Goliath to his David. He wanted to get up and sprint to the construction, to help out in any way possible, to contribute to one of the wonders of the world. But instead, he sat, feeling like he was sinking deeper and deeper, as insignificant as a few grains of sand.
Throughout the next few weeks, Henry witnessed the greatest humanity had to offer. He witnessed the rise of empires and oversaw the fall of villains. He touched what would be priceless artifacts and saw the birth of legends.
And, on the last day, he arrived in a hospital.
It was ordinary, nothing more or less than normal. There were no calendars or landmarks to name a year, but the technology Henry saw looked modern enough.
There was silence, save for a weak crying at the end of the hallway. Henry snuck as quietly as he could, peeping in through an open door. Inside was a mother holding a newborn baby, a smiling father by her side. Both were immediately familiar.
The nurse came by the bed, checking on the mother and making small talk.
“So, have you two decided on a name yet?”
“I think we have,” the father said.
“We’re going to name him Henry,” the mother continued. “Henry Jacobs.”
by submission | Sep 5, 2019 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
“It’s just outer space,” said Mrs. Evans. “So what?”
The boy could hardly contain himself. “So what…” said Tommy Phipps, her most curious 7th-grade student. He paced before her desk. The prescription sunglasses he wore to school, the ones that masked his emotions, were flopping about with his agitation. She could see his eyes now set in a permanent squint.
“I stand by my remark, Mr. Phipps,” she said, fifteen minutes after the 3:00 bell, and he was still badgering her while she was putting away her things into a tattered beach bag. She took a moment to sigh and wonder if she was too old for law school.
“Mrs. Evans,” said Tommy, “space is the reason we live. The planets, the stars, the constellations, the unfathomable layers of matter stretching into a nearly infinite distance; they must be explored by this country, this planet. Mankind must move forward or all will be lost.”
“School is over for the day. You are on my time now,” said Mrs. Evans. “The assignment was to write a 3-page book report on Johnny Tremain, a significant book about the Revolutionary War. You turned in a 400-page study.” She paused to lift the heavy binder and thumbed through it. “It is replete with tables, graphs, tabs, and information on a make-believe galaxy.”
“It’s not make-believe,” said Tommy.
“I googled it, Mr. Phipps,” she replied. “There is no such thing as the Bentallium Galaxy. I assume this report was purchased by you, possibly part of a fantasy board game…”
“You googled it?” he asked, perplexed. “Is that what passes for research nowadays?”
“Mr. Phipps!” said Mrs. Evans, raising her voice in impatience, “Keep your remarks to yourself. If you don’t leave this instant I will call Mr. Nelson, the vice-principal.” She jangled her keys as she pulled them from her purse. She walked to the classroom door, her block heels clip-clopping along the way.
Tommy slowly shook his head, walking after her, blocking her exit. “You have no idea, Mrs. Evans, how disappointing this is. You were selected; a teacher, your people’s instigator of curiosity for young people.”
“It’s Friday,” she said, “I’m very tired. We can discuss this Monday after the standardized tests. That is our focus here, Mr. Phipps.”
“Mrs. Evans,” he said, trying to rally one more time, “The Bentallium Galaxy is not science fiction. If you read my report, you would learn it is partially masked by the Milky Way. While it is a fairly small galaxy, its impact is huge, as it is actually getting closer. Its inhabitants would be curious about what kind of beings live here; dull ones that shrug with cynicism, or sharp ones that would be tough to conquer without sufficient losses. There will come a time, maybe not in the next few years, but soon when you will find that out, that you had a chance.”
“That’s enough,” said Mrs. Evans, stomping back and turning in a huff toward the blackboard. “Mr. Phipps, Tommy, I am writing your name here to remind me and let the class know you will have a detention Monday for this lack of respect. And another thing…”
She turned back and found the classroom empty. No sign of the boy. No sound of footsteps. He never came back to school, soon forgotten by the kids who found him weird. Sometime later, sooner than he predicted, events would unfold, events almost unimaginable to everyone on the planet, save a retired school teacher.
by submission | Sep 4, 2019 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
I am Amara Theseus, Captain of the Battle Starship Atoma. I have recently taken over command from the previous Captain and my mother, Laura Theseus. Our great ship has led the people of the Kuiper Federation to countless victories against the imperialist forces of the Earth Empire. How did we stand up against a force superior in numbers and firepower? Well, we have a technology that Earth scientists do not even think possible. Atoma has been ‘time-primed’, that is, every atom of every material on board has been charged with tachyons. It is the only ship in the history of humanity to have time travel capabilities. It isn’t much, only a few minutes back to take the place of our past selves, but it was enough to correct mistakes. So successful were we, that the Empire had started recklessly executing their own for suspected treachery.
Today, on the twentieth of September, 4019, the Atoma crew and I learned the hard way that our fortunes were finite. We were finally closing in on the Empire’s lunar base, Area 1220, when a miscalculated strategy cost us the right flank and half the left, along with two of our engines. No matter, this sort of thing has happened before. The nanobots fixed our engines really quickly, and I gave the order to jump back five minutes to avoid the ambush. A crackling came over the intercom.
“The ship can no longer time travel, Captain!” The Chief Engineer’s cries were panicked, yet disbelieving. They were the cries of a man who was the first to know of our fate. Like me, he had also just been transferred, and was still getting used to the ship’s unique abilities.
“Explain!” I commanded.
“Every time we took damage in battle, the nanobots would fix it up with materials from our environment or supplies. Parts were gradually replaced, and after the most recent fix, we have an entirely new ship, one that has not been time-primed!”
There was commotion on the bridge, the crew had heard the conversation. By now, Empire ships were circling around us, beaming the signal for an unconditional surrender.
“Shouldn’t the interior still be made of primed material?” I knew from my briefing that the priming process had made use of holographic network technology, so as long as even a tiny screw onboard had been primed, the whole ship could time travel.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am! The new nanobots that were added… There were a few extra functionalities. Not only do they fix exterior damage, they perform internal maintenance as well…”
I noted the Chief’s use of the passive, and the drifting of his voice at the end. It was pointless chiding him now, and this was only the immediate cause anyway. Overconfidence, nepotism, negligence, a lack of communication, and scrapped projects. We ended up putting all our eggs in one time traveling basket. For a miracle that is the first of its kind, five years of decisive victories were enough for the scourge of incompetence to seep in.
I leave this story as my final report. My officers and I have agreed to destroy Atoma, the technology, and ourselves along with it. I do not know how big a loss this would be, but it would not be as bad as letting the Empire learn of our secrets. I just hope that the Kuiper Federation has the resources and time to prime another ship, and the humility to learn from this very silly tragedy.
by Julian Miles | Sep 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A flickering light spasmodically turns the twisted wreckage into a black and white sketch of a chaotic mess. The illumination comes from a workspace lamp, it’s shade torn away during the bombardment that ruined this flagship.
There’s a glint in shadows. A half-empty bottle of ‘With a Bullet’ bourbon emerges to be placed carefully next to the battered lamp. A grimy hand, protruding from what were once pristine officer’s whites, retracts into the darkness.
“Hello, little beast. Who sent you?”
Teriela Masson, the owner of the arm, leans forward and steadies the lamp. The drone swings to get a better view of this tattered Admiral. In doing so, it reveals the perfect Union Roses etched into its tiny flanks.
“Good timing, drone from home. How lovely to see the unbesmirched emblem of those we died for.” She chuckles: “Nearly as pristine as the history you’d write to cover this dirty deed.”
It hovers, activity lights bright, signalling lights off.
“What, no praise for the woman who supported your betrayal to this inglorious conclusion?”
Still nothing.
The woman reaches down, lifts herself a little, and drags an upturned ammunition box forward. Sitting back down, she winces, then extends her right leg and points to it.
“Shrapnel. Likely to be bone shards from my lovely Lieutenant. He threw himself between me and the blast that finished this deck off.”
She takes a long drink, puts the quarter-full bottle down, then grimaces sidelong at the drone.
“You’ve escaped, haven’t you? The entire uprising was a diversion. A million people put their faith in lying thieves. We’ll be lucky if ten thousand of us remain to face whatever justice the Thorns of the Union Gold mete out. All that propaganda about ‘making a better history’. There’s no way this is a coincidental outcome. You deliberately threw twelve colonies into bedlam.”
The signalling lights blink rapidly, staccato Z-code spelling out: ‘You delayed them longer than expected’.
“I fought to save people who believed. Not for a cause I’d started to distrust.”
The light flashes in reply: ‘You still fought’.
She picks up the bottle and drains it.
“As I intimated, I fought to limit the evil you begat.”
The bottle spins away to smash unseen.
“I fought because either way, I would have a victory.”
A short sequence: ‘How?’
“I’m presuming you loaded everything from the storehouses on Largo Four? It certainly looked like the sort of loot greedy cowards would take. All those containers of treasure and fine wine.” She leans forward: “My marines added a three shielded boxes and a receiver. The latter being the only way to deal with the Ulam Chambers in the former. I’m no kind of expert, but my people told me such units – taken from three Ra-Class nuclear pulse drives – could produce very big explosions if set up correctly.”
Teriela smiles: “About now, your security people are laughingly informing you that they’ve already found and disabled the receiver – assuming your security is competent, of course. Did you know that a clockwork timer to release a spring is all you need to trigger an unconstrained antimatter injection into the reactive mass? That receiver wasn’t to set anything off, it was to let me warn you of my paranoid mistake in time for you to eject those boxes and reach a safe distance.”
The drone goes dark and drops like a stone.
“Time’s up. I win. You don’t get to write the history.”
Reaching back into the shadows, she pulls out another bottle of bourbon. With a rueful smile, she starts drinking.
“Bring on the court martial.”
by submission | Sep 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Please! There had to be a way to save him.
Widge was hit bad. The blast took out most of his right midsection including a portion of the flexible titanium rod that was his spine. He couldn’t stand. Cerulean cream-colored liquid leaked from a variety of tubes and pumped out of others. The ends of wires crackled as the fluid sparked against the electric charge. If only Charlie could hold him together with sheer will power, and love.
“C’mon Widge, you’re smart. Think of something!”
Widge’s words came out garbled yet understandable.
“You could pull my memory drive, use it in another unit. But a lot of my idiosyncrasies would get lost in the reboot.”
Charlie had practically rebuilt Widge from scratch. An older model that he’d tinkered with for years perfecting him into not only a valuable weapon and soldier but a friend as well. And most parts for him were long obsolete. Besides, there was no way he could duplicate the humor, intensity, and charisma that were never originally programmed into these prototypes. But now he was permanently failing on this battlefield, too heavy to move and no tools to minimize the impairment.
Widge coughed out a wet mist and continued. “I’m sorry but anything you transferred into another AI just wouldn’t be the same…me. By the way, my proximity sensors are picking up two invaders, five seconds out.”
Charlie, still cradling the massive weight of Widge in his arms, brought up his weapon as the first steel- encrusted alien jumped over the ridge. A perfect blast hit the enemy center mass and knocked him back into a devastating deployment of shredded metal armor. The second moved more cautiously and blast-fire was exchanged between the two foes, Charlie feeling one shot too hot and too close for comfort. Finally, he nailed his target, blowing off the entire head, the rest of the bulk collapsing into a lifeless jumble.
Charlie saw Widge’s arm sticking up but missing the hand. He’d sacrificed the appendage to deflect the shot meant to hit him.
“Dammit Widge, what did you do?”
“Saved your ass again. At this point, it was probably a moot gesture.”
It wasn’t the first time Widge had saved his life. Charlie had stopped counting after the explosion that Widge had shielded him from; tore up his back terribly. It took Charlie nearly a month to repair those wounds. This war had damaged them both.
“What am I going to do Widge?”
“Well, you can’t stay here dipshit. Get out while you can, back to the base. I’m beyond saving. We both know that.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“That’s not a wise de-de-de-de-“
“Widge?”
For more than ten years they had been partners. Fought side by side. Clung to each other during the repeated shellings because there was nothing else to do and if they were going to get obliterated it seemed rational to be holding a friend then to end alone.
Charlie looked down at the mouth frozen in mid-speak, eyes gazing at nothing. Charlie dropped his gun and put his other hand on Widge’s shoulder.
Sometime later the crunching of approaching boots came over the din of distant firing. The enemy soldier marched over the hill and saw the weaponless two lying in a depression. One was already gone. He sighted on the other and blasted it.
Charlie erupted into a fountain of blueish spray and short-circuiting electrodes.
The guy disconnected and removed his armored helmet, revealing a three-day growth and scarred cheek, as to more closely inspect the hugging dead forms.
“Fucking robots,” he quipped and moved on.
