by submission | Jan 16, 2019 | Story |
Author: Lance J. Mushung
I stepped onto the yellow and black transfer disk mounted on the gray deck of Delia Akeley and began bouncing like a child expecting candy. I’d be home in moments.
Mickie, the A.I. half of the crew, said through the speaker mounted on the bulkhead, “You may transfer now.”
“I hope my replacement enjoys the time with you as much as I did.”
“I hope you enjoy Earth of your future.”
Pioneer ships like Akeley traveled at high fractions of light speed to deliver transfer disks to habitable systems. Time dilation would make my six months onboard far longer back home.
In the blink of an eye I stood in the institutional-green disk room on Earth. A wall-sized screen showed a head with pale skin, green eyes, and curly auburn hair under a welcome home banner. It was me when I’d transferred to Akeley.
A holo of a dark-skinned dark-haired woman projected next to me. “Sharon McCrae, welcome. I am Isabel, the administrator of this facility. You have been gone 27 years, 137.52 days.”
I dipped my chin. “Thanks.” I resisted the urge to add it had only felt like six months, a quip Isabel probably heard all too often.
“Your billet is C237. A linker patch is on the desk. Place it on the back of your neck. It will link you to the Planet Wide Mesh and an online assistant will then bring you up-to-date.”
Once in C237, I sat by the desk and picked up a small square blue patch. I pressed it on my neck and closed my eyes. The assistant, an androgynous person with tan skin and close-cropped brown hair, appeared in my mind.
The assistant smiled. “Hello, Sharon. I am Claudia. A major advance in comm is people now have thought-controlled implants that replaced all handheld devices. The linker patch is like a low-fidelity implant. It puts you online with the PWM continuously and you can join the five senses of another person. Joining –.”
I interrupted her. “I can essentially be another person?”
“Yes.”
“Please join me with someone sharing something exciting.”
I bounced up and down on the wooden seat of a raft negotiating a river’s rapids. Excited whoops from other passengers and the roar of water almost deafened me while rocks flew past. Although I savored the smell and taste of the water pelting my face, oncoming motion sickness convinced me to stop.
I said, “Another, please.”
A lovely nude Oriental woman was lying on blue silk sheets. I moved closer.
I yelled, “Exit.”
Claudia reappeared. “You are surprised.”
“That shouldn’t be shared.”
“You interrupted me before I explained anyone can join a person without the permission of that person.”
I remained silent as the unpleasant ramifications sank in.
She broke the silence after several seconds. “Should I continue the briefing?”
“Can I have any privacy?”
“Privacy as you think of it does not exist.”
“Must I have an implant?”
“The government implemented them as a crime control measure. Only an insignificant minority do not have one. Those people are considered lunatic fringe and the government isolates them.”
“Can you get me on another ship?”
“Isabel has an opening on the Daniel Boone in two days. Boone’s current velocity means that six-months ship time is approximately 51 years here.”
“I’ll take her.”
They’d tossed a life jacket to a drowning woman. I yanked off the linker and told myself some sanity would return to Earth in half a century.
by Hari Navarro | Jan 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
Cat toys. They have an aisle for cat toys. Of all the gaudy alleys in all the supermarkets and I find myself boxed into the last seconds of existence surrounded by fake mice and pom-poms. I fucking hate cats.
I can hear Mrs Graves calling out for her dead husband Franklin as she has sex with Billy Pike over in Personal Hygiene. Mrs Graves was my PE teacher and Billy always did fancy his chances. He’d say that she had pools in her eyes when she looked at him and that he could feel her words when she spoke.
In Wine and Beer, the good Reverend Donner and his goodly wife Tamzen and their goodlier daughter Elitha, sit drunk and scared and eating bits of their Christ in a circle. Even with vomit and breadcrumbs stuck to her lips, I love this girl. I really, truly actually do.
I love her even though she thinks I’m a creep. She said nothing as I pushed through my shyness and proclaimed that the way her hair floats and filters the sun is the most beautiful thing that I’d ever, ever seen. Mind you, now saying it back, it does sound a bit Ted Bundy-ish.
In the meat section, Patrick Breen is crying as he kisses and pulls at the hair of Lewis Keesburg and neither one thinks about rugby as they squirm atop a vacuum sealed mattress of cheese-filled sausages and party-pack portions of pork.
So quickly it came to this, the end of all ends. Sparks, acid filled motes or maybe they are even alive – these blistering fireflies that swirl and stick to the glass. Oh, how they burn, how they dissolve and eat us away. Maybe they are metaphor, a construct, a delusion. One born of hate and ignorance and legislation signed by fat-fingered men. Things that made me think I was hated and ignored, yet I know it is not fictitious this thing that now contorts and thumps at the walls.
The ones who ran out back into the whip to look for those things they most loved, they are gone. They are dead.
I knew them all. And this last handful of life, the people who stayed and cowered here and found for themselves an appropriate aisle, I know them too. But I am sure they don’t know me.
Futility builds little clans. No time for bets that are hedged, no time for talk. There is barely but time to cast off these – our dogged blankets of lead.
I sit here alone squeezing a rubber toy, it is in the shape of a ball of wool and it squeals like the drawing of sick breath. The moan thump of the sex and the climaxing blurry pant of hymns surge and they beat in the blood of my ears. I know I have wasted my moment. Elitha, all I wanted was to talk.
I scream and all sound folds down into one sucked screech. A drone that is gulped down by the red fire blaze as the tiles on the floor rip like a zipper spitting its teeth and my world it breaks into two.
by Julian Miles | Jan 14, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I open my eyes to behold a slit of blue between tenements that descend from lofty, sunlit heights to the sordid mess of which I am a larger part. Lining that strip of clear sky are the blurry, baroque patterns made by fire escapes and drying racks set against the cerulean heavens.
Lowering my sight, I find aged brickwork well on its way to possessing the rugose anonymity of weathered rock due to a thick layer of ordure. In places that glistens like oils left to dry by a demented painter.
I have but one boot remaining. The sock on the other foot bears more resemblance to what covers the walls than any garment. My trews are ragged, likely ruined. I am shirtless under my heavy coat, and am lying on a soiled mattress.
Have I an appointment? Am I late? Something disturbed-
My testicles are wet.
Pressing my chin to my chest, I see a bottle resting against my crotch, angled in a way that incriminates my left hand for dereliction of gripping duties.
Righting the bottle, I narrow my eyes, then resort to digital means as the effort required to focus is beyond me. My headware queries the bottle and its RFID returns: ‘Freefall: premium vodka triple distilled in low-earth orbit’.
Unfinished vodka, and the sun is on the rise. So yesterday was Tuesday. Maybe. Today is probably Wednesday, or I missed brandy day and today is Thursday: tequila day. Making head or tails of that conundrum can wait. I drink the bottle dry, then consider taking my trousers off to suck the spilled liquor from them. That would require a cessation of being prone – isn’t worth that sort of effort.
Letting my head fall back, I watch birds wheel across the blue slot above, trying to guess where they’ll pop into view. Sure enough, idling and booze slip me back into stupor.
I dream of a furtive man in shabby clothes running the calluses of his thumb across the edge of his blade, taking comfort from the feel of whetted steel. He’s creeping down a debris-strewn alley, everything about or on him suppressed so as not to give warning. It’s foolish, trying to get past the eyes that never sleep, but the rewards are so big he cannot do anything but try.
My knee cracks bone when it slams into his head, held in place by my left hand, grip anchored by thumb in eye socket. Right hand smashes the empty bottle. Pain starts to make him recoil; jagged glass opens his throat. I release his head with a push and twist. That turns him away before he drops next to me. His last breath gurgles and stops. From the roof above it would look like we’re drunks sharing a discarded mattress.
I’m awake.
“Good morning, Frank.”
My ‘eyes that never sleep’ have been waiting.
“Hello, SAL. How long did I manage this time?”
“Nine days. A new record.”
“Thanks for letting me pretend for a while.”
“I don’t mind. Your drunken dreams are fascinating and some of your ramblings are quite insightful. I’ve contacted the outfitters. Clothes and grooming accessories will be here within the hour. Coffee and pierogi will arrive sooner.”
“Thanks, SAL. Next contract?”
“Mars. Somebody’s insisting they’ve been dumped there against their will.”
“We’re to silence them?”
“No, we’re to bring them home alive.”
“Nice. We can pretend to be a good Samaritan.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
I sit up and settle. It’s so quiet here.
“Frank?”
“Uh?”
“We should move nearer to the entrance of the alley.”
“Ah. Yes.”
by submission | Jan 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Rotting mangoes proffer disgusting flavors like burning spittle rising into a renovator’s mouth when alien wraiths hiss, rising from charred ruins fallen untold millennia before humanity’s existence. Dearth Crenshaw stood his ground as a maniacal, mystical slaver, without concern for his acolyte, Emmaus Progo. His protégé previously accompanied haunted clearings of thirteen worlds in readiness for human colonization, but repeatedly lost his bowel control when ectoplasmic spirits of species, still haunting their abandoned civilization, swirled in fury about them, tearing at their interloper space suits and souls.
Dearth’s hands spun the vicious atmosphere about him with invisible lines of force, entwining his attackers. The whispish harpies slashed back in agony, confused and forlorn as their fates were sealed by superior skills of a dark arts master.
“Now, Dearth? Use the wand?” Emmaus extended a six-foot silvery metal rod toward the billowing murk surrounding them.
“No! I hate that technology crutch.” Dearth guillotined the discussion as strings of undetectable magnetic fields encircled his captives, binding them and finally compelling their migration into a shimmering rope of energy speeding into an irregular orange crystal suspended loosely from his neck, outside his suit. Soon, the troubled ambiance was clear of psychic turmoil. Dearth’s gemstone glowed, pulsing life force from captivated new souls waiting his processing.
“I did not mean to interfere, master. I was afraid they might overcome us. I do not have your powers, so I must use what I have.” Emmaus tried to justify his interruption during battle as the hunters later discarded their battered space suits in a change bay aboard their ship.
“You’ve soiled yourself again, Emmaus. I had hoped for more progress after two years of apprenticeship.” Dearth turned, glaring at his offensive understudy.
“Maybe this is not my rightful destiny,” replied Emmaus. “I might try a different profession. With the thousands of new Earth colonies, surely there would be a better fit. Free will cries for better.”
“Free will! Where did you hear that term?” Dearth was suddenly insistent.
“I read some historical material in our ship’s library. Isn’t happiness really what we all deserve?”
Dearth’s fingers twisted quickly into an arcane hand mudra. Remains of Emmaus fell to the metal floor; his body desiccated into small piles of debris as a puff of soul rose to be encapsulated within the orange, glistening stone about Dearth’s neck. Dearth walked deliberately to a communications panel mid-ship.
“Dearth Crenshaw. Operation successful. 29465 is completely cleared for restitution. Send mining clones. I have fresh souls to activate them. Astral memories from this unknown race will pioneer a useful human outpost. There are copious resources in this world worthy of immediate exploitation. Note…send me a new assistant to implant. I will transfer this last one’s soul into a settler once new bodies arrive. I suggest acquiring a new helper soul from an earth-bound spirit taken from shambles of New York or Chicago. Forget the suburbs. I need a servant that is pliant and barely curious. Capture something drifting about a nursing home destroyed after the last asteroid strikes. I will wait, as required, for the supply ship. Please transmit my next target planet coordinates. For my control files, record that I have sealed more sections of Earth’s ancient mythologies on my ship that are heretical.”
by submission | Jan 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: Suzanne Borchers
The back rows of mourners had risen to pay their respects and shuffled toward the old man lying in the casket. The front rows consisting of family and their close friends squirmed a bit waiting for the line to proceed past. Soft musical selections moved the line toward the exit. Averted eyes glanced to meet in condolence, while an occasional hug disrupted the line.
He lingered in the shadow along the back wall. He pushed himself forward to be the last in line before the first rows stood. Sooner than he expected, he faced the lifeless figure. Gazing on the wrinkled visage, his thoughts traveled backward in time.
The tape began when he first met the weeping boy. “I am your new stepfather. Would you like to work on an electronic project together?” The boy’s tears subsided as he placed his hand in the stepfather’s hand.
Days of instruction and mutual social learning with quiet laughter produced a machine to make feathered lures for their new adventure in fishing.
In the rough wooden rowboat, they threw their lines into murky waters that contained no fish but which brought intimate conversations and contentment to the stepfather and his stepson. Clouds passed overhead. The stepfather rowed, until years later when the stepson powered the oars.
Time passed.
His stepson left him behind and entered the academy to voyage beyond home and planet. The stepfather hugged him, and was surprised to not have the words to say goodbye—just a hug.
For years, during the short leaves, they sat together and the stepfather heard tales of romance and travel. The medical leave was the hardest one. Would his stepson be able to pursue his dream with only one arm? Would the implant work successfully? Each day, the stepfather nursed his stepson back from the brink of despair toward optimism. Finally, they shared a hug goodbye until the next leave.
Whispered conversations brought him back to the darkened room.
“How long do you think it will stand there?”
“Surely, now’s the time to junk it.”
“No longer useful.”
“Hasn’t been for years.”
“Why did they keep it around?”
“Who knows?”
“The old man insisted on it.”
“Well, great grandfather is dead and he doesn’t have anything to say about it anymore.”
“Can you believe it’s still standing there?”
“Almost like it could feel sadness.”
“That’s absolutely absurd.”
“Outdated.”
“We’ll stop by the recycling plant when we can finally get out of here.”
The stepfather focused his attention on his stepson. Was he truly an imposter? He was overwhelmed by emptiness. His electronics smoldered and burned. His shoulders shook as his memory saw the unlined face of the boy. He would never see his stepson again.
“Push it away from the coffin.”
“Turn it off first.”
“When it falls, kick it aside for discarding later.”
The stepfather heard. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He stepped away from his stepson and waited by the exit.
by submission | Jan 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Christopher Lee Buckner
The End of All Things Good
Alice-8000, a fancy name that meant nothing beyond the fact it made the android seem more advanced than it really was led the Johnson’s into their new room.
Speaking in an upbeat voice, Alice stated to the husband and wife, “And this is your room. While it is simple, as you can see it is also quite cozy; certainly, a better standard of living than you must be used to.”
Mr. Johnson snorted his contempt for the machine’s presumption, but decided against voicing a correction. His life hadn’t been amazing by any stretch of the imagination, but he was happy and content with his little piece of the world that he shared with Mrs. Johnson for the past eight years.
The room was simple, no larger than a typical hotel room at a modest resort one might find in Florida this time of year. Two beds sat in the center of the room, an old fashion statement that a man and wife did not share the same blankets. The second the machine was out of the room, he figured he would push the beds together, if they weren’t bolted to the floor. There was a nightstand between the beds and on it was a bright red phone.
“The phone, of course, is for internal use only. No signal can be reached beyond these walls, for yours and the rest of residences safety,” Alice said, seemly reading Mr. Johnson’s mind as he glanced at the phone.
On the opposite side of the beds were two nightstands with two identical lamps, each with a newly printed Bible placed along the edge. A neat desk, two chairs, a lime-green wallpaper, and mid-century yellow nylon carpet was on the floor. The only other room was a bathroom a few feet from the left bed, but it did not have a shower, just a sink and toilet.
Mrs. Johnson nearly leaped into her husband’s arms as she jerked violently, tightening her grip around his arms until his skin turned white.
“Oh, don’t be worried, Mrs. Johnson. I assure you, nothing outside can hurt you in here. We are well protected from any intruder that might attempt to gain entry,” Alice said.
“Are you certain? People are getting pretty desperate,” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Oh, I assure you, our illustrious benefactors made certain this domicile will keep you and your wife quite safe for the foreseeable future. Now, I will leave you two to your new home. I’m most certain you are overcome with joy and wish to get some rest. Dinner will be served at 5’oclock on the dot. Do try to not be late—the kitchen is serving apple pie tonight for dessert,” Alice said.
“What about our things?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Oh. You will not be needing those anymore. Everything you could ever want will be provided for you,” Alice answered.
“We had family photos in our bags!” Mr. Johnson said.
Alice seemed to freeze for a moment, taken aback by his sudden outburst before finally returning to her typical cheery behavior.
“I’m sorry. If there was something of importance among your things, you should bring the subject to the attention of your unit liaison. Now if there aren’t other questions, I do have other guests that must be acquainted with their rooms.”
“What about –” Mr. Johnson tried to speak, but Alice ignored him as she left the room.
Another loud boom echoed in the distance, far, far above Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s head, causing a flickering of dust to drift down from the ceiling.
Mrs. Johnson collapsed on the edge of the left bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Please dear. We don’t have the time for more crying,” Mr. Johnson said. He wanted to be more sympathetic, but just couldn’t bring himself to care right now, even for his wife.
“We should have stayed up there with our children and our family!” she shouted.
“You know we couldn’t. We were selected. Neither of us had any choice. If we hadn’t been… saved, we would be ash right now,” he said.
“The better for it, too!” she said.
Mr. Johnson didn’t know what to say that hadn’t already been said. So he threw his arms around his wife and allowed her sorrow to pour out, as tears rolled down the brown and yellowed stripped jumpsuit that had been given to him and his wife to wear.
In a low and loving voice, Mr. Johnson spoke to his wife, saying, “We’ll be all right. I don’t know how, but everything will be fine. I promise you, I can make this work for us, no matter how long it takes.”
