by submission | Dec 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
“I’m finished at last.”
Tommy pulled Mariel by the hand as they ran through the nearby woods.
“I’ve retrofitted the structure with twin rocket pods sufficient to achieve orbit.”
Mariel did not know what her best friend was talking about.
The trail climbed a hill and wound a bend, and there it was, the same but different: the place where they had read comic books, shared secrets, eaten Slim Jims. High up in the branches it sat with planks nailed into the trunk, its ladder ascending.
Mariel tilted back her head. Tommy squeezed her hand into a fist.
“My treehouse is a rocket ship. We leave at noon.”
“What?”
Tommy brushed aside her bangs and gazed into her eyes.
“I want you to come with me. That’s what childhood love is for, Mariel: to make us love childhood.”
Mariel’s mind raced. “I can’t leave the planet! I have parents here. A dog. Homework.”
“Tell the dog your parents ate the homework and let’s go!”
***
Tommy Flynn sat stargazing the night before atop the coal shack in Mariel’s yard. Coal would be the fuel.
“Mariel McDonegalhousen,” he said.
Her name stretched longer than the oxygen of a single breath allowed.
Tommy rehearsed his pitch.
“A pasture of stars await! A crust of sunlight forms on the horizon! There isn’t room enough on this planet for our genius!”
He looked at the moon and said hello.
***
Tommy’s mother held other plans for her only son.
“Even a garbage collector performs a good for the world because they pick up the garbage. At least become a garbage collector, Tommy. Don’t become a dreamer. Dreamers are the most useless of all.”
***
Tommy ran to consult the neighborhood seer, who smoked pot and wore jean jackets.
“Gotta save the space program,” Tommy told him.
Crazy Mike stroked a beard that wasn’t there and shifted his weight upon the garbage can. A meadow surrounded them.
“Yes, perhaps a technological breakthrough of this magnitude will accomplish that lofty goal: the implementation of human willpower to overcome reality itself. Yes, it might do. It just might do.”
Crazy Mike is crazy, Tommy thought.
***
Mariel believed in Tommy, in all his adventures and notions. But this was a lot to ask.
“You’ll need to serve this ship in multiple roles, first officer. Navigator, engineer…”
Tommy remembered how cool Dean Martin was, as the pilot in that disaster movie, and how suave Dino was with the ladies.
“…flight attendant.”
“I am here to serve this ship,” Mariel responded.
“Good man.”
***
Tommy wondered, sometimes, if Crazy Mike wasn’t his father. The guy hung around a lot but never got too close—just like fathers were supposed to do.
***
The countdown began.
The noon sun hung in a cloudless sky.
The neighborhood heard thunder from far afield.
They left behind soap operas to come see.
A trail of exhaust fumes climbed the sky.
Tommy’s mother frowned.
Crazy Mike giggled.
A tree sat scorched and empty in the woods.
A dream took flight.
by submission | Dec 19, 2018 | Story |
Author: Irene Montaner
“So, what is it?” Dan asks.
I don’t know. I think it’s a flower but I don’t remember its name. I add another brushstroke to my watercolour painting. Another red leaf, longer than all the other ones and I paint some green leaves too. Red and dark green leaves but I cannot remember its name, so I shrug. “Tell me, how is it that we’ll run away?”
“We’ll leave this madhouse early in the morning, before the nurses are up. We’ll get into the growing bunkers. First, we’ll sneak into the genetic labs and tweak some good-looking plants and then we’ll grow them in some nice hydroponic cushions. We’ll get those red plants of yours, you’ll see.” And his eyes glint as he goes through this crazy idea once more. As if we could break into the growing bunkers without anyone noticing, let alone leave the asylum.
Perhaps on Earth it would have been possible for us to get away from this confinement but certainly not here in Europe, where security is automated and highly effective and there are some practicalities to consider: spacesuits, food and water and an additional supply of oxygen should something go amiss (not that anything has happened since the colony was founded forty-some years ago). And I’m certainly forgetting something because that’s what I do these days, I forget things.
“So, what is it? Dan asks again.
He also forgets things and this time I forget to ask him how we’ll run away. I paint instead and add some more red leaves to my flower. I experiment with the shape and paint them as some elongated diamonds. I add some light green dots in the middle and then something happens. For the first time in years, I see the flowers clearly in my mind. Bright red leaves with a velvety touch to them, veins radiating from their central axis towards the edge of the leaf. I paint them quickly before I forget them.
In my mind, I see them in a terracotta pot with a golden ribbon around in the middle of a table. Our kitchen table. There are tiny fragrant pies fresh out of the oven and wreaths of evergreen decorating the door and window frames. And someone calls my name. Mam, oh it must be mam. And I wonder what it was like for mam when she got old and forgot things too. And whether she ended up in a retirement house surrounded by crazy people. But surely she didn’t because she was on Earth. And there you could wander freely no matter how insane you were. No one would think her a public danger for forgetting her stuff every now and then. She needn’t be locked up in case she was spotted walking at night towards the outer gate without a spacesuit. Or plucking the lettuces out of their nutrient solution because the symmetry of their leaves was no longer perfect although they were not edible yet. Or if she forgot to turn on and off the water filter of her apartment for a few days in a row. None of those things mattered on Earth. And her other children certainly cared for her. Yes, I had siblings, Paul and Ruth. Those were their names. Their names.
“Poinsettia. That’s it. The flower’s name is poinsettia,” I say.
“Poinsettia,” says Dan. “And a Merry Christmas to you too.”
And we both revel in the elusive memories of merrier days, far away from the colony.
by Hari Navarro | Dec 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
I was going to say that everyone knows of Shoichi Yokoi, the Japanese soldier who hid for many years, not knowing that the war had ended. But most, probably, do not. His war and its scattered detritus have now long since been replaced by new wars and new tales of loss and the lost.
But here now a teenage girl sits in a thread-bare Nazi officers uniform and she, too, does not know that the war is over. She does not know what war is. She does not know of time or age or mortality. All she knows is the sun.
The swastika that’s clutched by the great bird on her cap is but a shape and nothing more. A thing that she draws in the snow.
At night she picks and she peels away at the bones of her family, for these sticks they also hold no meaning. They are but the struts to hold up the roof and the walls of skin. Just as they do with the creatures that wash up and bleach on the blackened and frost trimmed shore.
She is eighteen but she has no need of this number, she has no concept of the fear that accompanies the creep that is death. If she did then she’d worry that her skin has prematurely puckered and her eyes have been robbed by the glare of the snow. And that her cells are being eaten by a shrill heat that whines and shimmers without stop.
The air bites and she pays it no mind but there’s also something else that now shudders her skin. Something is coming. She has no words but she forms in her head an old memory, a feeling that many years ago wrapped around the face that gazes out and down from the wall by her bed. That thing. Its glare as cold as the ice that cracks and she knows it is bad and not good.
Creatures like those from her cap swirl up above and she imagines that they sluice out from the sun. It’s a door, she thinks. A portal of light and from this place the things they will come.
For her.
“Guten Morgen ruft die Sonne/ The sun calls, Good morning!”
A beckoning call to the sky. She feels it. The heat from the sun as it pulls at her face. A stinging pall the same as that which wraps and holds her in sleep.
Endless nights and, slowly, she cooks curled beneath the hovering Haunebu that perpetually hum in rows within the crumbling hanger at her back.
Her eyes close and her head floods into a dream. She is standing atop the disc and the hatch is no longer locked tight. A thing with long hair and thin smiling lips reaches up, offering her a blemish-less hand and she now remembers the word for mother.
The girl’s eyes open to a painful squint, she will wait. She will wait for them for as long as it takes. And they will come and they will fly her away. Up and into the glorious black hole that burns at the center of the sun.
by Julian Miles | Dec 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m sitting in a luxurious café on the seafront at Torslit, watching ten-metre-tall purple waves break across the dome, when a news article catches my eye on the ever-present infofeed.
“Police today released the constructed image of a human they wish to question in connection with several gruesome murders across Fabulon. The suspect stands one point seven metres tall and speaks with a Churuish accent. If you see this male, notify a polipoint immediately. Do not attempt to approach, engage, or apprehend this dangerous being.”
The image is of a bearded everyman in a plaid bodysuit, with an old scar on one cheek and dragon tattoos curling round his forearms.
I wait for the words linking him to killings on worlds like this one, but – as usual – they never come. Even if they did suspect, I doubt it would be broadcast. But, every time, I still wait for it. Like all of my kind, I’d like my art to be appreciated. Which is the eternal dichotomy: to continue my art, I must be free. Which means I must remain unknown.
This modern age affords me ways to ensure my body of work will finally be realised. In the age-old tradition of bank deposit boxes, Datavault operate on the liners that flit between the many worlds of man. For a fee, you can securely store information with them. That data will never be released unless one specifies the release criteria, and the recipients.
The Lenkormians pioneered the forever drives that power the vehicles of a hundred races. They also provide certain specialist services for those with the wherewithal to avail themselves of them. In my case, a life monitor. Upon my irrevocable death, my datavault will unload its contents to the ten highest-rated intergalactic news outlets at that time. My reign of termination will become public knowledge.
Not just dry schedules of the dead, either. I pride myself on trying to record as comprehensive a view of this incredible existence as I can. After all, what point is there being innovative if I cannot attempt to prevent any from surpassing me?
From humble beginnings with a classmate back on Earth, I am currently a forty-year veteran of ending sentients. My variable facial features, shifting scars, and transient tattoos came compliments of a long-demised agency, and government, who recruited me for my tendencies and potential.
They made the mistake of thinking they could control me by threatening my family. When I decided the time had come for me to leave, I ended my family. In the aftermath, I’m sure they discovered that many who’d worked on or with me had already died in circumstances that would only be suspicious after they paid attention to the minutiae. By the time those revelations reached those who would rightly be alarmed, the few targets I hadn’t taken care of were dead and I was somewhere out amongst the stars, performing murder under new skies.
As high tide has past and my drink is done, I’ll save this introductory piece for deposit when I board the liner in a short while. Torslit has been good to me, but an overindulgence at an isolated waystation will cause a commotion, and it can’t remain undiscovered for much longer. Therefore, I must away. The people of this planet are so welcoming, it seems a shame to waste such trust. I only have myself to blame. When practising years of restraint, the occasional massacre is inevitable. Likewise, the subsequent need for swift relocation.
If you’re reading this, my name was Walter Naguel. I would have relished killing you.
by submission | Dec 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Philip Tudball
Etrian blocked a glaive swing that would have decapitated him, moving backwards and trying to find his balance. His attacker leapt in again, sweeping a low strike at his legs. Another hurried parry and another step back. A third attack, this a stab right to his centre. Etrian was able to bring his stave up vertically and sweep the blade left, he rolled with the push, rotating his stave around and turned his block into a sideswipe, it connected with a solid thud against his foes helm throwing its body sideways. Etrian pushed forwards, his next swipe reaching behind, sweeping his foe’s knees from under him and crashing him on to his back. His opponent lay sprawled in front of him, Etrian stepped forward holding his stave ready for a killing blow. He lanced forwards, ready to crush the throat. He thrust down, his stave slipped between the gorget, punching down onto the windpipe ready to-
“Lashrak! Va na klanash”
The words rang out around the arena. The killcode contained within them shutting down all movement in Etrian’s body, every joint locked in place instantly. The stave, only millimetres from its target, would not find its mark.
Lights went on, illuminating the deck raised above the arena. All around, looking in, ‘Vlorak warriors howled their displeasure at the downed warrior. It struggled its way out from under Etrian’s immobile form. A ‘Vlorak cub, his first spar, young and inexperienced. With an angry growl, it stalked towards Etrian’s rigid body. Spitting a curse it rammed it’s blade through Etrian’s chest, tearing through the metal casing, finding the synthetic nerves within before bursting out the back in a spray of ichor and mechanical debris. Etrian screamed, the same scream forced from a thousand throats before this one. His automated nervous system relaying every jagged shard up his brain stem, unable to hold back anything.
A wall section of the arena opened up, a network of machines appearing, carrying the shell of Etrian’s new body. Perfect in every way to Etrian’s species this new shell needed only a brain to start it functioning. The machines began to work, with a brutal efficiency they enveloped Etrian’s shattered casing. Etrian’s brain stem was ripped from the spent shell of the now wrecked body. This time he couldn’t scream, as much as he wanted to. In front of the watchers, and with little ceremony, Etrian was placed into the new shell. Another lesson in pain. Etrian’s new body began to activate, his stem bonding with the synthetic nerves and bundles of this new case.
This is why the ‘Vlorak would win. The perfection of their art and their unceasing practice against the styles of their foes. Soon these living cages would contain the remnants of Etrian’s species, like that of countless conquered species before them.
A new warrior stepped on to the floor, older than his predecessor. Etrian knew this one, they had fought before, it would know his moves almost before he made them. This would not last long before the pain began again. Etrian’s frame powered up, the killcode unlocked and Etrian stumbled forwards adjusting to his new body. The warrior bellowed a challenge, looking for that last weakness to expunge, the last skills to master.
Deep in his core, Etrian sighed, at the futility and the pain. If only it would end, no more fighting, no more resurrection just for more agony. If only he could close his eyes and let it all go. The ‘Vlorak warrior charged, sweeping his blade in a vicious arc. Instinctively Etrian raised his blade to parry.
by submission | Dec 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Malcolm Carvalho
Sneha glances at me and adjusts the collar of her gravsuit. The ocean depths are unforgiving to these elite land dwellers, even with their gravsuits and this room’s pressure neutralizing field. Yet they need this place. She shoots a dictating glance at me. I swallow my pride, walk to the dashboard at the corner of the room, and adjust the pressure shield.
“Your visits are becoming too frequent these days,” I tell her. “The last one was barely a month ago. This will only drain the harvesting here and produce weaker organs. According to our agreement…”
“Please.” Sneha clenches her jaws. “I know what we are doing. Why do you have to be so uptight? We spend a fortune running this place. The electricity to power the centre, to maintain the shield so the water pressure does not kill you. Otherwise, at 300 meters, you would have been crushed to pulp within minutes.”
I knew she would rub it in. “Who brought us here in the first place? You. You need the higher gravity so we can develop stronger muscles and organs, so you can use them. You have the gravshields only because you know an exposure to higher-G would kill us. What would that do to this city of yours, this organ cultivating haven you have built? How would you sustain your ‘immortality’ then?”
“Ah, so you think immortality is a privilege? You must visit land. See how the few thousands of us have to suffer just to keep the planet going. Tend to the crops, keep our numbers at an optimum, and maintain hygiene. Immortality comes at a price. Look at yourself, you don’t need to worry about this. We ensure you have a decent lifestyle. Your people can live however they want, date whoever they wish, have as many children as they like.”
“To what end? Have children so you have more of us as hosts for your organ factory?”
Sneha throws up her hands. “You think being immortal solves our problems? Seeing the same people all the time, not having children because infant mortality is almost 100% thanks to the climate on land. Never having anyone to care for, no one to mentor. Us never ageing, yes thanks to this harvesting place. The same decision makers with their indecisiveness that immortality brings in with an infinite supply of time, the same mistakes repeated. Immortality for what? So we, the last occupants of the land up there, can keep our flag flying? Lay claim to a piece of land as our historic home?”
“Okay, I get it. Where does that leave us?”
“It’s not that simple. We are both in this warp together. You must produce hosts for our organs, or we will slowly die out. As for us, we have to maintain the machinery here, power up this place so you don’t have to worry about anything but staying healthy. If we die out, you won’t live for long too.”
I’m tired of her argument. “Listen. We have known this for years. Our people are dying sooner, some of them even before they hit 30. What’s the point of procreating if they cannot see their children grow up?”
“Stop being emotional. Both sides have a job and we are doing the best we can.”
I stop arguing. There is no other way. Let them have the new batch of organs. My people have engineered the organ cells to grow exponentially even after they’ve been transplanted.
None of our engineers will be around to handle the consequences. And soon, none of these land-dwellers too.
