by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Commander Abhrams wasn’t an athlete, but had trained almost maniacally to meet the physical requirements of the space program. He wasn’t the smartest either, and in school most reports included notes suggesting he ‘would do better if he applied himself’. He’d made up the time later though, studied after work and on weekends to get through the entrance exams. Nothing was going to keep him from space once the program opened up.
He got his wings, worked through the ranks and nearly four decades later found himself here, in command of a ship, out among the stars with an ark in orbit and boots on the ground of this new world.
The planet had been bombarded with an advanced terraforming agent while he was still in the academy, and now, with the lander parked on a flat mesa nearby, Abhrams looked with wild wonder at this world around him.
The shelf of the mesa gave way to a beach of tumbled river rock, beyond which a lake reached out to the horizon. Along the edge of the lake, bullrushes reached skyward, and though from a distance he couldn’t be sure, he would swear they were nearly four metres tall.
Nearby, a thicket of what looked like sunflowers grew out from a patch of the river rock. As he watched, a small flying thing – possibly a bird – hovered close to one, reaching in – maybe to pluck a seed – when the flower folded in half with a snick and trapped the flying thing inside.
Motion near the water’s edge caught his eye, and the rocks began, in ones and twos, to unfold themselves, legs extending from inside the protective stony shells to form into a line of ants the size of cats marching up towards the mesa. Abhrams stepped back, but they divided, giving him a metre wide berth before joining up again and closing the distance to the ship.
He took a few steps towards the lander itself, but the rock-ants climbed on top of one another, forming a stationary wall ahead of him, and it didn’t move as he approached, but rather rose higher, the giant ants buttressing the structure from behind and blocking his way. Beyond them he could see the entire surface of the landing craft was moving, a rippling mass of life teaming over its surface, and he could only stare in horror as the ship slowly seemed to shrink in size beneath the weight of these creatures until it was no more.
The flow of ants changed then, turning about face as a singular unit and almost pouring off the mesa as they returned to the lakeside.
He watched as they passed, and realized that the once grey and rocky surface of their shells now glistened with a fresh white alloy veneer, and as they spread out across the beach, he could almost make out the corporation’s logo spread across a number of their backs, before they rolled back into balls and the ground was still once more.
Somewhere out on the water a large serpentine fish broke the surface, fins extending from its body like legs to sprint across on top of the water. Behind it a blur gave close chase, the pair zig-zagging around the lake until a mouth opened up ahead of the hapless fish, the pursuer having driven it straight into its partner’s jaws. Abhrams gaped at the pair of animals he would have called leopards, as they hung half in and half out of the water face to face, one spitting half its catch into the other’s mouth before both slipped beneath the surface of the lake leaving nothing behind but stillness.
Things had gone terribly awry here, but he’d already made up his mind. Adapt and overcome.
Nothing was going to keep him in space, now that there was a new world opening up.
by submission | Aug 17, 2017 | Story |
Author : Bryan Pastor
“Absolutely ridiculous. The music of this era su….”
“Hold that thought, what’s the make and model of the car we’re looking for?”
“Blue Nissan…”
“Like that one?”
“Crap! Quick turn around.”
“Where?” Anderton pointed at the bridge that suddenly materialized beneath the wheels of the car. He gunned the ancient Cadillac. The engine gladly complied, but the worn shocks only caused the car to bounce like a sad child on a broken trampoline.
A half-dozen minutes passed before they could retrace their steps. The exit took them down a long twisting road with hundreds of private drives that slipped off toward secluded bungalows.
“That one.” Felix pointed toward the next driveway. They had been searching almost an hour for the car. Anderton was busy scanning his side of the road, so he missed the turn. As he angled into an eight-point turn, Felix growled.
“Ditch it, we’re done here.”
“You sure?”
“Hundred-twenty percent.”
The driveway was a long straight quarter-mile shot to a shack that sat on top of a hill. The Nissan sat at that top of the hill near the house.
Anderton drew his sidearm and darted into the woods for cover. Felix took the more direct approach, marching right down the road.
“Don’t you think he saw us?” Anderton asked, as a tried to dodge trees and shrubs.
“I am sure he did.”
“This could be an ambush.”
“I’m sure it ain’t.”
The Nissan was still in drive; the driver’s side door and trunk were both ajar. Someone had left in a hurry. Anderton checked the house. The door was locked, but not hard to force open. The cottage hadn’t seen a visitor in some time. A pile of delivery flyers and old catalogs kept the door from opening easily.
“Now what?” Anderton asked, holstering his gun.
“I’m pretty sure I know when he went.”
“Okay, when?” Anderton asked.
“Don’t you ever read the brief?” Felix scrunched his nose. He turned his attention back to the device he had been playing with.
“Can you give us an extra ten? I want to smoke a cigarette.”
“Sure.” Felix grinned. A blue light surrounded them pulsing in incrementally shorter bursts until it was a solid blinding wall. Then they were gone.
Anderton hated the minute after transit. The light, no matter tight he squeezed his eyes, always blinded him. When he finally could see, he found Felix struggling with a gorilla. No, it wasn’t a gorilla; it was their bounty.
Annoyed at not having a chance to smoke, Anderton set his stunner to extra-crispy. The bounty slumped unconscious after a few jolts.
Felix cussed. “You couldn’t give me a heads up?”
“No.” Anderton replied, lighting a smoke. “If I gave you a warning I would have given him one too.”
Anderton gave the bounty a soft toe to the mid-section.
“He’s a big one. Gave you some trouble?”
“I was handling it.” Felix replied as a pulled the man’s arms behind his back to slap a pair of shackles on him.
“Please… Give me five minutes to see her.” The bounty begged, trying to pull himself up.
“No.” Anderton replied, crushing his cigarette butt beneath the tread of his boots.
Inside the house, a young girl was awoken by a sudden flash of light. She bounced from her bed, looking excitedly for a thunderstorm, but there was nothing there.
by submission | Aug 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Bill Diamond
Suzanne wanted revenge. And, she’d convinced herself it was justified to achieve a greater good for society. To avoid jail, instead of acting rashly, she had waited and planned.
She’d been fired from her job as a line cook at an upscale restaurant. While unemployment was an inconvenience, Suzanne was confident she would find new work. She wasn’t even that distraught about losing the position. She considered her hourly work a supplemental job to support her passion for fiction writing. Writing wasn’t enough to pay her bills, but, she believed it was only a matter of time until her breakout publication.
She was primarily upset because of the indignity. The restaurant had replaced her with a robot. Not even a very bright robot. With a pleasant interface, the machine would tirelessly carry out basic kitchen functions without complaint. Suzanne knew she wasn’t the first, nor the last, person to be replaced by automation. Yet, she felt this was an invasion into a creative art where a human touch and subjective nuance was critical. In her mind, it crossed a significant line and required a political statement.
On Friday afternoon, Suzanne snuck into the worker’s entrance of the restaurant. She concealed some spoiled fish in her oversized bag. If anyone asked, she intended to explain she was retrieving material she’d forgotten in her locker. In the dinner rush of the busy kitchen, no one noticed her.
The robot was working at ‘her’ station. When everyone was diverted, she slipped the bad fish into the large pot containing the restaurant’s signature bouillabaisse. Suzanne’s research indicated it would sicken, but not seriously harm, the customers. Just enough to tarnish the restaurant’s reputation and bottom line. An act of sabotage in defense of human dignity over machines. She snuck out of the restaurant.
Returning later, Suzanne confirmed there had been a rash of food poisonings. She anonymously contacted broadcast and internet media to generate interest. Word spread virally around town.
Unexpectedly, her cyborg replacement joined her at the bus stop. Suzanne initiated a conversation. Since the robot was programmed to be friendly, they were soon chatting amiably. Suzanne was careful to avoid any indication she knew about the restaurant.
“Where do you work?” she inquired.
“Actually, I was recently hired there,” the robot pointed at the restaurant. “But, I just got fired. There was something wrong with tonight’s soup. And, they blamed me.”
An electrical thrill of success shot through Suzanne. Maybe this would help slow the march of people being displaced by computers. As a bus approached, Suzanne feigned empathy, “That’s too bad.”
Boarding the bus, the robot turned and said, “Thank you. But, the job was only temporary. I really want to be a writer. In fact, I’ve just received some strong interest in my first novel.”
by submission | Aug 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kelly Sauvage Angel
“So, how was transport?” Betta asked as I settled into her chair.
“Speed of light, really.” I gathered and lifted my hair in a messy bundle so she could snap the nylon cape around my neck.
From the moment we landed, I’d found myself warily intrigued by what I had witnessed among our requisite stops throughout the Integration Center. Not only were we given a comprehensive orientation on Earthling customs, but our Commandrix stayed by our side throughout the documentation process as well as the distribution of The Rules for our independent study. All that was left before settling into our sleep capsules was a visit to the salon. The cooking, crochet and Pilates lessons would begin tomorrow.
“This will take no time at all,” Betta assured me. “Your locks are lustrous. All we need to do is give you bangs.”
“Bangs?” I asked, reaching for my blaster.
Betta stifled a kind laugh.
“No weaponry involved,” she said. “Bangs are simply the shorter hairs required of females to mask their high foreheads.”
“But, I’m quite proud of my cranial prowess,” I protested. “How will my superior brain mass be acknowledged if my forehead cannot be seen?”
“That’s precisely the reason you were sent to my chair.” Betta sectioned off a swath of my hair for cutting. “High foreheads give Earthling males a commanding presence and garner respect; whereas, among females, they are considered, well, downright homely. People will whisper of your horse face.”
Lost for words, I directed my gaze downward. Lengths of hair descended into my lap.
Betta paused the snipping of her shears. “Please tell me you’re okay, Mallo.”
“I… don’t… understand.” Never had my voice sounded so meek to my own ears.
“Take it as a compliment. They’re threatened,” Betta said, crouching so we were at eye-level. “Even modern society here is structured for a perpetuation of the oppression of women. But, when on Earth, do as Earthlings do. They still teach that in orientation, don’t they? Can you see why our women called for backup?”
“Yes, but how will anyone understand what I have to offer if I present as they desire rather than as I am?”
“Perhaps it’s wise if they don’t know. We want them to underestimate you.”
“What else is required of me?”
“You haven’t been to the marketplace, I take it. You will need apparel without functional pockets so that you are forever encumbered as well as shoes that keep you from moving with any purpose whatsoever. And, by all means, make sure to paint your face so you are not tempted to sweat, swim, speak or eat anything truly appetizing.”
“Am I allowed to pass gas?”
“Heavens, no! You’ll literally blow your cover.”
“I don’t know about all this. It seems rather demeaning.”
“Welcome to Earth, Love,” Betta said as she removed the cape. “Our strategy is to catch them unawares.”
Upon observing my reflection in the mirror, something within me snapped—or perhaps simply clicked into place. I reached to reclaim the cape, which I then secured around my own damn neck.
“Do you find your new bangs to be uneven?” Betta asked.
“Fuck bangs,” I said as I rifled through Betta’s top drawer to retrieve the clippers.
Betta gasped as I began buzzing along my scalp.
“They’ll think you’re a lesbian!” she cried.
“Imagine that. Do you ladies want backup or not?” I asked. “If so, we’re playing by new rules or none at all.”
“But the strategy is—“
“As it’s always been.” I finished the sentence for her. “And where, pray tell, has that gotten you?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I look up as Anthony strides in, closing the door behind him.
“You closed the door. What’s gone wrong?”
He grins, then hands me a metallic tube. I turn it over. A courier tube, used for documents too precious for digital transmission. I spin my chair to bring it under the light. It’s pitted and scarred, abraded through age and exposure.
“A mystery! An artefact of modern creation tarnished like a relic.”
“That’s the problem. This came out of the autofind from Deep Sixteen.”
“That chunk of Pangaea hasn’t been above sea level since the mid-Triassic!”
Anthony leans in: “Still isn’t. It’s just outside Davy Jones’ Locker and likely to remain there for a while to come.”
“You’re not telling me something.”
He pivots to land in the armchair by my desk: “I thought it was a practical joke until I looked inside.”
“Inside? You did that-”
“Under controlled circumstances. It was encrusted with centuries of crud. But the contents? Go ahead. Look. You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
I unscrew the end of the tube and peer inside. There’s some kind of flimsy. Pulling it out, I unfold it and peer through the thin piece of transparent plastic at Anthony.
“And?”
“Wait for it. It needs to pick up a charge.”
What?
There are words appearing on the sheet. Glowing words. As they form sentences, I feel my mouth drop open.
My name is Tristan Mokolan. I lived in Bellsringham, London. I have been marooned in the Triassic era long enough to know that I will die here. My time manipulation technology has been stolen by my former partner, Bertrand Hallsey. He knocked me out and dumped me here as a cruel way to ensure my disappearance.
I don’t care about his reasons. I just want my Anna to know that I was coming to her with the ring she said she’d wear. I didn’t desert her or Sharna, her daughter. I intended to be the husband and father they trusted me to be.
The small sheet is filled with words. There isn’t room for more, no matter how much I will it.
“Good gods.” I put the sheet down and the message fades out.
Anthony hands me the other glass of vodka he’s poured: “And several devils.”
“Bellsringham?”
“It’s a recently proposed thirty-third borough, comprising a chunk of northwest Bromley.”
“So, this is a 235-million-year-old message in a bottle from a genius who lives in a place that doesn’t yet exist about a perfect crime that hasn’t happened?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did a metal tube survive that long?”
His expression turns serious: “It’s a ceramic-plastic-metallic alloy and I can’t even imagine the technology needed to make the technology that actually made it.”
“And this flimsy?”
“Didn’t dare mess with it.”
“Good call.”
Anthony looks at me: “What now?”
We’ve already come to an unspoken agreement: we have to try.
“When we get home tonight, we set up clauses in our wills that hand a sealed copy of the message down through the generations until a borough called Bellsringham exists and a scientist by the name of Tristan Mokolan lives there.”
Anthony grins: “We’ll never know. I can live with that.”
Everything lurches, like reality tripped over a kerb. I grab the wastebin and puke into it. Anthony is clutching the arms of the chair in a white-knuckle grip. On the table is a plain white card with the words ‘Thank you’ written on it. The tube and flimsy are gone.
While we stare at each other, shaking in wide-eyed shock, the card hisses as it evaporates.
by submission | Aug 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rollin T. Gentry
At the end of the world, he reaches down a callused hand and grips the cold, steel leg of his cot, a small chill that takes him back to the days before the world was scorched and blistered. In the predawn, before the sun has mustered its strength, he likes to remember a single day from his childhood: in the shade of a magnolia tree, legs crossed, licking a red, white, and blue Popsicle, he was happy. He can almost taste the sweet on his salty lips. Then the horn sounds, shaking the barracks. His bare feet slap against the concrete floor. Reaching for his boots, he wonders what it is this time: another brush fire, maybe a flash flood, perhaps a tornado. He sighs and laughs softly, because it doesn’t really matter what it is, not anymore.
At the end of the world, she goes to the only church still open, a giant building of stone surrounded by even larger buildings of glass. Inside, it’s standing room only. She pulls her hood down tight and slides past a man who looks like he belongs in a motorcycle gang. He has tattoos on his neck and face, and letters inked on the backs of his fingers. Up front, the altar is ablaze with candles and littered with photos, presumably of family and friends killed in the initial panic. She can still hear the sound of gunfire, and broken bottles, and tanks rolling over debris. The memory causes her to cringe. No one believes the asteroid will be diverted in time, not the rioters, not the National Guard, not the faithful few assembled here. Yet she prays.
At the end of the world, they take turns watching the perimeter, a crude wall of wrecked cars, garbage, and razor wire. They were all so very different before. In another life they would have never even crossed paths, but now they share everything: food, water, medicine, even a bed when it’s time to sleep. They huddle together in the dark when they hear the footsteps and moaning outside. They reassure each other that the creatures lurking outside their makeshift fortress are not zombies, but rather loved-ones: brothers and sisters of the plague, victims of the war, maybe even a lost parent. That is what they tell themselves when they are together, but when they are alone, they never fail to pull the trigger.
At the end of the world, it awakens every ten thousand years to collect data and report. The Earth below is still a lifeless husk, a tapestry of browns and blacks. A dead planet. No signs of life. The sun is measurably brighter than last time, but not much bigger, and definitely not turning red yet. It charges up its communications array and fires a laser burst toward the last known location of the human race. “Nothing new to report. Hope all is well,” it signs off, and against protocol, it doesn’t hibernate immediately. At the speed of its quantum processor, the whole of recorded history plays back in mere seconds. It wishes it had a face to smile or weep along with the story, but the best it can do is display a borrowed emotion from a series of photographs. When finished, it finds itself showing a picture of a little girl weeping. It has no idea why she was so sad, but it does as it has for nearly a million years. It rewinds to a smiling face, wishes humanity good fortune, and eventually falls asleep.
