by submission | Apr 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
The prisoner was marched across Swan Bridge. It was the pride of space station Methuselah-3, a crystal bridge designed to resemble the curve of a swan’s neck. It was not actually structurally possible and was held in place by a force field. It was a world apart from the military prison camp Prisoner 45X37Z was interned in, Gulag-XXII, which orbited around Methuselah-3. Walking across the bridge that felt suspended in the stars was almost like sensory overload.
At the end of the march, he found himself in a small, windowless room, with blinding white walls, furnished only with a shiny steel table and two steel chairs. The guards seated him in one of the chairs and steel cord tendrils grew out of the arms and legs, pinning him in place. Johan was left alone for a while. Eventually, the door opened and disappeared seamlessly into the wall behind a diminutive figure. He couldn’t help staring at the first woman he had seen since his incarceration, with masses of red hair – a veritable feast of colour.
Sitting opposite him, she placed a recording crystal in the middle of the table:
– Do you mind if I record this interview? It will be the only recording – my uncle is an admiral and he pulled some strings to ensure we could talk freely.
Johan shook his head. The crystal rose and began to spin slowly at her voice commands. It glittered in the harsh synthetic light:
– My name is Dr. Vera Lance. I’m a psychologist and I’m writing a study on the gulags. Thank you for volunteering.
Johan said nothing. It was not as if he’d been given any choice in the matter. She looked down for a moment at her hands then looked him straight in the eyes:
– I’m sorry, Captain Stroemung, about the spider chair. I asked them not to bind you, but they wouldn’t have let me talk to you otherwise.
Johan blinked. She had talked to him not as the number tattooed on the back of his neck, but as a person, even having checked his rank. It was at that moment that he decided he would answer her questions.
For the next three hours, he told her of the sterile, cold world he lived in. The bland and insufficient food. The back-breaking work in the mines on the planet below the station. The transport to and fro, squashed in airless steel cans. The occasional sadism of a prison guard, but the mostly indifferent and indiscriminate violence towards the prisoners – the forgotten losers of a war that would soon be just a footnote in the history records. Cheap labour but, as they were all given life sentences, plentiful enough that there was no real incentive to keep them alive if they were injured or simply too old.
He told her of a discussion they’d been having the day before in the prison barracks:
– We were talking about what would be a good death. A very bad death is being kicked to death by the guards; a bad death is being gassed by a pocket of Oltran in the mine, or being crushed by a rockfall; a mostly good death is getting injured and being shot by the guards. I’ve seen longtimers injure themselves on purpose. You can’t be sure that the guards won’t play a bit with you first though, so you take your chances.
As he fell silent, he realised there were unshed tears in her eyes. She spoke finally:
– Can I do anything for you?
– Music, I haven’t heard music in so long.
– I’ll play you my favourite from the Terran archives. It’s a choral piece called El Cant de la Sibilla. I like the Latin version best.
Vera issued various voice commands and the crystal stopped revolving. It began to pulse instead with a warm glow as the music began. Johan wasn’t sure what Latin was, but he closed his eyes and let the voices fill his soul.
When the two guards returned to take him to the prison transport, Vera insisted on walking with them. As they crossed the bridge, he made a choice, attacking and disarming one of the guards, feeling grim satisfaction as he shot him dead. He was rusty and slow though and the other guard had time to shoot him, point blank in the chest. Johan crumpled to the ground.
He was lying on his side, struggling to breathe, but stars were all around. Vera was kneeling beside him, holding his hand, silent tears coursing down her face, surrounded by that red halo of hair. The music was still echoing in his mind. He smiled as he took his last breath, his eyes fixed open as his spirit departed.
***
GALAXARAMA:
– And we welcome today as our guest the leader of the small but rapidly growing lobby group, Sibilla. Dr. Vera Lance first hit the media by storm with her article, “A Good Death for Captain Stroemung”. So, Dr. Lance, you have been quoted as saying that you will not stop until the living and working conditions have been improved in the gulags and the automatic life sentence has been repealed. In fact, you hope to ultimately achieve an imperial pardon and the unconditional release of all war prisoners. Tell me, Dr. Lance – why should we care about their fate at all?
by Julian Miles | Apr 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
He spins round, leveling a huge pistol. The pursuers halt in disarray. A breeze whips between silent vehicles, picking up litter and dust.
His enhanced eyes blaze red in the muzzle flash. A deafening report echoes as Sven backflips to land in an untidy heap. Another shot crashes. Marie bounces off a car and drops onto dirty concrete. Indicator flashes highlight the blonde streaks in her hair.
Jim jumps cleanly over a railing, his face momentarily white against the shadows before disappearing from view with a yell. The long moment of silence that follows ends with the sound of a hard landing.
“Jimmy!” Marie stretches a hand toward where her brother vanished.
“Still caring for the fool?”
A hand the span of her head rolls her over.
“He’s going to get you killed, kiddo.”
Wide eyes stare up at the supposed target. Four hours ago, Jimmy had told them a pack of lies! This isn’t some maniac fugitive. This is Hakim. They’d all been at school with Hakim. Sven had played rugby with him. Now Sven’s dead, she can’t feel her legs, and Jimmy dove off the car park in panic.
“Hi, Hakim. Long time, no see.”
He crouches by her: “Heya, kiddo. Still got the looks, I see.”
“Yeah, but I think my moves need work.”
The grin is as bright as ever: “They were fine. I have unfair advantages.”
This close, she can see the extensive enhancement work he’s had done.
He waves the monster pistol toward Sven’s body: “I shot Sven, didn’t I?”
She just nods. Breathing’s getting difficult.
“I only came back because my uncle’s shop kept getting ripped off. Guess Jimmy answered to Kala. He owned the gangers I dealt with. Just bad luck he managed to task your brother before I stuffed Mister Kala through an organ reclaimer.”
Marie doesn’t reply. He blinks, extrudes needles from his index and middle fingers, then punches them into her neck. She arches off the ground with an inhaling scream that bubbles as it tails off.
“Sorry. My bullets are laced. That should keep you going until the paramedics arrive.”
“Jimmy?” Her eyes plead with him.
Hakim sighs, then nods: “If he survived, I’ll sort him for the paramedics, too.”
Marie relaxes as the sedative takes hold. Hakim uses Sven’s sweatshirt to plug the hole he’d blown through her, then strides to the railing and hops over.
Jim’s been pressing the call button in the recessed doorway for agonised ages. One of his legs is smashed. Whoever answers can call an ambulance.
The door opens to reveal a portly man in a floral dressing gown. Jim’s about to beg for help when he realises the man isn’t looking at him.
“Best close that door, my friend. This isn’t anything to witness.”
The portly man pales, nods, and closes the door; all without even glancing at Jim.
“You set Sven and Marie on me. That’s low.”
Jim sighs and makes no sudden moves as he turns over to face Hakim.
“Thought she might make you hesitate.”
“When I’m ambushed, my optics don’t do recognising old friends. They do body dynamics and other surviving-the-moment stuff.”
“Misused my best chance. Shame. You put her down?”
“Close. She’ll be a long time in hospital. You know she made me promise to get you help if I found you alive?”
Jim laughs: “That’s my sister. Always refusing to see. Makes it too easy, sometimes.”
Hakim is suddenly right by him.
“You’ll always be her hero, in some way. Shame I didn’t find you alive.”
by submission | Apr 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
Meetings downtown were always a bore and as the driverless cab pulled up, I began mentally preparing for what lay ahead. I blackened the windows to stop the view of the street beggars and urban decay. They always brought me down.
“Good morning Sir. I’m Cabbie. 269 Market Street is that right?” A cheerful English accent rang out.
I acknowledged and reached for my phone to fill time.
“Sir, my recent upgrade means I can now offer additional services while we travel. Would you like to hear what they are?”
I pondered what services beyond transportation a driverless cab could offer until curiosity got the better of me.
“Sure, go ahead”
“I can offer casual chatter, cheeky banter or even an argument. We could have a deep and meaningful conversation or I could briefly psychoanalyze you. If you were here with your spouse, I could provide marriage counseling. And if your belief system bears sin, I can offer confession”
The last one took me by surprise.
“Confession?” I snapped. “How can a computer that drives be holy enough to listen, counsel and punish?”
Cabbie informs me its AI-based at headquarters had passed the Turing test and been awarded a digital soul. Confessions were a regular activity for many of the city inhabitants, and the privacy that a cab ride offers, suited them remarkably well. This was a marketing masterstroke aimed at broadening its income stream.
Confessions were never part of my upbringing. My awareness of them through media though had always piqued my interest and as I thought about what I could confess, I very quickly built up a rather large list.
“How much for a confession?” I queried.
“Fifty credits for 20 minutes Sir. Penance will be delivered upon completion of the confession”
I considered the burdensome weight I had carried for all these years and how some mental spring cleaning might lighten the load.
I began confessing the trivial bad things I had done, like breaking a lover’s heart, wilful damage, greed and laziness. I worked through my younger years, easily slipping into buried memories of passion and hate. It made me feel better and Cabbie compassionately carried the discourse along with a stern but sympathetic tone.
Slowly I moved through my darker patches. The time just beyond youth when one is faced with adult issues and must respond in an adult manner. I had never been prepared for many of these situations, I often acted out irrationally. That time that I beat him so bad and had to leave for good in the dark of night. That drunken, drug-addled moment – lost in a strange city, with strangers as best friends egging me on to finish him off. I vanished there too with his wallet and car.
I was starting to run out of confessions and felt reborn. My mind had cleared. I felt fresh and new.
The cab had stopped and silence lingered.
“But what about my penance?” I pleaded. “I’ve given my confession. How should I make amends?”
The door of the cab unlocked. I refused to leave. My temper rising. I needed to be acknowledged. I needed my punishment to reset the system. As I lurched forward in anger, the door swiftly opened and a dark figure dragged me from the car. I scrambled to my feet, lashing out and ran free only to find four walls and no escape.
The sally port at the downtown police station was a secure space and the policeman who approached me took their time.
by submission | Apr 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Katelyn Prince
The rolling hills and grassy fields glowed beneath the soft light of the full moon. The air was cool and clear, the breeze hardly noticeable as it brushed against the long grass. Stars lay scattered across the deep blue sky, twinkling and reflecting off the rippling, lazy lake far below. Beside the water stood an ancient willow tree, tall and relaxed, a gentle giant among the water reads and brush. The tree’s long tendrils stretched down to the lake below, creating thin ripples with every whisper of the breeze. Every so often, a shimmering fish would break through the surface to swallow a bug as it skittered along the tiny waves, its silver scales glittering in the moonlight.
In front of all that was a rabbit, soft and grey, its nose twitching at a strange smell in the air. It stood on its hind legs, paws close to its chest as its ears flicked left and right. It glanced around once more before scampering back into its burrow to the rest of its family. It snuggled down with its children who lay nestled in their snug home, sound asleep.
And off in the distance, amid the hills and long grass, a brown cow grazed lazily, alone in the grassy fields. Her soft eyes shone with starlight and the moon lit her back. Her farm stood behind the hill, hidden by the first few trees of the expansive forest that lay just out of sight. Earlier that night she had found that the barn door had not been closed completely. After she had nosed it wide open, she wandered toward the wooden fence to find her favorite spot to graze, right next to the gate. She meandered through the field, stooping down for a bite to eat now and again, not realizing she had stepped over the toppled wooden fence and had walked beyond her normal boundaries. She continued her wanderings down the hill, passed the splintered trees and deep gashes in the dirt, until she reached the open valley full of delicious grass and flowers. As she passed the strange metal structures that had not been there the day before, she heard odd beeping and mechanical whirring. Her ears flicked back, but she continued her lazy stroll down the hill, stepping around a pile of fizzing green goo.
Did she wonder where these strange things came from? Did she care that her farmer might be in danger? No. She was just a cow. She continued her midnight snack, oblivious to the enormous spaceship that had crashed into the hill behind her farm.
by submission | Apr 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
No one ever supposes they’ll witness a miracle. Mary Ann McBlake witnessed one when she was ten years old. And then she had to live with it for the rest of her life.
“Why do you deny it?” her granddaughter Cinthia asked her. “Why can’t you just believe?”
Granddaughters were young. Faith came easily to them.
Mary Ann had seen a man standing in the field. What harm could he be, in the middle of a summer’s day? The field was filled with flowers.
Mary Ann could still see her back door, just across the way. She had always considered these woods her playground. Nothing bad could happen to her here.
Mary Ann went up to the man. He wore a suit, all white. “What is it?” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
He didn’t answer right away. Mary Ann had only the patience of a ten-year-old and almost ran away. Then he said: “I’m waiting for you.”
Mary Ann’s mother called for her. Mary Ann left the man standing there, and never saw him again.
Except in photographs.
He was her grandfather.
And he had died before she was born.
No one believed that she had seen him. Mary Ann didn’t bother trying to convince them. She was too busy, convincing herself. After a time, she understood. Death comes for us in the form of a loved one. Mary Ann’s death came for her when she was ten years old.
But it took her seventy more years to accept it.
Talking to the deceased, even for a moment, was a miracle. No one expects to die when they’re just ten years old. So Mary Ann McBlake went on with her life. She had children. They had children. Everyone got older. No one got younger.
Finally, one day, Mary Ann went out back into the field. It was still summer.
Maybe… could her whole life have been a dream? Maybe she was still ten years old. Maybe the moment when you first learn about death… is the moment when you die. Maybe the rest is just waiting.
Mary Ann stood in the field. The man wasn’t there. But, after a time, her granddaughter, Cinthia, walked up to her. Cinthia was only ten years old. She still believed in miracles.
“What is it?” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
Mary Ann McBlake was wearing white.
“I’m waiting for you,” she said.
by submission | Apr 12, 2018 | Story |
Author: Iain Macleod
Drop pods are not made for comfort. They are made to launch a soldier at supersonic speed from a dropship, fly him into position and decelerate fast enough to prevent impact from killing but at the same time not so fast that the g-forces from deceleration crushed him into soup. It was a fine line and only 92 percent of launches were successful. Earth Gov Military called that an acceptable loss rate, at least it was acceptable for the 22nd Britanic Company, a unit comprised of poor working class people, ex-cons and other detritus from the lower rungs of society.
Eivan’s breathing was fast as the restraints closed down on him. Six thousand men would be launched in the next 12 minutes from hundreds of bays along either side of the ship. Eivans number was 2895 which would put his launch time at about 5 and a half minutes or so. Sweet Mary, the AI that would guide every pod through its journey, was loading his flight path and any relevant visual info of the area he was to land in, obtained from the pods that had gone before. The carnage was unbelievable. Smoke billowed everywhere, ragged lines of Earth Gov soldiers engaged in furious battle, some pushing forward, some being pushed back.
Roughly three minutes until go and the horrendous roar of constant launches was deafening. Pods were being fed to the launchers like bullets in a magazine and the rough lurch every time the launcher fired and moved him closer to the front was jarring. Eivans heart rate was high. Approx 160bpm and rising according to his HUD. Eivan closed his eyes as the stim package meant to help with the severe g-forces involved started flowing into his veins through the restraint system. Once he hit the ground he knew that the flight stim package would change to the combat stim package and he would come out of his pod a screaming maniac with nothing in his mind but bloodlust.
Tears started to well up in his eyes as the fear of what was to come gripped his heart. Thirty seconds until go. They said in training to count down from ten to one in your head to control the panic but Eivan couldn’t do it. He was in full panic mode as the restraints spread out their micro tendrils across his whole body rendering him completely immobile. He tried to scream but it was muffled and almost inaudible over the hellish orchestra of pod launches. One last lurch. Eivan tried to fight against his restraints but it was no use. HUD changes from white to red. Launch in 10. The pod shifts as the launcher grabs it and orients it for the best angle on his flight path. Horrible whine starts to build as the kinetic energy builds in the launcher cells. Three, two, one, Launch. Eivan feels the huge impact and crushing force like a building has been dropped on him. Even the panic in his mind is subdued by the intensity of the crushing g-forces as his pod hurtles to its destination.
Just another soldier into the meat grinder.
