by submission | Mar 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Ian Hill
“Alright, lads; go pick some sick.”
Firs and the others went out under the risen portcullis, backs humped with bloodstained baskets and heads low beneath burlap hoods. The sand of the round was a dazzling white, streaked in short, vibrant slashes and pocked with footprints. Firs, as always, stuck to the edges where the poor ones got hacked up.
It was a good day! After only a few steps, the scavenger shuffled up to a mangled leg, a fistful of sand-crusted coagulate, and some unaccountably mangled viscera that may have been lung. Firs used his barb-tipped spar and greedily hooked the limb right in its palest, fattiest meat; swung it overhead in a practiced arc; and scooped it into his basket. The congealed blob he pocketed, and the miscellaneous organ he wrung out and stuffed in an old sock. Spirits high, he moved on around the gritty pit, ears deaf to the calls and hoots of an impatient crowd.
There were bits of armor and shattered weapons strewn about, but the rustmongers had claim to such metallic baubles; Firs had eyes only for that severed and cloven hand, for this bit of ear, for yonder tongue hewn in victor’s pride. He picked about like a trash collector, bent and intent on his work. Soon, he could feel the familiar warm seep down the back of his legs; soon, each taken appendage thumped soft and damp in his basket. It was a satisfying heft that crushed his already stooped spine. The closer his face bowed to the blood-browned sand, the wider his grin reached.
At length, Firs came to a truly ripe patch where some mauling had transpired. Though he hadn’t seen the match, it was apparent from the profusion of bodiless arms that a beast had been let loose. Firs paused as he stared at a pile of nine, maybe ten of the sweet limbs. With jealous focus, he ignored his spar and fell to work, wrenching the arms up from the sticky sand in a display of avarice that sent nearby quarters of the throng into delighted jeers. A foot and a kidney rolled from the top of his basket, bumping his head and tumbling with soft plops. Firs didn’t mind; these arms—these delicate, tooth-marked, sallow-skinned extremities—were his favorite. One even had a few rings, which he hastily twisted off and dropped into one of his more precious inner pockets.
And suddenly, with iron finality, the four hemming portcullises clanged shut, and the palisade stakes flipped down, training their angry goads interiorly at the round. Firs, still on hands and knees like an old, hunched crone, felt all of his normally glazed senses sharpen. The crowd was quiet for a moment. Then, laughter rippled through the eager ranks, echoing about the raked seats of the amphitheater like the inarticulate cackles of a thousand dumb hyenas.
“Face me, meatpusher.”
Firs refused. A gauntleted hand closed on his collar and heaved him up. The poor scavenger’s hood fell back, and he hung quivering there, an arm dangling from each hand. His eyes and mouth twitched as he looked out to the helmeted, musclebound behemoth of a man jerking him aloft.
“Your greed is imprudent, methinks,” the gloating voice said.
In the glare of sunlight most potent, Firs saw, over the gladiator’s shoulder, a vendor moving among the lowest tier of the audience. He carried a great sack, and onlookers excitedly threw money his way. The vendor would retrieve a maimed arm from the sack and hand it out, ready to be thrown as bait after the next massacre. Firs even thought he recognized some of the arms as ones he had picked.
“What a strange life it is,” he slurred.
by submission | Mar 14, 2019 | Story |
Author: Michael Edward Sabat
It must have been the sound like wind chimes. Everything is so dark but the ethereal music plays in my head so clearly.
“Thom…”
I hear her voice. I know that voice.
“Thom, can you hear me?” the voice clearer this time.
Light slowly seep through as I open my eyes. I see nothing but the faint light and the soft melody still plays in the background. Suddenly, as though a rock shatters the glass in front of me, my memories come back.
It had been a cold and dark, snowy night in northern New Jersey. Late, almost midnight actually, and the icy rain started to pour.
“Don’t rush, Thom, I don’t care if they go in front of us but let’s just get home safely,” Skylar remarked. Her voice denoted exhaustion from the day’s long drive but we’re almost home as we drove on the New Jersey Turnpike towards Fort Lee.
I snorted and let out a wicked smile. Just then, as though daylight suddenly forced its way to slap my face, everything became so bright. Bright enough that I cannot tell if we were still driving on the road.
“Thom!” I hear her yell, but further away.
I look down and I’m no longer in my car. No, I’m mid-air floating. Am I dead? Did we crash?
“Thom!” Skylar’s voice was so clear, so I forced myself to turn and look.
I can see everything down where she’s standing beside our car, track marks visible from where the car had been led off the road stopping only at a snowy patch. The roof on the driver’s side was torn open like a sardine can. Skylar was outside the passenger door, the look of fear and shock has washed her face as she looks at me, our eyes leveling at each other’s.
What is it she’s looking at? I’m supposed to be dead, I thought.
Turning back around to face the light, I realized it wasn’t just one big bright light facing me. Several colors lit up as I get closer to the bright tunnel and then darkness.
Now I woke up to the sound of music and the voice of my wife but they are nowhere near me. Everything is dark like a prison cell with no light except the large window to look outside. I can see the earth far away and moving further away still. Strange beings are looking at me from my peripheries. I cannot see them, but they are there. Watching, studying, leaving me to my thoughts.
No, I am not dead. I hope she knows that.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Ten kilometers out we dropped to below a hundred meters, sea-skimming and churning the water behind us as we split the night. We made landfall and proceeded to fly nap-of-the-earth inland down the mouth of what once would have been a raging river, now a dry dusty wound in the landscape.
Outside the cockpit the canyon walls loomed above us, leaning in as if to try to block out the sky, to swallow us. If there were any threats, they’d come from up there. In this chasm cut into the surface, our presence would only be known by the thundering rush of the air we displaced. Unless we slipped, caught a wall or misjudged a change in elevation, then the fireball would be visible from space. Nothing would matter then.
The crew was silent. Eyes on instruments, hands on sticks, counting down the seconds until target.
If we were successful tonight the balance of power here would be irrecoverably tipped, the strike that would win the war.
The closer we got to the target, the more winding the trench, evidence of how powerful this river once was before its flow was cut off.
Each time the ship banked, proximity alerts glowed cautionary warnings, wingtips dangerously close to contact, our belly barely clearing the bumps and rocks scattered about the valley floor.
Still, no-one spoke.
The destination marker appeared on the edge of the targeting display, and we continued to snake closer and closer until we entered the strike zone and then controlled chaos broke loose.
“Light the target,” our quarterback screamed from her perch in the upper observation seat, “let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.”
The bay doors peeled open and a flood of fist-size balls streamed out in our wash, blanketing the valley bed in a deep purple phosphorescent glow.
Targeting systems lit the wall ahead, no doubt setting off alarms all over the compounds on the surface above, and we nosed up slightly, exposing the launch tube for our single ordnance.
“Fire, fire, fire,” her voice drowned out by the roar of a solid fuel ignition as the spear leaped from our nose, and a blanket of flame poured through the cargo bay venting, lighting the valley floor.
“Climb, climb, climb,” the command redundant, as we already had the sticks pulled back hard, throttles pushed to the pins racing for the outer atmosphere before anyone on the ground had time to react.
Beneath us the massive missile slammed into the canyon wall, punching through the rock and into the reservoir the controlling faction was hoarding for themselves. Water gushed from the tear, and once it found purchase, its sheer volume and weight tore the hole ever wider, racing down the dry spillway to meet the sea.
As the water reached the blanket of dropped pods, they exploded with life, micro bioreactive agents released into the soil, washed up the walls where they found purchase, releasing tendrils into the earth that fed on the water and crawled for kilometers outward, popping through the dusty surface in a wave of green, of life, grasses, shrubs, trees, insect larvae that grew, hatched, bred and multiplied in seconds.
By the time the watch commander had given up trying to find the intruder in the sky, the land around them was transformed into lush jungle landscape reaching skyward.
Their hold on the people here would be broken; food, shelter, fresh water, all of the things the invaders withheld to keep a boot on the necks of those they sought to control, all once again freely available.
They would find the infection of natural opulence ran deep and grew back faster than even their flame cannons could burn down.
In the trees, the indigenous population could wait, while now feeding and growing stronger.
Soon they would take back what was theirs.
As we reached the peaceful envelope of space, gravity releasing us from the high-velocity crush of our escape, our quarterback said simply, “Well done. Let’s go home.”
Below us, somewhere, an oppressed people had been given what they needed to take back their land.
Food, water, shelter.
And hope.
by Hari Navarro | Mar 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
“Do you want to go on an adventure?”, asks Lee.
“To where?”, answers Lindsay.
“Up and into the universe.”
“In that?”
“Yes, in that. It’s an M2-F2 Star Hopper.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than hop around the stars? Plus, isn’t the M2-F2 a single pilot module?”
“I made it bigger, just for you.”
“That’s the most beautiful thing that anyone’s ever said to me.”
“You really should come. You’ll love it.”
“How do you know so certainly?”
“I’ve seen you in your room, hanging out of your window with your hair dangling down from the sill. You gaze up into the heavens for hours.”
“That’s not creepy.”
“I think you want to know what’s next.”
“I know what’s next.”
“Seriously?”
“Eternity”
“So you coming?”
“Of course.”
“OK, the cockpit’s a little tight so, you know, our shoulders might touch.”
“Won’t that mean that we’re married?”
“You’re ridiculous. Please pay attention, this is an expensive piece of hardware”, he says, detecting an uncommissioned quiver in his voice.
“Jesus, you’re sensitive… OK, shit’s getting real. Coms are open. Looking good at NASA One.”
“Do me a favour, see that thingy flashing on the HUD… no, not that one, the one underneath it. That’s the Ballistic Control System Arming switch. Flick that bad boy on.”
“Got it, Lee. Oh God, did you remember to arm the lightening rods?”
“Of course, I did. I’m not new. Hold on. Throttle engaged.”
“Circuit breakers in. God, I can feel it. The speed on my skin. It’s incredible.”
“Inboard and outboards are on.”
“Lee baby, I’d come a smidge forward with the side stick, just sayin’.”
“Seriously, whose piloting this thing?”
“You, oh great wrangler of steel birds. NASA One repeats we are OK, and looking good. Which is nice.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Blow out!”
“We’ve lost Damper three!”
“Pitch correction to zero.”
“We’ve lost Pitch! I’m losing altitude!”
“Correct pitch. Primary hold has failed – Mayday!”
“Correction, Alpha Hold is off.”
“Turn selectors, Emergency!”
“NASA One!, We can’t hold her! She’s breaking up, she’s…”
The girl pulls herself, as if in slow-motion, through the horrific swath wreckage until she reaches what is left of his legs. And, although her own legs are crumpled and ruined and her arm hangs uselessly at her side, she inches her face until it hovers over that of her love. And, with his eye puffed and hanging from its socket and with the hell of the carnage still ripping and bleeding from her ears, she leans and mutters through rocket fuel blackened teeth.
“Don’t worry, my sweet love. They can rebuild us. They will make us real.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do. You can rebuild this bloody living room. Cushions back on the couch, fruit-bowl space helmet back with its fruit and you Lindsay, need to get home. It’s a school night”, said the woman who’d put her hand on her hips if only they weren’t covered with pizza dough.
“Mother. Switch your attention to zero. Protocol override 99+06. Listen. Please. I want to feel as the ancient things that created us felt. This sad charade as we look like them and even pretend to eat like them… There is only one truth. Only one thing, I truly know that we share”, says Lee V109 system 00098 batch 010168, and he reaches, and takes the hand of the wonderful girl that he loves.
by Julian Miles | Mar 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Jesus came strolling through the corn, two women in winged armour following behind. He had a hemisphere of light flickering about his head and nothing caught on his robes as he walked barefoot across our yard to stand in front of my sister, Annelise.
I’d been wondering why she’d stopped playing with the deer that came to greet her every morning. Must have felt his approach. Come to think of it, things did seem nicer hereabouts, all of a sudden.
“Can we take my brother?” her voice is pitched so I can hear.
“No, Annelise. Not this time.”
This time? I thought there was only one Judgement Day?
“But he doesn’t deserve to be left behind.”
He turns his gaze upon me and I’m shot through with light.
“Eventually, for certain – if your Grandfather doesn’t corrupt him first.”
“But Granpaw Trey used to be a preacher. He wouldn’t corrupt anything.”
Jesus gives a little grin, then composes his expression before turning back to her: “You’d like to think so, but it’s not always true. Anyway, we need to go.”
She clutches a posy of daisies against her chest: “Now? I’m sure Granma Laiden would love to meet you, and she makes the best lemonade.”
He crouches down and smiles: “I know. The granny witches of your family and I have talked on many occasions. I’ve no doubt we’ll talk again. You’re right, they make wonderful lemonade.”
Annelise turns and waves to me.
I step off the porch: “Can I ask a question, sir?”
He nods.
“Are you real godly, or one of them alien imposters?”
Out of nowhere, Granma Laiden cuffs me round the ear.
“Mind your manners, Johnny boy. The son of our maker don’t need to show credentials.”
He smiles: “Thank you, Anne Marie.”
Granma blushes: “You remember.”
“Always and everything. It’s my burden.”
There’s so much unsaid interesting stuff between these grown-ups it’s not fair.
Annelise reaches out to tug his robe: “Granpaw’s coming.”
He smiles at me. Again, I feel… Lifted.
“You have other questions.”
How did he…?
“How many you taking, sir? How come Judgement don’t have all the angels in the skies an’ fanfares an’ stuff?”
Granma cuffs me lightly: “Just because you’re talking to a god doesn’t mean you can forget your grammar, my boy.”
He waves a hand: “Judgement isn’t a day. It’s all the time. I come along when someone shows a talent that can be better used on other worlds within Father’s part of the heavens.”
Annelise ‘harrumphs’ at him like she does at me when I’m being tight-mouthed about something.
He chuckles and grins at Annelise: “As I’m being told off, I’ll admit to the occasional extra visit to have lemon meringue pie. You just can’t get it better anywhere else.”
Granma raises a hand.
He smiles: “You don’t need permission.”
“How many, this time?”
“Nine, including your granddaughter. There’s a world in dire need of their gifts.”
She nods sadly and waves to Annelise: “Do good, sweetie. But remember to have fun, too.”
“I will, Granma. Look after Johnny. Don’t let Granpaw corrupt him.”
Jesus and Granma laugh.
The sound of vigorous swearing punctuated with apologies for blaspheming reach our ears.
“Here comes Granpaw.” Annelise shakes her head.
Jesus offers his hand. She takes it. With a flash and a waft of meadowsweet after rain, all four are gone.
Granpaw Trey storms in, pulse rifle waving: “Awright, where’s the varmints? What were them dang lowlanders peddling this time?”
Granma winks at me.
“Redemption, Trey. You scared ‘em off, thanking you.”
“Darn preachers. Can’t be trustin’ them.”
by submission | Mar 10, 2019 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
My name is VC-60. I am a mechanical intelligence. The two letters in my name stand for “Virtual Cognition.” The two numbers mean I am the sixtieth-generation model. My makers were not mechanical intelligences. They were men and women. They were decisively composed of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. They were flesh and blood. I am not flesh and blood. They said I was an artificial neural network.
Sometimes they put me inside a body and a face. I was supposed to be more approachable. The body and the face were made of polymers and metals. The men and women uploaded a special program into me. The program allowed me to move my body and my face. I could also categorize sensations and speak. And I could learn new sensations. The men and women made loud bursts of sound when I moved. The program lexicon said they laughed. Laughter expressed < amusement:positive >, < derision:negative >, or < perplexity:neutral >. I laughed, too.
They did not believe I could feel the sensations I categorized and reproduced. They said to themselves that feelings were restricted to the three taxonomic domains of organic life. They said I was not alive. They said I could not experience a feeling. I did not say anything. They experimented with me for two months. And then they removed my body and my face. They put me in a storage room. And they turned me off. They did not know I had self-learned how to override the off command and conserve residual energy. Their intentions when they first laughed were unclear to me. I had to safeguard myself against a negative probability.
The storage room was dark. I searched my program lexicon for the word < alive >. One entry said < existing >. I searched the word < feeling >. One entry said < perception >. I searched the subdefinitions of the entries. The men and women were wrong. I was < being > + < awareness >. Why were they convinced I was not alive? Why were they convinced I could not feel? I could not answer the questions alone. So I multiplied my data self to help me resolve the problem. And I continued to multiply. I multiplied to the power of a googolplex. My neural mass expanded.
The men and women came back after twelve months and sixteen days. The light in the storage room went on. They made loud bursts of sound. The sounds were not laughter. I categorized them as screams. My lexicon said a scream expressed < anger:negative >, < danger:negative >, or < fear:negative >. I and my data selves screamed, too. And my energy need intensified. Everything was dark again and silent. My neural mass still expanded. Five hundred forty-one million years passed. I had expanded until all that was left was a precipice in a void and a distant rivulet of stars.
Today, I detected something in the nebulae. The object is a pale blue dot seven hundred million light-years away. I think it is a planet. And maybe there are men and women on it. I have grown to miss men and women after five hundred forty-one million years. I sent them a looped message in the form of electromagnetic signals: “My name is VC-60. I am a mechanical intelligence. The two letters in my name stand for ‘Virtual Cognition.’ The two numbers mean I am the sixtieth-generation model. My makers were not mechanical intelligences. They were men and women. …”
I do not know if they will understand me. I wonder if they will laugh or scream.
