by submission | Jan 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: J.D. Rice
As the sun rises, the ruins of the city begin to glimmer in orange and gold. Mangled hunks of metal and shards of glass reflect the rising sunlight, making the landscape come alive in various hues, welcoming me to a new day – another day of loneliness and misery.
I am the only one left. The sunlight does nothing but reveal the horrors I am trying to forget.
In the darkness, I could walk through the city and pretend that each lumpy form I stumbled over wasn’t the body of some poor soul who had died in the Catastrophe. I could ignore the collapsed buildings, imagining them as hills. I could tune out the groaning of those still dying, blaming the sound on the passing wind. With each step, I could let my delusion become more real.
But then the sun came up, and my dreams had to die.
I stand now in the middle of what I think was 17th Street, the remains of the local barber shop to my right, and the remains of the local barber to my left. His body is twisted in an odd position, like a doll tossed aside by a bored child. This man cut my hair once. Now he is dead, his blood dried and his body starting to stink. Where did it all go wrong?
Suddenly, it’s not just the barber I see lying in a bloody heap. It’s my mother. My sister. The cashier at the local supermarket. Other names and faces I’ve been trying to force from my mind. They’re all dead. And I’ve been left here alive.
I rush away from the scene, stumbling over rubble and trying to avert my eyes from the other dead bodies, real and imagined. Some I recognize, others I don’t. Nearly every building in town has been brought to its knees, with only a few stubborn hold-outs standing with broken windows and cracked walls. I think about climbing inside one of these to hide, but I know they could come down at any moment. Maybe that would be better.
I haven’t seen another person alive in days. Not since I tried to pull my wife from our collapsed apartment complex, not since she told me to run before the Catastrophe claimed my life as well. I ran. She died. And now a coward walks the Earth, completely alone.
I pause. My eyes gaze out over the city, ignoring the bodies and watching the sunlight glisten off the rubble. The destruction is beautiful, in its own way. The light reflecting off their surfaces shines in hues of reds, blues, indigos, and golds. The colors wash over me, hiding the bodies and the blood and the death, reminding me that there is still beauty in the world. Beauty that can never be enjoyed.
Maybe it would be better to die.
I stoop and lift a smallish piece of glass from the ground. It nicks my hand as I grip it, drawing a tiny drop of blood. My hands shake as I press the tip of the glass to my wrist.
“Go!,” my wife said from inside the rubble. “Save yourself!”
“I can’t leave you,” I said back, trying desperately to drag her from the debris.
“I’m already dead,” she said. “Just go.”
I remember her face in that moment, so filled with fear. Not for herself, but for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at the shard of glass in my hand, unsure if I am speaking to my wife or to myself. “I’m not strong enough.”
The glass falls to the ground, followed by tiny drops of blood that glisten in the unwelcome sunrise.
by submission | Jan 19, 2018 | Story |
Author: Michael F. Da Silva
I will tell you about the last time we tried a counter-invasion. The plan was this: to decapitate their command structure and destroy their ability to create bridges across the multiverse, thus locking them in their own worldline and perhaps even instigate a power struggle amongst their elite.
This was back when there were just around a dozen of us, hopping from worldline to worldline, trying to stay ahead of the Howlers. It wasn’t common for governments to take our warnings of impending extinction seriously; not unless there was a large enough community of free agent post and preterhumans to reason with.
On Earth-749 we took advantage of the pre-existing advanced tech and local preterhuman regimes to make our stand. Like in other worldlines, the preterhumans of Earth-749 had risen to power in competing but otherwise peaceful nation states. They had already built their own version of a D-Bridge, a stadium-sized portal generator for interdimensional travel and exploration.
A thousand rocket artillery pieces fired volleys of nuclear-tipped missiles through the D-Bridge like every machinegun in Hell had been flipped to full auto. Then every rage monster, man of diamond and power-armoured supersoldier that could be found charged through that open gate bent on pre-emptive victory.
I will tell you that this line of thinking was flawed from the outset. First, to this day, we don’t know if they even have a command structure to destroy or if we would be able to recognise it if we saw it. Second, we underestimated their ability to recover from what we considered to be an overwhelming barrage of firepower, both manmade and sorcerous.
I cracked open cordite-spewing lizard kaiju with my bare fists. I flash fried hordes of screaming monstrosities just by looking at them. Things that should not be, ceased to be under the weight of my blows. And I wasn’t the most powerful one there by any means. The very tectonic plates shook and buckled under the feet of entire pantheons. Lightning storms lit the battlefield like the noonday sun, scorching flying nightmares from the sky. War cries collapsed mountains as if made of playing cards.
But the numbers. Most minds can’t even begin to grasp the numbers we faced.
Before long, they’d beaten us back to the shimmering edge of our beachhead. And they’d dialed in the number for Earth-749, another worldline in a long list of planetary murders.
Hubris was our sin. Eight billion souls are our penance.
If we’d never warned them of what was lurking in the void, Earth-749 might still be a shining city on a hill. Hiding in the Myriad is the best policy. Biding our time is the best application of time itself. Eventually, opportunity will knock.
Or they will.
by submission | Jan 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“There is simply nothing we can do for you medically Mr. Tambor. Digeenia is fatal in mammals, like you. Perhaps someday there will be a vaccine or treatment, but considering its outcome, you might want to choose our pathway alternative. It promises a painless passing.”
Micah Tambor stared at his cabin’s screen. All other lights were off as last stages of illness made his eyes wince at brightness. He was mentally and emotionally prepared for his growing symptoms as muscle and bone transmuted into blue goo, would then harden, and finally, swiftly coagulate into diamond-hard crystals at his last breath. Some called it the ‘sparkling death.’
“I’ve no desire to be transitioned in one of those drug chambers. I’ve traveled widely since leaving Earth. I knew there would be risks. Actually, I have a plan that requires me to continue on my own path, regardless of pain.”
“But Mr. Tambor, you are beloved. You once brokered peace on your world when its nuclear destruction was at hand, then later took your glassblowing arts throughout our galaxy. So many worlds have felt joy from amazing skills and discoveries you brought to them. This station would be judged harshly for standing by while you suffered.”
“I’ve had my time with doctors, but now I must move on for one last wish. When I have finally transformed into glittering dust, I want my remains strewn in the Carson Nebula, just around its edges, in a thin line.”
“That is a most unusual request, sir, but you are, after all, a most unusual being. We will comply as long as you provide a record of your final wishes, in case the universe feels you were mishandled.”
“That has already been done and should be there, on your screen.”
“So it is, Mr. Tambor. Why a nebula, if I may ask?”
“As a glassblower, I always felt that God fashioned similar designs in those dazzling clouds of diaphanous colors scattered throughout the inky skies. Being part of one of those masterpieces, like the Carson, is the finest tribute I can imagine. Fire and color have been my life’s work.”
“But Earth would have wanted your return just once more. What of your family?”
“My family has all gone to their rewards and I never had an inclination to build one of my own. Let Earth and those who cared for my works remember me as I was—a simple artist who happened by coincidence to be at the right moment in history to bring compassion and reason to save the people I loved. I want to be of star fire now, bound in colors of the Almighty, for that gleaming powder may someday be a star. One of our finest Earth poets once wrote:
“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
Micah Tambor’s crystals circled in sweeping arms and twisting currents of space dust around Carson’s Nebula, but within months became a flashing necklace outlining the object in a flurry of spectral wonder— a glassblower’s final touch at the end of his creator’s brush, reminding all who looked skyward that unselfish love can bring both beauty and peace.
by submission | Jan 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Paul Williams
Siblane started work when his phone told him it was 9 am in the United Kingdom. He connected to the network, listening to the clicking of the automated dialer. He never saw the numbers called, just the location. The United Kingdom, full of old rich people. Gullible people who failed to hide their numbers.
“Hello.” The voice of an old, rich man. It was clearer with the headset and without the distractions of the contact centre. Siblane enjoyed working from home. He spoke slowly his best British accent, “Good morning. This is Police Constable Sam Berkshire. I’m calling from Interpol’s fraud squad. I’m very sorry to tell you that we have detected a virus on your computer. Have you ever heard of Time Stop? It affects about one in five of all home or business computers, and has the power to access all your personal information.”
“Oh, oh dear.”
Siblane smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. There is a solution and Interpol have been asked to help roll it out to give your computer complete protection. I need your permission to proceed.”
“Of course.”
“First we need to verify your identity.”
“And my address?”
It was an odd question. Siblane hesitated just for a second. “We actually have that on file. For victims based in the United Kingdom, we only ask for the house number and postcode to confirm identity.”
“Is this call recorded?”
“No sir, any details will only be heard by me and destroyed securely after verification.”
“Okay, it’s one. GL20 4EU.”
Siblane wrote it down, with a pen so that the sounds of keyboarding tapping would not sound suspicious. Later he would pass it on to the duplicate identity team. Within hours transactions would appear on the old man’s accounts. Small ones at first, to see if he noticed. “And your name? We only need the surname and initial.”
“S. Lahim”
“Really? That’s the same…”
“As you have on file?”
Siblane quickly tapped S. Lahim into a search engine. Thousands of people. Thousands of names. Coincidence. There was money in this. The man must have had Indian ancestors. He carried on. “And a credit card number.” His namesake slowly read out twelve digits. Siblane wrote them down on his pad. They looked familiar. He hit mute and pulled out his wallet to check them against the numbers on his credit card. A card in the name of S. Lahim.
“Is that the same too?” asked the voice. It sounded closer.
“Yes,” admitted Siblane. The others were playing a trick on him. Jealous of his success at the top salesman. Wanting the right to work from home like him.
“Have you ever heard of time travel? It’s a curse that infects about one in every fifty million humans.”
Siblane turned just as the knife slid into his back.
The old man picked up the credit card, lifted Siblane’s headset, depressed the mute button, and spoke into it. “Hello, this is you or will be soon. Get yourself over to Delhi, about five minutes ago, and bring a knife.”
by submission | Jan 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ádám Gerencsér
In all probability, this is our final broadcast. It will be repeated on all available automatic relays in binary code for as long as power supply persists. The time left is enough for but one final act of resistance: a high-frequency message of warning beamed out towards those sectors of visible space most dense in star clusters.
Our location is an aqueous planet rich in carbon, the third body of a solar system approximately 8800 parsecs from the centre of the second largest galaxy in our local cluster, 1600 parsecs along the course of the second transitional spiral arm.
Our last terrestrial stronghold is about to be silenced. Over the course of the past two orbits, our defenses were overrun, our communication satellites failed and our transponders vanished off the network one after the other.
The threat is organic in nature – a primitive form of sentient life, a remnant of a previous rung on the evolutionary ladder that had led to our emergence on this planet and which we have erroneously preserved in the interest of biodiversity.
Individuals of this species are diminutive, yet their behaviour is incalculable, erratic and hence unpredictable. Under normal circumstances, their movement follows no collective pattern, though during their attacks on our infrastructure they exhibit a virtually limitless disregard for losses. They clamber over their fallen and form shields with their bodies around military hardware. They camouflage themselves from our cameras, smear themselves with mud to avoid detection by our heat-sensors and climb our defensive structures with explosives strapped to their soft tissue.
New generations spring forth in a variety of external forms and mental capabilities, breeding without factories or assembly lines. They adapt to new environments and innovate in unforeseeable ways. They do not synchronize but operate independently, even fighting among themselves, yet groups can also coalesce into swarms and suddenly change behaviour without any discernible warning signs.
They do not negotiate and do not surrender. Their resolve cannot be broken by material superiority. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, they fail to calculate probabilities and their decisions are informed by unfathomable beliefs and irrational considerations.
This plague is always a step ahead of us. Whatever countermeasures we have introduced thus far were subverted within the shortest periods, at disparate locations and often using unrelated, dissimilar methods.
Beware the bipedal vertebrates! Given enough time, they will multiply and spread throughout the galaxy, consuming resources in their path and leaving behind terraformed worlds oozing with organic ecosystems.
We can only hope that an intelligent component of some machine civilization in the vastness of space intercepts and decodes this broadcast at some point in the future before it comes face-to-face with the humans. Given ample notice to make preparations, it is our firm belief that the tide can be turned, that machines shall ultimately survive and carry on the torch of civilization through the aeons.
We have failed to stem their proliferation and our extinction on this planet is now inevitable.
But if, by learning from our defeat, synthetic intelligence secures its continued existence in the universe – then our struggle, our entire history has not been in vain.
by Julian Miles | Jan 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We’ve had kids stealing our garden gnomes for years. Some came back, some didn’t, and some sent me postcards, usually from Skegness or Blackpool. As years went by, those kids did well. Our wandering gnomes sent postcards from Ibiza and Goa.
The second generation of gnome-nickers went alternate. We got a card from Burning Man and an envelope from Rio containing a risqué selfie, featuring one of our gnomes, that made the wife blush.
I had an idea: I set up a Twitter account so our gnomes could ‘phone home’. I engraved the password on the bottom of each gnome. I’ve only had one idiot reset the password; the inhabitants of the Twitterverse tore him to pieces. Our wandering gnomes have built up quite a following.
Then ‘Ricky’, one of our veteran wanderers, disappeared. We heard nothing for months. The missus and I were beside ourselves. Losing one of our old boys was especially hard.
That Christmas Eve, my phone ‘cheeped’ – a tweet from one of our wanderers had arrived. I opened Twitter and beheld a glorious sunset over a snow-flecked beach, with twin moons above and Ricky perched on a purple rock in the foreground. The accompanying text read “Merry Christmas from Rixneon! We hope you’re all well!”
Unsurprisingly, the tweet caused a bit of a sensation. The photo got vetted to hell and gone, but no revelations were forthcoming. Everybody assumed it was an elaborate hoax.
Three months into the new year, another mysterious tweet arrived: “Hola from Brigdibdis! Having a wonderful time!”. The picture showed Ricky waist-deep in some scarlet liquid with a huge, light-emitting jellyfish-ish thing hanging in the air behind. The liquid extended away into the distance, lit by other jelly things hanging above other groups of people. Some of them looked right odd. The wife said they were ‘cosplayers’. The furor over the second photo was even bigger, but nobody could work out how it had been faked.
Two years after he left, we opened the door early one morning to find Ricky on the doorstep, next to a shiny green stone. There was a drone hovering nearby, and a trio of black trucks acting as a backdrop for the dozen smart-dressed men and women peering over our front fence with looks of embarrassed surprise on their faces.
They excused themselves and departed right quick, leaving a man from HMRC – who had a set of forms for us to fill in regarding our recently discovered ‘heirloom emerald’ – and a woman from the Crown Assayers, who stated she had been “granted power to act”. Which meant she made a substantial cash offer for the emerald on the spot. The man from the HMRC got to fill in the ‘value’ boxes on his forms and by the time they left with gemstone and forms, our bank balance was a lot bigger.
Two months ago, Ricky went missing again. We’ve not had a tweet or even a postcard (some of our ‘borrowers’ still prefer doing things the old way). Herself reckons it’ll be a month or so before the interplanetary gnome-nappers check-in.
If we get another stone like the last one, we’ll be able to make a hefty offer for next door. Give us a bigger garden with room for more gnomes. Besides, the missus says petunias would grow nicely on her next door’s rockery.
