by Julian Miles | Mar 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Broadbeam seems heavy tonight. That’s silly. It’s not like I’m holding it myself.
There used to be a thing called ‘karma’. It marked your soul for doing good or bad things. WorldOne tells us superstitions like that are fiction. I wish I believed them.
John and I had been watching the explosions get nearer. TACnet was frantic with attempts to intercept this bunch of mad irregulars who had sparked worlds into riot with their desperate rebellion. Crazy or not, they could fight.
“Incoming.” John whispered.
They came pelting down the causeway toward the Core Gates, a motley crew in mismatched gear waving assorted weapons. I could hear their whooping glee getting quieter as it dawned on them what they faced.
The warmecha we piloted had been designed to be imposing. John had a Bastion, I had an Edifice. His the taller, mine the wider.
They stopped a way back and looked up at us, then one of the women started shouting.
“Join us! We’ve only come this far because many troops let us. It’s time for the despots to fall and the people to determine their own worth, their own way!”
I knew her. She’d been at the Academy: Stalli. Still beautiful despite the grime from days of fighting.
The man behind her waved his arm. I saw the bracer of a Star Marine.
“She’s right. This time, let’s fight for ourselves! Let’s put our families and friends before the interests of the conglomerates. Let’s bring the towers down!”
And what could replace the towers? They housed the machines that fed forty percent of the population, maintained by those doing civic penalties. How many would die while this rebellion spread, sputtered, and maybe, eventually, stabilised into some sort of peace? With the Core gone, what outcome could keep the supply runs to the frontier settlements going? One of those settlements, Chriaster, was my homeworld: an unforgiving place. If the freighters are late, people die. Would these rebels even know it without looking it up? No, that was unfair – WorldOne has too many planets for one person to know them all. But, then again, what about Widenet? The military looks after the satellites that provide it – a thankless task that keeps the most essential lifeline of all working. If things fell down, who would volunteer to keep the details of our civilisation going? Sorry, Stalli, but your idealism provides no gentle route for the populace to get to your utopia from here.
I was about to announce my decision when the Bastion slammed its fist through my head. John had decided I’d not cave and gone for a pre-emptive strike. In his haste, he’d forgotten the head of an Edifice only houses sensor arrays.
They were still shouting support when my broadbeam sliced arm, head, and half of John off the Bastion. I didn’t even recalibrate, just swung the broadbeam round and down. I’ve seen what it’s like to die from broadbeam injuries. Better they went quickly.
I burned them down. Couldn’t look at their faces, just watched their sensor silhouettes fade, one by one.
I made a choice. Still not sure if it was the right one. The rebellion continues. The rebels have a bounty on my head so big my family has had to emigrate. WorldOne promoted me, yet no-one will stand guard with me.
So, when you finally die, this karma thing checks how much good and bad you have marked on your soul, then decides what your soul comes back in.
I’m not convinced I’ll be coming back.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 12, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Manik pulled up to the curb, powered down the engine and looked across the dusty roadway at the diner.
As if on command, the neon sign over the doorway sputtered to life, strobing weakly at first before coming on strong, ‘Starlight’ in deep blue over ‘Restaurant’ in brilliant orange, with a sky-blue arrow underlining both before turning up toward the night sky.
Reflexively he looked up and down the roadway before crossing, a precaution hardwired from youth, wasted for more years than he cared to count.
The door put up a little resistance, the detritus of neglect drifting against it over time, but once he pulled it clear he was able to step inside, and the door closed easily behind him.
Inside it never changed.
The long low diner counter down the left side, stools topped in polished vinyl, the laminate surface trimmed in chrome, screwed neatly along the edge at regular intervals. Behind the counter, several dozen bottles filled a small, tiered back-bar, a black bottle of Hendricks Gin front and center.
As he made his way down the narrow aisle from the door to where the room widened, Rosie materialized behind the cash register, crisp blue short sleeved shirt, collar open and short hair wrapped up in a kerchief.
“Table for…,” she waited.
“Just me,” Manik replied, taking off his jacket and folding it over his arm.
Rosie slipped through the countertop, a menu appearing in one hand and a bundle of cutlery wrapped in a napkin in the other, and Manik followed her to a booth halfway down one side of the restaurant.
“Coffee?” Rosie asked.
“Please,” he answered, “just black.”
Rosie produced a mug and a steaming pot from which she poured him a measure.
He sat in silence, cradling the heavy vessel in both hands, feeling the warmth work its way through him.
The walls were the familiar old wood paneling, a string of tiny coloured lanterns was hung haphazardly along the walls just above eye level. The booths a rich burgundy, and the ceiling dissolved into a deep blue-black night sky, flecked with a million stars or more, winking in and out of existence as he watched.
“Will you be eating?” Rosie was back, waiting patiently. “The specials are on the board,” she pointed to one of the black chalk-paint sections of wall on which a series of dishes had been described by hand.
“Steak and eggs please, medium rare and over easy.”
She was gone again, and as Manik waited he closed his eyes, and for a moment lost himself in the sound of Santo & Johnny, and the murmur of remembered conversations.
“Here you go,” she was back in what felt like no time, slipping a large dinner plate heaped with steak, eggs, toast, and hashbrowns onto the table in front of him. “Enjoy!” she chirped before disappearing once more.
He ate in silence, the food every bit as tasty as he remembered, and when he’d finished, Rosie cleared the plate and refilled his coffee several times without him having to ask.
A wave of overwhelming nostalgia hit him, and for a long moment the room was filled with people eating, waitresses running plates, and drinks, and pots of coffee. The murmur of conversations grew to a roar, and Manik’s head spun. He put the mug down, closed his eyes and held onto the table.
As quickly as it came, it was gone, and when he opened his eyes once more, the room was empty.
He stood up slowly, knowing it was time to leave, but wanting to savour each remaining moment.
He collected his coat, waved at the typewriter style cash register and smiled at the familiar clunk and ring, as the transaction registered and the drawer popped open.
Rosie was there to push it back closed.
“Thanks,” she smiled, “see you again soon?”
“Absolutely,” he smiled back, shouldering into his coat and pushing open the door.
He almost made it out without looking back, but reflex got the better of him and he turned. The space was again empty, the lights slowly going out. In the kitchen, he knew, the replicator had already powered off and as the door closed cleaning machines would erase all trace of him. Rosie would be relegated once again to memory until some future time when he returned.
He looked up and down the street again, the windowless shop fronts and pot-holed asphalt all that remained of another time.
He wondered, as he turned to head back towards the city, what would become of Rosie when he could no longer make the trip.
Would she miss him too?
by submission | Mar 11, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
Barden loved Saturday mornings, rambling with his young daughter through the deciduous forest. Perpetually wet underfoot, the forest always kept the eight-year-old entertained.
“Look! Dad!” shrilled Megan. “Someone’s dropped their train ticket!”. She peered precariously at the litter next to a large muddy puddle, “And it says Guildford!”.
Barden frowned, “Megan, leave it, it will be dirty and you may fall in”.
Megan was already stooping expertly to collect it. She proudly handed Barden the sodden ticket, covered in wet mud, “See… Guildford!”.
“Thanks, love, now race you to the climbing tree”. Megan squelched a hasty path to a partially fallen sycamore and started scaling it.
The ticket was stiff and hard, and thinking it might be a valuable season pass, Barden cleaned the ticket’s face with his handkerchief, revealing a purple background with raised silver lettering stating: Guildford (Verger) – Bordeaux (Gravité), Vacuum Avion, Premier Classe, RETOUR, 37e Avril 2053, EU$459. Against the purple background was a subtle animated clip in yellow depicting a passenger jet ascending vertically behind a church before accelerating into the distance, trailing the words ‘Chaque quinze minutes de GV à BG et au-delà’.
Barden was baffled by the astounding technology and the French. Surely a promotional gimmick, but for what?
The sound of rotting branches giving way was accompanied by Megan squawking, hitting the ground with a wet ‘thunk’. Barden stuffed the ticket in his trouser pocket and sprinted to pluck her from the mud.
Barden was wet and muddy after carrying Megan to their car. She stopped sobbing when he promised her cake, imploring irresistibly, “Can we go to The Dabbling Duck? I want lemon cake!”. “Me too!” replied Barden.
At sunset, after their hot chocolate and cake, Barden and Megan held hands returning to the car as the hush of the English Countryside fell, amplifying both their boots clacking along the lane and their inane chatter.
“Mummy loves this little village” he divulged, “She loves cake you mean!” came her whip-smart reply.
Barden stopped abruptly, squinting through the final sunrays at the 13th Century Church. Megan continued tottering up the path, shouting “Come on lazybones”.
His mouth agog, he fumbled for the purple ticket, held it in front of his face. The animation perfectly matched the church, albeit without a launching jet. “Hang on Meg, let’s walk around the side of the church”.
Adjoining the church was not a landing strip or helipad, but a small thatched cottage with a working orchard.
A young estate agent was erecting a For Sale sign in the garden. Barden waved politely.
“Afternoon sir, are you interested in buying a farmhouse?” inquired the agent.
Barden hesitated, half-tempted to tell his intriguing story, expose his purple ticket to some public scrutiny.
“You can go in and look, it’s open and empty, the Jones’ have moved on”.
Megan skipped through the gate, Barden followed. Up close, it was every inch a Fairy-tale cottage of his dreams. Megan bounded through the door, muddy footprints on the clean tiles, her delighted screams echoing, ”Daddy, I love it!”.
Barden’s excitement was building, and wasn’t deflated by the dank smell indicating ancient mould, persistent damp, and rotting timbers.
Megan screeched, bounding into the room, “Daddy, look, I’ve found another train ticket!”
She proudly handed over a second purple ticket, “Look! it says Megan”.
He read the purple ticket ‘Carte d’identité: Megan Barden-Jones, âge 43’.
Barden shuddered, wobbled, the blood draining from his face. He pursed his lips and knelt.
“What is it, Daddy?”
“Pumpkin, I think we’d better show Mummy this house. And find us all some French lessons.”
by submission | Mar 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Are you insane? This was supposed to be a negotiation of terms for surrender. You made it a slaughter!”
COL Mikalelan holstered her weapon and gave her two aides the command to stand down. “I’ve been fighting them for twelve years, Ambassador Nieves. This was no delegation. We specified three, they brought six.”
“Three extra and you kill them for that?”
The Colonel walked forward and kicked the closest alien with the tip of her boot. “This one here- look at its caste mark. Not branded and dyed as their political caste should be, but painted on. It’s really a warrior caste.”
Ambassador Nieves growled in frustration “They told us because of their heavy losses their delegation would be unusual, I thought I made that clear.”
“Indeed you did Ambassador. That’s why when I saw them walking in twice the numbers, I knew they would betray us.”
Ambassador Nieves gritted her teeth. “You military types are all alike. All you see is a threat. We’ve already beaten them. Clearly, we’ve won and they have to come to terms. In time, who knows what we can do together”
COL Mikalelan laughed. “Ambassador, neither one of us is white nor male so spare me your white man’s burden guilt speech. They don’t think like us, have the same standards that we do, have the same values. They are totally alien. Hell, even their math is different.”
Ambassador Nieves was livid. “Of course they’re different! I’m not a child. They have only two fingers, different thinking, alien minds, I get that, but there are still universals. Things that alien and human can and do share.”
“Cut them and do they not bleed? Guess what: they don’t. In fact, we don’t know what the hell they are exactly- reptile, mammal, insect- who knows? All we know is even after extensive negotiation, our first three encounters ended in the total obliteration of our contact parties followed by an all-out assault on our most populated systems with the extermination of ALL human life wherever they took our colonies.”
COL Mikalelan looked at her watch. “SGT Zander call in the air strike. 1LT Ives, engage our shields.”
Nieves looked stunned “Shields? We told them we wouldn’t bring any! Air strike? You had no intention of negotiation at all- you used me! When I get back to HQ you’ll lose your head.”
COL Mikalelan roughly pulled Ambassador Nieves into a huddle with Zander and Ives. Ives pressed a button on his belt and the tell-tale sign of shields crackled in the air around them, encompassing the group of four. Mikalelan and Nieves were almost nose to nose.
“Look over there at the ‘delegation’.” COL Mikalelan tilted her head toward the six bodies. “Their ‘ambassador’ had a transponder which has just turned on, giving their command our exact position. We win or lose with them. We occupy the dirt we stand on or they do. Us or them. In twelve years of contact it has never been different. Binary fingers, binary thought, binary decisions.”
1LT Ives spoke up. “Ma’am, message from command. Our nuke just destroyed the remainder of their forces and 46 of their inbound missiles including two targeted to our position. Advised to stand fast, shielded, until the shock wave from our nuke passes.”
A mushroom cloud appeared over the horizon. A great roaring wind rolled over Nieves, Mikalelan and the Colonel’s aides. Nieves could barely keep eye contact with the colonel but when she did COL Mikalelan raised one eyebrow and spoke.
“Safe or Sorry?”
by submission | Mar 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Monteyne
His hideout is a tidal cave, little more than a crawlspace gouged into a seaside cliff. He rarely leaves it. He starts brushwood fires to keep warm and forages by moonlight for the limpets and starfish and anemones that populate the tidal basin.
The part of me that is a hunter — a native of this remote frost-bound tundra — shines an industrial flashlight into the crevice where he huddles, pale and gaunt in the tatters of a once-fine suit.
Of course, the hunter being merely one individual within my omni-faceted self, I know who this man is. I am his wife and his father. I am his son. I am his colleagues at law, his drinking buddies, his jiu-jitsu instructor. I am the waitress with whom he had an affair.
His name is Aaron Byers.
It was a satellite that spotted him in the end. A mere handful of pixels, but the part of me that is a geoscientist knew what to look for. In an instant, his location was known to every agent of my being, every vertex of my ubiquity, every athlete and grocer and civil engineer. The hunter, who lives in self-imposed exile to forget the tragedy of his past, was merely the closest.
Three hours hence I stand before him. The cave drips and whispers. A thick frame and a bear-fur mantle insulate this body from the cold.
Aaron Byers, though, shivers. He raises grubby forearms as though to ward off the flashlight beam and croaks, “Am I the last?”
There is no quaver in his voice. I answer, “Yes.”
He lowers his arms. In resignation or acceptance, I do not know.
Brisk winds sing through the cave. I remove a fleece-lined glove, abruptly eager, and extend a weathered hand …
… and the part of me that is Aaron Byers relaxes into itself: rotates a bony wrist, tongues the furrows of a bite-bloodied cheek, and smiles.
by submission | Mar 8, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Susan Wiggins lost an arm at work today. That’s called “making a donation” since the Mandolins took over. We’ve averaged about a donation a month over the past year. I myself donated a finger a couple weeks ago. It’s no wonder. The machinery we use — to make components for their ships, we think — is razor sharp and barely visible. Randall Spindler made the ultimate donation a while back. What a mess.
Anyway, needing a drink more than ever after what happened to poor Wiggins, I stop by the pub on my way home. John Jenkins obviously has already had one too many. He staggers up, claps me on the back and says loudly “Welcome to the Fox & Hound, Steven my friend.” I see Bob Johnson immediately place a call. I’m sure he’s turning Jenkins in for failing to refer to the tavern by its new, assigned name. Poor Jenkins. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again after tonight. Johnson’s nothing but a rotten snitch. Better known as a change advocate these days.
After leaving the pub, I go to Clown Foods to pick up a six-pack and bag of chips for supper. The Mandolins use “clown” a lot — Clown Foods, Clown Pharmacy, Clown Shoe Repair. I guess they think putting “clown” in a name makes it a happier place. I’m sure they also know many humans find clowns a little creepy. Just another way to mess with our heads. The Mandolins are good at that.
I’m sure they don’t even really call themselves Mandolins. They probably think going by the name of a lyrical instrument sugarcoats the fact they’ve taken over our world. It doesn’t.
Back home I have a couple beers and half the chips. Checking my watch, I see it’s still a couple hours before imposition of Home Sweet Home time. I’d love to go see my sister, but Madge’s place is just over the line in the Fabulous Fun zone, and I’m not allowed to leave the Forever Smiles sector. At least we can talk by phone so I give her a call.
“Hi, Madge. How’s everything there? Roger? The girls?”
“Hi, Steven. We’re OK. For now. How are you holding up?”
“You know. Getting by. I—“
Soft music interrupts our call, and a melodic voice announces “You have depleted your allocation of freedom minutes for this month.” The music grows louder. I try to talk over it. The voice repeats the announcement more sternly, and the music becomes louder yet, shrill and off-key.
“I’ll talk to you next month, Madge,” I shout. The music is almost ear-piercing. “Hug the girls for me,” I scream and disconnect, silencing the phone.
It’s still early. I pace from room to room, trying to keep the emptiness of the house from swallowing me, trying not to think about the day the Mandolins declared my wife and son to be surplus delights and took them away on a magic carpet ride. Maybe I’ll go back to the Fox & Clown.
