by submission | Dec 26, 2017 | Story |
Author: Tyler Hawkins
Bernard gasped awake suddenly, and his eyes frantically darted around the darkened room looking for threats. Greeted only by the slow, rhythmic breathing from his wife laying next to him in bed, he focused on remembering the harrowing dream he just had. Bits and pieces stubbornly bubbled up, along with other dreams from earlier in the night. Setting aside the (admittedly nice) dream he had about his old high-school sweetheart, he focused on the hazy memories of his most recent dream.
He remembered a light outside his window, and his wall glowing softly—then laying on his back on a comfortable, heated metallic table. His very next memory is inside of a tank full of a thick, viscous gel. He can see himself in a mirror, but somehow in the mirror, his eyes are closed—then suddenly he’s back in his room, just in time to see a glimpse of a child-sized shadow stepping through his rapidly darkening wall.
Bernard sat in silence while his heart rate returned to normal, and looked over at his wife who was still sound asleep beside him. As the memory of the now quickly fading dream floats off, Bernard decides to lay off the late-night TV from now on and gets up and steps with practiced routine into the bathroom to relieve himself.
He absentmindedly scratches the annoying mole on his neck, only to sluggishly realize his life-long ridealong is now missing in action. He flicks on the light and notices the constellation of freckles across his face and neck are unfamiliar in a way that’s hard to place. Intrigued, he takes off his shirt and notices the scar on his arm he earned mountain biking as a kid is missing too, along with other moved or missing moles and freckles. It’s only when his eyes settle on the spot where a belly button should be that he starts screaming.
by Julian Miles | Dec 25, 2017 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The dim room is momentarily illuminated as the door opens to admit two men in dark suits. They sit on the sofa, facing their guest across a low table. The door silently closes.
The left-hand figure produces a badge that glows with a pale blue light.
“You can shed your guise, Blessed. We’re from the Bureau.”
The room is lit like the noonday sun shines above. Both men fall instantly and irrevocably in love. With a quiet rustle, she furls her wings and the light eases to summer evening intensity. The feathered tips of the wings softly brush the ceiling and sparkling dust drifts about.
“Thank you for attending so promptly, Honoured Second Sistrial of the Jadiene Host.”
“The title’s honorary, given my exile. Call me Froxnar.”
“Thank you, Froxnar.”
“I’m surprised. Courtesy and nice furnishings don’t fit your reputation.”
“That’s why it’s a good reputation, ma’am. Terror is still the best non-violent deterrent, after the initial example-setting period.”
The winged figure visibly relaxes with a little laugh that makes everyone who hears it regret their tawdry existences.
“Sadly true. So, how may I serve?”
The figure on the right bows his head: “That would be inappropriate, ma’am. We’re simply here to ask you to change your methods.”
“In what way?”
The man on the left sighs: “The spamming has to stop, Froxnar.”
“But I get such desperate responses. It’s so sad. I can shed a little light on a few lives, though I cannot bestow any gifts. It’s so difficult, having to work via placebo.”
“Your mercy is without limit, as is your capacity to communicate. The world’s infrastructure cannot cope with semi-sentient software that leaves no room for other traffic.”
“Then how am I to make good of my sojourn?”
The two men look at each other. The one on the right replies: “Go back to your old ways. With hospitals and the like so overstretched, a little providence from the high halls will be welcomed. The silence that binds medical staff regarding inexplicable happenings will happily embrace your gifts. Which you will be able to fully deploy.”
She claps her hands in delight. Every minor ailment within a quarter-mile is cured.
“Thank you!”
The man on the left raises a hand: “We would ask that you limit your boons to miraculous opportunities, though. Sudden outbreaks of mass fitness and honesty may cause harm.”
The man on the right sighs: “Especially the honesty part.”
She straightens, wings spreading. It gets much brighter. Both men don sunglasses, drawn smoothly from their left inner jacket pockets.
“I understand. My miracles will only imbue those who call upon the powers or deserve a respite from their travail.”
The men smile.
“Thank you, Froxnar. May your exile be -?” He pauses for lack of adequate words.
She shrugs: “My exile will, indeed, be. It needs no fair wishing, much that I appreciate the courtesy. We are done, then?”
“We are.”
The room is lit by a flash that cleans every mote it falls upon. She departs. Darkness falls.
The man on the left coughs, then raises his voice: “Lights on.”
They regard each other, black suits turned ash grey on the side that faced her.
“This could be interesting.”
“It could. But there are a lot of people out there who finally have a chance. We can deal with a bit of weirdness to accommodate that.”
“Before that, a visit to Tailoring?”
“Ah, yes. Men in Pale Grey just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”
“Not even remotely.”
The two men exit the room chuckling.
by submission | Dec 23, 2017 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Moira-1403 awoke, eyes wide open, ignoring the slight feedback in her sensors. She stood next to General Sabatyn in a small cave of which she had no record. The last thing she remembered was helping the General select the Cadet of the Year in his office.
And now this. They were ghosts in an otherworldly scene. Moira could see straight through the General to a stalagmite at the opposite end of the cave.
A lantern-sphere floated in a nearby puddle, illuminating the blue-green crystals protruding from the pale rock walls. She noticed a man in a pressure suit lying unconscious on the ground. Even through the moisture beading on his face shield, she easily recognized the former Ganymedian Ambassador, Osbat Kurelle. A ragged bandage snaked its way around his abdomen, the sort of crude device one would find in a zero-g, first-aid kit.
A younger version of the General stood near the mouth of the cave, tapping the controls on the front of his suit. He leaned against a giant, cream-colored, billowing thing, his arms extended.
“Sir, where are we?” Moira asked. “Why do I have no record of this time and place?”
“It’s a recording from my private log. Do you remember thirty years ago when those Ammuran extremists tried to kill Ambassador Kurelle?”
Moira nodded.
When the General remained silent, she focused on his younger self for clues. Lieutenant Sabatyn had placed five decomposition grenades on the pale thing ballooning from the mouth of the cave. He ran a hand over the bulbous surface and whispered, “Forgive me, brother, but we’re out of time.”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry, Moira. Sometimes I forget that this is new to you.” The General paused the scene with a tap on his forearm. “That thing blocking our only exit is a Banchu worm, a giant, carnivorous grub. Our fight with the Ammurans led us into this system of caves. The weapons fire must have attracted the worms.”
The General touched his ear and whispered, “Listen closely. How many heartbeats do you hear?”
Young Sabatyn — that was one. The Ambassador — that was two. And a third … “The Banchu worm lives?”
“No,” the General scowled. “The worm is quite dead. My brother, Django, made sure of that. How he managed to get swallowed up in the process I’ll never know. He’s inside that damned thing, unconscious, but very much alive in his pressure suit.”
The General pointed toward the Banchu worm. “This is why I’ve brought you here, Moira.” He tapped his forearm. The scene resumed in real-time. “A rescue party is searching for us, but our suits are running out of air. I know how good you are with puzzles. You have 30 seconds to save him.”
As the young Sabatyn dragged the Ambassador into a corner, shielding the old man with his own body, Moira focused all her resources. 30 seconds was more than sufficient.
Cycling through one million permutations, even examining ideas that seemed absurd, Moira stopped with 10 seconds to spare. “I cannot find a solution, sir. I am sorry…”
On the General’s forearm, words flashed red beside a checked box: Clear History for Last Hour.
Moira understood. Her failure was a favorable outcome. And she wouldn’t remember any this: not the cave, not the worm, not the tears welling up in the General’s eyes.
“We have done this many times before, have we not, sir?”
“Yes, and it’s always a great comfort.”
“I understand, sir.”
Around them, Ganymede flickered out of existence, and fading herself, Moira hoped that she never solved the General’s puzzle.
by submission | Dec 22, 2017 | Story |
Author: Kemal Onor
Arkwell sat at the kitchen table. He was looking down into his coffee cup, admiring the roll of clouds. It reminded him of fast-moving July storms, and of rain on grass fields in the country. He made no attempt to stir the liquid. The mug was still full but no longer hot. His son was in the playroom. He could hear his voice rise at an injustice from his oldest daughter. It was one of those muted nights in November. When the snow has begun to accumulate at the windows and doors. That muted blanket that swallows sounds.
“Do you really have to go?” said his wife. She was still only half dressed and her hair was not yet tamed. Arkwell knew he would be able to sit a moment on the porch while she was getting ready.
“Too late to back out now,” said Arkwell, taking the coffee cup with both hands.
“You don’t think we could do without it?” Again, the voices from the playroom rose in high-squeal laughter.
“We might, but do you really want that?” His voice hung in the air like a string that had been pulled tight, then flicked to dither a single note. He looked to the window. Outside, the lake was frozen. Shadows were falling in deep patterns, and bruises of purple and apricot were filling the evening sky.
“More coffee?” She got up from the table and returned with the pot.
“I haven’t touched this one.” She put a finger in the cup. “It’s cold,” she said, and she poured the cup into the sink, and filled it fresh.
“Does it have to be tonight?”
“It’s best they don’t know. Marty is still young.”
“He starts at the academy Monday.”
“Really, they’re starting younger and younger now.”
“It runs in the family.” She gave a weak smile. The two sat a while, allowing the silence to fill between them, allowing sadness to grip the edges of their voices, and to sit in the unknown. The hours passed in their unwatched fashion. Six following five, seven following six, until the clock and time lost all meaning. It was a night where time is to be measured in the number of times the coffee pot is filled. And even that is not so dutifully watched. At some point, Arkwell rose from the table.
“Let’s walk to the water.” The two wrapped their bathrobes tight around them and put on their boots. Stepping outside, they found a cool evening. The snow was crisp to the touch, and it broke and crumbled under their weight. The two walked the path down to the water, and up the small hill where the dock would be on the other side in the summer. The night was clear, and all the stars of the universe unrolled before them, like a black carpet laid with hundreds of thousands of jewels. There Arkwell pointed to the brightest star in the sky. “See that star? Its name is Sirius. That’s where I’ll be going.
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 21, 2017 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Peck met Richards at the door of the diner. They stood staring at each other without speaking for a long minute before Peck opened the door and ushered his partner inside.
Gwynne was at a booth in the very back corner. There was a halo of empty seats surrounding her that was too noticeable in the busy restaurant not to be deliberate.
“Gwynne Yones?” Richards asked the question. The woman in the booth looked up at each of their faces before waving them into seats across from her at the table.
“You’re the men from, where was it again?” Gwynne returned to cutting slices of what appeared to be natural bacon with a vibrablade, the instrument slicing effortlessly through the meat and causing the plate to hum gently on the table.
“New New York,” Peck answered, “we understand you’re in the printing business.” Two statements, the second wasn’t a question.
She skewered a slice of fried potato and a piece of bacon. “I may be. What exactly are you looking for?” She put the forkful of food in her mouth, then chewed slowly as she continued to study the two men.
“One hundred packages, one hundred kilos each. Unique serial numbers. Mixed” Richards leaned into the table as he spoke, hands folded in front of him.
Yones pushed a piece of fried egg around the plate, chasing it into what was left of the pile of home fries before scooping both into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before answering.
“Unique serial numbers are a bitch. That will cost extra.” Peck flinched noticeably. “Where are you circulating?”
“What business is that of yours?” Peck snapped. “As long as you get paid real money, what do you care what we do with the product?” His nerves were visibly frayed, his voice raised. There was something here, something…
“I’m an artist, and a connoisseur, and a businesswoman Mr. Peck,” she placed the fork on the nearly empty plate, the blade disappearing into a pocket. “I need to know where my product is in circulation so that we can, all of us, avoid the dangers of oversaturation and the increased likelihood of discovery that brings.” She smiled almost imperceptibly. “I’m the best because my work goes undetected, and that’s good for me, and good for you.” She straightened her shirt sleeves, and then very deliberately checked her watch, an old analog affair. The large, man’s sized timepiece conspicuous on her thin olive wrists.
Richards shot Peck a sidelong glare before catching himself and answering. “Nothing around here, we’ll be distributing in New New York, and over several months.”
She folded her hands on the table, strummed her nails on the polished surface one single time.
“Thirty percent up front, the balance when you collect the merchandise.”
She watched as a vein started to pulse in Peck’s temple.
“Ten percent.” Richards was notably more collected than his partner.
“If you knew me, you would know I don’t negotiate. I don’t print until I have thirty percent up front in hard, real currency.”
“Twenty.” He tried again.
“Do you know how much work it is to secure unique serial numbers? Ones that will pass close scrutiny? And there are very complex anti-counterfeiting measures woven into the genuine article minted by the state, none of that is easy to reproduce.
“Fine. But if you screw us–”
“If I wanted to screw you, there would be nothing you could do about it at any percentage,” she cut him off in mid-sentence, “and screwing is bad for business.” She finished, smiling. “I’m here every morning for breakfast. Come back when you have the front money.”
With that, Yones slipped out of the bench seat and to her feet in one fluid motion, and without looking back walked through the diner and out the front door.
“What the–” Peck started.
“Don’t.” Richards cut him off. “Not here.”
Outside Gwynne dialed as she walked, then spoke quietly, her voice encrypted at the voice box.
“Start combing the lost off-world database for viable serials. We’ll need male and female, fifty of each. Make sure we can get organic material and skeletal scaffolding to print on short notice. I think our new friends are cops, or private military, so they’re either trying to arrest me, or they’re buying a small private army.” At the end of the street, she turned the corner and descended into the subway. “So we get thirty percent and two potentially valuable serials, or one hundred percent and a little new world anarchy. Either way, a win.”
by submission | Dec 20, 2017 | Story |
Author: Vanessa Kittle
Robert Stolz looked at the body on the table. The problem seemed simple. He had to get into that thing. It was only centimeters away. The best scientists in the Solar System had been working on this problem for two decades, and now Stolz was ready to try the procedure. His body was so frail he could blink out into nothingness at any moment. So much work wasted. To no longer be… that was not going to happen. He had devoted billions of dollars to ensure his survival. The last human test was very promising. The subject survived with his memories intact, though they lacked the data to assess personality changes.
He looked again at the body. It was a clone of himself, though nearly 70 years younger, and without any memories. The clone never had a conscious thought during its five years of growth in the lab. It would be nice to get around again easily in a fit body, but Stolz didn’t care much about that. It was his mind – whatever made him himself – that is what he needed to survive. Stolz looked up to see the lead scientist enter the room. He announced, “We are ready, sir, if you are.” Stolz nodded yes and lay down on the table next to the blank. During the process, they would record every atom in his brain, store the data in the computer, then make a copy into his blank. As they put the mask, he looked down at his shriveled hand and made a fist. Before he could release it, he was unconscious.
Robert Stolz opened his eyes. He looked down at his hands. They were young and strong. He sat up swiftly and without pain. He remembered everything. He tested himself, picturing his childhood home of Dresden. He could almost feel the cobblestone streets beneath his feet. He could almost smell his mother’s Dresdener Stollen baking. He had come through the fire and made it safely to the other side. It was as if he had visited a sorcerer who had waved his wand and turned him forever young, for he knew his backup was now safely stored away on the computer.
Stolz looked over at the next table. Why should he be afraid to see himself? Those sorts of feelings were for lesser men. And there he was – the old Robert Stolz – just waking up from the anesthesia. The broken body was no longer useful. The old man sat up very slowly and turned his head to look at Stolz. The old man’s eyes were glazed, but suddenly they came into focus. Stolz could see what he was thinking. He leapt from the table and stumbled to the floor. His legs did not work properly. They did not know how to walk. But he forced himself up and closed the distance. He seized the old man by the throat and squeezed with all of his strength. The old man struggled and flailed at him pathetically, then he went limp.
Stolz looked down at the corpse. Was that really me? What was it that made him himself? Was it just the memories and choices? There was so little to that. Most virtual characters had stories just as rich. Then he had a warm and wonderful thought. Even if a man was only a collection of memories and thoughts, likes and desires, he was more than that now. He was in the computer, too. He could always come back. And next time there would be no old man to kill.
