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.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 7, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Yosun blinked in the afternoon sun, the viewport on her hazmat suit filtering the harsh UV rays but doing little to reduce the glare.
Her shuttle had settled a few hundred meters from the blast site, the ground compressed into a large bowl almost thirty meters across. Ignition had been seconds before impact, the containment shell having been detonated above the ground to maximize its effect.
Nothing would have survived this.
The damage near ground zero was complete, there were no structures, no bodies, no signs of life. As Yosun walked away from what had been the center of the settlement, signs of what had been a self-sustaining research colony slowly began to appear. Shrapnel from the prefab structures the crew had been sent here with, vehicle debris, fragments of the familiar blue and yellow supply containers from what would have been the landing zone, the remains larger and more defined the further she went.
It was nearly twenty minutes walk before there was any biological detritus.
At first, there were just random fragments of the orange bioshell the containment system would have enveloped any living organism with. Close inspection would reveal body parts, or perhaps less recognizable remains sealed inside the biohazard polymer, but Yosun had no interest in seeing such things so soon after lunch.
Further out still, the flashes of colour on the ground became mounds, then recognizable human shapes, crumpled in heaps, stretched out prone or supine, and a few frozen in place, having been just far enough from the concussion of the blast not to have been knocked off their feet before they were enveloped in the highly discriminate cloud of vapourous biosealant that followed. It would have surrounded and encased any living thing before solidifying in an instant, sealing any contaminated material inside.
People. Contaminated people.
Yosun stopped, looking into the perfect reverse casting of what had been, only a few months ago a healthy colony researcher, someone who never would have known what was coming, or what had hit them.
There was nothing in the polymer shell now but topsoil.
She tried not to think of the panic those not mercifully killed in the blast would have endured as they suffocated, sealed inside a bright orange instant sarcophagus.
The containment protocol described the anesthetic effect of the containment system, assured the command crew there would be no suffering, but Yosun wasn’t fooled, it came in a high-velocity explosive delivery system, and the only mercy that afforded was the speed at which it killed.
She shuddered despite herself.
At the edge of the settlement, she could see the line where the colony prelim crews had scorched back the natural vegetation, drawing a line between what would be theirs, and what the planet would be allowed to retain.
She stood in uneasy silence on the clear side of that line, looking into the deep blues and reds of the jungle. Something had come from there, infected the colony and turned them savage. They didn’t know what that was, but they would be more careful in future. Next time they would isolate the weapon before it spread.
“CeeVee Orbital, this is EeeVee Ground.” She turned, heading back towards her shuttle.
“CeeVee Orbital here, what’s your status EeeVee Ground?” The response was low-rez as the comms system fought with the dense upper atmosphere to get the signal through intact.
“Containment complete to the perimeter. All the biomaterial appears composted. Drop the dozers and bury everything in the hole you made.” As she passed one huddled mass, she could see the cracks in the orange polymer where some particularly determined plant had squeezed out from inside, reaching for the sun. “Get the colony prelims on deck, we’ll need LV5 ready for deployment, and start the clock on thawing the next batch of colonysicles, we’ll want to get them on the ground as soon as the landing platform is ready, there’s much work to be done.”
Yosun shouldered her way back through her shuttle door and waited as the decon wash enveloped her.
Even inside the safety of her suit, she couldn’t push out the thoughts of those colonists trapped in those shells. She closed her eyes and held her breath. Maybe LV5 would get it right.
by submission | Mar 6, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mina
– Bravo-tango-delta-three-nine-zero-zulu, you are cleared to dock.
– Affirmative, docking sequence initiated.
K8 docked manually; it was against procedure, but nobody would have been able to tell with her level of precision. It was one of the small joys that Dr. Charles Lagarde was encouraging her to reclaim. She – the doctor insisted she think of herself using personal pronouns, and part of her had once been female – had been assigned to him by the military. The first bio-borg created not to be so unstable that it had to be destroyed. Over the last year, Charles had helped her to find control and had given her a compass by which to measure her new existence. He had also refused to call her K8, turning it into Kate.
Charles was humming as usual. As she finalised the docking procedure, she felt his hand on hers. Her tactile receptors sent a message, received as comfort and pleasure by her CPU – was that any different from what she would have felt before her transformation? She could not remember.
– Ça va, Kate?
– I am fine, Doctor.
He laughed:
– You would say that if half your leg had been shot off. Chérie, you are doing good work in good company – that is more than fine.
He grinned at her and she fought and lost the battle not to smile – a foreign but pleasing sensation that threatened to become a permanent state of affairs around him.
The work did feel worthwhile, transporting vital medical supplies to a small outpost. This was a brief refueling stop on their way. And their companionship seemed to be turning into something she did not fully understand but welcomed.
Charles bounced out of their small but state-of-the-art transporter to greet an old friend, Major Oliver Laine. They had combined the refueling stop with the monthly status report Lagarde made on her progress with “socialisation”. She carried out the usual landing checks, her CPU monitoring him out of habit. She felt his surprise, shock and, then, nothing. His mind was… gone.
She moved fast. The pulse weapon she was not supposed to have already in her hand. She reached the deck in less than five seconds and her optical sensors registered his crumpled, prone form.
The major looked up:
– A regrettable loss but he knew too much. There was also some concern that he was not the right influence. You were made to be a soldier, not a sister of mercy.
None of K8’s rage or pain showed on her face as she lifted the pulse weapon and terminated the major; it did not slow her speed as she sealed the hold so nobody could enter. She finished refueling and hacked the station’s systems. She also disabled all the supposedly foolproof checks in her CPU and neutralised the remote self-destruct nestled deep inside it.
She carried Charles into the transporter, laying him gently on his bunk. She would send his body into space, like sailors had once honoured their own at sea.
K8 did not react as the station exploded behind her departing vessel. Her restraint had been based on his ideals, his complete belief that all life was precious. She had respected his feelings in this, but now it was no longer necessary.
She had a medical delivery to complete and then she had a new purpose. They would terminate her in the end but, before that, she would take out as many of their military bases as she could. They had not valued his life; she need not value theirs.
by Julian Miles | Mar 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You’re going to record this?”
“Of course. The world must know.”
“So, this is where I’m supposed to tell all about the nefarious schemes my diabolical organisation has planned?”
“Something like that.”
“About the slaves working on Mars to build colonies for the elite to retreat to when this world dies?”
“Come again?”
“Or maybe I should regale you with the true history of this world, of the stealthy yet unshakeable grip of our shape-changing reptilian overlords, and their taste for virgin flesh?”
“Get serious.”
“And reveal the dastardly plots of the insane cults that worship blasphemous entities from beyond the rule of space and time, entities who lurk at the very thresholds of our reality, waiting for the stars to align and the rituals of their fanatical devotees to let them loose upon us?”
“Oh, come on!”
“But wait! Who is to say that my telling of alien overlords from the depths of space, who rule us all with misdirection and mind control, whilst secretly stealing succulent mammals for their abattoirs on the dark side of the moon, is not a revelation too far?”
“You’re not enlightened, you’re bonkers!”
“Really? Can you tell me that our darkening, proto-dystopian societies are not being driven into feudalism by the clever manipulations of an ancient vampire hierarchy so powerful that even the ultra-rich know their only recourse is to party and enjoy endless idylls because they will never truly rule?”
“Vampires, now?”
“Alright, then. What about the fabulous cities in the lightless depths of our oceans, home to the first intelligent race of this planet? What of the secret treaties that exist, forever banning us from certain parts of the sea? Treaties enforced by the threat of the annihilation of mankind’s latest civilisation, just like they’ve done several times before.”
“I’m going to have to apologise for this.”
“To who?”
“I had no illusions about escaping the aftermath of this kidnapping with proofs intact, so I’ve streamed this live, through some literary correction and formatting utilities, to an online fiction site I occasionally ghost-write for. It’ll be front page one day next month.”
“Oh dear.”
“Why say that? You win! I can’t draw public attention to a lunatic exposé like this. I’ll be ridiculed.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead.”
“Pardon?”
“As will I.”
“What?”
“You see, in my haste to have you dismiss me as a fool, I told a truth.”
“Huh?”
“When the transcript gets published, they will quickly discern who I am. From that, they will certainly be able to determine who you are. We’ll be killed.”
“I’ve heard a lot of empty threats while investigating. You’re not convincing.”
“There’s nothing empty about it. Dangerous things will be instructed to hunt us down and execute us.”
“You’re crying!”
“I suggest you put your affairs in order, young man.”
“You’re actually convinced of this lunacy!”
“Quite frankly, you should kill yourself.”
“Why?”
“I will only suffer an abrupt, messy death. You, on the other hand, they will not ask gently, nor will they be persuaded by any truths you tell – unless they are verified by your agony. And, regardless of what you offer up, they will cull your friends and family just to be sure.”
“You’re delusional! Give me a few minutes, then you can leave.”
“Very well.”
“Not going to wish me luck?”
“Luck is not a factor. We’re dead men walking. Enjoy the next few days, then end it on the day the transcript is published.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m out of here.”
“Goodbye.”
by submission | Mar 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Baylen continued with standard disease treatment questions for applicants, after verifying Sheila Barston’s financial capabilities. Baylen took on a wizened senior’s appearance for his younger, highly spirited clientele needing a thimble full of respect to buffer their anticipation. His holographic medical attending room was pleasant under a soft, blue simulated light at the same seventy-two degrees found throughout the space station.
“Please, only a few more inquiries before we schedule, Sheila. I realize this may seem an exciting opportunity, but it does require absolute assurance that we can match you with a condition, disorder or disease that truly meets your requirements. I understand this was a gift from friends for your upcoming birthday. Congratulations on reaching middle age, at least as we define it now. With continuing medical breakthroughs, ninety is just the new one-hundred.” Baylen’s added levity escaped his nervous client. Sheila’s fingers raced up and down selections of mortifying illnesses and discomforts from a floating digital display of the ship’s clinic menu.
“We only get to choose once in a lifetime…just one wish. It has to be the right one. Everyone talks about their experiences at our club. I’m the last to visit you. Oh, those long shudders about diphtheria, dysentery, malaria…and of course, the Black Plague. You know I’d pick that one, Dr. Baylen, but it is outside my price range. There is such emptiness in my life, I mean, to be interesting. Everything is so dull without these retro-adventures. And you assure that it is perfectly safe? Really safe?”
Sheila leaned her firm, healthy figure over the doctor’s desk, exposing her perky, bouncing octogenarian breasts through her flimsy silk jumpsuit. Her display distracted Baylen.
“Please, Miss Barston. That’s hardly appropriate. I’m over two hundred but I’m still alive. You needn’t be frisky to make a point. Of course, you will suffer, but only the memory will remain when we remove the disorder.”
“Well I just wondered,” she replied, sitting back in her overstuffed red chair. A brief frown rolled over her face before she returned to her assortment.
“There is a new item we haven’t posted yet that might just be the right fit for you. Only a few have signed up for this experience so I’m sure you would be a centerpiece of interest at whatever soirée you attended afterward.”
“Oh, could you? That sounds simply exciting. Can I afford it?”
“For you, Sheila, I’ll reduce the price for your birthday. How’s that?”
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Oh, I could just kiss you, Doctor.”
“No need, Sheila. Just follow the attendant. It will be a ten-day experience. You’ll be sharing a space with five males and one female through this process so you can agonize together. Of course, your entire exploit will be recorded in living overview so you can recall it in excruciating detail for decades.”
“I’m so excited. I’ll just never forget this.” Sheila danced to the artificial doorway and into an awaiting attendant’s direction.
Dr. Baylen’s nurse appeared in front of him. Her dry voice crackled from her hologram.
“Are you sure of your assessment, Doctor? She didn’t ask about the choice.”
“Yes, Helen, I’m sure it will fit her. I can’t believe five brothers from Ceres all signed at once. We must be overbooking. I think it’s time for retirement. I heard Alice Cringly got into this mix because she sued over her disappointing measles jaunt. She should be a terrific companion for Sheila as those seven go through condensed puberty. ”
