by submission | May 18, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kate Runnels
Issa steered the wasp closer to the distant speck in the sky. A flash of light off metal had sparked her attention. It was an Airship, but whose?
Dodoma City hadn’t had a good haul in months. They wouldn’t tangle with a Royalty cruiser. But if it was an independent or one from an unaligned aircity, well, those cities left on the ocean surface like Dodoma would take their fair share.
Issa swooped closer on her one man wasp scout ship. She didn’t see any markings associated with the Royalty and grinned into the wind as she rocked the wasp first one way and then back, signalling to the other scouts she’d found something. She then radioed in to the city to send reinforcements and gave her coordinates and estimated speed.
Two others formed up with her and they buzzed the airship to gauge its response, but there was no one manning the guns. Which means they were caught woefully unprepared or were undermanned. All the better for us, Issa thought.
She signaled again and then the three landed near the engine room near the aft – on one of the landing decks, starboard side. Still no response. Good. if they took the engine room they had the captain by the balls and then their reinforcements could land unhindered. The ship would be there’s and more importantly, the cargo.
Each wasp settled lightly. They lashed them to the deck before entering into the engine room. Again, there was no one. Out of the wind, the room hummed pleasantly, smelling of oil and ozone. Knives in hand, they relaxed slightly when nothing happened.
Bay locked the hatches while Lekan studied the communications tubes near the front. Issa looked around the room. She peered down the crankshaft room into darkness, before turning back.
“What a haul,” said Lekan.
“How long until reinforcements?” she didn’t smile back.
“About five minutes.”
“I think we can hold off until then.” Suddenly an arm came around her neck from behind as the other arm grabbed her knife hand.”Ahk.”
Lekun and Bay turned at the noise. She struggled against the hand moving her knife upwards without her control. She fought the grip, but the knife moved closer to her face, then she realized why. It was a metallic arm. “Abomination,” she managed, still fighting with the hand to slow the knife’s advance. But it was like struggling against the tide, it came on inevitably.
“This abomination will kill you if you don’t tell the others to open the hatches, now!”
Issa nodded, the arm still around her throat. Bay released the lock and the hatch opened immediately with several of the crew entering and quickly disarming the three. Issa finally had a good look at her captor, the abomination of flesh and metal. Issa clenched her teeth. She couldn’t believe it, shame and anger filled her. To be captured by a young girl!
“Nicely done, Torque,” said the one with captains tabs on the collar. He was a good looking oriental, not much older than Issa. “you’ve saved us again. Mel, forty five degrees to port and max thrust. Let’s be away before more arrive.”
“Aye, Captain.”
But Issa only had eyes on the girl. She now had a name to go with the face. Torque.
Torque, you abomination, I will have my revenge.
by submission | May 17, 2017 | Story |
Author : Melannie Jay
I ran a thumb over the milky flesh of my inner forearm, marvelling at what Mark had done to me. What used to be a knotted mess of puckered flesh had been made smooth again, without even a silver sliver to indicate what had happened three months ago in Augusta after a night of heavy drinking and regret.
Mark smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck as I touched the other arm, then felt under my shirt for traces of the other familiar scars he had erased. Thousands of dollars leading up to remaking the perfect body and he had done the procedure for three hundred. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the first thing I wanted to do was hack and slash to make it feel like mine again.
“I made a couple of enhancements. Free of charge, and I can take them out if you don’t like them. Do you want to see?”
I nodded and he led me to a full-length mirror where I could see what he meant, but it barely fit in sight. Two massive pairs of mechanical wings extended from my shoulderblades. The folded top was just above my head and the bottom of the feathers cut off at my knees. The silver gleamed even in the dark light of Mark’s basement surgery room.
“The scars on your shoulders… They kind of reminded me of wings, and I had these laying around. I was waiting for someone to put them on. Thought it would be a surprise. You can tell me if you hate them, I won’t be offended. Promise. Probably should have told you before.”
Mark trailed off, jammed his hands in his pockets, and the only sound was the gentle whirring of the wings he had put on me. They were lighter than I imagined, not so heavy that my shoulders slumped forward. If anything, my posture seemed better.
“They’re too heavy to actually fly with, but they make a statement. And you can move them if you want.”
I didn’t look at Mark, but I clenched my shoulders and watched as the wings unfurled, showing off his craftwork while almost taking off his head in the process. The face in the mirror broke first into a small smile, then a grin. Silver had always been my color.
by Julian Miles | May 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
That’s a Keilvogel up there. I recognise the contrail: a centre line triple the size of the flankers. This world has such a glorious sky. I’ve never really taken the time to appreciate it, but as I’m lying in a swamp of blood and oil that used to be a battlefield, I might as well take some beauty from the moment.
History has come full-circle. Many medieval knights would be helpless when they toppled from horseback, due to the weight of their armour. As the battle lines swung back and forth, each army had a small group of squires who followed the line, armed with only mallet and stiletto. Their job was to sneak up on downed knights, stab the stiletto through one of the slots in their visors, then ram it into the knight’s brain with the mallet. I still can’t think of a worse way to go than lying there, watching that knife come down.
So, here I am. Lying, in armour, looking up at the sky. Our powered suits are the envy of many divisions, until they find out the one flaw: we only have about forty minutes of power. Then our formidable suits become inescapable prisons. Prisons that can be targeted as our protections are down. I’ve seen the remains of those fired from rail guns, slowly dissolved by acid dripped through their vents, broiled on open fires, the nauseating list goes on. Vengeful beings get creatively nasty.
Normally, we’re first in, devastation wreaked, and out within thirty minutes. The remains of the day are handed over to regular troops. Today was not normal. We lost three pickup ships to suicidal interdiction. As the third one fell, I knew we were being targeted. Multiple power trooper mutilations to livestream would do their morale good.
We held them for as long as we could, but the pitched battles raging about us betrayed their determination. One by one, my colleagues powered down. It’s not like we can pop open the suit up and hop out. We’re hardwired and tubed, needing two specialists apiece to assist us in and out.
Here they come. I can hear their wary steps squish in the goo about us. Given how quiet it’s gotten, I reckon we’re only minutes from a full-sortie rescue mission led by the power troopers of Battalion Three. We try to look after our own – unfortunately that only happens when we have a power trooper unit in reserve.
There’s a skinny little runt with a welding torch all hot, white and heading for my faceplate. This is going to hurt – him.
“Now!”
There’s the howl of sleight fields engaging and screams from a battlefield full of lightly-equipped would-be murderers.
The runt standing over me takes a half-clip of subsonic in the groin, which pretty much means the last things that pass through his mind are bits of his crotch.
I stand up, my top-mount swinging into line. A couple of very fast runts have nearly made the treeline. Their remains paint the trunks for six metres.
It’s over. There are a few other runners, but we let them run with only low-power pulses to make a scary lightshow. There isn’t one of us with more than sixty seconds of power remaining.
“Drop with three minutes to spare. Fucking genius!”
I wave my hand in acknowledgement.
“Thank me when it’s in the tactics manual.”
There’s a roar as a dropship clears the treetops, spewing power troopers as it comes.
“We thought you needed rescue!”
I give the descending commander a cheerful finger: “Give it a minute; we will.”
by submission | May 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : James Hunter
Joe Miller stood silent in his dressing room. He was set to take the biggest stage of his life, yet he felt no nerves, no butterflies, he felt dead to the world.
Joe “Knuckles” Miller had wanted to be a pro fighter his entire life. He had done well on the regional circuit but once he received the call up to the big leagues, he had appeared to find his ceiling. After losing his first three fights Joe was faced with a do or die situation. Another loss, or even a close win, would end with his contract being terminated.
With an indignant end to his short career in sight, Joe began to get desperate. He was willing to do anything to start winning, even if it meant cheating.
One’s willingness to cheat however had little bearing on one’s ability to do so. The days of performance enhancing drugs had long since passed leaving little options other than to try and sneak in the occasional low blow or eye poke. It wasn’t until one night over a few drinks with his uncle that Joe found his easy out.
“I know it’s hard out there Joe, some of those guys are killers.” Uncle Tim said behind a sip of whiskey.
“I’m a killer! You should see me in the gym. I’m like a master painter or something but under the bright lights I can never put it together.”
Tim nodded and took another drink. “It’s all about having an edge over your opponent. They used to do it with drugs but now all the best fighters have cybernetics.”
“Huh?” Joe stared blankly with his mouth hanging open slightly.
“Implants, state of the art stuff. My company designs them. One in each eye and hand, then you’ll land every punch you throw.”
“But if I got caught…” Joe trailed off.
“Nothing they could do to you. This is that new, there aren’t even rules about it yet.” he said with a smile and a clumsy wink.
This was exactly what Joe had been hoping for. Within six months he had undergone three surgeries to complete the procedure. Now only two years since receiving the upgrades he was fighting for the title.
A cameraman entered the dressing room and immediately swooped down in front of Joe for a low angle.
“Throw some combos for me.” he said.
Joe shadowboxed for the camera and bounced around on his soft, spongy practice mat. He was moments away from his walkout and still he felt nothing but despair. He knew he could never truly realize his dream. Even if he left that night with his arm raised and a belt around his waist, he would never be a champion.
by submission | May 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Matthieu C. R. Cartron
Funny that they called her a mother, for she had neither sons nor daughters. Ancient but lively, she was as old as all of those who had been created alongside her. Every day she would look around, slowly, to watch her neighbors, hoping that it would be different, that they might awaken from death. But every day she was given a sorrowful reminder.
She was alone.
She ate the warm light, and had no choice but to do so. She waited. And waited. Eventually, she experimented, and found a way to create it–something to bring her a passive sort of company. She had found a way to create them, microbes, and once they came into existence, they became essential to her.
They borrowed some of her energy, but she didn’t mind. They returned the favor with their innocent presence, an ignorant sort of mutualism. She knew of them but they never knew of her.
For some reason she had survived. The red being to her right and the yellow being to her left had also survived, but only for a desperate moment. Putting up a vicious fight, the red being came the closest, but like the others, he too fell into a deep sleep. If anything, the Mother thought, he would be the one to awaken once more.
She wondered if there were others out there in the darkness, others who had survived the blast long ago. Maybe they too could entertain themselves with the microbes. Were their creations the same as hers?
But in the latest few seconds of her existence, something went horribly wrong.
A new microbe had evolved onto her blue and green skin, and they were unlike anything she had ever seen before. They were neither the smallest nor tallest, the fastest or slowest. But they were the smartest. In the first few moments the Mother could sense promise.
But after that brief moment, they attacked her. They dug into her crinkled skin and let the black and blue blood spill. They multiplied, using her flesh to produce more offspring and propel their devilish mutation. Why were they not like the others?
She writhed in pain, jolting and disrupting the mutated microbes. They seemed to take no notice though, and perhaps this was because they simply did not care. They were galvanized by self-interest–but if only they were when it mattered. Had that been true, it might just have saved them.
No, she thought. Perhaps they weren’t all that smart. The holes they had dug would become their own graves, she thought. What stupid little things they were. She searched her memory for a solution but came up empty. Her mind fought for ideas but yielded nothing.
Mother Earth sat there, on her axis, wondering what she could do in the next few moments before she too, was dead. And this time, no one would be around to hope that one day she might wake up.
by submission | May 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Adel
I felt the urge to write speculative fiction. But I couldn’t. So I swallowed a nil pill. Still I couldn’t. So I swallowed another nil pill.
Then I couldn’t remember my name.
But when my fingertips touched the keyboard I realized I was sitting in the part of heaven that had been settled centuries ago by Native American Zen monks.
“Amazing,” I said to a small weathered man sitting beside me at another keyboard. He was typing with the index finger of his left hand, while in his right hand he held a short stick wrapped in a strip of leather and adorned with feathers and turquoise beads.
Because he didn’t acknowledge me, I decided to fill the silence: “Is this going to be speculative fiction? Is this going to be an epic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink story, a sprawling conceit, a junk drawer that holds the meaning of life and whatever in the universe has no home and belongs nowhere but here?”
“No,” the old man snapped, whacking my knuckles with the stick. “It’s going to be painful unless you stop babbling like an idiot while I’m holding the talking stick.”
“May I hold the talking stick?” I asked, rubbing the back of my hand. “I have a question.”
The old man whacked my knuckles again and said, “Quiet. You asked a question and you were not holding the talking stick. And what makes you think this is speculative fiction. There’s not a speck of speculation in it. There’s not a speck of fiction in it. Everything here is true.”
I pointed from my mouth to the stick to my mouth again, trying to pantomime that I wanted to hold the stick so I could talk. The old man whacked my knuckles again.
“Hey!” I cried. “Why did you do that? I didn’t say anything.”
“Not with words,” he replied. “But you spoke with your hands and there’s no difference. You’re lucky this is not a gangster mondo. Then you’d really get whacked.”
“But—” I started to say.
He whacked my knuckles again and said, “Knucklehead! You are Knucklehead! The name you can’t remember is Knucklehead!”
