by submission | Jan 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Joachim Heijndermans
The floor is so damn cold. I wish they’d turn the heat up or at least let me keep my socks and shoes. What are these floors made of? Some kind of metal, maybe?
For a single person cell, it’s way too big. You could fit a Firebird model jet in here. Why give me all this space, and then restrict me with a forcefield? And dark too. I can barely see two feet in front of me.
A new guard walks in. The first one throws him a salute. Bigwig, probably. Stern looking guy too. Not a hair on his head, but the heavy shadows fall over him like a thick coat of black, so I’m not gonna be blinded by light reflected from that cueball of his.
“The Prisoner will stand!” he yells out. S’got a course voice. Like he either smoked too many Thunder-hearts in his day, or he once dangled from a rope at some point. I’ve seen it before, back in the Tel-K facility. I wonder what he meant by ‘will stand’. I already was.
“You are onboard the prison vessel ‘Corinthian’. I will be your warden for this delivery. You will not learn my name. You will not learn where you will be taken to until we make the drop-off. You will be silent during the voyage. Is that understood?” he shouts.
I nod to him, but he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even give me a nod back or anything. He’s just standing there, like a statue wrapped in leather and velcro belts.
“You will not cause a disturbance. You will not complain. You will not speak. Abide by these simple rules, and you will be fed regularly. If you do not, I will watch you starve with an honest-to-God smile on my face. Am I understood?” he roars out, like a hungry bulldog.
Again, I just nod. I’ve been around the block enough times. Seen my fair share of dark hell holes that they call prisons, and even nastier wardens that go with them. I’ll play his game, though I still don’t know what I did to end up in this place. Or why I was in Tel-K. Sure, I’ve robbed banks. I’ve swiped an identity here or there. But why am I treated like a grade-6 terrorist?
“As you can see,” the warden continues, “the floor is set to go live. Ten billion volts. I presume I don’t need to tell you how much that hurts? So step out of line, or agitate me in any way, and I will fry you. Am I understood?”
I nod. He nods back, then waves his finger at the other guard. Around me, there’s a light flicker of blue light. They dropped the forcefield around me.
“The prisoner is free to eat. Dismissed!” the warden snaps. He then walks away. Where’s he going? And where’s my dinner?
“Uhm, warden? ‘Scuse me,” I mutter. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but you didn’t leave any food for me. What am I supposed to eat?”
He doesn’t turn around. He clears his throat and says; “The food is not to speak.”
I want to ask what he meant by that when I hear a soft clicking noise. It’s coming from the dark. Something slithers around me. I can just see it, out of the corner of my eye.
Hot air grazes my neck, as my cellmate breathes in and out. A drop of spittle hits my skin and runs down my back.
by submission | Jan 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : Iain Macleod
Here come another fresh load off the shuttle. I hate them, bloody smug rich earther kids here to “give something back”. Dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them, taking selfies wearing sunglasses. We’re inside a dome, morons! The sunlight is fake and nowhere near bright enough to warrant shades!
I have to greet them though, and pretend that them fucking round with patching kits or half assing a geotherm pump is really super helpful. The money they bring in makes it just tolerable.
The local dock rats watch them from further back, sneering at them and me for associating with them. Theres no shortage of labour here and many people are unemployed.
If these people thought for five minutes about the reality of what they were doing they wouldnt come here, they’d just donate cash. Instead they fly out here bringing tools and materials with them instead of buying them on mars and contributing to the economy. Then these unskilled idiots need to be babysat through the most basic jobs and pussy out as soon as they break a nail. A decent martain boy would work 12 hours a day for half the price and could support a family. His money would be spent in martian shops boosting the economy and the skills he learned could be passed on to other martians. Those willing to learn, desperate to help build a real community here, and give their lives meaning in the process.
I take a quick look at the photographs inside my wallet, my wife Claire and our daughter Marina. This is why i do it. I hate myself but i’ll do anything to keep food on the table.
Ok, deep breath in. Fake smile on.
“Hi guys! Welcome to Mars, are we ready to help some people?!”
The slackjaws all cheer and high five each other.
God i hate them.
by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Nighthawk café is quiet. In the dim light cast by grimy neon tubes, two men sit nursing mugs of coffee and shot glasses of whisky.
“Looks good, Crow. Looks good.”
The older of the two waves his hand, encompassing the café and buildings nearby.
“Thanks, Jonah. The ‘Nighthawk’ is the heart of this. People have so much to talk on, since the war.”
“Yeah, every man and woman served. Makes for some deep common ground. Conversations go better when you’ve got shared experience. And, if the experiences are grim enough, truths come out.”
Crow coughs and grins: “Ain’t that a fact. But, the truth that built this came from my old man. He always said ‘when everything changes, take time to watch how people change in response, before you make a move’.”
“That’s why you didn’t reopen the bar straight after disarmament?”
“Yes. Looking after a bar was a good game for lively types before the war. You should know, you were one of my regular bouncers. But, the war changed the game. So, I took the old man’s advice. Let every other joint open up, thinking business was back to normal.”
“How could it be, after ten years of hell-on-Earth?”
“Spot on. The new bars got torn to pieces, restaurants demolished, concert halls razed. Everyone knew how to fight: every brawl became a battle when you threw in PTSD and other lingering souvenirs. That’s when law enforcement resorted to simply holding perimeters until the fighting died out.”
“But you learned.”
“I did. The new place has a stage with force screens to protect the band. The arena is a single piece of cerasteel – nothing that can be torn up for use as a weapon. The bars are shuttered and all drinks come in paper mugs.”
“I miss pint glasses at gigs.”
“Levels of violence change things.”
“Sadly. So, I understand the Nighthawk, and ‘Fortress’: the arena. But a hospital?”
“The bands I host are energetic. The audience is always violently enthusiastic. Seems only fair to offer to patch-up to my patrons after the event. Fun shouldn’t leave you unable to work the following week.”
“I know a few who’d disagree, but no matter.”
“I bought an army surplus field hospital. The volunteer staff just turned up, almost overnight. This area is rundown, services are scant. Free care for all stabilises the area and makes my enterprise immune to criminal pressure: they like a place that fixes combat wounds without questions.”
“I think your new generation security team might have a little to do with that immunity.”
Crow chuckles: “You could be right. They’re all former assault troopers, the fully enhanced kind. They have difficulty fitting into society. I’ve given ‘em a job where hopped-up lunatics try to kill ‘em every night. The challenge of restraining without killing works off the assault kids violent drives. Keeping the whole place safe from criminals eases their hypervigilance issues. I get top security and they get therapy – it’s a win-win situation.”
“It’s nice to be part of the audience instead of watching it, I’ll admit.”
“You should come along for the assault trooper family gigs. It’s all acoustic stuff, with throat singing and mad-ass breakdancing. It’s so strenuously peaceful, it’s insane.”
Jonah sighs: “I like the idea. Something new under this tired sun would be nice.”
“Amen to that. So, you want another shot to keep the last of the coffee company?”
“I’d like another coffee to keep the next pair of shots warm.”
Crow waves to the counterman: “Jimmy! Two more coffees, two more shots, and leave the bottle.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 23, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Tzen sat on the third floor of the abandoned building in near darkness. Only those streetlights that remained unbroken filtered light through shattered windows and draped plastic into what was once an active construction site.
The money to be made in this part of the city wasn’t going to be in condos, or retail stores. It was only in drugs, and violence, and death.
From somewhere nearby, voices raised above the wind-noise and the distant traffic. Men were bragging at volume, the smell of narcotic-laced sweat filtered up and through the stink of the city streets into Tzen’s olfactory sensors.
Time to power up and move.
Navigating his way through the construction waste with a grace and agility that belied his bulk, his massive boots made nearly no sound on the dusty concrete. At the open edge of the floor he stopped, surveying the alley below.
Seven men clustered in the shadows between the buildings, jabbering over one another in Quikspeak as they examined the contents of a backpack that lay on the ground between them. Tzen focused and picked out the partial label of a well known medical supply company. They had quantity. Not users then, but traffickers.
And a little girl.
She sat off to one side, back against the wall, head down hugging her knees and rocking gently back and forth, keening.
Tzen noted the slung weapons of the dealers, and gauged the best possible vector for descent, then stepped out from the third floor into space and dropped, a tonne of unwelcome heavy into the party.
He landed with one boot each on the head of two of the closest dealers, driving their skulls down through their own bodies into the pavement. Tzen’s lower extremities telescoped into themselves to absorb the impact, the result being no more sound that the wet squelch of compressing and redistributed flesh.
The remaining men were stunned, drug packages still in hand. They stood immobilized, weapons left slung at their sides, unable to rationalize where their comrades had disappeared to, and how this mechanical monster had replaced them.
Tzen raised both arms, elbows cocked at ninety degree angles and turned his hands in automatically to clear the barrels as a volley of flechettes erupted into the two unfortunate souls in their path. In an instant their torsos were spread across the alleyway beyond, hips and legs crumpling where they stood.
“One, two, three, four,” Tzen grated in the closest approximation of a sing-song voice his hardware would allow, “can I have a couple more?”
The man to Tzen’s left was the first to react, bringing the barrel of his weapon up already firing. A steady stream of shells struck Tzen’s chest-plate at an angle. Tzen turned until the angle of their ricochet intersected with the man on Tzen’s right, sending him staggering gurgling backwards to drop in a heap. Tzen swung an arm in a swift fly motion, catching the gunman under the chin and knocking him off his feet with an audible crack as his spine dislocated from his skull.
The remaining man ran screaming, the bag and the drugs forgotten at Tzen’s feet.
It would do well to have stories told of the monster in the darkness. Fear is a more effective deterrent than even violence.
As he collected the drugs from the ground, the soft sobbing sounds bubbled up to the forefront of his attention, and he turned and lumbered over to where the girl sat, still curled in a ball but eyes now wide and watching him.
He reached out an armored hand slowly, and she considered the blood-spattered monster who stood before her, and the apparent gentleness of what had only moments ago dealt death without hesitation.
“Come, little one. Let’s get you home.”
The girl reached out and let Tzen pick her up and cradle her into the crook of one arm.
As they trudged out of the alley into the night, he remembered carrying his daughter home like this, in another time, in another body.
by submission | Jan 22, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Thomas
It was a self-destructive spasm of madness!
When the hunter cornered it, The Future had assumed the guise of a malnourished, homeless psychotic, bumping his shopping cart full of human trifles along a dirt path underneath a highway overpass. In this iteration, the Future was utterly defenseless yet it made no attempt at disguise. In fact, it was wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with white block letters that unambiguously said: “The Future.”
“Stop!” the hunter commanded, leveling his rifle at the thing.
“I can’t,” The Future replied as it continued to force the wire cart through a network of hardened mud ruts.
The hunter fired a single shot into the ground underneath the nose of the shopping cart. Clods of earth spattered a nearby patch of weeds and a wheel spun madly for a few seconds before dropping onto the path.
The Future glanced nervously at the mutilated cart. “Well,” it reconsidered, “I guess I could pause for a minute.” But the abstraction in the black T-shirt soon fidgeted awkwardly and slowly squatted down to pick up a cigarette package which happened to be lying near its feet. “I can’t stop moving altogether,” it said apologetically. The scrap of cardboard was slowly placed in the basket.
The hunter nodded but his muzzle tip produced little air drawn patterns in response to every movement. The hunter didn’t trust The Future.
The Future was full of tricks.
The ragged manifestation squatted once again and picked up a plastic hand lotion bottle. The hunter’s rifle tracked each movement but didn’t fire. Emboldened, the Future decided to gather a few farther-flung bits of debris while it bargained for its continued existence. “What is it you want?” The Future timidly asked, although it surely must have known.
Fingers deftly extracted a wadded donut shop napkin from some nettles, then a cracked plastic lighter.
“You’re a threat to my investment,” the hunter answered. His cheek was still pressed against the breech. “I’m using a second lab-cultured liver. All of my long bones have been replaced with titanium rods. My viscera is silicon mesh, my memories are coded within magnetic bubbles.”
A dirty breeze wafted through the bridge pilings. “It sounds like you don’t need me,” The Future said sadly as it picked up a dented can of strawberry meal replacement.
“That was the plan,” the hunter said. “But I’ve been informed of a glitch within the process of live tissue synthesis…”
“Ahhh,” The Future said knowingly.
“My humanity is at stake.”
“I’m surprised you consider that a problem,” The Future sniffed.
The hunter’s eye discs became threateningly opaque. There was a small click as the guidance mechanism of his weapon locked onto target.
The Future licked its thin lips. “All existence is a delicate negotiation…”
The weapon exploded and The Future jerked violently backwards into his cart, spilling its contents onto the path. The hunter walked over to the body husk and poked it with the toe of his boot. The abstraction gurgled, but its adopted face soon became peaceful. Perhaps The Future was tired of dragging eternity to and fro.
The hunter meant to leave quickly but was distracted by a gaudy bit of tin near the shopping cart. The pseudo-human picked up a can of OldWest tobacco featuring a colorful prairie scene with a mounted cowboy slumped in front of a frozen sunset. Pink-tipped grassland offered endless tranquility.
The hunter picked up a scrap of notepaper veined with faint purple lines. The pattern was beautifully meaningless.
“Hmmm,” the hunter said and stooped again to retrieve another bright fragment from the endless pile.
by submission | Jan 21, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rory O Reilly
The blue was bright beyond measure shooting far out from the supernova displaying a beauty across the void. The vast ship passed within viewing range, the shimmering metal reflecting strongly. To the stern lay the bridge resplendent in decadent materials and there stood the captain and pilot desperately searching the area with both eyes and advanced scanners. Everything returned negative results from the blank screens to watered eyes. In deep space a distress beacon had been activated several months earlier, a class three dreadnought on routine patrol with over two hundred souls on board. Contact had been lost after the crew reported distortions in magnetic fields and severe damage to the outer hull. The rescue effort had been swift but unrewarding, however back on board the bridge, a piercing siren announced the possibility of better news. A large shape was visible on the scanner, a mass spread out over an almost impossible distance. The captain gave the order to make for the location.
It took several anxious hours to reach the spot and when they did sadness filled the crew’s hearts as they appeared to be the first to discover the ill fated dreadnought which it seemed had been ripped to pieces and now was nothing more than an immense floating graveyard.
The charged particles of the supernova cast an eerie glow behind the hulking debris field.
It was with an uneasy feeling in the captains’ stomach that it dawned on him what had occurred, he shouted the order to turn the ship and place the engines on full power. In the ensuing frenetic rush of activity, strange noises echoed through the craft; the sound of metal contorting and snapping as the pilot desperately tried to get the thrusters to respond. The visor section of the bridge began to crack, the violent arcing of dancing spiderwebs as the sheet weakened to breaking point. With a final explosion the reinforced material gave way and sucked both the pilot and captain into oblivion. With no one left to pilot, the huge ship continued to be torn apart, vast sections torn off as the remaining crew members breathed their last. As the rescue ship neared the end of its existence, its automated distress beacon was initiated and began its deathly symphony with its cosmological brother.
The debris was quickly melded into that of the dreadnought, increasing the radar blip to nearly twice its size. It was here in the vicinity of the beautiful galactic cloud and dense spinning pulsar that these two great ships became one and sat in silence for thousands of years. News travelled and the tale of the missing ships passed into legend until one day a nearby corvette class craft picked up what sounded like two extremely low pings of distress beacons off in the distance and a blip on their scanner.
The merchant captain with surprise in his eyes turned to his pilot and coughed out the order.
“Make way for that point at full speed”.
