by submission | Jan 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Andrew Evans
Dane was in a panic. He breathed in a short rhythmic tempo. Cold blue desert surrounded him, as vast as the Sahara and just as deadly. The mercenary’s breath shown in the slight dawn light. The only hope, a small outpost, lay visibly in the distance, painted a warm glow by the suns fiery radiance.
‘It would be a shame to die here, so close, so far from home.’ He thought in dismal desperation.
Somewhere nearby, footsteps in the dunes heightened his sense of panic. Their thud could only come from an animal large enough to be audible as its feet sank in the cushioning sands of Gliese 580 now known by its inhabitants as Adelphus.
‘Keep running.’ Dane’s feet grew heavier as sand filled his boots. ‘This was supposed to be routine.’
He was only alive out of some horrible fluke. His companions had all been taken by these creatures. Perhaps they made camp next to its burrow in the dangerous desert. Surely, nothing this large could live here. Dane’s heartbeats grew louder, his breath even more labored as his muscles screamed in agony. He felt the sting of sweat in his eyes. Only the fear of death kept him going in its dull, aching longing for life.
Dane’s means of protection turned to a chew toy in the clutches of these aberrations. The screams of his fellow mercenaries had woken him in the night. One of the beasts must have spotted him as he escaped. Now he was surely dead.
As he tired, his resolve grew as wide as his pupils and as bright as the sun which now bathed the desert a diluted bloody red. He was on a mission with laser focus.
The colony wall was a few hundred yards away.
He started yelling for help.
His slogging started to slow even as the ground grew more stable.
At last the heat from a large wall mounted laser cut through his pursuer.
He became instantly aware of his weary state through the shear terror of being the prey.
‘Those damn cretons have us surrounded.’
‘What?’ Dane managed.
‘They’re a pack of damn wolves. Migrated from the mountains behind the colony.’
‘Why?’ Dane asked impulsively.
‘Because the road has more prey.’
Dane could take no more. He collapsed into a pillow of sand and dust. Pitch black.
It was dusk before the fluttering sounds of an exhaust fan gradually woke the weary mercenary. A slow swoosh turned to a cantankerous thud.
‘Wolves,’ a dull voice cackled. ‘Right off the new ship and the poor sapling thinks of wolves.’
by submission | Jan 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
Hurry, Trixie, I say to our Yorkie. As she squats behind me, I notice a bright light above the horizon. I figure it must be a freighter coming back from the mines, but something doesn’t look right.
Lilly, I say to my wife, let’s go out back. I want to show you something.
I don’t have time, Tom, Lilly says. I need to go in early today.
Tom?
Hi, I’m Tom. I couldn’t help but notice that book you’re reading.
Nice to meet you, Thomas. I’m Lilly.
Thomas. Lilly’s called me Thomas from the day we met.
Besides, Lilly says, if you want to show me a winged splendid, it’s probably hopped away already. Hopped? Before I can say anything, she gives me a quick kiss and heads for the door. Don’t forget we’re having dinner with Garlund and Judy tonight, she says. Judy’s with Ralph not Garland, I want to say, but I’ve got to get to work.
Tom, Sanders says, float that tote of nails to aisle 12 and shelf them. The hardware store? I haven’t worked there since high school summers. We didn’t even have levitrons then. Backbreaking work on delivery days.
It’s backbreaking, the tough-looking guy tells Jelly Jean. People think mining on another planet is sexy, but it’s hard work. I coulda’ been a reporter like Jelly Jean. Coulda’ been a contender. Even on a planet with lower gravity, the boxer says, an uppercut is still gonna rock your world. Bobbing and weaving. The Washoe were great basket weavers. Can you weave in weightlessness? Jelly Jean asks.
Do you Thomas take Lilly, Thomas take Lilly. “Thomas? Thomas, do you hear me? You’re trapped in our SimReal. It has a virus. Thomas, do you hear me? Focus on my voice, Honey. Thomas? Thomas?” Of course. Virus. Fever. Venus fever. No, Venus blues. No, Mercury blues. Crazy ’bout a Mercury.
Come on Trixie. Time to go out. The light’s closer. The fiery Draco swoops down and lands with a thud. Its breath burns the grass. Trixie dances in a circle behind me. How can I see behind me? No time for that. I pick up the sword and edge toward the beast. I feel wings. Gonna fly now. Watch this, Jelly Jean. “Thomas? Thomas?”
by submission | Jan 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Thomas
The blues singer hung his head, sad and mystified. “But the oscillator confirms perfect pitch.” He looked directly into his band leader’s eyes, and noted a slight dilation in Bob’s pupils, but no sympathy. “Perhaps,” the singer suggested meekly, “if I adjusted the raspiness factor.”
Bob sighed. “Raspiness isn’t the problem, Fysh. You’ve already set it to three unfiltered packs. There’s nowhere else to go.” They both knew what the fundamental problem was. In an age where raw emotion in live musical performance was valued far above technical perfection, highly-skilled entertainment robots were being steadily replaced by human musicians. It was both unfair and inevitable.
“But we’re scheduled to play The Dungeon this Thursday…” Fysh said weakly.
“I’ve already found a replacement.” Bob waved a hand dismissively and the robot picked up his guitar case and shuffled out of the hotel lobby.
Fysh was worried that his girlfriend, Heathen, would be unreasonably disappointed. Her self-esteem was knitted into her association with the successful band. But the robot received a surprisingly sympathetic reaction. “You poor dear,” she said, throwing her white arms around his neck cables. “It’s been coming a long time, though. I’ve seen the little gears turning in Bob’s skull.” She pulled away and hung onto Fysh’s elongated metal fingers. “Everything will work out. You take a shower, and I’ll run out for some coffee, then we’ll have a long talk.” She kissed Fysh on the zygomatic arch.
The robot walked into the bathroom and adjusted nozzles for a wash and light lubrication. He raised his arms and felt jets of hot air penetrate the folds of his carapace. As a silicon mist coated his outer plates and wires, Fysh heard the doorbell.
The robot quickly dressed as he walked towards the apartment entrance. When he pulled the door open, he was surprised to see his landlord standing there with two surly uniformed men. “Come in,” Fysh said.
“Get out,” the landlord said. “You’re being evicted.” He passed a sheaf of papers to the robot who quickly scanned them. A series of dated notices and final warnings were all signed by his girlfriend.
“This is the first I’ve heard of this. I’ve been sending all my money to Heathen while we were on our last tour.”
The three men in the hall laughed loudly. “You sap. That tramp hasn’t paid a nickel since you went on the road. You should have seen what she was up to while you were gone.” The landlord leered unpleasantly.
Fysh glanced around the almost-empty apartment. He hadn’t noticed that most of their personal belongings had been removed. And his guitar was no longer by the door. Heathen must have taken it as she left.
“Ah,” Fysh sighed, accepting the inevitable. “But I have no place to go.”
The landlord shrugged. “You’re a CT model. You can survive outside until you find another place.
“Alright,” Fysh said. He shuffled out of the apartment.
The robot walked aimlessly for hours, and found himself underneath the Coulter street bridge. Homeless men and machines tended to congregate there, near the giant exhaust vent from the obsidian polishing plant. Fysh picked his way through living and synthetic detritus and sat on a blackened fragment of concrete right in front of the massive industrial grill.
As night descended, the sad menagerie powered down. Fysh’s head slumped between his knees as a super-heated current of air was expelled from the tunnel and penetrated the layered sheets and looped cables of the robot’s dorsal quadrant.
A soulful harmonic resonance was created, although no one was awake to hear it.
by Julian Miles | Jan 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The fist that passes over my noggin ain’t much smaller than my skull. The knuckles are ridged with bony plates. I see them facts register with the moke who was threatenin’ me just before his face disappears from view with a sound like a sledgehammer hitting a door.
“Boo.” Jared’s voice is deep; sounds amused. He’s nine-foot eight barefoot, and I’ve seen him toss cars like they was apples. His mama and I have no idea what his papa was, except a whole lot more than the goodfella from Marsville he claimed to be.
Jared plucks a serviette from the counter and wipes his fist: “Uncle Roy, why do they keep coming back?”
I flick a glance at Wanda, Jared’s mum. She nods. True story time.
“Long time ago, we came here from a place called Little Italy. Back then, Earth was a hellhole that we swore this new place would never become. We had our guilds and our bosses, our made men and cradle-to-grave. We could make a new world.”
“Mum’s a made man, isn’t she?”
Listen to him! No accent. Crisp English. I love this kid.
“She is, Jared. Me, too.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t think there’s a fool left in this system who’d consider you anything else. They call you ‘Walking Omerta’, you know that?”
“I only do what I learned from you: trust in blood. Everyone else, cash or obligation.”
There’s no arrogance to him. Just a purity and clarity I ain’t seen since Sister Maria left us, God rest her. He scares me more than she ever did, but in a good way.
“You do right by everyone, Jared, no mistakin’ that. Now, after our forefathers got here, we had an outbreak of politics. Shouldn’t have happened, but little men and big rewards breeds cowards and liars. End result is the set-up we have now: whole damn planet mortgaged to the Federati so lily-livered scum can keep their hold on powers the families rightly deserve. We’ll get ‘em back, just need someone we can all get behind. Politics is insidious. Softens the spine, divides familia. We need someone to lift us out of the muck, so we can see the games for what they are; realise the lies that keep us at each other’s throats.”
I watch my adoptive nephew work out a whole lot from the brief I given him. This kid’s gonna be gold.
“Those are Federati stooges that keep coming, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, Jared. They think you’re gonna be the man to lead us.”
“I’m a bit more than a man, Uncle Roy. You know that.”
Wanda bursts out laughing: “You’re Jared Montana. Named for history: both past and future. The fact that no familia can claim you is what makes you strong.”
“That’s why you and Uncle Roy never take shelter, and we spend the holidays with a different familia each year. No favours. No honour debts. Extended Omerta.”
The kid gets it! I see tears in Wanda’s eyes.
“Jared, you want to come with me on my next job? Meet some made men without family, people your mum and I think you should know.”
“The start of our familia. Building from clean ground to take the stars.”
Dammit. Kid started me cryin’ with that line.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 10, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dez pulled the bike up to the edge of the tree-line, the electrics going quiet automatically. In the distance, mile-high lamp standards flooded the distribution center with artificial daylight, even in these early hours. Long haulers, fresh off the intercontinental, sat waiting to be broken down into short-hop transports. Autonomous skips skittering like cockroaches into the city with their cargos.
Dez had enough power from the solars to get down there, but he’d need to find fuel if he was going to get out again.
An almost forgotten itch permeated his body, miles of combat mesh-weave under his skin picking up the transient power and data traffic that hung heavy in the night air. He’d been turned off for so long it would take some time before the feeling faded back into normality and the urge to tear open his skin and carve out the implants abated.
He was coming back. Slowly.
He eased the bike onto the gentle downward slope of the field, building up as much kinetic energy in the flywheel as the battery could manage before shutting everything down and allowing inertia to propel him down towards the outer rim. Without power, without any data signature the security software would ignore him like they would a coyote, or any other inconsequential predator. Even the edge dwellers transmitted a pulse, but he was a ghost.
Coasting between a long string of fuel tankers, he turned into the space between two of them and braked to a stop. Uncoiling a siphon line from the main tank of the bike and hugging the side of the truck, Dez moved up to where he could read the display from the tanker’s internal scale. He stuck the tap to the underside of the tank, the end-cap sealing automatically as the bore twisted its way through the multiple layers of alloy, slowly enough to not risk a spark igniting the field.
While it drilled, Dez skirted back to the edge of the tarmac and collected an armload of rocks from where the paving system had pushed them when it first cleared the ground. Humping them back to the tanker he waited until the fuel drill stopped whirring, made a mental note of the tanker’s load weight, then placed the first of the rocks on the shrapnel guards surrounding the wheels and watched as the weight climbed slightly. He breathed deeply, slowly opening the tap to start the fuel transfer to the bike. When the digits on the display approached their starting point, he added another rock, repeating the process until the bike’s main tank and saddle-bags were full, then he stopped, disengaged the tap line and watched as the tank’s self-healing membranes closed the hole behind him.
At some point the tanker would be moved, the rocks would be found, or fall off and alarms would go off, but Dez would be miles away by then.
The cowling of the bike soaked up what little energy the overhead lamps provided, the charging circuits the only thing Dez dared leave alive while he straddled the bike and propelled it manually, the tires of the bike and the toes of his boots making nearly no sound on the smooth glasphalt surface.
Reaching the edge of the pack of parked transports, he slowed, keeping up some momentum as he surveyed the gates. Waiting until a transport negotiated the turn from the terminal building to the exit, he fired up the main drive and plastered himself flush to the tank, head low behind the faring. The engine screamed as he shot through the gap just ahead of the hauler’s cab where the barriers receded and out onto the night highway. Any alarms were left far behind as he leaned the bike deep into the curve of the onramp to the intercontinental, then disappeared through the traffic of the long rising straight.
At this speed he would make the coast before the sun went down again, and there he’d be able to find someone to light his hardware back up.
The itch under his skin receded into a familiar flutter, an awareness he only now realized how much he’d missed through recent years.
Rest time was over, there was work to be done.
by Olivia Black | Jan 9, 2017 | Story |
Author : Olivia Black, Staff Writer
“All you need to do is lie back and when you wake up, the imprint will take over.”
Something is wrong. So very, very wrong.
The thought blares through my mind over and over, sounding alarms through every synapse and nerve ending. This isn’t what I signed on for, is it? Faces flit though my memory as I try to recall where I was before here. Most don’t mean anything, but one, a blonde woman with hazel eyes and a smile like a supernova causes something to stir in my chest. Love, maybe?
Underneath the jumbled, fractured collection of memories, there’s the vaguest sense of another life, another me. That other self fills me with a sense of urgency and dread. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Where am I, then? There’s darkness, and the smell of rubber and antiseptic. Goosebumps raise on my skin, forcing a shiver through rigid muscles. The movement makes the first sound I’ve heard since waking. Plastic rustles as I reach out, brushing against the closed teeth of a zipper.
Trembling fingers trace it until they reach the opening and pry it apart. Dim light – almost like moon light pours in. Have I ever seen moon light before? One of my selves has, but which one is real? The well oiled zipper growls as it pulls apart, leaving me staring up at a blank steel slab. I reach up to judge the distance and my knuckles rap against the frozen surface. Not even enough room to sit up. I need to free myself from this body bag first. The black material is determined to swaddle me.
Kicking my feet out of the end of the bag, I roll onto my side and swing my legs off the edge of the slab. The floor is a lot further down than I expected and the weight and momentum of my limbs pulls me down, body bag and all. My head hits concrete with a crack that shoots lightning through my vision. When it clears, I see more slabs, racks of them, each with their own body bag. Prone, genderless forms fill out the rubber sacks. Rows and rows of them, never ending.
Silence rings in my ears. What is this place? A morgue? I’m not supposed to be here. There are things I need to do. I have to… I’m meant to… Shaking the fog out of my head, I focus on standing. It takes a lot of concentration to get my limbs coordinated. They don’t work the way they should. My right arm is curled uselessly to my chest and my leg is numb and threatens to buckle as I hoist myself up.
Fear tears through me as I realize there is no end to this cavernous room. There has to be some way out. As I shuffle forward, two figures emerge ahead of me, stopping twenty feet away.
“Jesus, another one?”
“How did I get here?” The words grate out of my throat like broken glass.
“I thought they were supposed to put down the reject bodies before shoving them in storage,” the man continues, ignoring me.
“Why am I here?” I try again.
“They’re getting sloppy,” the second man answers, his hand moving to his side. The bullet whispers through the air, striking me at the base of my throat.
“What the -?” The first exclaims as I choke on my own blood, acutely aware of how cold I am.
“Trust me, it’s easier this way. The last thing you want is those ghouls from the manufacturing coming down here.”
