by Julian Miles | Jan 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Tendrils of smoke rise from the ancient bridge, but it stands strong. Atop it’s singed arch, two men stand, their powered-down armour dulled by dirt and char. The tension between them is palpable, even to the concealed observers, far back on both banks. This is a moment that will go down in history, yet the witnesses are only present to prevent betrayals.
The participants nod as they acknowledge each other.
“Major Rano.”
“Brigadier Seum.”
“What now, Rano?”
“Rano’s doppelganger, to be correct.”
“Ah. You’re aware. Then all that remains is what you intend to do with the knowledge.”
“I’ve spent a while on that.”
“Before we get down to it, humour me: how did you find out?”
“The resupply after Tiranti Ridge. In amongst the crates was one that, somewhere along the way, had been used for waystation supply. It hadn’t been cleared out before reuse. There was an unopened library datapack stuck behind a stanchion. We just didn’t get that sort of stuff. So, we cued it up, browsed, and found out why. The history section was… Unexpected.”
Seum frowns: “Go on.”
“We found a whole folio on the Galahad War. About the sins committed to save our race at the brink of extinction. You cannot imagine our surprise when we found that the war ended sixty years ago. It stated that all the questionable last-ditch projects had been terminated. But someone couldn’t let the winning one go, could they?”
Seum sighs: “No.”
“The ‘Tears of Miroku’ is our base. Then we saw that, officially, it’s a ‘manifestation of hideous desperation, best consigned to history’.”
Rano looks Seum in the eye: “That’s our home, brigadier. Our sanctuary is a spacefaring war crime.”
“Mistakes were made. But defence of empire must take precedence.”
“Mistakes? You used the DNA of veterans from a war six decades gone to create clones who think the war is still going on. Our abilities bring victories because what we survived was a war like no other.”
“Put like that, I can understand where you come from.”
“No. You can’t. I’ve spent five months burying suicides and wondering how many graves bear their names. One soldier, one grave. That should be sacrosanct. It will be sacrosanct.” The last sentence is a whisper.
“What are you going to do, Rano?”
“The ‘Tears of Miroku’ is the single vessel equivalent of a modern capital fleet. We’re taking her home. Then we’re going to consign it, and us, to history.”
“A sundive? That’s not a good way to go.”
“We’re going back to what’s left of Miroku Beach. Going to turn the ‘Tears’ into the start of ‘New Miroku’. A place where we can live and die in peace.”
“And we’re meant to just let you go?”
“The ‘Tears’ is untouchable in any way you could action covertly. Plus, it still has sunbombs. New Miroku will have them as its primary defence line. Also, we’ve seeded datapacks across the empire – you come for us and some nasty history becomes intergalactic news. Oh, and I wouldn’t put it past some of my meaner boys and girls to have set a sunbomb or two near certain core worlds. Just in case someone gets a silly idea about taking out the whole Miroku system.”
“What if we insist that you confine yourselves to the Miroku system?”
“Given that non-disclosure trading with independent merchant vessels would occur, that would be acceptable.”
“Then we’re done. Good luck, Rano Ninety-Four.”
“You’re a bastard, Seum.”
“Apologies. That was a cheap shot.”
“Accepted. This must sting.”
“It does. But, Miroku is yours. Hold it hard.”
“We will.”
by submission | Jan 15, 2017 | Story |
Author : Sarah Rankin Gordon
Fighting his arthritis, Professor Fitzsimmons carefully rolled his stool to the corner of his laboratory. In front of him sat three large sealed coolers. After slicing the duct tape, he pulled out and inspected the first pressure vessel, a specialized piece of oceanographic equipment used to transport living samples taken from high-pressure environments. They allowed microorganisms to survive the trip to the ocean’s surface from extreme depths. After unpacking the first cooler, he discovered that all five vessels in the second cooler had acquired a black, powdery residue. He used the wrinkled handkerchief in his back pocket to wipe them off.
When the building’s toxic gas alarm sounded and blue emergency strobes started flashing, he concluded it was a malfunction…one of many building repairs that the university had deferred. Alarms didn’t impress him; he had survived more than one laboratory fire in his storied career. Agitated by the rhythmic shriek, he took his hearing aids off and tossed them onto the lab bench.
Film crews had filmed man-powered submersibles erupting through the waves as they returned from their mission to collect samples from the deepest point in Earth’s oceans, Challenger Deep in the Mariana Trench, almost 11,000 meters below the surface of the Pacific. Although unable to make such trips anymore, Professor Fitzsimmons’ clout in the field of marine microbiology had afforded him an invitation to study some of the many priceless samples that had taken years of preparation and millions of dollars to obtain.
The professor didn’t hear the team of safety personnel approach his lab, their faces hidden behind full-face respirators, and was angrily startled when they tapped his shoulder and insisted he evacuate the building. Rolling his eyes, he mumbled an international selection of curse words under his breath, but allowed the team to escort him out of the building. Knowing his age, the safety responders didn’t think his sallow complexion peculiar.
Professor Fitzsimmons was the first to enter the building the next morning at half past five. Gone was the yellow caution tape the safety department had strung around the perimeter the night before. Upon entering his lab, he was instantly transported to childhood hunting trips with his father. He hadn’t thought of them in years, but now had a metallic taste in his mouth as if witnessing his father gutting a carcass, the blood forming a dusty puddle on the ground. He spent a considerable amount of time scratching into his lab notebook, capturing several ideas that had come to him in the night, and then strode across the hall to his office.
Although he didn’t remember where he had left his hearing aids the night before, he now enjoyed the sound of distant waves crashing near the coastal campus and seagulls laughing at early morning beach walkers. As he finished sending emails to professional colleagues in Ushuaia, Tokyo, Stockholm and Moscow, Miss Nguyen, the perky administrative assistant for the Marine Biology Department, peeked her head into his office. The professor leapt from his chair and rushed towards her with unexpected speed, popping the dentures out of his mouth as he clashed his teeth together. Embarrassed, she squealed with laughter at his awkward and comical greeting. Her embarrassment turned to panic as he clawed at her eyeballs, blood pouring from her face. The river of blood gurgling into her throat quickly muffled her horrified screams. The screaming ceased when he pried open her scull and savored the taste of her brain.
After a time, Professor Fitzsimmons scrambled out of his office to look for his next meal.
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.
