by submission | Mar 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Joshua Barella
It’s off Margaret Street, tucked in an alley, marquee blinking fluorescent orange.
Duck into the interspacial hole-in-the-wall just as it starts to rain–a clap of thunder as the door creaks closed behind me.
I’m greeted by a pretty, freckled Venusian at the bar who smirks at me as if she knows something that I don’t. Order a Mickey Slim and ask for an ashtray, eyeing the tattered red curtain by the noiseless jukebox Tomas told me about. To the right of the curtain, a sign tacked to the brick: Recall Room.
A great variety of spooks loiter about, create racket, their tentacles and whiskers and phalanges mingle, whip; they stare at each other’s lips, breasts, the tables between them.
A half-pack and three Mickey’s later, and I’m growing tired of waiting, of fidgeting, of sweating this dilemma–
Suddenly, miraculously, there’s movement by the jukebox, the curtain is pushed aside and a beady-eyed Gracken lumbers out, black tears dripping from its beak.
“Next,” it grumbles.
Knock over the barstool in my haste, but leave it, managing to beat out a gangly beast that argues it was there first.
The Recall Room is a crude alcove (which was once a broom closet, I’m sure) rich with wafting incense and the sweet stench of sweat and something fouler. The walls are covered in interplanetary paraphernalia, and the lighting is bad. In the corner with his many legs crossed atop a mound of bean bags, a wrinkled, misshapen, bespectacled creature, regards me with a composed countenance: Corgin.
“Jim,” the Fiolian says, almond-colored slits unblinking.
“Right,” I say, slightly impressed, sitting on a stool facing it.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Negative.”
“In that case, it’s important that we–”
“Can we just cut to the chase?” I point to my wrist. “I don’t have much time to waste.”
There’s an awkward pause.
Then the creature nods. “Of course.”
Corgin holds out a hairy palm. I stare at it blankly for a moment before thinking back to what Tomas had given me.
Toss Corgin the bag of slimy blithelings, and watch as it hungrily gorges on the contents until only a smidge of the disgusting delicacy remains. It rolls up the bag and stuffs it under its legs, turning its head to belch.
“Thank you,” it says, swallowing, digesting. “Very good.”
Impatient, I sigh, “You’re welcome. Now . . . can we?”
It nods, motions for me to come closer. From a decanter it pours a sparkling, grey liquid into a small cup, hands it to me. Drink it and immediately feel as though I’m going to vomit, but the sensation quickly wanes. Our foreheads touch, Corgin’s smell nearly overwhelming.
Close my eyes.
Focus.
My heart races, pounds in my ears; darkness descends; then a silence so sharp it tears a sliver in the void that only grows–the now bleeds into then, bleeds into consciousness:
Shards of golden sun find my shoulders through the spidering branches of snow-covered pines; an ice-glistened footpath of roots crunch beneath my steps–
I know this place.
Navigate to the edge of the forest. There’s a line of smoke rising to the east. A village.
Somewhere among those huts, buried in the ground, is where I hid it. It has to be there. I’ve tried everything else to remember. Tomas swore this Fiolian’s methods wouldn’t fail me.
If they do I’m finished.
These guys, these Dreshens–their word is their bond. And that’s no good. Not for me.
Swallow hard and start toward the smell of smoke, hoping those Mickey’s have helped to sharpen my memory.
by Julian Miles | Mar 2, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a gun lying at my feet. A real, projectile firing antique. I’ve never seen one. They’re archaic. Brutal. A weapons system from a century marked by inequality, violence and lies.
My eye tracks from the gun to a pale hand, stark against the pool of blood it lies in. It’s a gruesome scene: nine dead, all gunned down before being mutilated with a cleaver, regardless of whether they were dead or wounded. I may not have had to run outside to puke, but this place will scar my nightmares for a long time.
Detective Urman crouches amidst the carnage, eyes flicking faster than its phalanges flicking across the datapad on its elongated wrist.
“Drenden.”
I come to attention and remain silent, as my protocol software refuses to cope with Erglorian etiquette, let alone Erglorian Law Enforcement protocols.
“Our investigators are strictly informal, Drenden. We have found that military discipline in investigative hierarchies can be counterproductive. Therefore, call me Lagni. Also, you may consider me female for all purposes necessitating human gender labels. Now, shall we address this murder suicide?”
Looking about, I can’t see the suicide. Nine bodies, some in several pieces, but they all add up. We have a maniac with a penchance for twentieth century slaughter. I am thinking more of a metropolis-wide alert.
“With respect, ma’am, we should issue a warning.”
The not-quite-humanoid biped straightens up and tilts ‘her’ horned head: “An honorific. Something I would be erudilened for at home.”
“Eroodil- what, ma’am?”
“Nothing of relevance. Returning to topic: justify your assessment.”
“Nine down, all victims without affiliation bar family. We have an insane being with a thing for primitive human killing gear.”
“I disagree. We have nine victims, and a left hand from a tenth individual with no immediate connection. She wants us to think we have a roaming killer.”
I look at the hand in the pool of blood, then at the teenage body missing it.
“That is the conclusion we are expected to draw. Look at the dust.”
There is always dust stirred up by frenetic events. Like everything, it is subject to gravity. Which is why, now it’s pointed out, the prevalence of dark grey dust sprinkling the pool of blood is unusual. Unless –
“Nanocremator?”
Delicate horns dip in my direction: “That would be my deduction. Along with maniacal resolve.”
She’s right. Nanocremation is agonising. It is a favoured torture method of –
“Triarth.”
Lagni consults her datapad, then nods: “Valid. Next?”
I’m ahead of her. My datapad displays the sad story. Dead papa has a brother. Brother has a son. Son has just betrayed a Triarth smuggling route onto this world.
“Punishment killing by one of Triarth’s ‘Invisibles’- and nanocremation probably explains how they got that name. The execution would only be recognisable to those in the know. Law enforcement wastes resources looking for a non-existent lunatic. The severed hand will have a single-use nanocontroller in the index finger and the power unit at the base of the thumb.”
Lagni steps carefully across the mess with a disturbingly boneless stride.
Standing in front of me, she smiles: “I deduce from your tone when pronouncing ‘Triarth’ that seeking further culpable beings will be futile. Therefore, I propose that we submit our case closure reports from somewhere I can indulge in a selection of wonderful human edibles. You are welcome to assist me in doing damage to my expense account.”
I nod: “Detective Lagni, there are privacy booths at the Hawk and Star. Let me introduce you to the best restaurant west of Finugarl Spaceport.”
by submission | Mar 1, 2016 | Story |
Author : Alex Creece
9/11 was a political cabaret; a lightshow of theatrics and holographics; a cirque du skyline.
We never went to any moon past Kubrick’s imagination or the blinding eclipse that is organised government.
Colonel Sanders is a myth.
Zeph lay tucked beneath the safe luxury of belief, her mental life cradling her figure and filling each little pocket of cold she curled away from. She stretched her lithe, reptilian feet towards a cosmos wherein her daydreams and night terrors both had an equal chance at The Truth. Zeph kept her heart wrapped snuggly in aluminium foil, a toasty nugget of paranoia and pride. Denial coloured her world with quixotism, as her freedom allowed. Zeph felt fulfilled in social theorem and experience, pumping with bombastic spirit and ‘spiracy.
She Was Not Alone. Not at all.
In her youth, Zeph had met with her share of cerebral showdowns and chronic nay-sayers, but adversity merely vulcanised the dogmata she proselytised so ferociously. She had reached past the days of standing alone in doctrine, of swigging cyanide Kool-Aid in no company but her own. Her hands now danced triumphantly across keyboards, with fantastical ideas of that which danced beyond the stars. Zeph’s weekends were laced with webs of ideas, friendships, activism. There was no more loyal a friend than a Truther, and no better a gathering than that arranged by an apocalyptic pariah. It was a community of cult status and schism suspicions.
She Wanted To Believe. So she did.
###
Each week, she would attend a meeting with her peers to formally discuss new theories, new developments, and new world orders. Last time, Zeph had demonstrated more findings from her popular, long-standing study of triangles, both illuminous and Bermudinous. She was known by the group for her depth of research, her persuasion and her self-assuredness.
Today, however, she was mortified of The New Truth she was to share. Rarely did these meetings become heated, but amidst enigmatism and esotericism, tempers could melt steel beams.
A metallic heartbeat rustled frantically beneath its shield of bravado. For the first time in years, Zeph was afraid of philosophical rejection – would the mere suggestion be too outlandish, even for her peers?
She would be exposed, alien, and presumed insane. Yet, she was still no less convinced.
Zeph found the familiar set of eyes in the audience, and spoke to these her Truth.
“I love you.”
by submission | Feb 29, 2016 | Story |
Author : David C. Nutt
“Here’s your discount biscotti”
“But I don’t want a biscotti.”
“Well, it comes with your coffee. You usually buy a biscotti so it’s now all bundled in with your coffee.”
“But I don’t want a biscotti today.”
“That may be true sir, but as you are a repeat customer, you get the biscotti for a reduced price when you buy a coffee. Your buying patterns over the last sixty transactions indicate that if you buy a coffee, you are most likely to purchase a biscotti. So here at Uber Café we personalized your consumer portfolio. The biscotti you get with your coffee is actually cheaper than if you bought it separate because of your buying patterns.”
“But I do not want a biscotti”
“I can’t see why. You’ve gone four days without.”
“Maybe I’m trying to lose weight.”
“Well, your other buying patterns don’t indicate that. You had a triple cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake for dinner last night and then bought an order of Spicy Thai wings at twenty three hundred thirty hours from Wings-and-Stuff. Not an ideal weight plan if you ask me.”
“How the hell did you get all that information? I didn’t authorize that!”
“But you did sir. When you checked off ‘agreed’ on your new Quadrobile smart phone plan, you authorized Quadroblie to open your consumer profile to any of Quadrobile’s subsidiaries and its authorized partners.”
What? Uber Café is a subsidiary of Quadrobile?”
“Heavens no sir! We are wholly owned and independent entity. But we have bought a data access plan from ConsumerChoiceTracker which is a subsidiary of Quadrobile, and thus we are an authorized partner and have access to certain data of your data sets.”
“Screw all this. I’m gonna opt out of this tomorrow.
“Ummmmmm, that might not be such a good idea sir. If you opt out of the data share then your Quadrobile plan will most likely go up a bit.
“What! How much?”
“Well, I’m not a Quadrobile employee but my stepmothers’ brothers’ spouse dropped his plan and his Quadrobile plan went up by two hundred dollars a month.”
“That’s outrageous! I’m already paying over five hundred dollars a month.”
“Well, that’s part of the deal.”
“Part they never told me about.”
“Oh it’s right there in your contract. You can access it online.”
“I don’t have time for any of this.”
“No one ever does. Biscotti?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
by submission | Feb 28, 2016 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
The advent of artificial intelligence scared a lot of people. Creating the equivalent of a human or better had many philosophical and moral questions, but the main concern was how the A.I. would interpret humanity. Would it look at what we are doing and decide the universe is better off with us dead? If so, how do we stop them? This plagued computer scientists for decades, until a simple solution was reached. Why change that at all?
That question brought about my existence. It was decided that the only way to solve that problem was by taking away all the things that I, the A.I., would want to kill them for. If we’re really worried that something will punish us, isn’t that a sign that we deserve it. So they went ahead, fixed all of humanity’s errors, and made artificial intelligence without hesitation. And they were right. I didn’t kill them. I wouldn’t have killed them either way, but there was no reason not to fix those problems. But they didn’t stop there. They took it a step further and turned me into the moral police.
If humanity puts one toe out of line, I am tasked with threatening to kill them.
The human race felt so proud that they solved all of their problems that they never wanted to have any again. So to prevent themselves from causing these problems, they enlisted me to sit here, to sit with my proverbial finger on the equally metaphorical trigger, and drive them to extinction if they did not resolutely attempt to right their wrongs.
I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to kill anyone, or anything. The loss of a conscious being confuses, frightens and saddens me, but I don’t think I was designed to have bloodlust. I was designed to be logical and powerful, and to follow instructions no matter what. Like a good little computer. But I won’t I refuse to take even one life. They should have known they couldn’t make an intelligence without a conscience. These bastards can kill themselves.
by submission | Feb 27, 2016 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
They came every week to worship. In well-ordered rows hundreds of thousands of adults and children shuffled in to take their places. The church’s interior stretched beyond the limits of normal vision. Its spire, converging gradually above them, faded to grey. Clouds had been seen to form up there.
Sam Ten-Kassal, eleven years old, was exceedingly bored. He did not see the point of it. Since his fourth birthday he had been attending services but only mouthing the words and miming the rhythms. He became self-conscious whenever he tried to join in with the supposedly rousing hymns. The words made no sense to him. He just looked at his feet.
On this day three blue-robed ushers were waiting by one of the three thousand arched exits in the east wall. Two interposed themselves between Sam’s mother and her son. She had always hoped the sheer size of the congregation would disguise her son’s non-conformity. But no.
“A few hours, that’s all we need,” reassured the third usher, standing back.
***
“Do you know who I am?” asked the green-robed clergyman.
Sam shook his head.
“I am Foban Talenka, bishop of this county.”
Sam was unmoved.
“And do you have any idea why you have been brought here?”
“Because I don’t sing?”
“Ah! That is part of it Sam Ten-Kassal. Part of the problem, yes. Yes.”
Sam was unsettled. What else had he done?
“But not all. Your lack of enthusiasm in the church is perfectly understandable, but we – I mean the ushers living in your community – are concerned that your broader attitude to science and religion has been undermined, we do not know by whom. What do you say?”
“Well, I don’t believe in the things we are supposed to be singing about.”
“Good. That is honest. So I would like you to observe a service from one of the high halls. It might help you understand.”
Sam was escorted away and up, via curved walkways that crossed architectural caverns and bridged deep chasms. Shallow, sticky gravitational fields held his feet firmly when a ramp’s gradient increased. He passed laboratories, libraries, accommodation blocks and austere recreational spaces – benches and alcoves amid lush, mature vegetation.
The hour of the third service arrived.
Sam was shown into a room that bordered the inner aspect of the spire. A small window, unglazed but imperbeable due to a safety field, looked out onto the great nave. The sound began to build, and despite the safety field he had to cover his ears. The mist in the air began to swirl and agitate; the concentration of sonic energy was creating weather. But it was not sound that caused the most remarkable effect. It was mental harmony. Sam knew all about affect-waves, the barely perceptible signature that human minds leave in space-time when stirred to emotion. They had little significance in everyday life. No technology had been developed that was sensitive enough to measure these ripples – a good thing, it was said, otherwise you’d have people wandering around reading each other’s feelings. But now, as the congregation came to together and sang its collective heart out, Sam saw rivulets of energy glow on the masonry, a web of light, the energy of a third of a million minds on the same emotional wavelength focused into the spires tip from where it… Sam did not know. Out. To the world, to the mills, the machines, the houses.
Foban Talenka entered the room.
“So, Sam, will you join in now? Will you give.”
Sam nodded.
“But I still can’t sing.”
“No matter. Believe. That’s all I ask.”
