by submission | Nov 4, 2016 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s a bit overcast outside.
There’s a nice breeze.
The trees are beginning to drop their leaves, and Autumn is right around the corner.
I hope this letter finds you well.
There are some things I feel I must tell you about; even warn you about.
A year ago, I invented a device to make events in time travel to me.
You read that right.
Not a device for me to travel in time, but quite the opposite.
Everyone who’s been working on this, to right wrongs, to make themselves wealthy, whatever their motivation, has been looking at it backwards.
I can’t go deeper into the technicalities.
I don’t have much time, I fear.
There are notebooks full of my findings, some of which are filled with information I eventually deemed irrelevant.
Yesterday, I killed a man using a discarded chunk of concrete at a construction site for a new Walmart.
I’m in hiding now, of course, as it’s very hard to do anything unseen these days.
Any time of the day or night, there are always people around.
The man I killed somehow had some of my notebooks.
They were not the irrelevant ones, unfortunately.
I’m not sure how long he had them.
Hopefully he didn’t show them to anyone, or make copies, but considering recent events, I feel that’s unlikely.
Someone’s coming, I need to stop writing now, I’ll tell you the whole story when I can come back here.
If I can come back here.
My name is Alex.
It is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s about ten degrees below zero, actual temperature, and the howling wind outside makes it feel like it’s closer to twenty below.
About a year ago, the United States government’s researchers developed a device to bring various events in time to the user of the machine.
Evidently making matter, such as a human being, travel through time, is far less easy to achieve than it is to bring points in the timeline to the human in question.
The reason I’m writing this journal entry of sorts is because I’m scared.
I’m being hunted by serious men who seem to have unlimited resources.
I’m having strange dreams that I don’t understand.
I just want this all to end; I just want to be safe again.
Yesterday, I had to kill one of these men, at a construction site for one of the government-run mega stores.
I’m hiding in an abandoned out-building on some farm property outside of town.
I’m thankful to have found a bin containing one of the worker’s dirty coveralls.
Thermal-lined for extreme weather, super lightweight, and somehow it doesn’t make me sweat or feel hot.
I’m actually comfortable right now.
I’m not sure why I’m being hunted, but that’s the only word I can come up with for what’s been happening.
I know it’s only a matter of time before they get to me, and I need to tell you some things.
I need to warn you about some things.
I’m hearing some noises outside, I need to hide, I’ll write more later if I’m able to.
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
The rain has slowed down some, but even when it’s raining it still feels tropical; the humidity doesn’t lessen one little bit.
It’s about 97 degrees right now.
Feels more like 115 in my opinion.
Last year, the Emperor’s valued research team developed a time travel machine.
I’m writing this letter because I’m scared.
Very, very, scared.
by submission | Nov 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Leanne A. Styles
I woke, squinting through the harsh dawn light; the girl’s bloodied face emblazoned on my brain. It was always the same girl, from the Whirlpool galaxy. I couldn’t remember which planet. They all blurred into one.
Like the battles. The explosions.
The walls of my cube apartment seemed to be pulsing in and out, the glass wall at the back rattling violently, threatening to shatter at any moment.
Nothing was moving really. It was just the withdrawal ‒ all in my head.
I heaved myself from bed and staggered over to the coffee table, snatching up the bottle of Blue Titan Rum and unscrewing the cap before swigging a few large gulps.
The room stilled and the girl’s face began to fade, her ruined features becoming less defined, as the alcohol assaulted my senses.
I headed over to the glass wall and looked out over the city. Opposite, in the soaring apartment block which mirrored mine, the residents were rousing. Most, like me, were ex-military; forgotten heroes of the famous Galaxies war. To the left of the blocks, the holographic billboard, spanning the faces of several buildings, had a new campaign.
It was a Galaxies war recruitment drive. A young man wearing full body armour and a shiny new helmet stood proudly in the middle. His mirrored visor was pulled down, covering most of his face.
He could have been anybody. Just another number.
Running down the right side in big letters read the slogan:
The Galaxies War
For The Justice
For The Liberty
For The Glory
The girl’s face, buried in the rubble, crept back into focus. I lifted the bottle to my lips and repeated my own slogan in my head.
The Galaxies War
For The Lies
For The Horror
For The Nightmares
I stretched up onto my tiptoes, peering over the edge of my balcony. The suicide nets had been down for two weeks. An all-time record.
Shame it wouldn’t last.
It was zero six hundred hours. Betting time. I logged in, and the left half of the glass flickered into life, displaying the betting site. I sat down on the coffee table and placed my first bet on a robot I fancied in a boxing match, and another on a sandhog battle. But the big money bets were happening on a private chat between a dozen or so army buddies in my block.
It was the same bets every day.
Will anyone jump today?
Who will jump?
What time?
And so on.
Just one win would have been enough to get me out of the hole I was in. But my soul was screwed enough as it was.
I took another gulp of rum, and watched my robot get obliterated to scrap by his rival.
Movement from across the void caught my eye. A young man had emerged into his balcony and was staring over the side.
The betting started going wild on the chat.
The sandhog battle kicked off. My hog came out strong and bloodthirsty, mercilessly setting upon his smaller opponent.
The young man climbed onto his railings.
My hog grew cocky, made a mistake, started to tire. The inferior hog seized his chance. Blood gushed from my hog’s throat, staining the dirt where he’d fallen…
The girl’s face came racing back.
The young man jumped.
I raised my bottle and said, “For the glory,” before necking the last of the rum.
To a soundtrack of screaming and sirens, I placed a bet on the next jumper.
Soul? What soul?
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 2, 2016 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The elevator descended to the hospital basement, and she followed the orderly through the open doors and down a pale green hallway. He was speaking, but she listened instead to the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights, and her heels striking a staccato rhythm against the linoleum floor with exquisite clarity. Distracted, she missed most of what he said.
“…not uncommon for the initial emotional response to be overwhelming. You’ll find the dampeners will help balance it out if it gets too much. You’ll find a comfortable level once you learn to control it…”
A set of double doors swung open as they approached, and closed behind them once they’d passed.
He stopped near the end of the hall at a single solid door, and turned to face her.
“Are you ready? I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“Yes,” she spoke, the sound of her voice unfamiliar in her ears, “I’m ready.”
He opened the door and stepped into the room beyond, then held it for her until she’d followed him inside.
In the middle of the room was a gurney, lit by a single overhead fixture that bathed its length in cool white light. On the gurney itself was the body of a man, draped in a clean blue sheet, turned down at the shoulders. The rest of the room was obscured in shadow, but this is why she was here. To see him.
She moved around the body, studying his face from all angles. His skin now grey and lifeless, his hair, once deep auburn now streaked with grey and white at the edges. His eyes were closed, but she could picture in her mind the crystal blue that they were when he was alive.
“Can I…”, she hesitated, reaching without realizing towards him.
“Touch him?” the orderly replied, “of course, yes, he won’t mind.”
She smiled despite herself at the awkward remark, this must be new to him as well.
She cradled the man’s face in her hands, then ran her fingers through his hair, as she’d done a thousand times before. The sensation was so much different now, the texture of each strand against her skin captured with such fidelity.
A sudden flush of heat started in her chest and rose through her neck into her cheeks. She could feel her heart racing, and a sudden feeling of panic crashed over her like a tidal wave.
“It’s alright,” the orderly was speaking again, “It’s alright, give it a moment and the dampeners will kick in.”
She gripped the side of the gurney with both hands until the feeling passed, and a calmness crept in. A soothing cool pushing the overwhelming emotions aside.
“It will take some time with the new suit while it adjusts to your personal emotional stimuli.” He was facing her across the body now, watching her. “There are safeties, obviously, that will catch things before they can get out of control. Once the initial calibration period is behind you, you’ll be able to access and control specific tolerances to sensation, light and sound, and establish your own comfortable emotional boundaries.”
She looked back at the lifeless body on the gurney before her.
“I imagine it’s quite a shock,” the orderly continued, “to see yourself like this.” From his tone she could tell he was original equipment himself.
“Not really,” she replied, “he hadn’t been me for years.”
by Julian Miles | Nov 1, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Have you seen what they do? Have you?”
He’s right in my face, so I priv-jolt him and uplink for a Poliz.
To my surprise, he drops to one knee and bows his head: “Ow! Chica, you didn’t have to zap me.”
I take a step back: “Too much drama, chico. You’re losing the message in your body words.”
He looks up at me. His eyes are blue, like the sky used to be. Saw that in scans of pics gramma had, before she died. I’da liked some of her old-time stuffs, but mama don’t got the credit to pay for extra space.
“What’s ‘body words’?” He sounds proper interested.
“Little ways you move when you speak and listen. Poliz taught my mama that. Part o’ the smarts for spotting crims.”
He nods, the smiles: “You sayin’ I should keep back a bit, maybe talk nicer?”
“Yeah. Script yourself a vid, run it on your glove.”
That’s one momentous glove. Right up to his elbow.
“Good call, but my glove ain’t no dev. It’s m’hand, chica.”
Am I having a stupid today? Eyes like sky and a half-proz arm: “You’re Kennira. Look right like your description on the truant board.”
He bows as he stands up, which is a fierce move: “The arm is easy for the prefects to remember. Like m’eyes.”
I cancel the uplink.
Mama’s audio-only with me in seconds: “Leela, problem?”
Shoulda guessed, mama got my dev on monitor.
“Spooked myself, mama. Worry not.” If I end with “no worries”, hell comes down. I done it once, to show off. Ruined the party. Got me credit for drugs seized, got me grounded by mama, lost me a crop o’ friends.
Now he’s not climbing me to preach, I can look him in the throat. Tall boy; me being near two metres.
“So, what do they do?”
I get a kick from watching him unravel that. Then he smiles again.
“Them who lug the Ambro you wear from the ground. How they live. How many die.”
“Whyfer you care?”
“M’brother’s there. Got a twenty-year for the fight that took my arm. Justice decided that loss was enough penalty for seven-year-old me.”
“How could I help?”
“Splash a link across your social. Make it viral for a week.”
“Link to what?”
“Petition board. There are links there to get further in, but people can choose.”
“Lib4Sanskrit9.”
That catches him. The look on his face is so good, my giggle gets out before I can stop it.
“Freakin’ how?”
“Papa runs the ghost servers it flits around on. And my Ambro was a gift from Ch’lalla itself. No one died for it.”
His eyes are prettier when they’re wide: “You know a Sanskritii shaman beetle?”
I hand him the piece that came off my bracer. As he touches it, it glows a little brighter. I feel a tickle in my mind: Ch’lalla approves.
“And with your touch, now Ch’lalla knows you. That’s why merchant Ambro is always mined. Any Ambro overground is still linked to the shaman that secreted it, and gifting it forms a sacred bond between giver and getter.”
He smiles. Oh, mama. I’ve done a daft thing while showing off, again.
“Sacred bond?”
The tickle in my mind turns to tinkling laughter: I’ve been set up!
“Kennira, if you ever tell how we met, I’ll hurt you something grievous. Now, wanna meet Ch’lalla, blind date arranger from Sanskrit Nine?”
His laughter folds him up. I find myself laughing too. This might actually work.
by Olivia Black | Oct 31, 2016 | Story |
Author : Olivia Black, Staff Writer
“What is wrong with that cat?” Jacob grumbled under his breath what was easily the millionth time. All morning the furry creature had been meowing like something was very wrong in the world. He didn’t get it. The thing had food, fresh water and the door to his tiny little balcony was left open so it could sun itself, but somehow, none of that was enough for the demanding little beast.
He vividly remembered the day Marna had brought over the cat and flushed with frustration. It hadn’t occurred to her to consult him before presenting him with a mewling, ventilated box as if she were doing him the biggest favour in the world. His sister was always taking it upon herself to improve his life. Had she broached the topic with him first he would have suggested adopting an older animal instead, something calmer and less likely to be a living terror like this one was.
Having the creature in his workspace had been an unmitigated disaster so far. It chewed on cables, knocked over stacks of books and papers and had spilled his coffee all over his desk, ruining his keyboard no fewer than three times. Not to mention the constant din that issued from its gaping maw as it glared at him with judging eyes.
Not for the first time, Jacob wondered how mad Marna would be if he simply put the thing out on the street. He’d gotten less work done in the last month than at any other point in his career and his deadlines weren’t going to wait.
“MeeOW!” The yowling cut through his thoughts t the precise moment he’d set his fingers to the keyboard.
“What do you want from me, cat?” he demanded. He was two meows away from having cat stew for dinner. As he was about to open his mouth to say as much, the cat ran into the room chasing a glowing ball of blue light.
“What the hell?” Jacob stood with his mouth hanging open. The orb flew over to his shelves of books, rising up to seemingly scan each one.This couldn’t possibly be happening. He must have finally lost his mind, just like Marna had always predicted he would if he didn’t change.
After several moments the orb refocused on Jacob. He froze, wholly unprepared for this moment. The cat ran from the room with a hiss as the orb drew near. The light from it cast a sallow hue on his skin when he reached out to touch it. The orb shied away from the tentative contact to flit around the room in distress until it found the door.
“Wait! Come back!” Jacob called as he chased after it. It was either madness or scientific curiosity but he needed to follow this through. The orb was nearly outside of his apartment complex by the time he caught sight of it again. He was breathing hard and drenched in sweat as he burst onto the sidewalk, startling innocent bystanders.
The orb floated across the street and Jacob bounded after it, heedless of the loud honking. Too late, he turned his head to see the truck speeding towards him, only seconds away from turning him into paste.
***
“Huh, that actually worked,” Borlax said as he deactivated the targeting drone.
“I told you these hairless primates aren’t much smarter than silla,” Ludex said with a self-satisfied grin.
“Shall we try another?” Borlax no longer begrudged the diversion from their mission.
“Okay, but pick a female this time. They jiggle almost like a paroc when they run.”
by submission | Oct 30, 2016 | Story |
Author : Aaron Koelker
Two Cardinalis cardinalis, the northern cardinal. Five Zenaida macroura, the mourning dove. One Toxostoma rufum, the brown thrasher. And the highlight of the excursion – one Pandion haliaetus, an osprey! I couldn’t wait to tell Maria, but for now I only had Ron’s apathetic ear.
We hefted our packs upon our shoulders, took up the instruments in their polypropylene cases and set off for the CP. The thick bed of pine needles beneath our boots made the walk more bearable, and the cool steady breeze told us autumn had finally made its way south. We picked our way through derelict neighborhoods of crumbling gingerbread houses drowned in kudzu and sunshine.
Crossing the river where the interstate once did, we paused to plunge the sonde into dark waters and recorded the numbers. From the far bank came a splash that I thought might be Mugil cephalus, the striped mullet, but neither of us had gotten a good look.
We made the CP just before dark and I told Maria about what we’d seen. She and Sarah had seen Dryocopus pileatus, the pileated woodpecker, but the osprey would become the talk of the CP. It marked another confirmed apex predator, and was the latest in a string of positive indicators for the region. With any luck the council would approve resettlement by this time next year.
Sara wandered off for dinner and Maria led me by the hand to their tent. I gave her a kiss and was about to try for more when she stopped me.
“Have you thought about staying yet, Harold?”
“You mean here?” I asked.
“Yes, when they resettle. Mild weather all year round. More water and sunshine than we’d know what to do with…”
“A little. But what about Tom and Jenna back on the colonies?”
“I think they’d understand, don’t you?”
“Maybe…”
“Well, when the resettlement gets approved those applications are going to go fast.”
“I know. It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“Let me think on it some more.”
“Don’t think too hard,” she said with a smile, pulling me down onto the cot alongside her.
At the evening debriefing Ron and I reported our findings and were met with generous applause, and the following day we were dispatched eastward along the coast. It was midmorning by the time we arrived and the tide was low, leaving a wide, sloping beach littered with sargassum weed and small white crabs, Ocypode quadrata, darting in and between. I was watching a pair fight over an old plastic bottle cap when a thunderous boom sounded from overhead and frightened them back into their burrows. Two gulls, Larus delawarensis, hiding in the dunes behind took flight and made for sea, chanting in protest.
“Another colony ship,” said Ron, pointing.
The massive vessel plowed its way through the afternoon clouds, heading somewhere north and deeper inland. Sand from the top of the nearest dune broke loose under the vibrations of its thrust and collapsed quietly. I was drawn back to the gulls by their incessant screeching.
“Do you think this planet is ready for us to come back?” I asked Ron.
“They’re talking about resettlement here within the year.”
“I know what we think. But did anyone ask them yet?” I gestured to the birds, now almost invisible against the sun-clad waves. “I just wonder what makes us so important when we seem to screw up the most.”
I looked to Ron for an answer but he was already walking toward the dunes. When I turned back to find the birds, they were gone.
