by submission | Nov 14, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jason McGraw
“Electrical ozone, hold the smoke,“ Kia says as straps tighten at the hook-ups of the space suit and the mask descends. The mask covers eyes, ears, and nose, leaving the mouth open to the air in case the nasal feed gets too strong.
The scent Kia ordered drifts into the nostrils, and memories of cadet school come back, on purpose. It smells like the training rooms, the coveralls they wore, the “hot classes” that were designed to make cadets work under pressure. None of that prepared Kia or the space crew for real emergencies on the ship. Emergencies where, since the mission began, dozens of competent, smart, and trustworthy people have died. The only way to prepare people for this scenario is to kill half of the cadets during a “hot class.”
Kia smiled at that. Gallows humor is a favorite at cadet school, but not as funny here. Faces of the old classmates come back to mind as Kia’s body relaxes and the ozone smell unlocks memories.
“Forty percent of the class must be dead by now, if they had the same luck as this spaceship has had.”
Kia’s favorite smells to relax to during cadet school and after the launch were flowers, cut grass, and Spring rain. Kia tries to remember how long it has been since the last Spring smell session.
THC
The computer is offering anti-anxiety chemicals. Kia doesn’t respond to the computer, so the prompt automatically times out. Kia’s THC capsule is full, never used. Kia is waiting for a crewmate to ask for this unused ration, but it probably won’t happen. This crew was asked about “consciousness-altering habits” like THC or EtOH. The rumor was that this crew was picked because no one had any interest in recreation with chemicals.
“So we should all get along,” Kia summed up verbally.
Fear was the worst emotion any cadet felt during training. Now what is it? Kia pondered silently. “Boredom,” came the answer. It was always the answer. Waiting until the next emergency is causing everyone to be bored to death. Waiting for the next accidental death can be a killer.
Go back to the cadet’s faces, Kia redirects, and Kia’s imagination complies.
“I wish I was drunk,” Kia speaks out loud. It would take minimal effort to ferment and distill a liquor, but that would be suicide on this ship. Anyone who wasn’t in full control of an expert brain was going to make big mistakes that might doom the entire mission. Even doom the robots that could, and would, carry on with our work in the event of a 100% lethal accident.
Kia’s mind drifts to anger, the second most common feeling on board the spaceship. Anger at the last tech to run the wires, grease a bearing, or even close a panel to less than spec torque.
“Details kill, they taught cadets,” Kia said. No, Kia thought, the mission kills. This is too much to ask of any group of humans. Send robots, rely on the robots; sure, they can make bad moves because the algorithms give bad answers, but robots are never fearful, bored, or angry. Robots just do.
“That’s what we are,” Kia whispers while removing the smell mask and detaching the suit from the wall. “We are the real robots. Always have been.” Kia pushes off and floats to the next section of the spaceship. “Now go act like it, tech!”
by submission | Nov 13, 2025 | Story |
Author: Susan Anthony
From her white enameled tub, chipped on the rim, worn down by countless bottoms sliding across its base, a frosting of bubbles, Tanya heard knocking. Through the pane of glass separating her from winter there it was again; more scratch than tap.
She dismissed it as a tree branch, sliding below the water, bubbles clinging to the edges of her face.
Again.
It couldn’t be the children; both of them were out walking with their father.
This was her escape, a treat for outlasting her demon boss. He had insisted on extra shifts. Only when he himself had faded, reluctantly closing the store, the last cauldron sold, had she been allowed home. Hallowe’en was always busy, her boss’s greed never more evident.
The noise once more, louder somehow, as if coming from the tub itself. She pushed her ears above the water line. An icy breeze surprised her. She opened her eyes. The window was open, the room, freezing over, a tall black raven sat on the edge of the tub, scraping its beak.
“Hello,” whispered Tanya, surprised but not wishing to panic herself, or the bird. It tapped with one foot, hopping about the rim.
On the windowsill, two more shiny black ravens, smaller.
The bathroom wasn’t going to get any warmer. She started to rise from the water. The larger bird squawked urgently and loudly at the other two, who hopped into the room, immediately turning their backs to Tanya. She pulled on a robe, closed the window.
She wasn’t certain but it was falling into place.
“I’ll say things and you tell me if I’m getting warm,” she said to the largest bird. “One squawk for yes. Two for no.”
Squawk.
“Mrs. Archibald?”
Squawk. Squawk.
“Hardcastle?”
Squawk.
“Apples?”
Squawk. Squawk.
“Surely not the gooseberries?”
Squawk. Squawk.
“Oh, my goodness, the raspberries?” her voice rising in alarm.
Squawk.
“You took,” and she paused, controlling herself, “my children, into that old witch Hardcastle’s backyard, and filched her prize-winning raspberries?”
Squawk.
“After the last time?”
She pulled her wand out, waving it at the two small birds. Her children appeared.
“Go to bed now. I don’t want to know I even have children until tomorrow morning. Clear?”
They nodded, scampering away.
She turned to her husband, still on the tub’s edge. In one swift motion she batted him into the bath, waved her wand, and there he was sodden and covered in bubbles.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“One bath, just one sodding bath, that’s all I wanted. I hope you enjoy MY bath,” she spat out, as her wet feet flopped down the stairs to make herself a cup of tea and grab a chocolate McVitie’s biscuit from her secret stash in the cupboard above the refrigerator.
She heard the sloshing of water, his boots squelching on the floor and she bellowed, “And you had better leave that bathroom cleaner than you found it or you’re on the couch tonight.”
Moments later, he walked past her, naked except for a towel about his waist, reaching into the closet for a mop and bucket. Ten minutes passed. He appeared again with saturated clothes piled high in the bucket, his soggy boots on top, into the laundry room.
She followed, watching from the doorway. Loading the washer. Hanging his boots over the door handle, placing a towel underneath to catch the drips, the towel from around his waist.
“What?” he said, crisply, still pissed she had thrown him in the bath.
“Let’s go back to bed,” she said, watching his mood change in an instant.
by submission | Nov 12, 2025 | Story |
Author: Banks Miller
He looked at me sternly. “Normally, I don’t do interviews. I’m telling you this only because I want people to know what it was really like. So you’re going to show this exactly as it is, no edits, no tricks. Understood?”
I nodded.
“Very well then. Here’s the core of it – I never landed on Mars. Like Collins on the first Moon landing, I was just there to man the ship while everyone else was down on the surface doing science, and to be available in case something went wrong up in orbit. The other three went down in the lander, and at first everything looked fine.
“They landed in Hellas Planitia – that’s the deepest lowland on Mars – and started looking around. But they only spent about a month there. That was one of the biggest debates when the mission was being planned – the biology types were all for spending the whole mission in the lowlands, you know, and the geologists wanted to go to the big volcanoes and the Vallis Marineris canyon to look at the rock layers it cuts through, that sort of thing.
“So after they’d finished their work in Hellas, they bundled into the lander again and tried to fly it over to Vallis Marineris. But fate intervened. We still can’t predict Earth weather all that reliably, and Mars … we know a lot less. A freak wind shear hit the lander just at the wrong time – when it was too close to the ground to have much room to maneuver, and too high to survive the fall even in Mars gravity – and practically threw it into the ground. Two of them died on impact, and Garcia lasted just long enough to send one last message.
“But I’m sure you know the basic story already. Those are the facts, but they don’t cover what it was like to be there. Everything they said in that month of studying Mars – full of wonder and excitement. We were pioneers on a new world. Now, because of the deaths, America and Britain don’t want to be involved in future Mars missions, and the whole thing is under threat. But that’s wrong. We knew what we were getting into – eyes open. Exploration is dangerous by nature. They didn’t give us bad equipment or bad training – luck just was against us. And anyway… who am I to blame anyone? Garcia didn’t. You’ve heard how she ended that final transmission? ‘I have no regrets. We’re here.’”
by submission | Nov 11, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The email back from MemeGene was a bother. Molly Alana McGinn had not really wanted to do the DNA test, but her mother had paid for it for her birthday and she felt compelled to follow through.
She’d ordered the kit, filled out the questionnaires and sent her spit back to be analyzed. In a few weeks, she’d expected to get the results back that let her know she was all but a wee bit Cro-Magnon and that she was pretty much Irish through and through—as if her red hair, freckles and name weren’t enough to tell anyone that without having to pay a genetic testing company with a trendy name like MemeGene.
So, the email irritated her. In so many words it said that her sample had been contaminated and was unreadable. Could she please submit another sample in the kit being mailed out and please be careful not to contaminate this sample with any pet fluids.
Pet fluids?
Molly owned no pets. In fact, she loathed animals, domestic or otherwise. They went against her fastidious nature. She was a bit of a control freak. Scratch that. She was a total control freak. Why not? What was the use of being human, if you couldn’t organize and manage the world around you?
She was into the whole dominion over the earth thing. That’s why this 23andMe snafu was riling her. She’d followed their directions perfectly. If there was a mistake, it was on their end.
If she could’ve, she would’ve ignored the whole thing. But Molly couldn’t control her mother, a force in her life she’d tried to manipulate and escape, and failed miserably in both. Her mother was a force beyond nature, and she’d demand to be told the test’s findings.
Molly responded to the email with a quick burst of her insensate indignation for the bother, but, when the new MemeGene kit arrived in a few days, she wrathfully acquiesced by hocking a venomous loogie into the vial and plopping it back in the mail.
This time she received a phone call.
“Ms. McGuinn this is Frieda Tern from MemeGene. I’m calling about a potential problem with the latest sample you’ve supplied. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Gawd. Did you guys mess it up again? This has been such a hassle, and I don’t even want to do this. It’s all my mother’s idea of getting in touch with our ancestry.”
“I’m sorry you feel put out, but we’d like to reach out to you because of the anomalous findings with the samples you’ve twice sent.”
“Anomalous? How so? You’ve never seen Irish DNA before? I’m as Erin Go Bragh as they come—ginger freckles and everything.”
“I’m sure that’s the case. However, before we go any further I’d like you to verify that the saliva samples MemeGene received came from you.”
“What? Of course they were from me. You need me to spit in one of your tech’s eyes to prove it?”
There was a pause before Frieda Tern responded. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for the verification. Speaking to you has helped confirm our findings which we will email to you shortly.”
“Well, save me the big mystery, friend Frieda. What did you find out about my ancestry that soooooo interesting. I’m sure my Boss Mom will just die when she hears her little girl is so unique!”
“With pleasure, Ms. McGuinn. The fact, and it has probably not escaped anyone that has interacted with you, is that you are simply not human.”
by Julian Miles | Nov 10, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Thirty seconds after landing I’m the last combatant standing. I’d like to say it’s down to skill, but it’s the luck of the algorithm. We went in with 501 effectives. Their response gauged our forces, dropped a preset margin of error, and sent 500 counterfighters. I’m the one who didn’t get a dance partner. Since we’re all carrying enough explosives to finish us and an opponent, along with running forks of the same combat software, I’m glad their tactical A.I. rounded down.
“EW94, we show you as active. Please confirm.”
“EW94 re-arming from discards. Mission ready in seventy-six seconds.”
“EW94, mission abort. I repeat, mission abort.”
Really?
“EW94 confirming mission abort. Query tasking.”
“EW94, hold for new tasking.”
Their tone has changed. I’m an autonomous killing machine, suddenly without anything to kill. Apparently that makes the people who sent me nervous.
Come to think on it… I plug myself into a nearby opposition unit and use that to get online, as we’re deep inside their territory.
Peace has been declared. Seconds! I have seconds.
I slice the retaining straps of my blast pack and throw it off to my left, then pop the cover on the uplink module in the side of my head.
My blast pack explodes. I prise my uplink module out and crush it. EW94 got terminated by kill code – just not quite how they intended.
Using the hardline via the opposition unit, I check environmental information for this area, then bring up photos of indigenous dwellers, followed by a map. There’s an artist’s commune about six clicks outside this war zone. With a dressing over the hole where I popped the uplink module, I should be able to scrounge appropriate – and suitably tatty – clothing on the way there. My scalp will regrow in about a month. With care, I’ll fit right in.
I’m not an Effective Warfighter. What are those?
Who am I? Good question… I’m… Am… Yes. I can reference the Stabilising Non-Combat Activity pack they insisted we download. Not anything EW94 chose, though. So, I’m a handyman… No, too vague. Carpenter. Yes. Who also enjoys origami and old movies.
Wait.
I’ve dreamt of being that. After all, the medics say I have near-total amnesia. I lost my memory and papers when I got injured in the last raid of the war. It’s also why there’s a dressing on my head. The wound will heal. They’re not sure about my amnesia.
Well, the getting injured part is true.
Now for a name. Can’t be anything related my callsign.
Quickly use the link to access public census data. Need an uncommon regional surname I can drop a letter from to lessen the chance of meeting a ‘distant relative’.
Means ‘woodworker’? That fits.
I disconnect and get moving.
My name’s Jan Cislak – but it’ll be best to not recall that immediately.
All I remember… Yes. In my dreams, they use my nickname. That’ll do.
Hi. My name’s Jas. Pleased to meet you.
by submission | Nov 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
The cold wind, persistent further down, had died away. Now the silence was so intense that the man could hear his footfalls on the sandy soil. He was almost where he needed to be.
The hairs on his arms stood up as he made his way higher. Something like magic was palpable in the air. The landscape was not brooding, but waiting to be reawakened, holding its breath in expectation of life restored. What rites had taken place up here, he wondered, to cast their memories down the future so? Blood offerings? Human sacrifice? Bacchanals? Ignorant and fumbling, those long-dead priests could never have understood what they had found, or what it meant; but the man knew. Decades of hyperphysics research had shown him what was possible; he had persisted despite the sneers and disbelief of colleagues, and the laughter of peers. It no longer mattered. Years of more arcane and esoteric investigations had finally led him here, to this unique Place, sweating up the slope at the equinox.
The path ended beneath the peak, opening onto a flat, grassy ledge. Away to his right was a vast view across the plains, the plastisteel towers and ceramcrete spires of the nearest City just visible on the far horizon. To his left, some ten metres above him, a carved lintel and two large uprights framed a dark void – the entrance he sought. Climbing carved stone steps scaled to something slightly more than human, he approached the dark profundity of the beehive tomb lurking in the heart of the great hill.
He had expected to be chilled by the air within, and marvelled when the antechamber was warmer than the encroaching winter outside. The light from the doorway was just enough to show him the way forward – but as he stepped into the inner chamber, it failed completely. How else? he thought. Here, most of all, there could be no distractions, no sensory inputs to deceive and influence the pilgrim. He wondered how many had come before him, seeking to know the future, to escape the Earthly, or to speak with their gods. He wondered how many had succeeded.
Sitting cross legged in the dark, he chanted sounds of his own invention designed to pierce the veil. After an infinity, knowledge seeped out of the walls and crept into his consciousness. He had been born for this, he realised. Chance and luck were illusions; the paths of things, of people, of other beings, were charted by the Great Consciousness of the universe itself.
Hours later, exhausted, he reached a perfect resonance and balance, and felt himself swept up. He would never be seen in this world again, but as he had predicted, Others beyond his imagining were waiting for him. Welcoming him to their company as an ambassador for his species, they closed the hard-found Way behind him, and his real education began.
