by submission | Apr 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : M. Irene Hill
A whisking wind stirred up a cauldron of crows that congregated amongst the remains of the centuries-old pagan temple. Accompanying the wind, a young woman of tempestuous temperament and flaming hair.
Unconcerned by the rumbling heavens, Akasha knelt down in the tall grass that sheltered the ruins. A rounded stone fragment, once part of the temple’s altar, invited her near. A cacophany of caws from the trees did not deter her. The wind whipped her long hair and pried at the ribbons of her bodice, but she was oblivious to everything but the ruins.
She traced the stone’s mosaic patterns with tactile reverence. Along its jagged edge, inscribed symbols of an eagle and a lightning bolt beckoned her soft touch, eliciting a resonant hum and crackling sound through the valley, and sent a frisson of excitement through her; the subtle change in the aether invoked a primal feeling that she didn’t understand, didn’t care to, but instinctively yielded to. Earth tremored in response to the exploratory touch of her fingers against the rough stone; its vibration penetrated deep into her marrow.
Akasha’s sonorous voice rang out, the mystical song carried by the wind, inciting more clamorous cawing from the crows that now assembled near the edge of the ruins. She stood amongst the stones, face turned into the wind, singing her siren song.
The crackling and humming sounds were almost palpable. A frenzied wind ravaged the treetops, scattering leaves, branches and startled fauna. Rumbling heavens reached their crescendo and, rather than cower or cringe, Akasha stretched her arms upward, like a small child wishing to be swept up in an embrace.
The frothy clouds boiled over, and the rain fell in a deafening roar, drowning out the crow’s cries. Akasha’s gown and long hair were wet and plastered to her willowy body. She stood stoically, a trembling, wet offering to the gods.
The murder of crows watched in silence now, from the safety of the hilltop cairns, while a colossal spacecraft fissured the sky and descended into the valley.
To the crows, the spacecraft looked like a fluid, rippling bird of prey, its shimmering exotic wings outstretched. It exhaled lightening bolts, and deep rumbles issued from its belly. Elder crows that had seen the giant bird before, long ago, feared its return, but respected its impressive might. It always took the females. They eventually were returned, similar but different.
The hovering craft captured its prey, shocking her into paralysis before carrying her away to its nest in some faraway Galaxy.
When the clouds retreated and the Earth’s tremors subsided, it was deemed safe to return. The murder of crows reconvened at the temple ruins. The tall grass was parched and brittle around the mounds of stones. Foreign smells lingered. Only a green ribbon from Akasha’s gown remained.
The youngest crows tried to make sense of it all. Others blamed themselves for not stopping the abduction. The elders reminded them it was not their place to understand or interfere. Their role was to bear witness. That was all.
The eldest crow grasped Akasha’s lost ribbon in his beak, and flew home to his nest. He added the ribbon to his growing macabre collection, which included myriad items like bones, teeth, scraps of fabric and metal, gadgets and gizmos, dried flora, shiny coins, totems and talismans.
His role as curator of alien artifacts would be passed on to the next generation soon enough, likely before Akasha returned to the temple.
by Julian Miles | Apr 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Amour Club is light on love and heavy on by-the-minute. It’s popular with non-johns as the full-time privacy mode prevents surveillance and squashes infobuzz down to a whisper of priority feeds.
I usually enjoy being anywhere that quietens my ConstantTouch and serves JD in liquid form. But the Amour’s regulars are lowlifes who’ll never make it, because talk is cheaper than decisions and appearances are cheaper than experience. Tonight, however, I’m being paid to put up with them for a while.
“Lincoln Shields, as I live and breathe. Who cracked your rock and drove you into the light?”
The comedian on my left is Vinny Roe. The cybernasty on my right is Vinny’s latest goon, Clem. No surname on record. No specialities, either; he’ll do anything that pays him to hurt people.
Vinny waves at the ancient robot bartender – this place is so cheap it won’t even hire an android.
“Get Mister Shields another of whatever mouthwash he’s having. I’ll have Venusian Absinthe.”
Making a production of getting a RealTaste Winston out, I pocket the pack, then pause with a bulky lighter in my hand: “Why the generosity, Vin?”
I see him wince. He hates being called that. I hear Clem’s Gaffin Bodyframe power up. Time to offline my cyberware.
“Can’t a condottierre buy an old comrade a drink without implying ulterior motive?”
He’s been at the thesaurus datachips again. Just what I need when the world has turned dull and my body weighs a ton. I hate being offline.
“We’re not comrades and you never led. If you didn’t keep avoiding me on the streets, we’d have fought and I’d be drinking alone.”
Vinny stiffens. The locale goes quiet. Different jungle; same danger signs.
A skeletal hand wrapped in Gaffin exoskeleton alights on my shoulder like a twenty-kilo parrot. I hear my tendon reinforcements squeak.
“Mister Roe don’t like your tone, Lincoln.”
“Mister Del Crista didn’t like what you did to his daughter, Clem.”
I see Vinny’s eyes go round, which tells me Clem’s making a move. I squeeze the very special lighter and it compresses with a ‘click’. I feel the EMP gallop up my arm and wallop my inactive headware. My vision goes squiffy and my guts flip-flop. I wouldn’t want to have active cyberware right now. Or be bonded into a street-spec exoskeleton – something like a Gaffin Bodyframe.
Clem squeals, gargles, and oily vomit spatters my shoulders.
As the semi-synthetic mess runs down the back of my duster, I turn to look a dying murderer in his one natural eye.
“You went too far with bodmods, yet still expected women to swoon over your implanted macho bollox? That would be sad, except for your problem with rejection. You had yourself hardwired for violence. Did you really think your cyberpsychosis wouldn’t get bloodily creative when a pretty girl slapped you? Or didn’t you care?”
No answer: I’m ranting at a corpse.
Bringing my wares back online, I turn back to see Vinny draped across the bar like a cheap overcoat. A quick status check via his medihost confirms that his half-cybered ticker wasn’t EMP-hardened like all the legal ones are.
I slide him off the bar, then reach over and take the bottle of JD from the EMP-fried bartender’s grip. Pouring a shot, I turn to eyeball at the surviving punters.
“Word of advice: never skimp on your bodmods, people. Cheap cyberware will always fail you when you need it most.”
I down the shot and leave. The crowd parts before me, then mills about indecisively behind. Like I said: never going to make it.
by submission | Apr 23, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kate Haas
Alice sat on the railing of Aunt Nat’s fishing pier. It was crowded today. She watched a seagull glide overhead as she picked at her sunburned knees. Alice closed her eyes. The air smelled like saltwater and cheese steaks. Aunt Nat must have started serving lunch at the store. Alice couldn’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed. Part of her wished that she could stay in 1986.
A familiar voice sliced through the fishermen’s chatter. Alice was stunned. It was Tom, here, at the pier! She’d been searching for him most of the summer – ever since she left 2015. The problem was that eight-year-old Alice had limited resources and strict parents. She had assumed that the adult version of herself would travel back in time, but the movies were all wrong.
Alice still wasn’t sure what she would say to him. She opened her eyes. Tom walked up to an open spot opposite Alice. He was leaner and less muscular at nineteen. His big brown eyes were bright and unaffected by the rough decades that were still ahead. She wanted to make them smoother for him. For both of them.
She was ripped from her daydream when she spotted a woman trailing a few feet behind Tom. Alice’s blood burned. Brandy’s dark lipstick and her close-set eyes never failed to bring the term “lipstick on a pig” to Alice’s mind. Alice had to make sure that Tom didn’t make this mistake again.
***
Tom noticed the little girl perched on the opposite railing of the crowded fishing pier. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses, beat-up Keds, cutoff jeans, and a yellow Schaeffer’s Pier t-shirt. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he had the feeling that she was staring at him. Tom tied the rope for the crab trap to the railing in front of him and picked up his beer. Brandy was crouched next to him baiting her trap.
Tom looked over his shoulder. The little girl had pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. She was clearly staring at him. The girl couldn’t be more than ten. She tied her long hair back with a scrunchie. Then she smiled and winked at him.
Tom turned away. This was getting weird. Brandy leaned through the railing to drop her trap. Tom tilted his head back and lifted the beer to his lips. Something brushed against his leg. Brandy careened over the side of the pier. Her head smacked against one of the wooden pilings, leaving a red smear. She hit the water hard and was gone.
***
As people on the pier ran towards the commotion, Alice slipped back to her perch and flipped down her shades. She tied the front of her t-shirt into a jaunty side-knot. She felt light. For the first time in a long time she was excited for the future.
by submission | Apr 22, 2017 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
Every child remembers their first visit to the field. They follow the teacher over the low rise that was a burial mound for the first settlers, and down a glass ramp into the excavated field where ranks of men and women stand staring forward. Each is subtly different in proportion, though their expressions are the same – neutral, heavy, lacking character. That is the tradition – commonality; just one of many; a speck in history.
Some of the statues shine, the metal in the surface having been polished by the families that created them. Some are tarnished, slowly oxidizing. The elements appear as swathes or geographic patterns.
They were made by the second generation of settlers, and by those who have come since. When a settler nears the end of their life, they arrange for an effigy to be made. It must hold a tool or a weapon. After death, it is placed in the great field. Thus we thank nature for the ore which we smelt to create objects that are collected throughout the galaxy. Even the air can be filtered here, its metallic vapours condensed to liquid forms that fill runnels and trickle, gleaming, into the artisanal huts.
When I was sixty, and the joints in my fingers began to stiffen, I was told by a wise woman in the commune that I should begin to think about my effigy. What clothes would I choose for it; what object would it hold? I thought back to the thousands of examples I had seen as a child, and decided that my statue would present a simple pencil, as I am a silversmith and design jewellery.
Last week I looked in a mirror and saw how heavy my eyelids hung, and how the bands of grey across my teeth had thickened. I went back to the wise woman, to ask if I should begin to create the effigy.
She laughed, then asked, did I remember seeing the ‘broken farmer’ in the field. I did. All the children did. He lay on his back, feet pointing to the sky. His chest been cracked open by the fall. I remembered being surprised at how much attention has been paid by the sculptor to the internal structures of the thorax. The chambers of the heart had been modelled perfectly; the great blood vessels had been cast to anatomical precision. In contrast, his face had fallen away over time. Not even the metallic ions in its structure could save it from time’s insistent arrow.
The wise woman approached me. Her skin was bronzed and her mouth barely moved. She tore the top two buttons from my tunic. The fumes from the forge had coated my shoulders and upper chest. The hairs on my chest glistened. She ran a cool finger across the patterned surface, and watched carefully as I breathed.
“Your lungs are stiff. You have a three months to decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Your place, in the field.”
“My effigy?”
She laughed again. “Come, we are not children. You have decided what you will hold – a pencil, very modest. Now you must decide, where will you stand? Where in the field?”
I saw the truth of our tradition.
I saw how the metal had entered my tissues, crept along my tendons, lined my viscera, sheathed my nerves, and immobilized my features. I saw myself, one of many, staring forward, eyes fixed, unaware of the children who passed me on the glass ramp.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 21, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Walter was led through the facility flanked by four men in combat armor carrying guns. He’d walked these corridors for nearly a decade, but this was all very new to him.
At his lab, the soldiers stopped, ushered him inside and turned their backs as the doors slid shut between them.
“Doctor Koen,” the voice sounded foreign, Soviet maybe? “We need your assistance in handling this little mess that you’ve made.”
The voice belonged to a suit, so black as to be difficult to look at directly, in stark contrast to the almost albino complexion of the man himself.
“Your assistant…”
Walter cut him off. “My wife.”
The suit paused, steepled spider-like fingers together and pursed his lips before continuing.
“Your wife, has become infected with the substance from the crash site. She’s been contained in the hangar bay, but we are unable to subdue her without risking damage to the facility.”
Walter’s attention was drawn to the displays scattered about the room, each now showing security footage from the hangar. He moved closer, searching the monitors for some sign of June, his wife. In one corner behind one of the columns supporting the mezzanine there was a barely perceptible glow of green.
If that was June, she must be all but exhausted.
“We have an injectable compound that will bind with the contagion and temporarily render the subject inert. She trusts you, you need to get close enough to administer the drug and then we’ll move her to safety.”
Walter knew what ‘safety’ meant. They’d been studying subjects infected since the facility had been re-tasked and taken off-book, and although the ‘crash’ was still officially an Air Force test of an advanced engine concept, the DNA of the contagion was clearly not of this world. New patients arrived conveniently each time an existing patient expired, and they remained isolated and sedated while they performed surgeries, took and tested samples, all via tele-metrics.
June must have broken protocol and made physical contact.
The suit poked one stiff finger into Walter’s collarbone, using the pressure to force him to turn slowly until they were face to face.
“If we lose containment, we are going to have to burn this facility, and everything,” he punctuated a pause with a sharp jab, “and everyone with it to the ground.”
He pushed a hypo-injector flat against Walter’s chest, and held it there until he took it. The payload a featureless cylinder decorated simply with a yellow ‘X’.
Walter felt an ache in the pit of his stomach.
“She’ll be sensitive to light, if I turn up the hangar lighting to full, she’ll be blind. I’ll wear goggles and talk to her, she won’t see what I’m going to do.”
The suit regarded him cooly for a moment, and then waved him off absently.
“Whatever it takes. We’ll monitor from here, and the team will be ready outside the doors.”
The soldiers flanked Walter silently back through the facility to the crew doors into the hangar. There they stopped and assumed defensive positions alongside the cluster of armoured troops already gathered outside.
Walter slowly eased open a door, looked inside, then slipped through and let it close behind him.
He walked along the back wall, under the mezzanine and towards the green glow he’d seen on the monitors. Sliding welding goggles down over his eyes, he palmed his control pad and turned the lights up as far as they would go. The hangar was bathed in blinding artificial sunlight, and as he watched, the green glow he’d lost in the darkness of the welding glass appeared again, growing steadily in intensity.
In the control room, the displays blinked out one by one, the brightness overdriving them beyond a safe gamma, leaving the suit blind.
“June?” Walter called, and the green glow coalesced into a figure moving towards him slowly.
“June, we don’t have much time.” Walter stepped forward, and June stopped, then stepped back.
Reaching out his hand, Walter slowly closed the distance between them, and gently took one of hers.
He felt the slow burn of the contagion crawl up his arm and into his chest. He peeled off the goggles with a free hand as his vision changed from blown out whiteness, to night-vision clarity. The fire in his body grew, and the details of June’s face clarified before him. She smiled, and he felt himself smiling back.
As they charged under the artificial sunlight, they knew they had all the time in the world.
by submission | Apr 20, 2017 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
“Ivan, what the hell is that!” Roger pointed at the creature roosting on the rafter.
“It’s a chicken, of course.” Ivan reached up and smoothed one of its orange feathers.
“We’ve been doing this dig for how many months on this barren forsaken planet? I’ve never seen a sign of life and now you tell me this…thing… is a chicken?”
“Weird, huh?” Ivan shrugged.
“You certainly didn’t bring it from Earth. We don’t have any birds except in pictures.” Roger reached up toward Ivan’s chicken. “Ow!” He jumped back sucking the blood that oozed from the chicken’s peck. “How did this get here?”
“Funny thing about that,” Ivan said.
“I’m not laughing.” Roger scowled.
“I was digging in Quadrant 17 West–”
“Obviously. All five of us are collecting.”
“and I uncovered an egg. The red-orange swirls on the shell gave off rays of warmth that surprised me.”
“You didn’t report it.” Roger stared at Ivan’s chicken.
Ivan’s chicken thrust its head toward Roger.
Roger flinched. “Hey, that chicken has the blackest eyes. Did Earth’s chickens have black eyes?” Roger continued to study it.
“I don’t know,” Ivan said. “I didn’t want to share the egg. When I held it in my hands, I felt peace and well-being surge through me.” Ivan hesitated. “I knew it was wrong. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, when did it hatch, if that’s the term for it?”
“Today, I felt it crack along the swirls. Then a chicken emerged. I watched it grow larger and larger until…well, there it is.” Ivan sighed. “I can’t hide it any longer.”
“Right,” Roger said. “Report it and maybe we can eat something better than freeze-dried crap tonight.”
“No!” Ivan pushed Roger back from the chicken. “We can’t eat it!”
“Maybe you can’t.”
“It’s not an Earth chicken, Roger. Don’t be stupid.”
“We’ll report it and then Dr. Lopez can decide what we do with it.” Roger sucked at his finger. “It sure got its taste of me.” Roger glanced up at the chicken. “I wonder how it tastes.” He stared at the bird’s eyes. “I wonder what it eats.”
“I never saw its eyes turn red before,” Ivan whispered. “Do you think–”
“Just leave, report, and cover your ass,” Roger said while he watched Ivan’s chicken.
“I’ll be back soon,” Ivan said. “Don’t hurt it.”
“I think it just got bigger,” Roger said. “Hurry.”
Ivan ran out the door.
An hour later, Ivan brought Dr. Lopez into the room. “Roger?”
The room was empty except for an egg with red-orange swirls gently rocking on the floor.
