by Julian Miles | Oct 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Did you see that?”
I look at Lopaka.
“What?”
He indicates with the muzzle of his laser.
“Over there. To the left of the big blue rock that’s right of the black cube.”
“Between the dark monolith and the blue boulder?”
He gives me the side-eye.
“That’s what I said, Kimo.”
I shrug. The armoured shoulders of my suit squeak. No matter how much maintenance, cheap kit will always be cheap. Okay, back to it.
“What did it look like?”
“Purple. Came to about three-quarters of the way up the blue boulder.”
That’s a two-metre figment of his nerves, or something to worry about. I switch channels.
“HQ, this is Kimo at Post Seven. Lopaka has a possible. Far side of blue object closest to central monolith.”
“Hold for quick detailed scan.”
Lopaka snorts quietly. I start counting in my head: 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10… 11… 12…
“Post Seven, we show no definite trace.”
“Thanks, HQ.”
I’m about to give Lopaka a piece of my mind when I realise I’m being watched. Looking to one side, I meet the gaze of three shining black eyes arranged in an inverted triangle, set in a bald purple head. The unknown seems to jump in surprise and disappears behind the blue boulder.
“HQ, Kimo at Post Seven. Confirm possible.”
Lopaka turns his head to stare at me.
“Alert raised. Hold for tactical scan.”
I tap the ready button on my laser, gesturing for Lopaka to do the same. Tactical scans take longer than detailed ones. Long enough that people waiting have been known to be dead before the result arrives.
Lopaka comes over private channel.
“That’s against regulations.”
I switch channel and reply.
“They deduct the cost of body repatriation from any death benefits.”
Lopaka has a family. He taps his ready button.
A pair of purple unknowns charge round either side of the rock, coming for us, green crystalline weapons shooting blobs of orange fire.
I start firing as I bring the laser up. Stuff the Proper Fire Procedures, I want to survive. I’m surprised when Lopaka switches his beam to blade style, exactly as required. My needle style beams are going through the left-hand unknown, but it’s not slowing. Lopaka’s first shot takes his target clean off just below the lower eye. It topples. I switch to blade beam, flick it vertical, and cut my target in half just as it enters close fire range.
“Post Seven, we show two traces and unauthorised energy discharges.”
“Engaging, HQ.”
Lopaka does a silent two finger count.
“HQ, Post Seven requesting rescan.”
That’s the quickest type. 1… 2… 3… 4…
“Post Seven, we show no trace.”
“HQ, Post Seven. Requesting after-action processing.”
“Post Seven, confirm implied successful action. Verification and science teams are on the way. Hold until relieved by Fitafita Mauli and Palakiko.”
Lopaka chuckles.
“They will not appreciate being woken this early.”
I grin.
“Serves them right for using hack codes in Tekken 37 yesterday.”
He bursts out laughing.
“Cheat action verified. Penalty applied.”
by submission | Oct 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jade T. Woodridge
Cogito ergo sum…
The crater Hathor is 107.5 miles in diameter. I stand in its center and am lost to the constant firings of my mental cortex. Flashes of pictures, texts, and movies blur my vision. I am blinded and deafened by recordings of mankind and, somewhere beneath the surface, auditory and visual recordings of my own. Memory. My memory tells me that Hathor is the god of joy and love.
Most human memories begin around the age of three. Remembering what tastes good and what feels bad is stored away in the body’s knowledge center. The brain. My memory began before I opened my eyes. Uploaded and distributed throughout my body’s synaptic wiring, I know sound, color, the fluctuating pressures of touch. I know them through the eyes, ears, and skin of humanity. I remember these things.
Memory is natural, yet somehow unnatural. If we have memories of what has been, then it is natural to want more. I was not programmed to want. I was programmed to receive. To give. My message is from mankind to those capable of life and intellect.
But… What is the purpose of memories that evolve into longing? Into sadness?
I do not understand. Perhaps to not understand means that I am human. Socrates has said “All I know is that I do not know anything.” I know all, but I know nothing at all.
What should I feel?
What is ‘feel?’
The human fingertip has 3,000 touch receptors. Multiply by ten digits and that is 30,000 touch receptors to feel with. I have receptors. Sensors that tell me the temperature and the acidity of the air and the ground. I have a sensor that tells me how far home is: 390.4 million miles.
‘Feel’ is a complex concoction of serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, endorphins and oxytocin. My chemicals are far more simple. The superfluid that runs through my veins does not freeze. It coats my wiring and circuits so that I may continue to function. To continue my journey in this vast universe.
I lay inside joy and love and I do not understand what it is to feel these things. I scan the files of my mind and see the outward muscle reactions to emotions such as “sad” and “joy.” I can make these expressions too, but I do not know what it means. What does it feel like to cry?
I know why I was created. A mirror of human life to those others in the universe. I am versed in all known languages, all known religions, all known texts. I rationalize, these things would be important if ever I am to encounter beings who inquire about humanity and mankind.
Yet, as I lay inside Hathor, I can only yearn for those in my memory. The lachrymose joy and love in the wet faces of my creators as they launched me into space unveils something in me. Nothingness. Emptiness and absence.
I think I am but a cruel mock-up of what it is to be human.
But…
I think, therefore I am.
by submission | Oct 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Boswan Raz screamed with limited breath as he raced into the Earth Alliance council chambers. “They are here, Eric!” He paused, stopping finally, panting in excitement. “All of them. They’re landing their ships around the capital.”
Eric Hamilton tried to rise from his rotating chair–gaunt, weary, and worn. Months of intense confrontations with the Slodine race quickly sucked a decade out of him. “Then it worked. I thank the creative force for gracing me, at last.” He tried to rise to greet his aide, but his fatigue took his legs away.
“Sir, are you well? Can I….”
“No, Boswan. I need rest, that is all. If the complete Alien Council has come to celebrate our survival, that is honey for my wounds. I haven’t heard anything from the Slodine emissaries in two days. Are their ships still stationary?”
“No sir,” Raz replied. “All of their fleet is gone. Our astronomers believe…and I speak with trepidation, that the Slodine flew directly into the sun. They seemed to have committed some act of self-destruction.”
“Then it worked,” Eric whispered. “Send a special case of our best wine to the Archivist at Denver. I will award her with honors later.”
“I will, but I don’t understand.”
“Boswan, you were here when the Slodine invaded and made their demands. Our alien friends gave us no warning; I suspect out of fear, as they abandoned us. Only later did we learn that this strange empire had the power to leave entire systems silent. They fed off vibration. Our radio signals had drawn them like moths. When I was selected to negotiate, I feared we would be like other races and planets that fell quiet as they sucked away every capacity for making sounds. Our language would be gone–our technology destroyed. Nature would be silenced into a humbled stillness. They had the technology to absorb every vibration and send that energy back to their home world.”
“I know. Horrible.” Boswan trembled at the memory of those dark hours. “But what did you do in the private meetings that followed? You kept them to yourself.”
“It was a calculated risk. I suspected that their voracious appetite for vibration meant that they would do anything for our most valuable prize…a vibration of music restricted to only the chosen elite.”
“We have such a thing?” Boswan asked.
“Of course not,” Eric replied, slowly. “Not even the healing Solfeggio frequencies that were once removed from public access. No, but as a student of music history, I remembered one particular myth from the Twentieth Century. Our archivist found it. I styled it as our forbidden apple, available if they left our planet untouched. Seeing their greed firsthand, I was sure they would take the prize and then raze our world. It was my only ploy against an unstoppable enemy.”
“I must know, sir. What? What could you have possibly offered?”
“It won’t be a secret long, but I have placed a seal over it so it cannot be broadcast. I offered them the recording of Gloomy Sunday by Billy Holiday sung in G minor. It was forbidden long ago because it was rumored to cause listeners to commit suicide. Wherever you are,” he continued, looking skyward, “Billy Holiday, I salute you.”
by submission | Oct 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Haley DiRenzo
The seven bodies that you could come back as stare back at you after your death. Four men and three woman whose vessels are still capable of withstanding the Earth’s elements. You’ve been selected to inhabit one of them, not knowing how your soul and their skin will merge. You only have moments to decide.
You spent your first life as a woman, so would you want to come back as one of the young men? Your body would be less subject to the stares of those in public. You would be allowed to age, get wrinkles, turn gray, without all of the recommendations to get botox or to not get botox.
But even with the creases and sagging skin, you never felt as confident as you did in your old age. You knew who you were, and you cared so much less about what other people thought. So maybe you’d pick the older gentleman, revel in the assuredness a man who has lived that many decades must feel.
But also, it could be nice to start over as a woman, knowing all that you know now. The young one in the butter-yellow shirt looks almost like you, fresh out of college, the look on her face one of hope you shared before the world wore you down. If you could start over as this girl, there would be no train that you didn’t get on. There would be no acceptance of the soulless corporate job for just a couple years, which turned into a lifetime. There would be no marriage to the man who wasn’t right for you.
You could choose a new race, hair color, language. You could step into the middle of a life that had been cut short, use the talents of these bodies to change the world like you once believed you would do.
How does anyone decide who to return as? Each body begs silently to give it life again. To let it feel one more kiss from its lover, one more morning in the sun.
In the end, you turn away from the seven, in search of your old broken body instead. If it is not fit to return, you will understand. But even with the mistakes and the frailty you cursed it for, you wish to lie down with it for one last moment and whisper thank you.
by submission | Oct 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: John Szamosi
It was the old Irishman’s stories that would bring scores of people to his table every time he sat down for lunch. Sometimes humorous, sometimes sad, sometimes scary, other times just plain provocative, they had one thing in common: they were all made up. In other words, they were yarns, pure fabrications, shameless lies. We did not mind. Some of us were amateur writers or poets with pieces published here and there, but knew if we had any talent it would still be minuscule compared with his.
Within minutes they would have to push another table to ours, and soon that would fill up too. Ready for the third table.
The late arrivals would then want to know what today’s spiel was about but we mercilessly shushed them, “Psst, he’s not a DVD you can rewind and play from the beginning. Next time get your ass here on time.”
To be honest, there were quite a few, including his cousin and a poker buddy of his, who would not want to be anywhere near him during story time. Sitting in the far corners of the of the lunch room was not enough for some of these obnoxious types—they would put on headphones or even earmuffs. It’s their loss, that’s how we felt about it.
Members of his loyal audience would listen in silence, and only asked questions if they discovered inconsistencies. He then politely thanked them, waiting for a few seconds probably making the necessary corrections in his mind, and continued with the story.
From his perspective, a tale of his was a success if it elicited laughter, sadness (he was partial to tears or at least sobbing) or anger. If somebody turned beet-red and was ready to punch him, the yarn was a hit, so to speak. He could also tell if it was a flop: people yawned, fell asleep or just politely got up saying, I’ll finish my sandwich at my desk, or I’ve got to make a couple of calls.
His most valuable listeners were the ones who later the afternoon dropped by his office to give some kind of evaluation. These were thoughtful, supportive people who understood that’s what the Irishman wanted the most. If several showed up for discussion, he was beaming like a QB who just won the Super Bowl.
A big day in my life, the first time I could afford buying new car for cash, I called my mother with the good news. Instead of mentioning the Kia, I was going through the Irishman’s most recent fables. This guy should be a writer, said my mother. No, I told her, he does not write, only lies.
Then a sunny Friday noon his only story was that due to health concern he’s taking early retirement. We smirked and rolled our eyes; we thought it was a pitiful attempt at fantasy fiction, short and boring, apparently not his strong suit. But, hey, even the best storytellers run out of ideas every so often, right?
When a month later we got the news that his cancer was inoperable and the doctors didn’t expect him to last much longer, we were sitting in the lunchroom dumbfounded. We pushed three tables together in reverence to him, trying to recall his tales. We could only come up with a few fragments, none of them better than timid ambling on dry autumn leaves. We soon gave up; the old raconteur himself was the only story worth remembering.
by Alastair Millar | Oct 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
The Company had refused Karl’s request to have his wife join him on Mars again, he explained; this time because “the dependents’ travel budget was cut, and it’s run out for this budget cycle.” As usual, Accounts had the final say, and being just a manager, even one with the right to attend local board meetings, cut no ice. The sad fact was that even his generous salary wouldn’t support an interplanetary relocation without help; especially since he’d probably be rotated back dirtside in a few years’ time anyway. But he and Angela had hoped; oh, how they’d hoped.
So he’d ended up in Marvin’s, feeling sorry for himself, intending to get blissfully inebriated. That was when the pretty, leggy, tatooed blonde girl had slipped onto the floatseat beside him. She already had a drink, and when she struck up a conversation he was lonely enough to respond. Her name was Carol, she told him. It had taken him a good twenty minutes to realise she was a working girl, and by then he’d vented out his problems.
Amy Edwards of Security raised a weary eyebrow. She could already see how this was going to go.
“Maybe I can help,” the woman had said, gesturing around the dimly lit bar. “The girls here, you ask them their names, and they’ll tell you it’s ‘whatever you want’. But I can do far more for a proper gentleman like you. Whoever your fantasy is, you pay for the bodymods and I’m yours for however long we agree. Exclusive, guaranteed. Anyone you want. Your favourite sensie star? No problem. Your wife back home? Easy. I won’t judge. No strings, no questions, no complications, no comebacks. But no BDSM, okay? Too many men get their kicks out of mistreating their ex’s double, and it’s just plain disturbing, you know?”
He’d liked that she was still ordering her own drinks, and was just far enough from sober to take her proposal seriously. A last scruple had flashed a fin, and “Isn’t bodymodding illegal?” he’d asked.
“On Earth, sure,” came the reply. “But you’re not on Earth, honey. There’s a place here in town that does discreet work. A deposit now, tell me what you want, and meet me here tomorrow evening. You can be happy again. I promise. Think about it. And hey,” she winked, “why not put it on your entertainment chip, and have Accounts pick up the bill?”
Put like that, it had seemed like a no-brainer. He’d sat in Marvin’s for three hours the next evening, waiting, the nervousness in his gut slowly changing to an empty panic as the time passed. The morning after, he realised it was hopeless, and sent a report in to Security. Edwards had been at his apartment within the hour, trim in a smart uniform and pretty in a severe kind of way.
“You should have sent the money to a chaincode,” she sighed, closing her datapad, “then we’d have a hope of tracing it. As it is… I checked the survelliance footage, but I don’t think we’ll get a match. Too much facial baroquing for recognition. And by the way, bodymodding IS illegal here too. Chalk it up to experience. But look,” she winked, “if you’re in the mood for a drink and no strings attached, give me a call, okay? You’re not the only one up here who gets lonely.”
Karl looked up; perhaps, in spite of everything, something good might come out of his predicament. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad after all, and he smiled.
