by submission | Jul 10, 2015 | Story |
Author : David Atos
Professor Samuel fidgeted excitedly as the chroniton engines whined down. His movements caused showers of Cherenkov radiation in the chamber of the time machine. In his left hand was an audio recorder filled with his observations of early Macedonian pottery techniques. He was certain that his discoveries would earn him tenure at his university, and turn the field of anthropology on its head. His right hand held a simple USB thumbdrive, filled with the contents of an online encyclopedia, change history and all, from the moment before he was sent back to the Greek peninsula, circa 827BC.
“Okay, Professor Samuel. You’re back. Insert the thumbdrive for validation, please.”
The professor thought back to his training, the culmination of a ten-year application process. The technician would compare the data on that USB stick to a live version of the encyclopedia, to ensure that nothing he had done in the past had changed the present. And he had been meticulous about the required precautions. Remain out of sight. No communication with anyone. No food, no drink, leave no waste. The sterilization of all bacterial fauna in his body would take months to recover from, but it was all worth it for his research.
Professor Samuel was snapped out of his reverie by a blaring alarm and a flashing light.
“Professor, we’re showing a discrepancy on the order of 10^-16.”
“10^-16? No! That can’t be more than a couple of characters! Surely that’s too small a change for–”
“You know the rules, Professor. I’m sorry.” The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console
— FLASH —
The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console, and depressed it. But the machine made no sounds. The chroniton engines remained still. A small orange LED blinked rhythmically on the display.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked the Professor.
“It appears that your trip has been retroactively denied. Sorry, Professor.”
“But, the years I spent getting it approved! It took me over a decade! I need to go back for my research!”
“You know the rules, Professor. The machine locks us out in the event of a post-factum revocation. There’s nothing I can do now.”
“But . . . my research,” the Professor said in a weak voice.
“Don’t worry, professor. You can always apply for another trip.”
by Clint Wilson | Jul 9, 2015 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“And what is the world?” The teacher asked the pupil.
The student’s joints straightened as it stood tall, nearly a millimetre, big for a ninety minute old, and it answered. “A jagged chunk of rock, roughly seventy-six kilometres long and forty-two kilometres wide, orbiting the sun.”
“And how many other worlds are there?”
“Some three hundred and twenty-six thousand, four-hundred and sixty and still counting. We encounter new worlds nearly every day now.”
“How many do we know to house life?”
“At least fifteen have at one time for certain. Only ongoing attempted communication continues with three, and this is difficult due to all the radioactive interference.”
“What is Bibum’s Theory?”
“That all of the worlds were once one world, and that all life derived from that one world.”
“And what do you believe?”
“I have had many of the dreams already. I believe it is true.”
“What did the dreams show you?”
“A sphere, many thousands of times the size of the world, covered in bizarre substances and beings. The visions make my mind press down in agony.”
“My dear pupil you have come far. And I believe you have perceived much more of our history than many your age would. Tell me, have you chosen a side yet?”
The student retreated back and its steely mandibles relaxed into a suddenly confident grin. “You mean the great debate of origin? Can you be serious? There can be only one answer.”
The teacher focused its intense gaze on its student, knotting its wrinkled silver brow in concern. “Well before you spew your opinion please tell me what you actually know.”
The pupil hinged sheepishly forward, quickly losing some of its cocky confidence. “I know that the primary intelligent species of the Bibum world destroyed its cities and technology along with the entire sphere that once housed it.”
“And then?”
“Not much is certain. After the great explosion countless pieces of the old world tumbled through space, many with assumed hangers-on clinging to precious life on their surfaces and in their crevasses.”
“But of all the fossils, all the recovered data from here, on our world, where do you think we actually came from?”
The student suddenly seemed nervous. “I just think that it’s unlikely…”
The teacher interrupted. “Unlikely how? Like a naturally occurring living being could have invented other living beings simply by combining metals and elements in certain ways?”
The pupil felt a burst of outrage. “Well no more likely than a bunch of extremely environmentally dependant creatures were able able to survive as their gravity and atmosphere were stripped violently and horrifically away from them!”
The teacher leaned forward. “Do you know nothing? The giants are long gone of course. We are but the children of the viruses that once crept and hid in the shadows of oblivion. We survived it all and this is now our prize. We are the new rulers of the world!”
The pupil turned away, knowing that it could not win this argument. It looked down at one of its foreleg wrist joints and spun the circular maintenance cap out of the way. There was the secret tattoo. It was an etched representation of gears and cogs. When you were a part of the society of the created ones you learned to pick your battles.
The teacher suddenly hitched up and smiled, “Don’t worry. Young minds often rebel. You’ll come to your senses. Give it a few minutes!”
by submission | Jul 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : A. Katherine Black
The bulkhead door’s round window slowly split in two as Clyde’s vision skewed. He continued pushing air from his lungs. That’s it, his lungs yelled, none left, but he knew they lied like everything did eventually, so he kept on blowing. Every bit of Earth air must be purged.
The computer chimed. “Please breathe in,” said a soft inhuman voice.
Tightening his lips around the wide tube, he breathed in, long and deep. Prickles burst in his chest. He’d felt worse. He held his breath while he stepped through the bulkhead. The heavy door thumped shut behind him. He breathed out.
No turning back now.
Clyde slipped into the last open seat and buckled, avoiding eye contact with the other twenty or so escapees. He was on his way. A brief elevator ride, a not-so-brief space jaunt, and he’d be back to repairing big rigs, like he’d always done. Just with a small change of scenery, is all.
He breathed in and winced at the pain.
“Hurts, don’t it?”
Duh. Clyde had no interest in acknowledging the face attached to that comment. He’d be stuck in conversation forever after that. Easiest way to get along with these people was to stay as far away from them as possible.
So he grunted, eyes on the floor, pretending to be interested in the beige tile design. No doubt a subtle attempt at soothing the passengers, who could freak out at the realization they were leaving everyone they’ve ever known forever, who might scream at the thought of microscopic robots reconstructing their lungs to breathe fake air on some frozen asteroid hurling toward deep space at a gazillion miles per second or whatever.
Clyde decided the soothing tile patterns were a brilliant idea.
Sweat rolled down his cheeks. It felt like his lungs and his heart were in a fight to the death. Either way, he suspected he was on the losing end.
A throat cleared next to him. Clyde finally looked the guy’s way, suddenly wanting the distraction. Maybe the guy would be a world-class jerk, and Clyde would hate him more than the bleeping nanos tearing his insides apart.
“My brother said it’s normal,” the guy said. His long black beard shimmered as he coughed. “Feels like World War Six just started in your gut, eh?”
Clyde looked away and grunted again. No point in conversation. He and Joe started with innocent chats on the bus to work, and six years later Joe moved out of their apartment while Clyde was on shift, ruining a perfect run for no good reason. Commitment? Sharing a lease and a bed every night isn’t commitment enough? Well, yesterday he’d signed his life away, and now he’d be tethered to an asteroid ‘til death do they part. If that wasn’t commitment, Clyde didn’t know what was.
Engines powered up as the room lighting faded to blue. Soft computer voices instructed them to hold on, don’t worry, they’ll only feel the crush of a few g’s after a small explosion underfoot.
Then everything shut down. Overhead lights turned searing white. The engine cut, giving way to a whining ring in Clyde’s ears.
Some lady’s voice on the com. “We have an emergency call for Claudius Rain.”
The activity in Clyde’s chest doubled. He was near vomiting.
“Mr. Rain, will you take the call?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. So he shook his head.
“That’s a no?”
Tears mixed with sweat, indistinguishable. “I’m already gone.” His chest burned.
“Okay then.” A pause on the com. “We’re off, people.”
And the engines roared.
END
by submission | Jul 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The passport control agent looks at me and sighs. “Another one,” he says succinctly. His use of “one” rather than the epithet “shellhead” probably has little to do with concern that I might be offended. The woman in front of me got a “Have a nice day” from the man. I get a jerked thumb over his left shoulder to indicate I can proceed.
I’ve gotten used to it. I received a similar reception at Bradbury Station. It wasn’t always like this. Ten years ago, right after I got shelled, the reaction I and the small number of people who had undergone the procedure got tended to be more curiosity than jealously and bigotry.
“Can you feel anything?” a skinny twentysomething on the RFS Valentina Tereshkova had asked me nine years earlier.
“Yes,” I’d told the young Russian. “There are sensors that feed into transducers that connect to my nerve endings. Everything feels a bit different from what skin feels. But, yes, I still have sensation.”
“So, you can feel everywhere? And, uh, everything…works?”
I’d smiled. “Everything works,” I’d said.
Shelling was novelty back then. The first patients who underwent the procedure had nanocomposite plates glued to their skin. In addition to being impractical and dysfunctional, they looked like early sci fi movie robots. Astronautical physicians soon realized that replacing the skin itself with a microtessellated armor was the only viable solution. It can flex and distend as well as human skin and it solved an important problem: cancer.
In the 2160s, significant numbers of people started migrating beyond Earth orbit to the Moon and Mars and the Lagrange V station. Outside of the protection of Earth’s geomagnetic field, solar and cosmic radiation caused cancer rates among space travelers to be seven to ten times that of their terrestrial peers. Trying to protect off-world settlements and ships with massive shielding or high-powered EM fields proved to be expensive and difficult. It was noted that travelers who spent more time in their spacesuits tended to have lower cancer rates. But suits are cumbersome. A more intimate solution was required.
“What have you done to yourself?!” my mother had said to me when I first saw her after my shelling. My uniformly gray skin with its subtle sheen made me some kind of a freak in her eyes.
“My job keeps me in space most of the time,” I’d explained. “If you can’t go outside the Van Allen Belt for any length of time you can’t advance your career.” After that afternoon, we didn’t talk again for nearly three years. And even to this day, things aren’t like they used to be between us.
“Welcome to Amazonis Planitia!” says a cheerful voice that snaps me out of my reverie. The voice comes from a smiling black man who extends his hand as he walks up to me. But the man’s coloration is not that of a person representing the darker hued races of the human species. I see my reflection in his ebony shell as he pumps my hand. His features and accent are Chinese.
“Dr. Cheng? Sorry if I was a bit distracted. I got a somewhat chilly reception upon arriving here.”
“From the 软壳,” he says. The term he uses sounds roughly like “ruan ke”. He notes my confusion. “The ‘soft shells’,” he reiterates. “An impolite term, perhaps, but one that is catching on.”
“Guess they don’t like us too much.”
“They don’t like what we represent: a higher level of commitment to be out here. Our resolve is more than skin deep.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 6, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There is an unacknowledged transcript of the end of Twentieth Fleet. It surfaced a few years after the event that removed a small star system at the far edge of the Milky Way from existence in a flash of glorious colours and strange radiation.
We suspect that the lost system contained the origin planet of Homo sapiens, our predecessors, but as data transfer is notorious for inherent corruption, we cannot state with certainty from the records we have left.
Why exactly this transcript remains unacknowledged is a puzzling thing, because it hints at a starfaring race of immense antiquity and divergent technologies.
But I am not here to draw conclusions. I am here to disseminate the transcript so greater minds than mine can do that.
The last transmission of the Assault Cruiser Hyperdyne, as transcribed by the deadfall recording array in the quadrant monitoring station at Upervant:
“It looked like a short-handled sledgehammer!”
“Did it go through the Hyperdyne’s stellar drive before or after the enormous lupine entity appeared and ate your escorts?”
“After. The being named Azbragh who appeared did apologise – he had been aiming at the lupine entity, which he named a ‘Fenreer’. He set off after it when I told him our ship was doomed anyway.”
“That was when you long range sensors detected the silver missile with prismatic drive emissions?”
“No, that was when we saw a giant metallic serpent wrapping itself around a rainbow-hued freespace edifice of some kind.”
“Really? Very well. You moved to investigate, I presume?”
“No sir, we did not. There were too many freespace entities of types similar and dissimilar to Azbragh appearing and engaging in pitched battle with unknown energy technologies and primitive melee weapons.”
“In your opinion, were they similar to any previously encountered group, or even historical reports like those about the Olympus Theocracy?”
“I would agree a similarity between accounts of the Theocracy’s Guardforms and the Fenreer, sir. Apart from that, these beings seemed to be completely novel alien forms.”
“And this Azbragh being returned to warn you?”
“Yes. He looked to be badly wounded on his second visit.”
“And as you completed the withdrawal, the entire planetary system collapsed in upon itself?”
“Yes. There were some odd visual effects, like a great tree of lightning connecting the planets and such, but there were no adverse gravitational effects, which we expected from proximity to what we assumed to be a nascent black hole.”
“Your current status?”
“We appear to have suffered some unquantifiable irradiation, sir. Hallucinations and deliria are getting worse. I regretfully recommend that you write the Twentieth off and place this sector under ban.”
It is recorded that the Hyperdyne was lost to a ‘catastrophic stellar drive malfunction’; the aberrant drive field emitted by that moment inducing a detrimental resonance effect with the rest of Fleet Twenty’s stellar drives, causing them to detonate in a freakish chain reaction. No record of the Twentieth Fleet’s actual co-ordinates when this catastrophe occurred is available.
by submission | Jul 5, 2015 | Story |
Author : Brian Olszewski
The room reeked of burnt flesh. A fluorescent green halo blinked from the ceiling; the emergency lights animated the thick vapor swirling at the lab’s center, partially occluding the operating table.
Two special-ops soldiers entered, with guns drawn, fanning to either side of the door. Each zigzagged the light beaming from the barrel-top of their gauss rifles with precision, highlighting open cabinets, drooping drawers and dead machines. The lab’s floor was strewn with bloodied utensils, shaped and sharpened to cut through the toughest non-human exo-skin and bone in the galaxy.
“Still getting a faint bio-reading, but . . .”
“Weird. The Fe count is off the charts.”
They looked at each other from their ready stances. One motioned to move further into the hexagon-shaped room, the details of which flitted across the holographs of visor-interiors in glowing characters.
One soldier kicked a knife accidentally, clanging it into saws and blades across the maroon-stained tiles. “Dammit.”
“Something’s on the table.”
“Yep. Hope one of experi-pets didn’t stick around.”
They approached the warm mound flashing on their visor’s displays. A knot of fused flesh and steel crystallized in the foul mist they inhaled, a paralyzing horror.
The eyeless head-mass. A pewtered scream flush against the tabletop. The limb-hints protruding from the larger crinkled lump.
Then: ironstone tiles infected boots and the bones and skin within; the vapor-born stony contagion spread, clogging veins, hardening intestines, choking lungs, calcifying hearts, joining the soldier-statues to the ranks of the doctor’s stilled metallic life.
