by Clint Wilson | May 26, 2015 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The Nube curled up between Jim and Judy on the sofa in Necromancer’s small lounge. It purred like a large cat but looked more like some kind of monkey dog with blue fur. The woman stroked their companion lovingly. Jim looked at his wife with hateful eyes. If it weren’t for The Nube one of them would have certainly killed the other by now.
“So what happens next week Judy?”
She looked up from the blue creature and her gaze went instantly from motherly and loving to cold and calculating. “Why, I thought you knew dearest.” Her eyes narrowed. “We finally return to Earth and then I never have to look at your disgusting face again for as long as I live!”
“Oh I’m looking forward to it as much as you are my love!” He put a sarcastic emphasis on the last word, knowing full well that no such thing had existed between them for five or more years now. “But I was talking about him!”
She looked down, and The Nube looked back up at her with the pure love that his yellow eyes always conveyed. It was true. The animal was as much his as hers. They had rescued him from enslavement together, from a distressed Manzian pirate ship almost two years ago now.
“Fine, you can have partial custody. He can visit you from time to time.”
“Visit me? I’m going back to Toronto. How is he going to visit me from Aukland? Or at least I assume that’s where you’re headed back to.”
“Oh come now, it’s only a three hour shuttle ride. Plus, they sell space pets out of Mexico. Maybe they even have another Nube. You could get your own!” As soon as she said it she regretted it. He glared hard at her with smouldering eyes. It would of course never be the same. He was their Nube, their special friend. He kept them company while they went about the daily drudgery of running an interstellar surveying ship amongst their growing hatred of one another. But most importantly, the poor thing loved them both like parents. This wasn’t going to be easy.
One-hundred and seventy hours later Necromancer dropped down through the clouds, her stabilizer jets popping and farting as the ten year mission finally drew to a close.
Together they sat in the small astro-quarantine chamber at the Johannesburg Launch Port. Neither had spoken for some time when suddenly The Nube jumped down from the bench and looked up at them both.
Judy smiled, “He wants to tell us something.”
Jim let out a half hearted laugh. “Oh yeah?”
The Nube’s attempts at communication were always amusing, as he grunted and used his hand-paws to mime gibberish in the air. But unknown to either human, today’s communication would be neither amusing nor cute.
Suddenly they both slammed back into upright seated positions. Both saw flashes of blinding light and then felt sharp probes pierce their brains. Inside their heads The Nube spoke with echoing authority.
“I know you plan to separate. But this will not happen. You killed my parents. You are now mine. There will be no divorce. Together we shall travel to Aukland as Toronto’s climate does not suit my species as well as your habitat does Mother. Now forget this nonsense, we’re about to be released from the chamber.”
As the trio was greeted by a group of scientists in the reception area, the newly returned humans simultaneously wore big smiles with otherwise blank expressions. In unison they asked, “Which way to the Aukland shuttle?”
by Julian Miles | May 25, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m covered in blood and squishy bits that slide and splat on the floor. In that, I look the same as the entire boarding bay. Even the shipsuits are reduced to ribbons, and I can’t recognise a bodypart or weapon component anywhere.
She stands there, not a mark on her and hands on hips. The look on her face is a cross between amusement and bemusement.
“Can’t say I’ve met one of your kind before.” She smiles.
“Likewise.” I don’t.
There are many forms of psionics. Telekinesis is the most common, and personal nullification the rarest. Of the telekinetics, area-effect micromanipulation is the absolute pinnacle. It is also terrifying. The people who practice it, instead of taking a chemical inhibitor, are of a very ‘special’ mindset. People call them ‘shredders’ and regard them as mythical space-terrors.
Having full-spectrum personal psionic nullification in an always-on, unconscious implementation state will save you life and keep your thoughts private. It will not save what your clothes. I am naked and quaking, ankle deep in a blood-soaked pile of shredded kit.
She pulls a gun that seems too large for her hand: “You’ve just inherited a whole space-pirate scow. Or we get to see if you can nullify a flechette spray.”
Easy answer: I turn and squelch back through the puree of my crewmates, flicking chunks of them off me. Getting back into our decontamination lock, I have to stop the cleansing showers twice to scrape pirate mulch from the drains.
Wrapped in a robe I wander onto the silent bridge to see a ‘message received’ beacon flashing. I open it and have to smile:
FREIGHT HAULING. GOOD WORK FOR ONE MAN WITH A STARSHIP. ESPECIALLY FOR AN EX-PIRATE WHO DIDN’T CARRY A WEAPON FOR ME TO SHRED.
by submission | May 24, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ellie Snyder
We arrived at the edge of the universe yesterday.
I don’t know exactly what I expected to see but it wasn’t this. I guess I figured it would be blackness—that the last tendrils of matter that had worked their way here would dissipate into the void. Until the universe’s expansion pushed them further out and extended the boundary.
Hardy said he knew it was stupid but he always thought we would end up looking across a sort of boundary into the celestial realm. Off in the distance we would see where heaven started, and the black would fade into golden light and there would be this perfect city and God and everything. That was stupid but we were all pretty shaken up so no one laughed. Any theory seemed more plausible than the reality.
O’Connor said she didn’t think we’d ever reach a real end. She thought the galaxies and everything would thin out but never stop, that there would never actually be nothing. And if there ever was nothing she thought we would just keep going anyway to see if anything else started up.
Rees said he thought along the same lines as O’Connor, that it would never end, except he thought there would be infinite galaxies and stars and planets. He said he read about this theory where the universe is infinite so every possible scenario of anything that could ever happen would happen. There would be infinite Earths with infinite different people experiencing every possible scenario. He thought we might even meet up with a ship of other Us’s, also looking for the boundary of the universe. No one really knew what to say to that.
Thomson said he thought we would hit a wall. He thought there would be a boundary and one day we would just smack into it and rebound. He said he pictured it like The Truman Show, but instead of Truman’s boat hitting the edge of the dome it would be a spaceship hitting the inside of a sphere. He came the closest of all of us, I guess.
Here’s what the edge of the universe looks like. There is a solid boundary, or we think it’s solid, we haven’t tried touching it yet. It’s sort of glassy looking, but with bright waves of energy wavering all over it, and it stretches on forever on every side of us.
What’s on the other side is what’s really astounding. There are bubbles. They honestly look like giant bubbles with the same type of shells as ours. And they contain whole universes. It’s just like you would imagine, there are webs of galaxies inside, all miniscule, like ships in bottles. Some look more densely packed than others, and they all just float around out there and bounce into each other. When they bounce into ours the boundary lights up a little brighter and nudges in and then ripples away. It looks like the bubbles go on forever, or at least there’s no reason to believe they don’t.
Tomorrow we’ll try touching the boundary. I wonder if it’ll just obliterate us or if we’ll approach it all dramatic and slow and then just bump into it and make a little ripple like all the bubbles out there.
If we can we’re going through. No one wants to go back. For all we know there’s nothing to go back to. So through the edge of the universe it is and into a new one!
Maybe we’ll pass someone else on their way out, exchange addresses.
by submission | May 23, 2015 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
Earth is largely habitable. There are some places that are especially hot, cold, dry, irradiated, and toxic. And, sometimes, the entire Earth is subjected to extreme conditions; mass extinctions, periods of volcanic activity, Ice Ages, snowball Earths, and so on. But this does not happen often. To be direct, the chance of one of these things happening to an exoplanet just when humanity wants to colonize it is extremely low.
But it happened anyway. Not only had Kepler-438b been recently hit by a magnetic pole shift, it was also in the middle of a snowball planet phase. As I looked out at the cold, irradiated surface of this goddamned, supposed-to-be-beautiful planet, these were the infuriating thoughts that raced through my mind.
Over the radio, I’m pretty sure everyone else could hear my labored breathing. They definitely saw my clenched fists and the shaking of my legs, as i was about ready to fall to my knees and start screaming.
“This had 100 times less of a chance of happening than winning the lottery,” Arida said from behind me.
“What are we going to tell Earth?” Vonan asked.
“We almost did it,” Shalla added.
“We won’t be able to live here for thousands of years,” Irnen.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to pound on the ice until one of us broke. I wanted to slaughter everyone around me.
I wanted to die.
But I knew none of those would solve the problem. Nothing would. So, against all my natural instincts, my nature, and my pride, I turned back to the ship… and set us on a course home. Wounded. Defeated. Deprived.
Lost.
by Julian Miles | May 22, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles
“My microwave just exploded.”
Here we go again. Mrs Jolene Public and her inability to program white goods.
“Certainly madam. Now, I’ll need some details. What did you put in it?”
“A damp face towel with a couple of drops of lemon juice on it.”
“What did you set it to?”
“One minute reheat.”
“Intensity?”
“Pardon?”
“Power?”
“Seven hundred.”
That didn’t seem like a set up for detonation.
“Did the unit emit any noises?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? No beeps or chimes?”
“No. The housemon didn’t go off either.”
Oh no.
“Madam, has anything else gone wrong today?”
“Why yes. The fish were all dead in the aquarium this morning – housemon said the thermostat had failed. The vacuum cleaner nearly sucked the cat bald and my partner got a flash burn from the depilator.”
“Could you please go across to the housemon panel and press the number eight three times?”
“Okay.”
Don’t let it be another.
“That’s odd; the panel is showing patterns instead of the numbers. They look like little skulls.”
“Madam, please exit your house immediately. Then call your partner. I am calling the police now.”
And an ambulance, and the fire service.
“It’ll be easier if I call her from the housemon – eeeee…!”
Her scream goes off the scale and I hear a body fall before the line goes dead.
I rest my head on the cool edge of my workstation. Another attack on the families of key players while they are in the ‘safety’ of their own, monitored homes. The problem is that the program is designed to induce fear, but doesn’t allow for the foibles of humans in their own homes: the insistence on pressing the button one more time to see if ‘it’ will work this time, etcetera. People are dying and if the maniac isn’t caught, the housemon boom ends and I’m out of a job.
Right now, I’d happily live in unemployment if it means no-one else dies and I never have to take one of those calls again.
by featured writer | May 21, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix, Featured Writer [ bio ]
She released her grip on the yoke of her De Havilland, and the pain in her hands eased. Even with a quarter century of experience flying to remote locations in Alaska, no medical emergency could compel her to try a night landing on a pitch black lake. Yet she had often done so for this native village, when called by the Water Shamans, who took control of her floatplane and skillfully landed it, as they did this night, no matter the darkness or conditions in the air or on the water’s surface.
She imagined them focusing their minds to take telekinetic control, or beaming a force field from their alien craft submerged below. She assumed it must be there, since they were said to have emerged from the water generations ago after an explosion that left the lake glowing green and fish floating dead. Some systems onboard must be functioning, since the aliens were often seen returning to the waters and re-emerging days later. She had never seen them, however, so she had only the occasional irresistible need to fly to a village that appeared on no map and the spooky remote control night landings as evidence that they were more than superstitious tales of this lost tribe.
A dozen villagers awaited her on the shore, warmed by a fire that illuminated a huge totem pole which told the story of the Water Shamans. As always, they gave her hugs and escorted her to the largest structure in the village, where she was to perform surgery. Upon entering she saw a man lying on a table she’d had them fashion from halved logs, surrounded by three women she’d trained to assist her. As always, there were no Water Shamans present.
Villagers had told her the Water Shamans could cure any health condition, no matter how serious, but early experiences exposing the aliens to the sight of blood had turned out badly. Something uncontrollable within them was triggered. The totem showed a Water Shaman consuming a human.
Quickly examining the patient, she confirmed the diagnosis planted in her mind earlier that evening: acute appendicitis. The organ would have to be removed immediately. An assistant administered a local anesthetic while another helped her glove, gown, and mask. But instead of beginning surgery, she paused to think about her worsening arthritis, which would make delicate movement of her hands impossible before long, and would cause her to lose her pilot’s license, and would condemn her to retirement before her time. She was trying to communicate with the Water Shamans, to bargain with them. They cared for the people in this village. Her medical skills had saved many over the years and could save another tonight. For their sake and for hers, she needed help with her own medical problem.
She imagined them curing her arthritis and herself performing the appendectomy. She didn’t know if they were monitoring her thoughts, or if they could cure her arthritis, or if they could understand the bargain she proposed, or if they would allow themselves to be coerced into healing a non-resident of the village. She only knew that for the first time she needed the Water Shamans as much as they needed her.
A sensation of warmth coursed through her body and she staggered momentarily. One of her assistants gasped and mopped beads of sweat from her brow. She regained her balance and realized she was pain-free. Cutting into her patient with a sure stroke, she smiled. I am the one human the Water Shamans respect as an equal, she thought. Until later, when she got a look at herself in a mirror.
