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.
by submission | Oct 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
They stared right through me. It used to bother me. Now, it’s essential.
I uncoupled the mag-links while Symplex’s security personnel looked past me. I didn’t fit their profiles, didn’t merit a glance. That’s what it is to be me.
I live by a pair of simple rules. The fact that they come from fantasy novels doesn’t make them any less realistic. Especially, in this reality.
Rule One: Amateurs obsess over strategy. Professionals obsess over logistics.
Rule Two: A good thief goes unseen. A great thief goes unnoticed.
When the last mag-link unhitched, the brainframe froze and everybody at Symplex knew they’d been jacked. They just didn’t know the jacker was freaking out alongside them.
It did freak me out. I hadn’t really thought I’d make it this far. You don’t go from feeling invisible most of your life to suddenly feeling invincible, so actually bringing down Symplex’s touted brainframe was a shocker.
Which was good because I had the same stunned expression as everyone around me. I completely fit the scene. Unworthy of note. Easy to dismiss. Something I was very used to as a clugee.
Actually, a child of clugees. My parents fled Louisiana after superstorm Naomi, whose cat 7 tidal surge never fully receded. Trying to make a new start farther west, my family was marked. Our hurricane-devastated zip code and area code became code for clugee.
Climate Refugee.
Unwelcome. Unwanted. Unrecognized.
America’s newest pariahs, pushed to the bottom of the ladder, the back of the bus. My parents gave up trying to fight for their rights to be counted, to be heard, to be repatriated into the country they’d never left, but which had abandoned them.
Clugee turned out to be a pretty apt slur for us because we constantly had to kludge our lives. Constant barriers. Push back. Marginalized to the extreme, but I didn’t give up. I fought. Tooth and nail to get an education, a decent career. To be seen. To be noticed. To be rewarded. Until I realized the real power I’d been given: invisibility.
I’d taken for granted the power of being taken for granted. A spit-upon cloak of invisibility.
Perfect for a thief. Unseen. Unnoticed
I schemed to steal all I was owed from the privileged, to re-jigger the balance sheet of justice. And I worked hard at it, grew wilier, grew richer. But my outlook remained poor. Nothing important had changed for my fellow clugees.
Until. I hit upon the perfect job. A caper that would turn the country on its head. Almost literally. The beauty of this heist was that I wouldn’t be taking anything. I would be giving.
Over the last two decades, Symplex had grown into the nation’s most reliable, highly touted, data security and privacy consortium. Its massive brainframe housed the personal and professional data of the everyday elite.
Once the Symplex brainframe was down, I inserted my viral “gift” that on reboot would automatically change the zip and area codes of the ruling classes to those of the disaster-fleeing masses. The security status of the privileged would turn to pariah in a matter of nanoseconds, and they would quickly experience what it is to be a clugee, feeling the disconnect, dislocation, and disdain my family and all the families like us had suffered as outcasts.
Unseen. Unnoticed.
And, maybe, that would finally unite us.
by Julian Miles | Oct 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The squad’s sitting there having breakfast when Tommo’s head explodes. Just like that, we’re all on the deck.
Except Bert. He’s still sat there noshing his way through a bacon butty.
“Bert! What the frack?”
He swallows before replying.
“When was the last time they missed? We’re the ones who shoot everywhere.”
Well I’ll be a unicorn’s other horn. He’s right. We all grab our nosh – although nobody sits back up at the table.
Sandy grins.
“Got any more insights, o bacon oracle?”
Bert nods.
“Why are we still alive? Check our sensors. Nothing spotted anything, yet we’re a trooper down.”
Clem nods.
“Just like when we lost Avro.”
Just like… I stand up and look about. Three hundred and sixty degrees of sodden moorland, with a pair of turd-brown duck-billed hawks flapping their ungainly way eastward.
Damon hisses.
“Billy. Don’t be a hero. Get your head down.”
I reply without complying.
“When was the last time we lost more than one in an attack?”
That starts something. Notes are compared. Clem even calls his oppo in Unit Two. End result: nobody can remember.
Bert burps softly.
“I seem to have started something. Try this: how often do we lose that one trooper?”
The casualty schedule checking is easy after Clem calls Sergeant Winifred, his brother-in-law, and head of the field hospital guard.
Winifred returns the call quickly.
“Twenty-five days ago. Twenty-one before that. Then twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-one, twenty-three… You get the idea?”
Damon curses under his breath.
“Full moon.”
Oh, frack. Of course. This place has a twenty-odd day lunar cycle.
“We lose a trooper on the night of each full moon.”
Sandy pulls out his datapad and starts hunting hard.
“What’s up?”
He replies, but doesn’t look up.
“We’re tasked with maintaining a presence so the locals don’t molest our scientific expeditions.”
“So?”
“Before we arrived, they took casualties. I’m reconciling their losses with ours,” he points at the screen, “and it ties up. Every full moon.”
Sergeant Winifred chimes in.
“Didn’t early survey reports mention something about sacrifices?”
Bert nods, then speaks, realising Winifred can’t see him nod.
“Yes. One of the positive influence points was us being able to persuade the locals into stopping the ritual killings.”
Sandy states it.
“Persuade? Or offer up disposable, non-local victims?”
Damon shudders.
“That’s fracked.”
Bert shakes his head.
“Just because you’re not paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to sacrifice you.”
We laugh. Then go silent.
Sergeant Winifred breaks first.
“What next?”
Clem points at me.
“If the kills are arranged, then whatever’s doing them has clearance for our detectors. I think Lieutenant Billy should raise a zero-tolerance alert next full moon.”
He’s right. The system won’t allow tampering, but a hostile action state negates all exceptions, and lasts two days before it’s queried.
I nod to Clem.
“Excellent idea. Plus we service all weapons the day before.”
Twenty-three days later we’re having breakfast when the intruder alarm howls. Sentry batteries snort out a barrage of lethal. Something crashes to the ground over by Unit 2.
We get there in time to meet Sergeant Winifred.
“Big, winged hostile carrying a standard issue sniping beamer. Verified by serial number.”
They even provided the weapons!
“Secure imagery and evidence.”
I look about.
“Units One and Two, pack it up! We all RTB, then kick up a fuss. Go public and wide.”
I’m betting the few responsible will fade back, letting selected idiots take the fall. Doesn’t really matter. We’ll stop losing friends.
Revenge will have to be done carefully, but it’s inevitable. There will be an accounting.
