by submission | Sep 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Mickey Hunt
“Welcome to the edge of the universe,” I said cheerfully. “The very edge.”
The clutch of tourists easing into my parent’s store seemed overawed. At night, part of our sky is lit with nebulae, pulsars, galaxy clusters, and all sorts of stuff, but the rest of the sky is black, pitch black. As far as anyone knows, no electromagnetic phenomena, gravity, or nothing ever emanates from out there.
“We’re stocked with souvenirs, snacks, drinks, contraband cigarettes, and camping supplies at wallet gouging prices,” I said as the customers fanned out among the aisles. “Hot showers cost a fortune per minute.”
“Excuse me, young fellow. Postcards?” the sweet little grandma asked.
I stepped around the counter to show her the rack for our best seller: a jet black card with the caption ‘Beyond the Horizon’.
“I’d like a dozen,” she murmured to herself.
Tourists. I don’t figure what they’ve come to see, but they know how to spend.
“Where’s the hotel?” a man in a sweater and shorts asked.
“Our planet doesn’t have hotels, sir, since it’s a park, except for the few concessionaires like us. If you want a room, you’ll have to stay a parsec or two closer toward the Center.”
“That’s too bad,” he said. “We’ve come so far already.”
“We have plenty of camping spaces,” I said. “Campers bring lawn chairs, extra blankets, and sit up all night staring into the dark void.”
“Do you rent gear?”
“Whatever you need.”
#
Early in the offseason, two of my school buddies thought we should take an adventure. Dad owns a junker Galaxship that once carried the mail, so my friends and I took it apart, cleaned everything, recharged the quantum cells, put it back together with the safeties disabled, and loaded up all the canned beans, frozen steak, citrus concentrate, and beer it could hold. We charted a course directly away from the Center and launched.
At first it was fun. I mean, because even scientists never attempt this. Before long it got boring, but honestly, when we weren’t lifting weights and watching movies, or playing video games, we slept. Outside, absolutely everywhere was black, black, black as we traveled four years as close to c² as we dared.
Then one of my buddies, Janos, said, “We should stop.” So we did, and other than the ship not rattling and shaking, we’d have hardly known. We looked homeward to find that the universe had shrunk to an infinitesimal spark of light.
“Holy Higgs Boson!” Janos said. “We flew faster than we thought.”
I took a picture.
A quiet minute afterwards, my other buddy, Rasper, said, “I’m scared. Let’s go back now.” So, we did. The tiny dot of the universe grew until four years later (minus a month) our planet emerged into view.
When I walked into the store, Mom asked, “How was it?”
“Okay. I’m glad to be home. It’s not so bad here.”
“That’s how I felt,” Dad said. “You’re just in time. The tourist crush begins this weekend.”
Anyway, that picture I took of our infinitesimal spark? We couldn’t decide on a caption, but we make a ton of money from the new postcard regardless. Maybe, just maybe I can now afford to go someplace really fantastic and astonishing.
by submission | Sep 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : C.L. Guerrieri
I sat at the monitoring bay as he stood there, roughened hands folded calmly behind his stained, dark brown overcoat. His receded cheeks mostly hidden by a thin, graying beard and a matted ponytail, the captain smiled as his thinned eyes squinted out the front bridge window, glazing deeply at the ice asteroid field in front of him. The lasers burned into the pale blue ice as our tractor modules hauled them back into our cargo bay, emitting soft pings for every completed cycle.
My daydreaming was interrupted by soft words I almost didn’t hear.
“Please, speak your mind. Silence can only bring miscommunication,” he said.
He knew I was worried about being the only ones out here.
“Well, sir, it’s just—You know how our scouts can’t find cloaked ships. Being alone in null-sec doesn’t worry you?” I asked.
He maintained his gaze at me before shaking his head.
“Not in the slightest.”
This seemed like a horrible lack of planning, but I decided not to press. He always had a plan.
As if on divine cue, a half dozen dark beige shapes popped into view above the belt only a half-kilometer away. Their dark, spiny tips, typical of missile-loaded gunboats and stealth bombers, meant only one thing:
Pirates.
We were far too late for warp, but the crew did as usual, setting a warp course for a nearby planet. A warning light popped on in my panel, indicating that the worst of my fears had come true.
“They’ve scrambled our drives. Webbed our ignition too. We can’t escape.” I murmured.
“Not to worry,” came the calm response.
The main comm screen popped on, the static clearing to reveal a tanned, well-groomed, dark-haired head sneering at us with a hollow grin.
After no words from the captain, he began:
“You know how this goes down. We—“
The captain interrupted, holding up his hand, silencing the man at once.
“Glad you could join us, at last,” the captain calmly stated. “Today was becoming quite dull.”
The captain hit a small black button on the front dashboard of the bridge and, a moment later, numerous faded-blue Orion-class laser and missle gunboats warped in around us with dull thwumps.
The pirate’s face contorted and drained of color.
“FIRE!” the pirate screamed.
Their missiles released, but it was too late. The blue gunboats fired their lasers and missiles, detonating the pirate missiles prematurely as missiles ripped through the pirate hulls with bright-orange blooms, sending dull booms of pressure waves cascading over our hull.
As the blue ships realigned for another warp, the captain turned, sensing my anger at him.
“They,” pointing to the destroyed ships, “are, or were, experts at hiding. They needed something to draw them out. Besides, I don’t like to quit.”
“Please resume cycling whenever you are ready, Erin,” he said as he turned back toward the front viewing panel. I pressed a few buttons on my display as the dull hum picked up, casting the green arcs of light back out to the rocks. After what felt like too long, he turned and looked at me.
“You must be tired. Feel free to go rest.”
Grateful, I nodded and made my way towards the back of the bridge and turned as I walked out. He was still standing there, facing the asteroids, hands behind his back. He began humming a verse from a tune, an old naval song every miner knew as a rite of passage. I sang the verse in time with his humming in my head as I headed out.
Now the moral of this story is
As plain as plain can be,
Don’t ever trust a sailor
An inch above your knee.
by submission | Sep 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Timothy Marshal-Nichols
Dearest, Humblest and most Obedient Sir,
Please be informed, as agreed in mutual undertaking, that yourself named Mutch, first name, Alfred, are contracted to duty and that the lease of said duty is due forthwith to expire. Thus upon the thirtieth inst of this month, September, of this year, twenty-thousand-and-thirteen, upon such time, thus the hour before midday, you are required, as per contract, to be attendant upon your place of known residence. This residence to be within the road of Hartington Drive, within the city of Liverpool, within the county of Merseyside, within the country of England, such house, a three story residence, bearing the number upon said road to be twenty-seven. For upon said date, for upon said time, attending upon said place, upon morrow, whereupon you shall die.
It is not for you, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, to dispute said contract. May I remind you of the sanctity of such contract, founded within law and custom, thus approved by legal council upon this land and freely entered into by yourself in full knowledge of the right and proper consequence thus of said contract becoming requisite and thereupon enacted. Your request for an appeal is void and otherwise inapplicable. There is no higher court with which to request stay of enactment. There can be no council or appeal, no committee to hear such case, the time has come, you must die forthwith.
For Mr R.M. businessman, pillar of the realm, philanthropist to the poor and needy, noble and honourable sir, doer of many charitable works, benefactor of the destitute, has declared use thereof of various of your body’s natural organs, not here specified, and claims thereof there use within his person. Thus your great and illustrious benefactor has need of your body, various parts of, to improve his welfare, appearance and comfort. Whereas yourself, Mr Alfred C. Mutch, miserable wretch that you are, worm that you are, scum that you are, lived by the goodwill, grace, favour and means of Mr R.M. Therefore you posses no right to exercise such ingratitude, forbearance or obstruction as to deny Mr R.M. his legal right and your eligible duty. You have no alternate but to, with immediate effect, die.
It was some twenty-one years ago that you signed and was witnessed this contract with our company. Whereby we established, through suitable tests and medical procedure, your compatibility with Mr R.M. as to body, blood and temper and found the perfect compatibility. Thereby on contract your good self was genitally tagged, as your person shall be well aware, and thus there can become no escapement or abatement, we, the executors of said contract, shall always know the whereabouts of your force. Thence always have the performance to enact the substance of said declaration. Since contract date you have received the payments upon the declaration without let or hindrance upon our part. Each month you have received such agreed sum that our presence within the contract has been accomplished without any complaint or dispute on your part. Now whereupon it is time to exercise our utilization upon this agreement. Thus for legally agreed harvesting to proceed your death must be enacted.
May I finally remind you to attend your abode upon this morrow, as agreed. You can be assured that, commiserate with quality of harvesting, your death will be as painless as assets and practicality should allow.
Your Obedient Servant, D.
The Harvester of Human Organs.
by Patricia Stewart | Sep 1, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
It had been four days since the ship’s doctor had quarantined the galley and shut down the deck’s gravity plates, and Captain Carson was becoming concerned. Not about the unwanted patient that was hold up there, but about his ship, its crew, and his now unachievable delivery schedule. Determined to regain control of his ship, the captain floated into the ad hock sickbay to confront his chief medical officer. “Mary, how much longer is this going to take? I have a schedule to maintain. I can’t afford to spend a week drifting around interstellar space because of that damn stowaway.” He pointed to the large gelatinous lifeform strapped down to a stainless steel food preparation station in the center of the room.
“Who let you in here?” snapped Dr. Breckinridge. “And put a mask on.” The medical staff suddenly began to scramble around the patient. Clearly, the captain realized, something significant was happening. Just then, a pinkish fog erupted form the undulating red blob. The captain instinctively began to gag as the vile smelling fog entered his throat. “As you can see, Captain,” protested the doctor, “we’re pretty busy right now. Please wait outside. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
A half hour later, the doctor and her staff drifted into the main corridor where the captain was not-so-patiently waiting. As the last medical technician exited the galley, he shut the hatch, and began entering codes into an adjacent control panel.
“Well Doctor, I’m through mincing words. Now that it’s over, when can I jettison your patients out the air lock?”
“Not so fast, Cliff. We have to gradually reduce the temperature in the galley to minus 270K, so the vapors can condense in the correct sequence. Then the liquid will need to accrete, polymerize, and crosslink. After that, we need to pull a vacuum…”
“I don’t want the details, Doctor. I want a day, and a time!”
“Fine, if you insist. The day after tomorrow, around 1400. But really, Cliff, what is your problem? Don’t you care about the sanctity of life?”
“Not when it comes to Etheronians. But unfortunately, I can’t do whatever I want. Regulations force me to shut down my reactors and provide assistance, which I have, by the way. I just don’t understand why the world needs to come to a stop just because an Etheronian hitches a ride on a starship. By the way, did you figure out how that damn thing got onto my ship in the first place?”
The doctor smiled. “Ship’s captains have been asking themselves that question for centuries. No one seems to know. It just happens. You should be savoring the moment? The rest of the crew isn’t spittin’ comets, like you.”
“Well, maybe the crew likes eating Q-rations. I don’t.” The captain pirouetted and pulled himself toward the turbolift. A few minutes later, the captain walked onto the bridge. It was comforting, he realized, to feel the pull of artificial gravity again. He strided to the command chair and sat down. That’s when he noticed that the entire bridge crew was staring at him.
“Well?” asked Lieutenant Faunce at Opps.
“They will be gone in two days, Lieutenant. Then things can get back to normal.”
Lieutenant Faunce put her hands on her hips and scowled through murderous, squinting eyes. “You know, sir, that’s not what I wanted to know.”
“Oh, very well, Lieutenant, it’s a girl.”
by submission | Aug 31, 2013 | Story |
It was my lunch break. I was eating my turkey on rye on the roof of the Jefferson Bank Building in downtown Spartanburg just like I had every day for the last fifteen years. That sandwich needed the South Carolina humidity and roofing-tar smell or it just didn’t taste right.
I’d never seen another soul up there, so I almost choked when I heard footsteps. A young man in grey suit with sharp creases cut across my field of vision. The new guy in compliance. Rick. He was walking along the ledge, looking purposefully down at the sidewalk twelve stories away after every few steps. A white canvas laundry bag hung from his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said without turning to look at me. “Could you hold this for me?”
Then, before I could finish chewing or grunt out a reply, he closed the distance with me in a few quick strides, fished the end of a black nylon rope out of his bag, and shoved it into my free hand. In surprise, I made a defensive gesture with my sandwich-hand, but he leapt away from me and darted for the ledge before I had a chance to do anything more than wave my turkey and rye at the empty air and squeak out a little gasp of protest.
The length of rope shrugged off the laundry bag as it uncoiled and as Rick leapt over the edge I saw that one end was looped around his waist. A jolt of shock and panic hit me as my gaze snapped down to the black rope lying limply against my left palm.
My fingers clamped down on the rope and I cringed with my whole body. I didn’t even think to drop my sandwich or get another hand on the rope before it snapped taught with a sound like a whip. I heard a muffled “oof” from over the ledge and the section of roof beneath my feet whined like a tree in the wind. The rope end in my left hand vibrated with tension.
The metal access door right behind me clanged open and my boss stepped out puffing and red-faced.
“Mike,” he said to my back, “you’re not going to believe this. The new kid in compliance just tried to get you fired. Says you’re a cyborg, that you’ve been hiding in plain sight all these years. I told him I’d be filing false accusation charges on your behalf and that his career…”
He trailed off as he walked up beside me. I took another bite of my sandwich and we both stood in silence looking down at the rope in my hand. A few stories below us, I heard Rick groan.
“Sir,” I said swallowing, “could you do me a favor?”
He met my eyes, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“Would you mind holding this for me,” I asked.
He never responded.
by Desmond Hussey | Aug 30, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
“Oracle, will she love me forever?” Tim whispers to the shimmering, liquid amber orb hovering in its special alcove in the family room. It’s late and he should be in bed, but he must know the truth. He can’t sleep. All he can think about is her kiss on his lips.
“Insufficient data. Specify subject of inquiry.” The Oracle’s voice quavers like a bubbling brook, not quite feminine, not quite masculine. Pulses of orange light punctuate each word, casting strange shadows within the darkened room.
“Melanie, Melanie Calder. From school.” He glances quickly over his shoulder to make sure no light emanates from beneath his parents bedroom door.
“Require genetic sample to complete inquiry.”
“Genetic sample? What for? I thought you just knew everything about the future?” Tim hisses, impatience coloring his barely pubescent voice.
“For love matches, a genetic sample is required to determine compatibility.”
“Like, blood?” he barely utters, horrified.
“Any bodily fluid, skin, hair or nail sample will suffice.”
The boy slinks off to bed, his young mind feverishly plotting how to acquire the necessary sample. His sleep is restless, but by morning he’s hatched a plan.
That evening, when certain his parents are sleeping, Tim prowls down to the family room and stands before the Oracle’s nook. In his hand he holds a single long, auburn hair like a precious artifact. Melanie winced and scowled when he pulled it from her head as they made out, but he quickly apologized and made up some stupid lie about her hair getting caught in his watch band. It was all he could do to keep hold of it as they continued to frolic beneath the elm tree by the school yard.
“Oracle, I have the sample. What do I do with it?” Tim can barely contain his nervousness. What if he gets caught? What if they aren’t compatible? What if they are?
“Place sample in scanner and re-state inquiry.” The Oracle’s voice is blandly indifferent to his anxiety. In the darkened quiet of the house, its voice seems thunderous, out-matched in volume only by the beating of his love-sick heart.
Tim carefully places the hair into the awaiting scanner tray and, once again, whispers his fated question, “Oracle, will Melanie Calder love me forever?”
A red laser flashes over the hair in the tray and for an agonizing minute the Oracle says nothing, just hangs silently in its niche while Tim waits with baited breath.
“Genetic compatibility is unsatisfactory. Love match will not succeed. Try again.”
The blood drains from Tim’s face as each terrible word slices his tender heart. It can’t be true. It feels so right to be with her. How can this be happening? “There must be some mistake,” he reasons. “Why, Oracle?”
“Genetic compatibility is unsatisfactory.”
A firm hand lands on his shoulder launching Tim’s stomach into his throat. He turns shamefully around to see his father’s stern face in the darkness reflecting the amber glow from the Oracle.
“Dad,” Tim chokes, “you’re up.”
His dad gestures toward the sofa. “Have a seat, son. We need to talk.”
Tim collapses into the sofa, deflated, all hope for the future washed away by the Oracle’s agonizing words. His father sits beside him. A long silence passes before his father finally speaks.
“Son, sometimes knowing the future robs us of our present. It prevents us from living in the moment. Do you understand?”
Tim stares woefully into the gloom.
“I’m sure Melanie loves you, now, today. Enjoy it, kiddo.”
A faint smile creeps onto Tim’s face.
“Thanks Dad. I will.”
