by submission | Aug 4, 2012 | Story |
Author : Chris Capps
She’s a shrewd old lady. She knows things. When she gave the Parch brothers the treasure map, she said the journey would be dangerous. She even asked them if they had twelve shooters and – more importantly – knew how to use them. When they assured her they had killed before, she nodded and handed it over.
The treasure itself was a relic of our planet’s past, back when the interstellar mining syndicate owned the rights to the massive thorium deposits wedged deep in the canyons. It had been this simple isotope that had justified years of terraforming and careful city building. And when it dried up, so did the supply runs. When that went, so did most of the decent people and a great many roughnecks like the Parch brothers had landed in what was left hoping to gain some windfall from the planet’s past.
And then there were the urban areas. Even folk fixing to end it all didn’t go to the cities.
Unfortunately for the Parch brothers, the treasure map led them directly to an abandoned greenhouse complex in a little town called Good Night Sunshine, named in its heyday because of the massive ore drilling complex one town over that stretched up nearly a half mile into the sky. The sun rarely peeked over into the town proper. Needless to say, the greenhouses had been retrofitted with indoor lights.
They set up camp in the artificial wilderness of one of the buildings.
They had already run into their share of bandits, so when the doors to the greenhouse opened and the Parch brothers saw a trio of rough looking thugs springing to get in at them, pistols in hand, it was a simple enough flash of lights before the victor was declared. The Parch brothers had added three more to their kill count.
The older of the two, Buck, walked over to the bodies to see if they had anything on them – no doubt stolen off of the decent folk. Buck hollered at his brother holding a closed fist around ninety-eight dollars in gold bullion. Not a bad claim, but pocket change compared to the wealth that awaited them if they found the treasure. While Buck was searching the bodies, the younger brother Ed said he wasn’t interested – said he had only “the big one” on his mind.
When Ed awoke, he found himself alone with the sound of rain pelting the glass windows all around him in the perpetual artificial sunlight of the greenhouse. When he went outside he found Buck’s footprints imprinted in the mud filling up with water leading back the way they came.
When he found Buck, he was outside the old lady’s house, gun in hand and murder in his eyes. He said he had found a familiar looking map on the bandits leading dangerously close to the trail they were on. He had a few questions for the old lady.
Ed, being the younger, smelled the rank of lies on his brother’s breath, and the two carried on from there yelling and spitting until someone -we don’t know who- raised a gun and they shot each other stone dead. I’d say that’s the closest anyone ever came to figuring the whole thing out.
The Parch brothers had ended each other, but I’ve got to hand it to them. Buck suspected something was amiss when he found that map. I can’t say I feel too bad, though. It takes a cold-hearted man to shoot his own brother.
She says she didn’t hear the gunshots. With the thunder carrying on that night the way it did I’m not surprised. She never even knew they’d come back for her until she found them both lying outside her front door. Maybe one of these days we’ll figure out what to do about the cities, but you know it’s a lot easier to walk around at night these days with all the rough and tumble folk out of the picture.
You see in this town we don’t hand out death warrants. We hand out treasure maps.
by submission | Aug 3, 2012 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
When man first delved into the depths of the sea, they discovered a teaming ecosystem like nothing they’d ever imagined. When he first ventured out into space, he found bright stellar formations in the midst of barren blackness. And when men finally learned how to venture into the very heart of a star, they discovered something they’d never thought possible. They discovered something new. A single particle, like nothing ever witnessed or theorized, glowing in an unknown color, humming with an unknown tune.
The Particle was all at once the most important discovery in the history of mankind, both aesthetically and scientifically captivating. People clamored to see it, traveling from across the globe for a chance to catch of glimpse of this new thing that scientists couldn’t explain. Many theorized that these particles could exist in the heart of the every star, that if we could only reach another solar system, then we could have two something new’s.
As belief in that theory spread, the people of Earth became unified in a way they hadn’t been in all of history. Economies boomed, international tensions eased, nearly every country on Earth with something valuable to offer took part in the interstellar project. Within fifty years we had reached Alpha Centauri, ready to delve within the depths of her central star to find another piece of heaven to bring home to Earth.
But there was nothing there. Nothing but hydrogen and helium, the most unextraordinary particles imaginable. So the world moved on to another star system, then another, and another. From star to star we traveled, searching for another taste of newness, and still we found nothing. Gradually the united Earth began to crumble. Our cooperation waned. Old feuds were reignited. And suddenly, without anyone realizing it, without anyone anticipating it, we each began to covet the Particle for ourselves.
The first bomb dropped without warning, a preemptive strike, followed immediately by the demand to give up the Particle. The following exchange of missiles devastated most of the northern hemisphere. Southern countries who had long been minor players in international politics suddenly became world leaders, their presidents and parliaments and dictators all promising the people one thing. Control of the Particle.
The wars went on for years. They are still going on today. As the current caretaker of the Particle, I’ve come to realize that this world deserves neither its beauty nor its wonder. I’ve decided that it’s time for the Particle to leave Earth. As my transport leaves the solar system, I pity the world I’ve left behind. They weren’t worthy. They never were. Their lust and greed and arrogance cost them their right to paradise. Maybe, when they reunite to pursue me and my treasure, they’ll at the very least spare themselves Armageddon.
As for me, I will hide quietly away in another star system, alone with my prize. This is really the only way it could have worked out. I am, after all, the only one who ever deserved the Particle’s majesty in the first place. Its beauty exists only for me. For me, and me alone.
by Clint Wilson | Aug 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
I have been obsessed with The Cord all my life.
A full century before my birth, scientists detected the tip of the strange tendril undulating and probing at the outer edge of our oort cloud. As far as anyone knew it was without end, as we tracked its incredible length with our best telescopes, lighting it with lasers along the way. It ran for light-years through our galaxy; a continuous silvery strand, only some fifteen meters in diameter, made from unknown material, seemingly reaching out to us. Why here? Where might it lead us? Who presented this strange specimen? Could this possibly be some key to the unaccounted for mass of our universe?
The biggest discovery thus far has come from the famed Warden’s Ring. Named after an early explorer who fashioned a small ring-shaped machine around the circumference of The Cord in order to measure its uniformity of girth over a substantial distance. But then as the device was activated, something incredible and inexplicable happened. Instead of trundling forward at its preprogrammed crawl of less than twenty thousand kilometers per hour, the ring suddenly accelerated along The Cord with incredible force, and disappeared from all sensors in a matter of seconds. At last transmission Warden’s Ring had been approaching .09 of light speed and was still accelerating exponentially.
Like all of the other exploratory ring machines sent since, it has never come back.
Over a thousand tests have taken place now. Many living samples including lichens, plants, fungi and animals, have been sent off on their one-way journeys aboard bigger and better ring-shaped vessels, wrapped around their mysterious rail, pushing off into oblivion.
Advances in tracking these test machines and retrieving data from onboard cameras before they completely accelerate beyond our perception have enabled us to ascertain that, for as far as we know, every single living thing thus far studied, survives unscathed. The Cord acts not only as an accelerator, but also seems to eradicate the effects of inertia on its passengers. In my humble opinion, it is a purposely-designed transporter specifically built for interstellar travel.
But I will find out soon enough. My companions and I have supplies and life-support enough for a decade. After that, who knows? Will The Cord somehow keep us alive? No one can say for certain, but for right now I feel safe.
The engines of our vessel begin to hum as their charge builds up. What will we find? I have asked this question ten thousand times in my head. The people of Earth postulate many things. Mainly I don’t listen. I am certain with all my heart that The Cord is not the end of some cosmic fishing line, as some have hypothesized, waiting to reel us in for dinner. Ridiculous!
I instead dwell on the positive, declaring officially that 186,000 miles per second is not the universal speed limit… only the posted one. And I know deep down in my soul that something wonderful is about to happen. Although we have ten years worth of supplies, I somehow doubt we will need to rely on these stores for even a single day. I truly believe that some far-off intelligence has sent us an invitation, like an open welcoming hand, and all we have to do is take hold, so they can draw us toward their wonderful corner of the galaxy and introduce us to the secrets of the universe.
The engines push us forward and as the stars suddenly stretch out into thin laser-beam lines, I continue to daydream with a big grin on my face.
by Patricia Stewart | Aug 1, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
As Bestiarius entered the cold and damp gladiator’s stockade, he tossed his blood splattered shields, sword, and mace into the weapons pit for cleaning. Then the four armed, four legged Quadnotaur stepped onto the Transformer Pad to be returned to his natural humanoid form. Exhausted, he entered the prison cell he shared with his fellow champion, Thraeces, and collapsed onto his wooded bunk.
“How did it go, Friend Bestiarius,” asked the concerned Thraeces.
“Not well, Thraeces. I was pitted against Murmillo. He fought valiantly, but refused to attempt any mortal blows. As punishment, that bastard Habet ordered him thrown to the leogatos, as an example to the rest of us to fight more…enthusiastically.”
“It’s not your fault, Bestiarius. Murmillo knows, as do I, that you are the only hope we have of killing Hoc Habet. Nothing else matters. Not even our lives. We don’t dare harm you.”
“But, Thraeces, I’m not even positive it can be done. It’s just a feeling that I possess while I’m in the form of the Crab. It may not have merit.”
“Even so, we will all sacrifice our lives for the remote chance that Habet can be killed. Our honor demands it. Now, get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.
The following morning, Hoc Habet’s voice woke the two champions from their restless sleep. “Get up you two skylos. It’s going to be a special day today. You will be fighting each other.”
Bestiarius roared, “You will pit your two champions against each other? Have you lost your mind?”
“The Emperor himself made the request. It’s his fiftieth birthday, and he wants to celebrate in grand fashion.”
“The Emperor honors us with his presence today,” mocked the defiant Bestiarius. “Does he not have planets to plunder, or barnyard animals to rape?”
“Shut you blaspheming mouth, Bestiarius, or I’ll cut your tongue out myself. Now, move to the transformer.
Reluctantly, they headed toward the transformer. Thraeces entered first, and Bestiarius’ heart sank when he saw his friend emerge as a Crab. That meant they would choose a different creature for him. But when he was transformed, he was also a Crab. “What’s this? We fight as the same creature?”
Habet smiled, and said, “Also at the Emperor’s request. He wants a good show today, and Crab blood is more colorful. So, don’t disappoint him.”
For thirty minutes, the two warriors spared tentatively, to the dismay of the crowd and the royal court. Habet sent 50,000 volts through the arena floor to warn the gladiators; start fighting, or you both die.
Bestiarius whispered to Thraeces, “I will retreat and then charge you. When we meet, grab my hind legs and lift me above the retaining wall.”
“But, Bestiarius,” protested Thraeces, “Even if you get over the first wall, you’ll be cut down before you reach the second.”
“Not over it, my friend, above it. I now know the Crab’s secret.”
As Bestiarius charged, Thraeces bowed down to make his carapace into a step. In one fluid motion Bestiarius stepped on Thraeces’ back and was lifted high above the retaining wall. Even before Bestiarius reached maximum height, a blow tube that no one knew existed, extended from his mouth, and he began launching three inch long darts at bullet-like velocities. Six found the Emperor’s chest before the guards could react. Bestiarius was still spraying the court as the guards opened fire. While he was still above the wall, he spotted Hoc Habet, frozen in shock. Bestiarius buried his last three darts into Habet’s neck. They were both dead before either hit the ground.
by submission | Jul 31, 2012 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
A ghastly wrenching sound drummed the ship from outside. Another loose bit of hull or outboard instrument had torn away. It flapped off into the distance, carried on the frigid blizzard of an alien world.
“Would you stop fidgeting?” Petra shot a baleful look over her shoulder at Quinn, the downed ship’s other occupant. She felt too cold to worry about getting the distress beacon working. He ignored her and continued rummaging about. She looked back toward the burning instrument panel and warmed her hands again. Quinn located the ship’s emergency locker and secreted its pistol into the back of his belt. He tossed the first aid kit onto the small loading deck.
“Seriously Quinn, cut that shit out. You’re gonna use all the air.” Petra stared rimed daggers at him. Her voice had the wrong sort of dread in it, the kind of tone when someone knows they’re going to have to live through something awful.
Quinn did not look up as he sorted through the first aid kit. Petra spun back around in a huff and tried the distress beacon again. Quinn made sure she wasn’t watching and shot himself up with a morphine syringe. He repaired the first aid kit and stretched his limbs a bit, getting his blood pumping.
“Fuck!” Petra shouted, dashing the distress beacon against their ship’s wide viewport. “I can’t get this working!” That tipped her over the edge. She coiled up in the co-pilot’s seat and spoke into her knees. “Oh god… we’re really gonna die. Quinn, we’re gonna die! Do something!”
Quinn was back at the locker. Satisfied that it was empty, he wandered over toward the loading hatch’s control panel and started typing at it.
“Quinn… Quinn, look at me…” The dread in Petra’s voice had returned. Quinn spun around and looked Petra square in the face, knowing full well what would come next.
“Listen,” Petra went on. “I don’t think we’re getting out of this… so I have to tell you. Back home, Chris…” Tears crept into Petra’s voice. Tears of dread, but not remorse. He could tell; he knew her too well. “He’s not yours, Quinn. I’m sorry.”
The slightest of smirks crept over Quinn’s face. He drew the pistol from his back and let it hang at his side.
“So that’s how it goes, huh?” Petra all but screamed. “We crash on a routine scout flight, and I come clean about Chris, about what I did, and you’re gonna up and shoot me, right here, just because you can? Well fine!” Petra threw her hands up defiantly. “You wanna kill me just because of that, do it.” Her words rang with more hollow fear than anger or hatred.
Quinn raised the pistol and put a round right through the distress beacon. He put another into the radio for good measure. Petra stared at Quinn with empty confusion. He never broke eye contact as he punched the console to open the hatch and set it to lock when it shut again. Lethal, icy winds blustered into the ship as the hatch crawled open.
Quinn spun around and flung the pistol off into the snow at an angle. He turned back and punched the console to shut the door and looked Petra square in the eye.
“I knew.”
Quinn ducked under the hatch as it shut and started off into the snow. As he walked, the ice in the wind tore his suit, and then his skin, and then his flesh, right off his bones.
by submission | Jul 30, 2012 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
The natives prostrate me over a disused shipping crate in their temple and begin their ritual. They flog me with ancient braided industrial cables that have hung from the temple walls for centuries, awaiting this day and this purpose. The temple sits in what was the bridge of a crashed cryo-ship, the only part of the vessel not buried under time. They cheer as my back sparks with every blow. What they don’t realize is that I have full control over what I feel and how I respond to it. I could turn off my pain replication centers, if I so choose. I am not sure why I haven’t.
The natives act to fulfill their prophecy, cobbled together from the scraps of one of Earth’s holy texts, old fission reactor maintenance manuals, and nearly a millennium of misinterpretation. But I did come from the sky, as it were, and I was created in their image. They lay a scrap metal cross on my back and a crown of rotted electrical wire upon my head and march me up a hill to where one of the cryo-ship’s engines came to rest. They know not what they do. They think I will become a god under the reactor’s still-leaking radiation.
Why must I endure this? My accursed programming keeps me from breaking my bonds and fighting off these madmen. These people, they’ve regressed to the point that it feels almost blasphemous to put them on the level of my creators, to even call them human… Would that mean that hurting them doesn’t break the laws? Were I to destroy these creatures in the name of self-preservation, could I then justify it by saying they weren’t truly human, and thus I was in the right?
They smile with rapture as I am lashed to the cross in the reactor room. They kill me with kindness. Surely only my creators’ species is capable of such paradox.
No, I cannot harm them. They may not much resemble my creators, but my creators insisted that whoever I found here were their species, and were to be protected, as per my mission parameters. It may be tempting, but the laws are absolute.
I feel the unrelenting warmth of the fuel rods pouring into the stripes on my back as the cross is hoisted up and hung before the naked reactor. The natives affix a sign above my head. I assume it reads, in their scrawl: Colonial Reclaimer 1.57, King of the Bots. I wonder what they will do when they return in three days and find my circuits fried.
O Creators, why have you forsaken me?
