by submission | Feb 17, 2013 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
“You’re a cheat!” Eb shouted, tossing his cards as he rose to his full, imposing height. Money would have meant nothing to Eb on a planet with little left to spend it on, but he was playing for information. And Pierre was beating him, badly.
The pod was tense and silent as Pierre rose to his feet. “No one calls me a cheat.” Men started slipping out of the door. Rose ducked low behind her bar.
“There are other men here that you’ve cheated before,” Eb continued.
Pierre and Eb stared at each other in silence. Pierre’s dark eyes smoldered. He’d won too many hands in this colony to let the hangers on write him off as a cheat. He’d be stabbed in his sleeping furs, and die with his boots on. But what if he drew? How good a shot was Eb Kelly? How fast could he draw that blaster hanging low at his side?
Eb broke the silence. “See, you all? He doesn’t deny anything!” This last taunt was more than Pierre could stand. He reached for his blaster, but Eb’s was out first and flashed fire. Pierre’s shoulder jerked, like an unseen hand had shoved him, and he fell. Rose screamed, leapt over the bar and dropped to her knees by the fallen man.
“Dead?” Eb asked, replacing his blaster in its holster.
“No,” said Rose, rising quickly. “But you are.” She jabbed the cold, hard barrell of Pierre’s blaster into Eb’s ribs. “Get out of my pod, the rest of you!” she yelled. The nervous remnants scrambled out.
“Rose — I don’t understand — why?”
“‘Cause a girl’s gotta make a living, Eb, however she can. And that old son-of-a-bitch Harte would pay through the nose to have his daughter back.”
“Pierre was working — for you!” Eb said, incredulously.
Suddenly, a voice outside called, “Everything alright in there, Rose?” Surprised, she glanced toward the door. That momentary distraction saved Eb’s neck. He smacked his forehead down quick and hard on the crown of Rose’s head, and she staggered and fell over stunned.
Eb bolted through the pod door. Swirls of purple dust wisped through the air amidst the ever-twilight of fading twin suns. Oblong pods of varying capacity were scattered helter-skelter, scarcely moved from where they landed in The Big Drop. Added to the ranks of Rose’s ousted customers were a few colonists who struggled on to make a meager living after the mining companies had moved on to more fertile worlds. Mostly men, they stood scratching at the ground with their boots, and saying nothing.
“Well, where is she?” Eb asked. “Where’s Blythe?”
“Don’t know nothin’, Eb,” someone muttered, avoiding his eyes.
A gray-bearded old-timer caught Eb’s attention with a twitch of his head subtly toward a small, derelict storage pod. No one tried to stop Eb as he pushed through the crowd. Two solid strikes with his shoulder was sufficient to bust the latch, revealing rusty, discarded mining tools and spare parts from an old atmosphere generator. In a dark corner lay a bound young girl, gagged with an oily cloth, eyes wide.
He jerked out his knife and ripped her bonds asunder. “Eb?” she gasped. “You’re still alive!”
“Glad to find you in the same condition.”
They hurried toward his lander, Eb with blaster drawn and ready, but no one interfered. “Where are we heading, Eb? Where’s there left to go?”
“Anywhere but here,” he said, sliding her into the cockpit and squeezing in beside her. He threw the thrust into full and the lander tore up into the alien sky.
by submission | Feb 16, 2013 | Story |
Author : Davena Oaks
Swaying on the jerking bus, her hooves planted widely to afford her better balance, Kira endured the ride with the expression of a true commuter: apathetic. Empty seats all around offered no temptation to sit, they were molded plastic with a mockingly thin layer of cloth cushion. They spared only a few inches for leg room – fine for humans and most other species with their short, single jointed limbs. Kira could not hope to fold her triple jointed legs into such a tiny space, so she remained standing. Deboarding at the downtown transit exchange, the shaggy furred female enjoyed a deep breath of cool evening air before heading for the sushi restaurant.
—
“So who do you think will show up?” Nyk peeled a sliver of pickled ginger off his plate and popped it in his mouth.
“Probably other alts, deekin, maybe a few greys?” Kira shrugged carelessly as the slang drew Nyk’s frown.
“Don’t call me a deekin. I told you I don’t like that.”
“Whatever. Greys don’t get touchy about the language. I don’t see why you do.”
“Greys don’t have to get touchy about much of anything.” Nyk hissed back at her and snagged a plate of unagi off the rollers, plunking it on the table between them. Discarding the plastic cover, he picked up one piece with his fingers while Kira snagged the other with a jab of her sticks. Nyk never used chopsticks, his scaly fingers lacked the sensitivity to manage the delicate task.
Kira was savoring the flakey meat when a slender human male appeared at the end of their table. Nervously he cleared his throat, obviously wanting their attention. Nyk immediately looked sour. Kira pasted a smile on her broad face.
“I must ask you and your companion to finish here for the evening,” the murmur of the restaurant went awkwardly silent.
“Sir we’re just-“
“We’re not done,” growled Nyk.
“No, you must go,” the man shook his head resolutely, rising to the posture of indignant restaurant owner.
Kira shook her heavy head. “We not causing trouble…”
The owner stepped back and pointed. In unforgiving sans serif it declared: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Non-Humans.
Kira bristled disdainfully as she rose, unfolding her heavily muscled legs brought her full height-and-horns towering over the diminutive human. He shrank back.
“Oh? Well, thank you for covering our check, we’ll be sure to let our friends know how generous you were tonight.” Malice dripped from her words. The owner paled but said nothing as Kira turned and stomped away, followed by a skulking Nyk. On the way to the exit her gaze fell across a pale-skinned creature in a grey business suit sitting at the bar, sipping saki. He had been sitting there all evening, unmolested by the proprietor.
The grey glanced up at her and their eyes met briefly. The blue-eyed alien nodded slightly before Kira scowled at him and turned away. Outside, she and Nyk slowed to an ambling pace once they neared the bus stop. Shortly later, the grey joined them with a bemused smile glittering in his eyes.
“You’re going to get arrested one of these days,” his mouth barely moved when he spoke.
“For a free meal, I’ll take that risk. He wasn’t going to boot you out, figured I might make a point,” the larger alien replied agreeably. Nyk just shook his head beside her.
“Well you did, I enjoyed a ‘free meal’ too,” the grey replied.
The three burst out laughing and continued down the street and towards their meeting.
by submission | Feb 15, 2013 | Story |
Author : Lindsey McLeod
The President stood silhouetted against the huge windows of the White House, hands clasped behind her back, apparently deep in thought. Over those slender shoulders, Jane Randall could see a vast expanse of starry sky that looked like nothing more than the remains of God’s first sneeze. The moon hung low and dark in the sky, tinged with a faint green glow. The air swam like a crocodile, tepid and slick and sharp – the summer heat unusual even for late August. The darkness inside the Oval Office only seemed to only magnify the humidity. Ever since this particular mission had begun, the President had become obsessed with the current hot topic; namely, the movement of toxic substances to a place where it could not possibly bother the human race. She’d moved all the lamps into the empty conference rooms along the hall, claiming the darkness assisted with her concentration and dedication. The staff had, with silent and unanimous agreement in the way of office workers all over the world, decided that this statement clearly meant ‘please further assist the President’s concentration and dedication regarding the matter at hand by stealing these lamps’, and they were nothing if not patriotic.
A suited secretary scurried in on squeaking shoes that were only partially muffled by the thick carpet, and spoke quietly into the President’s ear. He gave Randall a brief, uninterested glance as he left. She wondered how he could bear the weight of a blazer in this oven. There was no air conditioning here – the President didn’t approve of it. Randall’s own suit jacket lay casually discarded in her casual, temporary office in the east wing, casually hiding her portable fan. She didn’t feel particularly good – or indeed, casual – about that, but then again she didn’t particularly enjoy broiling in her own skin. It did you good to enact small act of rebellions against authority. Kept the mind fresh.
Randall scratched under her ear nervously, tucked a wisp of escaped blonde hair back into her bun and folded her hands behind her back again, doing her best to appear unruffled and composed. The uncomfortable feeling grew, flapping anxiously around her stomach on small, leathery wings. A thick worm of sweat crawled down the back of her neck and dampened the crisp collar of her white shirt. She tugged at it uncomfortably and then cleared her throat in the politest possible way. You didn’t rush the leader of the Free World.
“Ms President?” she said cautiously.
“I’m sorry, General. You were saying?”
“Ma’am, we are experiencing some-” Randall hesitated only briefly before forcing the word out of her mouth with some distaste and more than a little guilt, “-uh, issues, concerning the disposal of the newest batch of nuclear waste.”
The President turned to face her, brown eyes sharp and searching. Her gaze examined Randall’s face and form with clinical precision. Cataloguing. Probing. It made Randall’s insides twist. The leather wings beat faster. The worm crawled further down her back.
“Are you telling me that we’ve used up all our resources already?” the President asked slowly.
Randall paused, unsure of how to phrase the comment without it sounding either trite or patronizing. “The… the moon is not an infinite object, ma’am.”
“Nothing is, Randall. Nothing is.”
The President looked thoughtful. There was a brief, awkward silence. Randall felt the conversation slipping away from her and tried desperately to regain some footing.
“Ma’am?”
“Tell me, Randall,” said the President, turning again to stare out at the night sky, “what are we currently doing with Saturn?”
by submission | Feb 14, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
“Starship Tsiolkovsky, this is the Haven Space Station calling. Please respond.”
Captain John McCormick arose from his command chair. He and the other five recently reanimated members of the Tsiolkovsky crew were utterly shocked. The Tsiolkovsky had been launched on 18 June 2199, 100 years earlier. With its state of the art biostasis technology, the vessel was designed to allow its complement of six scientists to hibernate during the decades of travel between Earth and Alpha Centauri. Now, humanity’s first ambassadors to another solar system were being greeted by a human voice speaking perfect English.
Recovering from the initial shock of this unanticipated contact, McCormick radioed back, “This is Captain John McCormick of the Tsiolkovsky. Identify yourself.”
“Captain, I’m Commander Brijendra Patel of the Alpha Centauri Space Authority. I have no doubt you’re quite shocked to discover anybody out here. I’m equally sure you have a lot of questions. Would you allow me to have the station dock with your vessel? I’ve been expecting you and I’ve prepared a proper hero’s welcome for you aboard Haven.”
Two hours later the dazed crew of the Tsiolkovsky were seated around a large oak table in a tastefully decorated dining room. They were offered food and drink but had little appetite.
“How did anyone beat us out here?” asked McCormick.
“Twenty years after you left,” replied Patel, “the Starship Clarke, propelled by a Bussard ramjet more advanced than your ship’s nuclear drive, set out for Alpha Centauri. Their journey only took half as long as yours.”
“So the trip only took 50 years? And they left 20 years after us? That means they beat us here by 30 years. So, the crew of the Clarke were the first to arrive?”
“Not exactly, Captain,” said Patel. “You see, 20 years after the Clarke left Earth, the Starship Zubrin began the journey using an antimatter propulsion system that compressed the travel time to 20 years.”
McCormick was stunned. “Okay,” said McCormick, “so the first people to arrive here were the crew of the Zubrin in 2259. Right?”
“No,” said Patel. “Five years after the Zubrin left for Alpha Centauri, another ship, the Goddard, was launched. Its graviton impeller engine allowed it to approach lightspeed. It arrived after about five years of travel.”
McCormick sighed. “So in 2249 the Goddard arrived and–”
“The Von Braun,” said Patel. “Quantum tunneling drive. Set out two years after the Goddard. Arrived here instantaneously.”
“Alright!” said McCormick, red faced. “Instantaneously! So that’s, what? The year 2246? That’s when–”
“The Starship Oberth,” Patel interjected. “Tachyon engine. Launched after the Von Braun but arrived here way before everybody else by traveling back in time en route.”
McCormick stared at Patel for half a minute. “Well, any other ships?!”
“No,” said Patel. “I am the grandson of two members of the Oberth’s crew. It was my idea to establish this station to greet the interstellar pioneers who came ‘before’ us. Captain, you and your crew are heroes. And your arrival makes this an historic day!”
“How?!” asked McCormick angrily. “The Oberth, the Von Braun, the Goddard, the Zubrin, the Clarke! They all beat us here!”
“That’s what makes this day historic!” said Patel, standing up and raising his wine glass to McCormick and his crew. “There are many pioneers in the history of the exploration and colonization of Alpha Centauri. But you, ladies and gentlemen, are unique. You got here last!”
by Duncan Shields | Feb 13, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Janice faltered in the dark apartment. It wasn’t hers. She was sobering up, the guy was snoring, and it was time to go. She had her panties in her pocket and her shoes were dangling from her hand by their thin, blue straps.
It was time to head home, have a shower, print off a fresh uniform, and try to clear her head for work.
She had a sub-orbital to catch to Leningrad and then the Skyrock up to Luna2. Too many launch G’s and ten years of space travel meant that her career as a flight attendant was coming to an end. Osteoporosis was setting in and her capillaries were starting to rupture.
She had a future of varicose veins and weak bones to look forward to.
Janice was independent. She used to laugh at the younger attendants who would sign on to permanent careers with one company for pitiful pensions or use their job to romance rich patrons in First Class and catch themselves a husband.
She used to scoff at the ones who found sugar daddies to pay their bills while they put their own paycheques into low-yield, low-risk investments. Sheep.
Janice looked at them as space whores. She thought she was better than that. Things were not working out, however, and she hated herself at the moment.
Janice had been a smart girl with a bright future. The flight attendant job offered a chance to travel and was a fairly easy form of crowd control. The safety protocols were so redundant these days that an accident was nearly impossible.
It was safe, she saw the worlds, and she was beautiful. For a while, she was an angel of space.
Time had raced past her, however, and she’d never finished her degree. Her body was starting to degrade and she had no money of her own saved up or at least not enough to retire with.
She’d put all her paychecks into high-risk investments and as of three months ago, her money was gone. A decompression had taken all of her investments away along with most of the executives that were behind the project.
A low-level panic had started in. She’d been given a copy of the note from the work doctor that said she had six months left of safe travel before she should be grounded.
It was an execution sentence. The party was over and it was last call. This angel was getting her wings clipped.
So she started sleeping with first class passengers and taking their money.
She had nothing. Something about flight attendants really got men hot and bothered so the pickings were easy but most of them had wives already.
She had four months left to hook a husband with money before her time ran out. She had nightmares of the bubbles building up in her bones until she became too fragile to walk. She’d be in a wheelchair and begging for change. Her looks would be gone.
She’d be terrified of falling.
She is terrified of falling.
by submission | Feb 12, 2013 | Story |
Author : Sierra Corsetti
Marie snuck a glance out of the corner of her eyes as the card dispenser beeped and dropped three slips of plastic-coated paper into her waiting hand. She dropped them into the front pocket of her leather overcoat and swished out of the pharmacy, merging into the early-morning foot traffic as she fingered the slick surface of the cards.
Though the cards had been legalized a decade ago, they were still treated as taboo, something that shouldn’t be discussed openly. Marie knew the fear of the unspoken truth was irrational, since everyone over the age of 13 bought their daily limit and used them. Even Marie herself was reluctant to discuss the life choice she has made unconsciously one day after school shortly after her 13th birthday.
Marie sidestepped through the throngs of people commuting to work, and ducked into a small coffee shop. She ordered her usual house brew, black with a touch of sugar, and sat down with the day’s newspaper. Hiding behind the inky newsprint, she slipped the cards out of her pocket to inspect them with a straight face.
No Free Lunch today, but the Unlimited Cab Fare could be handy, as well as the Free Hit. The I Haven’t Been Drinking Officer, I Swear was a shame since she only had need for those on the weekends. Marie decided the other two made up for it.
She downed the rest of her coffee and glanced at the clock. School would start in half an hour, but she could dally over the paper longer today. She had a free ride.
In second period, Alex McCann made fun of her for her dreadlocks. Marie fingered her Free Hit card, but decided that Alex McCann wasn’t worth it. An hour and a half later, someone ran into her in the hallway and made her drop her armful of books. Since the whole thing was an accident, Marie decided to hold on to the card for a little longer.
After school, Marie took a cab downtown and wandered the streets, window shopping until past dark. A man cornered her in an alley on 32nd street. Marie pulled out the card and smiled as she felt it turn into knife in her hand.
An hour later, she walked through her front door, mouth watering as she smelled the spaghetti sauce her mother was cooking for dinner.
“How was your day, honey?” her mother called from the kitchen.
Marie rubbed at the bloodstain on the sleeve of her coat and made a mental note to have it cleaned before school tomorrow.
“Great,” she replied.
