by submission | Apr 7, 2013 | Story |
Author : David Stevenson
A yellow flashing beacon. Another package spinning through space. I reach out and snag the drag line carefully. The beacon is attached to one end of a line, at the other end is the supply crate with another flashing beacon. It’s a lot easier to catch a line than a small mass, but in this gravitational field the tides are fierce, and if I try to grab a line being spun round with a weight at either end I could lose an arm.
Maybe I’ll do that sometime; might be a quick way to go. For now I snag the line using a crude hook I keep for this purpose.
Power cells; food blocks; fresh water; filters for the suit; all the usual suspects. That’s entropy staved off for another while. I tie these supplies onto the raft of similar crates floating in space beside me. I’m much more interested in the datapod, if there’s one there.
There always is. I take the datapod, and I plug it into my suit. Some virtual reality recordings of classical music. Good. A month’s worth of current events newscasts. That’s alright, but I’m out of sync. These are from last year and I’ve already seen more recent ones. Another bunch of letters and videos from friends and family. Not sure whether to start with those or leave them until last.
I remember the first pod I found, and the letters it contained. All the first 50 or so pods had the same message in them. They were all sent at the same time and they had no way of knowing which one I would encounter first. I still occasionally pick up one of the first batch.
“If you’re reading this then you didn’t plunge to your doom on the neutron star.” That’s Steve’s sense of humour for you.
“We think the accident blew you into a stable orbit that’s high enough up that it won’t immediately decay.” Correct. Not high enough up that they can rescue me, of course. Any ship coming this low would be ripped apart by tidal forces.
“We can’t transmit through the radiation, but we can send these pods into the same orbit as you and you can pick them up.” Ah yes, that radiation. The radiation that would kill me if it weren’t for my suit and the medical nanochines repairing the damage.
“We have to take the ship back to Earth now, but we’re leaving a field manufacturing unit in the asteroid belt. It’s going to scavenge matter and it will keep on turning out these pods and inserting them into your orbit. We can communicate with the factory and send new data to be forwarded.” Great. I can’t even die of boredom.
I have a virtually endless supply of consumables, both for me, and the suit. The medichines will keep me alive indefinitely. My suit needs a lot of fuel to keep my orbit from decaying, but they make sure to send me plenty.
So, I have a choice. Staying here forever orbiting a neutron star wearing only a spacesuit until I die of old age, or explosive decompression and a quick death.
I’m going for the third option. I don’t know if I’ll still be in one piece, or if I’ll be ripped apart. I don’t know if I’ll be conscious, but if not then the suit will keep my feet pointing towards the star. I’m burning all my fuel, I’m going in, and I’m going to be the first man ever to stand, just for a microsecond, on the surface of a star.
by submission | Apr 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Mike McLaren
Shmuel Berkov grew up in Logoisk, and lived a regular life like any other boy in the village, until his eighteenth birthday, when he made the decision to run for Prime Minster of Belarus. He wanted to grow up and save the world. His dream to be the leader of his country came true.
#
Four friends sat at the compass points of a round table. They leered at one another over the monitors of their laptops. One of them held down the SHIFT-COMMAND keys and fingered a series of letters and numbers. He pressed ENTER.
Montol bolted to his feet. “Gimme a break, Epron. Every time you take a new turn it seems like you’re trying to end the game.”
“Well, duh. Now you’re catching on. I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on that three turns back.”
“Why?” asked Fras. “This is a fun game.”
“Come on guys; we’ve restructured the geology a billion times, rotated species over three hundred fifty billion times… .”
“But that’s the game, Epron.”
“We haven’t come up with a new thought in forever, not since Toubis invented gunpowder.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” contended Fras. “I came up with the steam engine idea right after that.”
“Just an extension of energy under pressure.”
“Uh uh. It allowed for the creation of electricity.”
“Just another extension of lightning, which was just an extension of fire. Don’t you see; we’ve gotten as boring as the game.”
“But I just came up with all those electronic gadgets.”
“Piffle. Fras gave that species thumbs for better uses than that.”
“So what do you want to do?” asked Toubis.
Epron leaned over his laptop. “Remember the first move of your last turn; you reorganized the politics of Europe and came up missing a bunch of nukes. Well, guess who has them.” He held down SHIFT-COMMAND, keyed-in G-A-M-E-O-V-E-R, and pressed ENTER.
All four boys leaned over their laptops and watched a crimson glow spread across their monitors.
“Well you did it, Epron.” Montol spun on his heels. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Got no choice, now.”
“Ah, don’t worry, man. We’ll think of something new. You know we always do.”
#
Prime Minister Berkov took up his pen, and at the moment he was to sign an historic document that would provide for perfect economic equality throughout the country, he was struck by another thought, as if a button had been pushed in his brain to reroute his synapses. He set down his pen, and picked up the telephone connected directly to the military base in Minsk. Within thirty seconds, the skies above Belarus clouded over completely with the contrails of nuclear missiles.
by featured writer | Apr 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“The corporeals have sent another machine to planet four,” said Wyvin to Lekvar. Of course, Wyvin had not really “said” anything. He, or more precisely “it,” had communicated its thoughts via short range radio frequency modulation to its companion as the two gaseous entities sailed through the atmosphere of Saturn.
Lekvar responded with a radio signal that in a human being would have been a look of astonishment coupled with a shake of the head. “It never ceases to amaze me. Devices are sometimes of solid construction, but lifeforms? The planet three aliens are as concrete as the robotic mechanism they send out into space. What would that be like, living as a small, indurated mass?”
Wyvin modulated a response: “Unable to fly or change shape, unable to expand or contract, and trapped on a tiny, dense rock world. The most confining magnetic prison would be preferable. When planet three first started broadcasting modulated radio signals a few years ago, the scientific community was perplexed how life could have arisen on such an inhospitable world. When it was discovered that the signals were generated by technology operated by non-plasmatic lifeforms, our very concept of biology had to be revised.”
Wyvin and Lekvar stopped transmitting to each other for some time. They floated together in radio silence, propelled by 1,600 kilometer per hour winds and contemplated what existence might be like for the odd, impossible, solid aliens of planet three. Finally, Lekvar signaled, “Is it true they landed a device on the Great Satellite?”
“Yes,” said Wyvin. “Our colonists were instructed not to signal the probe and not to go near it.”
“Why not make contact?” asked Lekvar. “They’re our neighbors. Shouldn’t we establish some sort of diplomatic relations like we have with the inhabitants of planet five? Shouldn’t we let them know there are tens of thousands of civilizations in the galaxy?”
“Tens of thousands of plasmatic civilizations,” said Wyvin. “Lekvar, we’ve managed to acquire and translate a lot of information from the corporeals, including their speculation on the future of their own expansion into space. They imagine a galaxy teeming with other corporeals. They’ve even made pitiful attempts to monitor the cosmos for signals from other civilizations they imagine to be like their own. You see the problem?”
“I believe I do,” responded Lekvar. “The third planet aliens are an oddity, the only documented case of non-plasmatic life in history. Is that why we’ve been forbidden from telling the other extrasolar civilizations about them?”
“Precisely,” said Wyvin. “If word got out that we have corporeal lifeforms, our solar system would be overrun. Half the scientists in the galaxy would descend on planet three. Can you imagine the experiments to which those corporeals would be subjected? That world and its inhabitants would be taken apart by every xenobiologist within 50,000 light-years to try to discover how something as paradoxical as solid life could even exist.”
“So,” said Lekvar, “we are effectively administrators of a nature preserve.”
“Effectively, yes,” replied Wyvin. “The corporeals are a unique form of life. They have as much right to exist as any plasmatic.”
“And when they expand out far enough into the solar system that they inevitably discover us or the sentients on planet five?”
“When that day comes,” Wyvin said, “we’ll have to tell them the truth. But I hope that day is long in coming. I hope they can persist in their silly, naïve worldview for a while longer. I think they’ll find the true nature of the cosmos a heavier burden than even their massy, compacted bodies.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Screams mingle with the hiss of blood on coals. The clatter of dropped gear and the sound of running feet. When will they learn that using small weapons against us is the same as committing suicide?
> CMNDLCK0
I jerk into wakefulness as the amber letters glow across my optic. What the frack? Tactical comms icon flashes for attention. I look and allow.
“Trooper Lillman. Are you returned from C-mode?”
“Awake and curious.” The fact I reply casually is proof. Combat mode has limited syntax and doesn’t do chat.
“Thank Elvis for that. I am Captain Morebay. I need you to do full-droid until we are in the lifter. Do you understand?”
From an observer’s standpoint, you cannot distinguish between biodroid and android unless we are loaded. Biodroids have a diversity of gear and personalisation. Androids, obviously, do not indulge in personal anything. So when things hit the fan, all of us have learned how to behave like an android. Because they have immunity, in effect. It’s called ‘progmal’ and means that the android experienced an error. You don’t court-martial faulty machinery.
“I am returning control to you but erasing recent memory.”
That’s bad. Means something triggered C-mode outside of combat.
> DELMEM90
> RETCMND0
My view returns and I’m standing across the road from my parent’s house. They’re on the lawn talking to a constable. Mum’s crying. There’s a biodroid officer standing by them. I realise that is Captain Morebay and officially she’s nowhere near me.
“Lifter is on your three at the end of the street. Go. Now.”
I pivot on my right heel and parade march to the lifter across front gardens, through fences and over vehicles. There’s a click as the Captain shares her vox with me: “As you can see, your son has had a void episode brought on by progmal. What you see is what acted earlier. Only the android. I’ll make sure he receives the best treatment, but you understand that because of this incident, he cannot legally visit here again.”
Dad’s voice is full of gratitude. “Thank you. Captain. It’s such a relief to know he’s not lost.”
With that, it all wraps up double-quick and moments later the Captain is across from me as the lifter heads for Aldershot.
“Free and easy, Lillman.”
I drop the stiff poise and relax the bits of real me in here: not many.
“What did I do, Captain?”
“Not your fault, Lillman. You went over to a neighbourhood barbeque at your parent’s request. People are curious about hybrids, as you know. While you were doing a sterling job of relationship building, one of the teenage boys pulled a zapgun and shot you in the back.”
That would do it. Zapguns were the favoured challenge weapon on Uritreya. Always followed by a vicious firefight.
“How many, Captain?”
“Twenty-six. No wounded. Gunman first. Apart from them being friendlies, it was beautiful. The police car was a work of art.”
I put my head in my hands. “Oh gawd. What a way to end.”
“You miss the point, Lillman. You were getting along famously despite being eight feet tall, covered in armour and having eyes that look like one-piece sunglasses embedded in your featureless alloy face. When the situation changed you only took out immediate threats. They didn’t realise that any movement toward you would be interpreted as aggression by C-mode. Everyone who ran away survived.”
I looked at her. “And?”
“You’re joining my mob. Executive Operations. One of us with the charisma to interact with fleshies? You’re wasted on gruntwork.”
by Desmond Hussey | Apr 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
Our Probation. That’s what the first hundred years of our subjugation by the Thkar were called. After a long history of subservience to home-grown oppressors, we were extremely pliant to the superior wills of alien powers. Universaly speaking, we were easy pickin’s. Ten decades of “good behaviour” earned us a semblance of civil rights; a boon from our generous masters, who have, in Chancellor Sssths’s own words, “long grown bored of the tediousss and sssychophantic Hu-man sss-pecies.” Posing no threat to Thkar dominion, humans can now vote, marry, own property, do business – even hope to achieve a seat on the Earth Senate.
Or become crime reporters.
“He was asking for it,” the human prostitute drawls around a thick wad of chewing gum. “See what he’s wearin’?” She blows a tight, florescent pink bubble, which snaps accusingly as an officer ushers her behind the police line. The crowd’s whispers drift over me as I approach the corpse. “He shoulda known better.” “Idiot.” “Tragic.” Several Thkar tongues lick salaciously at the scent of fresh blood in the air.
The victim, DNA matched as a Mr. Timothy Hutton, is revealed through a series of flashes as my Tri-D camera records his death in sublime detail. His body’s been dumped atop a pile of garbage, decapitated. His clothing’s shredded, stained crimson. Blood is copious. The story of his demise is clear: an opportunistic Thkar simply bit the unwitting head off a passing jogger – its massive jaws tearing deep into the man’s torso – then discarded his lifeless remains in the trash.
Mutually agreed civic policies have been implemented to protect human citizens from becoming a Thkar’s lunch, but new laws spawn new criminals. Truth is we’re second-class citizens on our own home world. Our freedom is an illusion; a belief we cling to for sanity’s sake.
I can’t see how the victim’s attire – a tank-top and shorts ensemble – earned him the dubious privilege of having his head devoured (a Thkar delicacy). But then I see it. He showed too much flesh around the alien carnivore. Which is akin to saying, “she asked to get raped.” Some days I hate my job.
I snap a final Tri-D of the mutilated corpse and leave Mr. Hutton to the clean-up crew. Elbowing my way through the mob of gossip-starved onlookers, ghosts of past victims make cameos in the gathering darkness demanding answers I don’t have.
A heavy rain falls as I step into the neon soaked night. I turn up my collar and walk.
Soon, I’m drenched, alone and certain I’m being followed. Glancing over my shoulder I see a bulky shadow emerge from the darkness; a long, clawed limb reaching toward me. Adrenaline drunk, I blunder over an ill-placed garbage can and slam painfully onto the wet concrete. Skin on my hands and knees rip; I taste blood. The mammoth Thkar looms nearer. Terror freezes me to the ground, muscles disobeying my mind’s desperate command to “move, move, DAMMIT MOVE!”
A leathery hand grips my wrist and I’m hauled gently to my feet by powerful arms.
“Careful now,” the Thkar hisses amiably. “You hurt?”
Only my pride. I shake my head.
“You dropped thisss back there.” The reptoid holds out my wallet, which I numbly retrieve without a word. “Ssssshame about that poor guy.” The Thkar seems genuinely concerned, but I can only mumble an embarrassed, “thanks” before slinking away into the enveloping night, ashamed of my own prejudice against this well-intentioned Thkar, but eager to put as much distance as possible between us.
by Duncan Shields | Apr 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Dawn jumps up from behind the mountains and splashes over the city, making a high tide of light that reaches with bright yellow fingers up to my bedroom window.
The glow filters through the dust motes and the blinds. It paints stripes onto my floor. My dry body twitches, climbing the ladder up from dreams to a state of awareness. The images let go of me as my brain re-orders into something more limited. My conscious mind asserts itself, pushing the dreams away, eradicating the memory of them.
I remember. Last year that the road outside would have been filled with cars, honking horns, the hum of radials on warming pavement as the first world went to work.
That’s missing now. I can hear the scuffling of footsteps and people talking to each other. This is the new world. There are still banks and borders but cars, those dinosaur-blooded monsters come to reclaim the earth, they’re almost all gone.
I hear the ratcheting of changing gears on bicycles. I remember that rent will be due in two days.
Those of us that can afford it carry firearms now.
A frontier mentality is taking over, a mindset that always happen to humanity when faced with tough challenges. There’s an bluntness to it that I find refreshing in its brutality. Like the human race is going through a chapter of being honest with itself.
Gold is still gold but a majority of the businesses in the world have gone bankrupt. The upper floors of most high-rise downtown buildings are deserted. Offices have become hovels for nomads and squatters. We haunt this city.
The desert is reclaiming the world. I’ve heard the term ‘dustbowl’ from old books about the depression of the 1930s but I never understood it until now.
We all wear handkerchiefs or cheap air filters on our faces.
We feel lost. No leader has risen yet to take over. The whole notion of government has become informal. Local leaders are making the rules. The republicans were well-prepared. The liberals think the end times are here.
Myself, I know that I have to find some food out there and a day’s work. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. I’ll check the condensation tanks and see what the day’s water levels are.
I’m awake.
