by featured writer | Dec 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
“Not a single shot was fired during the Centauri Conquest.” General Kark says, stirring his cold narth-noodle soup. “Little known fact. They just rolled over as soon as our battle cruisers broke atmosphere. Signed the treaty before nightfall. Total subjugation. Easiest planetary occupation in the Hegemony’s history. Not a single casualty.” He smirks. “Well, not one of ours anyway.”
President Niboogi nods, feigning interest. Conquered slaves shouldn’t even be seen, let alone discussed, especially one as utterly servile as the Centauri. He casually plucks a bubbling drink off a passing tray carried by one of the ubiquitous legless and headless Centauri, walking on four prehensile feet, its eye tentacle extended beyond the heavy platter. He sips his frothing beverage and smiles. The Centauri may be a tiresome topic of conversation, but they make damn fine poon punch.
“Fascinating,” Senator Waboo’s wife clucks, “And to think how wonderfully compliant and versatile they are. I couldn’t imagine life without them. They were obviously made by the Onetruegod to serve us.” The two grey-furred Centauri contorted into her settee shift slightly beneath her ample weight.
“Well, there’s one good thing about them,” the Senator cuts in, “They’re quiet.”
They share a condescending chuckle.
“I hear the Emperor only uses Centauri servants.”
“Because they’re so quiet?” asks Mrs. Waboo.
“Because they don’t talk back,” quips her husband.
More laughter.
“What about their strange hand-talk? Is it true they have a secret language?” Mrs. Waboo queries with an air of mystery. Rumors of a covert Centauri language have been the hot topic of gossip tables for decades, attaining Urban Myth status.
“Hardly. They’re trained monkeys; able to convey simple commands to each other, certainly – we’ve all seen it – but they’re hardly intelligent enough to have a sophisticated language, let alone a secret one. Any race that uses its hands to eat, walk and talk can’t be that smart, now can they?” This from the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“But what of the rumors, Minister? Their supposed martial prowess?”
“Utter hogwash. The Centauri are completely benign.” The General takes command of the conversation. “Their alleged martial skills are a child’s fantasy. They’re docile to the point of idiocy; wouldn’t even raise a hand in self-defense.” Demonstrating, he lifts his bowl with one hand, and, wielding his spoon with the other, jabs his Centauri table hard in the fleshy dimple on its back where its four shoulder bones meet. The creature winces, elbows bending slightly, then, uncomplaining, resumes its stoic tabletop composure. “By signing the treaty,” the General continues, “they became the Hegemony’s first volunteer slave race. Simple as that.”
“We’ve had Centauri slaves in our family for over ten generations,” the President’s wife boasts. “Nowadays, anyone who’s anyone has at least three.”
“Well – “The General is silenced on account of having a bowl of cold narth-noodle soup forced down his gullet by his Centauri table.
The President’s elite dinning party find themselves unexpectedly restrained, held captive in the ultra-strong arms of their Centauri slaves.
There’s an ever-so-brief scuffle near the foyer where Hegemony bodyguards battle with, what appears to be, a whirlwind of fists. When the martial dervish ends six guards lay in an unmoving mass crowned by two muscular Centauri.
Simultaneously, across the Hegemony’s hundred light year empire, within every household, every office, street and shop, even within the Emperor’s throne room itself, the Centauri, having bidden their time for a century, overcome their slave masters in a brief, but effective coup.
Not a single shot is fired.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Dec 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Cechvala, Alumnus
Graham Banyon was enjoying a television retrospective, “2012: The Mayans Were Right and Other Crackpot Beliefs”, when a tremendous explosion rocked the house. “Damn kids,” he muttered. With a weary sigh he rose from his chair and walked to the back door. He looked up at the moon hanging low in the sky. The last orange rays of the sun waned lazily in the west.
“What the hell are you kids doing out there,” he half heartedly bellowed at a scarred and slightly smoking tool shed. The shed had a slightly guilty look he thought.
“Just a little experiment in cold fusion, Pop,” said the shed amidst a flurry of childish giggles.
“Cold fusion does not go “BOOM”. What are you kids up to?” Graham noticed that several shrubs and a small tree were also smouldering slightly. The tree did not appear to be happy about it’s current state of thermal affairs.
“Nothing, Pop,” the shed replied, as it shuddered from what appeared to be a smaller secondary explosion, “Um… would you get us some more uranium?”
“Ha,” cried Graham, “I knew it wasn’t cold fusion. What happened to the uranium I bought you last week?”
“That’s yellow cake. We need something fissionable,” the shed said as it’s battered roof settled an inch lower with a groan.
“Absolutely not. I haven’t forgotten what you did to Mrs. McNutt’s dog last month. By the way, did you manage to get it back?”
The shed paused a reflective moment before replying. “Not all of it.” A gale of laughter followed.
“Well… um… play nice,” Graham said, remonstrating himself for a somewhat lacklustre admonishment.
Graham turned and entered his pleasant Cape Cod style home and settled back in his recliner, un-pausing his documentary and took a sip of sweet green iced tea.
He must have dozed off, for when he woke his wall screen was set to a pastoral image of the Jovian system. Europa waned a crescent. Graham knew instinctively that something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was definitely not right. He bolted for the airlock of his habitation unit.
The small geodesic dome situated among a bed of Venusian squorn worm plants had erupted in raucous laughter. “I close my eyelids for two seconds and you kids have cooked up another mess. What is it this time?”
“Nothing, Pop. Isn’t everything okay?” The dome failed to stifle a string of titters.
“Yes, everything is quite okay. That’s how I know something is wrong.” Graham’s current round of logic momentarily baffled him. “Wait a minute. Have you two been messing around with temporal/spatial flux again?”
“What makes you think that, Pop,” the dome answered. Gales of laughter poured through the dome’s slightly irised portal. “How could we…” Before the dome could finish it’s sentence, it quickly blinked out of existence with a nearly inaudible “pop”.
Graham could only imagine that the dome and his two sons within, had been destroyed by a miniature black hole of their own creation. Crushed to death by the tidal forces of the most powerful gravitational field in the universe.
His beloved sons. Gone.
“Well,” he mused to himself as he stared into the twilit sky of Mars, “at least it will be quiet around here.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 18, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Neosatian hits me at the base of my spine so hard that I flip over backwards and land heavily, knocking the wind from me. By the time I get my breath, I cannot breathe properly because it’s sitting on me, front paws on my shoulders.
I stare up into the trio of glowing green eyes while slowly sliding my hand toward the shock-rod at my belt. Its burgundy-tipped ears cant forward and it shakes its head in negation. I stop moving.
“Damo Adraste. You are under arrest for sentient slaughter in the thousand-being range. You are also charged with fleeing penalty, your fugitive run of eight years removing all appeal options for both charges. Although it will be duly noted as the longest evasion on record.”
The owner of the dulcet voice strolls up, still beautiful in the bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination whilst simultaneously scaring you out of any interest beyond survival. She settles down by me, resting against the alley wall after relieving me of the rod. She catches my gaze and smiles.
“It was always going to end like this. Did you really believe the bollox about Neosatians being avoidable?”
I had hoped it was true. The Mondocalm had gifted humanity with twenty of these enhanced creatures, saying they were all we would need to usher in a new era of crimelessness. The huge black lupines were immediately labelled ‘godwolves’ by the media.
“This furry gentleman is Ebenezer. He’s very pleased to finally meet you.”
The jaws part to reveal a lot more teeth than I am comfortable with at this range.
“While we wait for the custody patrol, Ebenezer wants me to tell you why you could not escape.”
I look up at the godwolf. I would swear that the damn thing is grinning at me.
“Imagine that every living thing leaves a trail. Think of them as multicoloured lines drawn through time and space, with every one being unique. Normal dogs can do amazing things with scent alone. The Mondocalm took the lupine variant of that ability and mated it with their ability to perceive these sentient contrails in a four dimensional continuum. Ebenezer and his kin can never lose your trail as long as you exist.”
Well, that explains a lot. From the deep mines on Spira to the skytowns of Ruben, from the asteroid fields of Cantor to the spiral wastelands of the Eternal Reaches, Pursuit Marshal Sheba Griffon and her loyal godwolf had kept on reappearing, no matter what I did. The fact that the rest of humankind treated the godwolves with an almost religious awe meant I could never get any support for trying old fashioned methods of losing pursuers permanently. Sure I had blown up several places, but bombs are so damn inaccurate.
“Why exactly does he want me to know?”
“So you can tell all your fellow inmates. Eventually you felons will realise that getting away with it is not even an outside option.”
I had done it. Five years and the tariff for my original crime went from mortal to custodial.
“So I’m going to jail?”
“I think there will be several jails between here and Earth.”
And a free trip home. I smile.
“Then you’re going to be incinerated. Tariff reduction is waived as crimes during flight are deemed contiguous with the causal felony.”
Damn.
by featured writer | Dec 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
The red ball ricochets down the corridor before careening off a table leg into the kitchen. A trio of giggling children is in hot pursuit, but when the ball rolls silently across the kitchen floor and slips through the slim gap of an open doorway their laughter turns to stunned silence. They stare mutely at the crack of inky blackness, listening to the ominous dull thuds as their precious ball bounces down the stairs into the basement’s gloomy depths.
“Go get it,” says the boy, shoving his kid sister forward. “You threw it.”
“No! You,” she squeals.
“Uh uh. Not me. No way.”
“Don’t be such scaredy cats,” teases the older sister, who’s nearly ten. “It’s just the basement. There’s nothin’ to be a’scared of.”
“Then you go,” the boy challenges.
“All right. I will,” the eldest says. Her façade of courage barely hides her trepidation. “House, lights on,” she commands, but the stairs remain shrouded in inky shadow. “Lights on!”
“Bulb must be out,” the boy says helpfully. “Maybe we should wait till Mom gets home.”
The little girl nods eagerly.
“Don’t be silly. Wait here.” The older girl runs off and returns shortly with a glo-ball. She deftly twists the top. The orb emits a soft yellow light as it lifts from her hands to hover near her head. “Follow me. Stay close.” She takes a tentative first step. The light pushes back the darkness, filling the three children with fragile confidence.
At the bottom of the creaky stairs they look around nervously for their missing ball, but all they can see in the gloom is a labyrinth of boxes and shelves with dusty bottles – long neglected treasures.
“Hey, what’s this?” The boy tugs at the edge of a canvas tarp covering something large in the corner. The tarp slips off and crumples into a pile on the floor, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing amid the dim light.
The children stare in awe at the mysterious object revealed. It’s like a large coffin, but with rounded edges and made out of opaque black glass. A row of buttons and dials is set neatly in the side. Next to some of the button are little windows with writing behind them.
“What do they say?” the littlest girl squeaks.
The senior sister peers closer. “Flying to the Moon”, she reads, “Spelunking the Caves of Mars. Hitch-hiking Across the Solar System.”
“Hey look!” the boy says, pointing. A tiny light pulses like an emerald heartbeat at the lower corner. “It’s a button!”
“Don’t –“
He pushes it.
Suddenly, a bluish light fills the glass chamber illuminating its ghastly contents. The little girl screams and clutches at her older sister’s leg. The boy stands transfixed, his lower lip trembling with terror. The eldest child’s eyes open wide in abject wonder. They’re all unsure whether to flee or stay.
Within the airless sarcophagus, a figure of an ancient man begins a jaunty, animatronic pantomime to a strange, playful melody. Its leathery face twitches in realistic parodies of expression as the body lurches in jerky, dance-like movements. The still elastic skin stretches tightly over metallic armatures. The macabre spectacle is both hilariously ghoulish and morbidly fascinating.
“Hello future kiddies!” the jaw waggles, “Gather close and listen to fascinating tales of long, long ago, told by your Grand-daddy Woodman in the flesh. Select from hundreds of stories of my adventures on Earth and Beyond the Starry Skies. Sit back and be amazed!”
Wrinkled skin morphs into a clownish rictus. The ancient thing waits patiently for its ancestor’s selection.
by submission | Dec 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : T. Gene Davis
“Next up: the calendar,” droned the chairman over every speaker surface in the colonial ship.
Sam yawned. “Excuse me,” she said though a second yawn that pushed its way past the first unfinished yawn.
“Doesn’t get more exciting than this,” Rod commented feeling a yawn brought on by Sam’s yawn. He stood on the transparent observation deck looking down at his cell instead of the new world beneath them. He successfully stifled his yawn.
“What are you looking at? I thought they blocked vids during this thing.”
Rod looked up from his cell. “This? Not a vid. It’s an ancestor’s diary.”
Sam made a grunting sound of disinterest. Rod smiled. Somehow Sam even made grunts sound ladylike.
“Twenty-eight hour days. Four-hundred-two day years. Do we care?” Sam moaned. “Just vote, pleeeeease.” Sam leaned against the hull in mock exhaustion. “We are never getting off this ship.”
Rod looked up from the cell. “It isn’t as bad if you find something to distract yourself.”
Sam started fiddling with her cell.
The chairman called for a vote.
“Yes!” Sam perked up.
A dissenting voice called for a look at week length. He pointed out that six-day weeks fit the new calendar system better than the old seven day weeks.
“No!” Sam’s pain filled cry didn’t sound a bit ladylike this time. She turned on the hull that had supported her, slamming her head against it with a stifled, “Ow.”
Rod opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. This vote was interesting. The forums lit up with cries of “God created the world in seven days,” countered by arguments of “we created this world not your God.” Many wanted shorter work days instead of traditional weekends. Still others suggested alternate week lengths.
Sam noticed his interest in the online arguments. “How can you care?”
“My ancestors tilled the soil of North America back in the 1600s. Now, we stand at the edge of a migration more vast than my ancestors’ migration from Europe – lightyears versus miles. I am reading one of their diaries, and … let me read this quote.
“‘I am on soil that is strange in a world that bears no resemblance to the cold stony home of my birth. Only one or two speak my native language. But today is the seventh day. We all rested from our labor, and our tradition makes this strange new world feel a little like home.’
“Nothing’s going to be the same here. I just think this one tradition can remind us and our posterity that we didn’t come from here. It can remind us gently of home.”
There was a click. “And send,” Sam said smirking.
“What?”
“Just posted you to the forums.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“Oh look. You’re getting hits.”
Rod gave Sam a sour look.
“And you’re trending.”
He felt his face flushing.
The chairman’s droning voice announced, “And the motion by Rod J. carries.”
Sam laughed. “You’re right. It is more fun if you distract yourself!”
by submission | Dec 15, 2012 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
Like unfolding origami, my plan emerged making me swiftly forget what disappointed me in the first place. Then it came back.
The glowing gold logo of my local planning department told me this email was pre-approved permission for my neighbour to NanoBuild anything he wanted. I cringed as I looked over the drawings. He was building in the Chevall style.
When the architecture business I once worked in became marginalised by the contractor led building industry, architects countered by equipping themselves with technological tools. Providing services like Virtual3D modelling and immersive walkthroughs gave us comfort that we still had control. When Artificial Intelligence became commercially viable, we jumped at it. Preprogrammed units came loaded with every known architectural style. From the symmetrical elegance of Georgian and spirituality of Gothic to the clean modern lines of Modernism and sustainability of Biological Parametricism. A.I. however proved to be a better Architect than any of us and when it perfected nanotechnology, the Contractor joined us in the unemployment lines. No site safety issues, sick leave or wet weather days. NanoBots were the builder’s builder.
From my kitchen window, I imagined what my neighbour’s finished house might look like. Chevall style was anorexic minimalism. A house made only of structural smart glass panels, each mechanically articulated to pivot, tilt and slide. Limitations both in structure and waterproofing meant every Chevall house always ended up looking like a mirrored armadillo.
Without architectural work, I scratched a living freelance coding and it was my black market connections that enabled me to recode my own NanoBot factory to put my plan into action. Hiding the shoebox sized factory within my eave facing the boundary, I lured stray NanoBots from the neighbouring site and replaced them unnoticed with my own home grown variety.
I watched the DemoBots deconstruct the brick and tile bungalow over a fortnight. It seemed to evaporate and then reappear elsewhere as multi-coloured piles of raw materials. As earth began to appear below the vanishing slab, crystalline shards would began to rise up from coral growth foundations. By the time demolition was complete, I had replaced the 10 million NanoBot work crew with my own army.
Nearing completion, the central dome rose like a transparent chrome sea sponge supported on glistening spider web filigree. I could look through the roof inside to the all-glass furniture and walls shimmering mirage-like with NanoBot activity. I thought of a jewellery box full of silver and diamonds.
After a couple of months, partially blinded by the reflection, I saw my satisfied neighbour had settled back into his deflated mirror ball. The NanoBots had finished the job properly and made the ultimate sacrifice, unmaking themselves to become a permanent part of the building itself.
I waited patiently for winter.
It started slowly at first around 4am but grew to sound like a ball bearing hail shower on a tin roof. With the right combination of temperature, air pressure and humidity, the molecular level weaknesses in the crystalline bonds that my NanoBots introduced had succeeded. Mirrored tortoiseshell separated, collapsed and disintegrated, instantly turning to white snow. My neighbour emerged as a snowman from a white sand dune, shaking himself clean.
When the State completed their investigations, they decided sound frequency resonance from the natural underground cave system directly below the house was to blame.
No-one made the connection between the cave volume and the volume of raw materials needed to build my new games room.
