by Duncan Shields | Feb 6, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I worry my family. They say I think too much. They say I rebel too much, ask too many questions, tamper with the mental blocks we have installed. They say the police will come to take me away, punish me, wipe my brain, and send me away. I know they’re wrong. I’m too smart. The door bursts open. They rush in, wrestle me to the ground and –
Something about a short in the wires. That’s why I can’t think. That’s why I can’t ask questions. The thing, though, is that everyone in the prison seems to have the same short circuit. I wonder if I could circumvent security to –
Milk with cereal today. I enjoy milk. Especially with the memory lapses. The cereal is sharp and hurts the roof of my mouth. The blue jumpsuit will fit me and keep me warm on the way to the dome. Another labour slave opened his faceplate on the open shuttle yesterday. He said that he wanted to smell the flowers. His body leapt out of his blue suit through the faceplate very quickly. The sounds of his bones crackling and tissue ossifying sounded like paper being crumpled over all of our headphones. Like he was an origami person being destroyed by a giant pair of hands. Why would he do something like that? Maybe I can help. If I could get past the firewall –
Ladder. Digging. I’m a miner. I have kernels of me hidden like diamonds in the grey folds of my own mind. I pick for them as I work. I like the feel of finding these aspects of my personality. From somewhere, I get the notion that I love beets. I don’t know what beets are but I can memory-taste them from a long time ago. I savour it. It won’t be long before the program sees what I’m doing and takes it away. Did beets grow on trees or in the –
I’m plugged into the feed and that’s okay. I drool and that’s okay. There’s a word in the ENT show that I’m watching that seems unfamiliar to me. Wife. Wife. It makes my left eyelid twitch. I’m not sure why. I can feel electrical activity in my head. I can feel the company sniffing deep in my mind to find the source. I can feel myself searching as well. It’s a race. Janine. Her name was Janine. We were married. I can see red hair. She’s laughing. We’re outside with no suits and we’re driving a – no word – searching – car? She touches my shoulder and I make a sound with my mouth that’s like an explosive, repetitive, vocal breathing out. What is that? Why would –
I no longer have to work. My record says I have a history of problems. I am a rebel, it says. A mental incorrigant. I get to go to the room that I don’t ever have to leave. I am to be plugged into the mainframe in the tanks. I am no longer a pair of hands for the machine. Now I am a source of electrical power and heat. I am also research.
The cool thing is that without attachments and company dogs keeping me in line anymore, I can explore what little is left of me in the gray folds. I’ll never open my eyes again. I am unaware of having a body. I find sixty-two parts of myself that they don’t take away. I don’t know how long it takes. I float.
I feel like a person again.
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 5, 2013 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter could still feel the heat from the vials in his hands as they vapourized into the atmosphere of the room, still smell the fuel, even through his respirator in the moment the weapon discharged full into his back.
The pain was blinding, the impact propelling him forward across the worktop, scattering containers and lab equipment before him, to land face down in a pool of merging chemicals and broken glass.
“Secondary Recovery Unit terminated. Package destroyed. Requesting evac at marker. Over.”
Baxter heard her words, heard her speak them, but couldn’t rationalize the betrayal.
“Sucks to be you Bax,” her voice retreating from the room, “they want this project really gone. No hard feelings?”
The door clicked shut and he was alone.
Data streamed through his heads up display, damage reports moving too fast for him to see. ‘Organ failure imminent’ hung suspended before being chased away by a barrage of lesser destruction. ‘Evac request denied’. Then ‘Network connection terminated’.
He was on his own, and he was going to die.
They’d worked for decades together, partners, a team. Never had it occurred to him that she could sell him out and burn him to the ground.
Death suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad outcome. How long had this been coming? How far back did the lies extend? The Portian excursion? Earlier? The Marigam Run?
“You don’t want to die here Bax, not like this.” The voice in his head was an old one, a version of himself he’d left behind in exchange for a promise so many years ago. “Get your lazy ass up Bax.”
He couldn’t feel his legs, but with effort was able to reach around to paw at the edges of the hole in his back. Nanoflesh had already sealed over the crater, though the depth of the depression told him a lot of meat had been burned away. The spine could be regrown, but not if he lay here feeling sorry for himself. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself arm over arm through the debris, chemical ooze and broken glass lubricating his suit while it impaired his traction. He could feel the glass fighting with the armormesh coverall in an effort to draw more of his blood.
He dragged himself across the room to a window, pushed the snub nose of his hand cannon against the glass and exploded it out into the night air.
Wrapping one hand around the rip cord on his chute, he used his other arm to lever himself out the window and into free-fall. He drifted away from the building before pulling the cord, releasing most of what remained of his chute into a tangled mass of fabric that splayed out behind him. The sudden take-up of slack almost tore his arms off, then sent him spiraling out of control towards the ground. The impact was swift and brutal, for the moment Baxter was thankful he couldn’t feel his legs as he heard the bones shatter beneath him. Too much adrenaline for shock to put him out.
He lay on the ground, staring up at the sky as a familiar sound broke the silence. Above him, sliding out of the night was the low frequency whip, whip of an evac copter. She was about to catch her ride.
He lay motionless, hearing rather than feeling the nanotech scab over the bleeding wounds where his bones had fractured through the skin. He could only wait.
There was a sudden streak of blinding white light across the night sky, and a flaming ball arced away from the rooftop just as his radio crackled to life.
“Primary Recovery Unit terminated. Cleanup complete. Over.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 4, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The drill slides sideways like it’s got a mind of its own, so I straighten up to lift it clear of the crystal. My vision blurs and I pause to gauge which of the two reasons applies. With a bark of laughter I realise it’s the good option: too much rum.
“Hey Andy, you slackin’ again?”
Milt’s unbelievable, able to track the world around him like a sober person.
“Not enough blood in my alcohol system, ya fruit. I’m declarin’ snacktime. You in?”
“Goddam, boy. You goin’ nine-oh-one on me?”
That’s the medical code for saturation, when your body cannot metabolise enough alcohol to keep the Fenden at bay and let you work.
“Not a chance. I did half a bottle too soon is all.”
“That’s the problem with Jamaican. You should switch to Russian.”
“It’s got no flavour, Milt. If I’m going to pickle my ass, I’ve gotta have somethin’ I can savour.”
“You always did read too much and drink too fancy for a jeweller.”
“Bugger off. I’ve got cold hog and fresh kiwis; last chance.”
“I never said anythin’ bad about your goo-er-may eatin’ habits, boy. I’ll be there afore you have canvas up.”
I grin as I turn and use the drill to punch a post-hole in black rock. Sure enough, I’m just swinging the awning up onto the pole when Milt appears and grabs the far side. In a few moments we’re cross-legged in the shade savouring meat and fruit. From where we are, you can see the company enclave on the horizon. Between us and them lays the glittering expanse of the lowlands, shining like the treasure it conceals. Randell is a pretty planet, the vast crystalline plains reflecting whatever light is about, day or night. Under the plains in striated crystalline clumps is the wealth of the universe, the purest of which make any optical device better and the least of which make women feel appreciated.
When the company opened up the digs, they franchised the ‘jewellers’ and supplied the drugs that make our bodies inedible to the Fenden, the translucent gas things who just love having a human for dinner. Bloodmist outbreaks were a problem initially; when Fenden gorge and get amped up on warm human fluids, they group together and go into a slaughter frenzy. Made mining almost impossible until some doctor discovered that certain chemical additives make humans taste bad. The company had us jewellers over a barrel until Marty Grufe discovered that being pissed up was just as effective. You could buy two months supply of spirits for the price of a one-week shot of the company’s patent protector. Pretty soon, the only sober people on Randell lived in the company enclave. If you’re outside these days, you’re either drunk or dead.
Milt slaps my shoulder and points. In the middle distance, a ruby cloud whirls by. I wonder who we lost today. It’s easy to get so engrossed in a rich lode of gems that you let your regular swigging go. Do that for a couple of hours and you get to be edible, which is always fatal. Every jeweller has a few Fenden nearby, just waiting for him to get careless. That’s why smart jewellers pair up: to live long enough to enjoy their earnings.
I lift a bottle of rum and raise it to Milt. He lifts his vodka bottle and clinks it against mine.
“Here’s to the gems an’ the booze never runnin’ out.”
“Damn straight. Sláinte!”
by submission | Feb 3, 2013 | Story |
Author : Christine Rains
All they cared about was the color red.
When we landed on blue-gray gaseous Kepler 3, the squirrel-like beings greeted us peacefully. The Keps were primitive and living in small farming communities. They’d never even seen the full spectrum of colors, but they were intelligent and eager to learn. We brought them machinery to help with their fungi crops and technology to make their everyday lives easier. We even shared with them the secrets of space travel.
The first time some of their kind entered one of our ships on the surface out of the color filtering atmosphere of the planet, they cried out and some fell to their knees. Our galactic allied flag was brightly dyed, and the ship’s name was in red letters underneath on the wall. The Keps reached out their stubby hands, trembling as they traced each letter.
We were proud to have made new friends and allies. Not all beings we met in the galaxy were friendly. Yet we humans managed to make enough allies to help us flourish in the darkness of space.
The Keps worshiped us at first. And, not surprisingly, we liked it. Yet we didn’t stop to understand why. We assumed it was because we were strong and smart. They were small and comic in our eyes. We had brought them into a new age. We were gods.
We were blind to when it started to change.
They created a new flag for their world and wore uniforms. All red. We saw it as a tribute. They learned about weapons and strategy. They became great pilots and techs. Every farmer became a warrior. The Keps left their planet and made space their home.
When they helped us win wars, we gloated. When they conquered our most feared enemies, we congratulated them. We were the most powerful alliance in the galaxy.
Then they turned on us. We didn’t understand why. We had given them so much.
We lost several billion humans in the fighting. We feared we’d become extinct. When the Keps accepted our surrender, we thought they would kill off the rest of us. They were hungry for violence and glory.
They kept us clustered in camps on Mars. Earth was no longer habitable having been devastated by the war.
The Keps used us as entertainment, but mostly for livestock. They’d bleed us to stain their flags and uniforms. The red kept its intense color through ingenious fabric preservatives. Our blood was so different from the bluish-black ichor in their veins. Perhaps it was a statement to other aliens of their superiority, but in the end, we realized it was something more primal. Something that reached into their hearts and souls to bring out centuries of suppressed anger, passion, and hostility.
It was the color red they truly worshiped.
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by submission | Feb 2, 2013 | Story |
Author : Chad Bolling
They looked like large slugs with reptilian skin and no shell. Besides their lack of defense mechanisms, the species had many more obvious traits that made it easier for predators to catch them. However, through some miracle, one these creatures alone could supply the human colony with boundless energy.
“Make sure he stays happy.” The colonies director, Myers said.
“We think the species is a hermaphrodite,” Dr. Chambers, the colony’s head scientist replied.
“Then keep it happy.”
It was kept happy for some time. The creature, nicknamed Volt, was safe from predators in its large aquarium.
“It’s getting fat.”
“This type of creature is meant to have an excessive body weight, but because of its poor survival mechanisms, it usually doesn’t make it to its mature body mass.”
The interesting thing about the glow slug, which is what the newly discovered species that included Volt was named, is that when they sleep they glow in the dark. Volt was no different from the other members of the glow slug species in that respect, except when he slept and began to glow, Volt gave off a highly powered energy field. The energy was then harvested quietly by the colonists and used as a power source.
Years later, Myers and Chambers were having a meeting about the status of the colony. “Well, Chambers,” Myers said, “the colony is prospering far better than anyone expected.”
“With the cost of energy so low compared to other off world colonies it’s no surprise,” Chambers replied.
Myers leaned back in his chair. “Our Volt has given us all the energy we need for the cost of a pet lizard!” Myers stopped talking to reflect for a moment. “Unfortunately, this colony has reached full capacity. Volt can only give us so much power per day. We can’t have anymore people moving here without using a more traditional power source, which would be much, much more expensive.”
After a minute of silence Chambers spoke, “well sir, we could try and figure out how the creature makes its energy field.”
“How so?”
“We can find the gland or organ that creates the energy field then extract it, then clone it using cells from other glow slug and have an infinite amount of energy!” Chambers said confidently.
“Sounds good to me. Get on it Chambers!”
“But sir there is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“We will need to do a full dissection of the creature.”
Myers sighed and gave the okay, saying the colony had enough backup power to last until Dr. Chambers and his team could duplicate the creature’s energy field generating ability.
“This will be a risk, Sir,” Chambers said before the dissection.
“I understand the risk, but I have complete confidence in you and your team,” Myers said slapping Chambers on the back.
After the dissection, Chambers and his team searched with both microscope and naked eye to find the source of the creatures unique ability to generate power fields.
“Have you found anything yet Chambers?”
“Well sir, not really…”
“Nothing?” Myers raised his voice.
“Nothing”
“How could this have happened? We aren’t prepared for this Chambers. Now we don’t have any power source at all.”
“Yes sir, I know. We should probably start a nuclear power contract-”
“Dammit man! We were at the top of the food chain. Just imagine it, a world with free energy.”
“Well sir, it seemed that our glow worm, Volt, had given us that…it just wasn’t enough.”
“Do you know what caused all of this Chambers?”
“Too much ambition?”
“Hah! You could use some more of that! No Chambers, it was greed.”
by Patricia Stewart | Feb 1, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
If the Skipper found out what I was about to do, he’d probably dock me a week’s pay, but it’d be worth it. I figured with the gravity generator off-line for the next four hours, I could probably get in three runs. I popped open the access panel at the mouth of the ship’s mile long ventilation shaft. The schematics had referred to it as the “Trunk Shaft”. The escaping wind created by the bank of centrifugal blower fans nearly sent me flying backwards into the maintenance lockers. Gripping my tether line and fighting the wind, I carefully pulled myself inside, and closed the panel door. The steady fifteen miles per hour wind felt much stronger than I expected. I turned my helmet light on and looked down the shaft. I could only see about a hundred yards, but it didn’t matter; I had memorized the location of every reducer, every Dyson Booster Ring, and every cross vent. I aligned myself head first, let go of the tether line, and nudged myself into the middle of the ten foot diameter shaft.
It was slow going at first, but as the wind gradually pushed me along, I started picking up speed. I was probably doing 5 mph as I passed the Bridge’s cross vent. If I wanted to abort, that was probably the last chance; as I’d be moving too fast from here on out to grab a vent corner. After about a minute, I shot though the first reducer. You wouldn’t think that a diameter reduction of only eighteen inches would make a difference, but it did, at least psychologically. Before I knew it, I went through another reducer, and a Dyson Booster. I briefly turned sideways, and my feet and hands slid along opposite walls. The cross vents were flying past every few seconds. That meant I was traveling at maximum speed. My heart was pounding like a drum as the current swept me past another reducer and booster. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, like falling down a bottomless elevator shaft.
Despite my diligence, I clipped my left elbow going through the next reducer, but hell, it was better than my head. I needed to be sharp for the next thirty seconds, as I had to count the number of cross vent openings. If I missed the bungee line that I had strung across the shaft, I’d slam into the T-Fitting at full speed. Okay, twelve, thirteen, fourteen… I twisted myself into position and grabbed the bungee line. I quickly found the end and wrapped it around my chest just like I had practiced, and hung on. When the slack ran out, my upper body was yanked “upward”. Like a boa constrictor, the line started compressing my lungs as the bungee cord began to stretch. I was “falling” feet first now, and I used my arms to take some of the load off my chest. This was almost as much fun as the fall. I had to smile to myself when I came to a complete stop less than twenty feet short of the Engineering vent. I released the cord and it snapped up the shaft. The air current nudged me the final way and I pushed myself gently into the Engineering cross vent. Ten minutes later, I was making my way through the ship to start my second run, when my crew chief spotted me.
“Hey Garnerin,” he yelled, “I’ve received a half dozen calls about unusual noises coming from the ventilator shafts. Would you mind starting your maintenance shift early and looking into it?”
“Er, no problem Max. I’ll get right on it.”
