by featured writer | Dec 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
The troop ship hovers fifty feet above the drop zone under heavy fire from hostiles in the tree line. Low caliber bullets rattle harmlessly against the ship’s thick armor. I clip a rope into my belt carabineer, lean out the hatch and step off into the night.
I hit the ground running and head for cover. On the move, I switch my multi-optics to nightsight with thermal enhancement. I hear the rest of my squad touching down behind me. One by one, they sound off, indicated by a series of green icons and handles glowing in my heads-up helmet display. The jocular banter of eleven jarheads crowds my headphone implant.
“Cut the chatter.” I sub-vocalize into my bone mic.
We move like shadows through the jungle, closing in on the enemy’s last known position. Thermal imaging picks up some residual heat signatures on the ground. Footprints. They were here recently. I give flanking orders, flick the safety off my plasma rifle and creep forward, carefully scanning the dense underbrush.
Suddenly, two icons go red. Two men down. No gunfire. Not even a scream.
“They got Jervis and Cruz. Stay alert.”
I pick up my pace, keeping eyes out for snipers. I hear a brief subsonic throb nearby as McKenzie’s icon turns red.
I burst through the thick foliage and find McKenzie crumpled on the ground. I sweep the jungle for any signs of life. Nothing. I check the body. No entry wounds. No apparent signs of struggle.
Three more icons flash red. What the hell is going on?
I don’t even see my attacker. My body jerks and all goes black.
Dying is never comfortable. Mind you, it’s my clones that actually die. I just have to experience it vicariously through my neural link-up. The physical pain is filtered and stepped down for my convenience, but it’s never pleasant. The psychological effects are the most difficult to shake off. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this, but it’s better than the alternative.
When the medics finish their protocols I’m pulled from the sensory deprivation tank. I tear out the electrodes and sensor plugs and stalk out of the room, still in my dripping, skin tight wetsuit.
When I burst into the debriefing room, Jervis, Cruz, McKenzie and seven others from my unit are already waiting, as well as Major Biggs and General Cavendish.
“What the hell happened?” I shout. “Those back-water rebs took us out like guppies in a pond!”
“Sit down, Captain Perkins.” General Cavendish looks grim. “As you are fully aware, we have a serious situation on our hands.”
“Damn right we do.” I take a seat and try to calm down. “Do we know what took us out?”
“Corporal Hayward is still in operation.” Major Biggs reports. “She’s managed to identify the weapon used to disable the neural link-up to your clones.”
We’re all on the edge of our seats.
“Somehow the rebels have managed to get their hands on portable Electro-Magnetic Pulse cannons.”
Everybody starts talking at once, firing an angry barrage of questions at the two senior officers. The Major and General patiently wait out the storm.
“Apparently they have a new benefactor supplying them with tech,” the Major continues when we’ve settled down. “We don’t know who and we don’t know how, but as long as they’re armed with EMPs our clones are next to useless.”
General Cavendish continues, “So, boys and girls, it looks like we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.”
Without clone surrogates?
This police action just became a whole lot less appealing.
by Patricia Stewart | Dec 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
We first noticed it three days after we left the orbiting platform on our way to Mars. Initially, Tom and I thought it was just the years of extensive training. You know, you’re functioning so well as a team that you seem to know what the other person is thinking. But, as it turned out; we were actually reading each other’s mind. At first, it was just wisps of words. We joked about it until we started picking up entire sentences of thought. Houston put a dozen shrinks on it, and pored over NASA’s archive of astronaut medical reports. Apparently, seven of the twenty-four people that flew to the moon reported vague instances where they thought they knew what someone else was thinking. However, psychic telepathy testing after their return to Earth revealed no such ability. Doctor Elisabeth Myers, the world’s foremost expert in physical telepathy, suggested that all humans possess thought-transference ability from the days before our ancestors had speech. Although the ability still exists, it was eventually drowned out in the overall static created by billions of people transmitting simultaneously. However, once in isolation, and far removed from the overpowering mass of Earth’s population, the ability became apparent. Based on the Apollo data, and our description of the daily strengthening of our mind reading capability, Doctor Myers calculated that the individual range may be short, but the Earth-mass static would become negligible at a radius of approximately five million miles. Regardless of the situation, it was too late to abort, so we had to deal with it, and continue the mission as planned. Maybe, NASA predicted, the enhanced communication would be a good thing. Oh, how wrong they were.
The remainder of the seven month journey to Mars was pure hell. In essence, we were clinically schizophrenic. There were always two voices in our heads. Every thought occurred simultaneously in each other’s mind. The more we tried to suppress our thoughts, the louder they became. We knew all of each other’s intimate thoughts and memories. Even while we slept, our minds were one. It was a constant battle to prevent the other’s conscious from dominating, fearing that if we let down our guard, the other mind would take control. And we each knew the other was fighting the same battle, which only magnified the problem. There was only minimal relief during the six months on Mars. We took turns taking the rover to its maximum range. During those precious days, the voices were reduced to mere whispers. Looking back on it, that was probably our downfall. The marginal relief we had only made us dread the return trip to Earth even more. We knew we couldn’t survive it. But we also knew we couldn’t take any extreme action, like killing the other, because we always knew what the other was thinking. So, together, we reconciled on what needed to be done.
On the day of our scheduled lift off, we sat at the conference table. I thought “rock”, and Tom heard “rock”, and thought it too. I heard him hear me, and he heard me hear him hear me. And so it began; a telepathic feedback loop. The pain became excruciating as the duel escalated exponentially. And then, after an indeterminable amount of time, there was silence. I had won. Tom was dead. Exhausted, and bleeding from both ears, I wept. But my grief wasn’t about killing my friend; it was the realization that mankind would be forever trapped on the surface of the Earth, unable to explore the universe beyond the moon.
by Julian Miles | Dec 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The problem with early FTL journeys was the failure rate. Just like the first elevators, the disappearances were hidden from the public to prevent the rejection of the innovation. It was the mid twenty-second century before better understanding and implementation reduced the errors to less than one in a hundred thousand.
Back in the early twenty-first century, there was an AV series that had dinosaurs appearing through time portals. A scientist in the twenty-second century named Eduard Samson was a fan of that series. An intuitive leap led him to postulate that the FTL disappearances were due to the vessels vanishing through time. Now those time-lost on their outbound journeys are probably not an issue beyond the tragedy of their loss. However, those time-lost on their return could have appeared in Earth’s past. Backtracking was a brilliant concept that he documented with flair and diligence. His treatise gained him some awards and was then forgotten.
Three centuries later, Samson’s treatise resurfaced when our second generation temporal mapping revealed the backtracks; our term for stress fractures in time itself, that we knew through bitter experience could escalate into reversion zones, where entire swathes of history disappear. It’s terrifying to watch every record of an event morph into something else and know that by tomorrow, your own memory will have made the same adjustment.
That’s why the Temporal Rectification Taskforce was formed. We’re a small group, because the psychological impact of what we do takes a rather peculiar outlook. Our job is to repair the backtracks. The complication is finding out where they exited and what impact they had, if any. Then we have to deal with any untoward influence they may have had on whatever time period they arrived in and we have to do it in a way that fits with recorded history, including mythology.
Rescue is impossible as an FTL infrastructure does not exist, let alone something that can support Temporal Loop Transit, and size limitations on self contained units preclude anything bigger than a one-man vessel.
Take a look at history. The number of anomalous beings and civilisations that end catastrophically occurs so often it is regarded as the ancient archivist’s standard trite explanation. Eduard Samson’s treatise weighed the odds and stated that the actions of a future agency to correct backtrack impacts would have to be treated and reported as supernatural action by the observers of the time.
After the first few attempts at interactive intervention, we had to adopt a no-contact approach. When the time-stranded find out that you’ve only come to ensure they meet their end in the historically correct manner, they always become hostile.
So we do our research, determine the best corrective action and apply it regardless of the usual moral considerations. In fact, regardless of any moral considerations. Our only measure of success is a backtrack fading from the maps, indicating a successful mitigation.
I was the first member of the action team. I take the horror mitigations, the apocalypses. The stuff that makes formerly dedicated people hesitate or resign, suddenly doubting the validity of our purpose due to the scale of annihilation needed.
My ship is ready, carrying a payload that even made the ordnance loading crews blanch. No one knows if the warheads will cope with a time journey. If I survive this trip, I will finally deserve the name that our research team have determined is the one most likely to have been given by ancient witnesses to the TRT agent who tears down civilisations.
Tonight I go to sink Atlantis.
by Clint Wilson | Dec 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
I sat there pondering my sorry lot in life, wondering aloud, in a slurry voice, as I sloshed my glass of merlot around, “Why have I befallen such, hic! …circumstances? I don’t deserve this, sniff! All I want to do is give Tommy a good Christmas.” Another swig went down and I stared at the glass evilly. “You! You bastard! It’s all your fault motherfucking alkee-hall!” Then I tipped back yet another swallow.
Just then, the invading ship from another star came in at an incredibly steep angle over my neighborhood, and its desperate crew was unable to pull up in time. They maximized their anti-inertia dampners and braced for impact.
My inwardly exploding ceiling knocked my glass clear from my hand and knocked me hard to the floor. I huddled there for a moment amidst the swirling bits of drywall dust and insulation, unsure of what might come next. I dared not open my eyes.
Inside the ship the officers gathered themselves quickly. “Damage report second-in-command. How is our cargo?”
The alien got to his feet and brushed off his view screen. “Not good sir. It looks like we didn’t engage the anti-inertia dampners in the aft section or cargo holds in time.”
The blue-skinned bipedal commander put a slender hand to his bulbous veined head. He already knew what this meant. “So they’re all…?”
“Squashed like Freckomite swamp tics sir.”
“All of them? Engineering? The Battalion?”
“Everybody sir. It seems that the bridge crew is the only thing left of this entire mission.”
“Six of us? That’s it? We’re supposed to conquer this planet with only six lowly Drachtonians?”
Meanwhile I ventured up from my living room carpet and slowly tried to assess the situation. As far as I could tell, things didn’t seem to be going well. My wine glass was shattered into shards. But then there was momentary hope as I spotted the fallen bottle but a few feet away. Snatching it up from its side I happily discovered a couple good slugs yet unspilled. As I tipped the vessel back I suddenly noticed the hole in my ceiling. Nearly two feet across, the edges still smoldered. What the? I then looked in the direction of most of the debris, and there on the couch I saw a kid’s toy. And unbeknownst to me, the invading race had already decided to proceed, despite their recent setback.
I saw the staircase drop down from the toy spaceship on my couch, but I rubbed my eyes just the same. Then I tried to cloud what I was seeing with another pull from the bottle, but the wine was nearly gone and the circumstances too bizarre now. And then as if I hadn’t seen enough, the tiny blue fuckers began descending the motherfucking stairs!
What was left of the Drachtonian crew stepped out onto the couch cushion and looked up at their adversary.
“They’re absolutely huge,” remarked the second-in-command.
“Never mind that,” said the commander shakily. “Stick to protocol!”
Then before anything else could transpire the front door burst open as my son Tommy came home from school.
But before he could squeeze through the doorway, our rottweiler Brutus ran past and up to the couch. With a single sniff he assessed the situation and then with one slobbery lick, swept up the invading race into his mouth and swallowed them whole.
Tommy looked at me sadly, knowing I was drunk yet again. Then he spotted the silver vessel on the couch. “Say dad, is that a… a spaceship?”
I brightened up and said, “Hey kiddo, merry Christmas!”
by featured writer | Dec 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
“You the new guy?” A massive Velorian Lobster asks me, a clawed hand over his head mic as I stand in the doorway of the busy office. There’s a muffled squawking coming from his headphones. I catch the hawkish profile of an elderly human female in his video globe.
I nod.
He gestures toward a vacant desk with a crimson pincher. I silently take my seat.
“Yes, maam,” he speaks casually into his mic, “Still here. Yes, maam. No, maam. Did you read the brochure? You didn’t?”
His beady eyes wobble momentarily. His antanae are laughing, but his voice is all business. “Well, maam, there’s your problem right there. The brochure states very clearly that the Dem-Lok eat dogs. Especially fond of poodles.”
The squawking escalates.
“Sorry, Maam. PGTA takes no responsibility for the actions of indiginous populations. No, Maam. Your insurance doesn’t cover pet loss.” He winces. “Let’s not get personal. A word of advice, maam. Next time, read the bloody brochure.”
He flicks a button silencing an indignant squawk as his globe darkens. The large tub of briny water serving as his office chair swivels to face me.
“Welcome to PGTA.” He says, thrusting a pincher at me. I shake it amiably. “Name’s Jammarl. Your first day on the job?”
I nod.
“Don’t talk much, eh?”
I grin and nod.
“Well, you’ll get to do your share of talking here, let me tell ya.” Jamarl’s mucus slick antennas gesticulate as he speaks. “The first thing I tell every newbie is, ‘Make sure clients read the brochure’. Our job would be so much simpler if the bloody gorbies just took the time to read the damn thing. I mean, if you’re going to visit an alien planet, wouldn’t it be a good idea to do a little research first?” He pauses.
I nod. It seems appropriate.
“Do they bother?” he queries.
I shrug.
“Not a single one of ‘em. But, who do these cosmic jet-setters blame when they ignorantly blunder into an embarrassing, if not deadly cultural faux pas? Us. ‘You sold us the travel package!’ they whine. ‘You shoulda warned us!’, they simper. To which, I always respond, ‘did you read the – ” He looks at me meaningfully.
“Brochure?” I finish.
“You catch on quick.” He winks, I think. “It’s all in there. What not to wear. What not to say. Who not to look at sideways. Everything you need to know about visiting the home world of a species is in the brochure. If you don’t read it, you’re an idiot. Plain and simple.”
“I had these client’s once,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Her husband shnerd-ed in a room full of Sliggargathians. I mean, he really cut one loose. A real zinger. Didn’t cover his gloopus expeller or anything. If he’d read the brochure, he would’ve known that you never shnerd around a Sliggargathian. He might as well have Fthulu-ed in their Kol-tuth-pak. I mean, these guys take their skeeking seriously.” Dramatic pause.
I take my cue.
“What happened?” I ask, forcing curiosity into my voice.
“They gorthed his Chuth-vetch.”
“No kidding.”
“You should know this stuff, kid. You could save a life.” I’m not sure if he’s joking. “Of course, it’s all in the brochure.” He taps a massive tomb on his desk with a claw.
“Is that –“
“Yup.”
“Does it cover all the planets?”
He chuckles. “Heck no. This is just the brochure for Xelios III.” His antennas gesture toward the wall; a vast library of brochures. One for each race and their customs.
My globe lights up with a call.
Oh, Fthork!
by submission | Dec 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Helstrom
“Do you like them?”
The voice snapped me out of my concentration. Things reverberated in my head. I turned it right and saw nothing.
“Who said that?”
“I did.”
My eyes pivoted down and found a small girl looking up at me.
“Oh. Hello. What?”
“Do you like them?”
“Yes.”
They were majestic creatures – hooves beating the compact earth as they galloped in circles, manes and tails flowing, teeth gripping steel bits.
She smiled: “I love them!”
That was a funny thing for a child to say and I bared my teeth as well: “Yes, fantastic aren’t they? All that muscle, all that spirit. Mind you it’s not often that they’re seen in groups like this. Let alone being ridden.”
“Really? We ride them all the time.”
“Then you have a braver heart than me, little girl.”
“Are you scared of them?”
“Terrified.”
She frowned: “But you said you liked them.”
“I can see the beauty in such a sublime hunter, little girl,” I tried to mimic her frown but botched it pretty badly and ended up looking at her through one squinted eye, “Have you ever seen them in the wild?”
“No.”
“Neither have I. But I know the stories. They roam the forests for miles and miles, always alone – but one is quite enough. It will slip into the trees like a ghost when it finds you. It will stalk you for days, weeks, months if it must. It will always be there, always just out of sight. You will hear it though, maybe catch a glimpse every now and then. It does that on purpose. It wants you to know you’re being hunted. It wants you to be afraid. That’s what it feeds on. And that’s how it kills you in the end. It kills you with a final stroke when it lets you see it. All your nightmares, all the monsters you have ever thought could be hiding under your bed, all in one horrible form. The natives have a name for it: intoki. The fear in the dark.” I tried the frown again and nailed it this time, “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, actually.”
Silence hung between us. Something had changed. The little girl’s eyes had taken on a reddish hue and small amounts of water were pooling beneath them. She turned and ran off in a flutter of brightly-colored coat, shawl and rubber boots.
“Jeb, what did you do?”
Jim was walking up to me.
“Nothing. I think.”
“There’s something wrong with these intoki.”
“Yes.”
“They’re not intoki.”
“Oh.”
“In fact I think we’re not even on the right bloody planet.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s get back to the ship.”
