by Roi R. Czechvala | Jan 3, 2011 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“With the launch of Grimace 4, the MacDonaldCorp orbital facility will be completed on time and ready to begin dishing out delicious meals at competitive prices to our brave astronauts as well as the astronauts and cosmonauts of all nations.
We go now live, to Sharon Davit at MacDonaldCorp’s CapCom in Houston, Texas to speak to MacDonaldCorp spokesperson, Ronald MacDonald himself.”
“Thank you Terry. I have with me Mr. Ronald MacDonald, spokesclown for the MacDonaldCorp’s orbital restaurant and hotel and President of the United States. Mr. MacDonald…”
“Please Sharon, call me Ronald.”
“Okay … Ronald. Tell me. What does this mean to the corporate growth of space?”
“Well Sharon, we just want to deliver a delicious and familiar taste of home to space farers of all nations.”
“Any plans beyond the restaurant and hotel, Ronald?”
“’House’, Sharon. Not ‘hotel’, ‘House’. No, we don’t want the Moon… Yet. Waka waka, waka.”
“Thank you, Ronald. Back to you Terry.”
“Tragedy is connected with the completion of this, the latest and undoubtedly greatest, achievement of corporate manned spaceflight. Famed Science Fiction writer and winner of multiple Hugo and Nebula awards for his visionary work, Roi R. Czechvala, died by his own hand early this morning at his home in Corpus Christi, Texas.
According to his full time nurse, Dorothy Fontana, the infirmed writer was heard to mumble, ‘I’m Lovin’ It’, before producing a large calibre revolver where after he ended his life. Mr Czechvala was 114 years old last September. According to those closest to him he died “still pretty pissed off that that jet pack they promised him in the early seventies never materialized.”
In related news, strange sounds appear to be emanating from the graves of such men of science as Doctors Stephen Hawking and Isaac Asimov, as well as Science Fiction luminaries Robert A. Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Phillip K. Dick, and S. R. Smith.
With us in the studio is the director of the MacNASA Parapsychology Centre in Bowling Green Kentucky, George J. Kreskin III. Mr. Kreskin, what can you tell us about these bizarre phenomena?”
“First of all Terry, thank you for having me. I need to point out that this is not a new phenomenon. It was first noticed after the launch of Big Kroc 1 which successfully placed the restaurant module into a LEO or Low Earth Orbit. The intensity of the sound emanating from these graves was noted by a marked increase in frequency after the launch of Hamburglar 2, carrying the playground component of the habitat or rather, the ‘MacSpace Station’”.
Today, the noise again shifted tremendously and is clearly audible to those standing even several feet away from the graves of these lauded men, with the launch of Grimace 4.”
“Dr. Kreskin, can you tell our audience what is making these strange noises.”
“Terry, it’s too early to tell. Right now we are seeking court orders to exhume the bodies of these esteemed men. All I can tell you is that the sound is a sort of whizzing noise as if something were being spun at a tremendous rate.”
by submission | Jan 2, 2011 | Story
Author : Phillip English
“Listen, that kind of thing ain’t my problem!”
“Well whose problem is it then? I got a lotta pressure from the top brass on this one, and I’ve got to tell ‘em something!”
Ba’rhy and Gleeg stalked along the walkway over the steam cookers, yelling at each other over the high pressure hiss that emanated from the giant, steel riveted bell-jars. Ba’rhy pointed towards his office and then to his lower ears. Gleeg nodded and waited until they were safely inside the confines of the supervisor’s sound-proof walls before resuming his interrogation.
“I acknowledge that you’re not exactly in the line of fire here, but I’ve got to give something to the higher-ups. Isn’t there some kind of fault you can point to? Something mechanical, out of our control?”
Ba’rhy pinched his foreflanges together in exasperation “If I say it was a mechanical fault, then our engies will get it in the neck for not performing proper maintenance. If I say it was a quality control problem, then a schmuck on the assembly line will be out of a job, and likely his life. What do you want me to do, condemn some poor bastard to his death?”
“I know, I know. It’s just that this kind of galactic fuck up doesn’t happen every day, and they want someone or something to blame.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ba’rhy’s faceplate change hue to a smile. “But man, I’d have killed to see their faces when that bloater exploded in their faces. I mean, damn! All those chunks of fat and giblets strewn over Her Royal Highness? Hah! Priceless.”
Gleeg allowed his faceplate to colour slightly. “Yeah, right, I know. Look please, can’t you think of anything?”
“Maybe…hey, maybe we could say it’s just this batch of humans? Do a product recall? It’s a grand enough gesture and the blame is placed on the product, not the people behind it?”
Gleeg pondered this for a few moments, but then reluctantly leaned back and nodded. “Hmm, product recalls are expensive, but a lot of that cost can be reclaimed by feeding the ‘damaged’ product back into the feed stations. Alright, sure, I’ll see if it flies. But you’d better be prepared to point a foreflange if it doesn’t!”
“Yeah okay, okay,” Ba’rhy lead Gleeg out of his office and surveyed the landscape of the factory. The smell of the thousand or so bodies writhing around in feeder vats below made him shudder and return to his office. He sighed and brought out his private stash of clink: filling out the paperwork for the recall was going to be an all-night job, but someone had to do it.
by submission | Jan 1, 2011 | Story
Author : Tom Kepler
A large, rectangular container slid silently through the air, a dull, umber metal box, utilitarian and featureless except for the alternating pattern of raised and lowered slabs of metal that were the connecting construction of the rectangle—all the world like a wooden shipping crate.
Above the rippling, endless pattern of trees the freight crate, large enough to hold a hundred units, slipped with perfect equilibrium until it reached a meadow green in the dawning light. Lowering until inches from the meadow grasses, one section, six units wide on the long side of the container facing the meadow, whispered open, sliding back alongside itself, revealing a gridded cage front.
The container then began to rise on the end away from the opening, and a stumbling rustle of sound from inside the container indicated movement. The units moved to the caged door as the acuteness of the angle of the container increased. Twenty units stood in dull stupor, squinting into the morning light.
“Each stand within a consecutive square on the grid on the floor, one standing on the red square at the corner. No one must stand in a square that is completely surrounded by empty squares. Obey, or the sequence will repeat.”
The units complied, shuffling to rectangles, the directions simple enough even in their fatigue. A new voice spoke.
“Outside is a mown section of grass where the grid upon which you stand is duplicated. One square is also painted red, and the two grids are aligned so that the red squares of the grid upon which you stand and red square in the grid outside are in the same place. You will move to the grid outside and enter and remain in the square corresponding to the square within which you now stand.”
“Identify now the units next to you,” the first voice continued. “Proceed to your designated square, lie upon the good earth, cover your heads with your arms, and whatever happens, do not leave your designated square.”
The door noiselessly slid open, and the second voice said, “Get!”
Naked forms leaped from the container and, as if no voices had spoken, ran through and past the grid etched on the mown meadow grasses, ran into the tall, uncut grasses, ran on legs sweated dirty from long confinement into the silent, shadowed darkness of the forest.
They ran, feet beating stubborn rhythms until they were gone—gone, all but one who staggered last from the container, fell to its knees as it stepped from the drop to the mown meadow with its pattern. Staggering to its feet, the unit staggered to its designated space and collapsed, face down upon the grass.
It did not notice the fragrance of the cut grass or the birdsong at dawn or the blue of the sky or the warmth of the morning sun. It did not hear the sudden silence after the trampling of feet. It did not hear the subsequent screams and cries and moans from the forest—or the silence that followed.
Brighter light approached the unit that had collapsed on its perfect square.
“What is this unit?”
A pause. “Adam.”
“This behavior has occurred only once before.”
“Deactivate the guards, and let us depart. We leave it to its fate.”
Light caressed the face of the man unconscious upon the earth.
“Who knows, perhaps the woman still lives and shall meet this man.”
“Perhaps. And may God bless.”
by submission | Dec 31, 2010 | Story
Author : Jason Frank
We weren’t supposed to take our suits off, not ever. We were supposed to find the survey team that disappeared. We found out what happened to them, all right, and then we took our suits off, just like they did. I’m writing this with my suit off (I had to put my gloves back on because this keypad was made with suited fingers in mind).
When we got here, we didn’t find the other team, just their suits. We did find some incredible things running around, however. They were at the extreme end of alien anatomy but were no less beautiful for it. They weren’t aggressive or dangerous; we didn’t think they killed the team. We chased dead ends for a week before we realized they were the team. They didn’t disappear, they just stopped reporting in.
We spent days debating our next move. Did they take their suits off because they were changing, or did they change because they took their suits off? Hector settled the debate by taking his suit off (he was always a bit of a romantic). He started changing right away. We wanted to document it, get some objective proof, but he was against that, firmly against that. He said it was an invasion of his privacy. Then he said it didn’t hurt, that it felt great. Then he didn’t say anything and flew way with the same rippling layers of flamboyant flesh that the other team had embraced.
After that, it was like dominoes. One by one everyone took their suits off. One by one everyone became one of those shimmering, impossible beings. I kept my suit on. I kept filing boring, misleading reports. The responses from base were stilted, stern. They were suspicious of me. They probably assumed that I had lost it, that I was one of those people that goes on a mission and wipes out her whole team over some strongly held yet deeply frightening misconceptions about the nature of reality.
The communiqués from base got so bad that I realized I was boned no matter what happened. I figured I should just take my suit off. Everyone else seemed to be having a great old time flying around and sometimes engaging in complicated maneuvers I assumed to be copulation of some sort.
Then, I did it. I took my suit off (when in Rome… right?). I took my suit off and, embarrassingly enough, shouted “I am ready to transcend!” I was more than a little drunk (I hid some whiskey in my suit before takeoff). The booze made tired so I laid down for a minute to relax. I thought I’d wake up all changed. I didn’t.
Hours passed, days passed and nothing happened. I didn’t change. I didn’t start to change. I felt the same. Why not me? My feelings became as complex as the physical shapes of my former colleagues. Was it some deficiency of the imagination? I have always been a practical person. Do I lack some gene tied to evolution, some physical ability to become more than I am?
I’m going to go hide someplace and think things through. If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance that you are on the team sent to find my team. Well, I just made your job a lot easier. Why don’t you return the favor by leaving me be (I don’t want to be a science project). If, however, you have your suit off and nothing’s happening, come out and find me. Your unchanged personness will lead you right to me, I’m sure of that.
by submission | Dec 30, 2010 | Story
Author : Ian Goodall
The days started to grey, that was all the warning we were given. At first, it went unnoticed to most. A few obscure colours became blander, faded. Then I saw it in my wife’s visage. Her sparking blue eyes began to fade. Her hair, fiery as the sun, lost its shine. My own reflection became dim, lifeless.
Outside, trees lost their green, the heavens became a wash of light grey; clouds became barely visible in the seemingly constant overcast sky. There was little panic. It took almost a year for the colour of the world to drain, and no-one, not even the politicians, in their grey suits and matte black hair had much to say on the matter. Scientists shrugged. I wondered.
Then… they came. Not a month after the last yellow ray of light had hit the planet it again ignited in a wondrous golden haze. Ships of numerous shapes and dimensions ripped through the atmosphere. Their colours were varied. Some were green and spire-like, towering into the sky some half a mile. Others were rotund and maroon; they hovered above major settlements oblivious to the panic they were causing below.
I first noticed it in my own eyes. A tine of hazel returned one morning, a week after the ships had arrived. My wife noticed it to, but didn’t comment. Hers remained a deep grey. In a few days my colour had returned, and a new, healthy energy in me stirred. My wife’s had not. Half the population of the Earth remained colourless.
It was then that the ships woke. Figures, obscured by a blurring light, emerged and swiftly entered into negotiations with world leaders. The results were delivered in a live broadcast in full, vibrant colour. The President of the United States, his appearance dishevelled, rough and grey, spoke prepared words. What he said was brief, and to the point. Those who had remained grey after they had landed were to be cleansed.
Sometimes I glance into my only child’s blue eyes and I can still see his mother’s, before the grey days came.
by submission | Dec 29, 2010 | Story
Author : Martin Berka
Krinna Lorens blinked as she woke up. She felt extremely refreshed, and was wide awake in about 15 seconds – sleeping was healthy. The lid of the bed slid aside, and the date appeared in front of her, hovering in mid-air. With a start, she studied the purple-tinted numbers again. Yes? Yes! She’d been waiting so long – those five years had felt like an eternity, no matter what she’d told herself – and it was time. A quick glance at his last message confirmed it – she had until mid-afternoon.
Sending the display away with a thought, Krinna sat up and climbed out, carefully. She dressed simply, ate (purely out of nostalgia), and spent several hours checking the news and downloading updates. Yes, it took a long time, but she wanted to be completely clued-in when she saw him again.
After triple-checking that she was ready, the 32-year-old surveyed the tiny apartment. It had served her decently for the last five years. Sure, it was slightly larger than a jail cell (though considerably better-equipped), but without Jeff around, it fit her living style. She’d always been the more practical of the two. Agreeing that her fiance should go on the trip was perhaps her only lapse, but the opportunity had seemed so rare, and the financial benefits, substantial.
Without a backward glance, Krinna stepped out the door, which locked behind her. The antique elevator took her up 14 floors, to what was once known as “ground level.” Being a cross between the real sky and ground areas, it was kept open and reserved for foot traffic. The street-like area was full of aliens, though she could tell that many of them were theoretically human, somewhere beneath all the modifications. She couldn’t blame them, since she had gotten the bare minimum herself, in the last few years. The rapid trend changes still tended to catch her off-guard, but one of the newly-downloaded patches kicked-in, and she confidently made her way through the crowd.
The transit center was nearby, and she waited several minutes before a one of the space elevator cages returned to the ground, using the opportunity to check the Expected Arrival Time on the public network. She reached the spaceport with a half-hour remaining.
The incoming ship was obsolete, launched as part of a third-contact wave of knowledge exchanges, to a star system some 15 light years distant. Despite relying on once-amazing advances in propulsion, it had taken just over 32 millenniums to arrive at its destination (and after alien improvements, nearly 20 to return) with its small crew of robots and 95 stasis-bound humans sent for their artistic, scientific, and technical abilities – including Jeff. He would spend about five conscious years away, and they had agreed to wait for each other. While he flew off and spent five years on the alien world (waking a few times during the voyage to reply to her messages), Krinna spread the same time evenly across fifty thousand. The routine quickly became familiar – awake every few centuries, explore the new world order, and try to fit in for a several months. The people she met during these “visits” were very helpful, though over time, they increasingly questioned why anyone would wait for the future, when the present was so wonderful.
But the present had included Jeff’s absence, until now. The ship docked, and he returned to a changed world, immediately heading in Krinna’s direction.
