by submission | Feb 15, 2010 | Story
Author : K. Pittman
Sometime before midday’s full blaze, Susan threw down her skein and stopped walking. Georgia broke pace steps later and trod back, face flattened, hat shadowing her glare.
“What.”
“I want milk. I’m tired of water.” Susan half-turned and looked from whence they’d walked.
“There’s no more milk. Those jackasses pinched our stashed powders before trying to rape and/or rob us, remember? It got ruined in the fight.”
Susan’s hands moved towards where pockets would have been, finding: many canvas belt pouches, some part full, all cinched tight: a sun-warm firearm, holstered, secured: pack ladders and buckles, floating taut on taut webbing – she folded her arms underneath her breasts, drew a deep breath, exhaled deliberately. Dropped her arms and swiveled towards Georgia-
Whose weapon was in her hand, its burnished muzzle trained on her. “Do you want to die?” Georgia’s look was unwavering, and exhausted.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.” Georgia took a few steps forward, wrist steady. “Pick up the water.”
“What are you doing?”
“This,” said Georgia, wrapping her free hand onto the gun and centering it onto Susan’s head, “is an object lesson. Your first and your last.”
Susan stepped back into a defensive stance, staring past the gun, into hat’s cast umbra, locking eyes with Georgia. “Stop pointing that gun at me.”
Georgia’s eyes locked back. “Pick up the damned water.” The gun never drooped.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Susan knelt, costive, to the scrub, arms bent out and away, and picked up her skein, gradually attaching it to her belt. She looked down, to secure it fast, and heard Georgia’s heels turning in the sand, her steps away regular and fast. Susan scrambled to catch up, and wordlessly fell into formation two steps behind, two steps to the left, her footfalls in a ragged echo of Georgia’s rhythm.
Georgia spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Next cache is in 12 klicks, near water, and Ray’s old trading outpost. A bullet or two’ll get us new powders. Maybe a short stay. Might be some sort of small civ near, within a days travel maybe. Maybe. You can opt out there if you like.” Susan’s abstruse stare looked past her shoulder. “Fine. When we get there, we’ll hit the flask, and you can bitch me out, but I don’t wanna hear anything until then. I just saved your fucking life.”
“But-”
“You’re my only…my last fucking friend, Susan. I’m not letting you chump out of this one. There’s no fucking safety net. There’s no exit,” and silence and steps and silence and the sun across the sky on a long hot afternoon.
by submission | Feb 14, 2010 | Story
Author : Nick Gonzales
“You heard they finally nailed teleportation?”
“No.”
“Yeah, just yesterday.”
“For real?”
“Fo rizzle.”
I turn to look at Billiam, his eyes lit up expectantly as he leans towards me across the table. His face is twisted into his characteristic grin of childlike excitement. An off-putting grin, but not without some charm. You’d think he had just told me we had finally put another man on the moon.
Today, Billiam’s hair is fluorescent green, with streaks of pink, symmetrically arranged into eight spikes. Mine is the same color, but I did mine in the sink.
“No, I mean, like, for _real_?”
“Of course for real. Teleported a small little mouse all the way from New York to Atlantis,” he beams.
I can actually feel my hopes fall.
“What do you mean ‘of course’?” I sigh. “Atlantis?”
“What? What’s wrong with Atlantis?”
A female white Bengal tiger slowly trots by the table, followed by a small pack of screaming children. The smallest, a girl of probably about four years, dives forward and grabs the rare cat by its tail until it pauses, allowing her to jump astride it in a practiced motion. Kicking her heels into its side wildly, the girl hoots as the cat resumes its walk. A quick check of Wikipedia informs me that the Panthera tigris is an apex predator and obligate carnivore, native to East and South Asia. I don’t believe San Diego is located within either region… but it gets hard to tell sometimes.
The sky darkens momentarily as a dragon flies overhead. Or maybe it was a plane.
“Hey, Robin.” Billiam calls me back to the conversation.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said what’s wrong with Atlantis?”
“Um, Atlantis isn’t a real place…”
I’m 65% sure that Billiam is a hologram.
Officially, there are no sentient holographic images yet. Officially. But the problem with an obligatory collective conscious web is the lack of filterization. The Resonance is beyond this sort of control. The holos were introduced at least a year ago.
Billiam scoffs and falls back into his grin. “What do you mean not a real place? Didn’t we go there last year for Spring Break?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Come on, man. We all know Atlantis is no more real than that tiger. The island nation belonging to Poseidon that sunk into the ocean eleven thousand years ago. The Atlantic Ocean, I might add.”
“Quoting Wikipedia again?”
“Paraphrasing. Please.”
“You know, I don’t get you sometimes. So much reliance on the Resonance, and yet you doubt it so.”
My problem is not with the holos. I’ve been to Atlantis, that digital paradise twelve miles off the coast of California, with its attractive native population, perfect weather, and exotic architecture.
But is anyone building anything real anymore? What is the benefit in building something when it can all be programmed into the collective consciousness? Are there any real hairstylists anymore? Actual pet shops?
It is easy to become paranoid, growing up in a society raised on science fiction. But this isn’t the Matrix. The world is still real so far, I was alive before the Resonance was activated.
But I wonder what all of the physical scientists are doing now that computer science has taken over the world? What does it even mean when you teleport a living creature to a place that doesn’t exist?
I have been to Atlantis, I realize with a start. What does that mean?
“You there, Robin?”
I’m 65% sure that Billiam is a hologram.
And what is the benefit in being human in this digital age?
by submission | Feb 13, 2010 | Story
Author : Michael Merriam
“We never had much,” she said. “The freighter was our life. Now it’s all lost, ripped apart by a neutron star.”
I sat next to her. I couldn’t answer. My mind was dazzled, my eyes locked on her naked body stretched out on the bed we shared. She reached out her arms, and I fell into her embrace.
My lips on her neck, I stroked the flat of her stomach, reached beyond with one hand until she pulled me onto and into her body.
I was a silly child. She had over two decades on me, my lovely, melancholy lover.
Later — days or weeks later — we sat on the rocks overlooking the dead lighthouse, long abandoned, nature carving it up.
“Do you think the stars will give back what they have taken, at the end?”
“I don’t know.”
And I didn’t. I still don’t.
She was a beautiful burning demon, all alabaster skin and black hair. She seemed an artist’s creation, unreal, ethereal. In that moment she frightened me.
“I think they will.” She turned, leaned on me. I place an arm around her, held her tightly.
Soft sobs and crashing surf were all.
#
Autumn.
A cool breeze blew off the sea as I watched the crowd gather like ghouls and vultures. The white and red van, its ugly blinking eye atop, sat parked with doors open wide. I didn’t need to go down. I knew.
I didn’t travel to Mars Station to see her casket fired into the sun, as was her right as a navigator. I didn’t want to watch it blaze in the an instant before evaporating or deal with dour strangers and weeping women, black shrouded, staring, whispering, asking questions I wouldn’t answer.
I would remember my lover for her laughter, her sweat-covered skin after sex, her gentleness in all things.
“Do you think the stars will give back what they have taken, at the end?”
“I don’t know.”
I still don’t.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Feb 12, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
I had heard the news only a short few minutes ago. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it.
I walked out the back door onto the deck and looked up and down the beach. Like mine, all the other houses were darkened as well. Like that would make one bit of difference with today’s tech. I barked a bitter laugh.
Michelle must have heard. Silently she slid up beside me, slipping her hand in mine. She always looked so beautiful. Her flaming red hair framing her delicate features. Just the right number of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
Now her face looked gaunt as if all the joy that only moments ago had filled it, had washed away.
“Do you think it’s true?” Her voice was a dry. The sound of autumn leaves rustling in the wind.
“It’s true. Come with me.”
I tugged her hand and led her down to the waters edge. She walked beside me as if she were lost, falling.
“Remember our honeymoon?”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice had taken on an airy, detached quality. “It was my first trip to orbit. It was so beautiful. The gardens, the trees, that quiet little beach on the lake. It was so lovely there. I wish we could go back.”
“Someday.” I said. “When this is over. Look, you can see them now.” The warm twilight was slipping away, and impenetrable night was bearing down. Above us against the distant stars, the sparkle of the L-5 habitats shone in a glistening, shimmering arc.
“Look there,” I said, pointing to one twinkling jewel in particular. “There it is. That’s Eden. Our little garden”
And we watched those precious jewels. We watched them as one by one, each glowed a little brighter, before winking out forever.
by Patricia Stewart | Feb 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Dammit Joe, it’s freakin’ freezing in here,” complained Thomas Sampati as he checked the spaceship’s thermostat.”
“We’re eight hours behind the Phoenix,” replied Joe. “We need to make a non-traditional course adjustment if we hope to win the race.”
“’Non-traditional?’ The course goes from Vesta, around the sun, past Earth, and back to Vesta. That’s 600 million miles. There’s nothing to change.”
“Officially, the course is from Vesta, around the sun, and back to Vesta. It’s just that they time the start of the race so that the Earth is positioned off to the side to give the contestants a gravitational slingshot on the way back to Vesta. The sponsors want the Earth swing-by so the spectators can see the ships up close. But we’re not ‘required’ to swing past the Earth. In fact, in ’79, the Orion accidentally flew thousand miles too close to the sun and ended up on the wrong side of the Earth, so they were decelerate, not accelerate. They finished in last place, but they weren’t disqualified. That precedent makes it legal to cut inside the Earth.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Relax. I’ve been planning this contingency for months. I figure if we fly really close to the sun, we can fly directly back toward Vesta, and shorten the trip by seventy million miles.”
“How close is ‘really close’?”
“Until today, nobody goes inside Mercury’s orbit, about 30 million miles. I plan to go as close as 5 million miles.”
“Are you nuts? They stay that far away for a reason. The sun’s kinda hot you know. We’ll be subjected to 36 times the radiation of the other ships. We’ll fry.”
“Not necessarily. I plan to deploy a Meissner shield; a thin mirror-like reflector made out of a superconductive alloy. It’s also a perfect Faraday shield. Virtually nothing will get through to the ship.”
“Virtually nothing?”
“Well, it will get a little hot in here. That’s why we need to make it as cold as possible before we start.”
“Do you also plan to change the name of the ship to ‘The Icarus’?”
“Icarus? He was the one who died.”
“That’s my point.”
“Look, Tom, either grow a pair, or get in an escape pod.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stay, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Thanks. Now, start hydrating yourself. It’s going to take twelve hours to complete the fly-by of the sun.”
As the ship began to round the sun, the thermostat started to climb. “How hot can we go before we die?” asked Sampati.
“At 100% humidity, only 105F. But I have the dehumidifier at maximum. We can probably survive to 170F, as long as our perspiration can evaporate. Keep drinking water, and take those salt tablets.”
At periapsis, they fired the main thrusters to maximize the ship’s velocity.
During the fly-by, the men were forced to endure a living hell. For the first six hours, they were worried that they would die. For the second six hours, they were wishing they would. Finally, they were heading away from the sun, and the temperature began to drop. Drenched with sweat, Joe checked the telemetry. “According to the computer, we shortened the trip by ten hours. We should be ahead. I’ll check with the officials.”
“God,” exclaimed Sampati, “That was the worst 12 hours of my life. I wouldn’t do that again, not even for first place prize money. Uh oh, what’s wrong?”
“The update just came in. Those bastards on the Phoenix did the same maneuver. They’re still eight hours in front.”
by submission | Feb 10, 2010 | Story
Author : Sean Wallace
“Now, we all look forward to entering the Archangel when we retire, but what about those people who go there before then? Constance Vyke reports on the people who keep Archangel running…”
Constance, pretty in a thin, blonde sort of way, starts her report through a practiced smile. “Thank you Milo. The Archangel Station, owned and run by the UN, has been running for almost thirty years; taking us in when we become elderly and giving us a life of pleasure and joy in our most fragile years. Not everyone who comes here does so for the Grace Chambers though. I’m here with Nigel Howard, Chief Engineer for the Archangel and he is, as you can see, a great deal younger than 65.”
Nigel offers a small smile, slightly confused. “Hello there Constance.”
“First of all, I’m certain our viewers would like to know how you can cope with being so close to the Grace Chambers?”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said it isn’t tempting, but thankfully you need specific implants to be able to join the residents; implants stored and inserted planetside. So there’s no way for me, or anyone else here, to ‘dip in’.”
“But how can you cope with it? Bliss and joy happening so close to you and you cannot take part in it… even I’m feeling the pull, and I’ve only been here a few days.”
“Firstly, if you work on the Archangel you get to retire five years early. Plus, without people like us, no-one would be able to enter Gracie…”
“Gracie? Is that what you call them?”
“Oops, sorry.” Nigel wipes his hand down his eyes and coughs. “Yeah, it’s the nickname we gave the Intethlon Quantum Core GC20. It’s a lot less of a mouthful. But yeah, we do an important job, maybe the most important job there is, so you get a lot of satisfaction out of it.” The increased numbers of suicides and high level of substance abuse went unmentioned, especially after Head Office had some serious words with him about ‘appropriate responses’.
“Anyway,” Constance says, slight annoyance peeking through her media-friendly tones, “what’s a typical day like up here? What do you do every day?”
“Well, we don’t work every day Constance. But for me, a typical day involves nothing more than your usual space station Chief Engineer; I read reports, ensure the tech is all in working order, manage the new arrivals and deliveries…”
“And it’s really not difficult to see hundreds of people enter the Grace Chambers, Gracie?”
“Really, it’s not a problem.” Nigel coughs and balls his fists. “… but anyway, we get everyone in, give them the introduction and then fit them into the chambers for their new life. Then we send back any deceased for planetside burial and ensure that the next day’s work is prepared. That’s about it; as I said, nothing more than the typical station.”
“Alright then, Nigel, just before I go I’d like to ask what the first thing you’re going to do after you retire is?”
Having thought long and hard about this over the decades he’d worked on the Archangel, the truth sprang to answer the question itself; “I’m going to Solar-sail to Mars.”
“Thank you very much for your time Nigel.” Constance turns back to the camera. “There you are viewers, normal people doing amazing work up here in the Heavens. For MSN-BBC, I’m Constance Vyke.”
“Constance Vyke there. We’ll see you after these messages…”
