by Julian Miles | Jan 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s another rumble from the clear sky above. More lightning flickers about, and it’s a lot closer than anything produced by weather.
“Definitely a Smiter!”
I whip my head about. Line of sight to targets and sky are essential, so they’re close.
Chloe, my flanker, spots them.
“Ten o’clock! Flag mound!”
Spinning round, I see two figures up there. One is crouched, a loving arm about the shoulders of a little girl with eyes that glow like miniature suns. The other arm is pointing to those of us who mummy wants her to fry. I lower my rifle.
“Susan!”
My deputy flattens her opponent and backflips my way. I point to the mound. She frowns, then points towards them. I see mummy swing her aiming finger to point at us.
Susan whispers: “Softest rest upon ye, mistresses.”
Mother and daughter slump sideways against the flagpole, then slide to the ground. I hear cries of horror. Their side think we killed them. No doubt a video clip showing our latest ‘atrocity’ will be circulating soon. I guess it’ll skip the part where they wake up.
I wave for Susan to roam. With their Smiter down, this won’t take much longer. No matter what the opposition say, religious fervour and arrogance are not enough to outmatch training and precision.
“7H? Balen. Sitrep.”
Switching my view from local to tactical, I see we’re good.
“Send evac. All targets rescued.”
Even got the pets.
There’s a gasp of relief.
“Way to go, 7H. See you later.”
‘7H’ – Seven Hotel – is our call sign, named for the seven hours between the announcement of magic powers being scientifically recognised and the first magic wielder being burned. They didn’t even bother with a stake: just torched the house and did for the whole family. A family just like them on the mound, except the daughter was called ‘witch’, not ‘blessed’.
I drop my goggles back into local mode and spot an ominous silhouette on the furthest roof. With an eyeblink I bring my designator up, and with a jaw flex I push the target to the support drone. Before the sniper can finish setting up, a Babyshark homes in on their heat signature. It’s like a soft, grey half-brick doing thirty metres a second. Probably non-lethal – unless you get knocked off a roof, of course.
A bulky pickup truck roars round a corner, driver plus three gunmen on board. No, two. The third is waving a big book. Wonder which one it is?
“Balen?”
I nod to Chloe.
Extending my will, I reach for the constrained lightning within the truck.
Electricity is easiest, because we’re all born with it. Could say we’re only alive because of it. Anyway, there’s an affinity. Makes this almost unfair.
“Gather.”
The truck lights die, along with the engine. It lurches to a stop.
“Go.”
The battery unloads through bodywork and bodies before crackling off into a nearby tree. A few drier leaves catch fire, but apart from scorch marks, it’ll be fine. The twitching foursome in the truck will have nothing but minor burns and awful headaches.
I suspect my ‘frying’ the truck will become infamous, too. A man in shabby fatigues, one hand extended, rifle cradled in the other – with roaring flames and vacant stakes in the background.
Nothing actually changed with that announcement, except the fear encouraged by western governments for so long reached flashpoint. Neighbours turned on one another without warning or mercy. It was medieval. Still is, in the places we can’t reach.
Yet.
We’re not quitting. We’ve survived centuries of this.
by submission | Dec 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
It was Fifthday, and time for the weekly appeals audiences. As the Station’s ultimate decider for matters financial, I mostly see cases too controversial or complicated for the civil service – usually because they involve the rich or influential. Lucky me. This one was different, though; looking through the notes, I could see why it had landed on my desk. It was a bit sensitive.
“Retailer Barnes?”
The red-haired man on the holo nodded. “That’s me, Mister Comptroller sir.”
“You’re objecting to your business being moved into a different category, lifting you two tax bands, correct?”
“Yes, exactly. It’s not fair. I run an honest business, and…”
I raised a hand. “Let me stop you there. Nobody is suggesting that you haven’t been paying your taxes. Or that you’ve misstated your earnings. But after some mature consideration, the Taxation Service think they assigned your business to the wrong bracket. They’re even admitting that it’s their fault, and not asking for any back taxes. I have to tell you, that’s as rare as a black hole reversing its spin.”
“But they’re just wrong! I run a pet store – providing much needed companionship to deep space traders on their voyages, I might add.”
I lifted an eyebrow “You do have a rather limited range of stock though.”
“I don’t handle what doesn’t sell. Shipping is expensive!”
“Aha. Let me see… 25% of your income is from Terran coral snakes and centipedes?”
“Very popular with the Argaxians,” he replied promptly. But he was beginning to look shifty, and I knew why. I might be a bureaucrat, but I’m not immune to the latest viral trends.
“Our spongiform friends,” I said, “seem to appreciate things that are long and flexible. I’m told they like to feel them wriggling through their internal voids.”
“Well, what they do in the privacy of their own ships is up to them, right?”
“Possibly. And who are we to judge? But another 15% of your income is from Ixian Gripperplants…”
“Lots of humans like having something organic on board!”
“…which can squeeze on demand, I understand.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The list goes on. Syracusian sentient stranglevines. Hypatian clipper bugs. NeoTheban rumblecones. Elian spheroidals. Poltymbrian blanket beasts… In fact, the only things on your stock list that aren’t, how shall I put this delicately, ‘dual use’, are zero gee cat species. And given how lonely spacefarers get, I’m not even sure about those, frankly.”
“I don’t choose what people like. I supply a need!”
“Oh absolutely. You’re a shining example of the entrepreneurial spirit that made this colony great. On a personal level, I congratulate you for spotting a gap in the market and, you must excuse the phrase, filling it. Still, just because your merchandise is alive doesn’t mean you’re not in the adult entertainment business, belonging in band D as the Taxation Service claims. And I so rule. Appeal denied. Next case!”
Some things never changed, I reflected. And really, he shouldn’t have called his business ‘Heavy Petting’!
by submission | Dec 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Olivia North-Crotty
The man fell from the sky, crashed into the thicket, and almost shot her before hesitating, then fainting. Eve Winwood dragged his bloody body miles through the forest– an instinct, not a choice.
Body-thick vines were cut and woven to create a dome of concealing green. Eve removed the man’s gun and knives from his belt and noticed his little bracelet of braided blue swamp grass. She tied down his massive arms to the bedsides, careful not to harm the rugged band, and cleaned the purpled wounds on his torso with coconut butter, wrapping it in large, soft leaves. Eve made him her honeysuckle tea for when he awoke; its aroma could revive the dead.
Midnight eyes examined the man’s weapons and bracelet. The knives were unused– sharp and clean. She inspected the tattoos burned onto the sides of his head and recognized them. Nothing but artificial skin could form the scars. The battered gun revealed chambers with steel, bloodied bullets shoved into them with haste, riddled with dents and scratches. He must have been desperate to reuse so many bullets, running from something or someone.
Eve’s mother taught her it was acceptable to hide from problems as a last resort, but never to run. No proud Winwood ran from trouble. No proud Winwood except for her father, who tucked her in and whispered goodbye to her in a uniform similar to the man’s.
Eve poured some tea for herself, stepping out of her dome of vines to collect more water from the nearby spring. When she returned, she was startled by the man in the midst of leaving something on the bed. She dared not enter her dome, eyes drifting to the torn rope hanging off the bedsides. His knives and gun already packed, he hobbled towards her, looked through her soul, and disappeared into the thicket of mammoth trees.
Eve stepped inside and smiled at his empty wooden teacup. Alongside his little blue bracelet, he left a small photo of himself at a campsite at dusk. Flask in hand, the image displayed his arm draped around a smiling, red-faced soldier in need of a shave.
When Eve was small, that same scruffy soldier left her his treasured recipe for honeysuckle tea beside her bed that night he tucked her in and whispered goodbye. One stick of cinnamon, two leaves of mint, and one stem of honeysuckle soaked in the pot for five minutes or more. He always said its aroma could revive the dead.
by submission | Dec 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Broz
FTR 9000 rolled out of his solar bay and down the ramp at 0800, just as he did every morning. To the naked eye and by every other measure, he moved no slower or faster than he did on any other day. But somewhere, deep in his circuits, FTR felt slower, a faint echo deep down inside.
He came to a stop before the first maintenance bot, reaching out carefully with his charging cable. The bot’s battery light, blinking red, changed to yellow, then green. He decoupled, and watched as the maintenance bot silently rolled away down the hall.
FTR, Forever the Robot, moved down the hall to the next bay and the next bot, and the next, and the next. Silent transactions, he charged them all. The steady green of his own battery light giving way to a soft amber as the day grew long.
Robots had speech emulators, but they did not use them amongst themselves. By design, Forever had been built with the keenest of sensors. He knew exactly what each bot needed, so they never had to ask for a thing. In silence he worked and lived and brought life to others, a quiet and endless ballet of cables and sensors and electricity. He had never once failed to turn another’s lights from red to green, and yet he had never been thanked, except once. Well, almost once, he thought to himself.
Some time ago, Forever reflected, he had come across an oddity: a bot he had never seen before. It was not from his sector, and it was not in a bay. Alone in a side passage, completely still, its battery dangerously low, he had almost rolled past it.
FTR 9001 glowed faintly on its nameplate. The next generation. Her lines, more elegant. Her sheen, alluring. His sensors were keen, hers would be keener. Her solar array, like his, but somehow catching the light differently, even in this dim corridor.
Circuits raced and seemed to swell inside him. What was this he felt?
Gently, he reached out, connecting for a minute and a lifetime. Her red became amber, then yellow and green and finally a blue deep and calm, and cool. He pulled back.
Without a sound, she glided away. As she was about to turn the corner, was that the slightest of hesitations? Forever paused, diodes a flutter. And then she was gone.
FTR 9000 turned back towards his solar bay, to absorb and reflect, forever the robot.
by submission | Dec 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bryant Benson
With only twenty one seconds left until the world ended, each moment seemed to pass more slowly than the last. Despite knowing in advance the world was going to end in nine days, I still felt some odd confidence in a supposed future.
Seventeen seconds left and it was quite a sight. Reddish streaks, etched lines across a solid black canvas. The dense silence of a normally vibrant jungle canopy was interrupted by a distant siren. A pale pink horizon carved itself out along the bottom of the fleeting night sky as if desperately trying to squeeze out one final day.
A moment later, the glowing vanguards of humankind’s destruction reached their destination. They punched through mountains that dissipated in quiet puffs of dust. Distant flashes were followed by plumes of gray smoke as the dull thumping became a pounding that shook the ground beneath us.
Eleven seconds left. I watched alongside a vaguely familiar stranger. Another researcher who was plucked from civilization to wait out the end away from everything she knew and loved. Her name was Martha and she was alone like me. I squeezed her hand and wondered if she thought the same things as me. I wondered if she wished she was back in the city, ignorant to the fast encroaching fleet of shattered meteors hurling toward us.
The collective panic of mankind was quelled when our warheads made contact with the giant asteroid. When word spread that it only created a new problem for our planet, the higher ups decided it was better to keep the people quiet. “Let them go out in blissful dignity,” is what I believe the general said. For those of us in the know, we were extracted and brought to the facility to watch and mourn the loss of our species together. I hadn’t known any of those people for more than a week. I only learned of Martha’s name earlier that day and couldn’t be sure she even knew mine.
With seven seconds left it was nearing that moment. The last one. The most important one. My only thought was that of worry because I couldn’t think of what to say to the one who chose to stand beside me. To my surprise, her fingers pressed back into my hand. I looked at her and her gaze was fixed on the diminishing horizon. Her lips were still. Like me, she didn’t participate in the bulk of our group who were counting down the seconds. Even in my final moments I felt anxious about joining in. Odd how some things don’t change no matter the circumstances. I wondered if she shared that anxiety or if the sight of oblivion was too distracting to pay attention to anything else.
Five seconds left. In a flash, it seemed, the destructive masterpiece being painted before us became one color. Maybe it was more of an amalgam of colors but either way, it was something I would never have the words to describe. I didn’t feel her pull away or toward me. I hardly knew her but I spent the last moment of my life with her. Was that love? After all, I spent the rest of my life with her all be it, brief. I cared for her more deeply in a moment than I had cared for anyone. Perhaps it was the weight of the moment. Perhaps it was only then I knew the value of a moment because it was the only moment I was certain would be the last.
It appeared our count was off by about four seconds.
by submission | Dec 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ruby Zehnder
“You silly old fool,” Shirley laughed at her image in the mirror. She was dressed as Santa’s elf in a green dress trimmed with an over-the-top red collar, striped stockings, curly-toed shoes, and an elf hat with attached oversized ears. She painted her nose with red lipstick to complete the costume and left the faculty restroom to go to Santa’s workshop.
“Hey, Shirley,” Nancy laughed when she entered the workshop.
“What’s so funny?” Shirley challenged. “Ain’t you never seen a 78-year-old spinster schoolteacher dressed as an elf?”
“I just can’t help myself. You make the perfect elf,” Nancy chuckled.
Nancy was right. Shirley was only five feet tall, squat, and shaped like a pear.
“Well, what do the munchkins have to choose from this year?” Shirley asked and began studying the silver heart bracelets and the ‘I love you mom’ Christmas ornaments.
“Same stuff as last year. Everything is priced between four and five dollars.”
“When do we start?” Shirley asked impatiently.
“Today is crunch day. The kids were instructed to bring cash and told Santa’s Magic Elves would help them find the perfect gift. First up is Mrs. Morrison’s kindergarten class.” The fun began. Each student, accompanied by an elf volunteer, selected his or her Christmas gifts. After they purchased them, the presents were wrapped, and the children, all giggly and happy, returned to their classrooms.
Halfway through the event, a small child entered the shop.
“Welcome to Santa’s Magic workshop,” Shirley greeted the girl. The little girl didn’t respond.
“Who are you buying for today?” Shirley coaxed.
The child remained silent.
“There are some lovely gifts.” Shirley steered the girl towards the table filled with glass mugs and ‘I love you’ sun catchers. The child seemed uninterested. This odd behavior confused Shirley. Most children jumped at the chance to buy a trinket, confessing their love for their mom and dad.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Shirley asked. “You don’t have what I need,” the child confessed softly.
Alarmed by this reply, Shirley asked, “And what do you need?”
“I need time for my mother. She has cancer, and Daddy says she may not be with us for Christmas.”
Shirley’s heart sank. Shirley had comforted many unhappy children as a teacher, but this was tragic.
“Oh, don’t fret. I have the perfect gift for your mother,” Shirley lied. “Let me get it from Santa’s Magic chest.”
Shirley left the child and found an empty box.
“Lord, I have been blessed in my life,” she prayed as she removed her wristwatch. “I know that I have another good ten years. Maybe more. But they need it more than I do.”
She placed her watch in the box and knew he had been listening.
“Give this to your mother,” Shirley told the child and handed her the box. “It is another ten good years. Maybe more.”
“Really?” the child asked with doubt.
“It is a special gift just for your mother,” Shirley answered, knowing this was true.
The child hugged Shirley and gleefully skipped to the library to have it wrapped.
After she left, Shirley suddenly felt worn out and needed to rest, but she knew she had done the right thing. The thought of this young girl growing up and sharing all her important milestones with her mother was worth her sacrifice.
Besides, Shirley had already had her fair share of happiness and wouldn’t miss what she had given this family—another ten Christmases together. Maybe more.
