by submission | Jul 29, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“He’s blind. He ignored shielding restrictions.” Carose bent away from his medical monitor while speaking to Captain Wolir on video screen. “There’s nothing to do. Earthers never evolved protective eye membranes for such space encounters. How did he get through psych screenings?”
“Not sure, Carose. Central Command assured he was fully vetted. Such a loss. What is it this cycle; thirty or forty have found ways to reach 35W7 just to peer into what they believe is the face of their God? There are so many beautiful nebulae to visit, but of course, up close, they are just dull dust clouds…except this one that generates its own light. Maybe that’s why they believe this myth. I wished we didn’t have to vacuum these rare ions from here for our power units. It draws fanatics who desire direct cosmic experiences at any cost.”
“It’s a pity. I’ll do what I can to maintain him as long as I can.” Carose looked over the young ensign lying before him on a metal inspection table. “He can be assigned to parts cleaning in storage.”
“Truly a waste of his skills. He won’t last long. We only send condemned prisoners to handle those chemicals.” Commander Wolir sounded peeved.
“Doesn’t really matter,” Carose interrupted. “Once Earthers have their exposure to 35W7’s light their autonomic nervous system fails in weeks. He’ll stop eating and then drinking. You’ve seen films of them staggering aimlessly, with that disturbing grin, while circling endlessly until they drop. Most of their brain reaches a vegetative stage. What was his assignment onboard?”
“Unfortunately, he was our primary engine charge specialist. Luckily, we’ve got a Sreontan who is also trained as his backup.”
“This disturbing compulsion of humans risks all of our work here. What hubris to seek the face of God.” Carose did not hide displeasure in his voices or contorted facial features in both his heads.
“Really, Carose, I’d expect a being with your experience to understand such attraction. Would your people not risk anything to meet Chalac, your creator myth?”
Yellow streaks erupted and bubbled about Carose’s facial membranes. Commander Wolir noted he had broken protocol regarding religious sensitivities.
“We do not speak of Chalac with your kind, of He who had two faces, then split them to make those of us with two separate heads to honor His binary holiness. Now, do you need me to write another report on this incident, Commander? There are so many insane humans seeking 35W7…it seems redundant.” Carose scanned over his current readings, evaluating efforts it would take to reproduce a new summary workup.
“Sorry, but Central was clear on this. Their policies need strengthening for enforcement after bootleg movies of 35W7 were smuggled onto Earth, before that planet blew up. There is no certainty that it caused their chaos, but when billions suddenly believe they’ve seen their God, civilization collapses. We’ve got to use our powers to reduce future losses of their species still traveling in space. Every report helps establish better barriers to prevent suicide encounters threatening commercial vessels.”
“I’ll have it to your office tomorrow. Meanwhile, send someone down to escort this fool to the parts department. We might get some use from him before he shuts down. I hope what remains in him is at peace.”
“It’s a shame Earthers don’t follow warnings in their own holy books.”
“How’s that?” Carose asked.
“In my study of this phenomenon, I encountered a passage in their Bible stating, ‘You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live!’ How could they ignore that?”
“How indeed?” Carose pondered.
by submission | Jun 28, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Deuteronomy 28:41 Thou shalt beget sons and daughters, but thou shalt not enjoy them; for they shall go into captivity.
Just a toe. That’s all. Just her pointed phalanx appears. No more, at first. She plays me like a fly cast trout. She can’t be real, but I’m pulled in, helpless and gasping.
San Francisco rents: ninety square feet for a grand a month for one bed and a bath. Neighbor’s sneezes scatter roaches we deny on Balboa Street, but we all have them. They like fog. My lease didn’t warn me about my microscopic closet facing north. Her light came under the uneven door frame that first night, eroding my rest. I’ve slept with eyes open all my life. No one knows why. When light flares underneath, there’s no relief…as if she would allow it.
First, I was sure Nevada had fried my brains from Burning Man festivities. I took three tabs one night. Stars ate my soul. I wandered out from camp, alone. Next day deputies found me walking naked outside the park with killer sunburns, mumbling, half-mad and dehydrated. Dad got me out of the Winnemucca Mental Health Center’s holding tank for crazies or I’d still be there. Sometimes flashbacks eat my lunch. Not now. I’d take those instead of every closet cursing me since Balboa. She’s real and she has me.
My mistake, calling Sherm—trusted, faithful and gay friend. Not like my other gay contacts. We were close since grade school, even though I’m straight. Sherm was iconic. Nobody liked him, not in San Fran. A total monk—even though he would tap at me occasionally to verify which bench I was still warming. Didn’t matter. We shared all our fears, hopes, doubts and dreams. Doesn’t happen often enough in a life, but he was my go to. I had to tell him about her and what happened every night after I moved into that dump. He laughed until I convinced him to stay over, just once. He took it the wrong way and jumped at it, thinking ‘the closet’ was my code word for coming out, but then he got caught in her net. He was just as mesmerized by her shining skin and glowing face. Shockingly, she took us both, without our permission, until we were whimpering husks curled up in my tiny Murphy bed.
Sherm left before I woke. He refused calls and wouldn’t answer email or doorbells. I wasn’t sure what he thought I’d done; maybe drugged him for an escort. Anyway, for the first time in fifteen years, I lost my confidant.
Then, two weeks later, I get a call at work. He’s shaky like I’ve never heard. I empathize because I’m also enervated. Still, he apologizes and then asks forgiveness. I ask why. All he says is that two of them are in his closet. He can’t take it anymore. So that’s it. My cry for help contaminated him. A week later, cops found his corpse in the Bay. I tried to make police inquiries, but they still treat homosexuals like yesterday’s trash. To them, another dead one is a blessing.
Sherm’s price was my fault. I’ve moved six times—left the Coast to hide in Iowa. No dice. Three of them now exit closets nightly demanding servicing. I’m a mere shell of a man. Whatever happened in that desert sealed my fate. Somewhere in the cosmos, I may be worshiped as a pater gentis, but here I’m a lost soul who will soon pass in my sleep from unknown causes.
by submission | Jun 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“May I speak frankly?” Preston Daniels stood before Secretariat Chrisom, ruler straight, staring at the Marscape beyond his superior’s office windows.
“With care, Preston. You always have delicate propositions, often nothing to do with our mission: input, output, and throughput. So if it doesn’t have to deal with those three, step lightly.” Chrisom’s crest of graying hair topped his lanky, weathered face and chiseled frame. Fat was an annoyance he never tolerated.
Daniels cleared his throat while noticing Chrisom rest his palms down on his imposing chair, covering arms like eagle talons. Chrisom’s knuckles squeezed tight. Daniels felt like prey.
“The Union should carefully reconsider moving deeper into Cassini crater in Arabia Terra. A continued movement of crop development there is driving indigenous life forms to migrate into agricultural outposts. Cerra Cordova was nearly decimated by Strongian mites two months ago. Survivors are still being treated. We’ve just removed the pestilence from soybean crops. That was a major output loss, sir.”
“Yes, yes…history. We’ve managed it. Get to the point. Do you need funds for more spraying? Those funds are tight this time of year, but if needed…”
“No, sir,” Preston interrupted. “It is far more serious. If we push into Cassini we’ll encroach deeper into breeding grounds of the Talus Worms. Those monsters…just one bite on the ankle. Many would perish without the antidote from Berthold. People say he lives in Cassini.”
“Berthold! Berthold! How many times must I remind you to not mention his name here? For six months, I’ve pulled this planet together, while all I’ve heard is that ridiculous myth—a phantom that cures field workers and then disappears. Rubbish! And then I receive a message that he is demanding reparations for ill peasants working in advancing territories. I’ll tell you, Daniels, it’s the beginning of another worker uprising. They’re using this imaginary fairy tale to extort company profits. Well, I won’t have it!”
Chrisom leaned forward, slamming his fists on the red stone table. Just then, his administrative support popped her head around the meeting room door.
“Sorry,” she whispered lightly, fearful of her new boss’s temper. “Your wife’s called several times in the last ten minutes. She says it’s an emergency.”
“Damn her, anyway,” Chrisom snapped. “I told you not to interrupt me! You’ll learn. It’s always an emergency for her. She hates this place, new garden of the cosmos or not. Should have left her and my daughter to sweat out the summer in Canada. Tell her I’ll get to her in a few minutes…now go!” He twisted back to pounce while glaring at Preston.
“I’m sorry for the imposition, sir,” Preston continued, “but my research shows that Berthold descended from The Thirty. If that’s true, and he’s alive, using our clearing weapons on Cassini could kill him. Our Mars Charter specifically protects his genetic line for all time. Besides, his secret worm anti-venom would die with him. Those creatures are reportedly already burrowing through our strongest walls, invading the central city. If Xanthe became infested, none of us could survive.”
“What thirty colonists did three-hundred years ago is of no concern to me. I don’t care. Engage the clearing weapons. There will be no more discussion. Do you hear me? Keep quiet about Berthold, The Thirty and those stinking worms. I don’t need any rumors reaching Earth.” He pointed to the door.
“All right, sir.” Preston pushed a button on his arm computer. “Done. Drones have started bombardments.” Chrisom’s distressed assistant rushed past Preston as he cleared the doorway.
“Secretariat Chrisom, please contact her. Something serious has happened to your daughter.”
by submission | May 3, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Matt drifted in distant thought, staring at melting butter pushing raspberry jelly seeds up and over the pockmarks of his whole wheat English muffin. His senses filled as a mix of fruity sweetness rose up, enhanced by toasted bread essence to dance with the ship navigator’s Arabica coffee fumes.
“Tell me, Carlton, do you suppose they’ll even still have raspberries when we get back? That time continuum stuff still worries me. We never heard back from the first mission. Maybe their messages can’t even reach back to us.”
“Eh,” Carlton replied to his captain. “It’s all a risk. Who knows? Here we are, about to hit the star drives for the first time on board…and you’re eating jelly with coffee, no less. I thought we were NPO for twenty-four before we got sealed in.”
“Captain’s prerogative. If we don’t make it to Proxima Centauri, at least this will be a memory I’ll take into the afterlife. Anyway, we’ve got Einstein on our side. That should be enough.” He bit down on the edge of the crisp muffin, letting the juices flow slowly over his tongue.
“Yeah, the guy who divided by zero. I’m not as sure as others that we go on and the Earth ages away behind us. Seems like we get the best end of the deal.”
Matt offered a second muffin to his executive officer, but Carlton declined, as he headed for his steel cocoon.
***
Ugwanyazu slithered over reflecting shards mixing with smoke from the ship’s debris field. Drought on Proxima Centauri had reduced much of the core plains to dust and everlasting sandstorms that long since blistered away once flourishing herds of conjo beasts, formerly plentiful food for the taking. Protein was precious now. Ugwanyazu motioned a tentacle over the dusty plain to his partner Uwanazu. There would be no new spores to continue their race without a fresh meal.
Their thoughts bound as their suckers shared labors to pull open hibernation pods, revealing desiccated, ancient skeletal remains within, some with a bit of dried flesh still clinging along with hair and extended nails.
“It is good so many continue to fall from our skies, my mate. These are like the last, but not as substantial as some earlier ship crews. Did they not know that moving in a craft at light speed would make them age so fast? We abandoned star flight so long ago, yet so many species still try. Someday they may discover light passageways. Now, with our world’s magnetic fields failing, we have no way to use ladders of light to other stars. We are abandoned. Ah, but we have the benefit of others mistakes, do we not?” Ugwanyazu sensed the other corpses about the shattered hull.
“Yes. They and so many other cultures have crashed here like this. But oh, they are delicious. So crunchy, and this one has a sweet taste…something with seeds still in it. Perhaps it was pregnant once.”
Uwanazu finished absorbing the Captain’s uniform after his skeleton dissolved. She lifted one of her eye pods up and flashed a sign to her young to come feed on the latest debris from the heavens.
by submission | Mar 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Baylen continued with standard disease treatment questions for applicants, after verifying Sheila Barston’s financial capabilities. Baylen took on a wizened senior’s appearance for his younger, highly spirited clientele needing a thimble full of respect to buffer their anticipation. His holographic medical attending room was pleasant under a soft, blue simulated light at the same seventy-two degrees found throughout the space station.
“Please, only a few more inquiries before we schedule, Sheila. I realize this may seem an exciting opportunity, but it does require absolute assurance that we can match you with a condition, disorder or disease that truly meets your requirements. I understand this was a gift from friends for your upcoming birthday. Congratulations on reaching middle age, at least as we define it now. With continuing medical breakthroughs, ninety is just the new one-hundred.” Baylen’s added levity escaped his nervous client. Sheila’s fingers raced up and down selections of mortifying illnesses and discomforts from a floating digital display of the ship’s clinic menu.
“We only get to choose once in a lifetime…just one wish. It has to be the right one. Everyone talks about their experiences at our club. I’m the last to visit you. Oh, those long shudders about diphtheria, dysentery, malaria…and of course, the Black Plague. You know I’d pick that one, Dr. Baylen, but it is outside my price range. There is such emptiness in my life, I mean, to be interesting. Everything is so dull without these retro-adventures. And you assure that it is perfectly safe? Really safe?”
Sheila leaned her firm, healthy figure over the doctor’s desk, exposing her perky, bouncing octogenarian breasts through her flimsy silk jumpsuit. Her display distracted Baylen.
“Please, Miss Barston. That’s hardly appropriate. I’m over two hundred but I’m still alive. You needn’t be frisky to make a point. Of course, you will suffer, but only the memory will remain when we remove the disorder.”
“Well I just wondered,” she replied, sitting back in her overstuffed red chair. A brief frown rolled over her face before she returned to her assortment.
“There is a new item we haven’t posted yet that might just be the right fit for you. Only a few have signed up for this experience so I’m sure you would be a centerpiece of interest at whatever soirée you attended afterward.”
“Oh, could you? That sounds simply exciting. Can I afford it?”
“For you, Sheila, I’ll reduce the price for your birthday. How’s that?”
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Oh, I could just kiss you, Doctor.”
“No need, Sheila. Just follow the attendant. It will be a ten-day experience. You’ll be sharing a space with five males and one female through this process so you can agonize together. Of course, your entire exploit will be recorded in living overview so you can recall it in excruciating detail for decades.”
“I’m so excited. I’ll just never forget this.” Sheila danced to the artificial doorway and into an awaiting attendant’s direction.
Dr. Baylen’s nurse appeared in front of him. Her dry voice crackled from her hologram.
“Are you sure of your assessment, Doctor? She didn’t ask about the choice.”
“Yes, Helen, I’m sure it will fit her. I can’t believe five brothers from Ceres all signed at once. We must be overbooking. I think it’s time for retirement. I heard Alice Cringly got into this mix because she sued over her disappointing measles jaunt. She should be a terrific companion for Sheila as those seven go through condensed puberty. ”
