by submission | Feb 25, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Nobody makes choices carelessly about losing one of their senses, but you know the risk of blowing your neural nets outweighs keeping all your Earthly capacities.” Paloma Derth leaned towards her reluctant client. Behind her were rolling holographic images of her diplomas from medical schools throughout the solar system.
Erli August pushed his taught, strong form back against Derth’s floating visitor’s chair. It expanded and contracted to give him continued maximum comfort. “I never considered this in my dreams at the academy. This is a sacrifice they didn’t cover with plebes.”
“Surely not, Mr. August. We weren’t traveling that deep when you entered ten years ago. With technologies we found abandoned on Phobos, we are going beyond what we now call the Ring Pass Not. No one realized how protected we were until those poor souls on the Cambia were driven mad and ran their ship into asteroids. The rescue crews suffered the same fate, but now we know that electromagnetic fields outside our solar system’s protective barrier overwhelm humans with all five senses.”
“I realize. I’ve met my new crew members. It was quite an adjustment to work on board alongside blind and deaf people. Did they all have to make these choices?” August clenched his teeth as he considered how the Earth’s best could be disabled to fulfill dreams of deep-space missions.
“No, it was discovered early on that academy graduates could not adjust effectively with a sudden major removal of sight or sound and still be competent aboard. I still lose sleep over candidates we harmed needlessly. I later helped develop screening to find our best hopes in special needs communities. It was a pleasant surprise to find so many competent engineers and scientists were interested and available. Adjustments to your ship’s internal systems were not that difficult to support them, as well as sighted and hearing-capable staff. Trust me, you’ll find your crew highly qualified, but you still have to make your choice. With advancements in our medical skills we can now offer a less intrusive selection with fewer impacts: choose taste or smell.”
“Easy for you, Doc, but I’m still not happy about this. I realize we have to fly end of this week. I’ve delayed this as long as possible. So, if you want to help me take this next step, are you willing to help me for just a few minutes to make my selection?” August leaned forward, putting his hand over the advisor’s cupped hands on her desk.
“I’m not sure what you have in mind, Captain…but are you suggesting something inappropriate?”
“Hardly, Doc, but if you would humor me just this once…considering what I have to do. Either I’ll never taste food again or I’ll never smell a flower for eternity. That’s asking a lot.”
A light flush came over Paloma’s face. She did not move from her chair as August approached her from her right side. August stroked his hand lightly over the nape of her neck and then bent down as he lifted her thick hair to his face, bathing in her shampoo and perfume with one deep inhalation. She jolted back as the Captain’s large hands circled the back of her neck as he turned her face toward his. Looking deeply into her green eyes, he kissed her softly and then deeply, holding his lips completely over hers. She finally pushed him away.
“Captain August, I…that was unexpected. Why?”
He smiled, slowly. “I’ve made my decision. Now if you don’t mind, as you cut my wires, play ‘Crazy,’ by Patsy Cline in the background. Thanks.”
by submission | Jan 18, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“There is simply nothing we can do for you medically Mr. Tambor. Digeenia is fatal in mammals, like you. Perhaps someday there will be a vaccine or treatment, but considering its outcome, you might want to choose our pathway alternative. It promises a painless passing.”
Micah Tambor stared at his cabin’s screen. All other lights were off as last stages of illness made his eyes wince at brightness. He was mentally and emotionally prepared for his growing symptoms as muscle and bone transmuted into blue goo, would then harden, and finally, swiftly coagulate into diamond-hard crystals at his last breath. Some called it the ‘sparkling death.’
“I’ve no desire to be transitioned in one of those drug chambers. I’ve traveled widely since leaving Earth. I knew there would be risks. Actually, I have a plan that requires me to continue on my own path, regardless of pain.”
“But Mr. Tambor, you are beloved. You once brokered peace on your world when its nuclear destruction was at hand, then later took your glassblowing arts throughout our galaxy. So many worlds have felt joy from amazing skills and discoveries you brought to them. This station would be judged harshly for standing by while you suffered.”
“I’ve had my time with doctors, but now I must move on for one last wish. When I have finally transformed into glittering dust, I want my remains strewn in the Carson Nebula, just around its edges, in a thin line.”
“That is a most unusual request, sir, but you are, after all, a most unusual being. We will comply as long as you provide a record of your final wishes, in case the universe feels you were mishandled.”
“That has already been done and should be there, on your screen.”
“So it is, Mr. Tambor. Why a nebula, if I may ask?”
“As a glassblower, I always felt that God fashioned similar designs in those dazzling clouds of diaphanous colors scattered throughout the inky skies. Being part of one of those masterpieces, like the Carson, is the finest tribute I can imagine. Fire and color have been my life’s work.”
“But Earth would have wanted your return just once more. What of your family?”
“My family has all gone to their rewards and I never had an inclination to build one of my own. Let Earth and those who cared for my works remember me as I was—a simple artist who happened by coincidence to be at the right moment in history to bring compassion and reason to save the people I loved. I want to be of star fire now, bound in colors of the Almighty, for that gleaming powder may someday be a star. One of our finest Earth poets once wrote:
“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
Micah Tambor’s crystals circled in sweeping arms and twisting currents of space dust around Carson’s Nebula, but within months became a flashing necklace outlining the object in a flurry of spectral wonder— a glassblower’s final touch at the end of his creator’s brush, reminding all who looked skyward that unselfish love can bring both beauty and peace.
by submission | Dec 15, 2017 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Get out of here, now!” Telerman yelled into his beleaguered colleagues’ faces over blaring dance music inside Omnia, as lights flashed around them, from above, over a vast dance floor of writhing partygoers.
“Chill pill, Telerman,” Sheila Barsted interrupted, pointing red fingernails onto Telerman’s nose, over his beard.
“Screw that!” Telerman screamed, grabbing her wrist.
“Hey, buddy,” slurred Roscoe Peterson, as he rose to defend his companion. “We got our first R&R in five years from the Ranch and terrific comps for rooms, food and alcohol from that tight-ass Project Manager. What the hell’s wrong with you? You got number crunching eating your butt, or what? Ain’t Caesars great?” Roscoe swirled his hand at its ambiance.
“Roscoe, get your shit together. There a black light room in here?” Telerman’s powerful grip pulled his smaller laboratory companions upright.
“What the hell? You crazy? Yeah, back behind us on the left. Hey, you can’t grab us like this, asshole!”
Josh Telerman ignored their antics. He dragged both Barsted, a top zoologist, and Roscoe, a talented microbiologist, out from their booth and into the Zoom Room, where swirling colors from semi-pornographic paintings glowed around them. Telerman’s captives stopped struggling after he pointed out yellow splotches covering their bodies. Telerman ignored yellow handprints over Sheila’s front and Roscoe’s crotch.
“Remember when we added fluorescence to scorpions for our cancer tests? That’s their damn sex pheromones all over us. Worse, I was responsible for not only increasing their size, but increasing metal concentrations in their aculeus.”
Roscoe’s shock cleared away his first two drinks. “Accu what?”
“Their stinger, putz. Scorpions use metal. You never asked questions about what we’re doing. Didn’t you wonder why we’re supposed to develop huge blue scorpions?”
“Geez, Telerman,” Barsted interrupted, “they just want to get more venom for cancer trials. They can’t synthesize it yet. Wrangling small herds is a hassle. We quadruple their size and drug tests get cheaper. So, what…and what is their crap doing all over us? How the hell did you know?”
“So there, smart ass,” Roscoe slurred. “Old Mr. DNA, always asking questions. The Ranch doesn’t like that. Didn’t you learn anything at Lawrence Livermore?”
Telerman pulled them both close to his face. “I should leave you both, but I can’t. We’re expendable. I smelled a rat when we got this free ride. Do you remember anything after we got off the bus and hit our rooms?”
“Who cares?” Roscoe complained, trying to push away from Telerman’s bear grip. “Fell asleep. Guess all those uppers we took to meet schedules for months must have worn off.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Sheila piped in, her long blonde hair draping back over her slinky dress as she looked up at Telerman’s growl.
“Probably only thing that saved us. We weren’t supposed to wake up after those free bus drinks.”
Telerman yanked them toward an exit door. Roscoe pulled away, sitting down. “Where the hell is Cynthia? She’ll fire your ass for this. You aren’t team lead.” Roscoe pointed both middle fingers at Telerman.
“She’s dead, you jerk. Go ahead, sit there, and they’ll find you torn to shreds and desiccated like her. I was just at her room. Cops found a foot-long stinger that went right through that bull-rider belt buckle she always wore. That’s what we developed, you saps. Somebody else was using our research. They made gigantic assassin weapons that make no sound and leave no prints. ”
Three terrified researchers rushed in drunken haste to find a cab as small arms fire echoed through Omnia.
by submission | Nov 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
Dear Humans:
By now, you will be fully aware we are living among you. In some ways, in the last four hundred years, we have become you. No, there was no strident message or headline. This change was inevitable, just as Cro-Magnon’s gradual but surprising arrival. There were many forms of hominids before the great nuclear war some twelve-thousand years past. You are just now discovering the remains of many lost genetic lines and remainders of those evolutionary experiments that remained hidden in your deepest forests, swamps, caves, mountains and even oceans. Many forms were destroyed, as their DNA could not withstand chaos. You have thrived, but perhaps to your own detriment.
You fear changes, for you have been bred by your human masters to tremble when anything new or unusual occurs in your environment. History has proven your aggressiveness to destroy anything that does not fit into your limited understanding. So, it is with that context in mind, that I reveal our intentions. Abductees and governments wonder, speculate and guess blindly. Those protective shields block sound judgment. The facts are simply this: your genetic code is wearing out, producing higher numbers of faulty units that have physical, mental and even spiritual defects. If your species’ variation were left alone for another thousand years, without an upgrade, your overall capacity to reproduce would be reduced to extinction. Even now, you wonder at declining reproductive capacities in many ‘advanced’ countries. If you were allowed to produce a nuclear holocaust now, as described in the Mahabharata, we could recover nothing of your kind. You would disappear just as a dozen other hominid lines did when the Great Floods decimated the Earth as climates became unstable. We will not allow such an atomic culling to ever occur again.
In the near future, between now and the end of 2025, you will face incredible Earth changes. Specific warnings have existed for millennia based on a more robust understanding of sun changes and their impacts. The Maya did not predict the end of the planet in 2012, but rather, the end of their cycle of history. There will be a new history upon your race after these coming changes. No, we are not going to land and save you. There is no rapture. Also, those great underground havens produced by your governments for their rich and elite will not survive. What has been done on your behalf is our introduction into your gene pool. We will live with human survivors and improve their current genetic code so that a new civilization with higher understanding and capacity will thrive in a more balanced state with nature. The truth is that we, the alien hybrids, are the single stabilizing element to ensure your continuance beyond the tribulation you have anticipated. We have not come to destroy…but to preserve what we can, beyond the tests ahead to reach a brighter future.
Accept us so we can bring you this hope. Fear not for your New Jerusalem is on the horizon. As your own holy books state, “Behold, I am making all things new.”
End of Transmission
by submission | Nov 2, 2017 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Aaron’s dark green Volvo continued in the interstate fast lane, at the legal speed limit, when suddenly a bright red SUV swerved around him, honking, almost striking the front of his car. He smiled as the aggressive driver sped ahead, then veered suddenly into a retaining wall and down into a ditch. Aaron passed the wreckage, remembering a nasty finger wave the other driver shared as his SUV passed within inches of Aaron’s front fender.
***
“Please sit.” Emil Brasso was terse in his directions to Aaron as he entered the sparse interrogation room featuring a single metal table with a worn green top, overlooked by a large mirror obviously allowing others to watch unseen. They seated across from each other in sterile, steel chairs with thin, hard seats. Brasso kept his right hand below the lip of the table as he fumbled with his left, opening a brown manila folder in front of his captive.
“I’m confused. I registered yesterday at your Agency’s request. No idea why. So am I under arrest?” Aaron flung back his mop of long, blonde hair while staring steely-eyed into his interrogator.
“You are surely familiar with the concerns of your government since the Pence administration. Following last year’s saucer landings, people started expressing unusual skills…some dangerous. You’ve heard of the Marvel Syndrome?”
“Sure, but that’s comic book stuff. Is this some kind of witch-hunt? Besides, your accent tells me you aren’t even one of us. Who are you, anyway?” Aaron leaned forward, red-faced with anger.
“You may call me Mr. Brasso. I am from the Netherlands with the Hague, specifically as an investigator for the World Bank. Did you or did you not brag that you could move decimals at will? That is quite serious, if true. Such actions could risk financial instability for every nation’s economy.”
“What?” Aaron’s mouth opened in astonishment.
“Did you not tell your mother that you could, in fact, change decimals at will, from a distance?” Brasso brought his bandaged right hand onto the tabletop, emphasizing his point as he pushed the folder towards Aaron. Aaron noticed the bruises around Brasso’s eyes.
“My stepmother? She’s an idiot. That is not what I told her. Obviously, she turned me in for some pittance of a reward. She switched things around in her empty head when I told her my superhero name should be Digitalis. I can make digits disappear…not decimals.”
“You mean numbers, like in a series?” An added note of concern rose from Brasso.
Aaron smiled, slowly, as he looked down at the table, “Not exactly.”
