by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures meet outside the Ship o’ the Line tavern on Marquis III.
“No, no. You sit there. I’m more comfortable when I can see the ways in and out of any place I’m stopped in.”
The reply is a flicker of tentacles and a telepathic acceptance. After the slight visitor is seated, food and drinks are ordered from the hovering ovoid of a serving ‘bot.
Tentacles wave and a thought is sent.
“A revelation from my centuries amongst humans?”
A callused hand scratches at the stubble on his chin, then waves towards the spaceships standing amid the towers of the spaceport.
“The uncanny resemblance, come evening, between a harbour full of tall ships with their rigging and lines going hither and yon, and the spectacle of a free worlds spaceport filled with rocketships all festooned in stabilisers, conduits, and cabling.”
The tentacles ripple, then curl tightly as a more piercing question is communicated.
There’s a bark of laughter that trails away to a deep chuckle.
“No. We are, by nature, solitary wanderers. By the time we truly understand our longevity, we have forgotten our origins. Near death experiences take memories from us. Some of us seek that oblivion, spending lives as the most extreme daredevils or warriors for whatever cause offers the greatest danger. Others seek to avoid it, clutching memories like a miser hoarding money. I daresay an unknown number of us die after shockingly short – by our standard – life spans. Those who fall we never know. The fervid stories of our intergalactic powerplays and control of humanity are nothing but childish nightmare tales dressed in adult trappings. Your kind know our telepathic abilities to be rudimentary. No doubt you have encountered absolute refusals to believe that from some human groups.”
The slight figure nods slowly, then takes a quick sip of a luminous yellow beverage, the glow from which illuminates the quartet of dark vertical slots where it’s eyes should be. As it savours the drink, another question is silently asked.
“You need not worry. I’ve booked passage out of here on several ships. I’ll be gone, and damnably difficult to follow, by the time you compile and release the documentary. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to depart a place due to risk of discovery, but it’s nice to be able to do so with a modicum of grace for once.”
The next query prompts a snort of derision.
“We came to a tacit agreement with the authorities ages ago. Our potential for causing long term harm far outweighs any advantages we could provide. On top of that, there are superstitious criminal groups and religions with legends and traditions that predate the current ruling classes. We can bring a fearsome amount of grief down upon any who test us. That is not bluster, either. It has been proven several times.”
Tentacles flick again while food that looks like charred seaweed is consumed with gusto.
“I have no idea. I have been around long enough to develop a surety that whatever divinities might be attendant upon the drama called human existence have no great scheme for my kind, nor for humankind, be that of any relevance. We are, the universes are, and so the great and colourful dance goes on. And with that, so must I.”
The slight figure gestures towards passers-by, presaging a final question.
“I stopped wondering about that over 3000 years ago. Wasting too much time on something you can’t answer is a bad habit. Good evening to you.”
The figure strides away and disappears into the passing crowd.
by submission | Jan 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Lee Hammerschmidt
April 29, 1976, 11:53 PM
“Don’t answer!” I said as I felt the muted phone throbbing in my cargo shorts pocket. “Do NOT answer!”
I answered.
“So, Chalk,” Aurora Nirvana, my boss said. “Would you care to explain to me just what in the name of the Cosmos you’re doing in Graceland? In the Jungle Room no less?”
“M-m-m-me?” I stammered “I, uh, well…”
“Don’t try to squirm out of it. We pinged your phone. You’re supposed to be in Portland monitoring the Swine Flu situation, But surprise, you’re in Memphis. This better not be another one of your souvenir gathering side trips. Like the baseball card incident.”
About six months ago I had detoured from an assignment in Seattle to my family home in Oregon. I knew my folks were out of town at a wedding and the younger version of myself was in California. No chance of awkward or disastrous face to face confrontations. My mom had stored my old baseball cards and comic books in a bin out in their garage. Two years later, when I had moved to out, she gave them all away!
“But they were my cards!” I said. “Mickey Mantle! Roger Maris! Sandy Koufax! And a shitload more! And the comic books. Do you know how much all that stuff is worth now in 2067?”
“It doesn’t matter whose they were, Chalk,” Aurora said sternly. “As an Agent of the Department of Inertial Cosmic Kinesis you are strictly forbidden from profiteering off antiquities picked up in your travels. I don’t need to remind you that you’re still on probation for that offense.”
“No, Ma’am.”
“So, what are you doing in Graceland?”
“I just wanted to see the place before it got all touristy, that’s all. You know I’m a big fan of the King.”
Aurora sighed heavily, not believing me for a second. “You didn’t cross paths with anyone there did you?”
“Nope. Elvis is in Tahoe, and The Boys are out front kicking Springsteen off the property. Perfect timing.”
“Well you get your ass out of there, pronto! You dig?”
“I dig.”
“Good. Remember you will be fully scanned on your return and if you bring back so much as a roll of toilet paper, you will be sent right back for three years. You know what that means?”
Oh, boy did I ever. The heart of the Disco era! I don’t think I could live through that shit again, even with the extended longevity that came with being a D.I.C.K. agent. I’d go mad in a week!
“Comprende, Chief,” I said. “See you in a jiff. I’ll…”
The phone cut off before I could finish. Wow, testy today aren’t we. I reached into my messenger bag and pulled out an old, yellowed copy of Rolling Stone magazine. The date – September 22, 1977. Just over a month after Elvis died. Roughly 16 months from today. It was the memorial tribute issue to the King The cover was a portrait of Elvis, with the dates,1935-1977.
I put the magazine on the piano where I knew he would see it. Sure, he’d probably just think it was a joke. But maybe he might open it up and read the in-depth article on his demise and start making some lifestyle changes. Cut out the fried foods. Exercise. Lay off the pills. Ditch the jumpsuits. Maybe he would live longer and get back to making great music again.
Probably not, but I had to give it a try. Aurora said not to take anything. But she didn’t say anything about leaving something behind.
by submission | Nov 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Mina Rozario
I am lying on a sandy beach nestled somewhere in the arm of a spiral galaxy. Myriad stars loom above, mocking.
/Always moping/, I hear Rania’s voice echo. /As if it’s that bad being the last human in existence—look at all the space you now have./
Even in life, my sister’s words had been biting, though there was always a softness beneath the sting. When I had paid for a CompanionChip implant decades (or centuries; I’ve never been very good at tracking the passage of time) ago, I’d wanted it to be just like her, even though she had long been dead. Rania—rather, the CompanionChip—and I don’t always agree, but these past few years, we’ve both been sure something else exists near one of those stars. Human scientists had been certain that nothing on Earth could have been the cause of my extreme longevity.
/Reach out/, says Rania enthusiastically. /You still have that old frequency emitter kit. It would be fun to find a benevolent alien. Or a freakish cosmic monster./
Typical Rania. She encourages me to do things, to pick up hobbies, as if I didn’t have tomorrow to start them, or the week or the century after that. At any rate, in a few billion years, the sun will rapidly engorge and cook the Earth to a crisp, leaving no trace of my accomplishments behind, though there is a chance I will survive even that.
/Really? You plan on twiddling your thumbs for the next few billion years? When was the last time you wanted to try something new?/
I have no idea. I have the vague sense that I’ve done everything from brush calligraphy to virtual reality design, but it’s all lost in the fog of my memories. The only thing that comes mind is a recollection of Rania’s bewildered sigh when I pointed at a glossy photo in a book as a child, declaring, “I’m going to go there one day.”
The image depicted nebulas fanning swathes of color, the darkness of space overtaken with speckles of light like fireflies.
“There?” My sister’s mouth had quirked. “It says right here that this is a thousand years away if you travel at the speed of light.”
I had set my chin stubbornly. “I can wait.”
/How silly you were/, says Rania dryly.
I roll my eyes.
/Mankind did get close to interstellar travel—centuries ago—but the knowledge is lost. You’ll never get the chance to go now./
She pauses slyly. I wait.
/Not unless you find someone else out there. Whoever made you near immortal./
I sigh. “Very clever. All of this to get me to do what you wanted me to do in the first place?”
/Don’t be ridiculous. It would be good for you to meet someone./
“I have you.”
Rania’s voice was tight. /Even implant chips don’t last forever./
I give a half-smile despite the lump in my throat, then clamber to my feet. I do indulge my sister from time to time. Trudging back to the crumbling, moss-covered building I call home, I find the frequency-emitter collecting dust in a corner. I’m not sure when I last picked it up, but the device gently hums to life when I turn it on.
I begin tapping out a broadcast. If someone, somewhere, exists even a hundred light years away from me, the reply will twice that long to arrive. But I don’t mind so much. Counting down the days until the sun burns out, I have nothing but time.
I sit back, and we begin the wait, Rania and I.
by submission | Jul 6, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
I wait outside the garage for one of the missionaries from Uklid. I have to admit life is better for most people since they arrived.
The Uklidins began with small enhancements like portable force field emitters they pass out like candy. Concerned about plastic bags clotting the oceans? Key the right code into your emitter and carry groceries in a force field. No umbrella on a rainy day? Pop in a code and out pops an umbrella, colored red with the built-in laser to brighten the gloom. Speaking of rain, the Uklidins promise we’ll be able to control the weather when their algorithms say we’re ready for such power.
The Uklidins also are advancing our medical capabilities, albeit far too slowly. To prevent overpopulation, their human longevity program is formulaically synced with space colonization knowhow they’re spoon-feeding us. By the time humans are living for hundreds of years, children will be playing throughout the solar system.
A female Uklidin appears in my driveway. They look like us except they’re all drop-dead gorgeous and about a foot taller than the average human. “I’m Hypatia,” she says. “You must be Albert. I understand you’re having trouble with your garage?”
I was so upset one day, I backed into the garage door. The Uklidins replaced it with a force field, matched perfectly, of course, to the color of our house. There are some things in the garage my wife and I have decided to part with, but I can’t steady my hand to turn off the force field. Not wanting to go into all of that with Hypatia, I tell her there’s a malfunction.
Hypatia steps to the emitter mounted by the door. In a moment the garage entrance force field vanishes, bringing the tricycle into view. She looks down at me and frowns. “Seems to be working.” Then she smiles. “Have you heard The Truth today, Albert?”
She’s helped me, now comes the sermon.
“I’ve got something to do. If you’ll —”
“I understand some earthlings believe God is an old person in a white robe.”
“I’m not so religious. If you’ll excuse me—“
Hypatia raises her arms to the sky. “Where do you believe it all came from?”
OK, there’s no escaping this. “The Big Bang, I suppose.”
“Before the Big Bang?”
“I’ve read about colliding branes.”
Hypatia shakes her head. “Before branes.”
My turn to shake my head.
Hypatia sighs. “Mathematics, Albert. Mathematics have no beginning or end. You and I are but songs from the stars, and stars are the music of mathematics.” A look of rapture captures her face. “The entire multiverse is a symphony, Albert, with mathematics the composer and conductor.” She begins shaking in ecstasy, her eyes rolling back.
When I reach to steady her, she grabs my wrists. Her touch burns, and wisps of smoke rise between her fingers.
“Do you believe, Albert?”
I want to tell her the truth, but when you feel like you’re about to burst into flames … “I believe,” I shout. “I believe.”
Hypatia loosens her grip. “That’s enough for today.” She touches a button on her collar and disappears.
I take a few deep breaths, roll my sleeves to hide the scorch marks on my shirt and load the pickup with the boxes of toys we’re donating. I pause at the trike, then steel myself, cut off the price tag and put the three-wheeler with the boxes.
I don’t know if God is a being in robes, an infinite page of calculations, or anything else. All I know is some songs are cut far too short.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 17, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
She placed the order online, as she had done before. No credit checks anymore, no profiling questions, just pick a time and a place, and the service guaranteed her date would be on-time and appropriate.
She showered and partially dressed before curling her hair and applying makeup, poured a drink, then another while watching the clock grind slowly towards seven. With just a few minutes to spare, she slipped on her dress, stepped into her shoes and opened the door on the third knock, holding the handle through the first two.
She was sure he was handsome, though she didn’t pay much attention as she stepped onto the front landing, closing the door behind her. She let him guide her by her elbow down the steps to the curb where what she was sure passed for an impressive sedan waited. He opened the door, waited while she lowered herself into the passenger seat, then closed it behind her.
There was chatter while he navigated into the city, opting to pilot the vehicle himself rather than rely on the autopilot. No doubt he’d be counting on that getting them back again after dinner and drinks, but for now, he was in control.
The restaurant came and went in a blur, dark wood and blue backlit glass, accents of gunmetal grey and granite. Without question one of the most prestigious spots on the social circuit at the moment, at a price that would make most mortals vomit. She’d never see the cost, of course, there were systems in place to manage such things.
After dinner they had drinks at the table, then she let him coax her up to the rooftop patio to dance, and drink some more.
They left shortly before dawn.
The autopilot wouldn’t let him drive, he had been drinking after all, and as it wound out of the city on the coastal highway, they turned the seats to face inwards, the alcohol and energy of the night still coursing through their veins. He was clearly aroused, and she engaged him while they drove, hands to body, mouth to mouth.
When the car stopped, and the door opened he was too focused on the prize to pay much attention to where they were. She stepped out onto the asphalt and strode with purpose from the car into a room at the motel they were parked in front of. The door opened as if on command as she reached it, and he, laughing, followed her inside.
Here they shed their clothes, and expended what little of his energy he had left, she seeming to find more strength as his diminished, coaxing and riding him until his heart was ready to burst and the sheets were soaked in sweat.
Only then did she bear down on him for one last drive, hands clenched tightly around his throat as they convulsed together, her searching for a moment of satisfaction, of anything at all while he, slow to realize what was happening and too tired to put up much of a fight, struggled for his life.
In the end, neither got what they were hoping for.
She showered and partially dressed before pouring herself a drink and calling the cleaner. She poured another while watching the lifeless body on the bed, eyes wide and unseeing.
With just a few minutes to spare, she slipped her dress back on, stepped into her shoes and opened the door just as the cleaner arrived, walking past it without paying much attention. She was sure it was, like the others, efficient.
The car drove her back to her estate in silence, depositing her at the front door and waiting dutifully until she let herself in before returning to the service garage.
They promised her longevity, virtual immortality. They promised razor-sharp senses, smell, touch and taste with an uncanny fidelity. She would be gifted with an unfailing memory, and a perfect body, forever in its prime.
They delivered beyond reproach on every promise they made.
No one warned her she’d no longer feel.
