by submission | Feb 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Come in, Hanson. Close the door. What’s up?” A worn senior manager, with tie askew over his crumpled white shirt, sat hunched while peering at three connected computer screens.
His visitor took deep breaths, removing his horn-rimmed glasses, twirling them for effect before sliding his lanky frame into the Director’s tall-backed leather chair facing the massive mahogany desk.
“Jack, we’ve got a problem. I need support.”
“Huh,” Mason grunted, focusing on his screens. “C’mon Phil. Don’t come in late on Friday throwing bullshit. Christ’s sake, you’re the public information officer. What’s so important it can’t wait till after the holiday?”
“This one’s under the radar, Jack. I need your full attention. This is black box stuff.”
The Director stopped, turning toward the PIO. He pulled his lips tight.
“Mr. Hanson,” Mason spoke slowly, with emphasis. “We don’t use that phrase unless the sky is falling.”
Phillip Hanson sat upright, fiddling with a file folder. “We got this FOIA. It just came in. It’s from the Times. They’re sniffing around about Silent Sam.”
“What!” Mason yelled back. “Let me see that. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I couldn’t risk sending it in-house or calling.”
“So you brought a damn hard copy? What if you croaked on the way over? Your dad would’ve had a conniption fit.” Mason grabbed the folder and flipped open the top-secret cover sheet. He grunted hard again, this time turning his head askew. “Your job was to stop snoops poking at our envelope. Were you sleeping?”
Hanson’s neck turned bright red as he put his glasses back over his bulbous nose.
“Okay, I’ll take that. This journalist came out of Cornell. He was doing a piece on Sagan for an anniversary issue when he got the scent on Project A119. I swear I’ve got all the NDAs from everybody who worked on the Moon nuking project. We told the public it was canceled. It was slammed shut and no one, until now, has dug into it.”
“Where did he get this stuff about the Moon and Mars? Do we have a leak?”
Hanson leaned over the desk, looking deep into his mentor’s glare. “I farmed every e-mail. The Agency checked every employee and contractor working on the LCross Mission. There’s nothing. I don’t know how this kid knows. Maybe he’s an amateur remote viewer. Hell, there’s no trail. If anyone knew we nuked that alien base on the dark side in ’09, there was no sign. We covered it with the story about crashing some piece of junk on our side, saying it was about searching for water. Luckily, the PRC never made a fuss about the crater after they mapped it.”
“Skip the history lesson, Mason. Remember, I was Assistant Director then. We worked the Chicoms. But how did this rat figure out about the massive bombardment we did on Mars in March and April in 2012? Damn pesky amateurs saw the plumes, but even top Pentagon brass were left out. Musk knows, but hell, he was part of the terraforming planning. He got his payback in 2010. If this gets out, that we already started the process, without the President, Congress, or the idiot public knowing…it’ll be a shit storm.”
“Ideas? I’m fresh out.” Hanson sighed.
“Get the kid in here.” Mason ordered.
“Seriously?” Hanson replied, his voice an octave higher.
“We’ve bought reporters before. Call the networks. Find a juicy spot on camera. You can’t imagine these journalists’ egos. And if that doesn’t work…”
Hanson gulped, “I know the protocol. He’d better damn well bite. Traffic can be dangerous in New York.”
by submission | Dec 31, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
All lounge tables were separated far from the hideous Braxel’s corner booth. A cleared semi-circle void reeked of rampant terror regarding the infamous diner now surrounded by nervous alien species, some tentacled, slurping preferred living or semi-living fare while keeping watch on the notorious pirate. No being dared complain that this amphibious fiend shared their crowded eatery…or hideout space station. Station Zentoboro was a haven for low-life scoundrel litter that scummed the quadrant. Braxel, the Toad Demon, was peerless among this denizen driftwood. Braxel tilted his slimy shoulders forward, slathering black ramle ale across a squat platter provided by robotic waiters. Braxel’s hunger resisted metallic reflections flittering across his giant yellow eyes as nictitating membranes flopped up and down, sloshing protective fluids.
Crowd noises interrupted his thirst as remaining clients groaned, hissed, cursed, and sputtered at a nine-foot-tall reptoid pushing through tightly layered patrons. One customer spat at slithering Yant. A slash from Yant’s sharp tail removed its limbs. Others then skittered, opening a wide berth for the Velociraptor mercenary as he strode toward Braxel.
“Bright skies, friend of Braxel,” the pirate welcomed. His massive swollen arms with webbed fingers stretched, offering Yant a place to rest nearby in his semi-circular stall.
“I’ll stand by habit. Bright skies to you. How propitious finding you on this station. We haven’t reconnected after escaping U11.” Yant pulled a glass vial from his metal vest, draining a red liquid while Braxel continued slobbering away at his drink. Braxel didn’t interrupt Yant’s small talk. “Great blood. I need that to wash away memories from prison planet uranium ore…yellow dust…and old inmates rotting from the inside out. What luck we met, escaping together. I see your reputation precedes you.” Yant turned, analyzing throngs backing further away from two despised creatures. “They’re panicking. We represent patrons that eat them whole or in pieces. They cower.”
“None with memories that amphibious Trinians once were exalted,” Braxel interrupted. “We were cosmic peacemakers, endlessly mediating wars, saving millions of worlds, and beloved through the stars, except by greedy warlords.”
“What changed?” Yant twisted about on his haunches with his elongated talons forward, resting upright on his red, broad scaly tail.
“Mmm,” Braxel grunted, slurping his ale. “An undetected supernova no one predicted. Trinian’s worlds were instantly vaporized—survivors massacred, enslaved, or worse by our enemies seeking retribution. Some were eaten, some placed in zoos…and worst, some, while still alive, were sealed in resin. I’ve consumed most of those responsible until recently. Now, these growths quench my vengeful hunger.”
Yant stared as creeping black carbuncles near Braxel’s maw split in two. The original halves entered Braxel’s jaws to be munched and swallowed. Yant winced.
“You are shocked, my old reptile companion? I acquired these delightful parasites on unexplored asteroids. They’re harmless. They divide, sacrificing half of themselves for me, after reproducing following strong emotions from others nearby…especially horror. Your walkthrough created a wonderful dessert.”
“Incredible,” Yant shuddered. “I recently heard a clerihew about you. You’re legendary.”
He always eats more than his share,
And who he eats, he doesn’t care.
He draws black flies, and lives in bogs—
That toady demon’s just a frog.
“Don’t ever repeat that near me. Frogs be damned along with those accursed humanoid poets! They always struggled when eaten, as if it mattered. Only our history, Yant, and my new biology keep you from joining skeleton cairns in my stomachs after quoting that filthy litany. Instead, let us celebrate our freedom. Go stir up those quivering idiots. Take another coward’s leg. I’m still hungry. Bring on the fear, it’s feeding time!”
by submission | Aug 9, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Great, a clear connection, finally. Now I can understand your thoughts unmistakably through my brain mush. The AI translator is integrating. It was a muddled mess when techs first hooked me into their software. All I sensed were whispers and groans from visitors, but now even my caregiver’s thoughts come through as fresh as sitting across from a hot date on a barstool in Old Town cafes. I miss those days, watching rare Martian dust twisters forming across preserved barren zones, and churning gray skies. Your memories match I see. Good times, man.
Thanks for coming by and connecting. Been a while. You’re probably busy running off to your daily errands. I heard the new shuttle to Phobos increased your commute time so I’ll keep it short. I’m glad you can share a few thoughts. Relatives don’t visit. Too gruesome, I guess. Sometimes loneliness inside these wrappings, without hearing, talking, and touching makes me an abandoned riverbank fish. My old battle partner Eddy told me these synthetic bindings twisting me about the bed, head to toe, reminded him of drasis worms struggling free from ancient green mud canals, but it keeps my skin alive—bedsores are still likely until I heal. I have to believe it can happen. I’m a faither like my mother was. It’s something to hold onto.
No, not angry. Everything genuine in life has risks. Wouldn’t be a Mars without our pioneers. My great grandparents were Third Wavers. Hard to imagine their lot, isolated, freezing to death whenever resupply shuttles failed. They knew risk. Their honor is our duty. I wonder what they would have made of Cogelians. It took a hundred years after they landed to excavate Mars’s outer crust, discovering huge alien hives belowground.
I remember my great grandfather’s stories when he was a sheriff on Old Earth. Yeah, our cop blood runs blue. He complained in his journals about misused tasers. The military was furious when civilians accessed them. They finally got banished after cops were often killed when perps wrestled them away. We didn’t learn from those lessons. Now, look where I am.
You remember academy sergeants telling us lasers were non-lethal? They’d just leave light burns and stun the Weedies. After all, the Cogelians were passive plant life. They couldn’t understand pain or anything else—they were salads. We herded them to reservations. Never thought they were organized or conscious. How could they ever use a laser pistol with those fronds for arms? What a ridiculous idea. Yeah…how stupid could we get?
No, I let it go. It was a trap. Intelligence failed us. We didn’t know until later that Cogelians built massive underground cities millions of years ago. We kept frying them with flamethrowers in their underground passages until we found out too late that they were far beyond us in tech and were telepathic. Maybe I’m paying the price for our butchery…but I’m still here. There’s hope these artificial tissue cultures will bind and grow back my burned skin. Maybe take years, but the rest of my squad didn’t make it. I’ll live to tell a wild story whenever I get out of my cocoon.
Eddy told me Sandra doesn’t ask about me. She gave up. Never was that devoted. I was too busy humping to worry about her character. Painful lesson. I’ll do better next time.
And…you have to go? Hey, don’t be a stranger. Really appreciate the time. Stay safe on the shuttle. They’re still working out bumpy takeoffs. You too and say…yeah…ah, he’s gone. Oh, damn!
Hope a nurse comes around soon. I need watering.
by submission | Jul 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
The starship Seeker One’s domed Hall of Wisdom sweltered below its scintillating chandeliers. High Commander Razzra’s lavender skin glistened against his white majestic draping required for Priestess Masotulama’s Task of Finding for the Achaeans. She would be graced with honor or chastened, as required, clearing their group transgression for failure. It was her twelfth attempt at planet recognition during their endless pilgrimage to the home world Ah’Ya.
“Are you prepared, Masotulama, for tasting? Is your source pure?” To Razzra’s right shone a holograph of a twirling blue sphere representing Ah’Ya. At his left, a glowing yellow star projection surged with solar flares as foretold in origin mythos. He presented images to the High Priestess for her approval to attempt the ritual. She nodded, gathering her white robes as she bent her legs to sit before Razzra, his violet eyes and shock of orange hair lowering to follow her descent.
Masotulama’s jade-green flesh shuddered as blue plasma orbs from her pineal gland awakened, rising above her forehead, surrounded by flowing tresses of fiery red and gold. “I praise the moment, for our seeking of Founders, Commander. Let dust of life be given.” She passed the test of purity earlier while blindfolded; faultlessly identifying three fruits from the ship’s gardens using only her sense of taste, a gift only blessed ones possessed among Achaeans. Beside her rested the Holy of Holies—few remaining residues from Ah’Ya, sent with colonizers millions of years past, before the journey of returning.
Twenty of the starship’s robed tribal leaders circled her, calmly droning prayers of recognition, “Ah’Ya…Ah’Ya…Ah’Ya.”
Masotulama rocked gently in trance below the Commander as a floating sampling probe arrived fresh from the blue planet spinning below their ship’s orbit. The device halted, suspended near her head. She moved her left hand upward, summoning probe soil chambers to grind their contents, releasing shimmering brown mists to gather around her head. She opened her mouth wide, drawing deep breaths as dust surrounded her face, clouding her sparkling third eye.
She sat still as if turned to stone until snakelike undulations began emerging from her head and slowly swept down her nearly supine torso. Her arms flew upward as she coughed out the dark planet residue across the floor. She twisted right, gently reaching behind as Razzra continued lingering over her. She lifted the crystalline decanter of original precious soil from Ah’Ya close to her palm, carefully opening and tipping the vessel, catching a few grains, and then lapping the minute treasure into her face using her huge black tongue before securing the lid.
Chanting halted. Masotulama stilled, her eyes rolling back as she moaned for a few moments, and then went stiff again.
“What say you, Priestess of Taste? Is this Origin?” Razzra rested his arms as the holographs disappeared. All assembled remained in vigilant anticipation.
Masotulama sighed hard as her torso retracted inward, squeezed by agony. “No, my Commander. This world’s beings resemble Achaeans, but they are not from our Originator. This is not Ah’Ya. Forgive my failure.”
Razzra reached down with his glowing ring, searing flesh on the priestess’s exposed back as an act of tribal contrition, branding one empty square of her checkerboard service tattoo containing her ritual result history. She would integrate into breeding stock after ten more fruitless attempts, creating potential offspring with rare gifts of taste required for future planetary confirmation.
“My people,” he proclaimed, loudly, “Take what ores, food, and water we need from below. Gather new slaves as servants. We renew our sacred search for home. Let us find our beloved Ah’Ya.”
by submission | Jun 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“I’m thrilled to share our Mars challenge solution.” A bespectacled 30-year-old twittered before the tech wizard’s Spartan Texas office.
“Sure…thrilled…sit. Skip the small talk. Make your elevator pitch—five minutes.” The ruffled-haired billionaire entrepreneur seemed agitated at the Millennials’ amateurish prattle.
“You know oxygen is critical for Mars projects. My team developed an elegant innovation, although somewhat costly to implement.” Michael Partridge cleared his throat while adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Always are—these phantom ideas,” the CEO replied. “Forget potentials. Does it work? Where’s your proof of operation?”
“Pilot tests were concluded during Death Valley summers and winters in the Rockies. During daylight, our system continuously converted carbon dioxide into oxygen, which was then compressed and stored through our exclusive design.”
“Who was the testing oversight authority with knowhow? Stanford or JPL?
“NIST in Colorado monitored the Rockies. Caltech evaluated the Mojave. Here are our results.” He opened his leather satchel, removing a thick prospectus.
“No, I don’t need to see that. Williams recommended you already for this meeting, but I’ve heard schemes before. What makes yours better than dozens I’ve nixed? Shame you didn’t have Stanford involved.”
Partridge pulled back his folder. “Our investor collaboration included the Naval Research Laboratory and NASA. That’s where Williams discovered us. We initially worked on the Moon base plan, but it proved implausible. However, with Mars’ carbon dioxide atmosphere, we now have a winner…but at a price.”
“Williams said you used unusual material applications and techniques. Summarize.”
The CEO stared across the desk, making Partridge hesitate.
“I have restrictions, as COO, to discuss specific proprietary information. However, I can say our dome construction involves Fresnel heating lenses activating microscopic gold filaments that stay suspended in carbon dioxide gas. We use a charged ceramic membrane to separate molecular oxygen into our patented collecting system.”
“Maybe, but you know the temperature gradients on Mars. What materials are going to keep your dome resistant and still operational?”
“We have a new application using Nitinol nanofibers combined with graphene in dome construction elements and extraction support equipment.”
“And the carbon waste dust?”
“We’ve designed collection systems capturing pure carbon residues for use later as part of water treatment for crew enclosures.”
“It’s still a waste product.”
“Not exactly. Based on the chemicals the carbon filters from recycled liquids, including Mars brine water, we discovered that mixing the final carbon sludge with biowaste enhanced plant growth. We ran initial tests at Texas A&M. Potatoes flourished with that mixture. It’s a win-win for survivability.”
“What’s the power source for separation?”
“As long as the sun shines on Mars, the domes make oxygen. The upper half of a dome holds Fresnel lenses for activating microscopic gold foil which then reacts with carbon dioxide, leaving behind oxygen and carbon, but not melting or overheating the Nitinol and graphene materials.”
“Yes, you mentioned all that already, but you have my attention. Nitinol and graphene aren’t cheap, but I suspect gold is the price point.”
“To supply a one-hundred-person team the project requires a metric ton of microscopic gold particles. That’s within the maximum payload range of your transport designs; however, acquiring that much gold is a difficult issue beyond the technology, by both cost and politics.”
“My original homeland’s government is corrupt. They’re sitting on all the gold we’ll need. I can get it…so let’s first test this fairy dust invention here on Texas soil with limited resource impacts, in case it fails.”
“Terrific—Operation Tinker Bell.”
“Don’t ever do that. I get to name stuff.”
“Sure…sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’ve done enough thinking. I’ll do the rest.”
