by submission | Oct 31, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“In regione caecorum rex est luscus.”
Captain Robert Cunningham screamed at his weasel-faced brother-in-law, grasping Milo’s uniform tight against his scrawny pale neck, slamming him against their spaceship’s bridge wall. “You assaulted the sleeping Cetan girl!”
“Back off, Bobby. Wouldn’t want sis to divorce your ass… if we get back.” Lieutenant Surpo strained his soft hands, pushing back his attacker.
“You idiot! You were a last-minute add-on to avoid your death sentence for pedophilia on Mars. Damn your family influence! I thought I could contain you with only men aboard, and the Cetan guarded…but now…it’s too late. I won’t be able to tell anyone why the mission failed. They’ll suspect Mercury Retrograde terrorist cells. That means war!”
Surpo straightened his shirt while feigning superiority. “So what? She’s an alien— no eyes, can’t hear or speak. Nobody’s going to know if you keep your mouth shut. I’ve been on this wreck for six months going through Oort Cloud ice, wondering if we’d get crushed. I needed the R&R. Now back off! Remember your birth class, brother-in-law. You married up, remember?”
“If I had time to eject you out an airlock, I would, but she’ll take care of that.”
“She’ll what?” Surpo’s wide-eyed questioning stopped. Men’s cries of agony filled the ship’s intercom. “What the hell?”
“That’s forty brave men dying because of you.” Cunningham pointed at the speakers, pushing Surpo back against the scorching wall. “That Cetan guide was our ticket for humans to voyage through the fiery plasma barriers around our solar system that’s keeping us out of deep space travel. She guided me telepathically through frozen Oort reefs, but you had no need to know. Years ago, I lived with Ait Haddidu Berbers on Earth; learning ancient dialects Cetans used millennia ago when they last visited. I was the only one trained for first contact. Only I could interpret her telepathic directions. My life…a waste, for what? So my sister’s criminal brother could cause billions of deaths in a conflict between Mercury and Saturn? They’ll blame all this on me— a lower-class defective.”
“Who cares? What’s happening? Those screams?” Surpo struggled to free himself, still pinned by Cunningham to a scorching panel against his back.
“You’ll know soon enough. She wasn’t some longhaired teenage victim like those you tortured on Mars. No, she’s on loan from a superior race. She’s over ten thousand years old. She was in stasis, in dormancy, providing peaceful intent to us unless assaulted. The Cetans once aided Libyans in battle in ancient history. No army stood before them. That’s why Greeks named Cetan warrior women ‘Protectors.’ They tested us on this voyage. Could we evolve beyond our violent ancestors? No, we failed, thanks to you.”
Cunningham choked in thick gas clouds filling the room as he yelled over the horrific cries for help echoing around him.
“Feel the heat on the wall? It’s from a quarter-million degrees Kelvin melting our ship. We’re off course in the plasma barrier. This blue smoke billowing from our ventilation, that’s hull liquefying…but you won’t die that easy.”
Cunningham looked away as bright sapphire flashes rushed past his shoulders. He watched his in-law morph into a scorched skeletal statue, oozing from blistering laser fire. The Captain felt light breezes and heard light flapping sounds from behind him, wafting toxic blue haze about, knowing her dreadful eye was open, above her winged shoulders. He was last to fall from the gazes of the Cetan Medusa, her telepathic pineal gland flailing snakelike from her forehead, fulfilling her role as guardian of the Ring Pass Not.
by submission | Oct 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Sandman, I’m so alone
Don’t have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.”
“Here come those irritating anal-probe bastards in their black helicopters.” Theodore pointed his bison-penis walking cane at the crystal blue horizon holding three floating dots moving swiftly towards the couple standing before their ram-earth cottage surrounded by yard-tall pedestals of new, black soil supporting lush cactus on solid earthen podiums. “At least there’s no sand to blow in my face this landing. Glad our garden’s in a greenhouse.”
“You’re still holding grudges, Teddy. You know military types freak when they lose control, still believing you have secrets to stop Sandmen.” Amelia’s Millennial, petite body hid behind Theodore’s aged, tall, lanky frame as waves of propeller wash rolled over the Mojave Desert floor. They waited for disembarking government visitors to walk to them.
“Hanson, you seem well. That’s surprising with COPD meds gone.” The thirty-something, black colonel rubbed his forehead as he pulled his filter mask back between questions to clearly understand Hanson’s responses.
“Getting tough outside for you normals, Mace? I never felt better. Still got hearing aids, but you’ve got nausea, tinnitus, blurred vision, and headaches. What’s the oxygen up to now, fifty percent? I’m betting that flight out was a bitch. We haven’t seen planes in a year. What’s your fuel source that doesn’t explode?”
“Nuclear. Radiation’s a bear but cut the crap, Hanson. You were the first contact. We heard the groans underground for years until those circular, pulsing, pink cocoons emerged, with silicone worms squeezing out first into your desert. You must know something that stops them. Hell, man, you’ve lived around them the longest.”
Hanson shook his head side to side. Amelia crept forward, grasping his arm. “Colonel, after two years using all your weapons, you have no idea?” Hanson paused. “I’ve seen lightning bounce off them. Give up. Sandmen don’t care about us. You’ve already evacuated your elite below ground inside the cave cities and tunnels of our ancestors, as these worms devour our sands. You won’t slow them from flooding the atmosphere with oxygen waste products, multiplying their herds over land and sea. Still, look what these invaders left–deep, rich, plentiful, mineral-rich soil.”
Hanson bent down, lifting a handful of earth. “Everything grows in it. And rain, my God, what they’ve brought through climate change. Our oceans grow as coastal areas subside and deserts become Edens. Unfortunately, you can’t breathe in these gases or save the great seaside cities. You’ve become choking troglodytes. We won’t. This air blesses those with inherited breathing disorders.”
“A warning, buddy. They could become gray goo, like relentless nanobots. Imagine Earth covered in piles of silicone worms. You and others like you won’t make it on the surface.”
“Wrong, Colonel Mace. They’ve never harmed a single living organism. I’ve listened to their hum and trilling songs, as their red glows guide them on blowing-sand pathways. They scare some animals, but they’ve never hurt one ant or blade of grass. We’re the only species that’s impacted. We can’t adapt fast enough…well, you can’t.” Hanson smiled as the officer exhibited increasing signs of pain foreign to Hanson and Amelia. “Our genetically flawed kind will survive and thrive.”
“Like your healthy daughter?” Mace sneered at Amelia.
Hanson took a deep breath. “Amelia was a chronic asthmatic abandoned by a LA clinic as you forced only healthy people underground. She made her way here, alone. We have no information or help for you…so leave, before you can’t. Oh, and Amelia’s not my daughter.”
by submission | Oct 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Not one of your better ideas Inky.” My yelling echoed against the reinforced beams and lines of ready ships stored in launch five.
I shook my head as Enrique Chacon selected and boarded a starcraft alone from the space station’s shuttle bay, or should I say stolen? His reputation as a daring Latino space explorer would only grow and spread after such bravado. By order, the hangar remained bone-chilling cold. Even with that, odors of toasted reentry metal plates filled my mouth with acrid filth.
“Can’t help it. Got to have that last chevron. Only three other cosmos got a selfie there. That’s rare company, Mayfield.”
Inky used my last name when he wanted to make a point that he was a commander while I remained a shuttle captain, simply babysitting robots transporting VIPs and medical supplies between worlds.
“How do I explain this to Central? They’ll pull your bars…maybe put you on a prison planet when you get back…if you do. How can one photo be that important?”
I pulled up my synth suit sleeve, revealing burn scars from an engine test backfire for interdimensional jumps that caught me off guard when I was first out of Academy. My grizzly reminder itched with a crawling pain when bad events were in the wind.
“Commander, AS 134 is still off-limits, even to the Emperor. Every alien race we’ve met avoids it. Those three you admire in the Halls of Records have no graves or memorials. We only show their last, grainy photos. No doubt, standing that close to a black hole with all the stars imploding with their bursting arrays behind you, the comets circling and dying in that pit’s dark blue halo framed by double pink nebulae ionic waterfalls…fabulous. I get it. But it’s a suicide run, Inky. You’ve got decades of adventure ahead. Why now? You have everything other pilots dream of in our empire.”
Chacon waved me off as he closed the entry portal. “A few decades and I’ll be a gray-haired dribbler at the age centers. Ever been there? Gives a new perspective. If I’m near AS 134, I might find the other three, still watching, looking back as all of you fade and disintegrate into your time as ours slows. It’s the sizzle from the steak of immortality. Can’t get that at the commissary. It’s one to a customer. Appreciated our service together, Mayfield. You’re a good sort. You’ll move up, but don’t hold back. Grab wild and wonderful things that come along…and they will. Make your life a flame, not a sputter.”
With that, Chacon closed the door. I slammed the bay door shut, out of harm’s way, spitting bitterness from my throat, as blue plasma roared around his circular ship blinking into the compelling void. Weeks later, I received a short video of Inky with the black hole AS 134 behind him. The new interstellar cameras finally worked. The brief video was every bit as stunning as he described so often in his infamous tirade about the inkiness of space. I’ll remember him as forever walking towards the camera as he shared the rarest views known in the galaxy. It’s now playing continuously on the wall with the other three daring souls’ previously sketchy records. All of them risked everything for a momentary magnificent stroll. If Einstein’s theories about such places are correct, Chacon is watching our galaxy dissolve as he drifts slowly back into a singularity—the ultimate unknown, while I settle for my bucket without a list. I wonder if he is alone.
by submission | Sep 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Know the right people and get your right place.” Ted Aaronson’s huge fingers straightened wrinkles in an undersized, blue t-shirt irritating his neck. “The right people get the best.” Aaronson twisted his powerful, athletic frame, popping noisy vertebrae in the crowded space station’s quarters.
“Is that what got you onboard? You’re not representing science.” Mirco Matteucci directed his focus to his computer pad, finishing reports about hull temperature effects from recent CMEs.
“Huh, I’m doing my part, punk. They aren’t sending weenie whackers off to Mars. Only the fit go. That’s my job here, testing vigor every day; ensuring how superior breeds maintain strength for a long haul. Maybe some of you will fly ships and build colony bases, but you won’t last long on the surface. Only advanced genetics will survive. And speaking of survival, I’m hungry as hell. What’s gizmo got in his fridge to munch?”
“Don’t, Aaronson. Devi worked on his tardigrade project for months. He keeps samples in there. Look at the label. See, it says ‘Warning, Biological Hazard.’ I sure as hell wouldn’t open that looking for eats.”
“No, and you’ll stay shriveled up—the slug you’ve always been. I’ve seen Jew boy hiding food away. He’s not fooling me. As far as how I got my ticket…it’s people…my people. My old man is the CEO of the country’s biggest mining company. The first Martian settlers get land grants, just like the Spanish elite in Mexico. I’m set for taking the mineral-rich Meridiani Plain. We’ll strip the crap out of it, making billions. I’ll come back as a fricking king. That’s the right people in the right place. Hmm, this looks good. A bunch of kosher bologna sliced up, but who cares there’s no bread? I need protein, baby!”
Mirco watched, horrified, as Aaronson swallowed a handful of meat slices in one huge gulp. “You idiot! That’s not deli meat. Devi’s been dissecting giant tardigrades from outside Section 5. That’s why he’s here. He predicted those things we released in space would live, thrive, and evolve into larger species as they fed on the bacterium we discovered living on the space station’s outer surface. Didn’t you read anything about our mission?”
Aaronson struggled with the last bite before answering. “Why should I? You’re an MIT whiz kid. I’m a top athlete at UCLA. What’s he? Some farm kid at a teacher’s college in Minnesota. He just doesn’t know he doesn’t belong at this elevation. I do. You do. His work means nothing. No Mars for his kind.”
Aaronson bent over, grabbing his stomach while holding his throat. Mirco watched the football star rush through the hatch door to the vacuum toilets. Devi Levine floated in a half-hour later.
“What the hell! Mirco, what did you do?” The color left Devi’s normally tanned face as he stretched his arms out to close his empty refrigerator door. The sample bio-wrapper remained suspended above it.
“Not me, bud. That ass Aaronson thought it was lunch meat. He ate it. I think he’s sorry. He’s got the runs.”
“No…no…oh God!” Levine pointed at the single view window behind Mirco. It permitted a panorama of Section 5’s rotating solar array. Along one panel crawled a large bloated shape wearing a shredded blue t-shirt over its eight fat, stubby legs, red hair, and bulging blue eyes. It stared back at them.
“What should I do?” Levine whispered, terrified at the grisly transmutation.
“Do?” Mirco whispered back. “Report that Aaronson got his rightful place in space.”
by submission | May 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Werewolf rage fell short at the cage’s impenetrable viewing glass, prevailing against the assault, aided by a low-gravity holding cell. The brief demonstration impelled Ensign Collier to fill his spacesuit diaper.
“First time seeing one up close Ensign?” Zemzia, a tall, blue Aurelian scientist pulled the collapsed Collier up from supportive space station carpeting. “Your first two envoys reacted similarly, but at least you didn’t regurgitate…did you?”
Collier pursed his lips, realizing other fluids had escaped his control. “No,” he replied, slowly. “But please don’t surprise me like that again. My heart’s strong, but I’ve just one.”
“A nuisance, I’m sure, for advanced deep space travel. No spare. Hmm, so you’re to report detailed evaluations of our purpose for being outside Saturn’s rings? I suspect the interrupted inspection by your two predecessors left important details from reaching your superiors.”
“Ambassador Zemzia, I wouldn’t know. They’re still hospitalized. I’m a logistics expert sent to evaluate your involvement in Earth’s history and processes. How can we cooperate in a congenial effort, now that we have reached this part of our solar system?”
“I assure you, Ensign, allowing Earth’s previous expansion in our system followed intense discussions with our allies. What you’ve seen here, in our treatment center, exemplifies genetic anomaly rehabilitation from your world, before mistakes spread. You’ve seen vampires, Sasquatch, mermaids, owl men, harpies, centaurs, and others, including the Skin Walkers. That’s a small sampling. It takes years of biological and psychological manipulations before reintroducing these irregularities back into your current race. We could do more, but this is a limited facility.”
“But why? Why the effort? And limited? Your station is half the size of Saturn’s moons.”
Zemzia turned her head slightly, perplexed. “All life is sacred to us, Collier. Even yours.”
At that comment, Collier’s fingers retracted into a terror grip. He remembered the jumbled state of earlier returning envoys. He regretted volunteering, having hoped to increase his rank.
“I’m glad you consider me…uh…worthy.” He hesitated, wondering at his wording.
“Being worthy is a separate matter. Still, our recovery rate is exemplary. We reinstall patients into your world after stabilizing their genetics and behavior. Some unfortunate cases of recidivism occur, like Hitler and Stalin, but most are productive immigrants.”
“Seriously? You’ve put these things back after abductions? How?” Zemzia’s startling revelation and its implication stunned Collier.
“They adapt. Some werewolves became linemen on Earth’s football teams. Vampires often become lawyers and politicians. It’s amusing that you still call them ‘blood suckers’ without knowing their origins.”
“I…this is outrageous! How dare you interfere?”
“Simple, Collier. It’s game management. Those with millions of years of advancement won’t allow your insanity loose in our galaxy. Your kind has seriously devolved, fighting wars in space. Look at water resource genocide a century ago on your own planet, and then decimating civil wars on Mars and Venus. We’ve done as much correctional effort as possible in our small operation. That is why we asked for representatives from your world to visit us immediately.”
“I miss the point, madam.”
“Here, look at this.” Zemzia activated a wall viewer screen near them. “See those stars outside your system moving this way?”
“Yes,” Collier replied, confused by the unexpected configurations on the star map.
“Those are not stars, Ensign. Those are thousands of massive holding facilities coming to collect all humans until we can deprogram your violence. I’m afraid you are all suffering from flawed DNA. Please call your superiors. Prepare your people for retrieval. After that, we have a nice room ready for you.”
