by Duncan Shields | Nov 5, 2014 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
One ingredient can change so much.
In this case, it caused a genocide that’s lasting my entire life.
It’s my birthday today. Me and my siblings. Well, I call them my siblings but they’re just hundreds of variations on a theme. Millibicentadodecaheptuplets, technically. One thousand, two hundred and 19 of us. All hatched on February 20th, 2352.
The fact that we still use dates out here based on the orbit of a planet a few thousand light years away makes me laugh. That we use month and day names based on rulers, gods, and religions of that planet makes me laugh even harder. The further away we get, the more arbitrary the names seem.
I wonder if we all would have died on the same day. I mean, those of us that haven’t killed themselves already.
We were supposed to be the first generation of a ship that would reach a fertile planet and populate it with little baby humans. It was to happen on our 25th birthday. Such will not be the case.
An intense wave of EM radiation knocked out the genetic blueprint downloads. The computer was left with one useable sample instead of the thousands that had been saved. Such an event wasn’t foreseen by the creators. A loss of up to 80% of the information was planned for but just one surviving blueprint was not predicted as a possibility.
At the appointed time, the ship did what it was supposed to do with limited information; it made a lot of people. Or, to precise, it made a lot of one person
Today we are all 22. We were awakened by the nurse AI at a physical age of 13 so technically we’re 35 but we don’t count those years we slept in the dream schools learning our specialities.
Genetically, we should have been diverse enough to make gloriously different children in wild combinations, creating a stable population base resistant to disease and illness. But being so similar, we cannot impregnate each other. No babies take hold. There is no purchase in our womb walls. Our sperm don’t recognize their targets.
That didn’t stop us from trying at first. They didn’t need us until puberty, you see. That was the plan. Keep us asleep in our incubeds and educate us through thoughtfeeds until we could start the party. Then wake us up and get half of us good and knocked up so that we’d land on the planet with a bunch of twelve-year-olds a few years away from starting another party of their own on the ground.
It’s all automated. The ship is going to arrive at the planetoid dubbed Sisyphus II in three years to the day. The plan was to head out, build buildings, and take stock of what wildlife is edible.
We won’t build schools or nurseries.
We stopped celebrating our birthdays here on the ship. We don’t keep a lot of eye contact and we don’t talk much. It’s like looking into a mirror but your reflection is a different gender or has a different haircut than you.
The one surviving genetic blueprint we’re all modeled on was a donation specimen from Earth labeled Jacob (Jake) Peterson. If we’re like him, it’s apparent that he was a sad person who would rather end his own life rather than face extreme hardship. Not that big a deal if he was only one person amongst a thousand. But a thousand people prone to sadness?
The ship is dark. This ship is silent. We only cry in our quarters but we cry a lot. I honestly can’t tell you if anyone will be left alive when the ship touches down.
by submission | Nov 4, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
The ship closed in on Earth.
They’d been there many, many times before: Easter Island, the Pyramids, and the South American crop circles. Three tweenagers looking for adventure. It was off limits for them to come to Earth, but that was the very reason they were there.
Tredac sat at the controls. “Watch this,” he said to Venso and Hu.
Venso wobbled a drug-addled tentacle at him. “You know we’re not supposed to be here,” he said.
Hu leaned forward and licked up a long strand of semi-solid pinkness off a flat metal table. His tongue rolled into his mouth and he swallowed. He let out a long, hiss-like sigh.
“That’s good Yodsplotin,” Hu said.
Tredac grinned, but thought: it’s the cheapest Yodsplotin you can buy. The stupid son of a bitch wouldn’t know good Yodsplotin from bad Yodsplotin if his mother’s life depended on it.
Still, they nudged tentacles and Tredac said: “Watch this.”
He wrapped a tentacle around a control and, on the view screen; they saw thousands of rocks lift effortlessly into the air.
“What the hell are you doing?” Venso asked.
Tredac let out a giggle. “Relax,” he said. “Have a little fun before you die!”
Venso sank back in his seat. In a moment, he leaned forward and had a lick of the Yodsplotin. “Sorry,” he said, slurring his words. “You know my Dad….”
He didn’t have to finish the statement. Everyone knew Venso’s Dad was a hard ass when it came to interfering with other planets. He kept an eye on things. But, this planet was so far off the beaten path that he would never find them.
“Whatcha gonna do with those?” Hu asked, pointing at the rocks floating in the air ahead of them.
Tredac reached out, ran his tentacle across the Yodsplotin, and then sucked the bounty off his tentacle. “These creatures are sooooo stupid,” he said. “I’m gonna lay those rocks out in a long row. It’ll freak them out.”
He reached out, took the controls and plotted a layout for the rocks. Then, systematically, the computer controlled the anti-gravity ray and dropped the rocks into long, perfect lines.
Hu let out a laugh. “They’ll be trying to explain this for centuries!” He slapped Tredac across the shoulder. “You’re so damn evil!”
“Why, thank you!” replied Tredac as he acquired another tentacle of Yodsplotin.
Just then, as they were laying the final rocks in ground, the communication claxon went off.
Tredac looked at Venso and Hu. Hu looked at the console. “It’s your Dad, man,” he said, more than a hint of fear in his voice.
“Oh hell,” Venso said.
Tredac lurched out of the pilot’s seat and let Venso take over. After all, it was Venso’s Dad’s ship, and they had “borrowed” it for a while.
Venso sat down in the seat uneasily and stared at the console. After a moment, he keyed in the code to activate the monitor.
His dad, all fat and gray like the old ones were, was grimacing on the screen. “Where are you?” he said.
“We just went out for a ride,” Venso said. “Honest.”
His father drooped his mucusy jaw. “I know where you are,” he said. “Get home…. now!”
Tredac nodded. “Yes sir.”
The video screen went blank. No one said a word for a moment. Then, Tredac let out a little scoff and said: “To hell with that old coot!”
He turned back to the controls and, ever so quickly, placed the over 3000 stones in perfect rows in the French field. “Stupid Earthlings,” he said.
##
Later, on the hyper jump home, they struck a rogue asteroid and died.
by Julian Miles | Nov 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Bald Eagle, this is Leopard, are you receiving?”
“Leopard, good to have you back. Confirm reinforcements. ETA three minutes.”
“Bald Eagle, this is Leopard: abort, abort, abort. Total loss inevitable.”
“Leopard, intel disagrees. Target is viable. Enemy has no backup.”
“Bald Eagle, when will you people listen? The enemy needs no backup because he has got the stolen unit online. I repeat: enemy has one of our Command Servers!”
“Leopard, we show no interference – boards are green.”
“Bald Eagle, our position is in basement of building flagged as East Nine.”
“Leopard, are you assaulting the enemy position?”
“Bald Eagle: no, you moron. We are the poor bastards in East Nine.”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, we are the sole inhabitants of building East Nine.”
“Leopard, where is target?”
“Bald Eagle, you’re supposed to be telling me that.”
“Leopard, what is your twenty?”
“Bald Eagle, corner of west and south walls in basement of building East Nine.”
“Leopard, do you have eyes on target?”
“Bald Eagle, do not have eyes on target, because he is nowhere near building East Nine.”
“Leopard, we show target at your twenty.”
“Bald Eagle, we know that! Six flights of our drones are trying to kill us!”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, the only target in building East Nine is a friendly. Your command protocols are compromised.”
“Leopard, ID on friendly.”
“Bald Eagle, oh, for pity’s sake. ID on friendly is Team Leopard!”
“Leopard, that is you. Need ID on friendly with you.”
“Bald Eagle, are you not listening? We are the friendly! You are targeting the wrong people!”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, how many times… Oh, you bastard. You’re not Bald Eagle!”
“Leopard, this is Wolfhound. Kiss your sorry butts goodbye.”
by submission | Nov 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Tommy Walker
Brian awoke from a blissful and exhausted sleep in his wide and comfortable bed. A successful business had provided a plush penthouse apartment with every possible luxury. He rolled, half conscious feeling for her, the silver haired girl he’d met and shared his bed with last night. All he found was an empty pillow. Brian shrugged and hopped from his bed heading for the shower, but tripped and landed roughly on the tiled floor. Scrambling to his feet Brian peered in horror at a complete human skin lying grotesquely on his floor… complete with silver hair. It lay discarded on the floor like a macabre onesie splattered with sticky grey ooze.
Brian Vomited.
He fumbled his phone, hands trembling he tapped 999, but as he did so a dark thought occurred to him; who should he call? An ambulance? The Police? What would he tell them? Who would believe him? Without further hesitation or doubt Brian threw down his phone and scooped up the skin, it was heavier than he expected, which seemed an odd thought to have as he swallowed more bitter vomit. The large open fire lit almost instantly with the help of a quart bottle of expensive designer Vodka. The skin bubbled and wheezed as the flames devoured it. Brian took a long pull on the Vodka pulled his knees to his chest and watched it burn.
Many months drifted by, but for Brain that morning never faded from his memory. In the first few weeks Brian was wracked with guilt, waking every night in pools of his own sweat haunted by the nightmare. Work became impossible, Brian was unable to focus on the simplest of tasks and even leaving the house became something to avoid. It was around this time that he felt it for the first time. A churning sensation in his abdomen startled him and he pressed his hands to his belly. He felt it move inside him slithering like an eel he felt the creature inside push against his stomach wall. It didn’t hurt Brian noted it simply felt… alien.
Over the coming weeks the alien parasite grew inside him, feeding on him. By now Brian had withdrawn into a self-imposed solitude answering the door only to receive delivery from the supermarket twice a week, his evenings were spent in front of the open fire, gently cradling his now huge swollen belly Brian would softly whisper to the creature which would kick and squirm in answer.
Brian awoke suddenly one morning, the familiar feeling of moisture soaking his sheets. He looked down however to discover he had voided his bowl. A puzzled look crossed his now bearded face but only for a second before it was twisted with a vile expression of agony. The pain shot through him like a lightning bolt and he flailed his arms helplessly reaching for anything he could grip to ease the pain. His screams of pain echoed through the apartment building.
When the paramedics finally broke through Brian’s deadlocked doors they found him sat on his bedroom floor. Clutched closely to his chest an ugly grey creature with fine silver hair screamed, a high pitch bone chilling scream. A lonely tear fell down one of Brians cheeks. The first shocked paramedic held a hand to his mouth as he surveyed the horrific scene. The other gaped at the screaming grey bundle clutched to Brians chest. “What is it!” she spat. Brian looked up a wide grin across his face tears now glowing under both eyes. “It’s a Girl!” He said
by submission | Nov 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Frejj glided two meters above the street of the marketplace, each pulsation of his gelatinous, umbrella-shaped body propelling him forward through the green chlorine atmosphere toward the cafe at the end of the street. Seeing his friend, Vallier, resting on a pedestal, he floated over to join him. Vallier held a stylus in one tentacle and a datapad in two others. He was obviously deep in thought.
“Writing?” asked Frejj.
“Writing,” confirmed Vallier.
Frejj signaled a servitor to request a flagon.
“Put that pad down. I’ve ordered us a libation.”
Vallier kept writing. “I’d like you to look this over when I’m done. I’m going to submit it to one of the lore journals.”
“I hope it’s not more of that silly science fiction of yours.”
“It’s not silly!” said Vallier louder than he’d intended. “It’s creative and imaginative. So much lore nowadays is derivative and repetitive. Speculative fiction is the new frontier in literature.”
The servitor delivered the flagon and two cups to the table. Frejj poured them both a drink. He drained his cup and poured himself another. “What’s it about anyway? Your story, I mean.”
“You’ve heard the news about radio transmissions from a star system in the Jebraze constellation possibly being from an alien intelligence? I’m writing a story on what the aliens might be like.”
Frejj had another drink. “That’ll turn out to be a false alarm. There are no habitable planets in that system.”
“They’ve determined the third planet is the origin of the transmissions. It’s mostly covered in water and the atmosphere is about one-fifth oxygen.”
Frejj put down his cup. “Nothing could survive in such an environment. Your story won’t get accepted for publication if no one finds it believable.”
“That’s where the transmission originated,” insisted Vallier. “Whatever creatures live there would have evolved to survive the amount of oxygen in the air.”
Frejj resumed drinking. “My advice is make the characters in your story like life on our planet. Make their mesoglea an odd color to make them seem ‘alien’ of something.”
“Who’s going to believe aliens that look like us?”
“The readers have to be able to relate to the characters.”
“The characters are from another planet. They’re not going to float around and have six eyes and look like ordinary people.”
“They’re not going to float about? How do you intended to have them move?”
“Maybe they slither on the ground or ambulate on specialized tentacles.”
“They couldn’t escape predators if they locomoted on the ground. They’d never survive long enough to develop into a technological civilization.”
Vallier floated off his pedestal momentarily with excitement and descended back down to rest on it. “That’s it!” he said with excitement. “The aliens are land-bound and easy prey for their world’s predators. At the same time, their planet’s poisonous oxygen atmosphere puts them in constant peril. Oxygen is highly reactive. I bet things would catch fire there really easily. They’d be a stoic, warrior race ever vigilant against their planet’s endless danger!” Vallier started writing frantically.
“How about a love interest?” asked Frejj. “A male, a female, and a gestator are thrown together by circumstances and a romance develops.”
“Readers want action and adventure, not mating dances.”
“And what happens when we get a radio transmission with video from the aliens? What happens when we know what they look like and what their civilization is like?”
Vallier stopped writing. He looked worried for a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Shape-shifters! I can address that problem by making them shape-shifters!” he said triumphantly.
