by Patricia Stewart | Feb 19, 2013 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
(Caution: Science content) The Perseus Space Colony is a marvel of twenty-third century engineering. It is located approximately 400,000 kilometers from the Earth, and trailing 60 degrees behind the Moon. Astronomers call it the Lagrange (L5) point, and it’s one of the very few truly stable orbits in the Earth-Moon system. The gravitational forces of the Earth, Moon, and Sun keep the mammoth habitat in an 89-day kidney shaped sub-orbit around the L5 point. Like a marble in a bowl, if the colony drifts in any direction, the E-M-S gravity fields always brings it home.
The Perseus’ outermost “H” ring is 2,700 meters in diameter, and it houses the living quarters for the 824 permanent residents, and the 182 visitors that are “on-station” at any given time. The Preseus rotates at a leisurely 0.73 revolutions per minute, which produces a comfortable 0.8g in the “H” ring; less as you approach the hub. As the H-ring spins at more than 100 meters per second (circumferentially), it produces some disorienting physiological effects on the occupants. For example, if a person in the H-ring drops an object, it curves sideways as it falls, a radial Coriolis effect. It’s the same phenomenon that causes hurricanes to rotate counterclockwise in the northern hemisphere. Permanent residents don’t even notice the effect when they go about their cycle’s business, but first time visitors always move around like they had taken too many recs.
Senior Maintenance Engineer Louis Spiridon crawled backwards out of the cylindrical conduit that exits the noisy pumping room of the C-ring’s recycling center. As he removed his hearing protection, he became aware of the variable wail of the station’s emergency alarm. He activated a comm panel along the wall of the main corridor to find out what was wrong. The computer informed him that there had been a significant solar flare event, and that all personnel had been ordered into the shielded auditorium at the station’s hub. “Do I have time to take a shower?” he asked, knowing that it generally took hours for the sun’s coronal mass ejection to reach Earth’s orbit, and because the recycling center tended to leave an unpleasant scent on all those that pass through.
“Negative,” responded the computer. “This is an X-class flare. The immediate concerns are the high levels of electromagnetic radiation, not coronal ejecta. Lethal levels of x-rays have already reached the station. You need to start running anti-rotation, now.”
“What? Shouldn’t I head for a spoke, so I can take a lift to the auditorium?” Just incase the computer knew what it was talking about; Louis began jogging against the station’s direction of rotation.
“Sorry,” replied the computer. ”The lifts won’t function in an X-class flare. But, fortunately for you, the current orientation of the Perseus has the shielded auditorium located directly between your current location and the sun. However, you’ll only be in its shadow for another 3 seconds. Since the station is rotating, you need to run, not jog, to stay within the auditorium’s shadow. As long as you maintain that position, you’ll be shielded from the lethal radiation. However, you need to sustain a steady pace of 780 meters per minute to keep the auditorium aligned with the sun. It’s only 0.1g at your current radial distance, so it should not be too difficult. The lethal phase of the flare will only last for another two hours and five minutes. That’s 91 laps around the C-ring. I’ll regulate your pace. A little faster please, Mr. Spiridon.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 18, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
TRANSCRIPT: 01141220072461
INCIDENT: LEU1093-19072461
OUTCOME: PERPETRATOR FATALITY
INCEPT: 230336 Emergency call made from D40F38CB17: “Help. He has a gun. And a knife. And my daughter.”
RESPONSE1: 230619 LEU on scene.
RESPONSE2: 230728 Call for Policeman.
‘Call for Policeman’. Three words that define my life. Enforcement at all levels has been automated for over four centuries, yet the continuing need for discretion when dealing with humans resulted in real Policemen returning to duty three centuries ago. Machines cannot cope with the diversity of human actions, the nuances of emotion and expression. Lethal force had been applied too many times in minor situations, when decision trees bifurcated their way down to a guaranteed result that actually did more harm than good.
In my first life, I put nineteen years into the police force. On a rainy day in 2043, I was gunned down by a teenager with an assault rifle after intervening in a petty dispute over who controlled the drug distribution rights for a playground.
I had filled in the ‘Revive to Serve’ form thinking it was a joke. I’m not laughing anymore. This is my fourth tour of duty, each one lasting twenty years or until I am killed.
Last night I got the call and made my way to the thirty-eighth floor of Cityblock Seventeen. In Dwelling Forty, what used to be called a family-sized council flat, Mister Stevens had consumed his post-work alcohol ration and augmented it with several grams of something that apparently turned his world into a paranoid hell in which his family were out to get him. So he defended himself. He knocked his wife out with a home-made squeezegun before stabbing his son and the first LEU to arrive before barricading himself in the bedroom with his daughter. The fact he’d managed to scratch the LEU showed how far gone he was.
It was clear from the ranting that he had left the rails completely. He would return tomorrow, all grief and remorse. But for tonight, he was a chef beyond redemption. If he hadn’t grabbed his daughter, the response would be contain until sober and then fine him. As he had a hostage and was out of his mind, I had to try and talk him down.
I am equipped with body armour and full data access, nothing more. If I want physical intervention, the Law Enforcement Units on scene will apply it.
I spent two hours talking to him, hearing how his profession is no longer rated as such due to vending being available for all and no-one wanting to pay for the personal touch. He was angry and sad, seeing the end of his vocation. He’d mortgaged everything to keep his restaurant going, his family’s comfort secondary to the need to keep cooking.
I tried. I always do. The evaluation headware that monitors my effort and mental state flashed an ‘out of options’ decision after ninety minutes. I kept going for another thirty. Then he sliced his daughter’s arm and clipped an artery. I saw his smile and realisation dawned moments before the response to life-threatening injury caused the LEU accompanying me to burn a hole through his skull. Within five minutes, the organ salvage unit had whisked his body away to pay his debts. My data feed told me that his corpse value was enough to pay them all and allow his family to live comfortably for a long time.
Nearly nine decades of service across three centuries and I still see desperate love expressed as ‘suicide by cop’.
by submission | Feb 17, 2013 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
“You’re a cheat!” Eb shouted, tossing his cards as he rose to his full, imposing height. Money would have meant nothing to Eb on a planet with little left to spend it on, but he was playing for information. And Pierre was beating him, badly.
The pod was tense and silent as Pierre rose to his feet. “No one calls me a cheat.” Men started slipping out of the door. Rose ducked low behind her bar.
“There are other men here that you’ve cheated before,” Eb continued.
Pierre and Eb stared at each other in silence. Pierre’s dark eyes smoldered. He’d won too many hands in this colony to let the hangers on write him off as a cheat. He’d be stabbed in his sleeping furs, and die with his boots on. But what if he drew? How good a shot was Eb Kelly? How fast could he draw that blaster hanging low at his side?
Eb broke the silence. “See, you all? He doesn’t deny anything!” This last taunt was more than Pierre could stand. He reached for his blaster, but Eb’s was out first and flashed fire. Pierre’s shoulder jerked, like an unseen hand had shoved him, and he fell. Rose screamed, leapt over the bar and dropped to her knees by the fallen man.
“Dead?” Eb asked, replacing his blaster in its holster.
“No,” said Rose, rising quickly. “But you are.” She jabbed the cold, hard barrell of Pierre’s blaster into Eb’s ribs. “Get out of my pod, the rest of you!” she yelled. The nervous remnants scrambled out.
“Rose — I don’t understand — why?”
“‘Cause a girl’s gotta make a living, Eb, however she can. And that old son-of-a-bitch Harte would pay through the nose to have his daughter back.”
“Pierre was working — for you!” Eb said, incredulously.
Suddenly, a voice outside called, “Everything alright in there, Rose?” Surprised, she glanced toward the door. That momentary distraction saved Eb’s neck. He smacked his forehead down quick and hard on the crown of Rose’s head, and she staggered and fell over stunned.
Eb bolted through the pod door. Swirls of purple dust wisped through the air amidst the ever-twilight of fading twin suns. Oblong pods of varying capacity were scattered helter-skelter, scarcely moved from where they landed in The Big Drop. Added to the ranks of Rose’s ousted customers were a few colonists who struggled on to make a meager living after the mining companies had moved on to more fertile worlds. Mostly men, they stood scratching at the ground with their boots, and saying nothing.
“Well, where is she?” Eb asked. “Where’s Blythe?”
“Don’t know nothin’, Eb,” someone muttered, avoiding his eyes.
A gray-bearded old-timer caught Eb’s attention with a twitch of his head subtly toward a small, derelict storage pod. No one tried to stop Eb as he pushed through the crowd. Two solid strikes with his shoulder was sufficient to bust the latch, revealing rusty, discarded mining tools and spare parts from an old atmosphere generator. In a dark corner lay a bound young girl, gagged with an oily cloth, eyes wide.
He jerked out his knife and ripped her bonds asunder. “Eb?” she gasped. “You’re still alive!”
“Glad to find you in the same condition.”
They hurried toward his lander, Eb with blaster drawn and ready, but no one interfered. “Where are we heading, Eb? Where’s there left to go?”
“Anywhere but here,” he said, sliding her into the cockpit and squeezing in beside her. He threw the thrust into full and the lander tore up into the alien sky.
by submission | Feb 16, 2013 | Story |
Author : Davena Oaks
Swaying on the jerking bus, her hooves planted widely to afford her better balance, Kira endured the ride with the expression of a true commuter: apathetic. Empty seats all around offered no temptation to sit, they were molded plastic with a mockingly thin layer of cloth cushion. They spared only a few inches for leg room – fine for humans and most other species with their short, single jointed limbs. Kira could not hope to fold her triple jointed legs into such a tiny space, so she remained standing. Deboarding at the downtown transit exchange, the shaggy furred female enjoyed a deep breath of cool evening air before heading for the sushi restaurant.
—
“So who do you think will show up?” Nyk peeled a sliver of pickled ginger off his plate and popped it in his mouth.
“Probably other alts, deekin, maybe a few greys?” Kira shrugged carelessly as the slang drew Nyk’s frown.
“Don’t call me a deekin. I told you I don’t like that.”
“Whatever. Greys don’t get touchy about the language. I don’t see why you do.”
“Greys don’t have to get touchy about much of anything.” Nyk hissed back at her and snagged a plate of unagi off the rollers, plunking it on the table between them. Discarding the plastic cover, he picked up one piece with his fingers while Kira snagged the other with a jab of her sticks. Nyk never used chopsticks, his scaly fingers lacked the sensitivity to manage the delicate task.
Kira was savoring the flakey meat when a slender human male appeared at the end of their table. Nervously he cleared his throat, obviously wanting their attention. Nyk immediately looked sour. Kira pasted a smile on her broad face.
“I must ask you and your companion to finish here for the evening,” the murmur of the restaurant went awkwardly silent.
“Sir we’re just-“
“We’re not done,” growled Nyk.
“No, you must go,” the man shook his head resolutely, rising to the posture of indignant restaurant owner.
Kira shook her heavy head. “We not causing trouble…”
The owner stepped back and pointed. In unforgiving sans serif it declared: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Non-Humans.
Kira bristled disdainfully as she rose, unfolding her heavily muscled legs brought her full height-and-horns towering over the diminutive human. He shrank back.
“Oh? Well, thank you for covering our check, we’ll be sure to let our friends know how generous you were tonight.” Malice dripped from her words. The owner paled but said nothing as Kira turned and stomped away, followed by a skulking Nyk. On the way to the exit her gaze fell across a pale-skinned creature in a grey business suit sitting at the bar, sipping saki. He had been sitting there all evening, unmolested by the proprietor.
The grey glanced up at her and their eyes met briefly. The blue-eyed alien nodded slightly before Kira scowled at him and turned away. Outside, she and Nyk slowed to an ambling pace once they neared the bus stop. Shortly later, the grey joined them with a bemused smile glittering in his eyes.
“You’re going to get arrested one of these days,” his mouth barely moved when he spoke.
“For a free meal, I’ll take that risk. He wasn’t going to boot you out, figured I might make a point,” the larger alien replied agreeably. Nyk just shook his head beside her.
“Well you did, I enjoyed a ‘free meal’ too,” the grey replied.
The three burst out laughing and continued down the street and towards their meeting.
by submission | Feb 15, 2013 | Story |
Author : Lindsey McLeod
The President stood silhouetted against the huge windows of the White House, hands clasped behind her back, apparently deep in thought. Over those slender shoulders, Jane Randall could see a vast expanse of starry sky that looked like nothing more than the remains of God’s first sneeze. The moon hung low and dark in the sky, tinged with a faint green glow. The air swam like a crocodile, tepid and slick and sharp – the summer heat unusual even for late August. The darkness inside the Oval Office only seemed to only magnify the humidity. Ever since this particular mission had begun, the President had become obsessed with the current hot topic; namely, the movement of toxic substances to a place where it could not possibly bother the human race. She’d moved all the lamps into the empty conference rooms along the hall, claiming the darkness assisted with her concentration and dedication. The staff had, with silent and unanimous agreement in the way of office workers all over the world, decided that this statement clearly meant ‘please further assist the President’s concentration and dedication regarding the matter at hand by stealing these lamps’, and they were nothing if not patriotic.
A suited secretary scurried in on squeaking shoes that were only partially muffled by the thick carpet, and spoke quietly into the President’s ear. He gave Randall a brief, uninterested glance as he left. She wondered how he could bear the weight of a blazer in this oven. There was no air conditioning here – the President didn’t approve of it. Randall’s own suit jacket lay casually discarded in her casual, temporary office in the east wing, casually hiding her portable fan. She didn’t feel particularly good – or indeed, casual – about that, but then again she didn’t particularly enjoy broiling in her own skin. It did you good to enact small act of rebellions against authority. Kept the mind fresh.
Randall scratched under her ear nervously, tucked a wisp of escaped blonde hair back into her bun and folded her hands behind her back again, doing her best to appear unruffled and composed. The uncomfortable feeling grew, flapping anxiously around her stomach on small, leathery wings. A thick worm of sweat crawled down the back of her neck and dampened the crisp collar of her white shirt. She tugged at it uncomfortably and then cleared her throat in the politest possible way. You didn’t rush the leader of the Free World.
“Ms President?” she said cautiously.
“I’m sorry, General. You were saying?”
“Ma’am, we are experiencing some-” Randall hesitated only briefly before forcing the word out of her mouth with some distaste and more than a little guilt, “-uh, issues, concerning the disposal of the newest batch of nuclear waste.”
The President turned to face her, brown eyes sharp and searching. Her gaze examined Randall’s face and form with clinical precision. Cataloguing. Probing. It made Randall’s insides twist. The leather wings beat faster. The worm crawled further down her back.
“Are you telling me that we’ve used up all our resources already?” the President asked slowly.
Randall paused, unsure of how to phrase the comment without it sounding either trite or patronizing. “The… the moon is not an infinite object, ma’am.”
“Nothing is, Randall. Nothing is.”
The President looked thoughtful. There was a brief, awkward silence. Randall felt the conversation slipping away from her and tried desperately to regain some footing.
“Ma’am?”
“Tell me, Randall,” said the President, turning again to stare out at the night sky, “what are we currently doing with Saturn?”
