by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 9, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Janus waited patiently, his card key in the front door lock as the picking device lifted the residual signature off the contacts and played it back. The occupants would have paid a small fortune to protect their home from broken windows or forced doors, but there was nothing to protect them from the ghost of their own key.
With a sigh the lock released, bolts withdrawing heavily and the door swung freely inward on well oiled hinges.
Janus pocketed the lock-pick and stepped into the foyer, pushing the door quietly closed behind him.
To the left would be the drawing room, to the right the dining area and beyond it the kitchen. Ahead of him a staircase reached up from the middle of the floor apparently unsupported to wind to the second level. It was this path he chose.
Off the landing at the top of the stairs was the entrance to the study, and Janus slipped quietly inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, virtually absolute as he closed the door.
“You’d have been better off breaking a window, at least then you’d only have been stunned.” A desk-lamp burst to life, the speaker having one hand on the switch, the other holding a snub nosed pistol, the blue-gray metal blending almost seamlessly into the blue-gray silk pajamas the man wore beneath a terry housecoat. “Pickup the gun.”
On the desk between them lay the pistol’s twin, its barrel pointing towards Janus.
“Always the lawyer Phelps, the gun does what? Justifiable homicide? Self defense?”
“Not that easy Janus, if I kill you, they’ll just distill another from before your crime. As it is, you’re up for break and enter…”
Janus cut him off. “Right, B and E, twenty years tops, but with a weapon it’s first degree. Life. And with simultaneous instantiation prohibited, I’d get to rot out the whole term. Not very nice Phelps, but you’re mistaken.”
“What, you expect me to believe this is a social call?” Phelps stepped back from the desk, moved behind the halo of light into the shadow of the bookcase beyond, steadying his aim with his free hand.
“Oh no, I’m going to kill you, nothing social between us anymore, you made sure of that.”
There was a hint of uncertainty in Phelps’ voice when he spoke again. “Then where’s your weapon Janus? You’ll be wanting that gun then, go on, have a go.”
Janus stepped up to the desk, but instead of the gun he reached out to the lamp, lifting off its shade and wrapping his fingers around the bare bulb.
The room filled with the smell of burning flesh, and Phelps began to shake visibly, the barrel of the gun wavering but never leaving its mark.
“What are you playing at Janus, pick up the goddamned gun. I will shoot you then, get it over with, you can come back and take another crack, I don’t care, just pickup the goddamned gun!” He screamed the last.
Janus regarded him cooly. “It’s not that I don’t want to pickup the gun, as I’d love to show you just how bloody fast I am with it, it’s just…” He grinned as he raised his empty hand and pointed a scarred index finger at Phelps. The desk-lamp dimmed suddenly, and Janus crackled and hummed as the air in the room became electrified, the hair on both men standing on end. There was a violent burst of energy from Janus’ index finger that entered Phelps through both eyes and exited through his bare feet into the floorboards below. The gun dropped to the floor, followed a second later by Phelps himself, smoke pouring from his ears, nose and mouth.
“… I don’t need the gun.” Janus finished the sentence, letting go of the bare lightbulb and blowing gently on his blistered palm and fingers before retracing his steps to find the cool night air.
by submission | Jul 8, 2012 | Story |
Author : M.W. Fowler
She has legs that she keeps up with a regimen of oiling, tensioning checks, and recalculations. She could have downloaded all of her famous dances into them, but somehow, that didn’t seem right. After all, she wasn’t a toy, and she had earned her career through hours of sweaty practices and sweaty stage directors.
The wrong step, the wrong trip or jump, she reminds herself, and it will be given away, this game.
When she was young, her parents knew nothing of her dreams, her true dreams, and they made her dance. Traditional ballet. Neoclassical ballet. Contemporary ballet. And now this. Only the pointe shoes remain. She did not dance at prom. She stopped outside the overly waxed floor, her date’s hands—one on her waist, the other holding the spiked punch—and watched as her classmates danced with the freedom of ignorance to the dance. A freedom she had never known.
“Do you want to?” her date asked her. He was named Steven, and he nodded reluctantly towards the dance floor. “You know, the next song maybe?”
She ran her fingers softly along his at her waist and pulled his hand towards her breast. Steven left the punch on an empty table, and they found a dark spot of the world to park his car.
No. Her parents knew nothing of her dreams to dance the world into its cold, hard end. She would dance at it tomorrow. In front of millions, as they watched their galaxy fall away into an icy darkness that could no longer sustain life, she would dance from the safety of their new mobile planet in space. For them she would dance a dance that would end in the shaped shapeless becoming free.
She knows, though, now, after all of these years, that she was trying to free herself, not the dance. She is trapped inside the dance, inside the machinations of the world around her. They were floating away to their doom. Where were they going? Wherever it was, her legs had carried her there, and when she thought of it like that she began to wonder if she were really in control of the legs or if they had control of her.
She was old. What could they possibly want with her? They were the reason people talked about her age in wonderment: she dances like she is a girl. She was never a girl, she reminds herself, staring at the corner.
“And you,” she says to her legs, “you were never really legs.”
They rest, unmoving in their med-case, waiting for the engineer whose silence she pays handsomely to figure out if the trembling in her last performance was from the end of the world, like a change in the weather, or just the end of her career.
by submission | Jul 7, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
He thought that maybe he should be angry. After all, everything he had ever known was falling apart and there was nothing he could do about it. His hands shook with the energy of the blow-by self-consuming passion of intense anger, and his eyes were clouding up with tears. It really wasn’t fair.
Samuel screamed, shouted at the sky, shook his fists at the God he’d never believed in. Where was the bastard now, when everybody needed him more than ever? Gone, it seemed, to some other planet down the road where some other fledgling race needed their pot stirred and their morals directed.
Maybe this was God’s way of punishing man for overstepping his boundaries and assuming the role of creator when he was only the apprentice, like a parent who forces a child to figure out his own mess.
In the valley below Change writhed.
The news reports said it was an accident, an experiment in physics gone awry, changing the fundamental workings of space and time itself. As near as the scientists could tell there were no neutrons in the expanding haze. There were no electrons or protons, either. Really, there were no recognizable particles of any kind.
And it was growing, too, extending tendrils into real space like some sort of giant, horrifying, laws-of-the-Universe defying amoeba. Samuel watched one expand into the air above the zone of occurrence like some lance of the burning workings of the unknown, touching the air and turning it into something else. It was simultaneously too bright and too dark to see.
Samuel thought that he should be angry, but he wasn’t. He was tired. The world around him was falling apart and there was nothing that he could do about it, but hadn’t life always been that way?
The air had a cold November chill to it, and the leaves had all left for the winter. Everything seemed sharp, too in focus to be seen. Samuel sat back down in his lawn chair at the top of a hill over looking the End (Or was it the Beginning?) and picked up his bottle liquor. As he drank the warmth spread out through his stomach and into the deep and hard-to-reach places of his body and mind.
Surely there must be a way out of this, he thought, though for the life of him he couldn’t think of one. Perhaps if the same experiment that had gone wrong were repeated… But that was an impossibility now. The equipment was gone, the knowledge too. What else was there?
Most certainly there would be an end. That thought, at least, comforted Samuel in a way nothing else could. The black and bright nothings of something new lapped at the foot of the hill he was sitting on. Soon, while everybody else lived on running in circles from something that inevitably would always be front of them, Samuel’s life would be much more peaceful.
He gazed up, again, at the long fingers that extended further than he could see toward the cold reaches of space. There had always been a lingering question at the back of his mind his entire life: Was mankind’s dream of reaching the stars a joke? Was it the grandiose dream of a megalomaniac young race? He looked the the growing certainty before him. He looked at the shapeless hand stretched out toward Heaven, God, and Hell, and he knew.
Man had reached the stars and would grow out among the alien world and sights of space long after He was gone.
Samuel smiled.
He didn’t feel a thing.
by submission | Jul 6, 2012 | Story |
Author : D. Ahren Bell
Just watching him play brings a tranquil satisfaction. You hear about the joys of fatherhood, but its impossible to truly understand until you have a child of your own. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. The love, the trust, the warmth shared between father and son is a bond beyond compare.
I love the way Simon looks up at me with my eyes, happiness radiating from his smile. Everyday is a new joy. He is always learning, surprising me with his intelligence at every corner. I can take credit for very little of his achievements. Almost everything that he learns is learned on his own.
I love his cute little nose, cute little teeth, cute little toes. It’s so wonderful to see all of those little features, minutiae of my own.
Truly. The reason he looks so much like me is because he is me. My friends gave me a hard time about it; my mother and father were nearly furious. They all told me it was selfish, that I should find a mate and produce a child in the old fashion way. My sister hounded me, reminding me of the millions of children around the world in foster care while I felt the need to make a copy of myself.
But I wasn’t the one to make that decision; it was my other love, Simon’s mother. She insisted that I make a clone of myself. She wanted a little Simon. She didn’t think any changes in my genome were necessary for perfection.
I queried Siri, “What time is little Simon’s pediatrician appointment today?”
Her body-less voice came back as it always does, calm and a little flat, “Little Simon’s appointment is at 9:30.”
“Thank you Siri. I love you.”
The voice rang through the speakers throughout the apartment. “I love you too, Simon.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jul 5, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Jill and John relaxed in the cockpit, as their ship streaked toward the asteroid belt for their long awaited weekend getaway at the Ceres Lowgrav Resort and Spa. Although Jill was looking forward to being pampered for a few days, she was also in a reflective mood. This thing with John was working out rather well, she mused. Sure, he had been a self-centered jerk in the beginning, but he had come along rather nicely over the past year. That’s when it dawned on her, and without thinking, she simply blurted it out, “Do you know that this is the one year anniversary of our first date?” Instantly, she regretted it. She glanced sideways to gauge John’s reaction.
“What’s that? One year, you say? Hmmm.” Then dead silence. John’s brow furrowed.
Jill thought: Oh God, I’m such an idiot. John wasn’t ready for that. Look at him. He’s worried that I’m moving too fast. I’ll bet he’s thinking that I’m expecting a marriage proposal or something. What am I going to do now?
John thought: One year ago. God, that’s about the last time I had the ship in for service. And now, here I am, heading off on a billion mile trek. Who goes off on a trip like this without having the matter-antimatter balance checked? If the injectors diverge by more than point one percent, the whole ship could explode. Damn, I’m such a moron.
Jill thought: Oh no! Now he’s getting mad. I can see it in his expression. I’ve totally blown it. He’s probably going to put me off on Mars. And I wouldn’t blame him. He could have anybody he wanted. But stupid ol’ me had to get too pushy. And just when things were going so well.
John thought: I didn’t even check the oxygen tanks in the escape pod. What was I thinking? I could get us both killed.
Jill said, “I’m so sorry, John.”
“What? Oh, no Jill. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
Jill thought: Uh oh. I’ve heard that line before. He’s getting ready to break it off. He was probably planning to do it on Ceres all along. I just sped up his little plan, that’s all. What a creep! How could I have possibly thought that he was mister right?
John thought: Whoa, what just happened? How did she know I was thinking? Oh God, I hope I didn’t think something out loud again? Damn, I need to be more careful. If I accidently call her by her younger sister’s name at the wrong time…
“I hate you,” Jill cried as she ran back to the cabin area.
John thought: Shit. Did I just say her sister’s name out loud?
“Computer,” asked John, “were you monitoring the flight deck audio? Did I say something to make Jill angry?”
“Beats me,” replied the computer, “I’m not sure that exchange fit any definition of a conversation.”
“I didn’t think so either. But clearly, I pissed her off. I need to go back and apologize.”
“For what, specifically?” inquired the computer.
John shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come up with something. Take over the controls. If I play my cards right, there may be make-up sex in my future.” John headed aft, with a bit of a bounce in his step.
Computer thought: Wow, so this species represents the crowning achievement of Earth’s natural selection process. Evidently, evolution has a sense of humor.
