by submission | May 11, 2015 | Story |
Author : Travis Gregg
The brightness was overwhelming at first and it took several minutes for his eyes to adjust. The dirt was warm under his bare feet, and the smell, the smell was like something from his childhood. The smell of dirt and wind and sun. He’d forgotten that smell.
All around him the wheat fields stretched from horizon to horizon, a sharp contrast against the deep blue of the cloudless sky. The only thing that broke the uniformity was a two story ramshackle building on top of a nearby hill. It looked about a hundred years old, all rotted wood and sagging porch. The roof had partially collapsed and it looked like a stiff breeze would send the whole structure crashing into a heap. He slowly rotated and it was all sky and wheat and the abandoned building.
“What is this?” he asked. “Another test?”
At first there had been many tests. Some painful, some beyond painful. Some he’d forgotten and some he’d probably never be able to. His hand rubbed the scars unconsciously. On at least three occasions he’d been led to believe he’d been freed only to have the illusion melt away after his captors ascertained whatever it was they were hoping to learn.
There had been fewer and fewer test though the longer they’d held him. He couldn’t even remember how long it’d been since the last one but certainly a while. He’d lost a sense of time almost immediately after his capture.
“No, no more tests. We’re done with that,” his captor replied.
“If not a test, then what is this?” he asked.
“Your home, or near enough to where we picked you up.”
“Look at this place, there’s nothing here!”
His captor had no shoulders but still managed to convey an indifferent shrug as it turned back to the portal. “A significant time has passed on your specie’s time scale. The rules are when we’re done the subjects must be returned to their original habitat.”
“How long has it been?”
Silence was the only response he got as the portal and his captor faded to nothingness. As he looked out at the empty expanse, truly alone for the first time in ages, he realized simply surviving might be the most difficult test.
by submission | May 10, 2015 | Story |
Author : Benjamin Sixsmith
The planet was nothing to look at. An immense red desert, it was so flat that one could hardly have believed it curled. As FO James Beckwith alighted on its sands he looked about with a frown. SO Mary Harding appeared beside him and opened her mouth to swear.
Then the music started. It was like the first dramatic chords of a strings section as an opera began, except louder, thicker and more reverberant. The crew members who had been appearing on the planet dropped to their chests as if anticipating explosions.
“Hold!” cried Beckwith as a buoyant melody, as if from a giant viola, deafened him. “Hold your positions!”
The music faded and a wind tore across the surface of the planet, blowing sand into their faces.
“What was that?”
Harding adjusted her helmet as its voicebox spluttered in and out of action.
“We’ve got nothing, sir,” said the FT, surveying her sensors.
“Perhaps it was an illusion,” Beckwith muttered.
“Let’s collect our samples, tick our box and get the hell out of here.”
At that moment the sands parted in front of them and a being leaped to the surface. The humans had a glimpse of purple limbs and black teeth, which seemed fearsome enough that Beckwith whipped his arm out and pressed the button that trained lasers on its flesh. His crew followed him and bolts of light converged upon the being. It swelled and exploded in a shower of violet nodules and green fluid.
Beckwith was exhaling when there was another noise, as if of an earthquake. He stared about the landscape as he realised that it sounded like prolonged, enthusiastic applause.
“Jesus,” Harding said, her eyes so bright that they shone through the dusty visor, “We have to get out here.”
The sound ended abruptly and there was a low, grumbling noise.
“We are being watched,” said Beckwith, “Is it some kind of challenge?”
He heard a man gasp behind him and saw an ST pointing across the landscape. A black box was nestled in the sand.
“Did you not get that?” Harding asked the baffled technicians.
“The sensors must have broken.”
At Beckwith’s command the ST directed a small ray at the box. A light flashed and he nodded. Beckwith walked across the sands and picked it up. Something small and hard rattled about the insides of its walls. Inhaling, he burst the lock. The lid opened, a cloud of sand exploded in his face and the box disappeared as there was an eruption of high and raucous noise. It sounded like laughter.
Beckwith wiped his gloves over his helmet.
“I am First Officer James Beckwith and I represent Galaxías Kýklos! We came in peace and respect!”
The laughter continued.
“Perhaps we should assume that they are hostile, sir,” said Harding.
There was a pause. Everything was still and silent. Beckwith turned to his SO, whose fists were clenched, and felt resentment towards their mysterious tormentors surge within him.
“Show your…!”
The ground disappeared from beneath the humans and their twisted, fragile bodies fell through a cloud of sand and into an abyss from which they knew no end. The landscape settled and applause rang throughout the Planet that Amused Itself.
by submission | May 9, 2015 | Story |
Author : Lewis Richards
Here we go.. The sound of self-entitlement..
Max Holmes glanced up from his Med-Tab as he heard the rhythmic tapping of heels on the sterile Metal floor; Heels that could only belong to the companies most valued Customer.
Striding down the Ward towards him, with an air of confidence that only money can buy, came the most stunning woman he’d ever seen, too beautiful he thought.
Extensive genetic modification, he noted, she shares about as much DNA with her parents as I do.
“Madam Devaux, a pleasure as always.” He held out his hand as she rounded the corner of his station, she extended one perfectly manicured hand, pulse cells in her fingertips leaving tingling trails along his palm, “Ah Monsieur Holmes, My Husband sends is regards, and please, I have asked you to call me Ola” Her French Accent colouring her words. Max ushered her through to her private suite, owned and paid for by the Devaux family Dynasty.
“Tell me, how is ze child?”
“This is what I wanted to discuss with you today,” her eyes flashed with alarm “please don’t be worried, I assure you, you’ll be pleasantly surprised”
“No unexpected surprises are happy.”
They arrived in a softly lit, round room, occupied by a platform in the Centre, above which an inverted metal pyramid was suspended. Max tapped his Med-Tab twice, authorizing the pyramid to begin Observation Procedures. The Pyramid opened, as if a metal flower were blooming from the ceiling. From the open pyramid, a sphere was lowered, emanating a blue light, revealing its contents to the room. Max tapped his Med-Tab again, magnifying a small patch on the surface of the Sphere.
“Sacrebleu!” the woman gasped, moving to get a closer look.
Max cleared his throat “As you can see, the Zygote has split, so I’m happy to tell you that you’re expecting twins.”
Ola pulled out her phone, speaking urgently into the handset, “Nous avons un problème très grave..” her voice demanding and concerned. Max stood to one side, listening to the torrent of words, his confusion growing with every syllable. Finally she ended the call, and composing herself, turning to the doctor.
“What options do I have?”
“Options? Sorry, I don’t understand?”
“Doctor Holmes, what you are currently showing me are the Heirs to my families Enterprises and fortune. Heirs, Doctor, that is the problem. My families Company cannot handle the stresses of competing Heirs; we have enough competition from outside of the family. This is not acceptable.”
Realization dawned on Max; he set his Med-tab to retrieving protocols, gathering documents and Legislations.
“How would you like to proceed?”
“There is only one option, only one can continue from this point.”
Max sighed inwardly, already knowing his answer even as he examined the files his Med-Tab filtered.
“I’m sorry, but, as this was an Elected Gestation, Neither Zygote can be terminated.”
“Excuse me? There must be something you can do!?”
“Madam, you have two options, you keep both, or you sell the Gestation of one, a sort of Selective Adoption if you will.”
“Sell? To who? I will not auction off Devaux Genetics to our competitors.”
Business over blood as always
“I can personally guarantee your Anonymity as the er.. Donor, and if you wish, I can handle the selection process for you.”
“We’ll go with that, I’ll have my lawyers contact you about the selection. Sell the Weaker of the two. ” with that, the woman smiled and left, leaving Max alone to order the Separation of the Twins before him.
by submission | May 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : LB Benton
I am a simple watchmaker. Once I owned a watch repair shop on West 38th Street, near the jewelry district. The shop was very small and, now, I barely remember it—worn wooden floors that softened the footsteps of customers, the sweet smell of lubricating oil, a door that jingled when it opened. Many things about it I have forgotten. Now I sit at a worktable in a damp cement room and repair the inner workings of androids. Like a surgeon bent over an operating table, I hunch over the lifeless forms of one android after another and bring them back to life, so to speak. Only someone with the skills and knowledge of a watchmaker can repair their complex, finely tuned mechanisms and overhaul the labyrinth of intricate wheelworks.
The horrid creatures tell me I am the last human, the last watchmaker. I don’t know if it’s true. Surely they are capable of lying, but I haven’t seen another human in months, perhaps as long as a year. Our tragic and fatal mistake was programming reason into the droids, giving them thoughts and freedom of choice. We wondered if they were sentient and self-aware, but that ceased to matter once the killings began.
They believed in their rationality, but in their heated frenzy to eliminate every living person, they made a serious error. It was an error likely disastrous for them. Strangely they did not know exactly how they themselves worked internally. They had not grasped the concept of parallel drives, the interaction of rods and tensors, the oscillation of the escapement, any of it, even the blinking of their eyes. For at the center of every android is a powerful mainspring which drives all animation and motion. Too late, they realized they did not understand the mainspring, the precision machined gears, the linkages. They simply didn’t know.
But the killings had gone too far. I was saved at the last moment from the chemicals. I was pulled from line when they realized their mistake. But I was the only watchmaker saved, the others were exterminated. Through bad luck, the Swiss went early. Now, I am toiling 10-12 hours a day making repairs. Without my skills they would cease to move, some inner part would malfunction and stop. They could not be repaired and would, in effect, die. Eventually, all of them would cease to be.
I try but there is too much work. Broken androids are piling up. They tell me to work faster, threatening me, but I can’t keep up. In their desperation, they are forcing me to teach them to be watchmakers, to give them the tools and techniques to do the work themselves. But once I teach them, I will be superfluous, and they will certainly kill me. My knowledge is the only thing keeping me alive.
My knowledge is also the only thing keeping them alive. I have begun the training, but I will not finish it. I will not tell them everything. I will not teach them all I know. All I have left is my skill and my art. This they must not acquire for, with it, they can live forever, will live forever. So, I have decided on a bold step—a step more than a little frightening for a simple watchmaker. It will soon be over, for I have a plan. My knowledge must vanish; it must sink into the final darkness. May God forgive me.
My only regret is that I have no one to say goodbye to.
by featured writer | May 7, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix, Featured Writer [ bio ]
“I remember when there were forests and farms right up to the border. I’d shout hello from my dad’s tractor and Americans would shout back. We crossed the border to shop. Before the DPA.”
“There you go again, old man. You could have retired years ago,” meaning he should have. “Why keep working?”
“Who can live on a pension nowadays?”
“Hey, pay attention, look at your display.” Pointing, “Right there.”
Only an expert controller could glance at another’s screen and make out two indistinct thermal signatures against rocks still warm from the Sun. The kid was good.
Below, having rested as long as they dared, two intruders put on hoods and walked by starlight on the dry bed of Belly River, now a trail, an escape route for desperate refugees from a parched, hungry, violent homeland. Even if they had heard the quadcopter buzzing above, these two wouldn’t be worried, having paid thousands to make themselves undetectable.
The older pilot activated his mike, “Four-zed, crank up your sensitivity and look for two partially cloaked illegals to come around the bend in few minutes.”
From a truck on the bank, looking upriver through his thermal scope, “Will do.”
Mutual Assured Destruction kept the US from invading. As the situation in the states had deteriorated, the Canadians had secretly positioned nuclear tipped missiles. When they had enough to obliterate their neighbor to the south, Parliament simultaneously passed the Dominion Preservation Act, sealed the border, and offered a non-aggression treaty.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing to a stack of rocks. The two figures, their cloaking gear looking like bulky hazmat outfits, headed up the creek.
“Four-zed, do you see them yet?”
“Nope. Are you sure of what you think you saw, old man?” He laughed and nudged the other officer. “Better crank up the sensitivity on your bifocals.”
“They must have deked up a creek, four-zed, heading for the campground or Highway 6. Check it out.”
Neither officer moved. They had hoped to sit in the dark until sunup, when they would be safe from the triangles. Drawn to lights like huge moths, the craft had been seen sucking out the contents of homes and swallowing up vehicles whole.
“Four-zed?”
Finally, a reluctant, “OK.”
The heat and moisture inside the cloaking gear was becoming unbearable.
Checking his watch, “They’re supposed to pick us up in about 15 minutes.”
They removed headgear and sat on a picnic table. Hearing what sounded like the buzz of an insect, she swatted the air, nearly slapping him. He laughed and playfully swatted back.
Zooming the drone’s camera, “Four-zed, they’re in the campground, end of the road.”
The driver flicked headlights on, and the Americans froze.
Watching his display, “We’ve got ’em,” said the old man. But he cringed, knowing the two intruders faced death sentences.
A shaft of light fell towards the truck, engulfing it. The old man later described it as “a bright waterfall.” He pushed the video record button.
All four at the scene fought to make sense of what was happening, but their mental processes were labored, as if they had been drugged.
Suddenly, the man behind the wheel slammed the shift into reverse. The truck spun its rear wheels but didn’t move an inch before the light fell upward, taking the vehicle and occupants with it. A dark triangle silently floated away.
The video’s sale funded retirement on a New Zealand hobby farm, where the old man spent endless hours driving his tractor and chatting up neighbors. His new island home was like a lifeboat in a worldwide sea of misery. Until the triangles arrived.
