by Roi R. Czechvala | Dec 24, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
Tesla shielding is a magnificent thing. Invented in the early Twentieth by the crackpot Serbian inventor Nicola Tesla, it absorbs tremendous amounts of energy harmlessly. A suit sized generator can withstand several plasma bursts or hundreds of micro meteor hits before the unit is overloaded. But they don’t do well against slow moving, low energy objects, such as an errant spanner, a lump of ore accidentally dislodged or … a bullet.
I was on an infrequent visit dirtside. I had only been back to Mars three times in twenty years. Twice for funerals. I don’t know why, I can’t raise the dead… too expensive.
This time was business. I had come in person to sign a contract with Belt Foundries Amalgamated for a massive find. I had to beat Dieter “Gritty” Schmidt to file my claim. The Sonuvabitch had been jumping me for the past ten years. I was damned if I’d let him get this one.
After filing, I wandered into an antique shop. Knives are handy when prospecting and I could always find a cheap supply at these old junk shops. I was sorting through a tray of rusty blades when an object on a nearby shelf caught my eye.
“What the hell is that,” I asked, stabbing a grimy finger at the thing. It was roughly shaped like a blaster, but looked metallic.
“This,” said the pawnbroker pulling the object out as if it were the Holy Grail itself, “is a .357 Colt Python. In the parlance of the time, a “GUN”.
I took the piece. It was damned heavy for a weapon. “Stainless steel,” he said, reading my mind.
“Where’s the power supply?”
“There isn’t one. It’s a chemical reaction weapon.”
“No Shit. So a personal T field…”
“Won’t even slow the projectile down.”
“How much,” I grinned.
I returned to my claim via a rather circuitous route. I came in out of Jupiter so the gas giant’s radiation would hide my ships signature. Sure enough, there was Gritty’s ship and there was Gritty nosing around my claim. I opened a broadband link.
“Hey asshole, what the hell are you doing poking’ around my ‘roid.”
“Hello Mike. Nothing wrong with checking out a lucrative prospect is there?”
“You know damn well it’s mine. I already filed. Look it up. It’s posted.”
“I was just being neighbourly. Just thought I’d stop by and see if you needed a hand.”
I popped out of the airlock and blasted his ship a couple of times with my plazer. That would get his attention.
“What, the hell…?”
Sure enough, he pulled his plazer and drew down on me. Just for fun, I popped his head with a quick burst. His T field held, but it sure pissed him off. He launched a string of profanities and let me have it several times with his own plazer, expectin’ me to turn tail for my ship. I stood my ground and pulled out my antique Python, levelling it at him.
“What the hell is your major malfunction boy?”
“Just this,” I said, and unloaded all six rounds into his suited figure. I watched the delicate ballet as his body spun, issuing a plume of scarlet from his breached suit. I watched his body became smaller and smaller as it drifted away from me. Then it hit me. In my haste for revenge, I hadn’t secured a tether.
A quick thought ran through my mind, “For every action…”
“SON OF A BITCH… If anybody ever hears this transmission, I have one thing to say. ‘NEWTON’S A DICK!’”
by submission | Dec 23, 2010 | Story
Author : Clint Wilson
They all swam around the giant vessel in wonder. If this worked their hive would easily become the most prominent of either the day or the night side. Their queen would be elevated to near godlike status, although it was Quetrum who had made it all happen.
He glowed proudly as he and several of the thinking council watched it inflate. Like all technology on their world, the vessel was organic and had been bred in a lineage of flying creatures able to go systematically higher and higher over generations. This one though, called Shaylala, was to be the first to actually leave the atmosphere. And because the original concept had been Quetrum’s he would of course be the first passenger.
The others wished him well as he swam toward the goliath where a porthole in the tough outer hide had suddenly opened. He swam inside and it immediately closed behind him. Then he was carried via a series of purposeful currents into the cockpit where an inner organ encased him in a protective cocoon.
Quetrum saw the others floating and waiting as Shaylala made transparent a small window of her skin so that he would be able to view all that took place. From this distance he could only imagine their wondrous looks as the vessel quickly inflated to more than a hundred times its resting size. Then the creature’s internal elemental factory began separating and expelling heavy gasses causing it to rise up and float away, a behemoth biological balloon.
Quetrum knew that reporter workers were already busy sending pulses via the great weed web to thousands of other hives around the globe. The bragging rights would be theirs and theirs alone.
He had flown before in Shaylala’s smaller ancestors, but never to these heights. Below he saw the expanding sea, and could still make out the many structures and tubes of his home hive below the waves. Then soon he saw the dark shapes of Brahier and Toksana Hives to the north and east. Never had he imagined that he would see all three hives of the state at the same time! But his excitement grew even more as the shore of the polar cap came into view and as the horizon began to curve until he could eventually almost see the entire dayside ocean. My, what would his grandqueen think if she were alive today? He couldn’t even imagine.
The inflated vessel was now stretched almost to full capacity as the stratosphere of the water planet thinned away to near nothingness. Quetrum braced himself, as he knew what was coming next. They required lateral movement in order for the experiment to be a complete success.
The creature’s elemental factory instantly released the chemical contents of one chamber into another and the jet plume was visible from the hives far below as Shaylala rocketed herself and her lone passenger into a single freefall orbit.
Quetrum took in the stars, clearer than he had ever seen them, and the beautiful jewel that was the planet below. As they crossed the nightside he wondered about all the dark dweller hives down there below the ice and imagined his distant cousins being terribly jealous of their accomplishment.
But alas, Shaylala had only enough fuel for one revolution so once back to the dayside they careened toward the home hive with massive skin parachutes slowing them all the way until finally they touched safely back down onto the waves near the swimming throngs of jubilant spectators.
Quetrum and Shaylala were the heroes; and for their people this was only the beginning.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Dec 14, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
He made his way down a battle torn street, his T field absorbed multiple plasma blasts harmlessly while the chemical reaction ammunition bounced impotently off his reactive armour. Though better armed than the rebellious colonists, he did not raise a weapon against them. He had a larger goal in mind. He was a man on a mission.
Rounding what remained of one of the pre-fab houses, he walked directly into an ambush. “Oh Shit,” was all he managed to get out before a shoulder fired rocket screeched from its launch tube. He turned and let his back absorb the blast. Even as the fireball swallowed him, he turned towards his attacker. “Sword,” he yelled. At his command a searing blast of white plasma sheathed his right arm and enveloped the rebel, immolating him where he stood.
“Dumbass.”
He continued on. His destination of utmost importance. He didn’t have long. He had first noticed the symptoms only an hour before. It had started with a slight discomfort, but was becoming worse. Incapacitating abdominal cramps were not far off.
He subvoked the com menu on his visor and pulled up the base comlink. “White One Bravo. This is White One Victor, over.” Static was all that greeted him in response. “Damn it. They whacked the relays in this sector.” His breathing was becoming laboured. The pressure in his stomach was beginning to build. The painful cramps, the beginning of an unpleasant end, were closer than he had expected. He had to hurry.
“I’ve got to get out of this armour.” Sweat was running freely downs his face and back despite the armours environment comfort level set to Earth Standard temperate. Again he jacked into the base comlink freq, “White One Victor to Vostok Base. If anyone is monitoring this frequency, I need a medevac on these coordinates immediately.” He shot his location along with the message, knowing that the cobalt60 blue sky would never allow his transmission to reach its destination. Soon it would be all over. The sardonic grin that had been plastered across his face only minutes before had been replaced with a gruesome rictus.
Time was growing short. He clutched vainly at the interlocking plates of armour that covered his torso. He stumbled and fell against a wall. He clutched the corner of a tumble down house. Looking up, a welcoming sight met his eyes. He could scarcely believe it. He shook the sweat from his eyes. The image remained fixed before him. A fuelling station. Battered by plasma bursts to be sure, but the structure stood. He prayed it held what he sought.
The building was small, not that it mattered. He quickly found the door he sought. “Locked. Damnit.” The keypad beside the handle of the sturdy steel door had been destroyed. He saw that it could also be accessed by a key. Antiquated, but not unusual in these far flung outposts. He made his way around to the buildings front office. His spirits fell as he saw that it had been ransacked. He fell to the floor scrabbling amidst the rubble.
He found the key surprisingly quickly. It hadn’t been overlooked in the previous search, it had been deliberately left. For some unimaginable reason it had been affixed by a length of nearly indestructible molecular cord to a large piece of scrap metal. Lugging it back to the door, he unlocked it and fell to the grimy floor of the cramped cubicle. He didn’t care.
He quickly stripped himself of his armour and with a relieved sigh, sat, as the door marked “MEN” swung shut.
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by Duncan Shields | Dec 3, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Trees lay flat behind the ship where it had crashed to the ground in the forest. Its silver shell winked in the sunlight, shuddering occasionally as whatever machinery inside of it quaked to a wounded stop. The hunter had seen nothing like it, not even on the newsfeeds. Maybe a new kind of experimental ship that had crash landed.
Setting his jaw firmly and readjusting the grip on his gun, he stepped forward towards the silent craft. The violence of the craft’s crash landing had ended. Squirrels resumed foraging, deer resumed grazing, and birds began their songs anew. The ship’s hull ticked as it cooled. The film of frost that had formed on it started to melt in the sun.
Through the largest crack in the dripping hull, the hunter could hear movement. A whispering shuffle that ended with a clank. The hunter knew the sound of a wounded animal when he heard it. He advanced to the crack with his gun ready. The alien inside the craft was probably close to death or stunned. The hunter walked slowly and softly towards the crack and peered into the gloom.
A silver whip of corded metal shot out from the crack and skated across the hunter’s cheek, laying it open. The hunter’s hands tensed in surprise and he emptied both barrels of the shotgun. A shower of sparks from buckshot ricochets lit up the interior for a second and the hunter clearly saw the alien life form.
It was like a metal octopus with many more tentacles. The tip of each tentacle ended in a specialized tip. The hunter had shot directly into its center of mass. The creature thrashed and lay still. It was a lucky shot. If the creature had integral organs there, it was almost certainly dead.
The hunter’s cheek buzzed. His right eye closed. He dropped his weapon. There was something in the cut on his face. He felt his heart race and a fever take over his body. He fell to his knees and the sun seemed to get brighter. His breathing came hot and fast. He passed out.
When he awoke, he felt refreshed. He brought his hand up to his cheek to find it healed. He felt the ridge of a scar. Judging by the position of the sun, it looked like about an hour had passed. He stood up, picked up his gun and went back to his cabin. In the morning, he’d go into town and report what he had found. Right now, though, he was exhausted and thirsty.
It didn’t occur to him until he got back to his cabin that he knew exactly how to build a metal octopus and spaceship. Chemistry beyond his education unspooled in his mind. Mechanical processes popped through his mind. He’d need to invent the tools needed to create the compounds necessary to make the chemical chain reactions that would result in the hardest bonds in the new metal. There were no names for what he was thinking about, just clarity and pictures. The memories of the alien life form were there as well. He couldn’t access them but he knew they were there in a corner of his mind, waiting for download into the shell he now had the ability to create.
It would take six years and it would make him rich if he kept the goal of his projects secret. The patents would change the history of Earth.
The hunter looked at the mirror in the cabin’s bathroom as he prepared for bed. The scar on his cheek was silver.
by submission | Nov 13, 2010 | Story
Author : Jacqueline Rochow
Jones surveyed the carnage. Under the blood splatters lacing the bed and carpet, the young woman’s limbs were splayed at unnatural angles, her head twisted nearly backwards and her throat crushed. Bites had been taken out of her collarbone, and the bruising suggested that one of her breasts had been crushed rather severely while she was still alive. Her ribs were caved in on one side.
“The victim?” Jones asked.
“In the bathroom.”
Jones skirted around the supervising officer with a quick flash of his badge and found the boy crouches on the floor, eyes red, deep scratches up his arms. Whether the girl or he himself had made them, Jones wasn’t sure. He looked about nineteen.
“Peter?” Jones said softly. “I’m Tim Jones.”
“Are you here to arrest me?”
“No.” Jones crouched on the floor next to him. “I’m here to talk to you. What happened?”
“I met her at a party. Amy. We were drinking and having fun, and…” he started to sob.
“It’s ok, Peter. Was this party last night?”
The boy nodded. Jones handed him some toilet paper to blow his nose.
“Then what happened?”
“I walked her home. We got back here, and… and she invited me into her room, but… but I changed my mind.”
“And then?”
“And then I don’t know what happened.” Peter’s sobs became louder and turned into wails. Jones put an arm around his shoulders and waited patiently for him to calm down again.
“It’s ok if you don’t remember the details. Just tell me everything she did, ok? You came in the front door. Did she lead, or did you?”
“Sh… she did.”
“And then?”
“She asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. I said yes. She put the kettle on.”
“Good… what next?”
“She took my hands and led me into her room. Started taking her shirt off. We kissed a bit.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “She put her hand down my pants, and then I said I wanted to slow down. She took her bra off, and then she put some perfume on.”
“Perfume?”
“Yeah. And then…” Peter swallowed and shook his head. Subconsciously, Jones brushed the deep scars on his own arm where the leather restraints had bitten into his flesh all those years ago. Becoming a counsellor for Pherax victims required being exposed to it. He’d never forget that hunger and desperation as he fought to cross the room to the female officer on the other side… health, his own arms, the fact that she would shoot him in the head if he actually succeeded in breaking free and running for her, had all been irrelevant at that moment.
“Where did she put the bottle of perfume?”
“Uh… her dresser. Second drawer, I think.”
Jones stuck his head around the bathroom door and attracted the attention of a police officer. “Pherax, second drawer of the dresser. Get a hazmat team on it. Don’t let anyone else touch it or we risk having a violent orgy on our hands.” He went back to Peter. “Peter, listen to me. This isn’t your fault. That perfume is a special chemical, it changes the way you think. It makes men want to have sex with her, and for some men, it makes them violent. What happened… that wasn’t you. That wasn’t something you could control.”
Peter nodded, but Jones could see the memories of violently tearing apart and raping a woman reflected in the boy’s eyes, and he knew that Peter didn’t believe him for a moment.
