by submission | Oct 14, 2009 | Story
Author : William Tracy
Philip had never been very interested in history.
If he had been, he might have known about the Fertile Crescent in the ancient Middle East. He might have known how, paradoxically, a barren desert became the birthplace of agriculture. In a parched land, those who control the water can control all things that grow. The ancient Egyptians and Mesopotamians built elaborate irrigation networks that supported crops on a scale previously unimagined.
That water could just as easily be cut off. A field overrun with weeds could be starved by shunting a channel a different way. The weeds dead, the field could be reseeded, and crops grown anew.
Then again, Philip had never been very interested in agriculture.
If he had been, he might have known that he was carrying on this ancient tradition himself. This time the fluid being controlled was not water, but air itself. There are many pests that can survive a long time without water, but there are few that can survive the combined assault of hard vacuum and strong ionizing radiation.
Philip had never been very interested in engineering, either.
If he had been, he might have known the hows and whys of the agricultural space station that he happened to work in. He might have known that this was one of the first orbital stations to abandon hydroponics and return to soil-based agriculture. The soil was composed of lunar regolith, painstakingly spun in a tumbler to smooth its sharp edges, phylosilicates extracted from asteroid mining byproducts, and a combination of organics carefully synthesized from chemicals or lifted from Earth by heavy rockets at great expense.
Philip was interested in none of these things. In fact, Philip was not interested in very much at all. He was not interested in the instructions he was following, or in the holographic control panel flickering in front of him, or in the cylindrical greenhouses spread out before his tiny control cabin.
He was not interested in the safety override code that he had to punch in, or in the bulkhead lockdown sequence that he had to execute, or in the warning he had to call out over the loudspeakers, or in the compartment identification code he had to enter.
He should have been interested in what happened next.
The terminating lock on greenhouse 42—not greenhouse 24—opened and vented into space. As the air eagerly escaped from its chamber, it liberated two hundred and fifty cubic meters of topsoil from the grip of the artificial gravity. It billowed and boiled madly, then leaped free to the final frontier.
Also freed from their constraints were thirteen thousand zucchini plants. The vines danced frenetically, losing and and then finding each other again. Exhilarated, they slipped the surly bonds of greenhouse 42. Free at last, they relaxed, and slowly shriveled as the vacuum lapped the water from their vascular tissue.
Also relaxed was Philip’s lower jaw. His eyes were round, as though they too were swelling in the vacuum. His hand twitched, suspended above the very button that had unleashed this spectacle in the first place.
Philip began to be interested in keeping his job.
by submission | Sep 22, 2009 | Story
Author : Peter Pincosy
Steel floats overhead, encased in concrete, wrapped in duct and wires, our own inorganic trees. Coughing bloat from the towers pushes out heat into the sky, lays labor on the air. In the cracks fly screaming machines their tops reflect varied colors. Shuttle to a corner, stop, take the light at speed, the rhythm falls in precision. A humble man stands in his booth, hands at his side. He smells the spring air and sighs at another day, his hands pass money along with speed. His booth consists of snacks, magazines, glossy simple somethings that provide little sustenance, an item to pick up on your way. Soft hours pass in which nothing happens, but the breathing air around him fills with objects, sounds and he tilts his eyes.
The ugly past arrives in recall. He murdered men. Some that look just like the ones that file past in suits. In dark alleys, he remembers their struggle. Easy with experience he finds the thought appealing now and then.
But his hands are tied by the monitor. Lashed around his neck, buried into his brain stem it reads his body, scrolling numbers, lines and lines of information. If he could remain perfectly calm and hallucinate a scene of pastoral making while committing the act, he could do it again. He wipes a sweaty palm on his shirt and reaches out to take a proffered dollar. One by one he pulls them in and each one represents a slim movement upward, a piece of food, when he used to just take what he wanted.
Now they watch him closely, and he’s allowed to operate, but at the first sign of disturbance, if someone wants to detain him, if he moves from a state of humility and gains ego or dreams of murder too intensely it all stops and he can feel himself looking out from a useless body that must be reset. A man in a mask comes along, pulls out a key, and inserts it into his neck. Searing pain overcomes everything and chemicals are forced into receptors, another hard reset. Afterwards, out of the dark, he arrives and starts again, and the memories, the passions, it all comes slower, the effect of the new start manifest in a decreased sense of self.
With a stiff one dollar bill he receives a note, written in a crooked hand, “Your monitor has been blocked, live out your instincts.” And adrenaline rushes through his body. He could do it right now perhaps. Reach over the counter and pull the old lady close to his face, spit and breath mingle with choking sounds as he rips the life from her. And as he imagines this he realizes that he wouldn’t have made it this far if the monitor weren’t blocked. How many could he manage to finish off? Maybe they’ll realize and he won’t get another chance. He sees a man standing next to a secluded opening. Quickly, he turns in the face of the puckered old lady who shakes her dollar at him insistently. He flies through the back door and as he approaches the man, his fingers already feel the life end under their pressure. The man looks directly into his eyes, unwavering, unafraid. One hand in his pocket, and it moves, only a step away, the world suddenly halts, functions shutting down in sequence.
On the ground, as his sense of scent closes off and only eyesight is left, a note flashes in front of his face. “Another step toward squashing your brain to mush. –Recidivists Eradication Project”
by Patricia Stewart | Sep 8, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Alpha Doore is a Mars size planet orbiting an orange-red main sequence dwarf star called BD+56 2966 in the Constellation Cassiopeia. The oxygen and water rich world had several large continents and a flourishing ecosystem. The exploration team was near the end of its six month long mission of categorizing the various indigenous life forms when Commander Komney authorized a two-man sojourn into the subterranean caverns, which had been classified “promising, but tertiary” by the Mission Assessment Team.
The following day, the two would-be spelunkers were a quarter of a mile into an immense corrasional cave when they encountered a herd of giant centipedes “grazing” on the chemoautotrophic moss growing on the damp cavern walls. The creatures were enormous by any standard. Their fifteen foot long segmented bodies were about eighteen inches in diameter; with a dozen horizontal leg-bearing segments trailing two vertical arm-bearing segments capped by a head section. The main body stood three feet above the ground on long but obviously sturdy limbs. The posterior leg pairs were slightly longer than those preceding it, giving the creature a pronounced trough between its “back” and the vertically oriented front end. The head contained two flexible eyestalks that were so high above the ground that the human explorers had to look up to make eye contact.
“Wow, look at the size of those guys,” exclaimed Doctor Zabell, the landing party’s Medicinal Chemist slash Structural Exobiologist (cross-disciplinarian specialization was commonplace on the mission, since crew members were selected using the standard “double-up model,” where each contributor was expected to wear multiple hats). In addition, Zabell fancied himself a zoologist, a botanist, an anatomist, and anything else that allowed him to pontificate ad nauseam. “Adam,” he whispered, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” replied Adam Ryder, the team’s Maintenance Engineer slash Galley Chef, who volunteered for this particular excursion because he needed a break from cleaning the anti-matter injectors, but mostly because be was bound and determined to find a viable supply of Agaricus bisporus for his famous Mushroom Bisque.
“Well,” continued the doctor slash lecturer, “I was thinking that they must be intelligent. Their heads are enormous, and if that’s where the brains are, then they must be twice the size of ours. And look at their four hands. They have opposable thumbs. These creatures are probably capable of delicate manipulation. I wouldn’t be surprised if they can make, and use, sophisticated tools. You weren’t thinking that?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I was also wondering what was driving their evolutionary process. For instance, are they this large because the gravity on Alpha Doore is only four tenths that of Earth? And listen to the rapid clicking noise. I think that they might be trying to communicate with us. And why are they traveling in herds? Earth arthropods don’t do that. I have a million questions. Aren’t you curious about any of that?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, Adam. So tell me, what is it that you’re thinking?”
“I’d rather not say, Doctor. I don’t think you’d consider it very professional.”
Dr. Zabell studied his companion for a moment. The young Maintenance Engineer was eying the nearest centipede with steely determination, his jaw tightening, his fingers flexing. “Dammit Adam, you want to try to ride one, don’t you?”
Slowly, the corners of Adam Ryder’s lips curled upward into a devilish grin.
by Collaboration | Aug 2, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer and J. S. Kachelries
Back in 2023, researchers at the Beijing Chemical Company (BCC) discovered a way to reverse the effects of global warming. It involved using a unique new molecule that converts carbon dioxide into atomic carbon and gaseous oxygen. The molecule is called phosphorousdimethylbenzaldpotassiumdicholoroethane, which was ultimately shortened to Carbon Deoxidizer. Carbon Deoxidizer is a catalyst that provides a specific surface geometry that facilitates the splitting of carbon dioxide molecules using ultraviolet light from the sun that has a characteristic wavelength of exactly 24.3 nanometers. This type of ultraviolet light is called “Extreme UV” and is only available in the mesosphere, which begins about 50 kilometers (160,000 ft) above sea level. Below this altitude, the ozone in the stratosphere blocks most of the UV photons, stopping the reaction.
Properly dispersed in the mesosphere, 1,000 pounds of Carbon Deoxidizer is enough to remove approximately two billion tons of carbon dioxide gas from the atmosphere before the Carbon Deoxidizer molecules are themselves destroyed by cosmic ray spallation. Consequently, a replenishing program was initiated to maintain an equilibrium amount of Carbon Deoxidizer in the mesosphere. Since the inception of the Deoxidization Program in 2028, thirty years ago, the average global temperature declined to pre-World War II levels. Now, however, there was a doomsayer beating his drum. Professor Herbert Brewstier was intent on halting the release of any additional Carbon Deoxidizer.
Professor Brewstier had been statistically monitoring the world’s annual rainfall and had concluded that it hadn’t changed in thirty years. Scientist had originally predicted that the millions of tons of newly formed carbon dust particles would be ideal nucleation sites for raindrops. Brewstier believed that since rainfall hadn’t increased, it meant that the carbon dust was not filtering down to the troposphere, but was accumulating in the mesosphere. Furthermore, his model predicted that the carbon dust was about to reach critical density, and would explode in the very near future, releasing 50 quadrillion kilogram-calories of energy, while simultaneously reforming 80 years of carbon dioxide gas.
During the United Nations hearings, Brewstier testified that if we didn’t do something immediately, we would die one of two ways. Instantaneously, if the carbon dust combusted simultaneously; or slowly, if it took weeks for the rarified oxygen in the mesosphere to be replenished. An explosion, or a smoldering fire; either way we would be dead. However, rebuttal testimony from “atmospheric experts” hired by BCC presented enough contradictory data to prevent the UN from acting. Instead, they voted to fund a five year program to study the potential effects to the environment, and to the global economy, if the Deoxidation Program was curtailed. Frustrated, Brewstier gave up and returned to his cabin in Montana to await the end.
Each night, Brewstier would sit on his deck and watch the sky for the first signs of the ignition. Finally, one December evening, he noticed a feint glow coming from the southern horizon. It became as bright as an aurora, but was in the wrong half of the sky. He sighed as he watched the reddish light gradually expanded northward, drowning out the fifth and sixth magnitude stars. The snow covered mountaintops turned a pale blood red as they reflected the light from the slow burning mesosphere. “Damn,” he whispered as he realized that it was not going to be a quick catastrophic end. Instead, it was going to be the slow, agonizing death. But not for me, he thought, as he cocked the 12 gauge shotgun that he’d been holding in his lap.
by submission | Jul 26, 2009 | Story
Author : Steven Holland
Their time was up – 100 years had past. Fourteen vitrified bodies began the slow warming process. The cryoprotectants that had saved their bodies from the ravages of water’s freezing expansion were slowly pumped out, replaced with fresh blood. The centennial slumber was over.
One week later the fourteen men met in a comfortable conference room. The men were all intelligent, ambitious, successful, and borderline insane. Most were hard working citizens by profession, but they were all compulsive gamblers by addiction.
It had begun the instant millionaire Peter Mortiarty, half eaten doughnut in hand while sitting in a cheap plastic chair at the Tuesday night meeting of the local chapter of Gambler’s Anonymous, had a sudden thought. He loved gambling. He was good at it, and he had made a fortune at it in the stock market. Mortiarty abruptly stood up and left the meeting – right in the middle of Donald’s sobbing confession of a brief, but torrid affair with a video poker machine in the back corner of a bar. Thirteen people, two months, and 86 million dollars later, Mortiarty set in motion the ultimate game of proposition gambling. Fourteen players would wager on the future 100 years from now – then freeze themselves to see the results. It was the ultimate gambler’s dream that was coming to fruition at this very moment.
Bill Kearney, the moderator who had been hired by Mortiarity’s trust fund, brought the meeting to order.
“Gentlemen, welcome to 2150 A.D. I trust your sleep was uneventful. If everyone is ready and remembers the rules, we will begin.”
Murmurs of agreement rose from the room. There had been extensive rule setting beforehand concerning allowable wagers, determination of odds, and undercutting.
“Every wager has been looked over by a panel of experts and the items have been selected in random order. Wager #1: Portugese will emerge as the new international language – No.”
Several of the men snickered and glanced over in the direction of Marvin Hasgrow, a Fortune 500 CEO. “What?” he exclaimed. “Davis gave 240 to 1 on that!”
A scoreboard kept a running total of each player’s score, changing after each wager was awarded. Davis moved up slightly to seize the early lead.
“Wager #2: The exact value of Pi will be determined – No.”
Joey Dollins, a mathematician, smirked smugly across the room at Hussein Powell, another mathematician.
The announcements continued; each one was met with mixtures of groans and cheers, laughter and tears, glaring and high-fiving. The wagers ranged from World War III to the price of pineapples, from intergalactic exploration and colonization to the number of Chicago Cub’s World Series victories. The drama continued well into the third day.
Throughout the entire process, each man exhibited a drunken giddiness that could only manifest in union with the satisfaction of a deep, powerful addiction. Experiencing this euphoric, exhilarating rush was the reason of their existence. Their hands were shaky and sweaty, pupils dilated, and breathing shallow – a feat only the purest of gambling could inspire in all fourteen of them at once.
In the end, James Griggs, a polymer chemist, emerged as the highest point winner and wore the ecstatic smile of a first grader after scoring his first soccer goal. Peter Mortiarty finished a disappointing third and sat slumped over, sulking.
The initial thrill already fading away, the fourteen now faced the task of reintegrating into society, seeing and learning how thing operated 100 years in the future. They had to learn fast. In one year’s time, they would all meet again for another round of wagers and another 100 years of slumber.
