by submission | Sep 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Jacqueline Rochow
Private Collins remained at attention as the guard ran the scanner over him. Satisfied that he carried no electronic devices, the guard left him alone with Sergeant Peters.
“At ease, private. Take a seat, will you?”
Nervously, Collins did as he was told. “Sir?”
“You’re here because you ticked certain consent boxes when you joined us seven years ago. Particularly, an automatic consent to top secret missions. I’m a fair man, private, and I know a lot can change in seven years, so I’m going to give you the chance to walk out of this room now. If you don’t, the only way you’re leaving is in the cockpit of a one-man craft with some top secret orders. Understand?”
“Y… yes. “
Peters stared idly at his fingers for several seconds, then looked up to see that Collins was still there. “Good man. Tell me, have you ever heard of Taxcelon?”
Collins racked his memory. “Weren’t there old folk tales about… some hugely powerful immortal entity? Destroyed whole planets before just disappearing one day? That was –”
“A long time ago, yes. The official story was mysterious disappearance; in actuality, we caught it.”
“How?”
“Tricked it. Some genius engineers rigged up a device that imprisons it inside a material body. Such a form severely limited its abilities. It was only as smart as the brain it was inside, couldn’t do much beyond move material objects. No idea how the thing works, but that doesn’t matter; the important thing is, what the hell could be done with it then? Killing its host would cause it to automatically take another, and we were worried that over time it would figure out how to control that. An enemy with no mercy, a huge grudge and the ability to possess anyone? Not a good thing. A prison doesn’t work as a prison if the inmate can suddenly become one of the guards, does it?”
“So… what happened?”
“We built a guardless prison from scratch. A shell, if you will.” Peters slid a small star map across the table. “You know how the entire Alpha Centauri area has been a no fly zone for as long as anyone can remember?”
“Yes…”
“That’s because of this nearby star, here. We picked a planet and seeded the entire thing with single-celled life, left the entity’s poor host there and took off.”
“Oh! So if it dies –”
“Taxcelon reincarnates into bacteria indefinitely. That was the plan. The no-fly zone is to avoid the remote possibility of it hitching a lift off the planet, but in bacteria it shouldn’t be able to remember what it is or think at all anyway.”
“And there’s a problem?”
“The thing about life is that it doesn’t stay the same for long. That planet, see, now has intelligent life. Smart enough that, assuming Taxcelon is inside one of ‘em, it should be able to remember some stuff, possibly even work a little of its old power. And that species is inventing space travel.”
“So you want me to kill them.”
“From a distance. Make sure you get everything intelligent but leave some bacteria or something, enough to ensure that life will continue. Mission details are in your ship. Get going.”
“Yes sir.” Collins’ salute and stride were purposeful. He had a very important mission.
Once he was alone, Peters remotely checked the condition of the explosive charges hidden in Collins’ ship. It was a pity about the kid, but they couldn’t risk him bringing Taxcelon back by accident.
“That’ll buy us a few billion more years,” he muttered to himself.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Sep 10, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Trust me,” he said.
“Trust me.” How many times had I heard those words before, only to be followed by some horrendous disaster?
From up here, I can just make out the red smear that used to be Dave. Who’s going to tell his wife? I’m sure as hell not.
It was two weeks ago today when Dave told me he had a birthday surprise and as his best friend I had to be there. “Trust me, it’ll be great.” In the army whenever he uttered those words, they were usually preceded by beer and generally ended in tears. I seem to recall a great deal of blood as well.
“Okay, what’s the surprise,” I asked, already in a pre-emptive cringe awaiting the answer.
“We’re going skydiving.”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t breath. I was ready for a shock, but not this.
“What?” I had to be sure I had heard what I thought I heard.
“Skydiving man. I’ve got it all set.”
“Hey Dave,” I said quietly, somewhat fearful of the deranged gleam in his eyes, “um…, we were in the 82nd, remember? We have our wings. We ARE airborne.”
“Yeah, but this is going to be different.” The gleam in his eye was a blaze now. “Meet me at Love Field, 0700, two weeks from today. You’re gonna love this, trust me.” He left me with those words echoing in my ears.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012, 0630. It’s Dave’s birthday and I was at the airport. An ancient panel truck slammed to a stop beside me. Before I could move, Dave was out of the cab and heading to the back of the truck. “Hey give me a hand will ya?”
Inside the truck, he was manhandling what looked to be two fibreglass triangles painted a brilliant black and gold. Army Colours. “What are those,” I asked, knowing full well I would not like the answer.
“Wings,” he replied.
“Shit,” I thought, as we loaded the wings onto a DeHaviland Dash 8. As the plane roared to life, I asked him what this was all about.
“Remember a few years back when that Swiss guy flew across the English Channel?”
“Yeah,” I said, with not a little trepidation.
“Well, I got to thinking…”
Shit. This was not going to be good.
“…with my engineering background I can do that too.”
“I see you made two.”
“Couldn’t leave my old battle buddy dirt side could I?”
“Hey, did it ever dawn on you that you are a civil engineer?”
“Six of one…”
He spent the next ten minutes explaining the controls. “The steering is similar to your hang glider; the throttle is in your right hand the ignition in your left. To climb, push yourself back and hit the throttle, to dive just do the opposite. Give a five count after you bail to hit the ignition. The rear hatch of the plane lowered and talk became almost impossible.
“Ready?”
“I just shit my pants,” I replied.
“It’ll be fun,” he said smiling. “Trust me.” With that he flung himself from the rear of the plane and dropped. I watched in horror as he fell, until four flames, two from each side, shot from beneath each wing.
I watched in awe as he soared off. Then I launched myself from the door. During freefall, I watched him nose straight down. “Show off,” I thought as I hit the ignition. Nothing happened. A thrill of terror swept through me scant seconds before the jets kicked in. As I zoomed away, I wondered what Dave was still doing in that dive. I didn’t wonder much longer as I lost power.
“It’ll be fun,” he had said.
“Trust me.”
by Patricia Stewart | Sep 9, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
After unimaginable losses, The Earth Alliance was still unable to breach the Draconian military installation on Hydrae II. The fortress sat safely within a walled city that was protected by sixteen electrostatic cannons strategically placed around the perimeter. When fired, the cannons projected an attenuated subspace energy wave that caused the electrical bonds between atoms to vibrate out of control; similar in some respects to the way microwaves cause water molecules to vibrate in order to produce heat. When the spectrographic sensors identified the target material, the electrostatic cannons fired a specific frequency wave to break the appropriated atomic bonds, i.e., either metallic, covalent, or ionic, depending on whether the material was a metal, polymer, or ceramic. Once the bonds were broken, the object harmlessly disintegrates into its constituent atoms. Any atoms that might be intrinsically harmful, such as radioactive ones like uranium and plutonium, were repelled by the nucleonic deflector shield. Conventional military tactics appeared useless against the Draconian defenses.
After months of brainstorming, a young chemist proposed an unorthodox solution. Although few senior scientists thought the plan would work, it was eventually approved; mostly because nobody could come up with anything better.
A few weeks later, a 250,000 ton computer controlled space freighter was brought into geosynchronous orbit above the Draconian installation. As dawn approached, the on-board computer fired its massive thrusters to begin the deorbiting sequence. The new flight path caused the ship to drop vertically downward toward the military installation. When the freighter passed the Kármán line, the Draconian spectrographic sensors detected the exterior PICA shielding of the spaceship and the electrostatic cannons began to fire. As the covalent bonds were destroyed, the phenolic impregnated carbon layer instantly spalled away. The spectrograph and cannons continued to rapidly detect, and subsequently attack, the successive layers of the ship. Seconds later, the titanium support structure disintegrated. Then the silicon and oxygen atoms were ripped from the fiberglass insulation. The interior sub-structure, including the aluminum bulkheads, copper wires, steel nuts and bolts, etc., progressively disappeared as their metallic cohesion was lost. Eventually, the cannons reached the cargo holds. Wooden crates filled with solid potassium, coal, and sulfur were all vaporized in quick succession. Finally, the oxygen and hydrogen fuel tanks, the nitrogen purge tanks, a briquette of metallic sodium, and the steel engines were all atomized. In less than a minute, the ship was gone, and the sixteen electrostatic cannons powered down. The Draconians cheered, and mocked the Earthlings once again for their continued impotence.
But slowly, the original momentum of the plummeting ship continued to carry the cloud of dispersing atoms ever downward toward the Draconian fortress. The atomic gasses rolled into the city and through the streets. Finally, when the sodium atoms contacted the morning dew they started an exothermal reaction that caused the oxygenated atmosphere to spontaneously react with the thousands of tons of carbon, potassium, and sulfur that had once been inside the cargo hold. In a tumultuous fireball that could be seen from space, the payload exploded with the force of a nuclear bomb. The churning mushroom cloud turned itself inside out as it swirled upward from the leveled city. This time, there were no Draconians to mock the Earthmen.
by submission | Sep 8, 2010 | Story
Author : Geoff Revere
“I’m resigning. That’s it. I’m done!” Doctor Holmes spouted, pacing back and forth before the commandant’s desk, his hands shaking. “The boy was eighteen Michael, eighteen!”
“You’re referring to Private Loman?” the commandant asked.
“You know damn well who I’m referring to!” Holmes spat, clearly forgetting to whom he was speaking. “How could you let this happen? There were supposed to be rules, protocols! This is unacceptable!” With a gentle hum, automated climate controls lowered the temperature and humidity in the room, doing nothing to cool the doctor’s temper.
“Unacceptable? The boy understood the risk. He knew about the food shortage experiment before he allowed himself to be plugged into the Hive. Can we be blamed if it was him the collective chose to sacrifice?”
“Sacrifice? You call what they did to him sacrifice?”
“THEY didn’t do anything to him. The Hive is one mind. Every action and decision is checked and approved by the collective. In a very real sense, Loman chose this for himself, for the good of the Hive.”
“I refuse to believe that. He could never have chosen this. Did you read his file? Did you even talk to the boy before you plugged him in? He was the only candidate, the only person who ever really wanted to be part of the Hive. He actually thought the collective consciousness was a desirable way to live. No arguments. No conflict. I tried to explain the uncertainties, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care that we’ve never proven if the Hive makes decisions based on unanimity or majority rule!”
The commandant eyed Holmes coldly. That was the crux of his argument, then. Was the boy for or against the decision to sacrifice members of the Hive? True, they couldn’t prove how the hive mind really worked. The technology had been stumbled upon by a start-up networking company and quickly snatched by the government. It was just as likely the boy had been murdered as he had been a willing volunteer.
“Say something,” Holmes demanded.
The man behind the desk sneered. “The Hive is the future of the military. They work as one, coordinating effortlessly. Exacting. Efficient. Sacrificing a soldier was the best choice, strategically, in that situation. The only question was whether the Hive would do what was moral or what was best. Now we know.”
The commandant hadn’t addressed the chief concern. Seconds ticked by. The climate controls lowered the temperature another few degrees. Realizing he would never get the concession he wanted, the doctor finally sat down.
“They didn’t just let the boy starve, you know,” Holmes sighed, his head in his hands.
“Your resignation is noted in my logs.”
“They could have at least shot him. But I suppose that would have been a waste of ammunition, right?”
“You understand you can never talk to anyone about this project. To do so would be to forfeit your freedom, as per your contract.”
“Did you know what they would do? Did any of the other behavioral specialists predict this outcome?”
“I expect your office to cleared by the end of the day. You’ll receive reassignment orders in a few weeks. You’re dismissed.”
Holmes looked up into the commandant’s eyes, half expecting some show of pity or remorse. He was met instead by the harsh blackness of years of military service. Exacting. Efficient. He would find no sympathy here. At last the doctor stood to leave.
“They ate him, Michael. They fucking ate him. And when it gets out, it’ll be on your head, not mine.”
by Duncan Shields | Sep 7, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Here’s one example of how the aliens failed to understand humans.
We’d become part of the galactic alliance and were paired up with a species roughly analogous to our own. They were bipedal, around the same level of technological advancement, warlike but aware of the value of peace, and breathed our type of air. It was a cultural exchange. Civilians that volunteered were screened and cleared to accept an alien guest in their homes.
The military doesn’t ask for volunteers. We were assigned.
I was an air force pilot. Jackson Chalmers. My nickname was Frosted Tips or Frosty for short. I was from California and I had blond highlights in my hair when I joined the force. The other pilots thought the blond streaks were hilarious and while the frosted tips were gone in days, the nickname stuck. I carried a postcard around with me from my ex-wife for luck. The postcard reminded me that I had nothing to lose anymore and could fully give myself over to aerial engagements without fear of death.
I explained to the alien assigned to me that pilots were usually given nicknames and carried lucky charms to help them. I told him that the names helped camaraderie and that the charms gave us hope or focus during battle. Bonds and superstition can win a war, I told him. The alien was silent, thanked me, and returned to his base.
He came bounding back to me like an excited pet six hours later and told me that his nickname was Generator Flowerpot Tropical Premium and he showed me the fork that he’d taken from the mess hall and told me that it was his lucky charm.
I thought it was hilarious. I laughed and laughed. Sweating and clicking like they aliens did when they were happy, he went back to his barracks to tell his fellow soldiers.
Now all the aliens have four-word random nicknames and carry whatever they saw first as a lucky charm. They don’t truly understand sentimental value. I’ve seen socks, bootlaces, chalk, gravel, and on one occasion, cheese.
Even when I tried to explain to him that he’d got it wrong, he didn’t care. He said it was helping a great deal.
So now I’m flying a four-seater with my friend Generator Flowerpot Tropical Premium and his two friends Ticket Lamp Helmet Cooler and Batwing Christmas Cartridge Storm. Hanging around Ticket Lamp’s neck is a flattened coke can and Cartridge Storm is carrying a rubber wedge in his pocket. Generator Flowerpot’s fork is bent around his wrist like a bracelet.
I have to admit it. It worked. They didn’t get it wrong at all. I like them more and it’s helped us become a team. I’ll fight to the death to protect them.
Also, I don’t carry the postcard anymore. I carry a paperclip now. It was the first thing I saw on the desk beside the waste paper basket when I threw out the postcard. It feels way better.
