by Duncan Shields | Jul 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The priest wheezed on the other side of the confessional screen. It wasn’t uncommon. Cryogenia malathusmia. Freezer lung, we called it. Or the holy cough. Most people that traveled by cryo in the sleepships ended up with it. That meant that the priests had it.
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been six weeks since my last confession.” I started. I heard the priest let out a rattling sigh and shift position.
The priests believed that transporters stripped a person of their soul. When a body is transported, it is completely destroyed and then reassembled on the other end. Technically, you die. All holy men only traveled by cryoship. Popesicles, my dad called them.
“Twice I disobeyed my father this week and willfully looked the elder settler statues in the eye in the town’s main square. I have had wanton thoughts about two of the miners that came here for work. I was approached by the whorehouse manager and turned him down. He said he’d ask again on my fifteenth birthday. I was scared but also excited.”
I’ve never been anywhere except here. Newgodsville, Tantalina, Zeta-2KB7. A rock big enough for one town, my daddy used to say. Before he was killed in an evac when I was 8.
The priests wouldn’t hear the confessions of workers that were brought here by transporter which meant he didn’t hear a lot of people. We were far away from most systems but rich in tungsten ore. Mostly ‘porters with a few dollars to stake a claim came here, not sleepers. I’d heard that to get here, he’d been on one ship for nearly fifty years, sleeping in the cold. And I’d heard that this was his fifth posting. I’m not good at math but that meant he might be two hundred and fifty years old.
I found him handsome. That should have been part of my confession but I couldn’t ever tell him. That’s why I kept doing bad things so that I’d have to confess.
“I took the lord’s name in vain twice down by the river when I lost the washing. And I stole a toffee stick from the general store on my way here.”
Mustering up my courage, I stuck the toffee stick out and around the divider into his booth. After what seemed like half an hour, he took it. I heard him laugh on the other side of the screen and I heard him sigh as he put the toffee into his mouth.
“Thank you my child.” He said. “Say three hail marys and come back to see me whenever you want.”
Smiling, I pushed my curtain back and left the booth. I stepped into the green twilight of our never-dark night, Tantalina’s rings sweeping across the sky.
I skipped home.
by submission | Jul 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Aldous Mercer
Septu’s core-temperature rises as soon as he steps out of the wind. But he keeps his eyes to the ground. The trembling of his father’s hand has nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with gathering other Master-Miners every sevenday.
“Greet the Heptarch, child,” says the Priest behind them. His father’s fingers tighten around Septu’s for a moment. But then he lets go and Septu walks forward till a pedestal, waist-high, enters his field of vision.
DORSALIS PEDIS; POSTERIOR TIBIAL
His first glimpse of the Heptarch is of the Heptarch’s feet: bare and dusty, they don’t look any different from miner-feet. But higher up, molded perfectly to the shape of the Heptarch’s ankles, are two metallic cuffs. Pyramidal extrusions of copper rise from their surfaces to form a miniature stalactite-forest of copper spikes. Septu is so absorbed in counting spikes that the Priest has to prod his shoulder till Septu leans forward, kisses the Heptarch’s feet and darts back.
“Your son will make a fine Priest.” The Heptarch’s voice is strong, like Septu’s father’s.
“Wh…what?”
“You didn’t think we came all this way to quell a rebellion, did you?”
Septu’s father is silent.
ULNAR; RADIAL
Septu travels in the Heptarch’s own chariot. The jolting motion has upset his balance often enough that the Heptarch’s hand now rests permanently on Septu’s shoulder. Sometimes the bumps make the Heptarch’s wrist-cuffs dig into Septu’s skin. One such bump draws blood. The Heptarch hisses and removes his hand. Septu, who has been absorbed in twists of the ore-road, looks down at the single drop of blood blossoming on his shoulder.
“Blood,” says Septu, “carries the heat-beneath-skin…”
“…from extremity to center, and back again,” finishes the Heptarch. “I am surprised you memorized such an obscure syllogism.”
Septu knows others. “The heat-over-head begins at–”
“Not now,” says the Heptarch. “Concentrate on balance.”
Septu returns to watching the road that carries ore from the mines to Church, and copper back out again.
FEMORAL; BRANCHIAL
The suns rise, limiting Septu’s ability to radiate heat. The chariots rumble to a stop, and Septu wonders how they will survive outside the dark of the mine-caves. Then a Priest takes him aside and drenches his body with a bucketful of glasslike green unguent. Septu feels the heat within him recede; he feels like running and jumping, without worry that it will raise his temperature, that he will collapse gasping to the ground.
“Temporary,” says the Priest, whose loins and upper-arms are girded with copper spikes.
Septu has to be drenched with unguent–gel–three more times till they reach Church.
CAROTID
The Heptarch takes gel-covered Septu to a table with small pieces of copper-spiked jewelry on it. Septu cannot help but stare at the glittering green-and-copper web of a tiny neckplate—too small for a Priest.
“Septu,” says the Heptarch, “do you know what the Heptarch does?”
“He drains the heat-within, and the heat-without.”
“So today the son of a rebel becomes Septarch. Do you understand?”
Septu shakes his head.
“You will, eventually.”
EXTERNAL MAXILLARY; SUPERFICIAL TEMPORAL
The Heptarch places a knuckle under Septu’s chin and draws his face upwards; Septu sees the Heptarch’s face for the first time. He is younger than Septu’s father, his head framed with the green-and-copper spikes of the Heptarchy’s crown.
“Pulse Points gather the heat-under-skin.” Septu remembers all syllogisms he has ever heard.
“Yes,” says the Heptarch. Then he reaches over, and picks up a tiny crown from the table. Septu stands still, not daring to breathe.
The Heptarch grins down at him. “This,” he says, “is called a Heat Sink.”
by submission | Jul 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
My people called me a fool.
They said it was impossible to leave the surface. That was why no beasts flew through the air. It mattered not if I could imagine a machine that could. My people offered me hollow aphorisms; what goes up must come down.
My people called me a madman.
They said we had degenerated. That was why we could not walk beyond the sky. It mattered not if I could somehow free myself of the surface. My people declared we had become unlike Our Ancestors, and could not survive where They had once tread.
My people called me a heretic.
They said my endeavors were hubris. That was why we did not know how Our Ancestors came here. It mattered not if I could survive Their realm. My people believed attempting to exist as They once did was the worst blasphemy.
I defied my people.
For decades I toiled. I spurned friends and relations as my creation grew with my hopes. I would leave the surface and find the realm of Our Ancestors.
I called my machine a “rocket.”
No one came to witness my launch. My people did not care to watch an old man burn himself on history’s most extravagant funeral pyre. Such was their conviction.
Yet it worked.
I left the ground at an amazing speed, tearing apart the clouds as the glass bubble of my cockpit shot through them up into the sky. The blue faded slowly to black as I gained altitude.
And then, failure.
The last dregs of fuel erupted behind me, shattering my creation and sending me hurtling up and out away from it. I entered free-fall in nothing but my clothes. My canvas parachutes would never debut.
I never cared. As I tumbled through space, I knew I had not reached Th’erth, the realm of Our Ancestors. But They rewarded me in my final moments. I saw beauty in the curve of the world stretched out below me. I heard God in the dead silence of the black beyond. I felt my soul escape in my breath as vacuum tugged at it.
I died in rapture.
by submission | Jul 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The Shallivak landing craft detached itself from its mothership and began its descent into Earth’s atmosphere. Turrox, Subjugator of the Jor’demm Empire, Conqueror of the Rinnt Confederation, Destroyer of the Hegemony of the Hyojexxi Star System, Absolute Monarch of the Shallivak, and owner of a dozen other titles watched the Earth through the windows of the vessel.
“This world will be the crown jewel of the Shallivak Imperium,” said Turrox to no one in particular.
“It is a great prize,” noted Turrox’s chief military adviser, Forlen.
“Forlen,” said Turrox turning to his companion, a veteran of a score of successful campaigns and conquests, “I’m going to handle these humans as I did the Waroon Dynasty on Dremla VII.”
“Ah,” replied Forlen. “I remember it well, Majesty. Under the pretense of establishing a trade agreement, you met publicly with the Supreme Dynast. And then, with your legendary speed and agility, you slew him before his horrified subjects. The Waroon put up almost no resistance to our forces after witnessing Your Majesty’s unanswerable fierceness.”
“And so it will be with these primitive Earthers,” said Turrox.
The vehicle made its approach to the designated landing site, a place the humans called Edwards Air Force Base. Turrox, Forlen, and several other Shallivak donned their encounter suits, entered the ship’s airlock, and waited. At last, the outer hatch opened and a motorized gangway extended itself. Two guards descended and took their positions on either side of the ramp. When they saw the human delegation in the distance, the guards exchanged concerned glances. A few moments later, Turrox and Forlen walked down the ramp. Forlen gasped.
Finally, the Shallivak monarch and his entourage stood before the humans. Or, rather, they stood beneath them. Turrox looked up at the American diplomat who rose over him like a skyscraper. The tallest Shallivak who ever lived might have stood even with the top of the Earth creature’s shoes. Forlen looked back anxiously at the landing craft, fearful that one of the humans might pick it up and walk off with it.
Turrox, Victor of the Battle of Vendicor Prime, Subduer of the Chelminar Alliance, Vanquisher of the Pudraki Dominion, said to the towering Earthling with a meek and nervous voice, “Would a five percent customs duty on imports be acceptable?”
by submission | Jul 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Darrin Drader
I remember giving her one last kiss as I prepared to step into the elevator that led to the nine-stage rocket.
“Please, don’t do this,” she said. “I love you.”
I remembered laying out in the lawn looking up into the stars of the night sky as a child. I had grown up on a farm, away from the light of the cities. I could see the clusters of stars, and I had always felt drawn to them. So many times I had put myself at this moment in time, getting ready to launch.
“This is what I was born to do,” I said simply. And with that, I had turned and left her, and the planet, forever.
I’d signed up for exploration, but that was before we learned of the others. When their signals reached us, it became clear that they were jealous, petty, greedy, and worst of all, warlike. The idea of welcoming them into galactic society was repugnant. They exploited everything they touched, including each other.
The first five stages of the rocket propelled it out of the atmosphere. Once in space, the next three had sent it moving ever faster toward the edge of the solar system at relativistic speeds. This portion of the journey lasted the longest, and it was the loneliest. I couldn’t help but question whether I’d made the right decision to volunteer to die.
“They’re getting close,” the General had told me. “Despite social, religious, and political forces working against them, they’ve finally unlocked all of the science. It won’t be long now… It’s a hell of a thing to volunteer for, but we’ll remember you. I promise.”
Three weeks of remembering her, our love, and our life that would never be. Three weeks, cut off from the planet because they’d said it would be easiest for everyone if the only communication was an automated confirmation of success or failure.
The faster than light engines had kicked in once the ship had made it far enough away from any of the planets to cause damage to them. This portion of the journey lasted only minutes. Entire solar systems sailed by in the blink of an eye.
They could have sent an unmanned missile to do the job; however, such missiles weren’t able to guide the warhead in manually if the enemy managed to hack the main computer; and this species was far too dangerous to allow even a chance of survival. Given that communication moved at the speed of light, and the kill order was given decades ahead of when this species would likely achieve faster than light travel, it was entirely possible that they were already building their ships. Once our existence had been detected, it would be all over.
The engine cut out inside the orbit of the single moon. The enemy had referred to it as “Earth.” However, what awaited me was not what I expected. Instead of blue oceans and green continents, I saw only brown craters. Even the oceans had boiled away.
My four hands quickly worked the controls to disarm the missile, change the trajectory, and abort the impact. These idiots had destroyed themselves; my sacrifice was unnecessary. I didn’t have to die! I could return to her.
The planet’s gravity captured the vessel and I fell into orbit.
That was when I remembered that this was a one way mission. The faster-than-light engine was spent. They’d said it would be easiest for everyone if the only communication was an automated confirmation of success or failure…
