by submission | Sep 11, 2011 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
When they described this planet to me, rogue, free from its orbit, adrift in space, I pictured a world of devoid of light, a world enveloped in darkness. But to my surprise, as I walk through the ruined city, protected from the vacuum of space by an environmental suit, my way is lit by the glistening of a million stars. With no atmosphere, the starlight passes unrefracted to the surface. It’s like looking up into a populated metropolis, like seeing an echo of what the city had once been.
I pull my eyes away. We have no time for stargazing. The planet will soon drift too far for our ships to follow, and we have a mission to complete. I order my team to canvass the large buildings to our left and right, while I walk, somewhat nostalgically, through the park in the center. I can direct the entire operation here, alone with my thoughts. I wonder. Who were the people who once stood here? What were their names? Did they know that their planet would one day be torn from its sun, sent drifting in space like a wandering vagabond?
The ruins of a great obelisk lie before me. The man it was meant to honor is now forgotten. All that effort to honor a single person, wasted. I shake my head. I’m getting sentimental.
Turning my back on the ruins, I see a member of my team approaching. I can’t even tell who it is until he speaks. The helmets make it impossible.
“Sir,” he says. “We found the document, or what’s left of it. It was nothing but dust. It appears some rubble from the ceiling shattered the glass seal meant to preserve it.”
I sigh into the breathing unit in my helmet. So that’s it. Another piece of history lost. One stray rock, a twist of physics, and our mission is a failure. It took us months to find this site, years to plan the expedition. And it’ll be decades, maybe even centuries before our propulsion technology advances enough for us to return. I try my best not to look disappointed as I order everyone to salvage what they can and get back to the lander.
As I watch the planet drift away from our ship, I say a silent prayer for the people who died on that planet when disaster struck. I thank God for my ancestors, the people who were off world, the people who were spared the catastrophe. And I say goodbye to Earth, the rogue planet, doomed to drift forever in the vastness of space.
by submission | Aug 28, 2011 | Story |
Author : Asher Wismer
“You’re not even human anymore.”
EB-109 paused, holding a heavy crate. “Excuse me?”
“We should have a human here, to oversee.”
“I function,” EB-109 said. “You deliver, I defend. It’s not that hard.”
“But you’ve been here for a thousand years, right? And they’ve replaced just about every piece of you with metal.”
EB-109 shrugged. The cargo-master on the screen was deep inside the ship, behind acres of pallets and crates. He wouldn’t move until the cargo was unloaded, and then EB-109 would never see him again.
“You don’t even have a human name anymore,” the cargo-master continued. “Just a designation.”
“It’s easier to record and report that way,” EB-109 replied. “How many more to go?”
“Few million.”
“We have time,” EB-109 said. He placed the crate on the conveyer belt and moved to lift the next one. “And I am pleased to report that our sector is very safe.”
“You could be a machine from creation, for all the emotion you have.”
“I don’t need emotion. I have a job.”
The cargo master shut off the screen without responding. EB-109 continued to unload. Far away, his hardline connection to the outpost recorded dull booms as the planetary cannons fired, aimed, fired again. The invaders grew bolder by the day, but EB-109 had sector defense down to a science. No ship had passed his line in many years.
Two days later, EB-109 loaded the last crate and clicked the screen back on. The cargo-master appeared, yawning.
“Not like there’s anything more to do but check the manifest,” he said by way of greeting.
“I am pleased to report that your manifest is manifestly correct,” EB-109 said. “And we are fully stocked for the next decade.”
“Did you just make a joke?”
“I appreciate your noticing. I thought perhaps a touch of levity would speed you on your way with a happy heart.”
“Spare me a cyborg’s view of humor.” The cargo-master signed the screen with his stylus and made to sign off.
“Wait,” EB-109 said. “I wanted to ask before you left. Is there any news from Sector 98? I haven’t heard anything over tightbeam for a few years.”
“Lemme check… hm. Why do you ask?”
“My family is there in cold-sleep storage,” EB-109 said. “I wanted to make sure they’re safe.”
“Your family? Radios and silicon chips?”
“I was born human,” EB-109 said calmly. “When the war started everyone on my planet went into storage except the ones who were picked to defend. You in the Inner Core don’t know what it was like out here.”
“Hey, I was just kidding. Levity, right? Anyway, it says here that Sector 98 is perfectly fine. No intrusions in fifty years, give or take.”
“Then I will be able to rejoin them when my assignment is complete,” EB-109 said. “I am pleased.”
“And,” the cargo-master said, grinning, “your cold-sleep facility is completely shielded against solar flares and EMP attacks, so all your brothers and sisters are safe as well, if you catch my drift.”
“I do indeed catch your drift,” EB-109 said, “because I used to be a sailor.”
Silence from the screen, and then the cargo-master laughed, a deep and genuine sound.
“Now that was funny!” he said. “Maybe you were once human after all!”
“Thank you for your service,” EB-109 said. “Signing off.”
The cargo ship rose, its massive bulk visible even out of the stratosphere before it winked into hyperspace. Over his hardline, EB-109 felt another invader ship run the blockade and flash into dust. He nodded.
“As human does,” he said to himself.
by Patricia Stewart | Aug 15, 2011 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The dilapidated sign above the front door read, “Doctor Hawking’s Tackle and Bait Shop”.
“I don’t know, Anthony,” stated Lamar Gregory of the University of Georgia’s Temporal Physics Department. “Do you really think that’s ‘The’ Stephen Hawking?”
Anthony Toole scratched his head as he studied the Tpadd’s readouts. “According to this, we are at the correct place and time. But personally, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Ever since the library’s records were corrupted by the Metis virus, everything is screwed up. That’s why the government gave us the two trillion dollar grant, so we could travel back in time and get hard copies of the monumental technical papers, and rebuild the database from the ground up, similar to what the Greeks did for the Ancient Library of Alexandria.”
Despite their misgivings, they decided to walk in and introduce themselves. However, when they entered the store, they were practically bowled over by the stench. Fighting the urge to hightail it back to the twenty-third century, they pinched their noses and soldiered on. “Excuse me, sir, are you Doctor Hawking?”
“That’s me,” replied the portly man with a broad smile, minus his left front tooth. “Doctor Hawk King, at your service. What kin I do for you gentlemen?”
Toole consulted his Tpadd and began reading, “We’d like to get copies of your papers on black hole thermodynamics, dark energy, condensed matter physics…”
“Whoa, son. If you’re one of them ‘green people’ collecting paper to save the planet, then say no more. I keep a whole pile in the back for wrappin’ fish. Wait here and I’ll fetch you a box.” King walked into the back room and came out carrying an oil stained cardboard box. The lid, which had the word “papers” written in crayon across the top, was tied tight with crisscrossing twine. He handed the box to Gregory, who nearly collapsed from the weight. King watched Gregory tote the box outside, presumably to throw it into the back of his pickup truck.
That was easy thought Toole, remembering how tough it had been to get Patricia Stewart to hand over copies of her celebrated papers on early space exploration. “No way,” she had said, “unless you also take my collection of flash-fiction stories. They’re way better than those dumb old papers.” Toole read a few, and had his doubts. But after three hours of arguing, he ended up taking both.
“Well, thanks for all your help Doctor Hawking,” said Toole, as his fingers queried the Tpadd for their next destination. “Damn, piece of crap,” he lamented as he repeatedly pounded the reset button. “Excuse me, Doctor Hawking,” he said as they both walked outside, “but my Tpadd appears to be malfunctioning. Is there any chance you know where we might find William Robert Duke, the Nobel Laureate in quantum fluid dynamics?”
King thought about the question a moment, trying to figure out what a Nobel whatchamacallit was. Most likely a high-falutin city word for “moonshine”. Aaaaah, he suddenly realized, these fellas weren’t green people, they’re just lookin’ for hooch. Good ‘ol boys, in other words. “Sure do,” he finally said. “You’ll find him up the road a piece. See that smoke risin’ over yonder. Just head toward that.”
The strangers climbed into their fancy floatin’ car, and silently glided away. Uh oh, thought King. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Don’t sneak up on him, boys, or you’ll be pickin’ buckshot out of your hide. And don’t call him William Robert, he goes by Billy-Bob.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jul 18, 2011 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
It was the year 254,051. It was odd, actually, that nobody seemed to care anymore why they started counting form zero 254,051 years ago, or why a “year” was 365 “days” long, or why each day had ten “hours,” or why each hour had 100 “minutes.” Presumably, it had something to do with the periods of revolution and rotation of the original homeworld of humanity, but nobody could remember where that was. It was generally suspected that it was in the spiral arms somewhere, in what was referred to as the “Sirius Sector,” because that’s where archeologists find the oldest artifacts. But dozens of other sectors made similar claims. Unfortunately, no habitable planet could be found that revolved around its luminary in exactly 365 days. This suggested that the original homeworld may have been destroyed, either by war, or because their sun went nova. Ultimately, in the large scheme of things, it really didn’t matter. Mankind had expanded to fill all corners of the Milky Way. Where they actually originated, didn’t matter.
What did matter to scientists, however, was why there were no non-human civilizations in the galaxy. Over 90 billion stars had been explored, containing over 10 billion habitable planets, of which about half harbored at least single cell organisms. Eleven percent of those contained indigenous plant life. Eight percent of those worlds developed animal life. But none on the worlds containing animals ever developed a detectable civilization. To be sure, some of the animal species were able to communicate using a language, but these were always hominids, with DNA very similar to humans. It was concluded that they were humans that had become isolated and had de-evolved over the millennium. Apparently, homo optime-sapiens were the only intelligent species in the galaxy, and perhaps the universe. However, with the recent invention of the Hyperwarp Drive, we had a chance to find out.
The Hyperwarp Drive made intergalactic travel possible. Instead of requiring 250 years to reach Andromeda, it could be done in two. So, when the SS Initiative left space dock and streaked toward Andromeda, its five year mission was to…well, to see if anybody was out there with a respectable IQ.
One year into the mission, just short of the half way point, the Initiative shuddered violently and dropped out of hyperwarp. Half of the inertial dampers instantly overloaded in their effort to keep the crew from becoming wall ornaments. On the bridge, the main viewer displayed a mammoth alien vessel, at least a thousand times larger than the Initiative. “They’re hailing us,” announced the communications officer.
“On speakers,” replied the captain.
“We’ve been monitoring your galaxy since you humans began to spread. Your species was permitted to infest the galaxy you call the Milky Way. However, you may not travel beyond one million light years from your central black hole. Access beyond that is prohibited. Therefore, you are to turn your ship around, or be destroyed.”
“Sounds like they mean business,” noted the first officer.
“I don’t care,” replied the captain. “I need to meet these aliens. Maybe I can reason with them. Prepare a shuttle.” A few minutes later, the captain left the shuttle bay and headed toward the alien spaceship. Half way there, the shuttle simply exploded. No one saw a weapon fired.
“Ensign, turn the ship around, and plot a course for Alpha-base,” ordered the first officer.
“At least we learned something,” injected the science officer. “There are other intelligent species out here.”
“Well, that was our mission, after all,” stated the first officer. “So, I guess we’re done here. Engage.”
by submission | Jul 14, 2011 | Story
Author : Ossian Ritchie
Frank Henstein stepped into the Huvver lift and was propelled upwards through the daily debris of handywipes and food wrappers that bobbed in the impossible antigravity lift field. The office stinks of fake pine and ice-cream aftershave.
Frank was born in Croydon, 1987, his brother Barry had been the one keen on Cryo. At twenty-nine Frank begrudgingly signs up to help promote Barry’s faltering Cryo business. The full body scan and physical checkup reveals Frank is dying of an incurable cancer. Without blinking, Barry enthusiastically suggests Frank freezes himself until science can find a cure.
Frank does not want to die. Getting frozen seems as much like death to him – and Barry wanted the Cryo done right now. Frank explains this to Barry, the two embrace and Barry cries and tells his little brother that he does not want to do anything to hurt him. It is touching. Frank wakes the next day, one thousand years in the future: his cancer cured.
On his break, Frank opens one of the few cartons of cigarettes left in the world and smokes at his desk. It is somebody’s birthday, but he can’t remember their name, or their nickname, or hair group. He is sure half the room are at the party right now: impossible to tell when the party is inside the computer.
Barry has already been and gone. They told Frank how long Barry lived, but four hundred and fifty years is too long for Frank to fathom. Frank can only wonder why his big brother hadn’t called for him.
His sister lived next, she barely lasted a year before calling her mother and father back from the dead. She died for real at the age of sixty, and their parents both went around the same time. The records don’t say why they died, or why they did not call on Frank. Maybe they all felt like he did, that this was unlivable, that they would not share this hell with the ones they loved?
Frank tries to relax, but only succeeds in starting another cigarette. He wants to watch more about what life was like two hundred years ago, when his parents lived. Frank remembers the last time he tuned in to History Unlimited – the next day, everyone turned up for work dressed as prehistoric men and spent the day throwing mud and staging crude, electric wars.
The girl that Frank tries to talk to every single day stops at the end of his desk.
“Chup,” she says.
“Chup,” he copies. She laughs and walks on. She greets her friends with a manly ‘chup’ and there is more laughter. Then she dances in a caustic 3d haze. It hurts to look at it if the broadcast is not meant for you and Frank winces as he tries to pick out details in the fizzing digital mush.
Frank wonders what to do after work. Even in his daydreams he goes home. Home to cushions that behave like pets and beds that burn his covers off in the morning with a fake fire he will never get used to. He dreams of the robot kitchen and how he will react, disgusted by every single meal he is presented with. He wonders how his sister lasted, almost a year, like this.
