by Julian Miles | Nov 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Bald Eagle, this is Leopard, are you receiving?”
“Leopard, good to have you back. Confirm reinforcements. ETA three minutes.”
“Bald Eagle, this is Leopard: abort, abort, abort. Total loss inevitable.”
“Leopard, intel disagrees. Target is viable. Enemy has no backup.”
“Bald Eagle, when will you people listen? The enemy needs no backup because he has got the stolen unit online. I repeat: enemy has one of our Command Servers!”
“Leopard, we show no interference – boards are green.”
“Bald Eagle, our position is in basement of building flagged as East Nine.”
“Leopard, are you assaulting the enemy position?”
“Bald Eagle: no, you moron. We are the poor bastards in East Nine.”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, we are the sole inhabitants of building East Nine.”
“Leopard, where is target?”
“Bald Eagle, you’re supposed to be telling me that.”
“Leopard, what is your twenty?”
“Bald Eagle, corner of west and south walls in basement of building East Nine.”
“Leopard, do you have eyes on target?”
“Bald Eagle, do not have eyes on target, because he is nowhere near building East Nine.”
“Leopard, we show target at your twenty.”
“Bald Eagle, we know that! Six flights of our drones are trying to kill us!”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, the only target in building East Nine is a friendly. Your command protocols are compromised.”
“Leopard, ID on friendly.”
“Bald Eagle, oh, for pity’s sake. ID on friendly is Team Leopard!”
“Leopard, that is you. Need ID on friendly with you.”
“Bald Eagle, are you not listening? We are the friendly! You are targeting the wrong people!”
“Say again, Leopard.”
“Bald Eagle, how many times… Oh, you bastard. You’re not Bald Eagle!”
“Leopard, this is Wolfhound. Kiss your sorry butts goodbye.”
by submission | Nov 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Tommy Walker
Brian awoke from a blissful and exhausted sleep in his wide and comfortable bed. A successful business had provided a plush penthouse apartment with every possible luxury. He rolled, half conscious feeling for her, the silver haired girl he’d met and shared his bed with last night. All he found was an empty pillow. Brian shrugged and hopped from his bed heading for the shower, but tripped and landed roughly on the tiled floor. Scrambling to his feet Brian peered in horror at a complete human skin lying grotesquely on his floor… complete with silver hair. It lay discarded on the floor like a macabre onesie splattered with sticky grey ooze.
Brian Vomited.
He fumbled his phone, hands trembling he tapped 999, but as he did so a dark thought occurred to him; who should he call? An ambulance? The Police? What would he tell them? Who would believe him? Without further hesitation or doubt Brian threw down his phone and scooped up the skin, it was heavier than he expected, which seemed an odd thought to have as he swallowed more bitter vomit. The large open fire lit almost instantly with the help of a quart bottle of expensive designer Vodka. The skin bubbled and wheezed as the flames devoured it. Brian took a long pull on the Vodka pulled his knees to his chest and watched it burn.
Many months drifted by, but for Brain that morning never faded from his memory. In the first few weeks Brian was wracked with guilt, waking every night in pools of his own sweat haunted by the nightmare. Work became impossible, Brian was unable to focus on the simplest of tasks and even leaving the house became something to avoid. It was around this time that he felt it for the first time. A churning sensation in his abdomen startled him and he pressed his hands to his belly. He felt it move inside him slithering like an eel he felt the creature inside push against his stomach wall. It didn’t hurt Brian noted it simply felt… alien.
Over the coming weeks the alien parasite grew inside him, feeding on him. By now Brian had withdrawn into a self-imposed solitude answering the door only to receive delivery from the supermarket twice a week, his evenings were spent in front of the open fire, gently cradling his now huge swollen belly Brian would softly whisper to the creature which would kick and squirm in answer.
Brian awoke suddenly one morning, the familiar feeling of moisture soaking his sheets. He looked down however to discover he had voided his bowl. A puzzled look crossed his now bearded face but only for a second before it was twisted with a vile expression of agony. The pain shot through him like a lightning bolt and he flailed his arms helplessly reaching for anything he could grip to ease the pain. His screams of pain echoed through the apartment building.
When the paramedics finally broke through Brian’s deadlocked doors they found him sat on his bedroom floor. Clutched closely to his chest an ugly grey creature with fine silver hair screamed, a high pitch bone chilling scream. A lonely tear fell down one of Brians cheeks. The first shocked paramedic held a hand to his mouth as he surveyed the horrific scene. The other gaped at the screaming grey bundle clutched to Brians chest. “What is it!” she spat. Brian looked up a wide grin across his face tears now glowing under both eyes. “It’s a Girl!” He said
by submission | Nov 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Frejj glided two meters above the street of the marketplace, each pulsation of his gelatinous, umbrella-shaped body propelling him forward through the green chlorine atmosphere toward the cafe at the end of the street. Seeing his friend, Vallier, resting on a pedestal, he floated over to join him. Vallier held a stylus in one tentacle and a datapad in two others. He was obviously deep in thought.
“Writing?” asked Frejj.
“Writing,” confirmed Vallier.
Frejj signaled a servitor to request a flagon.
“Put that pad down. I’ve ordered us a libation.”
Vallier kept writing. “I’d like you to look this over when I’m done. I’m going to submit it to one of the lore journals.”
“I hope it’s not more of that silly science fiction of yours.”
“It’s not silly!” said Vallier louder than he’d intended. “It’s creative and imaginative. So much lore nowadays is derivative and repetitive. Speculative fiction is the new frontier in literature.”
The servitor delivered the flagon and two cups to the table. Frejj poured them both a drink. He drained his cup and poured himself another. “What’s it about anyway? Your story, I mean.”
“You’ve heard the news about radio transmissions from a star system in the Jebraze constellation possibly being from an alien intelligence? I’m writing a story on what the aliens might be like.”
Frejj had another drink. “That’ll turn out to be a false alarm. There are no habitable planets in that system.”
“They’ve determined the third planet is the origin of the transmissions. It’s mostly covered in water and the atmosphere is about one-fifth oxygen.”
Frejj put down his cup. “Nothing could survive in such an environment. Your story won’t get accepted for publication if no one finds it believable.”
“That’s where the transmission originated,” insisted Vallier. “Whatever creatures live there would have evolved to survive the amount of oxygen in the air.”
Frejj resumed drinking. “My advice is make the characters in your story like life on our planet. Make their mesoglea an odd color to make them seem ‘alien’ of something.”
“Who’s going to believe aliens that look like us?”
“The readers have to be able to relate to the characters.”
“The characters are from another planet. They’re not going to float around and have six eyes and look like ordinary people.”
“They’re not going to float about? How do you intended to have them move?”
“Maybe they slither on the ground or ambulate on specialized tentacles.”
“They couldn’t escape predators if they locomoted on the ground. They’d never survive long enough to develop into a technological civilization.”
Vallier floated off his pedestal momentarily with excitement and descended back down to rest on it. “That’s it!” he said with excitement. “The aliens are land-bound and easy prey for their world’s predators. At the same time, their planet’s poisonous oxygen atmosphere puts them in constant peril. Oxygen is highly reactive. I bet things would catch fire there really easily. They’d be a stoic, warrior race ever vigilant against their planet’s endless danger!” Vallier started writing frantically.
“How about a love interest?” asked Frejj. “A male, a female, and a gestator are thrown together by circumstances and a romance develops.”
“Readers want action and adventure, not mating dances.”
“And what happens when we get a radio transmission with video from the aliens? What happens when we know what they look like and what their civilization is like?”
Vallier stopped writing. He looked worried for a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Shape-shifters! I can address that problem by making them shape-shifters!” he said triumphantly.
by submission | Oct 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
Jason’s pale fingers trembled hesitantly across his gray suit pants. His first suit. Any job. Take anything. His father’s pleading reverberated like a taiko drum. Sweaty palms left dark trails across his scrawny thighs. He gulped. Worms wriggled in his stomach from the Dulce elevator speeding a hundred feet below burning New Mexico heat. Odd smells of rot and mold decorated the underground base’s waiting area. Blush rolled up his neck to his red hair as his employer greeted him.
“Glad you’re aboard, Turner. Sorry about your parents. Terrible thing. Please consider us your family, if you will.” Director Albright clamped his massive right hand across Jason’s tiny shoulder, leading him into the next room. Jason looked into the middle-age leader’s face for acceptance from the gray eyes that matched Albright’s hair.
“So what do I do? I can’t use my sociology degree in a place like this. There’s no population to study. I feel useless.” Jason scouted the hall as they passed armed guards and a security door Albright opened with an eye scan.
“Nonsense. We do cutting-edge research. You said you wanted adventure. You’re patient when under stress, based on our tests. That’s rare enough. Now, if you’ll just sit here, on the other side of this Plexiglas security wall, we can start.”
The two settled into high-backed office chairs around a small coffee table. Albright collected a dull orange folder from the table. He skimmed the contents, nodding his head. “You scored highest in verbal skills. Six languages. That’s impressive. You like linguistics?”
“Uh, yes.” Jason flinched as something drifted past the other side of the opaque divider, revealing an odd outline. Stench of rotting meat intensified. “Did something die?”
“Humor, too.” Albright smiled, setting down the file. “No, it’s quite alive. You see, Jason, we perform social work of a kind here. Now hold on, and steady yourself, because behind that cage is an alien who wants to be there, but is confused and uncomfortable. Just like our swift elevator, they use an interstellar device that descends to Earth every thousand years. We help hundreds of evolved species visit us. It’s unnerving for them to adapt. You can imagine. The last time this one visited, Vikings were running amok and Incas ruled South America.”
Jason nodded, shuddering as the shape stopped and rubbed against the barrier.
“Son, we need your skills to open communications with our guests. The challenge is it has to get used to your smell before it will attempt a connection. You also have to accept its odor. Sorry, but that’s the challenge of cultural differences. You sit here each day for three weeks and let your essences mix. Then, if all goes well, we go to Phase II and start working on translation. Consider this a half-way house for weary travelers.”
“Just sit here? Me? Is it safe? I mean…”
“Completely. We don’t make staff assignments lightly at Dulce. You’re our man. I see big things for you. Now just stay here and Miss Rosado will bring your lunch and more papers to sign. The restroom is on the right of the entry doors. I’ll check with you tomorrow. Okay?”
“I guess, “Jason replied, feebly, as gurgling sounds escaped through the confinement.
“Do you think this one will cut it, Edgar?” Wendy Rosado asked Albright, as she passed him on her way in with a tray of sandwiches and fruit juice.
“I can’t say, Wendy. But if he doesn’t, we’ll have to orphan another candidate after we feed this one to our guest. We’re starting to run out of redheaded sociologists.”
by submission | Oct 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Christopher Stewart
Everything was powered up, the switch thrown, and she stepped through, crossing the threshold out of nowhere. I remember everything about her so clearly. Not that she was remarkable, other than appearing out of nowhere, but shooting the instrument panels of the machine demanded attention, y’know?
She said, “You will not know my name. You will not know my era. You’ll never make sense of today and I’m sorry about that. You just can’t do this and we have to be certain you don’t.” As she spoke, the gun turned towards me. The rest of the room reacted like it was pointed at them, but no, she was looking right down the barrel at me.
I don’t know guns, but it looked like a normal gun to me. I was looking really hard, you see. And it worked pretty well apparently. She stared at me, just for a moment, then frowned and addressed the gathering of scientists and reporters. The gun stayed on me.
“You opened your door to strangers!” She looked at the project lead. “You! You were grinning like an idiot! You have no idea who I am!” He tried to remind her she hadn’t given a name, but she cut him off, “SHUT UP!”
“You were so keen to be first; you never wondered how many came later, did you, Let alone who controls them, when, and for how long. But what’s done is done. All we can do is contain the mess you have started until as late as possible. This door must be closed. I am not arguing with you, that’s pointless, I am just telling you because you need to understand today isn’t aggression, but desperation.”
Her eyes turned back to me, and with a small, sad smile said, “Being a science writer is not for you. You should write a book. I really love your book.”
I woke up a week later in a hospital bed on the other side of the ocean, three bullet holes in my chest, and a lot of people wanting me to tell you the story I just told you. She had shot me and I was whisked away. I was lucky they said. I thought about that a bit, got into a loop, and passed out. I don’t think about it anymore. Not sober anyhow.
After I had left the building, the machine was repaired relatively quickly and the demonstration was set to continue later that day. This we know because those in attendance said as much in phone calls, texts, so on.
No idea what happened to my fan after she shot me. She never left the facility by all accounts. The second time the machine was turned on, they sent a nuke instead of a person through the door, so one way or another she disappeared in a ball of physics along with a big chunk of France.
As far as I know, nobody has built a machine since then.
