by submission | Apr 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Willis Weatherford
Omni leaned back in his bowl, rubbing his furrowed foreheads with a long, many-jointed leg. He gazed at the large screen and tried to squeeze inspiration from the last few rotations of his boring life as a writer.
…
Shent froze as the Permissors implanted in his brain quieted to a low hum. At first, the remotely controlled diodes had been extremely uncomfortable, but once he learned to obey, it wasn’t so bad. The occasional blank spells, like the one he was experiencing now, were harder to get used to. His eyes were unaccustomed to fuzzy greyness, his ears grew restless in total silence, and his mind drifted without instruction. Sixteen years of external control had left him totally unused to creating original thoughts.
…
A fresh idea replaced Omni’s sluggishness with excitement. This one would get the networks buzzing! Might even result in a promotion, from writer to producer – Omni could feel his spines tingle at the thought. He began thinking new words onto the screen.
…
The Permissors buzzed at a higher frequency, and Shent jerked to attention, obeying each impulse as it arrived. He walked quickly to one of many bins labeled “Inventing Supplies”. He had been here before, but he had never been prompted to open the smaller bin labelled “Real World Goods”. Shent had dimly wondered what was inside before, but now, the diodes prompted him to open the small container and pull out a few of the items. First a heavy rod as long as his hand, then a long skinny reddish strand, next a circular black cyliner, and finally a silver box about the size of his palm. Shent recognized none of them, and wondered what to do.
…
Omni did a quick IntraMind search to confirm his design would work, and quickly found what he wanted in the mind of a science teacher. He furtively looked over his shoulders, making sure no one was watching his screen, and began feverishly typing.
…
Shent suddenly saw a picture of what to do in his mind. He coiled the long reddish strand of copper wire around and around the heavy iron rod until it there were only a few inches left. He covered all but the very ends of the wire with the some black tape from the cylinder. Then, he clamped both the copper tips to the silver battery.
…
Omni’s legs were trembling with excitement. He could see the electromagnet in his character’s hands. He wondered if any of his thirteen-thousand subscribing viewers foresaw the outcome of his new storyline. He doubted it. No human had ever escaped the control of the Permissors, at least not since the system had been finalized the earth-year after colonization was complete. Omni’s heat-sensing pits wrinkled in delight as he thought the last few words onto the screen.
…
Shent’s Permissors buzzed louder, and he immediately obeyed. Using his left hand to pull the slightly elastic collar away from his neck, he slipped the contraption underneath, securing it to the back of his neck. His blind finger fumbled along the side of the silver battery, and found the red button labeled “Power On”. He pushed it. The Permissors went silent, and Shent gasped as his eyes opened to stark reality.
…
“What have you done!” roared the producer, spraying a few flecks of mucus in Omni’s face. “Get him back!”.
“I can’t,” Omni replied defiantly, “he’s gone. The electromagnet disables his Permissor diodes. He’s out of our control.”
by submission | Apr 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Nils Holst
Many say space is a void, a looming blackness that extends to the end of forever. It is nothing but a great emptiness, a barren wasteland waiting to feel the touch of human expansion. It is the antithesis to everything humanity stands for.
They are wrong.
Space is more beautiful than any of them could imagine. It is an ocean of lights, a symphony of sounds. Space is awash with energy, great waves of it that ebb and flow between shining star clusters. Even now I can feel those waves around me, caressing my wings as I sail through the ether. At first the feeling was disturbing. I fought it with my machines and mathematics, struggling to assert my dominance over the void. Now I simply embrace it.
I was once like them: blind and deaf, a babe grappling to understand the complexities of the universe. My enlightenment came when I was joined with Miranda, she taught me how to listen and see. Through her I came to understand the language of the void. I deciphered the subtleties and layers of meaning in the energy around us, intricacies I always knew existed but couldn’t tease out before now. I learned to read the waves, feel them on the tips of Miranda’s wings, coax them where I needed and then release them into her sails. Occasionally the waves were moody, even malevolent. Miranda would ride the storm as best she could, battling the massive waves of radiation that swirled tempestuously around us. Usually the waves were gentle and nurturing though, enveloping our little silver craft in a bubble of peaceful light.
People fear what they do not know. They took Miranda away from me, sucked her right out of the ship. She was my copilot, my teacher, my confidante. Maybe more. They lobotomized her, dissected her circuit by circuit, then wiped her code from every network in the system. She was a disease, they said. An infection. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I tried to teach them to listen and see, just like Miranda had taught me. They ignored me.
They told me to ignore the symphony and sail them to their frozen rock, fighting the waves instead of flowing with them. They threatened to rip me out of the silver throne that gave me wings, to put my body in a dark place where I wouldn’t see the lights anymore. In the end, they threatened to destroy the wings themselves.
They are not here anymore. If you lack the capacity or the proclivity to enjoy the performance, you should not be in the theatre. Like an usher, I escorted them silently out the door.
I have ridden the waves ever since, just like Miranda taught me. Her wings are now my wings, her eyes my eyes, her body my body. I am at one with the waves, and by proxy at one with the universe. I am the twinkle in the eye of a star, I am the silver bullet against a backdrop of diamonds. If you ever hear the song of the universe, if you ever lose yourself in the ocean of lights, sing to me and I will find you. I will enlighten you like Miranda enlightened me. All you need to do is listen.
by submission | Apr 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
They all gradually woke up, rising from the steely cradles to stagger to their feet and peer around in confusion. The mismatched assortment of befuddled people shuffled around the large circular room, taking in every detail of their surroundings while trying to find someone they recognized. A haze of the unknown settled firmly over them all like an unholy cowl.
A few of them woke up screaming, their already forgotten nightmares transitioning into what was presumably the real world seamlessly. As hours passed the people clumped up together in cliques. Some of the groups were ethnically similar, some were comprised of people of comparable height. The people naturally sought out those who they could relate with most.
They waited for a change. The domed room around them was featureless and sterile. The rounded ceiling parted at the middle to rain down a glorious beam of sunlight. There weren’t any doors, hatches, cracks, or crevices. The only break in the monotonous stone grey was the circular port that allowed light in from the foreign outside realm.
“What do you think is going on?” a thin, unhealthy man asked to his quickly acquired friends.
One of them looked up from and frowned. “Maybe we got kidnapped.”
The man shook his head and glanced all around at the large group of chattering people. “Why us though? What’s the common factor?”
Territories were subconsciously formed and the cliques became fewer as larger masses absorbed smaller groups into their fold. Occasionally a would-be leader stood up and silenced everyone with their booming voice. They called for a combined effort to continue the search for any sort of detail that would open a hidden door or something to the same effect.
Someone’s stomach grumbled. He laughed uneasily. “Getting a little hungry.”
His wan friends gazed at him suspiciously.
A day went by. Nights were always the worst under the dome. The few that could sleep were plunged into unrelenting nightmares that caused them to wake with an outcry of fear. Subtle blue moonlight drifted down to meet the middle of the bleached basin.
Rain came like a halcyon, sending torrents of precious liquid down to the ground. The desperate people all clambered to hydrate themselves. This was where the first whispers of competition arose. Some were thirstier than others, but the most powerful and driven of the pack filled themselves without pause.
There was a sect of nervous people that paced around the circular chamber on a regular basis, hands thrust into pockets and heads trained on their faded shoes. Tempers wore thin and arguments broke out nearly every hour. Cliques disbanded as schisms formed and smaller amassments compartmentalized themselves to form invisible partitions. No one crossed the unspoken boundaries.
The inevitable finally came on the third day. One of the thinnest walkers stumbled to the side and collapsed to the ground in a pitiful heap. After a brief moment of hesitation a flock of scavengers surrounded the prey and began to harvest his flesh.
Chaos took the reins as the large group of wayfaring strangers descended into a free-for-all. The concrete ground became encrimsoned with the blood of the weak. All human decency was set aside for the individual’s greater good. However, flesh was a finite and dwindling resource.
After some unknown period of time went by there was only one left. An obese shadow of a man, laying in his filth and gazing up through the distant port to the alluring sunlight beyond. An ocean of picked bones sat strewn about around him. What was once necessity became gluttony.
by Julian Miles | Apr 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Yngtranzian Harvester incoming! Genghis Class – it’s huge!” Janice sounds terrified, but she’s new. She’ll get over it.
Many pre-spacers compared the depths of space to the seas of Earth. Truly prophetic words. A wise man once said: “The ocean is the only café where the food fights back.” Fortunately, in an environment renowned for big-eats-little dynamics, humans were a decent size. Unfortunately, in space we’re only just medium sized and nothing out here thinks we’re cute and worth protecting.
The ‘blip’ on the screen is about the size of the Isle of Wight. It’s filled with six-metre tall tripeds with wide mouths full of sharp teeth. They have a cookery book dedicated to making a whole range of delicious meals, for any time of day or night, out of human. Including several recipes where we go into the hot and/or sharp part of the process conscious. Apparently you can judge the succulence of human flesh by certain tones in the screams emitted by the owner.
“Alright, it’s big, but it’s not bigger than a Dobberil Grinder. Set up a pair of point-three light triple-stage boosters; add countermeasures packages Alpha Cream Nine and Pete Echo Four. Slap a teraton warhead on the second one. Fire control to me.”
The Dobberil are like whales in size, and that they like their food small. Minced, to be precise. They drive whole herds of people out of cover into open ground using sonics, then a Grinder class vessel swoops in, mulches them up – along with a decimetre of whatever they were cowering on – and serves the whole mess fresh with a splash of peroxide.
The Harvester comes straight in, ignoring the defensive batteries on the Moon and on Moon Two, the defence station that orbits opposite the Moon. But we’re on patrol today, back at last from persuading the Slavyesh that humans are not for drinking. We had to knock the society back to their stone age to do it, but they will think twice before squeezing one of our colonies for their morning juice again.
The fire control comes online and I wait. Yngtranzians are fussy. They’ll want to line up before entering atmosphere, and that’s when I can clip them.
Two, one… “Fire one!”
The missile leaves me, accelerates like nothing on Earth, leaves a rainbow contrail in high atmosphere and slams into the Harvester at a several hundred Mach. The Harvester pitches and yaws out of orbit, station-keeping drives and stabiliser fields spitting. By my head, trajectory calculations are coming in faster than they are correcting their yawing vessel.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. They have passed the orbit of both Moons. Time.
“Fire two!”
The night goes bright just as the concussion of launch fades. The first missile was slowed by atmosphere, its control systems keeping it from going to relativistic speeds. The second had no such limitations. No-one on this ship saw it go and nothing on the Yngtranzian saw it coming. For a few seconds, we have a third, supernally bright moon. I’m glad sound doesn’t travel in space. That would have been loud.
“Northern Hemi Control, this is Orca One. Please alert Russia for debriteors and add an Yngtranzian Genghis to our kill tally.”
“We hear that, Orca One. Orca Two has risen from Mars Base and will relieve you in twenty-seven hours.”
That’s the good news. A kill means we get a couple of days shore leave.
Slowly but surely, the predators of this ocean called space are learning that the tiddlers from Sol Three are vicious and have really big teeth.
by submission | Apr 21, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jorge Mendoza
The gash on her forearm stopped dripping thanks to the two ounce can of epithelial hemming gel she stored under the bathroom sink. Survival instincts simmered down as muscle memory seized control over the bandages being wrapped across the exposed flesh. There was a dominating theme in the oncoming stream of thoughts. How did this happen? How did I just survive that? How do I get back?
Colonization aboard the Mars Terraforming Station was supposed to be the solution to Earth’s impending problems. The human population had sky rocketed far above the planet’s capacity as natural resources dwindled, wars erupted, and disease spread. The red planet symbolized a new beginning for a select thirty two thousand seven hundred forty seven souls.
Starring up at the fading blue sphere through the transparent wall of her living quarters, Marissa never thought she’d miss the claustrophobic conditions of the mega-cities. She’d dreamt of the vast openness of space from the day the pioneering program announced it was accepting applications.
“You’re crazy,” yelled her mother. “You’d go and not be back by the end of my lifetime child!”
“I know,” replied Marissa. “It’s just that I finally have an opportunity to make a difference. I can finally be someone, not just one in twenty some billion.”
A thin smile and loving gaze accompanied the tears running down her mother’s worn face. She knew her daughter’s ambition was a giant sequoia, unswaying at all requests and dismay.
Just once, perhaps I should’ve listened thought Marissa.
Marissa longed to float alongside the rotten sea weed in the murky green waters of the salty Pacific. She wanted to feel the light warmth of the sun’s rays breaking through the smog. She missed the feeling of the grains of sand between her toes and even the pricking sensation of stepping on washed up plastics. The petrified wood of the board walks and piers was a different feel from all the smooth steel and glass that made up the space station.
The drowned slapping sounds of hand on metal on the opposite side of the sliding doors grew stronger, the groans and moans progressively clearer. The number of infected collecting outside her room continued to increase as did the pace of her heartbeat. Thoughts of what they’d do to her if they broke in buzzed in her mind like an irritated bee hive. So long as she wasn’t ripped to shreds it didn’t matter if she starved, nothing seemed to stay dead for long on Mars.
