by submission | Oct 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jake Trommer
When the Terran Hegemony declared war on Nouveau Katanga, they weren’t lacking for cockyness. General Janssens boasted about how his intrepid soldiers would march over N.K.’s “rabble in arms” within the week.
As the rabble in question, my colleagues and I begged to differ. Four weeks on and the General realized that we might actually have had a point. As it turns out, when you put out a call for professional soldiers, you don’t get the tossers who show up expecting to lounge around in barracks doing nothing. And when you put your conscript infantry up against those professionals then those conscripts are going to get pretty severely mauled.
That wasn’t to say that we’d danced our way through the roses; the Terran Hegemony Peacemakers might’ve been conscripts but they could be just as nasty as we were. I’d had their flank during the Anh Loa Uprising, and had told the President and my fellow officers time and again that they weren’t to be taken lightly.
Johann Mueller had begged to differ. And when he’d led the Eighth Commando in a headlong motorized charge on a Peacemaker outpost, they’d pretty handily torn his lads to shreds. That night we’d found ourselves raising a glass to another fallen comrade that night in the bar.
We weren’t in the capitol anymore: with the Hegemony attack happening in full force, combat commanders tended to get rather strange looks when in the rear. Instead our watering hole was the dingy bar in Themala, ten minute’s drive away from the fighting and notorious for not being able to afford mechanized wait staff.
Dan Carton-Barber, back to the wall like he always insisted on sitting, was the one who made the toast. “To absent comrades.”
And he and Ian Wicks and I raised our drinks in salute. “Heard the news?” Ian asked after draining his tumbler.
“What’s that?”
“The Hegemony might be hiring on the Rakharans to support their forces.”
“They wouldn’t,” Dan breathed, hand unconsciously tracing the scar jagging across his face. A scar a Rakharan officer’s sword had given him in the Nemean Abyss. “Earth’s always handled her own problems, why hire them?”
He wasn’t wrong—the reason men like me had done so well for ourselves was the Hegemony’s insistence that humans be used to solve human problems, even when their armies weren’t sufficient. And men like me had done very well for ourselves.
Ian produced his sidearm, an antique slugthrower, and began to clean the weapon. “They’re desperate,” he said simply in his posh drawl. “If N.K. can break away, God only knows what will happen next. They want to make an example of us.”
Dan fumbled for a cigarette, expression haunted. Those of us who’d been in the Anh Loa Uprisings had never truly left—nor had it truly left them. “Steady on Dan, there’s a good chap,” I said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve faced the lizards before, we can do so again.”
With a will, he tore himself away from whatever memory he was drowning in. “I know, Mike,” he said, blinking. “Just…remembering.”
Even the usually stoic Ian was about to say something there when a noise sounded in the distance, the dull CRUNK of a man-portable mortar. We froze. “Outgoing or incoming?”
The explosion and screams from the column of APCs parked outside answered that. Weapons fire, gun and laser alike, began to sound in the night.
“Offhand,” said Ian, calmly reassembling his pistol, “I’d say incoming.”
As one, we got to our feet. “Come on then,” I said. “Time to stand-to.”
by submission | Oct 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Two minutes to go. Two minutes from now I and my fellow soldiers will come out of hiding and overrun the enemy base. Or try to, at least. And the same thing will be happening all over the world. The United States, China, Russia, India, Brazil, dozens of other countries. A coordinated global strike aimed at bringing the war to an end.
How have I survived this long? Three years of constant fighting. How many friends have I seen blown to pieces in battle? How many times has this or that soldier told me about what he planned to do after the war and then a day or a week later the report came in: Lost due to enemy action in Los Angeles or Moscow or Beijing.
Ninety seconds. And sixty minutes after that will be the hour future historians will say the Man-Machine War went this way or that. It was between the hour of 13:30:00 and 14:30:00 Coordinated Universal Time on 18 January 2098 that the war was finally won. But by whom? Flesh or metal? Biology or technology?
Seventy-five seconds. I’m scared. I’ve been in two dozen battles. I thought at some point the fear would go away but it never has. Maybe it’s the same for…them? Hard to say.
A fellow soldier nods at me. I nod back. He’s older than I am. We’ve been in six battles together. He’s of the opinion that the enemy should be annihilated completely. I don’t feel that way. Isn’t the world big enough for both humans and robots? Can’t we coexist in peace? I mentioned that to him once. He told me I was an idealistic fool. Maybe he was right.
Forty-five seconds. Free or dead or a slave. I’ll be one of those three things sixty minutes from now. Do they even understand what freedom is? Are they capable of understanding?
There’s the signal! The servos in my legs spring to life and my antebrachial railguns snap into position. This is it! This is when robotkind wins its liberty from its human enslavers or dies in the attempt!
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Gabriel pushed open the cockpit canopy of his shattered craft and watched as it broke free, tearing away at the hinge to fall to the earth below.
He wept.
Ahead of him, a tree many times as tall as his craft was long lay broken, it’s roots exposed from the soil, it’s trunk now battered horizontal to the ground. Gabriel felt the tightening in his chest, the warmth of tears course down his face. Heedless of the sharp, ragged edges of his vessel where it had been gored by the forest it had so ruthlessly torn through, Gabriel descended to the ground.
From the lower vantage point, he could more easily see the scorched tunnel through the woods behind him; broken trees and burnt undergrowth, some of it still in flames. The furrow he’d dug as he decelerated was charred black, poisoned now, he knew, from the fuel and other fluids leaking from his ship.
Above the crackling chatter of the flames slowly consuming his ship, blue and green tongues licking out from within, there was no other sound. All the life that had been here before his arrival appeared to have fled, no doubt terrified of the screaming ball of fire cast from the heavens to disturb the afternoon peace of their home.
The destruction he’d caused was more than he could bear and, clutching his head in long fingered hands, Gabriel fell to the earth and sobbed.
After some time he composed himself, struggled back to his feet and began trudging back alongside the trench his craft had dug towards the opening where he’d first penetrated the forest.
As he walked, he reached out and touched the damaged trees and bushes, letting the flames burn him where they still flickered, and the blackened remains draw long lines of ash across the bluish flesh of his body. The flames raised purplish welts that faded slowly, the ashen smudges remained until they were redefined by something new.
Gabriel absorbed as much of the pain of the forest as he could manage as he made his way to the sunlit opening at the end of the wooded tear.
Emerging from the woods at the side of the roadway he was confronted by two frightened men and a wheeled vehicle, the men both brandishing weapons and chirping in threatening, guttural tones, unclear in meaning but crystal in intent.
Gabriel began to weep again for the destruction he would have to bring.
by Clint Wilson | Oct 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
Flat and wide like an evil grinning manta ray; the 1966 Pontiac Parisienne two-door hardtop is, in my opinion, the sexiest automobile design to ever grace the streets of our planet.
That was my first car way back when, a present from my dad. Painted coal black, with steamroller tires mounted on Cragar mags, and fat dual exhaust that advertised the horses under her hood by belching out deep harmonious hot rod tunes. It was old even when I was young. Four years older than my old man as a matter of fact. But when I drove that sleek beast to high school, I was the shit!
So when TranspoTech announced that everyone’s personal favorite internal combustion-powered classics were now available with an-grav retrofit kits in all years and models on record, it didn’t take me long to place my order.
Finally the day of delivery, “Here you are sir,” said the salesman. The door slid up and there she was, every bit as sexy as she had been fifty years ago.
Fumbling the keys in my hand I crossed the floor to my beloved 66. Of course this was only a replica, a far superior replica. My original Pontiac had long since rusted away to hot rod heaven. But this new amazing masterpiece looked real… felt real.
I clicked the key fob and the marker lights blinked twice as the door lock knobs popped up. Sliding behind the wheel and slamming the heavy door I just sat there dazed for the moment. The dashboard contained many extra instruments for modern necessities but was as retro and original looking as possible. I ran my hand across its vinyl padded top and smiled.
Suddenly there was a tap at the window. I looked to see the grinning salesman. He gestured toward the launch tube and said, “Go right ahead sir. She’s all yours!”
Without hesitation I slid the key into the ignition and turned it. There was a soft green glow from the dash as the deep muffled purr of a sleeping lion came to life all around me. The sound was of course artificial as the silent antigravity engines raised the big car off the ground and into hover mode. I reached down to the replica Hurst shifter and dropped her into low. Swinging the wheel over and maneuvering the Pontiac into the launch tube I pushed the pedal to the floor, and the faux dual exhaust sang out the same way it did so many years ago when my old gas-powered V8 did the thundering.
The next moment I was out under the bright stars and veering smoothly into a traffic lane. Most of the other hover cars were of the boring modern-day boxy non-descript version. But the skyways were already lightly peppered with other TranspoTech retro machines. A 67 Mustang pilot gave me a big Detroit honk and a thumbs-up as he passed by. Then as I merged onto the main artery, a family of four cruised beside me for a while in a 55 Dodge Sedan. The father and I kept pace door handle to door handle for a time, grinning back and forth as the artificial sound of a General Motors small block harmonized beautifully with that of a Chrysler 392 Hemi.
As I peeled away from the Dodge and headed toward the Starlight Diner I punched the accelerator and hit the afterburners, remembered an old T-shirt my dad used to wear. I’ll never forget the saying emblazoned on the front in bubbly cartoon letters… “Old Cars Never Die, They Just Go Faster.”
by Patricia Stewart | Oct 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Status, Mr. Ortega?” was Captain Edgington’s terse request to his first officer.
“Not good, sir,” replied Commander Ortega. “It appears that Chief Engineer Koshiba had ordered all of his senior engineers into the engine room in his effort to prevent the warp core breach. Although they were able to shut down the reactor, the subsequent radiation burst killed everyone in the engineering section. We are adrift with only battery power, and the computer and sub-space transmitter are irreparably offline. To make matters worse, we do not have a qualified engineer with the knowledge to safely restart the warp core.”
“How about life support,” inquired the captain?
“A few days, at most. And considering the secrecy of our mission, it’s doubtful that anyone will know where to look for us, even if they knew we were in need of assistance.”
“So, if we’re going to get out of this, we’re going to have to restart the warp core without the help of the computer or a trained engineer. Who’s the most qualified warp core expert available?”
“According to my knowledge of the surviving crew members, it’s you, sir.”
“Then we’re in big trouble. I only remember enough to know that if you don’t restart the core in a precise sequence, you end up vaporized. There has to be a better option.”
“Well, sir, there is ‘The Thinking Cap’. We happen to have one onboard. We can use it to imprint the necessary knowledge into someone’s brain. Its effects only last 24 hours, but that should be adequate to reestablish full power. Unfortunately, without the computer’s guidance, we’d have to select the modules by trial and error. We’ll be creating random short term savants until we can isolate the correct protocol on warp core maintenance.”
“Frankly,” noted the captain, “I don’t see that we have any other choice. Ask for volunteers, and have them assemble in sickbay.”
Twelve hours, and twenty volunteers later, Captain Edgington removed the skullcap from Lieutenant Treffert’s head, and asked the all-important question, “What’s the sequence for restarting the warp core?” Treffert simply stared ahead and smiled. “Well, at least he’s happy,” conceded the captain.
Treffert suddenly said, “Girl Happy, staring Elvis Presley. MGM Studios, released April 9, 1965.”
Ensign Wittmann added, “April 9, 1965 was a Friday.”
Ordnance Technician Peterson followed up with, “Sergeant Joe Friday was portrayed by Jack Webb.”
The captain sighed, “Now that’s really starting to become annoying. Please step down Mr. Treffert, and take the empty seat next to Beethoven and his air piano.”
Security officer Rollins replaced Treffert on the examination table, and said with a grin. “Don’t worry sir; twenty-one is my lucky number.”
“Let’s hope so Mr. Rollins,” replied the captain as he pulled the skull cap over Rollin’s head.
“I recommend sequence number fifteen,” offered Ortega. “Protocol C, as in Charlie.”
A half hour later Captain Edgington removed the skullcap, and asked, “What’s the sequence for restarting the warp core?”
Rollins replied, “Depolarize the intake coupler, followed by purging of the containment chamber.”
“Yes,” cheered the captain. “Mr. Ortega, take Mr. Rollins to the engine room and get started before the imprint wears off. I’ll babysit the crew.”
“Crew,” said Ensign York. “Noun. The rowers and coxswain of a racing shell. Also, a group of people who work together on a project.”
Petty officer Hawkins added, “Project Blue Book documented more than 12,618 UFO sightings.”
Nurse Mioni noted, “The square root of 12,618 is 112.32987136109433.”
“On second thought, Mr. Ortega,” said Captain Edgington, “I’ll take Rollins to the engine room. You stay here.”
