by submission | Apr 25, 2012 | Story |
Author : Autumn Humphrey
A dog barks rhythmically in the distance, its voice distorted by the noise of the world, sounding a desperate call of, “Come here! Come here!”
It has been this way since the revolution, odd sounds ringing out, confirming things are not the same, a disturbed variation of the city that was before Archmartadon. Shadows move behind the broken windows of storefronts. Each footfall lands with the sound of broken glass.
Raven, crouched in the corner of a burned-out market, sucks at the inside of a black banana peel and listens to the sound of the canine’s call. A mental volley plays in her mind: who is hungrier and weaker, she or the dog. Deciding the odds are in her favor, she rises from her hiding place and remembers the taste of meat.
On bloodied feet wrapped in dirty cardboard and string, she ventures outside, grateful for the cover of fog rolling through the streets. She steps over debris, human and alien parts strewn and stinking, pieces of metal and garbage, following the sound of the bark.
Skirting the battered edge of a fire station, Raven is startled by the sound of a brick hitting concrete. She turns sharply, peering through the fog, her nutrient-hungry eyes seeing movement everywhere. Shaking from fear and hunger, she moves around the corner of the building and directly into one of them.
The metallic smell of its skin makes Raven gag, muting her scream before it reaches maturity. Flight, her only option, is aborted by the cold hard hand of the alien, which has grabbed her by the arm. She feels the fingers from its other hand closing around her neck as a shape emerges from the fog. The familiar sound of the bark confirms Raven’s last thought. She has miscalculated her odds. The dog that had drawn her out of the sanctuary of the market was not the weaker of the two.
by submission | Apr 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
The captain repeatedly tapped his mesothoracic exoskeleton contemplatively and looked out the main viewport at the blue and white planet below. Two-thirds of the surface was underwater and its atmosphere was over 20 percent oxygen. How could life, let alone civilization, have developed on such an inhospitable world? He imagined what it would be like to set tarsal pad on such a planet without a spacesuit. A few moments of unfathomable agony followed in quick succession by unconsciousness and death. And yet down there was exactly where he was going. In less than half a cycle he would be standing right in front of…them.
The group with whom he would be meeting called themselves the United Nations Security Council. The ship’s interpretation computer had some difficulty in rendering a translation. This world did not have a single, unified hive-government but a collection of “nation-states”. The computer could approximate the words, but not the underlying meaning. But more alarming than either the murderous environment of the planet or the inhabitant’s odd patchwork of political authority was the appearance of the dominant species.
The captain waved a carpal pad at a control and a holographic image appeared in front of him. At the sight of it, he suppressed a shudder. They called themselves “humans”. This particular human, the United Nations representative with whom he had communicated only a few cycles earlier, was a female of the species. It was like something out of a horror story. A soft, pale integument covered its face. When it spoke, its jaws moved up and down rather than from side to side. Its skeleton was on the inside, not the outside. But the most disturbing thing about this ghastly, inside-out creature was its eyes. The thing gazed at him not with gracefully recessed, multifaceted eyes, but with glistening, bulging orbs of white with brown irises.
That, thought the captain as he looked at the monstrous alien before him, is why we’re out here. We could have done this across interstellar distances with radio waves or lasers. We could have sent robotic probes in our place. But that wouldn’t have been true exploration. We came here to see what The Other is like. To literally see it. To set all four tarsal pads on another world, walk up to an intelligent alien, and look it…in the eye.
“Disgusting,” said the navigator in a low voice. He was looking at the human in the hologram. “Nightmarish,” whispered the communications officer.
Suddenly, the captain snapped his elytra closed over his vestigial wings. The bridge became silent. He turned to his crew. “We’re going down there,” he said sternly. “We’re going to make first contact with those people. And they are people. Don’t forget that. This isn’t some science fiction story where ‘aliens’ look and act like us. This is reality.”
Elytra snapped closed all over the bridge in response. The captain had made his point.
“Don your encounter suits,” the captain ordered. “Navigator, begin de-orbit sequence.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Sarge, that’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Yes Jim, completely against the rules of engagement.”
“So we can complain?”
“Hell yes, son. I’m sure the Captain will be right on the blower to the moderators as soon as the opposition finish killing us.”
Trooper Jamieson did not look convinced and Sarge smiled.
“Do you think your Sarge wouldn’t be expecting bad behaviour from the greens? Shame on you. Now pass me the medipack with the blue stripe on it.”
Jamieson did so, hefting the one and a half metre long box without a thought using his mags. Sarge smiled at his control, then slapped him across the back of his helm.
“What have they got out there? What are you doing?”
“Mag detecting godogs Sarge. Lifting your pack using my… oh.”
Sarge shook his head as he grabbed the pack from him. No further comment was needed as Jim got a roasting from the rest of the squad for leaving them open to a reaming from robo-dobermans packed with RDX. He concentrated on opening the pack quietly. No telling if a moderator was passing by. Just because the other side were playing dirty would not save him from a ten amp reprimand. As the dim lights picked out details there were low whistles from the squad, who huddled round to prevent observation from outsiders whilst simultaneously getting a better look.
“What the hell is that, Sarge?”
“It’s a shotgun, Napier. Real, honest-to-god personal artillery.”
“It’s beautiful, Sarge. Must have cost you a packet.”
“I couldn’t afford it, son. Been in my family for five generations. It cost a hundred and ten grand back then.”
“Holy smokes, Sarge! Is that a British shooting iron?”
Sarge smiled.
“Sure is. Ladies, may I introduce you to a Holloway and Naughton Premier under-over 12 bore. Now I need two of you to go tell the armour to hull-down and cool their coils for an hour. Scoot!”
Jamieson and Napier took off like crazed caterpillars as Sarge selected the correct loads from the case. He lovingly cracked the breech and loaded paper wrapped tubes ahead of grey-jacketed cartridges before closing it with a smooth motion. Dumping every piece of detectable and energy pack reliant junk, he crawled off toward the enemy lines after giving terse instructions: “Timing is the thing here troops. I won’t be able to see the godogs from where I’ll be, so when you see them slip the leashes, you click two and one. Got me?”
“Yessir.”
He made his way round to the flank of the dugouts where the godogs were being prepped. It took him nearly too long to find the right angle, but he made it just as his headset clicked twice then once. Without hesitation, he aimed low across the leading edge of the dugouts and fired one barrel.
The godogs were primed and ready. Their senses detected the distant lure of magnetic fields and metals. They were just leaping up the slope of the dugout toward the enemy lines when a loud noise presaged a host of hot magnetic traces flying across their path and slamming into the field control centre. They howled with glee as their proximity-keyed mating urge drove them to accelerate at this new target.
Sarge smiled as the explosions tore the enemy command centre apart. He waited. Sure enough, a couple of greens came looking for him, their godogs leashed. Didn’t matter. Shoot one with a load of magnetic disks and the other one did the detonating. Time to sneak back and pack the family jewel away for another day.
by submission | Apr 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Ellie’s leg was broken. They couldn’t run any more.
Andre gently eased her up against a grimy brick wall, trying to ignore the grimace of pain cracking across her porcelain face. “It’s going to be alright, love,” he whispered. “It’s going to be alright.”
He could hear the hooting, the hollaring, the screaming of the bugs behind them. There was sporadic gunfire, but not for long. Andre glanced up at the sky – it was a deep green, almost black. There was no sun today.
“Andre,” Ellie whimpered. “You need to keep going. Don’t stay here just because I can’t keep going.” She was crying, the tears gliding down to dangle desperately on the tip of her nose.
Andre grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I’m not going to just leave you here,” he told her. Where could he run to, anyways? The last ships off were leaving any minute.
There was a distant roar of massive rockets engaging. A stale, warm wind began blowing down the alleyway. They were leaving now. There really was nowhere to go.
Andre slid down the wall next to Ellie and idly rubbed his thumb along her fingers as she squeezed his hand. He let out a long, deep breath. This was it, he realized. There would be no more running, no more laughing and playing, no more love under the cover of night, no more Ellie, no more Andre… There would be no more anything.
And it was going to hurt more than anything else. Bugs liked to torture.
Ellie leaned over and rested her head on Andre’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She was getting cold. Shock was a side-effect of a double compound fracture, it seemed. The air was beginning to reek of blood.
“Ellie,” he said. “Ellie. Do you remember the time we were at your sister’s house making whipped cream?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. A smile crept across her lips.
He laughed softly. It was hollow and empty, but she couldn’t tell. It was for her benefit. “We had that big huge bowl of it, it must have been eight liters of the stuff. And then you accidentally bumped it, and down it went!”
“Right onto the cat,” she murmured.
“Right onto the cat,” he agreed. “And that cat sped off through the house covered in whipped cream, hissing and mewing while your sister ran on after it yelling, ‘no, get back here, get back here!’”
Ellie giggled softly. “She was cleaning whipped cream off of things for an hour.”
Andre quietly pulled an old revolver from his pocket. “Right. And the sun was shining through the windows and your mother was going off again about how they don’t do things like they used to.” He checked the cylinder. One round left. “And I said to you, ‘So, how would you feel about marrying a bum like me?’”
She poked him gently in the side. “You just think you’re funny.”
The bugs were getting louder. They were getting closer.
“I was so nervous that you would say no.” He could hear their skittering. Their time was up. Andre ran a hand through Ellie’s hair. “I love you so much. So, so much.”
“I love you too. You make me so happy,” she replied.
The gunshot was like a peal of thunder, her mind and personality sprayed across the wall like so much red paint.
The bugs found him quickly after that. They made him scream until he couldn’t remember her name.
by submission | Apr 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Daniel M. Bensen
Flaming debris rained over Warsaw.
“We got another one,” Specialist first rank Donaldson sat back in his chair and sighed happily at the red fireball against the blue sky. “Its over non-US territory, but we shot it before the Russians, so we’ll get first dibs on the goodies.”
“If the Russians play fair,” said Specialist Fourth Rank Nuñoz, “which they won’t.”
“Then we just need to beat them to the debris site.” Even now, priceless high tech junk would be cracking windows, splashing into rivers, pocking farmyard dirt. “Wheeg, get the Nationals on the horn.”
Wheeg, the translator gave a thumbs-up. She was already talking rapid-fire Polish into the telepathy sticker on the back of her hand. One of the first alien devices to find military application.
“Well that’s it then,” Donaldson said. “Nuñoz, break out the champagne. We get the rest of the day off, and then we’re back to watching the skies tomorrow.”
Nuñoz placed a fluted glass in Donaldson’s hand. “Cheers, sir.”
“Cheers.” Donaldson squeezed and the glass immediately frosted. Formerly tepid Brut sparkled.
“What’s that look?” Donaldson said, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing sir. It just feels” Nuñoz sipped from his self-cooling glass. “Bad?”
“Bad how? The aliens don’t respond to our communications. They don’t move or slow down. If one of those ships of theirs hits the earth, it would be a catastrophe worse than the one that killed the dinosaurs. And that’s assuming they don’t start vomiting alien death-soldiers. Even if they were the friendliest little green men in the universe, their diseases might still bring about the end of human civilization. This,” Donaldson passed a hand through the virtual workstation floating in the air in front of him, “is much safer.”
“For us, maybe.”
“Who else should we be worried about? Tell you what.” Donaldson downed his drink. “Next time you hit one, I’ll get you out on the ground searching for goodies that come out.”
