by submission | Sep 8, 2010 | Story
Author : Geoff Revere
“I’m resigning. That’s it. I’m done!” Doctor Holmes spouted, pacing back and forth before the commandant’s desk, his hands shaking. “The boy was eighteen Michael, eighteen!”
“You’re referring to Private Loman?” the commandant asked.
“You know damn well who I’m referring to!” Holmes spat, clearly forgetting to whom he was speaking. “How could you let this happen? There were supposed to be rules, protocols! This is unacceptable!” With a gentle hum, automated climate controls lowered the temperature and humidity in the room, doing nothing to cool the doctor’s temper.
“Unacceptable? The boy understood the risk. He knew about the food shortage experiment before he allowed himself to be plugged into the Hive. Can we be blamed if it was him the collective chose to sacrifice?”
“Sacrifice? You call what they did to him sacrifice?”
“THEY didn’t do anything to him. The Hive is one mind. Every action and decision is checked and approved by the collective. In a very real sense, Loman chose this for himself, for the good of the Hive.”
“I refuse to believe that. He could never have chosen this. Did you read his file? Did you even talk to the boy before you plugged him in? He was the only candidate, the only person who ever really wanted to be part of the Hive. He actually thought the collective consciousness was a desirable way to live. No arguments. No conflict. I tried to explain the uncertainties, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care that we’ve never proven if the Hive makes decisions based on unanimity or majority rule!”
The commandant eyed Holmes coldly. That was the crux of his argument, then. Was the boy for or against the decision to sacrifice members of the Hive? True, they couldn’t prove how the hive mind really worked. The technology had been stumbled upon by a start-up networking company and quickly snatched by the government. It was just as likely the boy had been murdered as he had been a willing volunteer.
“Say something,” Holmes demanded.
The man behind the desk sneered. “The Hive is the future of the military. They work as one, coordinating effortlessly. Exacting. Efficient. Sacrificing a soldier was the best choice, strategically, in that situation. The only question was whether the Hive would do what was moral or what was best. Now we know.”
The commandant hadn’t addressed the chief concern. Seconds ticked by. The climate controls lowered the temperature another few degrees. Realizing he would never get the concession he wanted, the doctor finally sat down.
“They didn’t just let the boy starve, you know,” Holmes sighed, his head in his hands.
“Your resignation is noted in my logs.”
“They could have at least shot him. But I suppose that would have been a waste of ammunition, right?”
“You understand you can never talk to anyone about this project. To do so would be to forfeit your freedom, as per your contract.”
“Did you know what they would do? Did any of the other behavioral specialists predict this outcome?”
“I expect your office to cleared by the end of the day. You’ll receive reassignment orders in a few weeks. You’re dismissed.”
Holmes looked up into the commandant’s eyes, half expecting some show of pity or remorse. He was met instead by the harsh blackness of years of military service. Exacting. Efficient. He would find no sympathy here. At last the doctor stood to leave.
“They ate him, Michael. They fucking ate him. And when it gets out, it’ll be on your head, not mine.”
by Duncan Shields | Sep 7, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Here’s one example of how the aliens failed to understand humans.
We’d become part of the galactic alliance and were paired up with a species roughly analogous to our own. They were bipedal, around the same level of technological advancement, warlike but aware of the value of peace, and breathed our type of air. It was a cultural exchange. Civilians that volunteered were screened and cleared to accept an alien guest in their homes.
The military doesn’t ask for volunteers. We were assigned.
I was an air force pilot. Jackson Chalmers. My nickname was Frosted Tips or Frosty for short. I was from California and I had blond highlights in my hair when I joined the force. The other pilots thought the blond streaks were hilarious and while the frosted tips were gone in days, the nickname stuck. I carried a postcard around with me from my ex-wife for luck. The postcard reminded me that I had nothing to lose anymore and could fully give myself over to aerial engagements without fear of death.
I explained to the alien assigned to me that pilots were usually given nicknames and carried lucky charms to help them. I told him that the names helped camaraderie and that the charms gave us hope or focus during battle. Bonds and superstition can win a war, I told him. The alien was silent, thanked me, and returned to his base.
He came bounding back to me like an excited pet six hours later and told me that his nickname was Generator Flowerpot Tropical Premium and he showed me the fork that he’d taken from the mess hall and told me that it was his lucky charm.
I thought it was hilarious. I laughed and laughed. Sweating and clicking like they aliens did when they were happy, he went back to his barracks to tell his fellow soldiers.
Now all the aliens have four-word random nicknames and carry whatever they saw first as a lucky charm. They don’t truly understand sentimental value. I’ve seen socks, bootlaces, chalk, gravel, and on one occasion, cheese.
Even when I tried to explain to him that he’d got it wrong, he didn’t care. He said it was helping a great deal.
So now I’m flying a four-seater with my friend Generator Flowerpot Tropical Premium and his two friends Ticket Lamp Helmet Cooler and Batwing Christmas Cartridge Storm. Hanging around Ticket Lamp’s neck is a flattened coke can and Cartridge Storm is carrying a rubber wedge in his pocket. Generator Flowerpot’s fork is bent around his wrist like a bracelet.
I have to admit it. It worked. They didn’t get it wrong at all. I like them more and it’s helped us become a team. I’ll fight to the death to protect them.
Also, I don’t carry the postcard anymore. I carry a paperclip now. It was the first thing I saw on the desk beside the waste paper basket when I threw out the postcard. It feels way better.
by submission | Sep 5, 2010 | Story
Author : Clint Wilson
After eight long years in his lush prison Martin finally woke up one day to something new.
A woman for god sake, the bugheads had actually brought him a woman! She wasn’t exactly sexy by his old standards, short cropped hair and quite plain looking, but after this long without setting eyes on another human being she was the best damn thing he had ever seen.
She cowered on the floor beside one of the sofas near the outer window, hugging a cushion to her body. He hopped down off the bed and moved toward her, “Hello,” he said.
She made a startled sound and looked at him as if she had just noticed him there for the first time. Her voice came out weak and shaky, “Who… who are you? What is this place?”
“You don’t remember much do you hon? It’s okay; I remember when the bugheads first grabbed me. It was, and still is the most traumatic thing I’ve ever experienced. And the sad thing is, we aint ever getting out of here.” Martin ventured a little closer to her but she instinctively pulled back as close to the wall as she could. “It’s not all that horrible you know. We’re pretty well cared for.”
She continued to peer at him from behind the cushion, eyes wide and darting. He held out a reassuring hand. “Stand up, look out the window behind you.”
She hesitated for nearly a minute but he waited patiently, his outstretched hand never wavering. And then finally she tentatively got to her feet, refusing his hand, and turned around.
Together they looked out at the bughead home world. They were over a hundred stories in the air and had a fantastic view of lush green swamps stretching to the horizon where an orange sun was creeping up into an early morning sky.
After a time she finally allowed him to show her around the posh accommodations their alien captors had provided. “The best I can figure is we have about ten thousand square feet of living space here, including the gymnasium and swimming pool upstairs. The bugheads haven’t forgotten anything as far as comforts go.”
“But why? Why have they brought us here?”
“Come on,” he said as he led her to the inner window.
There they looked out into the shaft and it was evident to the frightened, bewildered woman that this massive building was a circular tower with a hollow center. And the inside was lined, as far up and down as could be seen, with windows like the one they were now looking through. Then she gasped as she realized what was behind all those other windows.
Martin pointed at a group of green slouching bipeds a couple stories up, “I call those guys the lizard gang.” Then referring to a pair of large, horned, red quadrupeds directly across from them he said, “Morning Mr. and Mrs. Buffalo.” Then he continued for some time to tell her his own pet names for creatures and beasts of nearly unlimited design and description. And as he said, “That fellow down there? I just call him Mr. Ugly,” She suddenly grabbed him and spun him toward her. “We’re part of a fucking zoo?”
“Zoo, collection, call it what you want. At any rate,” he hesitated, sizing her up for a second, “I guess they thought I needed a mate.”
“Sorry,” she said pulling back firmly. “They should have done their research a little better.”
And he suddenly knew exactly what she was going to say next.
“I’m gay.”
by submission | Sep 4, 2010 | Story
Author : Milo James Fowler
The cattle car filled to capacity rattles slowly down its elevator shaft, squealing through a black punctuated only by intermittent amber bulbs casting a wash of rust across steel bars and the small faces between. Eyes blink, unaccustomed to the dark; tight fists rub away sleep. Full of questions, they remain silent for now, carried deep into the bowels of the earth.
Far above them, the world’s nuclear foreplay heaves toward an inexorable climax that will leave nothing in its wake. Nation has risen up against nation, blindly arrogant and afraid — a dangerous emotional cocktail when survival instincts run high and missile launch codes are recited from memory, chanted as fervently as prayers.
“Where are we going?” a boy whispers, clasping tightly to the hand beside him.
“Be quiet.” The girl squeezes his hand and presses her forehead against his temple in the dark.
Strangers, the pair of them, like all of the others crammed into this cold steel basket. In any other situation, they would have done everything in their power to avoid this close proximity. But here, in the otherworldly unknown, they have temporarily forgotten the taboos of their preteen surface life. They find comfort through touch, skin against skin.
“They want us to be quiet,” she breathes into his ear, and only he hears it. He nods once.
There are four of Them, one stationed at each corner of the mesh screen platform beneath their feet. They wear white coats and carry clipboards. They could be scientists or doctors. They stare at the children between them and don’t utter a word. Government officials, someone said as they were herded into the car. Representatives of the United World.
The shaft quakes without warning, rumbling above. Tremors travel downward, and the car jerks side to side, screeching against concrete. The cables hold. Short cries and murmurs arise among the startled children as they regain their footing. The scientists, grasping the steel bars at their sides, recover their composure. For a moment, they looked unnerved as well.
The boy faces the girl in the confusion. “What’s happening up there?”
“Bombs. War. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I was asleep.”
“We all were. They took us in the night. In vans. And they brought us here.”
“War?” he frowns. “But the world’s been at peace for years and years. The United World — ”
The scientists demand silence, even as another quake rumbles downward. They reassure the children and explain how safe they are here, that soon they will reach the bunker below and there will be all sorts of fun toys and games for them to play and more food and drink — candy, even — than they could ever imagine.
“Why us?” the boy asks her.
She almost smiles. “We’re special. Didn’t you take the tests?”
“They never told me my score.”
“I think you passed.”
They all did. These are the world’s best and brightest, their only hope for the future. One day, when the ash clears and the nuclear winters have passed, these children will rise up from the depths of the earth as adults to reclaim the sterile wasteland left by their parents. They will be fruitful and multiply — if they can.
“How will we live down here?” he asks.
“Together,” she says.
by submission | Sep 3, 2010 | Story
Author : Brendan Garbee
My ex-husband shows up on my doorstep on a blustery day in the middle of a sunshower, and he puts his hands in his pockets and sways in a way that tells me he’s a little bit drunk. He smiles at me sheepishly and says, “I heard you didn’t live here anymore. But I guess I knew you’d be here, anyway.”
Fourteen years ago, a Black Hole opened in outer space and everyone started getting younger instead of older. Scientists say that time is getting pulled into reverse by the Black Hole’s gravity. I don’t know about all that, but last year the subdivision where I was living fell apart. The plot of land turned back into an abandoned stone quarry. My ex-husband and I separated 32 years ago, I sold this little house back then and moved away and now I’m 78, I’m physically 46 and I’m living somewhere I never thought I’d be again.
I offer him a seat on the porch, and go inside to fix us some drinks. When I come back out, he’s got his boots up on the banister just like he would have had them when this was his porch, and you can see in his face that he’s thinking about that. He hands me a cigarette.
“You quit years ago,” I protest as he holds the light for me.
“I smoke all I want, and each morning I’ve got healthier lungs than the day before.” He says. “Why not smoke?”
I shake my head. “They’re gonna fix this someday and time’ll go forward again.”
And he grunts and says, “No they won’t.”
He tells me that his niece has gotten so young that she’s in the hospital. “We’re all gonna turn back to zygotes someday. And in another couple million years the solar system will fall into the Hole and that’ll be that.”
“Jesus Christ,” I sigh. “I hope you don’t act that way when we lose our children.”
Distracted, he frowns. “I’m sure I won’t.”
He’s restless, tapping his foot in a way that would have irritated me the last time I was 46. “I quit drinking, you know. Completely quit. I was going to church, really trying to get my life in order. And I stuck with it after the Black Hole.” He sighs. “A few months back, I just stopped giving a damn. I don’t know why.” He grinds his teeth a little. “I tell myself I’m still an 80 year old man. I don’t have to go through all the bad stuff again,” he says, and I think that it sounds like he’s asking a question. I don’t have any answers for him, if he is.
I hug my knees to my chest. “When I got a job offer back here in town, I was astonished. When this old house showed up for rent, I was mortified. I didn’t even consider taking the place until a few months ago. Partly for fear that you’d be here.”
He smiles. “What changed your mind?”
I scoff. “I didn’t change my mind about you, buster.” Then I sigh and stretch my legs out in front of me and I’m quiet for a little while. “You remember that day we went out on Marty Larmine’s sailboat? Molly and him were still together then, and Randy and Cheryl were there. Our kids were just babies.” We glance at each other and then both turn away quick, shy like teenagers.
“I’d like to do that again,” I say after a minute, sighing. And we sit there on the porch watching the puddles collect in the street and ripple and then send their raindrops hurtling upwards into the billowing heavens.
