by Patricia Stewart | Feb 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The two Capellians had traveled over 40 light years to collect a breeding pair of humans for the University of Xenobiology, on Capella Prime. During the trip, they also diligently recorded the various transmissions emanating from Earth in order to provide their scholars with as much cultural information about Earthmen as possible.
Satisfied that his trap was properly set, Ler’th returned to the spaceship and said, “As they say here on Earth, I am ‘clever as a coyote’, yes?”
“I believe the phrase is ‘clever as a fox’,” corrected Sefal’l. “Coyotes are stupid animals. Remember, they are the predators that are constantly being run over by ground transportation vehicles, or falling off of cliffs.”
Before Ler’th could reply, the trap alarm sounded. “Wow, that was fast,” he said as he glanced at the monitor. “We snagged one large one and one smaller one. Looks like this will be a quick trip.”
“Not so fast Ler’th. We need to make sure we have a male and female.” The Capellians left their camouflaged ship and approached the trap. “Earth humans,” asked Sefal’l, “are you a breeding couple?”
“Hell no,” snapped the slightly inebriated adult. “This is my son, Billy-Bob. We’s out here on a huntin’ trip. Looks like we got caught in y’alls snare. How’s about letting us out?”
“Not likely, human. We must take at least one of you back to our planet, along with a female.”
“What’s that? A woman you say?” inquired the now interested adult.
“Yes. And, as well as our trap appears to be working, we may be able to capture whoever you want? Would you prefer, Mary Ann Summers, Ginger Grant, Jeannie Nelson, or Mindy McConnell?”
“Holy crap,” belched the old man. “Them’s old television characters. I reckon that they must be a hundred years old by now. I ain’t agoin’ on no trip with them. Now let us out of here, or I’ll blast ya.” He waved his twelve gage threateningly.
“Don’t be absurd, human. We know how to make your projectile weapons useless.” Ler’th extended a finger and stuck it into the end of the barrel.
“Dad, don’t shoot,” pleaded the teenager. “Let me try something.” He held up his cell phone. “Listen, you scum bags, my weapon contains corbomite. You either let us out, or I’ll blow you to pieces.”
“Ooooh, noooo, not corbomite,” mocked Ler’th. “You mean the stuff Captain Kirk said would destroy the Fesarius ship. That was a bluff. See, we know more about your treachery than you think earthmen. Perhaps we should just destroy you both, and collect two new samples.”
“Don’t fret, son,” said the father as he pulled a stainless steel flask out of his back pocket. “I didn’t want to use this, but these aliens leave me no choice.”
“Hah. Look Sefal’l, he’s got a pretend phaser. Or maybe it’s a light saber, eh?” Both aliens began to make a cackling noise, which presumably, was laughter.
“Nope, my friends,” slurred the old man. “This here is an Illudium Pew-36 Explosive Space Modulator.”
Instantly, the Capellians became silent. “Whoa, hold on there Mister Earthman. There’s no need to overreact. We were just having a little fun. Look, we’re opening the trap. There, see, you’re free to go. No hard feelings.” The two aliens began backing up toward their spaceship. When they got close, they darted inside. A few seconds later, the spaceship was a distant black dot in the clear blue sky.”
The old man took a swig from the flask and smiled. “Damn aliens. Let’s go home, son. I can’t wait to tell your ma that I weren’t wastin’ my time watchin’ them cartoons after all.”
by submission | Feb 21, 2010 | Story
Author : Jeff Kirchoff
A few short keystrokes and the room sprung to life, bare, the walls black yet glowing with the subtle aura of electrical potential. Rico strolled to the center of the small space and looked at the crumpled paper clutched in his left hand with a sigh.
He spoke aloud to the empty room, “Cara, is everything ready?”
“Yes, loading is currently in progress.” The mechanical sound of the ship’s AI buzzed from the walls in response, mechanical and staccato in a vaguely feminine way, “Welcome back Chief. Should I run the program now?”
“Light it up.”
“Roger.”
The walls of the room flickered with static then snapped into focus, like an ancient television adjusting itself after a sharp thump. Where moments ago there was only blackness now contained an impressive springtime reproduction of a tall, shady tree surrounded by a secluded meadow. Wispy white clouds materialized in the sky, floating lazily overhead as wildflowers sprung up around Rico’s feet, growing a month’s time in an instant and spreading the pleasant smell of nature, subtle and earthy. He took in a deep breath and sighed.
Beneath the tree’s canopy a small ironwork table flickered into existence, followed quickly by two complementary chairs. Knowing what came next, Rico began to walk toward the tree and took a seat. Elbows on the table, he gazed at the empty chair opposite him, trying not to close his eyes.
He blinked. In the span of an instant a pale, dainty woman appeared before his eyes. Her long chestnut hair wafted in the gentle breeze, her blue jumpsuit ruffled almost imperceptibly.
“Kenna.”
She stifled a giggle, “I wish you would stop having a staring contest with the computer every time we do this, you know it waits to make huge changes until your eyes are closed.”
Rico cracked a grin, “Right. So how have you been?”
“Great! I got hired into Mars, just like you suggested.”
“Well, I put a word in.”
Kenna twirled a finger through her hair, “I appreciate it. Everyone is so nice here, all the red is kind of hard to get used to though. How’s your run going?”
“Same as always.” He frowned, “You know how hauling cargo can get.”
Her face turned serious and her voice badly mimicked his, “It’s a lonely job but someone has to do it!”
Rico gave her a playful shove, “Cut it out.”
“I wonder how you put up with it.”
“Well, this room certainly helps, how realistic it is.”
“Oh, of course.” A smile spread across her face, “So, what did you want to do today Ricky?”
“Nothing…” He abruptly grabbed Kenna’s hand,” I just wanted to sit here with you for a while.”
She smiled, “Whatever you want, love.”
The allotted time for the meeting passed and Rico sadly said his goodbyes, promising to meet again soon. As the room blackened and he stepped through the door into the cockpit of his hauler he looked again at the crumpled paper in his hand that he had been clutching the entire visit. He smoothed it out and stared at it while he sat back down at the helm, picturing himself receiving the printed letter from the post at his last stop, months ago.
Dear Rico,
I’m sorry that you had to find out this way but
we’ve been growing apart for so long and
I had to move on with my life, I hope that
you-–
He couldn’t bear to read any further.
“Cara.”
The ship droned, “Yes Chief?”
“I can’t do this anymore, delete the VR program I’ve been running.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 19, 2010 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Levon leaned against the shower tube, letting the jets of water assail his body from all sides. As the sweat of the previous night’s activities rinsed away, the more subtle indicators of his exertions seeped in. Both his head and kidneys ached from the soup of chemicals he’d drank, sniffed and injected with the woman now sleeping naked in the next room.
Warnings pulsing dimly in his periphery reminded him that his kidney augments were still on standby, sifting and analyzing the foreign bodies in his bloodstream. An amber warning flashed, the proximity alarm on his equipment locker had been triggered. His company was awake, the message flashing red as she tried the door.
Levon flipped through and discarded most of the blood-work findings; street grade meth, cocaine and a too high level of alcohol, but the last one stopped him cold. A battery of tranquilizers had been automatically disarmed, all bearing Federated P.D. chem tags.
“Shit. She’s a cop.”
In an instant water droplets were evaporating in a jet of warm air and kidney grafts went into overdrive, flushing his system clean and pumping in Epinephrine.
Exiting the shower he could hear the woman padding around the bedroom, his sub-dermal grid-work of sensory pickups and Faraday shielding twinging as a transmitter narrow-banded a short range encoded transmission. Not only was she a cop, but she had a partner nearby.
Opening the door he found her perched on the end of the bed, tanned shoulders and arms exposed above the bedsheet she’d drawn around herself.
“Hey baby, look at you,” her words slurred together into a sound like a sneeze.
“Hey,” Levon moved to the closet, the auto-bolts retracting as he reached for the handle, “back in a sec.” He slipped through the door, closing and letting it lock securely behind him.
He’d converted the walk-in to a safe room when he’d started renting the sixth floor apartment. The low level lighting reflected dimly back at him from the kevmesh that coated the inside of the cramped space, uneven thicknesses of the dark green ultraweeve armor pooled on the floor where it had run as he’d sprayed the layers on.
He could feel a mass of people thundering up the stairwell at the end of the hall.
He pulled on overalls and a jacket and jammed his feet into a pair of Magnum Ions. Overturning a crate in the middle of the room he slung his shoulder holster and perched in a squat on the box like a bird, face down to his knees. He thumbed the release tabs on two canisters glued into the floor on either side of him and covered his face with his hands. The canisters ticked a few seconds before geysering upwards, thick jets of liquid spattering off the ceiling, foaming and filling the space, securing his hunched form in a bubble of packing foam.
He felt his cocoon shake, knowing that his bathroom had just been blown out the side of the building. A second set of explosions tipped his pod sideways, and Levon braced himself as a final eruption jettisoned the entire closet shell out the newly formed hole in the building, launching it through the window of the much nicer lofts across the street.
Levon had barely stopped moving before he blew the cocoon seals and stood up, the force separating the two halves neatly, leaving a man shaped impression in each.
Stepping through the broken glass and window frame, he surveyed the damage outside, his apartment now just a jagged tear in the brick facade of the building. Below, his shower poked out the side of a cargo van, vaguely phallic in a glittering mess of LED advertising and shredded metal.
Turning, Levon faced a startled couple sitting up in bed. Stepping past them, he helped himself to a piece of toast and a slice of bacon from the breakfast tray forgotten at their feet.
“Don’t get up,” he grinned, “I’ll see myself out.”
by submission | Feb 10, 2010 | Story
Author : Sean Wallace
“Now, we all look forward to entering the Archangel when we retire, but what about those people who go there before then? Constance Vyke reports on the people who keep Archangel running…”
Constance, pretty in a thin, blonde sort of way, starts her report through a practiced smile. “Thank you Milo. The Archangel Station, owned and run by the UN, has been running for almost thirty years; taking us in when we become elderly and giving us a life of pleasure and joy in our most fragile years. Not everyone who comes here does so for the Grace Chambers though. I’m here with Nigel Howard, Chief Engineer for the Archangel and he is, as you can see, a great deal younger than 65.”
Nigel offers a small smile, slightly confused. “Hello there Constance.”
“First of all, I’m certain our viewers would like to know how you can cope with being so close to the Grace Chambers?”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said it isn’t tempting, but thankfully you need specific implants to be able to join the residents; implants stored and inserted planetside. So there’s no way for me, or anyone else here, to ‘dip in’.”
“But how can you cope with it? Bliss and joy happening so close to you and you cannot take part in it… even I’m feeling the pull, and I’ve only been here a few days.”
“Firstly, if you work on the Archangel you get to retire five years early. Plus, without people like us, no-one would be able to enter Gracie…”
“Gracie? Is that what you call them?”
“Oops, sorry.” Nigel wipes his hand down his eyes and coughs. “Yeah, it’s the nickname we gave the Intethlon Quantum Core GC20. It’s a lot less of a mouthful. But yeah, we do an important job, maybe the most important job there is, so you get a lot of satisfaction out of it.” The increased numbers of suicides and high level of substance abuse went unmentioned, especially after Head Office had some serious words with him about ‘appropriate responses’.
“Anyway,” Constance says, slight annoyance peeking through her media-friendly tones, “what’s a typical day like up here? What do you do every day?”
“Well, we don’t work every day Constance. But for me, a typical day involves nothing more than your usual space station Chief Engineer; I read reports, ensure the tech is all in working order, manage the new arrivals and deliveries…”
“And it’s really not difficult to see hundreds of people enter the Grace Chambers, Gracie?”
“Really, it’s not a problem.” Nigel coughs and balls his fists. “… but anyway, we get everyone in, give them the introduction and then fit them into the chambers for their new life. Then we send back any deceased for planetside burial and ensure that the next day’s work is prepared. That’s about it; as I said, nothing more than the typical station.”
“Alright then, Nigel, just before I go I’d like to ask what the first thing you’re going to do after you retire is?”
Having thought long and hard about this over the decades he’d worked on the Archangel, the truth sprang to answer the question itself; “I’m going to Solar-sail to Mars.”
“Thank you very much for your time Nigel.” Constance turns back to the camera. “There you are viewers, normal people doing amazing work up here in the Heavens. For MSN-BBC, I’m Constance Vyke.”
“Constance Vyke there. We’ll see you after these messages…”
by Duncan Shields | Feb 5, 2010 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I got pretty good at morse code after a while.
My co-pilot had a beak. The only way we could figure out how to communicate was if he clicked his beak at me in morse code. He was a pretty impatient dude so he did it really fast. He was wired to the eyeballs with Hexamex for the course changes that might be needed. Being that sped up and prepared for a possibility that might not happen isn’t any kind of fun. Makes a person a little high strung.
The only time he was verbose was when he was making up curses. He didn’t get the abstract notions of my human swear words but he understood actions and verbs so it was fun to hear him be creative when he was telling me off.
One memorable time he told me that my mother enjoyed having sex with hyenas because at least when they laughed at her, she didn’t have to take it as an insult. He also insinuated that my hyena father was where I got my annoying laugh, my short legs, and my hunger for dead animal meat. His race was herbivorous.
He was an Aereacoltra, a flying bird man. He would still be a flying bird man except for the fact that his wings were torn off as part of a prison sentence. He lost an eye in that prison as well during a scuffle over living quarters. Now he’s just a dude with a beak and an eyepatch.
He told me that an antigravity harness is nothing compared to banking and wheeling in a silent sky on a huge pair of wings. That’s the longest thing he told me other than the cursing.
His name was a series of chirps and whistles but I ended up just calling him Stan. Sometimes he hummed to himself as he scanned the instruments for possible pursuit. He sounded like he was gargling marbles but it was oddly musical and whispery.
The irony of the fact that he was a pilot who used to be able to fly wasn’t lost on him. In fact, he took off one of my fingers with that beak of his when I pointed it out.
What’s freaking me out now is that he’s locked himself in his quarters and he hasn’t come out for six days. There’s only so much I can do by myself at the controls before I need some down time. The autopilot’s an emergency measure and we really can’t take the risk of having no one at the wheel, not in this asteroid-laden sector.
“Stan! Get out here! Now!” I pounded and yelled at his door.
Softly, I could hear scrabbling behind the door and then the clicking of the lock. The door swooshed open and there was Stan. He looked exhausted.
“What the hell, Stan? What’s going on! It’s been six days!” I screamed at him.
Stan stepped to the side. Behind him were four eggs. Stan looked at me apologetically.
‘Quadruplets’, he clicked at me with his beak. ‘I guess the condom must have broke at that last space port’
Open-mouthed, I looked from Stan to the eggs and back to Stan again. We weren’t due to dock for another eight months. Stan looked ashamed.
“So should I start calling you Stella instead of Stan?” I asked.
It’s hard to tell when someone with a beak is smiling.
