Troublesome Customer

by submission | Aug 11, 2007 | Story

Author : Jeremy M. Hall

“Welcome to Chrono-Real Estate-Advertising. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to buy from March 1, 1650 to March 30, 1650 for the entire city of Jamestown, Virgina.”

“Sir, we can’t do that.”

“I have a suitcase with several million dollars that says you can.”

“No, sir. We cannot do that. We do have a nice spot in upstate New York on August 30, 1921 that we have on sale. Upstate New York is a hot commodity in the Pre-Branding market.”

“No, ma’am. I want that time period for Jamestown.”

The gentleman opened the suitcase that he was carrying, showing off large stacks of hundred dollar bills.

“Listen sir, I’m sure you’re big in the Pre-Branding business, especially to carry that much cash in a briefcase, but there is no way we are going to let you buy any time period before the Nineteenth century, especially in an area that big. The Historical Protection Commission would be down our throats before we could even place your advertising, and they would be yanking our Time Equipment through our tonsils. In fact, there isn’t a reputable Time and Space Advertiser that would take your offer.”

“I can’t believe this crap. I have several million dollars cash, and you aren’t going to take it? And for what? Because of some government regulations. You people are-”

The receptionist’s phone rang and she picked it up.

“Yes, sir,” she said into the handset. “This is a TC level three. You have a B three million ready? OK, the code is alpha gamma omega beta. Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“What’s this?” the customer asked. “I heard three million there. Are they considering it?”

“Say hello to the dinosaurs,” the receptionist said, and then hit several keys on a small terminal. The customer had a shocked look on his face as a small pinhole appeared behind him, then sucked him in backwards. The last thing the receptionist saw of the man was his bulging eyes and the tips of his shoes. She looked at her watch, and then counted to five, at which point the customer returned the same way he’d left, except for the stain in the seat of his pants.

“I hope you enjoyed the T-rex greeting. If you continue to bother me, or any other employee of Chrono-Real Estate-Advertising, we will file for a Harassment Clause which would allow us to send you back to Mister T-Rex and let him finish the job. Do you understand?”

The customer only nodded, his face still frozen in fear, and with his briefcase clutched, white knuckled in one hand, he slowly backed out through the door.

The Prodigal

by submission | Aug 8, 2007 | Story

Author : Benjamin Fischer

“Have a seat, Jim,” said the General.

“Is this what I think it’s about, sir?” the Colonel asked, shutting the hatch behind him.

He sat down. Across from him, a LED nameplate proclaimed “Major General David Pietz USAF, Commander-in-Chief Colonial Expeditionary Force” on a broad, glass-covered aluminum desk. Behind it the General reclined in a plush leather chair halfway turned to face a bank of monitors behind him. Blown up to maximum magnification were the latest from the reconnaissance office–an impressive fleet of spaceships, moored like the petals of a flower around a long, cylindrical space station.

One of the ships was highlighted in red.

“Your thoughts?” asked the General.

The Colonel shook his head.

“Yeah, that’s her,” he said.

“The Charleston,” the General nodded. “Old Chucktown. Lost with all hands. Five years, six months, and two days ago.”

“You still keep track of that too?” the Colonel asked.

“Yes,” General Pietz said.

They sat in silence.

“Definitely, positively destroyed in a meteorite collision,” the Colonel finally said. “They found pieces, they found bodies. No doubt at all.” He was paraphrasing a report.

“And yet the Colonials seem to have repaired her,” the General responded.

The Colonel snorted.

The General sighed.

“OK, Jim, confession time,” General Pietz said. “I don’t know whether to be completely pissed or crying with joy.”

“Yeah, it took the wind out of me, too,” said the Colonel. “She could be alive.”

Pietz let out a sharp laugh and turned away from the telling images. He set his elbows upon his desk and leaned towards his guest.

“Oh, she most definitely is,” he said, his face half-smiling, half-grimacing. “My girl was always tougher than that. I knew a handful of damn buckshot couldn’t have killed Marissa.”

The Colonel swallowed.

“So that means?” he said.

“Yes. The god damn rumors,” said Pietz, “are apparently true.”

“Apparently,” agreed the Colonel.

“Well, here’s another one, for you to spread,” said the General. “Tomorrow, at twenty one hundred, we’re deploying. Our eventual objective will most likely be those facilities at Lagrange Two. And the fleet defending them.”

“Jesus,” said the Colonel.

“To say I am disappointed in the Security Council would be a gross understatement,” said Pietz.

“Jesus,” repeated the Colonel. “We’ll have to use nukes. There’s no other option.”

“Eventually, when our hands are untied, yes,” said the General. “And that’s why I called you in here.”

“Sir?” asked the Colonel.

“When Lieutenant Colonel Pietz and I last spoke,” the General said, “she was convinced that full independence was the only reasonable course for the Colonies. She told me that any sort of half-measure was an invitation to open, violent rebellion, and that she sympathized with secession. I disagreed. It was not a pleasant discussion.”

“Lord,” said the Colonel, his eyes wide. “She told you.”

“Almost,” said the General, shutting his. He snorted softly. Then:

“Jim, I’ve known you and you’ve known me for damn near two decades now, so listen to what I say very carefully now. This contest will be for control of mankind’s future. We can not lose. I say again, we can not lose. If at any point–if at any point you feel that I am holding back even the least bit-”

“You’re not the only one who misses Marissa,” the Colonel said.

The General opened his eyes, and they were cold.

“I expect everything up to and including the last full measure from everyone, myself included,” he said. “Marissa will be very hard to kill.”

It’s Pirate Season

by Patricia Stewart | Aug 6, 2007 | Story

Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer

The sound of a bugle woke me up. Damn, reveille. I hate that sound. I swore an oath to myself that I’d fix that one day. I unzip my “bunk” and float out. As I began to put on my uniform, I smiled again at the poster on the far wall. It was Elmer Fudd wearing a spacesuit holding a K-138 phaser rifle. The caption read, “”Shhhhhhhh, be vewy vewy quiet; I’m hunting Piewits, heheheheheheh.” That always cracks me up. I swear, if I capture a pirate one day and he pleads, “But it’s duck season,” I’ll probably let him go. I imagine that some of them are probably decent folk, just raiders trying to feed their families, who would flee rather that hurt someone. But I don’t kid myself; there are some really bad ones too. Sadistic bastards that kill helpless passengers, including women and children. I blast those guys first, and then ask if they wish to surrender.

Halfway through morning chow, the battle stations alarm sounded, followed by the commander’s voice, “Prepare for battle men, we have Morgan Bartholomew’s ship on our long range sensors. “Morgan Bartholomew,” I said to my mates, “he’s the worst of the lot. The captain won’t break off this pursuit, even if Bartholomew flies onto the sun’s corona. We’re going to have to board her too. They won’t let themselves be captured.”

“That’s fine by me,” said the Sergeant Dobson. “I’ll buy a case of Martian beer for the person that vaporized that scum. Let’s suit up men.”

We caught up to them midway between Uranus and Neptune. No place to hide out there, so they had to fight. We punched a dozen holes in her hull, but they kept fighting. Unfortunately, we couldn’t just blow them up. Bartholomew generally kept prisoners alive knowing that it would force hand-to-hand combat. So, we boarded her.

Fighting on a ship exposed to the vacuum of space was eerie. No sound, except the tactical information being transmitted to our headsets. Fighting was fierce, and we lost a half dozen good men, but we killed all the pirates, including Bartholomew himself. I made a mental note to become buddies with the trooper that bagged that bastard.

In the end, we rescued fifteen prisoners, mostly women. No doubt their lives had been hell. But they’re in the infirmary now, and at least they’ll recover physically. All in all, it was a good day to be a pirate hunter. We had a big celebration in the mess hall that evening. The captain even let us break out the contraband liquor that we weren’t supposed to have. After several hours of bragging and exaggerating about our heroic accomplishments, we toasted our fallen comrades another time, and headed to our quarters. Well, except for me, I had a final mission to complete before sacking out.

The following morning, the address system woke us up with Herb Alpert’s Brasilia. Much better, I thought.

If I Could Do It Again

by Sam Clough | Aug 1, 2007 | Story

Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer

…I’d do all the same things. Just faster.

There’s so much to see, so much to do. When I stop and think of how much time I’ve wasted – sleeping, procrastinating, unemployed and misemployed, it makes me want to cry. There are all the things I’ve seen that I’d kill to see again, and all the things I’ve heard about but never had the time to see at all. The key is speed. Don’t waste any time.

The chainstars. I absolutely have to see them. I hear that they’re an incredible sight – three distinct toroidal suns, interlinked and whipping around each other with blinding speed, photospheres bleeding across the gaps. We don’t know why they hold together but it’s just amazing to look at. And then, after that, the Medr breeding grounds. It’s in the same sector. I’ve seen a vid of them: amazing creatures. Two klicks long, with eight-hundred metre sails. Smart as sin, they are. Rumour has it that some of them use humans and antifearac as symbiotes. Weird, I know, but I would like to see if I could speak with one of those symbiotes.

Oh, oh – after that, Earth! The skyhooks and the orbital – miracles of engineering, both. And the space fountain. Antarctica’s rolling hills have been green ever since they set up the eye to bounce sunlight round there. The fountain must be a sight – almost invisible tethers, the entire apparatus puncturing the atmosphere and staying up purely on the energy of the projectiles sent streaming up full of cargo and passengers. And on Earth, too – the pacific cities. Got to see them. Maybe fly over, spend a few days. See what it feels like to be outstripped by the pace of cultural change: those floating metropolises are apparently unrecognizable from one day to the next. But I’d have to keep moving. You can’t relax when there’s so much to see! You’ve got to go faster, keep up a blistering pace. Just to stay in the human race, you’ve got to go so quick.

After the pacific cities, I’d go to the Kupier belt outside cygni-two-alpha. There’s big, big freedead enclaves out there. Utilitarian bodies driven by people centuries dead, hacking minerals from the rock. Their spidery habitats, strung between rocks, they’re meant to be so beautiful. They have culture unlike anything the living could conceive of. It’s unique and incredible and I want to immerse myself in it. Out there, in hard vacuum, there’s life so visceral you can almost breath it.

Now, am I making haste, or could it be that haste is making me?

No time to worry. Just accelerate.

Then Calypso! Calypso, oh that would be sweet. Paradise planet, like Santa Vincente, but with fewer beasties. There’s an appeal to grabbing a rokkit launcher and hunting big things with teeth, but Calypso, you just don’t care anymore. Most of the pollens are narcotics: great for export. But skydiving in those purple skies, that’s something you need to do.

But my time’s up. Life has caught up with me – and boy, is it pissed. The resurrection machines only work the first three or four times: I’ve had five. The doks said I was lucky as anything to get that last one. It’s been almost three hundred years.

But there’s so much left to do, it can’t stop here..