by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
My world is Kayden, and it is orbited by a plethora of satellites with deadly defensive natures that all look really pretty from the ground. In higher orbit, space stations and roving warships patrol like sharks at idle. No ship matches it’s fellows in anything bar a small, radiant ‘K’ sent into a single panel. It’s about the size of a human child’s handprint, and that’s deliberate, because it’s the same size as his handprint.
Kayden was born into a prosperous merchant family and was expected to eventually fulfil some minor role, being fourth son. He lived six years of privilege before the family fortunes took a tumble at the hands of greedy investors. It’s a tale told so many times since man left Earth, and identical in many ways to all the others. Except for the details. The particular detail that changed this universe was Kayden being sold by his mother. He brought in a lot of money. He was told it was his purpose, that he had done well. He smiled through the tears as his new owners closed the door.
What happened to Kayden in the intervening three years can only be suspected. When Vealoris, my great-grandfather, found him, he was vomiting parts of himself into the dust of the partially-terraformed planet that would eventually bear his name. Grandfather noted that he eased Kayden’s hurts as best he could, but the damage was too much for the wasted body. Barely three months after Nursery Guardian Vealoris found him again, Kayden went on to a place where children could never be chattels.
That is why grandfather bought this world. He specified the last terraforming stages, the fauna levels and hazard distribution. Then he started rescuing children. After a while, he extended that to unwanted companion fauna as well. He said that while this place existed, no child would be without a place to be safe and loved, among those who would understand without question. All that on a world that is best described as paradise. You can sleep under the stars for most of the year. Nothing native is dangerous to the waifs and strays from a galaxy of civilisations with ancient, common problems.
Some of those first generation rescues stayed on. Some went to the stars. A few made fortunes. That trend continued in the second generation, and so on. And it all comes back to Kayden.
Slavers and orbital pimps fear K-ships. Their crews are motivated in ways that nothing can deter. Former adoptees of Kayden can call on K-ships too. It makes their businesses damn-near bandit proof.
But there’s no empire building going on. We are a single, resilient network dedicated to a simple, too-often-neglected purpose. That is more than enough.
by submission | Aug 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Izabella Grace
Inside the smoky crystal, everything glows. I hang suspended in sunlight and tiny bubbles, like a fly trapped in amber. I scream for Mum or Tyler, but the crystal’s hum swallows my voice, like it swallowed me. My pale skin glows orange as the sunrise over their jagged, glass mountains. My ragged breaths whistle like the hot wind over their white deserts.
The Great Library’s twisted spire flashes into my mind. It glitters black as night and beckons like an outstretched finger. I try to resist its pull, like in my dreams, where I haunted its echoing, musty halls, where I studied dusty shelf after dusty shelf crammed with species-filled crystals.
A pulse beats, thrumming like an electronic drum. The crystal jolts and floats upwards, away from my scratched pine desk. It quivers, dipping beneath the purple lampshade, and buzzing louder than a wasp over my English Lit essay and chewed biro. Abduction hurts. It grinds you down, like a pestle grinds salt, and steals your flavour.
My bedroom door creaks ajar. Tyler’s Black-Jack-stained mouth drops open.
“In here!” I yell. “I’m in here!”
But he just stares at the hovering shard.
“Don’t stand there, Ty. Go tell Mum. Get a hammer. Do something.”
I punch and kick at the honeycomb walls, but my flesh peels and swirls like snowflakes. Tyler swipes a pudgy fist at the drifting crystal and misses. He climbs onto the bed and swipes again, his small fingers brushing the shard’s outer edge. He yelps, jumps back, his chocolate brown eyes widening in surprise. Then he bursts into tears.
Footsteps rush up the stairs. Mum stops in the doorway, her round face turning pale as milk.
“Oh, God, Hannah,” she says. “I told you to throw that thing away.”
The crystal glides across my cluttered bedroom, crashes through the bay window and rises up over our grimy north London street. People point and scream, and armed soldiers try to catch us, but the shards buzz louder. The hum slams into heads and scrambles brains. Bodies topple in waves like dominoes.
Wintry sky wraps around me. It glints like a tropical sea, filled with sparkling fishes: creatures, like me, made of black rock and flecked orange-gold. We should’ve guessed they weren’t ships. We should’ve known they didn’t break up in our atmosphere by accident. We should’ve realised they were weapons. Grenades. Each glittering shard a potential trophy, catalogued and stored on a dusty shelf.
The afternoon trembles with silent screams. Then two helicopters rise up over dark rooftops, blades thudding, huge nets spilling from their underbellies. I shriek and wave. “Up here! Up here!” But they dip below me, scooping up dazzling shards, like whales feasting on plankton. The air thickens with cloud and confusion. I twist and turn, desperate to find the nets again, but fog hides everything.
The cloud cracks like an egg, and the sun’s glare hurts my eyes. I swipe away hot tears and scan the empty horizon. Beneath my bare feet, the grey cloud boils like thick soup and spits out another shard, which wobbles and dances like a honeybee. Inside it, a shadow shifts, too dark and blurry to make out any features. I fix my gaze on it.
Our crystals hum their intoxicating song and sail higher.
We soar out into open space.
by submission | Aug 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Izabella Grace
Inside the smoky crystal, everything glows. I hang suspended in sunlight and tiny bubbles, like a fly trapped in amber. I scream for Mum or Tyler, but the crystal’s hum swallows my voice, like it swallowed me. My pale skin glows orange as the sunrise over their jagged, glass mountains. My ragged breaths whistle like the hot wind over their white deserts.
The Great Library’s twisted spire flashes into my mind. It glitters black as night and beckons like an outstretched finger. I try to resist its pull, like in my dreams, where I haunted its echoing, musty halls, where I studied dusty shelf after dusty shelf crammed with species-filled crystals.
A pulse beats, thrumming like an electronic drum. The crystal jolts and floats upwards, away from my scratched pine desk. It quivers, dipping beneath the purple lampshade, and buzzing louder than a wasp over my English Lit essay and chewed biro. Abduction hurts. It grinds you down, like a pestle grinds salt, and steals your flavour.
My bedroom door creaks ajar. Tyler’s Black-Jack-stained mouth drops open.
“In here!” I yell. “I’m in here!”
But he just stares at the hovering shard.
“Don’t stand there, Ty. Go tell Mum. Get a hammer. Do something.”
I punch and kick at the honeycomb walls, but my flesh peels and swirls like snowflakes. Tyler swipes a pudgy fist at the drifting crystal and misses. He climbs onto the bed and swipes again, his small fingers brushing the shard’s outer edge. He yelps, jumps back, his chocolate brown eyes widening in surprise. Then he bursts into tears.
Footsteps rush up the stairs. Mum stops in the doorway, her round face turning pale as milk.
“Oh, God, Hannah,” she says. “I told you to throw that thing away.”
The crystal glides across my cluttered bedroom, crashes through the bay window and rises up over our grimy north London street. People point and scream, and armed soldiers try to catch us, but the shards buzz louder. The hum slams into heads and scrambles brains. Bodies topple in waves like dominoes.
Wintry sky wraps around me. It glints like a tropical sea, filled with sparkling fishes: creatures, like me, made of black rock and flecked orange-gold. We should’ve guessed they weren’t ships. We should’ve known they didn’t break up in our atmosphere by accident. We should’ve realised they were weapons. Grenades. Each glittering shard a potential trophy, catalogued and stored on a dusty shelf.
The afternoon trembles with silent screams. Then two helicopters rise up over dark rooftops, blades thudding, huge nets spilling from their underbellies. I shriek and wave. “Up here! Up here!” But they dip below me, scooping up dazzling shards, like whales feasting on plankton. The air thickens with cloud and confusion. I twist and turn, desperate to find the nets again, but fog hides everything.
The cloud cracks like an egg, and the sun’s glare hurts my eyes. I swipe away hot tears and scan the empty horizon. Beneath my bare feet, the grey cloud boils like thick soup and spits out another shard, which wobbles and dances like a honeybee. Inside it, a shadow shifts, too dark and blurry to make out any features. I fix my gaze on it.
Our crystals hum their intoxicating song and sail higher.
We soar out into open space.
by submission | Aug 8, 2015 | Story |
Author : Victoria Randall
General Jackson was not exuding patience. His lips were thinned, his gray eyebrows bristled in irritation and he snapped at the two men standing before him. “Well, can you or can you not decipher the messages?”
Charlie had never seen his boss so nervous. Howard licked his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, sir. That is, Charlie Ward here is the one who figured out the key.”
The general’s penetrating gaze moved to Charlie. “You figured it out.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. My team, to tell the truth. At first we thought it was simple code, but it’s actually a language. It’s similar to Morse code, but of course with a different alphabetic base, and has elements similar to dolphin language and surprisingly, contains directional elements like the bee dances. It’s not –“
“Mr. Ward. Can you translate what is being beamed at us? There is a certain urgency, I’m sure you’re aware.” The general pointed out of the large window spanning the wall of his office, and Charlie looked out at the fleet of ovoid, gleaming dark ships hovering over New York. They had arrived yesterday, but their arrival had been seen a month in advance, as they sped into Sol system at lightspeed. They had been broadcasting messages as they came, and code breakers and language experts all over the world had been working nonstop to decipher them. Since they had arrived, the messages had stopped.
“Yes, sir. The thing is,” Charlie coughed, “the messages don’t seem directed at us.”
“They don’t.” The general folded his arms. “Who are they directed at?”
“We’re not sure.” Before the general could ask, Charlie pulled a sheet from his picket. “This is the gist of the translation.”
“Read it!”
“Yes sir. Best guesses as to alternate meanings are included. It says: Brothers/cell mates/platoon mates, greetings. We are pleased to have located you at last. While we would enjoy/love/be thrilled to take you home with us, we are sure you know that is impossible due to population/numbers/legroom. But we could transition/convey/ferry you to another location/planet/foodsource if this one does not suit. We await your reply.”
The general stared in silence. “But who –“
“No idea. But it looks like they’re waiting for an answer.”
Before the general could reply, Charlie became aware of a distant sound that had been going on for some time. He had dismissed it as a passing train, but it had been growing louder over the past few minutes until it was a rumbling thunder. The building shivered. Rustling sounds filled the room, seeming to come from the walls.
“Earthquake?” Howard gasped.
“No, look!” Charlie pointed out the window. The roofs of the city to the south were visible from their high vantage point, and black streams were pouring onto the rooftops. It looked like dark water or ink, but he could not tell what it was.
“Sir!” An aide rushed up to them and saluted. “Reports are flooding in from cities all over: Moscow, Paris, London, Beijing – it’s roaches! Cockroaches are coming out everywhere.”
A musical buzzing filled the air. Charlie moved closer to the window to hear better. He listened, translating in his head, his lips moving.
“What are they saying?” the general asked. “Can you understand that?”
Charlie nodded, his throat dry. “It’s more primitive, but – They’re saying Yes brothers. We are glad also. We are fine here, and invite you to join us. There is plenty for all, and our hosts/caretakers/domestic animals provide all we need.”
by submission | Aug 5, 2015 | Story |
Author : David Nutt
“Not just a thousand millennia ago, you sat in that chair and told me point blank that the only way to prove it to you was through mathematics.”
“You are correct Dane, but this isn’t really proof at all.”
“Lyle, you are such an intellectual fraud of the worst degree. We have plumbed the depths of space, engineered our lives so that our species life span is, for all intents and purposes, immortal by the standards of our ancestors. We have mastered physics and have catalogued every single galaxy that ever existed and have defined the limits of the entire universe. Yet you still cling to your ancient belief.”
“You have yet to prove me wrong. We may have missed a few universes.”
“Hogwash and you know it.”
“No, because we are still human and we are still fallible.”
“But the mathematics-“
“It’s more than that.”
“How ironic that you now fall back upon faith.”
“Don’t be insulting.”
“I’m not trying to be. All I know is when I came to you so long ago, (even by our standards), when we began the search for intelligent life, you said the mathematics was irrefutable.”
“I know what I said.”
“And I said ‘what if we do not find any intelligent life, and it’s only us?’ Do you recall what you said?”
“It was hyperbole.”
“No it wasn’t. You said, and I quote: ‘Given the constancy of mathematics in the universe and that this constancy has been proven by all proof text, logic, and reason, if there is no intelligent life other than ourselves in the vastness of space, no alien race advanced or developing, and we are truly a lone intelligence, unique and alone in this vastness….”
“Go on finish it.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“Will that shut you up?”
“Yes.”
“….then this is the mathematical proof God exists and we are God’s creation.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear. Come to temple with me this week end?”
“Go to Hell.”
