Behind The Wire

by Jared Axelrod | Feb 15, 2006 | Story

Behind the wire, inside force fields and walls of concrete and steel, lays The Bomb Shelter. The Bomb Shelter is referred to as the warmest place on this side of the galaxy. In the Bomb Shelter, Captain Jaylean Rael tossed back his third Jack and Coke and continued to hold court within the Green Zone on Mahtomedi.

“Trouble with this war is,” he said, one finger upraised to indicate the importance of the pearl he was bestowing upon the bar’s patrons. “That we cannot afford to lose.”

“No shit,” Arnie said. Arnie Boldizsar was not military; no one in The Bomb Shelter was, not even its proprietor, Captian Rael, despite his claims as a former commissioned officer in “Her Majesty’s Royal Space Force.” Not that it mattered, even if anyone believed him; there hadn’t been a RSF ever since Europe united with the rest of the world against the Knesek. But The Bomb Shelter was his bar, and the best place to get a drink in the GZ, so he could call himself whatever he liked.

“Piss off,” Captain Rael said, spitting whiskey and cola across the table at the diminutive bioware technician, staining eight of Arnie’s sixteen security ID tags. “You’re just grumpy because that little tart Simona at the coffee bar still won’t got to Kaliszewski’s with you!”

Kaliszewski’s was the only decent place to eat in the Green Zone that didn’t ask you if you wanted French fries with your meal. Simona was not the only decent girl in the Green Zone, but the selection was certainly limited.

“Ease up on the poor boy, Jaylean,” said Nelson Litsinger, nibbling on Captain Rael’s left earlobe. “Not everyone enjoys the manflesh with your fervor.”

“That is a misfortune that I am keenly aware of,” said Captain Rael. “Now, back to what I was saying, if you lot wouldn’t mind?”

The entire bar encouraged Captain Rael to continue. No one wanted to be kicked out and forced to drink at The Watering Hole.

“Have any of you seen the inside of a Knesek ship? I don’t mean the gutted transport they have in that museum in Pittsburgh. I mean one of their fighters.”

“Of course not!” Shurvo Chose said. Shurvo worked security in the Green Zone, since soliders were needed for actual fighting. This meant he could drink and order people around. “No one’s seen the inside of one! Though I suppose you want us to believe that you have.”

“Only because it is true,” said Captain Rael, stroking his gigantic white mustache. “I was seeing a rather handsome member of the uppity-up at the time—this was before I met you, Nelson, darling—lovely fellow. Young, but driven. You know the type. And he showed me the inside of a Knesek fighter.

“Now, when one of our boys gets into a fighter, he’s all balled up in safety equipment. Helmets, airbags and the like. Safety of the pilot is paramount. You know what the Knesek have?” Here, Captain Rael paused for dramatic emphasis. The entire bar was silent.

“Nothing,” he continued. “Nothing at all. Their carapaces are welded directly to the vessel. They are merely a part of the ship, from the moment they get in until the day they die.

“That is why we cannot lose. Right now, we are within a fortress within a fortress, but that fortress is on an alien planet and the inhabitants of that planet have no problem turning their best and brightest into mere tools for destruction. What do you think they are going to do with us?”

No answer was spoken from the patrons of The Bomb Shelter, though a great many more drinks were ordered. And that particular corner of the galaxy got a great deal colder.

Instruction in the New World

by J.R. Blackwell | Feb 14, 2006 | Story

The teacher tapped her wrist twice, and the drugs started streaming from the plastic tubes embedded in the students’ desk into their soft little arms. Within moments, she had their undivided attention. The yellow design on her dress to moved in a soothing pattern, giving her students a visual point to focus on.

“Today,” she said slowly, “we are going to learn about the sentient species that are currently known to mankind.” She tapped her eyelid three times, initiating the Note Taker program, which would stream an abbreviated version of her lecture into the students’ memory chips.

“Who can, without network, identify the five known sentient species in the universe?” She shut down the network connection to the classroom by touching the back of her neck. Someone in the room sighed.

“Humans.” said Bei, in the front row.

“Humans are one.” said the teacher. She looked around the bright classroom, where licensed educational cartoons frolicked along the walls, displaying friendly attentiveness towards the teacher.

Purple-eyed Mary raised her hand. “Yannoi, G’tharn, The Ones Without Names, and the Silicates.” Teacher had long suspected Mary of having a pirate network connection through some kind of organic implant. Her parents wouldn’t say.

“That is correct Mary. Recently in the news, the Yannoi have initiated hostile actions toward Humans, trying to use their transmissions to break into our computer systems. They have yet to cause any damage, as communication across that much space is very slow. Our scientists say that they have recently launched a fleet towards our home worlds.”

“Why haven’t we taken action?” asked little Mary

Teacher opened the network connection again. Immediately she could sense the downloads and searches begin. Children were only allowed classroom related searches during school hours. “Although the Yannoi seem intent on harming humanity, our scientists predict that they only have a four percent chance of surviving the journey. Although we can bend sensitive areas of space to transmit small messages, larger areas carrying a heavy matter burden are impossible to transmit. Only light can be transported in this way, the light we use to carry messages. The Yannoi fleet, if they are successful, will take seven thousand years to reach earth.”

“We could all be dead by then,” said little Mary.

“Only if you don’t take your medication,” said teacher, tapping her wrist once. In unison, the whole class smiled.

TW

by Kathy Kachelries | Jan 27, 2006 | Story

Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on Io, I thought I would sail about a little and see the most distant reaches of space.

Despite the limitations of technology, the endlessness that spread before our ship pulled me with a unique gravity. The bounty itself was naught. In retrospect, it was a meaningless and futile obsession, but the captain persisted. I followed, as I was wont to do given the limited quarters of the starship, and it never occurred to me that the quest was impossible. After all, I longed for nothing but the sight of stars through the viewscreen, so I was content to drift along in the wake of his unwavering determination.

TW was regarded as the most feared man in the seemingly endless reaches of the solar system, and despite the minimal reward I was compelled by the captain’s inexplicable, unwavering persistence to pursue the ghost of the pale ship through the asteroid belt, through the orbits of nine planets, and through the gentle and burning licks of solar flares.

“He’s out there,” the captain said. “He’s out there.”

TW had claimed innumerable victims, and even in my green and formless years the myths had flickered across television screens as the magnetic residue of a legend. I must admit that I was infatuated with the concept. When the captain himself raised the bounty my interest was piqued, and the lot of us were incited to impossible action.

“Have you sighted the ship?” he broadcast over all frequencies, but the replies were foreboding or outright prohibitive.

In my quarters, I dreamed of the solar system stretching out before me like an arm that never reached a hand. Doubtless, he dreamed of whiteness streaking the dark of space.

“He’s out there,” he said. “He’s still out there.”

Months passed like days, occupied by the dreariness of daily duty and the shadow of passion that the captain cast upon us. I kept a log of activities, though it was surely tedious by the standards of occupied worlds.

“He’s out there,” the captain said. “He’s still out there.” Despite the protests of the senior staff, he continued. Our transmissions were denied by ships which busied themselves with far more likely prospects.

Behind me, Io was a frozen world. I watched the great shroud of space roll on as it rolled five thousand years ago, and I followed orders and monitored the empty radio broadcasts. Space collapsed into distance and the blackness of the signal screen revealed no blips of existence.

“He’s out there,” the man said. “He’s still out there.”

Next to Nothing

by B. York | Jan 22, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

“I’m sorry, will you repeat that?” Admiral Bunka was squinting to hear, even though his very nervous ensign was right beside him.

“We, uh, are at full stop sir. There’s nothing left.” The young man was sweating and the two continued to look out the viewfinder towards…well, nothing. The whole crew was there, staring out into what should have been space but where space stood it wasn’t black. It wasn’t white. It wasn’t molecules. It was nothing.

“Nothing?” The Admiral began to blubber off non-sense like an ancient car tries to shoot off its muffler when it starts. He pointed at the viewfinder and glared at his ensign with a twitch just above his left brow. “Ba…d… er… don’t give me that nonsense, ensign! Move us forward at once!”

The ensign nodded nervously and returned to his post. They’d been traveling for seven years now, at about five hundred times light speed, when they suddenly came to this rather impassable juncture. The ship just stopped, and the crew had been clueless for the past hour trying to decipher just what was in front of them.

Someone from across the room yelled out, “Ensign! Don’t! We… we can’t!”

Bunka rose up and cleared his throat, “And why not, Sergeant Gimble?”

Gimble was a stout man, but his eyes glowed with the seriousness of his words, “We… we can’t just go forward into nothing! Then it will cease to be nothing!”

“What fimble-tossle! Of course we can go forward. It’s…it’s just a cloud.” The whole crew heard the Admiral, but they knew that he was lying. It was like telling someone who just had their arm cut off that they still had use of that limb. The ensign glanced at his Sergeant.

“Well, if nothing is nothing, then maybe if we go into it we’ll change it into something.” In any moment other than this, those words that the ensign spoke would cause any man to bleed from the eyes, nose, and ears. As it was, the words unfolded a debate in the main cockpit.

Admiral Bunka was the first to try and add in his opinion, “Well, if we’re next to nothing, then nothing is next to something. Therefore, nothing would be something. It can’t be something if it’s nothing.”

“Aren’t we looking at nothing? Isn’t it something we’re looking at?” said the Sergeant as he stood up to get a better look at nothing.

“Uhm. No. We can’t describe what we’re looking at. We may not even be looking at it. It’s barely even an it. Nothing, people. We’re talking about nothing here.” Now that the ensign had everyone thoroughly confused everyone on the deck, the three took a moment to look at each other before turning back to the viewfinder. The definition of nothing had these men absolutely confused, and they were suffering from a mild case of brainpan rupture.

Admiral Bunka appeared understandably perplexed, and rather upset at the whole situation. He stood up straight and nodded in personal acceptance of the decision he had made. “Full reverse then! We’ll go back the other way.”

The Ensign returned to his seat and began typing the orders until he stopped and glanced back to Admiral Bunka, “Sir, wouldn’t that be going away from nothing?”