by B. York | Sep 18, 2005 | Story |
No one really found out how. In 2009 there were no more than twenty super-powered heroes trying their best to save the world, spread out thin as they were. They were always so busy. The Blaster stayed in the US, fighting off organized crime, while Sister Scion dug into corruption of Scotland Yard. They barely had time for talking, let alone anything or anyone else. It was said that most of them had never met, but…what can be said? There’s something very sexy about superpowers.
“Kade, honey? Are you coming to bed? I’m wearing that new slip-on you bought me.” A soft, sultry voice slinked downstairs to the man in boxers illuminated by the computer screen’s eerie blue glow.
“Oh, you know I will! Just have to finish this…” Click. Kade, otherwise known as The Blaster, sat up and smirked. He placed his hands behind his head as he imagined the fun the two of them would have tonight. Nothing was more passionate than a relationship between two super-humans; Time Magazine had said so.
Kade hurried upstairs, his mischievous grin wide. Sister Scion was in for a whole different shade of trouble tonight. He kicked down the door to the bedroom and it crashed to the floor with a loud bang, leaving him posing in what remained of the frame. “The Blaster is here! Have no fear!”
“Cheesy as ever, Mr. Blaster.†The woman in bed was fair-skinned, with long black hair tied behind her in a ponytail. Sister Scion slender figure, usually encased in a silver and black outfit, was now laced up in black and red, hugging her succulent curves to the pleasure of her lover. “Get over here and let me show you some moves.”
Kade sprang towards the bed while trying clumsily to tug away his remaining clothes. “And what moves are those?”
“The kind that don’t involve you accidentally blasting a hole in Yankee Stadium, genius. You need to watch where you point your arms while you’re-”
“Yeah, I get the hint. So uh… you ready to get into… formation?”
Scion rolled her eyes and reached over, grabbing her male companion by the back of the neck and tugging him into a heated kiss. It was a spark, then strong, and then as she pulled back suddenly, it faded. “Mm… going to make me fly?”
“Well, you can do that yourself, sweetie. I was speaking more about mundane positions.”
She blinked, “Wow, that’s new. You mean… no…flying, or space-sex?”
He shook his head, staring her down, “Nope, I heard that normal people do it in missionary. It’s where you lay down on your back and…” He waggled both eyebrows at her in suggestion.
She bit her lip, “I don’t know, Kade, sounds kind of… well, boring. Can’t we do the one where we have it while falling from the atmosphere?”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be different. It’ll be like… like we were teenagers or something.” His eyes pleaded as his body edged closer, that superhero physique pressing up against her warm skin.
“Errrr… okay fine. But I swear, Kade, if you put a hole in our house I’m gonna kill you!” Her eyes narrowed as she pulled him on top of her. Kade reached over and turned the lights off.
There was rustling and in the dark, Kade whispered, “You know, maybe if you’re up for it, we can invite Femme Fire next time…” It was promptly followed by the loud slap.
“Kade! That was not what I meant when I said she was hot!”
by J. Loseth | Sep 17, 2005 | Story |
Day 192
Passed by that star today. The charts say it’s called Erigo, but it might as well be Antarctica. Nothing. No inhabited planets, no probes, no satellites. No sign of life. No useful supplies, either—most of its planets are gas giants, and there’s no way I could get enough oxygen out of them to help. I doubt I’d even make back what I’d lose by changing course, so that’s out. Just another useless system.
Repaired that intake valve. Turns out all it needed was a good cleaning.
Day 197
Still in the outskirts of the Erigo system. That’s E-R-I-G-O if anybody’s listening, forty-three radians and twelve thousand light-years, give or take, from galactic center. Watched the last onboard recording today. Some shit documentary about moon formation, but at least it was something. Now there’s nothing on this damned ship I haven’t seen.
Oxygen still good, but running low on real food. Started alternating with ration packs to make it last longer. Had a slight fever today, but there were some injections for that in the medkit, so I took one and it’s gone now. Engine running clean but hot. I shouldn’t have gone into Erigo’s gravity well.
Day 203
Out of the system. Good riddance. Clipped toenails today as they were getting a little long. Looked through the charts, but there’s nothing around here that I can make it to without more fuel. It’s just black space for light years and light years in all directions, or at most, a little uninhabited star system. After the Erigo fiasco, have decided against checking any more stars listed as uninhabited. Set a course for the nearest sure bet, which is Aschelon. Barring some miracle where the hyperdrive spontaneously comes back online, I’ll never make it. So hi, anybody listening. Could really use a hand here.
Threw a fit yesterday and chucked a ration pack under the console. Felt good to scream my heart out, but afterwards I realized I’d used twice normal oxygen. Figures. Slept an extra twelve hours to compensate and didn’t wake up once. Considered sleeping more often, but that feels too much like dying. I’d rather stay awake.
Day 214
Nothing left but ration packs. Losing weight steadily, but not quickly. Had another fever two days ago. Two injections left in the kit. Hope nothing worse happens.
Gave in and decreased oxygen to nineteen mole percent. Increased sleep cycle to 11 hours. So many stars in the window, but I can’t reach any of them. I want to scream, but I don’t want to die. Someone please get this soon.
Day 228
Recorded more log entries, but they were mostly cursing, so I deleted them. Don’t remember making them. Must’ve happened while I was sick again, ‘cause this time I didn’t use an injection. Dumb idea. Kids, don’t try this at home.
Running out of fuel. Turned the heat down to try to save power. Increased sleep cycle to 14 hours. Always tired now.
Day 235
Fuck! Fuck you, you fucking assholes! Why won’t anybody come? I know you can hear me, damn it! I know it! Fucking… hell damn shit motherfuckers! I know you can hear me!
Day 237
I’m so… it’s so cold. So hard to stay awake. I have to keep talking just to keep from sleeping. I’m so hungry. It’s cold in here. It’s so cold.
by J.R. Blackwell | Sep 13, 2005 | Story
“Everyone in the room wants to eat you, kid.”
U-Tee shrugged. “Whatever.”
He hated it, but the Verba was right. When U-Tee stumbled into the bar, he immediately knew he had walked into the wrong place. The diamond eyes and lizard-like movements in the shadows betrayed the presence of Yunni and T’shesh, predators with a taste for the sentient. To turn around and walk directly out of the bar was inviting trouble to follow, so U-Tee sat down in a dark corner and hoped he wouldn’t attract attention. Twenty minutes should have been enough to let him walk out without arousing suspicion, but seven minutes into his stay, a Verba took an interest and now the attention of the room was focused on U-Tee, the little omnivore.
The Verba had a humanoid outline, but his head was topped with tentacles, not hair, and patches of his skin were covered by a thick chitin. He was wearing patchy armor held together with worn leather straps. The Verba leaned across the table, his claws tapping on the metal surface.
“Everyone can feel the tension kid†he lowered his voice. “But I made the first move, and they’re scared of me. I’m a big bomb, and you’re mine to claim.” He slid in closer, fluid like blood, his mouth next to U-Tees’ ear. “You come with me and you might just get out of this.”
U-Tee whispered into the four-pointed flower nestled in the Verbas tentacles, a spot he assumed was an ear.
“Piss off.” He whispered. The Verba pulled back, grinning. U-Tee knew enough to recognize that it wasn’t friendly. He was showing teeth.
“How did humans ever get into space?” The Verba opened his arms, speaking to the room. “Flat-toothed plant eaters were meant to stay dumb, but here you are, pretending to be a hunter.” He closed his lips and inhaled, his wet nostrils flaring. “But you smell like meat.” He shrugged. “You don’t want to go with me, fine.”
He turned and took a step away from the table. There was the sudden screech of plastic against metal as the room’s occupants rose from their chairs. U-Tee jumped and the Verba turned quickly, leaning back on the table, looking around the room, tense, defensive. U-Tee tried to slow his breathing as the hunters in the room relaxed back into their seats.
“Then again kid, if you change your mind, you can come with me.”
U Tee trembled, and felt his heart beat a staccato under his skin. “Why should I go with you?” The Verba leaned in and lowered his voice.
“Because I think that you are worth more alive. Because I can hear your heart thrumming. Because you’re alone. But mostly kid, because I am the only one here who isn’t hungry.”
U-Tee reached out his hand. “Let’s go.”
by J.R. Blackwell | Sep 9, 2005 | Story |
To Larah Lowell, Commander, SLT, Brigade 34, The Air Cruiser Canton Beloved Lady, Commander Wife,
I shall respect your recent instruction and exclude from my letter all my hearts sorrows. The lives and souls of your crew must weigh heavy on your shoulders and if I have in my power the ability relieve such care, even for a moment, then I will constrain myself to merry topics and will not worry you with even one of my graying hairs.
It was good to receive your picture, you are not so soft as I had seen you last, the SLT uniform fits you smartly, and that insignia glimmers on your lapel. I must confess those golden pips have brought out the braggart in this old man, and I have carefully angled the portrait on our mantle so that visitors can see your rank and fine figure.
As I am the husband of an officer, the government has seen fit to send an old Dottie to look in on me now and then. I feel patronized, or perhaps I should coin a new word and say that I was Matronized, for the minute this madam walked through the door she proceeded to inspect the entire house, from the curtains to the dust on the shelves. She insisted, quite without reason, that I buy an entirely new wardrobe, and would not leave until I made an appointment with my tailor. She was a right busybody, employed by my tax dollar to trouble herself about my business. I am offended, righteous and also quite pleased with my new trousers and cap. It feels unnatural to wear new things without having your eye to gaze on them, and I feel a bit overdressed around those companions who have not received visits from old Dottie’s, who wear their fatigued threads like swaddling and live with an unshaved lip and a dour expression.
I admit that we are all quite lost without you, and that being the royal usage; you may deliver the message to the other ladies of the AirCruiser Canton. Also, while you are in the business of delivering messages, please convey my jealousy toward those seven lucky devils that are privileged to travel with you and all the servicewomen of the Canton. They should consider themselves fortunate that they are never coming come, because they would have no membership to any gentlemen’s club, having left us only with the youngest of girls, the oldest Dottie’s and those ladies of fragile health who have, in benefit of your absence, found some purchase in the hearts of the gentlemen here.
Propaganda plays constantly on every public monitor, commanding us to have a strong heart, a firm countenance and to join one of the government clubs. It is considered unpatriotic not to participate in the recreational clubs. There are a wide variety of activities to choose from, the sports clubs, the card clubs, and the surprisingly popular Shakespeare club, whose historically accurate performances have been wondrously well attended. Never has the bard had such rapt attention! The sports clubs fill the hospitals with gouged and broken bodies. It is as if men seek to take on your injuries, hardships and toil. Although we know that there will be no wounded in your war, just life or death in that cold space. This experience has rendered vague all of our preconceived notions of war. I’m sorry my love, I have digressed from gayer topics and I hope that you can forgive me.
I have set out to learn the game of poker, a game which I have only passing familiarity, but which I am partial to because it does not require the physical violence of the sports clubs or the embarrassing situation which I imagine would result from strapping on a historically accurate costume. Due to my slight figure, I am sure the Shakespeare club would relegate me to female roles where I would be forced to kiss some sour smelling bearded fellow. I can almost hear your laughter lady, but I assure you, it has been known to happen!
My own proud club, the Gentlemen of Wilmington, has recently been challenged by the so-called noblemen of Shropshire to a battle of wit and will. This is the third of such games with Shropshire; our challenges have grown so heated that the authorities have been called to monitor our competitions. Of course, the gentlemen of Wilmington would never initiate violence, but we can hold no trust in Shropshire, whose tempers are so heated that their township is under a curfew, while the gentlemen of Wilmington carry on after dark as we please.
I think of you often, the warm hard day of your departure, your black ship flying you fast away from these blue green hills. You may only imagine what the effect of such a sight would be, watching the purple evening sky turn orange with the wash of flame, half of our world disappearing into the dark. Alas, I fear if I am becoming maudlin, so I will end in sending you my sweet thoughts of a speedy reunion and my prayers, which are always with you.
Your loving husband,
Mr. Laurah Lowell, husband to the Commander of the AirCarrier Canton!
by Kathy Kachelries | Sep 1, 2005 | Story
Don’t wake up yet, Mischa. Please, please don’t wake up.
At nineteen, Christopher Malloy was the youngest person on Io to receive his degree in neuronanotechnology. It was quite an accomplishment, according to his parents and teachers and friends, but at that moment, on the sunken platform of the medical arena, Chris felt as small as the machines he worked with. Seven professors, nine technicians, two medical journalists, and one blinding halogen light glared from the space overhead, waiting for him to make a move.
“The patient is female, age fourteen,” Chris said, and the room filled with quiet clicking as the journalists transcribed his words. “Mnemonic reserve is at thirteen percent.”
According to the colony’s medical records, no one had presented with symptoms of mnemosis before the age thirty, but beneath Mischa’s closed eyelids Chris could see the REM flicker of the Forgetting. He bit the end of his pen, which was a nervous habit he’d developed in grade school. The room was tense with waiting. He stepped to the surgical tray beside the bed and picked up an empty syringe.
Chris had appealed to Mischa’s parents two months ago, eager to gather evidence for his doctoral thesis. Back then, the girl’s mnemonic reserve had been eighty three percent, but she was declining fast. “I can save your daughter,” he’d said with the arrogance only an eighteen-year-old prodigy could muster. They’d believed him, and signed the waivers. Now, the girl was a shell. Her brain was eating itself.
Chris took the silver vial from the tray and inserted the needle through the rubber shield. “I am injecting the patient with approximately seven thousand Pitschok neuronanocells,” he said, and pulled the stopper until the syringe was filled with sparkling grey.
Just a little longer, Mischa. Keep sleeping.
“Standard neuronanocells work to quarantine mnemosis by flooding the synapses of nearby cells,” Chris lectured for the benefit of the journalists. He slipped the glistening thread of needle behind Mischa’s ear, through layers of skin and membrane and water and blood and into the parietal lobe. “The Pitschok strain, on the other hand, has been bred to attack the infected cells and use the body’s own immune system to wipe the mnemonic reserve.”
Under the halogen light, Chris could feel sweat tingling just beneath the surface of his skin. He pressed his thumb against the stopper and the syringe emptied, spilling its shimmering contents into Mischa’s hungry brain.
“Once the electrical state of the patient’s brain has returned to its normal state, the Pitschok neuronanocells will use a low-energy pulse to stimulate regrowth of the damaged neurons. Within hours, the patient’s mnemonic reserve will return to its state before infection.”
Chris did not look away from the girl’s body, though he felt the unasked question filling the air like saline. They wanted to know if her brain could find its swallowed memories, if she’d wake up as the giggling girl they’d seen on the home videos Chris had included in the press kit or if she’d be a shadow, brain healed into a pristine blankness.
Shh. Mischa. Almost.
Chris watched the shape of her eyes flicker behind her eyelids. Impossibly long lashes trembled at every movement like a spider dancing on the edges of its web. He wondered what she could dream about, with her mnemonic reserve down to thirteen percent. Did her brain simply recycle the same images over and over, or did the dreams come from somewhere outside of her experiences?
Chris had no answer for the professors, for the technicians, for the journalists. Now, Mischa had all of the answers. He pulled the needle from behind her ear and a lock of stray hair brushed against his hand. It was soft and loose, like sleep.
Now, Mischa. Now. It’s time to remember.
