by featured writer | May 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix, Featured Writer [ bio ]
It’s a 20 degree C heat wave near the Martian equator as Commander Vlad says, “Follow me,” and clumsily leads his exploratory party into a cave.
Exobiologist Bertie imagines that their bulky gray pressure suits and dark colored lenses would frighten the natives, if there were any.
They flip up lenses and activate helmet lights to find they’ve already inadvertently crushed a possible lifeform that looks like a mat of red lichen as they carelessly walked through it. Beyond, something reflects their lights, a pool of liquid, surrounded by the colony of lichen.
The crew uses laser rays to clean their boots of lichen and clear a narrow path to the water.
“This reminds me of something,” says Bertie.
She takes samples of lichen and liquid back to the landing module and places them in a vacuum chamber. She can’t match the lichen to any Earth organism, but the liquid is water, full of microbes that appear to be rod-shaped bacteria. She tentatively names them “Bacillus maris” and jokingly dubs the other lifeform “looklichen.” The looklichen ingest the water and apparently find B. maris nutritional, since the red colony grows.
In another chamber, she places water samples containing B. maris next to white mice. Can the microbes survive in an atmosphere whose pressure and oxygen are at Earth levels? When the mice ingest the water, they show no ill effects, and the B. maris seems to be a source of nutrition. Future colonization counts on the availability of subsurface water, but it would be a bonus if that water were of nutritional value.
A few hours after Commander Vlad enthusiastically reports Bertie’s initial results, the chamber where looklichen were feeding on B. maris is nearly devoid of the former, the liquid having apparently expanded into their space, leaving just a thin red line of looklichen surrounding the water.
Bertie wonders aloud, “Is this part of the B. maris life cycle, or a symbiotic relationship gone bad?”
Everyone’s attention turns to the chamber with mice who drank Mars water. The rodents are seemingly fine, which the flight surgeon attributes to their “stronger mammalian immune system.”
“Plus,” he says, “there’s ten times more Earth bacterial cells than mammalian cells in mice and human bodies, so we’ve got our own microbes fighting for us.”
Bertie knows otherwise. She’s been trying to kill another sample of the stuff, throwing every antibiotic onboard at it, as well as extreme temperatures and doses of chemicals and radiation. Anything short of incineration doesn’t phase B. maris, which reactivates unharmed when it finds itself back in liquid water. Humans and their bacteria would just be food conveniently packaged in water bags to it.
An alarm goes off, signaling that B. maris spores have been detected in the air supply. This panics the crew, which scrambles into their pressure suits to breathe bottled air.
A few hours later, the mice are gone, replaced by a puddle of liquid full of B. maris. This time, a camera recorded the whole process. Mouse bodies appeared normal one minute and then liquefied moments later.
“Another B. maris-host relationship that turned FAST,” Bertie says. “This is familiar, something I’ve seen or read,” she adds.
“For God’s sake what?” says the annoyed flight surgeon, speaking for the rest of the equally annoyed and frightened crew.
A few hours later, Commander Vlad collapses. Bertie is closest, and when she looks into his face mask, she sees nothing but liquid sloshing around.
“I remember what this reminds me of!”
Her crewmates are ready to strangle her.
“It’s ‘War of the Worlds,’ but we’re the Martians.”
by submission | May 6, 2015 | Story |
Author : A. Katherine Black
Green paint peeled uniformly across the surface of the only door in the dark hallway, revealing a dirty brown history. Bastian slowed as he neared it. His partner walked around him and opened the door, entering the room without hesitation.
Bastian held back, scanning the hallway, wondering where the medics hid after prepping the space. Then he stepped into the small room, stopping when he saw the figure lying on the table.
“Jesus, Stewart.” He closed his eyes for a long blink. “This is a kid.”
Scents of salt and burnt rubber filled the room and made him nauseous.
“Oh, come on, Bas. You know what this is.” Stewart’s head craned forward in exasperation. “Unofficial. Under the goddam table. We can’t use a regular for this.” He reached behind Bastian to shut the door and turn the lock.
Bastian exhaled deeply as he sat in one of the two chairs at the head of the table. “Have you ever seen one this young before? What, is he six or something? Is it safe at that age?” He silently thanked his bad luck he wasn’t a parent himself. He couldn’t stand the weight of this if he was.
Sickly yellow lights hummed above the peaceful slack face on the table. The boy’s body was thin, his legs withered. A red cap dotted with metal beads attached to his head like a giant suction cup. Multicolored wires sprouted from spaces between the beads like roots dangling from a roughly extracted plant. Bastian was glad the kid, however old he was, slept like a baby. Christ, a baby.
He turned to the equipment between the recliners, trying to refocus. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision, pulling his eyes back to the kid, who laid still as stone. He must’ve imagined it.
He rubbed sweaty palms on his jeans and reclined his chair, taking one of the headsets and strapping it on. The metal was cold on his forehead. He pulled the pad from his front pocket and prepared to take notes. Stewart was right. This damned dictator was guarded better than their own effing Minister. They’d need this space if they were going to map out a plan solid enough to take the guy down.
Stewart took the other chair and bounced on it a few times with a satisfied smile before reaching for his headset. His face soured when he regarded Bastian.
“The kid’s older than he looks,” Stewart said. “The crippled legs just make him look shorter.” He looked squarely at Bastian, daring him to disagree. “Man, you know we need this space.” He reclined his own chair. “Don’t worry, these undocumented jobs pay way better than licensed ones. We’re helping his family.” He squinted at moldy spots on the ceiling. “I mean, look at those legs. He needs the money for medical bills.”
Bastian looked toward the boy once more. From his reclined position, all he could see were wires. He almost said something else, but then Stewart pressed the button to activate the session. They both inhaled sharply.
Bastian’s mind was a cavern. So much space waiting to be filled. Suddenly everything was crisp and obvious, from the sound of air hissing through the vents to the metallic taste in his mouth. It all made sense.
They discussed assets, intel. They planned. Bastian’s hand danced over his pad as the path unfolded before them. He laughed at the simplicity, the clarity of it all.
Every now and then, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. No one was there, of course, but the feeling of being watched lingered.
by submission | May 3, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“Two percent remaining. Warning.” A calm woman’s voice filled his helmet.
Night jasmine. There was that cloying odor. A cup of sugar poured into the nose. Drawing and repulsing. She wore it on their first date. Her ring remained, partially scorched in his melted glove.
The Baja rotated below him. There his marlin broke the leader piano wire. His brother’s face bleeding from the whiplash. Salt water on his blistered hands. Sunburn critical later.
“Two percent remaining. Warning,” she repeated.
He turned slowly, peering over the Earth’s ultraviolet horizon. Sprits and sprites rose over a storm cresting the Rockies. Free fireworks. Free to look at what few ever new.
Burning in the leg subsiding. The scorch on his back, over the destroyed jet pack and radio, cooled in the frigid vacuum. Peaceful at the ending. Pains gone long before reentry.
“One percent. One percent. Take immediate action!” The voice grew louder in the headset but dimmed in his ears. Stars twinkled in a graying mist. The gasping deepened. Frightening. Inevitable.
Midnight in Paris filled him—his Mother’s favorite perfume. He carried her burial hankie with him to the Air Force Academy. She saw him graduate. That was enough.
Flashing to the right, the Chinese spy satellite splintered from his charges. NASA did not know about the on-board laser defense system. A long space walk in 1990 was still high risk. No way to return if he failed. McCandless had just proved a Manned Maneuvering Unit could support substantial Extra Vehicular Activity without tether.
National security was at risk. China could track U.S. subs with a new blue-green laser system. He volunteered. There would be no plaque at the Manned Space Center, just a private ceremony in a closed hangar at Edwards. He wouldn’t be mentioned in the next century with the other seventeen astronauts perishing in space missions.
Albedo from Colorado’s storms reflected over him at twenty-two thousand miles above his homeland. He curled, in partial fetal position as the last gasps ended. The warning bell and red light in his helmet continued as he spun downward, months away from brightening the March night sky over a baseball in West Virginia near his grave marker.
by submission | May 1, 2015 | Story |
Author : Stephanie L. Dunn
Sol System: 4509 CE
“Final log: Every planet has people on it, most of the moons as well, hundreds of sovereign city stations scattered like a game of marbles between Venus and The Kuiper belt and a few brave colonies even further out. Twenty Billion people inhabit a ball shaped chunk of space roughly 100,000 AU, or two light-years in diameter. We long ago shed our gods, our guns, conquered disease and hunger – even hobbled death itself. It was not uncommon for a person to see their third century if accident or intent did not overtake them. Earth to Mars in a day, to Neptune in a week, to the most distant station a mere dozen weeks, our technology fast and safe.
(Shuddering sigh)
So why have we never reached even the nearest star system, are we simply content to observe their glory from afar?
The distant stars bloom, blaze and die, some in violent and beautiful displays while others demurely came and went before they were ever perceived. We would get no closer to them than the length of our tether – our connection to our own star. The leash extended generously to the Oort Cloud where our sun becomes lost in the galactic background. What barred us from unclipping that leash was fear. To play in the shallows within sight of shore was pleasant enough but to lose sight of that beacon in the heavens, our sun, caused a deadly panic. Psychologists could neither fathom nor treat the insanity that drove pilots to ram their ships into asteroids or comets; engineers to sabotage their beloved engines, crewmen open airlocks exposing the ship’s occupants to heartless space. The suicide barrier, as it’s come to be known, was a line the human race couldn’t cross.”
*crackle* “Wayfair City station to unknown craft, please reply.”
“Computer, end log … open a channel to Wayfair.”
“Compliance.”
“Wayfair, this is the private yacht Vingilot registry HPL8472 of Ganymede, Captain and sole occupant Kaalyndahl Crafter speaking.”
“Welcome to Wayfair, Captain Crafter…”
(Strained silence)
“You may as well ask, you see it on your screen.”
“Oh … uhm. Records show you registered a flight plan into the suicide zone a year ago?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Okay. Station Commander Marsh would like to see you once you dock, please, follow the beacon in.”
“Acknowledged, Crafter out. Computer set course for the beacon and engage docking autopilot. *beep* Open and continue log.”
“Compliance.”
“No one has ever entered the suicide zone and returned sane, if they returned at all.”
*click*
“Now they will know their fear is valid, but there is nothing out there that can cause physical harm … because there is nothing out there at all. The distant stars and galaxies are but mirages caused by the Oort Cloud’s shell! We are alone in the universe, and I have seen the shimmering globe of our domain against the endless, starless void.”
*BANG!*
by submission | Apr 29, 2015 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
They answered the distress beacon but what they found was unexpected. The planet was far off the beaten path, and it was sheer luck that they received the transmission at all.
Still, it was a requirement of the Space Guild that all distress calls be answered.
Cramdon guided the shuttle into the atmosphere of the planet.
“It’s amazing they haven’t colonized this world yet,” he told Bruen, who sat in the co-pilot seat.
Lena Bruen was a lovely woman. It was rare that such a woman would join the Space Guild, but Tom Cramdon wasn’t about to complain. A pretty face in outer space was a rare thing indeed.
“It’s too far off trading routes,” she said. “There’s no money in it.”
“Money,” Cramdon replied, shaking his head. “When did the universe get so hell bent on turning a profit?”
“When the Space Guild took over,” she said. “My dad was a lifer. He remembers when it was about space explor…..”
She hung on the word. They broke through the clouds covering the planet and, below them, they saw lush, green wilderness. But, it wasn’t the beautiful landscape that dumbfounded her. No, it was something far more unique….and it was man-made.
“What the hell is that?” asked Cramdon.
Bruen, too shocked for words, could not reply.
Cramdon arched the ship around the monolith. The thing was taller than a skyscraper back on Earth and, as they circled it, he realized that it was a humongous hand reaching up toward the heavens.
“It’s a hand,” Bruen said. “Holding a heart.”
They circled the thing several times, admiring the detail and artistry of the sculpture. It was so perfect, so human.
“Who do you think built it?” asked Cramdon as, finally, he set the scout ship down on the ground at the base of the structure.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But the more important question is why?”
Cramdon was about to speak when he noticed the red light flashing at the base of the sculpture.
“Looks,” he said, pointing.
They disembarked, each of them clutching their blasters tight. As they approached the flashing light, they saw a door. The door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss as they stepped up to it.
Cramdon looked at Bruen, and then stepped inside.
Bruen followed.
Lights flickered on as the station in the base came to life. They walked by a small living quarter, and came to a door. That door opened and they saw a man, long dead, slouched over a console. A red light flashed and, when Cramdon touched it, the distress beacon stopped.
Bruen jumped when a hologram came to life in front of her.
A tired looking old man, whom they realized was the dead man before them, spoke:
“My name is Jamison Dent. I am an artist. I am also a citizen of the universe. I once lived on Earth, as you did, but that world became a farce to me. So, I left. I traveled out into space where I could pursue my interests without the restraints of a world I no longer loved. I wanted to create art. I wanted to leave a legacy that had nothing to do with the petty economy or politics. I have summoned you here to see my life’s work….I love you, Alaina.”
The hologram died off.
“Jamison Dent,” Bruen said. “Could it be? I remember reading about him as a kid. He and his wife, Alaina. They were inseparable.”
“And she died,” Cramdon said. “He became a recluse after that…then he disappeared completely.”
“He hasn’t been heard from in fifty years.”
“Till now,” Cramdon said.
They turned, walked outside, and looked up at the monument to love that a lonely man had built.
Suddenly, nothing else seemed as important.
