by submission | Apr 27, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“Let’s fly to Oberon for fresh grub. Old Billy’s is good. That crusty Aborigine’s got odd ancient cuisine that’ll sharpen our palates. Maybe invite Ciers over. Missed him lately.”
Jensen Elbat corrected the freighter’s navigation towards Uranus, a sharp turn from their delivery path to the Kuiper Belt mining colonies.
“Shouldn’t take us too far off schedule. We can say we avoided hot magnetic zones that keep migrating near Neptune’s orbit. Forget Ciers, though; he died during hydrogen refueling near Titan last week.”
Jensen’s co-pilot, Crandall Shantz, raised the nuclear control rods as the freighter adjusted to new coordinates.
The ship’s two-seat shuttle craft left the freighter orbiting over the pock-marked moon. Jensen set down in the icy landing field outside a flashing, orange sign advertising Old Billy’s restaurant. They were the only visitors. Merchant travel crumbled in the outer zones after renewal of conflicts between Earth and Mars.
Once beyond the pressurized hatches of the eatery, Elbat and Shantz removed their spacesuit helmets. Shantz noticed drifting piles of gray moon dust near the entry left by previous guests. Inside were sterile blue walls of harshly back-lighted acrylic perforated with insets of orange cubbyholes constructed of soft plastic and rubbery compounds. Feeding tubes and electrical lines draped to these narrow chambers through the acrylic ceiling from where foods were artificially manufactured above them. Across from the alcoves was a massive sign reading, “If the food’s too tough…grow a pair.”
Billy appeared as a holographic display in front of his customers. The Aborigine was traditionally dressed with white face markings and a loin cloth, with a boomerang draped from his throat on a bright-red bandana. “Mr. Elbat, so glad to have you back. Long time. And your companion?”
“Co-pilot Shantz. New here. Surprise us. I know you can.”
“So glad to,” Billy replied, coming in and out of focus in the flickering display. “Especially with a new war on. You be sure to tell others I’m still open.”
“Always will,” Elbat returned. “So what’s today’s special?”
“We got roast iguana with kangaroo sauce, sautéed carrot juice and a dessert of baked dagoba seeds wrapped in albino koala skin.”
Elbat whistled. “Make that two. He can take it, and don’t hold back on the hot sauce. We’re on a long run to the Belt. We’ll need all the heat we can get.”
“Coming up. You go ahead and get connected and it’ll be out in a few.”
Shantz pointed up at the display. “This place is weird. Never heard of carrots. And what’s the sign all about?”
“Old Earth joke,” Elbat replied. “When humans still had teeth. Couldn’t chew? Then grow a new set of dentures. Nobody has had any teeth in a thousand years, or hair, since all the exposure to heavy metals and deep space radiation. Let’s move into the food bays. This is a pleasure you won’t forget. Wished Ciers could have joined us.”
The men wriggled into the slick walls of the waiting cavities. The materials vibrated, fitting tight to them as flavor probes connected to their thalamus inlet sockets on the back of their necks, inputting programmed odors and tastes for Old Billy’s menu choices. Feeding tubes hooked to valve stems on their throat stomas, allowing direct esophageal deposits. They closed their eyes in ecstasy as the gray gooey goop slid into them. They chomped open mouthed with pink, empty gums as saliva dribbled over the outside of their suits. Old Billy sang a sacred walkabout chant from a forgotten homeland to aid their digestion.
by submission | Apr 23, 2015 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
They gathered, all of those interested in watching, at a position twice the distance Pluto was from the sun. Onboard the maiden ship, Corosin, Trya watched intently.
“It’ll happen soon,” Gavin said. He smiled, revealing a perfect row of teeth. Long ago, when Sol was still a yellow sun, humanity had eradicated tooth decay, cancer, and all other diseases.
“Do you think it will hurt?” asked Trya. Her blue eyes glistened in the artificial light.
“Hurt?”
“When Sol explodes?” she said. “How do you know it doesn’t feel pain?”
“Not at all.” He paused and thought on it a moment. “We’ve known Sol was going nova for thousands of years,” he said. “That’s why we moved out to the stars. Mankind will survive.”
“But what happens when all the suns in the universe go out?” asked Trya.
Gavin grinned. “Relax. That won’t happen for millions of years. We’re working on machines that can cross into other dimensions. By the time all the stars in the universe fade to black, we’ll simply jump into another dimension.”
“But what happens when all the stars in all the dimensions die out?” she asked.
Gavin nodded. “That’s a good question. By that time, we’ll have figured out a way of building our own stars.” He pointed toward Sol. “Imagine having a star just like Sol to replace Sol when it’s gone.”
“When Sol goes nova, it’ll be the end of the beginning of mankind,” Trya said. “Don’t you feel any remorse of it?”
Gavin shook his head. “Not really.” Then, his expression softened and he took her hand. “It’s Sol,” he said. “The birth star of mankind. It’ll go nova, explode, contract back down into a white dwarf, then transform again in maybe a million years into something else. It’s the nature of a star. Sol served its purpose.”
He turned to her. “Now, we have to honor Sol’s sacrifice.”
“By watching it go nova?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
They sat there for a long time, staring out the viewport of the ship. With the passing of each second, Sol was visibly shrinking. It was something Gavin had seen a dozen times before, but there was something that touched him emotionally about Sol’s impending transformation. He had lied to Trya about not feeling remorse for Sol. He did feel a pang in his heart for the star that had birthed mankind so terribly long ago.
The ship’s computer alerted them that Sol would go nova within minutes.
Gavin held her tighter.
“I don’t want Sol to go nova,” Trya said. “Why can’t things be like they were when we lived on Earth?”
“Mankind wasn’t supposed to stay tied to one world,” Gavin told her. “We were supposed to go out into space and explore. We did.”
“But we left Sol behind,” she said.
“Sol will always be a part of us,” he said. “And we’ll always be a part of Sol.”
The security claxon went off, but Gavin flicked a switch and shut it off.
Through the viewport, they saw the light go out of Sol. Darkness filled the cabin of the ship.
Then, a massive explosion filled the view port with light. The computer automatically adjusted the screen so as not to hurt their eyes, and Gavin and Trya watched as the newborn supernova Sol was born.
“I will miss you, Sol,” Trya said.
“We all will,” Gavin replied. “But it’s time to go home. I’ll leave a probe here to monitor Sol.”
Trya nodded.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
He dropped the probe, then turned their ship toward the stars and left Sol behind.
by Duncan Shields | Apr 21, 2015 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
They call them Blue Jumpers. I’ve also heard them referred to as the Kangaroos.
It’s a space version of the Screaming Meemies or the Heebie Jeebies except that it happens in low gravity atmospheres. You get carried away with how high you can jump and something snaps in the simian, as they say.
You start going for a record with a smile on your face and a clenched-teeth scream coming out of you like a human kettle. With all your strength you bound skywards over and over again, forgetting that flight is impossible and that landing is the hard part. Acceleration and mass and all those nasty physics stay in place.
Most people just get broken legs but some of them rupture their envirosuits and die.
That’s why the habitats have low ceilings. That’s why the observation booths have nets across them.
It’s for your own good.
by Julian Miles | Apr 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Gynler are a race that specialises in winning wars by slow, psychological means. They pride themselves on not having had to use a weapon of war in over a century. When it came to conquering Earth, they spent a long time in planning their opening move.
“It must be devastating to their collective psyche.”
“It must demonstrate our technological dominance.”
“It must be visible to all regardless of censorship.”
So they dusted off a strategy used three centuries before against a humanoid race called the Nondori: they attacked the Moon.
More correctly, they vandalised the Moon. Everyone knew about the Man, or Woman, in or on the Moon. Come joy or mishap, we smiled when we looked up on a clear night and saw the silver companion to our lives.
The Gynler struck the Moon with malicious precision. When we looked up the following night, a leering face peered down. Faintly comedic, fanged and horned, it was a perfect evolution of the infamous ‘Kilroy’ style of graffiti.
“We will leave them for a year. Let them quiver under the reminder of our power.”
Quiver we did – with rage.
That single act managed to achieve what centuries of diplomacy had failed to do: unite the nations of Earth. We plotted and schemed and frothed and spouted rhetoric and fortified all the while.
Kit Newman went to his boss with an idea he’d had at a barbeque outside the car repair shop they worked in. His boss laughed. Then stopped laughing and called his brother. Who called his boss: General Albert Simms. Again, the laughter turned to a thoughtful silence. Kit Newman got flown to London. Then to America. Then to Russia and on to China.
Four months and six days later, Kit Newman pressed the button at Canaveral that launched an old Ares V – carrying maximum payload – toward the Moon.
Three days later, Earth waited. Most watching screens, the rest standing in open spaces across the night side of the world.
Something grey-white blossomed dead-centre on that leering face high above. Within a few moments, the face was largely obscured by a pale blob. Around the world, humanity went noisily crazy and screamed defiance to the skies as they raised their glasses.
Sixty-five thousand litres of a blend that was mainly white exterior emulsion and anti-freeze makes a big mess. A glaringly obvious big mess when it’s slapped onto a vast, black scorched surface made by aliens who completely failed to understand human psychology.
Everyone agrees that the Moon’s surface will have to be cleaned up eventually. But before that, we’re going to wipe the Gynler off the face of known space.
by submission | Apr 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : George R. Shirer
“Do you ever feel guilty?” Red asked.
“About what?” asked Blue.
“About lying to the humans.”
“No,” said Blue. “Why would I feel guilty? They’re happy. They get to live full lives.”
“But they don’t know the truth,” said Red. “They don’t know that they’re just disembodied consciousness, enjoying a virtual reality that will never end.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” chided Blue. “Besides, they’re the ones who chose this. Remember? When we told them that their star was going to explode, it was the humans who asked for our help.”
“I know,” said Red. “But it doesn’t feel like we’re helping them any more.”
“You think too much,” said Blue. “You always have.”
“And these humans did not make the choice,” pointed out Red. “It was their ancestors. How long ago? A thousand cycles?”
“Who can keep track?” said Blue.
“I think we should contact some of them,” said Red. “I think we should discuss the possibility of reincarnation with them. We could reconstitute bodies for some of them and. . . .”
“Do you have any idea how long and tedious that would be?” complained Blue. “Why can’t you just enjoy things the way that they are? Why do you always have to be such a misery?”
“Excuse me for having a sense of empathy. Reincarnation. What do you think?”
“I think no,” said Blue.
“I think yes,” said Red.
Blue glared at him. “Deadlock.”
“Not if we ask Green,” said Red. “That’s why we’re a triumvirate. Remember? Majority rules.”
“Fine,” growled Blue. “Let’s ask Green.”
It took them a while to find him because Green liked his privacy. When they did find him, Green was sitting beneath a thought-tree, singing a song about love on dusty Altair. He stopped when Red and Blue appeared.
“Hello, Green,” said Red.
Green sighed. “Hello, Red. Blue. What brings the two of you here?”
Blue crossed her arms and nodded at Red. “Ask him.”
“I think we should reincarnate some of the humans.”
“I think it’s a waste of time,” said Blue. “They’re happy as they are. Why spoil that?”
“So you’re deadlocked and you’ve come to me to cast the deciding vote?” asked Green.
“Yes,” said Red. “What do you think, Green? Should we reincarnate the humans?”
* * * * *
The simulation dissolved into pixilated noise.
The teacher tapped her control pad and clicked her claws for attention. The students swivelled their eye-stalks toward her, respectfully.
“We all know what happened next,” said the teacher. “Green chose not to answer, leading Red to act on his own. This was in direct contravention of thousands of years of Triune custom and law.”
The teacher extended her eye-stalks, peering at the young crustaceans before her.
“And we all know what happened next. Don’t we?”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Red reincarnated several hundred humans and helped them establish a colony near the Cirdetaclan Nebula. There, they spawned and spawned and spawned again, becoming one of the most pestiferous nuisance-species in known space until they were wiped out by the Galactic Council.”
The teacher retracted her eye-stalks and shifted her stance. “And what lesson, class, can we learn from these incidents?”
There was no response. The teacher felt a familiar wave of frustration sweep over her, common to educators everywhere, regardless of species or social development.
“The lesson is simple, class: never trust an AI.”
