by Julian Miles | Dec 18, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The external camera pan across a steely – if a trifle motley – flotilla of guard skiffs, arrayed before a Griffin-class Space Dreadnought painted in the eye-baffling ‘wasp-fragmentary’ colour scheme.
Voiceover: “These nights, the long hand of the law comes to the furthest territories in the form of the Space Dreadnoughts from Privateers-of-the-Line; possibly this decade’s greatest rebranding triumph, although their former peers have also rebranded them, less flatteringly, as ‘The Turncoat Company’.”
The internal camera shows an anchorwoman dressed in ‘Gypsy’ formalwear: “Privateers-of-the-Line, formerly the Cutlass fleet ‘Desperados’, ruled by Captain Jake Delahunt, have gone – in ten short years – from Galactic Most Wanted to Galactic Defenders without compare. Good evening. My name is Verdanata Lires, and tonight I bring you a special presentation from Mercantor Unlimited.”
Subtitles: ‘Formerly the crew of the Cutlass Banshee. Incorporated 3455, Alastor Cluster. Trader registry 160828130526JV’.
The external camera jump-cuts to a battered Cutlass tethered to a barren asteroid.
Voiceover: “Is this your future? Have the days of star-wolfing fallen to nights of fleeing the Turncoat Company? Take heart! We have the answer. Guaranteed improved profit-from-pillage within a stellar month!”
Subtitles: ‘Subject to non-capture and abiding by raiding guidelines as established by Captain Blackhook under the Gather-In of 2609’.
“But don’t take our word for it! Here’s Captain Durgindar of the Cutlass Cremator, leader of the ‘Unforgiven’ Cutlass fleet.”
The internal camera cuts to a cyborg whose flesh components sport marginally more gold piercings than obscene tattoos, and whose cyberware is black chrome blazoned with fluorescent skulls.
“We wuz at d’end of owa teffer.”
Subtitles: ‘We had reached the end of our patience.’
“D’ally plots dun cropped our take.”
Subtitles: ‘The planetary alliances had made raiding too risky.’
“Me ladz dun fink we go deeptime.”
Subtitles: ‘My crew were considering crossing to the Fergall Cluster in cryosleep.’
“Den softlad fro Mercata cum bord wit savin graze.”
Subtitles: ‘Then a representative from Mercantor came aboard with his revelatory device.’
“From dat day to dis, we dun mor bootee dan eva. Black ‘ook bless Mercata!”
Subtitles: ‘Since then, we have made more profit than we ever did before. We cannot recommend the new Galactic Pillaging System from Mercantor highly enough.’
The internal camera cuts back to Verdanata, whose Gypsy formalwear is now looking somewhat informal in places: “Well, that’s it for tonight, ladies and gentlebeings. This is Verdanata Lires, signing off.”
Cameras chop to black. Audio continues: “Keep your filthy graspers off of me, you tin-clawed perverts! Guardee! Get me out of here!”
by submission | Dec 15, 2014 | Story |
Author : Lawrence Buentello
Five billion years ago, two members of the Fraca species stood staring at the stars from the balcony of their laboratory.
They had worked ceaselessly, along with thousands of other scientists and technicians, to formalize the seeding project many thought impossible. On the following morning all the orbiting engines would release their rocky projectiles into space toward precisely determined celestial targets. A thousand projectiles would travel untold light years toward a thousand other stars, and the planets orbiting these stars.
The two astronomers had been discussing the philosophical implications of such an endeavor.
“If even a few succeed,” the one called Jangus said, holding his long arms before him like a priest from their ancient past, “we will be the creator of these species.”
“A millions years,” the one called Zoris said, “or a billion years hence.”
“We will have created all these beings.”
“Yes.”
“I hope our people are still alive when these others are capable of contacting us.”
The Fraca were the single intelligent species on their planet; and they had never, in the course of their twenty thousand year-old civilization, found evidence of another intelligent species in the universe. Their science was highly refined, but the stars remained silent.
And so it became imperative to the Fraca that they not remain the solitary intelligent species in their galaxy, or perhaps even the universe. Once their biological sciences had refined the means by which to manipulate their genetic material masterfully, a great plan was drawn to deliver carefully coded amino acids and other chemical combinations to other planetary systems suspended in the corpus of comets.
If their extensive calculations were correct, the introduction of the coded sequences would initiate the creation of complex organic forms, leading to a long, slow evolution of increasingly complex organisms, culminating in a subtly programmed intelligence.
When the galaxy was filled with new species, and sentient beings, the Fraca would no longer be alone.
“Do you ever wonder,” Jangus asked his colleague, “if this was the manner in which our species was created?”
“Wouldn’t we have found others like ourselves by now?” Zoris replied.
“That’s a logical assumption. But perhaps the equations are not in our favor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps,” Jangus said, nodding at the stars, “time is a barrier a sentient species simply cannot surpass.”
“Time is an illusion.”
“But entropy is not.”
“If you’re correct,” Zoris said, considering the stars, “then we’ll never know, will we?”
“I very much hope that we do.”
The next morning, the mission proceeded as planned. The launch was a magnificent success, and the Fraca waited a hundred thousand years to receive even a primitive communication from another species.
But the Fraca never did; they died alone, never knowing if they had brought light or darkness to the universe, and never realizing that they had brought both.
by submission | Dec 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : EL Conrad
Temps pour out of slots, lining the windows and tapping the chipspecs implanted in their skulls. All that platform switching — everyone going from database to real time data simultaneously — causes a sysglitch that forecloses production until a tekfix.
A maximan admonishes the workers, “Don’t negi on storm, platform up shortly. Yay!”
“And if we need to go?” Outside, snow is falling fast and furious.
Maximan’s face stretches as she smiles double wide. “U can go. Who says no? UR all expendable. But we heart U and we plus U so if U go, don’t come back.” Her expression is distracted as nows play on her brain screen. “Reduction is production!” she finishes with forced cheer and the company motto.
No one reminds her that they aren’t reducing shit until she gets a tekfix. So young, so beautiful, and so brimming with nowpow, or maybe tompow, in any case just 24 and already a maximan at Midcorp — who would dare disturb her with fact?
It’s efficiency that eventually encumbers.Managers gotta keep it rolling or heads roll. Later has already been planned and predicted, workflowed, whiteboarded, and graphed, every aspect quantified and then spiced with a dose of chaos math. There are objectives and known results (OKRs). Metrics exist on what was and is and will be.
Output — production or reduction, whichever — has already been measured. Deficiencies are intolerable, and maximan changes her tune soon enough, expelling the temps right after transport is halted, “Secu’s #1 so go home! Grow balance. Have it all. Plus yes 2 checking 4 txts. U rule!”
Ellipsis and Wolf trek downcenter. Everything is lovely. Center is still, storm active, a reversal of biz as usual.
It’s late when they cross into the Point, fringe territory. Across the river, Metropolis is invisible, the perpetual glow of its mammoth structures dimmed to dark. But the Point is always powered. Corp’s most valuable pop shops are here. Liquid gold is the biggest biz, so there’s always juice to process piss.
At the factory where the couple rents a cube, the vidgard’s on the fritz. They take the prohibited fire escape to the roof, use of which is forbidden. Wolf lowers himself over the edge one flight to their window ledge, kicks the plastiglass out.
Ellipsis uses a system she devised and that Wolf strongly advises against, a superfine cord of woven space string, the kind they put in Secucorp laser shields. It works but does not look very secure.
When they first met, El’s daring thrilled Wolf — he never encountered a creature as alive in all the universe. But a decade plus can wear on any duo and now he wonders if the alien’s dangerous streak is dull, just a death wish. All life forms have defective creatures that get those when knowledge infects.
Wolf knows — as a boy he spotted his grandfather’s body hanging from the rafters of his forest cabin, a rope wrapped round his neck. It happened on the day the nows announced that corp was gov and gov was corp and that the twain had met at last in the name of efficiency and the single system system.
Still, despite her mate’s suspicions, Ellipsis is the one with hope. She doesn’t articulate this to Wolf because his magical realism involves a higher proportion of real to magic than hers; he disdains hope as a kind of corrupt, delusional philo for the consolation of morons. “That shit’s totally passe,” he like to say. “Went out with the separation of corp and state.”
by submission | Nov 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Curtis Brown
“What was that?” The Sheriff turned his head to one of his deputies after they heard a low rumble somewhere outside.
“Deputy, go check that out, I will handle this.” The Sheriff turned his head back to his prize: a short young man with a burnt-orange full length trench coat, spiked brown hair, and a pair of black goggles on his forehead. He sat across from the Sheriff in the tiny bright interrogation room with a little smirk on his face, and checked his watch.
“What, you got plans, kid? No, you don’t. Not anymore.” The Sheriff went on, smugly. “Stowing away on an interplanetary transport is one thing, but the Federation of Space Faring Nations does not tolerate theft aboard its ships.”
The Sheriff thought he hid his excitement well. On this space station, there was never this kind of action. He would hold the kid captive here, along with the evidence, to await the FSFN Marshals while the transport went on to its destination. The Sheriff would get a bonus for sure for his assistance in this, and if he got the kid to talk and spill something else, maybe even a promotion. The kid made it too easy. He still had that stupid smirk on his face. He would have almost felt sorry if it wasn’t for that smirk.
“You never had a chance kid. Even if you successfully grabbed the nano-processors there was no way off the transport. What were you thinking?” The Sheriff asked, probing for information.
“I was thinking, Sheriff, that it would be much easier to retrieve the nano-processors out of the evidence hold on a two-bit space station than off of a federal transport.” The kid stood up.
BOOM!
They heard a small explosion, seemingly just down the hall. The kids smirk turned into a full fledged smile, and the Sheriff stood up to face the kid.
“What was that? Where do you think you are going?” The Sheriff asked as the kid stepped towards the door,now confused and angry.
“That, my very perceptive Sheriff, is my ride. I’m leaving this piece of junk you call a space station.” The kid responded. The Sheriff was not pleased, but he heard the door open and was relieved.
“Deputy, cuff this kid, and take him to a cell.” The Sheriff commanded confidently.
“Excuse me?” Asked a rough voice.
The Sheriff turned toward the door and saw a portly man, dressed similarly to the kid, except balding and without goggles. The Sheriff did not know what to say.
“Its about time, Finley. You’re late. This guy almost cracked me.” The kid said as he pointed to his watch.
“The transport lingered. Come, the others have the cargo, lets go kid.” Finley lifted a pistol to the Sheriff’s face and smiled. “I trust you won’t mind letting our friend here go? Good, thats what I thought.”
The kid and Finley left the room. The Sheriff stood dumbfounded, and the only thing he could say, to no one in particular, was, “Well, there goes my bonus.”
by submission | Nov 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
Bruen looked out the viewport into nothing but darkness. Utter, barren blackness.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
Behind him, a voice said: “Watch this.”
Slowly, the lights in the room faded out. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of the room and he turned once again to the blackness of the void ahead. A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped.
“Sorry,” Amos Galton said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not afraid,” Bruen said.
Galton chuckled. “I know,” he said. “You wouldn’t have volunteered for this mission if you were.” Bruen barely saw a hand reach out and point. “Look over there,” Galton said.
Bruen looked….and he saw. In the distance, less than the size of a credit chip, he saw light.
“That’s the Andromeda galaxy,” Galton said. “That’s where you are going.”
I know,” he replied. “Do you think we’ll make it?”
Galton nodded. “We’re humans,” he said. “We persevere. We’ll make it, all right.” He grinned. “In a hundred years or so, that is.”
Bruen looked out the portal and spied the distant, alien galaxy. The message had been received two years ago. A strange, alien transmission of intelligent origin foretelling of their sun’s imminent death. Scientists were still deciphering the message, but what they had deciphered already told them of a civilization not unlike man. It was a cry for help from a dying civilization, and Bruen’s was to be a part of the rescue team.
“We’ll be dead before we get there,” Bruen said.
“Yup,” said Ganton. “Dead and given a burial in the cold, hard void of intergalactic space. But, our ancestors will make it. They’ll make it there and they’ll help that race whose sun is going supernova. They’re damn lucky we received their message when we did, you know?’
He knew.
“Maybe someone will get to them first?”
“And maybe they won’t,” replied Ganton. “Nothing’s assured in this life, my friend….except death and the tax man.”
He smiled again.
“Won’t be a tax man where we’re going,” Bruen said.
“Nope….and that’s as good a reason to go on this adventure as any,” he said as he reached over and turned the light on again.
Bruen’s eyes adjusted to the new light. He shook his head to ward off the darkness.
Ganton let out a chuckle. He patted Bruen on the back and said: “Have another drink, but do it quickly. We leave for Andromeda in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” Bruen said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” replied Ganton. “Where we’re going, a lot of things are going to change.”
He smiled again, nodded courteously, then turned and walked out of the spaceport bar.
Bruen turned back and looked at the portal. With the lights on, he could see nothing. Everyone else was already onboard ship, working like a colony of ants to make the void ship ready. His mission to navigate them across the great black void was forthcoming.
He ordered another drink.
He did not hear the hydraulic door hiss open and was startled when a familiar voice said, “you ready?”
He turned and looked into Commander Tori Ennis’s beautiful blue eyes. They are a galaxy unto themselves, he thought.
She smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She let out a soft laugh and smiled wider. “Then come along, sailor,” she said. “We’ve got a galaxy to cross.”
He downed the last of his drink and, as they walked away, he hoped that Tori would be his mate for this long, lonely voyage, and that their children would complete their mission.
