by submission | Aug 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : John Plunkett
The girls were dressed in simple skirts and blouses of homespun wool from their father’s sheep. They spoke brightly to one another, rejoicing in a day of swimming and play at the small pond just over the hill from their father’s house.
A young, naked boy darted from tree to tree, his eyes focused on the group of girls walking down the path. He was filthy, covered in dirt, dead leaves, and a greasy smear of dried blood and hair around his mouth.
The youngest girl stopped suddenly, pointing into the trees and asking in a loud voice, “What’s that?”
The other girls looked, but seeing only the trees they shushed their sister and gently forced her to continue down the path.
The boy continued to follow them, but allowed more space between himself and his prey. It would hardly do to let them escape.
The girls arrived at the small pond, a place where the creek turned sharply and had carved out a deep hollow in the soft dirt between the trees. Having been to the little pond many times before, the oldest girls led the rush into the water, leaving woolen garments in small, neat piles on various rocks, tree stumps, and low branches near the water.
Laughing and playing in the water, the girls didn’t see the boy watching from the undergrowth until he burst out of the trees, running and jumping from shore into the cold water.
Shocked and uncertain at the boy’s sudden appearance, the girls didn’t start to move until after he landed in the water, and even then the oldest girls moved toward him at first, unafraid of such a young boy.
When they saw his skin change to a dark gray color, and his arms and legs shrink down into fins and a tail, then they reversed course, swimming hard for the shore they believed would bring safety.
Once he was in the water, the boy knew they were his for the taking. He flicked his powerful tail, opened his mouthful of long, sharp teeth and grabbed the closest girl by her leg, pulling her under the surface and toward his new lair at the bottom.
Very subdued, the girls walked home, already mourning their oldest sister, who had given her life so they might live. Many of them kept their eyes on the trees around them, watching for any threat.
A young, clean naked boy followed at a discreet distance, watching the girls, and waiting for an opportunity.
by submission | Aug 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
“You really should try this,” Liz said. Her voice was distant and gentle, like someone talking to me from the end of a tunnel.
I turned and looked at her. She lay on the vacuum formed couch, her naked body sucked in perfectly, every curve, every contour fitted to pulsating plasma.
“No thank you,” I said.
She sighed and drew in a deep breath. “It’s awesome,” she said.
I turned away and looked at the ship’s control console. Lights glittered and circuits clicked. Everywhere, there was sound and motion. The whole ship, over two miles long and a quarter mile wide, was controlled from that console.
And, then, there was “The Void.”
The Void, I thought. It did not refer to the vast emptiness of space we were traveling through. The Void was a ship-wide interactive playground. It was the logical child of our Earth-bound Internet, but, now, we were able to plug ourselves into the system and drift through the Ethernet with our thoughts and feelings. The Earth was long gone—a victim of a massive solar flare that turned its surface into a cinder—but some things traveled into space with us.
I looked at Liz, naked and so beautiful, hooked into The Void, every nerve ending tingling. As I watched, she wiggled and moaned with pleasure.
“Join us,” she said, her eyes closed.
“No,” I replied.
Liz fell silent. I looked away from her because I knew what was coming next. It always came next. I found it disgusting, the way she satiated her needs on the void couch….and I remembered a time when we made love like real humans.
I walked out through the hydraulic door, not wanting to hear her sigh and gasp as she played on the couch with the others.
The corridors of the ship were empty. Everyone was fitted to a couch, enjoying what could only be thought of as group sex. The commanders and block commanders had forbidden true contact of the flesh unless approved beforehand. We were, after all, onboard a spaceship. We had finite space and resources. Population control was a must.
I walked through the quiet halls, past many, many living quarters. I knew they were all in the Void. It had become so popular.
I stopped at the arboretum entrance and looked inside. It was at the center of the ship, basically. I had heard that, on Earth, they had a city called “New York” that had a wooded park in the middle of it. That park was called “Central Park” and we had adapted that name for our arboretum.
I punched in my entrance code and a metallic voice said my name. “Harlan Kance,” it said, “entry approved.” I knew, somewhere in the vast computer, my entry had been logged and scrutinized.
The door slid open.
A gust of fresh air assaulted me. I stepped inside and started down the path, not noticing that someone had entered behind me. I heard a soft footstep, however, and turned.
It was a woman.
She put her finger to her lips. “Please,” she said. “Don’t raise your voice.” She pointed at the sensors nearby.
I nodded. I understood.
We walked into Central Park until we were certain the sensors could not hear us. “Who are you?” I asked.
“Kateline,” she said. “My name is Kateline.”
“Why aren’t you in the Void?”
“Why aren’t you?” she replied.
We stared at each other a moment and, for the first time in a long time, I smiled.
She smiled, too.
I took her hand and, together, we walked into the woods. The others could have the Void. We had something more real. We had found each other, two outcasts among many outcasts, at last.
by submission | Aug 12, 2014 | Story |
Author : Elisa Nuckle
The star in the sky doesn’t move anymore. It blocks out all other light. Something new has come. She looks up through her mask and sees the colors of space, not so empty after all. Blues and yellows and browns and reds and whites. The particles that built their wandering home, that built everything.
If they could repair it, maybe it would leave at last. His presence remains unexplained. She’s certain the star is male, but no one believes her. He hums to those that listen. There are stories in the melodies she refuses to believe. Strange tales of pale creatures with hair and exposed eyes. Beautiful. And terrible.
He was a plea for help. That much she can make out. She spends more time near it and finds its white surface provides a certain calm, despite her people falling apart around her. He has ruined their traveler, destroyed their fuel resources. There are fights. Death, even, but she only listens to his desperation. Her mask shows the threads of heat that weave its shell like a moving picture. The more their traveler wanes, the stronger he becomes.
Finally, he invited her to see the fruits of his labor. A small hatch opens only for her. It smells of rain, a thing she sees in her dreams along with vast expanses of choppy blue waves. An ocean planet caught in its death throes. She steps into the black and is met with nothingness. Stars begin to twinkle, and she finds space mirrored to her. Her hand unhooks the familiar clasps. For the first time, she can breathe without the mask. The air is fresh, dense and clean. And in the distance, past a dusty red orb, lay the beauty that haunted her sleep. The blue planet.
He couldn’t save them, so he found a way to preserve their memory. She was his final witness, and she would not forget.
by Julian Miles | Aug 11, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The conspiracy nuts must have wet themselves when the Barraz arrived. In a global broadcast, they announced that they were making a pre-emptive move to protect their main weapons supplier. That was us. Or the chunk of us that worked within the notorious ‘military-industrial complex’. It really existed and had been untouchable for decades, but played the game of being only a megacorporation or two.
The Barraz were just negotiating embassy and land rights when the Vortinshur blew their diplomatic fleet to pieces. Then our new visitors broadcast that they had come to protect their weapons supply.
We were still looking about in shock when night turned to day. The Kraddim fleet was huge, both in numbers and sizes. They broadcast that they were happy to liberate us from the invading brigands.
We had no satellites left and falling bits of spacecraft were devastating the land, regardless of affiliation or religion. That menace caused a moment of beauty when world leaders denounced the complex and came together for the betterment of the planet.
Which was when the Kraddim pulled out. A single ship, half the Moon’s diameter in length, arrived just as they faded away into whatever form of jump-space they used.
The broadcast was simple: as ‘we’ had provided weapons to all comers, it had been decided by Galactic Court that we were not suppliers, but gunrunners. As such, our operation would be shut down. Since it was impossible to discern who exactly served the complex, it was with regret that the decision to sterilise Earth had been taken.
They apologised to the innocents about to die, but apparently it was for the greater good of all who lived under the galactic peace initiative. We were given a galactic standard day to set our affairs in order.
A galactic standard day is twenty-nine hours. What would you do if you knew that your loved ones – and yourself – had barely a day to live?
That’s right. We will be approximately twenty-six hours into World War Three when the hammer falls.
I really hate my race right now.
by submission | Aug 7, 2014 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
Addressing a darkened convocation of world leaders, with images projected behind him, Dr. Spitz began, “To summarize events over the last seven months, a meteor-like object exploded about 6 kilometers above China’s Wenchang Launch Center, flattening it and leaving a zone of destruction encompassing nearly 2,000 square kilometers. Tracked by telescopes and satellites as it approached our planet, it was not a military weapon originating on Earth.”
“What about the Moon . . . the lines?”
The chairperson said, “Please hold your questions until the end of the presentation.”
Dr. Spitz continued. “Wenchang was roughly equal to Tunguska in 1908, and since we expect an event of that magnitude every hundred years or so, we were not immediately suspicious. But the appearance that night of a nearly 300km gash in Mare Serenitatis, visible to anyone with good eyesight or cheap binoculars . . . well, some thought the two events might be related. And then, exactly a month later, when a second object exploded over Spaceport America, in New Mexico, and a second gash appeared in Mare Serenitatis . . . identical circumstances . . . with the exception that the second line on the Moon was across the previous one, forming a plus sign.”
“Or a cross.”
“Please,” the chairperson pleaded.
“Yes, many found religious significance in the explosions and the ‘cross.’ We all saw press reports of the thousands who occupied a so-called ‘tribulation’ tent city in New Mexico. Actually, it was one of those, a former geology student, who found a possible fragment of the object. NASA confirmed the sheer-fractured and partially melted rock as likely part of a larger, perhaps 30-40m, object, but NASA did not disclose the origin of the rock. I can tell you today that it was a Moon rock.”
After a gasp from the audience and much cross-talk, Dr. Spitz continued, “If it came from the Moon it was either ejected by a previous impact only to later fall to the Earth, or given the coincidence of two explosions destroying spaceports, we suspected it was launched from the Moon toward a target on Earth by . . . by an unknown power.”
More gasps and cross-talk, and a question, skipping ahead of the summary and in a sarcastic tone, “Did the FIVE subsequent explosions confirm your suspicions?”
Not a word from the chairperson.
“Yes. All seven explosions targeted spaceports. More fragments were found, analyzed, and identified as Moon rocks. And experts in language and mathematics have studied the seven markings in Mare Serenitatis,” tracing the projected image with a laser pointer “the cross with two diagonals and lines across the top and two sides, and their consensus is . . .”
A cell phone brayed a musical ringtone and its owner fumbled with it.
“Well?” said the exasperated chairperson.
“By destroying seven of the world’s most advanced spaceports, the ones that can launch craft beyond satellite orbits to the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, and beyond, they have set us back by several years. We think they are telling us to cancel those projects altogether, to confine our species to Earth.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We think the arrangement of the seven markings will be finished off with a line across the bottom, creating a square, with eight segments within. Eight lines and eight segments. We think it is a representation of their numeral system, an octal system, and that they have been counting off. The last line, the one that would finish the count, could finish us. If they have the technology to cross space and toss Moon rocks at us, then they probably have the technology to scale up and throw a mountain top at us. Or maybe the whole Moon.”