by submission | Feb 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
He opened the door. He stood there a moment before he turned on the light. On the far wall, opposite the door, he saw the picture of Jane Russell. He stepped into the room, and placed the bag and the roses on the bed. The bag was heavy, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
His arm ached.
He walked around the bed of Room 137 and stood before the picture. She was dead now, but he remembered watching her on the Saturday afternoon movies when he was a boy. She was so beautiful; so elegant.
He looked at the picture a moment longer, then turned to the bag on the bed.
He bent over and a wicked cough shook his body and burned his throat. In a moment it passed, but his chest ached from the exertion. The cancer had eaten him down to a stick of a man. The doctors had given him six months to live over eight months ago. He was living on borrowed time.
He opened the bag and took out the four tripods. He placed the mechanisms on the tripods and set them on the four corners of the room. When done, he sat on the bed, out of breath, and looked at the picture of Jane Russell on the wall.
“See you soon,” he said.
He had lived a long, rich life, but his time was at its end. In his day, he was considered one of the top physicists in the world. Upon retiring, he turned his attention to the concepts of time travel.
He held the remote control in his sweaty hand. Should I? He thought. He snickered. What do I have to lose? I’ll most likely be dead this time tomorrow, anyway.
It was a morbid truth.
He looked at the remote. He had never taken a wife, never had children. He was alone in the world with only his video library of Jane Russell films like The Outlaw and Hot Blood to keep him company. He had watched them all a hundred times over and, in his own way, he loved Jane Russell.
But, would she understand?
He hoped so.
He reached out and picked up the bouquet of roses. He knew that she was beautiful, that men swooned for her. He decided he would write a note and leave it, along with the rose, beside her bed. He didn’t want to be a burden.
He went to the desk and penned the note, doing a dozen rewrites until he was happy. He folded the note and tucked it in the roses, then he stood by the desk, hoping that nothing physical occupied that space back in 1986 when she had spent the night there.
He took a deep breath and punched the remote.
It wasn’t a bright flash, not a spinning multi-colored tunnel. That was all Hollywood glamor. Instead, it was like the blink of an eye. One moment, he stood in the motel room in 2014, the next, he was there in 1986.
It was dark in the room, but he could hear soft breathing.
She was asleep.
His eyes adjusted and he saw her. She lay there. Alone, like he was.
He stood there awhile.
Then, when he knew he could stay no longer, he placed the flowers by her bed.
##
The cleaning crew found him the next morning on the bed, a single rose in his hand. He had died in the middle of the night with the picture of Jane Russell next to him.
No one noticed she now held roses in the picture.
by submission | Feb 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jedd Cole
There are a million people in this city, and none of them speak the same language. They are passing through to distant parts, nodding their heads to the immigration officers and their berets. They are carrying their passports in the numb fingers of their right hands. They are dragging their bags across the sterile floor with their left hands. They are sagging under the weight of bags on their shoulders and broken backs.
It is cold on the platform. Outer space tends to make everything cold. It’s the perfect condition for the fever.
There are a million venders in this city, one for every man, woman, child. They use their machines, machines with lips and beautiful faces and smooth skin to speak honeyed things to these little polyglots. It is not coercion–everyone accedes to vendors’ programs. Come earn a living working for [mining conglomerate] on Mars. Realize the [“career goal” entry from mandatory survey] you’ve always dreamed of at [mining conglomerate] in the Tau Asteroid Station. Visit your [“closest deceased relative” entry from mandatory survey] in the holographic gardens on Titan. The machines love these people and kiss them in careful ways.
There is only one answer. It’s the social pathogen, the Yes Fever. And it’s catching. There are a million slaves in this station-city, headed for parts unknown that they think they know because the machines have told them all about it–the successes awaiting their eager labor in the side of unassuming red rocks–the opportunities for visiting masked holograms of dead relatives during lunch break before returning to the off-planet call center–the chance to make it big working for a new man every night, their faces bidding on you in a dark room downstairs.
It’s got to be a fever–it’s cold on this platform, but they’re all sweating.
There are a million seats on the ships at the edge of this city. They are empty and full and boarding but never unloading. There are a million one-way tickets being given to the nodding infirmed, headed to distant parts and new lives just like this one. They’ll never lose the fever, though. They say it’s terminal.
by Julian Miles | Feb 19, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It took me twenty years. I mortgaged everything I had, including family, friends and the love of my life. But G-Nano was worth it. A revolutionary method where leading-edge technology would restore the Earth’s damaged biosphere as a side effect of improving everyone’s lives. The adaptability of the code allowed scalability that ran from going one-on-one with disease organisms to cleaning the plastic islands at the ocean gyres. I submitted the patent request along with the gigabytes of proving data, then waited for the calls to start.
After a month, there was only one: “Professor David Adams? This is James Rufford of the Ministry of Defence. A car will be outside your block in two hours. It will bring you to discuss your patent application.”
The driver was courteous, as was everyone I met on the way to the nicely-appointed office where James Rufford waited. He looked up as I came in, his wall screens displaying the highlights of my work.
“Professor Adams. Firstly, may I compliment you on the genius of your work. Secondly, may I apologise for the fact that it is about to be classified beyond public scrutiny forever.”
I just stood there, my mouth hanging open. He gestured me to a chair.
“You cannot be serious.”
He smiled: “I am. Let me show you why.” The wall screen showed a grainy, scanned photograph of a group of bearded, top-hatted gentlemen standing next to a wooden frame that supported a tall, naked being with hourglass-shaped openings where its eyes should be.
“In 1754, a Dakerda scout crashed in the Lake District. While computers were unknown to the gentlemen of the time, the mechanicals salvaged from the wreckage were revelations to them. What the only survivor told them before he died was an epiphany. The Dakerda were looking for a new planet as theirs was ruined. Earth fitted the bill: clean with a primitive civilisation. At that time, the gentlemen involved rightly concluded that we could not withstand the Dakerda. So they came up with plan.”
I raised my hand. “The Industrial Revolution. Mechanisation to evolve the technologies we needed.”
He shook his head: “Nearly right. They decided to make Earth unappealing.”
I slammed my fist down on the table: “Surely it is time for that policy to be reversed. We have the technology now.”
“In 1947, another Dakerda scout came down in Roswell. Analysis of that vessel against what little remained of the 1754 wreck showed technological advances on par or exceeding our progress. Their computers took us thirty years to crack.”
Rufford looked at me: “The Dakerda remain so far beyond us that it is doubtful we would even slow their invasion of Earth down.”
I just stared at him. The implications were horrific.
“Professor Adams, we cannot ‘clean up’ Earth. The moment we succeed, the Dakerda will invade and wipe out humanity. We must keep the pollution while we work on expanding into space. Our only defence is to become a star faring race so we can flee. Of course, if we fail, the polluted Earth will eventually spell our doom anyway.”
Twenty years. I mulled over what he had told me to work out why I had been brought in. With a smile, I extended my hand: “How can I help?”
He looked relieved: “Your designs bear similarities to the architecture of some Dakerda systems. We’d like you to discover how they work.”
“I would be delighted.”
by submission | Feb 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : Joshua Barella
The fronds of the willow hang over the front of the cabin. Tangled and thick, they make it nearly impossible to see from the byway, which is just the way he likes it.
It’s early October and last month he ended it with Miranda, she was his nineteenth marriage.
The Company’s on its way with his twentieth. She has an exotic name.
It’s unique, this kind of love.
Canthos is wrapped in a blanket, smoking a pipe and drinking tea on his decrepit porch–keeping his good eye peeled on the service road for Schroeder, the delivery boy.
His dog, a withered, wiry-haired terrier is splayed out beside him.
Hours pass.
Crickets cling to and chatter amongst the tall blades of grass. The rumblings of the space engines and corsairs carry over the rolling hills to the west.
A surface car eventually turns from the byway onto the service road.
Canthos recognizes the insignia and fires up the Ergo thrusters on his Flitter, and spins around, hovering inside. A personal support vehicle, the Flitter was care of the Wartime benefits.
Moments later he comes back with Miranda. She’s looks great (much better now that her eye is back in). He can present her to Schroeder without any worry of denial of exchange.
Schroeder is waiting for him at the foot of the steps; a handsome man is to his right wearing sunglasses, a pressed, slick blazer and pants. And beside him is Canthos’ new bride.
“Morning Canthos,” says Schroeder, putting his hands on his hips. “Nice one isn’t it?”
Canthos regards the squirrelly man, his freckled face and red curls of hair. He sizes up his coworker.
“Sure,” he croaks. “Who’s this?”
“Canthos, this is Donovan Furth. Our company’s Customer and Product Relations Executive,” Schroeder says.
“I’d like to apologize for my sudden appearance, and I thank you for your willingness to participate in our focus group thus far.
“I want to assure you, you are in good hands. That being said,” gesturing for Schroeder to remove the plastic, “we want to introduce you to Vivian.”
“Our most popular if I might add,” Schroeder says, smiling, removing the plastic from her face, slowly, carefully.
In a pair of slim cut jeans, and wearing a loose pink blouse that reveals her dotted olive shoulders, is a beautiful, middle-aged woman.
Canthos gawks at her defined torso; her saxophone curves. A jubilant spread of brown locks fall about her face.
“Hope she’s as good as you say she is,” Canthos says. “I had a hard time warming up to the old one.”
“Mr. Hale,” Furth says, crossing his arms. “Vivian has built in presets and features that you can’t begin to imagine. She will be everything you’ve been missing between the others–the laughter, the intimacy, the passion.
“She will truly be the love of your life…”
Furth nodded for Schroeder to activate Vivian.
“So this is your exchange,” he says, glancing at the other model. “You told the operator her emotions were a little flat? Anything else we should know about?”
Canthos shook his head.
Furth takes Miranda’s hand, and with her he and Schroeder go back to the surface car.
“Happy life, Mr. Hale,” Donovan Furth says as they zoom off.
A few puffs of steam escape Vivian’s nostrils, a vibration shoots up her body; her eyes slowly open.
The dog whimpers, puts its tail between its legs.
Canthos gasps.
“Hello handsome,” Vivian says, winking.
Canthos is a gentleman and shows his wife inside.
by submission | Feb 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Serban Danciu
“You know Carmen, it is as if you had lost your soul since you became a Macro operator.”
“Is that so?” Replied Carmen bursting into laughter. “My dear, let me tell you something: I DON’T give a rat’s ass. Do you understand? You don’t? All right. When you’ll start pushing the buttons you will surely do.” The woman turned and grabbed the microphone:
“Gabriel, be a sport and open the gates for the Black Velvet. Let’s fry them a bit.”
“Roger that, initializing Velvet activation protocol.” Replied the weapons’ officer of the second deck.
She then turned and looked through the exterior window of the control room. As a red fog, milions of deaf phoenixes were floating in the space between the two planets.
“Wait to see them BURN”, growled the older woman as her eyes devilishly sparkled. She then slightly leaned her head and squinted while callibrating the effect field of the weapon. Her wrinkled finger reached for the button and pushed it.
From the second deck of the Mark132-Romulus defence station, thousands of Velvety Bodies sprang forth advancing towards the alien mass like an old theatre curtain.
“B-but why? Why burn them? I mean, they do no harm…they’re just sitting there, floating around”
“Ha! Silly girl, how do YOU know they do no harm to us? How? Do you remember how WE got burned at the First and the Second Contact? The universe doesn’t want us, kid. None of the races, neither Xantellar, nor those from Andromeda, nor anybody! Nobody wants us – remember that. It’s us against them. They hate us…they think we are gross, they think of us as animals, superficial beings… and they never miss an oportunity to make fun of us. All our spies at their congresses and all their intercepted comunications say the same thing.”
“ Yes, true, but phoenixes are not a race in itself, they are just…well…phoenixes…like a natural phenomenon and they’ve done no harm to us YET. They haven’t even been studied throughly enough. Maybe they are good, maybe they are even friendly…”
“Look…I used to be like you at first. You think you can solve everything with peace and harmony around but at some point you will see that the world is nothing like that. It is a dog-eat-dog world where everyone eats whatever and whoever he can in order to survive. Kindness, compassion…these are fairytales.” The lines on her old face curved into an expression full of contempt. NOT EVEN ONCE, that they had shown us any kindness whatsoever, listen to me, NOT EVEN ONCE. So why should WE be the tolerant ones. Screw them…”
She lit herself another cigarette.
In the background, milions of searing phoenixes were screaming their bitter telepathic shouts of desperation but in space nobody ever listens.
