by Duncan Shields | Oct 8, 2013 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
Randolph Beaucoup of the Terran Diplomacy Wing had been selected from fifty candidates for this particular First Contact mission. Little was known about the Marenko other than they were anamorphic pseudopods without discernible features. Smooth gelatinous bags that had the ability to form as many multi-fingered tentacles as needed to build or manipulate technology. The Terrans were still trying to figure out how they saw without eyes and thought without detectable brains.
There were large ones and small ones although that seemed to have no bearing on age. There was talk of one the size of an ocean but it may have been a god myth of some kind. All was unclear at this stage other than the fact that they had space-travel capability and were, by and large, peaceful.
The math constructs had been sent and received as proof of intelligence and no weaponry was detected at the landing site.
Randolph stood on the plateau a few steps away from the Terran landing plank beneath his ship, clad in a fishbowl helmet to clearly display his face and wearing a tight spacesuit that showed his musculature to curious species. It was known as the ‘nothing-to-hide’ approach. The stars twinkled above him. The Marenko balanced in front of him like a transparent slug rearing to impersonate a capital S. Unlike slugs, however, the Marenko were unnervingly quick and this one was the size of an elephant seal.
The Marenko extended a glittering flower-tipped pseudopod towards Randoplh and paused. Randolph extended his own hand and grasped the pod tip in what, in his experience, was a universal sign of greeting. A sharp pinprick zeroed in on his palm. His suit easily patched the tiny rupture as Randolph withdrew his stinging hand with an involuntary hiss of shock.
Before he could move, the Marenko extended another tentacled pad that slapped wetly up against Randolph’s helmet and stuck there.
“Hello Randolph. The earth-name I have chosen for myself is Mary.” said a pleasantly-modulated voice. The tentacle was vibrating against Randolph’s helmet to produce the sound. “It is a pleasure to meet you. This has been a delightful first contact and I am honored to be the first to produce our communication.”
Randolph thought that was an odd choice of words.
“The pleasure is mine, Mary.” he replied. “I’m happy to meet you too. I’m curious, what was the purpose of poking me like that?” he asked, tentatively hopeful that the answer would be benign.
“I needed a small tissue sample to produce our communication. You are in me now, growing. Soon you will be large enough to leave yourself here and then we can talk after you leave.”
Randolph couldn’t understand the words. The sentence must been parsed wrong in the alien’s nascent attempt at translation. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mary.” he said.
“Look closely at my center, Randolph.” said Mary.
Randolph looked closer at the core of the huge alien’s wavering, smooth body. There, in the center, curled up and twitching, was what looked like a tiny human baby.
A tiny baby with transparent skin and gelatinous bones. A tiny baby with dark hair and dark eyes, just like Randolph. It grew as he looked at it. A Meranko-Human hybrid of some kind.
“This version of you will stay here. We will converse. It will have your memories but it will be of my race as well. After a short amount of time, you may come to collect him and talk to him as well to gather your own information.”
“Uh…..what?”responded Randolph eloquently.
“I am, as you say, pregnant.” said Mary.
by submission | Oct 7, 2013 | Story |
Author : Andrew Bale
I see the truck drift across the median. In my mind, seconds become hours, but to my body, they flash by like lightning – I am paralyzed, watching my own doom in slow motion, unable to stop it. The impact is a blessing, a return to real time where the agony of my death passes like the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.
Somehow, I dream. I dream of something like a man, but not quite – he is too tall, too thin, and far, far too old. I see his life laid out before me, see his wives, his children, his vocation. It passes too fast for details, but I see joy turn into sorrow, see abject grief turn into steely resolve. Suddenly, his face is replaced by another, a real man, who ages from baby to senility in an instant. The unman appears again for the briefest moment, like a single frame inserted in a movie reel, before another baby takes his place. The cycle continues, a parade of lives interspersed with that one, sad, unchanging countenance.
And then I wake. Gasping, panicked, it takes my mind a little while to adjust, to relearn this body, to reconcile the old with the older. I am in something more than a bed, and sitting near my feet is another unman. He smiles at me, and I feel my heart slow, my mind calm.
“Welcome back. How do you feel?”
It isn’t English, it is a language I learned long before the idea of English existed. I cannot respond at first – awareness brings new sorrow, new joy. When I can, I tell him. Honesty is of the utmost importance.
“Sad, that they grieve. Happy, that someday they will wake.”
I glance around the room, picturing the profusion of waking rooms surrounding me, and behind, the great mass where the bodies of the dreamers lie dormant.
“Let me see it.”
He smiles again. Everyone asks. He waves a hand, and the wall before me clears.
I cannot help but cry at the beauty of Earth laid out before me, just six inches of transparent wall and half a million miles of empty space away. So small, so perfect. I glance up, wondering where Jack’s body lays sleeping, waiting for his return. I will probably never see him again – he was healthy, he will not wake until I am again gone.
“Are we close?” I ask the unman.
“Yes, and no.” He gestures toward the window. “The model is near the point where we broke. Nothing past that has meaning, so we will end in a few generations regardless. But the answer still eludes us.”
He leans close, full of quiet, desperate hope. “Do you have the answer?”
I think back on my life, on everything I learned, everyone I knew. It seemed then so full of worry, now it seems so full of hope. I shake my head.
“No. I will return and try again.”
He nods sadly as I rise, walk to the window on the world. I look at my reflection. So tall, so thin, so old, I barely recognize it.
“We will start the formal debrief soon. I will find you a new host. Any requests?”
I glance at my reflection again.
“Yes. I would like to be a woman again. I need that perspective some more, I think.”
“Just that? There are two and a half million returns a week now, requesting female is trivial.”
“It is enough. “
I glance at the window, at the Great Experiment. We lost something. We must get it back.
by submission | Sep 28, 2013 | Story |
Author : Aron White
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Davidson said, staring at Earth through the viewport. “There’s nothing like seeing the real thing. Reality is the ultimate high-definition experience. Just a few more days and we’ll be heading back home.”
Anders floated across the cabin, bumped Davidson out of the way and stuck his face against the transparent material.
“It would be more interesting if we weren’t performing the same missions as our grandfathers.”
Davidson rolled his eyes. “Show a bit of respect for those ‘grandfathers.’ They broke barriers and paved the way for us.”
“My point exactly. This isn’t the 1960’s, it’s the 21st century for heck’s sake! We need something new, something adventurous! Let’s break some new barriers for a change!”
Davidson shook his head. “What a crew the three of us make. One yearning for home, another for adventure and the third…” Davidson turned away from the viewport. “And how about you, Bronson? What’s your dream?”
Across the cabin, Bronson was staring out another viewport away from Earth, towards empty space.
“Me?” Bronson said without moving. “My dream is over. Now it’s time to go home.”
Davidson chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re facing the wrong way. Earth is on this side of the room.”
“Your home,” Bronson said, slowly turning to face Davidson and Anders, “but not mine.”
In a matter of seconds, Bronson’s human appearance melted away and shrunk downwards into a humanoid alien with stumpy appendages, chubby abdomen and a large cranium with big black, lidless eyes.
“What the…” Before Davidson could finish his sentence, the Bronson-turned-alien teleported across the cabin and used a three-fingered hand to tap each astronaut on the shoulder. Both men instantly passed out.
Twenty minutes later, Davidson woke to find both he and a still-unconscious Anders bound with metallic cords, secured against one of the cabin walls. The alien floated several feet away, typing commands into the spacecraft navigation system.
“Wha…what are you?” Davidson stammered.
“Does Roswell, New Mexico ring a bell?”
“That…that was supposed to be a rumor…”
“Well, the rumor is now the reality standing before you, Davidson. How’s that for a high-definition experience?”
“But…but why are you doing this, Bronson? Is that even your real name?”
“Bronson was the name I adopted in my human form. I’m commandeering this ship to return to my own planet. I was the lone survivor of the Roswell crash and have spent the past century waiting and watching. I needed a vehicle to launch myself into space, hence the gig as an astronaut.”
“But how will you…”
“There are leapways, or wormholes, throughout space. They’re not hard to find if you know what to look for. I’ve located one and we’re moments away from entry.”
Davidson’s eyes bulged as the full weight of the situation began to sink in.
The alien turned away from the navigation system to face Davidson. “I’m sorry to take you away from Earth, but do try to relax.”
“Relax?! How do you intend for Anders and I…”
“I’m optimistic you will be able to make a home of my planet as I did yours, and Anders shouldn’t have a problem with the new situation.”
“What makes you say…”
“Anders is about to fulfill one of his biggest dreams.”
Davidson tilted his head to one side questioningly as the alien continued.
“For the human race, he and you are both about to break many new barriers in space exploration, just like your grandfathers.”
Davidson was quiet as their spacecraft reached its intended target and vanished into the leapway.
by submission | Sep 26, 2013 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
The Norwellians were the eighth interstellar race to join the Galactic Cabinet. A millennia of experience had refined their intelligence and powers of diplomacy orders above all others.
And so, an unprecedented era of peace reigned across the stars.
The Cabinet’s reliance on the Norwellians was emphasised during the Phase – a short period every year, when the Norwellians would take leave from all duties and return to their home planet. The Phase was explained as a time for reflection, where they must not be disturbed.
Immediately following their departure for the Phase, an attack commenced on the Seethe home planet of Jerrin by a race called the Lins. It was timed perfectly to maximise the duration of damage through the Phase.
The Cabinet failed to resolve the conflict and watched in despair as Jerrin’s lush green surface became bruised and torn. In desperation, they reached out and demanded the Norwellians perform their Cabinet duties. The reaction was unexpected.
Like dragonflies over a pond, Lin battleships hovered over Jerrin. Warping beside each battleship appeared Kray stars, devices long outlawed by the Cabinet. Instantly each battleship folded inward, forming a white hot sphere. Each sphere then accelerated away from Jerrin towards the Lin home planet of Hy. Nearing the speed of light, they impacted, pushing the planet’s core to its surface. Lin became unmade.
Across galactic space, a silent assassin pulse decelled the biology of every remaining Lin.
The esteem held for the Norwellian’s, gave weight to their response. However, this was not enough to silence the roar of the public voice that demanded reasoning.
The Norwellians remained silent.
Patiently, the Cabinet waited for Phase End. Too fearful to disturb the Norwellians again. Too self conscious of their own inability to understand.
At the end of the Phase, a cruiser launched from the Norwellian home world and arrived carrying a sole passenger, the Norwellian Chief.
Through live galactic cast, the Norwellian Chief stood as expressionless as the stone plinth below him.
“Cabinet members and universal life. We are a proud and peaceful race. Our position within the Cabinet has given us a stage to share our knowledge of harmony and good will. For this we are grateful”
The chief slowly bowed his head and an expression of discomfort appeared across his long face.
“As a Norwellian, we, like all races, have genetic frailties. Biological coding so intertwined with the essence of our making that it cannot be separated. Our pride shrouded this weakness and now you hear the truth”
The chief rested a shaking hand on the stone rostrum.
“The time known to you as the Phase, is not a time for reflection. It is a time where we mentally regress to a primitive and instinctual state. A being so adverse to what you have come to know, that we must lock ourselves away for fear of its escape”
He looked upward and gazed momentarily, drawing in a deep breath.
“During our last Phase, you sought help from a different Norwellian. A dark Norwellian, bound in fear and hatred with no means of expressing that terror. Our action against the Lin was a violent release. A natural expulsion of hate, expressed using weaponry we have tried to forget. In reprising our Cabinet role, we have determined the only solution for this unforgivable act is this”
The Chief pulls his hand from his robe and discharges a hand weapon into his mouth, collapsing lifeless on the podium.
The audience screamed in silence. The tension interrupted moments later by a projected image of the Norwellian home planet exploding.
by submission | Sep 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
TRANSCRIPT OF THE FIRST OFFICIAL MEETING BETWEEN UNITED NATIONS SPACE AMBASSADOR JEFFREY CHATMAN AND AMBASSADOR VELDRIK-ORAN OF THE IMPERIUM OF ZETA RETICULI.
UNITED NATIONS HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK, 15 JANUARY 2086
CHATMAN: On behalf of the peoples of Earth, it is an honor and a pleasure to meet you.
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Your greeting cannot be literally translated into your counterpart’s language. But I will try to convey the basic sentiment.
[ROBOT speaks to VELDRIK-ORAN in an alien language. The Zeta Reticuli ambassador responds.]
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Today, the people of Zeta Reticuli and the people of Earth are like prisoners in the same detention camp.
CHATMAN: What?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: That’s the closest translation possible in English. The connotation is that your people and the ambassador’s share a strong bond of friendship.
CHATMAN: Oh. I am confident that both our worlds will benefit from the foundation we build here today.
[TRANSLATION ROBOT and VELDRIK-ORAN converse.]
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Our feet are all stuck in cement.
CHATMAN: I beg your pardon?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: The ambassador shares your hopes.
CHATMAN: Oh. Humanity looks forward to learning about your people and their culture and history.
TRANSLATION ROBOT: My bank account is overdrawn.
CHATMAN: Huh?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: By this he means he lacks the means to express how hopeful he is of a cultural interchange.
CHATMAN: Ah. Would you be willing to join me in a press conference later and allow our journalists to ask you a few questions?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: The service at this restaurant is horrid.
CHATMAN: What?!
TRANSLATION ROBOT: The ambassador will attend your press conference. His expression implies that if one wants something done, one must do it for one’s self. In other words, he is willing to do this.
CHATMAN: Are you sure our conversation is being properly translated?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Sir, both you and the Zeta Reticuli ambassador have radically different biologies, cultures, and histories. Translation under such circumstances is an art, not a science. I am trying to balance communicating what each of you is literally saying with rendering the translation linguistically and culturally comprehensible. Just a moment…
The ambassador says you must have gotten your clothes at a fire sale.
CHATMAN: I beg your pardon! This suit was a gift from my wife.
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Human beings are like a rash the doctor cannot treat.
CHATMAN: This is ridiculous. We need a different translator.
TRANSLATION ROBOT: I assure you, Mr. Ambassador, the conversation is being rendered as precisely as possible within the cultural and linguistic limits.
CHATMAN: Alright. Ask the ambassador if his people have encountered other intelligent life in the cosmos.
TRANSLATION ROBOT: Ambassador Chatman, I couldn’t ask that! Ambassador Veldrik-Oran would almost certainly interpret such a question as a lewd double entendre.
CHATMAN: That’s it! I’ve had it! I can’t do my job under these circumstances. Tell Veldrik-Oran he can take his diplomatic mission and stick it where the sun don’t shine.
[TRANSLATION ROBOT and VELDRIK-ORAN converse. VELDRIK-ORAN gets out of chair, walks over to CHATMAN and gives him a warm embrace.]
TRANSLATION ROBOT: That was very well received, Ambassador Chatman. Just a moment…
Ambassador Veldrik-Oran says…the light’s been green for ten seconds, for the love of God hit the gas pedal!
CHATMAN: What the hell does that mean?
TRANSLATION ROBOT: He wants to establish a warp gate in orbit around your world so the people of Earth and the people of Zeta Reticuli can visit each more easily. Congratulations, Ambassador Chatman! Your diplomatic mission is a complete success.
END TRANSCRIPT
