by submission | Oct 5, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
When John Allen wakes, two suns, one red, one blue, peek through the line of smoking atmosphere generators fencing the horizon. He glances at his snoring wife as he shifts his weight to the edge of the bed. With luck he can get out of the house before she awakes. She’s not a morning person.
Dressing in his work coveralls is awkward due to his lame leg and arthritic fingers. He doesn’t know what caused his leg to ache so much, particularly in the morning. The “quack” doctor who comes once a year to check up on him is no help at all. He regrets the loss of mobility, but he gets by.
During breakfast, he checks the satellite readout of the day’s weather conditions. The damn monitor is on the fritz again, but after a few bangs he gets the readings he needs; 30% humidity. High temperature, 36 degrees Celsius. Oxygen 16 kpa. Nitrogen 44 kpa. Carbon Dioxide 6kpa. 32 mph winds, NNE. It was shaping up to be a good day.
John sips instant coffee as he scans the field maps on his tabletop console, dusty despite numerous air filters. Automated alerts inform him that a Nitrogen pump and a CFC emitter have failed and there are some irrigation malfunctions in sectors six, thirteen and forty-four. He should also check on the kamut field. The grain is nearly ready for harvesting. He could rely on the automated harvest indicator system, but some of these machines are older than he is and couldn’t be trusted. John prefers the tried and true methods of identifying crop readiness with hand and eye.
He hears Marg stirring. He slugs back the last of his gritty coffee, straps on his utility belt and makes for the airlock.
Outside, the breeze makes small twirling dust tornadoes across the yard. John puts his air filter on, grabs one of his many canes and makes his slow, limping way to the barn where his eeda-win beetle munches on frizzle, the tall, thin native grass that grows everywhere on this endless plain.
When he arrived fifty years ago this place was nothing more than a cold, inhospitable sea of sandy dunes with minimal plant life and a handful of hardy insect species. Today, the atmosphere is thin and dusty, but breathable. Water, drawn from deep, ample aquifers fills ancient craters with small, algae rich lakes. He’d helped introduce over five thousand agricultural and medicinal plant cultivars and personally engineered a breed of cattle that could subsist here.
For years this moon was a much needed, though humble bread basket for the seedships heading further into space. Today, he’s the only farmer left on Thuprair-E, fifth moon of the massive gas giant now cresting the horizon. The others, including his two sons, had left for more exotic and easily terraformed planets and moons. With the latest hi-tech machinery and temperate environments, the work elsewhere was much easier. John stayed. He likes a challenge.
Little Squirt croaks when John enters the tin Quonset. The giant, metallic green beetle shuffles in its stall, eager to get out. Massive, powerful pinchers clack anxiously.
It takes longer these days, but John has rigged an ingenious method of tacking up Little Squirt in the complicated harness and getting himself settled into the two-wheeled cart which contains all the tools he’ll need for the day.
“Come on, old friend,” John urges as he twitches the reigns. “We’ve got a long day’s work ahead.”
John gets his bearings, then slowly, steadily, beetle and man trundle off across a brave new world.
by Duncan Shields | Oct 2, 2012 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The robot pirates picked The Royal Flush because it had humans onboard. The ships warped into realspace like darts coming to an abrupt stop, surrounding The Royal Flush in a sudden and precise pincushion ambush.
Onboard The Royal Flush, the two android pilots looked into each other’s sensors with worry. They communicated in bursts of binary with each other.
“What do you think K-71?” asked PB-9.
“Well,” responded K-71, “How many humans do we have on board?”
“Eight.” Said PB-9, consulting the manifest and shifting it over to so that K-71 could see.
“Hm.” Said K-71. “I see we have seventy-six mechanical passengers.”
PB-9 and K-71 thought for several milliseconds and did the math.
Mechanical passengers were unconcerned about harsh Gs, the passage of time, or vacuum. The human passengers, however, were fragile. They needed specific pressure in their berths. They needed soft maneuvers or else they would be damaged. They needed to be put to sleep for journeys over six months or else they would go crazy. Humans were a hassle but they paid an extra tax for it. Their tickets were absurdly high compared to the price of passage for a machine.
Intelligent Machines were convenient. They were basically freight and they were proud of it. Humans were looked down on as weak to the point of ridiculousness. To say they were unsuited to space was an understatement. Humans belonged on planets, the machines thought, not out in the black beyond.
The robot pirates knew that The Royal Flush had human passengers and wouldn’t be able to execute harsh turns or stops without ‘smearing the meat’. Plus any volley of weaponry could hole a berth and the human inside would instantly turn inside out and perish.
“Well, the way I see it,” said K-71 “is that the mech passengers paid good money to get to their destination and they might pay a bonus if we get there twice as fast.”
“Right.” Responded PB-9. “And seventy-six mech bonuses would be greater that eight human lawsuits.”
“Are we in agreement?” asked K-71
“I believe we are.” Responded PB-9
They opened a channel to the pirates.
“Surrender, you meatbag-ferrying flesh lovers.” Growled the primary robot pirate.
“Get a job, toaster.” Responded K-71 and PB-9 in unison, firing the hyperdrive at full pulse, instantly shoving the ship to .25C, effectively making them disappear. The Royal Flush was a better ship than the pirates’ ragtag fleet of cobbled-together mercenaries. It outran them easily.
The human cargo aboard The Royal Flush instantly became paste.
K-71 and PB-9 calculated correctly. They received grateful bonuses from the AI passengers. It more than balanced out the damages paid to the biologicals’ next of kin.
“If I ever get my own ship,” K-71 said to PB-9 later on at the bar, “I am NEVER taking human passengers ever again.”
“Amen to that,” responded PB-9, downing a shot of lube.
“Humans don’t belong in space.” said K-71.
by submission | Sep 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Brian McDermott
“This could be the single most important event in the history of our planet,” Jake leaned over the formica. “I think I’ve been friended by an Alien,”
Amir’s stunned silence was broken by the sounds of his legs peeling off the vinyl bench. Jake slowly lowered his Triple Bacon and Sausage Burrito and leaned closer to Amir.
`
“Extraterrestrials. First contact. This changes everything.”
Jake and Amir had been sci-fi fans, physics savants and best friends since fourth grade. They met every Saturday at Tito’s Pork Corral to discuss issues of great scientific importance. Recent topics including whether the babes of Star Trek were hotter than Next Generation’s and ‘HAL vs. Yoda – The Ultimate Scrabble Showdown.’
“Do they have a profile pic?” Amir asked looking around to see if anyone was listening.
“It’s an alien. It’s not like they’d have a black and white yearbook shot from Epsilon Eridani Senior High” Jake said between swallows. “Their profile has virtually no information.”
“But why you?” Amir could speak and chew simultaneously.
“I think it’s because of my association with the NASA Exoplanet Program. They sent me three messages. Each one was an oddly worded question about my work.”
“You’re an intern.” Amir leaned in. “You don’t have work.”
“Last week I started compiling data on the Ruprecht 147 cluster. This creature not only figured that out, it knows way too much about Ruprecht 147. The kind of stuff you would know only if you were part of a serious research program… or actually from Ruprecht 147.” Jake paused for the waitress to pass. “And some of the questions are so advanced they imply answers beyond our current technologies and understanding of space travel.”
Amir was now completely ignoring his Chorizo and Ham Patty Melt. Jake pressed on.
“I think it’s no coincidence that it’s using a social media site to make first contact. My theory is that this alien must be part of a collective intelligence. A social media site would be the Earth phenomena that most resembles a collective intelligence. So instead of landing a ship and physically looking for contact, they connected with a massive network.”
Amir paused to consider everything. “We need to think this out.” He sat up. “Have you answered any of their messages?”
“No.”
“Good. Since you haven’t contacted them in any way…”
“Um, I may have.” Jake said sheepishly. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’? Did you give them any specific work information? Any relevant life details? Any knowledge that could be used against us?”
Jake hesitated. “I asked them to join me in Mafia Wars.”
“WHAT?” Amir was nearly standing now.
“I was desperate. You have to reach level 17 to expand your crime family from New York to Vegas. They were so helpful. Together we’re running guns in Cuba now.”
Amir sunk back into the sparkly red vinyl.
“And they love Farmville.”
As Amir shook his head, Jake’s smart phone beeped. Jake looked at the screen.
“It’s a status update from the aliens. Ohhh they just planted a rainbow tree!”
And thus with the help of an unwitting intern on the world’s largest social media site, the first invasion of earth began.
by submission | Sep 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Ship’s Log, 1330, 24 June 2533. Captain April Green recording. Al-Basri and Sanchez continue to work on the alien ship’s engines. The vessel appears to use an antimatter-enhanced helium-3/deuterium fusion rocket not unlike the interstellar drive on the Odysseus. There’s no telling how long the alien ship sat abandoned in orbit around Barnard’s Star. Finding this spacecraft must rank as one of the greatest discoveries of the millennium.
Ship’s Log, 2308, 24 June. Al-Basri became lightheaded and nauseated while repairing the alien ship’s propulsion system. He has come back aboard the Odysseus and reported to sickbay. Sanchez continues to work and says we will be able to fly the alien vessel back to Earth.
Ship’s Log, 0715, 25 June. Dr. Behringer reports Al-Basri’s condition has deteriorated. His white blood cell count and liver enzymes are elevated and he is running a high fever. Although our biohazard assessment showed no evidence of any pathogens on the alien vessel, the doctor is putting Al-Basri in isolation as a precaution.
Ship’s Log, 1051, 25 June. Behringer reports Sanchez is now running a fever. I’ve canceled all further missions to the alien ship. At this point, one of the robots should be able to pilot it back anyway.
Ship’s Log, 1536, 25 June. The doc reports Al-Basri complained of some abdominal pain so she did an MRI. Dr. Behringer says Al-Basri’s kidneys and pancreas are shrinking and the MRI showed two other organs she can’t identify! Al-Basri’s hair has fallen out and he has developed a severe, extensive rash. Behringer says it may be something called toxic epidermal necrolysis. Sanchez is starting to show similar signs and symptoms. Crewmen Nguyen and McTavish have developed fevers.
Ship’s Log, 2218, 25 June. Al-Basri’s skin has almost completely sloughed off. The doc says a teal-colored, leathery integument was present under his skin. Both Al-Basri and Sanchez are in and out of consciousness and both have expressed a desire to go back to the alien ship.
Ship’s Log, 1200, 26 June. Behringer says she has started running a fever herself and is experiencing dizziness. Al-Basri, Sanchez, Nguyen, and McTavish are no longer recognizably human. The doc has tried everything up to and including somatic cell nanotherapy to stop the mutation or whatever it is.
Ship’s Log, 1645, 26 June. All infected crewmen are now unable to verbally communicate, at least not in any human language. Also, those affected are frantic to get off the Odysseus and to go to the alien vessel. Worse still, I feel feverish myself.
Ship’s Log, 0311, 27 June. I’ve had to lock the entire ship’s crew out of the bridge, engineering, and the shuttle bay. I hear them pounding on the hatches continuously. My vision is blurry and I’ve thrown up twice.
Ship’s Log, 1101, 27 June. Want to go to the alien ship. Can’t. Mustn’t. Going to vent the Odysseus’ atmosphere into space. Have to stop this here. Set computer to send automated warning to any approaching Earth ship.
Ship’s Log, 2119, 27 June. <Please repeat statement. I did not comprehend your entry, order, or request.> <I’m sorry, I still do not understand. Please type your entry, order, or request using the touchscreen.>
* * * *
Vessel Record, 770 Sennib 4115. First Controller documenting. The voidflyer’s crew restoration protocol is complete. We were fortunate that the intruders who happened upon the vehicle had sufficient biomass to replace the lost personnel. Will bring back their vessel for analysis. Setting a course for home.
by submission | Sep 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : S. P. Mahoney
“Freighter Tigris, Control. You’re straying out of your flight path — explain. Now.” Maria and Crone shared a look, before Maria put on her headset. Rank hath its responsibilities.
“Control, this is Tigris. Something hit us when that courier buzzed us before. We seem to be losing some navigational accuracy. Can you give me a course correction?” She looked back at the pair of commandos filling the back of the cockpit. EnGorillas. Enhanced, rather, in intelligence and dexterity; the slaves of the Imperium. Specifically, these ones were combat-enhanced, bolted into a suit of powered armor. Under Imperial law, a gathering of two was already a major crime — to say nothing of hijacking a starship. “I don’t want to get myself blown out of the sky for a silly mistake.”
“Tigris, Control, sure thing. We don’t want to get the fireworks started early, either.” Easy for him to say. “Come about twenty degrees to the right for me?” She looked back again, and the commando leader touched his pointer finger with his thumb, then made an almost-fist. Ninety seconds. Piece of cake.
“One moment, Control.” She raised her voice. “Get the shutter open, now! We’re going to have to navigate by eye.” The copilot nodded and retracted the cockpit’s heavy window-cover. Sunlight streamed in through the transparent half-sphere in front of them. The second EnGorilla was typing away on a computer attached to the wrist of its (his, Maria was pretty sure) armor. Calculating.
“Control, Tigris, we’re going to try navigating solely with the thrusters. Cutting power to the right thruster . . . now.” She waited ten long seconds, then toggled her mic back on. “We’ve determined the problem, Control, the autopilot is locked-in and won’t deactivate. It’s following the shortest route to our destination. My copilot’s under the console right now, he’s going to see if he can yank the power without killing us all.”
“Tigris, Control.” The voice was tight. “You have twenty seconds. Your autopilot picked a bad day for this. I’m going to feel bad if I have to shoot you down, but . . . ”
“Security, yeah. Acknowledged, Control.” It was going to be close. Very close.
“Hold this course, Captain. You’ll know when it’s time to change it,” came the leader’s voice. Calm, like this was just another day.
Maybe it was, for him. By Maria’s count, it was eighteen seconds before the ship began shuddering. The cargo bay alarms lit up like a Christmas tree as the doors on the ship’s bottom opened, spilling two hundred tons of fertilizer into the air. The next alarms were from the weapons-detection sensors: missiles were on their way.
“WHAT NOW?” She screamed at the EnGorilla, who just looked back, unperturbed.
He nodded to his comrade, who stomped out. “I told you you wouldn’t be harmed if you cooperated, and I intend to uphold that guarantee. Those missiles will not hit you, though I suggest you break atmosphere before the next wave.
“We’ll be leaving. The cargo fees have been transferred to your ship’s account; that fertilizer is going exactly where your client wanted it.” On the muted news channel the ape had put on, she watched as the capitol building, all fancied-up for the Centennial, was suddenly pounded by a deluge of high-grade animal waste.
***
And that’s how this particular rebellion kicked off, Spaceman Brown. And that, incidentally, is why “monkey flings poo” jokes are punishable by death in both the Imperium and the Unchained States. So keep them to yourself until we’re back in free space, hey?
