by submission | Nov 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
Frejj glided two meters above the street of the marketplace, each pulsation of his gelatinous, umbrella-shaped body propelling him forward through the green chlorine atmosphere toward the cafe at the end of the street. Seeing his friend, Vallier, resting on a pedestal, he floated over to join him. Vallier held a stylus in one tentacle and a datapad in two others. He was obviously deep in thought.
“Writing?” asked Frejj.
“Writing,” confirmed Vallier.
Frejj signaled a servitor to request a flagon.
“Put that pad down. I’ve ordered us a libation.”
Vallier kept writing. “I’d like you to look this over when I’m done. I’m going to submit it to one of the lore journals.”
“I hope it’s not more of that silly science fiction of yours.”
“It’s not silly!” said Vallier louder than he’d intended. “It’s creative and imaginative. So much lore nowadays is derivative and repetitive. Speculative fiction is the new frontier in literature.”
The servitor delivered the flagon and two cups to the table. Frejj poured them both a drink. He drained his cup and poured himself another. “What’s it about anyway? Your story, I mean.”
“You’ve heard the news about radio transmissions from a star system in the Jebraze constellation possibly being from an alien intelligence? I’m writing a story on what the aliens might be like.”
Frejj had another drink. “That’ll turn out to be a false alarm. There are no habitable planets in that system.”
“They’ve determined the third planet is the origin of the transmissions. It’s mostly covered in water and the atmosphere is about one-fifth oxygen.”
Frejj put down his cup. “Nothing could survive in such an environment. Your story won’t get accepted for publication if no one finds it believable.”
“That’s where the transmission originated,” insisted Vallier. “Whatever creatures live there would have evolved to survive the amount of oxygen in the air.”
Frejj resumed drinking. “My advice is make the characters in your story like life on our planet. Make their mesoglea an odd color to make them seem ‘alien’ of something.”
“Who’s going to believe aliens that look like us?”
“The readers have to be able to relate to the characters.”
“The characters are from another planet. They’re not going to float around and have six eyes and look like ordinary people.”
“They’re not going to float about? How do you intended to have them move?”
“Maybe they slither on the ground or ambulate on specialized tentacles.”
“They couldn’t escape predators if they locomoted on the ground. They’d never survive long enough to develop into a technological civilization.”
Vallier floated off his pedestal momentarily with excitement and descended back down to rest on it. “That’s it!” he said with excitement. “The aliens are land-bound and easy prey for their world’s predators. At the same time, their planet’s poisonous oxygen atmosphere puts them in constant peril. Oxygen is highly reactive. I bet things would catch fire there really easily. They’d be a stoic, warrior race ever vigilant against their planet’s endless danger!” Vallier started writing frantically.
“How about a love interest?” asked Frejj. “A male, a female, and a gestator are thrown together by circumstances and a romance develops.”
“Readers want action and adventure, not mating dances.”
“And what happens when we get a radio transmission with video from the aliens? What happens when we know what they look like and what their civilization is like?”
Vallier stopped writing. He looked worried for a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Shape-shifters! I can address that problem by making them shape-shifters!” he said triumphantly.
by submission | Oct 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
Jason’s pale fingers trembled hesitantly across his gray suit pants. His first suit. Any job. Take anything. His father’s pleading reverberated like a taiko drum. Sweaty palms left dark trails across his scrawny thighs. He gulped. Worms wriggled in his stomach from the Dulce elevator speeding a hundred feet below burning New Mexico heat. Odd smells of rot and mold decorated the underground base’s waiting area. Blush rolled up his neck to his red hair as his employer greeted him.
“Glad you’re aboard, Turner. Sorry about your parents. Terrible thing. Please consider us your family, if you will.” Director Albright clamped his massive right hand across Jason’s tiny shoulder, leading him into the next room. Jason looked into the middle-age leader’s face for acceptance from the gray eyes that matched Albright’s hair.
“So what do I do? I can’t use my sociology degree in a place like this. There’s no population to study. I feel useless.” Jason scouted the hall as they passed armed guards and a security door Albright opened with an eye scan.
“Nonsense. We do cutting-edge research. You said you wanted adventure. You’re patient when under stress, based on our tests. That’s rare enough. Now, if you’ll just sit here, on the other side of this Plexiglas security wall, we can start.”
The two settled into high-backed office chairs around a small coffee table. Albright collected a dull orange folder from the table. He skimmed the contents, nodding his head. “You scored highest in verbal skills. Six languages. That’s impressive. You like linguistics?”
“Uh, yes.” Jason flinched as something drifted past the other side of the opaque divider, revealing an odd outline. Stench of rotting meat intensified. “Did something die?”
“Humor, too.” Albright smiled, setting down the file. “No, it’s quite alive. You see, Jason, we perform social work of a kind here. Now hold on, and steady yourself, because behind that cage is an alien who wants to be there, but is confused and uncomfortable. Just like our swift elevator, they use an interstellar device that descends to Earth every thousand years. We help hundreds of evolved species visit us. It’s unnerving for them to adapt. You can imagine. The last time this one visited, Vikings were running amok and Incas ruled South America.”
Jason nodded, shuddering as the shape stopped and rubbed against the barrier.
“Son, we need your skills to open communications with our guests. The challenge is it has to get used to your smell before it will attempt a connection. You also have to accept its odor. Sorry, but that’s the challenge of cultural differences. You sit here each day for three weeks and let your essences mix. Then, if all goes well, we go to Phase II and start working on translation. Consider this a half-way house for weary travelers.”
“Just sit here? Me? Is it safe? I mean…”
“Completely. We don’t make staff assignments lightly at Dulce. You’re our man. I see big things for you. Now just stay here and Miss Rosado will bring your lunch and more papers to sign. The restroom is on the right of the entry doors. I’ll check with you tomorrow. Okay?”
“I guess, “Jason replied, feebly, as gurgling sounds escaped through the confinement.
“Do you think this one will cut it, Edgar?” Wendy Rosado asked Albright, as she passed him on her way in with a tray of sandwiches and fruit juice.
“I can’t say, Wendy. But if he doesn’t, we’ll have to orphan another candidate after we feed this one to our guest. We’re starting to run out of redheaded sociologists.”
by submission | Oct 30, 2014 | Story |
Author : Christopher Stewart
Everything was powered up, the switch thrown, and she stepped through, crossing the threshold out of nowhere. I remember everything about her so clearly. Not that she was remarkable, other than appearing out of nowhere, but shooting the instrument panels of the machine demanded attention, y’know?
She said, “You will not know my name. You will not know my era. You’ll never make sense of today and I’m sorry about that. You just can’t do this and we have to be certain you don’t.” As she spoke, the gun turned towards me. The rest of the room reacted like it was pointed at them, but no, she was looking right down the barrel at me.
I don’t know guns, but it looked like a normal gun to me. I was looking really hard, you see. And it worked pretty well apparently. She stared at me, just for a moment, then frowned and addressed the gathering of scientists and reporters. The gun stayed on me.
“You opened your door to strangers!” She looked at the project lead. “You! You were grinning like an idiot! You have no idea who I am!” He tried to remind her she hadn’t given a name, but she cut him off, “SHUT UP!”
“You were so keen to be first; you never wondered how many came later, did you, Let alone who controls them, when, and for how long. But what’s done is done. All we can do is contain the mess you have started until as late as possible. This door must be closed. I am not arguing with you, that’s pointless, I am just telling you because you need to understand today isn’t aggression, but desperation.”
Her eyes turned back to me, and with a small, sad smile said, “Being a science writer is not for you. You should write a book. I really love your book.”
I woke up a week later in a hospital bed on the other side of the ocean, three bullet holes in my chest, and a lot of people wanting me to tell you the story I just told you. She had shot me and I was whisked away. I was lucky they said. I thought about that a bit, got into a loop, and passed out. I don’t think about it anymore. Not sober anyhow.
After I had left the building, the machine was repaired relatively quickly and the demonstration was set to continue later that day. This we know because those in attendance said as much in phone calls, texts, so on.
No idea what happened to my fan after she shot me. She never left the facility by all accounts. The second time the machine was turned on, they sent a nuke instead of a person through the door, so one way or another she disappeared in a ball of physics along with a big chunk of France.
As far as I know, nobody has built a machine since then.
by submission | Oct 29, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jason Zinnerman
Perched high on a sturdy branch, the man marveled at the intruders’ precarious fortune. They tight roped the border between likely and more likely death by landing in the hard green clearing instead of the dusty sun scorched wasteland just beyond their reach. The man monkeyed from branch to branch through a tangled green maze of thick leaves and brush, sizzling with pungent sweat, to peer at them arguing outside their broken ship.
The moist forest canopy growled with hunger as silent competition rustled branches, sneaking closer and closer toward the shipwreck. He maneuvered his short limbs through a shredded ship’s rusty carcass, caught forever high in the branches, which shielded him from invisible eyes with its aluminum bones.
The shadow of her voice slithered through the man’s ears.
…and we will mate until the sun sets.
After the sun and anger exhausted their energy, the intruders surrendered to their ship. Spidery fingers gripped the man’s heart as they climbed the steps and gave his gut a hearty twist with the clang of the shutting hatch. “They were bait,” he thought, “a trap devised by the sun herself to test his will and crush it with godly indifference.” He was stung again by the poisonous laughter of the bigger and stronger men he left behind. His throat was still torn by the dry grains of dirt that mighty hands forced him to eat while they touched his prize in ways he only imagined. He climbed down the tree’s strong leg, his hopes strangled and lifeless.
He crept toward their sanctuary nonetheless. Twigs, branches, leaves and sticks snapped with silent screams under his bare feet. While the sun climbed one full rung and laughed her hot breath on him he waited, quiet. Doubt’s toxin made him hope that the intruders would ascend toward the solar embrace and release him from impossible desires. The ship never budged and they couldn’t have realized they shot desperation into the sky with a whispering flare.
The door slammed open and the intruders leapt out in a flash. Sweat and spit smashed against the hull as they yelled and punched at it in sun fueled frenzy. The hungry buzz galloped closer.
He hadn’t heard the notes they spoke in a long time, not since backyard baseball games and summer picnics eons ago. He had only seconds to relearn. He moved his lips and throat in silent rehearsal.
…an EMERGENCY!!! He heard one declare.
He stepped from the bushes into the green, sun-soaked clearing. The intruders shrieked in exaggerated panic and pointed their rifles at him.
“Must c-c-come w-w-wwith me. D-d-d-ddddanger”
“I don’t think so buddy. Don’t step any clo-“
A hunter flashed behind the noise maker, grabbed him by the neck and crushed it with cruel squeeze. His companion reacted to defend, but the man launched to snatch his leg. A murderous howl followed the loud snap. The man’s sweaty hands caught his fleeing cries and confined them back in their terror stricken cell.
The hunters stared at each other. The other limped backwards with a tooth filled snarl, swallowed slowly by the forest, dragging his game by its dead arm. They both agreed, one is better than none.
“Q-q-q-quuiett!! Y-y-yyou wil sssurvivve! I c-c-cccan help!”
His scream saturated sobs would not stop. With his head in the man’s hands, a quick turn to the left ended the discussion.
The heavy walk to camp melted hours into days and allowed his sorrow to bubble and singe his eyes. But as he crept closer, he remembered her promise. We will mate until the sun sets…
by submission | Oct 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : James Langley
Dr. Livett tapped at the graphene strap around her wrist and the beachside illusion dissolved into nothing. She stood in the sterile, empty white room; the fragrant ocean breeze replaced by the smarting odour of bleach. She redressed into her uniform, the white pyrowool jumpsuit that clung tighter than a leotard, and with a few taps of the graphene strap a wall panel opened with a pneumatic hiss. The metal tray slid out and floated into the center of the room, the Nuclea-Ion energy field holding it in static levitation. On the tray lay the corpse.
Liren Smith, found dead at his apartment, was a retired caretaker for the international electronics company GlobeTech; renowned for its robotics, Nuclea-Ion Energy discovery and subject of countless conspiracies.
Starting her autopsy, Dr. Livett swiped fingers across her wrist strap and GlobeTech robotic arms folded out from the ceiling and, under her instruction, began the internal examination. The Y-shaped incision was cleaved across the chest and down the abdomen, the skin folded back before Nuclea-Ion lasers made short work of the ribs and breast plate. The robotics operated with mechanical precision and computerized routine as coronary arteries were pulled and spliced into Dr. Livett’s view. A heart attack was quickly confirmed as the cause of death, the autopsy room’s inbuilt surveillance system recorded the proceedings for future reference.
It was here she found it, the wire. The small strand of synthetic copper barely protruding from the ventricle’s tissue. There was no reports of Mr. Smith ever having a pacemaker so she investigated further. For over an hour she scraped away the muscular tissue, her intrigue falling away to concern as she discovered the entire organ was moulded around an intensive network of wires and electronics. She performed an intensive database search but found no medical technology that could explain the findings.
She tapped her wrist strap and the surveillance system shut down; her mechanical assistants slid out of sight. She retrieved her own instruments and continued the examination manually, feeling sweat prickling her brow. The liver and lungs presented as identical electrical structures and the lenses in the eyes were of quartz glass. She summoned a microscope and began checking tissue samples; the skin and muscles were void of organic cells and Liren Smith’s ersatz blood bore no trace of erythrocytes.
Dr Livett stepped back and steadied herself.
“Its not human,” she whispered to no one in particular, more a statement to confirm her own assumptions. Did anyone know about this? Was she supposed to know about this?
She started as the intercom buzzed and her superior’s voice filled the room
“Dr Manning, you have disabled the electronic and surveillance systems.”
“Yes, sir” she replied out loud, her voice trembling through a parched mouth, “I’m tired and thought I could concentrate better if I conducted the examination myself.”
“Yes, well GlobeTech is aware of this and is not pleased. They have a representative here to question you. He’s on his way down now, stay where you are.”
“What? Why?” she panicked, had they been watching her the entire time? She tried to close down the autopsy but her access to all systems management systems were barred.
From outside she could hear the sound of fast approaching footsteps and she activated the illusion program. The door to the autopsy room opened with a purr as the program swirled into life, obscuring the open corpse with the view of the beach, bathed in the glow of the setting sun.
As rough hands grasped at her, she breathed in the fragrant ocean air.
