by submission | Oct 12, 2014 | Story |
Author : Lesley Carhart
I want a divorce. I might say it, but as usual, the only sound is the crisp autumn leaves scattering across the gravestones. I glance over to Stephen across the frost-singed grass, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. On these cold days, we’ve both considered it, for over ninety years.
The point is academic. There’s no justice of the peace or pastor here to grant one. There’s really not anybody, save the odd relative setting prerequisite flowers, or groundskeeper raking the leaves. They don’t see us, of course. We’re dead and incorporeal. Arguing is no longer appealing, and Stephen is staring at the sky, caught up in a radio program about a distant war.
I believe the young necromancer meant well. She had other, foreign, names for her profession, but in our era, there was simply no other term for one who toyed with the dead. When she found us in the sanatorium, I was wracked with pain, and Stephen poetic and distraught. Her offer was too good to be true. She had been reading Shakespeare, she said – she hated the endings of tragedies, but tragedies were meaningless when death was no obstacle. She would resolve the cause of her distress, by making true love eternal, and we were the objects of her plan. Her idealism struck us both with such hope…
Of course we agreed. We had no concept of whom or what the creature in the guise of a pretty girl was, and she was promising us a certain eternity together. The consumption caused me such pain that rational thought stood no chance against our tragic love. Stephen, a failed actor, had a theatrical flair that made poisoning himself entirely natural.
She did not disappoint. I was laid to rest in black nothingness, but the next night I awoke in the graveyard, with Stephen beside me. The necromancer left with a prideful smile and airily tossed flowers. She had saved human love. We never saw her, or her kind, again.
Alas, despite her power over death and spirit, the mysterious woman did not understand what human love really meant. In truth, neither did we. The first few years were blissful. We haunted mourners and counted stars in the sky. Yet over time, we discovered things had changed since we left our bodies. We could not leave the graveyard. The necromancer told us we were anchored to that place to prevent us from soaring off with the spinning of the planets. That alone would not have dampened our spirits, except without bodies, love had left us as well.
They say the young do not know the difference between love and lust. We more than most know the bitter truth – love may transcend, but lust is tied to the humors of the body. As the years went by, we discovered that in truth we had little to discuss or want from one another. It became an arrangement of convenience. We watched the world change over decades. At some point, the ether became alive with music, in the form of radio broadcasts, which we could inexplicably interpret. For a time, we danced to Vivaldi and Sinatra.
The music has begun to stop, drowned out by senseless noise. They call it ‘digital’. Stephen still listens to the news broadcasts despite this, but I fear we’ll soon be left peeking at the groundskeeper’s puerile daytime television.
Dearest reader, if you are ever in love, cherish every moment. But if a strange woman someday offers you eternity with your lover, remember that she does not offer you eternal love.
by submission | Oct 11, 2014 | Story |
Author : Richard D. Deverell
We all knew the story. Every child my age had grown up with it. Though the governmental space agencies had long since faded into obscurity and private companies began the exploration and plunder of the solar system, the governments continued long-range research. NASA, ESA, and JAXA stunned the world when they jointly announced the discovery of a mesoplanet orbiting a star a mere eight light-years away that, through their combined research, they had confirmed to contain liquid water and an oxygen-rich atmosphere. Suddenly, the corporations found themselves racing each other to build a craft and send a team to explore, and claim, the new planet’s resources. Even with the technology the corporations used for their work in the outer solar system, it took fifteen years to develop the star drive capable of accelerating to ninety-eight percent of the speed of light. Development of the integral rams scoop system bankrupted two companies and three more formed an uneasy conglomerate just for the opportunity to stake a claim on the new world.
Volunteers were drawn from every scientific field possible and the United States and China both arranged to have military personnel on board. In the end, fifty people, civilians and military, were selected to take the trip. Though it would only take them eight years to reach their destination, the time dilation effects of near-to-light-speed travel meant that, for every year they traveled, nearly six and-a-half would pass on Earth. By journey’s end, fifty-one and three-quarters years had come and gone on Earth. It would be sixty years before anyone on Earth would even know if the team had successfully arrived since they couldn’t send a message while traveling.
Those countries with citizens among the team sent them off in grand fashion, turning them into national heroes and bestowing medals and honors upon them before they did anything. For years afterward, the cable news would bring family members on to discuss how important the mission was. Soon though, the family members only appeared every five years, and then every ten. People didn’t forget; they just moved on.
Until last year. The first transmission came back and humanity suddenly found itself tuned in to the same programming around the world. The first readings from orbit confirmed the presence of vast inland seas of water and the atmosphere was thirty-five percent oxygen and sixty-two percent helium with other trace gasses filling in the rest. Those gasses indicated the presence of simple life, but there was no evidence of intelligent life or civilizations, either in electromagnetic emissions or even physical structures and roads. After monitoring the planet for weeks and sending out carefully constructed, pre-approved messages of greeting across the EM-band, including light and even an aerial probe to scan the ground closer and emit precisely-timed auditory messages, the team determined that the planet was uninhabited by intelligent life. Many on Earth were disappointed, but the heads of the corporations breathed a secret sigh of relief since they needn’t fear the bad publicity of trying to steal a planet from indigenous sentient life.
The first landing party quickly dispensed with the scenes that fill history texts, all carefully choreographed as well, and then began testing the soil for anything of value back on Earth. After a month, humanity again lost interest. Until we lost contact. The final transmission said only, “We were wrong.” Now, I’m one of the private soldiers assigned to investigate. My eight-year trip will mean fifty for my family. Everyone I know will be gone and I don’t know what I’m facing, but I know I’m not alone.
by submission | Oct 10, 2014 | Story |
Author : Damian Knoll
The doorbell rang.
“Welcome to the Emporium,” I shouted over my shoulder.
Before the door closed, a gust of bone-splitting December wind sneaked inside and coiled around my ankles. I quickly shoved the stack of old vinyls aside and laid the refurbished Stradivari on the shelf. When I turned, the chimpanzee was sauntering around the fat 1973 contrabass that greeted my customers at the entrance.
The chimp was a Tru Pet, a deluxe model, 2031 or older. You can always tell by the way they shuffle their legs; starting in 2032, they nixed that awkward primate sway. He wore a top hat, bow tie, a vest, stripped pants, and ankle boots. The laces were neatly tied. A silver chain connected a pocket of his vest to the gloved hand of his owner, a tall, willow-thin lady wrapped in a giant faux fur coat.
I cranked up my smile. “Ready for Christmas, Ma’am?”
She stopped at the counter, grey eyes the color of the overcast sky outside.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, and slid the hood of her coat back.
Her face was symmetry unleashed. A Michelangelo study. Too good to be human.
“Not to be rude,” I said, “but Tru Pets must be accompanied by a certified human.” I pointed at the DNA-scanner by the register. “Would you mind?”
“Oh,” she said, “I get this all the time. Do I really look fake?”
Well, you’re blending in quite nicely, Miss Cruella Deville.
The chain rattled softly; at the other end of the leash, the chimp plodded around, a labored breath rasping in his throat.
“Ma’am, I’m just a simple shop owner. I don’t make the rules.”
She removed her glove and laid her hand under the lasers that flickered on the console. The machine beeped once. Non-altered DNA, the display read.
Wow, she was one for the ages. That’s what humans should never be: perfect.
“How may I help you?” I said.
She leaned closer and whispered, “He’s dying.”
“Who’s… dying?”
She glanced at the chimp, who was lightly tapping a tambourine.
“Amadeus,” she said.
“I’m deeply sorry, Ma’am,” I said, “but… this is a vintage musical instrument shop, not a hospice for deluxe pets. I’m afraid—”
“Amadeus wants to learn to play an instrument. It’s his last wish.”
An ape with a bucket list? Merry Christmas.
“I see. Well, he certainly likes the tambourine.”
“Not enough of a challenge,” she said. “He had an I.Q. upgrade two years ago. I paid a fortune.”
I looked around. “How about… the trombone? It requires a one-hand manipulation, then blowing into—”
“The tumor is on his lung. Blowing is not an option.”
She pointed her pristine index finger at the nearby cello. “The cello.”
“The cello?”
“Why not?”
“Not to be rude, Ma’am, but… the coordination required for—”
Suddenly, the dissonant strums of a guitar rang in my ears: the chimp was clenching the riff of the instrument with one hand, while randomly plucking its strings with the other.
“I’m just a poor boy, though my story’s seldom told,” Amadeus began to sing in his hoarse voice. “I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles…”
Simon and Garfunkel. 1968. Hell of an upgrade.
“Still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest…”
He gently set the guitar back on its rack.
“There we go,” I said.
“I’ll stick with the cello,” Cruella said matter-of-factly.
By the time they left with the cello in its velvet case, it had started to snow again. The angry wind kept the snowflakes from touching the ground.
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I found Gaze at the Drake right where I expected him to be; in the furthest corner from the entrance in a booth which no doubt had the cleanest sight-lines in the club. Between the wire-head and I lounged a crowd of slack-jawed men and barely dressed entertainers; dockers and soldiers at the end of their ropes in sharp contrast to the paid and pampered flesh workers at the start of their shift.
Gaze had already sized me up before I sat down, and kept his eyes on the door as he spoke.
“You’re lucky you’re on time, but your interfaces are leaking like shit.” He strummed his fingers noiselessly on the tabletop. “We’ve only got a few minutes to get you out of here before your tail figures out where you’ve gone, I suggest you start by shutting all of your shit down.”
Gaze and I had saved each other’s lives many times, I trusted him. I dialed all my electrics to zero and suddenly felt more naked and exposed than any of the club’s dancing girls, denied the steady hum of incoming data from the room and the world around me.
“I’m assuming you want your kit patched up and upgraded? Is that what this is about?” Gaze locked onto me briefly, his eyes blinking furiously as he maintained multiple simultaneous interfaces, mine no doubt the lowest resolution. “I’ve been following your trail all around the city, you’re too easy a man to find.”
His hands stopped strumming suddenly, and I could see him visibly tense up.
“Whatever happens, you stay dark until I patch this shitshow you’re wired with. You light up and I’m gone in a heartbeat, nothing personal, just survival.” He almost smiled. “And I make the calls, you follow the orders this time, clear?”
I nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Mayhem on the center stage,” the voice boomed through the smoky room as an ultra low frequency bass-line started worming its way into my head. “Mayhem, for your enjoyment.”
As the announcer’s voice trailed off, and the heavy industrial dance track gained volume, all of the girls in the club collected their things and moved en masse to the back, some amidst protests from patrons who felt they hadn’t gotten their money’s worth yet.
Gaze focused on the door across the room, and I turned to see what had caught his attention as two figures in urban assault garb walked into the club.
“The Drake has been actively running blocker for you since you got here.” I turned, and he caught my raised eyebrow with a smile, “I upgraded its wetware when I started coming here. I like the girls, some of them are raising families, it’s the least I could do to keep them from attracting the wrong kind of attention.”
The men at the door started moving slowly into the room, the patrons already on edge with the heavy beat from the speakers and the notable absence of the main attraction. Smoke machines pumped thick white clouds along the main stage, the heavy vapour rolling off the edges and pooling on the floor. Black lights threw white t-shirts, teeth and sneakers into stark relief in the building darkness.
“There’s a fire exit beside this booth, and we’ll be going through the door and down the stairs when it starts.” Gaze’s eyelids were a constant flicker, giving him an eerie strobe light visage in the low light.
“When what starts?” I didn’t have to wait for an answer.
Gaze spread the virus like fire, every interface in the room was an open door to him, and the smouldering coals of frustration were ripe for the sudden injection of adrenaline and cortisol the codebyte demanded, followed by a series of images designed to provoke a negative response to figures of authority.
When one of the intruders bumped a sailor in the middle of the room, the match was struck.
As the space erupted with yells, swinging fists and flying chairs, Gaze simply got up and moved to the exit. I followed without a sound.
Making our way down the back stairs, I couldn’t help but ask. “What do you call that?”
Gaze didn’t break stride, and said simply “Sometimes your flavour of brute force and ignorance is called for, I just delegate.” A few steps later he looked back and smiled. “I call it Mayhem, I thought you would have figured that out.”
by submission | Oct 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
We dropped out of warp near the wreckage. Navigator Needham did a fine job and I intended to recommend him for a commendation—if we came back from the assignment.
I walked to the view screen and looked out. Ahead of us, less than a parsec away, I saw the wreckage of the HEINLEIN. Whatever attacked it had destroyed it completely. I tried not to notice the frozen bodies.
“What kind of animals could do this?” asked First Officer Rancin.
I turned. “Scans?” I asked.
Officer Moreland looked at the console in front of him. He punched a few buttons, and then shook his head. “Nothing in the immediate vicinity,” he said. “We’re alone.”
Alone? I thought as I looked out at the devastation. Not likely. I reran the events of the past few months in my brain. We had moved deeper and deeper into uncharted space looking for habitable planets and resources we could mine. A survey shipped had gone missing in the region, and the HEINLEIN was sent out to investigate. I remember their final comm message well. They were under attack by a bizarre ship that seemed to be able to morph shapes. The HEINLEIN’s captain, Jared Landrom, was an old space academy friend. We had talked over subspace the day before the attack, Landrom giddy as a school girl with excitement over the prospect of making first contact with a new race. “It’s history, Dave,” he said excitedly. “Think of it! First contact!”
I told him to be careful. A survey ship was missing, after all.
Landrom scoffed it off and told me I was a pessimist. “The glass is half full, buddy,” he said over subspace. “And the drink is called ‘infamy’.”
It was the last thing he would ever tell me.
A shudder ran through me as I realized one of the frozen bodies floating out there in the void of space was his.
“Sir?” Moreland said.
“I….I’m picking up something.”
Another shudder ran through me. “What is it?”
“A…a probe of some type.” He looked at the view screen. On his console, he spread his fingers over the image and the view screen enhanced the image.
It was a small, tubular object.
“Scan it,” I said.
Moreland did as instructed. “It appears to be a communication device of some type,” he said. “It’s emitting a signal.”
“A signal?”
Moreland nodded. “Yes sir. A signal. I’m running it through the translator now.”
I turned back to the view screen. Two ships gone. I had no doubt that the survey ship had suffered the same fate as the HEINLEIN, but for what reason? They had come to this region of space not as warriors, but as explorers. There was no purpose in their deaths.
Then, my thoughts turned to Antaris Prime, a planet we had discovered a light year or so away. An advanced race of creatures had lived there; but, almost overnight, they were wiped out. Their records told of a race of aliens they called the Kyllians who had come to their planet and demanded they leave. They did not, and they had died.
What evil creatures would commit genocide? I wondered.
Once again, I thought about Landrom’s body, dead and frozen, floating through the void of space.
Why?
“Sir?” Moreland said.
I jumped, startled. “Yes?”
“I…um….the, uh, translator has translated the message.”
“And?”
Moreland was visibly shaken. “It’s two words, sir. Just two words, repeated over and over again.”
“And what are those words?” I asked.
Moreland leaned back in his seat.
“Go away,” he said. “It says ‘go away’.”
