by submission | Sep 26, 2014 | Story |
Author : Glenn Leung
He was the Hero of time, that was all we knew. For millenia, long before he was born and long after he had died, he had been saving the world. An alien invasion two hundred years in the future, a genocidal plague three hundred years in the past, had all been averted by him. He had never once revealed his identity, even though people have seen his face. I even own a plastic figure of him, have pictures of him from eyewitnesses, and am always on the lookout for him in real life. Yet, I have not met this man, nor has anyone else in this time.
“He sounds very much like that alien with two hearts,” laughed my brother. “Does he travel in a blue box?”
I giggled, I did not realize how similar those stories had been.
“So you think it’s all just mass delusion?” I asked.
“Quite likely so, although I’m very surprised in this age of logic and reason, such things can still happen.”
Indeed, it was unthinkable that mass delusions could occur in this age of science. However, it was just as unthinkable how stories of his exploits in the future could arrive with us. Some people say that this is evidence time travel exists, citing photos that were allegedly taken with him against a futuristic background.
“The experts say the photos are genuine,” I often hear such protests against claims of photoshop. Yet, everyone knows that nowadays, experts are often wrong about many things.
“Maybe he’s a concept,” my friend Jody had once mentioned. “You know, a concept personified. Just like comic book superheroes were during the second world war. They were supposed to represent the people’s wish for a good person of immense power which brought an end to suffering.”
“But he’s not a fictional character,” I had replied. “The things he did, or will do, are supposed to be real.”
Jody sighed in disagreement.
“Who knows, a thousand years from now, people may think superheroes actually existed.”
Was it all just an issue of legends made real then? I told others I remained open-minded, but secretly, I wanted to believe. I wanted the Hero to be real, and I wanted him to be my Hero, a brave man detached from his time, traveling around to make things right. I wanted to follow him, be his sidekick, and get to know him better.
“Hey Johnny! Come take a look at this!”
It was my brother, slouched on the couch, as he has been doing every day at nine. It was the news, and some security footage was showing. It was a shot at the entrance of an old castle. No one had been in the castle at that time of night, yet at precisely 2 in the morning, someone was shown leaving it.
I could barely believe my eyes. I recognized that face, that hair, that outfit practically anywhere! It was him!
“Yet another sighting,” sighed my brother. “I bet it’s just another extremely elaborate hoax.”
No…I thought. He was here, in this time, for something. Something is about to happen, and soon, the people of this time would know how real he is. I was excited, my Hero was coming to life! So elated was I that I did not realize that the lights in the city were starting to go out…
by submission | Sep 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
“Please be careful getting up, Mr. Turner,” says the tinny, sing-song voice of the robotic surgeon. “Some dizziness and disorientation are to be expected.”
Other medical automata extend thin mechanical arms to help me to my feet. I still can’t believe I went through with it. I keep expecting to wake up and laugh it all off as a dream. But this is no dream. A year ago an enormous alien spaceship really did enter the solar system traveling at close to the speed of light. It really did enter Earth orbit and the Omrad really did make contact with us.
“Take it slowly. One leg at a time.”
The Omrad arrived in a ship so big it was clearly visible with the naked eye from the Earth’s surface. They immediately started transmitting a series of radio pulses denoting prime numbers and slowly worked up to more complicated mathematical functions and crude video images of the atoms in the periodic table starting with hydrogen. Within three weeks the beginnings of real-time translation was achieved and a dialog begun.
“Don’t try to walk, Mr. Turner. Let’s just stand for a minute and get our bearings.”
Tripedal robots from the Omrad ship were sent to the International Space Station. The Omrad, via their machine emissaries, were eager to have firsthand contact with human beings. The six person crew of the ISS became humanity’s ambassadors. Immediately thereafter, the Omrad broke off contact and recalled their robots.
“Would you like to try taking a step? We’re right here. We won’t let you fall.”
A few days after the ISS affair, the Omrad re-established contact. They requested permission to send a single robot to the surface to meet with a small group of diplomats. As the U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations, I was in that group.
“That’s fine. Let’s try another step.”
The alien machine explained that humans and the Omrad shared something in common. Both species tended, rightly or not, to judge by appearances. The Omrad possessed this attribute to a much greater extent than mankind. “The Omrad,” the robot diplomat had remarked, “are impressed that the human race has a gift for looking beyond the superficial. Regrettably, the Omrad psyche and culture do not share this talent. This will be an obstacle to direct contact between the two species without the need for machine intermediaries like myself.”
“Steady, Mr. Turner. It’s okay. A stumble is not unexpected. Let’s rest a moment and then try another step.”
There had been a collective gasp in the room when the Omrad robot had suggested that it would be necessary for a human to be biologically re-engineered to qualify as an ambassador. Even then I knew I would volunteer.
“Shall we try another step?”
What offended the Omrad about humanity’s physical appearance is that externally humans are bilaterally symmetrical. Almost all life on the Omrad homeworld is trilaterally symmetrical, as are the Omrad themselves.
“You’re doing fine, Mr. Turner,” the robot doctor says with an inflection of reassurance.
I see my reflection in the chrome-like housing of one of the Omrad medical machines. My face is thinner and I have two more of them located circumferentially around my head. My brain has trouble processing the disorienting panoramic view. I shuffle awkwardly on three legs not sure how best to move my three arms with each step. I start to say something. I stop as my three mouths all speak in unison.
“You were about say?” drone the machine physician’s three voice synthesizers all at once.
by submission | Sep 24, 2014 | Story |
Author : William Tham
I screamed.
Green spots of oxidation on silver-lined instruments. The porthole encased in fire, through which I vaguely saw the curvature of the earth, the Scandinavian peninsula hurtling below me, followed swiftly by the frozen wastes of the North Pole under spiralling clouds a hundred kilometres across, and then over the Pacific coasts, before the capsule turned and my directions were lost.
And then I fell again.
On the outer edges of the atmosphere, the boundary of air and space, where gravity ebbed weakly a hundred miles off the surface of the earth, my hands grappled with the controls and levers, struggling to tilt the capsule to keep it level. Useless! I was out of control.
Down below, Baikonur, Houston, all tracking my progress as I turned into a shooting star, a burning man falling from the sky.
A voice over the static. Someone spoke indistinctly, received by burning mechanisms as the air superheated into plasma while I was forced back into my seat, pinned down by acceleration and gravity, fighting to live.
“Lev….the Minister…he calls you a hero…please, reply…”
For an infinite fraction of time the capsule righted itself and I was staring into space. Outside, light from distant stars shone through the cosmos, undead and unblinking, a hundred million of them witnessing re-entry. For a moment, it was as if there was no movement, but the illusion shattered as another explosion shook the craft and I was spiralling away from constellations that I could no longer tell apart. The parachutes must have been burnt up, and the heat shield combusted.
“We don’t know…how…why…please, stay on…the Minister’s trying to call…”
*
A lifetime ago, out of love of the void, where we lived our insignificant lives amidst the vastness of the expanding universe, I had unbuckled and floated in near-weightlessness to the porthole to stare at the world down below. And I knew I could never go back to an ordinary life, ever since that day when I signed away my life to reach for the stars. The Minister, in his greatcoat, walked me amongst the desolate wastes of the launch site, where rockets like ballistic missiles would escape the earth. “The future,” the Minister said solemnly.
I knew that someday, death would not come from a pointless car crash or nuclear warfare, but it would find me in space. I accepted it then. But now I could not.
*
Now I just wanted to live.
I was speaking quickly, incoherently, hoping that all my words, every permutation and combination of the alphabet, scattered by static and background radiation, would fluctuate through the atmosphere and to the short-wave radio enthusiasts and foreign spies and the controllers with their radio telescopes and the Minister himself, praying and holding a receiver to his ear to catch the last moments of a dying man hurtling from orbit, leaving seared flesh and metal and quartz to ignite amongst the stars.
“It’s still beautiful here,” I managed to say.
by submission | Sep 23, 2014 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
“Good evening, Susan.” The desktop robot’s eye blinked as the gender-neutral voice greeted her.
Susan had arrived home from an 18 hour shift of nursing casualties at the local pub/hospital. She slammed the front door behind her. “I have to remain cheerful, smiling, and upbeat for destitute, half-alive drudges caught in this never-ending fight for survival. For all the hapless, close-to-dead youth dripping with blood to broken-boned elders, all who have been victimized by roving gangs of filth stealing food and soiling homes, I have to …” Susan suspended her tirade at the robot. She tugged away from her skin the sopping uniform with its remains of someone’s supper dripping off of it onto the floor.
“How was your day, Susan?” the robot’s measured voice inquired.
“Look, you idiot robot, I’m tired, cranky, and reek of half-digested hamburger.” Susan reached up under her skirt and tossed her holstered gun on the desk. Then she began to pull off her clothes with uncoordinated yanks.
The robot’s eye blinked slowly. “Relax. Peace and calm, Susan. Peace and calm.”
“Do I sound relaxed? Do I sound peaceful? Do I sound calm?” Susan strode over to the robot.
The robot stopped blinking and stared past Susan.
“There is something you should know, Susan.” The robot’s smooth voice said.
“Shut up!”
The robot immediately ceased its vocal response.
Its eye blinked quickly at the intruder quietly advancing into the room behind Susan. It stared first at Susan and then at the intruder, then back again as another intruder paused in the opened window before stepping onto the floor.
Susan watched the robot in silence.
Its eye flashed colors at Susan and the intruders, one after the other.
“What?”
Its eye produced a pulsing strobe toward Susan and the intruders, one after the other.
Her eyes widened.
She turned.
Too late.
by Julian Miles | Sep 22, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Why are we all the way out here? If we had taken the Rigel mission, I could have been home for mid-winter revel.”
Chapni sighed. That was the problem with the Urulaunk; they had this thing about partying. Preferably with as many like-minded multi-limbed beings as possible. For the rest of their year, they were fun people to be around. But come the two Great Revels, every Urulaunk not on Nicto Urula turned into a whinging child for a period equal to the time it would have taken them to get home for the festival.
With a flick of his vestigial groinwings, he brought himself back to being a tutor: “This is the Cradle. When you gaze upon the third planet from the recently subgiant sun, you are gazing at the world that gave us life. That is Earth, and although it is long dead, it is a worthy thing to meditate upon.”
“All the way out here? Only one planet? How, without the Perspicacity of Icto, did they manage to accomplish so much?”
“They were an emotive race. Driven by intense passion to achieve things we would deem impossible. Now, it is time.”
“What am I to learn?”
“You will tell me. Or you will fail this qualification sector.”
Chapni waited as they approached the system. He’d deliberately dropped them from Supra outside the system to give his student a better chance.
“Poshtor Chapni, the system has too many planets.”
“Quantify.”
“The archaeological treatises disagree on exact number, but the low bound is eight and the high bound is ten. There are forty here.”
“And how would you resolve this conflict of data?”
The Urulaunk brought its entire thirty-five digits to bear on the consoles and Chapni allowed a shudder to run up his dorsal ridge. An Urulaunk totally committed to something outside of inebriated joymaking. It was a first, and vindicated his faith in the race’s potential.
“Thirty-two of the planets maintain an atypical orbit, yet are equidistant upon the same track. Therefore, I deem them to be foreign bodies.”
“A fair initial postulation. Now granularise it.”
The fingers flew and the thumbs tapped and the rhythm was a frenetic, tribal thing. Chapni smiled. Even during data interrogation, an Urulaunk was primal.
“The thirty-two identified are orbital, but my predictions state they are on the cusp of escaping. They are artificial, being dense mass without variance for mantle, core or similar. There are no artefacts. I do not understand.”
“Persevere.”
The rhythm resumed.
“Poshtor Chapni. The worlds comprise synthetic organic polymers of varying exact composition. From what I have gleaned from the history and legendry, I would state that they are composed entirely of detritus. I postulate that humans resorted to this drastic measure when planetary storage threatened to overwhelm thier biosphere.”
Chapni allowed his horns to flush scarlet in approval: “Urulaunk Takton, I deem you to have passed this sector’s requirements. Now, for extra credit, why do you think we are here?”
Takton reflectively scratched his armpits, an unconscious movement of joint-popping speed and complexity.
“The thirty-two will soon become free-space objects. By the time the first one becomes a nuisance, the rest may be scattered across the universe. Dealing with them here and now is the best remedial action.”
Chapni’s horns almost glowed: “Correct.”
“Poshtor Chapni, a further deduction?”
“Proceed.”
“Nicto Urula is dependent on similar polymers. You are endeavouring to lay a warning upon me.”
Chapni let his proboscis dance across the control console: “Now that the lesson is installed, let us set about destroying the Polystars of Sol.”
