by Roi R. Czechvala | Oct 25, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
Captain William Dietz shuddered in revulsion every time he mounted his aircraft. It was a tiny lifting body. Its short, sleek swept wings blended seamlessly into the fuselage halves. He lay ventrally in an exact Dietz shaped depression in the lower fuselage while the upper half, complete with a Dietz dorsal impression, was lowered atop his naked form. The two halves sealed together leaving no trace of suture.
Thousands of tiny needles penetrated his body, relaying his neural output to the fighter’s airframe and weapons system. Longer probes penetrated the speech and optic centres of his brain “This really sucks,” Dietz thought to himself.
“What was that, Cap?”
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” He had forgotten that he was plugged into the squadron freq. He could hear the rest of the fighters being prepped for launch by the flight deck officer.
“White One Ready?”
“Ready.”
“White Two, ready?”
“Ready.”
The sound of the artificially generated voices of the pilots always bothered Dietz as his squadron called out their level of readiness. They sounded emotionless, dead.
Finally. “White Leader, Ready?”
“Ready. SQUADRON,” he thought bellowed, “To tyrants,”
“We’ll not yield,” they replied in dry unison.
Ten tiny matte black fighters, nearly invisible in the blackness of space, were ejected from the aircraft carrier Jefferson Davis and screamed down through Jupiter’s dense atmosphere.
A plasma shield projected before the ships allowed them to slice through the nearly liquid atmosphere with ease. Dietz slipped into a barrel roll, silently alerting his men that he had the target on instruments and visual.
Bobbing gently before them, dangling from an aluminium buoyancy compensator, a ‘balloon’ filled with vacuum, hung the battleship U.S.S. Sherman. A combination of their small size and the plasma shield rendered the flight virtually invisible to the ships sensors.
“YeeeeHAW,” yelled 1st Lieutenant Stuart, an Atlanta native.
“Maintain Silence,” Dietz snapped, though he smiled inwardly at the young mans enthusiasm.
Twin rail guns dropped from the craft as they orbited the main body of the ship several kilometres below the balloon. Standard firing procedure dictated that the guns fire alternately. One gun loaded with iron/tungsten projectiles to puncture hard armour, while the other fired a nanosecond later to plunge singularity devices through the hole the armour piercing round made.
“Stuart,” Dietz called abandoning radio silence, “care to take point?”
“Boo-Howdy. Yes Sir.” Despite the emotionless quality the neuro translator imparted, Dietz could hear the almost palpable enthusiasm of the young Lieutenant’s thoughts. The lieutenant buzzed the ship one more time before breaking hard right and streaking straight up.
“White One, what the hell?”
Before Dietz could finish his sentence, the young pilot opened up on the ships BC. Opened up with only one gun. The left gun. The armour piercing ammo. The thin aluminium float imploded and the Sherman began slowly, very slowly, to sink.
“Why the hell did you do that, Stuart? Why didn’t you use an SD? Now they’ll just sink to… The Confederate captain’s words trailed off as sudden realisation dawned. Dietz could imagine the grim smirk on the young officer’s face.
“Yeah…,” Stuart said, finishing his captain’s thought, “to crush depth. Slowly. I reckon about four weeks. Plenty of time for them to think.”
Lieutenant James Ewell Brown, “Jeb”, Stuart’s laughter echoed across the ether.
by Julian Miles | Oct 24, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Chaots dance the K’chana K’chan as the Haalen vaults scream. When they finish the ancient steps of the Cornered Circle, the vaults will channel years of accumulated energy through their engineered nervous systems and another haul will have begun for this voidship.
My gaze travels from their hulking forms, across the great floor of the gathering deck to my new recruits huddled in what they think to be the most defensible corner. I spread my upper wings and glide down to them. Landing elegantly, I furl my wings and raise my hand toward the nervous beings before me. Deciding that these creatures will appreciate honesty, I skip the niceties.
“Who is your leader?”
A tattered figure in stained camouflage clothing steps forward and performs a salutation.
“General Horst Vandenberg, Sixteenth Air Assault Brigade, British Army. Who do I have the privilege of addressing?”
I smile. Let the others have the zealots and the believers; give me warriors every time.
“I am Elchytor Lann. I believe my title in your idiom would be ‘Ninth Lord of the Refugee Fleet’. This is my home vessel.”
The General glanced at the warriors assembled behind him. He turned back to me.
“I am the senior officer here, but my troops are from everywhere. What will happen to us? I heard your first broadcast and like everybody, thought you were just intergalactic pirates with good PR. The grey appearing changed that, but by then?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed about the futile resistance stubbornly put up by his planet after we arrived.
“By then you had wasted yourselves in a guerrilla war that you were ordered to fight even when your leaders knew the truth. We have nowhere to go back to. But at least you finally grasped the ramifications and made contact with us. There are less than half a million of you that chose to join the fleet. Those remaining are relying on science and prayer. I state with complete certainty that they are doomed.”
The General nodded. He waved a hand back at his warriors.
“I agree and so did the lads and lassies with me. We had to fight our own in the end to meet with your – shuttle?”
I smiled. The Banch were always something to behold.
“It is a vessel and a being. If you think flying in it is odd, take it from me you never want to be onboard when they mate.”
There was scattered laughter at that. I noted that many were checking their weapons and exchanging kit. Even standing on an alien vessel with an unknown future, they were taking the respite time to prepare. Such warriors deserved the truth:
“We pillage as we flee ahead of the grey. Inhabited planets will be given the same options as you. We take their resources to keep us going no matter what. These are battles where our best outcome is survival. The grey is being challenged by other means.”
The General nodded.
“I’m going to need a few days to sort my command lines and we’re all going to need to be brought up to speed on your outrageous technology. We should be combat ready within three weeks.”
I liked this being. Do what you do and leave the rest to those who do the rest.
“A haul is a month. It will gain us between twenty and a hundred years grace from the grey that is consuming everything.”
Yet again I had to say the hated words that always brought the point home to the military mind.
“Welcome to the longest retreat.”
by submission | Oct 23, 2011 | Story |
Author : Cech
They try not to let them know that they aren’t human. They say it’s for their own good; they wouldn’t be able to handle the reality. I don’t know, though. I mean, if they knew from the beginning, they weren’t told anything else, why wouldn’t they be able to accept it. Hell, they outnumber humans at this point, we’re the minority now. The artificials are an important part of the community now; they do the jobs that we aren’t able to anymore. In a way they are more human than humans.
Ever since we left Earth millennia ago, we have been changing. They deleted the files on the great athletes of Earth from the archives, afraid that they might upset the community. Illegal copies exist; they are passed around by trusted friends because the penalty for viewing banned files is severe. How the athletes of Earth moved was so fluid, and how they communicated was so personal, I am enamored by the feats that they accomplished with such ease.
Maybe that’s why they banned the files; they give us hope and desires. The banned files make us want more from our lives. Maybe that’s why they won’t tell the artificials who they are, artificial humans created long ago to do all the jobs that humans were no longer able to do. Maybe they feared that the artificials would want more for themselves rather than toiling away for us helpless humans. We should tell them, I should tell mine. The artificials have nothing to fear from humans, we can’t even take care of ourselves, how could we do anything to harm them?
Earth is a myth now; I am unable to tell fact from fiction. Whether there was life on land and in water, if there was a sky and there were stars, and if humans really built structures that dominated the landscape. It all sounds surreal to me, and if it’s all true I’m glad we left because it would all be wasted on us humans now.
I should tell my artificial what it really is, an image of humans of myth. That it was created to serve what is the reality of humans, a species that can no longer survive on its own. A creature that should have died out ages ago, but found a way to keep going, defying the plans of nature. Maybe the artificials could redeem humans, live on when we shouldn’t.
I should tell mine.
by submission | Oct 22, 2011 | Story |
Author : Damien Krsteski
Nurse Anne’s botoxed face creases into a contrived expression of worry but her tone remains bizarrely casual, “I’m sorry Mrs. Adrian, but as you can see for yourself, we’re unable to start therapy on the fetus.”
Caroline gets visibly agitated. “No,” she screeches in a panic-laden voice. “You must’ve made a mistake. I’ve looked these things up online and the margin of error turned out to be much higher than most people are aware of.” She stares right through the woman, incredulous.
“I assure you, Mrs. Adrian,” the nurse sounds bland, “no mistake has been made. I’m terribly sorry.” Her face stretches unnaturally into a sympathetic smile betraying her age.
“The common procedure after such results is…” She trails off.
Caroline nods, dumbstruck. She knows what the common procedure is.
“I’ll leave you alone now,” the nurse adds and strides out without further fuss.
Tears stream down Caroline’s cheeks. Her hands tremble, making her mindful of the results print-out that she still holds. She flings it across the room angrily just as the door slides open again, parting before Joseph.
His face appears burdened with sadness, eyes distant and unfamiliar. The two of them hug and hold each other for a few moments in silence. Little Geoffrey’s genetic results strike out of the blue, tearing a massive fault line between them. And they planned it all: the countryside baby-proofed house they saved up money for, neighborhood where the baby will grow, even the elementary school where he’ll tread into intellectual water for the first time. But now, because of the wretched Seventy-seven syndrome Geoffrey will be unable to receive the crucial cognitive enhancement therapy at the fourth month of pregnancy. A whole future wrecked, the fault line breaks them further apart.
“The nurse said we should do as most people,” Caroline manages to say through the sobs.
“But we’re not most people, we could still…”
“I’m not raising an idiot, Jo!” she interrupts through gritted teeth, apparently more angry than grieved. Her thoughts stray to their family trees, calculating despite herself a way to place blame.
Muted by pain they remain for the better part of the afternoon in the room, each in a separate corner, avoiding eye contact at all cost.
Three days later, on a day of weather as rotten as the fetus in her womb, she walks in the hospital alone. Doctors usher her unceremoniously in a wide windowless chamber, ease her onto a yellow X-marked spot. She dons a white paper gown which covers her entire body except for a cut right before her belly.
Flash.
The first wave of radioactivity bursts throughout. She thinks of the poor boy. He is almost a person.
Flash. Another loud click and burst. Why did they name him? They shouldn’t have done that.
After the third flash comes and the doctor’s digitized voice says she’s free to move, a single morbid spasm of remorse rips through her brain. Her blood freezes, but she quickly shuffles the thought aside hoping it’s gone forever.
Next time, she thinks, caressing her belly. Next time I’ll make a good Geoffrey, a better Geoffrey. And I’ll be damned if I let someone spoil me again.
Caroline smiles inwardly and saunters off to the adjacent room for the flush-out.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Oct 21, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
It wasn’t much. A rocky asteroid honeycombed with branching tunnels and storage chambers. Though predominantly a rocky body, it contained enough nickel and iron to shield its twelve inhabitants from hard radiation.
Though not the most distant of the Confederation’s outposts, this was by far the loneliest. The men were volunteers, carefully picked. They had no families. No living relatives. They possessed unswerving loyalty. They knew this assignment was a one way ticket.
The men had gathered in Assembly Hall, so called as it was the only chamber large enough to accommodate all of them at once. Though their grey uniforms were threadbare and patched in places, they were still kept clean and pressed. Despite the isolation of their posting, they maintained strict military discipline. All had undergone full depilation. While not official regulation, it was convenient and widely adopted by soldiers of the fleet.
Colonel John Davidson regarded his men with a rueful smile. All were highly trained and dedicated soldiers; a terrible waste, but the opportunity to save millions, perhaps billions, outweighed their existence. “Gentlemen, you already know the content of the message I received.” They nodded in unison. “It is becoming too costly in men and equipment to pursue the enemy throughout the system. We already knew that. That’s why we’re here.” The Colonel smiled. A grim chuckle rippled around the men.
“Captain Sokolov, I don’t have to ask if you have checked the mass drives.”
“The men and I just made an inspection fifteen minutes prior to this meeting. All components and systems have been checked. Mass payload has been checked. All is in order.”
“Of course it is Yuri. As it has been for the past five years.” This project was Colonel Davidson’s brainchild. After his family was killed in the first wave, he conceived the idea to smash an asteroid into Japan.
It hadn’t been hard to convince the Council to adopt his plan. “It will be considered an act of God. They won’t be able to blame us. If we launch out of Jupiter’s shadow, by the time they see us, it will all be over. Even if they manage to launch a warhead, it will be too little too late.” The plan was sound, cheap and easy. A perfect weapon.
“Gentleman, at 13:42 hours, we begin. You know the drill. Any final questions?”
A deafening, “Sir, no Sir,” roared from eleven throats. Never had men been so ready to lay down their lives.
The asteroid shuddered as thousands of tonnes of carefully prepared nickel/iron blocks were magnetically launched from the asteroid. No sooner had one projectile left the kilometre long barrel than another took its place. The constant launchings set up a vibration that resonated unpleasantly in the teeth of the men.
After thirty seven minutes, the firing ceased. The extraterrestrial bullet was Earth bound. Honshu, its final destination.
“Uh… Colonel?”
“Yes Lieutenant, what is it?”
“When were these calculations last updated?”
“They’ve been checked repeatedly since we left Earth.”
“Sir, were the tidal forces of Jupiter and Mars taken into account?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The impact of millions of infinitesimal objects over a period of time?”
“Simulations showed it wouldn’t matter significantly. Why?”
“We’re going to miss, Sir.”
“Miss? Well, even if we hit the sea, the resultant Tsunami should still do…,”
“We won’t hit the Sea of Japan, Sir.”
“Mainland China? That’s okay. There isn’t a square inch of China that isn’t populated.”
“Not China, Sir.”
“Well, where then damnit?”
“Sol.”
“Sol?”
“Sol, yes Sir.”
“Sol?”
“Yes.”
“The big glowey thing Sol?”
“Yes Sir. That Sol.”
“Hmmm… Well… That sucks.”
