by Roi R. Czechvala | Sep 5, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
It’s amazing how fast the human brain can process information. Particularly when it’s being fed a cocktail of endorphins, steroids, adrenaline and other chemicals too exotic to name.
Even with his souped up reaction time all he could manage to do was blurt, “This is gonna hurt.” He watched as thousands of magnetically accelerated iron pellets barely a millimetre in diameter each, neatly separated his torso from his legs.
Due to the heavy fighting, it took the medtechs nearly an hour to retrieve him. Given the prolonged exposure to hard vacuum, not to mention the radiation, the doctors hadn’t given him much chance of survival. “I’ve been through worse,” he’d say later when he was decanted from the Jesus tank. “I feel like a battered bowl or warmed up dog shit,” and collapsed to the floor before the bored technicians.
His battle and sometimes fuck buddy Karen Jefferies met him in recovery. “I feel like hell.”
“You look like it. Why do you keep at it?”
“For the booze, broads, and good times,” He grinned. She slugged me in the arm. It hurt.
“You could retire. You’ve got fifty years in. You could take up prospecting.”
“Nah, more dangerous out in the belt than in combat. Here, let me sit down for a bit.” He leaned back against the wall and stretched. Reconstructed muscle is electronically stimulated to promote growth and reduce atrophy, but it can’t replace good old gravity, or what passes for it on a spinning battle station.. “Why are you so all fired up about it anyway?”
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Last time you did that we joined the Marines.”
“… we’re not getting any younger…”
“Oh shit. We agreed on the boundaries of this relationship. We’ve been over this a hundred times. Just fun and no attachments. That was the deal.”
“Fuck the deal Jeff. I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you love me?”
“Yeah, I guess so, I mean… are you getting broody on me?” She slugged him again. Hard.
“You’re an asshole, you know that? Look I’m getting tired of watching them stick pieces of you in that tank and praying that you come out in one piece.” She looked him in the eye. Her lips quivered. Tears welled up. She turned away. “I almost prayed that you didn’t make it this time. End my torment.”
Her words stung. “Okay, that hurts. Look, I’m a little tired. Can we talk about this later.”
“You bastard. You always put it off. You won’t be happy until you’re dead.”
No sooner had those words escaped her lips than klaxons sounded through out the station. As she looked in rapt horror, the medical section vanished into blackness. The plasma field that had reacted so quickly that barely a breath of atmosphere escaped before the breach was closed would not stand against the armada of enemy ships that were materializing around the station.
He turned to her with a rueful smile. “I guess we’ll find out won’t we.”
by submission | Sep 4, 2011 | Story |
Author : Dan Whitley
Ortega stormed into one of the houses on the outskirts of town, looking for and finding his colleague Pablo, who was mulling over the very thing Ortega had dreaded Pablo would hang on to. “Pablo, we are not taking that thing with us,” Ortega declared, staring into the oblong crate and pointing at the thing inside it.
“You are too superstitious,” Pablo replied calmly. “This is a great find, Ortega. Think of the sensation it will cause back in home!”
“More likely a calamity,” Ortega shot back. “It is the grotesque bi-product of the rituals of the savages. Who would want to see the burned corpse of a man ruined by their godless rites and sacrifices of local savages?” he demanded.
Pablo leaned forward over the crate, the light of the lanterns in the room casting dark shadows over his face. “Ortega… I’ve been examining this corpse for a long while. You know that. But I’m starting to believe…” he poked at the corpse’s chest, “I’m starting to believe this isn’t the corpse of a man.”
Ortega stared hard at Pablo. “Explain.”
“You’ve felt its skin, haven’t you?” Pablo pulled at the skin of the corpse. “It feels like sandstone and moves like stiff leather. Not even burn victims wind up like that. And look here,” he added, rolling the corpse on its side, causing Ortega to dry-heave. “It has a four arms, and hands with three fingers. But the most intriguing feature, my friend…” he said, laying a hand atop its head, “…is the skull.”
The pair leaned in close to the corpse’s head as Pablo began manipulating it. “See, it’s much longer than a human skull should be. And here, its jaw protrudes too much, and its teeth appear to be fused.”
Ortega folded his arms. “Since when are you a physician?”
“I’m not, but I am a man of common sense, and something tells me that this creature is not human.” Pablo left the corpse in the crate and pulled Ortega over to a table. “I took these from the same place we found the corpse. Look at this.” He held up a sphere, roughly the size of an orange, perfectly smooth. “Give me your sword.” Ortega obeyed warily; Pablo unsheathed the sword and held the sphere up to the naked blade. It attached like a drunkard to his bottle.
“It’s a lodestone,” Ortega observed tersely. “What of it?”
Pablo slid the sheath back onto the sword up to where the sphere sat. He grabbed sheath and hilt in a strong grip and said, “Pull it off.”
Ortega grabbed the sphere in one hand and gave it a light tug. It didn’t budge. He pulled again, harder, without success. Frustrated, he gripped the sphere in both hands and played tug-of-war with Pablo for several seconds before finally the sphere came free, sending both men reeling backwards.
“My word,” Ortega said. “That is not natural.”
“I found this near the corpse,” Pablo said, standing and brushing himself off. “There was some other metal around him, stuck in the ground, one of which looked vaguely like a ship’s wheel, but they wouldn’t move. I’m not sure what this all means, but my guess is this corpse is some other, undiscovered race of man. Perhaps someone will know, someday.”
Ortega thought about this, stared a long while at the crate and the corpse it held. Finally he shuddered, shook his head, and made for the door. “I’ll see that it’s loaded onto the San Jose with the treasure. We leave Cartagena to sail back to Spain tomorrow.”
by submission | Sep 3, 2011 | Story |
Author : Polar McCoy
The bystanders cheered and applauded as Officer Jimenez holstered his weapon. They patted him in the back and said things like, “Great work,” and “Now that’s one less of them we have to worry about.”
“Damn, Jimmy,” Jimenez’s partner, Goldberg, said. “That’s like the third one you got this week! You must be goin’ for a record or somethin’.”
“Come on, grab her feet,” Jimenez instructed.
“Why don’t we just leave her there?” asked Goldberg.
“Can’t. It’s almost rush hour. There’s gonna be a lot of foot traffic around here. She’ll be in the way.”
“Yeah, right,” Goldberg said, picking up the woman’s feet. “Where’re we puttin’ her?”
“Dumpster in the alley.”
“Hey, don’t forget her purse.”
Jimenez picked up the Gucci handbag and slung it over his shoulder as he picked up the woman by her wrists.
“I betcha she’s a Prima,” Goldberg said. “Primas never want to show their status cards.”
“Well, if they would, then this wouldn’t happen as much,” Jimenez said.
“She looks like a Prima.”
“How can you look like a Prima? Alphas don’t look any different from Primas. That’s why we have status cards.”
“I can just tell.”
“You know who else said that?” Jimenez asked.
“Who?”
“You hear of Valentino from the two-seven?”
“No.”
“He got booted off the force a while back because he thought he could tell them apart.”
“So what happened?” Goldberg asked.
“He ended up shooting nine Alphas thinking they were Primas.”
“Jesus. Here, pick up your end. She’s slipping.”
Jimenez rested the woman’s bulleted head on his knee for a second as he gripped her wrists more firmly.
“The only reason he didn’t get arrested was cause those types of shootings were justifiable back then.”
“What changed?”
“Too many of those types of shootings. Just as many Alphas were getting killed as Primas. So they introduced status cards.”
“They should just tattoo ‘Prima’ to their foreheads,” Goldberg said.
“Not a bad idea. Here we go.”
They were at the dumpster. With one good heave they tossed the woman’s body in. Her head thudded against the side. Jimenez tossed the purse too, but missed. It fell to the ground, spilling its contents. He picked it all up.
“Katherine McKenna,” he read off the license. “Says she lives in the Presidio.”
“Should we notify the family?” Goldberg asked.
Jimenez flipped through Katherine’s wallet.
“Don’t have to,” he said. “Status card says she’s a Prima.”
by Duncan Shields | Sep 2, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
‘His’ blue skin glinted in the harsh glare from the studio lights in the supreme court. Archbishops, cardinals and the Pope herself were seated there beside the president, the UN security chief, and our representative on the newly formed Galactic Council. The world watched.
I say ‘his’ for lack of a better pronoun. The English language had yet to adjust to a race that had five sexes. The male pronoun had been selected for all of them because they created babies by circle-jerking in sequence. The five ejaculates mixed, first the anchor glue, then the stamen juice, then the egg chain, then the catalyst, and finally the foam that hardened into a shell. Each lumpy ‘egg’ looked like a meringue and contained between ten and fifteen embryos. No one was sure if that qualified them as homosexual or not. They had complicated mating seasons.
The scientists had long latin names for each of the five sexes. The aliens told each other apart by skin markings and pheromones. I knew some people that said they could tell them apart but I doubted that.
They all looked the same to me.
This alien wanted to become a priest.
This alien claimed to have been called by God.
So far, ‘he’ was the only one of his race to come forward as wanting to join the clergy. Some of the aliens had attended church in a few cities since first contact ten years ago. Some of them had gotten jobs and gone to schools as well. They were tolerated but as far as I was concerned, this was too far.
I was huddled in the cold on the roof looking at ‘his’ face. I had a clear view of ‘him’ through the scope on my rifle. I was waiting for the verdict.
If they proclaimed that he was allowed to serve in the church, I was going to pull the trigger. I’d served in the army. I’d performed black ops. I was a Christian. I’d gone off the reservation for this. This was an independent mission but one I felt had to be done.
The com buzzed in my ear with the live feed. The jury foreperson had taken the microphone. Over three-quarters of the earth was watching.
“We find the alien capable of joining the church. The universe belongs to God. We are not to judge whom God calls.” said the foreman. He glanced at the Pope. She nodded her head.
The murmurs of the courtroom rose in my ear. My trigger finger tightened.
The blue-skinned alien looked directly up into my scope, making the sign of the cross. Then he closed his eyes.
Startled, I didn’t pull the trigger. He knew I was there. What else did he know? Then I realized what was happening. I relaxed.
I hated the aliens. I hated the aliens joining the church even more. But I didn’t pull the trigger.
I didn’t want to create another Jesus.
by featured writer | Sep 1, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
Taffy leapt from the ridge, a howl of joy trailing behind him until he hit and rolled on the green grass below. He came smoothly to his feet and looked up at his launch point, a hundred metres above. A smile cut his grimy features as he imagined their faces. Didn’t say anything in the rules about gravtac boots.
He wondered where Sam and Ellie had gone. He’d warned them that trying to stay together was dumb. Then again, they’d only asked for money whereas he’d managed to strike the whole room silent when he asked for a platinum rated ID card.
Ellie levered herself up on her elbows and looked up at the elegantly dressed elderly gent, his stance reflecting a life of the very best in everything. He looked down at her with a cold regard.
On the other side of the clearing, Sam gasped as his attempts at shallow breathing sent waves of agony through him from where the impaling javelin pinned him to a tree. His vision dimmed as his blood formed fractal swirls in the little puddles that were scattered at his feet. Conversation sounded loud over his fading heartbeat.
“Oh, good kill, my Lord.”
“Thank you, Jenkins. A hundred metres with a torque-spear should net me the range trophy, I feel.”
“Indeed, my Lord.”
Ellie let her head hang so they wouldn’t see the tears. They had only wanted a life together, and Taffy’s idea of being Foxes seemed like such a good way to make their fortune in a few hours. She felt a hand grasp the hair her mother had loved brushing and pull her head back. Tears streaked the grime on her face as she stared into the dispassionate eyes of the elderly gent. His other arm did something below her vision and scarlet fountained up into her view just as the pain hit.
“Sweetly done, Messir. Clean to the spine in a single stroke.”
“I do think that they deserve a quick end. Pass me a towel, would you? It bled on me.”
Night was falling as Taffy strolled up to the gates of the mansion. He could almost taste his new life. The guards scanned the game tag on his wrist and let him in. The drive was long, and the clean gravel crunched under his boots as he quickened his pace to get past the trophy racks, staring fixedly ahead to avoid seeing anyone he knew. Ahead of him, the sounds of genteel partying rose into the tranquil summer evening.
Something hit his lower back. He tumbled forward as his legs went numb. By the time he heard approaching footsteps on the gravel, the numbness had taken his entire body away. A hand rolled him over, his eyes frantically flicking about before settling on the dapper young man next to the little girl in a ruffed summer dress. She stared down at him, her features pinched and eyes wide. She tore her gaze from him and looked up at the man;
“Are you sure they’re animals, Daddy? They look like us.”
“Would the Watch let us hunt them if they weren’t, Cynthia?”
“No Daddy, the Watch only let us do good things.”
“Precisely, darling. Now can you do it?”
“Yes Daddy.”
The sweet little girl pulled a filigree-chased antique Webley .22 automatic from her designer purse. His eyes widened as she knelt down by him and patted his matted hair, gentling him like a beloved pet in pain.
“There, there.”
He felt the cold tip of the tiny barrel against his clammy brow.
A click.
Darkness.
