by Duncan Shields | Jun 2, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
We were at Jason’s house partying when it happened. W6, The Rapture, Day One, whatever you call it where you are.
I remember everyone’s phones going off. They lit up in the darkness of the party, confusing everyone like surprise holiday lights or large blue fireflies. Everyone got the same message at the same time. Emergency Broadcast Signal, it said. It had links to instructions and details and those horrible words “safe distance”.
We turned on the television and rushed to our laptops and Jason’s computers. Trajectories were laid out, newscasters were openly crying, and the Moon Senate cam showed rows of empty seats.
Jason lived outside the colony limits. We’d all brought our transports and were going to stay over. No drinking and driving. We were responsible people. We turned off the music and went to the main viewport. In the distance, we could see the city underneath its glittering dome. Smoke from the first few fires started to smudge up into the air underneath it.
What sounded like an earthquake started about a mile to the right of Jason’s house and with a clank and hiss, sixteen circles irised open in the ground. We all turned our heads towards the vibration in unison.
The missiles came up out of the ground like angels in the darkness. Magnesium flares attached to huge pencils going up and up and up. He had no idea that there were missiles silos that close to him, Jason said a few minutes later. He’d heard rumours of an army base there but that had closed years ago, before he emigrated from Earth. It must have been automated and left on standby.
We all stood on the porch and saw the missiles arc into the sky and away into the night, joining other stars making their way to different destinations, pulling faint spiderweb contrails across the dark night.
The fact that there were missiles close to Jason’s house probably meant that area was a target, Ryan said. His dad was in the army over on Titan. That made us all realize that we wouldn’t live on after this in some sort of post-apocalyptic fantasy.
A few people suited up, airlocked to their cars and drove away to the city dome to find their families or away towards the far-off crater bowls where they thought they could outrun the radiation.
Most of us stayed at Jason’s. We all tried calling our parents and loved ones. Some of us got through. I didn’t. Then weak EMP waves from other impacts must have started washing through because the phones and the lights went out.
We sat there in the darkness. A few couples went to have sex until the end came. The rest of us stayed there in the living room near the big window.
There it was. Carrie saw it first. A falling star. Coming straight for us.
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 1, 2011 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
The holographic image of the Secretary of Space Command came into focus in the Fleet Admiral’s ready room. “Status Report, Admiral,” demanded the Secretary without ceremony.
“We own the space surrounding the planet, Madam Secretary,” reported Admiral F’bardus. “The enemy is confined to the surface.”
“Have they agreed to unconditionally abandon their planet?”
“Unfortunately, Madam Secretary, the planet does not have a central government. There are more than 100 independent nations down there. Some of them surrendered before our fleet even entered orbit. The rest would rather fight to the death. I am preparing to drop nucleic disruptors on the resistance strongholds, which will ensure a quick victory.”
The Secretary’s face distorted into barely controlled rage. “Admiral, need I remind you that we need the resources of that planet. It will become useless to us if you make it radioactive.”
“Madam Secretary, I only have a thousand ships at my command. I cannot fight the inhabitants of an entire planet in hand to hand combat. Besides, we?ll still have half a pie. I only intend to drop the disruptors on the nations that won’t surrender.”
The Secretary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Admiral, did the Apocalypse arrive? Have you read the tactical directive?”
The Admiral glanced out the starboard porthole at the large black craft orbiting next to his Battlecruiser. “Er, the Apocalypse is here, Madam Secretary, but I haven’t had time…”
“Enough, Admiral. Since you’re so busy, I guess I’ll have to summarize it for you. The Apocalypse projects a gauge boson enhancer wave at the planet’s surface. It strengthens the electromagnetic force that attracts electrons to protons.”
“So?”
“So…, the electrons are pulled closer to the nucleus, and the atoms become smaller by approximately one percent. Then gravity causes the planet’s mantel to compress.”
“Excuse me, Madam Secretary, but how does making the planet smaller by one percent kill all the inhabitants?”
“You don’t shrink the entire planet, you idiot. You shrink the mantle under one of the continents. When it collapses toward the core, the oceans flood the land and everybody drowns.”
“But if the land is under water, how can we…”
“God’s above! Are you mocking me, Admiral, because nobody can be that stupid? You reverse the polarity of the gauge boson wave and the land enlarges and displaces the water. Now, can you handle that Admiral?”
“Of course, Madam Secretary. We’ll begin immediately. Admiral F’bardus out.” Angered by the humiliating dress down, F’bardus decided to take it out on the inhabitants below. He stormed onto the Bridge. “Hail the Apocalypse.”
“Captain De’Zatum here.”
“Captain De’Zatum, bring the new weapon on-line for immediate deployment,” ordered F’bardus. “But I don’t want this to be quick. I want them to see the water coming, slowly and methodically. I want to hear their cries of anguish, their pleas for mercy. So, I want you to shrink each of the continents at a rate of one meter per minute. When you finish one continent, move on to the next. Understood?”
“Aye, Admiral. But, at that rate, it will take 40 days to flood all seven continents.”
“And 40 nights,” replied F’bardus with an ominous smile.
by submission | May 31, 2011 | Story
Author : Ian Rennie
The trader frowned. The translation device, never superbly reliable, had been acting up ever since he had arrived on Cygnus 1.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “What did you say?”
“I said, what are you selling?”
Veloth, the trader, relaxed. For just a moment, he thought the pink figure in front of him has said something inappropriate and biologically impossible about one of his mothers. To be frank, he wasn’t expecting much from a colony this small, but sometimes colonies from newly spacefaring races made for good markets.
“Medicines,” Veloth said, “the majority are for silicate life forms, but we have a few appropriate to your species.”
“What kind of medicines?”
“Mostly remedies. We have headache pills, cancer pills, asthma pills, immortality pills, athritis-”
“Hold on a second, did you say immortality pills?”
“Yes, and arthritis, senility, scale rot-”
“Are we meaning the same thing by immortality? Like, not being able to die, not getting older, that kind of thing?”
“Oh yes, immortality, living forever, I sell a pill for that.”
For some reason the colony leader started to get excited, and then did a dreadful pantomime of hiding it. The trader had dealt with carbonates before. None of them were particularly good at disguising emotions.
“We, uh,” the colony leader started, “We might have a use for that. How many do you have?”
“Not many, a few hundred. There’s not much demand for them, really.”
“Not much demand for-” the colony leader started in shock, then checked himself, “Well, if they’re just taking up space in your inventory, we’d be happy to take them off your hands.”
Veloth shrugged. it was a complex gesture on one with as many limbs as he had, but it got the point across.
They haggled for a while. The pink colonists were moderately skilled miners, and the trader soon arranged a vaguely extortionate price for the pills. The colony leader was almost salivating when they struck the deal, and stuck out a limb to shake. Veloth took it, making a mental note to sanitize that particular appendage.
The deal struck, Veloth prepared his ship for takeoff. If he could get a price like that for what he was selling, he’d definitely add this colony to his rounds, despite their odd tastes.
If they’d pay that much for a cure for immortality, who knew what else they’d buy?
by submission | May 30, 2011 | Story
Author : Travis Gregg
His vehicle crested the hill on his way into work that morning and it came into view like it always did. The billboard never failed to draw his attention, no matter that he’d seen it literally hundreds or even thousands of times, once every morning.
The bill board read “JACKPOT VALUE,” and displayed the current national lottery prize amount. Always the sum was extremely high, and inexorably his thoughts would turn to what he would do with that money, exactly as the company that placed the billboard intended.
For starters he’d build a brand new house with all the modern advances and without all the shortcomings of his current house. New houses were wired for holo over every square inch, had the bare minimum of furniture, and whatever kind of house you wanted could be projected with amazing detail and accuracy. “From the tops of mountains to the depths of the ocean,” was how the advertisements went. His house only had basic, and even if he had the money, it would be a waste to upgrade.
His personal flyer was a clunker too, the lateral stabilizers were beyond repair, he hadn’t been doing the quarterly maintenance and now they needed to be replaced entirely. “Why does everything I own need to be replaced?” he thought to himself as his craft hit some turbulence and shuddered with a concerning amount of force. The new models were supposed to eliminate turbulence entirely.
After that though, what would he do with all the money? Luckily he was fairly debt free, probably share some around with his friends, practically have to share some with his family. Put his mom up in a nice low gravity suite for her heart was an idea, send a couple nephews to college was another.
Still though, these paltry things wouldn’t begin to make a dent in that kind of money. And while he was thinking of what else he’d buy, the same thought crept into his mind like it did every morning. The reason why the lottery paid off so much money was that the odds were beyond astronomical. He’d have better luck robbing the local union outpost while simultaneously discovering the next energy breakthrough than trying to win the jackpot.
No, the only way he’d be wealthy was if he kept working hard and saved his money as best he could. He knew he’d never really be able to afford to build the grandiose mansion or see the outer rings like he planned, but he was happy and comfortable, and at least he wasn’t blowing a portion of his weekly allotment on an unrealistic dream.
The next day his wife called while he was at work. Apparently his neighbor across the street had won that astronomical jackpot. The total was more than he’d hope to earn in a thousand life times at his current job, and already (according to his wife) his neighbors had left for a months long vacation along the outer rim.
After that, he had to find an alternative drive into work, and instead of fantasizing about the lottery, he began to think wistfully of all those mornings he was so full of self satisfaction while his wife tried to ignore the recently developed twitch in her husband’s eye.
by submission | May 29, 2011 | Story
Author : Garrett Harriman
Mesdames Snell and Putnam clashed into the nurse’s office. Most weeks, their campy enmities proved indispensable in the rebuking of their children.
Not today. The diversity and girth of this congress fared worrisome. Present were Sloan, half the teaching roster, Nurse Doogal pacing a conspicuous circuit–a deputy? Plus some self-possessing stranger: dimpled and gallant, yet teetering guffaw.
With unspoken armistice, the mothers churned his hand.
“Thank you for your promptness, ladies. I’m afraid what’s transpiring here is no minor school infraction, but a grievous misappropriation of street dates and space time.”
Sloan (long dispensed with the formality of “Principal”) skittered forth. “Lilith, Miriam, this is Marvin Knot. Head of Public Relations at Temporal Bros. Toys. He’s here–”
“The company,” Knot preempted, “broadcasted its recall too late, but I’m now personally minding the entirety of the requisition. I was debriefing the precinct on Tide protocol when Sloan phoned to–”
Maternal floodgates ruptured: “Tide?” “Is Marcus Hurt?” “Recall?” “Where’s Toby?”
Marvin Knot simpered, dismounted it nimbly. “You two are unfamiliar with our latest…diversion, then?” Knot withdrew an overgrown lobster-blue die from his blazer pocket. It was bevel-edged, membranous, and bright.
“Our most anticipated summer product–the Iteration Cube–launches tomorrow. It exploits the same quantum isolation fields as our Slow-Mo Yo-Yo. Governing their fluctuations yields Time Skeins–our proprietary temporal snares–which enable the transitory persistence of exacting spatial envelopes.”
The mothers’ hips stockaded. You can skip the fineprint.
“Apologies.” Knot strummed his bow tie. “Fundamentally, it’s a space time manipulator for the mid-school demographic. Target children are committed to self-replicating loops, and anything’s a-go–burps to belly-flops, thirty seconds maximum.”
“That’s humiliating!” scorned Lilith Snell. “What kid’d memorialize his friend’s faux pas?”
“Denial’s a river in Egypt, hon.”
“Oh, don’t dramatize, Miriam.”
“Dramatize? Toby always gets the brunt of it!”
“Marcus’s a practical joker!”
“He’s a nihilist!”
“Ladies,” Sloan edgewised. “Please.”
Mrs. Putnam shied her fuse first. “Let me guess, Mr. Knot: Marcus used the Cube on my Toby?”
“Those were the abridged proceedings, yes. Unabridged, he eloped at recess, smuggled a unit, then pitted the Cube against Sloan’s cameras to reenter.” A momentary pensiveness grafted Knot’s expression. He stifled a titter. “Very adroit improv.”
“But these loops,” pressed Mrs. Snell, “they’re temporary, right?”
“Heavens, they’re relatively instantaneous for targets! Only this shipment’s auto-revising cores were, ah…neglected.” A quizzical hush. “I needn’t impress how devastating radiation can be for little egos, but when unregulated Skeins mangle, they excrete singularities. Tides. Meaning the event, and any associated discomfort, is experienced perpetually.”
Stillborn seconds bridged a gulf of maternal agitation.
“Our boys,” breathed Miriam, “are lodged in time?”
“Were lodged in a recirculating instance of time. For approximately fifty minutes. I’ve counteracted what I can”–he gesticulated his Cube–“containment’s the acme of the hour, but I can’t dissever Skeins outside of headquartersppththphfff!”
Droll chuckles overcame him, teachers. He purged his verbose tract. “You’d better see for yourselves. Miss Doogal?”
At Sloan’s approbation, the nurse rallied her keys to the examining room door:
The vignette’s petrified, the Cube its glowworm heart. Toby’s face writes tireless, vengeful glee; Marcus’s contorts like a Renaissance clown. Two actualized fabrics co-mingle in his buttocks.
Miriam Putnam laid eggs in the threshold. “Heehee! Of all the t-times to stand up for himself!”
Shedding his courtliness, Knot hugged Lilith, in throe. “There’ll be no litigation, Mrs. Snell. I don’t champion thievery, of course, but this’ll make an infamous grassroots prank: ‘The Subatomic Wedgie!’
“And don’t discourage, ma’am. He’ll only be Suspended for two weeks, tops.”
Principal Sloan said the exact same thing.
