by submission | May 3, 2011 | Story
Author : Noah Katz
“Where were you when you first opened your eyes?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Ah, but you can,” Falero insisted. “The instant should be fresh, as near to you as the ground beneath your feet.”
Antigone slackened her pace, beginning to study the floor. Black tiles stretched to the end of a high row of shelves stocked with books and collected treasures. To her left, a trio of antique globes was flanked by sextants, boxed compasses, and sailing ships cast in miniature.
Falero’s voice pulled her from these considerations, asking again: “Where were you?”
“You want me to lie to you. I won’t do that.”
Falero hummed a note of appreciation. “I need to know and you are going to tell me.”
“No… I don’t know what you want. I can’t tell you where I am or how I got here, but I feel like I need to be here… with you. This fits.”
“Good. Now tell me where you were when the first images came to you. We must have this before we can proceed.”
Suddenly Antigone found herself speaking: “A field.” She could feel the force of the memory flowing through her, illuminating dark regions in her brain. “I was alone in a field surrounded by tall grass. There were flowers… fences… mountains in the distance.”
“A strong image,” Falero whispered. “The moment clings to you, as it should.”
“How do you know that what I’ve said is truthful?”
Her guide stopped abruptly. Antigone stumbled forward, caught herself, and turned to face him. “It was unexceptional,” he laughed. “A lie would excite the senses.”
“You can’t know that. I could just have easily described the streets of a city or the interior of a house.”
“But you didn’t. Your description was fragmented, incomplete. Authentic memories are never as clear as you’d want them to be. Lies, on the other hand, are designed as they are spoken. We make their construction obvious.”
Antigone was silent.
“I can teach you to remember.” Falero swiveled, reached blindly to a nearby shelf and extracted a book covered by a thick film of dust. “When you’ve mastered those parts of your mind which seem most inaccessible, all of our knowledge will open to you.”
“That’s what this place is; a knowledge bank. And you’re keeping records…”
Falero smiled and pried the book open, waving his free hand over the pages. Antigone focused on the hand, its soft paleness, the warmth trapped within. All at once she saw the hidden architecture: a fine mesh of wires running over the veins and into the shadow of his sleeve.
“This is just one beginning, Antigone… one of the billions of memories that we can unlock.” As he spoke, dust rose from the book and gathered above his hovering hand. Brightly-colored motes came into the dust and sculpted figures: a hooded soldier hunched behind his shield, archers raising bows, whole armies assembled on faint ground. Antigone watched as the warriors clashed in a noiseless war and began to dismantle one another.
The page turned beneath Falero’s hand and a new scene replaced the battle. A man and woman stood together on a footbridge overlooking a river where blue flower petals floated. Ripples stirred the water, pushing dust from the projection in small, slow circles.
“Why are you showing me this?” Antigone asked. “What does it mean?”
“We invest a part of ourselves in everything we create. The past has disappeared, but we can still kindle the lost light of those minds which are no longer with us. All we have of them is what they made.”
by submission | May 2, 2011 | Story
Author : John Eric Vona
You didn’t see them with planets anymore. After the first billion years of Andromeda crashing into our galaxy, all the planets had been torn away from their stars, lost in the flurry of criss-crossing suns as the two galaxies collided and spun back away from each other, a pair of dancers twirling through the eons and the lightyears. Our sun survived, an atom in the arms and fingers connecting the galaxies, closer to what remained of Andromeda than the dying core of the Milky Way.
We didn’t know where Earth was.
It mattered very little. But then, what did it matter that we were out there at all? We were no longer part of the universe, just watching it. That was Bonnie talking. It took her a couple billion years, but she had gotten into my head.
I knew why we were out there. I was the one who’d taken the expedition from idea to reality, convinced the Neo-Naturalists to bend on their firm stance that the galactic collision was meant to be humanity’s end, played off the sentiment of Perservivalists like Bonnie, the extreme minority of enlightened people who believed we should try to survive the collision. They gave me the ship to take an expedition into the afterlife, to write the prologue to humanity’s existence. Like most, I believed that the human journey had stretched to its end. The ship wasn’t meant to be an ark. We were on the last mission to expand human knowledge.
One of our astronomers had spotted the planet the “week” before. We changed course, a millennia passing relativistically overnight, hoping not to miss a spectacle as fragile as the last planet in two galaxies.
As we arrived, the door to the observatory opened behind me.
“You’ve got to see this,” came Bonnie’s ecstatic voice.
“I am,” I said. “A gas giant twice Jupiter’s size and redder than Mars.”
“After all we’ve seen,” Bonnie said, “we still compare everything in the universe to the objects from our tiny little oasis. But it’s not the planet I’m talking about. It has moons.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, pivoting to look at her. The light from the red sun filled the room, and her brown hair glowed amber.
“They’re habitable,” she said, handing me a computer sheet.
“For what?”
“For us!”
“The galaxies are destroying each other.”
“You’ve lived too long at relativistic speed,” Bonnie said. “On those moons, the galaxies wouldn’t even move in our grandchildren’s lifetime.”
Our grandchildren? We didn’t allow anyone aboard to even have children. I tried to ignore her and examine the data on the solar system, but she grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around.
“Do you feel the sunlight on your face?”
I rolled my eyes out of habit, dismissing her flare for the dramatic, but as the sun and its partner grew steadily before us, I saw a different kind of dance. Even with Andromeda and The Milky Way spinning all around us in their last, anguished throws, two sweethearts, a sun and a planet, slowly stepped in the loving embrace of gravity, the moons but winks of light between them like unborn children.
Humanity didn’t have to end, but we chose to let it.
“I’m not the only one onboard who feels this way,” Bonnie said, but in that moment, with her hands on my shoulders and the space around us suddenly full and warm, it wouldn’t have mattered if she was. Watching the delicate little worlds dance in the sunlight, something long asleep stirred within me.
by submission | May 1, 2011 | Story
Author : Ryan Swiers
James hoped the battery would run out soon. The manual had said it was only good for three hours moving, double that when not. He had been looking for Alex almost five now. There was only one more place to look.
The woods were wet and dark, almost as dark as the overcast sky. James crawled through the border of damp branches and rotten logs to get inside the clearing. This was his son’s favorite spot. A makeshift fort so to speak. Even had a large rock that could pass as a cannon. It had been real fun breaking his back on that project.
On the far side of the clearing they had built a lookout tower, a tree fort really, yet sufficient enough to spot any savages and aliens foolish enough to crawl into the lethal sights of a plastic rifle. James was sure he too had been killed more times than was humanly possible in his course through the thicket, across the no man’s land, and towards the base of the tree.
He called up to that dread sentry.
“Bud, if you’re up there, we’re not mad at you. Me and mom love you. Why don’t you come on down and we can get inside, get warmed up, get everything worked out, alright? What do you say little buddy? Alex?”
The tree only replied with fat beads of rain water. James asked again. No response.
“Come on, champ, let’s go inside.”
He braved a peek inside the tree fort, more worried that the boards would give under his weight than fear of another gun wound. The boy wasn’t on the stool or huddled by a railing or asleep under the shelter.
The rifle was gone though. James made to pull himself up further when his foot slipped. His piece of the railing fractured and fell with him. Shortly, he could see that the sky wasn’t as dark as the sudden black beneath his wincing eyelids.
He groaned, rocking the agony, not really succeeding. It felt like his back had been stabbed with a horse’s spinal cord. Don’tcha know, pardner, they call ‘em trap doors for a reason. Har har.
“Heehee.” Giggled the boy from nearby.
James rolled on to his side, pain forgotten, searching. “Alex?”
The ring of trees, the snarled fence, rock cannon, a toy chest, and an old wagon; no boy.
There was something else though. The grass rustled in a line towards him. Above this the gray sky bulged, water-streaked, distorted, like a fish-eye lens. The bulge subsided as the movement stopped in front of him.
There was a slight *click* near his head. The rifle. Scratch another Comanche.
“Alex, thank god.” He waved an arm. “Help your dad up, bud.”
Alex giggled again. The distortion moved away.
The guy in the store had warned him. You need to buy spare goggles, too. James had to admit now he hadn’t listened. Lesson learned. Never give your eight year old an invisibility cloak for his birthday.
by submission | Apr 30, 2011 | Story
Author : Juliette Harrisson
‘I don’t know why you still bother with this,’ Sam said, looking down at me as I crawled along, knee-deep in mud. ‘There’s no funding for it, no one wants it, no one’s interested in it. Why do you do it?’
‘That’s not true,’ I answered testily, ignoring his offer to help me out of the ditch and deliberately brushing my muddy jacket against him as I hauled myself up. ‘Plenty of people are interested, they’re just not people with money.’
‘Don’t you think you should get a proper job, and stop pestering Mum and Dad for money?’ grumbled Sam, saddling his horse and preparing to head back to the city.
I pulled out my quill, ink and notes and prepared to write up the day’s work. ‘This is a proper job,’ I answered in a flat monotone. I sighed and looked up at him from my desk. ‘If you must know, I think there could be money in this.’
‘Oh?’ Sam paused, about to mount, and re-tethered his horse to come and talk to me, adding another log to the bonfire on his way.
I took a deep breath, not sure how to start. ‘There’s money in science and technology, right?’
‘Of course!’ Sam snorted. ‘Scientific and technological advances make our lives better!’
‘Well, I – that is to say, several of us at the Department – we have a theory. We think that a long time ago, maybe a thousand years ago, people were more technologically advanced than they are today. We think that something happened – we’re not sure what – and that technology was lost. But if we can find something from that period, some remnant of their technology that will give us a clue how to work it, perhaps we can re-develop their old machines.’
Sam raised his eyebrow and said nothing. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling frustration gnawing at the edges of my bones.
‘Look, you’re my brother, you love me. Don’t you want me to do something I’m passionate about, something I care about?’
Sam turned his back to me and mounted his horse, and for a moment I thought I’d lost him. But then he looked down at me and managed a small smile. ‘As long as you don’t bankrupt us all while you’re at it,’ he said.
He started to ride away and I jumped back into the ditch. But within a minute or two I was yelling at the top of my lungs, ‘Sam! Sam, come back! Come and look at this!’
I had broken through a layer of dirt to a hole in which lay a trove of discarded goods – most likely, the remains of an ancient rubbish dump. I could see a small, dark grey box with thin brown material spooling out of it, lying against a bigger, more square box and two small cylinders. Hands shaking, I pulled out an academic paper entitled ‘Batteries – the electrical missing link?’ and an illustration of an ancient portable device called a ‘Walkman’.
Wordlessly, I handed both to Sam.
‘ “Mains electricity,” ’ Sam read aloud, ‘ “is currently beyond the financial or technological capabilities of our government. However, if we could successfully reproduce the antiquated device known as the ‘battery’, it might be possible for limited use of electricity to return to our homes and offices.” ’
‘What does that look like to you?’ I demanded smugly, pointing to the illustration and the object I had uncovered.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Sam, looking both pleased and embarrassed. ‘You just got lucky!’
by submission | Apr 29, 2011 | Story
Author : Garrett Harriman
The dockyard was fragmentary; it reeked of grease and seal. Jetties devoid of craft sprawled like shattered ribcages, and two figures perched atop a decommissioned cruise liner.
This murky scene had backdropped thousands of Proto-Mob outings. Since the advent of TelePersonals and catholic surges in blip vacationing, however, the Carnival Fiesta’d graduated to a decaying national monument.
Its hulking obsolescence also dutifully cloaked a Neo-Mob proving ground.
Clay, guts equalizing, canvassed loaves of morning mist. Then Irving’s hand thudded his hunchback. “I warned you, Boss: this hit was vintage.”
The rookie’s knees swashed, pillars in the wind. He buckled and cussed, eyes averted from their “patsy.” Codenamed–intercepted–Sunday.
“I’m~m gonna yak, Irv. Ah-h Jesus, gonna lo~ose it—-”
“No. You won’t.” Irving unholstered an amorphous Wrigley’s pack from his trench coat. “You’re gonna squat till you can chew this. Then you’re gonna chew this.”
Great, loathed Clay. Another antique.
His fingers convulsed, disrobing the foil. Irv injected a stick of his own.
Clay cudded and glared down the lido deck after Its hurled trajectory. He still couldn’t concede having “chilled” his own Sunday. Least in the aftermath he was officiated.
What a fucking tradition.
Irving ruminated to the eroding coastal walls. “Proto-Mob bumped goons on every corner like that, kid. Drilled ’em fulla Tommy pills, too.” He mimed hugely. “Ratta-tatta!”
Clay didn’t comprehend. Boilers like Irving were rites of passage to Neo-Mob debutants. Memorabilia buffs shoehorning Prohibition lingo like “whack” and “kapish” and circle-jerking on Valentine’s Day. They were overbearing. Universally ignored outside initiations. And, reputedly, amassed pre-dematerialisation arsenals.
Clay was now a convert to such claims.
He swam a throbbing palm through his hair, depleted. “They used those how long, Irv?”
“Sixes? Centuries. They were dietary staples. Then we got lousy with TPs. Chiseled ourselves outta car trunks and counterfeiters. We’ve ransomed tourists ever since.” He shrugged, unimpressed. “Families say pieces’re old hat. Blip-Snatching’s cushier, I guess.”
A fearsome smile seized him. “Folks used to kiss dirt though, Clay. Ohhhh yes. Riddled into meaty little puzzles…”
Again the man relinquished to invisible weaponry.
Clay gnashed Wrigley’s, forfeiting imagination.
Suddenly bereaved, Irv ceased his bloodbath. “Bosses’ sons revolve, Clay. Always. You and me, though…we’d keep history alive. You’re a natural with a rod. The genuine article. Be goofy to follow the leader.”
Fogbanked buoys plugged at breakwater. Unseen gulls confronted steely wind.
Still Clay didn’t answer. Instead he beelined, forgoing the indignity of brushing off his ass.
The thirty-eight special had fumbled fifteen yards aft. Clay approached the archaic iron curio. Its recoil still blizzarded his upper-neck.
And the racket It’d drawn–KAPOW!
With a remote islander’s apprehension, he shuddered and scooped It by the barrel. Fucking hot, he clanked and snagged Its nickel-plated butt.
Irving jerked to reclaim it, make It “safe.” Pacified, the mafioso appraised him without gentleness. “Feel like yourself again?”
Clay considered. “No.”
Irving’s impervious bust nodded. “Close range’ll do that.” He flicked his gum wad to their cadaver’s soiled dungarees. Slithered the “bean-shooter” twixt his “mitts.”
Both eyes unfocused: “You absolute, kid? I mean…we could grift everybody…”
Inconceivable. Clay gelatinized just tracing Its curvaceous revolutions. How had the rudimentary gangsters managed?
He politely abdicated. “Sorry, Irv. Got no moxie.”
The Boiler’s eyebrows piqued at the term. Truly, he was an anachronism. “Born too late, weren’t we Clay?”
Together they eyed the lapping swill. Irving sighed with futile propinquity.
“Grab his arms then, Boss. Before dawn.”
The Neo-Mobsters hupped Mr. Sunday, activated their TPs, and dusted out, tandem-blipping to their safehouse to squabble over the palooka’s disposal.
Some things never changed.
