by Roi R. Czechvala | Apr 28, 2011 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Who are they,” the chief officer of the starliner, Raumfahrer, asked Captain Kurtzmann.
“They’re a group of fanatic pilgrims,” he replied through a tight smile as he nodded perfunctorily at a small mass of red cloaked figures marching by. Several of the men smiled meekly and made odd gestures to the Captain and his crew. “They’re followers of the Slain God.”
“I’ve heard about them. They worship an ancient myth. Their God was violently murdered for preaching peace to his followers. Very ironic, if a bit anachronistic.”
“These ‘anarchists’ chartered an entire liner for their pilgrimage. Please bear that in mind,” the captain hissed in a ‘watch your ass’ tone.
A figure, conspicuous by his white raiment and the ornate staff he carried, broke from the group of crimson frocked men. “Are our quarters ready?”
“We have cleared an entire hold for your group. Your uh, uh Your Eminence,” he quickly added, remembering the term of address from an article he had read.
“Please, so such formalities. I am but a humble pilgrim. I’m sure what you have arranged is adequate.”
“I must implore you to reconsider, Sir. There are only 30 of you, and you have the entire ship of 450 staterooms. Surely, you would be more comfortable…”
“Is everything prepared as requested,” the wizened figure interrupted.
“Yes Sir. The hold has been cleansed and spread with the leaves you provided.”
“I’m sure it will be most adequate for as far as we need to go.”
“I don’t know how comfortable it will be for the entire journey. Even with the torch drive, Copernicus is a long way off.”
The old man smiled warmly. “As I said, as far as we need to go.”
“Weird group, this,” remarked the helmsman as the captain stepped onto the bridge.
“Yes, they’re friendly enough, but they make me uncomfortable. There’s something about their leader that bothers me.”
“Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“It’s not that. It’s as if he’s expecting something. As if he’s got an inside joke and I’m not in on it.” The captain became lost in contemplation for a moment. “Pull up the feed from hold three, please,” He said turning to the communications officer.
In an empty space in front of the bridge, the cavernous interior of hold three appeared. Before a large mass of palm fronds, the men had erected a wooden structure and now knelt before it. It consisted of an upright, neatly bisected by a shorter cross brace. A low chant came from the men. “Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.” The chant was repeated, rising and falling in volume.
“Well, nothing sinister there, but I just can’t shake…”
“Sir,” a sharp ejaculation cut him off, “what the hell is going on?”
Startled by the brusqueness of one of his officers, Kurtzmann spun around to confront an ashen faced ensign pointing at the ships forward view.
The bridge crew stared as, one by one, the stars winked out.
by Duncan Shields | Apr 27, 2011 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I could tell from the way she softly clicked her teeth together twice while keeping her mouth closed, flicked her eyes to the top left and grunted once subvocally that she’d just adjusted me to be more handsome. She would probably pass it off as checking her messages if I confronted her.
She had this annoying habit all through dinner of either blinking or darting her eyes to one side after making a point or a joke. I knew she was sending images, links, and videos to my eyes to assist the conversation. I saw nothing. I’d never had the work done.
She sat in front of me, mildly pretty in a way I could adjust to gorgeous if I had the right hardware in my head, humming and twitching like someone with mild tourette’s syndrome. She seemed to pick up about halfway through the date that I wasn’t just being stoic or ignoring her on purpose. The expression on her face took on a feeling of revulsion and then polite smiles as the rest of our night progressed. It didn’t last much longer. Her tics didn’t stop, they only slowed down to motions that indicated to me that she was talking to other people and staying current on the feeds. I found it rude but no doubt she found it rude that I couldn’t join in.
I still had my communicator tablet iLife screen in my pocket. I’d check my traffic after the date ended like I was raised to do. It was only polite. I wasn’t raised in the city like she was. I tried to pay for dinner but she said she’d already taken care of it. The date ended.
I looked at my phone after a polite peck on the cheek goodbye from her. I saw that as she had sat down at the beginning, she had friended me on FB3, added me on Starcrossed, met me on Saw-u, hailed me on Communicator, knocked on me through FrontDoor, rated me on Datemate, invited me on Contact, opened to me on NiceOne, queried me on AskMe and sent me virtual flowers and a kiss through Sendlove.com. Our conversation had been webcast.
Only eighty hits so far and none since the beginning of dessert. Sad.
As she left the restaurant, I watched her requests get withdrawn. I was blocked, ignored, shunted, slammed, hung up on, darkened, erased, blinded, stealthed, closed and deleted. Her profiles disappeared off my networks. The invitations disappeared. The flowers and a kiss evaporated. I wouldn’t even be able to call her now.
Blogged, vlogged and flogged, they called it.
The comments on the webcast weren’t flattering. She rated me two stars out of ten. The top tweet said that she was being generous.
I have to get implants.
by Patricia Stewart | Apr 26, 2011 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“This is Captain Thomas Rider of the Starship Dunkirk. What’s the nature of the emergency?”
“This is Governor Wingfield of the Constant. We had a core breach, and had to jettison the reactor. We’re operating on minimum life support. Not sure how long we can hang on. We have over 2000 colonists aboard.”
“Understood Governor. Can I speak to the captain?”
“The captain was in Engineering during the explosion. He was killed. I’ve taken command.”
“That’s not the protocol Governor. Command cedes to the next ranking Bridge Officer.”
“I chartered this ship, Captain. I’m in command.”
No sense debating this now, thought Rider. I’ll sort it out when we get there. “Here’s the situation,” he said, “The Dunkirk is only a scout ship with a crew of 15. In an emergency, we can carry an additional 30 adults, or 70-some children. We’ll be arriving at your position in eight hours. Have the evacuees ready for transfer. More ships are on the way, but won’t arrive for at least a week. Can the colonist survive until then?”
“It’ll be close, Captain. We’ll have your passengers ready when you arrive.”
Eight hours later, the Dunkirk docked to the primary cargo hold of the Constant. When Captain Rider walked through the docking hatch, he spotted 18 adults, 10 children, and six large crates. “What’s going on here?”
A large man walked up to the captain and handed him a list. “I’m Wingfield,” he said. “These are the evacuees. They were chosen by lottery.”
The captain studied the list. “How fortunate, Governor. It appears that you and your staff hit the lottery. What’s in the crates?”
“Our valuables. We won’t leave without them.”
“Well, you got that much right, Governor. Ensign Stahler, bring a security team out here and escort the Governor’s administration to the far side of the hangar. If any of them approaches the hatch, shoot them. Lieutenant Hathaway, find the ranking bridge officer.”
***
Captain Rider was studying the passenger manifest when the Constant’s First Officer was escorted into his Ready Room. “I don’t want to play god,” stated Rider without preamble, “but I’m going to.” This is a list of the children by weight. Starting with the lightest, gather the children until you reach 2000 kilograms. If the parents want to keep the family together and hope for the next rescue ship, fine. Skip them. Understood?”
Several hours later, 83 children were being escorted onto the cargo hold. The first officer explained, “It could have been 85 children, but I needed to keep two here so I could send enough baby formula to feed the ten infants. But Captain, I need to ask you a favor. Can you leave us a few weapons, in case the governor decides to be more resourceful next time?”
Ensign Stahler, who had been eavesdropping, spoke up. “That won’t be necessary, Captain. Lanyi and I would like to volunteer and stay behind and maintain order until the other ships get here. Beside, it’ll give you room to take another four or five children.”
“Ensign, you understand that the next ship might not arrive in time?”
“Aye, sir. We’ll take our chances.”
The captain nodded, and the first officer headed off to the passenger section.
An hour later, Captain Rider returned to the bridge of the Dunkirk. Children were huddled in the nooks and crannies. Some were crying, some were whimpering, all of them were scared. The captain forced a reassuring smile. “Mr. Cunard, maximum warp. Let’s see if we can make the round trip in record time.”
by submission | Apr 25, 2011 | Story
Author : Jordan Whicker
Henry Goodman sank readily into the welcoming embrace of his favorite recliner; the whoosh of air escaping these cushions and the groan of its leather was the only ‘Welcome home, honey!’ he’d ever known. He sat in silence for a few moments, his eyes closed, his mind working to quell the tempest of thoughts that had roared unabated for years. He wasn’t having much luck.
He opened his eyes after some time and stared at the TV across the room. A large part of him wanted to leave the TV off, as if doing so might preserve his anonymous existence here in his comfortable chair. He knew it was impossible; whether he watched or not millions of others around the world would be glued to their sets at this very moment, seeing his face and speaking his name, committing them both to memory. Henry Goodman, the father of the Second Computer Revolution. The Singularity. No, nothing would ever be the same. Not for him. Not for the world.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
Moments ago, Henry Goodman, a Senior Researcher at the Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, committed a cyber attack against the United States of America. His unprovoked attacks crippled the nation’s internet, cellular, and telephony capabilities, plunging the nation into a communications deadzone. As Goodman has effectively deafened the nation’s police and counter-terrorism forces, a $10 million bounty has been placed on Henry Goodman, effective immediately. Authorities warn that Goodman is extremely dangerous, likely armed, and liable to intensify his cyber attacks against the United States of America at any moment. President Ibson has authorized the use of lethal force to neutralize the domestic terrorist Henry Goodman. May God bless the United States of America at this dark hour.
The message looped, then, the female voice speaking over security camera footage of Henry working in his lab.
“No,” Henry croaked. “No no no no no no no.” He cycled through the channels on his television. They all broadcast the same message, the same voice intoning his death sentence.
How can this be happening? Henry thought. We put controls in place and –
His thoughts were cut off by three staccato bangs on the door.
“You in there, Good Man?” The muffled voice added stress to the second syllable of Henry’s last name where there typically was none. “I don’t really need to ask. I seen you come home and I ain’t seen you leave so unless you already offed your own fool self I reckon you still in there.”
Henry’s eyes darted around the room; he cursed the sudden uselessness of all his possessions. He grasped the lamp that stood next to his recliner, yanking it away from the wall and plunging the room into darkness.
“Well then. Guess there’s my answer. Make this easy on me Henry, it’s gonna happen eventually.”
A clipped blast freed the deadbolt and set the door swinging wildly on its hinges. The man stepped in, shotgun pressed to his shoulder as he scanned the room.
“It’s too late,” Henry stated from his hiding place behind the recliner.
“I know it is, and I’m almost sorry Good Man.”
“No, you don’t get it. I’m the only one who knows how to stop it. And it realized that.”
The man stepped around the recliner and leveled the weapon at Henry. “Good for it. Any last words?”
“All hail the computer overlord,” Henry said. His voice was even; a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had done it.
by submission | Apr 24, 2011 | Story
Author : Ian Eller
People said that the house was haunted. It sat alone along the broken asphalt road surrounded by parched fields feebly overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. It was a small house: one story, with a covered porch and attached one car garage. The house would have seemed perfectly at home in one of the subdivisions, just another dilapidated and empty structure on a sun-burnt, grassless lot, with broken windows and a collapsed roof inviting the elements inside.
But this house was not dilapidated. Its roof remained strong and its windows were unbroken. Nor was it on a dry, weeded patch like the others, but a vibrant green swatch, exactly square. A narrow concrete walk, unbroken by time, ran from the porch to the street. On one side of the walk was a mailbox atop a post, and on the other was a large square sign that, despite exposure, remained unfaded. The words on it were unknowable, but the image of the house and a smiling family were visceral.
Either the strange location or the unmolested state of repair of the house would have been enough to fuel suspicions and rumors about the place, but there was more. At night, when the world was dark save for campfires and the rare battery powered lamp, the house was aglow. Some swore they could sometimes see a shadow move behind the drawn shades.
Across the street from the house was a deep drainage ditch, bone dry and carpetted with long dead reeds. Within, pressed against the dirt wall, Wallace and Adrian glowered at one another.
“Well, go on then, if you’re so smart,” snarled Wallace. He was big for ten, with a meaty head and hands, but covered in dirt and pallid from malnourishment.
Adrian, who was smaller than Wallace and no cleaner nor better fed, snarled right back. “I will, I will! Get off!”
The sun was lowering in the west behind the mountains. Dusk stretched across the land and when it touched the house, there was a brief flickering from within, then a soft, cold glow.
Adrian swallowed hard.
“You’re chicken,” Wallace said quietly.
“I’m not chicken!” hissed Adrian. With a courage fueled by boyish pride that even war, death, famine and pestilence combined could not extinguish, Adrian pulled himself over the berm and onto the cracked asphalt.
Wallace opened his mouth to heckle Adrian again, but found his mouth too dry and his chest too tight. A wheezing, “Go!” was all he managed.
Adrian moved uncertainly across the street, one step then two and three. When he reached the center of the road, where the dashed yellow line was just barely visible, a light above the porch blinked into existence. Behind him, Wallace squealed and dove into the ditch. Adrian steeled himself and crossed the street.
Finally Adrian stood before the walkway. Slowly, his eyes never leaving the from door, he reached out and opened the mail box. Bright lights on either side of the front door came to life and a voice, tinny and distant, spoke from within the mail box.
“Welcome to the House of Tomorrow! Please come in and see what the future brings!”
He heard Wallace yelp and then bolt down the ditch.
Again, the tinny voice said, “Welcome to the House of Tomorrow! Please come in and see what the future brings!”
Adrian thought of Wallace, running for their burrow, digging for grubs to eat, crying late into the night.
He stepped forward onto the walk. The door of the house opened with a whisper.
Adrian went in, to see what the future would bring.
