by submission | Jun 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Frank Ruiz
“We got a call. Yates again,” said a voice from the black. Gear clicked, clanked, and rustled as someone dressed. When he hummed, I knew it was Tim because he mumbled the lyrics to Move, Bitch. He gave that old song soul. “Lights?” he asked.
“Nah.” I sighed. “You know I sleep in my gear.” Tim grunted assent.
The truck’s familiar creaking almost rocked me back to sleep as we drove. We picked up pirate stations as we bounced across the cracked roads, the radio fizzling as it scanned and found…
-We have any time travelers out there? If you’re a visitor to the blasted past, don’t be afraid to give us a call…-
-So one day I’m out playing in the rain, and my father says, ‘Dammit, will you come inside!’ and I said, ‘Dad, I’m Jesus Christ!’-
Bank Officer Yates met us at the Dusty Wood gated community, gave us the address to check for squatters, and retracted the barrier poles. “Good hunting!” A smile and a wave. He lived off our arrests.
I squinted as we went. Dusty Wood’s dark made me think of outer space and stars. Constellations of solar powered LEDs lined the gutters and roof lines, barely illuminating the abandoned middle class community. Every so often, a tower broke the foreclosed town’s skyline and the red tip of guards’ lit cigarettes paced back and forth like small clones of Mars. On major streets, tracker lights followed us until we cleared the sector, then another light would pick us up.
We opened the door of Seventeen Fifteen and threw in a S.E.I.Z.U.R.E. ball. Five minutes later, we walked through, safeties off, gun lights on. We found a father and son shaking under a red swiss cheese comforter. The father’s Rolex clattered as he shook. Tim reached down, yanked, and pocketed the watch.
“It’s a good night. There were no weapons,” said Tim. “Look, a toy.”
A few feet from the boy, a yellow construction crane reached up. I grabbed it, showed it to Tim, and squinted as his gun light hit my eyes.
“Nah. That’s the Big Dipper.” I said.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jun 16, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Son of a bitch. I’m getting too old for this,” Sergeant First Class Ron Walker groaned as he hit the ground after a fast rope out of the hovering SSL. Fortunately he was the last to drop from the lifter. As he looked up to wave the craft off, he saw a thin trail of white smoke zeroing in on the boat.
“Aw, just fucking great.” He scrambled for cover as a SAM impacted and the remains of the Ship to Shore Lifter rained down where he had stood only moments before.
He beat feet to the edge of the forest where his men, mostly FNG’s (fucking new guys), waited in urine soaked battle armour. “Allright ladies, as you may have noticed, we have lost our ride and as usual the intel is shit. The area is HOT. Lock and load. There are no friendlies around. If it moves, shoot it. If it keeps moving, frag it. Most of the critters are naturally armoured, and the natives, well, they have developed a taste for long pig. MOVE OUT!”
The 24 men of 2nd Plt. Charlie Co, unslung their plasma rifles and pushed through the all pervasive Venusian jungle. There were no large bodies of water anywhere on the planet, just the monotony of the dense jungle broken only by the occasional marsh or sluggish stream.
They advanced in a ranger file. Ten meters between, five side to side. They moved at a slow but steady clip with Walker bringing up the rear. A scream broke out from the front, quickly followed by the crackle of plasma fire from the linear acceleration rifles.
Everything went silent.
A flurry of chatter exploded on the platoon comm freq.
“Who was it?”
“Zalar, a giant fucking snake pulled him under.”
“A HUGE fuckin’ snake,” someone added.
The comm went silent again. Then just as quickly burst back to life.
“Holy fucking shit, they’re every where.”
From his position in the rear, SFC Walker couldn’t see what was happening through the foliage. His only link to his men was the comm, transmitting the bursts of their plasma rifles and their screams as they died.
He pushed forward as hard as he could to emerge into a small marshy clearing. From his position, he could see a group of huge writhing green snakes. He levelled his rifle and burned them down, but they reappeared just as fast.
All at once he noticed that they originated from the same central point that his men were being drawn to. As his rifle spat green tongues of death, he saw Danvers disappear into what looked like…, “A mouth. It’s eating them alive. Concentrate fire on the bush in the centre of… of the snakes.”
Where there were previously 25 plasma flames, only five were left as the men were pulled into the leafy maw. The plasma had minimal effect on the water gorged carnivorous plant.
One by one, the remaining men were entangled by sentient vines, and pulled toward their death.
Sergeant First Class Walker, late of Ore City Texas, held down the trigger of his rifle and continued to shear off the squirming tendrils. He watched as the charge meter reached 0.
As the creepers wrapped around his ankles, he pulled out his bowie and hacked in vain at the muscular green ropes.
As he was pulled into the ravenous plants mouth, he remarked to himself, “Smells like Momma’s okra.”
by submission | Jun 15, 2010 | Story
Author : Devon McDonough
“Relax. Breathe through your nose and count backward from ten,” said the technician. She was wearing a white isolation suit, one gloved hand twisting the flow regulator of the anesthetic, the other on my arm in a sterile and entirely unsuccessful attempt to comfort me. Her isolation suit detracted somewhat from her bedside manner, and the fact that her faceplate only showed distorted reflections of the six other assorted doctors and techs gave me a distinct sense of disconnect. Or maybe it was the cocktail of various drugs I had been taking all week to prepare me for the procedure. My body wasn’t sore, but my mind was convinced of some kind of ache; it just wasn’t sure where that ache was.
I took a breath and began to count.
Ten… It was getting colder in the room. It had to be for the procedure. The padded table I was strapped to was the no-temperature of sterile formfit foam. It ensured that my skin would not be damaged by the cold.
Nine… As the diagnostic hood was lowered onto my chest and shoulders, my already limited mobility was further reduced. Not that I really cared; I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
Eight… Now I could only look straight up at the ceiling. White, sparsely ventilated, sterile. No surprise there. In my tiny field of vision I could see flashes of gloved hands and vent-masked faces: the people who would soon be cutting my head open.
Seven… I had no reason to be afraid, but the momentary twist in my gut told me that what I was doing went against all instinct.
Before I could reach six my lungs seized and I convulsed violently. In any other operating room instruments would have been beeping wildly and doctors would be frantically shouting orders as they attempted to resuscitate me. However, this was not a lifesaving operation, and the doctors had seen this before in almost every integration subject. There was no pain, but my lungs grew heavy and breathing became a chore. Five…
The restraints on my chest, legs, and limbs prevented my arms from flailing as my body fought the anesthetic, which became an oxygenated liquid once it hit the bloodstream. My mind knew perfectly well what was going on. I had, in fact, been preparing for this moment for seven months since I had gotten word that I was a prime candidate for ISM integration. They called it “initial involuntary pulmonary rejection” on official screens, but those who were familiar with the procedure knew it more colloquially as the “ups and drowns.” My lungs were under the impression that I was dying, which was only partially true. Four…
I focused on my breathing. It settled to a steady rhythm once the initial spasms subsided (thanks to the muscle relaxers in the gas). My pulmonary functions would be automated for the next part of the procedure and then stopped altogether until the ISM was integrated. It would take over all involuntary operations from the moment it was activated. Three…
My vision tunneled as my body settled into dormancy. The activity around me began to increase. It was almost time. Lights were positioned and instruments were swung into place. Two…
No more breathing. The anesthetic now filled almost my entire bloodstream, feeding me oxygen and keeping me at room temperature, which was now somewhere just above freezing. One…
Everything seemed to be receding as my heart rate dropped exponentially. My last conscious sight was a gloved hand waving in front of my eyes, and then…
Zero…
I was dead… for now.
by submission | Jun 14, 2010 | Story
Author : K. Pittman
I wake, if that’s the term for it, unwriting domains against polarised fragmentation and unkempt electric spin, programmed instinct seeking proper orientation.
Slow firing dormant ion-lights, we rotate counter-clockwise, along the azimuth, putting the Milky Way at our back, shaving seconds per meter off the tumble of our outbound trajectory. I throttle up the impulse motors of our EMU and check on my passenger while plotting windows back to IS-5.
Her chip says her name is S Patrice:Welder 4:StationDay on the roster. I re-synch my chronometer and discover an alarming thirty hour deviation from standard.
Life signs: hers, comatose; ours, sluggish, stable, quickening.
EMU external integrity reads at maximum, with some warpages in topology. Atmosphere in the suit reads high levels of hydrogen sulphide; the port for the waldo is dead.
I assume the safety protocols worked; it buckled when whatever incident occurred, and Beta system, my cousin, must have flooded the passenger cavity in response to a dire emergency assessment. Analysis of discontinuities in linear memory indicate the effects of a large, quick EM pulse.
Memory also gives our last recorded position, on IS-5’s surface, replacing a section of shield panel, behind Recycling and astern of South Bay 3.
Fascinating.
I page my sisters, silent lights cast wide in cislunar space.
There’s a noticeable lag. Some don’t respond, others report returns along inbound paths as skewed as ours is out, their Passengers comatose or near-dead, suit integrities on the verge of compromise, emergency gel desiccating in the solar wind.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I, we got lucky. If the programmed definition of “luck” in my banks is correct, very lucky.
I call IS-5, as per standard.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I execute a full about and begin a long curve on a gathering burn. I call IS-5 again, as per standard. Garbage and chaff assault me in the form of a “Hello”.
The handshake is missing.
Fascinating.
Protocols dictate the sending of a handshake request, and I handle that while plotting new trajectories. S Patrice:Welder 4 has four hours before becoming truly nonliving, but has twenty hours of breathable atmosphere on board. Lucky.
Kind of. Is that right? Is that how that goes?
Nothing from IS-5. A collapsed silence, very notable.
Nothing but my sisters, now, and this looming, and the roiling grain of space-time churning about us. I whisper my plans to them.
After long seconds down, we all agree: This requires a Passenger’s discretion, and my Passenger just happens to be the closest to optimal Passenger Integration. Passengers hate the safety-sleep gas, for when things go bad. Even when it works. Ideally, what’s to be done is wake her gradually and fully, clue her in, extract a decision, and then gradually render her comatose again. What hinges on her decision is when I can wake her again in safety, if at all.
We are at best forty hours away from anything in habitable space, travelling at speed. It can be done. My calculations are on point. Written into those algorithms are the limits of Passenger tolerances. But it can be done, given some statistical slippages.
Bright without light, my sisters cry, bitching based on consensus analysis, on lost signals, something like an enormous itch and no body and a knowing looming looming.
I may have to wake S Patrice:Welder 4 into the middle of a nightmare.
by submission | Jun 13, 2010 | Story
Author : Ben Ellis
Liam slouched over his drink, a ‘Lost Beagle’, jabbing the sliced raspberries with his straw. Passengers poured into the cocktail bar as another evening on the first ever commercial flight to Mars mixed everyone together amongst the rocks and stars. A month in, halfway through the journey, novelty and excitement had been suffocated by the boredom and frustration of floating in space. Both pioneering entrepreneur and government contractor could achieve little in transit, so as they waited for their feet to touch the ground, they let Liam keep their heads in the clouds.
Liam flicked through his catalogue of beautiful, copyright-expired women from yesteryear on his device, selecting those appealing most to the group of young miners brashly entering the bar. Launching the first ‘Dead Sexy’ personal leisure facility on Mars was not only a great opportunity but a responsibility; where men had discovered new lands, the landlord and madam were not far behind, satiating the trailblazers, enabling them to settle, turning a frontier into a home.
Single women on Mars were in shorter supply than oxygen or a decent steak and with nothing more tangible than holomovies or 3D experiences, these men would welcome the promise of a real, beautiful women to escape the cycle of work, sleep and loneliness. Many miles away from maternal Earth, anti-cloning beliefs or marital guilt would fade into the desolation between the green grass of home and the red rocks of Mars.
Approaching the miners, Liam enlarged the screen, “This round’s on me boys.”
The miners quickly focused on the selection of ladies; with the group firmly placed in the palm of his hand, Liam drilled into his sales patter.
Selling beautiful ladies to lonely men isn’t hard. The hard part is researching which models, singers, actresses and porn stars to clone first to maximise profit. Already spotting his counterparts from ‘Olde Fashioned Girls’ and ‘Clone Alone’; the race was on to analyse the sexual desires of this new Martian population. The one who best utilised their library of DNA would be the one remembered for turning this new frontier into a home.
