by submission | Jun 17, 2009 | Story
Author : Steve Davidson
Grrxynyth stripped off the artificial covering. “Man! Did you see the way he was looking at me!?”
Aaarraxanth tentacle gestured in the affirmative. “Couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Thought he was gonna die when you started taking off the clothing.”
Grrxynyth’s body rippled with laughter. A few stress pores continued to dribble a clear fluid, an involuntary act that bespoke his waning excitement. He patted the covering’s artificial mammary glands, a few of his eyes following their Jell-O-like contortions. “I used to think there was some upper limit to how big these things could be, but not any more. He almost fainted when I started rubbing them on his sensory-organ cluster.”
Aaarraxanth continued to busy himself with stowing equipment. “Got some pretty good close-ups this time, Grrx. Really good reaction stuff – especially when you probed him. Thought his masticating organ was going to swallow up the whole frame! Look.”
Aaarraxanth’s tentacle brushed against a display, causing it to reveal a human face, eyes and mouth wide with fear. Another tentacle brush brought the image to life. The viewer’s point of view was slowly engulfed by the darkness of a mouth, the shot accompanied by a soundtrack of low moans and repetitive grunting.
Grrxynyth’s stress pores opened wider with the memory. “So what are we calling this one? ‘Stupid Indigenes Will Do Anything For Giant Lactating Glands’? ‘Involuntary Probings Volume Forty-Two’? ‘Sex With Un-Evolved Aliens’? ‘I was In Love With a Being With No Tentacles’?”
“Yeah,” snorted Aaarraxanth. “All of em. You know they don’t care what the title is; as long as it features that probe shot – ”
“-it matters not,” finished Grrxynth. “Geez. What a way to make a living.”
“You got that right,” said Aaarraxanth. “Now come on, put that toy away and help me finish packing up. We’ve still got to get set up for those food animal shots.”
“Oy. Animal snuff. I mean, I want to know but I don’t want to know, if you know what I mean. What kind of freak watches that stuff?!”
Aaarraxanth cocked a few eyes in Grrxynth’s direction. “Believe me buddy. You don’t want to know. Now stop yacking and put that quadruped costume on.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 16, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“How can I be of service?” asked Sam Dixon, Private Investigator.
“I need you to investigate a major competitor of mine,” replied Donald LeDuca, of LeDuca’s Fine Eateries. “I assume you’ve heard of Marshall’s Restaurants?”
“Ahhhh, yes,” said Dixon with an enthusiastic smile. “I love their restaurants. The Avian Veronique is to die for.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the problem,” rebutted the annoyed LeDuca. “Since his first restaurant opened five years ago, my market share has dropped to 8%. He’s putting me out of business. I need to know how he’s doing it.”
“Maybe he’s got better cooks,” offered Dixon.
“No. That can’t be it. We’ve stolen each other’s CHEFS countless times over the last few years. It has to be something else. I think he’s adding drugs to his food. I heard he was some kind of doctor before he opened his first restaurant.”
“Okay, Mr. LeDuca, I’ll take the case. Have my secretary make you an appointment for next month.”
**********
LeDuca returned one month later. “Please tell me you’ve solved the case,” he pleaded as he entered Dixon’s office, and then quickly added, “Hell, you look like crap.”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” agreed Dixon. “I’ve been having, uh, stomach issues lately. Please, take a seat. First of all, you were half right. Marshall is a doctor, but not a medical doctor. He’s a developmental biologist. He’s done a great deal of work with emu eggs; that’s a large flightless bird from Australia. By some kind of molecular manipulation that I don’t pretend to understand, he was able to switch on certain dormant genes in emu embryos. This caused the reemergence of certain “lost” characteristics that had been buried in the bird’s DNA. After years of research, Marshall was able to produce the genetic equivalent of a living dodo bird, which had actually gone extinct in the seventeenth century. The technique made all the news reports. Perhaps you remember hearing about it? No? Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, while performing a laboratory experiment, Marshall accidentally killed one of his dodos. On a whim, he decided to cook it.” Dixon shook his head slightly, and then shivered. “Apparently, it was quite tasty. Tasty enough, in fact, to persuade Marshall to open a restaurant. He got a backer, and started breeding dodos on an island off the coast of Mexico.”
“You mean he’s selling dodo meat in his restaurants?”
“Initially, yes. But, that was years ago. He continued to experiment with bird embryos and made remarkable progress. He reversed engineered dozens of other animals. In fact, all of his specialty items are meat from previously extinct species. Well, I guess they’re not extinct anymore, eh. As it turns out, they all have a very unique flavor and texture that people can’t get enough of. So, once you leak this information, I think people will stop eating in his restaurants.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” relented LeDuca. “I don’t think people will be that upset because they’re eating extinct birds. I’m sure the Europeans ate dodos before they were extinct. What’s the big deal?”
Dixon pulled out a sheet of paper from his top drawer. “This information was Top Secret. Marshall didn’t even tell his chefs what the meat was. Let’s see, the Jambalaya is made with Archaeopteryx meat, the Medallions in Dijon Mustard Sauce is cut from Raptor thigh, and the Avian Veronique is made with Pterodactyl. God! That was my favorite. I can’t believe he fed me dinosaur meat! Frankly, Mr. LeDuca, I haven’t been able to keep food down in over two weeks.”
by submission | Jun 15, 2009 | Story
Author : Michael Varian Daly
The city had once been prosperous and beautiful, tall shining towers, broad tree lined boulevards, full of vitality.
Now it was a smashed ruin. Most of that had happened during the Age of Storms, Category Six monsoons scouring those once shining towers, adding their debris to the general destruction of wind and rain.
Battle damage had now been added to that forlorn landscape.
Drajica looked around at the ruins from the wide intersection where she had set up her Tribunal. The helmet of her battle armor was opened ‘on the half shell’ and would snap shut if the suit detected any incoming threat.
In the distance, she could hear the buzz/hum/hiss of Marine weapons, the snapping of century old ex-Soviet assault rifles, the occasional crump of chemical explosives. The air stank of general decay, with an undercurrent of burnt flesh.
Her security team had established a perimeter around the intersection. In its center, a hundred or so local males were lined up, kneeling, hands bound at the small of their backs. A stack of black plastic body bags were in an orderly pile a dozen feet behind them.
“Pathetic,” she thought, “But they had been warned.”
As the Age of Storms slowly abated, the Union of Matrilineal Republics had emerged from North America’s West Coast. The Sisterhood, as it was colloquially known, spread rapidly into the chaotic aftermath.
In the half century since, it had displaced most of the ‘systems’ that had survived the Age of Storms in an essentially peaceful process, and then expanded out into near Earth space.
Some pockets of Phallists had resisted with violence. But with limited capacity to reproduce, they faded quickly. Uterine replicator technology seemed set to reverse that, but unaugmented tank babies were almost universally sociopathic, except for the psychotics, of course. Those societies imploded brutally.
This city was one of the very last strongholds of Phallism. The Sisterhood had compiled evidence of genital mutilation, impregnation rape, and foot amputation for the women who tried to escape before it took action.
Two Warnings were issued. Then came an EMP, followed by a Marine Drop Brigade. Mobile Tribunals did the mopping up.
Drajica walked over to the line prisoners. She’d picked the first one specifically. She knew his type.
He wore a finely knit kufee and a now soiled white robe. His beard was long, but neatly trimmed.
Drajica faced him. “Do you Swear to honor and respect your Sisters?” Her voice was soft, but firm.
He smiled, but his eyes were hard. “There is no God, but God,” he said, “And Mu-”
She pointed at him. An actinic flash burst from her fingertip. A pinhole appeared in his forehead, a thin wisp of smoke puffing upward. He fell over backward, his body jerking. The smell of piss and shit adding to the overall stench.
She sighed. The next in line, a terrified boy no more than seventeen, had already pissed himself. She faced him. “Do you Swear to honor and respect your Sisters?” she repeated in the exact same tone.
“Ye-ye-yes, Mistress,” he blubbered with utter sincerity, “I Swear by my life!”
Two Marines hauled him away to a waiting ground vehicle. His fate would be agricultural resettlement, or possibly servitor augmentation. But that was not for her to determine.
Two other Marines were dragging the mullah’s corpse toward the pile of body bags. He would wind up as DNA harvest. His smug face would haunt her dreams for a while.
Drajica sighed again. “It will all be over soon,” she told herself, and moved down the line.
by submission | Jun 14, 2009 | Story
Author : Ian Rennie
I don’t want to do this any more.
It’s cold, and we’re all hungry. I knew it would be like this, but that’s the difference between knowing and experiencing.
Nobody talks much any more, Scott least of all. When we were on the way there, he tried to keep people’s spirits up by talking up the grand adventure. When we got to the pole and found we had lost, that all this was for the privilege of being the second team to get there, he sort of withdrew. He doesn’t show how much this has broken him, doesn’t show that he suspects what I know for certain. We are all going to die here.
I knew it would be like this. Observing this is why I came. I’m sure that months from now when I hand in my paper, “A chronosociological survey of the extremes of the human condition, with specific reference to the antarctic explorers”, everyone around me will say what brave and courageous work it was. But it’s not. It’s cowardly. All of these men are going to die, have been dead for centuries. Whatever happens to this body, I will live on.
I stand up, they all turn to look at me. They will call this a supreme sacrifice, but it’s not.
“I’m just going out,” I say, “I may be some time.”
by submission | Jun 13, 2009 | Story
Author : John Logan
Leviathan IV floated in space, amongst the debris of its brother and sister starships, somewhere in close proximity to Alpha Centauri. Inside its massive hull, a team of veterans were preparing for their last mission. They were the last hope for their species and each man felt the weight of responsibility rest heavily on his shoulders.
“Do we have to use these antiques?” asked Stims.
Their leader, a man named Flex, grunted and spoke, “I don’t like it any more than you, but Dakros said we can’t leave any trace of technology on Earth.”
An array of carbine powered rifles lay before them and Stims grudgingly picked up one equipped with a scope and then slung it over his back. “Damn, if they ain’t heavy,” he said.
The other men retrieved a similar weapon and followed Flex down a tight claustrophobic corridor. The walls of the ship began to vibrate, testament to the experimental technology that was powering up to transport the team over four light years distance and six hundred standard years into the past.
The team passed a porthole, the silhouettes of broken ships and suspended corpses painted a bleak picture of devastation.
“They’re all gone,” whispered one man. “All of them.”
Flex turned and scowled, “Shut your mouth, Brack. I don’t want to hear it. Stay focused or I’ll put my foot up your ass.”
The team moved on, each man silent and brooding—lost in his own thoughts. They came to an open chamber where a spherical pod rested half-embedded into the floor. Around it, an eerie crimson light pulsed.
Dakros stood there waiting, his face contorted into a mask of impatience. “Time is running out,” he hissed. “The Earth men have found us. Quickly, all of you gather round.”
Flex nodded to his men, prompting them to form up and stay attentive to Dakros’ words.
“Here is a dossier with all the information you will need concerning the target,” said Dakros, handing it to Flex. “You were all specifically chosen for this mission not just because of your ability to kill, but because of your knowledge of human language and culture.”
Flex studied the dossier. He lifted his head from the printed paper and said, “Are you sure this is gonna work? I mean this is a prototype ship after all—”
“Let me make it clear, gentlemen,” said Dakros. The lines on his face deepened under the shadows of the room. “The human scourge has already annihilated our fleet, next is the home world, your families, loved ones and friends, all of them will die.”
Stims nudged the rifle into a more comfortable position.
“I’m very confident that we can send you to the correct space and time,” continued Dakros. “However, it will be a one-way trip—I’m sorry.”
None of them protested.
Flex plucked out a photograph from the dossier and held it up. “This him?” he asked.
Dakros nodded. “Our historians have worked hard to pinpoint the turning point in the human evolution of space travel. This man…” Dakros pointed an accusatory finger at the photograph, “…is responsible for the human progress that has ultimately led them across the stars to war with us.”
The face of each veteran soured with hatred as they studied the photograph, committing the features to memory.
Dakros suddenly clapped his hands together, shattering the silence. “All aboard now, we have little time,” he said.
They piled into the cramped pod. After a few moments preparation, the pod detached from the Leviathan and hurtled through space, its destination Earth, Dallas, 1963.
