by submission | Jul 24, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
“T-minus two minutes.”
That's the mission control computer. That's how long I have to back out. One second after that is one second too late. But I'm not going to back out. I don't have any real ties to this era. My whole life I've felt I was born centuries later than I should have been. Temperamentally, I'm well-suited to time travel.
I've read some of the old time travel science fiction. Quaint ideas about time machines being compact little vehicles that magically drop you off to whatever calendar date you like. That's a much nicer narrative device than having to find the right kind of black hole orbiting the right kind of star and then build a machine around both of them.
“T-minus one minute, forty-five seconds.”
And in the old stories, you could travel into the future, too. In reality, you can only travel to the past. The closer to the present you want to travel to, the more power it takes. In terms of energy, it's far easier to travel 100 years into the past than it would be to travel ten seconds into the past. To travel even one nanosecond into the future would require infinite energy.
“T-minus one minute, thirty seconds.”
And once you're in the past, forget about preventing your grandparents from ever meeting each other or killing Hitler or any other causality violation-type tampering. Laws of physics won't allow it. Novikov self-consistency principle. Go back in time to kill your mom before she gives birth to you and on your way to commit matricide, you'll trip and break a leg. Or get killed yourself in a car accident. Something will prevent you from violating causality. Nature abhors a paradox.
“T-minus one minute.”
Did I mention it's a one-way trip? Like I said, you can't travel to the future. And when you arrive in the “past,” that becomes the “present.” The time you traveled back from is forever inaccessible. Once you're in the past, your job is to observe and document. And after you've recorded the history you were assigned to investigate, you take everything you've documented to the designated recovery location and let your recording machine dig itself into the ground. It'll burrow deep enough into the Earth's crust to remain undisturbed for centuries. They'll locate it and dig it up the same day you were sent back in time, centuries after you're dead.
“T-minus forty-five seconds.”
Speaking of death, you may not live very long after you've time traveled to the past. All matter that gets sent into the past including living tissue gets hit with ionizing radiation. You'll have at least two or three forms of cancer shortly after you arrive. That may not sound like a serious problem, but cancer used to be a debilitating and even deadly disease. Depending how far back in time you go, the medical science may not be advanced enough to treat it. Your cell repair machines may be able to fix the damage but all that nanotech in your cells gets hit with radiation, too. It may not function properly. Statistically, you've got a less than fifty percent chance of making it five years after your arrival.
“T-minus thirty seconds.”
Still, for all the problems, time travel is worth it. Data mining history is a calling, almost like a religion. We can't know who we are or what we can become if we don't know how we arrived here. Dying 700 years before you were born is a small price to pay.
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by Desmond Hussey | Jul 23, 2013 | Story
Author : Desmond Hussey, Staff Writer
For reasons unexplained a man finds himself in the woods late at night, separated from his companions, without a light and quite alone.
The night is dark, but not pitch-black, just light enough for him to see the hint of path before him. He suddenly finds himself standing before a shapeless “Void,” much darker than the surrounding forest. Immediately, he’s aware of an unseen presence within. He knows he’s being watched.
The man is calm and deeply curious about this phenomenon. He’s no stranger to weirdness, only weird to strangers. The paranormal does not bother him. He has, you might say, become accustomed to mysterious “disturbances in the force”. Despite his lack of fear, however, something about the ebon cloud blocking his path sets his nerves on edge.
Peering into the Emptiness, he attempts to penetrate the thick shroud of un-light, hoping to detect the presence within. As he does, thought forms take shape in his mind. Thoughts that aren’t his.
So subtle is the foreign mind insinuating its alien presence, slipping and slithering between his thoughts, that initially the man believes he’s having an internal dialogue with himself. Profoundly significant ideas and understanding of inscrutable and obscure concepts manifest within his conscious mind, fully formed as if from nowhere, but he’s soon certain, by subtle nuances of speech and syntax, that there’s something else, an “Other”.
An angel perhaps? Something worse?
Discovered, the Other playfully suggests that the man leave with it, that he abandons this plane of existence by stepping into the void before him. This is no simple revelation, no ordinary epiphany, thinks the man. In a heartbeat, it becomes a temptation.
The “Other” appeals, with uncanny persuasion, to the man’s deep-seated desires for escape, to his longing to abandon the crisis of humanity and soar through the universe unfettered. The Other sings seductively of the galactic family waiting just beyond the veil of shadow.
The man has longed for such an invitation – an escape from complication, fear and a culture hell bent on self-destruction; an escape offered by other-worldly, possibly divine forces! How could he refuse?
But he must choose. Go now. Or stay, forever.
It’s simple. All he must do is willingly offer himself to this dark stranger from the stars. His willingness to cross over is a necessary condition.
The man contemplates the tantalizing enigma, feeling the lure of leaping blindly into the unknown. Then he considers his daughter, just two years old.
Like a blazing lighthouse, her image brings focus to his hypnotized mind. He knows immediately that he could not possibly be happy anywhere in the universe except by her side, here on Earth. He couldn’t simply “beam up”, or vibrate to another dimension or some awaiting mother ship.
Somewhere deep inside he knows also that he can’t trust a being that cloaks itself in shadow promising liberation and utopia. He knows that he’d simply become the pawn of a new overlord in some galactic game of chess, a pawn of a significantly higher order, but a pawn nonetheless.
His purpose is here he realizes, on Earth; to his family, to his community, to his planet. The easy way is a copout.
“We are where we are,” he says to the Other, “at this time for a season, though we may never know the reason. It may seem an utter nightmare, but it’s our nightmare – we just haven’t learned how to wake ourselves up yet.”
With that he turns his back on the shadow and chooses the swiftest road to his child and never looks back.
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by Julian Miles | Jul 22, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You will release our brethren or we will kill a prisoner every nemet, starting at Rabender.”
I hate hostage takers. After a list of fatal failures longer than you can live to read, they still think that they will be the exceptions.
Jemelli Lurdan flumphs down next to me, our battered copy of Edgebaston’s ‘Religious Cults of the Twenty-Fifth Century’ clutched in two of her turquoise pseudopods. Despite the ban on printing, we have to have this. Computer glitches have cost more lives than bad decisions.
“Nemet: the Faustian base chronological unit. Corresponds to fifty-three minutes eighteen seconds. Rabender: the last devotional ritual of the Faustian day. Starts in one hour forty minutes.”
I turn my head to look over her squat form at Stormcatcher Quill; its feathered Mohican is laid back on its vaguely equine head. The featureless pink eye globes are dull, indicating some very serious calculating in progress.
Every one of my team has a non-combat, non-enforcement speciality that allows us to function when technology is not available. We are Lead Hostage Remediation One for that reason.
“Their religion does not permit deviance. Surrender, negotiation or failure are classed as such.” Vestor Adam has arrived, his yellow robes ragged but somehow appearing more pristine than the finest ambassadorial garb. His face is obscured by a Tragedy mask today; unfailingly appropriate as always.
Time to summate: “LeHRO! Break it down for the Magistrate.”
“Officer Lurdan. The Faustians emanate resolve, commitment and fervour backed by anger. No option.”
“Officer Quill. The Faustians have fortified, trapped and fully shielded the liner, in addition to bringing military arms. Access would have to be by assault. Optimal estimate is sixty-eight percent casualties. No option.”
Vestor removes his mask to reveal the tears running from his reddened eyes. “Officer Adam. Faustian articles of faith forbid any interaction that could lead to peaceful resolution. No option.”
My turn: “Captain Holden. The Faustian behaviour is full-profile for fanatical action. No option.”
The Magistrate hums as it communicates with the Adjudicator for this sector. A chime precedes the verdict: “No option. Proceed.”
I open a channel to the fifth member of the team. “Officer Liddle? Please expedite a ‘No’ option.”
“Yes, Captain Daddy.” Our shocked silence makes her giggle seem louder. Callie-Ann identified me uniquely!
I open a channel to the liner. The Faustian leader is there, eyes gleaming with fervour and looted cognac.
“This is Captain Holden. We have considered your demands.”
His grin reveals pointed teeth. “So you will comply?”
I shake my head and feel tears of rage and guilt well up. “We do not negotiate with hostage takers. Surrender or die.”
He laughs. “Die!”
I look him straight in the eye. “As you wish.”
I see realisation dawn just as the screen goes blank. The shockwave rocks our ship. As the tremors subside, I feel the soft thump as Callie-Ann’s padded cell returns to its insulated bay.
Shields are useless against telekinetics, but telekinetics are always insane. The stronger they are, the madder they are. Callie-Ann is special, having been rescued from kidnappers at the age of four. She hates hostage takers and becomes functional with homicidal tendencies when dealing with them. If only she could do things on a smaller scale.
Today she spoke to me. Tomorrow she’s twelve. By the time she’s twenty we could actually be rescuing people.
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by submission | Jul 21, 2013 | Story
Author : Holly Jennings
They came for me when I was fifteen.
“The kid can hit a target 250 yards out,” they'd said. “Doesn’t even have training.”
I figured they wanted me for the army, some kind of special ops maybe.
I was wrong.
The girl was school-aged. Barely. Five years old, maybe six. Black hair, almond-shaped eyes. A white fur coat. She stood with her parents in front of a parliament building. Red carpet beneath their feet, velvet ropes to hold back the masses. Cameras flashed in the crowd. A miniature movie star, if I hadn’t known better.
The only daughter of a powerful political family. In twenty years, she would become a vital leader in the Far East. Why had the Oracle told me the girl's fate?
I focused down the scope on target. Less than 100 feet. An easy shot. She wouldn't even feel it.
Adjust for wind.
Overhead, the country's flag fluttered in the heavy breeze. The sound rippled through the air like an erratic heartbeat. Or was that mine?
The girl stepped sideways and the crosshairs centered over her heart.
My mouth went dry.
Why couldn't it wait until she was an adult? Hell, even a teenager? At least until she loved and lost a little, laughed and cried over something more than Barbie dolls.
I watched her parents wave goodbye to the crowd of cameras. They led the girl up the concrete stairs of the building.
Take the shot.
She smiled. Dimples filled her cheeks.
Just another target.
I took a breath and held it.
Shoot.
My finger trembled on the trigger.
You're stronger than this, old man.
She jumped to the top step, laughing, hand-in-hand with her mother.
Last chance.
Teddy bear barrettes. Pink fingernails.
A female leader. Didn't that mean something?
They disappeared inside.
I stared down the scope long after they were gone. The Oracle who'd sent me would be pissed, if she even had any emotion left.
The trigger locked, I'd tell her. Someone stepped into my line of sight. Could she see through lies the way she saw through time?
Back at the agency, I took a knee before her, but the words wouldn't form in my mouth.
“I couldn’t…” I looked down at the ground and crushed my knuckles against it, unable to face her.
The Oracle sat limp on her throne, strung up like a marionette, cords draping from her arms, neck and temples. Each led to a different computer screen portraying the varying timelines of futures that still existed. One featured the girl, alive and well, dimples nestled in her cheeks.
The Oracle stood and walked down the steps to me, cords stretching behind her like tentacles. She took my head in her hands and tilted it up until I met her eyes.
“It's ok, Richard,” she said, soothing tone, angel voice. “I couldn't have done it either.”
Her words went straight through my heart. “You knew this would happen?”
“I wouldn't be much of a psychic if I didn't.”
“Then why send me? What benefit to humanity did it serve?”
She smiled. “To prove that some of it still exists within you.”
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by submission | Jul 20, 2013 | Story
Author : Marie DesJardin
The Chevy wagon rattled down the narrow road, its twin beams lighting the underside of the leafy branches that hugged the highway like a mossy cave. Dot blinked in the passenger seat, her gaze idly following the yellow centerline that snaked beyond the range of the headlights. David's eyelids were heavy, but his knuckles whitened on the wheel each time the car plowed through a patch of bumper-high mist.
Random shapes loomed up periodically by the roadside. Retreads. Possum. Shoe. A red trail pointing to a dark mound off the shoulder. Dot's brain logged it sleepily: turtle. Poor thing. The headlights passed over it.
Something shaggy burst from the woods at their right and dashed across the road.
Dot jumped in her seat. “Watch out!”
David swerved frantically, but the thing doubled back in front of them. With a bang, the Chevy connected. The engine raced as the transmission jumped into neutral.
“Cripes!” David braked to a stop. Dot looked out the rear window. The red glow of the taillights illuminated a lumpy stain near the centerline. Tendrils of mist curled over it.
David sounded breathless. “It ran right out in front of me.”
“I know. You couldn't have avoided it.” Dot bit her lip. “Oh, David, I feel awful!”
Frowning, David tested the shifter. “Honey, whatever I hit, it's dead.”
Dot was firm. “We have to make sure.”
“Oh, all right.” He put the car in reverse. “Just watch out it doesn't bite you— in case it isn't dead.”
The gravel on the shoulder crunched as they approached the blotchy kill site. “Whatever that was didn't hold together very well.” The car drew even with the thing, started to pass it. “Where are you going?”
“If you're going to look at it, you’ll need some light.” David stopped the car far enough back so the lights clearly illuminated the casualty. For a moment the couple simply sat there, the car's engine panting like a dog over its kill. Then Dot said, “David, it's green.”
David stared. “Maybe I hit a bush.”
“Yes. Lots of those running into the road.” Dot opened her door.
David looked startled. “Where are you going?”
“To look at the bush.”
“Get back here!”
Dot slammed shut her door, then walked through the beam of headlights. She circled the flattened object slowly.
“So, what is it?” David called through his window.
“I don't know. I can't find its head.”
With a sigh, David stopped the engine and stepped out. “Phew!” He checked the pavement to make sure he wasn't getting anything on his shoes. “The Chevy really smeared this thing.”
“I can't figure out what it is. It looks like gooey grass clippings.” Dot nudged a sticky edge with a toe. “It sure looks dead, though.”
David straightened, relieved. “Okay, you've done your duty. I'll check the car and—”
Dot heard a whine behind them. Glancing back, her eyes opened wide. “David, duck!”
#
“Watch out!”
There was a bump, and something dark splashed over the rounded hood of the propulsion unit.
“Ew, nailed it.”
“Both of them.” The grassy blob twisted around in the passenger seat to look out the rear viewscreen. The vehicle continued to speed silently down the center of the road about four feet off the ground. “Aren't you going to stop?”
“Not until we find Junior,” said the shrub-like object behind the steering device. “These big hairy-headed things are all over the place tonight.”
“Well, I hope Junior stays away from them.” The grass clippings quivered its eyestalks. “Look at the stuff they left on our hood. It's red.”
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