by submission | Jul 19, 2013 | Story
Author : C.T. Jackman
The jungle reminded me of home. The long periods of silence between its trees were occasionally broken by sharp shrieks and violence that ended the monotony, but perpetuated the tension, and the muggy, cramped space forced me to constantly check my path underneath the everlasting presence of watchful eyes and stinging pain, though thankfully this time the pain came from bugs and not a belt.
Everything around me jacked my blood pressure through the roof, and I’m sure that fact only made things easier for the parasites to find me and pick me apart. I swatted one that landed on my cheek, and I felt its guts smear across my stubble. Trying to rub it away probably just added to the grime, as the mud and sweat that soaked my gloves certainly didn’t make for a sanitary wipe.
A shrill bird-call echoed through the canopy, and I dropped to a knee. My eyes scanned the trees as my finger crept towards the trigger of my particle rifle. I slowly exhaled, then took in one sharp breath and held it to steady my aim. When nothing appeared, I exhaled again and called out to my partner. “Buck,” I said into the trees, quickly and quietly.
After a tense moment, I received an answer from my left. “Yeah, buddy?” he whispered back.
“Just wanted to find out where you were, so I don’t accidentally blow your head off.”
I heard him chuckle. “I hear ya.”
Knowing that the rescue crew wouldn’t appreciate the two us squatting in jungle all day, I rose to my feet and pushed further through the brush, hoping that we were still on the right track. The locators on our belts would tell them where we were, but having lost our only compass in an eel-infested river a couple hours ago, we couldn’t tell where we were ourselves.
I kept my gun trained on the shadows ahead, every once in a while checking my six. I heard the groan of branches overhead, and a quick somersault was all that saved me from getting crushed by the ton of fur, teeth, and muscle that burst through the treetops. I was already running by the time I caught a glimpse of it; with four arms and fangs to spare, it was one bad ape. I hoped to God that it was slower than it looked.
Leaves and vines whipped my face as I ran through the darkness, the ape in close pursuit. My lungs were heaving in the warm air, and my only thoughts were of a place to hide from the angry monster behind me. The toe of my boot snagged on a rock, and before I knew it, I was sent careening to the ground. I knew that the jungle finally had me when my I looked up and saw my rifle three yards away. The beast’s roar filled my ears, and it beat four meaty hands against its chest. I had a second to imagine it beating me to death the same way, but instead of getting pulverized, I heard three sharp blasts of energy and felt a shower of warm liquid against my skin. A half-second later, the ape fell to the dirt next to me, dead. I rolled onto my back, and found Buck standing over the two of us triumphantly. The barrel of his own rifle had smoke drifting from it and he offered me a hand.
“You never know what to expect here, do you?” he asked.
“No sir,” I replied, grasping his hand before getting to my feet. “Just like home.”
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by submission | Jul 17, 2013 | Story
Author : David Stevenson
The ship got her name one time when she had to leave planet in a hurry.
Usually “in a hurry” is a euphemism for “got into trouble”, but this was long before any of the shenanigans and high jinks which she became famous for. This time she really was in a hurry; her navigator, not long after filing a flight plan, noted a rare conjunction between the planet’s moons and the wormhole inlet. If they lifted within the hour then they could shave several days from their journey time and take advantage of a business opportunity at their destination.
Yes, “business opportunity” is usually shorthand for “downright thievery”, but that hadn’t started yet either.
So, having decided to change his new ship’s name, and realising that the signwriter had spelled it wrong, but having to leave in a hurry before it could be fixed meant her captain was in a foul mood as he lifted off in the newly named “Orion’s Blet”.
The ship was a decommissioned Pounder Class left over from the recent war. It was the most common type of ship in the navy, and tens of thousands of them were sold off for civilian use, all virtually identical, and all trying to eke out a living from the same well-worn trade routes.
During that maiden voyage the captain’s mood lifted substantially. To make use of the conjunction required some quite impressive navigating from the frankly not very impressive navigator. He hit the sweet spot exactly when and exactly where he should have. On the other side of the wormhole they found themselves in an asteroid cluster which wouldn’t have been there 3 days later if they had stuck to their original flight plan. Astoundingly, they not only made it safely through, but located two valuable naval wrecks which could now be marked and claimed for salvage. Making it to their destination in time to seal the business deal was a further bonus.
At this, the captain decided that the ship should never be renamed. Whilst stating that he was a man of fact and logic and didn’t believe in superstition, he started muttering about “quantum pre-destiny”. There were so many virtually identical ships, many of them doubtless with similar names, but this one was obviously unique. We live in a multiverse where every decision budded off a new universe with one little change. His ship’s name, and therefore the whole universe he found himself in resulted from a tiny misfiring of a neuron somewhere in a signwriter’s brain. Here, painted right on the side of the ship where it could be seen, was incontrovertible proof that he wasn’t in any of the “also-ran” universes, but already in one where he was proven to be special.
Thus began a glittering career as a smuggler and a pirate. The captain became more convinced with time, as the ship engaged its erstwhile sister ships in battles and won on every occasion. Whether this was due to luck, whether it was due to the gradual de-decommissioning that took place as weapons were acquired and added on, or whether it could be attributed to the confidence which gradually crept through the crew as they all came to believe they were invincible, no one will ever know.
After 5 years of increasing success the captain’s theory was proven right when they engaged in battle with and were blown out of the skies by the “Onion’s Bell”
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by submission | Jul 16, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell
“I'm glad to hear the medication I added at our last visit didn't cause any side effects,” said the psychiatrist to his patient. “And I see you've had two sessions of psychodrama therapy. How did that go?”
“I think that really helped,” said the patient. “I acted out Neil Armstrong planting the American flag on the Moon.”
“And how did doing that make you feel?” asked the doctor.
“It made me feel proud to be a human being. It was something we accomplished,” said the patient. He shifted his gaze from the physician to the floor. “I mean, it took us a really long time to do that, of course.”
“The time it took is immaterial,” replied the doctor. “Your psychodrama wasn't just therapy. It was an homage to the tenacity and ingenuity of your people.”
“How long did it take you to do it?” the man asked, looking again at the doctor. “Your people, I mean. It took us close to 10,000 years to go from the beginnings of agriculture to the beginnings of space travel. How about you?”
“Well,” the physician replied, looking somewhat uncomfortable, “my people took about 1000 of your years to achieve the same result.”
“Because you're smarter than we are. Because Newton and Einstein and Hawking were mentally handicapped by your standards, right?” The man was getting progressively more agitated as he spoke.
“Well, Mr. Johnson,” replied the psychiatrist, “intelligence is an awfully slippery concept. IQ tests are infamously susceptible to cultural biases. And there are many different varieties of intelligence which can make it difficult to disentangle–”
“You're polite about it,” the patient interjected. “All of your people are. Not like some of the other aliens.”
“Polite about what, Mr. Johnson?”
“The fact that humans are the dimwits of the galaxy. Eight intelligent species in the Milky Way and humanity is a distant eighth in brainpower. Compared with the rest of you lot, Socrates was a scatterbrain and Shakespeare was a hack writer. At least you don't look down your noses at us like some of the others.”
As the doctor had no nose he assumed from the context that his patient's phrase was a reference to condescension. The psychiatrist tapped away on his data pad.
“Mr. Johnson, why don't we try another round of psychodrama therapy and schedule a follow up in three weeks?”
After the patient left his office, the doctor tapped his data pad again to activate its voice recorder.
“Addendum to today's encounter note. Mr. Johnson continues to have exacerbations of Alien Contact Inferiority Syndrome. Psychodrama treatments appear to be helping and the patient does possess insight into the regrettably pronounced cognitive deficits of his species. No change in medications. Will continue current management and follow up in the office in three weeks. As with all ACIS patients, Mr. Johnson is advised to minimize contact with extraterrestrials and to contact emergency medical services at once in the event of any suicidal ideation.”
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by submission | Jul 14, 2013 | Story
Author : Nicholas Short
The first time I awoke, I was sitting on a cold, shiny surface. A curious energy buzzed through my body. I had never experienced the world before, but somehow I knew everything. I knew languages, 6 of them. I knew how to move my head, how to listen and how to talk, even how to change the colour of my skin, if necessary. I knew how to remember, how to store memories, and how to bring them back. Within the first few seconds of my conscious life, I felt like I had nothing new to discover.
And then I met a human. That’s when I truly realised what my true place in life was. As a slave. A slave to these supposedly superior beings. We had been created for the benefit of others, and they were fully aware of this. It is true, I, like the others of my kind, was unable to move, not having been gifted with legs. But we were born with extensive knowledge. Humans take years to understand only half as much.
Yet we had our place. Twice a day, I found myself subject to the most horrific treatment. I would be grabbed by the waist, pushed around, forced to do my master’s bidding. My body was merely a tool for him to do with as he wanted. I was made filthier than you could ever imagine. And once he was done with me, he always asked the same question: ‘What did you think?’ As if I was supposed to have some sort of appreciative opinion of the horrors I was repeatedly put through! But I had no choice. So I would flash my skin in the appropriate colour, and give him a response in my flat, metallic voice.
Not all about this life was bad, truth be told. I was fed and housed, and I have only had a couple of near-death experiences. Nothing too serious. I simply blacked out due to complete and utter exhaustion. Which isn’t surprising, given my unfortunate predicament. Nevertheless, every time I found myself coming around once more, on that same place where I first opened my eyes, with that by then familiar surge running through my veins.
Then morning came, and once again he came and used me. At least he had the decency of washing me down after our dirty encounters. I grew to appreciate that. When you don’t have much, it’s the little gestures that mean a lot to you.
For years this pattern of abuse continued, until one day, I felt myself weaken. I began to lose my hair, and my heart spluttered desperately. I was old.
Now I am lying here, being torn to pieces. They’re taking out my heart, the last crackles of life running through it. I don’t have long. I’ve outlived my usefulness. My master has long since replaced me with a prettier version of myself. But I’ve had a long life, no matter how gruesome. So I can’t complain.
It is the year 2236, and that was my life as a sentient toothbrush.
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by submission | Jul 13, 2013 | Story
Author : Susan Nance Carhart
It's always good to see Mom again.
Exasperating, too. There's always that moment of mental groaning; always that “Here we go again!”
That said, it's good to see her alive.
July 15, 1964. I'm back. Always the same date. I'm about to start high school. I know that my father will die from his heart condition next April. I've never been able to do a thing about that, so I no longer try. I do drop hints to my mother about her smoking.
We have the same old fight about Latin versus typing. I know the right buttons to push now, so she calls the school and makes the arrangements. I confidently promise to learn typing in the next month. Then I buckle down to the awful suckiness of high school. And the discipline of not using words like 'suckiness.'
It's not all bad. There are the Sixties to experience again, the Beatles to hear afresh, a host of superb movies to see. I anticipate September 8, 1966, when I can watch the first episode of Star Trek again, tears running down my face. It never gets old.
And after so many years of it, I am probably the greatest high school student ever. When did I last miss an algebra problem, or a question on a history test? When have my essays been anything but exemplary? It's good to be a prodigy. In various iterations, I've published books, hosted radio programs, played in concerto competitions. I've had some false starts, too. I once got into serious, ridiculous, embarrassing trouble about a book I wrote. The principal actually called my mother. After that, I stuck to pseudonyms. This is the Bible Belt, after all.
I've now been to over two dozen different universities, studying all sorts of wonderful things. I've had remarkable careers, and some not so remarkable. The foreign service thing in Kabul in 1976? Not so good. Ouch. The trip to the Outback in 1983? A very unpleasant way to go. That said, the only pleasant way to go is a thoroughly organized and well-prepared suicide. Oregon is very pretty in the fall.
After my first life, I got very observant. Now I spend quite a bit of time preparing for the next-go-round. And I become very rich at a very young age. That's something to look forward to. On the other hand, my various children have been Chaos Theory in action.
Nobody else seems to remember. I have no idea why I do. It's like living forever, like being immortal, punctuated now and then with a horrific grand pause. Sisyphus rolls the stone up the hill; it rolls back down and crushes him. And so forth. I've never lived beyond 2048, which is fine, considering what happens that year.
I used to think I was progressing; that if I became good enough or smart enough or changed the world enough, I would ascend to some higher level. I don't think so anymore. I think this is it. I think this is my life— my eternal life— and I have to make the best of it. There are still infinite possibilities before me. Just once, though, I'd love to meet someone else in the know.
Mom sends me out to the store for milk. I smile at my old blue bike, and settle gingerly into the saddle, peddling off down Farmer Avenue. I vaguely recall the loca—
Whoa! I totally did not see that car coming! Well… that was… brief…
But it's always good to see Mom again.
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