by submission | Feb 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Q. B. Fox
The members of Juliet Patrol, 29 Group, Royal Engineers hunkered down in a squat two-story, stone building balanced on the hillside. Lt. Harry Banford watched through the unglazed window as a UN superiority denial aircraft painted a con-trail far, far overhead.
At the sound of a distance whine, Banford dropped back into cover, barely ahead of the muffled, distant whump that shook plaster from the ceiling and blew in dirt through the empty casements.
After a moment’s silence, and not for the first time that day, the soldiers of Juliet Patrol relaxed their braced shoulders, then blinked and coughed in the bright, moted sunbeams.
Private Darren Hastey, first time in theatre and green as a cabbage, uncurled on the floor and cringed under head-shaking gaze of his fellows. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he grumbled.
“Don’t be an idiot, Hastey,” spat Sgt. “Handy Andy” Andrews. “If our planes stop knocking out their bomber drones then this whole hillside will be flatter than your girlfriend’s chest and faster than it takes you to disappoint her. Am I clear, private?”
“Yes, sir,” Hastey sang back, as brightly as he could muster, then immediately winced at his mistake.
“And don’t call me ‘sir’, you idiot,” Andrews growled, “I work for a living.” He paused and then, turning to Banford, he apologised “No offense, sir,”
“None taken, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant smiled.
Then everything was quiet, except for occasional distant small arms fire and the clicks of Lt. Banford’s keypad as he rechecked the mission details.
“Why here, do you suppose, sir?” Sgt. Andrews asked unexpectedly.
“Erm, well,” Banford, considering the details on the screen in front of him, “this hillside obviously faces the target, and these buildings provide…”
“No, sir,” Andrews interrupted, “why do they all come to fight over Jerusalem.”
“Ah, yes, I see what you mean.” his officer reconsidered. “The Jews and the Romans, the Romans and the Persians, the Crusades, the Ottomans, the British, the Israelis and Palestinians….”
“And now the aliens,” Andrews concluded grimly. “Even they think it’s special to their religion.”
“And now the xenomorphs,” Banford corrected. “I don’t know why.”
And then after he’d thought for a moment, “There’s a syndrome named after this place; it’s one of only three geographically located syndromes; Jerusalem, Florence and Paris.”
“What about Stockholm syndrome, sir?” Hastey interrupted.
“Be quiet, you idiot,” his sergeant snapped, “An educated man is talking.”
“Yes, si.. Sergeant,” Hastey responded meekly.
“But Jerusalem syndrome is unique even among these unusual conditions,” the young officer continued as if he’d not been interrupted, “Some people who come here just become obsessed, become unhinged; believers and unbelievers alike get a glimpse of God.”
“I heard that reality is thinner here,” Hastey said nervously into the pause, “that we really are closer to…”
But before he could finish, or Andrews could rebuke him, Private Collins, pushing his headset further into his ear with two fingers, spoke clearly and precisely over the top of them. “Sir, we are go; repeat: we are go.”
Juliet Patrol sprang to their feet and raced down the stairs. With practiced professionalism they deployed the array, and after a moment to check the alignment, Banford squeezed the firing trigger. A hoop of air shimmered, as molecules rammed into each other, delivering a near invisible punch to the target; on the ridgeline across the valley the xenomorph transmitter disintegrated.
Like all snipers, they should have redeployed after firing, but nobody moved. They just stared. Very slowly, like wallpaper peeling off damp plaster, the sky, just where their target had been, was tearing open.
by Patricia Stewart | Feb 11, 2010 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Dammit Joe, it’s freakin’ freezing in here,” complained Thomas Sampati as he checked the spaceship’s thermostat.”
“We’re eight hours behind the Phoenix,” replied Joe. “We need to make a non-traditional course adjustment if we hope to win the race.”
“’Non-traditional?’ The course goes from Vesta, around the sun, past Earth, and back to Vesta. That’s 600 million miles. There’s nothing to change.”
“Officially, the course is from Vesta, around the sun, and back to Vesta. It’s just that they time the start of the race so that the Earth is positioned off to the side to give the contestants a gravitational slingshot on the way back to Vesta. The sponsors want the Earth swing-by so the spectators can see the ships up close. But we’re not ‘required’ to swing past the Earth. In fact, in ’79, the Orion accidentally flew thousand miles too close to the sun and ended up on the wrong side of the Earth, so they were decelerate, not accelerate. They finished in last place, but they weren’t disqualified. That precedent makes it legal to cut inside the Earth.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Relax. I’ve been planning this contingency for months. I figure if we fly really close to the sun, we can fly directly back toward Vesta, and shorten the trip by seventy million miles.”
“How close is ‘really close’?”
“Until today, nobody goes inside Mercury’s orbit, about 30 million miles. I plan to go as close as 5 million miles.”
“Are you nuts? They stay that far away for a reason. The sun’s kinda hot you know. We’ll be subjected to 36 times the radiation of the other ships. We’ll fry.”
“Not necessarily. I plan to deploy a Meissner shield; a thin mirror-like reflector made out of a superconductive alloy. It’s also a perfect Faraday shield. Virtually nothing will get through to the ship.”
“Virtually nothing?”
“Well, it will get a little hot in here. That’s why we need to make it as cold as possible before we start.”
“Do you also plan to change the name of the ship to ‘The Icarus’?”
“Icarus? He was the one who died.”
“That’s my point.”
“Look, Tom, either grow a pair, or get in an escape pod.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stay, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Thanks. Now, start hydrating yourself. It’s going to take twelve hours to complete the fly-by of the sun.”
As the ship began to round the sun, the thermostat started to climb. “How hot can we go before we die?” asked Sampati.
“At 100% humidity, only 105F. But I have the dehumidifier at maximum. We can probably survive to 170F, as long as our perspiration can evaporate. Keep drinking water, and take those salt tablets.”
At periapsis, they fired the main thrusters to maximize the ship’s velocity.
During the fly-by, the men were forced to endure a living hell. For the first six hours, they were worried that they would die. For the second six hours, they were wishing they would. Finally, they were heading away from the sun, and the temperature began to drop. Drenched with sweat, Joe checked the telemetry. “According to the computer, we shortened the trip by ten hours. We should be ahead. I’ll check with the officials.”
“God,” exclaimed Sampati, “That was the worst 12 hours of my life. I wouldn’t do that again, not even for first place prize money. Uh oh, what’s wrong?”
“The update just came in. Those bastards on the Phoenix did the same maneuver. They’re still eight hours in front.”
by submission | Feb 10, 2010 | Story
Author : Sean Wallace
“Now, we all look forward to entering the Archangel when we retire, but what about those people who go there before then? Constance Vyke reports on the people who keep Archangel running…”
Constance, pretty in a thin, blonde sort of way, starts her report through a practiced smile. “Thank you Milo. The Archangel Station, owned and run by the UN, has been running for almost thirty years; taking us in when we become elderly and giving us a life of pleasure and joy in our most fragile years. Not everyone who comes here does so for the Grace Chambers though. I’m here with Nigel Howard, Chief Engineer for the Archangel and he is, as you can see, a great deal younger than 65.”
Nigel offers a small smile, slightly confused. “Hello there Constance.”
“First of all, I’m certain our viewers would like to know how you can cope with being so close to the Grace Chambers?”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said it isn’t tempting, but thankfully you need specific implants to be able to join the residents; implants stored and inserted planetside. So there’s no way for me, or anyone else here, to ‘dip in’.”
“But how can you cope with it? Bliss and joy happening so close to you and you cannot take part in it… even I’m feeling the pull, and I’ve only been here a few days.”
“Firstly, if you work on the Archangel you get to retire five years early. Plus, without people like us, no-one would be able to enter Gracie…”
“Gracie? Is that what you call them?”
“Oops, sorry.” Nigel wipes his hand down his eyes and coughs. “Yeah, it’s the nickname we gave the Intethlon Quantum Core GC20. It’s a lot less of a mouthful. But yeah, we do an important job, maybe the most important job there is, so you get a lot of satisfaction out of it.” The increased numbers of suicides and high level of substance abuse went unmentioned, especially after Head Office had some serious words with him about ‘appropriate responses’.
“Anyway,” Constance says, slight annoyance peeking through her media-friendly tones, “what’s a typical day like up here? What do you do every day?”
“Well, we don’t work every day Constance. But for me, a typical day involves nothing more than your usual space station Chief Engineer; I read reports, ensure the tech is all in working order, manage the new arrivals and deliveries…”
“And it’s really not difficult to see hundreds of people enter the Grace Chambers, Gracie?”
“Really, it’s not a problem.” Nigel coughs and balls his fists. “… but anyway, we get everyone in, give them the introduction and then fit them into the chambers for their new life. Then we send back any deceased for planetside burial and ensure that the next day’s work is prepared. That’s about it; as I said, nothing more than the typical station.”
“Alright then, Nigel, just before I go I’d like to ask what the first thing you’re going to do after you retire is?”
Having thought long and hard about this over the decades he’d worked on the Archangel, the truth sprang to answer the question itself; “I’m going to Solar-sail to Mars.”
“Thank you very much for your time Nigel.” Constance turns back to the camera. “There you are viewers, normal people doing amazing work up here in the Heavens. For MSN-BBC, I’m Constance Vyke.”
“Constance Vyke there. We’ll see you after these messages…”
by submission | Feb 9, 2010 | Story
Author : Eric Kimball
It starts as the faintest quiver of sound, a slight singsong beat carried by the wind. The few stray notes that reach my ears instantly spring to the forefront of my consciousness.
“Mother, he’s here!”
“Hmm?” Mother replies flatly.
The mechanical calliope is louder now, adding to the urgency in my voice. “The Good Humor man is here!”
“Oh, and you want to get something?”
This strikes me as a very dumb question, but I simply reply, “Yes, please, may I go?” Now is not the time to anger Mother.
“Very well, but don’t take long.”
“I won’t,” I say in mid-stride. I emerge in time to see a battered white truck with a yellow emblem crawling down the road. Other people are here and we all cluster about the truck in a teeming, churning mass. After jostling in a crowd that resembles a tiny war more then a queue, I reach the front.
Sam, the Good Humor man, looks over at me with his big plastic grin. “Hey there buddy, what’ch get’en today?”
I pause for a moment, looking at the brightly colored board. Behind me, the crowd shifts angrily, but I ignore the collective impatience.
“I’d just like a Neapolitan, I think,” I say after considering all the options.
“Gotta love the classics, buddy,” Sam says, extending a plastic packet with his piston-driven arm. The packet drops into my hand as Sam turns his cold glass optical ports and poorly painted head to the next customer.
I tear open the wrap with a single pull and then guide my trembling hand to the cybernetic socket at the back of my skull. There is a quick jolt of pain as the chip comes to rest in its socket, sending short circuits through my body and brain. Then the experience fills me.
First kiss, first date, first time someone says “I love you,” the sweet bubbling strawberry of love in blossom. I savor the sensation, feeling the excited butterflies in my stomach, drinking in every moment of it. Then the next emotion overtakes me, the cool, smooth, creamy sensation of a love in full bloom. A walk hand in hand with a loved one, a soak together in the hot tub, the simple pleasure of waking next to them, I float through oceans of vanilla bliss. Last, I descend into the dark, decadent chocolate sensation of love-making: not sex, but the velvety sinful sensations around the borders of intercourse, a nibble of an ear, a gentle caress, the contentment of post-coitus. These feelings coat my body in thick, warm syrupy streams.
Eventually the sensations fade, receding with each beat of my heart like an ocean tide. I remove the expended Emotional Emulator from the back of my skull, a thin trail of smoke wafting from the charred circuit.
Before returning to my work station, I take a moment to watch the others. Some dance to invisible music, others laugh at an unspoken joke, and others quiver in sexual ecstasy. The “real thing,” as the outsiders like to call it in their ridiculous flyers, is a shallow imitation of the Good Humor chips.
Besides, who has time for the “real thing”? From morning alarm until the beginning of another sleep cycle, we’re occupied with debugging code, swapping circuits, and defending the perimeter. But it’s worth it. Only an AI like Mother can create the Emotional Emulator chips. If we keep her happy and functional, then trucks will be sent, loaded with their simple electronic pleasures. After all, it’s the simple pleasures that make life worth living, is it not?
by submission | Feb 7, 2010 | Story
Author : Matthew Banks
“It thinks,” said the emaciated man, blinking up at the doctor with red-rimmed eyes. The doctor looked down at him for a moment, then turned to the display mounted on the wall. The multiscan of the man’s brain was mostly normal, except for the bright blob sprouting from the left hemisphere. The doctor turned to the man. He was mostly normal, too, except for the weeping ulcer on his chest. But as with all his other symptoms, the ulcer was abnormal, as demonstrated by the glossy white molars sprouting in a clump from its center. The doctor suppressed a disgusted sneer and turned back to the display.
“It probably does think,” she said, stroking her chin, “I don’t know what Dr. Glasseter told you, but it’s no brain tumor. It’s a pleurineoplasm.”
“A what?”
The doctor rolled her eyes. That was the problem with these longevity treatments: people got them without having any idea how they worked or what side-effects there might be. She frowned at the patient. “I think your brain is trying to grow an extra lobe.”
The man blinked. “Why?”
The doctor scowled, and the man recoiled. “Why? What do you think? It’s the Novos. How long have you been taking it?”
“A few years.”
The doctor shrugged. “Well, there you go, then. Your body is throwing off stem cells like crazy, and without any real regulation, sometimes they get confused. Didn’t they explain all of this to you after the surgery?”
The man self-consciously touched the scar beneath his armpit where a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic had pulled a fully-formed kidney out of the patient’s lung. The doctor wanted badly to shake her head at the man and laugh.
“Well…he said, looking down at the floor and swallowing loudly. He looked up with renewed confidence. “Just the price of immortality, I guess.”
This time, the doctor couldn’t help but laugh. The man squinted at her. When she regained her composure, she walked up to him and pointed at the toothy lesion on his chest.
“Immortality? You’re going to keep getting those. Dentate teratomas are the most common side-effect of Novos. How long do you think it’ll be before you get one in your brain? Or you get one in your heart that gets gingivitis and gives you a fatal blood infection? Mr. Greene, you’ve been suckered.”
He scratched at the lesion and picked aimlessly at its teeth. “I was running laps a week after the lung surgery. Whatever accidentally grows on or in me, I can have it removed and recover just fine.”
“No you can’t,” the doctor said. Her voice had grown solemn, and the patient stared at her, startled.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t have the brain growth removed. Thanks to the Novos, it’s already forged connections with pretty much every anatomical structure. That’s why you’re hearing the voices, that’s how you can tell it thinks: you’re hearing the neoplasm’s thoughts. If we tried to remove it, we’d probably take most of your brain with it. I project you’ve got about two months before you’ve got too much brain to fit in your skull and you slip into a coma and die.”
The patient looked up at her. He scratched his toothy lesion and blinked wetly.
