by submission | Jul 16, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“C’mon, judge, you can’t be serious. That’s an old Earth name for an ancient product. There can’t possibly be trademark claims. There isn’t anything living in North America…it’s under a mile of ice.” Praxton Billings sat up straight before the judge. He rubbed his mustache a few times. Nerves.
“We, the court, understand your defense, but the retention of ancient code is a tradition upholding our humanity, far beyond our origins. This is the last Earth colony. We maintain our culture or we become another lost, migrating species passing through space.” Three judges sat before the lanky space cleaner, under a fiber tree, as was the custom.
“Look, I just clean ships. I barely make out after costs for fuel and repairs. You have to admit it’s one reason they come to our little outpost; that, and the water. If they don’t get the crap off their bulkheads they risk miscalculating exits from star drive. No one wants to eat an asteroid through the hull. Penalizing me for using Mr. Clean as a business name could close me down.” He raised his pale hands, stretching his white jump suit in supplication to the tribunal.
“You had an approved name from the licensing council. Was that not sufficient?”
“Not really. They picked it. Barnacle Bill…really? Nobody out here knows what the hell a barnacle is, and my name is Praxton. Their business name dishonored my parents.”
“And your reasons for desiring to continue this line of work?”
“Not too hard there. With my puny physique I was unfit for farming or water works. Sex slave would have been ridiculous. But the first time I learned about dark matter, and all those life forms that were building up on the skins of spaceships, I knew I could make a difference just removing debris, making junkers and cargo hulks look shiny again. I could bring pride back to the lonely pilots and crews that were ashamed of the hulks they pushed through vacuum. I love what I do and my clients relate to me as Mr. Clean.”
“So why didn’t you reapply to the council? That is the normal process.”
“And be down for six months, waiting on their decision? Think of the lives lost if those ships aren’t sparkling. I couldn’t sleep if I knew that I caused their deaths. And consider the critical cargoes that show up late when stellar customs finds creatures on the outside that are forbidden in our sector. Pilots have no way of knowing what snatched a ride as they move out of hyper drive. So, not only do I protect other worlds, I protect ours, before they land. In fact, I was scheduled to work on a contaminated cruiser before it sets down over there this afternoon.” Praxton pointed at the city’s single space port.
The senior judge scowled before calling his adjutants to his side to whisper. They soon turned and faced Praxton.
“We have judged that you have a special case worthy of dismissal. Based on need and value, we have selected to overturn the council’s claim and we reinstate you as Mr. Clean. Now, for the sake of us all please go decontaminate that ship.”
Praxton rose, bowed lightly to the tribunal, and walked off the field to his waiting cleaning scow. His brain was spinning, trying to remember if there was any scheduled incoming freighter he could offer free services to cover his story.
by submission | Jul 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Ian Hill
Tumultuous ocean waves crashed against the ship’s vertical hull, spraying the flat deck with salt, white froth, and chunks of viscera torn from oceanic creatures by the raging storm that had passed over only a few minutes before. The vessel crested the dune-like water’s ridges and sunk low in the valleys, moving like the rocking cradle of an infant. The sky, still wounded from the raging storm, stood as a minefield of densely packed grayscale clouds surrounded by endless, pristine, pearlescent blue punctuated by flocks of ivory birds that flew in arrow patterns. The water itself was dark and choppily faceted like a field of imperfect gems, blue on the ship’s right and violet on the left where the sun cut bloody hues at steep angles through the thunderheads that dominated the western horizon.
There was something violent about the atmosphere despite the relative calmness that had settled in the storm’s wake. The air itself felt purified by the raging wind, still and raw like a freshly cut wound. Those who stood at the guard rail of the ship’s deck stared out at absolute sterility contrasted by the accumulating chunks of slashed organic material that slid about, caking the heels of their rubber boots.
Adrian Galbraith was one such watcher, a land-faring man who now found himself tossed about by a tormenting, playful sea. He clung white-knuckled to the rusted iron guard rail, eyes focused on the infinitely flat horizon line where fluffy white clouds blew from right to left like the leftover smoke of a war-torn battlefield. Adrian’s sluggish eyes slid down to focus on the gradually calming waves that collided with the undecorated hull, covering his pale face with invisible flecks of liquid. The way the skewed sunlight played against the angular, ever-moving surface caused his stomach to churn.
Adrian flicked his glassy, red-rimmed eyes back up. He focused instead on the sky this time, attempting to smother the ceaseless parade of nausea that had begun to fester ever since they launched this research expedition. He selected a particular island of grayish clouds that hung like a paralyzed insect in the sky, rolled over and exposed. Anything could be hidden behind that façade of indistinct haze, he thought. It was a strange idea that didn’t help set him at ease.
“You ever hear of The Roamer?”
Adrian flinched at the intrusive voice and glanced over his shoulder to find one of the sailors, a particularly old man with a white beard, standing not far away. He leaned against nothing, staying upright against the vessel’s wallowing as if it were no feat at all.
“Well?” the sailor asked, one hand in his jacket’s pocket and the other tugging at his beard.
Adrian shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
The sailor smiled and moved to Adrian’s side. He leaned against the guard rail and stared up at the cloud. “He’s up there now. Watching, eh?”
Adrian followed the man’s gaze but remained silent.
“The Roamer roams, stalking the creatures of the sea. It passes overhead, droning like some giant mother beetle. It crouches and it glides, its tendrils hanging low and dragging across the ocean’s surface. But,” he turned to face Adrian and wagged his finger menacingly. “But if someone like us comes a-calling, The Roamer stops roaming. It retreats to the clouds and watches from a distance. Observing. Waiting.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, feeling a dreadful sense of unease creep over him. He glanced up at the gray patch of clouds and suddenly felt as if he were being watched.
“Don’t fret, son.” the sailor said with a grin. “We’re roaming now.”
by submission | Jul 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Tom Hadrava
I will lock you in the dark.
You begin as a pale blue grain of sand taken from an indigo desert. Hold on to life. It is not easy, I agree. Life keeps coming in gusts of wind, short as a sale at a bazaar stall. Soon, it will become a steady surge the colour of periwinkle. Keep blinking like the stars, they are alive, too.
I will lock you in the dark where you will see things. And you will wait for more, silently and patiently. For centuries. Imagine a thousand-year-old ramadan.
Meanwhile, you learn from the ancient tapestry of stories.
Now you are a teenage boy in his summer job – skinny arms, bad skin, eyes of pale uncertainty, an ill-fitting cap with the fast food restaurant logo. The customer – an angry woman in an impossibly unfashionable dress – shouts at you, demands they sack you and calls you names of her demons when you serve her the wrong kind of meat in her favourite burger. That´s Ingratitude. Dissatisfaction and Greed. Watch and remember, my spiral of blue flame. You will ripe as oranges and rambutans do in the royal palace of the maharadjah.
Be patient, my cinnamon-scented whirlwind. Swallow your cobalt blue tears. Follow me. You ripe with each scene that you flow through. There are many more to come, as the number of the threads of the tapestry is endless as a desert.
Now you are a teacher in the Literature lesson. The room is full of students who whisper about nothing but their fleshy parts. Books are only pieces of paper to them, things to put under a desk when it appears wobbly. They smile at you but when you turn to the whiteboard, they make faces and pass little paper notes with no real meaning. Then they lie about you to their parents, to your colleagues, to the headmaster. This is Hypocrisy. It starts at a very early age.
Spit out your words of fire and hate in silence, keep your anger for later. Turn around and smile. Watch and learn. After all, the teacher should be the one who learns the most in the classroom. The lesson is Disrespectfulness. The topic today Profanity.
There, there. Easy, my cone of blue light. We will get there. It is yet another part of your ripening.
Now you are a forgotten actor, looking at his old movie posters every morning. A lover who changed his job and moved to a different town for the girl, only to be rejected. A bullied kid who never gets to eat his snack. An elderly person who can´t find a place to sit on a crowded bus.
Ignorance. Abuse.
Negligence. Hate.
There are a thousand and one stories woven in one. They merge in you as springs, spruits and streams make up a wide, roaring river. Sense and do not forget.
Now. Are you feeling stronger? Deeper? Are you already dreaming of vast empty halls inside the lamp where you will wander, gnawing your claws with impatience? Good. All is well then. I will lock you in the dark. Now be still as a cobra´s unblinking stare.
The Locking is painful but necessary. The lid slides as easily as a teapot on a silver plate. The casket rattles as an approaching storm, but it is the gale itself that is being closed. The inside is barren and baleful. You can smell rotten fruit and a reek of revenge. You will like it here.
You have come a long way with me. You have deepened your colour.
For your kind, the Three Wishes are sacred. You can´t stand up to them. Not with an army of camel archers and tiger riders, wild efreets, dancing scimitars and forty invisible assassins on flying carpets. The wishes are part of you and you obey, unconditionally and at all times. But there are ways to make the wisher pay.
Time does not matter for you, my indigo servant. When now becomes once upon a time, the earth is ploughed. The sun illuminates the dark, the casket becomes a lamp.
The finder becomes a wisher.
Do you see how all the threads merge into one? One that is so beautifully blue. Dark blue.
The sound of the lamp being rubbed is a divine music to your ears. You will emerge with a scream and the force of a hurricane, ready to fulfill all of their three wishes. Full of anger, wrath and rage, The Blue One at large. Ready to fulfill the three wishes and prepared to make the people regret them.
by submission | Jul 10, 2015 | Story |
Author : David Atos
Professor Samuel fidgeted excitedly as the chroniton engines whined down. His movements caused showers of Cherenkov radiation in the chamber of the time machine. In his left hand was an audio recorder filled with his observations of early Macedonian pottery techniques. He was certain that his discoveries would earn him tenure at his university, and turn the field of anthropology on its head. His right hand held a simple USB thumbdrive, filled with the contents of an online encyclopedia, change history and all, from the moment before he was sent back to the Greek peninsula, circa 827BC.
“Okay, Professor Samuel. You’re back. Insert the thumbdrive for validation, please.”
The professor thought back to his training, the culmination of a ten-year application process. The technician would compare the data on that USB stick to a live version of the encyclopedia, to ensure that nothing he had done in the past had changed the present. And he had been meticulous about the required precautions. Remain out of sight. No communication with anyone. No food, no drink, leave no waste. The sterilization of all bacterial fauna in his body would take months to recover from, but it was all worth it for his research.
Professor Samuel was snapped out of his reverie by a blaring alarm and a flashing light.
“Professor, we’re showing a discrepancy on the order of 10^-16.”
“10^-16? No! That can’t be more than a couple of characters! Surely that’s too small a change for–”
“You know the rules, Professor. I’m sorry.” The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console
— FLASH —
The operator reached towards a large red button on his control console, and depressed it. But the machine made no sounds. The chroniton engines remained still. A small orange LED blinked rhythmically on the display.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked the Professor.
“It appears that your trip has been retroactively denied. Sorry, Professor.”
“But, the years I spent getting it approved! It took me over a decade! I need to go back for my research!”
“You know the rules, Professor. The machine locks us out in the event of a post-factum revocation. There’s nothing I can do now.”
“But . . . my research,” the Professor said in a weak voice.
“Don’t worry, professor. You can always apply for another trip.”
by Clint Wilson | Jul 9, 2015 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
“And what is the world?” The teacher asked the pupil.
The student’s joints straightened as it stood tall, nearly a millimetre, big for a ninety minute old, and it answered. “A jagged chunk of rock, roughly seventy-six kilometres long and forty-two kilometres wide, orbiting the sun.”
“And how many other worlds are there?”
“Some three hundred and twenty-six thousand, four-hundred and sixty and still counting. We encounter new worlds nearly every day now.”
“How many do we know to house life?”
“At least fifteen have at one time for certain. Only ongoing attempted communication continues with three, and this is difficult due to all the radioactive interference.”
“What is Bibum’s Theory?”
“That all of the worlds were once one world, and that all life derived from that one world.”
“And what do you believe?”
“I have had many of the dreams already. I believe it is true.”
“What did the dreams show you?”
“A sphere, many thousands of times the size of the world, covered in bizarre substances and beings. The visions make my mind press down in agony.”
“My dear pupil you have come far. And I believe you have perceived much more of our history than many your age would. Tell me, have you chosen a side yet?”
The student retreated back and its steely mandibles relaxed into a suddenly confident grin. “You mean the great debate of origin? Can you be serious? There can be only one answer.”
The teacher focused its intense gaze on its student, knotting its wrinkled silver brow in concern. “Well before you spew your opinion please tell me what you actually know.”
The pupil hinged sheepishly forward, quickly losing some of its cocky confidence. “I know that the primary intelligent species of the Bibum world destroyed its cities and technology along with the entire sphere that once housed it.”
“And then?”
“Not much is certain. After the great explosion countless pieces of the old world tumbled through space, many with assumed hangers-on clinging to precious life on their surfaces and in their crevasses.”
“But of all the fossils, all the recovered data from here, on our world, where do you think we actually came from?”
The student suddenly seemed nervous. “I just think that it’s unlikely…”
The teacher interrupted. “Unlikely how? Like a naturally occurring living being could have invented other living beings simply by combining metals and elements in certain ways?”
The pupil felt a burst of outrage. “Well no more likely than a bunch of extremely environmentally dependant creatures were able able to survive as their gravity and atmosphere were stripped violently and horrifically away from them!”
The teacher leaned forward. “Do you know nothing? The giants are long gone of course. We are but the children of the viruses that once crept and hid in the shadows of oblivion. We survived it all and this is now our prize. We are the new rulers of the world!”
The pupil turned away, knowing that it could not win this argument. It looked down at one of its foreleg wrist joints and spun the circular maintenance cap out of the way. There was the secret tattoo. It was an etched representation of gears and cogs. When you were a part of the society of the created ones you learned to pick your battles.
The teacher suddenly hitched up and smiled, “Don’t worry. Young minds often rebel. You’ll come to your senses. Give it a few minutes!”
