by Fred Warren -
“What were they thinking?”
John swirled his vodka, sending the ice cubes tinkling softly inside the glass, as he gazed at Eclectia. It was a putrescent tumor of a world, spattered in ochre and rusty orange. Even the ocean was a murky green-gray, mostly shrouded in clouds of volcanic ash. It looked more like a drainage pond than a living sea.
“Sir?”
“The Founders. Whatever possessed them to plant a colony here? It’s the most unwelcoming place imaginable.”
John’s pale, expressionless valet methodically laid three tunics on the bed for his master’s consideration. “It is the only habitable planet within several hundred light years,” he said, without looking up from his task.
John chuckled and leaned against the window. Scooping out most of the domestic servants’ gray matter and replacing it with something more…practical…did wonders for their efficiency, but little for their conversational skills. “It was a rhetorical question. Still, I would have risked traveling onward. After taking one look at this blighted rock, I would have put everyone back into hypersleep and set sail for the next available star.”
“That would have added nearly five hundred years to the voyage. Most of the colonists would not have survived.”
He stabbed a finger at Eclectia. “You call that living? Raking globs of metal from volcanic fissures? Chasing meat-beetles across the desert until your lungs ossify from breathing ash?”
The valet straightened the third tunic, inspected his work for a moment, and nodded. “There are the undersea cities.”
“Even better. Life in an aquarium, praying the next earthquake doesn’t shatter your little goldfish bowl. No, this isn’t a colony. It’s a joke. A monumental, insane, moronic joke bequeathed to us by an ancient troupe of comedians who couldn’t comprehend how pathetically un-funny it was.”
“Will you be wearing the black tunic this evening, sir?”
John walked over to the bed, lifted a sleeve on one garment, brushed the lapel on another with his fingertips, and sighed. “No, the blue tonight, I think...with the diamond studs. Something to put me in a festive mood. It’s supposed to be a party, after all.”
He returned his attention to the window, and the planet beyond. He sipped his drink. There was nothing but to make the best of it, he supposed. The Founders hadn’t left them any other option. Things could be worse. John Milton thought ruefully of his namesake, who in this time and place might have chosen his words differently.
Better to rule from heaven than serve in hell.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Byblos
by Walt Staples -
The man in the brown habit wore the battered face of a former boxer. As he shuffled, long experience caused him not to notice the tremor running through the walls and floor of the abandoned mine shaft. Sheba was just being Sheba.
The Abbot halted his silent progress down the hall of the scriptorium. He eased open the Judas slot on the door marked “Ignatius” so as not to disturb those on the door’s other side. From within came a newly cracked voice, “…In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the…” The tall, stooped man slid the slot closed.
He continued to the next cell. Its name was “Jerusalem.” This time, he heard, “…and the word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Though Him all things…” He smiled and went on to “Douay.”
He listened and began to frown as he heard, “…The same was in God—” A much older voice cut the younger off, “No.” It continued more gently, “No, Bede, it goes this way; now listen carefully. ‘The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him, and without Him was made nothing that was made.’ There you see?”
The Abbot’s forehead cleared as the first voice said, “Sorry, Brother Eustis,” and began again, “The same was in the beginning…”
He thought about Brother Eustis as he walked toward “James.” The old friar had earned a proper retirement years ago, but continued to teach the young Douay Bibles. The Abbot shook his head and smiled, old men and old hunting dogs.
As if conjured by the thought, Fezik, the oldest ratting dog, trotted by. He wagged at the human and went about his business. He and the chief cat seemed to have a competition as to who could bring Brother Trout, the abbey cook, the most rats.
At “James,” the ancient heard, “…All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in…”
He went on greatly cheered. The new crop of Bibles were coming along well. Even young Bede showed promise. By Advent, all six of the present class would be ready to go out to their respective churches. The Abbey of Francis might produce priests, but they were crippled without his Bibles. He caught himself. No! In that direction lay Pride. He whispered an Act of Contrition.
He turned his thoughts back to their original path. Yes, he thought, six new Bibles by Advent. His face broke into a toothless grin of pure happiness. His expression sobered somewhat as he was reminded of the problem of Brother Eustis. Which of the older Douays should he pick to replace the old friar when the sad time came? He padded on through the halls of the Abbey of Jerome.
The man in the brown habit wore the battered face of a former boxer. As he shuffled, long experience caused him not to notice the tremor running through the walls and floor of the abandoned mine shaft. Sheba was just being Sheba.
The Abbot halted his silent progress down the hall of the scriptorium. He eased open the Judas slot on the door marked “Ignatius” so as not to disturb those on the door’s other side. From within came a newly cracked voice, “…In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the…” The tall, stooped man slid the slot closed.
He continued to the next cell. Its name was “Jerusalem.” This time, he heard, “…and the word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Though Him all things…” He smiled and went on to “Douay.”
He listened and began to frown as he heard, “…The same was in God—” A much older voice cut the younger off, “No.” It continued more gently, “No, Bede, it goes this way; now listen carefully. ‘The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him, and without Him was made nothing that was made.’ There you see?”
The Abbot’s forehead cleared as the first voice said, “Sorry, Brother Eustis,” and began again, “The same was in the beginning…”
He thought about Brother Eustis as he walked toward “James.” The old friar had earned a proper retirement years ago, but continued to teach the young Douay Bibles. The Abbot shook his head and smiled, old men and old hunting dogs.
As if conjured by the thought, Fezik, the oldest ratting dog, trotted by. He wagged at the human and went about his business. He and the chief cat seemed to have a competition as to who could bring Brother Trout, the abbey cook, the most rats.
At “James,” the ancient heard, “…All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in…”
He went on greatly cheered. The new crop of Bibles were coming along well. Even young Bede showed promise. By Advent, all six of the present class would be ready to go out to their respective churches. The Abbey of Francis might produce priests, but they were crippled without his Bibles. He caught himself. No! In that direction lay Pride. He whispered an Act of Contrition.
He turned his thoughts back to their original path. Yes, he thought, six new Bibles by Advent. His face broke into a toothless grin of pure happiness. His expression sobered somewhat as he was reminded of the problem of Brother Eustis. Which of the older Douays should he pick to replace the old friar when the sad time came? He padded on through the halls of the Abbey of Jerome.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tomb Raider
by Mary Ruth Pursselley -
Celeste dropped to her seat on the loose rock and pulled the sweaty bandanna from her head. It was hot out today, but nothing compared to the sweltering suffocation inside the tunnel. Spreading her feet, she unscrewed the lid of her steel water bottle, leaned forward, and drizzled lukewarm water across the back of her neck. It trickled down her shirt and onto the ground in front of her, creating black ash mud in both places.
She swished a mouthful of water through her teeth to rinse out the acrid dust. Then she spat it out and watched it trail down the hill towards Adagio. From here the settlement looked peaceful; beyond it, the sea looked even more so. She thought of her little sister Celia, down deep beneath those waves, in Zirconia. Don’t wish she was here, she reminded herself before she could start on the familiar thought path. She’s safe there—safer than with you.
Celeste glanced at the sky. She had time for another trip down the tunnel before starset. She retied the bandanna around her frizzed, tangled hair, and clipped her water bottle to her belt. A few feet to her left gaped the tunnel’s opening. From Adagio it would look like a crater or black rock, if it was visible at all.
The tunnel’s floor angled downward through meters of volcanic ash and gravel. Decades of being compressed by gravity had made it relatively solid, but there was always the risk of a cave-in. Celeste took short steps, careful not to slip, as she made her way back to her work site. The farther she walked, the hotter it became. She was moving closer to the volcano’s heart—a thought that always made her edgy—but she was moving towards the treasure, too.
Nearly twenty meters down, Celeste’s lithium lamp revealed the first wall. Beyond that stretched a labyrinth of buildings, rooms, stairs, and passages. No one knew what the city had been called before the pyroclastic flow buried it; all anyone knew was that it dated back to the earliest Eclectian colonies.
It was a dangerous place to work, and Celeste didn’t pretend to enjoy it—though it beat a lot of alternatives. But smugglers paid well for the artifacts she brought up, and their money kept Celia safe. The boarding school in Zirconia would give her a shot at a decent, respectable life Celeste had no chance of achieving.
That was what mattered.
Celeste dropped to her seat on the loose rock and pulled the sweaty bandanna from her head. It was hot out today, but nothing compared to the sweltering suffocation inside the tunnel. Spreading her feet, she unscrewed the lid of her steel water bottle, leaned forward, and drizzled lukewarm water across the back of her neck. It trickled down her shirt and onto the ground in front of her, creating black ash mud in both places.
She swished a mouthful of water through her teeth to rinse out the acrid dust. Then she spat it out and watched it trail down the hill towards Adagio. From here the settlement looked peaceful; beyond it, the sea looked even more so. She thought of her little sister Celia, down deep beneath those waves, in Zirconia. Don’t wish she was here, she reminded herself before she could start on the familiar thought path. She’s safe there—safer than with you.
Celeste glanced at the sky. She had time for another trip down the tunnel before starset. She retied the bandanna around her frizzed, tangled hair, and clipped her water bottle to her belt. A few feet to her left gaped the tunnel’s opening. From Adagio it would look like a crater or black rock, if it was visible at all.
The tunnel’s floor angled downward through meters of volcanic ash and gravel. Decades of being compressed by gravity had made it relatively solid, but there was always the risk of a cave-in. Celeste took short steps, careful not to slip, as she made her way back to her work site. The farther she walked, the hotter it became. She was moving closer to the volcano’s heart—a thought that always made her edgy—but she was moving towards the treasure, too.
Nearly twenty meters down, Celeste’s lithium lamp revealed the first wall. Beyond that stretched a labyrinth of buildings, rooms, stairs, and passages. No one knew what the city had been called before the pyroclastic flow buried it; all anyone knew was that it dated back to the earliest Eclectian colonies.
It was a dangerous place to work, and Celeste didn’t pretend to enjoy it—though it beat a lot of alternatives. But smugglers paid well for the artifacts she brought up, and their money kept Celia safe. The boarding school in Zirconia would give her a shot at a decent, respectable life Celeste had no chance of achieving.
That was what mattered.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Dark (FLASHBACK)
by Greg Mitchell -
Shuffling. I can hear him outside, trying to find me, but I’m good at hiding. A loud clatter. Something falls over and breaks on the floor. He shouts my name, like it’s my fault. Everything’s always my fault. He’s been drinking again. I don’t want to blame him. He’s a miner, trapped in the dark for hours. Sometimes days. The dark does things to you, but I won’t be like that. I’m going to grow up and stay outside, where I can see the light. I don’t care about the storms. I’ll gladly face all that grit and heat—even the coldest day—just so long as I’m free. I don’t want to be alone, in the dark.
I’m alone in the dark now. He shouts my name again. “Trebstidium! Where are you, boy? Get out here, now!”
I’m alone in the dark, but I won’t be forever.
I won’t.
Shuffling. I can hear him outside, trying to find me, but I’m good at hiding. A loud clatter. Something falls over and breaks on the floor. He shouts my name, like it’s my fault. Everything’s always my fault. He’s been drinking again. I don’t want to blame him. He’s a miner, trapped in the dark for hours. Sometimes days. The dark does things to you, but I won’t be like that. I’m going to grow up and stay outside, where I can see the light. I don’t care about the storms. I’ll gladly face all that grit and heat—even the coldest day—just so long as I’m free. I don’t want to be alone, in the dark.
I’m alone in the dark now. He shouts my name again. “Trebstidium! Where are you, boy? Get out here, now!”
I’m alone in the dark, but I won’t be forever.
I won’t.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Delivery
by Kat Heckenbach -
Mary curled forward and squeezed with every muscle in her body. Her neck strained. A scream caught in her throat…escaped as a grunt.
And then release.
The pressure eased, and her muscles slid from her bones as she rolled back until her head smacked softly on the pillow. The distant cry of her newborn daughter was barely audible over the ringing in her ears.
Movement appeared, fuzzy, in her periphery. The fuzziness cleared and became a smiling, blonde nurse, with a nametag that read Amelia.
“She’s beautiful, Mary. They’re nearly done with the scan.”
Amelia barely had the words out when another nurse strode over to the delivery table. The woman’s face stretched under the force of severely pinned-back gray hair. She slapped a printout into Amelia’s hand and stalked off.
Amelia rolled her eyes, and then gazed at the paper. Her smile broadened. “Perfect, Mary. Not a single significant genetic fault. Your daughter is going to be smart and beautiful. Your husband…would be proud.” Amelia’s voice quivered, and Mary felt the gentle pressure of the nurse’s hand on her shoulder.
Mary nodded, and choked back a sob. Jax would have been proud no matter what. If only I’d had a chance to tell him he was going to be a father again.
Mary curled forward and squeezed with every muscle in her body. Her neck strained. A scream caught in her throat…escaped as a grunt.
And then release.
The pressure eased, and her muscles slid from her bones as she rolled back until her head smacked softly on the pillow. The distant cry of her newborn daughter was barely audible over the ringing in her ears.
Movement appeared, fuzzy, in her periphery. The fuzziness cleared and became a smiling, blonde nurse, with a nametag that read Amelia.
“She’s beautiful, Mary. They’re nearly done with the scan.”
Amelia barely had the words out when another nurse strode over to the delivery table. The woman’s face stretched under the force of severely pinned-back gray hair. She slapped a printout into Amelia’s hand and stalked off.
Amelia rolled her eyes, and then gazed at the paper. Her smile broadened. “Perfect, Mary. Not a single significant genetic fault. Your daughter is going to be smart and beautiful. Your husband…would be proud.” Amelia’s voice quivered, and Mary felt the gentle pressure of the nurse’s hand on her shoulder.
Mary nodded, and choked back a sob. Jax would have been proud no matter what. If only I’d had a chance to tell him he was going to be a father again.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Patience
by Travis Perry -
One advantage to getting older is patience comes easier. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, interrupting Elsa’s rambling talk with God. “Now where were we, Lord…” but she fell silent when her eyes caught movement.
Beyond the pile of black volcanic rock that served as her hunting blind, she saw the movement in the lure she’d been waiting for. Back toward the cave. The mammothbug was about to come out.
Elsa glanced down at the wick of her bronze cannon. Its white tuft stood straight up, still in place, still dry.
Months ago her family had run out of the money required for the ammunition for their modern weapons. But she still knew how to mix black powder, keeping the cannon handed down through her grandfather’s line the only viable hunting weapon the family had.
The bug pushed its massive hairy head out of the cave, its bulbous red compound eyes glimmering in light of the setting sun. It had pulled back its “trunk,” the hairy bug-like lure it had laid out in front of its cave, which it would wiggle seductively to draw in lesser bugs, as preparation for its once-in-five-to-eight day walk outside to regurgitate the exoskeletons of its prey.
The head hesitated a moment at the entrance, as if it knew Elsa were there. She held her breath and waited, unmoving. Finally, after what seemed to be endless minutes of motionlessness, the creature the size of a small house pulled itself over volcanic rubble, rumbling out of its lair.
She gently lifted the heavy butt of the cannon, lining up the shot. The bug’s death would bring food and clothing to her little ones. But with the cannon, she had only one chance.
At just the right moment, she flicked the lighter and touched it to the wick. Thunder roared in the narrow valley as the cannon threw Elsa back.
One advantage to getting older is patience comes easier. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, interrupting Elsa’s rambling talk with God. “Now where were we, Lord…” but she fell silent when her eyes caught movement.
Beyond the pile of black volcanic rock that served as her hunting blind, she saw the movement in the lure she’d been waiting for. Back toward the cave. The mammothbug was about to come out.
Elsa glanced down at the wick of her bronze cannon. Its white tuft stood straight up, still in place, still dry.
Months ago her family had run out of the money required for the ammunition for their modern weapons. But she still knew how to mix black powder, keeping the cannon handed down through her grandfather’s line the only viable hunting weapon the family had.
The bug pushed its massive hairy head out of the cave, its bulbous red compound eyes glimmering in light of the setting sun. It had pulled back its “trunk,” the hairy bug-like lure it had laid out in front of its cave, which it would wiggle seductively to draw in lesser bugs, as preparation for its once-in-five-to-eight day walk outside to regurgitate the exoskeletons of its prey.
The head hesitated a moment at the entrance, as if it knew Elsa were there. She held her breath and waited, unmoving. Finally, after what seemed to be endless minutes of motionlessness, the creature the size of a small house pulled itself over volcanic rubble, rumbling out of its lair.
She gently lifted the heavy butt of the cannon, lining up the shot. The bug’s death would bring food and clothing to her little ones. But with the cannon, she had only one chance.
At just the right moment, she flicked the lighter and touched it to the wick. Thunder roared in the narrow valley as the cannon threw Elsa back.
Monday, May 2, 2011
A Very Important Question
by Holly Heisey -
Three fingers tap on five in mnemonic blue light of the fazing screen. Tap tap tap. Once five, now three; Kerin Rhi left the ground, the water, and the world and its dangers for higher sights. He is smart, so he is here. Here is a ten by ten meter cabin on Avenir, walls slightly wedged, where he sits on his white couch and watches the Peacekeepers like a god. And this disturbs him.
Kerin has decided to ask an angel what angels undersea think of the Peace Council. He has decided this is smart, but to be safe, he has of course triple locked and bypassed the security protocols of even his Council line. Maybe he is a god and doesn’t know it; but it would not be good for others to think he thinks of that at all.
The screen fazes on an orange-red infrared signature, a blob among blue-green swirls from the waters below. He doesn’t know if a god-link can be made this far, but it is near Approaching, and he must try. He sits forward on his couch and squints at the screen. He is not a wizard. None in his family were wizards, how can he possibly presume to talk to an angel?
How can you presume not to?
He jumps so high he almost hits his head on the bulkhead rail and floats carefully down in this less than normal gravity.
How can he presume not to? “How can I presume not to what?”
To talk to me, stupid.
Kerin blinks at the screen, wets his lips and says feebly, “Stupid?” Stupid is one thing he knows he is not. Of course, this is not an angel; it must then be a demon. Which is almost as good. He sits forward again.
“Are we gods? Are Peace Council members gods? It often feels like so, yea, it does.”
The demon snorts and the blob of red ripples in the water. Gods. What is a god? What makes a god a god but the people who worship it? Are you worshipped?
Kerin thinks about this, his thoughts waving with the slow churning on the screen. “I am…perhaps.”
Perhaps. You mean you do not know?
“I…” He thinks some more. “The Peacekeepers look up to me, and I look down on them.”
Well?
“But I don’t know if they worship me.”
So ask them.
“What?”
Ask. Them. It can’t be so hard, especially if you are a god. And if you are, they’ll want to know.
Kerin blinks. He hasn’t thought of this. It is so simple, of course. He opens his mouth…then closes it again. He leans forward to divulge his great secret. “I can’t speak to them. I am a member of the Peace Council; they can’t know who I am.”
Secrets are good. Secrets are somewhat godlike.
Kerin sits back, satisfied.
Ten decks below him on the station, the wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel wonders at the spike of neural activity between Avenir and a plot on Eclectia he’s long suspected to be haunted by demons. His hands track the signal in a rush--to Room Eight in Ward Two of the Rich Men’s Happy Bin. He sighs and makes a mark in his log beside “Kerin Rhi, marginally psychotic”—fifth time this month. He’ll speak to Kerin later, but now, as the signal’s already gone, he sends his scanners onward.
Three fingers tap on five in mnemonic blue light of the fazing screen. Tap tap tap. Once five, now three; Kerin Rhi left the ground, the water, and the world and its dangers for higher sights. He is smart, so he is here. Here is a ten by ten meter cabin on Avenir, walls slightly wedged, where he sits on his white couch and watches the Peacekeepers like a god. And this disturbs him.
Kerin has decided to ask an angel what angels undersea think of the Peace Council. He has decided this is smart, but to be safe, he has of course triple locked and bypassed the security protocols of even his Council line. Maybe he is a god and doesn’t know it; but it would not be good for others to think he thinks of that at all.
The screen fazes on an orange-red infrared signature, a blob among blue-green swirls from the waters below. He doesn’t know if a god-link can be made this far, but it is near Approaching, and he must try. He sits forward on his couch and squints at the screen. He is not a wizard. None in his family were wizards, how can he possibly presume to talk to an angel?
How can you presume not to?
He jumps so high he almost hits his head on the bulkhead rail and floats carefully down in this less than normal gravity.
How can he presume not to? “How can I presume not to what?”
To talk to me, stupid.
Kerin blinks at the screen, wets his lips and says feebly, “Stupid?” Stupid is one thing he knows he is not. Of course, this is not an angel; it must then be a demon. Which is almost as good. He sits forward again.
“Are we gods? Are Peace Council members gods? It often feels like so, yea, it does.”
The demon snorts and the blob of red ripples in the water. Gods. What is a god? What makes a god a god but the people who worship it? Are you worshipped?
Kerin thinks about this, his thoughts waving with the slow churning on the screen. “I am…perhaps.”
Perhaps. You mean you do not know?
“I…” He thinks some more. “The Peacekeepers look up to me, and I look down on them.”
Well?
“But I don’t know if they worship me.”
So ask them.
“What?”
Ask. Them. It can’t be so hard, especially if you are a god. And if you are, they’ll want to know.
Kerin blinks. He hasn’t thought of this. It is so simple, of course. He opens his mouth…then closes it again. He leans forward to divulge his great secret. “I can’t speak to them. I am a member of the Peace Council; they can’t know who I am.”
Secrets are good. Secrets are somewhat godlike.
Kerin sits back, satisfied.
Ten decks below him on the station, the wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel wonders at the spike of neural activity between Avenir and a plot on Eclectia he’s long suspected to be haunted by demons. His hands track the signal in a rush--to Room Eight in Ward Two of the Rich Men’s Happy Bin. He sighs and makes a mark in his log beside “Kerin Rhi, marginally psychotic”—fifth time this month. He’ll speak to Kerin later, but now, as the signal’s already gone, he sends his scanners onward.
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