The Bug Hunters

By Edward M. Erdelac  

Considine opened one eye.

The other was swollen shut, but he could see dim artificial light through the slit of his puckered flesh, so he knew at least the eye was still there.

He saw the source of the light, a buzzing lumidome set into a permiform ceiling. There was a constant rattling and sifting of blowing gravel and a howling wind outside, so he knew he was still on Eclectia.

He tried to sit up but could do no more than touch his chin to his chest before he was overcome by muscle pain. He hurt all over. He tried wiggling his toes and fingers though, and was relieved to find everything in working order.

There was a slight figure seated just behind his feet, which were hidden beneath a coarse blanket.

It was a girl with dirty blonde hair and striking blue eyes. She was young, but swaddled in dirty robes and an exposure suit, with a cracked bandolier over one skinny shoulder. She had a long pike across her knees, the sort he’d seen the bug hunters carry.

“Daad!” the girl called over her shoulder. “He’s awake!”

A curtain was swept aside and a tall, rough faced man entered, a metal plate of steaming food in one ash-blackened hand.

“Just in time for breakfast, mister….?”

He let the question hang and raised his eyebrows.

“Considine. Inspector Scanlon Considine.”

“Dressler,” the man said, and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “My daughter, Lyn. Why don’t you go fix yourself a plate, honey?”

Lyn rose from the stool and handed the pike to her father, who took it, along with her seat.

He laid the plate of food on Considine’s legs, and Considine’s belly growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

“Go on, have at it,” Dressler said.

Considine sucked in his breath, coughed the hard air, and groaned with the effort of sitting up.

“Sorry,” Dressler said, pushing the plate closer. “Didn’t think you were that banged up. Hardly a mark on you, except for that eye. You got lucky. My partner and I saw you crash. You’re not much of a pilot, are you?”

“No,” Considine grinned, “I suppose I’m not. How long have I been out?”

“Only few hours. You say you’re an Inspector. Where at? Avenir?” he glanced up at the ceiling.

Considine picked up the plate of brownish looking food and dug in with the fork, chewing ravenously before he could answer around the mouthful.

“Zirconia. As a matter of fact, I have to get back there as soon as possible.”

“I can take you to the sub-ferry. We’re only a few hours in from the shore by rover. Just waiting for my partner to come in so we can leave.”

“You’re a hunter?”

“Yep. That’s fresh bomber-egg you’re eating. Cut from the sac just this morning.”

“Thanks for taking me in. I’ll see my office reimburses you for fuel and time,” Considine said, though he thought, if they don’t arrest me when we get there.

Dressler waved him off, then perked up.

“Sounds like Yulaura’s back.” He stood up. “Sure you don’t wanna rest up some?” He stopped then, and cocked his head.

“What is it?” Considine asked, scarfing down the last of the bomber-eggs.

He heard a new sound weaving through the constant blowing grit rattling against the domicile. A whirring, the sound of engines, but too smooth and refined for a land rover.

Then the wall of the room blew apart in a burst of fire and permiform.

Daddy/Daughter Date

By Greg Mitchell - 

“Steady,” Dressler whispered into the little girl’s ear.

He leaned in close, brushing his whiskers against her soft check, wrapping his arms around her to tighten her shot. He felt the rise and fall of Edilyn’s breathing, the slight tremble in her thin arms as she gripped his worn rifle.

“How am I doing, Daddy?” she asked in a soft hush, her voice slightly muffled through the breathing mask he insisted she wore every time they stepped outside into the harsh red sands of Eclectia. When she was younger, she’d nearly died from ash lung—he wasn’t about to tempt fate. Not after all he’d been through to receive her back.

“Just fine, Lyn. Now line up your shot.”

Up ahead, Dressler squinted against the light grainy breeze and saw the scurrying bug, foraging in the sand. About three feet in length, the hard-shelled critter scuttled about on a hundred legs, oblivious it was being stalked.

Edilyn took careful aim, holding in her breath, releasing it slowly.

“Take your time,” he encouraged her. “No rush. You’re in charge of the situation. You control how fast things progress.”

Dressler had been taking Edilyn out on hunts for awhile now. Eclectia was a harsh wasteland; only the strong survived. While his daughter was only eleven, it was time for her to learn how to protect herself from the varied predators out here in the wilds: both of bug and human kind.

“I think I’m ready, Daddy,” she said, and Dressler grinned, holding her in his arms.

“If you’re sure, take the shot.”

“I’m sure,” she said, nodding, her arms stiff and shaking.

He slowly released her, spreading his arms wide, letting her stand on her own. She leveled the rifle, one eye squinting, the stock pressed to her cheek. Dressler watched her, beautiful and powerful, ready to conquer the world. He felt old in that moment, yet born again, as well.

Then he glanced up. Saw a dark shape clamber over the hill, nearing the bug in Edilyn’s sights.

“Wait,” he said, quickly, and she jumped with a start. Yet, in spite of her surprise, she did not fire off a stray round.

She’s learning. Good.

“What?” she hissed back at him.

Dressler relaxed, still grinning, and gently patted Edilyn on the back. “Let it go.”

Edilyn kept her gun raised, but craned her head to regard her father. “What? Why?”

He nodded towards the horizon, watching as the larger bug collected its young, the two of them retreating over the dunes in peace. Edilyn watched, too, lowering the rifle, her shoulders sagging. “Oh. I guess they’re just like us, huh?”

Dressler wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “C’mon. Let’s get back home.”

Daddy and daughter returned home, the setting sun at their backs.

Rejection

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

The boom of the fighter bursting into the atmosphere at an inexpert entry trajectory jarred Considine out of ecstatic fanaticism and back into harrowing reality.

The wind roared and buffeted the craft, and directly in front of him, quivering on the shell of his helmet, the pilot organism writhed, having been dislodged by the violent fall into the stratosphere.

Now the black ash and flame winds of Eclectia rocked the ship, already a kind of apocalypse of its own.

He saw the thing up close, the thing that had been in his mind, or rather its slimy antenna. It had a star-shaped pink head and a gummy, counter-rotating maw. Its spotty, slithering body glistened with slime and sloshing seawater.

With a roar of effort, Considine drew back his head and flung himself forward, smashing the faceplate of his helmet on the instrument panel and sending the hissing monstrosity flopping down into his lap along with the gush of seawater.

He gave up trying to fight the rocking controls and gripped the pilot organism in both gloved hands, squeezing it as it thrashed and curled about his wrists, throttling it and driving in his fingers until they burst through, and a thick, yellowish ichor bubbled over his thumbs.

He ripped the tubing from his chest pump and felt beside his seat for the ejection lever.

With a wrench he blew open the fighter canopy, feeling the hot, ashy wind of Eclectia scorch his face and eyes, choking his lungs. It stank of sulfur and burning.

Then there was a second explosion and he was jettisoned from the hopelessly spiraling fighter. He tumbled end over end through the black and red sky until the chair jets began to fire, dropping him toward the planet in a sporadic rocking motion, violent enough to make his bile rise.

He remembered to open his hand and let the dead eel thing fall away, but he was unconscious by the time the chair fuel, not quite designed to bring a pilot to safety all the way from the upper atmosphere, ran dry, and he crashed heavily to the ground.

Satori

by Fred Warren 

John leaned over the edge of a little bridge to admire the crystal-clear water tumbling across smooth, round rocks and into a shallow pool, where orange fish with long, translucent fins circled lazily beneath the shade of broad lily pads.

Clean, clear, living water. He could even feel the moisture it lent to the surrounding air. When he’d seen inland water on dusty, gritty Eclectia during his infrequent visits, it didn’t flow like this. Mostly, it oozed. What lurked beneath the surface was best forgotten.

“Hmm. Missed a spot.” Jiro laid his hand on the bridge’s black-enameled rail, and its immaculate shine faded. A network of hairline scratches and tiny chips spread across its surface, exposing flashes of the pale wood beneath.

John pulled away, and the rail creaked at the release of his weight. “Why did you do that?”

“A private obsession. Natural weathering is difficult to simulate, but the garden seems cozier to me if things aren’t in pristine condition.”

“Wear and tear is a virtue in Paradise,” John murmured as he ran a finger over the bumps and gouges. “Interesting.”

“The ability to exercise complete control over one’s surroundings leads us to value odd things sometimes.” Jiro crossed the bridge and stepped off the path to inspect a patch of tiny yellow flowers. “You’ve been very quiet, Mr. Milton. It surprises me you haven’t asked more questions.”

“Isn’t this garden designed to promote silent contemplation?”

“Ah. Yes, it is. Perhaps I made it too well. It’s also meant to inspire satori, the seeing into one’s true nature.”

“Isn’t that a Buddhist concept? Not something I’d expect to hear from a Catholic priest, Father Sukahara.”

He shrugged. “Consider it another of my many contradictions.”

John spread his arms wide. “It’s just…I’m overwhelmed by this place. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in time, into one of the legends of Old Earth.”

“Thank you.” Jiro stood up and nodded, apparently satisfied with the condition of the flowers, and they continued their walk along the winding garden path. “I’m pleased you find it authentic. In time, you may discover you’ve grown more difficult to impress.”

“I’m mostly curious about the rules that govern this world.” John surveyed the sky, half-expecting to discover Anya and Vicky peeking out from behind a cloud.

Jiro followed his gaze upward, “I am at your disposal, and our conversation will remain private.”

“I haven’t yet noticed any perceptible difference between my virtual body and the real thing. Can I change my appearance?”

“You appear to others as you wish to appear. Others appear to you as they wish to appear.”

“So you might actually be a wrinkled old crone, and I’d never know the difference?”

Jiro smiled. “Yes, but we’ve found it’s best to stick with a true representation of ourselves. Emotional disturbances arise if we tinker unnecessarily with our avatars. Most of us indulge in a few minor cosmetic enhancements…a nip here, a tuck there, an inch or two added to the stature, a splash of hair coloring. Vanity is one deadly sin I doubt we’ll ever master.”

“What about the environment?”

“That is negotiable. Etiquette dictates the person who creates the space controls it, and guests may interact with the environment but may not change its properties. For example, I have invited you into my personal space, so you are free to move about it. You can pick up an orange from the bowl on the table beside my front door, toss it into the air, peel it, even eat it, but you may not turn it into an apple. I could grant you that privilege, but it’s typically reserved for joint projects. We might, say, be hosting a party next week and need to work together to create a unique venue for our guests.”

“How much am I allowed to interact with the outside world?”

“Not at all, for a while, and then only so far as your duties require. We must keep our activities clandestine to avoid complications that could threaten our security and cause disruption to the colony.  Mostly, we watch. We try to let the colony develop in its own way. When we intervene, it is with small corrections and a gentle hand.”

“Moving the colony to another star system doesn’t seem very gentle.”

“Not all of us are in agreement regarding that course of action.” Jiro brushed cherry blossoms from the sleeve of his kimono with a sidewise glance at John. “You don’t approve? I was under the impression you favored relocating Avenir.”

Within the cherry tree’s pink cloud, the nightingale resumed its trilling.

“I was, but the more I think about it, the less certain I am.” They were beside the rock garden now, and John was silent for a few moments, tracing the spiral grooves in the sand with his eyes, failing to find either an origin or an endpoint. “Maybe there’s another way.”

The Apocalypse of Rahab

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

Behind Considine’s eyes, reality exploded in cataclysmic flame.

The bugs dropped burning from the fire-filled skies into the boiling ocean. Beneath the churning, bubbling waves, superheated Zirconia glowed red as the people inside were seared to death.

The charred mountains broke apart and fell into the sky. The rim of Eclectia burned.

He saw this not with his own eyes, but with the eyes of Aloysius Morgenstar.

He had been standing blissfully unaware of impending cosmic doom, quite drunk and wondering how much of a ruckus one of the female staff would make if he cornered her in the watercloset only seconds before God contacted him.

He had taken his personal omniyacht The Traveler from the Avenir to the scenic edge of the Boatic Trench below the Eclectian ocean as part of a publicity stunt to wrangle in more financial backers for his R&D department, treating them to a luxury cruise replete with expensive cuisine, impeccable liqueurs, and beautiful consorts, and culminating with a live demonstration of new high pressure space suits designed for the miners of Sheba.

But as he had stood among the other aristocrats before the panoramic viewport and watched the choreographed antics of the suited personnel out in the water, God had revealed Himself, and shown him the face of Eclectia.

A cosmic event would crack the planet asunder, just as long ago a similar fate had befallen Sheba. God did not tell him the cause of the cataclysm to come, but in the fiery visions he saw the Whale and the Twin collide and all the world broken to asteroids.

There was but one escape.

The Avenir.

But God had enemies, the jelly creatures some men called angels. They were servants of the great entropy to come, and had driven God below, down into the murky depths of the Boatic Trench to there trap Him until the cataclysm they helped to bring about, came and consumed them all.

Aloysius Morgenstar had never been much of a believer in deities or in revelation, but the vision had been so vivid and real he had lost his composure and screamed aloud when it had passed.

He had retired to his cabin, his assistants making excuses for him as was their job, trying to keep his investors from losing confidence. He had fought sleep for fear the nightmarish notions of madness would return when he closed his eyes.

Instead, God reinforced the urgency of the revelation and proved beyond any doubt the veracity of Morgenstar’s experience.

Two men from the dive team came to him.

One had been physically and psychically taken over by an emissary of the God. He spoke with God’s voice, and called himself Rahab, though his personnel files had called him Jovis Purl. In a month, Purl was dead. But Rahab showed them more visions, and how to gather more followers. The eel creatures could be made to extend the influence of God up even to the Avenir, and through these pilot organisms, He could bring others to the cause, spread the worship of God. First He enticed them with sensual delights, mental experiences beyond any physical or emotional gratification any human had experienced.

Then, Rahab showed them the inner truth of the apocalypse, and the need to free Him from the so-called angels, and escape on the Avenir.

Members of Rahab’s cult enacted His will in various ways, in every strata of society. Wizards and historians even now worked in secret to restore the Avenir to life, so the faithful could escape the apocalypse.

To Morgenstar and to the second man, Orin Bantry, had fallen the task of destroying the agents of the apocalypse.

And now the sacred duty would settle at last on Considine’s shoulders. He would pilot a new submersible packed with detonite to the edge of the Boatic Trench and carry out the holy mission he had spoiled before. It was already docked and loaded in Zirconia.

This would be his penance and his salvation.

Nightingale

by Fred Warren - 

John Milton’s sandals crunched on fine gravel as he walked with Jiro Sukahara along the meandering path through the chaplain’s expansive private garden. His balance was improving with each step, enough to let him savor the subtle splendor of the flowers and greenery. Feathery blossoms from a giant cherry tree at the garden’s heart filled the air and tumbled across the footpath.

In one corner, a sandy basin was dotted with angular stones arranged in a pattern that, to John, seemed orderly and random at the same time, and the white sand was raked into curving grooves that flowed into a complex spiral. A tiny brook roughly bisected the garden, its murmur punctuated by the slow metronome of a shishi-odoshi, a pivoting bamboo tube that filled and emptied itself at the base of a trickling fountain, making a pleasant wooden thunk with each cycle. Jiro explained the device’s original purpose was to startle wandering deer and discourage them from munching on the foliage.

“But mostly, I enjoy the sound it makes.”

A little bird with dull brown feathers clung to the topmost branch of the cherry tree, warbling and trilling a cascade of brilliant, liquid melody. John thought back to the riotous colors of the birds he’d seen on the tropical island where he’d met the Dreamers for the first time. “Such a beautiful song…I’d never have suspected it from such a plain bird.”

As if insulted, the tiny musician ended its concert with a sharp flourish, then vanished into the tree’s pastel depths.

“It’s called a nightingale.” Jiro sighed. “There’s an old story about a powerful emperor who befriended a nightingale he found in his garden. She perched on his windowsill and lulled him to sleep each night. All was well until the ruler of a neighboring land sent the emperor a mechanical songbird with gilded feathers and jeweled eyes as a birthday present. The emperor was so taken with the beauty of the mechanical bird that he drove the homely nightingale from his garden, only to discover the robot’s song possessed none of the nightingale’s magical charm. He never enjoyed another peaceful night’s sleep, and though he sent messengers to the nightingale with gifts and apologies, she refused to return, and their friendship was forever broken.”

“What a sad story.”

“I keep a nightingale in my garden to remind me that love is fragile, and illusion is no substitute for reality.”

“A strange sentiment from someone who lives in a virtual paradise.”

“I am a man of many contradictions.”

Flight

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

Considine stepped out of the lift, amazed he had gotten so far as Morgenstar’s personal hangar.

This was no freighter dock cluttered with utilitarian equipment and personnel in greasy coveralls.

It was much smaller than the main Avenir hangar, and contained only five craft, four sleek metallic blue one-man security fighters bearing the MM corporate logo, and a high end luxury omniyacht with a zero gravity viewing deck made from actual wood and gilded with brass rails. He had hear much about that omniyacht. It could travel in space, atmosphere, even below the ocean.

He opted for one of the fighters, though he knew the damn thing would be too fast and responsive for him to pilot safely.

He found all but one of the fighters locked, the last apparently left unsecured by a crewman who had also left his toolbox on the gantry.

As he slipped into the flight suit, Considine hoped the careless technician hadn’t left anything else undone.

He crammed himself into the pilot’s chair and lowered the canopy, buckled on the artificial air pump harness and firing up the engines just as the lift door opened and a squad of Morgenstar security spilled out.

He pulled on the exposure helmet, smelled the sour artificial air as the unit on the chest of the suit began to pump, and grabbed hold of the thrumming controls as the ship shook and lifted off the deck.

He watched the security men tumble back into the lift as the hangar door blossomed open, and with a jolt that sent the back of his head smacking against the seat, the fighter leapt out into space.

He fought the controls to turn the thing into a wide bank and angle it for the planet. Why did the damn thing have to be so fast?

He slowed his descent and fiddled with the navigational board, trying to find Zirconia, when suddenly he felt and heard a gush of liquid in his helmet.

His suit was filling with seawater.

In a panic, he felt the hose on the pump harness and realized it was leading under the pilot’s chair. He had no room to look under, but the sea water was rapidly rising to his chin in the helmet.

Of course everything had been too easy. The entire escape – the nurse laying the inoculater on the table for him to grab, the guards separating for his benefit, the unchallenged escape to the hangar, and of course the conveniently unlocked fighter craft, replete with a sabotaged air unit.

He gasped as the salty water reached his lower lip, and spat, instantly regretting it as the faceplate of his helmet spotted, making it almost impossible to see.

Warning klaxons whose purpose he couldn’t get began to flash and sound in the cockpit.

Then something slimy and tubular brushed past his ear.

Good God! Morgenstar had put one of those things under the seat and he had pumped it right into his own suit!

He felt it slithering about his throat and clenched his teeth against the maddening shriek building up in his beating chest.

Then there was a flash of light in his mind.

The thing had made contact.