Chris Morton's Blog, page 9

Total Recall by Larry Sternig

 

Total Recall

by Larry Sternig

The face of Brian Wargan, chief of the Solar Bureau of Investigation, was gray with strain and fatigue. "This Corvo North business," he said. "It's almost a myth by now, but it's our only chance. We might as well face that."

His features and that of the younger man across the desk from him might have formed a study in contrasts. Roger Kay was keen, alert. There were signs of weariness about his eyes, but the firm set of his jaw revealed a tendency to action rather than introspection.

"Then, sir," he urged, "let's take that chance. The department has located him, I believe? I haven't seen the reports."

The S.B.I. chief nodded. "His laboratory is right here on Gany." He indicated a spot on the global map of Ganymede, some distance from the spaceport.

"That's the mining district," Kay observed.

"Yes. He's been doing some research for the Inter-Planetary Mining Syndicate. We've assigned a special wave band and are in constant communication. Here, I'll introduce you."

Wargan set the dials on the visi-communicator that occupied one corner of his desk; then looked up at the screen on the wall. A blurred rectangle of light flickered and then coalesced into sharpness – and Roger Kay involuntarily drew a deep breath. The girl looking out from the visi-screen was the most beautiful he'd ever seen.

"Is your father making progress, Miss North?" asked Wargan.

The girl in the screen shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Wargan. He's in the lab now, working, and won't let me disturb him except to bring in coffee and sandwiches. I've been trying to get him to sleep."

"This is Roger Kay, Miss North," said the S.B.I. chief. "One of my assistants. I'm sending him out to your place to see if he can help."

Ann North frowned slightly. "We're doing everything we possibly can already."

"I'm sure of that. But Mr. Kay is rather outstanding as a scientist himself, Miss North. He'll be able to help – at least in some of the detail work, to save time."

Roger Kay grinned. "He means, Miss North, that I can clean the test tubes and solder the wires and let your father save his energy for the brain-work."

His smile was infectious, and the scientist's daughter capitulated. Wargan flicked the switch and threw the screen into blankness.

"I'll give you an order for the fastest helio we have," he said.

"You'll be there in three hours. And that means there will be a little less than three days left!"

Roger Kay drew a deep breath, his face suddenly serious. Three days to save the System from an invasion that could not possibly prove to be less than a major catastrophe, less than the end of things as he knew them.

* * * * *

Even now the invaders from Andromeda were approaching the System's outermost defenses; converging upon the virtually helpless garrisons on Pluto. Patrol spacers off the frigid planet had already contacted spearheads of the huge armada – with fatal results.

Once before the System had been periled by these devils from the distant galaxy. Victory had been costly then, but the combined Planetary fleets could not now hope to stave off the full force on this new attack. They would have to yield space; fall back to more favorable positions.

Trionite alone would prove the decisive factor in any war of worlds, and the United Planets had not been able to learn the secret of manufacturing the new explosive, one ton of which could wreck an invading army.

As Roger Kay set the robot-course dial of his speedy helio for the mining settlement, he switched in for a moment on Wargan's private wave-band. "Leaving now, sir," he reported crisply. "Be there in two hours. Any further instructions?"

"Do your best, Kay, that's all," came the weary voice of the S.B.I. chief. "New reports in confirm the old ones. We expect the first blow by noon Friday. Pluto is doomed; now being evacuated."

"We've got to stop them," Roger Kay said fiercely as he snapped the switch. "We've just got to!"

He settled back to get in a much-needed two hours of sleep while the robot pilot held his course.

The alarm bell awakened him, and he pointed the craft down under the great red disk of Big Jupe, toward the low range of purple cliffs indicated on his map.

A few minutes later he was knocking at the door of the dome-shaped laboratory.

Ann North was twice as beautiful in the flesh as she had seemed on the visi-screen. Attired in the modish shorts and tunic that had become universal garb for Earth-women, she looked like a figure from a Grecian frieze. She led him to the library.

"Dad's asleep at last," she said. "I persuaded him to rest for a few hours – on the strength of my argument that he'd accomplish more in the long run if he kept his brain clear."

Roger Kay nodded understandingly. "I just had a bit of sleep myself en route. Nobody at headquarters has slept much the last few days. By the way, I'm woefully in the dark about a lot of things. Will you tell me just what your father's trying to re-discover? If you can enlighten me, I'll not have to ask him so many darn-fool questions."

"You know, of course," said Ann North when they were comfortably seated, "that it's a ray that will explode any explosive at a distance. Or perhaps I shouldn't have said a ray – it's really a sound wave, in the ultra-sonic belt, traveling on a beam. It disrupts any unstable chemical compound."

Roger Kay nodded. "That much I know. I've examined one of the projectors. We've installed them at all the outposts. They're all ready, except –"

"Except for the catalyst. The part of the discovery that's lost in the chemical compound that produces the catalytic gas. The ultra-sonic waves, passing through the gas, change their vibration in some way."

"I see now," said Kay, "why it is directional. The ultra-sonic waves go in all directions, of course, but only those passing through the gas are disruptive. Right?"

The girl nodded her beautiful blond head. "It's all very simple, and it's all in the hands of the government, except for the formula for that catalyst. Fortunately my father has a reputation as a scientist. That's why the government was willing to take a chance on having those projectors set up, even though –"

Roger Kay smiled wryly. "Your father is the outstanding scientist of the System, Miss North. But even if he wasn't, we might have taken that chance. It's about the only chance. If he fails, three days from today –"

"As bad as that?"

"I'm afraid so. But let's not talk about it. One thing I don't know: How was the formula lost?"

"Dad destroyed it. He discovered it accidentally twenty years ago, while working on something else. Never thinking that the fate of worlds might hinge upon it, he destroyed his notes almost as soon as he had made them. He's always been awfully opposed to war, you know, and he saw the terrible possibilities in the weapon if it should fall into the wrong hands."

"That is still true," said a quiet voice from the doorway. Roger Kay recognized Corvo North at once from the many photographs he had seen. He rose and offered his hand.

"I'm glad you're here, Mr. Kay," said the scientist. "Ann told me you were coming. Yes, it's still true that I'm opposed to war – but this isn't war. Even disregarding personal interests and patriotism, it's an attempt to save the human race. Come on into the laboratory. We've no time to waste."

* * * * *

Roger whistled softly under his breath as Corvo North closed the door behind them. The laboratory, spacious and well equipped, was a research worker's dream.

The scientist led the way past rows of pieces of apparatus whose purpose Roger could but dimly guess, to a table at the far end of the room. Upon the table was a small box bristling with dials. The back and top were open, showing a maze of wires and coils and condensers.

"Looks like a radio set with hydrophobia," Roger observed. "What connection has this with the catalyst formula?"

"Nothing, directly. There's no chance, through experimentation, of my recovering that formula in time. Three years, possibly. Three days, never."

"You mean that it's hopeless to try? That the System is lost?" Roger Kay was appalled.

"I don't quite mean that," said North. "But what chance there is lies through this apparatus you're looking at now. Sit down; I'll explain while I work. You can help later, when I've explained the machine."

He began to tinker amidst the maze of wires.

"My discovery of trionite was purely accidental. It was empiric; not based on any theory. There were six or seven chemicals, and I recall the identity of only two of them. The others? Well, count the chemicals in the pharmacopoeia! The only way I could re-discover it would be by accident as I did before – and that would involve too many experiments and too much time. But the formula is buried somewhere in my subconscious mind. I mightremember it."

Roger Kay eyed the box with some misgivings. "You mean this is – "

"The memory of everything we've ever done or seen is latent in our minds – in the molecular structure of the brain. Almost, I might say, in concentric layers. When the present crisis arose, I had been studying the human brain and the nature of thought and memory. Do you follow me?"

He looked up from his work and as Roger nodded, he saw how haggard and weary was the face of the elderly scientist.

"Consciousness is basically electrical in nature. The act of memory is the shift of that electrical impulse back to a buried stratum of the brain. But the shift is never complete; most of the consciousness stays in the present. We never remember anything perfectly."

"Then this machine is to –"

"To create a magnetic field of such a nature as to shift the

consciousness as a whole. By shifting the magnetic field's intensity, I can move back the consciousness, or memory, to complete remembrance of any given moment of the past. In other words, under its influence, I hope to send back my memory to the moment when I jotted down the formula. Earlier or later won't do; I didn't memorize it at any time."

His interest completely gripped, Roger Kay stared into the intricate mechanism. "But, sir," he asked, "do you know the exact time that was – down to the minute?"

"Fortunately, yes. I recall that it was the day Ann was being given a party for her third birthday. My wife had told me to be home at three o'clock in the afternoon. I was a little late – didn't leave the lab until on the stroke of three, and it was two or three minutes before then that I wrote down the formula."

"And you think you can hit that exact moment?"

"With a couple of preliminary experiments, yes. If I find that given setting of the dial and the vernier adjustments give me a certain date and time of day, I can calculate the proper adjustment for the time I want."

"Amazing!" exclaimed Roger. "Frankly, if it weren't for the wonderful things you've accomplished in other fields, I'd say it was visionary."

Corvo North shook his gray head. "The theory is sound; it should work. But three days! Man, we're working against a deadly deadline!" He grabbed a pad and pencil. "Here, I'll show you what to do and you can start on the headpiece that connects to the machine here."

* * * * *

And thus started the busiest, dizziest hours of Roger Kay's life. Sleep was a chimera that haunted every leaden-eyed hour, a mirage that beckoned and pleaded in vain.

And the hands of the laboratory clock crept inexorably onward. At three in the morning on Friday, Terran time, with nine hours left before the invaders would strike, Kay staggered to the televis and dialed Wargan.

"I think we'll finish in time," he reported. "We'll be ready for the first test in a couple of hours. Have you made the preparations we suggested?"

The S.B.I. chief nodded. "At the base of each projector we've installed practically a chemical warehouse. There is at least a small quantity of every available known chemical. And expert chemists waiting at each."

"Good. Then within fifteen minutes after I send you the formula, the projectors can be in operation?"

"Ten minutes, unless the formula is more complex than you believe. You say that Corvo North believes there are but six or seven ingredients?"

Roger Kay nodded wearily. "And the communications?"

"Open constantly. An operator on duty at each projector at all times. Test messages going through every fifteen minutes. Incidentally, latest reports still confirm early ones. The deadline is still noon today."

Roger Kay saluted, then snapped the switch. Back to work at the little box in the laboratory.

During those last hours, as well as the ones preceding them, Ann North had been a ministering angel. Sleeping almost as little as the two men, she was ever ready with encouragement – and hot coffee. At times, almost by force, she would pry one or the other of them away from their work for a brief period of rest.

On her own initiative she had called in Dr. Dane. Once he understood the situation, the doctor was invaluable. He took no part in the work on the machine, but he watched over Corvo North constantly and kept him at the highest point of efficiency under the circumstances.

Ten o'clock came – and ten-thirty – and they were ready for the preliminary test.

As he placed the metal plates on his head with shaking hands, Corvo North seemed a mere shell of his former self.

Roger Kay sat at the controls. At North's instructions they ran the wires to an easy chair several yards away, as they were uncertain just how far the magnetic field would extend beyond the headset.

"Better tie me to the chair," North cautioned. "When the field is thrown on, I'll have no recollection of the present or why I'm here. Don't forget that. Until you bring me back by setting the dials to zero, mentally, I'll be back where I was whatever time we hit upon. It will seem to me that I'm waking suddenly in utterly strange circumstances and surroundings. You know what questions to ask, of course."

"Yes, Mr. North," said Roger. He turned to Dr. Dane. "Will you attend to the tying? Just sufficiently so that he can't rise in his bewilderment."

Ann North brought straps, and a few moments later Corvo North nodded that he was ready; then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Roger Kay glanced at the instruments and then shifted two of the dials. There was a sudden hum from within the box, and Corvo North's eyes snapped open.

"What – what is this?" he demanded. "Why am I here?"

"Everything's all right, Mr. North," said Roger soothingly. "We'll release you in a moment. First please tell us what is the date."

"It's January twelfth, of course. Why do you –"

"And the year?"

"Twenty forty-five. Now will you kindly –"

"Just one more question, Mr. North. Do you know the exact time of day when you awoke here?"

"How can I when I don't know how I got here? The last thing I remember is walking through the door of the bank to keep my appointment, at nine. What's happened? Did I faint?"

A glow of satisfaction lodged itself in Roger's mind; they were getting the time more accurately than he'd dared expect on the first trial. He pushed his luck a bit farther.

"Were you on time to make that appointment, Mr. North?"

"I'd have been five minutes early. Now will you –"

"Perfect!" exclaimed Roger. He turned back the dials.

Corvo North went limp for an instant, then reopened his eyes. Dr. Dane rushed to him and unbuckled the straps.

"Get anything?" asked the scientist weakly.

"Perfect!" said Roger again. "I've got a note of the exact setting – and you were able to give the time exactly." He scribbled hasty calculations on the pad. "And that setting took you back to January of Twenty forty-five. To be exact – six thousand seven hundred twenty-eight days, twenty-seven hours, seven minutes!"

Corvo North nodded weakly, but excitedly tried to rise. Dr. Dane, his hand on North's pulse, motioned him back.

"That was a tremendous strain on your heart, North," he cautioned. "I forbid you to do it again until you've rested."

"Absurd!" Corvo North glanced at the clock. "There isn't time! It's eleven now!"

"Repeat that again right away and you'll never live to report what you see," warned the physician solemnly. "Half an hour of rest – or the entire experiment will be in vain."

* * * * *

Ann North's face was pale; she looked from her father to Roger Kay pleadingly.

He nodded slowly. "We can just do it. I'll check and recheck the calculations meanwhile – get the dial settings exact. And the next try – Well, it's make or break anyway." His voice was grim. "One more chance, and we get it or we don't."

During that half hour he checked and counter-checked his figures until he was as sure as possible to hit the exact instant in the past – the instant when Corvo North had jotted down the lost formula.

At eleven-thirty, the headset was replaced on Corvo North's head. This time his arms were left free and a pad of paper placed on his lap. His fingers held a pencil. He leaned back and again closed his eyes.

Roger Kay turned the dials.

Corvo North's face tensed, then relaxed. His eyes remained closed. For a half minute, aside from the faint hum from the machine, there was utter stark silence in the laboratory. It was maddening.

Then a faint scratching sound. The others, holding their breath from sheer suspense, saw the pencil in Corvo North's hand begin to move across the pad. Three lines it wrote; stopped.

The formula!

* * * * *

Suddenly the scientist's eyes snapped opened, widened with terror and bewilderment. With a movement so swift that no one could stop him, he ripped the sheet of paper from the pad, crumpled it, and hurled it at the glowing coil of an electric heater!

The paper flashed into flame, crumpled into ash as Corvo North himself crumpled, went limp in the chair.

Roger Kay turned the dials back to zero as Ann and the doctor leaped forward, unstrapped the unconscious scientist. Dr. Dane felt the fluttering pulse, then picked up the frail body and headed for the living quarters. Ann, her blue eyes wide with anxiety, ran ahead to open doors and prepare for the doctor's ministrations.

When she returned, Roger Kay stood before the visi-screen. Ann put a hand on his shoulder. "Dad will be all right," she said, her voice flat with despair, "but we've failed. Dr. Dane says it will be days before he'd dare –"

"Shh," said Roger gently. "Watch." He slipped his left arm around her slim waist, drew her to toward the screen.

The vista past the purple range showed at once that the view was eastward from the spaceport. There was no shipping in sight. In the red sky, far out and very high, was a thin silvery line, growing larger.

"The invaders." Unconsciously, Roger Kay whispered rather than spoke. "A thousand spheres at least for us alone. Watch, in a moment we'll know."

"Know what, Roger? Do you mean –"

The visi-screen answered for him. Out there high up in the sky there was a single bright flash – and then a thousand flashes that blended into one blinding one. A roar from the receiver rose to deafening pitch, stopped abruptly.

"Shattered the diaphragm of the transmitter," said Roger quietly. "That was trionite in action, Ann, it's all over. Your father – won!"

"But the formula! He destroyed it!"

Roger Kay put his other arm about her, smiled down. "That was why I was sent here, Ann. To eliminate possible hitches."

"But how –"

"Your father destroyed the formula the first time, and I guessed he might do it again – in his mind he was back some twenty years ago, remember – so I took the elementary precaution of placing carbon paper between the third and fourth sheets of that pad of paper. And I sent Wargan the formula while you were with your father, twelve minutes ago."

This story was produced from

Planet Stories, Fall 1946.This story is taken from Project Gutenberg.For legal reasons the following statement must be included:(This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).

Another tale from ‘The Further Adventures of Cara Delaggwei’

 

Another tale from ‘The Further Adventures of Cara Delaggwei’

by Patrick Gabriel Doyle

(For parts 1 & 2 see January and February 2021)

Pt.3.

Cara Delaggwei sped on …

Through starfields and incandescent nebulae, her zaucer a microdot in the vast emptinesses between the somethings – she knew, of course, that those emptinesses weren’t perhaps as empty as they might appear to be.

She knew not where she was going nor even where she’d been. She was just … going. And the, for the moment, was enough. It was all she had – that moment.

It was all she could be sure of … and even that was … well … tricky!

Atlantis?

Sometimes, there.

Sometimes, gone.

She hadn't fathomed out quite why.

Sometimes THERE:

Ticking along quite nicely, thank you.

Her home planet; everything as it should be.

Sometimes GONE:

A cataclysm she didn't understand:

A whole planet reduced to asteroids – hundreds of

thousands of them – all zooming and drifting through

the Solaarz System.

Over vast expanses of time, she'd witnessed asteroids and dust from Atlantis gather around certain planets, forming attractive rings. Some moons had also been formed, allied to the larger planets within the System. Most moons, however, were of earlier formation. Some of them even older than her!

HOWEVER, all it took was the blink of an eye or the hint of a thought and she could be easily shifted from one universe where Atlantis had been destroyed to another where it was ticking along quite happily.

She had no control over it and was forced to admit that she didn't really understand what was going on – although she half-suspected her zaucer's particle propulsion unit may have something to do with it. Maybe there were entanglements between particles activant in the quantum drive and associate particles still existent in pre-Disruption Atlantis.

ANYWAY, it all left her way-out-there, on her own, and feeling a bit like some cranky, science-fiction character from the Homud stories she'd heard on Urth, which of course … ;-) … well, okay, maybe not so cranky!

Urth – sigh – She felt a real connection with that planet.

It was from there that she had first witnessed the Disruption of Atlantis and the subsequent destruction wrought by the Atlantean fallout.

BUT, something else … On Urth she had witnessed a strange, evolutionary twist; accelerated, and maybe even caused by asteroid impact: The consolidation of mammalian species and the rise of the Homud.

Suddenly, there was a tapping on the dome of the zaucer.

Cara was kind of surprised at how unsurprised she was – considering she had been hurtling through space at a high rate of SPN although she hadn't quite hit first level P-jump.

Now, however the zaucer was at rest, parked on an elaborately tiled floor in some expansive space suggesting courtyards and colonnades.

In some ways it reminded her of Atlantis.

A small, winged creature was perched atop the dome. It cocked its head and peered at her with a twinkly eye. She could see similar creatures flittering all around the space.

She activated the dome’s depixilator, remembering to repixil her own head-dome (just in case) and keeping one hand on her stun-gun (just in case), she stepped out onto the main body of the zaucer.

The creature flittered away.

Her boot-heels clacked pleasingly on the tiled floor, echoing around the space. She didn't feel overly anxious or even guarded – more kind of: ‘Ok – let's see what happens. …’

Fluttering wings everywhere.

From somewhere

a chair

had appeared.

Cara stopped.

She looked at the chair – well wouldn't you?

She looked from side to side and behind … just in case!

Of course, the zaucer had disappeared – ‘Well, that was not unexpected!’

“Welcome to Avarium, Cara Delaggwei.”

The voice came from the chair.

‘I am not going to speak to a chair!’ she said, speaking to the chair.

“No! Then you need to think about who is sitting in the chair.”

That was easy. … She sat in the chair.

In front of her was a man wearing nicely draped material and a pair of sandals.

‘This is so clichéd!’ said she.

“Indeed!” said he. “Cliché is often indicative of the universal.”

‘Mmm? In what way?’

“In the way that it becomes representative of a core concept – an expression of –”

‘So, who are you, anyway?’

“- of … erm … I … I am Philospher.”

‘Ah! And this place?’

“Avarium, of course.”

‘Of course. And these flying creatures?’

“Well birds, of course!”

‘Yes, of course … although that doesn't really explain why they are virtually transparent. What is the location of this Avarium and where is my zaucer?’

“Ah, so many questions. Good! Questions are my sustenance. The birds, they aren't really birds, you see.”

‘You don't say!’

“Yes, they are forms, as yet unconstruct – ideas not yet actualised. Unthought thoughts that –”

‘So, what’s this chair?’

“– that … it is actualized – but what you see is your concept of a chair. Yes, a chair exists in that space –”

‘That used to be a bird?’

“In some way … but the chair you see is not the chair I see –”

‘But how do you know that? You're not looking through my eyes.’

“It is the way of Avarium – each Form has a –”

‘I'm sorry I don't have time for this!’

Cara closed her eyes, flipped a thought, and was instantly back in the zaucer, zipping smoothly through space. She allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction at comprehending the nature of Avarium and a brief ‘whoops … sorry!’ at her abruptness towards The Philosopher, whether he existed or not.

*A spark of insight

The merest glint of understanding as to why

maybe(!)

Atlantis….

keeps disappearing …

and re-appearing*

NOT why The Disruption Event actually occurs … or, well … maybe … but something in the nature of Avarium … something in the nature of the idea-birds …

HAD Atlantis somehow become suspended – formed/unformed – relevant to her perception? Or … was it actually becomingunformed due to some future event unfolding?

‘But how could that be?’

… unless time wasn't the linear, or even concentric process she'd almost unthinkingly accepted … maybe it was more kind of … well … dappled.

‘Ha … How can one exist for untold millennia and not even question the nature of time?

Mmm … Perhaps that which we have in abundance we question least.’

And so, with these murmurations sinuating through in her mind, Cara Delaggwei sped on …

~

Patrick Gabriel Doyle is from Glasgow, Scotland.

For more stories and links check out his amazon page here.

Bookspot - The Starhawk Chronicles by Joseph J. Madden

Bookspot - The Starhawk Chronicles by Joseph J. Madden

Putting the fun back into sci-fi. A thoroughly enjoyable read.

[image error]

The year is 2283.

Though more than a quarter-century has passed since the end of the last war, the Galactic Confederation is still busy picking up the pieces. Whole sectors of the galaxy remain lawless, rife with corruption and greed. The criminal element has a well-established foothold on these sectors.

It is a good time to be a bounty hunter.

Jesse Forster and the crew of the STARHAWK are some of the best bounty hunters in the business. Kayla Karson is a young independent hunter out to make a name for herself. Their paths collide as both take up pursuit of the leaders of the Nexus Gang, the galaxy's most brutal crime syndicate. An uneasy alliance is formed as the two undertake the most difficult hunt of their careers. Great rewards are to be claimed, if they don't kill each other in the process.

On the Button by Rachel Carter

 

On the Button

by Rachel Carter

“Zophar, listen.” Luna crouched before him on the pavement. “You can get out whenever you want, okay?” Zophar nodded, looking past his mother to the others. His body was poised in politeness towards his mother but in anticipation of the other children, his eyes looked ahead to his new schoolmates and he willed her to say goodbye.

“Did you Anti-Germ your hands?” Another nod.

“Where are your disposable toilet seat covers?” Zophar patted his backpack.

“And mask? Remember which pocket?” More nodding.

His father opened the driver door of the car and the airlock was released with a Clop. Shhhhhhhh. He stepped out carefully, holding a green canister, spraying into the air as he approached.

“Another squirt of Pollute Repel for luck.” He misted the air around Zophar’s head and tiptoed back to the car, as if trying to avoid making contact with the ground.

“One last button test, perhaps Luna?” he called, slipping back into the car and sealing himself in.

“Yes. Quick button run-through,” said Luna. “Tell me again.”

“Emergency Back-Off spray, emergency water purifying tablet.” Zophar’s fingers ran downwards over the buttons on his blazer at speed as he rushed through the list.

“Emergency anti-viral pill, emergency contact button, emergency detox spray button.” He touched his cuffs next. “Panic buttons. Now can I go?” The five-year old jiggled impatiently.

“Anytime at all, if you are worried,” continued Luna, “if someone touches you, if someone coughs near you, if the toilets are dirty. Any reason. You hear me? We’ll get you out straight away. Just press those cuff buttons. And when the car brings you back, remember: shoes in the porch, through the first entrance door, blazer off, then through the airlock and straight to the arrivals shower. Don’t come in with your shoes and blazer and don’t touch the cruise control in the car on the way home. You hear me?”

“I know, I know, you said. Now can I go?”

“Okay.” Luna kissed the air, not touching Zophar. “Go, baby. Take care. Remember: buttons!” She mimed pushing buttons as he ran off. “And don’t run or you’ll fall and touch the ground and I’ll have to take you home!”

Luna clasped her hands in front of her chin. “Good luck. Come home safely,” she whispered.

Zophar scampered up the steps as fast as he thought he would get away with. He was more happy and excited than he could ever remember being. This was better than birthdays. There were other children here. The entrance was massive. It took up one whole side of the building.

“Prevention Pharmaceutical’s Academy of Learning and Science welcomes you all and asks that when you enter the building, you do not share a door pod with anyone else,” came a voice from within the walls.

Robotic eyes shifted around and each pod spoke instructions through hidden speakers as one hundred children at a time were allowed to enter the first segment where they were instantly separated by screens that held the children in stalls as they were scanned for identification and viruses.

Immediately three boys were locked in and a voice told them to wait until cars arrived to remove them.

Some newcomers were familiar with screening and airlocks. They stood patiently while the eyes and scanners moved around them. But the others, from older housing out of the city had not experienced Entrance Pollution Prevention.

Zophar could hear cries of “I want to go home,” “I don’t like this,” while others sobbed and tried to back out.

Luna had told him about the entrance and how other boys weren’t used to it. “They’ll soon get domesticated,” she had said. “Everyone learns eventually.”

Next they were filtered into a huge glass cube. It was one of six on three levels. A voice told them to wait for the professors to collect them.

In this mix of trained and untrained five-year-olds, the difference was obvious to Zophar: the untrained boys had less shiny clothes and they didn’t have emergency blazer buttons. Zophar worried for them. But they didn’t look bothered. A few of them started talking to each other and they even tried to talk to the trained boys. Luna had said to keep away from untrained boys because they weren’t treated. He wondered if it would be safer to hold his nose, then he wouldn’t be sharing their air. He held his breath for twenty seconds and gave up.

An untrained boy had been watching him. “I can hold my breath loads longer than that.”

“Ludo’s the best at holding his breath. He swims underwater,” said another boy.

“He goes swimming?! Wow…” Zophar stared.

“Ye-ah, loads of us go. It’s really good for you.” The boy threw off his blazer and mimicked breaststroke. “Gives you strong muscles. My dad said so.”

Zophar, Ludo and some others took off their blazers too, giggling as they ran in circles pretending to swim.

“Why are your buttons so big?”

Zophar turned to see Ludo wearing his blazer and fiddling with the cuff buttons.

“No! Don’t!”

The airlock opened and a robotic sensor promptly identified Zophar’s blazer. Ludo was shunted gently towards the door pods.

“Please wait until your car arrives,” said a voice.

From the door pods Ludo was directed into Zophar’s family car and within minutes he was lowered out at Zophar’s house.

A woman’s voice from a wall speaker said he could try school again tomorrow and she was glad he was home. “And remember:” she said, “shoes in the porch, through the first entrance door, blazer off then through the airlock and straight to the arrivals shower. Don’t come in with your shoes and blazer on.”

Luna waited outside the bathroom with clean towels. She stared; horrified at the sight of the strange, untreated boy and then she hyperventilated.

Zophar’s father left Ludo in the entrance while he arranged his collection. Then the house and car were treated before the car was sent to collect the right boy this time. It had all been too risky and too stressful – Luna would home-school Zophar from now on.

The Last Grewalda

 

The Last Grewalda

by Chris Morton

Rain

I hear it. And the rain’s coming full pelt, wiping my eyes between flashes of battle scenes I’d rather forget. Stomping – why stomping?! I laugh and stand, then immediately dive back onto the mud.

I blink tightly, clutching my rifle. The last Grewalda. And I, the last human soldier; my back against the hill.

“Hey!” I shout.

It’s Nicholi. Nicholi, my God! How long has it been? (While in slow-motion he falls, the acid melting his face, his neck.) By the time his body hits the floor there’s only half a body, if that – hey, I think, how long has it been? Mouth open, taking in raindrops.

Nicholi turns. Half a face.

While crouched low, I circle him. Hunched, I roam in circles around my patch of land while the rain belts down. I slip, but no, it’s not Nicholi. It’s another, this one nameless. The black soldier, yes, him. One of them; he was my friend though. We shared rations. His first day.

“How long you been out here?”

“Few weeks.” I sniff.

“They say this war’s nearly over.

“’t’s what they say.”

He’s touching my arm. His hand is shaking.

The clouds above rumble. Dark, out in the open, the open plains. Come day the rain will be gone. The clouds here are white like back on Earth. Another soldier runs past. A ghost, for now they are all dead. All but I and the last Grewalda. I can hear it, smell it.

The Hill

So few hills in this world of plains that stretch on forever. Plains with holes and ditches and trenches and in the background trees and mountains. Always in the background. But for this last battle we crawled to these hills for one final stand. The grass here is fresh like home. Mud and flesh.

“This is it, then,” said our sergeant; the latest one. Us, the latest, the last troop.

The Grewalda were growing thin in number. The sky, once so dense in their glory.

This planet must be cleared of all alien life.

So we were sent in to do the job.

Then this, the terminal stand.

There’s a soldier to the left of me, chewing, saying this war began before he was even born. He asks how long I’ve been out here and for the life of me …

Blinking, I wipe a palm at the mossy grass. The muddy, slithery ground. Just me and it now. Up above the twin suns, Solaris 1 and 2 begin to rise. This is when I should do it, for the Grewalda are nocturnal. It’s injured, for God’s sake – it’s lying there bleeding.

Time for this war to end.

I’ll stride over there, leave this hill and over to the next, to the Grewalda’s hill. I can feel the screams, low and muffled; high pitched and out of my range of understanding.

The rain’s stopped. The whole world has melted away by the two rising suns.

A nocturnal species. It’ll be weak and now is the time as I stroke at my weapon.

The Weapon

Daytime and the sky orange. My feet, my boots, I unwrap them, stretch my toes while the weapon, the laser rifle is balanced on my knees. It’s black, like them, like it, behind me. The breathing. The rifle is smooth in parts, thin, yet bulky and … the charger bolts I load into an energy pack fixed to the butt.

I rise, turn.

Striding purposefully down, slipping and sliding down the bank, then scramble back upwards because I heard it again.

“You won’t get me that easily!”

Laughing, I can hear it.

My God. I’m such a fool and it almost had me then. Staring down at the rifle, I realise it’s empty and scrambling through my pack for more bolts, I fix a new one in, then fire up at the sky, screaming.

At daytime the sky is orange. The clouds, like on Earth. My bodysuit is a part of me now. Stuck to, integrated into my skin. For I am the soldier. The last, and it, the last of its kind.

There’s emptiness, silence and I remember how that silence was the worst part of it all. The waiting … waiting for a death that never came while the acid continued to rain down killing human after human. Soldier after soldier, sent here to do a job and by God I have to finish it.

I rise again with new purpose. Blinded.

Food. (I’ve dived down again and am scrambling in the pack for rations, for grey pills. Nutrition. I need power, for one last burst.)

“I’ll kill you, goddammit!” I shout.

And its lack of reply taunts me while I remember them, the lost.

Three Deaths

An old man’s voice as he died, croaked and moaning, but hollowness more than anything else. So rarely I saw them die slowly, and still I held this one in my arms as his last breaths escaped while the fight went on around us. Trampling and soldiers falling to the muddy floor, laser firing up, acid raining down. The sky a blue-black, the flying Grewalda, like giant bats though when they fell they were more like flapping, helpless manta rays – picture the scene with the soldier’s head in my arms, his eyes red and bulging.

Another, mid-conversation. We were running and he turned at me saying we should head east or west or simply, “Over there!” or something but mid-sentence he fell at the floor, half his body gone while I continued and I think there were tears coming down my cheeks and I was screaming, firing up laser bolt after laser bolt, like a madman running in no direction at all like a headless chicken they later said.

The third was longer, drawn out and I say third but there were so many more of course. The worst? I’m telling you, telling me, telling it (still over on its hill behind me).

“These men you killed!”

The third I describe, it took three days for him to die. Only his leg (the right one) had been hit. The rest of the troop were all dead, under the heat of Solaris 1 and 2 they rotted away. This soldier, I never asked his name – he had no chance of making it. Unable to move him, there was very little point in going for help. He urged me to leave him, but …

“Staying with you,” I panted. There was fear in his eyes he didn’t want me to see.

“Why watch me suffer?”

“Help’ll be on its way soon.”

Back Home

In the room, it had glass walls on one side overlooking some sanctuary and the interior was plush, angular. The man behind the desk took my name, smiled quickly and my status was upgraded to soldierwith the promise that when I returned it’d be upgraded again.

“They didn’t say,” I told her later. “Maybe a sweeper.”

“Maybe a sweeper’s guard,” she laughed.

Our last night together and there had been something in her eyes. Her words, they said she’d be waiting but as she watched me depart, she turned at the last minute. She was intelligent, far more so than I.

The turbo train was packed to the hilt with soldiers like me. Fresh uniforms and the kit they’d given to us; the weapons and backpack. The ammunition, the charger bolts would come later but there was excitement in the air.

My parents had been more hopeful. They’d been proud, and I know that even now they’ll be back home waiting and hoping.

“Pray for me,” I told them, clutching my mother’s hand.

The ship out here took four days and months. Time folded, space folded.

And then the plains, the distant mountains, the grass, the night and the blue-black sky filled with screeching Grewalda. The charger bolts, we celebrated!

And one by one we died. Here on this ground so far from home, the twin suns, orange skies. They say the land here is fertile.

“We prepare for the coming invasion!”

A home from home for human kind and us the soldier ants; to this hill for the final battle. The Grewalda were growing thin in number because, pray for us, humankind would win throughout.

Visions; audio

Try to stay calm, though the sounds, most of them from the past but the present sounds too of it behind me. On its hill and I, my back against the grass. An audio of muffled whimpering. It is wounded.

“Hey!” I shout. “Can hear you …” my voice shaken.

Taking a swig from the silver water canister, I look around, ignore the rotting bodies of my fellow comrades and Grewalda alike. What was that?

Heard it again.

The noise is getting closer. I sit bolt upright, listening intently for any further sign that it’s not just my imagination while Solaris 1 and 2 beat down at the grass and mud; further ahead, the mountains.

Then a vision of it scrambling across the grass. They have claws, small and useless for they are flying beasts but dragging itself across the land, wounded and desperate – coming for me, for the last kill.

“Just me and you now,” I murmur. I load up a fresh charger-bolt, the laser rifle loosely hangs at my waist as I stand and turn.

/

I blink and am running into full battle. My rifle shoots bolt after bolt of laser up at the flying Grewalda, the bat-like beasts that, once hit and wounded, flap and scream and dive at the floor and if you’re clever you can hide underneath them. You can watch from afar as your comrades burn and die. Their screams. The acid rains down, from the blanket of flapping bodies up above. The Grewalda soar.

I can hardly see them.

The Last Grewalda

The Grewalda, its tiny claws dragging across the land between my hill and its, like a hunched pterodactyl, slow and steady.

My body shivers and judders. I drop the rifle; bend down to pick it up. My ears are screaming and it’s all I can do to focus. Diving at the floor, I let out a couple of shots.

Stomping, my own feet and then running full pelt. Through rays of sunshine I can see it, God help meand I’m scrambling at the dirt.

I begin to laugh, laugh at it and at myself.

“You’ve got me!” I yell, up at the twin suns.

A shadow and the Grewalda. Its eyes, the eyes of death are bright red and shining. Green alien blood spews over my bodysuit. Their blood is green and like the acid they spurt, deadly to the touch. The bottom half of my face is stinging and I fire again, even though I ran out of charge, what was it, when was it …?

“You’ve got me!” I twist and turn. Its body, I’m underneath the black slimy mass of bat-like wings while around me more soldiers fall.

On a hill.

“Lock and load.”

Re-con

“This is how we found him.”

Muffling.

“Will he recover?”

“Hard to say …”

More muffling. Incomprehensible exchange of conversation in the background.

“He was the last?”

“The last of them, yeah.”

“And the Grewalda?”

“Dead.”

“You sure?”

“Final clear up over a week ago. Re-con picked up nothing.”

“No more soldiers.”

“Not counting the bodies.” (A sound that might be of spitting)

Muffling. A long pause.

“So this is really it?”

“Seems that way, yeah.”

Scuffling sound.

“You hear that?”

Ironic laughter.

“End of the war.”

“Seems that way …”

“And it’s this soldier that killed the last of ’em?”

“Apparently so. (A dull thud).Though we can’t be sure. But … (another thud)… let’s give him that …”

Scuffling. A background of rustling wind.

“A regular hero. He’ll be up for a medal.”

“If he lives long enough …”

“Could patch him up. What d’ya say?”

“For moral you mean?”

“For the ticker-tape parade.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Again the sound that might be of spitting.

“That’s it, then.”

“Lock and load.”

More muffling. Another dull thud, then the roar of an engine.

Due Time by Jonathan Last

 

Due Time

by Jonathan Last

Mitchell Adams chewed his Imitation Wheat Flakes while staring out at the never-ending neon and chrome skyline. It didn’t work. He could still see the reflection of the gestation countdown grid in the dirty window. The bloody thing took up the entire kitchen wall; Mitchell hadn’t been able to enjoy a peaceful breakfast in months – more than nine months, as a matter of fact. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself that tomorrow he would finally rip it down. Because today would be the day, it hadto be. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

The grid cost ten weeks’ wages and had dominated the couple’s attention since the day it had been installed, back when they were still trying to get pregnant. Going out was no escape, thanks to the live feed app on their Z-12s. No doubt this was all good preparation for life with a demanding child, Mitchell mused ruefully.

When he opened his eyes and turned away from the window, his attention was drawn – as it always was, as it was supposedto be – to the grid’s countdown display. The number had changed, of course. The data it pulled in had so many variables that the display was in a continual state of flux. Mitchell couldn’t remember all of the salesbot’s boasts, but the device’s main selling point was that it accessed the latest birth and death statistics on national, local and micro-local levels and was attuned to even the most minor shift in atmospheric pressure. It then fed all of this information, and more, into one central report.

Currently that report read 0d-15h-46m-43s.

Mitchell turned his left hand over and glanced at his palm-grafted Z-12. The time was 07:17 now, so that would make delivery… just after eleven o’clock, nearly midnight. Tight. Too tight. This time last week it had been predicting that the baby would come today with several hours to spare; since then, it had been edging closer to tomorrow, closer to disaster, every time they checked it.

‘Come on, you – let’s get this over with.’

Her voice was croaky; Mitchell looked up as his wife entered the tiny room. She hadn’t slept well again. Sympathy rose through Mitchell, which turned into amusement when he saw the glint in her eye.

‘What?’ he smiled innocently.

‘Let’s hear it.’ Kaylee waddled through the doorway, one hand on her bump as usual.

‘Let me see,’ he said slowly, getting up.

She was waiting, arms crossed.

‘I’m thinking…’

She arched her eyebrows.

‘Swan.’

She frowned. ‘A swan?’

‘Yes,’ he said, moving one arm around her waist and the other across her stomach, ‘because you’re elegant and dignified, but with—’

‘But with a plump middle that I hide well.’

‘Yes.’ She turned her head up and rewarded him with a kiss.

‘Good morning.’

‘And to you.’

He pulled away, and when he was out of range, couldn’t resist adding, ‘I was going to say “hippo” but changed my mind.’

Kaylee gasped and reached out to pinch him, and they both laughed as she only snapped air.

‘What’s this – crab?’

Mitchell realised his mistake in the microsecond before they both felt their left hands buzz.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Kay said as she turned hers over to find out the impact of her husband’s carelessness on her Z-12.

‘Sorry.’

‘I can’t be worrying, on this of all days.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, it was an accident.’ Mitchell turned his own hand over. One of the twelve circles, the one with the crab symbol, now displayed a 1. He sat down at the breakfast bar again but found that he had lost his appetite. ‘It was only one mention, surely you’ll be alright to—’

‘Now I have to worry about it, and I have to re-organise my mentioning plan for the day, and you know I’ve got baby brain.’

‘Yes, I know. Please, kitten, come here.’ She stepped forward and allowed him to cuddle her. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’

‘Today.’

‘Yes, today.’ He stroked her hair.

Then she jerked away and stiffened.

Dread covered Mitchell like a sheet of ice. She must have seen the gestation grid change to an even more pessimistic report. Now she was upset and he’d have to stay and console her and he would be late for work. It didn’t matter how often he reminded Kay that it was only predictingwhen their child would be born, despite all the data it pulled in.

But when she stepped back, it was joy he saw in her face.

‘Look.’ She pointed.

Mitchell turned.

0d-15h-41m-22s.

‘It’s jumped,’ he said with a glimmer of hope. ‘It’s jumped closer, further into today.’

‘Do you think,’ Kaylee turned to him, ‘do you think we’ll be okay? That our little two-X-chrome will be born on time?’

Mitchell stared at the pulsating mass of lines and numbers, the multi-coloured highway that was by now burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

‘I think there’s a good chance,’ he said evenly. Then, with a smile, ‘And I told you, it’s a Y-X-chrome. Not,’ he added quickly, ‘that I have any preference either way.’

‘Nor, of course, do I,’ agreed Kay. They were both speaking with their palms turned up.

Kay arched her eyes at her husband, then she rolled up her sleeve so the grid could take her daily DNA reading, giving it something else to add to its myriad of information.

The Adams lived on the seventy-second floor of a creaking mecca-block in Sector SW16, South London. Towering though it was, their block was not tall enough to have its own rooftop bullet bus stop, which meant that every day Mitchell had to travel all seventy-two storeys down in the packed glass lift, walk a hundred yards to the nearest stop, and then travel up another eighty floors to catch his bus.

The ‘spectacular views’ that the government had promised when it unveiled its plans for the BulBus network had ceased to take Mitchell’s breath away during the five years he’d been using it. And yes, the buses were quick, the air highways turning what used to take an hour into a mere fifteen minutes. But Mitchell hadn’t wantedto speed up his commute. He enjoyed the travel time: it was time to himself, the chance to quietly read, to think. Any snippets of isolation would become even more cherished when the kid came along – according to Bryant at work, who had twins.

And the commute was pretty much the only time Mitchell managed to forget his life’s other great responsibility, the one he’d been cursed with at birth, he and every other soul. Although he should have realised that on today of all days that was going to be impossible.

Mitchell squeezed onto the 133A1 and wedged himself between a fat woman wearing a touch-screen dress and a businessman in a triple-breasted suit. He tapped his Z-12 to load up his book, a historical mystery, flicked to close the ads – and frowned. One ad would not go away; it was going to make him watch it. He glanced up; the bus’s vid screens were all showing the same footage, as were any of the other passengers’ Z-12s that he could see.

The ad shouted in bold yellow letters: HAPPY GOLDEN BALANCISM DAY!

Mitchell scowled.

He had learned to live with the Balancism way of life; it was all he’d ever known, after all, and most of the time he managed to not think about it too much. He’d done okay out of it, too: dull but steady job, lower-middle-, potentially middle-middle-class lifestyle.

But Balancism’s intrusions into day-to-day life were definitely a pain, not least maintaining the twenty-four-hour balance ratio. Like this morning – he knew that his animal game with Kaylee risked them mentioning out loud one of twelve Signs that were associated with animals, but he had started it anyway. Maybe he did it becauseof the danger, as an act of defiance. But now he had got Kay worried, and that wasn’t good in her condition. If they really were going to have a Piscean baby of whichever sex (pre-natal scans were banned because they could be used to influence the balance) then sometime today they would be in a hospital, answering questions from staff, under stress, emotional. It would be hard to watch what they said, to keep from mentioning any of the Signs more often than the others.

The ad on his palm Z-12 was now telling the history of Balancism – even though everyone had had it drummed into them as soon as they’d learned to talk, the government never missed an opportunity to go on about it all over again. Overpopulation on an unmanageable scale had led to more and more variations of race, creed, gender and lifestyle. This meant more perspectives, more opinions, and more things about which people could fight about. After the conflict had reached its catastrophic, global apex, Balancism rose from the ashes. It recognised the twelve core types of person, those that had once been known as the Signs of the Zodiac, which superseded all other classifications – its labels were found to be the ones least likely to cause offence when used to describe an individual or group. All other ways of classifying people were outlawed. The history of persecution was finally over, and maintaining a harmonious balance of each Sign in the population was essential – hence the gestation countdown grids, along with fatality countdown grids – as was making sure that each Sign was spoken out loud or written down an equal number of times by every living person each day – hence Kaylee’s anxiety this morning.

The phrase ‘history of persecution’ that the ad used made Mitchell recall the time when once, during his lunch half-hour, he had come across a group of protestors who were threatening to start World War IV if their demands weren’t met. The Balance Police swooped in with their usual brutal efficiency, but Mitchell had got the gist of the unrest. Some Capricorns wanted the government to acknowledgement how their birth-period once overlapped with an old religious festival at the end of the Gregorian calendar, known as ‘Christmas’. Apparently, back then those born within the earliest days of the Capricorn cycle would receive fewer born-day gifts than other Signs, owing to the fact that their gifts were often combined with those given as part of the religious festival. So the group were after ‘proportional compensation’ for this past oppression.

Mitchell glanced up from his Z-12. They were passing over the Great Monument, down there on the bank of the Thames River. Mitchell barely noticed the grand tribute to Balancism usually, but today it stood out. The enormous concrete disc had had its twelve equal-sized segments painted different colours to mark fifty years of Balancism. Mitchell smirked as he remembered the news report last night that had detailed the national dissatisfaction with the choice of colours. Each of the twelve groups had something to complain about. The Leos were adamant that the Geminis’ yellow was a more fitting shade for their Sign; the Cancers claimed that their purple absorbed sunlight whereas the lighter colours reflected it, making them seem less important. Everyone thought that they were being marginalised and treated unfairly.

Mitchell was aware of a phase that people used to use: ‘life’s not fair’. Maybe that passed muster way back when, but in today’s world such an idea was scandalous. Everything was now completely fair, even and equal – perfectly balanced. The government had the statistics to prove it.

Mitchell’s palm buzzed. He immediately knew what the message would be about.

Due time’s gone up again! Can’t stop checking every two seconds!!

Mitchell sighed. Was the stress that the contraption caused worth its so-called reassurances? It didn’t actually influence when their child would be born, and in fact its predictions could very well be completely arbitrary. Mitchell had heard rumours that, pre-Balancism, doctors used to not only estimate the due time but were authorised to medically induce a child if they saw fit! But this was before there were population stats displayed on the side of every building. And it was definitely before the unavoidable adverts that bellowed things like London needs Pieces, do your duty!and Too many Aries, keep the balance!The Signs went in and out of favour but the ads’ imagery was consistent. Depicted was either a well-to-do family with a new-born being showered with gifts by well-wishers, or a family dressed in rags being cast out of their home, the Balance Police pursuing them with their electro-clubs.

Mitchell turned back to his palm and tapped out his return message.Try not to worry.Then, with a grimace, he added, Balance will be.

After a pause, he received a one-word reply: Chicken.

Mitchell smiled wanly, then replied: No – sheep.

Mitchell squeezed off the BulBus onto the roof of the Ministry of Balance headquarters. It was London’s most lauded building: an equal-sided dodecagon, made entirely of steel-glass to honour the transparent truth of Balancism. The Ministry proudly declared itself to be the most balanced place in the whole country: not only in terms of employing an equal spread of Signs, but with every other conceivable facet, no matter how minor. The air temperature was consistent; the desks were all identical; even the number of pieces of toilet paper in each roll in each cubicle of each bathroom was monitored and kept the same.

Mitchell’s department, According Representation, was buried deep within that grandiose exterior. He entered the lift, nodding hellos to colleagues, and descended eighty-seven floors to five below street level in less than a minute. The doors opened and he stepped out into the first of several bare-walled corridors, plodding his way along and nodding further hellos as he went.

Halfway up the final corridor he was met with his first friendly face.

‘Alright, Mitch,’ said Bryant. He was carrying two cups of near-coffee and handed one over.

‘Cheers, mate.’

Each man took a sip with his right hand. Mitchell scratched his hairline with his other hand, palm out toward Bryant. His friend adjusted his collar, exposing his own palm to Mitch in return. The gestures were well-rehearsed and furtive, too brief to draw any attention but lingering long enough for both to see what the other had to show him.

Mitchell nodded to himself, then asked, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. Bit of a sore head.’

‘Must be all that over-analysing you do – classic Virgo.’

‘Ha, more like I was too stubborn and wouldn’t refuse a drink – like a Taurus, you could say.’

‘Diplomatic as ever – anyone would think you were a Libra.’

‘Well, my advice to you, my friend, is to have a Sagittarian’s positive outlook. Especially regarding your expected bundle of joy.’ Bryant paused, frowned. ‘I’m sure it will be before midnight, mate.’

Mitchell looked at him. ‘Thanks, mate. If not, you can have the rest of my canteen tokens.’

‘They won’t—’

‘They will, mate. You know they will.’

Bryant nodded. ‘Balance will be,’ he said, one eyebrow raised.

But Mitchell offered only a weak smile by way of reply. Then he patted his friend on the arm and resumed the walk to his cubicle. Bryant moved on towards the non-fiction department. Both examined their palms as they went.

Mitchell didn’t find his job very fulfilling, but it was possible to lose himself in the work. He’d always liked reading, and now he did it for a living, sometimes famous pieces – and what’s more, he got to edit them.

Today he leaned over his screen and resumed working on a novel from the popular early 21stcentury conspiracy thriller genre, this one involving corruption in a sport called ‘football’. The main character spent the story straining to make sense of events around him, so naturally Mitchell described him as Scorpioian. But not too often, since this necessitated inserting the same number of references to each of the other eleven Signs across more than sixty thousand words. Keeping track could be a nightmare.

Figuring out how to amend pre-Balancism texts in ways that read naturally wasn’t easy and Mitchell needed to concentrate. Interruptions from Kay didn’t help, and today his Z-12 was buzzing like crazy. She was still obsessed with the due time; Mitchell replied as politely but bluntly as he could throughout the day between switching sentences about loyalty to be about devoted Leos and changing the insult ‘two-faced’ to ‘like a Gemini’.

Then, just as he was logging off, Kaylee video called him.

‘It’s being a difficult bugger.’ The doctor looked up at them and grinned. ‘Whichever chromosomes it has.’

Kay and Mitchell, she in a hospital gown on a gurney, he holding her hand, both smiled weakly.

‘Doesn’t want to do what it’s told – like an Aries, one might say.’ The man glanced at his left palm while pretending to adjust a dial next to the bed.

‘Doctor,’ Kay wheezed. ‘The last thing we want is for the baby to be an—to be one of those.’

‘Ah yes, I see.’ The doctor consulted his Z-12 again. ‘It’s eleven thirty-seven. I would advise you to prepare for the worst.’

‘Is there any way—can’t you make sure that—’

‘What my wife means,’ (Mitchell shot her a severe look) ‘is that perhaps she could be made more comfortable to help balance take its course?’

The cold expression that had consumed the doctor’s face melted back to a jovial mask. ‘Certainly. A midwife will be right with you.’

The doctor left to attend to another patient. Now alone, Kaylee returned Mitchell’s harsh look.

‘What?’ he said. ‘You want to get us thrown in jail?’

‘You should have bribed him. Everyone knows they can still induce. I read on MumsChat that—oh, oh!’

‘Shh, duckling,’ Mitchell whispered while Kaylee rode the contraction, gripping her husband tightly.

‘Mitchell… what if it istoo late? What will happen to us?’

Mitchell’s face hardened. ‘I don’t know. But we’ll be fine. Whatever happens, I promise you, we will be fine.’

‘My loyal Labrador.’

‘Shh, panda.’ He rubbed her forehead and kissed her hand.

‘Feels—more intense this time—I think—Mitchell, I think this is it!’

Mitchell let go of her and spun around, just as the doctor and two midwives burst in.

Mitchell let the professionals work, his hand never leaving Kay’s. Every few seconds his eyes shifted to his Z-12.

23:42.

The contractions came; the midwives told Kaylee to push.

23:43.

The midwives announced that baby had entered the birthing canal.

23:46.

More contractions, more pushing.

23:49.

The midwives told them that baby was crowning.

23:52.

But baby just didn’t want to come out.

In his mind’s eye, Mitchell saw the dreaded advertisement. The man and the woman being forced out were he and Kaylee: she cradled a bawling new-born while he tried to shield them from the Balance Police’s weapons and the missiles being thrown by their friends and neighbours.

23:54.

Maybe they could run. Maybe, if they got to the roof, jumped in a helicab...

22:55.

Or he could redress the balance himself – trawl the hospital, find some elderly Aries patient, push a pillow into his face and hold it there...

‘It’s coming. Come on, one big push!’

And Mitchell watched the midwife pull a wriggling purple thing out of Kaylee and before he knew what was happening, he was staring into a screwed-up, angry little face.

A beautiful little face, staring up at him from a bundle in his arms.

He found his wife’s hand again.

‘Congratulations, you have a healthy baby with two X chromosomes.’

Mother and father were overjoyed.

But only for a second.

‘The time!’ Mitchell almost dropped the bundle. ‘What’s the time of birth?’

‘Eleven fifty-eight,’ a midwife told him. ‘A much-needed Pisces child. Well done, Mrs Adams. In the name of Balancism, we thank you.’

The exhausted Kaylee pulled an it-was-nothing face.

‘Happy Golden Balancism Day,’ the other midwife said.

‘Yes,’ laughed Mitchell, preparing to pass the baby to Kay, ‘Happy—’

But something was wrong.

Kaylee cried out. The midwives sprang into action.

‘What—what is it?’ Mitchell stammered.

‘She’s not done yet.’ The midwife took the now-silent new-born from Mitchell and placed him in a cot.

Kay screamed. This one, it seemed, was not so reluctant to come out.

Mitchell stepped backwards slowly as the midwives worked around him in a blur.

‘Mitchell!’ Kaylee cried, her hand grasping for his.

But her husband was moving further and further away.

When his back touched the door, it was all over.

And silent.

Nothing could be said. But one of the midwives managed, ‘I’m sorry.’

Kaylee wept.

Mitchell exhaled slowly. When he looked up at her, Kaylee was staring at him with dead eyes.

He had shown his heart and his world had changed. The few feet he travelled back had left him a million miles away.

The surviving twin started to cry.

Jonathan Last is the author of the novel The Great Football Conspiracy and the memoir Teaching with Chopsticks: TEFL from the Frontline. 

BookSpot - Losers in Space by Scott Pixello

 

BookSpot - Losers in Space by Scott Pixello

Although the humour is a little silly at times, there are plenty of laugh out loud moments and I found this to be a very cosy, enjoyable read. Comparable to the Red Dwarf books, which is no mean feat.

Training astronauts requires a nation’s brightest and best. But what happens when the world has no brightest or best? Just a washed-up pilot, a young computer programmer and a garbage collector? It’s not exactly rocket science.

This is science-fiction but not as we know it.

Code Red

 

Code Red

by Chris Morton

McCain took a can of freestone peach halves from the bottom drawer of the desk; from deeper inside he extracted an opener and for nothing less than three minutes, wrestled with the can. He had large hands, and like his arms they were covered in dense black hair; his forehead furrowed beneath thick black eyebrows, his spectacles slid forward and a globe of spit formed on the right side of his rather fat red lips.

“Damned contraption …”

On the left of the desk’s surface were six blue pencils, neatly sharpened and laying on top of a shallow pile of light brown folders. The center of the desk was smooth, shiny – a shadow of the bumping can stretched and wavered – while on the right was a typewriter, a heavily loaded ashtray and a dark green telephone attached to a set of buzzers.

From outside, busy car horns filtered through a half-opened window. Commuters and evening vendors; the muffled hustle of a city on which the sun had now set.

“Goddammit!”

McCain hit at one of the buzzers.

“Ginnie, could you get in here?”

A tall woman entered the room. Gangly, and though not unattractive, she was nowhere near as bewitching as many of these young girls could be.

“The can?”

McCain murmured in response and the woman came over to his desk, bending down across him.

“Can’t seem to –”

“Yes, they can be a pain,” she said. “The trick is to hold it here.”

The can opened.

“There.”

The woman stepped back. Beneath her a large tartan carpet covered most of the tiled floor – to their left was a whiskey cabinet with ice and server.

“Shall I …?”

“Much obliged.”

The woman, Ginnie strode over to the said cabinet.

“You’ll have one?” McCain asked.

“Not for me, thank you all the same.” She turned, a crystal tumbler having magically appeared in her clasp. A good measure of murky spirit – behind her a portrait of Eisenhower hung with a strained smile to match McCain’s own.

“You should get home.”

“I will, I will. You know how it is. Long day.”

Ginnie placed the tumbler beside the can of peaches. “Shall I get you a spoon?”

“Of course. I mean, yes, of course. Can’t seem to think …”

“And the evening paper?”

“We’ve a copy here?”

“I’ll check.”

Ginnie left the room, returning with a spoon and information that the paper would arrive shortly from downstairs. She hovered for a moment, watching McCain’s glass.

“Would you like another?”

“Not yet.” He waved away her offer; loosening his tie, he leaned back in his chair. “Just the paper, and get yourself off. Catch yourself a hot date.”

“Thank you, Mr. McCain. Shall I organize a cab?”

“No need, no need.” He waved her away again, though not rudely: there seemed in fact, by all appearances to be an understanding between them. Almost as if they were going through a routine.

“Right you are.”

McCain was left alone.

“Long day indeed,” he mumbled.

He stood and quickly made over to the cabinet; poured himself another slug, then returning to his seat, made sure he’d drunk just enough to make it look as if he hadn’t got a second. When Ginnie opened the door again, this time bringing in the paper, his cheeks were reasonably flushed.

“I’ll get off then.”

“Yes, yes, good-night.”

He still hadn’t touched the peaches – something which Ginnie noticed but failed to mention as she gave him a nod and left the room once more.

McCain opened the paper. Just one of those things. Without glancing at the first page, he opened it randomly. What exactly he’d been hoping to find, he couldn’t have said – but almost as if he’d shifted into a new light; awake, finally, from the morbid clout of nothing, his world began to spin.

“My God.”

He reached for the buzzer.

“Ginnie, get in here.”

His secretary returned, this time wearing a coat of purple fur over what had been a flat green dress.

“Yes?”

“Get me Barrel on the line.”

“Barrel…?”

“Yes, Barrel. And make it snappy!”

“Right you are.”

Ginnie turned back. “Is this important?”

“You’re goddamn right this is …” McCain paused. “Just get me through to Barrel and be off. I’ll handle this.”

Their eyes met.

“I’ve got this,” McCain repeated. “You go see to that date.” McCain ran four fingers through his hair. “Probably nothing,” he murmured, this time more lightly. “Need to check something …”

McCain made to start at his peaches, though once Ginnie had left the room, he focused on the paper, on what he’d seen; his hands were shaking.

American ‘pioneers’ fail again to reach the moon. Fourth attempt this year ends in premature engine shutdown. Simple bad luck or suspicions of corruption justified? See tomorrow’s paper for our exclusive interview with NASA representative, A. T. McCain …

The words appeared in small print between a financial article on the rising price of inner city estate and an advert for bleaching detergent.

A light on the switchboard flashed.

McCain picked up the phone whilst at the same time removing his spectacles.

“Barrel?”

“McCain.” (The voice was firm and sharp.)

“You seen the evening edition?” said McCain with equal authority in his tone.

“Not yet,” came the answer. “Anything I should be worried about?”

“You could say that.”

McCain placed the receiver back down, cutting off the call. He stood and went over to the cabinet, mixing up another whiskey; once seated again, he began on his peaches.

The phone rang.

“Yes?”

“McCain,” said the voice. “We may have a problem.”

“You’re goddamn right we do,” McCain mumbled, chewing and swallowing.

There was a pause. Then: “You’d like to find out who did this?”

“I wanna strangle them,” replied McCain.

“You serious?”

“Of course I am.”

Another pause.

“You mean an assassination, a code red?”

“That’s your call, Barrel.”

“And you’re … look, McCain, I have to ask. You sure you didn’t –”

“What do you take me for? Damn it, it’s as much my job as anyone’s to see the true nature of the Pioneer missions doesn’t get out … why photographing the moon at this present time …” His voice suddenly rose. “You think I did an interview? For Pete’s sake, this isn’t even an article. It’s bait, I tell you. A frame.”

“Okay, okay,” came the reply. “But you know a lot of people will be –”

“Worried, yeah, I know.” McCain coughed. “Which is exactly why I need it dealt with and fast. Whoever set this up, I want them found and dealt with before …”

“Before your position is reviewed?”

McCain breathed heavily. “Reviewed,” he repeated with a fair amount of irony. “My God, Barrel, how much time do you think I have?”

There was silence as the magnitude of that question began to form.

“McCain, I’ll vouch for you.”

“Like that’ll do any good.”

“McCain …”

“Yeah.”

“The code red, I’ll put it through. But there’ll also be –”

“Sure.” McCain replaced the receiver, his eyes looking tired. Pushing the peaches to one side, he reached for the whiskey, then leaned back in his chair.

The fan in the ceiling whirled slowly and it was all of five minutes until the phone rang again.

“Yes?”

“I understand you’d like some information.”

“Yes, yes, I … who is this?”

“Name’s not important,” said the rough voice. “My assistance was requested. You are Allen McCain. I hear you’d like to track down a reporter …”

“Yes.” McCain stood, still holding the receiver. He picked up the phone and went over to the window. Opening a slat in the blind with two fingers, he took in the dark street below. A phone booth opposite the building with a hunched figure inside. Wide hat and long coat.

“Just need you to confirm.”

The figure turned around fully, looking up at the window – though there was no way he could have seen him.

“What information do you have?”

“That an article has appeared in the newspaper on your desk, and you’d like to take care of the source.”

“No, not an article.” McCain squinted. “It was just …”

“We can find who wrote it.”

“You can?” McCain stammered. “How fast?”

“We work quickly.”

“How?” McCain’s face brightened somewhat.

“We have contacts,” said the voice. “It’ll be easy enough to trace.”

“Well, whoever it is, they need to be dealt with.”

“It’s our business.” The man in the phone booth turned away. “You’ll hear from one of us shortly.”

“Right … right you are.” There was a flash of lightning and McCain jumped back. Three seconds later the distant sound of rumbling, then the pitter-patter of rain hitting hard at the window.

McCain watched the figure stride purposefully along to the next block, tightening his coat, one hand up to his hat.

When the figure disappeared, McCain began to laugh – deep and from the belly; low, rumbling with a hint of mania.

All of a sudden, the phone rang – McCain almost dropped it, jumping for the second time in the same minute.

“Yes?”

“Allen …”

Still by the window, McCain swayed ever so slightly. Moving slowly back to the chair, he managed to sit down.

He placed the phone on the desk.

“Allen, are you there?”

“Sure.”

“You all right?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Fine, Joan. How are things?”

McCain, switching the receiver from right hand to left, reached into his breast pocket with his one free hand. He pulled out a packet of Lucky Strikes, expertly managing to extract a cigarette and light it in one swift motion (that also involved taking the zippo from his right waist pocket).

“Allen, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Wouldn’t I?” McCain let out a puff of smoke.

“The day I’ve had. I don’t know where to start.”

“Sure …”

“First the car, then the neighbor’s dog; that godawful Rottweiler, what do they call that thing? Some ridiculous –”

“No idea.” McCain coughed.

“Pitcher, that’s it. If you ask me …”

“Ask you what?”

“… stupid name, that’s all.”

“Right.”

“Yes, okay, Allen, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all my troubles.”

“No, no, go on,” McCain replied, drawing on his cigarette, eyes distant. “What did, what did Pitcher do this time?”

“You think I’m calling you up to chat about the neighbor’s dog?”

McCain moved in his seat, stubbing out the cigarette. “No idea,” he drawled.

“Allen.”

“Yep?”

“It’s Rosie. She got into a fight again.”

“Again?”

“With a boy.”

“A boy, eh?”

“And you can stop smirking,” the voice said, guessing the expression on McCain’s face. “It’s the third time this year and they want … they’ve requested that we go there. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“The both of us.”

McCain shifted. “Can’t Tom –”

“No, Allen. It’s her father they want to see. Things are awkward enough already. For her. I’ve no wish to go parading –”

“No, quite. I understand.” McCain was looking at the paper, a right forefinger gently resting against his typed name. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes, in the morning. You can’t get here for –”

“No, no, I’ll make it.”

The voice huffed. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Never better.”

“… Well, I’ll be off then. You want to speak to Rosie?”

“She not sleeping?” McCain asked.

“I doubt it. Reads till the sun comes up. Thinks I don’t know …”

Behind, from the window, there was another flash of lightning.

“It raining there?”

“Like hellfire.”

“Tom with you?”

“Allen, you know he is.”

“Of course.” McCain huffed. “And you’re exaggerating, right?”

“Exagg–?”

“About Rosie.”

“The fight?”

“Till the sun comes up.”

“Yes, I mean … you want to speak to her or not?”

“No, no. I’ll see her tomorrow. Eight o’clock, you say.”

“Allen, you sound tired.”

“Fine, I told you.”

“You need to get home, Allen. Your health. When was the last time you had a check-up?”

“On my way. See you in the morning, Joan.”

McCain stood from the chair, then hesitated before putting the receiver down. He lifted it again to his ear but the line was dead – he stared at the now dormant contraption, mouth open as if there had been more to say; something he’d forgotten; something that had slipped his mind.

Huffing, McCain went once more to the whiskey cabinet, mixed himself a new drink; this time with a hefty measure of sloshed ice. “Fight with a boy,” he murmured. He smirked again, then turned at the window. “Come and get me,” he wheezed.

The phone rang and he let it. Three, four rings.

Slowly, calmly, McCain paced back to the desk.

“Yes?”

“Allen Thomas McCain. Forty-seven. Divorced. Bachelor in physics, first class.”

“Who is this?”

“Works within the Seers conglomerate. A cog. Though of course that’s merely a cover. Information tells us that McCain is working for NASA, though we’re having some trouble in determining what exactly he does for them.”

“What do you want?” McCain spat. Sweat had begun to form on his brow. “Who are you? How did you get this number?”

“A friend,” replied the voice – high pitched with the twang of an out of town accent.

“What do you want?”

“You asked for information.”

“I asked … who is this?”

“The source.”

“The article?” McCain spouted, his voice getting angrier.

“We have reason to believe that an interview was conducted with an A. T. McCain, as stated.”

“Impossible,” said McCain, pulling at the telephone chord in agitation.

“Five foot eight,” the voice continued. “Jet black hair, with a double helping of gray; short back and sides; wears dark-rimmed, tinted spectacles with thick lenses; stocky in build; a preference for Italian suits – resides at 421 Park Avenue, though owns a much larger property in Rhode Island. There’s a daughter, Rose who lives with her mother and a man who has yet to become –”

“Goddammit, yes, that’s me you’re describing. So what of it?”

“Just passing on the message,” the voice said. “We take it you will not be ordering –”

“Ordering what?”

Nothing was said for a moment. McCain breathed, the voice breathed.

“It’s your call.”

“What do you mean my call? You think I’m gonna request my own …?”

McCain’s hands were shaking, his face becoming redder.

“We thought as much.”

“What kind of a two-bit outfit are you?!” McCain began to shout.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Don’t shoot?! By God, I’ll …”

The line went dead and McCain punched at the desk – he immediately clutched his right fist, inspecting the damage as the phone burst into life once more.

McCain went for it; almost busted it.

“Goddammit, I’ll kill you!”

“Allen?”

“God …” McCain began to convulse. “Joan, I didn’t –”

“Allen,” the woman’s voice stammered. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, fine, sorry,” McCain, forced himself to relax, somehow pushing the words into a calmer tone; one palm on the desk for support; his damaged hand still holding the receiver. “Joan –”

“Who did you think I was?”

“Nobody. Just, nobody; what do you want, Joan?”

“Nothing. Maybe I shouldn’t have –”

“Out with it.”

“Now there’s no need –”

“Dammit Joan!”

The line went dead.

Standing there stupidly, McCain appeared too angry to know what to do next. His dark shoes dug into the tartan carpet. Eisenhower smiled down.

“Got to be some kind of goddamn joke …”

McCain hit at one of the buzzers. “Ginnie …” then remembering she was gone, he hit the buzzer again, missed and the whole board lit up. “Damned …”

McCain began scrambling at the whole thing erratically, then stepped back, bewildered as the phone began to pulsate.

Outside a series of car horns started up in excited symphony.

“Yes?”

“McCain.”

“Barrel. Damn it, Barrel, what the hell is this all about?”

“You tell me.” The reply was calm, yet firm.

McCain stood straighter, sweating and breathing heavily. He hesitated, stumbled, and tried to think up an answer that would at least make some sense.

“Look, man. What exactly was the plan?”

“Now you listen to me,” McCain answered. “I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. You have my word.”

“It’s too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?”

“We’ve killed the publication. It won’t be printed. But … only a select few know why the Pioneer missions are being corrupted. If it were to get out –”

“But it won’t.”

“McCain, I’m sorry. You know how it is.”

“You’re sorry? Dammit, Barrel!”

“I’ll see that Joan is taken care of.”

“Barrel, I’m pleading with you. Just give me more time. I can prove it wasn’t me. I’ve got no,” McCain clutched at the phone, “Barrel, why would I? What would I have to gain?”

“Gotta admit,” said Barrel. “I was surprised. What was it? You get cold feet?”

“Barrel, I’m telling you.” McCain was desperate. “All that I know. All these years. I was there, at Roswell, by damn! Why now would I –”

“McCain … I can’t. It’s already been decided. Just wanted to let you know,” the voice, ironically, seemed to have grown warmer, “No hard feelings and all that.”

“It was an impostor, I tell you. A setup. One of them.”

“One of?”

“Damned commies. You know how it is.”

“I see. The Russians.”

“Yeah, the Russians; who do you think I meant? Damn it, they’re framing me.”

“The commies.”

“Yeah, the … now wait just a minute, Barrel. It’s only one source says that I talked but I’ve been tried and convicted –”

“A hint is all it takes. You know that as well as I do.”

McCain’s breaths began to speed up. “Barrel! By God!” He was overcome with rage. “We’re the ones in power here! Men like us. We’ve made sacrifices. Shown loyalty!”

The voice breathed, not responding.

“So that’s how it is then! They put us in charge but at the end of the day, we’re just as expendable as anyone?!”

“Look, McCain. We have to accept, there is a bigger picture.”

“A bigger …? This is my life we’re talking about! What do you want, dammit? What do they …? What would it take?!” McCain scolded. “If that’s how it is, I’ll tell it all now. Let the world know!” he began to laugh like a madman. “Barrel!” but the line was dead.

A silence.

McCain fell into the chair; the phone, hanging off its hook, dangling beside him.

“Goddamn … setup.”

* * * * *

The door of McCain’s office opened with the silhouette of a large man coming into view. The man stood facing McCain, and even in the semi darkness (for the outside office was barely lit) this man, in appearance was not at all unlike McCain himself.

“So here it is then,” McCain muttered, not yet focusing. Tired and worn, his collar and tie loose now, his whole face and neck were blotched in red marks. His glasses were on the desk beside the smoking ashtray, beside the phone and typewriter; beside the folders and pencils. The whiskey bottle stood next to the still unfinished can of peaches; unashamedly in full view. “So here you are, then,” McCain repeated, swirling the fingers of his right hand in irony. “Better get on with it.”

“Any last words, my friend?” said the man, stepping forward to McCain. In his right hand was a small black gun with silencer.

“Yeah,” McCain replied, looking up lazily. “Give my love to Joan and Rosie.”

“I’ll take good care of them, rest assured.”

Their eyes met: McCain’s and the eyes of his killer. A set of eyes he knew from somewhere. “My God,” McCain stammered. “What … what the hell is this?”

But for a fleeting moment he seemed to understand. A doppelganger. To be, not eliminated, but replaced. What the code red was – what it always had been for those in positions such as his. The authority he had … the knowledge …

“Time to say good-night.”

A flash inside the office and McCain’s body slid to the carpet.

The man walked over to the window, carefully pulling it shut. He turned, tucking his weapon away while from the picture on the wall, Eisenhower gazed across, smiling.

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.He has released two sci-fi novels,one collection of short storiesand a few other scribblings.You can find his amazon page  here. 

Art - Colin Hay

 Art - Colin Hay 

Exiles on Asperus

The Steam-driven

The Atomic House

Stowaway to Mars

Flying House

Art - Colin Hay

Art - Colin Hay 

Exiles on Asperus

The Steam-driven

The Atomic House

Stowaway to Mars

Flying House