Chris’s Comments (group member since Nov 04, 2015)

Chris’s comments from the Science Fiction Microstory Contest group.

Tom wrote: "As long as there's no profit involved, there's no danger of copyright infringement, at least not in any actionable sense. True?"

I pretty sure that's correct. As long as there's no profit to be made, you're fine. People do fan fiction all the time. Even Disney, a staunch copyright enforcer, doesn't go after one-offs, especially if they're not for profit.

Congrats Carrie! Two in a row! Nice!

Carrie wrote: "Bahaha @Chris! Loved your story! Absolutely fantastic twist. As soon as the reveal happened I thought "oh no" and then I thought "hell yeah"! hahaha"

Thanks so much Carrie!

Tom wrote: "We're gettin' the band back together. Welcome back, Chris. I've missed you. Nice combination of narrative and dialogue."

Thanks, Tom.

Justin wrote: "Great stories Chris and Tom! Tom, yours was scary! Even for a short story the terror was real.

Chris, nice to see you back this month! Great action! I liked the trap twist. The writing was tight ..."

Thanks, Justin. I really appreciate it!

Jot wrote: "Welcome back, Chris. Great to have you!"

It's nice to get some time to actually write something for a change!

I've also been seriously slacking, but was able to get a story in this month too. Hopefully I can get back in the swing of things and keep them coming!

It’s a Trap

Ora was the farthest star system from Nebulus XI, and still within Interplanetary Union space. A faint distress beacon drew us out to the edge, and we dropped from the fold into a field of debris, a shipyard’s worth of scrap floating through the void.

I leaned into my armrest with some trepidation, studying the detritus as it intermittently blocked out the distant Oran suns and the starfield beyond. “What’ve we got?”

“Scanning the field,” my tactical man, Santacruz, replied. The two of us had just broken into a bottle of Altian rum when we picked up the call. “Registering an equivalent of over seventy-two million metric tons of debris,” he said.

“Jesus, that’s a lot of wreckage. How many ships?”

“Difficult to say. None, is the most accurate answer, at least nothing intact, but I’m looking at various hull components from nearly thirty-seven civilizations.”

“A battle? This field isn’t on any charts.”

“Maybe. There’re signs of blast marks and vaporizations, but it’s really tough to tell because every bit of it looks to have been totally stripped of any valuable tech.”

“And the Vigilant’s transponder?”

“In there,” he replied. “Somewhere.”

“I’m bringing us in,” I said, easing our ship into the field. Dense with fractured alloys, shattered composites, and twisted steel, only hardened skeletal remains hinted at any previous function for what was left of these vessels. “Life signs?”

“Nothing,” Santacruz replied. “I’m not even picking up any bodies.”

“Sounds like scavs,” I realized. “After three years in one of their sickening encampments, I know that if you’re not alive, they’ll recycle what’s left of you, even when you’re dead. The IPU’s been trying to crack this ring for years now.” Pulling past the remains of an old shuttle, I asked, “Still no beacon?”

“Not y…wait, there it is.” He motioned forward of the ship.

“Is that it?” I marveled. “Hard to believe, from what’s left of it.”

The frame of the Vigilant floated lifelessly amongst the collected debris. Stripped of its plating, internal girders and pylons were just about all that was left. Its lepton engines had been cut away, along with any defensive turrets, grav-plating, energy dampeners, and shield emitters, leaving only the tiniest remnant of a vessel absent anything at all that could otherwise make up a functioning ship.

Drifting around our target, I discovered, “Some of the bridge looks intact. I’m going over there.”

“Why? That’s not part of the directive.”

“I want to see if anything can tell us what’s actually happening here.”


**********


The whir-hiss of my recycler had an annoying click to it. Magniboots engaged, and I locked onto the broken substructure. “Well, there’s pretty much nothing here.”

“Of course not. Scavs don’t leave much.”

Out of nowhere, an object drifted past me, and I snatched it up – an old-fashioned paper journal, bound with a leather cover. “Found something. Looks like an old log book.” The journal was embossed with the name of the ship, Vigilant, along with a rendering of the vessel.

“Can you read it? How did they end up here?”

I gingerly turned the pages. “Looks like they arrived here for the same reason we did – following up on a distress beacon. Huh, that’s ironic.”

“What is?”

“The last log entry.” I ran my fingers along the words. “It’s a trap.” A light from a hidden recess suddenly flashed beside me and stars began disappearing in the distance. A small fleet of ships, scraggly and pieced together, dropped from jumpspace, heading right for us. I grinned and closed the book. “It certainly is.”

“Cap, we have over a dozen scav vessels closing in.”

“Damn. I was hoping it would be a lot more,” I remarked. “We’re getting’ paid per ship, after all.” I switched to long range comms. “Looks like the party’s started. You guys can join us anytime. Oh, and make sure your jump suppressors are active this time. Can’t have them slipping away like that Melferion job.”

Nearly twice as many additional ships immediately flashed in behind the scavs, powerful and glistening like new in the nearest suns, each tagged with the IPU crest.

“They’re all yours,” I announced. “And I’ll expect our bounty within the next rotation.”

“You’ll get your credits as promised,” the Union navy commander confirmed. “Oh, and nice work.”

“Always a pleasure. Be sure to give ‘em an extra punch in the gut for me, will you?”

Congrats, Jack!

Paula wrote: "Offhand, this is the very best collection of stories on this site in the past few years. In my opinion, anyhow. And what a theme---ah, finally just got one in even though it's been a crazy week on ..."

Thanks Paula! Glad you were able to get a story in this month!

Okay. Mine's up. Not my best. Just a simple story.

Beep

‘Beep.’

It was elusive, a sound some might almost ignore. Still, there it was, somewhere in the house, like an old smoke detector on a low battery. It wasn’t constant, and would only ping intermittently, seldom enough, in fact, that I had a hard time localizing it.

At first, I thought it to be coming from somewhere outside. I even purposefully spent some extra time in my yard, just to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. Nothing. Not a ping, but when I stepped back inside, there it was.

‘Beep.’

An old Victorian, I’d bought the house because it sat atop the highest point in town, with ample view of the bay and the ocean just beyond it. The previous owner must have taken pretty good care of the place, despite a layer of dust, and it seemed more or less accurate to the period. Four bedrooms and two bathrooms were only updated with the simplest of modern conveniences. A fully stocked, floor to ceiling library was an extra bonus, and all of it wrapped in a classical exterior of finely painted gingerbread.

‘Beep.’

It became an irritating annoyance. I checked the smoke alarms, for which there were only two, replacing their batteries just to be sure. Honestly, they never made a peep, but my little reminder continued to wear on my nerves. Of course, I hardly slept, for just as I’d be on the verge, I’d hear the familiar beep which would bring me back to full alert again.

So, I developed a plan and decided to spend extended periods in each room, trying to localize the source. Beginning with the bedrooms, I worked my way downstairs. It certainly grew louder the closer I got to the first floor and toward the back of the house.

‘Beep.’

I searched the main level in vain until I noticed something peculiar about the wall between the kitchen and library. It was several feet thicker than it should have been. I reasoned there to be a cavity between the two. How to reach it, became the conundrum.

The choice came between breaking though the bare wall in the kitchen or breaking through the shelves in the library. I chose the former. So, with sledgehammer in hand, I busted through the lathe and plaster.

‘Beep!’

Much louder now, I peered into the blackened cavity. Only then, did I discover a secret door from the library side with a cable release leading to that room. The damage done, I climbed inside and found a tiny glowing object resting upon the floor. I blew the dust away to reveal strange illuminated symbols surrounding a central button. A flash and…

‘Beep!’

I pressed the button. “Stand by,” the little device said.

“Okay?”

Not long after, a tiny virtual man in a finely pressed uniform with a curled mustache materialized above the device. “Elminer B’akis?” the man asked.

“Uh, no,” I answered. “This is Barry.”

“Where is B’akis?” he wondered.

“I don’t know any Bakis. It’s, uh, just me - Barry.”

“This is highly irregular!” the man said. “Has he escaped? Did you help him?”

“Like I said, I don’t know any Bakis.”

“Well, this planet is slated for destruction and his sentence, commuted!”

“Sentence?” I wondered.

“Very harsh indeed – stranded without resources amongst a pre-warp society. Anyhow, we need him to prepare for extraction. This portal will transport him to a new apartment in the galactic capital, where he is permitted to begin a new life. Evacuation is requested before the planet is destroyed.”

Suddenly, an illuminated doorway formed before me, a totally different room on the other side.

“And by destroyed, you mean…?”

“The Earth and its system have been rezoned for an intergalactic waterpark. So, please, can you get Mr. B’akis for me?”

“And, by rezoned you mean totally destroyed?”

“I thought I was being clear,” he replied, irritated.

Then I realized, Elminer B’akis – Elmer Baker – the estate I’d bought the house from. He died; lived there for like a hundred years. Shame about that thing with the elephant.

“So, let me make sure I understand, the Earth is about to be destroyed and I should send Elminer Bakis through this portal thing here.”

“If you’d be so kind,” the man said.

“And he won’t die? He’ll get a new life on the other side?”

The man nodded.

“Ok. Will do,” I agreed. “I’ll send him right through.”

“Appreciations. Thank so much,” the man said, then flashed away.

So, I stepped through.

Paula wrote: "Great one, Chris. Really."

I figured I'd keep it simple with a broader theme. Hopefully it will encourage more participation, too.

This month's theme: Stranded or Abandoned

(That's it.)

This month's theme: Stranded or Abandoned

(That's it.)

Just a reminder, and in case we get some new participants...

To help polish our skills and present a flavor of our art to other members in the group, I am continuing this friendly contest for those who would like to participate. There is no money involved, but there is also no telling what a little recognition and respect might generate. The rules are simple:

1) The story needs to be your own work and should be posted on the goodreads (GR) Discussion board, which is a public group. You maintain responsibility and ownership of your work to do with as you please. You may withdraw your story at any time.

2) The stories must be 750 words or less.

3) The stories have to be science fiction, follow a specific theme and potentially include reference to items as requested by the prior month's contest winner.

4) You have until midnight EST on the 22nd day of the month to post your story to the GR Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion. One story per author per month.

5) After, anyone from the LI Sci-Fi group or the GR Science Fiction Microstory Discussion group has until midnight EST of the 25th day of the month to send me a single private vote (via GR or to author.jotrussell@gmail.com) for a story other than their own. This vote will be made public once voting is closed. Voting, and reading each story before voting, is required. If you do not vote, your story will be disqualified from the contest. You don't need a qualifying story to cast a vote, but you must offer the reason for your vote if you don’t have an entry.

6) To win, a story needs at least half of the votes, or be the only one left after excluding those with the fewest votes. Runoffs will be run each day until a winner is declared. Stories with vote totals that add up to at least half, discarding those with the fewest votes, will be carried forward to the next runoff election. Prior votes will be carried forward to support runoff stories. If you voted for a story that did not make it into the runoff, you need to vote again before midnight EST of that day. Only people who voted in the initial round may vote in the runoffs.

7) Please have all posts abide by the rules of GR and the LI Sci-Fi group.

8) For each month, there will be three discussion threads:
a) Stories - For the stories and the contest results only.
b) Comments - For discussions about the stories and contest. Constructive criticism is okay, but please avoid any spoilers about the stories or degrading comments directed towards any individuals. If you want to suggest a change to the contest, feel free to start a discussion about the idea before making a formal motion. If another member seconds a motion, a vote can be held. I will abstain from voting, but will require a strong two-thirds majority to override my veto.
c) Critiques - Each member can provide at most one critique per story, with a single rebuttal by the author to thank the critic and/or comment to offer the readers the mindset of the story to account for issues raised by the critique. Critiques should be of a professional and constructive manner. Feel free to describe elements that you do and don't like, as these help us gain a better perspective of our potential readers. Remarks deemed inflammatory or derogatory will be flagged and/or removed by the moderator. Writers who have their story critiqued by another writer are expected to provide a critique (however small) of the other's story.

9) The winner has THREE days after the start of the new month to make a copy of these rules and post a new contest thread using the theme/items of their choosing. Otherwise, I will post the new contest threads.

Jot Russell
Contest Creator/Director


This Month's Theme: Stranded or Abandoned

(That's it.)

Thanks everyone. I'm really happy you enjoyed my story! Now, maybe I can go back and fix the one little spot that I noticed after the contest closed. It's been bugging me for days!

Mine's up. Tried to go a bit western with a little hint of fantasy. Not all that exciting or mind-bending, and its probably not really a curse, per se, but I think it could be the start of a longer story. Hope you guys like it anyway.

Gunslinger


Steel scraped against steel, the passenger train screeching into Bisbee, and Mary Eckhart was exhausted, grateful to finally be at her destination. She’d dreamed of seeing the world but could scarcely afford it, so when the message arrived, all expenses paid by the estate of an uncle she’d only met as a child, she packed immediately. The trip had been too long, a week from Boston and now a day out of El Paso.

Her knee-high boots hit the worn station decking, a broad eastern-socialite hat over tinted glasses, quite the peculiarity back home, now completely appropriate, and protecting her eyes from the powerful desert sun. Mary was grateful to be away from the passenger car, which cooked like an oven in the Arizona heat, though the barrenness of the terrain offered her little comfort. Only the meagerness of a desolate sand-beaten town interrupted the bleak, rolling desert.

“Ms. Eckhart?” A slender man in a dark suit stepped from the shadow of the station overhang. “James Ogelsby.”

She opened her parasol, stepping away from the train. “Indeed.”

He wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers and extended it, “Welcome to Bisbee.” She returned the gesture with a lace-gloved hand. “I am your uncle’s attorney. Your things have already been unloaded and I’ve a motor carriage for you. This way.”

Twenty minutes along a bumpy, dusty road, more fit for horses than automobile, brought Mary Eckhart to the home of her uncle, Festin Merryweather, a local copper baron, who, for some ungodly reason, built the largest of homes upon a small knoll in the middle of nowhere.

Oglesby turned off the engine and its absence became eerily potent - only the breeze upon the clapboards and teasing a small wind-beaten American flag on its last threads. “We’ll get you settled, first,” Oglesby said.

“With respect, Mr. Oglesby, I’d just as soon get down to business,” she remarked. “I don’t intend to stay the night.”

“As you’d prefer, Ma’am.”

The double doors creaked wide to a darkened interior full of old oak trim, and every bit of furniture covered in fine dust. Mary sighed heavily, “Oh Uncle, what could have driven you out to this barren wasteland?”

“You knew him?” Oglesby asked.

“Hardly,” she admitted. “Though I remember him from my childhood.” She spied an old painting of the man standing proudly next to a heavy armchair draped with a tiger skin, smoking pipe in hand. “He was kind, but also proud, almost overly so…very assured, to be certain.”

“That, he was Ma’am, and a good friend.”

“I’ll admit, I’ve truly wanted to see the world, but this?” she despaired, running her fingers along the dust.

“He always said there was an energy this place.” Oglesby produced a box from within a nearby desk. “He left you these, hoping you’d know what to do.”

Beneath the wooden lid, she discovered a pair of finely polished revolvers. Their ivory handles had a copper inlay. “Whatever shall I do with them?” she pondered, pulling the gloves from her hands and picking them from the box. An immediate surge coursed into her, and she spun the pistols in both hands, horizontally then vertically, tossing them into the air and catching each with such a precision as she might have had them her whole life. She blasted two shots out the open doorway, sheering the flagpole in half.

Astonished, she dropped the weapons and stepped fearfully away. “What was that?”

“Your legacy,” Oglesby replied. “And only a relative can wield them.”
“But how? Why?”

“The materials for these pistols come from the land, forged for your uncle by a master Mexican armero during el dia de los Muertos and enchanted by an Apache shaman, magic if you ask me, but I’ve seen your uncle do things – help the downtrodden, defeat enemies you wouldn’t believe. He was the most respected gunslinger in the West.”

“So, how did he die, then?”

“Unfortunately, matters kept him away too long and the power could no longer protect him.” Oglesby returned the guns to their box. “It’s been three long years now. These pistols, and this estate, will allow you to see the world if you’d like. Merely cross the barrels and they’ll take you anywhere, though you must return in no more than thirty days.”

“Need I live here, then?”

“That’s the price this place requires. Stay faithful to the land, and the land will stay faithful to you.”

“So, what must I do?”

“First, let’s get your things.”

Sorry, this is late but I was out of the country for the past week - Congrats Thaddeus! Very clever story!